January 11. 1924? 1952? 2026? It doesn't matter.

The air in the Blue Ridge doesn’t just get cold; it gets personal. It’s a damp, bone-deep chill that settles into your marrow while you’re tracking a stray scent or simply watching the fog swallow the hickories. You need more than a fire. You need a legend in a glass.

Scottish doctors in the 1700s called it a "cure-all". In the 1920s, a certain Dr. Todd prescribed it for the soul as much as the sinuses. Here at The Lodge we call it survival.

We start with a bourbon that’s spent more time in charred oak than most people spend in school. Add a dollop of honey from a neighbor who keeps bees and secrets in equal measure - Thanks David. A squeeze of lemon. A cinnamon stick for authority. It’s served in a mug heavy enough to anchor you to the porch while the world swirls around you.