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    <title>Gulliford&apos;s travels</title>
    <category>Gulliford&apos;s travels</category>
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    <description>Latest local news from The Durango Herald.</description>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/the-case-of-the-stolen-stove-doors-couple-gives-mining-history-to-san-juan-historical-society/</link>
        <title>The case of the stolen stove doors: Couple gives mining history to San Juan Historical Society</title>
        <description>Couple give mining history to San Juan Historical Society</description>
        <pubDate>Tue, 15 Oct 2019 16:59:33 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[Couple give mining history to San Juan Historical Society As a Southwest tour leader and former museum director, occasionally after a few beers, folks tell me what they took from public land. Then I help them return items. Such is the case with stolen stove doors carted away from mining cabins high in the San Juan Mountains. Years ago, I learned of two 19th-century rifles that a Quaker family in Philadelphia wanted to return to the West. After checking serial numbers, we realized that the guns had been lost by Custer’s men of the 7th Cavalry at the Little Bighorn battle in 1876. Lakota warriors had taken the guns and then lost them again to 7th Cavalry soldiers at the Wounded Knee massacre in 1890. An Indian commissioner from a Quaker family had been given the guns. His descendants wanted to return them, so I helped arrange for the rifles to go to the South Dakota State Historical Society. I’ve assisted pot-hunters in returning ancestral Puebloan pots and broken sherds taken from the Navajo Reservation. Locally, I’ve delivered a box of potsherds collected over decades to Mesa Verde National Park for rangers to use as a teaching and interpretive collection. Heavy, historic mining artifacts are in a class all their own. ••• With the widespread proliferation of Jeeps after World War II, historic mining camps began to be looted for artifacts. Vandals ripped boards off buildings for the “barnwood” craze of the 1970s, when suburbanites lined their family room walls with old wood. Thieves once helicoptered heavy ore cars from the historic Silver Lake Mine above Silverton. Large, four-wheel-drive pickups and smaller, highly mobile ATVs make it easy to steal from public land. A case in point is a uranium mine ore car now on display at the San Juan County Historical Society Mining Heritage Center in Silverton.Exhibits Curator Steve Rich with the San Juan County Historical Society Mining Heritage Center in Silverton stands next to his exhibit on uranium mining, which includes a stolen uranium ore car recovered by a Bureau of Land Management law enforcement officer.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford In the former uranium mining district near Naturita, a Bureau of Land Management law enforcement officer observed a thief taking a large ore car and loading it into his pickup. Rather than arrest the vandal on the spot, the officer discreetly followed him home. The officer then arrested the vandal and the case went to court. A judge ruled a crime had been committed, and in addition to community service, the thief paid a $2,400 fine. Eventually, the Silverton museum got the ore car and the restitution dollars to mount an exhibit about uranium mining. “The ore car was pilfered out of a BLM adit in a supposedly abandoned mine. But the theft was observed by a BLM ranger,” Exhibits Curator Steve Rich explained to me. The BLM developed a traveling exhibit based on the ore car, and part of that exhibit is now in Silverton. “I liked the story, so I decided to put it on a label,” Rich said. The exhibit concludes with the words, “Remember, because an artifact seems abandoned and nobody is around to see you, it doesn’t mean no one owns it.” On public land, we all own historical artifacts, and they must stay in place. My hero, President Teddy Roosevelt, signed the Antiquities Act in 1906, protecting Native American sites on public land. Because of a wave of looting, Congress strengthened the original law in 1979 with passage of the Archaeological Resources Protection Act that protects both prehistoric and historic sites and artifacts. Looters now face serious penalties. ••• The stove door story is complicated. When a Denver-area couple talked to me about items they had taken from the San Juans, I did not understand until they presented me with a binder full of photos. I then understood the extent of their collection, their regret at taking the stove doors and their sincere desire to place the objects in a museum. The couple will remain anonymous.This cabin on the Lake City side of Engineer Pass has no furnishings. Sitting on Bureau of Land Management land, the cabin is routinely visited by four-wheel-drive users, but no historic artifacts remain inside. All too often, cabins on public land are looted.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford In the 19th century, miners built their log cabins on cliffs, in gulches, on ridgelines and by springs. They used local materials as much as possible, but the one thing that had to be imported and brought in by burro were cabin stoves – essential for heat in the winter and for cooking year-round. A few stove manufacturers existed in Colorado, but most stoves came from companies back east, and though the stoves – sometimes two burners, sometimes four – were functional cast-iron objects, along the sides could be embossed metal with intricate designs. Usually, the most fashionable part of the stove was the door, which opened into the fire box. As I viewed photos in the three-ring binder, I understood how big the collection was. I did not yet know about the couple’s meticulous notes, including United States Geological Survey maps with exact coordinates, elevations, descriptions and even directions like, “from semi-collapsed cabin on knoll 100 ft. WNW of jeep road; cabin had coal room in rear, old collapsed bed frame.” I arranged for the San Juan County Historical Society to accept the stolen stove doors. The repentant couple hand-delivered the collection from Denver – 15 boxes weighing from 30 to 55 pounds each. “They were real friendly folks and we worked together unloading. They stole stove doors then documented everything and were very glad that someone wanted the collection,” curator Steve Rich says.Stove doors and embossed metal sides from heating and cook stoves are part of a large collection taken off public land from remote mountain cabins in the San Juan Mountains and given to the Mining Heritage Center in Silverton. The collection included 15 boxes, each weighing from 30 to 55 pounds. For years, the stove parts decorated a couple’s basement in a Denver suburb. Eventually, the stove doors will be exhibited in Silverton.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford The couple wrote, “Probably no other gold rush-era artifact has as much nostalgic romance as the miners’ respite from cold, disappointment and loneliness than his warm companion – his stove. What stories could emerge from this most basic tent/cabin necessity. The hillside tents, outback cabins and even major mine complexes have receded into the earth. In many cases, the only clues of occupancy are the durable cast-iron stoves.” “The collection of stove doors was born of urgency,” the couple wrote in a preface to their extensive documentation. They offered, “Our family backpacked most of the San Juan high country. We were saddened by observing the neglect of mining-era artifacts. Unfortunately, at that time, it was common thought that ‘mining stuff’ was to be shot at, burned or rolled down slope. Government agencies were understaffed for such a wide area. Local sentiment at that time was, quite frankly, ‘so what?’” ••• So why steal the stove doors? Why backpack with a hammer and chisel to break the hinge pins and carry out the heavy metal doors? The couple’s rationale was simple. “We decided to collect the stove doors before they were shattered by gunshots.” In other words, they wanted to take something off public land before someone else did or because artifacts might be damaged. I’m not sure a federal judge would agree with that philosophy, but then if the doors were taken before 1979, federal and state laws were imprecise. A judge would agree with the couple’s statement, “Now, after more than 40 years, it is time to find a home for them.”Exhibits Curator Steve Rich with the San Juan County Historical Society Mining Heritage Center in Silverton holds a metal stove door from the Ohio Stove Co. as part of a large stove door collection stolen from the San Juan Mountains and donated to the historical society. Note the teeth marks made by hungry pack rats on the stove door’s handle.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford Bev Rich, director of the San Juan County Historical Society, adds, “The doors are important because they are a snapshot in time. Cast-iron stoves were everywhere in this rugged wilderness.” The stove doors came from Illinois Gulch, Cement Creek, Georgia Gulch, Little Giant Basin, Silver Lake, Grassy Gulch, Poughkeepsie Gulch, Maggie Gulch and Mineral Point. The stoves include the New Loyal Cook No. 8 made in Albany, New York; the Kibler Stove Co. of Denver from 1895; a No. 7-16 from 1881; the “Palmetto” made by the Comstock Castle Co. from Quincy, Illinois, patented in 1873; and a white porcelain Pride Pearl Buck’s Stove and Range – “guaranteed to bake like a brick oven.” I believe in amnesty. I believe returning something taken from public land is important, but all artifacts, whether they are log cabins, wagon wheels, arrowheads, ore cars or stove doors, belong in situ, or at their original location. We need to learn to leave things alone, to have an open museum on our public lands. But in the meantime, as that ethic evolves, I’ll help folks give back what they should not have taken in the first place. Andrew Gulliford is an award-winning author and editor and professor of history at Fort Lewis College. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/through-the-grand-canyon-before-major-powell/</link>
        <title>Through the Grand Canyon before Major Powell?</title>
        <description>This year we celebrate the 150th anniversary of Major John Wesley Powell’s daring expedition down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. But was he the first? Another story exists with defenders and detractors and links to Silverton and canyons...</description>
