Winfield Scott Stratton, Colorado’s Mystifying Millionaire

c 2023 by Jan MacKell Collins

Colorado, and especially the Cripple Creek District, are well familiar with Winfield Scott Stratton, the man whose Independence Mine made him a millionaire almost overnight. Between that and his other mines, Stratton’s daily income once peaked at some $12,000 per day. Per. Day. But so unlike other rich mining men who openly flaunted their wealth, threw their weight around, and paraded around the world as some of the most affluent socialites of their time, Stratton’s money bothered him a great deal. So did the slew of women, both wicked and chaste, who hoped to wile him into marrying them, or at least giving them money.

A carpenter by trade, Stratton began dabbling in mining as early as 1874. Urged by his friend, Bob Womack, Stratton arrived in Cripple Creek in 1891 divorced, broke, and tired. He was, after all, already in his 40’s when he invested in the Independence Mine. Within an amazingly short time, Stratton was wealthy far beyond his means, or anyone else’s for that matter. But he never saw his wealth as a healthy asset. “Too much money is not good for any man,” he once said. “I have too much and it is not good for me.” So rather than join the elite jetsetters who built extravagent mansions along Millionaires Row in Colorado Springs and traveled the world, Stratton continued to live a somewhat simple life, preferring to donate his wealth rather than flaunt it. Carefully choosing his own charities, on his own time, was the ultimate power the man could excercise.

For nearly 11 years, everyone wanted a piece of the man who bascially hid from sight in his modest homes (first at the town of Indpendence and later in Colorado Springs), morosely sipping whiskey and finding ways to terrorize his female house staff. It wasn’t the women’s faults, by any means. It was just that, especially after he became obscenely rich, Stratton felt like everyone was out to get his money. And no doubt some of them were. Even today, the female historians among us must sometimes wonder if, had we known him, we could bring him out of his melancholy state, tame his temper, and perhaps even marry right into his fat pocketbook. Probably not. Although he immersed himeself in culture, Stratton was not so much prone to attending the theater, or any public affairs. His social activities, from what is known about him, tended to focus on floosies like the future madam Laura Evens of Salida and other wanton women. And, anyone familiar with the zodiac signs knows that Cancers (Stratton was born July 22) in general hide in their shells and will not come out no matter how long or hard you poke them with a stick. Only they can choose when to come out into the light of day, and Stratton was no exception.

In spite of his refusal to follow the Big Book of Societal Rules for Millionaires of the 1890’s, Winfield Scott Stratton was indeed a generous man. For a few years, his good deeds were the stuff of gossip and speculation among his peers and fellow citizens. There was the time, for instance, that he spied his laundress bringing his freshly pressed shirts to him on foot. Upon learning that the lady could not afford so much as a bicycle to transport her goods, Stratton was said to have purchased the two-wheeled vehicles for every washerwoman in Colorado Springs. He also was known to reward his favorite employees by purchasing homes for them. Such sweet stories were countered by the one about the time Stratton and some dame (allegedly Madam Hazel Vernon of Cripple Creek) stumbled into the prestigious Brown Palace Hotel in Denver during a wretched storm. Stratton was ordered by an imperious employee to remove himself and his muddy boots from the lobby. The temperamental tycoon retaliated by purchasing the hotel outright so he could fire the employee. But Stratton’s unbridled generosity during Cripple Creek’s two disastrous fires in 1896 is a bonafide example of how he really did care for those with less, and jumped without hesitation to the rescue for thousands of people.

The two infamous fires of Cripple Creek, which destroyed much of the town, happened within four days of each other during April of 1896. Lost were nearly the entire business district along Bennett Avenue, the red-light district along Myers Avenue, and hundreds of homes. Five thousand people were left with no house, no food, no clothing. Although some of them filtered over to the nearby towns of Anaconda, Elkton and Victor, supplies throughout the whole district quickly ran dangerously low. Stratton, who was in Colorado Springs at the time, had gathered with his fellow millionaires to listen to the news via the primitive telephone system. As the devastation of the first fire during the afternoon on April 25th was described in detail, Stratton jumped into action and formed a relief committee like no other. Billing everything to himself, he lost no time in procuring a special two-car train to make the needed trip to Cripple Creek. In the meantime, volunteers were rounded up to gather as many supplies as they could.

Within hours, cases of food, blankets, tents and clothing were stacked into freight wagons and hauled to the Colorado Midland Depot at nearby Colorado City. It is said Stratton even commissioned Colorado College students to collect more food door-to-door, and that the effort took every available loaf of bread in Colorado Springs. The train began chugging towards Cripple Creek at 5 p.m., with stops at Chipeta Park, Green Mountain Falls, Crystola and Woodland Park to pick up more supplies. As the train made its way up Ute Pass, well-wishers ran alongside, tossing even more items to workers on the cars. At Divide, the goods were transferred quickly to Midland Terminal trains as more items were added.

The sight of Stratton’s relief train chugging into Cripple Creek that night must have brought tears to many an eye. It took most of the night to distribute supplies, which were handed out at the Midland Terminal Depot on Bennett Avenue (one of only a couple of buildings to survive the fire) and loaded onto wagons. Another relief train departed Colorado Springs at 2 a.m. with even more supplies, including furniture, liquor and cooking utensils. Even more supplies were sent after the second fire on April 29 burned more homes and businesses. Whether he liked it or not, Stratton’s selfless act made him a hero to many in the Cripple Creek District.

Naturally Stratton’s actions generated a lot of hero worship for the man in Colorado Springs, as well. During his time there, Stratton shaped so-called “Little London’s” distinguished reputation as a city of wealth by providing land on which to erect such opulent buildings as the City Hall, the El Paso County Courthouse, the Post Office, and two other important structures he was associated with: the Mining Exchange Building and the Independence Building. In addition, he bought and significantly improved the Colorado Springs and Interurban Railway, and oversaw construction of a professional baseball stadium where the “Colorado Springs Millionaires” team played. It is doubtful, however, that he ever attended a game. In fact, about the only place he ever went when he left his home was to his office in the Independence Building just a few blocks away. And when a lavish banquet was later thrown in his honor at the prestigious Antlers Hotel in Colorado Springs, they say, Stratton stubbornly declined to attend.

For the rest of his life, Stratton remained as reclusive as ever. Curious is that he does not seem to appear in the 1900 census, anywhere. Odds are that he was holed up in his home on Weber Street in Colorado Springs (which sadly no longer stands), and outright refused to answer the door. That command would have been extended to his housekeeper, Eliza – the only one of his employees to put up with his shenannigans and who dared to talk back to him. It was a trait that Stratton would secretly admire. But by 1902, he was even more withdrawn and suffering from liver disease – the penalty for drinking like a fish in his efforts to escape from his wealthy status. He died on September 14 and, quite possibly against his wishes, was buried with much ceremony in Colorado Springs’ Evergreen Cemetery.

Stratton’s last great contribution was leaving money in his will to build the Myron Stratton Home, an expansive institution with beautiful grounds where orphaned children and the poor of El Paso and Teller counties could live and be treated with respect. He would be mortified if he knew that his last act of kindness was immediately cast into litigation for nearly 11 years as would-be heirs, supposed wives, and other so-called constituents battled over his fortune. In the end, however, the Myron Stratton Home won out and remains among the best assisted living facilities today, with private residences and other amenities seldom seen in the land of elder care. Today, Stratton’s buildings, a statue, Stratton Park, and other landmarks in Colorado Springs and Cripple Creek pay tribute to Winfield Scott Stratton. But it remains a shame that one of Colorado’s biggest, and most eccentric, philanthropists died without realizing the true appreciation so many felt for him, and his unwanted money.

Image courtesy of the Myron Stratton Home

Rufus Porter, The Hard-Rock Poet of Colorado’s Cripple Creek District

c 2023 by Jan MacKell Collins

Parts of this article are excerpted from Cripple Creek District: Last of Colorado’s Gold Booms.

“I ask no miracles of the muse,

I would not write like an old Khayyam,

The little talent that I use

Must show me only as I am.”

                        —Rufus Porter

As Colorado history goes, Cripple Creek District in Colorado remains at the forefront as the site of the last great gold boom in the Centennial State. Between 1891 and 1920, hundreds of mines, 25 towns and camps, three railroads, and thousands of people infiltrated a 24-square mile area, and generated a history quite unlike no other. Today, collectors of Cripple Creek memorabilia can consider themselves lucky to have the works of Rufus L. Porter among their treasures. From his arrival in Colorado in about 1915 to his death in 1979, Porter served as a blue-collar historian for the Cripple Creek District. Today, his home-spun yarns and poetry about life as it really was in the Cripple Creek District have survived in the way of columns for the Colorado Springs Gazette, as well as his own self-published books, as a crucial part of the District’s history.

Born in 1897 in Minnesota, Porter’s family had moved to Colorado Springs by the time his sister, Vera, was born in 1915. Two years later, Porter visited the Cripple Creek District and became enamored with the fading gold district. For a time, he remained in Colorado Springs, marrying his wife, Martha, and working as a coal miner in one of the 50 mines in the Rockrimmon and and Cragmoor area. By the time the Porter’s second child, Robert, was born in 1926, the family had migrated to Cripple Creek District where Rufus leased his own mine. Porter would later recall that the family initially stayed at the once-prestigious National Hotel in Cripple Creek, as well as the Baltimore Hotel in Victor, before moving into a house in Cripple Creek.

