Part 14

Pueblo is reached at 6.25 P. M. Eastern (4.25 P. M. Mountain) time, and a stop of ten minutes is made for the purpose of changing engines. We have not time to take in the city, but we disembark and take a look about the depot, which is called Union Station, being the joint property of five different roads and used by them all, namely, the Denver and Rio Grande, Santa Fé, Missouri Pacific, Rock Island, and Union Pacific, Denver and Gulf. The building is composed of red sandstone, a handsome structure, and is commodious and convenient. Pueblo, though situated in a valley or basin surrounded on three sides by distant mountain ranges, enjoys an elevation of 4668 feet. It has a population of 40,000 inhabitants, is the centre of extensive mining industries and immense railroad traffic. Because of its great, ever-smoking smelters, and glowing furnaces and foundries, Pueblo is often called the “Pittsburgh of the West.” The Arkansas River flows through the heart of the city, but is not navigable, and its sloping banks are neatly walled to prevent overflow in time of freshet. Bidding good-bye to our old new-found friend, Rev. Brunton, and waving adieu to the 509 and the gallant men in her cab who brought us safely through such scenes of weird, bewildering, perilous grandeur, we start on our way again with engine 534, in charge of Engineer Henry Hinman and Fireman George Courtly. Conductor Duey and Brakemen Carlisle and Shoemaker go with us to Colorado Springs.

After leaving Pueblo we pass through an extensive oil district, where many wells are in operation, and we are told the yield is very heavy. We arrive in Colorado Springs at 8.20 P. M. Eastern (6.20 P. M. Mountain) time, and escorted by Brothers Newman, Hart, Smith, and Mr. Hooper, we start out to see the town. Colorado Springs is a model town. It is quiet, clean, and dry; in fact, it is _very dry_, being entirely and teetotally temperance. But this is a commendable trait; we find no fault, and are all impressed with the morality and good order which prevail. It is a healthy place; the houses are not crowded together. The population is 12,000; the town has an elevation of 5982 feet, and covers an area of four square miles. It is much resorted to by invalids, and thousands, we are told, are yearly benefited by taking advantage of its exhilarating atmosphere, favorable climatic conditions, and the pleasure and enjoyment derived from interesting and beautiful natural environments.

Soon after starting out we encounter Brother D. F. McPherson, secretary and treasurer of Holy Cross Division 252, of Leadville, who joins us in our rambles. After giving the quiet little city a pretty thorough inspection, we are grouped upon a corner discussing where we shall go next. “We have shown you the most cleanly and orderly town in the State of Colorado,” remarks Mr. Hooper, “and now I would like to show you just the reverse; we will take the next car and slip over to Oldtown.” In two minutes the car comes, and getting aboard, a ride of two miles brings us to the

neighboring town, where it seems every third door is a saloon and gambling resort. Wherever we go there is turmoil and excitement. We see no outbreaks of strife, but in these crowded gambling rooms we visit, the swarthy miner and reckless stockman jostle one another in their eagerness to reach the tempting roulette wheel or alluring faro table. We can see they are excited, although they are calm, but it is the calmness of suppressed emotion, and we are careful as we move among them not to tread upon their toes; not that we are afraid to tramp their toes if we want to, but we don’t want to; we didn’t come out West to make trouble, so we are always careful what we do, if we are not so careful where we go.

Getting enough of Oldtown, we board a car and are soon back in sedate Colorado Springs and seek our train, that is sidetracked for occupancy near the station. I size up the crowd as they file in and find some are missing; they have dropped out of the ranks and escaped us, and--more “unwritten history.” It is near midnight, all is dark and silent, and we quietly seek our berths.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 2d.