        <pubDate>Sat, 14 Sep 2019 01:15:25 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[This year we celebrate the 150th anniversary of Major John Wesley Powell’s daring expedition down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. But was he the first? Another story exists with defenders and detractors and links to Silverton and canyons in Bears Ears country. Two years before Powell and his men emerged from the Grand Canyon’s depths, a sunburnt, blistered, starved, half-clothed and half-dead bearded man, leashed to a log raft, arrived at Callville, Nevada, on Sept. 7, 1867. Barely alive, with bruises, welts and recent scars, he was incoherent. His skin was dark brown like mahogany, his hair matted and bleached. Slowly, he recovered from dehydration. His mind cleared. He called himself James White. ••• His story begins high in the San Juan Mountains where a party of drifters and gold-seekers under the leadership of Capt. Charles Baker had returned to Baker’s Park, now the site of Silverton. Baker’s first venture into the high country in the winter of 1860-61 had proved disastrous, with men living in brush huts working gold placer claims. The Baker Expedition had retreated south toward Santa Fe, but now the captain was back with two other men – George Strole and James White. A fourth man had been included, but White shot him in the foot after a “provocation.” Who were these men? “Baker and companions were merely examples of hordes of drifters, the flotsam and jetsam of westward migration,” writes Colorado historian Virginia McConnell Simmons in “Drifting West: The Calamities of James White and Charles Baker.” Baker himself “did what he did better than anything else – promoting an enterprise for others to subsidize with provisions and labor.” Finding no new opportunities in Baker’s Park, because placer mining had yet to become the hardrock, deep-shaft mining that would make Silverton boom, after a month, the small band rode south. Near what would become Durango, they drifted west to follow the Mancos River, where they saw small cliff dwellings or “houses built of cobblestones.” Baker’s party paralleled the Mancos River to the San Juan River, hoping to prospect for gold in the softer sandstone. They were some of the first white men to see ancestral Puebloan cliff dwellings near Mesa Verde and to venture west into Bears Ears country. ••• In later years, White became confused, stating that the three men went south of the river, when instead, they probably crossed it to the north near the Rincon or where Comb Ridge comes to the water’s edge and a natural, shallow ford exists. They rode up either Butler Wash or Comb Wash and then turned west to be caught in a maze of canyons coming off Cedar Mesa toward what is now Lake Powell. White claimed to have two revolvers. He would need them both. They camped two days after leaving the San Juan, and while the other men were exploring, White saw a Native American. His partners thought he was imagining things. Riding out the next morning with Capt. Baker in the lead, a rifle shot rang out. Baker fell off his horse and either died immediately or shouted to his companions, “I am killed.” Another version of the story has Baker whispering, “Save yourselves.” Either way, the founder of Silverton and the mineral riches of the San Juan Triangle died in the dust in Utah while his two companions fled down canyon for safety. They were stopped at the water’s edge. Fearful of being trapped in a narrow canyon, they used their lariats to make a raft of four cottonwood logs, perhaps 8-inches thick and up to 10-feet long. White described the raft years later to engineer Robert Brewster Stanton, whose manuscript would be published in 1932 under the title, “Colorado River Controversies.” On their makeshift raft, White and Strole drifted off down Glen Canyon, named two years later by Major Powell. There are no rapids in Glen Canyon, and after a few hours or days, they could have abandoned their raft and begun to hike out. They also could have left the Colorado River near what became Lees Ferry. Instead, they stayed on their flimsy raft until at the first Grand Canyon rapid, Strole fell off never to be seen again. He probably drowned in Badger Creek Rapid. One writer explained, “White still clung to the logs, and it was only when the raft seemed to be floating smoothly, and the sound of the rapids was behind, that he dared to look up; then it was to find himself alone, the provisions lost, and the shadows of the black canyon warning him of the approaching night.” White drifted, making 10 hours a day. Starving, he met Native Americans, possibly Yavapais, who gave him a few roasted mesquite beans near Grand Wash. He floated off, forced to chew on the leather scabbard of his knife, and finally, semi-conscious, he arrived at Callville, now under the waters of Lake Mead. ••• Two years later, Powell made his epic journey. His men, aware of White’s claims, thought it impossible as did subsequent river runners. Still, the story endured, and White lived out his days as a drayman at Trinidad, Colorado, moving dry goods with a small wagon. Writers came to interview him and gained different versions of his tale. Even Gen. William Jackson Palmer had White interviewed, and Palmer believed the story of the water-logged raft. A granddaughter, Eilean Adams, wrote “Hell or High Water: James White’s Disputed Passage through Grand Canyon, 1867.” I set out to find where White and Strole may have entered Glen Canyon. Adams thought it was Moki Canyon, so with a friend, we camped nearby and tried to four-wheel-drive into Moki Canyon from the top. I thought we were in trouble when I drove over a small sand dune wondering if we could get up it on the way out. I should have known better. Farther along we were blocked by a huge dune. Turning around, sure enough, I buried my truck to the axles. Luckily, it was still mid-morning. I’ve learned through the years that if you are going to make a mistake, always do it when there is plenty of daylight. I got out the shovel. My friend found flat rocks. Slowly, a few feet at a time, we drove in low gear back up to what passes for rural roads in San Juan County. Did James White and his companion launch a log raft at Moki Canyon and did White survive huge rapids in Grand Canyon? That’s hard to say. I’ve been down the canyon three times in rafts. At Hance Rapid, I ejected sideways across a paddle raft, wondered what my paddle was doing in my teeth and would have had a terrific swim if my buddy hadn’t slammed his outstretched hand into my shoulder to stop my lateral movement. I crumpled to the bottom of the raft delighted not to be flushed down current. Did White survive alone? His descendants think so and want recognition for their ancestor. Greg Adams wrote me that James White’s river tale is “a controversy that never ends and never will.” He explained that, “White was honest in his story,” but that other writers did not want to believe that “a simple miner might have done what they couldn’t ... namely run all the rapids in Grand Canyon, which they themselves found impossible to achieve.” Major Powell gets the credit. After all, he documented his trip and ran the river twice – once in 1869 and again in 1871. But did James White survive solo on a tippy log raft? We’ll never know, just like we’ll never know what happened to the bones of Capt. Charles Baker, the founder of Silverton and a drifter who took one trail too many in the American Southwest. Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/canadian-rockies-by-rail/</link>
        <title>Canadian Rockies by rail</title>
        <description>History Colorado explores the West, up north</description>
        <pubDate>Sat, 10 Aug 2019 01:39:22 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[History Colorado explores the West, up north In a column about the Southwest, why write about Canada? Because I just visited the Southwest – southwestern Alberta. We were there for one of History Colorado’s famous Tours & Treks and their first international trip outside of the United States. I was honored to be the tour’s historian. I’d spent months reading up on Canadian history and writing talks to compare the Canadian and American West. We flew into Calgary, spent time in that bustling city, took a private coach to Banff National Park then on to Yoho National Park via Gold Leaf service on the Rocky Mountaineer, which is western Canada’s premiere tourist train. We finished with two nights in Vancouver, British Columbia, one of the fastest-growing and most environmentally-conscious cities on the planet. “The Tours & Treks program is designed to get folks out of Denver to see the state and region,” says Director Michael Vincent, sporting his trademark Buffalo Bill mustache. He designs all the tours and test-runs them in advance to be sure the experiences are flawless, from the companionable group meals to transportation via helicopter, train, coach and trolley. Vincent does all the planning, and History Colorado members save substantially by traveling in a group. ••• History Colorado is one of the few state historical societies that offers its members such lavish benefits, and this year alone, Tours & Treks has 62 single- and multi-day trips planned. “I love the Treks & Trails program and keep signing up for trips. It only costs a few more pounds to go first class,” jokes frequent traveler Edward W. Hurry, commenting on how well we eat on these vacations. Of course, we also sample local libations like Calgary’s own Caesar cocktail with vodka, Worcestershire and Tabasco sauces, Clamato juice, and instead of olives – two breaded prairie oysters, courtesy of local cattle roundups. Our welcome dinner began at the rowdy restaurant Bottlescrew Bill’s. On the Canadian Rockies trip, we started with a day at the famous Calgary Stampede, which is part rodeo, part exhibition and part state and county fair for agricultural producers from across North America. Everyone “cowboys up,” wearing jeans, boots, hats, belts with big buckles and luminous smiles. High in the grandstand bleachers for “The Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth,” we watched the chuckwagon races and women’s side-saddle horse racing. Earlier in the day, I met large fiberglass cows, fresh-hatched chicks and saw a tiny sample wetlands growing in a galvanized stock tank. I liked the excessively groomed Clydesdales, saw the immaculate Morgan draft horses and scratched the backs of miniature donkeys. I learned that though our American horses “neigh,” in Canada the horses speak through their noses and say, “Aye!” From our hotel windows we saw the local Calgary bird “cranus constructus,” or the huge building cranes signaling another boom in the town’s oil and gas fortunes with skyscrapers bursting forth. We stayed in the posh historic Canadian Pacific Railway hotel the Fairmont Palliser and visited the Glenbow Museum with its outstanding anthropological and historical collections as well as contemporary art. Canada’s indigenous groups are called First Nations, and the country has a formal reconciliation process to attempt to remedy past wrongs. At the Stampede, I visited the Elbow River Camp of 26 teepees erected by families from the Siksika, Piikani, Kanai, Stoney Nakoda and Tsuut’ina nations and then left the quiet of the camp for the roar and put-put-put of vintage diesel tractors re-painted and restored for the competitive tractor pull. I saw so many tractors I wonder whether a single rusty tractor remains in all the wheat and hayfields of Alberta. ••• We took the Trans-Canada Highway west to Banff National Park and learned that the park has recently re-introduced 33 bison. To protect migrating antlered animals, the highway has six overpasses and 36 tunnels – wildlife protection innovations so needed on Colorado’s Interstate 70. Though the park has 65 grizzlies, three wolf packs, elk, moose and sasquatch (according to one brochure), the animal most dangerous to tourists is the cute Columbian ground squirrel that visitors feed – at least until their fingers get bitten. Everywhere, the rivers and lakes are an astounding turquoise blue because of rock flour or rock silt dust being ground out of glaciers. The suspended silt reflects light that hits water surfaces and bounces back in a true robin’s egg blue color. A panoramic helicopter tour at the edge of the park and a ride up the Banff gondola led to our night in Banff with well-appointed accommodations at the Rimrock Resort Hotel. Then, it was on to the Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise with afternoon hikes toward the receding Victoria Glacier. Climate change affects all of us, but it is pure drama in Canada. From my hotel room with its view of Lake Louise, I could see the glacier’s edge. On a bookshelf, I found a framed historic postcard with the same view, and it was easy to see how much the glacier had shrunk, yet no interpretive signs around the lake brought the glacier’s decline to public attention. ••• We rose early for the much-anticipated two-day train ride across the Canadian Rockies in the gleaming Rocky Mountaineer. Our tickets included Gold Leaf service or breakfast and lunch served on the train complete with linen tablecloths, silver cutlery, fine china and huge mountain views. No fences. No billboards. Instead we followed the Bow River the Kicking Horse River, the Thompson and eventually the Fraser River. On just the first day, we crossed seven rivers. The tourist package included free drinks and an upper level with a vistadome ceiling, an open sky above and