Following the death of their young daughter Doris, in 1932, the Porters returned to Colorado Springs for a few years (another daughter, also had died at the age of four years in 1925). Several years and two more children later, the Porter family returned to the Cripple Creek District. This time they settled in Goldfield, and Rufus went to work for the famous Cresson Mine. By his own account, he also worked at the Jay Gould Mine on Tenderfoot Hill, the Little Longfellow, and the Rigi. In between, he leased properties on Bull Hill and in other areas. He was working at the Vindicator Mine in 1940 when he fell 50 feet down the No. 12 shaft, breaking four vertebrae.

It took some two years for Porter to recover from his injuries, during which time he returned to Colorado Springs and eventually got a job as Chief Metallurgist for the Golden Cycle Mill. But he had also taken up a hobby, writing. For the next several years, Porter scribbled scores of poems and anecdotes about the Cripple Creek District, writing ballads about the people he knew and focusing on the District’s many colorful characters. In 1953, he published his first book, The Fiddler on Wilson Creek. The tome was a collection of poetry illustrated with historic images and Porter’s own photos depicting landscapes and characters of the district. A year later, a second book, Gold Fever, was published as well, and included tales of local folklore, as well as Porter’s recollections of his time in the District.

Now, Rufus balanced his time in Colorado Springs with extended trips to the Cripple Creek District, where he was known as the “Hard Rock Poet” and quite a colorful character himself. Of Cripple Creek’s annual Donkey Derby Days celebration in 1954, he would remember attending with his beloved donkey, Esau. “We won first prize in the whisker contest and second in the parade,” Porter he said. Those who remember the well-known billboards of the past advertising Cripple Creek will recall a miner and his donkey proclaiming, “Yonder is Cripple Creek!” That was, indeed, Rufus and Esau.

Sadly, Porter’s son Robert, a Navy veteran, was working in a local mine when he was accidentally electrocuted later that same time. Rufus battled his grief by even more. In the interest of discretion, Rufus rarely “named names,” preferring his own self-styled nicknames for the people whose stories he told. Thus the true identities of such characters as Bohunk Stan, Honest John the High-Grader, Greasy Miller of Gillette, Buffalo Brown, Old Man Oliver, Bathless Bill, Sloppy Frank and Kettle Belly Martin have been lost to history. Careful examination of the works, however, will also reveal several true historic figures—Sam Stumpff, Pat McCain, Dan O’Hara, and Tom and Ace Morris, just to name a few.

The characters in Porter’s books added much flavor to his perspective on the very real aspects of gold camp life. His often humorous anecdotes covered a wide range of real-life adventures, from fishing and hunting to high-grading, from gambling to ghost towns. He even had a favored camping spot, which he called “Poet’s Peak.” Porter was blatantly honest, too. Of the bawdy district of Cripple Creek in the face of government officials trying to ignore their naughty past, Porter wrote,

“Now sin and lust I ain’t defendin’,

But history must be fair,

And there ain’t no use in pretendin’

That Myers Avenue wasn’t there.”

In 1961 Porter published yet another booklet, Pay Dirt. As with his previous books, most of Porter’s stories were told with a tongue-in-cheek style. The tales could, however, occasionally take a gruesome turn. In writing of the “big Swede” who suffered a stroke and died in a shaft of the Golden Cycle Mine, Porter wrote, “…after workin’ for an hour without bein’ able to budge him, we decided that the only way we’d ever get him out of there was to saw his legs off. But by that time rigor mortis had set in…since he had no known kin we considered it more humane to leave him where he was…”

Following the closing of the Carlton Mill in 1962, Porter’s writings eventually caught the eye of the Colorado Springs Gazette editors, and he was hired as a regular columnist as he continued writing his little books. In 1966 he published a fourth work, The Saga of Dynamite Dan. Now, Porter’s tales earned him notoriety as a popular guest speaker and exhibitor of his own extensive gold ore sample collection. He also wrote several more books. Each effort supported Porter’s hope and theory that someday, the Cripple Creek District would boom once more.

In about 1978, for reasons known only to themselves, Rufus and Martha moved to Riverside, California. A scribbled note from Rufus to Colorado historian, author and Cripple Creek District Museum curator Leland Feitz in January of 1979 noted, “I am writing for Western Publications, Inc. Got a check for $150.00. By the way, I may be back next year. I don’t like Calif.” The letter included an historic photograph from the Cripple Creek District. “I’m going to have a print of it framed and give it to the museum in Cripple Creek,” Feitz wrote back. In response, Rufus typed a cryptic reply on Feitz’s letter on February 16, ending with, “Hope to hear frrom [sic] you soon. Rufus.” Later that day Porter passed away at the age of 81. His body, as well as that of Martha’s a year later, were returned to Colorado for burial in Colorado Springs.

Rufus Porter’s legacy has indeed lived on in the Cripple Creek District. His series of booklets were later published by his late nephew, Forest Porter, and are now highly collectible. And, after years of sitting forgotten, his charming little cabin in Goldfield is now privately owned and lovingly protected and cared for. Most interesting is Rufus Porter’s prediction that some day, the Cripple Creek District would boom once more, has come to fruition. Today, Newmont Mining is the largest gold mining operation in the state, and the City of Cripple Creek has legalized gambling. It’s a far cry from the days when Rufus saw two fellows spitting at a crack in the sidewalk for $20 gold pieces.

Special thank you to the memory of Forest Porter, a nephew of Rufus who corresponded with me regarding his charming uncle.

News of the World – Better Late Than Never

c 2023 by Jan MacKell Collins

Call me late (just never call me late for dinner, yuk yuk), but I just now got around to watching “News of the World,” starring Tom Hanks and a young German actress, Helena Zengel. It is true, this film came out in 2020. The plot centers on an 1800’s Civil War veteran who travels the west, bringing news to those without the benefit of such newfangled inventions of the future like television, radio and the internet. Ironic is that as late as I am giving my two cents about this picture, Hanks’ character, Captain Jefferson Kyle Kidd, reads current and past events from newspapers that are actually months old by the time he reaches his various destinations. That said, I’m forgiving myself for taking so long to watch it.

I liked this film on multiple levels. For one thing, it brings to the forefront the unique fact that in the old west, there really were men who traipsed from town to town, bringing news and editorials to people who lived in remote areas. You don’t think Americans learned all at once that the Civil War was over, do you? They certainly didn’t, and even telegraphed messages – the fastest form of communication at the time which relied on Morse code – could only relay so much information at a time. Author Paulette Giles, whose book of the same name serves as the basis for this movie, was wise to set her story in the post-Civil War years when not everyone got the same message at the same time.

So, on to the story. Captain Kidd is rambling around doing his thing when he comes across an overturned coach. The only passenger appears to be a young girl (Zengel, in her first American role). Nearby, the Black driver of the coach has been lynched. As for the child, she is of German descent with blonde hair, a wide face and piercing sky-blue yes. Her name is Johanna. But the child speaks only Kiowa, owing to the fact that she was taken from her home after her parents were murdered sometime in the past. But her adopted Kiowa parents are dead too. What to do?

In so many westerns, grappling with the idea of a man coming across a child in need (think 1972’s “Jeremiah Johnson,” 1975’s “Against a Crooked Sky,” 1969’s “True Grit” and its 2010 remake, to name a few) has been regarded as a burden. How can you be a badass, or even a normal guy, doing what you need to survive, when you are suddenly encumbered by a child? In this case, Kidd has the wherewithal, and common sense, to see that it is his responsibility to take Johanna to the place she belongs: the home of her long lost kin. Doing so will require riding some rough roads strewn with highwaymen and other outlaws. On the back burner too are Kidd’s memories of his wife, whom he has not seen since he left for the war years before. But duty is duty as far as he is concerned, and he must deliver this little lost girl to the proper destination before moving on.

This is the part where I want to point out the virtues of Tom Hanks’ first role in a real, gritty, period western. We all know Tom, boy do we. He long ago mastered the art of his craft, with a slew of films illustrating the depth of his talent. These days, at the still-young age of 64, the actor himself has become almost a father-like figure in the film industry. But while other reviews have nailed him for acting like typical Tom Hanks in a Tom Hanks film, I didn’t care. I appreciated the aging Captain Kidd’s neutral approach to the task at hand. He reads his newspapers in a way that reminds me of the late Paul Harvey’s news commentaries, with a delivery that makes people automatically trust what he has to say. He is a voice of reason when his listeners vehemently object to the news he reads. In dealing with young Johanna, whose trust must be gained in order for the pair to survive, Kidd knows he must employ as much prudence as he can. If Hanks could not carry this role, I don’t know who could have done a better job.

One of the most poignant parts of the story is seeing how real the struggle is for Kidd’s conscience. He does not call the girl “Cicada,” her Kiowa name, and he is bent on returning her to her blood family, not the Natives she is obviously now more comfortable with. But when Johanna chirps out her sing-song words in Kiowa tongue, and employs survival skills she learned from the tribe, the conflict in Kidd’s face is genuine. And when she instinctively blurts out a German sentence, Kidd obviously feels even more uncomfortable. It is never spoken, but beautifully conveyed, that this man is truly torn between which of the worlds Johanna has lived in is the best one for her. Yet he knows how important it is for him to learn her words and teach her his, because communication is among the most vital survival skills this pair can share.

“News of the World” was filmed in New Mexico. It is a refreshing change to so many movie and shows that have lately fled film-unfriendly America to Canada in favor of more accommodating film commissions. I know New Mexico, and recognized a couple of sets, which gave this movie a comforting, familiar feel. The scenery is, as usual, beautiful. The costumes, sets, firearms, and most everything else used to make the film are authentic. The dialogue is flavorful. And for those who feel the storyline is a bit slow, I’m here to tell you that the wild west was not always wild. It could, on many levels, move at a very unhurried, steady pace that was akin to most lifestyles of the time. In our hurry-hurry world, that’s not really such a bad thing. So sit back, turns the lights low, and be willing to ride along the deliberate, often emotional path this story takes. You won’t be sorry.

