Part 13

“The Pennsylvania Railroad conductors who arrived in Glenwood Springs this morning from the West had more fun in the pool than a lot of wild Indians. Their shouts of mirth and their laughter could be heard at Cardiff, three miles south. If the Indians ever had as much fun in that pool as those Pennsylvania Railroad conductors, then, Wampam woopham longheir spookham.”

We all feel that this item does us great honor, but we are puzzled for awhile to understand the meaning of the closing expression, until one of our party who had made a study of savage classic lore interpreted it as meaning, “Yankem, spankem, daredevil blankem.”

After leaving the pool, another hour was spent in visiting the sulphur springs and vapor cave and in writing and mailing letters. The latter we did in the beautiful Hotel Colorado, which is located near the bathing establishment and is said to be one of the finest-equipped hotels between the Atlantic and Pacific. The Grand River separates the baths from the town, and is crossed by a double-decker bridge, the lower deck for vehicles, the upper for pedestrians. We recrossed the bridge and after a short wait for our train to be brought to us we again got aboard, and at 3.00 P. M. Eastern (1.00 P. M. Mountain) time left Glenwood Springs bound for Salida.

For 16 miles we wind through the cañon of the Grand River, and view with feelings of admiration and awe those towering walls of rock of such peculiar construction and varied colors that we wonder what remarkable process of Nature could have ever formed them thus. At Gypsum, 25 miles from Glenwood Springs, Grand River disappears from view and we come in sight of Eagle River, following it for several miles. We pass great beds of lava and can see, away in the distance, a burned and blackened course where the lava had flowed down a chasm in the mountain, perhaps thousands of years ago. On the plateaus, at the foot of towering cliffs, are numerous little farms in a thrifty state of cultivation. We stop at Minturn to change engines, and bid “Cyclone” Thompson and his trusty fireman, Bert Roberts, good-bye.

We leave in a few minutes with engine No. 524. Engineer Al. Philliber and Fireman Charley Wilcox are in the cab, “Billy” Newman and his brakemen remain with us. Conductor Newman is a member of Denver Division No. 44 and an enthusiastic lover of the order. He is a model conductor and an entertaining companion. E. A. Thayer, Esq., superintendent of hotel, dining, and restaurant service, is our guest from Glenwood Springs to Salida, and we find him an interesting gentleman. Brother Dougherty has found an old friend in Brother Hugh Long, and he has much enjoyment in his company. Charley Hooper is everybody’s friend and always has an admiring, interested group around him, and if we could only remember all that Charley tells us we could write an intensely interesting volume. He is perfectly familiar with all of this wonderful country and is an exceedingly interesting companion.

Soon after leaving Minturn we enter Eagle River Cañon, whose sloping, pine-fringed walls rise to the height of over 2000 feet on either side, almost shutting out the light of day. A heavy shower adds to the gloom, but does not detract from the interest, for these mighty mountain sides are honeycombed with hundreds of mines and dotted with the cabins of the miners. It is very curious and wonderful to see a human habitation hanging, as it were, a thousand feet in the air, on the side of a mountain, where it would seem a mountain goat could hardly obtain a foothold; yet there they are, and many of them--in one place an entire village of red and white cottages, so very high up that they look like miniature houses or dove cots suspended in the air. The products of the mines are lowered to the railroad tracks by means of tramways operated by endless chains or cables, and material is conveyed to the lofty residents by the same novel arrangement.

