While we were banking on one of our turns over the east end of the Ferrises this morning, the pilot asked me what they had been mining in the adits we could see below us.

I was surprised. He was born and raised in this country. I would have suspected he knew.

And I made the mistake of looking. Straight out the right window, which happened to be a spinning view straight down.

"Gold."

In fact, I was told the Conquistadors were the ones who first opened those mines. That's why they're called the "Spanish Mines."

And I thought of Camino de Oro. Hadn't thought of that place since, oh, last Saturday. Bet it's been gone at least 15 years now.

Camino de Oro was a restaurant. But that's like saying Diaryland is a website.

You entered the Camino by a flight of stairs down from the parking lot. It was in the basement of a standard Western tourist shop. Down dark stairs lined with dark unfinished wood. Turn left, a few more stairs, turn left again. Still dark. Like being in a cavern.

On your left was a small lit display behind glass, the only light in the hall, like a mineral display in a museum. A bottom of aquarium gravel, several large pieces of iron pyrite (fool's gold), and on top... a Conquistador's helmet. The card said it was found in the sand dunes by the Ferrises. I never doubted it, but nowadays I wonder. Did they really get this far?

Past the display case the hallway widened, and there was a little more light. And the restrooms.

Ahead of you was the dining area. Dimly lit, a black and red decor (wife remembered that, I didn't). Spanish-style wrought iron on fake balconies above and behind you. Standard hard wood tables and wooden Captain's chairs.

Covering the far wall, the entire far wall, was a mural. A mural of a mountain lake, framed by pines on both sides. But we're not talking a painting here. This was a photograph appliqued on a smooth mosaic of 16-20 panes of glass and lit from behind. I've yet to see a museum background that was more real. From floor to ceiling, and curving around both corners of the room. With real tree branches in the foreground.

A gnarled pine rail kept the tables on the "balcony" overlooking the lake.

It was cool. But no one went there for the ambiance.

This was a steak house. Real steaks. None of this 12-oz prime rib. Their prime rib was either 18-oz or 24-oz. The 24-oz covered the platter. No, not plate. Platter. Potato, bread and veggies came on a separate plate. None of their steaks were less than an inch thick. Broiled to perfection.

Wife just said, "Let me guess, you're gonna piss off all the vegetarians in your group."

She laughed as I typed that. The little maskless heeler whined because she didn't get the joke.

Anyway, we're alone again.

Last Saturday the graduated elder son wanted a steak dinner, and we found a place to go. It was good, but I missed the Camino. And realized he had never eaten there. And this morning, as the pilot tried to get me nauseous with a spin over the Spanish Mines, I missed it again. So did he.

Off to dinner (chicken and rice, if you're wondering).