All are up about the usual time this morning, and after breakfast Manager Wyman announces that those who wish to make the ascent of Pike’s Peak will take the 8.30 train on the Colorado Springs and Manitou Branch for Manitou, six miles away, where the Manitou and Pike’s Peak railway station is located. The 8.30 train starts with about half of our party on board. It is cloudy and we are afraid the weather will be unfavorable for the trip. When we arrive at the station in Manitou we can see that the great mountain is enveloped in fog and mist. We hesitate about going up, but the station agent receives a telephone message from the summit, saying the weather up there is clear, and the most of us decide to go. And when at 9.40 we start, I notice the occupants of the car and find the following members of our party aboard: Mr. and Mrs. Wyman, Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell, Mr. and Mrs. Layfield, Mr. and Mrs. Horner, Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Mr. and Mrs. Dougherty, Mr. and Mrs. Climenson, Mr. and Mrs. Foulon, Mr. and Mrs. Elder, Mr. and Mrs. Reilly, Mr. and Miss Barrett and a lady friend, Miss Emma Leibing; Mr. Reagan and a lady friend, Miss Jennie Heaney; Mrs. Mattson, Messrs. Waddington, Haas, Taylor, Crispen, Denniston, Moore, Williams, Sloane, Kilgore, Restein, and myself. The car is pushed by engine No. 4, in charge of Engineer D. M. Jones. This little locomotive is an odd-looking thing, built expressly for this line by the Baldwin Locomotive Works, of Philadelphia, Pa. It has four cylinders and carries 200 pounds steam pressure. It is constructed with two cog wheels underneath its centre, which operate in corresponding cog rails placed in the centre of the track, and has the appearance of being a strong and safe appliance. Engine and car are not coupled together, but the engine in the rear pushes the car ahead of it, which gives the tourist a fine, unobstructed view of the scenery.

The grade averages almost 900 feet to the mile, which we ascend at the rate of about five miles per hour. The road is almost nine miles in length and we are one hour and forty-five minutes making the ascent, having left

the station at Manitou at 9.40 and arriving at the summit at 11.25. We thought it was a slow trip and a tedious climb, but it wasn’t when we consider the experience of some other people in connection with this mountain several years ago. Ambition and desire are strong impulses in human nature, often having more influence than a sense of duty.

When Major Zebulon M. Pike first sighted this mountain that bears his name on the morning of November 13th, 1806, he had a burning desire to give it a close inspection, and led his followers a ten days’ rugged march before he reached its base. From this point he looked up to its apparently inaccessible snow-crowned summit, and concluded it would be impossible to scale its rocky, bouldered sides. Retiring from the locality, he reported that he “had discovered a grand mountain peak, bare of vegetation and covered with snow, but he believed that no human being could ever ascend to its pinnacle.”

When, thirteen years afterwards, on the morning of July 13th, 1819, Dr. Edwin James and his four comrades stood and gazed upon the terribly wild and awful grandeur of this mighty mountain peak, they faced the same conditions that caused the intrepid Pike to turn his back upon the scene and withdraw: perpendicular cliffs whose walls no man can climb, enormous rocks and giant boulders impossible to remove or surmount, great chasms that cannot be crossed or bridged, deep, wild ravines that seem to be impenetrable. All this they saw, yet they did not hesitate, for they were filled with a wild ambition and burning desire to accomplish what Pike had not dared to undertake. So they started, and after two days of perilous hardship and toil they reached the summit, on July 14th, 1819.

Their ambition was gratified, and so is ours. We did not come up for pleasure, for there is no pleasure in it; the novelty of the thing brought us here, and we find it novel enough. We wanted to stand on the apex of these snow-bound, wind-swept, zero-blistered heights, 14,147 feet above the beating billows of the sea, and see what it is like. We are finding out; it is colder than Chestnut Hill in midwinter. The snow is six feet deep and the wind whistles a tune as it sweeps through Colonel Layfield’s whiskers. The sun is shining when we get out of the car, and with the snow whirling down our backs and tears streaming from our eyes we spend three minutes looking down upon the far-away valley scenery and the towns of Manitou and Colorado Springs. Then we enter the old Government signal station, which has been turned into a curio shop, telegraph office, post office, and restaurant. We find the temperature more congenial, and put in the time examining and purchasing novelties which are neither valuable or cheap, but are wanted for souvenirs. We buy postal cards at ten cents each and mail them to friends, and send telegrams at five cents per word. Manager Wyman sends a dispatch to Ticket Receiver Stackhouse, Philadelphia, informing him of our whereabouts and condition, but he couldn’t tell it all. The message didn’t tell how near Waddie was to being fired off the train at Hell Gate because he couldn’t find his ticket, as Restein had it in his pocket; nor how eager Sloane was to chase the badger we saw running over the rocks above Timber Line, but the conductor wouldn’t stop the train to let him off.

