The River of Tales

Purgatory Petroglyphs

 

            Walking gingerly over the boulder, Joe was looking downward as the boulder dropped off.  At the edge the incline was severe but Joe had his feet dug in.  Looking below saw the pathway he wanted.  The rubble pile from the avalanche stretched off in the distance but it was easy to skirt, just took some time.  Easing back up the slope of the boulder, Joe turned around to backtrack and begin a swing around the rock pile. 

            Off the boulder he scrambled, down the slope to where the pile of rocks ended.  Around the heap Joe walked.  Soon he was around the rocks and began scrambling over the loose rocks, carefully watching where he stepped.  These rock piles were notorious for snakes.  Stepping off the scree, his feet touched down on dirt.  Up the slope was a scramble to the crevice he could see between the boulders on the canyon wall.  Stepping around a house size boulder, Joe spied the path he was looking for.  A short ravine led back into the canyon wall.

            The rock path was damp from a small spring that oozed out from under the boulder.  The air was cooler from the dampness and ahead was the goal. 

            A whole wall of rock art, the Indians had came here for the cool spring and left their sign.  In the coolness of the small spring they could spend time chipping on the sandstone.  There were the circles, the deer, other animals, buffalo and signs of the spirits. 

            Going on back into the crevice, Joe discovered it was a cave, reaching back in the sandstone cliffs of the canyon.  Slipping the pack off, Joe mounted a miners lamp on his cap and took out a flashlight.  Putting the pack back on, he ventured on into the darkness.  Shining the flashlight on the walls revealed paintings.  The Indians had been in here and from the light of the fire had marked the walls.  Most were faded yet a few glowed in the light.  Pulse was rushing, heart was pounding, a treasure trove of ancient Indian art covered the rocks on the caves entrance.  Round and round the flashlight traveled, revealing all types of petro glyphs and pictographs from centuries ago. 

            On into the cave Joe walked, to see what was deeper inside.  A rock out cropping narrowed the entrance and Joe had to turn sideways to get around the rock.  As he stepped past the out cropping a cold wind whistled past him.  Shirt was waving and hair was standing on end.  Taking another step the wind ended and there was a cool breeze coming from the right.  Shining the light that direction, there was a small opening between the rocks.  Getting on knees, Joe shined the light into the opening.  Darkness was revealed until there was a glint flashing back at him. 

Waving the flashlight around the glint stayed there.  Now it was curious, what was causing the reflection.  On hand and knees he could crawl into the opening.  Turning on the miner’s lamp, Joe got down and began crawling into the unknown.  Cool air wafted past him, feeling good after being the hot sun most of the day. 

            A short distance in, Joe stopped, hair stood on end, he blanched, fear rolled over him.  Out of the opening a wail began, the moan of a crying woman.  Backwards Joe began to try and scramble but it wasn’t fast enough.  The low moaning built into a shrill cry, growing ever louder.  Ears were on fire from the noise.  Out of the small opening Joe scrambled as the scream reached ear piercing levels.  Running to the daylight of the cave opening, both ears covered trying to block the pain.  Out into daylight he popped.  Eyes bulged out, face white and ears covered. 

            In the daylight the scream subsided to a low wail.  Collapsing on the ground, Joe lay there.  Breathing going full throttle, ears throbbing from pain.  Passed out, he laid there.

            Coming back to consciousness, Joe groaned, rubbed his ears, looked at a now dim sky.  The sun was setting when Joe came around, shadows were long.  Sitting up, he looked around, the ground was damp where he had lain, below were piles of rocks, above were huge boulders.  Where am I, What happened, Joe was mumbling to himself. 

            There was no crevice nearby, no openings in the cliff and no rock fall.  Over there he could see his truck, beside him was his pack.  On his cap was the miner’s lamp and on the ground was the flashlight.  Stunned he looked around in disbelief, how did I get here, he asks himself. 

            There is only a dim memory of Joe scrambling over the boulders, climbing into the crevasse, finding the petroglyphs and the cave.  Then the wave of the screaming rolled over Joe’s foggy thoughts.  Covering his ears, he grimaces in pain as painful memories flood over.  Soon the ache subsides and he looks around again, not recognizing anything.  In a stupor, Joe sits there.  Thoughts are going 100 gazillion per second.  Head is ringing, the mother of all hangovers.  Turning eyes, twist around to survey the scene.  Everything is off kilter.  Joe looks at himself, asking, what happened to me.

