So I’m showing up because they can’t. Or won’t, in Crew’s case. I need to hear what the hell Dad is thinking. I need to know if he’s serious about selling a property that’s been in our family all this time.

It’s also the place where my mother is buried. If nothing else, I can put flowers on her grave one last time.

The road makes a final turn, and the resort comes into view. I find myself slowing down to take a good look.

The sprawling resort footprint hasn’t changed much in decades. The stone lodge my grandfather constructed in the fifties is connected to a three-story hotel that was added on later. That original lodge holds the hotel lobby, restaurants, and offices. And there are fifty rooms in the hotel.

The resort follows a half moon shape, with most buildings facing the mountain. Slanted, late afternoon sunlight paints the snowy peaks a golden color. Down the slope is the big wooden ski lodge my grandfather built in the eighties. That’s where the day skiers go to rent their skis, book a lesson, or buy a bowl of chili.

And in the other direction—behind the hotel, and beyond my current view—there’s a spa, a heated pool, and a couple of hot tubs. There’s an outdoor pavilion where weddings are held during the warmer months.

All the buildings have peaked roofs and about a million shutters painted a color called Heritage Red. The summer after eighth grade, I painted a bunch of those damn shutters myself. For weeks, my hands were splattered with Heritage Red, and so were my shoes. But a guy has to earn money somehow, and there was a sweet pair of Rossignol skis that I just had to have.

The rest of the resort spreads farther along the mountain’s base. The foothills are dotted with fifty or so condo units that my family sold in the nineties. They have red shutters, too, which gives everything a unified appearance.

I’m a little stunned by how gorgeous everything is. I’d honestly forgotten just how striking the rugged mountain range looks against the blue sky. The resort looks well kept, too. The shutters are as fresh as ever. The gravel parking lot is well graded and carefully plowed.

My father had been such a wreck after my mother died that I wasn’t sure what to expect. If the place had crumbled to the ground, I wouldn’t have been shocked.

There are no indications of crumbling, though. Two new signs direct visitors to Skier Parking or Hotel Check-In. Each sign features a cheerful mountain goat—on the first, he’s driving a SUV with skis mounted on top, and on the other, he’s carrying a backpack toward the lodge.

I stare at these signs a little longer than necessary, because there’s something vaguely familiar about the art. I can’t quite put my finger on why.

But I’m not here to see the sights, so I pull up to the hotel. A young man hurries outside to greet me. He’s wearing a Madigan Mountain jacket in a snappy design. That’s new, too.