Part 14

Two or three miles above Durango we pass Animas City, a small village of unpainted houses, which had an existence and an exciting history long years before its prosperous neighbor was dreamed of; and six miles farther come upon Trimble Springs, directly at the foot of the high bank which here confronts the western side of the valley. It is a singular coincidence, perhaps, that within easy distance and access of all the larger towns or population centers in Colorado, mineral springs are found, whose virtues are sufficiently marked to warrant development, thus supplying each neighborhood its own sanitary as well as pleasure resort. Trimble Springs occupies this relation to both Durango and Silverton, and is greatly frequented by the dwellers in these towns, besides numerous visitors from more remote points. A capacious hotel, of attractive exterior, and admirably arranged and furnished within, affords the comforts of a home. Near by is the bath-house, one hundred feet in length, and equipped in the most approved modern style, with all varieties of baths. The temperature of the water as it comes from the ground is 126° F., and iron, soda and magnesia are the predominating qualities, in the order named, while there is also much free carbolic acid gas. The record of cures effected here contains many cases of rheumatism, liver and kidney complaints, and chronic blood and skin diseases; while it is averred that the use of the waters will entirely eradicate the tobacco habit. The temperature is equable, and the surroundings romantic. The river supplies excellent trout-fishing, and the hunter will find an abundance of game in the adjacent foothills. The place must grow in popularity, as it becomes more widely known; for, as the Madame declared, "it excels the White Mountains in scenic features, not to mention the superiority of its thermal founts, and the charm of its climate, over any eastern sanitarium." We marveled at the stateliness of her phrases, but couldn't dispute the facts.

Just at the head of the farming lands, stands the little settlement of Hermosa. I had been there once before this more auspicious advent, after two days of dreadfully weary travel over a mountain trail, and had come down into the valley only to find our much-doubted warnings verified, and these cabins all deserted. We knew what it meant, but made haste to feast upon the green corn, and tomatoes, melons and roots of every sort, which the panic stricken ranchmen had left behind. Stuffing every available bag and pocket full, we went on to a camping-spot, and deliberated while we cooked our princely dinner.

It was certain that Indians had driven these settlers away, yet there were no signs of hostility apparent. There were five of us, and we had proposed going two hundred miles directly into the Indian country. Should we proceed, or turn back and abandon our exploration? Perhaps if we had possessed only our customary bacon and beans we might have halted; but the luscious corn and melons turned the scale, and we resolved to go forward. Had we not done so we should have missed the rare satisfaction of being the first to tell the story of the Cliff-Dwellers of the Mancos and McElmo. In the nine years which since have worn their footprints into the trail of events, little change had come to this particular spot; and I was glad of it, for it left in my memory a landmark which was lost elsewhere under the obliterating hand of an eager civilization, that has tamed the primitive wildness we rode over in 1874.

Above Hermosa, the valley contracts rapidly, and the wide fields give place to groves of pine, free of underbrush, through which are caught glimpses of the bright stream sinking away from us on the right. The railway commences to ascend the western hills, carving its way along their face, and tracing their shallow undulations by sweeping curves. In places the sharp stones blasted from the roadbed cover the steep and forbidding descent for hundreds of feet below us. Now the river has disappeared, though a rocky ledge marks its cañon confines, the intervening space is wild and broken, and the pines are denser, with great blackened trunks. Presently we emerge into a tiny park, and Rockwood is reached. The location is secluded yet picturesque. Lofty cliffs and precipitous mountains hem it in on all sides, and the meadows in the small depression beside the town are fringed with trees, which are tall and imposing, and yet look more like dwarfed bushes against the massive background of towering bluffs. A lively village has grown up here, whose principal stimulus exists in the fact that it is the forwarding point for the extensive mining district lying between the La Plata and San Miguel ranges. Rico, the most important camp in that section, is connected with Rockwood by a good road, thirty-two miles in length, over which stages and supply-trains make daily trips.

Before leaving Rockwood the train-men are observed to examine critically the wheels, trucks and couplings of our cars, and we know that something unusual ahead suggests the precaution.

Moving slowly through a deeply shaded cutting, a sharp outward curve is rounded, and what a vision greets our astonished eyes! The most magnificent of all the cañons of the Rockies! The mountain presents a red granite front, perpendicular for nearly a thousand feet, and midway between top and bottom has been chiseled from the solid rock a long balcony or shelf, just wide enough for the track. From far below comes to our ears the roar of driven waters, and with bated breath we gaze fearfully over the edge, so perilously near, down, down to where a bright green torrent urges its impatient way between walls whose jetty hue no sun-ray relieves. Overhead the beetling precipice towers ominously, as if about to crush the pigmies who had dared to invade its storm-swept breast. In its shadow all is silent, weird and awful.

