Photographic Scorn

Clutter of Civilization

&

Photography

            Enjoying photography, I have become the ban of  clutter that shows up on the landscape, from a growing demand for modern society.   There are the tall buildings reaching to the sky, wanting to be bigger and taller then the next.  Then there are the communication posts, stretching across the land.  Stings and strings of wires stretching from horizon to horizon.  Tall towers sending out signals across the land to be translated by little boxes. 

            People have placed demands, wanting all types of conveniences and man is trying to meet the wants of the people. 

            Taking pictures, sometimes this clutter gets in the way, other times it an effective part of the pic.   The tall building of the city skyline, with clouds tickling the roofs, the sun casting its glow over the shiny windows.  The tall building obstructing the view of the land, hiding the lake, the mountains, the ocean.  Out across the land, a forest of trees making a green carpet, to be smeared by a communication sticking out above the tree line. 

This had been a nice pastoral scene, but last year a wind farm was built on far ridge.  

            Electric poles stretched over the land, a line fading into infinity or a scar over the grasses.  The strait line of the railroad tracks with the poles of the telegraph shadowing the rails.  What had once been open land, is now land scattered with the marks of modern society. 

            It is very difficult any more to point the camera and click, without getting some kind of clutter in the background.       Yet there had been spots on high mountain, wide open plains or the rolling lands, where one could not be assaulted with clutter.  Even in the mountains, big towers mark the power grid marching over the hills.  Huge wind turbines are scattered over the land and plains.  The high tension lines march in single file criss-crossing the countryside.  It is almost impossible to escape the decorations of civilization.  With the newly introduced wind farms and solar plants it has even become more difficult to escape modern features of today. 

The Comm tower along with the windturbines mark the horizon.  

            I stand there, take what I think is a nice pastoral landscape, then opening up the digital image to see the background full of clutter.  Some folks would say, erase the clutter, but that is not me.  I have to adjust and use a different style and or accept the clutter as being a part of the landscape. 

Even the mini horses have a sub station for a back drop. 

Hidden gold treasure

Among the trees is where the spring is located.

The Lore

Of

Buried Gold

          As the legend goes, someplace near the ghost town of Clifford there is supposed to be buried gold. 

          It all begins in 1862 at Coon Springs in Eastern Colorado.  Coon springs was a stop along the Smoky Hill Trail.  Taking advantage of the springs and plentiful water an Army payroll detachment had stopped there. 

          Some outlaws jumped them and subdued the soldiers.  The outlaws got the payroll, reportedly over 100,000 dollars in gold. Mounting up the outlaws began their escape, heading out across the plains loaded down with the gold. 

          The outlaws did not do a very good job of tying up the soldiers for shortly after the thief’s had left, the soldiers were free and mounting their horses to give chase. Galloping across the prairie the soldiers were quickly gaining on the highwaymen. 

          Being loaded down with the gold the outlaws ducked into a gully.  They were going to bury the gold and return afterwards to retrieve their ill gotten gains.  Shortly after riding up out of the gully, the soldiers caught the bandits. 

          The bandits were taken to jail and sentenced to prison.  After their release, two of the outlaws were killed in gunfights and the third disappeared.

 There were stories of what happened to the gold and how the burial spots were marked.  With no more outlaws in the area, treasure hunters galore showed up to search for the buried gold.

There were never any reports of the gold being found but there were stories galore of finding marker stones.  These reports would fuel the gold fever even more.  Even today, there are folks that say the gold in still buried out there somewhere. 

Searching today is a problem, it is all private land and most folks in the area don’t like people roaming on their pastures.  That does not deter the treasure seekers.  They show up with their metal detectors and want to go hunting.  

Homestead Open Space

Homestead Park

               Traveling down a secondary highway, I would pass through farm country.  Urban blight had moved in among the farms and suburbs were being erected.  What had once been open fields were now houses and fences.  This was mostly irrigated truck farms and vegetables and orchards were the primary crops, well no more.  Now the crops were two by sixes and homes. 

               One of the old farm houses next to the roadway had a sign on it saying it was now owned by the county open space parks people.  Gates were closed and locked and there was no sign of life.  So on past I drove.  A few years later I was in the area again and this time when driving past, the gates were open and there were signs of people.  I pulled off and turned into the gate, parking in the lot I ventured forth. 

