All Entries in the "Reflections on Disorder" Category
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 dilapidated 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 beckoned 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 fellows 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 parochial 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 extracted 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 Picadilly Circus.
“Now just a minute, sir,” I started. “First you tell me I’m trespassing, 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 burying his dinner for a few days before eating.”
Despite his initial hesitancy 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 snow slides 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 Buckley Wells and Sarah Bernhardt. 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 trespassing 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”
Tex Offenders Must Register
Ridgway) Convicted Tex Offenders must register in their specific neighborhoods so as to comply with new anti-discrimination precepts passed here by the local town council. The ruling includes anyone who has knowingly offended visitors from Texas.
“This is no summer romance,” said one councilperson. “We are baring the sharp teeth of the law to all seasons.”
This get tough attitude is an exemplary segment of a progressive approach to marketing tourism in Western Colorado.
“Why anyone would want to offend these nice people is beyond my comprehension,” said the council member who is originally from Dripping Springs. “We certainly don’t want these kinds of rude and ignorant people roaming around our neighborhoods at will.”
The law clearly states that persons of this shady demeanor should not be allowed access to the general population without first displaying their dirty laundry, or rap sheet, for all to see. The council voted unanimously on the issue stating that it specifically forbade contact with impressionable persons and banned disparaging opinions originating from those in a position of trust with younger citizens.
Terms such as flatlander, turkey and geek will not be tolerated in accordance with the ordinance. Most Coloradoans make no distinction between people from New York or Texas, since, quite frankly, it is what it is. Newcomers are often the most guilty of these affronts, scorning Texans and other visitors to make themselves look better.
“Employing stereotypes aimed at one group or another is downright ignorant and destructive,” said the source. “We welcome these visitors to our mountains even if they do talk funny.”
Whether or not Californians would be covered by the decision was not known at press time. – Kashmir Horseshoe
FREEDOM TAPPED AS ASSEMBLYMAN
(Ridgway) Ed Freedom is a perfect fit for local politics. The prospect of such a surname on the ballot has had king makers drooling since back when the earth was only 6000 years old and a game of pool cost a quarter.
The Manana car wash jockey, who manages to reside in a prestigious baited community on his puny salary, has been wined and dined by both major political parties in hopes that he will fill candidate gaps in the next election.
Unreliable pollsters outside the former Little Schlepp Saloon here say Freedom is a sure thing since he appeals to an electorate that responds not to the issues but to name recognition and lots of noise.
“We are not saying Ed will make an impact,” said Shirley Chizzle, executive director of the GOP. “He is electable. Who would vote against someone named Freedom? It’s unpatriotic!”
Meanwhile the local Democrats have been busy convincing Ed to run with them.
“What a perfect populist name,” said a party line Democrat. “He may be an imbecile but he can be created from scratch to appeal to the fears of the electorate, and that’s all that really matters these days.
Both party spokespersons expect to throw around even more campaign money than in the last election.
“Donations will flow with any candidate named Freedom,” said the Dem, “and we do not intend on being left with the short straw. After he is firmly entrenched in his seat we don’t care about his morals or his taste in neckties.”
“The whole process is about money,” laughed a GOP source. “We can insert here and edit there until we create a candidate that will have American appeal.”
The spokesperson did not elaborate when asked to define that particular term.
Both factions expressed concern that Freedom needs polish and some rudimentary education as to the issues prior to announcing his candidacy. Positions such as assemblyman, or even dogcatcher, can catapult the uninitiated into positions of relevance. However, the early days in the public eye demand eye contact, quick response and sacred adherence to the party platform.
“We damn sure don’t want the buttermilk coming through the cream,” said Freedom’s advisor and confidant Mickey “Peg Leg” O’Sullivan who, along with Freedom, were the last two citizens busted for marijuana use in Colorado, back in December. (Colorado legalized the drug in January).
“Expect Ed to do well with the Gimme Democrats and the Trailer Park Republicans,” said O’Sullivan. “Throw in a few well placed scandals, millions in TV advertising, regular church attendance and maybe a cute puppy in his arms and Ed will be on his way to the State House in 2016.”
– Syd Fardt
HOW I TAUGHT OURAY TO HUNT ELK
by Uncle Pahgre
The following is a excerpt from Whiskey, Women, Wapiti and Weapon’s Charges,
a history of little-known faith-based militia movements in America.
When I first entered the camp of the Tabeguache band I was amazed by the number of horses in the makeshift corrals. Three scowling braves guarded the outer perimeter of the village, comprised of over 200 lodges. The Uncompahgre, “rocks that make red water”, flowed peacefully in the October sun.
What was that awful aroma rising from this rough coterie? I soon found out it was that of mutton, a gift from the Los Pinos Agent. He wanted the Utes to become farmers and give up their hunter-gatherer lifestyle, to herd sheep when they’d rather spend their time at honorable endeavors like stealing horses from the Comanche and raiding Cheyenne strongholds to the east. Like Old Joe Meeker, Ivy League agent too would find the tribes a tough bunch to convert.