Image courtesy IMDB.

Midway, a Halfway Point in Colorado’s Cripple Creek District

c 2023 by Jan MacKell Collins

Portions of this article first appeared in Lost Ghost Towns of Teller County, Colorado.

In the vast expanse of the historic Cripple Creek District, literally dozens of camps, placenames and whistlestops popped up within a radius of just 24 square miles. None were quite so important, however, as Midway. The community was so-named because it was conveniently located about halfway between Victor and Cripple Creek, and likely came about shortly after the Cripple Creek District Interurban Line, aka the High Line, was established. The line ran hourly between 5:00 a.m. and 2:00 a.m. daily, with stops at Midway. The elevation measured 10,487 feet, making the High Line the highest interurban railroad in North America. From Midway, one could see majestic views of the Cripple Creek District, as well as Pikes Peak and the Sangre de Cristo mountains some distance away.

Although Midway was never intended to be more than a stop for miners commuting between their homes and area mines, railcars that were meant to hold no more than forty passengers often carried upwards of one hundred men through the small camp. By about 1896, Archie McKillip and Ed Doyle had built the Grand View Saloon at Midway, providing a place for miners to stay warm and have a drink before catching a ride or, perhaps, after a long day’s work.

Eventually, a handful of cabins surrounded the Grand View Saloon. Their residents numbered about fifty people, many of them colorful characters. One of them was “Bathless Bill,” a “mucker, skinner, and dance hall sinner” who was particularly known for the pungent odor permeating his clothing, and body. Miner Rufus Porter, aka “The Hard Rock Miner,” wrote a most delightful poem about Bill. The ballad recounts that Bill’s claim paid off, and on a night while buying rounds of drinks, Bill’s friends challenged him to take a bath. Bill met the challenge for a refreshing change, filling his tub with bottles of expensive champagne at a cost of $1,400. Bill’s long-needed soaking turned the champagne black, but the story goes that:

“He dipped a handful up,

And damn his hide, his grin was wide

As he slurped sup after sup

At last all clean like a dance hall queen

Old Bill stepped out to rub—

He’d tasted the wine and said it was fine

And they all made a dive for the tub.

Bill stood there bright, his skin as white

As lilies in the rain—

Admirin’ his wealth, they drank to his health

In that filthy black champagne.” 

Midway never did have a post office; in 1900, residents could pick up their mail at the nearby town of Altman instead. Aside from the Grand View Saloon, there was also an eatery, appropriately named the Midway Restaurant. Things were relatively quiet at Midway for a number of years. A grocery and blacksmith were present by 1912, and remained in business through at least 1916. There was also “French Blanche” LaCroix, whose home was located across from the Grand View Saloon. A French immigrant and prostitute by trade, Blanche had once worked for Cripple Creek saloon owner Morris Durant. When Durant’s wife found out the two were having an affair, she threw acid in Blanche’s face, scarring her badly. Blanche moved to Midway, where she initially served miners before retiring and becoming somewhat of a recluse. Locals remembered seeing her from a distance, sitting in the afternoon sun so wrinkles would eventually mask her scars. They also noted that she wore a brown veil when out in public. 

Although Blanche’s face frightened certain children of the Cripple Creek District, others recalled visiting her and eating her delicious cookies. In time, Blanche’s only other neighbor was Robert T. “Monty” Montgomery, a miner who lived in a tiny cabin across from the Grand View Saloon. The two dated for a time, until Blanche caught Monty seeing another former working girl named Annie Bowers from Independence. Blanche and Annie stayed friends, but Blanche never spoke to Monty again. 

Blanche eventually moved to Victor. By the time she died in 1959, Midway was long abandoned. As late as 1994 much of the Grand View Saloon remained intact, but the building and the rest of Midway were bulldozed in 2001 by modern mining operations. The exception was French Blanche’s cabin, which the City of Cripple Creek was able to save and move to town. In 2010, the cabin was given to the Cripple Creek District Museum, where today it is furnished to illustrate the way Blanche kept it when she lived there.

Image: French Blanche LeCroix stands in front of the old Grand View Saloon at Midway.

Putting the “L” in Lawrence, Colorado

c 2023 by Jan MacKell Collins

Portions of this article are from Lost Ghost Towns of Teller County, Colorado

The Cripple Creek District of Colorado lies high on the backside of Pikes Peak and fairly spills over with some of the most fascinating history in the west. Die-hard lovers of the Cripple Creek District’s fascinating history will tell you: Cripple Creek got the glory, but it was Victor that had the gold. Indeed, if it weren’t for the hundreds of mines within a stone’s throw of that city, Cripple Creek never would have grown to be the first-class city it aspired to be over a century ago. It is not surprising then, that in those early days the very first town to be platted in the District was Lawrence, which eventually evolved into a Victor suburb.

Lawrence was carved from a portion of Victor C. Adams’ cattle ranch, which had been formed back in 1888. Born in Kentucky in 1853, Adams had lived in Missouri before coming to Colorado. In 1880 he was working as a surveyor in Silver Cliff, in southern Colorado, but soon moved to his new homestead on the southeast slope of Squaw Mountain. By the time of the gold boom in the Cripple Creek District in 1891, Adams was very familiar with the old Cheyenne & Beaver Toll Road over today’s Gold Camp Road from Colorado Springs.

In 1891 Magdalene S. Raynolds, the wife of a prominent banker in Canon City to the south, took an interest in Adams’ ranch as a prime spot for a new town in the Cripple Creek District. Raynolds’ husband, Frank, had founded the Fremont County National Bank at Canon City back in 1874. Mrs. Raynolds, along with her husband’s business partner Dana Lawrence, decided to visit the area. A good portion of Adams’ ranch was on a large, flat meadow and skirted by Wilson Creek. The area was indeed ideal.

On January 4, 1892, Mrs. Raynolds purchased thirty acres of the Adams homestead. The town of Lawrence was platted on January 5, and named for Dana Lawrence. This early date confirms that Lawrence was the first official town in the Cripple Creek District. Shortly afterwards, a stage stop was constructed at the new town so travelers could easily reach the town from Canon City and Cripple Creek. Lawrence was laid out on a grid that was, not so ironically, “L” shaped. The main streets included such presidential names as Lincoln and Cleveland, but also Wilson Avenue for Wilson Creek and of course Raynolds Avenue for the Raynolds family.

It was no surprise that Dana Lawrence’s name was bestowed upon the new town, for he appears to have been more than a business partner to the Raynolds family. As early as 1887, Lawrence was secretary of the Raynolds Cattle Company. Frank Raynolds was president. When Magdalene Raynolds gave birth to a son just six months after the Lawrence plat was filed, the baby was named Dana Lawrence. The last reference to Dana Lawrence the partner, however, appears in some 1894 court documents filed in Fremont County. The documents concerned some water rights and confirmed that Lawrence still owned a portion of the Raynolds Cattle Company.

As of the 1900 census the Raynolds were still in Canon City with their five children. As they graduated high school, each child was sent to prestigious Colorado College in Colorado Springs. At least one of them, an adopted daughter named Pansy, also attended Columbia University. Following the death of Frank Raynolds in 1906, Magdalene took over as president of the Fremont County National Bank.

There is nothing to suggest that the wealthy Raynolds family, nor Dana Lawrence, ever lived at Lawrence in the Cripple Creek District. Rather, some of the earliest settlers were the McCormack family, who settled near the town in 1891 and soon formed a colony numbering over 100 Scotsmen. Upon arriving in the Cripple Creek District, the McCormacks changed the spelling of their name to McCormick in order to pass themselves off as Irishmen. Why? Because in those early days, the people of the District quickly established racial class among its communities. Scotsmen were viewed as foreigners. The Irish were not.

Lawrence’s post office opened on February 3. Other businesses included Bert Cave’s general merchandise store, a laundry and a restaurant. The short-lived Lawrence Miner newspaper reported the news. Two early roads led straight to Lawrence: the Canon City Road along Wilson Creek, and the Florence Road, a.k.a. Phantom Canyon Road. Promoters of both roads also proposed building separate railroads: the Canon City & Lawrence and the Florence Railroad. Preliminary reports for the Canon City & Lawrence Railroad resulted in three studies; in all three cases, surveyors of the hair-raising, narrow trail concluded that building a railroad along Wilson Creek would be impossible. The Florence and Cripple Creek Railroad, however, was built up Phantom Canyon and flourished for a few years before flooding shut it down for good.

Initially, Lawrence proved an ideal place to live. Early mines around the town included the Florence E., the Gloriana, the Home Run, the London, the Lone Pine, the Lulu, the May Belle, the Monte Cristo, the St. Patrick, the Southern and the Tom Bigbee. In time, however, larger mines like the Portland, the Cresson, the Independence and many others were staked up the hill on the other side of Victor. For miners living in Lawrence, walking to work at the latter mines was a job in itself, and many of them moved to Victor. They did, however, make social visits to Lawrence, gathering at The Eureka saloon to chat and drink. The saloon proved especially popular on Saturday nights.

By 1893, Lawrence did not even merit mention in the Cripple Creek District Directory. There was, however, an experimental chlorination plant for processing gold ore. The plant was the brain-child of Joseph R. DeLamar, a Utah mining man who partnered with mill expert Ed Holden to build the plant in 1893. By February of 1894, ads for DeLamar’s mill promised the highest market price for Cripple Creek ores. For a time, even Winfield Scott Stratton brought ore from his famous Independence Mine to Lawrence for processing. By the middle of the year Lawrence had two stamp mills and was described as being “ribbed with gold bearing mineral veins.” But although the Florence & Cripple Creek railroad tracks crossed the southeastern section of town on their way to Victor, they were deemed too far from the town proper to merit a depot.

