RR Stop ... Kipling Colorado

Kipling, Colorado

          Kipling was a wannabe RR town, where not much happened.  When the Chicago Rock Island and Pacific built to the Rocky Mountain goldfields, it was also building towns along the way.  These little villages would become customers of the railroad and also provide a place for maintenance crews. 

          When Kipling was platted out, that was the purpose.  A section crew and control point.  A siding was put in along with a depot and control signals.  There probably was also a couple of house built for the RR crews to live in. 

          Kipling is located on the eastern banks of the Republican River, overlooking the valley.  There was a trading post down in the valley that wanted the railroad to stop there but stopping at the bottom of a hill is not what they want to do.  So the Rock Island put their stop on top of the hill.

          With the passing siding at Kipling, EB trains could build up extra steam for their run across the valley, Highball down hill and have enough momentum to easily climb up to the other side.  WB trains could pull into the siding and await the high flying EB. 

Today, there are not much of any reminders that there had been a little spot on the rails.  The signal lights lay in the weeds along side the rails and there is a country grade crossing of the rails. Traffic noise from the nearby Interstate rolls over the land, blending with the prairie breezes. 

Markers from the dirty 30’s still remain alongside the RR ROW.  The snow fence that had been built to protect the tracks is now buried under drifts of blow dirt.   Posts partially peering out of the drifted dirt. 

Besides the railroad going through the area, the Indians lived in the valley for generations.  Later the French would show up and begin trading with the Indians.  This area was part of the Louisiana Purchase.  The Spanish also traveled along the river, spying or checking on their neighbors. 

Next was the wagon road to the gold in the Rockies and then the Leavenworth Stage line, traveled the valley, with a stage station just below the ridge.  It had been a busy area, with a wide assortment of travelers.  Today the train still trundles down the rails, four a week and the occasional local passes thru. 

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Following The Rails

Gilpin, Colorado

            Following the railroads, reveals lots of old communities that are no more.  Depending on the RR, spacing would 6-20 miles between stops.  The old steamers would need water and servicing and this is what lots of the stops were for.  They also were places to station the section crews that maintained the rails.  Here one could find section houses, a depot of sorts and if enough people were there an enterprising gentlemen would open a store.  Soon it would become a town, well maybe.  With the changes in railroad equipment, section assignments would change and small stops would become vacant as the workers were assigned to other districts.  What had been a place at one time, became a ghost place. Since lots of them did not become towns and have a Post Office, they do not show up on lots of maps.

Partial map showing some of the railroad spots. 

            I collect some railroad memorabilia and one of those treasures is time tables.  The RR tables would list the routes of trains and the control points.  These places would have a siding, maintenance crews and some buildings.  When I go hunting ghost communities I carry a few of these time tables to help me find some of the lost villages.  What’s interesting is if a town grew up, not associated with the RR, it does not show up.  So I carry some old maps and do lots of cross checking with the different places I’m looking for.  Sometimes these places pop up on digital, usually not.  Then other places pop on digital that shows on no other places.  It becomes a challenge to coordinate all the different little bits of info. 

            Gilpin is one of those little burgs that used to be that shows up most places.  There are a few things in the area but nothing to indicate a town had been there.  A rancher has built a corral nearby and across the road is a comm. Tower.  The railroad has some signal lights on the ROW for traffic control, which would be the only indicator that the railroad had anything here. 

There were times when the RR would have stock pens and load livestock on the train.

            The trains make a long climb out of the Arkansas Valley and Gilpin would have been the first stop on the ridge top.  Here the train would have gotten orders on how far to proceed and if there were any MOW crews on the tracks.  There would been a water tank and a depot of some type.  Sometimes the depot was an old boxcar sitting beside the rails.  Very seldom do I find reminders of those days.  Usually it is chunks of concrete marking where the various buildings had been.  As I go from here to there, I block out some time to travel along some of these out of the way routes, looking to see what I can see.  Sometimes I completely miss them and make U-turns, if I have not driven to far past them.  Or I put them in the hopper to chase down on another trip.

