Mississippi River Trip: River Monster!!!

Larisa and I heard this shouted during the early evening of our last night at Lake Granby.  Being naturally curious, we grabbed a camera and went down to the beach but, alas, the fish had been thrown back.   

The “monster” had been caught by as little boy, one of six kids camping with their mother and father at Lake Granby. As is always the story with fishing, everyone had caught multiple fish that day (marshmallows on a bottom rig are apparently better than salmon eggs on a float rig) except for the youngest child.  Instead of two or three little trout, he reeled in a monster Blueheaded Sucker.  Not an eatin' fish, but way larger than you'd expect.  From the picture we saw, the fish had to be close to three feet long.  Huge fish for a lake that size, and the littlest fisherman took the prize for the day. 

I wanted to stay and grill him for information, given my own poor luck, but Larisa made me go to bed.

Mississippi River Trip: The Golden Burro

While we were in one of the parks Larisa and I struck up a conversation with a couple (Jim and Marion) that has traveled the southwest several times by RV.  We started to describe what route we’d planned, and when I mentioned heading through Leadville, Co the wife exclaimed excitedly “Oh, you have to stop and eat at the Golden Burro!  Jim and I went there years ago and the food is fantastic, and the restaurant is full of stuff to look at!”

Larisa and I agreed that we’d stop and take a look.  We’ve been avoiding restaurants on this trip as much as we can, though on average we’ll “reward” ourselves with a meal every 7 days or so (not counting Subway, which is our “late into camp and too tired to cook” fallback place.  That said, we’ve only had Subway twice).  It was about time to reward ourselves, so we thought that the Golden Burro would be perfect to both satisfy our craving to not do dishes one night, and to give us a chance to visit a place that came highly recommended.

The Golden Burro is a fantastic place as long as you don’t eat or interact with the staff.  This is strange because the restaurant boasts several signs about award winning food, and even more signs describing how the business was built on excellent service.

We were greeted by a tired looking woman of middle years who asked wearily, “How many?”

“Two,” I replied.

The woman sighed and gave me a look that suggested that a party of two had probably just come from kicking puppies in the street.  “Follow me.”

We were seated in a booth in the back of the restaurant, and I’ll have to admit the place is very well decorated.  There are hundreds of local historical artifacts, each with a small descriptive placard.  The menu ties many of the dishes in with local stories and legends (e.g., the beer brats are dedicated to a pair of brothers who came to Leadville, became wealthy, and brought several countrymen over to help work their mines).  It’s a fantastic read.  I was engrossed in retelling of the love triangle between Horace, Augusta, and “Baby Doe” Tabor when our waitress arrived.

“I’m Chelsea.  You want drinks?” She asked in a voice more suited to a funeral than a restaurant.  Larisa ordered hot tea, I ordered iced tea, and Chelsea disappeared into the depths of the kitchen.  I resumed reading the menu and after a while began to wonder whether Chelsea had had to hunt down and kill the tea before bringing it to the table.  Several minutes later it arrived, plunked down unceremoniously on the table with a slosh and a loss of no little liquid.  “Are you gonna eat?”

“Yes,” said Larisa.  “We’ll order now.  Can I ask you what your soups of the day are.”

“Beef Vegetable and, umm.”  Chelsea screwed up her face.  “Mumble mumble.” 

Chelsea looked at Larisa, who said “Never mind.  I’ll have the cod with a salad.”

“What kind of dressing?”

Larisa, ever on the search for the perfect home-made dressing asked, “Do you have a house dressing?”

“I never heard of house.  We got ranch, blue cheese, French, and umm.  I don’t know.”

“You don’t have a dressing that is made here?”  Larisa asked, seeking clarification.

“No.  Honey mustard.  We got that too.”

“I’ll have French.”

Chelsea glared at me, which I took to mean it was time to order.  “What were the soups again?”

“Beef Vegetable and,” Chelsea looked around wildly at the walls, as if the historical placards would give her the answer. “I don’t know the other one.” 

She stared at me for a few moments.  “Did you want me to go check or something?”

“Sure,” I replied.  “Why don’t you go check?”

She did, returning several minutes later with the words “Ham and beans.”

I ordered the award-winning local favorite chicken fried steak dinner with blue cheese for my salad, resisting the temptation to ask about house dressing again.  The salads came about ten minutes later.  Our food came two minutes after that.  Chelsea plopped the plates on the table with the explanation “They’re cooking fast today.” 

