Author Archive for M. Toole
TOMMYKNOCKER TALES II
Conversing with a Dead Man
The following is the continued story of a chance dialogue with Patrick McGinty, a miner who was killed during a labor dispute at the Smuggler-Union Mine in 1901.
Despite the laws of nature and the average life expectancy in the San Juans, McGinty lingers. He has outlived over 100,000 mules. Meeting was quite cordial at our first encounter up Marshall Basin. It was 1975.
I accepted his invitation to a second rendezvous.
Driving over Dallas Divide from my cabin at Willow Swamps gave me time to think about my first encounter with the spirit of Patrick McGinty. It had happened the previous Friday while camped near the Bullion Tunnel above Telluride. He had suggested we meet up again so as to “drill a few centuries of history into my head”, as he put it.
I secured my backpack, stuffed with curiosity, and began my ghostly ascent hoping he had not forgotten. Sure, it was a little questionable, meeting up with spooks and all, but this grizzly one seemed harmless enough. It was getting dark as I dropped into Marshall Basin and I searched the horizon for crotchety squatters and their stew pot licking pack animals.
“Hey, there! You made it. You’re late!” came a hoarse voice from the vicinity of the tunnel. “What’d you bring us for dinner?”
“Trail mix, yogurt, sea weed, dried apricots and water,” I said, “and steaks and beans and corn on the cob.”
He approached laughing like a prisoner given reprieve, sorting through the provisions at hand.
“Give those first selections to my mule. You and I can chow down on the real food,” he said. “You scared me there for a minute with all this sea weed and dried apricots crap.”
“I bought these steaks from Milt over at the Ridgway Mercantile and the corn’s from Olathe. The beans are ala tin can.”
We started a small fire and began to prepare our alpine feast.
“You don’t see rib eyes like this down in town anymore,” frowned McGinty. “Nowadays everyone is busy eating pasta and sushi and god knows what else. Before you know it a man won’t be able to look crossways at a steer without having the law come down on him.”
He went on to describe the culinary experience of the average miner at the turn of the century lighting on ranch food, town food and jail food along the way. He said nobody much liked hardtack and bacon but that it traveled well.
“Things were very different in those days,” I offered, “but maybe people appreciated what they had in a way that’s foreign now.”
“What do you know about it!” McGinty snapped. “You weren’t even here,” he said biting into a steak. “Good steak, kid.”
“Some day in Telluride they’ll pass an ordinance against having any fun at all, except that which is approved by some committee or the other,” he mumbled, stuffing his mouth. It was as if he hadn’t eaten for decades. “Do you have any idea what they charge for a hotel room down there?
“Back in my day we were free. We didn’t have so many damn laws. Hell, we only had two lawyers in the whole county and they were busy fighting with each other. Today,” he sighed, “we’ve got people making laws faster than Herefords poppin’ out calves in May. I think a lot of these folks ought to get a real job or go back to where they come from…or both.”
It was then I realized that it was time to jump back into the conversation.
“Well, in those days you didn’t have some of the problems we have today, like rampant growth, insurance companies, government intrusion, parking, excessive taxes and polarization,” I said.
“Hell! We had more people in Telluride in 1890 than there are today and a man carried his insurance on his hip,” said McGinty. If you want to talk about the feds I suggest you research the demise of the Silver Standard in 1894. Parking wasn’t much of a problem unless the livery was full up and there were no income taxes but we paid the town a property tax,” he continued. “Now about this polarization…it was cold back in them days too, son, don’t you think otherwise.”
I asked him to what kinds of laws were on the books back 100 years ago and if he agreed with any of them. I think it was the cue he was waiting for.
“The rip roaring days in Telluride lasted only 35 years and even that period was interrupted by times of economic depression,” he began. “During the heyday everyone worked, with the possible exception of the mine owners’ wives who engaged in all kind of social activity but not in politics. That alone kept the legislation down,” he smiled.