            Gilpin is on the edge of the desert and poor soil.  Not much grows on the limestone soil and there is very little rainfall.  Climbing up the ridge, the land changes to varied mesas, canyons and scrub forest.  A few cattle roam the sparse grassland and the occasional pick up rumbles down the road.  Otherwise it is pretty empty land as I muter down the road to the next stop.  

Vaughn New Mexico

Rather unusual to visit but for a railfan it is a destination.  For here in the High Plains of Eastern New Mexico two railroads cross.  It makes for a great place to railfan. 

There are also a lots of great old buildings to see.  Years ago the little town was cling to the edge.  There was some traffic from the crossing highways and the occasional traveler would stop and spend some money.  Otherwise it was the one railroad that generated most of the business for the little wide spot. 

Then the railroad mergers began and things were changing.  The other railroad changed its crew change point to Vaughn.  This was a small boost to the town.  A new motel was built for the train crews to stay at.  A new coffee shop was next door and there were other support jobs added.  It was a small boom for the sleepy village. 

Downtown had some really neat old buildings in various state of decay. 

Not sure what is there now but it was a fun town to wander through and watch trains and the look at the ancient ruins of the a fading town. 

Following the old Roads

 

The railroad went across the Arkansas Valley in the 1870’s,building towards the pacific Ocean.  As rails were laid, stops were made to service the engines and replenish.  Many of these stops became towns along the way.  Providing business for the railroad.

The roads followed the tracks and became highways.  Then the highway department in all their wisdom, realigned the highways.  In so doing, many of these little towns were left high and dry and eventually did dry up. 

Some of these old roadways are still in use today, as a country dirt road. 

I love to find them and follow along.  There usually remains or other bits and pieces left from what have now become ghost towns.  The old telegraph poles float across the land, the new utility lines follow on the other side, occasionally.  It is time throwback.  Here is what granpa and granma had when they first traveled out west.  It kind of becomes a melancholy ride, yet the sense of adventure is there.  What lies ahead, what is around the bend?  onwards I travel.

There are diversions and treats ahead.  The car bounces over the roadbed, dust boiling up, windows flash up for passing vehicle and the cloud of dust.  The dust still sifts into the car becoming a dust collector. 

What had been a store still stands, someone had taken care of it.  The water tower back behind, a few homes near by.  Over by the shed someone works on equipment.  Foundations line the tracks, dust bunnies swirl over the ground.  The land is quiet, times hav3e passed this little burg and the people have departed.   Emptiness is the air. 

Further down the road are the homes of a few that have clung to their dreams.  An abandoned barn marks the time when things were different.  It is a journey back in to another era.  When life was different yet the same. 

The road winds next to the rails, crossing over to the other side.  Ahead are more ghosts waiting for my discovery. 

High over head the railroad spans a side creek.  The road now winds back under the tracks.  Yet over there is another village that got left behind when the highway was moved.  Up the ridge, over a couple of ruts past a ranch house and ahead is the corner of main and main street.  Now vacant the stores whistle a tune from another day when they were a lively enterprise. 

The empty storefronts look over and empty lot, where horses and wagons once parked.  The few remaining residents travel a good distance to the nearest town for shopping.  The corner store now collects dust on its counters, critters of dust float on the shelves and the cash register sits vacant. 

What are their stories?  In the back can be seen the living quarters.  Life was lived out in the little store until the highway went away. 

Buildings of Ghosts

 

For years, many years, I have been journeying to various events.  I used to to travel in a hurry with a single mined focus, get there and back.  Today when I make these trips, I put some time in the schedule to meander and look at things as I go and pause when I see things of interest.  Many a town I would buzz by on the all american raceway, the interstate.  Today I venture on the back roads and have a look at times past.

Here there are bits and pieces of dreams.  Most have become neglected and are falling to decay.  When the interstate highway system lots of the little towns were by passed.  The highway people also rerouted many roadways to bypass towns.  In the hurry to get to there, many things have been lost.

Seldom does travel go at a leisurely pace any more.  It is hurry up and get there.  The frantic pace of life is sometimes scary.  I believe it is called instant gratification. 

Now day I seek out some of these small towns and pause for a bit.  Take a few pictures, wander some of the streets and take in the ambiance of small town ame4rica.