Or, I thought, you had trouble killing the lettuce and getting it to the plate.  Larisa and I finished our salads as our main courses got cold.  After we took our first bite we locked eyes with a look that said “We’re paying money for this?”

Larisa’s fish was watery and overcooked.  My food was obviously from a package rather than “home-made”, and the fresh vegetable medley consisted of four pieces of overcooked broccoli and two pieces of what I think were cauliflower.  We finished our food and left.  At the bottom of the bill was a reminder about tipping, suggesting that we tip 25% or more if our service was excellent, 15% if it was just okay, and then boldly, “0% if your service was poor.  I followed the advice.

I don’t know what the Golden Burro was 20 years ago, but today it is a tourist trap with food that is on par with a school cafeteria.  Disappointing visit, and a disappointing “treat.”

Mississippi River Trip: If you ever camp with Larisa. . .

Don't let her pick the site.

Our initial plan was to stop at the edge of RMNP and camp in the campground there, but it was essentially a junk site.  Forty or so crowded tent pads with about a foot between campsites, and no view or anything else to speak of – the site was a no-go for us, so we moved on.  We found a state-run campground at Lake Granby and decided to stay there.  The campground was crowded and we were a little worried about finding a site, but the campground hosts told us some places to look, and we went looking.

Larisa wanted the first site we came across.  It wasn’t bad.  It was on hill, twenty feet away from the smell of the pit toilets and with a sweeping view of the campground hosts, water faucets, and trash cans. 

“Not here,” I told her.

“Why not?  There aren’t many sites.  What if we don’t find anything?”

“Okay, guard this and I’ll look for something better.”  

I took the car and found a marginally better site.  It was on a hill with two campsites on either side.  The unbroken view showed us the mountains, lake, and beach.  I couldn’t smell the toilets, so it was iffy, but I decided we’d stay there for the night instead of the first site.

We wound up staying two nights.  The fishing in the lake was splendid – for the fish.  I darn sure fed a lot of them on the first day.  The next morning I switched to a smaller hook (had to buy them, I’m set up for salt water more than fresh water) and headed out early to fish.  That’s when I realized that I’d managed to lose the little bag of tackle that I’d brought.  All of my hooks, line, sinkers, etc. were gone.  I searched the car.  Larisa searched the car.  We both asked the campground hosts if anyone had turned it in.  No joy.  Larisa went for a walk, presumably to ponder how she could marry such a buffoon.  I went down to the lake to fish.

The lake has trout, mostly, and a little carp.  I didn’t have a way to rig a bottom line, nor did I have a bobber for float fishing.  I explored the area and found a suitable piece of wood for a bobber, carved down the edges and made a hole in it, and set myself up with a jury rigged float.  I cast, I got a nice bite, and I brought the fish almost in.  The line broke, probably at my float contraption.  I gave up in frustration and went back to camp.  Larisa and I went and wandered the town, hitting the library briefly, then returned to the lake, where lo and behold, the fishing kit was sitting on the table!  I was tired, so I resolved to get up in the morning and fish early.  I did so, but didn’t get a nibble.  I also had to quit early because my license had expired and the fines are fairly exorbitant.  Maybe I’ll get in some fishing at Lake Powell.

Mississippi River Trip: My Inner Parent

On to the Rockies!!!!!!

For about 2 hours or so.  

Apparently, we’re harbingers of doom.  Every time we decide to go somewhere, a fire springs up.  First it was near the Black Hills, and then we went to Medicine Bow, which is still burning.  We decided to hit Rocky Mountain National Park, and a fire started 15 minutes before we got to Estes Park, the entry to RMNP.  If anyone out there is interested in avoiding natural disaster, e-mail us and send a check and we’ll make sure not to visit.

The fire closed half of the park, but the main road was open so we decided that our visit to RMNP would be a rolling one, with stops for pictures, but ending at the campground at the far end of the park.  We toured our way along, snapping pictures (Larisa got some great pics of elk along the road).  When we got to the tundra portion of the park we decided to take an easy hike up to the tundra.  “Easy” is such a flexible word.  At sea level, the hike would have been a gentle stroll.  At 13,000 feet both Larisa and I thought we would burst a lung.  Lots of pauses for rest and to catch our breath – the altitude got to both of us.

