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A turn to the south on the other side of Ward would have brought us down the Peak to Peak toward Nederland, Barker Reservoir, and the upper reaches of Boulder Canyon. But I pulled north instead,
leaving the little town of Ward behind us before I cut off onto the washboard dirt track of Gold Lake Road and meandered a few miles to the entrance to the remote Gold Lake Resort.
"What's this?" my wife asked.
"A little treat for us. A thank-you for the car. A thank-you for being you. An aplogy for how. . . distracted I've been."
She gazed out at the pristine meadows and the pine and aspen forests that were spread in the wilderness below the Divide before her eyes settled on the log cabins clustered on a gentle hillside. "I didn't
even lnow this place was here."
"Good. Then it will be a surprise for you. It was once a camp for affluent girls from St. Louis. Now it's something else."
"Affluent
girls," she repeated absently. I watched her eyes and could tell she was transfixed by the reflection of Sawtooth Mountain in the still waters of Gold Lake. "Something else indeed," she said.
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