In saying farewell to the unique high-country places, you are left
with many dramatic memories other than of towns alone. There are
shaft houses or portal-houses like that of the Copper Vein mine at
Summitville which provided Thomas M. Bowen with wealth to defeat
Horace Tabor in his bid for the seven-year term for U.S. senator; or
aerial tramways like the Tabasco mine’s crossing Cinnamon Pass to
its mill.
[Illustration: D.K.P., 1960]
_L’Envoi_
If you have read this far, we hope that you have attempted one or more
of the short trips. Perhaps you have done the whole suggested tour
around Colorado and seen all forty-two of our selections. Whichever you
have attempted, you must have come away awe-struck by the prodigious
energy and enterprise of the pioneers. Their feats of transportation
over villainous terrain, and of building shaft houses, dwellings and
even towns on the face of cliffs or at the top of mountains, were so
herculean as to seem incredible.
The pioneers’ amazing accomplishments lie crumbling now. What cost them
so much are largely regarded today as mere relics for curiosity or spots
for souvenir-hunting—an attitude that raises my blood pressure to the
danger mark. No one would think of chipping off a piece of tile from a
fireplace in Spain or a bit of wood from a Tudor cottage in England. Yet
they will do the equivalent in Colorado.
True, our past and our heritage are much closer to us here, but they
should be no less dear. For my part, they are even dearer for being just
around memory’s corner and being almost within touch. When I stand on
the rock dams of Lake Caroline (which my father named for me) and think
of what effort a man would need to expend, working alone at 11,800 feet
altitude with only a couple of hired workmen and a team of horses to
build these dams, I cannot bear for one rock to be dislodged.
There were not only the rock dams of Lake Caroline but the concrete and
rock dams of Ice, Ohman, Steuart, and Reynolds Lakes and the great
earthen dam of Loch Lomond, the main lake of the reservoir system. I
cannot remember the actual building of these dams; but I can remember
the many horseback rides in later summers when my father and I went to
check on the head gates and on what serious damage the severe winters
had done to his engineering work.
And then there were those many shaft houses that I knew as a child and
girl where my father was the consulting mining engineer. I cannot
remember the shaft houses being built; but I can remember them later
with the whir of the hoists, the sharp sound of the bell signals, and
the clang of the primitive ore buckets and go-devils as they took us
down the shafts. I can remember the speed of the go-devil in the Little
Jonny mine near Leadville when in 1927 John Cortellini (then mayor of
the town and superintendent of the mine) ushered us down with his
courtly Italian manner. He expected me to be frightened at being brushed
so rapidly past the crooked rock wall. But I thought it was fun.
I do not think it is fun today when I hear that the silent and deserted
Little Jonny shaft house has been broken into and some of the machinery
stolen. I know at what human and financial cost that machinery was put
there. It should be left in peace until that rosy day when precious
minerals and base metals are once again in demand.
Speaking of cost, no visitor to our collection of towns but must have
wondered about finances. Only a gambler could understand them. It is my
private contention that more money has been sunk into the mountains of
Colorado than any wealth they have yielded up. But this is the practical
and prosaic view of one who has heard too often about the millions that
would pour in tomorrow when the vein widened out or when the drift was
extended just ten more feet. Mining and narrow gauge railroading were
for gamblers, and no one pretended otherwise. They had no illusions
about its being an industry or a business. My father and his cronies
always spoke of “the mining game.”
But for a game it carried a deal of heartbreak. If you take time to look
at the cemeteries of the mining towns, you cannot fail to notice the
numbers of babies who could not survive in this harsh land nor the
number of young men killed by accidents other than shootings, nor in the
“Boot Hills” the number of unhappy young women who went the laudanum
route. There is sadness, as well as serenity and romantic nostalgia,
hanging in the aura of these high-country towns.
Memories of humor—raw pioneer humor—hang there also. The old-timers used
their boundless energy for play and for practical jokes as well as for
work. I remember a passage from the _Silver World_ that was written
about Eureka in April, 1877, which pictured their superhuman efforts at
entertainment. A dance had been scheduled in one of the cabins,
according to the correspondent who described the affair thus:
“Soon the damsels began to arrive, some on burros and some on foot. The
music was provided by a fiddle and a banjo, and the ball opened with the
‘San Juan Polka’ which resembled a Sioux War dance.... Soon the
ironclads of the miners began to raise the dust of the floor so that
before long it was impossible to tell what was what.... Ground hog was
the chief dish at the late supper which also served big ox, gravy,
bacon, coffee, tea, and a large variety of pies and cakes. After this
light repast the dance was resumed till morning.”
* * *
And so, farewell, for the present. Let us hope that in the years to come
both humans and nature will be kind to the high-country towns so that we
may all continue to enjoy these reminders of a way of life that is now
completely lost—a way of life that was the mainstay of Colorado for over
half a century and is now only a mountain ghost.
[Illustration]
_Acknowledgments_
(reprinted from the first through seventh edition)
For Research Aid:
As in all of my historical work, I want to thank the alert and unusual
staff of the Western History Department of the Denver Public
Library—Alys Freeze, Opal Harber, Katherine Hawkins, Mary Hanley and
James Davis—who have been known to find needles in haystacks. At the
Colorado State Museum, Agnes Wright Spring and Laura Ekstrom are always
generous; as is Lorena Jones at _The Denver Post_.
The Lake City area was made informative and hospitable by the Joel
Swanks and the Lowell Swansons. Hahns Peak research was aided by Maurice
Leckenby of Steamboat Springs and Herman Mahler; North Empire, by Louise
Harrison, “Wise” and Tulley Nelson and Mac Poor; Turret, by Steve
Frazee; Bonanza by Mrs. Olle Olson; Lenado, by Jack Flogaus and his son;
Lulu City, by Carolyn and John Holzwarth; St. Elmo, by Jody Grieb and
Marie Skagsberg; Stumptown by S. L. Logue; Ashcroft, by the Stuart
Maces; Pandora, by Fran Johnson and John Wise; and the Wet Mountain
Valley towns by the Pierpont Fullers.
For Proofreading:
Mrs. Bryant McFadden and Beatrice Jordan have kindly helped with the
search for typographical errors and have made suggestions about style.
For Photographs:
We, Dan Peterson and I, are especially indebted to Jim Davis of the
Western History Department of the Denver Public Library, and Lorena
Jones of _The Denver Post_ for running down historic photos of our
special ghost towns. When Dan Peterson was unable to go personally for
contemporary shots, numerous other friends helped with picture-taking or
with transportation for research.
Ed Hargraves of Creede loaned his jeep five times for the trip to
Bachelor where the weather was continuously uncooperative. It was
piloted by Orin Hargraves, “Ish” Stewart, Paulette Campbell, “Frenchy”
Slanakin and Lonny Rogers. Dixie Munn and Lillian Hargraves, also of
Creede, drove me on successive trips to Spar City where Mrs. Dorothy
Reubling and Dr. O. W. Longwood aided with research and photographs,
Jack Rigg jeeped down from Summitville to Jasper on the Alamosa River to
fetch and return me, generously giving a whole day to entertainment,
education and picture-taking.
Photos that we lacked were obtained for us by Bryant McFadden, Robert
Richardson, Virgil Jackson, Ed Nelson, J. B. Schooland, M. R. Parsons,
Robert Symonds, and Michael Davis.
This list of friends, in fact, could be extended almost indefinitely—so
best I terminate with a heartfelt “thank you” to all the above, and
sundry unnamed, for many kinds of help.