Becoming mountain folk is a lot easier if you start in the summer. We thought it was summer, that June of 1970. It was hot in California, hot in Nevada, super hot in Utah and then we started to climb. That first afternoon we drove into Ward it snowed.
We landed at the first house off the Peak to Peak highway, where Norman, Jim and Cheryl lived. Jim and Cheryl were married. Norman was probably 25, at most, but, with his enormous, scarred hands, burly build, stringy blond hair and enormous clothes, he looked like a Yeti in disguise. Jim was doing his best to emulate Norman, but he was - at best - Norman lite. Jim was lazy and soft: a manana kind of guy. Cheryl, of course, was totally present and totally competent. She wore the uniform shapeless pants and flannel shirt, tied her long hair back with string and made the whole pump/woodstove/outhouse thing look effortless. This household gave us space to park the camper over-night and told us many stories about Ward. The case of beer we had brought as a peace offering was entirely consumed before we all staggered off to oblivion.
The next morning, we introduced ourselves to Hazel, who presented us to our dim and dusty new home and took the BF on a reconnaissance of his area of endeavor, which looked a whole lot like our house except with less structural integrity and less roof. The kids and I lugged our valuables inside and began gathering up twigs and branches for stove fuel. I almost flunked my Girl Scout camping badge, due to my inability to start a one match fire, so I was not surprised when the wood we had gathered and shoved into the stove began to smoke. And smoke. And smoke. No flames, no heat, just smoke, which oozed out of the stovetop and the stovepipe and soon filled the house with such acrid pungency that we opened all the windows that would open (two) and sat outside until the fire went out. At least the snow had melted. That was Day One.
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