fully adjustable leather heated seats below. One of the great engineering feats of railroading is the Canadian Pacific Railway’s spiral tunnels designed to drop hundreds of feet in elevation without losing speed for standard gauge trains. After the tunnels, we left Alberta, and under a light rain, we entered British Columbia and Yoho National Park on our route over the Continental Divide. “This is great,” Laura Carrasco told me. “I’ve never been disappointed in a History Colorado trip.” Off the Rocky Mountaineer, we stayed in Kamloops, and the next morning on the vast shore of Kamloops Lake saw a herd of Rocky Mountain bighorns and nesting eagles. We passed the towns of Revelstoke, Canoe, Salmon Arm and the mining towns of Boston Bar and Hope, part of the Caribou Gold Rush. Knowledgeable interpreters spoke into microphones narrating Canadian history, and I talked at our group dinners. We learned about famous Canadians like Simon Fraser, who hired on with the Hudson’s Bay Co. at 16. He was so industrious he made full partner at age 24 because of his work with Native peoples and his help in determining the railroad route for the Canadian Pacific Railway to unite Canada from east to west, the dream of Canada’s first prime ministers. ••• Our last two nights in Vancouver exposed the 20 members of our group to one of the most vital, energetic and diverse cities on the globe. The immigrant energy is palpable with more than half of the city’s 750,000 residents not original English speakers. Trade from China, Japan and South Korea annually generates $24 billion Canadian dollars. From our hotel, we could walk to Coal Harbor to see seaplanes, private yachts and tour boats. The next day we had a trolley tour of the town, including Stanley Park, larger than New York’s Central Park, with its distinctive totem poles and ancient, old-growth cedar trees 700 to 1,000 years old. After eight days, we returned to Denver. Guests raved about the itinerary. One wrote about the trip, “I think you hit the bull’s-eye with this one.” I agree. I spent the winter researching and comparing the Canadian and American West and discovered many more stories to tell. Hopefully in two years, Coloradans will once again board the Rocky Mountaineer. Andrew Gulliford is an award-winning author and editor and professor of history at Fort Lewis College. Email him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/when-a-killer-wore-a-deputys-badge-in-telluride/</link>
        <title>When a killer wore a deputy’s badge in Telluride</title>
        <description>When a killer wore a deputy’s badge and a golden smile</description>
        <pubDate>Mon, 15 Jul 2019 21:55:10 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[When a killer wore a deputy’s badge and a golden smile Why is it that we remember and even glorify such Western American outlaws as Billy the Kid and Butch Cassidy when other outlaws are long ago dead, buried and forgotten? One historical theory is that Billy and Butch were “social bandits,” meaning that they stole from the rich and shared with the poor. Were Billy and Butch really “good” bad men, and if so, what about the “bad” good men who were brutal thugs who hid behind their badges, intimidated, beat and brutalized innocent people and committed crimes under the shadow of the law? William Bonney, alias Billy the Kid, stole horses but was Irish Catholic, spoke fluent Spanish and was a favorite son of New Mexican Hispanic communities because during the Lincoln County War, he robbed from the cattle barons. According to one scholar, if Billy the Kid stole a few horses, “the big ranchers had stolen an entire country.” Robert Leroy Parker, alias Butch Cassidy, robbed trains with his Wild Bunch, but the railroads themselves robbed small farmers and ranchers by dramatically raising freight rates when it was harvest time and imperative to ship sheep, cattle or wheat. What were the real crimes and who were the real criminals in the first decade of the 20th-century West? A case in point is the checkered career of Bob Meldrum. Born in 1866, the same year as Butch, Meldrum straddled the law and may have killed as many as 14 men. An artist and saddlemaker, the Pinkerton Detective Agency recommended him because of his quick temper and fast trigger finger. Meldrum boasted of his friendship with the notorious killer Tom Horn, who was hanged in Wyoming after shooting the son of a homesteader. Meldrum drifted down into Telluride in 1903 when the Old West had ended and a new, powerful industrial order was ripping gold and silver ore out of the San Juan Mountains. ••• By the end of the 19th century, the romantic American West had ended. Native peoples had been forced onto reservations. The open range had been fenced. A new era had begun of industrial-scale mining where miners increasingly demanded better wages, safer working conditions and an eight-hour day. They joined the Western Federation of Miners and wanted respect for their dangerous, daily jobs that netted millions for out-of-state mine owners.Telluride circa 1904 when miners and mine owners polarized the town, dividing loyalties when the Tomboy Mine hired out-of-state deputies to harass and beat union supporters.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford The mine owners responded by creating the Mine Owners Association to fight the union and to hire “man-killers.” Paid thugs received their monthly wages from the MOA, which then provided these gunmen to the San Miguel County sheriff at no charge. Mandatory residence in the county was ignored, but then, so were a lot of laws. Sheriff Cal Rutan was also in the pocket of the mine owners, and they gave him a solid gold sheriff’s badge. Telluride’s labor troubles at the turn of the 20th century would become legendary. The best account of this conflict is MaryJoy Martin’s “The Corpse on Boomerang Road: Telluride’s War on Labor 1899-1908.” A central figure in the mayhem was Robert “Bob” Meldrum. Martin writes, “Meldrum fashioned a reputation for killing those he was supposed to apprehend when he shot a wanted man in the back of the head. Given to bouts of drunkenness and bad temper, he liked to find an excuse for ‘shooting first’ those who questioned his authority to arrest them.” As an illegally deputized gunman, he carried a sawed-off shotgun on horseback, probably a Winchester Model 1897 12-gauge pump action. His stated goal was to rid Telluride of all union men, and he liked to beat them unmercifully around the head and face with the butt of his revolver.With the labor strikes in 1904 in Telluride, the romantic Old West had given way to the industrialized West of hard-rock mining when millions of dollars were being pulled out of the ground by underpaid immigrant miners. This photo shows the Tomboy Mine and Mill high above Telluride during the height of its operation, when striking miners sought better safety conditions and an eight-hour workday.Courtesy of the Center of Southwest Studies, Fort Lewis College Union men picketed stores favored by the mine owners. Meldrum arrested the pickets and beat them before throwing them into unheated jail cells. Gov. James Hamilton Peabody, a staunch supporter of mine owners, sent the Colorado National Guard to enforce order at Telluride. Worried that deported miners would return with a vengeance, the Guard built a stone machine gun nest at the top of Imogene Pass between Telluride and Ouray where it can be seen today. Guardsmen left inscriptions carved and penciled into the wood. ••• I knew about the machine gun nest and a little about Meldrum, but it was my visit to the Museum of Northwest Colorado in Craig last summer that brought out even more details. San Miguel County stabilized the machine gun nest a decade ago as an important labor history site listed on the National Register of Historic Places. But photos of the site in use had never been located. In Craig, I found photos of three men at the site with Meldrum in the middle. History is like that. The oddest things turn up in unusual places. I call it the “flotsam and jetsam of history” where items and artifacts resurface from dusty attic boxes. I learned that Bob Meldrum had worked at the Tomboy Mine as a hired company guard. He shot in the belly a drunken miner named Olaf Thissal who had headbutted him. The miner died a painful death. Though a coroner’s jury ruled that the “shot was fired in the heat of passion with felonious intent,” Meldrum was never convicted of manslaughter. Author Martin notes that after the altercation, the Tomboy Mine sent its hired thug to Denver, where he received gold caps on his teeth. Miners ruefully remarked that the mine guard now “looked like a million dollars every time he smiled.” Not worried that their guard had killed a man, the Tomboy Mine owners gave Meldrum a present in May 1904. That gift recently surfaced in the world of highly collectible guns.The Colt manufacturing company engraved the name Rob’t D. Meldrum on the butt of the gun’s handle. Note the inlaid gold.Courtesy of the Museum of Northwest Colorado Meldrum received a rare Colt Quickdraw Model Single Action .45-caliber revolver with an “eagle motif” on pearl handles. The unique pistol featured intricate engraving by Helfrict with gold inlay probably from the Tomboy’s gold. The words “from the Tomboy Gold Mine, Telluride, Colorado” are on the handle. On the pistol butt was engraved “Rob’t D. Meldrum.” One of Colorado’s billionaires, Bill Koch, purchased the gun at auction for $250,000. Three years after his fancy gift, Meldrum’s killing continued. Sent to arrest David Lambert, Meldrum, instead, shot him. A Telluride jury found him not guilty, but as the labor wars declined and unions gained power, Meldrum wisely headed north to Wyoming. A complicated character, he was also an artist and an accomplished leather craftsman. In and out of court, continuing to kill at random, he finally shot an amiable cowboy named Chick Bowen in January 1912. After three trials for murder, he spent a short period in the Wyoming Penitentiary. By 1926, fire had destroyed his saddle shop in Walcott, Wyoming, and he disappeared from history. Today, the Museum of Northwest Colorado has a standing reward of $500 for anyone who can locate “the final resting place of Bob Meldrum.” ••• Billy the Kid lives on in legend and in the folklore of New Mexico. Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid died in Bolivia after a botched bank robbery. They ride together in Western lore and in one of the best films ever made in Durango and La Plata County. But Bob Meldrum disappears into history and rightfully so. His gold-engraved gun remains as a symbol of corporate power and in remembrance of miners pistol-whipped by a deputized killer who wore a badge. So who were the crooks and who were the criminals in the history of the West? Andrew Gulliford is an award-winning author and editor and a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College. He can be reached at gulliford_a@fortlewis.edu.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/on-the-woolly-trail/</link>
        <title>On the woolly trail</title>
        <description>Sheep stories in the West run from the high country into canyons</description>
