Stories | Bill's Views on Most Everything

Tag Archives: Stories

Four Wheeling for 65 Years

Posted on September 2, 2014 by Bill Leave a comment

Camping with my Nissan 4x4 in the Maze District

Camping with my Nissan 4×4 in the Maze District

My first four wheeling memory is from deer hunting season somewhere in the early 1950’s. We were staying at a neighbor’s ranch near Douglas Pass with a large party. We went up a creek in a WWII surplus Jeep. There must have been eight or ten people on and in that Jeep. We got up high on a rough road and a front axle broke. I was too young to know much of what was going on, but I did know the Jeep was broken and we were a long way from the ranch. A couple of the men were pretty handy and managed to pull the broken axle with a Crescent wrench and a screwdriver, all the tools they had. My father was impressed and we made it back to the ranch.

Other four wheeling trips were to what is now Canyonlands National Park. I don’t remember whose Jeep we were in, but we four wheeled over Elephant Hill into Chesler Park. The Elephant Hill road is still open, but Chesler Park was closed to vehicles many years ago. My father didn’t have a four wheel drive in those years, but we went places in our 1953 Chevrolet pickup that are considered four wheel drive only these days. Many of the roads were to fishing areas on Grand Mesa.

1953 Chevy

There just were not many four wheel drive vehicles in those days, so people made do. In the Bookcliffs area, famous for slick shale roads, there were many hills with a pile of rocks at the bottom of the grade. People stopped, loaded the rocks into the bed of the two wheel drive pickup for weight, and climbed the hill and went where they wanted to go, and unloaded the rocks on the way out.

WWII and Modern Jeeps

Army surplus Jeeps became fairly common in the 1950’s, but they were fairly primitive. 35 miles per hour was about what they would do on the highway unless the owner added a Warn overdrive. They also broke a lot. I remember walking home from across the river from Fruita when the steering linkage fell apart on a surplus Jeep.

Later, in the 1970’s, four wheel drive vehicles became more common. New and modernized Jeeps, International Scouts, Broncos, Blazers, and four wheel drive pickups became fairly common. My father had two Scouts, an early Jeep Cherokee; and his first four wheeler, a 50’s Jeep wagon with a Chevy small block V8.

The first Scout got us into trouble on Elephant Hill. We were coming out after dark and as we got to the top of the hill, bouncing over the slickrock, the engine quit. It would not start, so we walked the four miles or so to the Canyonlands Resort. At that time the owner flew tourists over the canyon country, ran the resort, and flew the occasional polygamist away from the law. We waited for him to finish an enormous plate of venison and biscuits, got into his big Ford ¾ ton pickup, and went to the Scout. He towed the Scout about 50 feet and it started. The carburetor float must have stuck and the bouncing knocked it loose.

When I started buying four wheelers I got Japanese pickups. They cost less, are reliable and capable, and after all, a feller needs a truck. I just don’t like buying lots of gas for a truck. My current ride is a 2009 Toyota Tacoma 4 cylinder standard cab. Toyotas have grown, it barely fits in our new 20 foot garage.

My Taco

There are two basic types of four wheelers. There are those who four wheel to go to interesting places that require four wheel drive, and those who enjoy the sport of going to difficult places. There is overlap, but those lifted and modified vehicles are for hard core wheeling and showing off. I have a four wheel drive pickup to go places. My Tacoma is stock.

Southeastern Utah is a favorite destination for both types of four wheelers. The Moab Rally every spring brings hardcore rock crawlers from all over the country. There is so much to explore that is accessible because the uranium boom of the 1950’s brought about much road building into areas that had been horseback only.

My favorite area is the Maze District in Canyonlands National Park. 70 miles of dirt road to the ranger station, then many more miles of four wheel drive to places like the Doll House, which has access to the Colorado River just below the confluence with the Green.

This summer seems to be devoted to going over passes. I won’t name them all, but the next one is Pearl Pass. My 12 year old grandmother drove a team and wagon over that pass in 1887. I am a bit older and my team is motorized.

Posted in Four Wheeling, Memoirs, My Story

Freezing on Deadman’s Hill

Posted on August 14, 2014 by Bill Leave a comment

Deadman’s Hill Lookout Tower

I did a ramble to Deadman’s Hill and some other places. I did survive, but it was not easy.

