Rondy Voo

UP IN THE MOUNTAINS, it’s easy to get lost in time. Everywhere, there’s rocks with green-blue lichen on them, and trees so tall that it hurts your neck to see the tops. Except for the cars and trucks parked beyond the trees, you could easily believe that you were actually in the late seventeen hundreds.
Tipi's and miners’ tents dot the hillside. Pack mules laden with goods move laboriously up through mountain creeks. There’s the sweet smell of cedar and pinion pine burning as evening campfires are being lit in the chill Rocky Mountain air. Grubby looking men dressed in buckskin move silently among the trees.
Even though its mid-July, there’s a hint of frost in the air, crisp and clean. The songs of birds mingle with the laughter of children dressed in broadcloth and calico. Carefree, they play in the cold stream’s shallows. The smell of fresh tanned leather permeates the air. Indian bread and coffee roasted over an open flame takes you to another time,
Rondy-voo