Bedtime in Beaver Creek. Mike had already retired to his tent. Found myself taking refuge from the gentle rain in the unlocked entrance hall of the 1202 Motor Lodge, in whose grounds we were camped. Reading the local telephone directory. More than a pamphlet but hardly a weighty tome.
We’d been told that in the summer this small border town swells to at least two hundred people. Just one tourist attraction. She works in Buckshot Betty’s restaurant. Serves a great dinner. And breakfast.
There’d been a little method in my apparent madness flicking through the phone book. Looking for a number for someone we were hopeful of staying with in a couple of days time. Took about three minutes.
[Please forgive the alleged humour… it’s that or lots of beaver jokes.. Truth is, neither Mike or I had the proverbial’s to ask if such critters were on the menu..]
Tags: Beaver Creek
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