“I remember the day the town fathers decided to outlaw the carrying of guns inside town limits. As usual they wouldn’t be the ones enforcing such a fiasco,” he explained. “That chore would go to a rather large fellow named Knous or Knobbs, or something like that. Now this Knous had a well deserved reputation for sniffin’ out trouble and putting the fire out before it got burning, but this pistol law was even too much for him. Oh, he survived the ordeal and later on was fired due to lack of fines collected. Knous was so good at his job that he never let any of the cowboys or miners get that out of control, even on Saturday night!
“Years later Telluride had a marshal named Jim Clark who was just the opposite. He was a bully. Some said he was even sadistic. Crime jumped but so did fines and Clark served in his enforcement capacity for years,” said McGinty. “The town council and the county loved him. He was the apple of their eye, or eyes as it were. That’s a good civics lesson, heh?
Then later we had Everett Morrow, a son-of-a bitch, who loved the hassle the newcomer hippies that were arriving to live in the San Juans.”
He went on to talk about traveling circuses, medicine shows and licenses for such migrational diversions. He talked about Butch Cassidy, the dark, little Ute chiefs, Otto Mears, and the gambling webs weaved by people like the Reverend Mr. Ley and the infamous Parson Hogg.
“You ever heard of a red-haired woman named Marie Scott? She has a spread of sizable proportions down west of Ridgway.”
“I work for her,” I said.
“Well, why didn’t you say that at first!” he snarled. “You be sure to say old Patrick McGinty says hello. She probably thinks I’m dead these days.
“Things just aren’t the same when a man’s fortune was lying under a rock,” he said. “Gambling and bawdy houses were tolerated in those days since making them against the law would only cause bigger problems. We haven’t learned much, have we? I recall the Gold Belt and the Cozy Corner handling the tax burdens for five to ten years in the early 1900s.
“There weren’t many eligible ladies in town in those days. I remember a real pretty one named Sally. She was from Cincinnati or somewhere back East, and I was young and in love. Well, old whatshername didn’t have eyes for me and married an older man who owned controlling stock in the Tomboy. That was three days before I got shot up at the Smuggler. I was a union man, you know.”
– Uncle Pahgre
Los caballos salvajes reciben cadena perpetua en la pradera
(Maybell) Las manadas de caballos salvajes que deambulan por los espacios abiertos de esta zona han recibido un indulto y una suspensión de la ejecución debido a los límites presupuestarios impuestos por la Oficina de Administración de Tierras (Bureau of Land Management). La agencia, que a menudo sacrifica a los caballos salvajes para controlar las florecientes manadas y proteger al ganado doméstico, no puede permitirse matar a las bestias debido a recortes operativos y despidos masivos, todo ello en medio de la guerra encubierta contra adversarios internos y una plétora de países soberanos.
«En su lugar, hemos conmutado las sentencias impuestas por una cadena perpetua en la pradera abierta», alardeó una junta asesora del Departamento del Interior.
No hay prevista ninguna nueva redada de caballos salvajes hasta, al menos, el mes de octubre.
Aunque nadie espera realmente que los animales acaten el fallo, los caballos quedarán confinados a un área de no más de 4000 millas cuadradas, que se extiende desde el noroeste de Colorado hasta el sur de Wyoming y el este de Utah. Todas las transgresiones anteriores por parte de las manadas serán perdonadas en virtud de su buen comportamiento y del cumplimiento del código de ética recién impuesto.
Un portavoz de la manada —un ungulado de un solo dedo— no respondió a nuestras llamadas telefónicas este jueves.
— Earl MacAdoo
Mr. Magoo Angry Over License Restrictions
(Glenwood Springs) A legally blind Mr Magoo (no first name given) threatened to sue the Department of Motor Vehicles here after being denied driver’s credentials for the third time in as many days. Donning a series of disguises, the slippery Magoo failed to fool technicians at the licensing bureau.
According to Geraldo McSpam, a leading advocate of more stringent testing in the automotive arena told The Horseshoe that Magoo was blind and could not be granted a license.