We have got enough of Pike’s Peak and are ready to go, but the engine is away with the snow plow and we will have to wait for its return. We have seen all there is to be seen and have bought what souvenirs we want. My last purchase was a tissue-paper napkin; I gave thirty cents for it, but had a cup of coffee and a sandwich thrown in. Our engine has returned and we go out to get in the car. The sun is hidden by a great dark cloud, the wind blows harder than ever, and the car is locked up. A photographer is on hand with his outfit and wants to take a picture; somebody ought to throw him over the precipice. We are huddled about the end of the car like a tempest-stricken flock outside a sheepfold gate, shivering and shaking in the blast. As the picture fiend adjusts the camera it begins to snow; in thirty seconds we are in a raging blizzard, the instrument snaps and the car door is unlocked, but before we all get inside many of us are covered with snow.

We are in the storm until we get below Timber Line, and the force of the wind drives the snow across the car as it sifts through the ventilators and in around the windows, and some of us are feeling pretty groggy. I do not like the sensation; when I speak I talk through my hat, and my ear drums feel ready to burst. When I go up so high again I want to go to stay; there may be such a thing as becoming acclimated.

The descent is made in a careful manner, with the engine in front. We arrive safely in Manitou at 1.40 P. M., and the party scatters. Some return to Colorado Springs and some drive through the Garden of the Gods. Many who did not ascend the peak have had a good time visiting other interesting places, and tell interesting stories of the remarkable things they saw. The little burros or donkeys are in evidence everywhere, and several of our people got their photos taken seated on these cute little animals with the Balance Rock in the background. Some of the timid ladies of our party, I am told, are shy of these meek little creatures, saying they look fierce and dangerous because their ears are so large. The only danger is in their hind feet, for they can kick very quick and hard, injuring one another sometimes in this way when they get to frolicking, which they often do.

Brother Schuler was in one of the carriages that drove through the “Garden of the Gods” to-day, and it is interesting to hear him relate in his inimitable manner the many curious things to be seen. A heavy thunder and hail storm descended upon Manitou this afternoon, with another blizzard on the peak, and the weather has become quite cool. Mrs. E. T. Postlewaite took dinner with us to-day as a guest of Brother and Mrs. Springer. Our people are scattered this evening, amusing themselves in various ways. Brothers Brown, Horner, and myself take a stroll after dinner. We stop at the Antlers Hotel, that is well worth a visit, being one of the finest-equipped hotels we have seen in our travels.

We were introduced to the chief of police of the city and kindly shown the large, interesting, and gruesome collection in the Rogues’ Gallery, pictures of some of the most noted crooks and renegades that ever infested the West, along with weapons and tools of all descriptions that were used in their murderous and nefarious business. One set of burglar implements, in particular, containing one hundred and fifty-five pieces, that had been

captured from a suspect by the name of Jerome Markle, we find very interesting; it is said to be the largest and most complete burglar’s outfit ever captured. Returning to the train about 9.30, we are glad to meet W. E. Frenaye, Esq., city editor of the Colorado Springs _Gazette_, who has dropped in on us for a friendly chat. Mr. Frenaye was connected with Assistant General Passenger Agent Boyd’s office at one time, and is an old friend of Brother Maxwell. Being scheduled to leave here at 2 o’clock A. M., we all turn in at a reasonable hour.

THURSDAY, JUNE 3d.

