Sheets of Egyptian Cotton

The trailheads in the mountains are marked by little brown signs with yellow letters, signs sometimes hidden by the lush summer vegetation. Earlier this week when my husband and I were looking for a trailhead, we got lost and ended up instead in the backyard of a big summer resort. Like many of the resorts in the mountains, the manicured lawns and gazebos and gravel pathways that could be considered the front of the resort face the lake, and if you come by car, you can see people carrying in food, hanging out laundry, and taking care of all the details that the guests take for granted.

I'm used to driving into these places with my parents: my father played at many of these resorts during summers in the 50s, and he will strike up a conversation with anyone who remembers those days. As a former employee, he never hesitates to walk around and take a look. But my husband was seeing some of these resorts for the first time.

"I know what it reminds me of," he said. "The movie Dirty Dancing. It's as if these places are imitating that corny movie."

Of course, it's the other way around. Some of these resorts were built long before that movie, and Hollywood has imitated them. Still, I couldn't help feeling, as I looked at hundreds of white bedsheets hanging in the sunshine, that we had stepped into a movie, or perhaps a bygone era. I've spent years camping in the mountains, in tents that always end up smelling like wet sneakers, and clean cotton sheets that have been hanging all day in the sunshine and mountain breezes seemed like the ultimate luxury.