Deadman’s Hill is west of Redfeather Lakes on a road that ends on the Laramie River road. This is one of the more remote mountain areas east of the Continental Divide in Colorado. Redfeather is a resort community northwest of Fort Collins and north of Rustic, in Poudre Canyon. There are lakes, a store and post office, a restaurant, and many cabins. There is a year-round population of about 250 people. It is a bit funky, and nothing like the ski resorts with their upscale condos.

I went to Colorado State in Ft. Collins, lived there for several years, and never got to the area. I have had Deadman’s Hill on my list, and tried to go over the road last spring. Alas, the road is closed from December to June. I was too early, but not too early to see a bear feeding in a meadow just before the closed gate.

I went back last week, the road was open and well graded. It climbs through a Lodgepole Pine forest to a spur leading up to a fire lookout tower that has a view of most everything from Rocky Mountain National Park to Wyoming and from the plains to the Rawah Wilderness in the Medicine Bow mountains.

From the lookout tower I went down the hill a ways to a long meadow looking right at the Rawahs. A little creek ran through the meadow and a pair of bull moose would drift out of the timber, feed for a while, and move back into the trees.

Meadow With the Rawah Mountains

I got the tent up just in time for the first rainstorm, and had another storm a couple of hours later. A pleasant and lovely late afternoon, with the solitude I always seek in the back country.

If it is not raining steadily, I set up my cot outside, with the sleeping bag inside a canvas bedroll along with a wool blanket. I slept for a short while, got up to pee, got cold and stayed that way for the rest of the night. I reached outside the bedroll and felt a layer of ice. It seemed like my feet were as cold as those snowfields on the flanks of the Rawahs, and the rest of me had just come out of the water draining the snowfields.

I tried a few things that helped my body a little, but my feet got colder every time I left the sleeping bag. Oh, and the sleeping bag zipper jammed. No sleep, much misery. At about 4:30 AM I climbed into my pickup and ran the heater to warm up. Everything in the cab of that truck is lumpy or pokes you if you are trying to sleep.

At 5:30 I threw everything into the bed of the truck and went down the hill to the Laramie River road. From there I went north to Woods Landing Wyoming, hoping to find coffee and food. Closed. On to Mountain Home, Wyoming, nothing there. I went west to the road from North Park Colorado into Wyoming and south to Walden.

I found coffee, heat, food, and a semblance of civilization. There were four old guys, retired ranchers from the look of them, sunning themselves on the patio in the 45 degree morning. I saw some bicycles parked nearby and asked them if the bikes were theirs. One shook his head, taking me literally at first. None of them had been on a bicycle in at least 60 years. You don’t ride bicycles if your headgear is a cowboy hat and your shirts have snaps, not buttons.

The bicycles belonged to some city folk having breakfast and fixing a flat tire. They were in their 60’s. Hardy people there, in Jackson County.

From Walden I went back north along the North Platte River into Wyoming. The Platte and Laramie River valleys are what I think of as mountain ranch country. Irrigated hayfields and pastures flanked by sagebrush hills rising into the timber. Everyone waves at you.

Snowy Range

I then went east over the Medicine Bow Mountains, capped by the Snowy Range. This is one of my favorite drives. The mountains are snowy white, jagged, and have lovely lakes at their base. The white rock is 4 billion year old quartzite, older than anything in Colorado. Just off the highway on the way to a campground are some stromatolites, or petrified algae, some of the oldest evidence of life on earth.

I had lunch in Laramie and decided to return to Redfeather and get a cabin for some sleep. There were no cabins available, so I went to Poudre Canyon, where a cabin was too expensive. By that time I was so tired I just went home. A tired, cold trip in some fine country.

Posted in Current Activities, Geology, My Story

The Secret

Posted on May 2, 2014 by Bill 3 comments

Four Mile House

I have a lot of fun with the elementary school children at Four Mile Historic Park. In my introduction, I talk about the horses, warning them about being kicked or bitten. I then show them my missing finger. That gets the message across, even after I tell them it was not a horse. When there are several Latino kids in the group, they learn that my name in Spanish is Nueve.

One of my favorite things is to get some of the girls aside and ask them if they know the secret. They don’t know, of course. I tell them, “Girls are smarter than boys.” There are several reactions. With several girls, it is “Yes!” with some high fives. With first or second graders, they are a bit surprised, but agree. With older girls, they usually nod sagely. They all like hearing it from an old man.