For four miles we wind up through this marvelous mountain ravine, deeply interested in the wonderful sights and scenery of this extraordinary mining industry. A short stop is made at Belden, where extensive gold mines are in operation, but so high up on the mountain side are the shafts or entrances to the mines that it is impossible to visit them in the limited time we have. Since leaving Minturn our course has been gradually upward, and we have Engineer Amberson, with helper engine No. 513, to assist us up the grade. Emerging from the famous and never-to-be-forgotten Eagle River Cañon, we shortly come to the mining town of Red Cliff. It is a lively, thrifty place of about 1000 inhabitants, has an elevation of 8671 feet, and is surrounded by grand mountain scenery. From this point Mr. Hooper directs our attention to a view of the Mount of the Holy Cross, but only a glimpse is obtained of the great white cross and then it is lost to view. “Distance lends enchantment to the view,” quotes Mr. Thayer. “Do you know,” he continues, “were it possible to transport you to the summit of yonder mount, 20 miles away, and set you down, you would see no semblance of a cross? You would only see rugged rocks, desolate peaks, and snow-filled ravines; you would look in vain for the sublime and typical beauty that you so easily discern 20 miles or more away. You would see, were you in a proper location, the conditions and materials that make your beautiful picture. A great valley or ravine extends down the mountain side, into which the snows of many Winters have drifted. This is one of Nature’s perpetual ice houses, whose supply never becomes exhausted. Across the face of the mountain, near the summit, crossing this ravine at right angles, is another great depression or fissure, likewise filled with perpetual ice and snow. All the surroundings are rugged, rough, and broken, and you would never think of looking for the likeness of a cross in the wild, bleak desolation of ice-bound, snow-filled mountain chasms. Distance, however, obliterates the rocks and roughness and smooths the rugged features of the mountain side, and the great white cross of snow stands out in bold relief, as though formed of carved and polished marble. It is a pretty picture, and one that the imagination and sentiment of man have almost rendered sacred.”

We are now approaching Tennessee Pass, and our engines are working hard as they climb the steep ascent. Our progress is slow, but so much the better, as it gives us an opportunity to contemplate and enjoy the indescribable beauty of this famous mountain scenery. We reach the pass shortly after four o’clock, at an altitude of 10,418 feet, the highest point on the main line of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. Here we again cross the Great Continental Divide and enter the Atlantic slope. Mr. Hooper calls our attention to a tiny stream of water flowing near the track, remarking as he does so, “That is the headwaters of the Arkansas River. We follow it for a number of miles and it will be interesting to notice it gradually increasing in size and volume as we proceed.” Our course is slightly downward and our rate of speed increases. We soon reach Leadville, where we halt for half an hour. The time is insufficient to allow us to visit the town, but we get out and look around. A train of freight cars is standing on a sidetrack a short distance away, loaded with ore, and the “boys” are told to help themselves. A number avail themselves of the opportunity of procuring Leadville “specimens” for souvenirs. The pieces carried away, I imagine, contain but very little of the precious metal, for I believe, judging from the appearance, that the “specimens” are being obtained from a train load of railroad ballast. I tell Brothers Sparks and Matthews and some of the rest my convictions, but they call me a “tenderfoot” and say I “don’t know a good thing when I see it.” Maybe I don’t, but I have a chunk of that stuff in my pocket that I will take home and exhibit to my friends as a specimen of Leadville gold quartz, and if they know no more about the material than I do they will believe it. If it is but a stone, I will prize it as a souvenir from the most noted mining camp of the West.

Leadville first became famous in 1859 as the richest gold-mining camp in Colorado, and was known as “California Gulch.” Five million dollars in gold dust were washed from the ground of this gulch the first five years after its discovery, then for fourteen years it lay almost dormant, until in 1878 rich deposits of silver were discovered. At that time the place took a new lease of life, was renamed Leadville, and has been a booming city ever since. It now has a population of 15,000 inhabitants and is the county seat of Lake County. Leadville has an elevation of 10,200 feet, enjoying the highest altitude of any city of its size in North America, if not in the world. It lies amid some of the grandest and most magnificent scenery to be found anywhere, and is surrounded by towering, snow-capped mountain peaks, whose glistening summits almost pierce the sky. We find the atmosphere cool and bracing, but so exceedingly rare that a brisk walk or short run will make you pant for breath. I found this out when I ran to the sidetrack for a piece of “ballast.”

Our half hour is up and Conductor Newman and Manager Wyman are shouting “All aboard!” We scramble on, and at 7.40 P. M. Eastern (5.40 P. M. Mountain) time our train pulls out and we leave in our rear an interesting, picturesque, and famous town. At Malta, five miles from Leadville, we lay on a sidetrack ten minutes waiting for a train we meet at this point. Leaving Malta, we pass through a fertile valley, through which flows the Arkansas River, that we notice is rapidly growing larger and more turbulent. We are still running parallel with the Colorado Midland Railroad, which for miles is within fifty feet of the Denver and Rio Grande. We notice a severe storm raging on a mountain not far away, and it seems to be snowing hard at the summit.