The opposite side of the cañon, scarcely the toss of a pebble away, rises almost vertically, a smooth, unscalable wall, that gleams like brightly polished bronze, but is striped with upright lines of shadow, so that it recalls Scott's picture of Melrose Abbey under the harvest-moon:--

"And buttress and buttress alternately Seemed carved in ebon and ivory."

Higher up, the wall breaks away into receding hills, on whose grassy and wooded slopes the sunshine plays hide and seek. A little above the gorge we can discern where the track turns to the right and crosses on a long, low trestle, the alcove in the cañon, while in the loftier heights beyond, the verdure-clad mountains are seen rising into shapely cones and coquetting with the fleecy clouds. Such were the elements of the sublime view in the Cañon of the Rio de las Animas Perdidas caught and perpetuated by our Artist.

Beyond the opening the defile again closes into so narrow a compass that the pines and spruces clinging precariously to the cliffs mingle in a dim arch that spans the chasm. Again the train is creeping cautiously along a dizzy brink, while an hundred feet below the pent-up flood is forcing its passage through the unworn and pitilessly hard rocks. The water is still green as emerald, and has the same luminous quiver and transparence of verdancy which the gem possesses. What gives it that vivid color here in this dark recess?--anything but the fact that it is surcharged with the air caught in its turbulence? We can see great nebulæ of submerged bubbles racing by, meteor-like, too swiftly to rise at once to the glassy surface. Niagara, below the Falls, has that same wonderful, deep green tint. Imprison Niagara, or only so much of it as you could span with a stone's throw; contract its upright, volcanic walls into a crevice sixty feet wide--turn the river up on edge, as it were--and send it down that black, resounding flume, with all the impetus of a twenty-mile race,--then you have an image of this "River of Lost Souls," in the wildest portion of its marvelous channel.

The building of the railway, for the first mile north of Rockwood, exceeded in its daring any work even in the famous Grand Cañon of the Arkansas. The engineer who had charge of the construction showed the Madame a picture one of his surveyors drew of the manner in which the location was made. Evidently the draughtsman took his observations from the water's edge, where his vista was between two walls of natural masonry, and was limited by the side of the gorge which bent sharply there. This wall was vertical and smooth, for almost a thousand feet from its base. From that height were seen hanging spider-web-like ropes, down which men, seeming not much larger than ants, were slowly descending, while others (perched upon narrow shelves in the face of the cliffs, or in trifling niches from which their only egress was by the dangling ropes), sighted through their theodolites from one ledge to the other, and directed where to place the dabs of paint indicating the intended roadbed. Similarly suspended, the workmen followed the engineers, drilling holes for blasting, and tumbling down loose fragments, until they had won a foothold for working in a less extraordinary manner. Ten months of steady labor were spent on this cañon-cutting,--months of work on the brink of yawning abysses and in the midst of falling rocks, yet not one serious accident occurred. "Often it seemed as though another hair's distance or straw's weight would have sent me headlong over the edge," said the chief engineer, and no doubt all his subordinates could say the same. The expense attending such construction was of necessity great, the outlay for this single mile aggregating about $140,000.

Crossing the handsome bridge shown in our sketch, the course of the road thereafter is generally on the eastern bank of the stream, although it is recrossed a few times where, by this expedient, expensive excavation could be avoided. The water gradually rises to the level of the track, which is henceforth rarely a rod above it. Often in making a curve, one obtains a charming view up the river, with its gracefully drooping borders of willows and aspens. Everywhere the mountains are close at hand on either side, and a goat could scarcely climb their inaccessible steeps.

Presently a halt is made, and as we alight, such a picture is presented as it may never be our fortune to again behold. The cañon is compressed into a narrow fissure among mountains of supreme height, whose fronts are in unbroken shadow. At the right a waterfall comes leaping down, to join the foam-flecked river. In the foreground great banks of moss sustain gay flowers, while over them nod the stately pines, with swaying vines, keeping time to the fretful murmur of the water. Between and far beyond the clear-cut sky-lines of nearer peaks, The Needles lift their splintered pinnacles into the regions of perpetual snow, wrapped in the gauze of a wondrous atmosphere, and their crests glowing as with a golden crown.

Continuing northward, we speedily enter Elk Park, a little valley in the midst of the range, with sunlit meadows and groups of giant pines. As we turn from the park, a backward glance discloses the subject of our frontispiece,--Garfield Peak,--lifting its symmetrical summit a mile above the track, a peerless landmark among its fellows.

Onward, the everlasting hills are marshalled, and among them for miles the cañon maintains its grandeur. Frequent cascades, glistening like burnished silver in the sunlight, leap from crag to crag for a thousand feet down the mountain sides, to lose themselves in the Animas. Thus grandly ends this glorious ride, and we sweep out into a green park, and are at Silverton, in the heart of Silver San Juan.