At the top of the hike I took a side trail up to some rocks and found three Indian men, probably late twenties to early thirties in age, off of the trail and running around the tundra like children.  Normally I would have found it funny, but since every 15 feet along the trail there were signs imploring hikers to stay off the tundra and on the trail, and since the tundra (according to one sign) had been slowly dying due to people not paying attention to the signs I found the sight of them irritating.  In addition the entire area is blanketed with signs declaring it an endangered area.  One of them took out a pocket knife and started cutting a square of tundra, as if he were going to take it with him.

My inner parent came out with unusual force.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted.

The man looked up at me with the guilty expression of all children caught doing something bad.

“Um,” he replied. 

“The signs say to stay on the trail!  You’re damaging the tundra you knucklehead!  You’re killing it!”  No sign of losing my breath now.  “What makes you think you can do something like that?”

“We’re not killing it, um” the man stammered weakly.

“You’re a grown man acting like a child!  You ought to be ashamed of yourself!  Get back on the trail and stay there!”

The man and his two companions slowly climbed back up to the trail, dragging their tails behind them.  I moved on, still angry but not wanting to let it spoil my day.  Later on Larisa gave the same lecture to a hippy woman who read the signs and then walked right past them.

Maybe we’re getting old or something.  It can’t be too serious though, I never once shouted “Get off my lawn you young whippersnappers!”

Mississippi River Trip: Encounter II

I was right at the edge of sleep, that magical place where the thoughts racing through your head descend into a mixed half waking, half dreaming jumble.  I felt a sharp poke that jerked me into consciousness.

“Yeah baby?”

“There’s something out there.  It sounded like footsteps.”

We were camping in Medicine Bow National Forest, an area that talked of moose, bear, and deer as the large critters wandering the park, though the ranger had stressed that there had been no sightings of moose or bear this year.  I sat up.  The wind was strong that night, and a gust blew as I grabbed the bear spray and flashlight.

“There it is again!”

“What?”

“Footsteps!”

I shined the light around a bit, but in the back of my mind I already knew what it was.  The tent we have has a rain fly that inexplicably leaves a couple of areas unsecured and flapping, not matter how well you tie it down.   The “footsteps” were actually the sound of a flapping section rubbing against the rest of the fly.  To Larisa’s credit, it sounds exactly like footsteps on gravel if you have a really active imagination and try really hard to scare yourself.

“Go back to sleep, I’ll keep watch for a little bit.”

Larisa rolled over and after a few minutes I heard the steady breathing that told me she was in dreamland.  My “watch” lasted all of 6 minutes, and I joined her in sleep, dreaming of footsteps around the tent.

Mississippi River Trip:Mississippi River Trip: Tundra in Rocky Mountain Park

Вчера - мы гуляли по тундре, на высоте 3,500 – 3,700 метров в Rocky Mountain Nat’l Park.  Дул холодный, сбивающий с ног ветер, на некоторых вершинах все еще белел снег, а земля под нашими ногами такая безжизненная издалека, при ближнем  рассмотрении оказалась такой красочной и разнообразной.  Сколько цветов, цветочков, цветулечек, и самых маленьких цветуляшечек! А мхи?! Ихпросто нельзя сосчитать. Было так захватывающе красиво и торжественно грустно, что мне совсем не хотелось фотографировать,а  хотелось просто впитать в себя всю грубую силу этого чудесного места. Все здесь подчиняется одному закону – устоять и выжить.

 Из моих размышлений меня вывил громкий голос Марка, наседавший на какого-то индуса, посмевшего сойти с предназначенной для этой цели тропинке, и напропалую шагавшего по этой хрупкой красоте своими не знающими пощады ножищами.  Стыд и срам, народ!!!! Тундре понадогбится около 100 лет! ЧТОБЫ ВОССТАНОВИТЬСЯ!  Давайте начинать об этом думать, а?!

Короче, если вам кто-нибудь, когда-нтбудь будет рассказывать о двух занудах, загонявших всех разбредающихся по тунре туристов В ЗАД, на дорожки, - ЭТО БЫЛИ МЫ!

Не хочу гневить никакие Силы, заведующие нашим прошлым, настоящим и будующим, но что-то явно не на нашей стороне в этот наш сумасшедший отпуск: наводнение в Минессоте, ураганный ветер в Йова,  отказавший насос охлаждения в нашей машине, и теперь – пожары  позапрошлой ночью в Вайоминге, а сегодня и в Колорадо!