Parents and teachers also like hearing it. I tell them about the Bill Clinton Society. That is the organization of men whose wives are smarter than they are. Women and men all agree that all men are members, with a big laugh.

I also make a point of establishing myself as a big storyteller. They learn that some of my stories are true, some not so true. I do say when I am not lying, as how I really lost my finger.

Often, I tell them about my grandmother Pearl driving a wagon from Texas to Colorado in 1887 when she was 12. The link to that story is here.

Another thing we show the children is the fuel for campfires the pioneers used out on the prairie. We ask them what fuel they would have used where there was little firewood. The answers are usually grass, rocks, or wood. “No wood, grass burns too fast, rocks don’t burn. They used Buffalo Chips.”

Buffalo Chips

We hold one up. They don’t quite understand until we say “Dried buffalo poop.” “Eww!” is the universal response. They then learn that it was the task of the children to gather the stuff. They begin to understand that life on the trail was not very easy.

The children visiting Four Mile have fun, I have fun, and we all learn something. The main thing I have learned is that the kids are bright, fun-loving, and they enjoy learning. Most of the teachers encourage the learning and fun. Some of the teachers are only interested in control. We all had too many of them. I do my best to counter that attitude. This is my fourth year at Four Mile. In that time, only three children have been a big problem out of the thousands I have met. I hope to meet and have fun with many more.

Posted in Four Mile Park, Stories

Four Mile Historic Park

Posted on April 17, 2014 by Bill Leave a comment

The House at Four Mile

When I give a house tour, I always say, “This is a museum. What’s the rule?” “Don’t touch!” is their response. All through the house I have to remind them, “Don’t touch.”

I work part time at Four Mile Historic Park. I help with elementary school field trips and birthday parties. Four Mile was a stagecoach stop on the Cherokee Trail from the 1859 Pike’s Peak Gold Rush until the railroad came to Denver in 1870. It is four miles from the Intersection of Colfax Avenue and Broadway, where the Colorado State Capitol building stands.

The Cherokee Trail came down Cherry Creek to Denver, then went north to close to the Wyoming border, then west to Fort Bridger and on to California. The stage line came west from Leavenworth, Kansas on the Smoky Hill Trail across Kansas to where Limon now is. It then came across present Elbert County and down Smoky Hill Road to the Cherokee Trail and Denver.

The Four Mile station operated from 1859 to 1870 when the railroad came down to Denver from Cheyenne. It then was a farm and informal neighborhood center until around 1940. Today it is owned by the City of Denver and operates as a nonprofit.

The original house dates to 1859 and is the oldest standing structure in Denver. It is the museum I referred to in the first paragraph. We have horses and wagon rides, a stagecoach and several other wagons. There are goats, chickens, a tipi, a trapper’s cabin, wells, barns, gardens, and lots of places to picnic.

Our goal with school trips is to give students a taste of life in the nineteenth century. They are often shocked to find out that people managed to survive without iPads. Another goal is for them to have fun doing some of the things children did in the 1860s. They cook over an open fire, make butter, feed chickens, wash clothes in the washtub, pan for gold (fool’s gold), and play some pioneer games.

I tell stories about my pioneer family, tell them that the horses favorite food is third graders, that trolls live along the creek, and that the children emptied the chamber pots, brought in firewood, carried water, gathered buffalo chips for fuel on the trail, and fed the animals. Yes, they get some tall tales as well. Second graders are too little, fourth graders are too tough, but third graders are just right for horse food. I tell the girls the secret: “Girls are smarter than boys.”

Four mile is a fun place to work and the kids make it so. Of the hundreds of kids I have worked, only two seemed like they were headed for big trouble. I have as much fun as they do.

Posted in Current Activities, Memoirs, Stories

Kodel’s Canyon

Posted on March 31, 2014 by Bill Leave a comment

Kodel’s Canyon

In the late 1950’s, some friends and I liked to go to Kodel’s Canyon. The canyon is in the Colorado National Monument about five miles from Fruita. We would get a ride from a parent and with our .22 rifles, hike on the relatively flat desert area between the Colorado River and the National Monument, laying waste to any number of unsuspecting rocks with our .22’s.

Sometimes we would climb over the Park boundary fence and up into the canyon. It is the first canyon west of Fruita Canyon, where Rim Rock Drive climbs, and the scenery is as spectacular as the rest of the National Monument, but at the time was seldom visited. Carrying firearms into the National Park and firing them was illegal, but we never worried about getting caught. No one went there but the local kids.

