L'aura del Campo

We who are still here...

The flag waves gently with the breeze. Earlier it hung limp.

This valley epitomizes the worse of both worlds. Hell Gate winds that howl from the east bring cold or snow or no-good-news. But at least they clear out the inversion that settles in when there's no wind. These mountains hold us in their ancient wrinkled hands and won't let go.

Cold to bitter-cold in December. Choked with smoke most every August.

It's November and the grey is settling in for its winter nap.

We've been fortunate to have some bright clear days this autumn. Fortunate that the early September frost and snow and the bitter cold in October didn't claim us. Fortunate that football season has been extended one more weekend.

This town dies once its students leave. Soon. The snowbirds fly south shortly after the students. It's the yearly migration of wealth and good looks. By mid-December only we who are ghosts of ghosts remain.

The lumpy mountains don't mind. The bears are asleep. The elk would prefer us to leave... permanently.

A few of us gathered last night on the eve of Thanksgiving. Not everyone has family to attend to...

We are fortunate to still be here.

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