            In a daze, Joe stumbles to his pick up, finds the water and sits down.  Taking sips, the cob webs become fuzzy.  Few more drinks and the fuzzier become clear.  Collecting the thoughts of a rambling mind, Joe accesses his situation.  Walking back to his pack, he picks it up, puts the flashlight in and lugs it back to the truck.  Into the cab he tosses the pack.  Going around to the other side Joe crawls under the steering wheel.  The motor roars to life.  Easing into gear, Joe begins a puzzled trip home. 

Beaver Valley

The community

Of

Beaver Valley

At the far eastern edge of Colorado’s central plains was a small settlement community called Beaver Valley.  To the east can be seen the sunflowers of the jayhawk state. 

When I first heard of this area, I was in anticipation of a place on the bluffs overlooking one of the many sand creeks that roll over the plains.   Instead I found a land of table flatness and one of the most tranquil peaceful spots on the open prairie. 

There are still a few farms in the area but what really stands out is the cemetery.  Eastern Colorado is not known for its trees, yet the folks of Beaver Valley planted a trove of pine trees.  The cemetery boundary is a line of pine trees.  Today they reach to the sky, providing a moment of solitude. 

The trees provide shelter for the local wildlife.  The day I was there, the birds were chattering a flitting about.  Gathering nesting materials, looking for food and chattering among themselves.  As I walked about, looking and taking pictures, the birds would let me know if I was to close to their tree.

The breezes whispered through the branches, singing the song of the plains.  All other sounds were mute and unheard.  I sat in my pickup and had lunch while listening to the various birds chirping.  It was one of those moments where the world was at peace. 

My gaze rolled over the scene, taking in the grandeur of the area.   Here was one of the most peaceful places for a final rest.  A view out a across an unbroken land with no end of the horizon. 

Empty Ranch

Ranch on the River

            Wandering along the dirt roads leads to adventure, hopefully.  Any this roaming trip took me to an unusual setting.  A ranch house that was sitting on the edge of the river.  Not up on the banks like most homes but down next to the river.  Today it doesn’t look like much of a river.  Much of the Republican River has dried up in Eastern Colorado.  Prior to 1900 the Republican was gushing little stream flowing over the plains.  With water wells, farming much of the water for springs has went other places.  The drought of a few years ago did not help, many of the springs dried up and have not came back.

            Years ago the river would flood from severe rainstorms and water would stretch across the valley in a raging torrent.  The flood of 1935 was probably one of the nastiest floods on the prairie.  In some places the river was three to four miles wide and 50-100 feet deep.  Washing away homes, animals and anything not real secure.  Looking at the river today it would be hard to imagine a torrent stretching across the way to the far hills side.  The flood waters were probably lapping at the edge of the little house on the river.

            The Republican was the highway for the early European explorers.  The Indians had been traveling along these routes for centuries, so when they guided the white man, they followed their known trails.  This area of Eastern Colorado was a part of the Louisiana Purchase.  Early 1600’s the French had established a trading post in Western Nebraska on the Republican River.  Along the river the French trappers could follow, trapping and trading with the locals. 

            The French Territory, butted up next to Spanish lands.   The Spainish would send out patrols to check on the French.  Traveling north out of New Mexico, the Spanish would use the Republican River route to journey to the French outpost in Nebraska.  What looks like barren void country today, centuries ago was a busy route on the plains.  As more explorers showed up, the river route became a busy thoroughfare across the empty land. 

            After the Louisiana Purchase, Lieutenant Zebulon Pike followed the Republican River across Kansas into present day Colorado.  Eventually this portion of the river would be the route the Leavenworth and Pikes Peak Stage lines would use.  The Stage line operated coaches in pairs with teams of four mules hauling the coaches across the country. 

            Along the river the stage line operated numerous stage stations the keep the mules fresh and the coaches moving westward.  If you could go back in time to 1859 you would of probably met Horace Greely on his westward sage ride through here.  They also operated freight trains along the river road.  50-100 wagons could be seen on occasion trekking along the wagon road.  They would be pulled with oxen, a draught of two yoke of ox and the bullwhacker.  Steadily the freight would move over the land, the bullwhacker silently walking beside his double yoke of ox.  There would be a small herd of extra oxen and men traveling along with the wagons.  Conjure up and image when the train would stop for camp. 