The canyon has the sheer sandstone cliffs the Monument is famous for, but the lower end is black Precambrian granite, schist, and gneiss, black and weathered into narrow cracks and rounded humps. A demented miner who gave the canyon its name worked a mine in that rock for many years, never finding any gold. It should have been clear to him there was no gold; there is relatively little quartz in the rock, which is associated with gold, and Kodel’s canyon is far from the Colorado Mineral Belt, which runs from the Golden-Boulder area to Telluride. Most of the state’s minerals, including gold, are in that roughly 20 mile wide belt. The big exception is Cripple Creek, a volcanic neck with a rich gold deposit. Nevertheless, Kodel persisted for years, giving the local Fruita kids a place to risk their lives.

We would poke around in the mine, and its mystery. We didn’t go too far in, as we never had a flashlight. The big attraction was the climbing. In some places the 1.4 billion years old rock is broken and crumbling, but for the most part is so smooth and rounded as to look polished.

We had no climbing shoes, just our tennies. We had no helmets, ropes, or the hardware climbers use today. We got good at mostly unaided climbing and went up places that trained climbers attempt only with ropes and hardware. The only climbing aids we used were our .22 rifles, using them to help one another up especially steep pitches or as support. The climbing was somewhere between bouldering and free soloing. Not for those afraid of heights.

Years later, I climbed Long’s Peak with some friends. Lee had a bad knee, and Danny was helping him as we went up the Cable Route, which traverses the top of The Diamond, that sheer northeast face of the mountain with a 2,000 foot high cliff. Years ago the route had a fixed steel cable leading to the top that climbers could hold on to. When we climbed, there was no cable and some of the rock was wet. I just climbed up, doing what I learned in Kodel’s Canyon.

Danny would move up a pitch with the rope and belay Lee as he climbed on that bad knee. Danny remarked to Lee as they crept up with their rope that I was single-handing. It was steep, but I had good shoes and walked up, using one hand to occasionally support myself as I chose each foot placement. Proper safe climbing technique calls for having three support points on the rock, moving one hand or foot at a time. I was not ignoring the rule, I didn’t know it existed.

I only know of one serious injury in Kodel’s Canyon. Jerry badly sprained an ankle on the approach to the canyon and had to have help getting back to the road. He hobbled around for weeks, not getting much sympathy from us. In retrospect, we were serious risk-takers, but we just went where we wanted to without thinking about the danger. Those experiences in the hills and canyons south of Fruita made us all willing to accept challenges with little hesitation. We also gained confidence in our ability to overcome difficulty. We acquired life skills there. In our safety-oriented society, kids may be missing some important lessons. We need to test ourselves in the name of fun, and risk is part of the test. For me, it was a fun thing to do. I think I will go back, a bit more carefully this time.

Posted in Geology, Memoirs, Stories

Desert Surfboarding

Posted on March 25, 2014 by Bill 4 comments

The Grand Valley Canal Near Grand Junction, Mt. Garfield and Grand Mesa in the Background

I am a child of the desert. Fruita, Colorado has no more than eight inches of annual rainfall. Growing up in the late 1950’s, we were surfers before the Beach Boys made surfing famous.

The Grand Valley of Western Colorado is irrigated farm country. Two big canals bring Colorado River water to the valley farms. One of those canals had a place we called Karp’s Hole, after a nearby farm family. The hole was created by a concrete flume, narrower than the rest of the ditch, that created turbulence and eddy currents downstream that excavated a deep hole about 50 feet wide that was perfect for swimming. There was a diving board made from a 2″x12″ plank and an old car spring. That board was as good as any swimming pool diving board and was there for years.

With plenty of parking spaces, it was a popular summer party spot. The water, “too thick to drink and too thin to plow”, was good for tag games. A person could duck under and follow eddy currents to other points in the hole without being seen. The other side was lined with willows tall enough to provide hiding places. I had a scare when swimming in an underwater tunnel that surfaced behind the willows. I got stuck. My shoulders were a bit too wide, and my hands were in front. I wriggled and squirmed for what was probably only a few seconds, but it seemed like a long time to me before I was able to back out.

The road to Karp’s Hole ran alongside the canal for about 1 1/2 miles from the nearest county road. Built when the canal was dug, it was used for maintenance and by the ditch riders who patrolled the canal, adjusting the head gates that sent water to the farm fields.

