Gather with us at the edge of the woods, where the air is different. Your breath hangs in the atmosphere like frozen wishes in the crisp November air that smells of pine boughs and anticipation.

Then you’ll hear them. The dull thud of hooves on packed earth, a rhythm as old as time itself. Around the bend come two draft horses, magnificent beasts, pulling a heavy-laden wagon, not a sleigh, mind you, but a sturdy, reliable wagon. And who is at the reins? A man with a beard the color of winter frost and eyes that hold the secrets of the North Pole. Santa himself accompanied by his wife.

Behind them, strapped securely, a fir tree, twelve feet tall at least, its branches whispering of untold stories, of silent forests, and the promise of light. This wasn't some manicured, store-bought spectacle. This was the real thing. Rustic. Essential. From Southern Tree Plantation.

He waves, a broad, hearty gesture, and you’ll know, just as the leaves know it's time! The season has truly arrived. The scent of woodsmoke from the lodge grows stronger, mingling with the scent of evergreen.

Join us at the lodge. The fire's warm, the cider's hot, and the tree is waiting. The man in the red coat is here.