As we pass Buena Vista, 25 miles west of Salida, the setting sun is shining upon the snow-crowned summits of the collegiate group of mountain peaks, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, and many are the exclamations of pleasure and delight at the beauty and grandeur of the sight. These three peaks, each over 14,000 feet in height, are a part of the Sawatch Range of the Rocky Mountains. With their cloud-veiled crests wreathed in perpetual snow, those majestic, rugged giants are ever subjects of interest and pleasure to tourists; but this evening the setting sun has transformed their crowns of glistening snow into dazzling diamonds, and the veil of fleecy clouds that hang about their summits into a gorgeous canopy of purple, silver, and gold. It is a scene of transcendent loveliness and grandeur. No wonder our people are in ecstasies of delight. Mrs. Dougherty claps her hands, and Mrs. Matthews exclaims, “Jimmie, look!” Jimmie, Waddie, Oscar, and the Colonel suspend their interesting game of euchre and turn their attention for a moment to the mountains and the clouds. Mrs. Horner has such an expression of intense rapture in her face that Sam, thinking she is about to have a fit, pours a glass of ice water down her back. Mrs. Mattson says she believes she has an artist’s soul, for a sight like this makes her nerves tingle and her mouth water, and the Doctor, standing near, is explaining to an interested circle the philosophy of sunshine, clouds, and colors in their relation to towering, snow-crowned peaks. Suddenly mountain views are obstructed and the light of day is almost excluded by massive walls of rock that encompass us. We have plunged into Brown’s Cañon, a mighty chasm in the mountain, between whose towering cliffs there is just room enough for the Arkansas River and the railroad. For many, many years the river held undisputed sway and rushed unaccompanied and alone through this rocky, desolate gorge, till then the railroad came. The nerve and daring of the men who brought it were equal to the task. They followed the foaming river into this wild ravine and fearlessly built their tracks upon its spray-bathed banks; and now as train and river rush headlong together through this narrow, dark defile, the snort of the locomotive and rumble of the train mingles with the roar and gurgle of the tumultuous torrent.

We emerge from the cañon as suddenly as we entered it, and the broad, fertile valley of the Arkansas greets our vision. It is a pleasant change. Still following the river, we traverse the valley until at 7.55, as daylight is fading and it is growing dusk, our train comes to a stop in Salida. We are met at the station by Superintendent R. M. Ridgway, Trainmaster G. H. Barnes, and Chief Dispatcher W. Rech, of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, who give us a cordial welcome and kindly inform us that arrangements have been made to give us a trip to-morrow over the narrow-gauge road to Marshall Pass and return. Escorted by Mr. Hooper and Conductor Newman, a number of us start out to see the town.

Salida is a quiet, clean, orderly, picturesque little mountain town of about 3500 inhabitants. It is situated on the Arkansas River, with an elevation of 7050 feet. We accept an invitation to visit the fine parlors of the Salida Club and are royally treated by the members present. Our bosom friend and life preserver, Tom McDonald, is along, and proves to be quite an expert with the billiard cue, giving his opponent, Dr. Mattson, a hard hustle in the game they play. A party of our ladies get on our trail and overtake us at the club. They present the bachelor brothers of the party each with a miniature souvenir spoon, but give no explanation why this is done. The inference is that it is but an act of sisterly good-fellowship that needs no interpretation. Following the presentation of the spoons the ladies entertain us for half an hour with excellent singing and music on the piano. As it draws near midnight we return to our train and turn in. Some of the “boys,” it is noticed, are not with us when we reach the train, and to them I will have to ascribe another line of “unwritten history.”

TUESDAY, JUNE 1st.