            With the advent of more railroads crossing the land, wagon roads like this became obsolete and are now but in memories.

Leader

Leader Colorado

Adams County is the community of Leader.  Being miles from any railroad, the store at Leader provided most everything for the settler.  The general store building still stands at the intersection of country roads.  It is a mixture of farmlands and pastures. 

Today there are maybe a half dozen homes in the area and the Leader Volunteer fire department, firehouse is next door. 

Yet this little corner store holds a hundred and one stories plus.  Early 1900’s, travel was by wagon and mule.  Average speed was about 4 miles per hour.  The limits of the settler to travel to the store on average, less than 12 miles.  For most it was 3-6miles. That means a trip to the store was around 3-6 hour journey.  Further then that would be an all day trip.

Here at the store, the settler would get his mail and or mail letters.   There would also, usually, be a blacksmith.  All the necessary stuff one could need was found at this little general store.

In the store there would be a clothing section, there would be boots and shoes.  There also would be the sewing section, so many wore homemade clothes.  There would be bolts of cloth, buttons, and patterns for shirts. Blouses, dresses, pants, thread, needles… etc.  In another corner would be a hardware section, nails, bolts, screws and other items, hinges, hasps and various tools.  At another counter, would be ammunition and guns.  It was for varmints, not many folks liked to have skunks or coyotes pay them a visit. 

Then there were the groceries, not like we see today.  It would be bags of staples, flour, sugar, coffee and supplies for canning or processing meat.  Most had a garden and canned their veggies.  Some would can their meat so canning jars and accessories were important. 

Flour sacks would be eyed for their pattern.  Would that color and pattern make a nice dress or blouse.  Selecting the flour bag was as important as the flour.  Home baked bread, rolls, or biscuits with a gravy was a staple.  Bags of beans would be purchased.  Various seasonings, salt was in a bag, pepper in a tin. 

The trip to the store was usually a monthly adventure and supplies would have to be bought to last for the month.  Many of the people in the area would have an account with the store and when their checks for their crops or livestock came in, bills were paid off. 

The general store was also news central.  The gossip would be plentiful when going into town.  They could also find out when the barn dances were, the funerals, the weddings and births. 

Way back then, it was a different way of life.  Many say it was hard, for them it was another day of life.  Here the folks from Europe had freedom from the tyranny of the royals.  They also had their own land, not the land of the kingdom. 

The little store building that still stands on the corner is a style I have seen for other stores out on the prairie.  It would be nice if some of these little store fronts would be saved.  One of the biggest things is to get them off the tax rolls.  That is the biggest reason so many of them are torn down, get out from under taxes.  There are special state funds for preservation of historic property.  People just have to be willing to jump through the hoops of the bureaucrats. 

Barry Post Office.

Barry Colorado

So often when I go looking for these little communities, I find a field.  The home that had housed the Post Office is no more.  It has been demolished and plowed over by the farmer that bought it.

That is pretty much what happened to Barry.  Early 1900, farmer Barry had a contract to host a Post Office in his home. The host farmer would keep it for a time then lose the contract for whatever reason.  Then another farmer would host the Post Office.  On occasion the Post Office would be consolidated into another or go to town.  There were so many variables on how the contract would change and or move.  I have managed to find a few ancestors that had some history on their local Post Office.  In one instance, the old Post Office contract was out bid by another local rancher.  So the Post Office was moved.  In another a town was formed and the town got the Post Office. 

In the case of Barry, I’m guessing the contract was awarded to another or farmer Barry went belly up.  Homesteading was not easy and there were failures.  Having a PO contract meant a few coins to help keep the family going but if the contract is lost, the farmer gives up and moves on in his life.

Whether there is anything left of the community Post Office is not of major importance to me.  I like the journey and the sights I find along the way.  There were a few abandoned ranches along the way, with big barns, some homestead remains and an assortment of rusty old equipment. 

At Barry though I got a treat.  At the road intersection there was a farmhouse across the road.  As I drove past, the dogs came out to greet me, chasing my pick up down the road.  I went across the road and turned around to take some pictures.  The dogs had arrived and not far behind was a four wheeler.  The dogs were friendly and as I was petting them a young man got off his ATV and came to say hi and see what I was doing. 