 Even so, the 1894 District Directory had much to say about the quality of life at Lawrence: “The numerous springs and flowing wells which came to the surface on the Lawrence townsite, together with its lively mountain brook, make it one of the most desirable residence spots of the entire district.” But Lawrence was just not destined to last. Victor’s Sunnyside addition eventually crossed into Lawrence, and Lawrence Avenue was actually located in Victor’s original plat map. The new addition was the first sign that Victor would soon gobble up Lawrence.

When the chlorination plant burned during the winter of 1895-1896, Lawrence’s economy took a dive. Even so, the population stayed steady at 250 through 1896. A church and a school were present. Postmaster Walter Baldwin ran a grocery. There was also a meat market, two livery stables, a hotel and two saloons, including one run by Daniel Quinn. Lawrence also provided an attorney, a cobbler, two bakeries, a barbershop, a blacksmith, a grocery, a laundry, and, at last, a small F. & C.C. railroad depot.

But even with its business district intact, Lawrence was declining. By 1897 people were referring to it as “Oldtown.” As the city of Victor continued growing down the hill towards town, those light in the wallet could still rent one of the rundown residences at Lawrence, but could only access their mail at Victor after the post office closed in April of 1898. Even so, those who loved little Lawrence just didn’t want to give it up. Property transactions also remained steady through 1899, including business with the Cripple Creek Gold Exploration Company. In fact, an amended plat for Lawrence was filed on July 3, 1899. Avenues within the town boundaries at that time included Dewey, Harrison, Logan, Allison, Cleveland, Wilson, Lincoln, Lewis, Raynolds and Independence.

By the following year, businesses in Lawrence included shoemaker Michael Brown, several teamsters, a jeweler, contractor N.A. Chester, butchers Fred Kasaner, Mark Lewman and David Wathan, physician Charles Thornburg, carpenters Henry Levett and Fred Schanuel, tailor Donald McKenzie, cemetery sexton W. R. Brush, the May Belle hotel and Morris Klein’s Lawrence Saloon. George Demorre ran a vegetable wagon. Mrs. W. H. Diggs offered laundry services. There was still a school too, overseen by principal Miss C.E.S. Crosse who made the trek on schooldays from her home in Cripple Creek. Outside of the business district proper, the wide meadows comprising the town were accommodating to larger businesses such as Amos and F.H. Aspey’s brickyard, a slaughterhouse and Edward Richard’s dairy. Most of the 300 residents were miners who lived in Lawrence or the nearby hamlet of Reigerville. But an old electric plant had been abandoned.

Although city marshal George Cooper kept the peace at Lawrence during its twilight years, the town did see its fair share of lawlessness—mostly petty thievery but also shootings over mining wages and claims. In September of 1899, local papers reported on Henry Nelson who fired two shots at former miner Alec Carlson from the Pittsburgh claim. One of the bullets grazed Carlson’s head just above the left eye. Carlson survived, and Nelson was arrested. Then in February of 1900, H.C. Rhien was found hiding at a Lawrence boarding house after bilking several merchants around Colorado out of $8,000 in general merchandise.

In 1901, Victor C. Adams platted more land in Lawrence with partners John C. Adams and John Wilson, but it was too late. By 1902, Lawrence had been officially absorbed by Victor. For many more years, Lawrence survived as a suburb of Victor. As of the 1920 census, ninety five people were left in Lawrence proper. Ten years later, however, residents of Lawrence were counted as citizens of Victor in the census. Although a handful of residents continued living there over the years, the town of Lawrence has settled back into the meadow today, with only one private home from the old days left to prove it was there to begin with.

Stratton’s Town: Independence, Colorado

c 2023 by Jan MacKell Collins

Portions of this article are excerpted from Lost Ghost Towns of Teller County

Of all of the Cripple Creek District’s historic cities, Independence stands out as one of the most interesting. Named for the Independence Mine staked by Winfield Scott Stratton in 1891, the city spilled down the hillside of Montgomery Gulch in what is now known as the Vindicator Valley. Stratton eventually relocated to a more upscale and modest house in Colorado Springs, but his former home at Independence remained well known.

Independence was platted on November 11, 1894. Nearby was the Hull City Mine, a big producer throughout the early 1900’s. Upwards of eleven streets made up the fledgling town, surrounded on all sides by such mines as the Vindicator, the Teresa, the Portland #1 and #2, the Findley and of course, the Independence.

In time, the Midland Terminal Railroad tracks would divide Independence from Goldfield, located across Montgomery Gulch. Founded in 1895, Goldfield eventually became a suburb of Victor. In turn, Independence sort of became a suburb of Goldfield when the two towns grew to meet each other in the gulch.

Perhaps because there was already another town named Independence, located along the pass of the same name near Aspen, the post office was called Macon when it first opened in February of 1895. Part of the reason for opening the post office was because the one at Altman, above Independence, was being revisited by the postmaster general to make sure there were enough residents up there merited having mail service. Altman eventually got their post office back, and the Macon post office continued service to Independence.

By 1896, the population at Independence was around 500. Businesses included an assayer and jeweler to service the rich mines surrounding the camp. One boarding house and two hotels sheltered miners. There was also a drugstore, grocery, two meat markets, a milliner, a cobbler, a photographer, one physician, one restaurant and two saloons. A lumber mill and a general contractor serviced mines, merchants and homesteaders alike. The Midland train dropped passengers off at First and Montgomery. A harness maker and hay and feed store served the equine population.

Over the next few years, Independence grew fast. In 1899, the Macon postmaster succeeded in renaming the post office to Independence. In spite of having a population of 1,500 by 1900, Independence was never able to form its own town council or elect a mayor. The town was instead governed by Goldfield. The decision to do this is puzzling, as services at Independence included telephone and telegraph service, and an inventory of the business district also included a number of stores, nine boarding houses, two hotels and two churches. The school was run by Mrs. S.L. Leazer. Three doctors and a dentist had put up their shingles. There were also now eight saloons. Numerous productive mines continued to surround the town, including the Vindicator, the Delmonico and the Atlanta.

Not all of the citizens of Independence liked the arrangement with Goldfield. In late 1900, the Independence Mining & Townsite Company purchased a large plot of land and started advertising the new town with vigor. “In twelve months, it will be the commercial center of the great Cripple Creek District,” the town fathers declared. Despite their intentions, however, the men failed in their mission and Independence remained under Goldfield’s shadow. Still, the town was not without some memorable residents. Among them was the “Queen of Independence.” The unidentified young lady was the toast of the town according to the late Rufus Porter, a.k.a. the “Hard Rock Poet,” who actually lived in Goldfield. Porter recalled the “Queen’s” story of watching two gamblers sitting on a wooden sidewalk, each with a stack of gold pieces. The men were spitting at a crack between the boards on $20 bets.

Business at Independence continued to boom. As of 1901, the Volunteer Fire Department had upwards of twenty members. Hull’s Camp, at the northwest section of town, was becoming part of the city. Business houses of every kind still ran through the downtown area. Among them was Mrs. Mamie Crooks’ Hotel Montgomery, advertised “A nice home for miners. Good board and clean rooms at reasonable rates.”

Independence made national news in 1903, when professional assassin Harry Orchard set off a bomb in the Vindicator Mine above town during the famed Cripple Creek District labor strikes. Orchards’ targets—an elevator full of scabs working for non-union mine owners—escaped unharmed but superintendent Charles H. McCormick and shift boss Malverne Beck died instead. Next, in June of 1904, Orchard bombed the Florence & Cripple Creek train depot in the downtown area. There were twenty seven miners standing on the platform when the bomb went off. Thirteen were killed instantly when “their dismembered bodies were blown 150 feet up the hillside.” Orchard’s actions were on behalf of the Western Federation of Miners who were striking against unfair mine owners, but his deeds were so dastardly that they played a big part in the mine owners winning the strike.

The strikes also had an unfavorable affect on Independence. By 1905 many businesses had closed and the population hovered around a thousand people. At least some money was still flying around, as evidenced by the robbery of the Silver Bell Saloon in Independence on a February night in 1906.

It was widely known that the Silver Bell was happy to cash miners’ paychecks, so a bit of money had to be on hand at all times. At 10 p.m. on February 11, Eddie Foy, “Two-Gun Wild Bill” Gleason, Frank Edmunston, Jimmie Welsh, Frank Drake, deputy marshals Hardy Potts and Cal Webster, and several other men were in the bar when two masked robbers walked in and ordered everyone to put their hands up. Drake headed for a room in the back but was shot by one of the robbers, Harry Harris. Deputies Potts and Webster, along with Gleason, returned shots. More gunfire broke out. When it was all over the second bandit, Fred Powell, was dead. So was Drake. Harris absconded with $1,800 in cash. It is unknown whether he was ever caught.

Independence’s population in 1907 was around 1,200 and a handful of business remained open. But as the mining opportunities around the Cripple Creek District downsized, so did the towns within the district. By 1912 only one assayer, one dry goods, one hotel, and one saloon were still in business at Independence. Those needing medical attention had to go to Dr. L.D. Louis in Altman. Fifteen mines continued to provide limited employment. By 1919 there were only 500 people left in town. Some of them, including Leslie Carlton and W.E. Ryan, were superintendents of area mines. Only a hardware store and two cigar stores were left.

