The Trail of Gold and Silver Read online

  Notwithstanding the drawbacks, not everyone thought such smoke an evil omen. The editor of the Dolores News (August 28, 1879) told his readers that the day that dawns on a smelter “belching forth its huge volume of smoke over the town of Rico, will be to all the inhabitants of Pioneer Mining District a harbinger of good times coming.” For a new camp like Rico, a smelter represented mining coming of age and progress reaching toward prosperity.

  Problems in addition to smoke quickly surfaced as well. Local streams were polluted by smelters and mines, affecting towns’ water supplies. Hillsides were torn away, and trees were dying around smelters. A visitor traveling to Black Hawk and Central City, along Clear Creek, described “a stream now misnamed by reason of its dirty flood, made so by the numerous quartz mills in and about the gold region at Black Hawk and Central.” Another said of the same area that the hills “seemed honey-combed or like pepper-boxes, so ragged and torn were they.”11

  Writer Helen Hunt Jackson, seeking to improve her health, moved to Colorado Springs in the early 1870s, and soon started taking tours of her new state. She eventually reached Fairplay (she spelled it “Fair Play”) and was less than impressed.

  Fair Play is a mining town, one of the oldest in Colorado. It ought to be a beautiful village, lying as it does on a well-wooded slope at foot of grand mountains and on the Platte River. It is not. It is ill arranged, ill built, ill kept, dreary. Why cannot a mining town be clear, well-ordered, and homelike? I have never seen one such in Colorado or in California.

  She concluded, “Surely, it would seem that men getting gold first hand from Nature might have more heart and take more time to make home pleasant and healthful than men who earn their money by the ordinary slow methods.”12 Nor was Jackson the only Easterner to be underwhelmed by the appearance of a mining community.

  But what could locals do? For most, the towns and camps were merely temporary residences, and mining was why they were there, their source of income. They were using the only smelting and mining methods they knew, and they could always leave. Very few in western mining regions worried about the industry’s potential impact on the land, water, air, or themselves. Some did speak out, but general environmental awareness and concern did not develop for nearly another century.

  If they were put off by the reality, visitors were nevertheless often intrigued by mines’ names. One trend, noticed in the 1870s, was the increasing reuse of mine names that had, one way or another, become famous for their wealth and richness of their ore. Some of the most popular ones—Comstock, Bunker Hill, Eureka, Ophir, Dolly Varden, Idaho, No Name, Seven Thirty, Homestake, and Sherman—appeared in several mining districts. In most cases, the reasons for the appellations are lost to history; perhaps miners were superstitious, were trying to fool the public or investors, or just liked the name. Still, the name of a mine often tells something about the man, or men, who originally staked the claim. Miners might choose to honor a sweetheart, hometown, home state, geographic site, historical event or person, themselves, or almost anything else; the monikers were limited only by their imaginations or the acceptable nomenclature of the era. The legendary RAM mine in Leadville dodged that latter bullet by using initials for “Ragged Ass Mine,” named by the discoverer who slipped down a rocky slope and found a mineral outcropping, at the cost of ripped pants and a bruised body.

  The year 1874 proved a milestone for Colorado: the first year in which the production of silver surpassed that of gold. Led by Georgetown and Caribou, and supported by a host of lesser-known districts, Colorado mining now had twin pillars to rely on. Proud local boosters optimistically forecast “every probability that the silver-yield will increase yearly.” The foundation for future growth—railroads, trained professionals, skilled miners, improved smelting and milling, newly opened mining districts, new and improved mining equipment, and a growing agricultural and industrial support base for the miners and mines in the mountains—was in place. What the Engineering and Mining Journal (February 21, 1874) said about the San Juans really applied to the whole Colorado Territory: “It has been proved that there are some good mines here. It only remains now that capitalists should have attention drawn to this new field.”

