Although hills may be the wrong word. The tops were around 7 or 8 thousand feet. Of course the valley starts at 6500 feet, so maybe hills is the right word.
And this, I just couldn't figure out. I mean maybe with nothing to do in the summer while the resorts are closed, hula hoops could be big. You never know.
One of the things I saw as I was driving around was this little hut, for lack of a better term, along side one of the dirt roads leading up to the top of the surrounding hills.
I look upon these sites and I wonder what the story is behind them. Was it once a trappers winter hut. Where he would hunker down and wait out the mountain blizzards that would close the passes for weeks on end. Could it have been the lookout shack for the railroad trackman. Keeping his lonely vigil for snow and rock falls that would close the tracks and endanger the people and cargo moving east or west across this continental divide. Maybe it was the root cellar for some hardy pioneer who first settled this airy mountain pass. Storing up the rations to survive in a brutal unforgiving environment.
Now. Now, it's just a lonely half buried hovel. The door long since torn from it's hinges and laying scant feet from the dark doorway. The door jamb rusting away. Solitary flakes breaking off in the wind and weather to flee from their forgotten incarceration. The solitary brace holding the rotting eaves and dirt and scrub roof from finally collapsing in and erasing this forgotten piece of man's spirit and drive to explore and attempt to conquer the world around him.