Зато какие моменты! И встречи! А фотографии! Ну, в прочем, об этом судить, я предоставлю вам...

Mississippi River Trip: Buford, WY by MVP

Buford is (or was) the home of America’s smallest town, population 1.  When we arrived there was an abandoned souvenir store, a house that didn’t seem lived in, and a parking lot.  I guess it’s now the newest ghost town in America.  We stopped in just to say that we did on the way to Medicine Bow National Forest.

Mississippi River Trip: Apparently, where we go, fire follows

I’m writing this on battery, in the middle of nowhere.  Tonight we're camping near Turtle Creek is part of the Medicine Bow National Forest.  We’re camping in a dispersed campsite, and Larisa is off hiking in the hills while I catch up on blog entries.  Right now three baby chipmunks are playing about two feet away from me, gleefully ignoring my presence.  A moment ago a humming bird came swooping in and checked my water bottle and the pitcher for drinks.  They were dry, but I have a packet of sugar and an old coffee cup, so I’m going to make a feeding station to see if it comes back.
No joy on the humming bird, though after I dumped the water and took the cup to the trash Larisa reported that the bird came back.  Guess he's camera shy.

Medicine Bow is typical high desert - outcroppings of rock dotted with low scrub and anemic pines give the place a desolate beauty.  When Larisa finished her hike we headed over to Pole Creek to see if it had anything resembling a swimming hole.  No luck, but as we were driving back we noticed a huge smoke bank across the highway.  Medicine Bow was on fire.  The fire started about an hour after we got there.  Larisa was worried that the fire might come our way, but it was miles away, the wind was against it, and it would have had to hop a four lane freeway to get to us.  Also, we were camped in the rocks with very little brush around.  I explained all of this to Larisa and she accepted it with good grace and told me to call Sergei to check.

We're leaving this morning for Rocky Mountain National Park and Arapahoe National Forest.

Our bedroom



Our Kitchen

Our Living Room!!!!

Mississippi River Trip: Bear Lodge (aka Devil’s Tower)

We decided we were through with the Black Hills and resolved to see Devil’s Tower National Monument.  It wasn’t on our list, but my dad recommended it so emphatically that we changed our minds and went with his advice.  I’ve rarely regretted that, and this time was no exception. 

The drive was only a few hours and it took us through parts of the Hills that we hadn’t seen before.  The hills gave way to the plains and finally the stubs of low lying hills and mountains  and then, coming around a corner, we saw the Tower.  We rolled into the park and hit the campground first thing – it was packed. We went through the first loop – nothing.  We went through the second loop, and saw one site sandwiched between two large groups.  We almost grabbed it, but I drove on, telling Larisa that I wanted to see the rest of the loop.  And there it was, one campsite left at the edge of the campground, right next to the river, and with a completely open view of the Tower.  It’s the campsite we’d have picked if the place had been empty, so we reasoned they’d been saving it for us.  In reality, the grill had tape on it indicating it couldn’t be used, so people probably skipped it in favor of other sites.  Fine with us, we’ve got a stove baby!

We set up camp and went up to the visitor’s center, which was closing as we got there.  A quick tour netted us the history of the place, and we decided to do a 1.3 mile loop trail around the Tower as the sun was setting.  We started off – apparently the wrong way, because what little traffic came past was moving in the opposite direction.  I snapped a couple of photos of the tower and Larisa, but I couldn’t get into the photography mood.  When Larisa paused about halfway around the loop for pictures I decided to just sit and look at the tower.  It is magnificent.

The Native American lore surrounding the Devil’s Tower is an interesting story in itself.  The legend goes that a young woman got her bear medicine and went insane, killing everyone in her village except her little sister.  Her brothers, who had been out hunting returned to the village and saved the sister.  As they ran the siblings spoke to a buffalo and a rock.  The buffalo agreed to hold off the bear, and the rock told them to stand on it, and it began to grow to the sky.  The clefts in the Tower, formed by columns of stone, are the marks left by the mad bear’s claws, and the tower grew high enough to put the girls into the sky, where they became stars – the constellation known as Pleiades.  The five stars chasing it represent the bear, still chasing her siblings across the sky.  And this is why the Tower is known as Bear Lodge by the six known Native American tribes of the region.