        <pubDate>Sat, 08 Jun 2019 05:00:00 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[Sheep stories in the West run from the high country into canyons Why study sheep, sheepherders and carved aspen trees in Colorado? Because everywhere I go, sheep have been there first. From high alpine meadows in federally protected wilderness areas to sinuous sandstone canyons and all the public land in between, those acres have been grazed by woollies. As a hiker, hunter and historian, I wanted to learn more about the sheepmen and sheepherders who were and are a vital element of Colorado history. I even invented a new word. I took two words, sheepherder and landscape, and made it one – sheepscape. A sheepscape is a place on public land modified by sheepherders to become an historic archaeological site, such as carved aspen trees, stone cairns, wooden corrals up against a canyon wall or even a large cross erected by herders with a deep Catholic faith. ••• Although there have been hundreds of books about Colorado cattlemen, mining and miners, no one had written about sheepmen and lonely sheepherders working by themselves with only their faithful dogs. The last comprehensive history about sheepmen in the American West was published 70 years ago. No one had described the violent cattle and sheep wars between 1880 and 1934 that dominated Colorado’s Western Slope, especially Bureau of Land Management lands sought after for winter grazing by both sheep and cattle ranchers.Andrew Gulliford, author of “The Woolly West” and a Durango Herald columnist, stands with The Wrangler statue he received at the National Cowboy Museum & Heritage Center at an awards ceremony in April in Oklahoma City. “The Woolly West” won the Wrangler Western Heritage Award for Outstanding Non-Fiction.Courtesy of the National Cowboy Museum Cowboys clubbed sheep to death. They ran woollies off cliffs. They poisoned sheep dogs, shot at and killed Hispanic sheepherders, and burned sheep wagons and the adobe ranch houses of sheepmen. The conflicts were ugly, racist and untold. In 1892 in Pagosa Springs, a tragedy unfolded when Juan Montoya and other herders brought a huge flock of sheep, 20,000 woollies, along the West Fork of the San Juan River. Cattle rancher William Shaw, distraught over the recent death of his wife and baby son, rode out to harass and shoot at the sheepherders.In this original pencil drawing, Luis Montoya broods about all the trouble caused by grazing sheep in the San Juan Mountains. He spent much of his family fortune defending his son, who was accused of murdering an Archuleta County commissioner.Courtesy of the Rio Grande County Museum, Del Norte, Colorado Shot in the shoulder, Montoya quickly levered a shell into his Winchester rifle and fired back, fatally wounding the Anglo county commissioner. The Archuleta County sheriff charged the young herder with murder. “No other event for years so excited our people or caused such universal regret and sympathy. There are two sides to all cases and this one is no exception,” reported the Pagosa Springs News. Because of intense prejudice, the trial was held in Durango and lasted a week. On Jan. 12, 1894, the jury took only 15 minutes to acquit Montoya. In the American West, shooting back in self-defense was never murder. Unfortunately, only rarely in Colorado history did sheepmen or sheepherders have a successful day in court. ••• Of the hundreds of books written about cowboys and cowboying in the American West, few volumes exist on sheep and sheepmen. Cowboys sing to their cows and ride the long circle each night around their herd but then return to their bedroll and a sidekick takes over. Not so with sheep. Sheep stories abound. In Walsenburg during the Great Depression, a sheepman had his bank loan called in by the local banker, but the rancher had no funds – only sheep. The banker refused to extend the loan so the rancher did the only thing he could think of. He brought in his woolly assets on four hooves, surrounded the bank and closed off streets in town with baaing, bleating sheep. The banker relented and extended the rancher’s loan.Religious iconography carved on aspens by sheepherders is rare. This image of a cross with a shadow-box design told other herders that a Penitente herder from a Catholic religious brotherhood in northern New Mexico had been there.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford In the same decade in Rifle, a Works Progress Association artist thought he’d paint sheep on a mural he was preparing for the Rifle Post Office. Historian Stephen J. Leonard wrote: But “before the sheep could safely graze, cattlemen raised such hell that the postmaster swore that he preferred undesecrated walls.” Instead, the Depression-era mural, still visible today, features a big mountain, a few horses and a dog. Leonard says that the Denver Post Office did get sheep – sculptures of mountain sheep. In some Colorado place names, the nomenclature refers to wild mountain sheep, probably Rocky Mountain bighorns, but often the reference was to domestic woollies. The two have shared the same high-altitude ranges. Now, domestic woollies can pass a pneumonia-like virus on to wild bighorn sheep, with fatal results. As for the lonely herders, imagine that instant panic when dusky grouse explode off the ground and fly up into tall pines. One herder with grouse nearby his camp carved Mucho Gallinas Aqui, or “many chickens here.” Of course, the herders and camptenders would arrive once every five or seven days to bring supplies, but still those were hours and hours alone and sometimes ghosts were in the forest. Certainly, there are stories. ••• Sheepherder lore drifts and settles like mist rising off a mountain stream at dawn. Tales on the Routt National Forest reverberate from a place named Dead Mexican Gulch where a herder paid the price for being too successful in a poker game and was killed by avenging losers who followed him back to camp. It’s marked on the forest map with the symbol of a grave. I sought to become a voice for the voiceless, for those herders who spent years of their lives, almost always alone, with their sheep and their dogs and a horse or two. But also a voice for the land, how it was used, abused, restored, and how it is being used now, primarily for recreation.Sheep camp materials at high elevation have barely changed in the last century. Herders still use canvas tents, cots, sheet-metal stoves for cooking and heating, and wooden boxes for utensils and supplies. This Peruvian herder worked for Ernie Etchart of Montrose and was photographed high above Silverton in McCarty Basin.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford Where Colorado sheep once wintered in the broken canyon country between the Green and Colorado rivers, parts of that area are now Canyonlands National Park. Dynamite-blasted sheep trails are popular hiking and mountain biking venues for visitors who have no idea that lonely sheepherders once clutched cold coffee cups where they luxuriate in distant views. In my book, “The Woolly West: Colorado’s Hidden History of Sheepscapes,” the timeline goes to the present. I discuss Peruvian herders and the expanding market for lamb, whose buyers are primarily Muslims living in cities and urban areas. They prefer fresh, unblemished American lamb to frozen imports from Australia or New Zealand. Sheep-owning families prospered when multi-million-dollar ski areas came in to remote valleys. The land grandfathers bought for sheep pastures, patriarchs who barely spoke English, created a fortune for their grandchildren. Sheep browse became condos or starter castles for second-homeowners at Copper Mountain, Vail and near Telluride at Aldasoro Ranches. ••• As a history professor, I was able to research and write “The Woolly West” because Fort Lewis College has a commitment to the liberal arts, stamped on our college seal, and to connecting with local communities. Thanks to the college’s Board of Trustees, I received a sabbatical in 2015 to take a semester and do on-the-ground research. I also made use of Faculty Development Funds to cover some travel expenses around the state. So, I am deeply gratified that, in April, “The Woolly West: Colorado’s Hidden History of Sheepscapes” won the Western Heritage Award from the National Cowboy Museum & Heritage Center for Outstanding Non-Fiction. In May, “The Woolly West” won the Colorado Book Award for History. I am indebted to all the families and historical societies that offered me assistance. I tried to write a good book. I guess I didn’t do to baaaaaaadly. Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/hunters-and-artists-glen-canyon-rock-art-created-by-an-ancient-culture-on-the-move/</link>
        <title>Hunters and artists: Glen Canyon rock art created by an ancient culture on the move</title>
        <description>As I walk the trail between cliff and river, I search again for the face. It’s 10 inches tall. The eyes and mouth are distinctly pecked, two antenna rise above the head. I almost walk past it, and then, I...</description>
        <pubDate>Sat, 11 May 2019 05:03:10 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[As I walk the trail between cliff and river, I search again for the face. It’s 10 inches tall. The eyes and mouth are distinctly pecked, two antenna rise above the head. I almost walk past it, and then, I see it again, south-facing, looking out across space and time etched on sandstone 3,000 years ago. There’s no smile, but no scowl, either. Just a human face, an anthropomorph really, insect-like because of the antenna. I wonder who carved it and why. Along this stretch of the San Juan River thousands of petroglyphs appear. Most of the images are Basketmaker II, early cousins of the ancestral Puebloans with their large torsos, ear-bobs and duck-style headdresses.Tall and thin, classic Glen Canyon Linear images can be found in river drainages across the Four Corners. The style was first identified and named during salvage archaeology in Glen Canyon in the early 1960s, as archaeologists rushed to complete their work before dozens of sites were flooded by Lake Powell.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford The face I see is from an even older tribal time. This Western Archaic rock art style known as Glen Canyon Linear, defined by Christy G. Turner in 1963, was briefly investigated, described, drawn and photographed before the captured Colorado River flooded Glen Canyon with the completion of Glen Canyon Dam. Much of that rock art style is hundreds of feet under water, but traces of it can be found on cliffs along the San Juan River and on boulders at the base of Cedar Mesa. The artists preferred carving the dark desert patina of sandstone blackened by manganese oxide. “The animals are fairly representational, but the artists added lines or cross hatching. Their sheep and deer are elegant, but there is a layer of abstraction with linear lines,” says rock art photographer Diane Orr. “I’m drawn to Glen Canyon Linear because it’s so beautiful and so well done. The style is defined by its exceptional quality. The groups had time to do it. They worked on it and improved it. ... In hunting cultures, you find more individual expression and variation than in agricultural societies. I’m personally drawn to the art of hunting cultures.” ••• Imagine a world without agriculture and with small family groups perpetually moving through a canyon landscape searching for edible roots and seeds from wild plants. Always on the alert for meat protein, from small cottontail rabbits to the delectable desert bighorn, these groups of Native Americans tilled no fields and built no architecture. Instead, they sharpened their stone knives, practiced with their atlatls, or throwing spears, and hid near springs or stone water tanks, tinajas, at dawn waiting for wildlife. They found game trails and followed them up canyons through oak brush and piñon-juniper forests like those of Cedar Mesa in southeastern Utah. Quiet, careful, cautious, these paleo-hunters lived from meal to meal, yet anthropologists suggest that the hunters’ work day may have averaged only three hours instead of our eight or 10.Deeply carved into a rock art panel high above the San Juan River flood plain, an insect-like Glen Canyon head stares back at us across centuries of time.