“He tripped over one large table on his way up to look into our color monitor, then he walked into a wall after failing the vision test. It’s one of the lowest scores we’ve ever recorded.”
Magoo claims that, due to the frantic pace here and the lack of mass transit in general, he needs to drive a car to survive. Of course, in keeping with his longtime cartoon status, Magoo cannot be seriously injured in an accident even if he drives off a cliff, crashes into a wall or simply explodes.
“They give licenses to geriatric RV operators and many can’t see worth a hoot,” carped Magoo. “What about a system that grants driving permits to 16-year-olds? These statistics speak for themselves. Why am I being crucified over this? I pay taxes. I have a right to drive.”
In an attempt to avert a nasty law suit the state is entertaining an approach that would allow Magoo a temporary license restricted to far west Delta County between the hours of 2 am and 4 am on weekdays.
“We don’t want him cruising the strip on weekends or during daylight hours. Before 2 am we have lots of drunks out on the road and after 4 am we have heavy farm traffic. It’s bad enough now,” said McSpam. “Who ever started the policy that grants permits to cartoons anyway?”
– Fred Zeppelin
Tommyknocker Tales
The following could be the first in a series of four or may be the last in a series of one.
It was 1975. I was camped up Marshall Basin near the Bullion Tunnel in the heart and bones of what was once one of the richest, silver producing mines in North America, the Smuggler-Union. Even upon my arrival, which occurred at pale light on an angelic summer evening, I felt that I had company. When darkness fell I attempted to start a campfire but the damn thing kept going out due to a persistent breeze that only seemed to come up when I lit the scant pieces of quakey that I had hauled up the hill in my pack.
It was getting colder as I reached for my ax which I had leaned against a volunteer ponderosa which, at this snarled elevation, looked like it missed the last ore cart off the mountain a long time ago. The ax was gone, moved rather, across a tiny gulch, propped up against a pile of rocks that led to the delapidated tunnel. I went to retrieve the tool and get on with dinner.
Grabbing the implement I shot a glance in the direction of the old boarding house. It was then that I heard voices, laughter, but it wasn’t coming from the skeleton of lumber and rock. It was coming from behind me. I turned quickly and was amazed to see a small man with a mule standing next to my once insolent fire which was now blazing away like hell’s own combustion furnace. The small figure beckened me to join them at the hearth and I’d swear to this day on a stack of mining claims that the mule winked at me.
As I pendulously meandered in the direction of what had been the core of my evening’s festivities I heard the little man talking to the mule. This was not their virgin conversation and she jadedly hung on every word.
“Looks like we got a dinner invite,” said the man clanking along, searching through a conglomeration of rusty gear piled high atop the back of his four-legged companion. “Oh, put your ears down, Becky, I’m just looking for that caste iron fry pan. What did you do with it, you stringy beast?”
The mule responded, much like her kind do, with as grunt. She stomped her feet and eyeballed the familiar intruder, her blinkers set way back in her fickle noggin.
“There it is,” whispered to the sky. Then he shot a glance in my direction.
“You’re on my land, boy. I filed on this piece in 1889 a few years before the Smuggler-Union started producing. What are you doing up here anyway, and at night to boot.”
His voice seemed distant. Both he and his mule patiently waited for my reply.
“Just camping, sir,” I spouted, quickly aware that I may have been too formal. It was my paroachial education coming back to bite me on the posterior once again.
“Camping? What kind of nonsense is camping? Hell, son, when you live in these mountains the only camping worth a toot is in the bath tub at the Brown Palace over across the hill. You nuts kid?”
He then surgically extratced my entire life in a matter of moments and, after listening intently, told me point blank that none of my kind had any respect for what our forerunners had done to tame these mountains.
“Bunch of damn tinhorns in funny shoes,” he said peering down at my Italian hiking boots that cost even more than a light lunch in the Mountain Village.
