12/22/03

Frozen in the ice. Rich ores in Mt. Sneffles. I rescue a wounded miner. Explosion in the slag pool at the Lake City smelter. Driven out of Rice country by Indians.

Seven miles south of Ouray the canyon opens into a wide valley and then closes abruptly to form the saddle, which divides the waters of the continent. The valley between is known as Red Mountain Park. Hay was in great demand at Ouray, and the fertility of the little flat near timberline had enticed a young lad, George West, the son of a wealthy Eastern Merchant, to locate a ranch there. He used to bring the hay down on the backs of burros to the Ouray market. George needed a grindstone and he purchased one from Alling’s store on credit, but because he could not pay for it when the bill became due, Alling threatened to have him arrested. This action frightened the boy, and in spite of the fact that the trail was closed for the winter, he started for his ranch to bring back the grindstone.

After waiting a week for his return, his friends became apprehensive as to his safety, and I made up a party to search for him. With rope, axes, and shovels, we took up the trail. The day was intensely cold but clear, there was a hard crust on the snow; and for a mile or more we had to chop holes in the surface for a foothold. At the forks of the Uncompahgre, where one branch becomes Poughkeepsie Creek and the other Red Mountain Creek, we found one of his shoes and followed the tracks leading to the right-hand stream. Evidently the lad had a frozen foot, had cut off the shoe, and tried to reach the creek to thaw it out. There were several small waterfalls along the stream, and at the foot of one, with the water spraying all over him, we found the body of the poor boy encased in the ice. The mass was frozen to the rocks and we had to chop the body loose so that we could roll it, ice and all, up the bank. Once on the hard snow above, the ice was chipped away so that we could carry the body on a pole, two ax men going ahead to cut foot holes along the steep cliffs. Progress was painfully slow, the burden was heavy, and the trail, which overhung the deep canyon below, was a constant danger, as one slip would have precipitated the whole party, roped together, into eternity.

We plodded into town with our ghastly burden, and that night was given up to thawing out the body, which was later shipped east to his parents. So ended another episode of the many tragedies of the early days of the San Juan.

The Mount Sneffels district was then growing in reputation as the richest on the Western Slope. The ores were high grade, and many of the prospects gave evidence of becoming valuable mines, as the later discoveries of the Smuggler, Sheridan, Camp Bird, and other mines began to disgorge their treasures of silver and gold. There were also many disappointments in claims, whose croppings showed rich ores only to change with development into low-grade sulphide.

One very high-grade prospect was the York State. Here was a vein three feet wide, and at the time of my visit the entire breast of the tunnel was gleaming with ruby silver. I suggested that they sell it while it was looking good, but the owners thought $250,000 was the most they could probably get for it, and it was worth a million. I said, “All right, but if it were mine, I would not put another shot into it for $10,000!” They went ahead however, and took out a burro trainload of ore, which they packed to the Lake City smelter and sold for $1.65 a pound. Three tons of ore at $1.65 a pound meant quite a little money, and when the pack train returned to the mine it was loaded with winter supplies which included table luxuries, wines, and cigars, and a suite of furniture de luxe with which the boys were going to make themselves comfortable during the cold months.

The York State continued to yield rich ore for several more weeks, and then came the finale. The men in the drift suddenly encountered a smooth wall of barren rock extending across the face of the tunnel, and the fault showed no indication of the direction the vein had been thrown. The owners worked day and night to recover the lode. They started new tunnels, crosscut both ways, continued the drift through the fault, and sank winzes, but all to no purpose. The vein was gone. So they stoped out what ore there was above the level, packed up their tools, their suite of furniture de luxe, and abandoned the claim. The last time I walked over this ground the tunnel had fallen in, the house was in ruin, and the mine was well on its way back to nature.

