The old stage stop was built before Colorado's statehood. The old Forks Hotel that came decades later burned to the ground and has been replaced by a newer, but still rustic two story building with a big wraparound porch next to lonely gas pumps.

The "Customers Only" sign at the front door tries to scare away toilet-seeking tourists. The men’s room is in the back around the corner from the deli counter. I take an overpriced soda to the register and ask if this is where Ted’s Place once stood. "Oh no." the lady replies. "Ted’s Place is 16 miles up the highway towards Red Feather Lakes."

Perhaps on one of our return trips, if the sun is still up, we will make a detour and drive up the Cache La Poudre River and revisit the familiar landscape from my days before I left for Germany.

I remember my dad pulling our sixteen foot pop-up with our brown Mercury Monarch. It had been marketed as a Mercedes knock-off, and while its pedigree was not that of fine engineering, the old V8 under that long hood had enough oomph to pull the camper up and over rough dirt-road passes to the edge of the Rawah Wilderness.

We camped at a bend in the river. I whittled aspen wood walking sticks, sat on the big rock waterside and listened to the gentle gurgling until I heard my mother's unnecessary call that dinner was ready. I knew already from the smell of wood smoke and hamburger that had drifted to the river.

mountain memories

return the people I loved,

for a moment