Everybody is up bright and early this morning, in anticipation of the promised trip up the mountains to Marshall Pass. After breakfast we board a special train on the Denver and Rio Grande Narrow-Gauge Railroad, and at 8.12 o’clock start on a novel and interesting ride of 25 miles over a road that is a marvel of engineering ingenuity and skill. It requires two engines to make the laborious ascent, which in many places is 211 feet to the mile. Our engines are No. 175, manned by Engineer Sam Roney and Fireman W. Brewster; helper engine No. 400, Engineer W. D. Yates, Fireman M. M. Smith. Conductor M. Guerin has charge of the train, and the brakemen are Tom Kelley and F. Duncan.

Five miles from Salida we reach Poncha Junction, and here the winding and climbing commences in earnest. The weather since we started has become unfavorable; clouds obscure the sun and hide the summits of the surrounding peaks. It has commenced to rain, but the rain lasts only for a little while. As we ascend the clouds become lighter, and finally we see the sun and the sky. Looking down, the clouds and mist hide the valleys from our sight--we are above the clouds and rain; looking up, we behold the brightest, bluest sky we have ever seen; and still our course is upward. Our engines snort and cough and puff as they slowly climb and wind the spiral pathway that leads to the wind-swept summit.

As we near the top we have a magnificent unobstructed view of grand, majestic mountain scenery. Near by looms up mighty Mt. Ouray, an extinct volcano, down whose rugged sides, ages ago, the molten lava flowed; fire-scarred and grim he stands, a silent, frowning sentinel guarding the mountain pass. His companion, Mt. Shaveno, is near, his towering summit being crowned with eternal snow. Mounts Ouray and Shaveno were named in honor of the famous Ute Indian chiefs, and are everlasting monuments to the memory of a once powerful tribe.

Far in the distance, many miles to the south, can be seen, mingling with the sky and clouds, the gleaming peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the grandest range of the Sierras. All this range of vision, from Ouray to Sangre de Cristo, is filled with picturesque valleys, timbered hills, mountain cañons, towering peaks, and glistening snow. While we are feasting our eyes upon this grandeur, suddenly it is shut out from view, for we have entered a dismal snow shed. The train stops and our journey is ended. We get out of the train,

and looking around, we see a door that leads from the shed, which we pass through, and find snowdrifts six feet deep and the wind blowing a gale.

I see Brother Restein snap his kodak at Colonel and Mrs. Mitchell as they bravely face the wintry blast; the committee is lined up and he also snaps at them. Steps lead to a lofty tower and a number of us ascend. Some start and turn back; the exertion makes your heart beat like a trip hammer, cuts your wind, and makes you dizzy. We who reach the top do not tarry long; the view is magnificent, but the wind is cold. Overcoats and wraps were brought along and they are needed; the thermometer registered eleven last night, and now it stands at thirty-three. It is a bleak, barren, wind-swept place, and yet it is healthy.

A family has been living here for five years. The husband and father is employed on the road and the mother has charge of the station. She has never been absent from the place, she says, since they took up their residence here. The oldest child was an infant when they came, and two have been born since. They are fine, healthy children, and have never been sick. A doctor has never visited them, she says, because one has never been needed. We are ready to leave before the train is ready to take us; a short visit to a place like this is sufficient. Several of the “boys” amuse themselves by snowballing one another and washing with snow the faces of some of the “girls.”

Marshall Pass is 10,852 feet above the level of the sea, and is situated upon a point of the Great Continental Divide--on the ridge pole, as it were, between the Atlantic and Pacific slopes. Within the dingy snow shed where our train is standing we notice water slowly trickling down the bank into the ditch along the track; it makes a tiny stream, just large enough to flow, and we can see that it is running in each direction. A number of us place our fingers upon the dividing line, thus literally touching a point of the very comb of the great water shed between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans.

Our return is made with more speed than our ascent, but in a very careful manner; helper engine 400 is detached and sent ahead. The descent is made by gravity, the air brakes being used to keep the train under control. Engineer Roney deserves great credit for the careful manner in which he handles the train. A stop of five minutes is made at Mear’s Junction, where we make the acquaintance of Station Agent Smith, who, along with his duties as station agent and telegraph operator, is an artist of merit; a number of pictures of mountain scenery that he has painted adorn the walls of the station rooms.