               Back door of the house was propped open I there were people inside.  Going in, I found one of the park rangers.  The ranger explained to me the history of the homestead and what the county had plans to do with it.  I listened to her talk about the area, and while she was talking some university students walked in.   The ranger said they were volunteers at the homestead and they could guide me around the property.  Going outside the students started chattering about their projects from the summer.   They pointed to the flower patches, chattering away at all their flowers.  Then we got to their garden patch and said next year we are going plant a garden and grow our vegetables.  They listed everything they were going to grow. I was impressed, for their patch was about 4 feet by 6 feet.

               They pointed towards the barn and explained it was an ice barn.  That the farmer would harvest ice from the nearby pond and store it in the barn through the summer.  Then they pointed to a shed and said be careful when going in there, there is a barn owl that lives in there.  I nodded and looked around the grounds at the other buildings and the farm house.  As we were standing there, the students said they had to get back to school for their next class. 

               So I said thanks and goodbye, off they went, leaving me by myself.  I walked over the barn to have a look and it was huge.  It was hard to imagine ice being stacked up in here in blocks to last all summer.  Most of it was still intact, built early 1900.  On the West side was a lower level and here were milking stalls, milk room and feed bunk.  There were about 12 stalls for milking, so made me wonder if they also made ice cream with all the ice.  The other possibility would be, that as they delivered ice, they were also delivering milk, maybe butter and or ice cream.  There were lots of possibilities, then being an ice farm, made it very unique. 

               I wandered around looking at the assorted stuff lying around the grounds.  I then headed for the machine shed to look at the equipment stored in there.  As I turned the corner to walk in, I startled the owl and out he flew, wings a flapping in a hasty furry to get away.  The racket of the owl gave me start as ducked down to keep from being scalped.   It was not the kind of encounter I had wanted, for I had hopes of getting pictures. 

               He circled around a couple of times and saw me standing there.  So off to another shed he went while the stranger continued his snooping.

               I enjoyed my walk around of the old homestead and was happy the park people were going to take care of a piece of history.  Complete homesteads, in their original location, were few and far apart.  Here they were going to preserve an original homestead at its original location. 

               The farmhouse was a classic two story building, front and rear porches.  Kitchen on the backside that lead to a cellar door.  The front door opened into a parlor and back to the eating area by the kitchen.  Stairs went up to the bedrooms.  The outhouse was in back.  There had been no plumbing until later and heat was a parlor stove or the kitchen stove.  It was everything the pioneer settler worked for. 

               Some years later I passed through the area and was going to stop in and see what progress there was.  The gates were locked and there were no signs of any activity.  Things were overgrown, the garden patch was filled with weeds and flowers were brown.  Not sure what had happened, it was like the county had deserted the property. 

               Years after that, I was in a nearby town, so I decided to take a trip out there and see if there were any changes.  As I drove out there, new subdivisions had been built, more farmland had disappeared.  The homestead was almost surrounded by new homes.  No the gates were not open.  The place looked very unkempt and derelict. 

               I have not been back to the area in some years, but hopefully the county got somebody in there to take care of the place and fix it back up. 

Milking Cow

The Intrepid Milker

John LaBorde

Way back when, my first summer job was working on a farm that had some milk cows.  Here I was, the little city boy off to the farm to learn farming and milking.  Don’t know if I ever learned how to do either. 

That Fall, I went out to the farm to visit my cousin for school break.  I was boasting how much I had learned and how great of milker I was.  I was so full of it and so proud I could have been mistaken for a peacock.  Like a banty I went crowing about how great I had become.

Next morning, helping my cousin and uncle with chores.  I kept the tall tale going, how good I had become.  The cows are ushered into the barn and we get ready to milk.  Uncle walks up to me, hands me a pail and stool.  Points at a cow.  With a bit of chagrin, I walk over to the cow.  Set the pail down, sit down on the stool and proceed to start milking. 

It was going pretty good, the pail was starting to fill up and my head was bursting.   When all of a sudden, KERWHACK.  I went flying across the floor, the side of my face was gooey and sticky and oh boy did it hurt.  I was looking at stars, pinwheels and other assorted things flying around inside me.  I open my eyes a bit and there is Bossie looking at me, as if to say, the milk is back there, not up here. 