In addition to about 150 Tabeguache warriors there were another 40 men belonging to the Yampa and Uintah bands and Southern Ute warriors from the Weeminuche, Capote and Mouache bands. They had come together to discuss the recent intrusions of the whites and plan the winter’s survival. It was 1860. In addition to the men there were many women of each band mixed with Jicarilla Apache wives, children and uncounted dogs running about madly. There was no livestock to be seen since the Utes killed all wild game and ate it on the spot. A few Navajo slaves were evident in the background of the camp activity.
A medicine man approached us chanting, then glared at me and my friends, who stood shaking in their boots. He was harmless, said I, and more curious than anything else. I embellished a tale of the ghosts of the Anasazi, or Chindees as the Navajo call them, to distract my fellows from their fingered weapons.
After a week in the woods I was looking for a long soak in hot water. The Utes generally set up their larger encampments near natural hot springs and before long I spied stream coming off the river. Before I met Chief Colorow some years back I thought hot water was what one sat in before dressing up and going to the whore house on Saturday night…not that I ever did, mind you. It was Colorow who years before had convinced me that the all but scalding water was healing.
Now I’ve always been one to respect another man’s culture, unless it’s the growing kind, so I jumped right into the Ute chief’s pool. Damn. It was hot. He might have turned to me and said, “Yeah, it’s about 107 degrees,” but the tub thermometer hadn’t been invented yet, least ways as far as some plump chief knew. That water was beautiful. All my aches and pains seemed to float down the Uncompahgre.
Colorow was a bit of a hot head all right, but wouldn’t you be a bit pissed off if a bunch of strangers with picks and mules moved into your backyard? The next morning Colorow and his band escorted me to my first horse racing rendezvous up in Baker’s Park.
It was then that I encountered a young Ute brave who spoke good Spanish. His name was Ouray and he sat at the head of the table with his wife Princess Chipeta. She was quite attractive while he was a short, dark man who loved to race horses. When it came to betting he didn’t miss a beat either. I watched as time and time again his chosen horse won.
“That’s because I’m the chief,” he smiled, when I asked him about his curious good luck.
“Ute law says chief must win. We’ll give it up after the next race and head back to my hogan. I have to let the younger braves have a chance.”
It was there where we got on the subject of elk hunting. Chipeta, who had joined us in the hogan shrugged and said goodnight. As she disappeared through an aspen grove Ouray frowned and confessed that his good fortune with horses did not extend to hunting elk.
“Even my own wife has better luck bringing home an elk. Every year we go out, she nails an animal then tells the village that I downed the bull elk so as to keep face. Nobody dares to give advice on hunting because I’m the chief and it would be disrespectful. When I was a boy my father was always out of town and nobody else felt comfortable teaching the son of a chief to hunt. The truth is that I am a lousy hunter and in turn an unworthy chief.”
I was shocked. Here I sat with the King of the Utes and he’s sharing a sob story. It was too much to believe. He said he had never downed an elk in his life and that his success with bear and deer came only due to the large population inhabiting the San Juans.
“One can’t go for a stroll after dinner without seeing at least a herd of deer and several rambling bears,” he explained. “If you can’t bring down a bear you’re really out to lunch. Chief Ignacio hunts them with a sling-shot. I think he’s suspicious as to my elk hunting prowess. He’s always wanted my job.”
Afterwards we spoke of his people and the goings on to the east where white men sought yellow gold at the expense of the Arapahoe. This wise warrior could see the writing on the wall. His appraisal of the desperate situation was quite astute and it was clear why he had been chosen chief. We later talked of changes, of the white man’s sense of progress but he always returned to his frustration with landing an elk.
It was getting late but he went on until I had no other option but to offer my services in the woods. Having come from a long line of trappers and frontiersmen I had a few tricks up my buckskins. We would meet at an agreed spot and with a little luck he would bring down an elk. He headed off to his hogan and I fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning was cold and I dressed for it. When I arrived at our meeting spot he was already there. He looked like a hunter at least with buckskins and loincloth and bright war bonnet. With him he had a set of golf clubs. He had been hitting pine cones with a driver and each one sliced off into the woods.
“Maybe the bonnet is scaring away the game,” I joked.
“It scares the fish,” he said bluntly.
Not wanting to dwell on eccentricities I avoided any comment on the golf clubs.
We headed east toward what is now called Difficulty Creek and camped for the night. The next day we were joined by several others and encountered a large herd of elk on the banks of what the whites call Wild Horse Creek. We watched.
“Do you have a hunting license?” asked Ouray.
“A what?” I responded.
“A hunting license. Otto Mears told me I had to have a hunting license to shoot an elk.”
At that point he produced a crumbled piece of paper signed by railroad scalawag and toll road pirate Otto “Million Dollar Highway” Mears. Upon examination of the document I realized that Chief Ouray’s name was nowhere to be found. In fact, the “license” was no more than an old pass to the Silverton Northern Railroad.
