Ochres, reds, yellow patchwork on the foothills. Immaculate blue sky. Too perfect. Orchestra of crickets every evening. Smoke tinged air. The winding down of the past verdant season. That strange, yet almost comforting in some sense, melancholy in the air. The days shorten, the shadows lengthen. Pumpkins appear, adorn porches. Break out the long sleeves, fleece jackets. But no need, certainly not this September, to retire shorts and tees. Summer still finds its hold in the afternoon heat.
Run up the foothills, observe the sharpness of color contrasts: evergreens amongst the gold aspens. Stroll along a creek, beneath the kingly canopy of ancient trees. A line from Edward Abbey, from his “Sonnet for Everett Ruess,” springs to mind:
“Gold coin of cottonwoods, the spangled shade…”
Could not be more true. Simple and concrete.
The hills have long since faded from emerald to honey. Fall, with the lower temps and dimming days, the prologue to winter, the guarantee of coming cold: warmth. This is what comes to mind. The warmth of the play of colors on nature’s grand stage. The cool, blue-gray tones are reserved for winter. For now, the last warmth stays. Indian summer. Fading daylight, cooler air makes chlorophyll break down. Horses transform from summer sleek to fall fuzzy. Nostalgia appears. I remember my horse, this time three years ago, as he stood at the tie rail just before the sun dipped. He was getting furrier for the coming winter. It was a quiet day at the barn, save for the cricket or two chirping in the creek side brush. I drank in the sight of him, so relaxed, peaceful. Ears forward, alert. His chestnut coat outlined in gold. A benevolent shaft of sunlight touching his face, his velvet nose. The only indication of his age then was his sway back. I miss him.
Flash: September 2015
Fall is nostalgic. It is a season of both beauty and melancholy. Jim Carrier, in his foreword to photographer John Fielder’s book A Colorado Autumn, says it best: “There is nothing so sweet or sad as a country road in autumn. Nothing that invites us more to enter into beauty. Nothing else tugs so strongly at life that is temporal.” I think of Flash. The tie post is now vacant.
Another line: “The sun angle, the reds and yellows, shadows that give the landscape texture. Still, it is more feel than image, mood over reason.” Yes. There is a different emotion to fall. Summer grants the land vibrant texture as well, but the autumnal landscape is somehow more poignant. Herein is the reason: “Autumn is yang and yin […] Warm days, cold nights, the contrast of snow and grass. The harmony of opposites. That is how we best see, in polarity, life and death—the dualism by which we understand.”
Experiencing true four seasons lays out this dualism, and Colorado is the prime stage. I find it hard to imagine that in just a few weeks, the trees will be bare, the hills brown. Yet I know that this change is inevitable, that I’ve seen it countless times. I love summer, I’m a sun child, yet I appreciate all the seasons. But there is something sublime about fall. Words can almost capture it. Almost. Until the raw beauty of winter hits, I’ll continue to observe and enjoy autumn playing out on Colorado’s foothills—and remembering my beautiful horse silhouetted against the multicolored foliage, a golden image in a golden season.
I love ghost towns. Old graveyards. Old buildings. Just old, yester-century things.
This love affair with history began from the start: my earliest memories are of my dad and I cruising up into the Rockies to explore old, abandoned mining towns. Bobbing in my car seat as we drove rocky, 4-wheel drive roads, these “ghost towning” adventures gave me the history bug. As my dad propped me in front of an old storefront for pictures, I wondered: Who had lived here? What did they do? Even at such a young age, I found myself genuinely curious about the history and people of the places we visited: Central City, Tin Cup, Buckskin Joe, Wild Irishman, etc., are just a few examples.
Call me strange, but I especially liked, and still love, visiting old, often abandoned cemeteries. Graveyards never frightened me, even as a toddler. My dad instilled in me that cemeteries were not scary, bad places as other kids my age perceived them. Instead, he emphasized that the individuals resting there had been people just like us, who had lived their lives, and had known triumph and tragedy: in other words, cemeteries were and are to be treated with utter respect. His words are essentially about reflection, as one cannot help but question, when reading headstone inscriptions: Who was this individual? What was their life like? And so often a constant question when visiting older cemeteries: Why and how did they die so young?