When we get back to Salida and to our train it is 2.05 P. M. Eastern (12.05 P. M. Mountain) time. We find our friend McDonald looking for us, with an abundant lunch prepared, which we heartily appreciate and thoroughly enjoy. We are scheduled to leave here at one o’clock, and as it is nearing that time, we bid adieu to the good people of Salida who have shown us such a royal time, and at one o’clock, sharp, we steam away from the pretty little town, bound for Colorado Springs, 142 miles nearer home.

Leaving Salida we have engine 509, in charge of Engineer John Carr and Fireman R. Wilmonger. Our conductor is J. E. Duey, a member of Arkansas Valley Division No. 36, of Pueblo, Col. Brother Duey enjoys the notoriety of being a cousin to the late Jesse James, the famous bandit and train robber. The brakemen are S. G. Carlisle and William Shoemaker. Charlie Hooper is still with us, and at present is busily engaged in distributing fine photographic pictures of scenes along the picturesque Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. Mr. Hooper’s kindness and generosity are greatly appreciated, and the pictures will be highly prized as valuable souvenirs of our trip. In addition to Mr. Hooper we have with us as guests Brothers W. Newman and Frank Smith, of Division 44, and Harry Hart, of Division 36. A short stop is made at Parkdale, 46 miles from Salida, where we meet Rev. John Brunton, who is invited to accompany us to Pueblo. Mr. Brunton, who is an old engineer, retired from active service, is First Division Chaplain, and has charge of the employés’ reading room in Pueblo. He is an entertaining old gentleman; says he is employed to fight the devil, who is always sneaking around after railroad men. Brother Houston says, “A man like that is needed on the Schuylkill Division.” No one replies to this insinuation, except Brother Reagan, who merely says, “Sure.”

Soon after leaving Parkdale we enter the Grand Cañon of the Arkansas, which is 8 miles in length and the crowning wonder of all the marvelous sights we have yet beheld; a mighty pathway, right through the heart of the Rocky Mountains, hewn by Nature through inaccessible towering mountain walls. Through this narrow gorge, whose perpendicular walls rise to the height of over 2000 feet, the crowded, pent-up waters of the Arkansas River rush and roar and foam. There is scarcely space for both railroad and river, but with an audacity that knows no shrinking the intrepid engineers entered the walled-up, darksome cañon, and, following the intricate winding of the surging stream, laid their tracks of steel along its foam-flecked bank. Beyond a doubt it is the most daring feat of railroad engineering ever performed. When half way through the awful Royal Gorge is reached, here the river holds despotic, undisputed sway for a distance of 100 feet. There is no bank to lay the tracks upon; from wall to wall the river surges, leaps, and roars. From out the water those mighty walls, built by Nature’s hand, run right straight up, 2600 feet in the air. Ingenuity and nerve solves the problem; a bridge is built parallel with the river’s course, one side resting upon a granite ledge, hewn in the side of the cliff, the other side suspended from rods attached to the overhanging wall of the opposite cliff. Over this construction the trains securely pass, while underneath the torrent rushes on.

Before reaching the bridge our train stops, and as many as wish get out and walk over, in order to obtain a good view of the awe-inspiring grandeur of the Royal Gorge. It is truly a wonderful sight, and one we will never forget. We do not tarry long to contemplate the scenery, for a mean, commonplace shower of rain is falling, and we hurry to the train to avoid getting wet.

Issuing from the cañon, we enter a broad and fertile valley, through which flows the ever-present Arkansas River, and in a short time pass through Cañon City, a town of considerable importance, having a population of 3000, and the county seat of Fremont County. The State penitentiary is located here, and near by are mineral springs of great value, making it a favorite resort

for those in quest of retirement or health. We didn’t stop. The sight of the broad, unfettered freedom of the fertile Arkansas Valley, with its hundreds of acres of fine orchards and miles of magnificent grazing land, is a pleasure and relief after so much cramped and rocky glory, and gloomy, walled-up grandeur.