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford “The key to understanding the style is in understanding the broad spectrum of diets of the archaic hunters and gatherers. The folks who made both the Glen Canyon Linear rock art and shaped the split-twig figurines were the people around when, at least in some areas, corn first made its way into the northern Southwest,” says Ben Bellorado, archaeologist and ancient farming expert. Archaic shamans carved elongated figures with small faces, flowing vertical lines sometimes without hands or feet, and plenty of etched dots, circles, gridirons, diamonds, spirals, wavy zig-zag lines and the occasional downward-pointing penis. ••• I am captivated by this rock art style. These were hunters who depended upon fresh game. They left their marks on canyon cliffs, but they also twisted split-twig figurines as representations of desert bighorn sheep and mule deer. Magical offerings, these figurines have been found within Grand Canyon caves. “These figurines were ingeniously constructed of a single long, thin willow branch, split down the middle, bent and folded in such a way as to create a miniature representation of an animal,” wrote Alan R. Schroedl. “These figurines were probably magico-religious objects that were used in ritual activities to insure success in hunting game animals.” Some have even been found ritually killed, pierced by tiny spears.Archaic-era hunter-gatherers who lived on the Colorado Plateau and carved in the Glen Canyon Linear rock art style also crafted split-twig figurines. Found in caves in the Grand Canyon and at a variety of locations, 5,000-year-old figurines representing bighorn sheep or other animals have been discovered with tiny spears attached to them, perhaps to magically help hunters find and kill game. These two replica figurines are from the author’s collection and were purchased at the Havasupai Lodge at Supai Village in Havasu Canyon.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford Willow twig craftsmanship continues. I bought a pair of figurines at Havasupai Lodge at Supai Village in Havasu Canyon after a dusty 7-mile trek down from the rim. Archaic hunters folded figurines to bring luck. Grand Canyon river guides bend willow twigs into the same shape to garner tips. All these centuries later, it’s still about making offerings. I think Archaic hunters would approve. They understood foraging. They liked rivers. “The Glen Canyon Style 5 is widely dispersed across the Colorado Plateau and appears to be most common along major rivers (Colorado, Dolores, Escalante, Green and San Juan), indicating a relationship to Archaic populations that used these areas for such activities as gathering, hunting, fishing, ceremonies and trade,” says Sally Cole in her classic rock-art book “Legacy on Stone.” She says, “Panels are often loosely composed but may feature precise rows of anthropomorphs and quadrupeds,” which “most frequently appear in outline with abstract interior line and dot decorations.” So Archaic folks colored within the lines. Why not? They still had plenty of time for spirals, zig-zags and snakes. Their insect-like human faces have earned their rock art representations a similarity to ant people. ••• Even that old desert rat Ed Abbey admired Archaic rock art. “Humanlike forms with helmets and goggles wave tentacles at us. What can they be? Gods? Goddesses? Cosmonauts from the Betelgeuse neighborhood? But still we ask, what does the rock art mean? Unlike the story of the cliff ruins, fairly coherent to archaeologists, we know little of the significance of this ancient work ... Perhaps meaning is not of primary importance here. What is important is the recognition of art, wherever we may discover it, in whatever form.” Abbey appreciated ancient rock art. What he could not abide was Glen Canyon Dam, which destroyed so much of it. “Because of the dam, the river is gone, the best parts of the numerous side canyons are gone – all hidden beneath hundreds of feet of polluted water, accumulating silt, and mounting tons of trash. This portion of Glen Canyon – and who can estimate how many cubic miles were lost? – is no longer accessible to anybody (except scuba divers). And this, do not forget, was the most valuable part of Glen Canyon, richest in scenery, archaeology, history, flora and fauna.” I agree with Abbey’s lament, but I still look for the rock art, and I occasionally find it. Far from a river’s winding corridor. At the base of a vast sandstone cliff. Here a tipped-over rock rolled from hundreds of feet above and landed on its side revealing an entire tableau of Glen Canyon Linear figures. I tilt my head sideways to see them. The lines, the dots and dashes. The small heads with their playful antenna. Hunter-gatherers, poised at the edge of the transition to sedentism and dependence upon corn, beans and squash, carved these figures. Shamans etched this great stone slab, and then it careened off a cliff to land on its sandstone shoulder. I tilt my head sideways and look again. Then I scan the horizon as they must have continually done. Looking for movement, looking for meat. Wondering what we gave up thousands of years ago when we traded wild foods and mobility for tiny ears of maize. Andrew Gulliford is an award-winning author and editor and professor of history at Fort Lewis College. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/roosevelt-in-colorado-stained-glass-honors-president-who-cherished-the-west/</link>
        <title>Roosevelt in Colorado: Stained glass honors president who cherished the West</title>
        <description>Stained glass honors president who cherished the West</description>
        <pubDate>Fri, 12 Apr 2019 20:22:41 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[Stained glass honors president who cherished the West A century ago, President Theodore Roosevelt died at his home in Sagamore Hill, New York, but his contributions to the West and to Colorado live on. Teddy was beloved by many Westerners, and he traveled throughout our state over a variety of years. He hunted, gave speeches, held banquets and shook hands, but only one community memorialized his visits in a stunning stained glass window now visible in a public library. TR is my hero. I love his big, brassy smile, his shining white teeth, his penchant for shouting the words “BULLY!!!” and “DEELIGHTED!!!” A wealthy patrician who grew up in Manhattan with maids and tutors, Teddy suffered from asthma as a child, and his father wondered if the boy would ever grow to manhood. He did. TR lifted weights, exercised in a home gym and became a midweight boxer at Harvard University. The course of his life flowed smoothly through college, politics and marriage, and then on the same fateful day, he lost his mother and his young wife. Devastated, TR traveled west to North Dakota to shake his grief, hunt bison and bears and become a cattle rancher. The West changed him forever. In September 1900, while campaigning for presidential candidate William McKinley, TR was governor of New York and the Republican vice presidential candidate, he toured Colorado. In Greeley, 3,000 people turned out to hear his high, squeaky, yet impassioned, voice. In Cripple Creek, the governor was flanked by former Rough Riders as 5,000 residents heard him speak. As vice president-elect, TR came to the Western Slope for a five-week cougar hunt. He arrived by rail, took the stagecoach north from Rifle, had supper at the St. James Episcopal Church Rectory and stayed at the Meeker Hotel. I think I’ve slept in the same room TR did. Maybe even in the same bed, or at least it felt that way.After the assassination of President William McKinley, Theodore Roosevelt became the youngest president ever in the White House.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford Teddy hunted from the Keystone Ranch in Coyote Basin and killed two of the largest mountain lions ever taken in North America. He processed the skulls that reside in the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of Natural History. In 1901, an assassin shot McKinley, and at 42, “that damned cowboy” became the youngest president in American history. He brought his family to the “White House,” which he named, and plastered the walls with mounted big-game animal heads. His children slid down the staircase bannisters and once even took a pony up the mansion’s elevator. In May 1903, President Roosevelt took a famous cross-country railroad trip. As he entered the state out on the Eastern Plains, cowboys blocked his train. They invited him to a chuck wagon breakfast at Hugo. “DEELIGHTED,” Teddy jumped off his fancy palace railroad car and tucked into steak, eggs, biscuits, fried potatoes, brown gravy and black coffee. The same day, the president worked the crowds in Denver, Colorado Springs, Pueblo and Trinidad. ••• Bored with the presidency and longing to be back in the saddle again, Roosevelt in April 1905 took his special train to Glenwood Springs and then rode west and south for a three-week bear hunt on Divide Creek. His hunting party included 20 horses, 30 dogs and a large cook tent. Local cowboys drifted in, often at dinner time, and TR exclaimed they were as hearty and fit “as young moose.” Teddy killed six bears that spring, and at least one of them may have been a grizzly.Jack Roberts painted President Theodore Roosevelt admiring Colorado’s mountain scenery during his famous spring bear hunt. Roosevelt said the West changed his life. Understanding the West and promoting conservation opened the door to the White House for him.Courtesy of the Museum of Western Colorado From the pack of hunting hounds, he adopted a young pup named Skip, wrote letters to his boys about the dog, and eventually brought Skip to the White House. At the end of the hunt, TR hosted a huge party at the Hotel Colorado. A century later, in April 2005, I was honored to speak at the centennial event, which at $125 a person faithfully reproduced every item from the 1905 menu. As his hunting buddies got ready to eat, they were baffled by the china, the white linen tablecloths and the multiple knives, forks and spoons. Seeing their hesitancy, TR laughed and said, “Don’t worry, boys, just dig in with whatever utensil is handy.” They did. The president’s locomotive steamed all night. He left at dawn for further speeches in Salida, a photo shoot in the Royal Gorge where Skip can be seen standing up on two legs, Cañon City, then Denver. As president, TR believed deeply in conservation. Between 1901 and 1909, he set aside 230 million acres as national forests, national parks, national monuments and wildlife refuges. He saved for all of us 8,000 acres a day of public land during his dynamic time in office. When Congress realized Teddy was setting aside so much land as forest reserves, it moved to abolish the 1891 Forest Reserve Act. Undaunted, TR and his chief forester, Gifford Pinchot, removed all the furniture in a second-story bedroom in the White House, filled the floor with maps and crawled around on their hands and knees looking at boundary lines. Teddy declared another 12 million acres of national forests, many of them in Colorado, before midnight when he lost the authority to do so. ••• But of all the Colorado communities TR visited, only one chose to commemorate Roosevelt’s time in our state. On Sunday, April 30, 1905, TR, dressed in his hunting garb, spoke at the Blue Schoolhouse south of Silt, and the Rev. Horace Mann photographed the event.This phrase from the Roosevelt Window, “All men up not some men down,” drew enthusiastic applause when Theodore Roosevelt used it in a Colorado speech.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford As pastor of the Christian Church in Rifle, Mann then sought funding for a stained-glass window for his church parishioners to vividly remember the president’s visit. The Roosevelt Window includes Teddy’s motto, “All men up, not some men down”; the date of his speech; and in the center panel, “Our Country, Theodore Roosevelt, President.” Over the years, the Christian Church became the Presbyterian Church, and then it merged with the Methodist Church. By 1969, the building was sold. The windows were offered for sale in 1980. Under the leadership of Pastor Lynn Evans, concerned Rifle residents formed Heritage Windows Inc. to save the precious stained glass. Members of the group even signed personal promissory notes. Finally, the irreplaceable stained glass panels were restored and reinstalled in September 2010 at the Rifle Branch Library at 207 East Ave. For the 100th anniversary of Roosevelt’s death in January 2019, I spoke at the Rifle library about TR and the West. Just down the hall, the window panels shone brightly in afternoon winter light.The Roosevelt Window, originally designed for a Christian church, is now an important part of the Rifle Branch Library. President Theodore Roosevelt hunted bears south of Silt in April 1905, and this magnificent stained glass window was commissioned by local minister Rev. Horace Mann.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford Historic preservation and heritage tourism are vital to our state’s economy. The Roosevelt Window is not to be missed. TR died just as Coloradans began forming a Roosevelt Club “to work for the nomination of Colonel Roosevelt in 1920” for a new term as president. When Teddy died in his sleep in 1919, the then vice president said, “Death had to take him in his sleep, for if he was awake, there’d have been a fight.” His sons telegraphed, “The old lion is dead.” We’ll never hear his high, squeaky voice again. We’ll never see his clenched fist and his animated hand pounding a podium for conservation. But we can visit the Roosevelt Window in Rifle and contemplate the 43% of public land in Colorado and how much of a debt we owe TR for our national forests, our national parks and monuments and our open space. Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com. For moreFort Lewis College professor Andrew Gulliford speaks with KDNK Community Radio in Carbondale about President Theodore Roosevelt’s history in Western Colorado: https://bit.ly/2E8DAbh .]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/they-painted-in-the-canyons-archaic-artists-created-compelling-images-5000-years-ago/</link>
