The Trail of Gold and Silver Page 18
People elsewhere in the country could hardly believe or grasp what was happening in the “Cloud City,” where fortunes could be made almost overnight on Chestnut or Harrison Streets and on Fryer Hill.
Coloradans of those peak mining years had no idea they were living in such romantic, enthralling, legendary, and captivating times. Many were no doubt astonished to have eastern journalists and newspapermen portray them in such terms. They were equally surprised when tourists arrived to see the “elephant” and savor the times. They were, after all, very utilitarian communities, established for one reason and one reason only: mining. Beyond that, anything else that transpired was a bonus.
Small communities were found everywhere in the mining regions—perched on mountainsides, buried deep in canyons, huddled in valleys, and nestled along creeks and rivers. Visitors such as Isabella Bird were either fascinated or repelled by what they saw. She indicated her feelings about American towns when describing her arrival in Georgetown:
The area on which it is possible to build is so circumscribed and steep and the unpainted gable-ended houses are so perched here and there, and the water rushes so impetuously among them, that it reminded me slightly of a Swiss town. It is the only town I have seen in America to which the epithet picturesque could be applied.4
Quickly built in log and frame, camps appeared on the heels of each rush, large or small. If all went well and the mines developed, a camp might survive a season or two, or even a decade or longer, and perchance even grow into a town. Residents lobbied hard for their towns to become a county seat, a status that promised a stability not otherwise available. Many survive today for that very reason.
The camps and towns were there to serve the mines and miners in their district. The towns usually had satellite camps near them, which town residents considered part of their business sphere. When the inevitable decline came, camp residents drifted away or into the town, their former homes abandoned to deterioration. Towns were very protective and were jealous of interloper rival towns trying to take camp business away from them. Such maneuvers led to more than a few newspaper tempests.
A town usually had one or more newspapers, whereas a camp had only one, if any. Newspapers were critical for a community: They promoted, defended, attacked, reformed, motivated, aggravated, reported, and dissected events and activities. Every camp and town wanted one; without a newspaper to promote local highlights, miners were isolated and adrift in an uncaring world, lacking the ability to capture public notice, attract capital, or intrigue investors. Most papers had decided political slants, opinions, and editorial attitudes. They all debuted with high hopes and fair promises:
We shall supply the need of the San Juan Country for a paper. We shall preach no sermons. We shall not dabble in politics. There will be nothing pressing upon our time or space to prevent giving full and complete reports from this and the adjacent mining districts (Silver World, Lake City, June 19, 1875).
With our politest bow we greet you, dear reader, hoping for a long, agreeable and profitable acquaintance. We propose.
1. To aid in developing the rich mineral resources of these mountains
2. To Furnish the dwellers of these mountains the very latest news from the east.
3. In politics we are Independent Republican
(Tri-Weekly Miners’ Register, Central City, July 28, 1862).
We have opinions of our own and want to express them. We have matters of interest to tell and want to make them known. We have a work to do and must be about it. Our purpose is to work for the best interests of all our people, without any limitation or reservation whatsoever. Furthermore, we have come to stay (Crested Butte Republican, October 5, 1881).
Eventually, most of these papers suspended publication, usually with a valedictory editorial in the last issue. The Caribou Post (August 17, 1872) explained to its readers, “We started it [Post] fifteen months ago, largely in anticipation of the future.” Development did not prove as “rapid as we had reason to hope and expect, and we have consequently been unable to make it a present financial success.” Thus the paper bid readers farewell: “That we are compelled to suspend at the present time, is not the fault of anybody, but rather the misfortune.”
Tarryall’s Miners’ Record folded for similar reasons. In its last issue (September 14, 1862), it explained simply and honestly that “receipts do not pay current expenses.” The editor complained that people had “manifested but little disposition to advertise” and job work had been “scarce.” These two factors, the editor pointed out, “keep the newspaper office alive.” He held out hope for the future, though, as he bid his readers “adieu for a time.”
Mirroring the unbounded optimism of their readers, the proliferation of newspapers often outpaced the number of subscribers and advertisers needed for success. Some of the larger towns had too many papers for the available readership. Politically, papers usually ardently championed a single side, thereby potentially alienating a goodly proportion of the possible readership and putting themselves on the thin edge of profitability. The newspaper business in the Colorado mining world proved a gamble at best. Editors had to wear many hats and diligently search out the news, promote their communities, and sometimes even defend themselves. Nevertheless, they and their papers generally served the towns and districts well, and today they provide an invaluable window on the past.
The other group that had great stakes in the future of communities was the businessmen and women. They invested more in the present and future than did the transitory community members; it thus behooved them to work for permanency. Their numbers could be impressive. During Leadville’s plush days of prosperity, in June of 1879, the town was home to 25 clothing stores, 17 barber shops, 44 hotels and lodging houses, 51 groceries, 20 meat markets, 31 restaurants, and 120 saloons, among other businesses.
