When they mentioned the name of the town, it sounded very familiar. So, I joined them to explore what is essentially a ghost town.
As we walked into town, the memories came back. I'd been there before. Many years ago. With my family. On one of our camping and four-wheeling adventures.
All six of us in my dad's Bronco. Pleadings of Daddy, don't fall off, as I looked down the mountainside perched on the arm rest of the back bench. My sister snug in the kid's seat between my parents. My brothers teasing me for being scared as they sat on the bench.
Tin Cup Pass. Walking around the ghost town.
I could have spent an entire day there. Just looking at the old buildings. The crumpled tin roofs. The weathered wood. The old cemetery.
Perhaps because mining is a part of our family history. Perhaps just because the old buildings seem to fit into the landscape better than modern ones. Perhaps because I grew up admiring the mining structures with my dad.
They almost seem a part of me, of my past. History that seems alive. Perhaps only because it happened nearby.