TUESDAY, JUNE 1st.
Everybody is up bright and early this morning, in anticipation of the promised trip up the mountains to Marshall Pass. After breakfast we board a special train on the Denver and Rio Grande Narrow-Gauge Railroad, and at 8.12 o’clock start on a novel and interesting ride of 25 miles over a road that is a marvel of engineering ingenuity and skill. It requires two engines to make the laborious ascent, which in many places is 211 feet to the mile. Our engines are No. 175, manned by Engineer Sam Roney and Fireman W. Brewster; helper engine No. 400, Engineer W. D. Yates, Fireman M. M. Smith. Conductor M. Guerin has charge of the train, and the brakemen are Tom Kelley and F. Duncan.
Five miles from Salida we reach Poncha Junction, and here the winding and climbing commences in earnest. The weather since we started has become unfavorable; clouds obscure the sun and hide the summits of the surrounding peaks. It has commenced to rain, but the rain lasts only for a little while. As we ascend the clouds become lighter, and finally we see the sun and the sky. Looking down, the clouds and mist hide the valleys from our sight—we are above the clouds and rain; looking up, we behold the brightest, bluest sky we have ever seen; and still our course is upward. Our engines snort and cough and puff as they slowly climb and wind the spiral pathway that leads to the wind-swept summit.
As we near the top we have a magnificent unobstructed view of grand, majestic mountain scenery. Near by looms up mighty Mt. Ouray, an extinct volcano, down whose rugged sides, ages ago, the molten lava flowed; fire-scarred and grim he stands, a silent, frowning sentinel guarding the mountain pass. His companion, Mt. Shaveno, is near, his towering summit being crowned with eternal snow. Mounts Ouray and Shaveno were named in honor of the famous Ute Indian chiefs, and are everlasting monuments to the memory of a once powerful tribe.
Far in the distance, many miles to the south, can be seen, mingling with the sky and clouds, the gleaming peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the grandest range of the Sierras. All this range of vision, from Ouray to Sangre de Cristo, is filled with picturesque valleys, timbered hills, mountain cañons, towering peaks, and glistening snow. While we are feasting our eyes upon this grandeur, suddenly it is shut out from view, for we have entered a dismal snow shed. The train stops and our journey is ended. We get out of the train,
and looking around, we see a door that leads from the shed, which we pass through, and find snowdrifts six feet deep and the wind blowing a gale.
I see Brother Restein snap his kodak at Colonel and Mrs. Mitchell as they bravely face the wintry blast; the committee is lined up and he also snaps at them. Steps lead to a lofty tower and a number of us ascend. Some start and turn back; the exertion makes your heart beat like a trip hammer, cuts your wind, and makes you dizzy. We who reach the top do not tarry long; the view is magnificent, but the wind is cold. Overcoats and wraps were brought along and they are needed; the thermometer registered eleven last night, and now it stands at thirty-three. It is a bleak, barren, wind-swept place, and yet it is healthy.
A family has been living here for five years. The husband and father is employed on the road and the mother has charge of the station. She has never been absent from the place, she says, since they took up their residence here. The oldest child was an infant when they came, and two have been born since. They are fine, healthy children, and have never been sick. A doctor has never visited them, she says, because one has never been needed. We are ready to leave before the train is ready to take us; a short visit to a place like this is sufficient. Several of the “boys” amuse themselves by snowballing one another and washing with snow the faces of some of the “girls.”
Marshall Pass is 10,852 feet above the level of the sea, and is situated upon a point of the Great Continental Divide—on the ridge pole, as it were, between the Atlantic and Pacific slopes. Within the dingy snow shed where our train is standing we notice water slowly trickling down the bank into the ditch along the track; it makes a tiny stream, just large enough to flow, and we can see that it is running in each direction. A number of us place our fingers upon the dividing line, thus literally touching a point of the very comb of the great water shed between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans.
Our return is made with more speed than our ascent, but in a very careful manner; helper engine 400 is detached and sent ahead. The descent is made by gravity, the air brakes being used to keep the train under control. Engineer Roney deserves great credit for the careful manner in which he handles the train. A stop of five minutes is made at Mear’s Junction, where we make the acquaintance of Station Agent Smith, who, along with his duties as station agent and telegraph operator, is an artist of merit; a number of pictures of mountain scenery that he has painted adorn the walls of the station rooms.