No other Colorado mining town could claim such numbers. More typical was Telluride in 1884, with its ten saloons, two hotels, five mercantile stores, and two restaurants. The size of and variety in the business district constituted a major difference between towns and camps. For example, Animas Forks, over the mountains from Telluride, had one hotel, two general merchants, and one restaurant in 1882. Breckenridge, still in its camp stage in 1861, boasted several hotels, stores, and meat markets and the only post office “west of the range.”
The ubiquitous general store, which offered a little of everything but not much selection, appeared everywhere. If the owner also gained the local post office, she or he had a decided advantage over competitors for miles around. Most business districts also had a livery stable or two, sometimes even more. That establishment, along with the saloon, was the “man’s home away from home,” good for a discussion, a game of checkers, and maybe a peek at the “racy” Police Gazette, with its buxom “darlings of the stage” wearing “tights.”
Watching over everything was the local government. Even most of the camps organized a loose-knit government and passed a few ordinances. Some of the large towns had fairly well-organized city governments. As in the earlier mining districts, though, most residents did not want the heavy tax burden that often accompanied a mayor, a town council, other officials, and a host of ordinances, so they got by with as few of these structural elements as possible.
Ordinances were necessary, though, and served very practical purposes. For example, Ward, in the mountains in western Boulder County, passed an ordinance regulating dogs, which included a tag requirement and defined “vicious dogs.” (Mining communities were often overrun with half-wild “curs and perps [puppies].”) Offenses and misdemeanors were carefully spelled out, as were fines. There were curfews for children under the age of sixteen and fines for parents who allowed them to loiter or to be found in “public places” after the appointed hour. To raise revenues, the town passed a schedule of business license fees and used the proceeds of a poll tax to improve the roads. The fire company was volunteer, but was under the “subject and control” of the Board of Trustees. To
further address the everpresent concern of fire, an ordinance defined where gunpowder, dynamite, kerosene, and similar materials could be stored or kept within the city limits. (Ordinances did little good, however; almost all camps and towns were ravaged at one time or another by the “fire fiend.”)
Unlike Ward, much larger Telluride had a more elaborate city government and set of ordinances. For example, in addition to a mayor, board, and a few officials, it had a street supervisor, health officer, city attorney, cemetery sexton, and a superintendent of water works—all salaried positions. Telluride had much higher fees, a larger budget, and a salaried fire department. The town was also concerned with what today would be called environmental issues, such as a clean river and drinking water and the absence of litter. Its telephone franchise, joined by an electric franchise, indicated a prospering, progressive community. Thriving new mining towns, which did not have to worry about established, older franchises, often quickly accepted modern improvements, especially in communications and transportation.
City governments faced a wide range of issues and problems. Victor, for instance, fought with Colorado Springs over water rights, ordered property owners to number their houses, and faced a financial emergency in June 1913. The treasurer announced that $800 remained in the treasury, and the city needed $2,000 to pay its bills. In its wisdom, the council declared that “a financial emergency exists”: to resolve it, they moved to borrow “$2,000 from the Bank of Victor.” They supported the Miners’ Band with $25 for weekly concerts during the summer, donated money for flowers for Decoration Day and $500 for the July Fourth celebration, and purchased a pest house “to take care of small pox cases.” Poorly maintained streets upset the citizens, as did the “disgraceful sights and scenes occurring on Portland Ave. daily.”
Georgetown drew upon New England for inspiration for its local government. A Board of Selectmen with no mayor was proposed in the city charter. Limited “executive” power was granted to a justice of the peace, or police judge, who ran the board meetings, dealt with town affairs, and sat as a judge on town matters. This decision combined executive and judicial power in the person of one individual and gave that person an unusual amount of power.
As communities declined, city governments declined with them. The budget for St. Elmo dropped from $2,200 in 1912 to $400 in 1916. License fees were reduced for the few remaining businesses, salaries were reduced, trustees resigned, and trustees’ meetings were postponed or regularly skipped. Even when they held meetings, they accomplished little beyond routine matters. Finally, in 1916, a husband and wife became the town’s clerk and mayor, respectively. St. Elmo seemed to get along very well with little government during both its brief heyday and its waning days.5
City fathers had to come to grips with all aspects of their communities, including the seamy side. Red-light districts, with their saloons, gambling halls, dance halls, parlor houses, cribs, and low-class variety theaters, tended to attract attention, both positive and negative. Reformers railed against the districts and their “hells”; tourists gawked, and maybe even sampled the “sin” offered there, but the districts were a vital part of the male-dominated and -oriented mining communities. Also, there was practicality: If a town or camp did not furnish such entertainment, business would go elsewhere.
Without question, these shady districts both fascinated and repelled people. Mabel Barbee Lee, who grew up in Cripple Creek, retained this memory of her youth about the beautiful Pearl De Vere:
She called herself Pearl De Vere but even I, an eleven-year-old schoolgirl, knew that wasn’t her right name. . . . Once in a breathless instant when I was staring at her from around a telegraph pole, she glanced down and smiled at me. I was spellbound; never had I laid eyes on such an enchanting vision! From that day, Pearl De Vere became my secret sorrow, the heroine of my fondest daydreams, mysterious, fascinating and forbidden. . . . I was more interested in what went on at the Old Homestead [parlor house], and speculated endless[ly] about it. But my rangy musing got me nowhere and I was afraid to ask questions of grownups.6
In this respect, too, the towns outdistanced their camp contemporaries—none more openly than Leadville, which flaunted its red-light attractions and seemed to enjoy comparing itself to some of the famous districts back east, such as New York’s Tenderloin. The 120 saloons mentioned earlier were joined by 118 gambling houses and private clubrooms, 19 beer halls, and 35 houses of prostitution. That probably stands as a Colorado record! Camps, in contrast, might have a saloon or two and perhaps, in the summer, a “traveling” pair of “erring sisters.”