I had been prospecting on Mt. Sneffels one day in the spring of ’78, and was loaded down with a sack of samples from a location I had made, when I heard a blast and then a cry for help. Throwing down my ore, I raced up the hill to the place where I had heard the shot. The dump had been hidden in the trees, and when I scrambled up to it I saw a house and a tunnel into the mountain, with a sign over the portal: “Millionaire Mine.” On the dump lay what appeared to be a man, and approaching closer I saw that his arm had been blown off and the stump was bleeding into a pool by his side. The man was moaning but not unconscious. I looked around for something to be used as a torque, but could find only a coil of fuse, which I wrapped tightly around what was left of his arm. Going into the cabin, I discovered a bottle of whiskey and some cold coffee in a pot, so I gave him a stiff drink and followed it with the coffee.

The distance to Ouray was more than five miles, and I wondered whether I could carry him that far. The man was of slight build, and I judged that if he did not weigh more than one hundred and forty pounds I could make it. He begged me not to leave him, of which I had no intention and without more ado I got his good arm over my shoulder, boosted him to a balance, and started down the trail. My load was soon unconscious and a dead weight, and when I had proceeded about a mile I sat down to rest. Luckily, two miners coming down from the Wheel of Fortune arrived on the scene, and realizing the trouble helped me with my burden and we forged ahead. The stump of his arm had stopped bleeding, and between us we reached Ouray with our man still alive.

He proved to be Frank Spinola, a Spanish-American, and the owner of the Millionaire Mine. Later he told me that he had been drilling in a missed hole loaded with black powder, which had been tamped down too hard. His drill had created a spark and it went off, carrying his arm with it. He recovered eventually and worked the property for several years afterward, selling out for a large sum of money.

Lake City still had its attraction, and a job was offered me in the Crooke Smelter. Starting out on foot, I took the Uncompahgre route via the Lake Fork of the Gunnison, and arrived at the mining town near Lake Cristobal without mishap.

The next night I was drawing slag from the blast furnace, and resting the moulds on the dump to cool so that the matte on the bottom could be separated and taken back to the furnace. Below the dump a large pool of water had been collected. My jinx was still with me, for on one unlucky night, after I had drawn off a pot of the molten rock and disengaged it from the truck, it slipped over and ran into the pool. With a bang that sounded like an explosion, the contents of the pot went into the air, and hot slag rained down all about me. Balls of fire lodged in my woolen clothing, and in a twinkling burned through to my back. I leaped into the pool and rolled over in the water, welling with pain. The roar of the explosion brought men running, and they dragged me out. I was rushed to the hospital, where I lingered for weeks before I was able to walk about.

Being fed up with the smelting business, I returned to Ouray. My partner had sold the Silver Point and moved to Ogden, Utah, so I joined a party of five prospectors headed for the Salt Mountains near the Utah line. After a week’s march, we camped at an old Mormon fort, an outpost of Brigham Young days, a time when every Gentile was an enemy. From there we made excursions into the Wasatch range of mountains, finding plenty of native copper in the sandstone formation, but we made no locations.

Bill Long, an expert ore sorter, who could tell the assay value within a few ounces by looking at a piece of ore, was my companion one morning, and in following up a small gulch we espied a small white streak running through what appeared to be a contact between the sandstone and lime. Bill pronounced it a white carbonate and proposed that we fill a sack, which we had with us. He said it was rich, so we filled the sack, taking turns to carry it back to the camp. Next day we broke camp, loaded our wagon, and began our return, expecting to pick up the Ophir Trail.

Camping at the head of Ophir Creek. Bill Long and I took a shovel and a pick, with the intention of prospecting the streams in search of placer. Our scent for gravel led us to the flat where the town of Rico, Colorado, is now established, and taking a pan of dirt from near the surface we washed it at the creek and got nearly one hundred colors. Back we went to the spot and began digging a hole with a vim, as if we had located a ground hog when there was no meat in the house and the preacher was coming for dinner. We made the shaft big enough for both of us to work, and were down about seven feet and on our knees scanning the gravel for colors, when we heard a step above us and a shadow fell across us. Looking up we saw a Navajo Indian in full war paint and a scowl on his face that meant real deviltry. Unslinging the gun from his shoulder he pointed it to the north and uttered one word in a harsh, guttural tone that sent our hearts thumping against our ribs: “Git!”