When we get back to Salida and to our train it is 2.05 P. M. Eastern (12.05 P. M. Mountain) time. We find our friend McDonald looking for us, with an abundant lunch prepared, which we heartily appreciate and thoroughly enjoy. We are scheduled to leave here at one o’clock, and as it is nearing that time, we bid adieu to the good people of Salida who have shown us such a royal time, and at one o’clock, sharp, we steam away from the pretty little town, bound for Colorado Springs, 142 miles nearer home.
Leaving Salida we have engine 509, in charge of Engineer John Carr and Fireman R. Wilmonger. Our conductor is J. E. Duey, a member of Arkansas Valley Division No. 36, of Pueblo, Col. Brother Duey enjoys the notoriety of being a cousin to the late Jesse James, the famous bandit and train robber. The brakemen are S. G. Carlisle and William Shoemaker. Charlie Hooper is still with us, and at present is busily engaged in distributing fine photographic pictures of scenes along the picturesque Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. Mr. Hooper’s kindness and generosity are greatly appreciated, and the pictures will be highly prized as valuable souvenirs of our trip. In addition to Mr. Hooper we have with us as guests Brothers W. Newman and Frank Smith, of Division 44, and Harry Hart, of Division 36. A short stop is made at Parkdale, 46 miles from Salida, where we meet Rev. John Brunton, who is invited to accompany us to Pueblo. Mr. Brunton, who is an old engineer, retired from active service, is First Division Chaplain, and has charge of the employés’ reading room in Pueblo. He is an entertaining old gentleman; says he is employed to fight the devil, who is always sneaking around after railroad men. Brother Houston says, “A man like that is needed on the Schuylkill Division.” No one replies to this insinuation, except Brother Reagan, who merely says, “Sure.”
Soon after leaving Parkdale we enter the Grand Cañon of the Arkansas, which is 8 miles in length and the crowning wonder of all the marvelous sights we have yet beheld; a mighty pathway, right through the heart of the Rocky Mountains, hewn by Nature through inaccessible towering mountain walls. Through this narrow gorge, whose perpendicular walls rise to the height of over 2000 feet, the crowded, pent-up waters of the Arkansas River rush and roar and foam. There is scarcely space for both railroad and river, but with an audacity that knows no shrinking the intrepid engineers entered the walled-up, darksome cañon, and, following the intricate winding of the surging stream, laid their tracks of steel along its foam-flecked bank. Beyond a doubt it is the most daring feat of railroad engineering ever performed. When half way through the awful Royal Gorge is reached, here the river holds despotic, undisputed sway for a distance of 100 feet. There is no bank to lay the tracks upon; from wall to wall the river surges, leaps, and roars. From out the water those mighty walls, built by Nature’s hand, run right straight up, 2600 feet in the air. Ingenuity and nerve solves the problem; a bridge is built parallel with the river’s course, one side resting upon a granite ledge, hewn in the side of the cliff, the other side suspended from rods attached to the overhanging wall of the opposite cliff. Over this construction the trains securely pass, while underneath the torrent rushes on.
Before reaching the bridge our train stops, and as many as wish get out and walk over, in order to obtain a good view of the awe-inspiring grandeur of the Royal Gorge. It is truly a wonderful sight, and one we will never forget. We do not tarry long to contemplate the scenery, for a mean, commonplace shower of rain is falling, and we hurry to the train to avoid getting wet.
Issuing from the cañon, we enter a broad and fertile valley, through which flows the ever-present Arkansas River, and in a short time pass through Cañon City, a town of considerable importance, having a population of 3000, and the county seat of Fremont County. The State penitentiary is located here, and near by are mineral springs of great value, making it a favorite resort
for those in quest of retirement or health. We didn’t stop. The sight of the broad, unfettered freedom of the fertile Arkansas Valley, with its hundreds of acres of fine orchards and miles of magnificent grazing land, is a pleasure and relief after so much cramped and rocky glory, and gloomy, walled-up grandeur.
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.