  Despite the crushing impact of the economic depression that had settled over the territory and nation, sometimes optimism still ran amok in those who had contracted “mining fever.” That old Nevada miner Mark Twain knew that all too well: “I am not one of those who in expressing opinions confine themselves to facts.” Or, as he wrote in Roughing It, as he dreamed about the richness of a claim he and his partners had just discovered, “That brought the most realizing sense I had had yet that I was actually rich, beyond the shadow of doubt. For I was worth a million dollars, and did not care ‘whether school kept or not!’” His contemporaries across the mountains of Colorado were entertaining similar thoughts as 1874 turned to 1875.

  6

  1875–1880: “All Roads Lead to Leadville”

  We knew that we were nearly “in” when corrals and drinking places and repair shops began to multiply, and rude, jocose signs appeared on doors closed to the besieging mob of strangers: “No chicken, no eggs, no keep folks—dam.” We left behind us that disorganized thoroughfare called Harrison Avenue, with its blaring bands of music and ceaseless tramp of homeless feet on board sidewalks.1

  Thus did Leadville welcome author and artist Mary Hallock Foote, who arrived in May 1879, with her mining engineer husband, Arthur, when the town was booming as none other in Colorado’s short history. That summer Leadville stirred men’s minds with boundless silver dreams and riches almost beyond imagination. It was the moment Colorado and Coloradans had been waiting for since the days of the ’59 rush.

  All that lay in the near future, however. As 1875 dawned, though, the Colorado mining situation looked more promising than it had for years. With railroads expanding into the mountains and the depression begun in 1873 ever so slowly starting to ease, the future looked bright. In his last report as mining commissioner, Rossiter Raymond noted progress on all fronts. Older districts, such as Empire and Gold Hill, which had gone through “alternate growth and retrogression,” showed “signs of renewed vigor.” New districts “discovered during 1873 and 1874”—San Juans, Rosita, Sunshine, and Hahns Peak—“have passed safely through the vicissitudes of early age.” Several new districts had been discovered, in the San Juans, in the Gunnison Country, and in Boulder County (Magnolia). In Georgetown and Central, “the fierce litigations that have for many years retarded the development of the mines, and caused so much distress to investors, show signs of dying out.”

  Even the smelting industry had gained stability, although, as Raymond admitted, Colorado had been a “battle-ground for smelting companies” for the past five years. Nathaniel Hill had been successful, others were still experimenting.

  Not that all the problems had been resolved—far from it. One of the problems Raymond identified was the distance that often stretched from mine to mill. Boulder County ores, for instance, had to travel down to the plains and then back into the mountains via Clear Creek to reach Hill’s smelter at Black Hawk. Clear Creek County ores went fifteen or twenty miles to reach a smelter; Rosita had 190 miles “between it and reduction.” San Juan “ores have to cross two snowy ranges, and spend days at least on the road before the furnaces are reached.”2

  These and other issues had long concerned Nathaniel Hill and his right-hand assistant, Richard Pearce, an experienced Cornish smelting man and metallurgist, who had come to work with the Boston and Colorado Company in 1873. He contributed several improvements to the Black Hawk smelter, but it became obvious that its mountain location was not the best. For example, coal, minerals used for flux, and all supplies not locally attainable had to be hauled up to Black Hawk, adding cost, time, and inconvenience to the operation. Additionally, the plant had reached the size limitation imposed by the narrow North Clear Creek canyon. Hill wished to expand his business and saw little hope of doing so near Black Hawk.<
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  The answer was obvious. It would be far easier to take the ore out of the mountains to a central location with better weather, a lower cost of living, access to various mining districts, and a railroad hub. The cost of hauling ore downhill would be less than the expense of hauling everything up to Black Hawk. Hence, in January 1878, Denver leaders and Hill inspected several possible smelter locations on the city’s northern outskirts. When the new Argo Smelter was blown in a year later, it was the most up-to-date plant that Colorado, and the regional mining states, had ever seen, and the plant and processes only got better, thanks to Pearce’s technological brilliance. Just as Hill, who was now a United States senator, and Pearce had forecast, the new location in Denver, Colorado’s biggest and best city, with its lower expenditures for labor, supplies, and transportation, eventually allowed them to drop reduction costs.3 Smelting had finally come of age in the Rocky Mountains.