I roll over as the shooting stars subside and look at the rafters.  My eyes pop open wide for the rafters are dancing and shaking.  Some more stars disappear and my ears open up.  I hear it, the loudest roar of guffaws I had ever heard.  I look back that a way, there stand my uncle and cousin just roaring as loud as I had ever heard.  Now I knew why the rafters were vibrating. 

Sheepishly I get up, wipe my head off.  Bossie’s tail had caught me square on the temple.  All the frozen manure and urine was like getting swatted with a boulder. 

I stumbled out and sat down for a bit while my uncle finished the milking.  I went to the Quonset and I got cleaned up, clean clothes and went in the house.  Setting down to breakfast, there was a piece of humble pie next to my plate. 

Transcontinental Silver Spike

The Great Train Race

               July 1870, the Kansas Pacific Railroad arrived at the Willow Springs stage station.  Rather than put their train stop at the stage stop, the RR went on west a bit and built a division point.  Here they would build a roundhouse and a depot.  This wide spot the railroad was building would become the village of Hugo, Colorado. 

               While the Kansas Pacific was working on their division point, their subsidiary, the Denver Pacific had arrived in Denver.  Completing the rails from Cheyenne to Denver.  Governor John Evans had run out of money and could not find any more financing  So the governor went to the KP and struck up a deal.  The KP would provide the financing and money to complete construction of the DP to Denver.  In return, the KP would gain controlling interest of the DP.

               So it was agreed that the newly constructed RR would become a joint line operation between the two railroads.  The newly formed town of Hugo came into existence.  The midway point between Hugo and Denver was Strasburg.  To this point the two railroads would race.  The winner getting bragging rights and all the puffery they want.

               So the race began, the Denver Pacific building East from Denver, the Kansas Pacific building West from Hugo.  The sweat rolled off the gangs as they laid rail.  Records were broken for the most rail laid in a day.  The men were leaning into their work, wanting to beat the other RR gang from that other RR. 

Work continued uninterrupted, most the Indians had left the area and Custer and his troops were still assigned to patrol the KP line.  The work crews were about a days’ work from the finish line and the roar of the workers rolled over the grassland.  Next day would the end of the race, the transcontinental RR would be completed.

               That night the KP foreman took some men and walked the ROW to the finish.  As the men walked along, they were making sure things were in order for the next day sprint.  Rails were lined up, spikes were placed, fish plates and bolts were at the joints to hook the rails.  If they found bad ties, they were replaced or corrected. 

               Next morning with first light, the workers were out laying rails.  The sing song of the workers serenaded pares life.  Apparently that little extra effort of the KP foreman worked.  For the KP crew arrived at Strasburg over an hour before the DP showed up.  When the DP got the last rail in place the celebration was underway.  Dignitaries were on hand and barrels of whiskey rolled on to town by the wagon load.

               The KP chief sought out the KP foreman to be caretaker of the Silver Spike for the ceremonial driving of the final spike, a Silver one.  The whiskey flowed and all night the crews celebrated.  Next morning the Dignitaries were busy getting ready and the KP chief was looking for his foreman. 

               The Forman was found, sleeping off the night before.  The chief asked him for the spike.  Picking up his pants and rifling through the pockets, the silver spike could not be found.  During the night’s celebration the Silver Spike had gained its freedom and gone on down yonder someplace. \

               Uttering choice words, the chief stormed off the ceremony without the treasured spike.  The foreman, still blurry and fuzzy staggered after him and produced a regular spike.  And the Transcontinental RR was completed without the driving of the silver spike. 

               Oh the KP had a bridge over the Missouri River.  The Union Pacific had to ferry their passengers over the waterway.  In a Strasburg town park is a small obelisk marking the Silver Spike Ceremony.  It will no rival Promontory Point for notoriety.  Instead it will be a splitter of hairs and maybe a footnote in history books. 

Home for a Buggy

The Carriage House

            Built in 1890, the structure has withstood the elements for over 125 years.  Over the past decade it has had not TLC and the ravages of nature are showing on the roof.  Unless it gets some care, it will soon beyond repairs.  It does offer me a chance to speculate on how it was used, way back when it was built.

