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| One of the massive hammer mills in the canyon beyond Creede. Ore was loaded into wagons under the shed at the base, but back then few people rode bicycles--they got exercise in other ways. |
Monday morning we
broke camp—meaning we moved our gear out of the log cabins and packed the
vehicles—and headed for Platoro, Colorado.
On the way, we visited the old mines in the steep canyon just above
Creede. The mines at Creede operated
continuously from 1890 until 1985, producing tons of silver, gold, lead, zinc
and copper. In the early days, ore was
broken down here in massive hammer mills, then loaded on mule trains and carried
overland to the railroad at Alamosa, where it was loaded onto railcars and
transported to the smelter. The whole
canyon is full of history.
Bob Ford shot Jesse James in Missouri, and
ten years later, Ed O’Kelley shot Bob Ford in a tent saloon in Creede. Bat Masterson and Poker Alice both lived and
gambled there for a time. Wide open,
with gambling halls, saloons and whore houses, the local motto was, ”There is
no night in Creede.”
When the “Holy
Moses” Mine was discovered in 1889, six hundred people lived in Creede. By the end of 1891, the population had grown
to over ten thousand. When the mines
closed in 1985, the locals continued digging for gold, changing their focus
from ore to tourists. The little city
is filled with brightly painted, perfectly restored Victorian buildings.
We made our way
through South Fork and on to Monte Vista, then, because there are no front
roads, took back roads to Platoro. Platoro
is a mining town, and an active mine still operates, boring into the mountain
on the western edge of the community. No
idea what they mine there, but there may be a clue in the name. A Mexican friend tells me the name
Platoro is a combination of Plata, Spanish for silver, and Oro, which means
gold.
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| Looking down into the metropolis of Platoro, at the curve of the Conejos River. |
The last forty miles of road into Platoro is dirt,
and according to the signs, must be graded by the county once each twelve
months. We arrived at the Skyline Lodge,
cabin number eleven, about two P.M. Roy Turner
had already arrived—his gear was inside. He
was out exploring, but drove up within fifteen minutes.
Ratisseau said
having Roy show up was, “just like the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae.” As
soon as we stowed our gear, the fishermen began to talk in tongues as they prepared
for battle and pulled on their waterproof suits of armor.
“I reckon I’ll
use one of them black-and-yellow pity pons this afternoon,” said Wayne, “or a
solid black cinco loco. Them big ‘uns
cain’t hardly let one of them cincos go by.”
“When I think
back over the past sixty-some-odd years of fly-fishing, I doubt if I ever
caught anything on a pity pon, much less a cinco. My best luck has always been with a red-and-green jumble-iya, tied on a number eight hook with my daddy’s secret knot,” Roy drawled.
“I wouldn’t use
anything red and green today. Look at
those birds—they’re going crazy over dark blue hotty-tottys. I tied me some of them last week and that’s
what I’ll be using,” McMullen put in.
“You guys need to make up your minds and get
moving or we won’t get any fishing done today,”
Collins said. “I’m gonna use one
of these McFly Terminators that Neil tied for me last Christmas. Never fail to catch something with one of them.”
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| Roy, Wayne, Me, James, and Neil in front of cabin #11. I took one look at this picture and started a diet. |
As I sat there on
the porch and listened while the group discussed the proper weight of a leader,
the exact color of a fake tsetse fly, the most advantageous length for a rod, and
the type of line best-suited for dry-fly fishing, I suffered from an utter lack
of understanding. Except for the obvious
West Texas accents and phrasing, I could have been listening to a bunch of Greek
farmers arguing about the best way to cook a goat.
After the
afternoon fishing, Neil broke out a bottle of Ezra Brooks, and happy hour
commenced as we fried trout for dinner.
Now, let me point out once again, none of us are spring chickens. The guys moved slowly getting into their
fishing gear. They took forever to rig
the fly rods. Everyone maneuvered
gingerly up and down the rustic steps at the front porch, and it took three
rest periods for any of us to clomp up stairs to the bedrooms. Not so with the whiskey. A sack of crushed ice and more than half of Neil’s
bottle disappeared instantly. I suppose
the thin air up there melts ice and evaporates good bourbon.
I hated to put a
damper on the festivities, but I had to relay a comment to James Collins. “Now
Collins, I don’t hardly know how to say this, but I need to tell you
something. Our friend, Davis Ford is
hurt that he was not invited up here to enjoy this trip with the rest of
us. He wouldn’t want me saying anything,
but he was absolutely crushed. He had a
little catch in his throat when he told me you all had been friends since
before the first grade and he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t invited. Maybe you ought to call him—you know, maybe
help him feel better.” Davis had asked
me to lay a good, thick guilt trip on Collins and I did my best.
“You tell Davis
Ford if we’d wanted him up here we’d have invited him.” Guilt trips don't work on Collins, and that closed the subject of Davis
Ford. “Pass that bottle over here, Jimmy
Paul—as Rat says, ‘I need a half-sole on this drink.’”
Later, when I told
Ford about the incident, he laughed heartily, and said, “The little S.O.B.
hasn’t changed a bit. He was just like that
when he was five years old.”
Turner started
telling a story about two of our classmates.
During a brief pause, Ratisseau told three jokes. Roy went on with his story.
As Roy caught his
breath, someone mentioned that Collins was the only guy they knew who reached
puberty and went bald all in the same year.
“Nineteen
sixty-one at Fort Bragg,” Collins said.
“I was a brand new second lieutenant.”
Roy went on with
his story.
“Let’s call
Merriman,” Ratisseau said. “Maybe he
knows how Tom is doing.”
I had Larry’s
number in my phone, and he answered immediately. He and Brenda were on vacation in the
Caribbean somewhere. We passed the phone
around and everyone talked with him a few minutes. We marveled at what a great age we live in—routinely
talking with a friend in the Caribbean from the outback of Colorado. Roy went on with his story.
For dinner, we
had fresh, pan-fried trout, crisp wedge salad, and corn on the cob. I made a cherry cobbler that was a bit dry,
but otherwise passable. After we cleaned
the kitchen, it was bedtime. Everyone
knew James would be fixing coffee at 4:30 in the morning, so we better get to
sleep. Roy went on with his story….
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| A bit dry, because I was unacustomed to working with fresh cherries, but passable. |
To Be Continued…..
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