Getting up this morning at six o’clock, I find we are entering Denver. We have engine 570, Engineer Wm. Jenness, Fireman W. C. Lawhead, Conductor I. Larsen, Brakemen Cunningforth and McGinn. Soon as the train stops, Mrs. Terry and Mrs. Shaw strike off in search of the post office, for they are expecting letters from home. Our train is sidetracked in the yard and Brother Terry and I walk over to the station, a short distance away, and look around. It is pretty quiet; the great city has not wakened up to the business of the day and the railroads haven’t commenced their bustle and confusion. This is a large station, one of the finest we have seen in the West; twelve railroads use it, which diverge from here in all directions and run to all parts of the United States. This is what a railroad time table tells us that I have just picked up. It also tells us that Denver is considerable of a town, that it is the county seat of Arapahoe County and the capital of the State of Colorado. It enjoys an altitude of 5196 feet and has a population of 165,000 inhabitants.

We return to the train and find breakfast waiting. While we are at breakfast the ladies return from the post office; they were too early to get letters, for the office wasn’t open, but they were loaded with souvenirs they had procured on the way. After breakfast we are notified to remove all stuff from our sections to the baggage car, as the cars are to be cleaned. This is a notice that isn’t calculated to sweeten temper. It has been served on us several times since we started from home, and we know what an annoyance it is, but we rejoice to know this is the last time we will suffer the inconvenience.

After this task is accomplished a number of us take a 25-mile ride around the city on the “Seeing Denver” trolley line. It is a delightful ride, and in this way we see many interesting features of the “Queen City of the Plains.” The car we are on is No. 111, in charge of Motorman Ewell and Conductor F. F. Porter. Mr. H. Given accompanies the car and points out and explains interesting localities and places. We can see that the educational facilities of Denver are up to date. Our attention is called to Westminster University, located on a knoll just beyond the city limits, said to be one of the finest institutions of learning in the State. We pass near the Louisa M. Alcott Public School, one of the finest public buildings we have ever seen. Having reached the suburbs we are out amongst cultivated fields, and Mr. Given, in speaking of the fertility of Colorado soil and the abundance of their crops, called our attention to the rich growth of the alfalfa grass in a field close at hand. At the utterance of the word _alfalfa_ a protest went up from the party; they had had all the alfalfa they wanted in Texas, and begged Mr. Given to give them no

more. Manager Wyman explained why our people dislike the name of alfalfa. Mr. Given said he could but acknowledge that we had just reasons to boycott the name, and thought he could give us some information that would increase our dislike the more. “Perhaps you do not know,” he continues, “that there are hundreds of tons of alfalfa leaves shipped yearly from Colorado to New York to adulterate the tea you drink?” This is certainly news to us; it is something we did not know, nor are we sure of it yet, notwithstanding Mr. Given’s assertion; nevertheless it may be true.

We cross the South Fork of the Platte River, that flows through the centre of the town, from which the city’s supply of water is taken, and are shown the Public Park, containing four hundred acres, that is kept up by a tax on the city property owners amounting to $125,000 a year. Our attention is directed to the towering smokestack of the Omaha and Giant Smelter, which rises to the height of 352 feet and is said to be the highest chimney in the world. This is one of the most extensive smelters in America, and since its erection, a trifle over twelve years ago, it has treated ore amounting to nearly $300,000,000. In addition to the Omaha and Giant Smelter there are a number of other plants in active operation. The ores treated are gold, silver, copper, and lead. The total product of the Denver smelting industry amounts to $40,000,000 per year.

Denver is six by ten miles in extent, and I think we rode all the way around it and part way through it. It is a city of beautiful, substantial residences and superb public buildings, the most noticeable being the State Capitol Building, completed in 1895 and costing $2,550,000.

The streets of this great city are not in as clean a condition as they might be; mud in many places is ankle deep, caused, Mr. Given informs us, by the recent heavy rains turning the dust into mud. What an awful dusty city it must be when not muddy; we imagine an occasional heavy shower is a great relief, for dust is a far greater evil than mud. We would quietly suggest to the City Fathers of this great metropolis, for the sake of the health and comfort of their citizens and the pleasure and convenience of visitors, that they eliminate the dust from their town by scraping up and carting to the dump the mud from the streets, through which pedestrians are forced to wade every time it rains.

