Moke's Hill

January 29, 2010

About two years ago while traveling with a friend on a visit to and through the gold country of northern California we stopped at the local hotel for a weekend. The Ledger, not pronounced as it’s spelled in American/English but as if the French had a hand in its originations; which they did as the owner’s will tell you.

Those early traders and trappers from further north of the U. S. borders seemed to keep more things than their hands out of their supposed pockets. Anyone will notice this while traveling throughout the U.S. of A. no matter the state. Some more than others of course as they left their good marks of their mother Canada.

We were interested in wandering the earlier century’s streets as well as the surrounding area. The hotel room and bed we collapsed in was right above the saloon. We thought this perfect as the corner overview was of the street where we could witness any challenge of the past or present. It was also a lost night of sleep.

The old time looking hotel, restaurant and saloon also had old time insulation which was basically none. The hole in one part of our bedroom floor gave a glimpse of someone’s shiny bald spot. The walls held nothing back in return.

The separation of only the floorboards gave little or no resistance to the pierce sings and the later well inebriated conversations of the jovial crowd below. Be low they didn’t.

Not to mention the band that appeared for the night was in full blast glory well beyond midnight. At the beginning we joined them for a few good times until it was our wont to seek Mr. Sandman as well as our be four hands reach two each other’s closer company dedicated especially to the weekends intentions.

From time to time we’d not hear the loud climbs; we had each other in mmined as well as a book, a good wine, a book, more in mmined, wine and so on; until noticing it was a full mmoon night and we felt more than happy to be there.

Lucky for us there were two almost floor to ceiling windows in the room. During one of the band brakes the woman and I had to combine our strength to open one window of convenience. It was summertime; weather was hot so she pushed up, I pulled up and nothing happened ‘fore two longed for a breath of fresh air.

It was explained upon our arrival as, “It’s one of those,” that opened as the door to the balcony. Up instead of out or in was not French windows of course unless one considers we did both. We noticed a well used stick of ease to hold windows play.

There were also wonderful architects in those daze. What happened here was beyond thinking about it. The balcony eventually not effortless was a short stay. Surprisingly enough, there were also two short dreams to breakfast.

The town architecture was early western. It appeared as though at any minute two burley men with handle bar mustaches, dirty boots, and frowns of mean, would be on either side of the two block town ready to come face to face out on the street.

They’d be armed of course with six guns as their size; both willing to lose their life over a horse, a woman or something the other may have said about their mother, sister or their shirt; inebriation like what was going on downstairs may have had a hand in these mostly mmanly exercises of strength, length, smell, end mmind.

If the modern day vehicles were replaced with the earlier times mode of transport this would be exactly the seen; most of the buildings still appeared to have that western charm. Bowed railings, balcony’s and roofs added to the flavour of what once was only a few decades ago. The higher building facades of auld dominated.

The next morning or really it was after a much later tomato mixed breakfast-lunch pleasure we strolled until someone passing mentioned we shouldn’t miss the local cemetery; and write fully sow. It was a short walk down and up little asphalt hills winding back and over again until we reached this charm of a place and stills.

Walking amongst the monuments of the past while trying to find the oldest stone of remembrance, the smell was of pine and eucalyptus trees. The surrounding scenery at points, one could see the hill where the tall tower of cellular was placed for those who could witness the passed while disgusting the spoils it did, future.

The photographs above are those from and dedicated to the memory of:

Moke’s Hill

Weave Scene; Moke Hill
Beguiled amble a long
Through stones stare; the passed
Stalk up life’s toll, hills
Take in ‘fore granite
Century’s epitaphs

Earliest year fades
Rest din pieces 1804
As one Inn, their rose
Precedence amour

Serenities flagrance
A child lost borne
Times March; Crows fly
Gabriel’s blast
Forlorn