“Now just a minute, sir,” I started. “First you tell me I’m tresspassing, then you ask me a lot of personal questions, now you tell me I don’t have any respect. If I was one of those people you’re gabbing about I’d still be back in Denver married to some perfume clerk, selling BMWs. Sure, I’m a bit green but I’ll bet you were too when you first crossed the Divide.”
The man stared at me and said, “What’s for dinner, sonny?”
I said “Stew. I made it last night, then froze it in these zip-lock bags…”
“Kind of like an old bear burrying his dinner for a few days before eating.”
Despite his initial hessitancy with the packaging methods he scarfed down the stew. It was like he hadn’t eaten in years. Even the mule had a go at the stuff, eagerly licking the pan at the end of the meal.
“So, what do you intend to do for work in these parts?” he shot out of nowhere. “The mines are all but closed and there’s never been any money in ranching, unless you got cows full of gold.
“Of course, come to think of it most of the miners were working for $2.50 a day back at the turn-of-the-century, and that was 10 hours, boy, with no coffee breaks in a dark, dangerous hole in the ground. We always said it was like digging your way to hell, an hour at a time. But from some of the things I’ve seen hell could be no worse. If not for the union it would have been impossible. Did I mention that I was a union man?”
It was then that he embarked on the epic, though unsolicited history lesson of the day. He talked of snowslides that wiped out mining camps in minutes and rousing dance hall interludes. He told me about William Jennings Bryan and his Cross of Gold “conspiracy” as he called it. I heard about Jack Dempsey and Lillian Gish then more about Bulkeley Wells and Sarah Bernhardt. He talked about a Christmas fire at a Colorado mining hall years ago. His attention to detail was quite impressive considering his years. He acted as if he had known them all.
“On a Saturday night you could drink with miners from all over the world. Finns, Cornish, Swedes, Italians, Germans, Serbs and even a few Chinese thrown in for spice,” he smiled. “Then there were the Irish, like me. Most were in the union.”
“Were you born in Ireland?”
“Of course, boy. Where else? Came over on a clipper.
I asked him his name.
“Patrick McGinty…and yours?”
We talked all night. Becky seemed to be taking shorthand in the lichen. I invited him to share my fire till dawn and was soundly scolded since, after all I was tresspassing in the first place.
“No, we’ve got to be going. Tomorrow I’ve got to go down to Ames and visit the doctor. Mercury poisoning you know. But if you’ll come back here next Friday night we’ll meet up with you,” he said. “There’s a mound of history that we need to drill into your head.”
I promised to return, feeling rather flattered that he sought the company of newcomer like me.
Patrick McGinty. Now there’s a name with character. When I landed back in Telluride on Monday I stopped by the courthouse to check on his stimulating credentials. After about a half hour of searching farther and farther back into the dusty records I found a McGinty, a bachelor named Patrick who had come to Telluride in 1884 from County Clare. It read: Patrick McGinty: Born March 20,1865, died July 3, 1901, during the labor trouble at the Smuggler-Union. A union man.
Next time: “A Visit With a Dead Man at 12,000 Feet”
SAN JUAN SHAVINGS
Local celebrities to give away money
(Telluride) A contingent of recognized celebrities, and some what think they are such, has formulated a strict arrangement that should allow them to rejoin the ranks of mortals. The luminaries currently share space on the planet with the masses and have apparently now turned their illustrious heads toward parity for all.
The blueprint calls for committed celebrities to leave baskets of cash all over San Miguel and Ouray Counties marked “Please accept this cash donation with best regards”. It is then signed by the donor with either his/her real name or a stage name.
“For instance Sylvester Stallone might sign his basket `Rambo’ or Dennis Weaver might have written `Chester’ on his offering,” said Melvin Toole, coordinator of the event and the self-professed only honest man left in either county. “Imagine the relief as these notables get rid of the trappings of fame and success. Imagine the happiness these gifts will bring to residents of the San Juans who have just paid income taxes and are waiting to refill coffers after the winter. It’s like a local lottery where someone actually has a chance in hell of winning something,” he sobbed. “It’s beautiful.”