Time brings changes, it is inevitable.  People change, move or pass on.  Buildings crumble after abandonment or find other uses.  Sometimes they just were not built all that well.  I take their picture for someday they may fade into the times of forgotten days.

Then there is the little stream that meanders through the sand hills of the high prairie.  It gurgles and tumbles across the semi arid plains making a small oasis.

Cars whiz by on the highway, pausing not, going from there to there.  Life has a pace that does not always mesh with nature.  I was once told, pause and smell the roses.  Well not many roses grow around here, to cold and dry.  There are other things to pause and ponder.  A hundred plus years ago, these little towns were settled by pioneers, many emigrants from Europe.  Here they could live the dream, a piece of land they could call their won. 

Homes were built and shops erected.  Government policies changed, dreams crashed and were abandoned. 

What had been a thriving going village, now sits neglected and decaying.  Dreams float over the grasses.  Ghosts sit on the front entry.

Nature or Marx….?

There is a time to reflect back and look at things from the past.  Ralph Waldo Emerson was considered a brilliant philosopher of his time, Mid 1800’s.  In the 60’s a lots of the hippies adopted him for their mantra.  Emerson wanted to live a quiet life in the woods.  His contemporary, Henry Thoreau was of like mind.  The hippies wanted to live in communes and share their toils being one happy family.  Don’t believe any of those communes lasted very long, for a variety of reasons.  But look at what Emerson had to say.

From this transfer of the world into the consciousness, this beholding of all things in the mind, follow easily his whole ethics. It is simpler to be self-dependent. The height, the deity of man is, to be self-sustained, to need no gift, no foreign force. Society is good when it does not violate me; but best when it is likest to solitude. Everything real is self-existent. Everything divine shares the self-existence of Deity. All that you call the world is the shadow of that substance which you are, the perpetual creation of the powers of thought, of those that are dependent and of those that are independent of your will. Do not cumber yourself with fruitless pains to mend and remedy remote effects; let the soul be erect, and all things will go well. You think me the child of my circumstances: I make my circumstance. Let any thought or motive of mine be different from that they are, the difference will transform my condition and economy. I -- this thought which is called I, -- is the mould into which the world is poured like melted wax. The mould is invisible, but the world betrays the shape of the mould. You call it the power of circumstance, but it is the power of me. Am I in harmony with myself? my position will seem to you just and commanding. Am I vicious and insane? my fortunes will seem to you obscure and descending. As I am, so shall I associate, and, so shall I act; Caesar's history will paint out Caesar. Jesus acted so, because he thought so. I do not wish to overlook or to gainsay any reality; I say, I make my circumstance: but if you ask me, Whence am I? I feel like other men my relation to that Fact which cannot be spoken, or defined, nor even thought, but which exists, and will exist.

 

To be self dependent, does not mean to be dependent of government yet this is how the socialists of the 60’s have corrupted their ideals.  What’s interesting is lots of these people accepted Marx’s teaching and wanted the ideal world he espoused.  Marx and Emerson are at other ends of the spectrum.  Emerson talks about being at one with nature.  This has a wide appeal to those who want to be natural, IE the hippies.  Today many of these people are some of the government bureaucrats and lawmakers wanting to tell people how to live.

 

The Transcendentalist adopts the whole connection of spiritual doctrine. He believes in miracle, in the perpetual openness of the human mind to new influx of light and power; he believes in inspiration, and in ecstasy. He wishes that the spiritual principle should be suffered to demonstrate itself to the end, in all possible applications to the state of man, without the admission of anything unspiritual; that is, anything positive, dogmatic, personal. Thus, the spiritual measure of inspiration is the depth of the thought, and never, who said it? And so he resists all attempts to palm other rules and measures on the spirit than its own.

 

Emerson states that one should resist imposing rules on others.  That one should be allowed to live within their own rules as given by the spirit.  Not many people walk this way.  So many have notions on how others should live, both right and left wing philosophies, and for to the government to impose their beliefs on others.  The biggest imposition of others onto others is morality.  The 20^th amendment is a good example of imposing ones views onto others.  Wasn’t very successful, in fact it created an era of lawlessness.  Oh this imposition came from the right, the holy temperance people.