Independence was given a brief reprieve in 1921 when Les Carlton’s brother, millionaire A.E. Carlton, purchased the old Vindicator Mine and tried to work it. Unfortunately the mine was plagued by water for years. After Carlton’s death his wife, the former Ethel Frizzell, successfully built the Carlton Tunnel to release the water from the Vindicator and other area mines. Twenty five thousand gallons per minute gushed from the tunnel, and the Vindicator successfully operated for nearly four more decades.

As the old mines around Independence continued being worked, a few families continued living in town. As late as 1939, Mr. and Mrs. Alfred H. Bebee were mentioned in the Cripple Creek Times Record as hosts of an evening get together at Independence (notably, the Bebee house still stands, and was never a brothel per the graffiti scribbled on some of the walls.) Others who lived there in the 1950’s included a man named Skinny Ward and the family of former Victor mayor Kathy Justice. Justice remembered her brothers finding sticks of dynamite at the Hull City Mine. “They brought it into town and sold it to the police chief for two cents a stick, and then we would buy candy at Harshie’s [now the Fortune Club in Victor] with the money,” she said.

   Not until 1954 did Independence’s post office close. The Hull City Mine closed in 1958, and the Vindicator closed for a final time in 1959. The last of Independence’s early residents moved away, although a couple of homes were occupied as late as 1982. Almost the entire town was engulfed by modern mining efforts in 2004, although some structures at the very east end of town were preserved. The Hull City Placer was moved and a hiking trail was installed. Today visitors can walk the trail and read interpretive signage about Independence and its surrounding mines.

Image: The Beebe House in Independence as it appeared in 2004. Copyright Jan MacKell Collins.

Jack Haverly and His Colorado Towns for Suckers

c 2023 by Jan MacKell Collins

Portions of this article have appeared in Lost Ghost Towns of Teller County and Colorado Central magazine.

For Jack Haverly, life was truly an up and down affair. The man who gained fame and fortune on the theater circuit during the mid-to-late 1800’s was well known throughout America over his long career. But he also filed bankruptcy so many times that newspapers truly lost count of just how often Haverly found himself broke. It could be said that in his day, Haverly was a force to be reckoned with, an idea man who tried everything once and twice if he liked it. He was also said to be quite lucky, for as much as he was down, Haverly nearly always bounced back up. His many friends never hesitated to loan him money when he needed it, knowing he would pay it back the next time fortune smiled upon him again. “Jack Haverly was a fine man and a lovable character,” wrote Edward Le Roy Rice in 1911. “None did more for minstrelsy than he, and some of the greatest names in theatricals were once associated with him.

John H. “Jack” Haverly was born Christopher Heverly in Pennsylvania in 1837. As a young man he worked as a “train boy”, selling peanuts and candy on passenger trains. He also worked as a “baggage smasher” for the railroads, and did a brief stint as a tailor’s apprentice. By 1864 he had moved to Toledo, Ohio where he opened his first variety theater. A misspelling on a poster changed his name from Heverly to Haverly, and the new moniker stuck.

Acquisition of the theater in Toledo was subsequent to the formation of “Haverly’s Minstrels”, which gave its first performance on August 1 that year. Within a short time, Haverly was partnering with other promoters and visiting grand places across the United States and as far away as Toronto, Canada. During his travels, Haverly married Sara Hechsinger, of the famed singing duo known as the Duval Sisters. When Sara died in 1867, Haverly married her sister, Eliza, later that year. Neither marriage resulted in children.

Theater life appeased Haverly greatly. Over time he bought and sold numerous theater houses, and also headed up a number of traveling troupes. The man was also remembered by some as “a compulsive gambler and speculator” who sometimes threw his money away as quickly as he made it. Somehow, however, Haverly made it work. At the height of his career, he owned six theaters and an amazing thirteen road companies.

Haverly’s greatest achievement was probably in 1877, when he merged four of his minstrel companies to form “Haverly’s United Mastadon Minstrels.” After the fashion of P.T. Barnum and other entertainment promoters of the day, the “Mastadons” consisted of some forty performers and a marching band. Upon arriving in town for a show, the troupe would march up and down the streets, spreading themselves out as thinly as possible so that while performers marched through one part of town, the band played in the other. The Mastadons became so famous they even performed seventeen shows in London during 1880 alone.

It is unlikely that Haverly was with the performance in London, for he was busy discovering the mining boomtowns of Colorado around 1880. Folks around Gunnison remembered him as “famous theater and minstrel millionaire,” and a “colorful and key figure in the development of early Gunnison.” Indeed, Haverly “bought up fine ranch land just east of Gunnison, had a town named for him, invested heavily in silver mines at Gothic and Irwin, bought coal land up in Washington Gulch, and purchased several ranches and a sawmill up Ohio Creek.” The town of Haverly proper consisted of a group of claims, which the entrepreneur advertised “extravagantly.”

Although Haverly was initially welcome in Gunnison country, others took his claims of fortune with a grain of salt. At the nearby town of Irwin the local newspaper, the Elk Mountain Pilot, had nothing good to say about Haverly’s investments. “Take a man from his line of business and place him in a business entirely foreign to his own,” sniped the paper, “and he will surely make a wreck of it.” True to the newspaper’s prediction, Haverly’s first namesake town in Colorado ended up being “essentially a promotional scheme.” Newcomers almost immediately started squabbling over who owned what claim. Eventually, the forty or so miners at the camp “‘jumped’ the town and left Mr. Haverly ‘out in the cold.'” The town of Haverly survived for a few more years, taking on different names and residents until the place faded away altogether. Jack Haverly, however, had long ago moved on.

Haverly continued to conduct a successful theater tour in Colorado. Not only was he continuing his minstrel shows, but he began forming opera companies as well. The names of his shows generally changed as much as his address. In 1880, “Haverly’s Church Choir Opera Company” performed Gilbert and Sullivan’s H.M.S. Pinafore at Barnum Hall in Greeley, the Central City Opera House, the Denver Opera House and the Tabor Opera House in Leadville. The outfit came complete with its own orchestra and starred such celebrities of the day as C.M. Pyke, Dora Wiley and Pauline Hall. Like everywhere else, Haverly’s show received rave reviews. Success was sweet; an 1881 article in the New York Clipper commented on sixteen of Haverly’s minstrel shows and opera companies. In addition, Haverly’s company had offices in Boston, Chicago, Denver and New York.

With so many troupes on the road, it was impossible for Haverly to travel with each one. Instead, he hired capable theater managers and road agents. In 1883, manager J.H. Mack accompanied the Colorado circuit. In February 1883 alone, the troupe—under the name “Haverly’s English Opera Company”—performed Strauss’s Merry War at the Colorado Springs Opera House, the Fort Collins Opera House, the Tabor Opera House in Leadville and the Tabor Grand Opera House in Denver.

Keeping up with his many traveling troupes could not have been easy, and Haverly often spread himself too thin to conduct his businesses well. In spite of the success of the Colorado circuit, his finances were soon taking a dive. Throughout much of 1883, the New York Times was full of articles regarding Haverly’s many legal and financial troubles. Haverly carried on, however, borrowing money to invest in various endeavors, paying back the money to his lenders, then losing everything all over again on a bad risk. By 1884 his fortunes were said to be beginning “their final collapse”. The enterprising man, however, wisely decided to start investing in mining as a means to make additional money. It is true, his love for speculation in the mines often proved costly, but at least he remained successful with his shows.

Throughout 1884 and 1885, Haverly’s shows continued performing in London and even Scotland. He was still dabbling in theater and doing quite a good job of it when he visited the Cripple Creek District in January of 1896. According to the Cripple Creek Morning Times, the minstrel man had “bade farewell to minstrelry several years ago, and when his face becomes sooty now it is from a miner’s lamp instead of a makeup box.” Haverly told the reporter that he planned to be in the area for a couple of weeks. “I came here to see if I couldn’t get hold of some property in this district,” he said. His plan was fortified with some extra cash he had lying around from his mining investments in Clear Creek County.

Within a short time, Haverly had purchased “a plateau known as Bull Hill when in the height of its prosperity,” according to the Hoosier State Chronicle in Indiana. Due to his rags-to-riches-to-rags reputation, however, few investors showed much interest in partnering with him. After some fast talking, Haverly was finally able to convince some prospects into having a look at his mines themselves. The properties did look mighty promising, enabling Haverly to acquire partners. The group filed a plat and divided up some town lots. They naturally named the new town Haverly. As reports circulated about the findings on Bull Hill, one hundred miners and several saloon keepers converged on the new town within just four days.

“Jack Haverly is rich again,” announced the Hoosier State Chronicles. The paper went on to illuminate Haverly’s up-and-down financial career, but ended by announcing that Lady Luck had smiled upon him once again. This time, he was said to have made upwards of $200,000 by investing in mines around the Cripple Creek District. Also, “the story has been further told in Chicago that Jack would soon be a millionaire.” The folks of Chicago remembered Haverly well, for at one time he purchased the controlling interest of the Chicago Jockey Club race track for a whopping $150,000.

From all appearances, Haverly was back on top. “Colonel Jack Haverly and associates have a shaft down 20 feet on a well-developed vein in Camp Haverly,” announced the Mining Industry & Review magazine in July of 1896. “A new steam hoist has lately been put in operation and ore is being saved for a shipment, which will be made sometime next week. A double shift of men  will be put to work on Monday.”

One source says that Haverly simply wanted no more than a town named for himself, platting the town, selling lots at high prices and skipping town. If the story was true, it may have been because Haverly was seeking vindication for having been swindled before. Yet no evidence of a swindle at Cripple Creek appears in local papers, although neither does news of the new town. In fact, Jack Haverly’s name is curiously absent from Colorado newspapers until June of 1897 when it was simply noted he was staying at the Sheridan Hotel in Telluride. The next mention of him came in September, when it was reported he was on his way back to New York via Kansas with a plan to get back in showbiz.