For surfboarding, we made 4′ x 2′ plywood boards with two ropes with a handle coming back from the front of the board to the rider standing on a piece of carpet tacked to the back of the board. Another rope yoke led from to the bottom of the board to the tow rope which ran about 50′ to a post in the bed of a pickup truck. The driver and a spotter were in the cab and the rest of us rode in the bed. With the tow rope tied to a stake secured in the bed, the surfer shifted his weight from side to side and swung from one side of the canal to the other and back, sometimes bumping into the bank, and throwing a rooster tail of water onto the road.

We went about 20 miles per hour, any faster increasingly dangerous and less fun. The sport was illegal, we were trespassing, making it even more fun, but no one ever got arrested. After my first time at about 16, I came home and told my parents about our new sport. My father laughed, saying he surfboarded in the 1920’s behind Model T Fords. We were just keeping a Grand Valley tradition alive.

Our surfboarding parties were usually fueled by Coors 3.2 beer. There was no other beer for us. Given the muddy road, the beer, and adolescent hormones, accidents were rare. One time, the ditch company had mowed the willows lining the canal. Alan hit the bank with the bottom of his board a little too hard, and flew face down onto the willows. Bright red stripes.

The worst surfboarding accident was when a girl riding for the first time hit the bank and sort of flopped. She broke one of the bony processes on a spinal vertebra. No nerve damage, but she sure was sore for a while. The worst injury is when Don, my neighbor across the street dived into the shallow sand bar while drunk. He broke his neck. He was in a big cast from his chest to his chin and the back of his head. To drive, he put the top down of his 1955 Chevy convertible (the envy of every guy in town), parked his butt on the seat back, leaned forward, and drove. The cops never said a word.

More than 50 years later I can remember the sensation of speed, of spray in my face, the movement of the board under my feet as I dug one corner in to make a turn, zooming across the canal and digging in the other corner as the bottom of the board bounced on the bank. Spray flew 20 or more feet as I sped to the other bank and turned to make another run to douse the road. It was best when I could spray another car meeting us on the ditch road. It was usually some friends coming for their rides on the surfboard.

Water sports were big, but we had a mechanized winter sport as well. Two brothers had what we called a toboggan that had been around for years. It had steel runners at each corner and a deck that could hold four or five people. After a snow we would haul it out to the desert north of the farm area and tow it behind a pickup truck, preferably four wheel drive.

No going on the road or in a straight line, the driver’s goal was to turn sharp enough to throw everyone off. Speeds were a bit higher, close to 30 miles per hour. At night. There was lots of screaming and laughing as we rolled through the snow and mud.

I don’t remember anyone ever getting hurt, but we would get home tired, cold, wet, and muddy. Parents would just shake their heads. After all, they had done it themselves.

Posted in Memoirs, Stories

Sandstone Solitude

Posted on March 18, 2014 by Bill Leave a comment

I like to do solo trips in the Southeastern Utah canyon country. I began going there in the 1950’s with my parents, then with friends, and by myself. I go there for the scenery and for the solitude.

The tourism centered around Moab has made finding solitude more challenging, but the crowds of four wheelers, dirt bikers, mountain bikers, and other rabble tend to go to the same places, leaving vast areas empty. Even in well-traveled areas all I need to do is walk about 1/4 mile and I am alone.

Bare rock, deep canyons, intense light, vertical spires, and the starkness leads me into myself. My mind empties of the clutter of civilization. I return refreshed and at peace. My trips there are pilgrimages.

There also is the danger. All the Park Service literature emphasizes safety. Traveling with others, taking the proper equipment, having communications, carrying water, and leaving an itinerary are all good advice. I carry water and the 10 essentials along with nylon cord, a trowel, and a poncho or space blanket. Sometimes I travel with others.

Newspaper Rock

I go into slot canyons, climb over the ridge to the next canyon where the cattle could not go, follow winding canyons to the pourover that stops me, scramble up to the rim, and ramble in the slickrock. I look for ruins of the people who lived, hunted, and farmed here. They left pictographs on those stone walls that tell of the hunt, of the gods. Life must have been hard, but they were surrounded by beauty, and they had time for art.