XIII

SILVER SAN JUAN.

The height, the space, the gloom, the glory. A mount of marble, a hundred spires! --TENNYSON.

In introducing some account of the southern side of the San Juan mountains, as a district producing precious metals, it may be said, in the first place, that it is a section in which productive mining has only very lately been prosecuted in earnest. Its prospects are well-founded; but almost up to the present time, its inaccessibility and other disadvantages have been obstacles to a development that, under more favorable conditions, would doubtless have occurred. The scrutiny to which it has been subjected by sharp and knowing eyes, and such digging as has been done,--by no means a small amount in the aggregate,--exhibit the fact that the region is remarkable for its general richness. That is, profitable ores are to be had nearly everywhere within its limits; hardly a hill can be mentioned where veins carrying mineral do not abound. Every square mile of its fifty miles square may safely be assumed to hold one or more good mines. It is doubtful whether anywhere else in the world there is so large a territory over which the most valuable metals are so generally diffused.

"Geologically," we are told on high authority, "the veins of the district are very young, probably having been formed at the close of the cretaceous or the beginning of the tertiary period. The enormous eruptions of the trachytic lava cover a continuous area of more than five thousand square miles. Stress has been laid upon the impregnation with mineral matter of certain volcanic strata,--a phenomenon that occurs throughout a large tract of country. This shows that at the time of the eruptions such conditions existed as were favorable to the formation of that class of minerals generally termed _ores_. It is furthermore to be observed that these impregnations occur mainly in the younger strata. Although the inference can not be drawn that the fissures were formed at the same time, or shortly after the deposition of the trachytic lava, it is allowable to assume that at such a period the material for filling these fissures was existing near the locality where but lately so thorough an impregnation had taken place. The fact that the fissures extend at a number of points, downward, through the older metamorphic rocks, makes it improbable that they should have been formed by contraction of the cooling masses. Singular as it may seem, these lodes are devoid of that which is usually classed as _surface-ore_. Immediately from the surface the perfectly fresh minerals are taken out. The gangue is hard and solid. An exception is made, of course, although only to a slight extent, by pyrite, which decomposes very readily when exposed to the action of atmospheric influences. This characteristic may be explained in various ways,--by the rapid decomposition and breaking off of the wall-rocks, carrying with them portions of the gangue and ore; by the less intense effect of atmospheric agencies; by the character of the minerals composing the ore, and by the comparatively short time that these fissures have been filled. The latter view is the one that would appear as the most acceptable.

"A difficult question arises, when a decision is to be made, as to the causes that have produced the formation of the fissures that were afterward filled. Accepting the theory that volcanic or plutonic earthquakes have probably produced the larger number of all lode systems,--and such we have in this case, it will be necessary to find whence came the requisite force. Along the highest portion of the quartzite mountains we have an anticlinal axis which can be traced westward for nearly forty miles, an upheaval that must have a very perceptible effect on regions adjoining. The idea at first presented itself that this might have given rise to the formation of the fissures, but evidence subsequently discovered demonstrates that long before the eruption of the trachyte, this disturbance had occurred.

"About twenty miles west from the center of the mining region is a series of isolated groups of volcanic peaks. The highest one of these, Mount Wilson, reaches an elevation of 14,285 feet above sea level, or about 5,000 feet above the valley. Lithologically these groups must be considered younger than the lode-bearing rock of the Animas, and must therefore have become eruptive later. It seems quite possible that the disturbance produced by these eruptions may have resulted in the formation of the present fissures, which subsequently were filled from that source which supplied so much mineral matter to other neighboring rocks in the form of impregnation."

This ore, then, may be set down as principally galena,--a lead ore of silver, frequently enriched by gray copper (tetrahedrite). The high percentage of lead makes smelting the most rational process of treatment, and they are generally to be classified as smelting ores.

In several localities, however, of which Parrott City and Mount Sneffels are chief examples, rich ores of silver are found, nearly or quite devoid of lead. These come mainly into the group of antimonial ores, with chlorides and sulphides also. Popularly these ores,--barring the chloride,--are termed "brittle silver," and on account of the absence of lead, they are unfit for smelting, but must eventually be treated by a milling process in which the pulp is subjected to the action of mercury in amalgamating pans, where the silver is separated from the quartz and collected by the quicksilver. Antimonial ores, prior to amalgamation, will require chlorination, that is, roasting with salt, as is done at the Ontario mine, Utah; while the chlorides and sulphides of silver can be treated directly, without roasting, as at the mines of the Comstock lode, Nevada.

The foregoing remarks apply generally to all of the mining districts mentioned in the present chapter; and their uniform nature is readily explained by the fact that the whole neighborhood is of the same geological age, character and origin.