            The home next door was built at the same time and had its beginnings as a hotel.  So that opens lots of possibilities to how it was used.  Next to the old hotel had been another building that may have been a lunchroom/eatery as they were called back then.  It has been torn down and the hotel has been modified so many times it would not be recognized.  The carriage house looks original from way back then, a lean-to on the back has been added. 

            So why a carriage house, being next to a hotel, was this a rent a buggy operation.  Maybe it was a limo service, with the railroad depot close by.  Maybe it was also a taxi service to shuttle the business executives around the county seat.  Whatever it was used for, it leaves lots of memories of another era. 

            When it was built, there would have been no utilities.  Heat would have been a stove, water from the well and outhouse, outback.  There would have been stables to house the horses and feed them.  A stable hand/ driver would have been employed or part of the hotel restaurant operation. 

            For me, it is fascinating to ponder the daily routine of how these people would have went about their daily lives. 

            Above the carriage house can be seen living quarters.  One big room over the buggies.  No electricity, so a lantern or candles would have been used.   No running water, a bucket up the steps with a basin and trot out to the privy.  Heat would have been a coal stove, being in a railroad town.  Cold winters, hot summers, yet at the time it had all the modern comforts of the time.  Kitchen would have been the eatery a couple doors down.

            For the worker back then, living in a carriage house was probably a luxury.   Drive around town with horse n buggy was a status few enjoyed.  Few folks could afford a horse and usually did not have a place to keep it.   So walking to and from work was the norm.   Wonder what the life of a carriage boy would have been like in a small RR town.

            Hugo, Colorado is a small town that was built by the railroad in 1870.   Hugo eventually became the county seat for Lincoln County, formed out of a variety of other counties.  With the railroad as a main employer, Hugo thrived and ranching, Cattle and sheep, business grew to help support the growing town. 

            One of the first Harvey House lunchrooms was in Hugo.   Located in a local hotel, close the first roundhouse and near the depot.  The Harvey House and hotel lasted through the 1890’s.  With railroad changes, Hugo lost lots of residents and businesses but it managed to survive. 

            Besides the town surviving, many of its homes survived from the 1870’s and many are still lived in as homes.  It is fascinating to drive around the town and there are these little homes folks still living in them.  The Dickinson House was restored a few years back, built in 1872.  It is still a private residence.  The town museum is in a residence that was donated to the town, built 1877.  The oldest house in town was constructed in 1870 and is in serious decay.  The new owner will probably tear it down rather then trying to restore it. 

            So a carriage House from 1890 is kind of old, but kind of modern compared to other buildings in the town.  The only sad part is, the Harvey House is gone as is the old RR hotels.  Oh, Hugo does have a Boot Hill.  It is in a pasture north of town.  

The Bull that Could

Barnyard Memories

County Fair

One a year the Fair is the end of summer or the beginning of fall.  The projects from the year are put up for judging and viewing.  It is also a time for friends from around the county to renew their friendships. 

Then, there is the carnival and rodeo, the added bonus of the fair.  My father and uncle had a livestock hauling business and usually got the contract to haul the rodeo livestock in to town.  They would help work the animals and keep the rodeo moving along.  It was neat to sit in the bleachers and watch them prod and cajole the critters through their paces. 

For the most part the animals behaved pretty good.  Oh there was always a calf or two that wanted to go over there.  There was the bronco that had a two buck routine then would stop stiff legged and buck no more.  For the most part, things went smooth, steers ran, wrestlers jumped and riders found that the arena floor was not padded.

The bulls were at the end and when that portion came round, the tension rose some.  Could hear them kicking a bawling in the chutes.  The cowboys standing over them trying to get situated just right and out the gate the bull would come with a roar.  Clods flying, spinning bull, rider plowing the dirt, whistle blows and the bull gets rounded up.

There was one ole Brahma bull that wanted nothing to do with the rodeo rider.  Quick turn, high buck and the bull was sending the rider towards the fence.  Doubt it lasted 2 seconds.  The Brahma threw the belt and went for a joy ride across the arena.  The arena workers could not get him turned towards the pens.  Bull on a mission headed for the northeast corner of the arena. 

There the bull met the fence.  Dazed the bull backed up, jumped up, trying to crawl over the fence.   The cowboys were there, waving and hollering but the bull just kept kicking and bucking, slowly working his way up the fence.  The folks in the grandstand were excited and lots of oohs and ahhs were drifting overhead.  