Haverly later declared that he had lost $250,000 by investing in the mines of Colorado. But he hadn’t lost faith in the entertainment industry. By 1898 his famed minstrel troupes were on the road again. He stayed in New York for only a short time, bouncing between there and Salt Lake City beginning in 1899. His last endeavor was starting a small museum in Brooklyn, New York in May of 1901. Just a few months later, on September 28, Jack Haverly succumbed to some longtime heart problems. His body was shipped back to Pennsylvania for burial. Newspapers all over the country published Haverly’s obituary, paying tribute to the flamboyant theater man who had entertained the country for decades. One of his good friends, writer Eugene Field, paid tribute to him in the New York Times with a poem titled “Memories of ‘Jack’ Haverly”:

‘Jack’ Haverly, ‘Jack’ Haverly, I wonder where you are.
Are your fortunes cast with Sirius, or ‘neath some kindlier star?
How happens it we never see your wondrous minstrel show,
With its apt alliterations, as we used to, years ago?
All the ebon aggregations that afflict these modem times
Are equally unworthy our prose and of our rhymes.
And I vainly pine and hanker for the joys that used to come
With the trumpets um-ta-ra-ra and the big base drum.
‘Jack’ Haverly, here’s a-hoping that some bright propitious star
Beams kindly down upon you, whereso’er your interests are,
For my heart is warm toward you for the joy you gave me when
I was a little rambling tyke; and I were glad again
To see you marching up the street with your dusky knights of song—
By George, I’d head the gang of boys that whooped your way along;
And I’d stake that all our plaudits and acclaims would over come
The trumpet ump-ta-ra-ra and the big base drum.

Today, theater history buffs fondly remember the man who entertained the world with his minstrel shows and opera companies. In the Cripple Creek District, however, Jack Haverly seems to have had the last laugh.

Goldfield, the Family Town of Colorado’s Cripple Creek District

c 2023 by Jan MacKell Collins

Portions of this article appear in Lost Ghost Towns of Teller County.

Of the many towns once located within the Cripple Creek District, Goldfield reached third largest in population during its time. While the city is now no more than a bedroom community of nearby Victor, Goldfield is recognized as one of the most active cities in the District during the 1890’s and early 1900’s. The city lies at an altitude of 9903′ feet on the outskirts of Montgomery Gulch, better known now as the Vindicator Valley. To the east, Big Bull Mountain hovers over Goldfield. To the west is the former town of Independence, surrounded by the ghost mines of Teresa, the Golden Cycle, the Portland #1 and #2, the Findley, the Independence, and the Vindicator.

Goldfield’s beginnings date to 1894 when three men, James Doyle, James Burns, and John Harnan struck it rich with the Portland Mine. The Portland’s name was derived from Portland, Maine, where the “two Jimmys,” as they became known, grew up. With the Portland in full swing the partners decided to form their own town. The men established the Gold Knob Mining and Townsite Company on a large pasture where, some twenty years before, a forest fire had left an expansive clearing.

By the time the new town was platted in January of 1895, Burns and Doyle had wisely changed the name of Gold Knob to the more attractive name of Goldfield. Burns was put in charge of the company, laying out the streets and selling lots, starting at $25.00 each. A number of mining claims were also made on the future townsite; because of that, property was sold with surface rights only.

Goldfield’s post office opened on May 5, 1895. Referred to as the “City of Homes”, Goldfield was a family town. Modern, wooden sidewalks graced the streets, and in later years locals said the Sunday school was the longest running institution of its kind in the Cripple Creek District. Indeed, unlike the wild town of Altman just half a mile away, Goldfield’s citizens were far more interested in establishing schools and churches than saloons. Two newspapers, the Goldfield Gazette and the Goldfield Times, set about reporting news of the day.

Not ironically, all of Goldfield’s town officials belonged to the Western Federation of Miners Union. Some of them had already been through a labor war in the district during the previous year. Perhaps the best-known union supporter in Goldfield was the first mayor, John Easter. There is no doubt that Easter was hoping for a civilized, prominent city in Goldfield. Not only did he immediately establish a fire department, but he also hired a city physician at $300 per year. There was even a “pest house” for confining those with contagious diseases (and almost immediately, pest house attendant Albert Pheasants was fired for coming to work drunk.). Everybody, from the dogs of the town to the few saloons, had to have a license and prostitution was strictly outlawed. A town engineer was paid to maintain the roads at $10 per day.

By the end of its first year, Goldfield had a population numbering 2,191 residents. This figure may have included the town of Independence, located across Montgomery Gulch and divided from Goldfield by the tracks of the Midland Terminal Railroad. Two of the main avenues, Independence and Victor, led to those two towns respectively.

By 1896 the population of Goldfield proper was a thousand people. A new mayor, Edward M. Sullivan, was elected as was a new marshal, Allen Combs. As with the pest house attendants, a city ordinance stipulated that the town marshal could be replaced if found too drunk to work. The ordinance was not without merit, since Goldfield had grown to include two assayers, an attorney, two boarding houses, one dentist, three groceries, one hotel, two meat markets, three doctors and three saloons. A reservoir made use of several natural springs in the area, supplying water to ditches under the sidewalks and fire hydrants on every corner in town. The Florence & Cripple Creek Railroad reached Goldfield in November. Passenger service between Goldfield and Victor, a little over a mile away, commenced soon after.

Goldfield continued to progress at a rapid rate through 1897. The F. & C.C. built a new depot, and by 1898 the city had street lights and telephone lines. The latter were provided by the La Bella Power Plant, constructed by railroad tycoon David Moffat. The plant was designed to provide power not just to Goldfield, but also to outlying towns and mines. Street car service was provided at five cents a ride. Those with their own transportation were made to obey the six mile-per-hour speed limit in town. Another city ordinance prohibited loud or profane language in public.

By 1898, Goldfield had reached its status as the third largest city in the Cripple Creek District. Water was supplied to the town of Independence across Montgomery Gulch. But Goldfield appears to be the exception to the typical frontier gold town. Social activities included lots of parades, picnics and concerts versus the usual saloons, shady ladies and shoot outs. In 1899, possibly in an effort to compete for the county seat of newly formed Teller County, Goldfield was officially incorporated. However, the loss of the county seat to Cripple Creek was not surprising.

By 1900, Goldfield’s population had risen to 3500. The Cripple Creek District Directory described Goldfield as a “lively little city,” which it was. Homes ranged from simple miner’s cabins to gaudy Victorian architecture, and were well kept with nice lawns. Each resident was responsible for keeping the sidewalk in front of their home clean of debris and snow. A local junk dealer provided trash service. Seven boardinghouses, a variety of stores, nine groceries, five doctors, nine restaurants and nine saloons served residents. Clark’s Opera House provided nightly entertainment. There were also several societies, including a Masonic lodge and the Red Men. Three railroads: the Florence & Cripple Creek, the Midland Terminal and the Colorado Springs & Cripple Creek District, afforded transportation. Twenty thousand tons of gold ore were being transported from Goldfield annually. In fact, it was estimated that three fourths of the ore shipped from the District went through Goldfield. With all these amenities, it could be said Goldfield made an exemplary city, save for one tiny incident. A Miss Luella Vance of Goldfield served papers on mining magnate Sam Strong at the close of his wedding to another woman. Luella’s claim was one of many imposed on Strong, a philandering womanizer and a drunk besides. Miss Vance received $50,000 to aid in the mending of her broken heart.

From all appearances, Goldfield retained its union status as a second labor strike loomed on the horizon in 1903. Interestingly, there does not appear to have been much strike activity within city limits. In fact, it would appear that rather than witness messy fisticuffs and battles within its refined city limits, Goldfield chose to handle things outside of town instead. When the National Guard was called to Battle Mountain in the midst of the strike, they quartered just above Victor. Yet a photograph of the settlement is identified as “Camp Goldfield.” Furthermore a “bull pen” was erected to imprison striking miners nearby, safely outside city limits. Even so, a number of citizens left town for safer pastures. One man named Jack Ried, however, worked as the town marshal after being shot during labor war scuffle in Victor. The injury resulted in the amputation of Ried’s leg. In Goldfield, he was fondly referred to as “Peggy.”

By the end of the strike in 1904, about half the homes of Goldfield were empty, just like they were at Altman and Independence. Of the three cities, however, Goldfield alone elected to start fresh. Accordingly, non-union citizens impeached the union city officials. Elected in their place were officers who played neutral parts in mining activities. By 1905, Goldfield was holding steady with a population of 3000. There were still three churches, four social halls and seven lodges, although a number of other businesses had fallen to the wayside. The last of the city’s many newspapers, the Goldfield Crescent, closed down its press in 1909.

As the mining boom of the 1890’s subsided, Goldfield’s population was dropping steadily by 1911. The business district dwindled down to one assayer, one barber, one dairy, four stores, four groceries, two meat markets, one doctor and two saloons. The downsizing was accented by the death of John Easter in 1914. Nearly every citizen of Goldfield accompanied the first mayor’s body to his burial at Sunnyside Cemetery.

Somehow, Goldfield stayed busy during the waning years of the gold boom. By 1915 the population was holding steady at 1,200, and new businesses in town included three auto garages – the start of a whole new era. Two churches and three lodges were still functioning, and little else changed save for the abolishment of the saloons with statewide prohibition in 1917.

With time, however, the whole district slumped as the mines slowly became too expensive to operate. The wooden sidewalks in Goldfield slowly disappeared. As they rotted or fell away, a popular pastime became searching the ditches underneath for long lost money or other items. It is said even a few gold coins surfaced on occasion. But Goldfield was slowly being forgotten. The post office officially closed in 1932, and book chronicling the infamous labor wars neglected to even mention Goldfield. Even the Cripple Creek Times Record stopped publishing Goldfield news after 1939.