The celebrity consortium, numbering over 50 people will give away an estimated 4.8 million dollars over the next two months, holding back a few thousand dollars to get them through until the next film or book hits the money machine.
“It’s really no big deal,” said one renown director. “Easy come…easy go, you know.”
Some of the rich and famous have not joined in the mass hand outs preferring to keep their booty for themselves. Critics suggest that somewhere down the road these persons will be lost in the shuffle.
“How will people be able to determine real celebrities from plain old people who just happen to be rich,” suggests Toole. “Talk about buying notoriety. Oh, my. We’ve opened up Pandora’s Box once again.”
Although no names were named Toole insists that this phenomenon is real and that locals should keep an eye on the mailboxes, be on the lookout for discarded grocery sacks and shoe boxes and leave their car windows open so as to be receptive to abrupt deposits.
RIDGWAY GETS CRIME GRANT
(Tail Town) Ridgway has been named the recipient of a $300,000 grant which seeks to bring the criminal element into town government. The money will be spent to lure low lifes into the town infrastructure so that the town council can rationalize hiring more police officers.
“It’s a win-win situation here,” says Suzie Compost, director of criminal activities for the council. “It’s simple supply and demand politics in full regalia. We like it.”
The grant came faster than expected, especially considering that it had to be approved on the state level. First, local police were complaining about nothing to do, nobody to arrest. Second, they (the cops) started hanging out in front of the bars, shadowing revelers. Third, the revelers got mad and complained back to the town council. Fourth, the council decided to shift the heat and petitioned the state to do something.
“We’re amazed at the speed of the response,” said Compost. “Usually they take longer than that to get their pencils sharpened every day. It’s shocking. We’re not ready to put the plan into action and already strange persons have been arriving in town, some with tattoos. Maybe we’ll just deputize all the newcomers. That could work. Either way, it should be an interesting summer.”
ALIENS TO SKIP ROSWELL UFO REUNION THIS SEASON
(Norwood) Space travelers from distant stars will avoid landing near Roswell, New Mexico this summer due to the presence of some 2,000 cosmos and omniverse campers who have paid $90 for the privilege of camping there. The aliens instead plan a small reunion here. The campers will sleep at the site of a purported spacecraft crash in 1947.
UFO aficionados will engage in the week-long celebration in early July, commemorating the anniversary of the alleged sighting, called “dubious at best” by the Air Force. Meanwhile the supposed alien clique will gather on Wright’s Mesa.
Forward agents for the aliens have already booked hotels and the grocery, bars and liquor stores are gearing up for what may be the most lucrative week of the summer.
“This could be bigger than the Prairie Dog Shoot,” said a Norwood firewater merchant. “It’s tough to know what to order, though. I don’t know what aliens drink.”
The aliens reportedly chose Norwood since the town has a reputation for tolerance.
“We’ve had to tolerate all those refugees from Telluride over the years,” said one resident who asked not to be named. “That’s no simple chore, you know.”
A rancher near Roswell found debris on July 8, 1947, including some sort of flying disc which the Air Force said was part of a top secret monitoring balloon.
“The Air Force has been spying on our cows for the past 20 years and they’ve denied that too,” said our chatty source. Now they say there are no UFOs around here despite the fact that everyone has seen them three or four times at the least. Imagine that.”
FEDS RAID HORSESHOE WEB SITE
(Colona) Combined forces of the Federal Bureau of Infestation, the Unwed Mothers of the American Revolution and the Newt-Whirled Order carried out an intricate predawn raid of the San Juan Horseshoe Web Site near here. The once secret location was tear gassed, burned to the ground, its apparatus hauled off to crime laboratories for extensive testing.