We stood there talking for a bit, he was 10-11 years old.  When I asked him why he wasn’t in school, he said it was spring break time.  Probably much like his father, as we were talking, the young man was looking out across the land.  A fairly common trait among country folks, they seldom look at the other person when talking.  The gaze roams over the land, checking things.  Here was this youngster being just like a man of the land.  What a contrast from city kids, he was well mannered, spoke to the subject and was very conversant.  The other thing was, all by himself, he drove the four wheeler and was very adept at it.  His father had probably restricted him to the ditch for it was well mowed.  That is where he had driven and parked it, walking across to the road to say hi. In the city, they don’t want their kids driving until the kids are old and gray.  What a contrast. 

Any way, it was an empty filed where the map had shown Barry to be.  I looked around, said good bye and was escorted down the road by the dogs. 

Barry is located in the NW corner of Kit Carson County.

Country Community

Liberty Community

  Liberty was a church community, located in central Lincoln County, CO.  Many of these little churches dotted the plains years ago.  Few survived the Dust Bowl of the 30’s.  The land around Liberty is mostly ranch land because the soil is very sandy and not good farm land.  Yet here people settled and raised their families. 

  Today the only reminder that there had been a community is the remaining graveyard.  The church was removed a number of years ago, there is a slight depression in the ground where it had once been located.    The graveyard is well laid out, with section and row markers still in place.  Somebody in the area gives it TLC on occasion, moving the weeds/grass. 

Over the years I would drive past the little graveyard, giving little attention.  I would stop on occasion to take a picture of the gate.  The entry is very ornate and was a good subject for some nice pictures.  I finally made it appoint to go visit and have a look see.  I’m guessing there were lots of wooden crosses that were used in the early days and they have rotted or blown away.   There were some homemade markers and some of an early century style.  I did not see any veterans headstones.  The latest I saw was 1935.

I found an old history book for Lincoln County and It had a picture of the church and gave a brief history on the community, the local settlers.  From the looks of the picture, the church was on the downhill side of fading.   By the time 1940 rolled around the church was gone and many of the early settlers had moved on.  The graveyard is a silent memory of days gone by. 

Comic Book

The Comic Book

          Recently I was touring the local antique emporium and ran across a display of old comic books.  Brought back the memories of ancient days when I loved to read and trade comic books.  Probably how I learned to read, was the comics.  Always loved looking at the pictures, all the great heroes and villains.  Don’t believe I ever threw a comic book away.  Always had a stack of well used books.  I reread them many times and would trade with other kids to get now books. 

          I looked up the orgins of the comic book and I was surprised to see that it had its beginnings back in the early 1800’s and evolved over the years.  There were ongoing characters, serial characters and genres that would match today’s characters.   The funny books that lots of the Disney stories were refer to or Tom and Jerry.  There were the detectives, the romantic heroines and there were cowboys.   Later came the superheroes, Superman, Captain Marvel a Mighty Mouse…. Etc. 

          Some of these heroes survived from the early 1920’s into today, most notably, Superman and Batman.  I loved their books and I liked the Rich duck and his nephew with the Beegle gang.  Then there were others, like the Lone Ranger, Green Lantern, Archie and many more. 

          When these characters made to the little screen, it brought my imagination to life.  Seldom was I disappointed by what I saw on TV and what I had in my imagination. 

          I fueled the imagination even more.  The neighborhood boys would get together and trade comic books and talk about who was the best hero.  We all had our favorites and we would play cowboys and Indians.  Can’t ever remember there being any Indians, it was just us chasing each other around being our favorite comic book cowboy.  We had our cap guns and the whole town to run in.  We had forts, hiding places and the nooks and crannies of empty lots.  There was no plot, we just had fun popping at each other.  Eventually we would run out of caps and that was all folks. 

          The comic book is still around but has been replaced by the digital age of electronic games.  There are no longer empty lots to build forts in, go screaming down the street on our bike cap gun in hand.  It is now sitting in the living room, spreading blood and guts all over the screen. 

          Then books in general don’t generate the interest like they used to.  The imagination is now in Hollywood, writing scripts or in Silicon Valley writing code for the latest digital fantasy.  The illustrator now draws for the silver screen.  Oh the comic book characters are still around just a different package.