        <title>They painted in the canyons: Archaic artists created compelling images 5,000 years ago</title>
        <description>Of the thousands of Native American rock-art panels in the Southwest, none are older than the Barrier Canyon pictographs found throughout the Colorado Plateau and concentrated along rivers, especially the confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers. From tiny 5-inch...</description>
        <pubDate>Sat, 09 Mar 2019 06:00:00 -0700</pubDate>
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        <media:thumbnail url="https://imengine.public.prod.dur.navigacloud.com/?uuid=0E862B08-1327-4611-8468-E15F92DBEBDC&#038;function=thumbnail&#038;type=preview&#038;source=false&#038;width=600&#038;height=400" />
        <content:encoded><![CDATA[Of the thousands of Native American rock-art panels in the Southwest, none are older than the Barrier Canyon pictographs found throughout the Colorado Plateau and concentrated along rivers, especially the confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers. From tiny 5-inch animal figures to stunning 8-foot-tall human shapes with no arms or legs and alien-like bug eyes, Barrier Canyon Style images are usually a dark, blood-red color. They may have been painted 9,000 years ago; many panels are at least 5,000 years old. To find these remote panels, often at the intersections of 700- to 800-foot canyon walls, I have driven four-wheel-drive vehicles and then hiked into remote locations to photograph these spectacular ochre red paintings. The images of eerie, elongated figures with shortened arms and legs are hard to decipher. Of the anthropomorphs, or human figures, only 20 percent to 25 percent have eyes. Most have no ears or noses and no way to distinguish gender. Snakes writhe in their hands or above their heads. Yet circling these fierce, faceless creatures are delicate menageries of exquisitely painted birds, ducks, geese, deer and, occasionally, free-floating eyeballs with wings.A detail of a creator figure with rice grass sprouting from a finger at the Harvest Panel in the Green River Study Area. A rabbit floats over the arm and a bird flies nearby.Courtesy of Craig Law The artwork is compelling. The brush strokes and vibrant paint pigments make the images seem fresh and newly painted, yet one carbon dating of an embedded hair from a paintbrush dates from 6750 B.C. The paintings are probably made by mixing blood and clay, and possibly using urine as a binder. The locations are often miles from the nearest road, in the remote recesses of Canyonlands National Park and on Bureau of Land Management lands across Utah, Colorado, northern Arizona, eastern Nevada and parts of Wyoming. The most famous panels are the Great Gallery, Buckhorn Wash, the Holy Ghost Group and the Harvest Panel. ••• Visual artist David Sucec, director of the Barrier Canyon Style Project, and photographer Craig Law teamed up over 25 years ago to begin to inventory this rare Archaic rock-art style, which represents some of the oldest outdoor paintings in North America. The National Endowment for the Humanities, through the Traveling Exhibition Program of the Utah Division of Arts & Museums and the Utah Arts Council, has funded a small traveling exhibit of 24 photographs plus captions and wall text. The exhibit will travel for several years across Utah. Now, folks who may never venture deep into Colorado Plateau canyons, as Sucec and Law do in fall and spring, can see these remarkable images. The Barrier Canyon people did not farm. They had no steady food sources. We have no idea what languages they may have spoken. They created no distinctive architectural styles, but the art produced by these hunter-gatherers millennia ago stuns observers who come around a corner in a deep canyon and see these enormous panels for the first time. The “billboard-sized” Great Gallery is 300-feet wide with more than 80 figures, many near life-size.Most of the lower wall of the Great Gallery in the Green River Study Area. The “billboard-sized” Great Gallery is 300-feet wide with more than 80 figures, many near life-size.Courtesy of Craig Law When the team began, Sucec and Law thought there were about 160 Barrier Canyon art sites. Now, they have found close to 450 sites and have studied non-representational motifs, representational motifs and compositional motifs, which they have found near the mouths or junctions of remote canyons. “Utah’s first expressionist painters,” Sucec calls them. “Barrier Canyon Style has emerged to be one of the two major Archaic Period painted rock-art styles in the United States and possibly in the entire New World.” Sucec says this is “a style that lasted, if the dates are correct, an amazing 7,000 years.” He describes “virtuoso image-making techniques” and “life-size to heroic scale anthropomorphic figures, such as the Holy Ghost.” There are no violent depictions. No severed heads, battle scenes, no images of human conflict. Instead, there are “friendly associations of animal, bird, snake and plant images with anthropomorphic spirit figures.” “Walking in these canyons today,” Sucec says, “it is not difficult to imagine the significance these ancient rock-art galleries would have held for the hundreds of generations of a dynamic people who lived on the Colorado Plateau for a span, perhaps, of more than 7,000 years.” ••• The time depth and size of the images challenges our perspectives on American art and humanities. These are not human shapes as we would recognize them. Rather, they are human-like figures with elongated forms and interior spaces filled in with paint or cross-hatching, wavy lines, dots, zig-zags and snakes.At the Ascending Sheep Panel in the Sinbad Study Area, a composite figure is on the left with a human body and legs, female bighorn sheep head, snake tongue and parrot feet. Creator figures are seen on the right.Courtesy of Craig Law Unlike Europe’s ancient cave galleries of painted animals, Barrier Canyon images are made up of spirit figures, citizen figures and composite figures. No leaping lions or thundering aurochs, instead, these are life forms with antennae and horns. Almost 90 percent of the images “are of the spirit-figure type.” Composite figures feature “combinations of body parts from dissimilar species.” Indian rice grass grows out of one figure’s fingertips while rabbits gambol on its arm. The traveling exhibit comes with valuable handouts, including “Why Teach Art?”; “The Language of Art”; and for art detectives from the lower grades, questions about “Ancient Painters: Art in Rock Art,” such as, “Why was it important for the photographer, Craig Law, to take all these pictures?” There is also a poignant statement from Robert E. Allen: “We live in an age increasingly ruled by science and technology, a fact that only underscores the need for more emphasis on the arts. ... A grounding in the arts will help our children to see, and to bring a unique perspective to science and technology. In short, it will help them as they grow smarter, to also grow wiser.” I wonder what the children of the Barrier Canyon artists thought? Imagine a low-technology lifeway that may have lasted through seven millennia. What symbols did they share and create? What aspects of their humanity are replicated in ours? ••• With a small group of friends, we set out to find a few remote Barrier Canyon sites. In side canyons and short slot canyons, we found them. I’ll not forget a blustery spring day with a storm front moving across Utah. Seven of us hiked all morning to finally find a few red symbols high on a cliff face shaded by a small alcove. We scrambled up. There in the silence of the San Rafael Swell, the few symbols seen below blossomed into small panels of intricate images expertly drawn in the Barrier Canyon Style’s signature red paint.A Barrier Canyon rock-art figure with small applications of white paint around the border of the figure. Visual artist David Sucec, director of the Barrier Canyon Style Project, and photographer Craig Law teamed up over 25 years ago to begin to inventory this rare Archaic rock-art style.Courtesy of Craig Law Standing just a few feet from the panels, we could study the masterful brush strokes, the lyrical zoomorphs, or animal-like creatures, and the red paint’s perfect preservation. The artist had added a few white dots and faint white streaks. Seated on a sandstone ledge, looking south across a vast canyon landscape, rare pictographs just behind my shoulder, the 21st century melted away. Time ceased. I thought if we waited, with luck the artist might return. Instead, there was only wind. The most famous Barrier Canyon panel is the Great Gallery in a remote section of Canyonlands National Park named Horseshoe Canyon. But we wanted to hike in wilderness study areas to see ancient art generally not visited. In the vastness of the Swell, we could do that. On the fifth day, we came across a finger-painted panel of four figures that looked as fresh as if it had been painted that week.A detail of spirit figure in the Thompson Canyon cluster at the Northern Study Area.Courtesy of Craig Law Barrier Canyon paint is only one of the mysteries. Probably mixed from vegetable and mineral compounds, the paint is 10 percent blood, but whether human or animal is uncertain. The sophistication of the art, which seems to represent a vibrant and complex spirit world, is made more mystifying by the fact that the artists were Archaic Period (8500 to 2000 B.C.) mobile hunters and gatherers who did not plant corn and who lived a precarious subsistence lifestyle. They hunted with spears, and yet when we returned to the famous Buckhorn Wash panel to study it in afternoon shade using binoculars and long camera lenses, I felt I was in the presence of sacred art as powerful as anything on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The under-funded BLM has few staff to enforce regulations on backcountry travel, and rock art vandalism is an ongoing problem. Far too many panels have been shot at or scratched over. One site we visited was beneath a small cliff face at Molen Seep. For many yards, the base of the cliff was covered in cow poop. The site needs to be fenced and protected. I’d like to forget the negligence we saw that afternoon, but I can’t. Just as I can’t forget the rare feeling of hiking into remote canyons to discover 9,000-year-old paintings. How much longer will they be safe? A shorter version of this essay appeared in the summer 2018 issue of Humanities Magazine. Andrew Gulliford is an award-winning author and editor and a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College. He can be reached at gulliford_a@fortlewis.edu.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/a-mesa-verde-plate-new-tags-would-help-support-national-park/</link>