The law enforcement agencies found cellular phones, a laptop computer, an extensive file with the home numbers of local pizza delivery personnel, a Confederate flag, some stale doughnuts, an 800 number, empty beer cans and a clock radio. They think the operators of the web site might have been spying for North Korea, Iran or both. In addition, preliminary data, collected on the spot, suggests a connection with the infamous Colona Mail Order Husband Ring that was brought to its knees, with the help of local informants, in March.
This is the second successful haymaker delivered by the FBI in as many years. Readers may choose to recall the apprehension of Red McSwill or Log Hill Mesa who, doing business as Red’s Garage, was indicted for tampering with local odometers during the Nixon Presidency. He is currently serving a prison sentence in his mother-in-law’s home at Nucla.
SLEEPING INDIAN PRIMED FOR SNEEZE
(Ridgway) One of the region’s most dominant landmarks, the Sleeping Indian, is scheduled for his 100-year explosion this month. The Native American rock formation’s first recorded sneeze came in 1697 and was witnessed by Fathers Escalante and Dominguez as they traveled through the San Juans searching for a place to build a real estate office. Later in 1797 the chief blew up again, causing the Uncompahgre River to change course. The last time the Sleeping Indian sneezed it was with such force and determination that it effectively destroyed the town of Ridgway and the railroad all the way to the town of Dallas. In fact, the only building left standing was the Little Chef, a sacred location on most Ute topo maps.
Residents are urged to stay in their homes from June through August , or until the chief goes off. Ridgway Hardware will be selling folding chairs through May with which to view the sneeze.
He had not returned our calls as of 3 am.
CAMP BIRD NETS ANCIENT DIRT SAMPLES
(Ouray) Recent excavations at the Camp Bird Mine have some geologists wondering how long rocks have been in the ground. Early samples of dirt and rocks were discovered last summer as far up as Yankee Boy Basin all the way down to Box Canyon.
“This changes everything,” said local geologist Tim Rosefriar. “It’s now clear that the earth is a hell of a lot older than we thought and so are the people engaged in stupid articles like this one.”
– Uncle Pahgre
Maginot Line Will Tour Colorado in July
from You’re Only Ancient History Forever
(Crested Butte) The legendary Maginot Line, completed in 1936 and thought to be impregnable by the French, will visit this former coal-mining giant as part of a 250-year celebratory summer spectacular journey through the Rockies.
Joining the Maginot Line will be the upstart Siegfried Line, or West Wall as well as the stumblebum Hindenburg Line, a German forward defensive position built in 1916-1917 near Soissons on the Aisne.
What the three lines have in common is that none actually kept anyone out. The Maginot was flanked in 1940, the Siegfried slowly deserted in the face of bloody Allied victories from 1944 to 1945, and the Hindenburg, despite spotty fighting, was lost to the Armistice signed in way back in 1919.
Perhaps what continues to delight war historians is the failure of the Maginot Line, which proved worthless when the Germans simply took a shortcut through Belgium, going around the lavish defenses and marching on to Vichy Paradise. Two wars in a row saw German troops soaking their feet in the Meuse
Despite its link to the nation’s most devastating defeat in history the line still evokes a certain pride, a subtle patriotism. Discovered in a Paris garbage heap in 1942, the failed logistical landmark was cleaned up and put back together from pre-World War II maps and graphs. Its accompanying military fortifications Siegfried and Hindenburg have always been maintained and had only to be collected and shipped (pillboxes and all) to New York where the coming summer tour of the United States originates.
“The real draw here remains the Maginot,” said Entraylea Maginot, great-granddaughter of Andre Maginot the namesake of the inglorious ditch. “That’s what the people come out to see. It cost 3 billion francs just for the carpeting!”
The older Maginot, who, fortunately for his Noblesse oblige, passed on some eight years before the line’s ineffectiveness was brought to light by German generals in 1940, did not know either of the other lines. It is expected that they will all get along during the travels.
The Colorado Division of Enforcement and Tourism hopes that the inclusion of the tours and the legal sale of legal marijuana will increase tourism by 30% this summer.
– Bambi Bumble