The name Devil’s Tower comes from an American explorer in the hills, Col. Dodge, who claimed that one tribe, unnamed, called it “Bad God’s Dwelling”, so he called it Devil’s Tower. 

I kinda like the first story better.

As I watched the light fade and the sky going blue the forest became quiet and I could hear the blood pounding in my veins as if it were pulsating to some frequency in the land itself.  Call this feature of nature what you will, it is electric to behold at sunset.  I found myself thinking that this place had been home to humans for ten thousand years.  I wondered how many sets of eyes had looked upon it from where I was sitting, how many people felt the land buzzing with the energy of nature, how many had sat there, awestruck and dreaming, how many had sent prayers up the sides and into the skies, and to how many gods had they prayed?  I’ll never know, but I do know that I was filled with reverence and wonder at the sight, and I will never forget it. 

We moved on a little later, Larisa coming over to gently jog my arm.  She’d seen me sitting there in the trance and had given me space, but it was getting dark, and for now it was time to head back.

Thanks for the tip dad!

Mississippi River Trip: Black Hills Garnets and No Gold by MVP

The next morning Larisa and I headed to the Black Hills again to take a hike along Battle Creek, one of the places Shari recommended for gold hunting.  The hike takes you along the creek and into a gorge studded with pine and oak trees.  Half a mile in all you can hear are birds and the stream.  The trail opens up into a clearing where a small waterfall forms a pool.  A hiker we met later in the day described the area as a “hippie haven” years ago, when the hippies would come and camp and dive from the rocks into the pool.  I spent a couple of hours panning for gold and mostly found garnets to give Larisa.  She was having an easy time on her own, so I only picked out the biggest garnets after the first couple of pans.  I found no gold, but I didn’t really expect to – mainly I was looking for fun, and I had a lot of it.

Besides, there's gold in other states too.  Now I just need to find something to do with Larisa and I can strike it rich!
Around mid-day the skies darkened and a storm looked like it was rolling in, so Larisa and I sheltered up and waited for it to pass.  A couple of raindrops fell, and we heard lightening in the distance, but nothing ever came of it.  We heeded back to the waterfall and decided to continue our hike.  We only made it a mile or so before the trail died and the ground became impassable, so we stopped for a bit and I panned for gold a little more and we headed back to the car, content with a day spent having fun and relaxing.

On the way to the campground we decided to swing by Mount Rushmore, just to say we did.  I’ve got to admit that I was a little underwhelmed.  In the imagination of my childhood I’d always envisioned this towering thing that dominates the sky and cows you with it grandeur.  In reality it looks quite modest when you see it up close.  We decided that the parking wasn’t worth $11 and just drove by, stopping to snap a few pictures at a pullout.  Then it was back to Fairburn for some evening rock hunting and some sleep.  That night it got cold, down into the thirties cold.

Mississippi River Trip: Fairburn by MVP

In the morning we took the 1880’s train from Hill City to Keystone just to kill time.  What a way to kill it!  We took the early train and were two of about 10 people on the train.  Larisa and I sat in the back and were treated to a lovely train ride through the Black Hills, with lots of history to listen to and scenery to take in.  When the train arrived in Keystone we decided to take the walking tour and wound up taking a later train back.  The train was packed full, so it wasn’t as great a ride.

  Midway through it my cell phone rang and we discovered that the Impala would require $265 to fix.  I told the mechanic to go fix her up and it was done by the time we got back to Hill City.

Shari had told us about a free campsite outside of the town of Fairburn – the site itself had a bonus in that it was located right next to the agate beds where Larisa could hunt for Rocks.  We had lunch and headed out.  Way out.  The campsite is about 40 miles from the Black Hills themselves, located in rolling prairie land.  We got there, set up camp, and went a-hunting.  No joy other than some pretty rocks Larisa picked up.

Mississippi River Trip: Marvin by MVP

I like dogs.  A lot.  But the Marvin’s of the world I can do without, and I can do without their owners even more.  Marvin was a big dog, a mix of Chow and something else, and he was aggressive.  Our first night at the campsite every time something moved Marvin would head for it and be called back by the shouts of his family.  Leaves, trees, birds, Larisa, me,  it didn’t matter what it was, if it came near Marvin it was fair game. 