        <title>A Mesa Verde plate: New tags would help support national park</title>
        <description>Instead of fake news, how about real news? Instead of political posturing and name calling, how about a project to unite us as a region and a state? How about a Mesa Verde National Park license plate? We learned a...</description>
        <pubDate>Wed, 13 Feb 2019 22:50:06 -0700</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[Instead of fake news, how about real news? Instead of political posturing and name calling, how about a project to unite us as a region and a state? How about a Mesa Verde National Park license plate? We learned a hard economics lesson this summer when the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad quit running because of the 416 Fire. Stores, restaurants and motels suffered. We are a tourist town, no doubt about it, so why shouldn’t Durangoans, and the rest of the state for that matter, support a Mesa Verde license plate? I think we will. We’re almost there. We need about 600 more signatures on a petition to get the Colorado Legislature to approve a brand new license plate to promote the world’s first cultural park set aside by my hero, President Theodore Roosevelt, in 1906. A successful tourist season at Mesa Verde means 600,000 visitors with a regional economic impact of close to $70 million. That’s why the Mesa Verde Foundation is acting to get approval for a shiny new Mesa Verde license plate. Proceeds from the sale of this special Colorado license plate will directly benefit the park. Rocky Mountain National Park has a similar benefit license plate as do the state’s colleges and universities. We have license plates for adopting shelter pets, for breast cancer and for hunting and fishing conservation. We have license plates for our franchised sports teams, for wildlife, for rivers and for state parks. Why not have a license plate for Colorado’s oldest national park? What a great idea! ••• I like license plates. In 43 years of marriage, we have most of the license plates my wife and I have ever purchased – or at least the colorful ones. Using baling wire to attach them to our backyard fence, we have a potpourri of plates. My wife, Stephanie Moran, came west from New Jersey, and we have her vintage Jersey license plate, which is now faded yellow and black with the motto “The Garden State.” We met in San Francisco. When she drove to Colorado to be with me to see if our relationship would “work out,” she came over Donner Pass in a 1968 Volkswagen bug, which we christened “Grumpy” because of its mechanical attitude. Sometimes it ran. Sometimes it didn’t. The car is long gone, but we still have the California license plate. We have a Garfield County license plate from 1976 when I started teaching fourth grade in Silt, when it still had dirt streets and wooden water lines. We have a bland, fading Ohio license plate from our years of graduate school and the birth of our first child. On the fence are two New Mexico license plates from our time in Silver City, when I directed a university museum and our second son was born. My academic career took me to Middle Tennessee State University, so on the backyard fence, we have a decade of Tennessee license plates. The plates include a state park plate with wild purple irises, the standard Tennessee plate that has a design like a soccer ball in the middle, and my vanity plate, 63 BIRD, for the 1963 Thunderbird I owned and proudly drove with the mammoth 350 horsepower engine, the tilt-away steering wheel and the taillights modeled on the afterburners of F-1 jets. Sold the car. Kept the plate. And like so many other Colorado exiles, when life and careers force us away from the state we love and we finally get to come back home, we have a few of the traditional Colorado license plates with snow-clad mountains sprawled across the top. Back in Colorado, within two days of coming home, we ditched the out-of-state license plates on our vehicles to purchase the green and white ones so we could become “locals” once again. ••• License plates. We pay for them. We put them on our cars and trucks. Then after a while the plates wind up on fences, barns, sheds and all variety of objects d’art. They sell in antique stores. They become collectible.Julie and Paul Booth have adorned their backyard shed with license plates from 15 states. Friends continue to donate more plates.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford In Durango at 1008 Oak Drive, Paul and Julie Booth nailed license plates all over their shed. “The shed’s old and the wood’s not good. So it’s a protective thing, but it looks cool. “At night it lights up when you shine a light on it because of the reflective paint,” Paul says. So far, their shed boasts license plates from 15 states. “It’s a great idea. I like the aesthetic. It gives the shed personality,” Julie says. “When friends come over, it’s a conversation piece,” Paul says. So how exciting will it be to have Mesa Verde license plates? Native Americans agree. “Our forefathers settled in Mesa Verde. Although we are currently living in New Mexico, we still have connections to Mesa Verde in many ways,” says Zia Pueblo elder Peter Pino. “Our forefathers and us as direct descendants would be honored to have a license plate acknowledging and showcasing Mesa Verde for all the world to see.” “Providing support to care for and improve the park is a priority,” says Mesa Verde Foundation Executive Director Janet McFarland Burlile. “Revenue generated will support the park directly. We currently are gathering signatures with the goal of having a bill in front of the Colorado Legislature during the 2019 session.” So help out the park. Mesa Verde Foundation board member Elaine Gunnell says, “To date, over 2,000 of the 3,000 signatures needed have been obtained either by signing our digital petition (https://bit.ly/2CKPit3) or signing a paper document. Both types of signatures are acceptable for the application process.”Now that Fort Lewis College art and design professor Paul Booth collects license plates, his mother knows just what to get him for Christmas – license plate art and gifts.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford To learn more, contact Burlile at janet@mesaverdefoundation.org or (303) 321-3120. Mesa Verde license plate bill sponsors include state Rep. Chris Hansen, Democrat, House District 6, and state Sen. Don Coram, Republican, District 6, representing Archuleta, Dolores, La Plata, Montezuma, Montrose, Ouray, San Juan and San Miguel counties. “I would support a license plate for Mesa Verde,” says Colorado state Rep. Barbara McLachlan. “It has such a rich history, and I am proud it represents the beauty and significance of Southwest Colorado.” The city of Durango also likes the idea. In September 2018, the City Council approved “a resolution supporting the creation of a Colorado specialty license plate for Mesa Verde National Park.” The draft design is a beautiful license plate showing off our Colorado mountains and the unique ancestral Puebloan architecture of cliff dwellings. I’ve signed the petition. My Fort Lewis College students have enthusiastically signed the petition. This is a project we can all support. I can’t wait to get my Mesa Verde license plates and put them on my bumpers. It will be a long time before they hang on the back fence. Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/trampling-barriers-mancos-artists-bronze-sculpture-honors-fall-of-berlin-wall/</link>
        <title>Trampling barriers: Mancos artist’s bronze sculpture honors fall of Berlin Wall</title>
        <description>President George H.W. Bush helped reunite East and West Germany when the Berlin Wall fell, and a Mancos artist cast a 7-ton bronze sculpture commemorating the event. For 28 years, Berlin and Germany had been divided by Cold War communism....</description>
        <pubDate>Sat, 12 Jan 2019 05:03:11 -0700</pubDate>
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        <media:thumbnail url="https://imengine.public.prod.dur.navigacloud.com/?uuid=2B2DBC39-64F3-44A7-BB8B-E3A1DB873D48&#038;function=thumbnail&#038;type=preview&#038;source=false&#038;width=600&#038;height=400" />
        <content:encoded><![CDATA[President George H.W. Bush helped reunite East and West Germany when the Berlin Wall fell, and a Mancos artist cast a 7-ton bronze sculpture commemorating the event. For 28 years, Berlin and Germany had been divided by Cold War communism. More than 1,000 artists submitted ideas to honor German reunification, but only Veryl Goodnight’s sculpture was accepted. There are two castings of the 1¼ life-size bronze horses running to freedom over broken concrete and twisted rebar. One casting of “The Day the Wall Came Down” stands in a Berlin park at the Allied Museum, and one is at the George H.W. Bush Presidential Library at Texas A&M University. In Europe, Bush is known as the “father of German reunification.” With the recent passing of President Bush, I visited with Goodnight to learn more about her art, her patriotism and the difficulties involved in moving large bronze sculptures across the nation – and across the world. Mancos claims to be “at the intersection of art and adventure.” Goodnight’s life exemplifies both. ••• When World War II ended, the Soviet Army refused to relinquish Berlin. As Europe rebuilt after the war, Berlin remained a captured pawn in a larger global conflict. The Soviet Union insisted that East Germany become one of its “satellite” nations. Berlin stood isolated and vulnerable to ongoing communist threats of aggression. West Berlin remained a free city, but it was caught between the Soviets’ red sickle and hammer. Desperate and faced with starvation, West Berliners turned to America for help. The newly created U.S. Air Force flew numerous missions in the 1947-48 Berlin Blockade and Airlift to provide food, clothing and fuel to Berliners trapped by the Soviets. My stepfather was a navigator in the 8th Air Force and proudly remembered those flights. East Germans kept fleeing their country and heading west, so in 1961, the East German, Soviet-supported government, ironically named the German Democratic Republic, built a wall. At first, no one was sure what the purpose of the wall was. Why build a 105-mile-long, 14-foot-high concrete wall separating East and West Germany? Then it became clear. The wall, and the no-man’s land dividing the two Berlins, was to prohibit communication and commerce. Still, Germans sought freedom from communism. Dozens died trying to scale the razor wire-topped wall. East German soldiers shot to kill. The wall stood as a symbol of a failed economic and social system. On the west side in political protest, artists covered it with graffiti. Finally, 28 years after the concrete barrier went up, it was breached on Nov. 9, 1989. ••• Veryl Goodnight’s sculpture began as a dream after watching dramatic television footage of the wall coming down. It had been built to keep East Germans in and to keep freedom out. Goodnight’s dream was to use running horses as a metaphor and to have bronze horses trample barriers between peoples. She had the dream. She had the artistic skill. She began her project. Meanwhile, President Bush worked to bring the two Germanys together at a time when reunification seemed economically and socially fraught with uncertainty and huge expense.Artist and sculptor Veryl Goodnight works in her Santa Fe home and studio preparing the 1¼ life-size horse sculptures. Goodnight moved to Mancos in 2006, and her Goodnight Gallery is part of the town’s artistic renaissance.Courtesy of Goodnight Gallery, Mancos, Colorado Last month, as world leaders gathered to praise President Bush, The Wall Street Journal wrote that he had made his “historic contribution” at the end of the Cold War and