  A one-time California miner, Charles Harvey, settled in Denver just as the Argo smelter opened. Writing his family, he described a scene similar to that in Black Hawk:

  The smoke from their furnaces darkens the sky in that direction at all times, and with a wind drifts the smoke the way the wind blows so that it is a mist cloud moving along and it seems to me that about all the clouds we have here come from that smoke.4

  People could already observe that smelter smoke killed vegetation and animals, clouded the scenery, and deteriorated human health. The toxic fumes and smoke of the Argo smelter drifted around Denver, and residents faced the same dilemma in every smelter community in the state.

  At least all these smelters had material to process. The second half of the decade saw Rosita, and a few years later Silver Cliff, come into their own with both silver and gold production. Despite great expectations and the usual loud promotion, Custer County production peaked in 1880 at a little over $850,000.

  Meanwhile, Black Hawk made the news for more than Hill’s smelter. East and north of it in the late spring of 1878, silver was discovered in various locations. For a brief moment, it was like old times. News traveled quickly, as usual, and soon the silver strikes “attracted many prospectors and miners to their districts, resulting in new discoveries. There are now over one hundred men at work and some five hundred locations have been made.” Also as usual, it did not pan out as the enthusiasts hoped.

  Georgetown and Clear Creek County reached their absolute peak in silver production when the decade turned. Each mountain around Georgetown contained producing mines, but the Georgetown Courier was worried. Its June 16, 1877, issue complained, “it must be admitted by every candid judge that a considerable portion of our mines are not systemically worked.” Add to this the badly managed ones, and one had the problems that perennially vexed many western mining districts.

  Georgetown made one positive stride that same year. After years of experimental efforts, and much trial and error, a successful process to work low-grade ores profitably was developed and the local Stewart Mill opened. A visitor highly praised it in the Rocky Mountain News of April 17, 1877: It “is to Georgetown what Professor Hill’s works are to Gilpin county, as it is the largest and by far the finest mill for the reduction of silver ores that I know of in Colorado.” The correspondent also praised it for being “managed on business principles and making money for its owners.” It did not quite turn out that way, but it certainly sounded good in the press, and the mill did answer Georgetown’s immediate needs.

  The biggest news for the years 1875 to 1879 came from over on the Western Slope, where the San Juan region continued to develop and the Gunnison Country came into its own. From both areas came complaints about the Utes, particularly since prospectors into the Gunnison district regularly trespassed on parts of the Ute reservation. The predictable result occurred, though not directly because of mining. The “Ute Problem” came to an explosive climax when the members of the White River band killed their agent, Nathan Meeker, in September 1879. After that, the San Juaners got their way. All the various bands, except the Southern Utes living far down in the Four Corners region, were driven out of Colorado within two years. Under the guidance of their agent, backed by the United States Army, the Utes left their traditional homeland for Utah by early September 1881. The mineral-rich and agriculturally promising Western Slope finally opened for settlement and exploitation by the white man.

  The new Gunnison Country—Crested Butte, Ohio City, Gothic, Ruby, Gunnison—was settled not only by miners, but also by ranchers. With the news of silver strikes gaining momentum in 1878–1879, miners came in from nearby Lake City and Ouray to the high Elk Mountains and Taylor Park. The Denver Republican (February 28, 1880) heralded: “To the Gunnison is the all absorbing subject of thought and talk in Denver as well as on the remotest borders of the country, just now. . . . At all events the Gunnison excitement is the prevailing epidemic at present.” But, just as this boom began its run, the Leadville excitement completely overshadowed it.