Bull managed to get over the fence and into the runway.  The next fence was but another obstacle for the bull.  Leaping up, he got on the top railing and with some kicking.  The bull on the loose was climbing the second fence.  The cowboys all the time, hollering and waving at him with ropes etc.  The bull was not to be deterred.  It was like he had a girlfriend over yonder he hadn’t seen in a long time.

Across the race track ole bull galloped, coming to the grandstand fence at the southeast corner.   By then folks in the seats were scrambling and looking for safe spots.  The track fence only slowed the bull down long enough for the cowboys to get around the grandstand and try to stop the bull.

Up and over the rack track fence the bull scrambled.   Folks in the grandstand were scrambling also.  There were screeches, screams and lots of hollering.  The escaping bull paid no attention the commotion.  Straight ahead was the carnival and midway.   Folks on the midway and on the rides had heard the racket and when they saw the Brahma headed their way, the volume of hollering went roof. 

Bull saw an opening between the midway and the rides.  Head lowered, he went charging for the carny.  People running hither and yon, the barkers had ducked down in their trailers.   The rides had stopped, stranding riders.  Folks were running any direction they could.  The bull bound through the opening between the rides and the midway. 

Out into the parking he loped.   Cowboys running behind trying to get him stopped.  Some riders had made it out the parking but the bull was ignoring them.  Over there was another fence and beyond was the freedom of a pasture.  The barb wire fence was no challenge for the bull.  Up and over he went.  As he headed to the north, my uncle’s voice yelled out,” Let him go. That is my pasture, We’ll get him the morning.”

The chasers, with a collective sigh of relief, stopped and watched the bull bounce over the ridge.  With the ruckus over, they had to go back to arena and finish the rodeo.  There were still a couple of bull riders waiting their turn.  Folks in the grandstand had gotten back to their seats.  The crowd was still abuzz and there was anticipation with the next couple of bulls. 

The bulls came charging out the chutes, the crowd cheering, wanting to see another escape.  The bulls were not obliging.  Their riders were tossed without dignity to the ground and back to the bullpen they went. 

Next morning my uncle goes riding out across his pasture looking for the wayward bovine.  Couple of guys were with him and by the water tank the escapee lounged.  They got him up and headed him the right direction.  The wayward bull trotted along like nothing was wrong. 

They get him to the gate and headed for the pens at the end of arena.  Placidly the rampaging bull sauntered along into the pen.  That afternoon the bull stood by himself in the pen watching the on goings in the arena.  Folks in the grandstand were talking and pointing but the bull was left alone. 

When the bull riding statured, there were some cat calls to get the wayward bull out and ride him.   An encore of the rampaging bull did not happen.   That evening he was loaded up and sent home with the rest of his friends. 

Punkin Center

Punkin Center, Colorado

Punkin Center is one of those wide spots where two highways cross, SH 71 and 94.  Here at the junction, there used to be the gas station, restaurant, store, and garage.  The state highway dept. also has a district shop at the junction.  Years ago, the intersection was a busy place.  Cars would stop for fuel and the café stayed busy. 

The fella that ran the gas station was a true westerner.  He carried a side arm on his hip and more then once, the presence of the pistol thwarted a robbery.  Late 1940’s, the proprietor was not so successful. 

Couple young joy riders stopped for gas and overpowered the owner.  In the ensuing scuffle the owner of the gas station was killed during the robbery.

The county Sheriff, investigated, gathered evidence, went back to his office.  Making calls to adjoin counties and asking about incidents in their areas, The local sheriff was able to garner some leads.  After a year and half of investigation, the Sheriff gained enough evidence and information to arrest a couple from the valley down south.

Two young men were out joy riding and they decided they were going to stop at the gas station, fill up, then rob the owner.  During the robbery, they also killed the attendant.  Which resulted in a lifetime visit at the Canon City Hotel.

Today, Punkin Center is pretty quiet, the traffic passes through the junction.  The north/south flying through.  The east/west, pausing to salute the stop sign.  The highway dept still has their district shop there and a few folks still call Punkin Center home.

Punkin Center is the home of the World Championship Garden Tractor Pulling.  Through the summer, the garden tractors take center stage.  There is a pulling course and the garden tractors roar down the track.