When I'm with my parents in the mountains, we spend lots of time just taking old roads and seeing where they lead. My father will say something like, "I think there used to be a Girl Scout Camp here somewhere" or "Yeah, there was a resort over there, but I think it's closed now." He usually has at least a vague sense of where we are. The narrow roads wind through woods filled with pine trees and hardwoods, and the ride itself is always beautiful, no matter where we end up.
My theory, based on a lifetime of traveling twisty mountain roads, is that every road in the mountains leads to a lake. It doesn't matter whether you take a right or a left, whether you go up hill or down. Every road eventually will take you to the edge of a lovely mountain lake.
Here's a spot where my husband and I used to come in the summer when our kids were young. We'd camp on the edge of the lake and canoe out to that island you see in the distance. The kids would scramble up that big rock and jump gleefully into the water.
On a cold day in the fall, the campsites on the edge of the lake were empty, and we were the only people for miles.