I realized it had been quite a while since I’d visited any ghost towns, so up I-70 I went and soon found myself wandering the several cemeteries of Central City. And yes, true “ghost towners” will critique me here in that this town is not a ghost, far from it. Since casinos and gambling took root here in 1991, the area is thriving, albeit in a different manner. As Philip Varney describes in his book Ghost Towns of Colorado, “A ghost town has two characteristics: the population has decreased markedly, and the initial reason for its settlement (such as a mine or a railroad) no longer keeps people there.” Popular though the town may be with tourists and gamblers, it is no longer mining that attracts people to the area. In fact, prior to 1991, Central City and environs was closer to a true “ghost.”
Driving through town, many impressive stone and brick buildings still line the streets, as do restored Victorian “doll house” residences. But seeking the solitude and somber aura of the cemeteries, I drove up the dirt road to where the graveyards lie west of town. Divided into several separate cemeteries, I visited the Catholic, I.O.O.F. Knights of Pythias, and Red Man Lodge plots. Not surprisingly, in the Catholic plot are those of Italian and Irish descent. As with the I.O.O.F and Red Man Lodge plots, these graveyards are the most open with their meadow location. Knights of Pythias, however, is the most eerie, nearly hidden amongst aspens. Visiting in the summer, this plot is stunningly beautiful. But with the trees leafless today, this area had an intense feeling of nostalgia and melancholy.
Catholic Cemetery, Central City
As with all older graveyards, there are so many children’s and infants graves. In the Catholic plot was a single headstone for three children, siblings aged six years and younger. They all perished 1918; I speculate from the great influenza pandemic, but who knows? Families often had not one, but multiple child deaths. And sometimes accompanying these tiny graves, were the graves of the mothers who died in childbirth.
These cemeteries are still in use today. Newer gravestones are present and are often adorned with flowers and mementoes. But it touched my soul to observe several child and adolescent graves decorated with flowers and stuffed animals. These individuals, who died well over a hundred years ago, are still remembered.
Observing the faint inscriptions and designs on these Victoria era headstones, my favorite aspect I saw was a small hand pointing upward to heaven. I understood the significance: focus not below where the body lies but look up to where to the soul resides.
*****
1879 Masonic Lodge, Nevadaville1879 Masonic Lodge behind me
After my solemn sojourn, I drove southward to Nevadaville. A true ghost town, Nevadaville is a far cry from the bustling place it once was. For a short period in the mid-1800s, the town’s population was bigger than Denver at the time! But eventually the mines closed, residents left, and buildings fell into ruin. On Nevadaville’s Main Street stand several impressive brick buildings, such as the Bald Mountain Trading Post and 1879 Masonic Lodge, both of which are still in use today. For a few minutes I wandered along the street, peering through the windows as all the buildings were closed for the day. Though a few people live in the area, I did not see a single soul: Nevadaville confirms its status as a true “ghost.”
Main Street, Nevadaville
*****
Buffalo Bill’s grave
My final stop was Lookout Mountain, to visit Buffalo Bill’s gravesite. The last time I visited was 2004, so this time I was able to drive there myself. I drove down I-70 and took an exit near the Mother Cabrini Shrine. Winding my way up, I reached the top and first took in the dramatic views from the parking lot: Denver and it’s urban sprawl, and to the north, the Flat Irons. To the west, the Continental Divide beckoned, the snow coloring the peaks with an almost surreal glow. I then walked the short, paved path to the final resting place of William F. Cody, better known as Buffalo Bill. The centennial anniversary of his death was January 2017, and I mused how that is not all that long ago.
One of my favorite idols growing up was Annie Oakley, the female sharpshooter who toured with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. Impressed with her sheer talent, Cody hired her and the two remained friends until his death. Recently I re-read Oakley’s tribute to Buffalo Bill written upon his passing and was quite touched by the amount of respect she held for him. Both these individuals were celebrities in their time, and I couldn’t help but think (rather bemusedly) from a millennial viewpoint, that they would’ve had quite the social media following had such media platforms existed then.
Continental Divide, as viewed from Lookout Mt.
*****
My step into the past was brief, but enjoyable. Exploring historic places is one of my all-time favorite things to do. The worries of today fall away as you realize just how rough living conditions were, even one hundred years ago. Yet you gain a sense of appreciation and respect for those who lived long ago, for their tenacity and dedication. If I could time travel, I would. And yet I wonder…if someone from the past visited our time period, what would they think? Ah, the ruminations of a history freak are endless…
