And now we walk quietly into the darker days. Into the days of mist and fog and dark forests and flickering candles. Of shuttered windows and crackling fires and root cellars and ghost stories. Fall is here, dear ones.
I have always loved the sense of dark mystery that this season carries. The old magic. From a time when preparing for winter meant lots of foraging and preserving and ritual and superstition. This season never ceases to turn my attention to other realms. To other times. They say the veil between worlds is thinner this time of year. What a lovely thought.
This past weekend, Rooster and I took a drive through the winding mountain road that leads to Garnet Ghost Town. The underbrush that surrounds the abandoned gold mine was already donning it's fiery fall colors as we walked quietly down the trail leading to the village. Places like these, frozen in time, demand a certain silence. A reverence. Almost like a cemetery. The artifacts you come across feel so personal. A child's shoe. A handwritten ledger. A torn petticoat. Left in a perfect state of arrested decay. Like their owner just stepped into the hall to fetch a needle and thread. Places like these make my heart go pitter-patter.
I tiptoed quietly through the dust of the Grand Hotel, channeling my inner Nancy Drew. I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. But it wasn't an unnerving presence...more like a maternal inn-keeper making sure I wasn't going to make a mess she would have to clean up. You could almost hear the rustle of heavy skirts coming down the attic stairs. I spent a few happy hours in this forgotten place. Watching the light shift on the peeling wall paper and imagining the souls that lived here.