It wasn't the light snowfall that night that made us stay for another two days. Actually I found the beds too soft, and a heated room rather stifling. What we enjoyed was the hospitality. This was the way it must have been when a traveler was a welcomed guest. To make this 'vacation' even better, while talking mining with Charlie, we discovered we both knew friends of friends.

It was hard to leave, but the weather warmed, and the trail past the Gibraltar Mine House, also led on to Poker Flat. It was difficult to follow. We lost much time leading each horse individually across washed out sections at Stud Horse Ravine, and backtracking, when a spur led only to a tumble-down cabin. I mention this, as after a particularly frustrating detour, I pulled out my forest service map and read to the family what was printed on the back: "Ride or hike . . on well marked trails ...visit the once famous mining camps of 100 years ago at Poker Flat."

We only made five miles of straight forward travel that day, camping at twilight. The effort was well worth the while. We pitched our tents in the middle of downtown Poker Flat. Dilapidated old buildings creaked in the stiff wind. A door, somewhere, opened and closed with a bang, again and again. At dark, as we huddled around our campfire, shivering, all was silent. Need I explain further? I didn't feel we were, a-l-o-n-e.

A bright sun in the morning outcast such an idea, melted away such feelings. How ridiculous. I had read somewhere that Bret Hart hadn't even visited Poker Flats before writing his famous story. Fact is fact. Fiction is just imagination. We left this ghost town behind to the squirrels, deer, and ... ?