Lake Arrowhead Lodge

I wrote the following story about the Lodge at Lake Arrowhead. This is a picture of it, it is now burnt down and there are subdivisions (housing) all around the lake. 
Lake Arrowhead Lodge
Growing up in the suburbs was monotonous, a house next to a house next to a house. There was a single acre of trees behind the corner store that the neighborhood kids called “the woods” Consequently when we went to Northern Michigan to camp, in my mind we were going off into the unknown wilderness, where Paul Bunyan lived, there were Indians hiding and on top of toboggan hill stood “The Lodge”. 
Lake Arrowhead used to be owned by one family; they built the huge log cabin on the hill over looking the small lake. Our family bought property from the new owners who had made the area surrounding the rustic cabin into a campground for landowners. The pioneer’s cabin served as a recreation hall but to me “The Lodge” was nothing less than the house that Daniel Boone or some of his friends lived in.
One weekend when we were camping in our six-man army tent with the screened in front porch that we always pulled a picnic table into and set the Coleman stove on, it rained and rained and rained.
By Saturday night the rain was not just leaking from the top of the tent filling up the pots we had put out, it was coming up through the floor, we were flooded out. It was too late to try to get out of the woods and there were no local motels in the area, so we had to go spend the night at “The Lodge”.
We entered through the kitchen, I had never been in this part, it was enormous, even Paul Bunyan could have eaten here. Mom set the food in the old fashioned refrigerator and we went to find a place to sleep.
Stepping out into the main room of the lodge the musty smell of cedar, and the gigantic stone fireplace, instantly transported me back in time. I fully expected a woodsman to greet us or an Indian to be hiding somewhere maybe upstairs.
In the middle of the room, across the top a balcony overlooked the great room. I followed my Dad up the creaky wooden staircase with an unfinished birch log for a handrail. Both bedrooms upstairs were filled with boxes and cleaning supplies no space for sleeping. Around the corner a wooden spiral staircase lead to a small A-framed room, the attic. Relieved that my dad was not going up those stairs, I still had an uneasy feeling that an Indian or a crazy woodsman was hiding up there in that room filled with shadows casting creeping impressions dancing in the flickering light of the lantern. We ended up spreading out our sleeping bags on the floor in front of the fireplace where dad had just started a fire.
Above the massive shaved log mantle was a bucks head that stared down at me the whole time my parents were gone into the kitchen to make coffee and hot chocolate. My brother and sister were scouting out the room, but I hid in my sleeping bag, certain that the crazy woodsman or the wild Indian was going to attack us while my parents were in the back of the cabin. I did not sleep much that night thinking of frontier days, Indian tribes and how they used to gather here in “The Lodge”.