I now have 13 deceased people (and five deceased entities) listed in my Rolodex, and those listings amount to something of a Who’s Who? of mountain culture.
An apt parable for how bad architecture has come to play a central role in the plight of our public schools.
Look at the face. Make eye contact. Smile. Nod.
The sign on the poolroom wall read: “No Rowdy.” We had come to the right place.
When some friends with a child the same age as ours suggested we spend a long weekend together in a yurt in the South San Juan Mountains, we were game.
The stakes seem so high, and the changes inevitable, but I want to believe we are the bosses of it, at least a little of it.
Recalling what we Oregonians giddily refers to as “The Flood of 1996,” I had to go for a look.
Then the real mystery appeared. Beyond the burned-out caboose stood Scraphenge.
This was just the beginning of a bad day.
The trip to Central America became probably the defining component in a relationship that has spanned almost three decades.
Outdoor Adventure Media