Golden Copper

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Just click on the title “Golden Copper.”

This past weekend, a conference of the Colorado Psychological Association drew us to Copper Mountain. Typically, this weekend would have been about a week too early for the aspen and other foliage to be in full autumn garb, but the season change seems to have come early this year. 

So, after snapping a few photos along various roads and trails around Copper, I took some time before we headed home for a hike up Mayflower Gulch on nearby the road toward Leadville, home of the legendary Unsinkable Molly Brown, the famous “Leadville 100” endurance run (100 miles, all above 10,000 feet) … and, thanks to lots of abandoned mines, more toxic waste sites than you can imagine.

The Mayflower Gulch trail is very close to the huge Climax molybdenum mine, and some gulches in this area used to be tailing ponds. By my recollection, a couple of decades ago, they were designated for reclamation as part of the cleanup from this mine. If this gulch is one of those, they did quite a job, because the valley is filled with a dense stand of willows, turning shades of gold even as I hiked. A couple of miles up the trail I found a collection of old mining ruins, the remnants, I learned, of the Boston Mine. Mayflower Gulch, Boston mine ... hmm ... maybe transplants from the East coast seeking wealth in the Rockies. The combination of these ruins, the proximity of Climax, and the presence of the mining town of Leadville just over the hill reminded me of Colorado's "boom and Bust" economy. One after another resource extracted from the land promises instant wealth. Colorado has had a lot of these: gold, silver, and molybdenum among them, and now oil and natural gas removed from deep beneath the earth by fracking. Each cycle of booming wealth enriches a few, and when it all goes bust, each leaves behind assorted messes. Evaporative ponds and abandoned mines, polluted streams and poisoned land, poverty among those who were unable or unwilling to cash in. And these old buildings ... what stories do they hold?

As I continued climbing, I drew nearer to the top of the valley. The gulch descends from a glacial cirque, a hollow carved into the solid rock eons ago by one of the glaciers that filled these mountains. Often, these cirques are home to small lakes, fed all year by the runoff from snowfield high on the slopes. I located the telltale stream—enough hint of a lake to inspire me to climb up the old mining road all the way to the cirque. I’d hoped to have lunch by the lake, but found instead a flat plane of alpine tundra with more old mining structures near the cliffs. Most of the tundra has already gone dormant, so I saw only dried traces of the alpine flowers that would cover this area in the summer.

Nevertheless, lake and flowers or not, it was a totally lovely climb on a totally beautiful Colorado fall day. On the way down, I took in the view back toward the trailhead, down the long valley of willows. The afternoon clouds were rolling in as I headed downhill, delighted at having caught the colors before fall slipped into winter. 

Folks in Colorado, take note: next weekend is likely the end of the fall colors. Go! Quick, before they’re gone for another year!

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2014. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post.

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Seamless time travel

When I visit places that have an interesting history, I tend to drift into a reflective, time-traveling space. I think about what life must have been like back then, right here. What was it like to sit here, walk here, work here, be a child here, grow up here, be a woman here? What did people think about as they traveled down this street, along this trail, through this courtyard? The first time I remember sliding into this mode was when I was visiting a castle in Germany. I was 17, an exchange student in this small town in Germany, and the very idea of a castle right in my little town was enough to snatch me away from current reality and into an imagined life in the 1600s. 

So, the other day, I decided to take a walk on a trail system I’ve never visited before, the Marshall Mesa trails near (what a coincidence!) Marshall. I knew that coal mining had been big around here, but I had never thought much about it. The fitness teacher where I do one of my volunteer gigs has said that Louisville is perched on top of a huge network of mining tunnels. This made me a bit more curious about the history of coal mining in this area. But I’d never been transported back to the days when mining built these towns.

So, I was walking along the Marshall Mesa trail when a spot of black dirt caught my eye. It felt significant, like the universe was conspiring to call my attention to this coal thing. So I snapped a picture to commemorate the moment and walked on, wondering now about coal mining.

Then, I passed this interpretive sign that explained a bunch about coal mining as it happened here. After reading it, I started my predictable drift into the past, wondering what it was like to be here then, in the middle of the mining scene. I took another picture to mark this sign moment (I included my finger to prove I was there). 

The sign hinted at a mine entry (or “adit,” I learned) nearby, so I sought it out … and took its picture, too.

Remnants of entrance to Cracker Jack mine

By this time, I was deep into the pseudo-experience of walking where miners had walked. I imagined them trudging up the hill to the adit, big boots, head lamps fueled by oil, clothes and fingernails permanently blackened with coal dust. Maybe coughing, with black lung taking its toll. I imagined their wives or kids hiking up from town to deliver a lunch bucket. (Notice, I’m beginning to invent bits of this story. That’s part of the fun.)

The map at the trailhead told me that one section of the trail system is called “Coal Seam.” I was really looking forward to this stretch, to seeing an actual coal seam. I imagined a deep, black gash in the earth, probably marked by the remnants of holes drilled for explosives, with coal chunks along the base. (The story line gets thicker, more embellished.) I was sorely disappointed to see no such seam. I suppose the trail follows a coal seam here, but maybe it’s buried or gone, or it’s just not visible to my untrained eyes (despite the fact that I was so prepared to see it. It was part of my story!)

So it was in this expectant, time-traveling frame of mind that I spotted this box strapped to a tree. As you can see, it looks old and rusted, with an aged padlock holding it shut. The story machine cranked up: Probably this was a sort of safe put here by the miners. I wondered what they might have stored in this old iron box. Emergency flares? Medical supplies? Firearms? A radio or walkie-talkie?

For an instant, I thought it might hold a cell phone. I quickly decided that was ... um ... unlikely. But realizing that I was concocting a pretty fantastical story with no evidence to support it (cellphone?!) didn’t stop me from doing more of the same. Is the lock too rusted to open? Is whatever they kept in there still functional? How long has it been here?

Then reality intruded. I saw a sign taped to the top of the box. To my grave disappointment, it wasn’t a message from some long-gone miner. It was a notice from Boulder County Parks and Open Space. Apparently, they’re counting how many people use the trails, and this box holds a sensor. It’s one of a pair; one unit sends and the other receives a beam of light. When that beam is interrupted, that means someone like me is standing there reading the sign … or at least passing on the trail. I turned around to see the other sensor just across the trail.

Interesting, but sort of a bummer. So much for the fanciful stories.

The whole experience did make me more curious about coal mining in these parts. So I went to the Louisville website and learned more. You might want to do that too; it’s a good, quick introduction to the history of mining here.

Or you can just make up your own stories like I tend to do. An old, rusty safe holding emergency gear seems lots more exciting that a people-counting sensor.