“How much did you have to pay for this?” I asked the chief.
“Not much. Little man (Mears) threw in golf clubs and necklace for Chipeta. It’s pure silver.”
Not wanting to ruin it for Ouray I shut up about the license and the necklace…and besides, the golf clubs looked almost brand new.
“What do you plan to do with the clubs?” I then asked as Ouray took a few practice swings.
“Get elk,” he said.
“With that slice?” I thought. My work was just beginning.
“What’s it like having a whole town named after you?” I asked the chief.
“Indianapolis?” he queried. “I don’t know. I’ve never been east of Garden City.”
Discretion being the better part of geography I let that statement go as well, in fact I wouldn’t have touched it with a four-legged, four-foot, five-iron.
After scouting the herd from above, the other Ute hunters who had joined the party began to tighten the circle around the animals, picking out stragglers and young cows as the prey. All at once the hunt was on. In no more than minutes six elk were down, the others allowed to scatter. The Tabeguache band quickly dressed out their kill, hung the meat in the shade, and feasted on ancient delicacies. One small calf was totally consumed by the ravenous hunters, some who preferred the bow to the rifle.
That next morning they packed out all the elk meat on seven different horses and returned to the encampment, now excited by the news of the kill. All five elk would be eaten within the next two days and some of it jerked. The dogs ate what was left of the bones, the entrails having been left on the spot of the kill for the wolves and coyotes. The hides were taken for clothing and shelter.
How superior this culture is to the white civilization that spawned such men as Charles Baker, John Gunnison and yes, Otto Mears. Everyone knows his place in it. No one needs more than what it takes to survive. Essentials, though, include horses and hot springs.
It was the next day that I presented my favorite muzzle loader to the Ouray, who accepted it as the treasure that it had become. He told me I was an accomplished hunter and that he had learned much from our association. But one fact remained: He was yet to down his elk. The morning shadows lifted as we made our way across Wild Horse and into dark timber. As we stepped back into the sun a small herd of elk appeared just above us. They had not spooked. I told Ouray to stay close and keep his eyes open.
As we crept up to a prime vantage point I fingered my arrow. Standing erect I carefully placed it across my bow, pulled back and let it go. Suddenly the herd spooked and there were elk everywhere. My bull dropped like a sack of concrete. Ouray jumped up and rushed the herd with what I believe to have been a six-iron. No luck again for the chief.
We dressed out my kill and headed back in the direction of the big camp. With any luck we’d run into more elk and I began to lecture my friend.
“Now see here chief,” I began. “It’s time to can the clubs and stick to bow and arrow. You have to get up close and be steady when you fire.”
Ouray listened well. When I showed him how to disguise himself in a coyote pelt he wanted to try it on the spot. When I suggested a balanced stance he picked up on it right away. After an hour I even had him tracking and listening to the ground for footsteps. He was a natural. Why he had never picked up these skills remains a mystery.
In a mater of miles we came onto a small herd and followed the wapiti down a tree-lined gulch until they stopped. Ouray could barely contain his excitement when I began to circle around to the north and attempt to drive the herd in his direction. As I made off I saw that he had donned his coyote attire and was testing his bow. I was sure he’d get his elk this time.
Arriving out of breath I moved into position and began my descent. One of these animals was about to find instant fame at the end of an arrow. His antlers would hang in the lodge of a great Ute chief. All the braves would be reassured that Ouray was the strongest and most able to lead them. I moved toward the herd. Evacuating the premises three large bulls moved straight toward Ouray’s ambush.
Then I heard a thundering cry followed by a triumphant cheer as only two of the three bulls continued on through the narrow gulch. Had he finally been successful?
As I came upon him in the draw he sat gutting out a bull elk. It was tough to see where the arrow had pierced the animal…or if, indeed an arrow had been fired at all. The chief sat smiling, a badly mangled nine-iron at his side. We returned with our animals to the camp that evening and there was much celebration. Ouray was as proud as a cock pheasant.
The next time I saw Ouray was in 1866, following the American Civil War. With that conflict completed, Manifest Destiny was again nipping at the heels of the Utes. Ouray was now recognized as spokesman for all of his tribe. He had agreed to another new treaty which prohibited white prospectors from the San Juans and guaranteed the Utes sole autonomy in the region. He still had the rifle and the antlers from his first kill.
I think at the time Ouray knew the treaty would be broken, and so it was in April of 1874 with a new treaty which opened up the mountains to prospecting and confined the Utes to a shrinking reservation.
But back on that night in 1866 whites were still trespassers, elk were plentiful and coexistence seemed possible. The entire western half of the continent was still one big beautiful fairway. Then Chief Ouray told his dinner guests that I had taught him how to hunt elk in the silver mountains. – Kevin Haley
Summer hangs on in Gunnison park
Summer color hangs on in Gunnison
