Ghosts of a bygone era walk by my side through Virginia City, Montana. Boots echo along the boardwalk and when I listen carefully I swear I can hear the low jingling of some cowboy’s spurs.

My love affair with the Old West was coming to life right in front of me. Virginia City looked much the same as it would have back in the 1880’s. Everywhere I looked, the Old West looked right back at me, eye to eye, boot to boot. I half expected to see the local Sheriff come waltzing out into the street, brandishing his six-shooter. Instead, a parade of Harley Davidson riders, on their way to Sturgis, comes to dusty stop in front of the Bale Of Hay Saloon. These modern day drifters didn’t have any of the charm or romance of their ancient counterparts.

Shorts and sandals take the place of boots, moccasins and gingham as multi-lingual tourists drink in the ambiance of sun, dust, cacti and history. A history ripe with thrills chills and danger that none here could actually comprehend unless, like me, they had grown up with the knowledge and atmosphere. My husband Dave hadn’t grown up that way either, but he had an innate sense of the time, a connection of the soul if you will.

We wandered over to the Rocky Mountain Bell Telephone Company building. This was the original building and weathered boards enclosed the two room structure in their peeling skin. I didn’t dare brush up against if for fear of dislodging pieces into the threadbare grass around the front door.

Dave managed to get a nice shot of the telephone operator sitting in front of the switchboard directing calls. In truth it was just a mannequin but the diorama was so life like I almost expected to hear her say something like “Hello, you have reached Virginia City. How may I direct your call?” I pointed out the old divider screen in the back corner of the room, fabric faded and colorless in the sunlight streaming through the back window.

Next door a cowboy leaned against the glass pane beside the door of the Dry Goods store, staring off up the street. Black hair and beard disguised his expression – of course mannequins don’t really have expressions but I can pretend. Dave laughs at my daydreaming and says the cowboy is just waiting for his lady.

Grabbing my arm, he dragged me away, to follow an enticing aroma coming from a few doors further up the street. Walking in the City Bakery we were greeted with beaming smiles and hearty “Hello’s” by the owner and his wife. The place was intoxicating, heavenly aromas of fresh baking, savory spices and old wood embedded with rustic charm. I could hear the German accent in the owner’s voice as he told me of the history behind his bakery, of how he and his wife had restored it back to its original use from the abandon building it had become.

We left the bakery just in time to catch the stage. Yes, the stage – a real 1880’s stage pulled by pair of beautiful gray draft horses. We took a tour around the area – a stage is definitely not the most comfortable way to travel! There wasn’t a whole lot of cushion under our butts and not much for springs under to coach either. Rocks and potholes were the natural enemy of the long ago stagecoaches, to say nothing of mud and bandits.