By all appearances, the moments ahead were slated to be unmemorable, thus rendering the possibility that, at best, the day would turn out to be unremarkable.

Heavy clouds, hanging low, unleashed their burden of moisture. The rain poured onto the roof of the building, the drops landing with a loud, clattering sound on the rusting tin. Rivulets of water streamed off of the eaves to collect in puddles on the ground below. A sudden, blinding flash of lightening split the sky, followed closely by a boom of thunder that echoed off the surrounding canyon walls.

In the distance the faint throb of an engine could be heard, the sound growing louder as it drew nearer. Headlights pierced the gray veil of rain as a jeep jolted around the bend in the narrow mountain road.

Several years ago we took a trip up a winding mountain road going out of Crested Butte, Colorado. As we climbed amongst the tall grove of aspens bordering the road, we had no inkling that we were about to discover one of Colorado’s ghost towns. And we may have missed it altogether had it not been for the wooden sign by the roadside that stated “Gothic”, and a few dilapidated buildings still standing.

We stopped and stepped out of our vehicle. I paused in the beauty and quietness of the mountain countryside to have a moment of silence for the memories of the past.