  One exceptionally unusual evolution did take place as the region opened. Crested Butte, originally heralded for its silver and gold at the beginning of the Gunnison excitement, became even more famous for its coal deposits, which eventually benefited the entire region. Crested Butte stands alone in Colorado for changing from a precious-metal to a coal-mining district.

  Meanwhile, the San Juans continued to develop slowly. Summitville became the first district to gain statewide attention. Located at the southeast corner of the region, just above the San Luis Valley, it attracted some of the big names in contemporary Colorado mining, including Thomas Bowen and Jerome Chaffee. Despite what the Saguache Chronicle called “almost exhaust-less bodies of ore” (August 5, 1876), its gold veins proved spotty. The high altitude hampered work, the isolated location hurt, and production hit its peak at just under $300,000 as the decade turned.

  Most of the rest of the San Juans looked to silver as the savior. Hinsdale County saw early excitement, with Lake City promoting itself as the “Gateway to the San Juan,” because two of the major passes into the mountains, Cinnamon and Engineer, started nearby. This county, however, never equaled its neighbors during the 1870s, except in lead production. While Lake City’s Silver World worked hard to promote local mines, the Rocky Mountain News proved blunter, or perhaps more honest. The June 22, 1879, paper stated that the district needed “capital for systematic development,” had too little money to accomplish it, and investors seemed to have only weak faith in the prospects. Either “apathy or poverty” dogged Lake City’s mines, the News claimed.

  Beyond the mountains, isolation, poor transportation, and lack of money slowed development to a walk, at best. On the San Juan’s western edge, Rico’s Dolores News (August 21, 1879) opined that one thing, and one thing only, prevented a bonanza from gracing their district. There was, the editor claimed, “property enough to enrich and make affluent thousands of men as soon as capital is enlisted to work the mines.” Between Rico and Lake City there could be heard a cry that echoed throughout Colorado (and elsewhere as well): Investors and their money were desperately needed to reach the “promised land” of fantastic prosperity.

  Reality in the San Juans, though, consisted of many little camps settled in valleys, squeezed into canyons, and hanging onto mountainsides. The nearby mines looked promising, but, like the Gunnison Country, and every other Western Slope district, the San Juan denizens looked to the railroad for their mining millennium.

  Earlier in the decade, Colorado had gained its long-sought and long-awaited statehood, on August 1, 1876. The constitution of the “centennial state” proved very proactive toward mining, for both present and future, by basically saying very little. There was to be a commissioner of mines. The legislature “shall provide” for escape shafts, proper ventilation of mines, and “other appliances” necessary to protect miners’ health and safety, and “may” make laws regarding drainage. The science of mining and metallurgy may be taught in one of the state schools. A statement prohibiting children under twelve from work
ing in the mines was aimed at coal, not hard-rock, mining. Most importantly, “mines and mining claims bearing gold, silver and other precious metals [except net proceeds and surface improvements thereof] shall be exempt from taxation for the period of ten years from the constitution’s adoption.”5 That summarized governmental oversight of the state’s major industry. The industry, and in turn the Colorado economy, benefited for years from this laissez-faire, hands-off attitude.

  Colorado’s gold and silver mining industry awaited something else, too: a new and major rush. By the time statehood arrived in 1876, it had been a decade since any really important district had created a boom anything like the days of ’59. Furthermore, the tarnishing cloud of the “gold bubble” debacle still hung over the new state. Each new district raised hopes momentarily, caused a short-lived stir, and then petered out quickly; they all seemed to lack staying power, or else arrived too late in the decade to be properly tested. Coloradans could only look on with envy as other western mining states and territories grabbed headlines, drew investors, settlers, and visitors, and appeared set to boom past the newly minted state.

  Not that they didn’t continue to work, hope, and promote. One of the old districts, California Gulch, had once yielded a placer bonanza, a “long time” ago. Now it languished in borrasca (literally, “barren ground”). Migrating up to the gulch’s head with the miners, who were still operating a few small mines, Oro City evolved into a “backwater” gold hard-rock camp district mostly ignored by the public and investors alike.