Leadville was an exception to the normal pattern of tolerating but not mentioning this aspect of community life. Leslie’s Illustrated reported: “Leadville is very wicked; vice in its most civilized and most repugnant form is everywhere rampant.” Another report described “Gambling Hells,” which flourished because “drinking and gaming are usually the invariable occupations of these men when not engaged in the mines.” Saloons “are filled night and day by eager players and drinkers” and “double shifts of dealers and bar keepers are required to meet the ceaseless demand.” Said one shocked and scandalized visitor, “In the evening we saw Leadville by gaslight—an awful spectacle of low vice.”7
If possible, the red-light district was segregated into one part of town so that the problems—drugs, drinking, fighting, crime, prostitution, gambling—would not overflow into the rest of the town. Georgetown’s Board of Selectmen, for example, had a long discussion in January 1881 about whether the marshal should enforce the city ordinance and close down the bawdy houses, or just keep such activities from infiltrating into the rest of the town. Ouray’s Dave Day commented sarcastically, “The reckless manner in which the soiled doves settle around in various portions of our once moral village should at least suggest a herd law. Let the evil be concentrated or bounced” (February 16, 1883).
Two concerns intersected in this discussion: the obvious morality issue and the less publicly stated economic concern. With ordinances against gambling and the “brides of the multitude” on the books, when they flourished revenue was generated monthly through fines collected. The “sin tax” helped keep other taxes lower.
Although Aspen newspapers seldom mentioned prostitution, the Aspen Times of June 18, 1885, observed during a state census that the “sporting women are adverse to telling their real names.” The article also noted, “This is not strange as the relations of many of them are under the impression that they are governesses, or milliners, or dressmakers, or music teachers, and that they occupy way-up positions in the society of the Rocky Mountains.”
This particular “social evil” generated editorials on various topics, including the influence on children, and “creating a morbid appetite for [a] still higher degree of sensational reading.” The Georgetown Daily Miner (January 27, 1873) talked about the double standard involved: “The taint of pollution on the character of woman lasts forever, but taint of pollution on the character of man is forgotten or varnished over by an indulgent public—too often by anxious mammas—under the innocent and harmless name of ‘sowing wild oats.’”
Whether tarred or tolerated, red-light districts flourished during boom times. When the “drifting crowd” began to move on, the area had a warning that the flush days were waning. As the new century opened, only the towns retained sizable “sin” districts, and even they came under constant fire from churches, women, a few politicians, and even some men.
Gambling was popular in the mining communities, no matter how many might carp about it. Cards, roulette, lotteries, shell games, local baseball games, and almost anything else that could be bet on all flourished. In a sense, miners gambled with their lives every day in the mines, so it was not unusual that they would gamble during their leisure time.
Women were, of course, an integral part of the red-light districts, but few women were included in the initial rushes into Colorado mining districts. To illustrate, in January 1879, Leadville had, among the
thousands who rushed there, “about three hundred women in the place, two hundred married and living with their husbands, and one hundred not married, but ought to be.” As the years went by, however, more and more women settled in the communities and raised families. More established communities offered more amenities and stability; in turn, the presence of women enhanced the stability and permanence of a town.
Life was not easy. Women found it challenging to maintain a home with an often-transitory miner husband or in a newly birthed, rough mining community. Nor was it simple to keep one’s children from seeing or venturing into the seamy side of life. The best way to understand women’s experiences while living in a mining community is to let them speak for themselves. In fact, some of the best firsthand accounts of life in the Colorado mining era come from the pens of women, who had more time to write down their daily activities, joys, sorrows, and opinions than did their miner husbands.
Mollie Sanford, who arrived in Gold Hill in July 1861, described her cabin: “There is a rough log cabin, neither chinked nor daubed, as they call it, no floor, and only a hole cut out for a door and window. A ‘bunk’ is made in one corner. This is covered with pine boughs, and on this are spread our comforters and blankets.” When she settled in a cabin with “glass windows and doors,” she said “[w]e left our prison in the gulch.” Like others in the New West, she became homesick: “I believe one reason for my homesickness is that I do not hear from home. They must have written, but our mails come every way, or any way.”
Harriet Backus went with her husband to the Tomboy Mine, high above Telluride, and wrote an honest and humorous account of her trials and tribulations trying to cook at 11,500 feet:
I was one bride who couldn’t boil an egg. Only after repeated trials were our frozen eggs boiled long enough to be palatable. It was hard for me to realize that water boiled at only 190 degrees. So for two whole days I boiled beans. They neither swelled nor softened but remained as hard as marbles.