You will see by this sketch that there is no such thing as a Transcendental "party;" that there is no pure Transcendentalist; that we know of none but prophets and heralds of such a philosophy; that all who by strong bias of nature have leaned to the spiritual side in doctrine, have stopped short of their goal. We have had many harbingers and forerunners; but of a purely spiritual life, history has afforded no example. I mean, we have yet no man who has leaned entirely on his character, and eaten angels' food; who, trusting to his sentiments, found life made of miracles; who, working for universal aims, found himself fed, he knew not how; clothed, sheltered, and weaponed, he knew not how, and yet it was done by his own hands. Only in the instinct of the lower animals, we find the suggestion of the methods of it, and something higher than our understanding. The squirrel hoards nuts, and the bee gathers honey, without knowing what they do, and they are thus provided for without selfishness or disgrace.

 

Emerson is fascinating in that he espouses just the opposite of how the left wants to live.  Yet it was the generation of the 60’s lefties that proclaimed Emerson as being the person to live by.

 

Society also has its duties in reference to this class, and must behold them with what charity it can. Possibly some benefit may yet accrue from them to the state. In our Mechanics' Fair, there must be not only bridges, ploughs, carpenters' planes, and baking troughs, but also some few finer instruments, -- raingauges, thermometers, and telescopes; and in society, besides farmers, sailors, and weavers, there must be a few persons of purer fire kept specially as gauges and meters of character; persons of a fine, detecting instinct, who betray the smallest accumulations of wit and feeling in the bystander. Perhaps too there might be room for the exciters and monitors; collectors of the heavenly spark with power to convey the electricity to others. Or, as the storm-tossed vessel at sea speaks the frigate or `line packet' to learn its longitude, so it may not be without its advantage that we should now and then encounter rare and gifted men, to compare the points of our spiritual compass, and verify our bearings from superior chronometers.

 

Emerson says be a participant in society, contribute.  He does not espouse about being a leech.  He truly expected people to work for their livelihood and there should be a variety of doors for people to enter into for a productive society.

The other thing to look at is his reference to a higher power and spirituality.  Something Marx wants to destroy.  For in Marx it is the Federal Government that is the higher power not man’s spirituality.  One of the first thing Marxist’s do is to ban churches.

Small Towns

 

No longer am I in a hurry to get there.  Now I plan my trips with some slack time to tour some of the small towns I pass through.  There are a variety of buildings.  I like to capture pictures of them and there are other things that are unique to that town.

State of neglect is the companion of many of these burgs.  Businesses are gone as are the residents.

The old storefronts line the highway.  Most boarded up and awaiting……….?  Some look like they came from the south, others from another era.

Thriving businesses they were.  Serving travelers, tourists and the wanderer.  Travel changes, people flock to the super speedways of the Interstate, bypassing these little villages.

A few have tried to find a new life for them but to little avail.

Wonder where those gates led to, was it a plantation a large business or maybe a mansion.  Today it is overgrown with weeds and care is neglected.  What could the story be, a dream gone bad?

A southwestern style home, gated and protected from unwanted visitors.

Time moves on, these little towns struggle to survive.  The Siren song of the big city calls their children.

 

-----30-----

Some Steam

 

Summer is rolling to a close but it is no  longer the signal to start school.  Lots of things around Labor Day have been lost because of the early school starts.  Oh well, hope you had a great summer and Labor Day was kind of anti-climaniatic.

Union Pacific has a pair of big steam engines they run for various public relations.  Recently it was in Iowa for the state fair.  On its return trip to Cheyenne,Wy it came through here.  I drove out to Kansas and followed most of the way back to Denver.  It was a kick.  I am posting a few pics on here from my adventure.

The sun sets into the smoky haze near the Smoky Hill River.

The next morning it returned amid the haze of the smoke.

Sa the sun rose so did the steam off the engine.  early morning preparations have begun to get the big brute ready for the trip.

Up out of the Smoky Valley she climbs, spewing black smoke.  The sun has a glorious shimmer on the black beauty.

Side rods churn, pistons pop, steam propels, there is a magic.

