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earliest part of Roaring Fork. For years, those buildings just sat around, decaying. Then, when the resort business picked up, there was a move to clear it all away. But somebody had the idea to restore the old ghost town, make it into a kind of museum for Roaring Fork’s past.”
    Disneyland meets ski resort , Corrie thought, marveling at the anachronism of this scattering of old relics amid such a hotbed of conspicuous consumption.
    As she stared at the well-maintained structures, a brace of snowmobiles roared past, throwing up billows of powder in their wakes.
    “What’s with all the snowmobiles?” she asked.
    “Roaring Fork has an avid snowmobile culture,” the chief told her. “The town’s famous not only for its ski runs, but also for its snowmobile trails. There are miles and miles of them—mostly utilizing the maze of old mining roads that still exist in the mountains above the town.”
    They finally cleared the shopping district and, after a few turns, passed a little park full of snow-covered boulders.
    “Centennial State Park,” the chief explained. “Those rocks are part of the John Denver Sanctuary.”
    “John Denver?” Corrie shuddered.
    “Every year, fans gather on the anniversary of his death. It’s a really moving experience. What a genius he was—and what a loss.”
    “Yes, absolutely,” Corrie said quickly. “I love his work. ‘Rocky Mountain High’—my favorite song of all time.”
    “Still brings tears to my eyes.”
    “Right. Me, too.”
    They left the tight grid of downtown streets behind and continued up through a gorgeous stand of giant fir trees heavy with snow.
    “Why was the cemetery dug up?” Corrie asked. She knew the answer, of course, but she wanted to see what fresh light the chief could shed on things.
    “There’s a very exclusive development up ahead called The Heights—ten-million-dollar homes, big acreages, private access to the mountain, exclusive club. It’s the most upscale development in town, and it carries a great deal of cachet. Old money and all that. Back in the late ’70s, during the initial stage of its development, The Heights acquired ‘Boot Hill’—the hill with the town’s original cemetery—and got a variance to move it. That was in the days when you could still do that sort of thing. Anyway, a couple of years ago, they exercised that right so they could build a private spa and new clubhouse on that hill. There was an uproar, of course, and the town took them to court. But they had some pretty slick lawyers, and also that 1978 agreement, signed and sworn, with ironclad provisions in perpetuity. So they won, the cemetery ultimately got dug up, and here we are. For now, the remains are being stored in a warehouse up on the mountain. There’s nothing left but buttons, boots, and bones.”
    “So where are they being moved to?”
    “The development plans to rebury them in a nearby site as soon as spring comes.”
    “Is there still controversy?”
    The chief waved his hand. “Once it was dug up, the furor died down. It wasn’t about the remains, anyway—it was about preserving the historic cemetery. Once that was gone, people lost interest.”
    The fir trees gave way to a broad, attractive valley, glittering in the noontime light. At the near end stood a plain, hand-carved sign, of surprisingly modest dimensions, which read:
The Heights
Members Only
Please Check In at Guard Station
    Behind was a massive wall of river stones set with wrought-iron gates, beside which stood a fairy-tale guard house with a pointed cedar-shake roof and shingled sides. The valley floor was dotted with gigantic mansions, hidden among the trees, and the walls of the valley rose up behind, rooflines peeking above the firs—many with stone chimneys trailing smoke. Beyond that rose the ski area, a braid of trails winding up to the peaks of several mountains, and a high ridge sporting yet more mansions, all framed against a brilliant blue Rocky Mountain sky