Three weeks ago, my family and I spent a short weekend at Laity Lodge. I’ve been dreaming about it ever since.
We splashed in the Frio. Hiked in the hills. Watched the sun paint the canyon orange then go dark until the moon climbed up over the side. Gazed at the stars.
Ate wonderful food. Played the old Steinway. Explored the library, found one of my books next to Alan Jacobs and Kierkegaard. Stared at the campfire. (“It looks like the fire is trying to tell us a story!” Jules exclaimed.) Laid around and listened to the birds and read books.
There’s no cell signal on the property, so you’re just blissfully cut off from the outside world. I found it didn’t take very long at all for my mind to clear out there. Part of this, I suspect, is the 3-hour trip through the hill country and driving through the river before you get to the property. It’s a cleansing.
With free headspace, I thought a lot about my new book. I didn’t anticipate writing at all, but I filled a bunch of notebook pages with maps like this.
After we left, I texted Alan and asked him, “Once you leave the canyon, how do you not spend every day wishing you were back in the canyon?” He texted back, “I totally and absolutely miss it every day.”
Thank you to Gate, Steven, Grant, and the rest of the crew who showed us such wonderful hospitality and gave us such a good gift in a rotten time.