The next morning I heard Marvin’s owner lamenting to another camper that, well gosh, he just hated to tie the dog up because it wasn’t fair to the dog.  Plus, his biting problem was really more of a nipping problem.  And besides, leash laws were for cities, right?

I can’t decide whether Marvin or the owner needs putting down first, but I didn’t spend a second in that campsite without my bear spray on me.  It might have done Marvin some good.  Or  his owner. . .

I am hiding from Marvin as well...

Mississippi River Trip: Black Hills Blues by MVP

We woke up early, but started late.  Having electricity to charge everything and hot showers in the morning was just too tempting to pass up.  Once we’d packed up we headed to the ranger station outside of the Black Hills National Forest.  The road there is a motley collection of tourist traps (Come see the drive through zoo!/Uncle Willies Gem Shop/Black Hills Ghostly Putt Putt) until you make it out of town and hit the ranger station.  Once there we looked at the warnings (no campfires, no bear sightings yet) and got a map of the dispersed camping sites available in the park, then headed into the hills. 

The Black Hills are gorgeous – towering Ponderosa pines mixed with stunning rock formations and scrub oak, rivers and creeks clear and full of fish, we both heaved a big sigh of relief to be out of the city again and into the forest.  We started looking for likely camp spots, and found a road near Sheridan Lake that had a dozen sites noted, so we headed that way.  Unfortunately the roads were a little much for the Impala, so we turned around and started back down to the main road, only to stop again when the Impala decided she’d had enough and overheated.

Larisa whipped out her cell phone to call for a tow truck.  No signal.  I took out mine.  No signal.  We went to the top of the ridge we were along.  No signal.  The Impala was on a downhill slope, so I put her in neutral and managed to coast back down to the pavement.  No signal.  We decided to walk to the nearest area that seemed likely (Three Corners) and try to get a call in there, but just as we started along a car stopped and Larisa cadged us a ride with a couple of young ladies who drove a car that makes mine look neat and trim by comparison.  Larisa climbed across a greasy cooler to sit on some brown stain while I tried not to spill the pistachio shells that were in the cup holder.  Beggars can’t be choosers, and the girls were nice enough and sweet to give us a ride.  Better pistachio hulls than a 10 mile walk in the heat.

It only took about two hours to get the car towed into Hill City.  We arranged to have it looked at and began to wander around town hoping to find a camp site near enough to haul our stuff to by hand, but the closest was 8 miles out of town.  We wound up staying at a Super 8 and felt good because we were able to shave 30 bucks off the rate.  The cost was still equal to about 5 days of paying for a campsite.  We slumped into the room feeling dejected, but a wash and some relaxation gave us our energy back and we decided to explore the town and grab some dinner.  

Larisa noticed an ad for a $9.99 filet mignon at a place up the street and as shocking as you may find this, I declared that we should have dinner there.  We went and asked to be seated – the wait was 45 minutes to an hour.  No biggie, we added ourselves to the list and decided we’d look at the other restaurants along the street in case we found something likely.  As we walked we noticed one thing:  Of the nine restaurants along Main Street, only the Alpine Inn had a wait list.  We decided to wait, just in case the food was that good.  It was.  The restaurant only serves two meals:  Steak with baked potato , Texas toast, and a salad with homemade buttermilk ranch, or pasta with Texas toast and the salad.  The steak was tender, but over cooked (medium rare is apparently understood to mean medium well).  Larisa’s pasta was fantastic, and obviously made that day, on site.  The service was excellent as well.

While we had been waiting for dinner I wandered into Things That Rock, a store that sells various semi-precious stones and jewlry, as well as stuff ofr gold panning and rock hunting.  I struck up a conversation with the wonderfully nice owner, Shari.  I told her of our dilemma and that we were looking for things to do, and also mentioned that Larisa was a huge rock hound.  She immediately made suggestions for Hill City and gave us several great places to go rock hunting.  I also looked into gold panning, and Shari suggested a couple of creeks where she’d found gold before, and I resolved to buy a gold pan if she’d teach me how to do it.  5 minutes later we had the rest of our Black Hills stay planned out.  After dinner was over I took Larisa to meet Shari and we left knowing that as soon as the car was fixed we’d get outfitted for rock hunting and gold panning and head out.  We slept soundly that night, but the showers weren’t so wonderful as the night before.

THANKS SHARI!!!!