The Needles District

I especially like the slickrock. Entrada sandstone, ancient sand dunes turned to stone, it has a sensual feel. There are rounded humps, steep drops, curves and hollows, and those inviting bowls. The bowls are the best. In the couple of weeks after a rain they hold enough water to support life. Tadpoles, water striders, and other insects have a brief time in the sun until the water dries up and they go dormant. I like to drink from them when the water is fresh.

The bowls range in size from a few inches to hundreds of feet in diameter. The larger ones have a sandy bottom, sometimes with desert vegetation. Other bowls have an outlet, a crack or joint in the rock that is wide enough for an exit. Many are true bowls, no outlet, with steep, smooth sides.

What is it about boys and holes in the ground? We just want to go into them. I do, often without a thought about how I am going to get out. More than once I have found myself in trouble.

5162011-Devils-Kitchen-Canyonlands-Campsite

Devils Kitchen Campsite

One time I was in the Needles district of Canyonlands National Park. There is a challenging four wheel drive over Elephant Hill; a misnomer because the hill is solid rock. I camped at Devil’s Kitchen, an area where each campsite is under a sandstone overhang. The view is across a park to the pinnacles surrounding Chesler Park, a magical place.

Everyone goes to Chesler Park, so the area around the campsites is little-traveled. I climbed around for a while, seeking the high points to look west across the Colorado River to the spires and cliffs of the Maze District. It’s a panorama of varying shades of red rock, tilted and broken into fins and spires that should exist only in the imagination, but there they are.

Hiking a bit farther east, I came across one of those bowls, a big one. I climbed down to the sandy bottom, admiring the grasses that manage to survive in that dry place. Rain runs off the rock and waters the edges of the sandy bottom promoting more growth there. I looked around and thought, “I wonder if I can get out of here?”

My standard strategy is to walk up the sides of the bowl using the friction of my shoes. Too steep. I tried a running start. Failed. I went as high as I could standing, then scrambled on all fours, feet slipping and using my knees as well. By that time I was worried. No cell phone service there, so I was on my own. It took several tries, losing some skin and good blue denim, but there is no skeleton in that bowl. I will go back, but plan to stay out of the bowls.

Posted in Memoirs, Stories

Elegy for Tedd Brumbaugh

Posted on March 6, 2014 by Bill 2 comments

My old friend Tedd died a couple of years ago. I wrote this after his death.

We went back a ways. I used to visit him on my tricycle. We would eat mulberries in the tree behind Jimmy’s house. We would fight on the way home for lunch and make up on the way back to school. His mother served both whole wheat and white bread at meals. My family didn’t have bread on the table for meals.

In high school, Tedd wanted only to District Attorney for a day. All the county elected jobs were available, and I didn’t care which job I got, I just wanted to go, so I ran for every job and lost. The last office to be chosen was District Attorney. I won, Tedd didn’t go.

I was best man at his wedding, traveling to McPherson, Kansas for the ceremony. I painted Help Me on the soles of his shoes. A woman gasped when they knelt at the altar.

Our class Valedictorian, Tedd, and I went to a Quaker youth camp in Palmer Lake between our junior and senior years. That week changed our lives. Liberals! They didn’t exist in Fruita. I went with Tedd and his family to my first classical music concert ever. We went with our high school science teacher to Paradox Valley and the Hanging Flume.

Tedd’s last couple of years have been pretty rough. He was having some health problems then was diagnosed with brain cancer. The oncologists killed the cancer, but he began having mini-strokes. The last few months, he hasn’t been around much. Now, he’s gone.

Tedd was pretty much unresponsive for a time before he died. After watching this more times than I like, I think the dying person is doing some work in our world before moving on. I don’t know what the work is and they aren’t saying. I am not entirely sure about this, but in watching, I can see that something is going on at some level. It is more subtle than a dog’s twitches while dreaming, but it is there.

Life is a mystery, filled with joy, sorrow, and all those other times. I like to think about the mystery, but don’t ask me for any answers. I do know I felt joy riding my tricycle over to Tedd’s house.

Posted in Memoirs

Train Wreck

Posted on February 7, 2014 by Bill Leave a comment

D&RG Glenwood Canyon

It was one of those bleak, cold January days, too cold for a heavy snow, but enough snow was flying to cut visibility to less than 100 yards. On the D&RGW Railroad in 1924, the trains ran on train orders, instructions detailing where each train on the line was to be at any given time. The train orders told each train when and where to pull into a passing track to let an oncoming train go by.

