Ms. Got Rocks by Jacqueline Colt

bathhouse is over there.”
    With that pronouncement Horace turned and waddled into the Trading Post and firmly shut the door.
    The women looked at each other and the gear in the Jeep. It was apparent Horace was not the bellman, nor the concierge. The women jumped into the Jeep and Rocky backed it across the dusty driveway as close as she could get to the nearest Tepee.
    “Jazz, my girl, I think you are right,” Rocky said as she poked her head into the tepee, that was nothing more than dirty canvas wrapped around galvanized metal water pipe stuck into the sand.
    “This is beginning to smell like yesterday’s tuna sandwich,” Rocky was now standing out in front of the tepee and looking for the bathroom. The twelve foot square concrete block building must be it.
    “God knows that I’m not fussy and used to roughing it, but and this has a huge butt, for five hundred bucks a day, I expect a little more than pipe and canvas,” Rocky grumped as she looked desolately at the accommodations.
    “It’ll be better tomorrow on the trail, this is the jumping off point. Look at this mountain. Can you just imagine how hard it must have been to be here without modern camping equipment? Jazz was turning a complete circle,obviously enchanted with the landscape.
    "Those dudes were tough,” Rocky said.
    “Or in the Indians case, didn’t have much of a choice,” Jazz reminded her.

C hapter 10
    T he morning was not cooled by the desert night. Rocky had tossed and turned through the night in the tepee on the artificial turf. Her inner self was not cheerful as she slung her pack on her back and without so much as a stale bagel for breakfast the two women and the old miner lead the three burros up the mountain. Jazz was not saying a word, literally. When Jazz was not verbal, she was not happy. They walked up the mountainside on a cleared wide trail, more reminiscent of a well run state park than a wilderness experience. The paved trail made the work easier for the burros in any event. The pace set by the old miner was irritatingly slow for the two athletic women.
    Jazz asked Engstrom for the directions to the next camp site, planning to hike out on her own and get some exercise. Horace politely but firmly refuse to divulge that secret.
    They plodded on through the pleasant mountain area, on the paved trail, albeit going higher into the mountains. Closing on ten A.M., they stopped for a break. The turnout in the trail afforded flushing toilets, piped in water and benches facing the best views of the mountains.
    Jazz whispered to Rocky, “Not the wilderness experience I was expecting.”
    “I am going to need to attack that rock face to get the kinks out of my muscles,” Rocky agreed looking over her shoulder at Flat Iron Mountain. “I’m going to climb for an hour when we stop for the night.”
    “This country is calling for a rock climber. I can gripe, but I would feel worse if those poor little burros were struggling,” Jazz said patting Lady Bird the burro on the hind quarter.
    Break time over, they resumed the slow climb up the mountain. Rocky had plenty of time to reel off some shots of the intriguing beauty of the bare mountains, and the burros.
    Lunch time arrived simultaneous to the party arriving at the next turnout in the paved trail, same facilities, but different view.
    The old miner produced three thin peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches on squashed white bread from his backpack, dealing them out to the women like cards. Rocky was hoping this was the first course of lunch, her hopes were dashed when the Old Miner dusted off his lap and untied the burros and began walking.
    “Tell me again, how much we are paying for this trip?” Jazz inquired in a low voice.
    “Five hundred bucks a day, each, room, meals and guide to and from the mountains. The pack animals are probably extra,” Rocky whispered as she followed along behind Jazz.
    Shortly after lunch when the sun was scorching the tops of their ball caps, and