Through a large window panel, I peered at the lobby whose walls were covered with hunting trophies. I finally summoned up the courage to push the revolving door. A smell of beeswax from the dark wood floor lingered in the stern lobby decorated with black and white pictures of Rangeley and its surrounding at the turn of the twentieth century. I had the pleasure of touring the empty and quiet lobby when I noticed a gray-haired head peeking out from behind the mahogany front desk. As I came nearer, a woman in her fifties wearing gold chain link glasses gazed upon my attire noncommittally, with her mouth set in a thin inscrutable line.