At 5:00 PM on January 17, 1924, Eastbound Freight #320 was to enter the Shoshone siding and wait for a westbound train to pass. Visibility was so poor that the engineer had slowed to 15 MPH instead of the normal 20 MPH. My grandfather Will was the rear brakeman on #320 and heard the conductor say that there was no way they could get to Shoshone and they would pull in to the passing track at No Name, just east of Glenwood Springs.

Will went out on the platform and was able to signal to the head brakeman in the engine to pull the train in at No Name. The train lurched through the switch and stopped. Will jumped down and threw the switch back to the main line, then the train moved along the siding to just around a bend and stopped. This was a violation of the train orders, but not much, and the crew felt safe in stopping early.

The head brakeman was walking back to the caboose for a cup of coffee when he saw the other engine’s headlight illuminating the snow just around the curve, its wheels’ flanges squealing on the rails.

“Oh, shit.” He thought as he frantically signaled with his lantern back to the engine to start the train moving. He ran yelling to the caboose just as Will looked out the back window and saw the headlight and realized the coming train, brakes squealing and whistle screaming, was going to hit them.

“Run forward!” Will yelled at the conductor as he started to climb the ladder up to the cupola, thinking to get above the impact. The train’s engine struck the wooden caboose and the back half splintered, breaking a steam line on the engine. The steam rushed into the wreckage just as the conductor jumped out and Will’s forehead hit the ladder.

He pulled himself up, blinking blood out of his eyes, thinking “If they were going any faster, we’d be dead.”

Friday, January 25. Will walked up the walk 729 Gunnison Avenue in Grand Junction. Pearl met him at the door. “Well, how did it go?” She asked.

Will entered the parlor and sat heavily in the first chair. “The superintendent fired the whole crew for disobeying the train orders. We talked about the storm slowing us down, but it didn’t matter.” He said wearily.

Posted in Stories

Pearl Comes To Colorado

Posted on February 7, 2014 by Bill One comment

Horse Drawn Wagon

Pearl Pass

It is 1887 in North Texas and Lee Willits’ ranch is not doing well. Lee applied and got a job as a ranch foreman in Colorado. The next thing was to make the move. With all the ranch equipment and a horse herd, he decided to travel with wagons. His daughter Pearl drove one of the wagons.

They travelled from Texas into New Mexico, then north into Southern Colorado and Taylor Park, where Crested Butte is located. The task then was to get over the Elk Mountains to Aspen and down the Roaring Fork River to El Jebel Ranch north of Basalt.

The wagon road from Taylor Park to Aspen went over Pearl Pass. At 12,700 feet high, it was steep, narrow, and rocky. They traveled the road with more than one wagon, the horse herd, and probably with Lee on his horse. It is a shelf road, with the mountain rising on one side of the road and a steep drop-off into a canyon on the other. The road sloped to the outside, and was only wide enough for one wagon. The Willits family was not familiar with mountain roads and misjudged how long it would take to get over the pass to Ashcroft, today a ghost town outside Aspen. They got in at 11:00 PM.

Pearl drove her wagon down that mountain road in the dark. She was a tough kid, though, at twelve years old. She must have been terrified, as she told that story the rest of her life. The family settled down and Lee did well, acquiring land of his own and working it as well as the big El Jebel ranch. Pearl, her two sisters and a brother went to Basalt schools.

As Basalt was near Aspen, an important mining town, it was served by two railroads. A spur of the Denver and Rio Grande Western came up the Roaring Fork from Glenwood Springs; and the Colorado Midland came over the Continental Divide from Leadville via Hagerman Pass, again over 12,000 feet high. One of the railroaders on the Midland was William Shanks, my grandfather.

Will was a conductor on the Midland, assigned his own red caboose, and in charge of the train. He lived in Leadville, a division point on the Midland. In the morning his train went west past Turquoise Lake, over the pass, and down the scenic Frying Pan River Valley to Basalt. At that point, another crew took the train on to Grand Junction. Will laid over in Basalt and took another train to Leadville the next day.

There he was in Basalt two or three nights a week, and he met Pearl, by that time a mountain girl in her own right. After a courtship they married and she lived in Leadville with Will. They had three children; all born at the ranch in Basalt, as it was much safer having babies at 6500 feet in Basalt rather than over 10,000 feet elevation in Leadville in the days before antibiotics. The middle of the three children was Rollin, my father.

Posted in Family History, Stories

« Older Entries Recent Entries »