There is a ghost town high up in the Montana Mountains, not far from Yellowstone.

Few people know about it.

The only road in and out fell into disrepair long ago.

To get there requires an intermediate climbing skill set.

It can only be attempted when conditions are warm and dry, which around here

amounts to a window of a couple of months each year. My grandfather spoke of it once. The story lacked

detail, the particulars lost in the fog of memory, and Pop was never one to embellish once his

recollection failed.

It was a story he heard as a boy, of a silver mine up in the mountains,

of a creature that called the forest home.

It was no bear. It was no wolf.

Whatever it was refused to share the land with the miners and the fledgling town built to support them.

What followed was a massacre. The survivors abandoned the town and never returned. Last summer, Taylor and I hiked and

camped for a week within Yellowstone National Park. We lucked out with the weather. We went off

grid and loved every minute.

The last night, beside a whispering fire, we promised we would do it again.

As the firmament above turned about the North Star, I told her about the ghost town.

She breathed the story in.

That's where we would go.

A harsh winter is rendered tolerable by the promise of spring.

It was the summer, though, that held my attention. A long break from school and a week in the mountains. It is a rare treat to do precisely what you most desire. The warmth of the sun brought

with it an unbridled giddiness. The weight was almost over.

...