When the engine stops for servicing, the spectators get up close and personal with the engine.

These old giants of railroading past are amazing to watch.  I also understand why they were replaced.  They take lots of feeding and work to keep em going.

 

Have a great one getting ready for Fall and the changes of the season…… Giddy up Ironhorse.

The Life of the Wild

 

Deer are plentiful in the evening and fun to look at  as they browse on the grasses.  They also a desired by predators and they make an evening meal for numerous critters.  They also become road kill when they get close to the highways and try to cross.

They are a curious animal, standing there staring at the two legged creature snapping pictures.  They are also mesmerized by headlights at night and blinded.   A combination that is very deadly.  There is a stretch of highway west of here that I see a dead one along side the road almost weekly.  The herd lives on though, it is but part of the process.

 

Quietly they munch away on their evening meal. glancing back at the stranger.  Life and death wages on in the wild.  Where it comes from, when will it happen….. is but s moment of fear that flies into adversity.

Being atop of the food chain it is a fear I know not.  My cognitive reasoning carries me through dangerous moments.  A separation that carries very little understanding.

 

May God be your companion this week.

A View

 

For a variety of Reasons the eye is attracted to views/images, some are pleasing others distracting and so forth.  The Vista lets the eye travel to the horizon, to the world’s end.  Do a 180 and there is the end of the view.

Parallax is the divergence that never ends and it is the same no matter the distance.  Lines the appear to converge, remain the same distance apart.  To what end does the eye travel?

 

Floating cotton puffs dapple the sky, poles mark lines, cars pass by, wind riffles grasses, a brief moment paused.

From here to there an eternity, flowing together, to never join up.  A separation merging not that gives the illusion of converging.

The weekend is rolling along, it touches not the last, it goes on to the next.  Adjoining but with no attachment.  To the next it marches, pauses not to attach.

May your days have journeys of no end that reach to the next and continue in a path of desires.

Main Street

 

Small Town America has its main street and each is unique yet very similar.  Building style in the Americas was brought from Europe and as the people moved west they brought what they were familiar with.

The highway would divide the town and usually there was some railroad tracks next to the road.  With the changes in style and moving to the burbs, style has changed.  In the old neighborhoods of the city and out in the small towns the simple style can still be  seen.  There are no sleek and shiny buildings in these place, well usually.

Main street is maybe the highway or it is a cross street to the highway.  Sometimes main street would be built around a town square, here the roads intersected and there would be a bandstand in the middle.

In my roaming I go through many small rural towns.  Time permitting I stop and take a few pictures of Main Street.

The old hotels that are still standing are rare catches and made for interesting architecture.  Pause and imagine the business that was transacted in the lobbies of these grand old buildings.  Here is where the traveling peddler would stay.  These small towns were important to him. 

Nearby would be his customers, the clothing shop, hardware store, drug store or maybe the bank.  I would love to have the wall of these old buildings talk to me.

Some have moved to these small towns and bought the old empty stores and made them into nice homes.  Put some sweat equity into them.

Journey down the back roads, what is the next cross road reveal.  Is there another adventure awaiting.

Hope you are having a great week.  Winter is knocking on the door here.  Below freezing and snow in the mountains.

Autumn Moments

 

Sun travels faster, leaving earlier, showing up later.  The seasons move across the road, traveling a path of their own destination.  Giving way to the next act.  There are repeats that are not instant replays.  Motion going forward, not repeating.

Harvest of the season, under the moon.  Gathering of the fruits for the short days.  Cold snows sit on the sill, waiting their turn.  Golden colors dapple the horizon.  Palette brushes the ridge line, sparkling glint of eves day.

Soon the north wind will draw the curtain aside and whistle through the cracks, rifting the timbers, rifling down chimneys.

Pleasant cool afternoons to wander the path, looking at the paining set before.  A time of change, ending never.  On toes of past, traveling forward, looking back not.

Autumn of life is arriving, a journey that will pass, leaving a space of memories.

Frosted pumpkin, barren branches appear, brown grasses wave.  Last minute preparations, critters scamper about, others curl into dens.

 

It is a nice weekend to be out and about.  Enjoy Yours.