By 1954, only 60 people still called Goldfield home. One of them was miner Rufus Porter, aka The Hard Rock Poet. Porter first came to the district in 1917. Now, he was writing a column for the Colorado Springs Gazette Telegraph, penning poems about the old days in the Cripple Creek District, and publishing his own set of history booklets. Among the characters in Porter’s Goldfield memoirs was Jack Condon, who once fought Jack Dempsey in Victor. It also was according to Porter that long after Goldfield ceased electing mayors, one Billy Butler became an honorary mayor for a number of years. Butler was also a former miner, and described as having a good heart and being respected by all who knew him. Upon retiring, Butler purchased a mimeograph machine and published his own newsletter.

Thirty-five people, including Porter, still lived in Goldfield during 1969. At that time Goldfield’s businesses had all closed, and it was officially considered a ghost town. Yet the city hall still contained its huge safe with “City of Goldfield” etched in gold leaf on its door. A few years later, however, the City Hall had been relieved of its safe, as well as valuable documents and ledgers, which began appearing for sale on various websites. In the meantime, some of the remaining homes and buildings began swaying with time. Some fell with an unheard sigh into the weeds around them. Still others retained much of their original flavor, lovingly looked after by the residents within.

Today, Goldfield’s city hall and fire station still stand. In the last forty years alone, citizens have garnered support for the preservation of Goldfield in the way of the Goldfield Restoration Association, along with assistance from the Cripple Creek District Museum and the Victor Lowell Thomas Museum. Thanks to their efforts, Goldfield remains as a charming bedroom community, its history intact.

Pictured: The author at Goldfield City Hall, circa 1985

Gillett, Colorado: A Gambling Man’s Town

c 2022 by Jan MacKell Collins

Portions of this article are excerpted from Lost Ghost Towns of Teller County

Before it was even a town, Gillett – located high in the mountains on the backside of Pikes Peak near the famous Cripple Creek District – was known by many names. Shortly after the town of Beaver Park was platted along today’s Highway 81 in 1892, a nearby suburb became known as West Beaver Park. Later, the name was changed to Cripple City. As the Midland Terminal Railroad built tracks from Divide, the name was changed again to Gillett.

The new city was renamed for railroad man W.K. Gillett, who, along with Henry Collbran, Irving Howbert and Harlan Lillibridge, were making big plans. The partners created the Midland Terminal Railroad, a spur of the Colorado Midland Railroad which would turn at Divide and head toward the Cripple Creek District (Gillett wanted to name the new railroad the “Cripple Creek and Gold Gulch Railroad,” but when the directors of the Colorado Midland objected to such a whimsical name, the moniker was changed to the Midland Terminal). The new company was officially formed in October 1893.

Early buildings at Gillett included log cabins but also hewn wood structures. The new town attracted such influential men as Albert E. Carlton, who had designs on a new freight company in Cripple Creek, as well as Charles Tutt and Spencer Penrose, two longtime friends from Colorado Springs who had already made much money in the copper mines of Utah. Gillett was the perfect place for the two young wealthy bachelors to build an entertainment mecca. Accordingly, Tutt and Penrose built an exclusive horse track and casino and called it “Sportsman’s Park.”

Gillett was platted on January 19, 1894. Of the budding city, “a site with more picturesque surroundings could not have been chosen,” crowed the 1894 Cripple Creek District Directory. Located in a vast meadow with stunning views all around, Gillett would be the first town reached by the Midland Terminal on its way into the Cripple Creek District. Plans were underway to build a $150,000 “railway hotel station,” meant to be a “resort hotel adapted for the comfort and enjoyment of leisure seekers and tourists, and for the residents of the district.” The main drag through Gillett was named Parker Street after First National Bank president J.M. Parker. The avenue was soon lined with tidy, false-fronted buildings and aspen trees which had been planted for accent. In anticipation of the railroad, a nice wood depot and telegraph office also were built.

The Midland Terminal reached Gillett as planned, chugging gloriously into town on Independence Day in 1894. A month later, the post office opened, on August 29. Since the mountains between Gillett and Cripple Creek were too steep on which to build a railroad, a stage road led to the latter town instead as the Midland Terminal continued building through Beaver Park and toward the city of Victor. On September 11, Pullman sleeper service began on the rail lines between Denver and Cripple Creek. Now, sleeper passengers could disembark at Gillett depot and catch a stage into Cripple Creek, or stay the night in town. Other travelers also stayed the night in Gillett before traveling on, bringing extra commerce to town.

Gillett did suffer minor social issues. Tutt and Penrose soon realized that their wealthy friends were quite content patronizing the elite Broadmoor Casino (the precursor to the fabulous Broadmoor Hotel) in Colorado Springs, rather than making the trek all the way to Gillett. Thus, the racetrack at Sportsman’s Park never opened for more than two days a week and eventually scaled down to just a few Saturdays in the summer. The newly-built Monte Carlo Casino suffered the same fate and was eventually converted to a school for the children of the town. Even budding madam Pearl DeVere initially purchased property in Gillett, but soon moved to Cripple Creek, where she became the city’s most famous harlot. Even so, a city jail was built at Gillett to imprison any lawbreakers who happened along. Outside of town, the newly erected Beaver Park Stamp Mill processed ore from the Lincoln Mine (alternately known as the Lincoln & Gibbons), as well as the King of Diamonds. There was also the Gillett Reduction Works. Additional employment could be found at the shops for the Midland Terminal.

In August 1895, the only “legal” bullfight in the United States took place at Gillett. The event was the brainchild of Joe Wolfe, owner of Cripple Creek’s prestigious Palace Hotel and described as a “sometime confidence man.” Wolfe partnered with Wild West performer and rodeo cowboy “Arizona Charlie” Meadows to form the “Joe Wolfe Grand National Spanish Bull Fight Company.” As a means to secure the support of the town council, Wolfe appointed them as the board of directors of his company. But it was Charlie Meadows who was Wolfe’s ace in the hole.

The six-foot-six tall, long-haired, mustachioed man from Arizona surely made a presence to the citizens of Gillett. Meadows’s career in rodeo began at Payson, Arizona in 1884. In 1888, he hosted a “cowboy contest” in Prescott where he earned a reputation as a “crack shot” and the “fastest man with a rope in the business.” A few months later, he was a winning participant in Prescott’s first rodeo.

Meadows used his skills and accompanying flair for finesse to eventually turn from rodeo cowboy to showman. For seven years, he had toured several countries with a Wild West show, worked with Buffalo Bill’s traveling troupe, and eventually formed his own show. He was well known throughout the West by the time he hooked up with Joe Wolfe. Together, the pair borrowed $5,000 to build a five-thousand-seat amphitheater at Gillett, print tickets and posters, and secure real matadors and bulls from Mexico for the event. Wolfe’s contribution to the town included the purchase of nine and a half blocks of real estate.

Almost immediately, people began voicing their opposition to the upcoming event. The Colorado Springs Gazette in particular published several editorials. “If it be illegal to import bulls for fighting at the Atlanta Exposition, surely it must be illegal to import them across the border for fighting at the Gillett Exposition,” argued one article. “Here is a chance for Francis Hill of the Humane Society to write to the Secretary of the Treasury, informing him that it is proposed to import bulls for the same purpose of fighting and ‘keep them out of El Paso County.’”

The authorities did ultimately stop the bulls and their keepers at the Texas border. But the matadors still came, and Wolfe and Meadows managed to wrangle some local bulls who were anything but the fighting variety. Things took an equally nasty turn when Wolfe invited renowned bunco artist Soapy Smith to set up his games of chance outside the entrance to the event. Soapy took so much money from his victims that some of them could not afford the $5 ticket to get in. Those who did gain admittance on the first day were shocked as the bulls were led to a cruel death. Fewer than three hundred spectators attended on the second day. On the third day, Wolfe and Meadows folded the show and were promptly arrested for animal cruelty. In all, the total proceeds were a mere $2,600.

Gillett citizens quickly overcame their embarrassment over the infamous Gillett bullfights. By late 1895, two daily trains were still bringing plenty of passengers to town, and citizens had their choice of four newspapers to read on the trip. As of 1896, 1,500 residents had access to numerous businesses, including three doctors and an amazing nine saloons. Father Volpe’s Catholic Church and a Congregational Church were built in 1897. By 1899 the Golden Crescent Water and Light Company, owned by the Woods brothers in Victor, was servicing Gillett.

Unfortunately, Gillett proved to be too far from the mines of the Cripple Creek District, and much of the town was eventually vacated. Even with eight trains passing through daily, the population in 1900 was only a little over five hundred people, including those living at nearby Monte Carlo Lakes. At least there were still a few bars, and the school still supported a handful of students with Miss Mary A. Wilson as principal. The Co-Operative Brick Company on the outskirts of town was supplying bricks for surrounding businesses, homes, and mines. Eventually, however, both the Lincoln and King of Diamonds mines played out, and the Beaver Park Stamp Mill became useless.

The 1902 district directory commented that Gillett’s “remoteness from the working mines has told against it, and at the present time its population is at a very low ebb.” A hopeful endnote stated, “It is not at all improbable that something may occur at any time which will ‘boom’ the town and make it one of the largest in the District.” But the numbers didn’t lie; the directory reported Gillett’s population at a mere three hundred people.

Gillett’s last newspaper, The Forum edited by Mayor James Parfet, closed in 1905. Now only 250 people remained in town, and neither church had a minister. The post office, run by Charles Adams for many years, closed briefly in 1908 but reopened six months later. The reprieve was brief, for the 1910 census counted only forty-four people living in town.