The mines in the immediate vicinity of Silverton, my starting point, are situated upon, or rather _in_, the lofty mountains which hem in the little park. Southward of the town, easily recognized by its cloven peak, stands the Sultan, thirteen thousand five hundred feet in altitude. Its most noteworthy mines are the "North Star," "Empire," "Jennie Parker," and "Belcher." Tower and Round mountains, next northward, contain several ledges of low-grade galena ores of silver.

Crossing the Animas to the eastern side, King Solomon wears as the central jewel in his crown another "North Star." It stands upon his very brow,--one of the loftiest silver deposits in the world, almost fourteen thousand feet above the restless surf of the Pacific. Here, too, the ore is galena and gray copper of extraordinarily high grade. A marvelous trail has been cut through the woods and then nicked into the almost solid rock of the bald mountain-crest, far above timber-line, or built out upon balconies of logs, along which burros carry to the mine all its supplies, and bring down its product. On King Solomon are several other noteworthy claims, such as the "Shenandoah," "Eclipse," and "Royal Tiger."

Nothing but a bird or a mountain sheep would be likely to attempt the almost vertical wall rising from the southern side of Arastra gulch to culminate in the spires of Hazelton mountain. Coming out into the valley, however, a road is to be found zigzagging its way up the slope leading to the principal mines, pierced only a trifle below the border of stunted spruce-woods. Very likely Dr. Holland was correct in his poetico-mineralogical statement that

"Gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles And lonely gorges;"

but it is certain that in the San Juan, silver resides upon the loftiest ledges, where the shadowy peaks form "bridal of the earth and sky."

The group of mines to which I have referred are known as the "Aspen," consolidating several names of properties under the ownership of the San Juan and New York Mining and Smelting company, which is also proprietor of the smelter at Durango.

Sitting in a cozy office one evening, with two or three pleasant visitors, the conversation fell upon the other side of the year, for the last man came in rubbing his knuckles as though it were cold.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the merry Madame, glancing out at the ashy-gray peaks, which were wan in the new moonlight with autumn's first white dusting; and, as she laughed, she quoted

"Once he sang of summer, Nothing but the summer; Now he sings of winter, Of winter dark and drear; Just because a snow-flake Has fallen on his forehead, He must go and fancy 'Tis winter all the year."

"Well, it _is_, pretty nearly," comes the quick rejoinder. "I have seen it snow every day during the last week of August, and the seasons which do not give us frosts in July are rare. When I first came to Baker's park I asked a miner what sort of a climate reigned here. 'It's nine months winter and three months mighty late in the fall!' was his laconic report, and I have found it a true one.

"You see," he continued, "winter really begins about the first of November. The superintendent who hasn't got his supplies at his mine-house by that time had better hurry, for some morning a storm will begin which will drop three or four feet of snow on a level, and fill all the small gulches full. Then his chance of packing anything up the mountain is gone. In 1880, several foremen were surprised in that way, but the first storm came remarkably early,--the 8th of October,--and on the 11th the snow was five feet deep. Later there was an open spell, though, when deficiencies could be made up, but that was only luck."

"But," said the Madame, solicitously, "how can men live in those little cabins, away up there, all through the terrible winter? I should think they would freeze, or that avalanches would sweep them away."

"Oh, both those misfortunes can be guarded against. The houses are very tight and snug, and fuel is carefully stored away. Then, too, the work is carried on underground, where the temperature is practically changeless the year 'round, and the men have little occasion to go out of doors unless they wish to, for the entrance to the mine is under the shelter of the house-roof. Then, too, the fact is, that bleak and thoroughly arctic as it looks, the mercury will not fall so low, or at least will not average as low, up at timber line on Sultan, as it will down here in town. I suppose the excess of dampness in the valley makes the difference, which is more apparent to our feelings than even to the thermometer."

"But the snow-slides are sometimes terrific, are they not?" is asked.

"Terrific? I assure you that word is not half strong enough to express it. When you go up to Cunningham gulch, and over into the other valleys, you will see the sides of the mountains, in certain places, utterly bare of trees two or three thousand feet below the limit of their growth. That is where they have been swept away and kept down by constantly recurring avalanches of snow, which in many parts of these ranges are liable to slip down in masses perhaps a mile square and anywhere from ten to a hundred feet deep, bringing rocks and everything else with them. Of course, no sapling could stand such a scraping,--nothing can. I was in a slide once, and I can appreciate it, I assure you."

"You were!" exclaims the Madame, round-eyed at this. "I thought you said nothing could stand a snow-slide."

"I didn't attempt to. I went with it, and was carried down the mountain-side head first,--most of the time under flying clouds of snow-dust, until I plunged--fortunately feet down--into the compact mass at the bottom. Then a friend followed and dug me out, happening, by good luck, to begin his prospecting in just the right place."

"But weren't you smothered; and how did you feel going down?"