Our trolley ride finished, we alight at Brown’s Palace Hotel. This magnificent structure, covering an entire block, ten stories in height, built of brown sandstone, interior finished in Mexican onyx, and costing the neat little sum of $2,000,000, is the pride of Denver. Here “The H. J. Mayham Investment Company” has its headquarters in a suite of offices on the first floor. We are kindly received by Mr. W. H. Coombs, a representative of the company, who loads us down with illustrated and descriptive books and pamphlets.

It is now past noon, and from here our party scatters. Mrs. Shaw desires to visit Mrs. Edward Bicking, formerly Miss Madeline Ramsey, of West Chester, Pa., who is living in or near Denver. We consult a directory that gives Mr. Bicking’s address as 313 Ashland Avenue, Highlands. We immediately take a car, and after a lengthy ride arrive at the given address only to find they had moved to Golden, 15 miles west of Denver. Returning to the Union Depot, we take the 3.10 train on the Union Pacific, Denver and Gulf Railway, and arrive in Golden after a pleasant ride of forty-five minutes. We have no difficulty in finding the pleasant home of Mr. Bicking, where we meet with a cordial welcome. They persuade us to remain over night with them and we enjoy our visit very much. Mr. Bicking operates a large paper mill, and having no competition does a large and thriving business. Golden is a pleasant, healthy town, having an elevation of 5655 feet. It has about 3000 population and until 1868 was the capital of Colorado. It is situated on Clear Creek, a fine mountain stream, and near the entrance to the famous Clear Creek Cañon. It is surrounded by towering cliffs and great mountain ranges, amongst which it quietly nestles.

Years ago Golden was a stirring mining camp, but the excitement and bustle of the mining industry has been moved farther up the cañon, leaving this community in comparative quiet. Last July a cloudburst occurred in the mountains, and the flood, rushing down the cañon, swept through the town of Golden, destroying much property and drowning several persons. We took a walk in the evening with Mr. and Mrs. Bicking around the town and saw many traces of the awfully destructive deluge.

I learned before leaving Denver this afternoon that a trip for to-morrow had been planned for our party, over the Union Pacific, Denver and Gulf Railway, up Clear Creek Cañon to Silver Plume, 54 miles from Denver. The train is due in Golden at nine o’clock. It is our purpose to meet it and join the party. Having spent a very pleasant afternoon and evening, we retired about ten o’clock.

FRIDAY, JUNE 4th.

Having enjoyed a good night’s rest, we arose about seven o’clock, and after breakfast Mr. Bicking escorted us over his mill, which is only a short distance from the pleasant cottage in which they reside. The time arriving for us to start for the station, we bid adieu to our kind friends and join our party on the train under the escort of F. M. Shaw, traveling agent of the Union Pacific, Denver and Gulf Railway, bound for Silver Plume, up the picturesque Clear Creek Cañon, and over the Great Loop. We have U. P. D. & G. Ry. engine No. 7, with Engineer Si Allen at the throttle. The train is in charge of Conductor John W. Ryan, a member of Denver Division 44, who is an old friend of Brother Reagan’s. The two had not met for years, and the reunion was a happy one. It was through the efforts of Conductor Ryan that we are given this pleasant trip to-day.

Leaving Golden, we enter the wilds of Clear Creek Cañon, similar in many respects to Eagle River Cañon, the mighty sloping hills on either side being honeycombed with mines. In places the cañon is very narrow; the rugged walls overhanging the tracks almost meet at the top, a thousand feet above. The stream we follow is a shallow one, and here and there we catch sight of a prospector wading in the water with his shovel and pan, washing the sand he scoops up from the bottom of the creek in the hope of finding grains of gold. A diligent prospector, we are told, realizes in this manner from two to ten dollars per day. For 22 miles we follow the windings of Clear Creek up through this narrow, rocky gorge, and then the cañon terminates in an open, level

plateau of about one hundred acres, surrounded by seamed and rugged mountains, grinning with prospectors’ pits and the open mouths of mines.