In 1911, old Gillett entered a new era as a ranching community when the Vetter family purchased much of the land there, and the post office closed a final time in 1913. Gillett’s once grand buildings sank into the ground, were torn down, or burned. Rufus Porter, the miner-turned-writer of the District town of Goldfield, remembered a man named Greasy Miller who lived at Gillett during its waning years. Greasy “burned down a score of houses by raking the ashes from the stove onto the floor. When the shack caught fire he’d simply move to another one.”

In time, some families moved their loved ones’ graves from the cemetery to other local graveyards. The pews and the pulpit from Father Volpe’s Catholic Church were moved to St. Peter’s Church in Cripple Creek. The old church was used as a hay barn until it burned in 1949, and in 1965 a flood from a dam break above town washed away Gillett’s remaining buildings. Today, Gillett is known as Gillett Flats. The decaying ruins of the church, which sit on private land, can be spotted from the highway.

An Ode to Elkton, Colorado

c 2022 by Jan MacKell Collins

I first dared to trespass over the chain across the road at Elkton many years ago. Creeping up the hillside, I hoped no passing car would see me or my bright red Chevy Nova, parked off the highway between Cripple Creek and Victor. Above me lay a handful of buildings in various states of decay. The empty cabins beckoned me with a whisper, asking me to remember the lives within their cozy depths. Elkton was inviting me in. With a last look around, I cautiously ducked into the first skeletal cabin I reached. Walking over the threshold was like entering a different world.

And so it went, for over a glorious decade. When other ghost towns seemed so far away, when imposing fences and signs created impassable barriers, Elkton was there for me.  Sometimes alone, and sometimes with others, I enjoyed the old town as often as I could. No matter the season or time of day, the thought of Elkton inspired me to grab my coat, umbrella or lantern and explore to my heart’s content. As I came to know the town, I learned to belong there. As I came to know Elkton’s history, I yearned to have seen its lively past.

It was much later that I learned about William Shemwell, an amateur prospector and former blacksmith, who partnered with two other men to register what became the Elkton Mining and Milling Company – so named because Shemwell spotted some elk antlers near his dig. Next, Shemwell talked Colorado Springs grocers George and Sam Bernard, into grubstaking him in exchange for his $36.50 worth of groceries. Later, the Bernards bought Shemwell and partners out, hired the revered Ed De La Vergne to run the mine, and made millions. Long before that happened, however, the town of Elkton grew up near the mine to house local miners and their families.

Elkton’s post office opened in 1895, when the town was very fortunate to be served by all three railroads in the Cripple Creek District: the Florence & Cripple Creek, the Midland Terminal and later, the Colorado Springs & Cripple Creek District Railway. The Low Line Interurban System also constructed a bridge over the Midland Terminal tracks. A station house and telegraph office were built below the Elkton Mine. In 1896, the railroad built a quarter mile siding on the outskirts of town, just to pick up the ore.

Elkton’s population in 1896 was about 800. There was a barber, a hay and feed store, a laundry, one boardinghouse, a saloon, a cobbler, two hotels, two grocers, and a depot. Meanwhile, tiny houses sprouted all around the business district, and by 1898

Elkton looked about as neighborly as you could get. Neat rows of roads were built along the hillside, with modest miners cabins lined up beside one another. In time, the town would also absorb the nearby communities of Arequa, Beacon Hill and Eclipse.

As of 1900, there were nearly three dozen business houses, from Jennie Allen the laundress to Sam Adelman the shoemaker, from Frank Bernard the assayer to Naufett and Kelly’s saloon. Several merchants felt it was important to put Elkton’s name in front of their business name; the city directory showed shops like the book and stationary store, grocery stores, a drugstore and pharmacy, and even a laundry pointing out how proud the owners were to be a part of the town’s business district. There was also a school and at least five rooming houses to house bachelor miners and the occasional visitor.

Over the next three years, Elkton grew to its peak population of 3,000 people in 1905. Yet the town retained its sense of community, even during the tumultuous labor strikes during 1903 and 1904. Here, neighbors talked freely about the local happenings, traded recipes and tall tales, gossiped about each other, speculated about how well the Elkton Mine was doing, and chatted amiably with each other over the back fence or while walking past the neat rows of little houses. Even when Elkton began shrinking as mining in the Cripple Creek District waned, those die-hards who remained in town went on about their daily business, chins up.

Like some of the other 25-or-so towns and cities in the District, Elkton received a brief reprieve in 1914 when mining engineer Dick Roelofs discovered a gigantic vug in the Cresson Mine about a mile above town. With the discovery, miners from all over the district were summoned to work the Cresson Vug. Roelofs built an overhead tram from the Cresson which extended down through Elkton and ended at Eclipse. Two years after that, the Elkton Mine topped out at $16,200,000 in gold production.

The lifeline of the town got smaller and smaller. By 1919 only a few businesses were left. The school closed down around 1920, and the post office closed six years later. That is when Elkton began its life as a tiny shadow of its former self. Some homes were abandoned, while others remained occupied off and on. Those who lived there treasured Elkton as an authentic, semi-ghost town from the long ago past whose charm included weathering buildings which somehow remained steadfast in the face of harsh, windy winters and pouring summer rains. As late as 1982, a few homes were still occupied. By the time I discovered the town, however, the buildings were empty and only some remnants of those who lived there remained.

During those times I visited, I sometimes used history books as a guide. It was not hard back then to stand in the streets and compare old images of Elkton to the contemporary scene. The history left behind challenged my imagination to picture how Elkton must have been. Wandering from building to building, I saw plenty of signs of a life long before mine. One house was strewn with vintage lingerie and a dressing table whose drawers still contained stationary, cold cream and bobby pins. Another home offered shelves of spices, canned goods and shoe polish. Yet another still had pictures hanging on the walls. In the last twenty years, some woman had left her checkbook on a closet shelf. Later, I saw a mining certificate bearing her name, up for sale at a shop in Cripple Creek. A wonderful old pair of catty sunglasses rested on the sink at that house, as if someone had just come in with groceries and laid them down.

Even the walls of some houses told a story, since many of them were covered with old newspapers for added insulation. Sometimes there was no newspaper, only loose strips of wallpaper reaching out like long wispy fingers on the breeze.  I looked under porches and poked around root cellars. My imagination furnished the empty front parlors and pondered over kitchens. In the house with the spices, a table was still set with a tablecloth and centerpiece.

Often I wished for the means to restore the old piano still reposing dismally inside what was formerly a prim and comfortable home. It was a cheap upright, painted white by some well-meaning housewife and left behind when the housewife departed. In its later life, the piano housed bird nests and rodent dens. Few of its ivory keys gave forth an audible note. My favorite memory about the house with the piano is the day a friend and I were caught in a rainstorm there.

Waiting out the storm gave us time to look closely at the scattered remnants of someone’s past. Magazines and other paper lazed in piles around the house. Pieces of wedding paper and bows also lay about, as if the bride in all her glee had run through the house opening her gifts in a frenzy and strewing paper as she went. Mixed with the bows were letters telling of the marriage—and of an accident following the ceremony which seriously injured the groom. What became of the couple is anyone’s guess, and I suppose I’d rather keep it that way. For imagination’s sake.

Outside of the houses were more pieces of history – old bottles, bits of broken china, chunks of old cookstoves, pieces of a chair. Old clotheslines where clothes once hung, and flower gardens once lovingly tended. Wind, people, and perhaps even animals had scattered other items about. It was not unusual to find a saucepan in the middle of the road, or someone’s shoe, or a discarded license plate. A garage with one door hanging precariously on one hinge and swinging in the breeze revealed an old armoire that was chock full of old magazines. I tell you, visiting Elkton was one of my very favorite things to do. Being there somehow made me feel at home, and I slowly but surely fell in love with that old ghost town.

Then came 1994.

Talk had long been coming about the Cripple Creek & Victor Mine wanting to take out Elkton. The company got their wish, and Elkton, along with the entire mountain upon which it perched, was bulldozed in the frantic search for more gold. Prior to the destruction an archaeological dig was conducted at the town, but any remaining artifacts were sent to an out-of-state university and local museums received nothing. It made me glad that I had picked and saved several items from Elkton over the years. Most of them made their way to the Cripple Creek District Museum, so others could enjoy them and Elkton’s history. But I saved the catty sunglasses for myself.

Still, the destruction of Elkton made me sad. I remembered the bird nests I spotted on porches. During the years that Elkton was left to the elements, plenty of other wildlife made the town their home as well. Then there was the matter of the way the faded yellow paint under the eave of one house shone as the sun was setting on it. And the broken china doll head I forgot to pick up. And the story of the old couple who lived there in the 50’s and proclaimed themselves Mr. and Mrs. Mayor of Elkton. And the memories of people who managed to survive quite nicely in primitive cabins with few modern amenities. All of that was destroyed when Elkton fell to the bulldozer.

There’s a story about a little boy walking down the beach among hundred of starfish that have washed up. The child begins picking them up, one by one, and tossing them back into the ocean. A man sees this and asks the boy, “What are you doing? You can’t save them all, you know.” The boy picks another starfish up, tosses it into the water, and replies, “Well, I just saved that one.” Elkton is my lost starfish, the one I couldn’t save. I know I’m not the only one to feel this way. That is why groups of us historians advocate, sometimes fiercely, to save history before it’s gone. So people will remember how important these places were, and how they got us to where we are now.

You can read more about the ghost towns of the Cripple Creek District and Teller County in Jan’s book, Lost Ghost Towns of Teller County.

Image c 2022 by Jan MacKell Collins