would be remembered as “a consequential one-term president who set an example with his integrity and sense of patriotic duty.” Politicians do their work, and so do artists. “To commemorate the victory of free people over the forces of totalitarian rule, artists from all over the world offered pieces of art to celebrate the fall of the Berlin Wall. Berlin refused all these offers except one, the sculpture ‘The Day the Wall Came Down,’” says Roger Brooks, Goodnight’s husband. “By Veryl using horses to represent Germans breaking through a barrier to their own freedom, this sculpture also represents other people seeking to overcome obstacles to their own personal freedom.” Donors funded the $250,000 casting fee for the 14,000-pound, 30-foot-long, 18-foot-wide and 12-foot-high sculpture. Simultaneously, Joe and Betty Hiram Moore urged President Bush to have his presidential library on the Texas A&M University campus at College Station. As Bush approved the placement of his library and archives, he met Goodnight and Brooks and also agreed to the placing of a casting of the sculpture at his library because 10 months after he became president, the wall came down. ••• One casting of the four leaping mares and one stallion stood for a year in front of the Currigan Exhibition Hall in Denver. The second casting became part of the 1996 Olympic Games near Atlanta. As it came time to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the Berlin Airlift in 1998, Brooks wondered if the U.S. Air Force could deliver the sculpture. Gen. Ron Fogelman, Air Force chief of staff now retired to Durango, supported the idea as part of a normal supply flight to Germany. After speeches, flags, bands and a Colorado National Guard F-16 flyover, craftsmen wrapped and separated the sculpture into four sections for loading into a large C-17 cargo plane, aptly christened “The Spirit of Berlin.” Denver children tied candy to the sculpted horses symbolizing the “candy bombers,” which dropped candy and precious food for families in Berlin during the airlift. My stepfather liked to tell that story, too. Artists work in symbols and the USAF delivered Goodnight’s sculpture as part of the 50th anniversary of the Berlin airlift, an important patriotic symbol.Inside the vast C-17 cargo plane, named “The Spirit of Berlin,” airmen secured the carefully wrapped horses. Earlier in Denver, children had decorated the wrapped horses with candy to commemorate the “candy bombings” of desperately needed food, clothing, fuel and candy, which the young U.S. Air Force had delivered to Berlin families in 1947-48.Courtesy of Goodnight Gallery, Mancos, Colorado Once the plane landed, the German Army transported the horses in a military convoy. Former President Bush, former U.S. Army Air Commandant of Berlin Gen. John Mitchell, and Berlin’s mayor, Eberhard Diepgen, gathered for the unveiling. The horses leap into the air. Below them, painted to look like graffiti on concrete, lie broken stretches of the wall, part of the bronze casting. Painted on the sculpture’s base are words and designs documented by photographers before the concrete crumbled. In Texas, the horse sculpture is the favorite exhibit at the Bush Presidential Library on the Texas A&M University campus. The sculptures are identical, but with a significant twist. On the base of the sculpture at his library, President Bush wanted the names of East Germans killed trying to escape. It was his request. He wrote Goodnight, “I found that the names of those East Germans, gunned down trying to get to freedom, made your marvelous bronze even more powerful.” Later, he wrote, “I can’t tell you how pleased Barbara and I are that your wonderful sculpture, ‘The Day the Wall Came Down,’ now stands in the plaza of our Presidential Library Center. The message that you convey – ‘The Berlin Wall – Courage – Freedom’ – is particularly important to me, and I am confident that it will be seen and remembered by everyone who visits the library.” And in a handwritten postscript, he added, “It looks absolutely sensational placed in the courtyard.”“The Day the Wall Came Down” is the most popular attraction at the George H.W. Bush Presidential Library at Texas A&M University. In Germany, President Bush is considered “the father of reunification,” because he urged East and West Germany, split during the Cold War, to come back together as one nation despite enormous economic and social difficulties.Courtesy of Goodnight Gallery, Mancos, Colorado ••• Goodnight has public art in front of the Colorado History Museum in Denver; at the Union Pacific Railroad Museum in Cheyenne, Wyoming; at the Gilcrease Museum in Tulsa, Oklahoma; at the National Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame in Fort Worth, Texas; and across America. But one of her favorite sculptures stands in Berlin. “It’s huge. And there are so many personal layers to the sculpture. With public art, it doesn’t matter who did it. It’s the beauty that counts. Most folks who see this sculpture don’t know I did it and that’s fine. Art is completed by the viewer,” she tells me in her studio. “Horses represent freedom in many cultures, certainly in the American West. As a Colorado native and a Westerner, I’ve always felt that running horses have symbolized freedom.” In her book, “No Turning Back,” Goodnight wrote, “We will always remember West Berlin, that little island of freedom in the heart of communist Europe. ‘The Day the Wall Came Down’ sculpture stands in honor of Berlin, the city that made the fatal tear in the fabric of the Iron Curtain.” Now, the sculpture also honors President George H.W. Bush. Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/mancos-mapmaker-chronicles-john-wesley-powells-epic-1869-journey/</link>
        <title>Mancos mapmaker chronicles John Wesley Powell’s epic 1869 journey</title>
        <description>Mancos mapmaker chronicles John Wesley Powell’s epic 1869 journey</description>
        <pubDate>Sat, 08 Dec 2018 05:03:10 -0700</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[Mancos mapmaker chronicles John Wesley Powell’s epic 1869 journey In the Southwest, river runners and river rats have the same great, great grandfather. Our patriarch is the one-armed Maj. John Wesley Powell, who launched four wooden boats in May 1869 down the Green and Colorado rivers. As a river runner, I want to travel where Maj. Powell went. Now, in historic detail, there is a new map that shows me his route and rendezvous with destiny in the Grand Canyon. That epic trip, during which a boat would be smashed at Disaster Falls and three men would hike out at Separation Canyon never to be seen again, helped define American courage and bravado in the 19th century with a daring expedition that lesser mortals would have thought impossible. It revolutionized geoscience as the leading minds of the day tried to understand “deep time” and the age of the Earth. Christian theology, based on the “begats” in the Bible’s Old Testament, assumed Adam and Eve left the Garden of Eden 6,000 years ago. Named John Wesley Powell after John Wesley, the founder of Methodism in America, Powell looked at ancient rocks on canyon cliffs and knew that everything he had been taught was wrong. His river trip would begin new branches of science. He named creeks and drainages on the Colorado Plateau, including the Escalante River, which Father Escalante never saw; the Henry Mountains, the last named mountains in the Lower 48; Bright Angel Creek in Grand Canyon; and its colorful antithesis, the Dirty Devil River. ••• In 2019, Powell’s fateful journey will have its 150th anniversary. Many events are planned, and local Mancos mapmaker Frank Lister has published his own colorful commemoration. Powell’s trip was immortalized in his book, “Exploration of the Colorado River of the West,” and in his place names, but now it is time to memorialize the trip itself. Lister has done just that with a new map full of vibrant illustrations, and a careful chronicling of each and every Powell campsite. “With the sesquicentennial next year, it seems like the right thing to do,” Lister told me. Now, river runners like myself, who want to paddle, row and float most miles that Powell traversed, will have our own map to do just that. But, I’ll skip the flat water, thank you.The full John Wesley Powell 1869 Colorado River Exploring Expedition Map was designed by Frank Lister and Time Traveler Maps from Mancos. The map comes in a foldable version for river trips and in a large poster-style version for boathouse walls.Courtesy of Time Traveler Maps I won’t bother trying to paddle across Flaming Gorge reservoir or Lake Powell, dubbed by some environmentalists Lake Foul. I’ve been through the Canyons of Lodore many times and even suffered our own tragic loss at Disaster Falls, but we’ve always taken out at Echo Park or Split Mountain. I want to row through Desolation-Gray canyons and test my mettle in Cataract Canyon. I’ve been down through the Grand Canyon three times in rafts, but each campsite is different. Each trip has a unique flavor, and I’d love to go again and again. Lister’s Time Traveler Map, titled “John Wesley Powell’s 1869 Colorado River Exploring Expedition, an illustrated map and adventure anthology,” whets my appetite. Lister makes me want to stuff my dry bag, find my flotation device, put a paddle in the water and go. ••• Lister has managed to condense nearly 1,000 miles and 100 days of river travel into one large, foldable map that shows campsites from Expedition Island at Green River, Wyoming, to Powell’s take-out at the confluence of the Virgin and Colorado rivers near the mud flats of Lake Mead. Imagine the vast Colorado Plateau before there were dams, farms, freeways and hundreds of diversion ditches pumping the river dry. Lister spent months working with a team of scholars, river runners, writers, cartographers and designers with original oil paintings by Glen Hopkinson and detailed information on Powell’s boats.Early in their expedition, John Wesley Powell’s men smashed one of their four wooden boats at Disaster Falls in Colorado’s Canyon of Lodore. With only three boats left, Powell was forced to take precautions. In the subsequent days and months, he had his men did the brutal, backbreaking work of unloading their hundreds of pounds of supplies, portaging the supplies around rapids and then lining the empty boats through the most difficult rapids.John Wesley Powell’s 1869 Colorado River Exploring Expedition Illustrated Map & Adventure Antholog “This is far more than just a map,” river runner and writer Christa Sadler says. “It’s got something for everyone. In addition to a wonderful annotated map of Powell’s journey through the region, an excellent text gives the reader important background on Powell’s purpose, crew, boats and gear.” Research included time at the Powell Museum in Page, Arizona, and the Powell Museum in Green River, Utah. Lister attended the rowdy, raucous Grand Canyon River Guides annual meeting for comments and quips from guides. He says with humility, “This has been a huge educational thing for me. I’ve learned a lot,” including trying to sort out what happened in 1869 and Powell’s subsequent 1871 well-financed trip, which he conflated into one book forever confusing scholars and river runners alike. I asked Lister what he thought the major would think of this Time Traveler Map. He laughed and said, “I think Powell would like this. It’s a book on a single sheet of paper.” With admiration, Lister added, “The guy had such vision. He was self-taught and the first to understand the Colorado Plateau’s geologic uplifting and downcutting. All the civilians on the trip failed. Military veterans survived the ordeal. Powell was obsessed with science.” ••• Indeed, Powell understood water in the West better than anyone else in the 19th century, and better than most scholars in the 20th century. Certainly better than politicians. Powell would have changed our political boundaries. Instead of a square-shaped Colorado with our oddly drawn county boundary lines cutting across canyons and mountain ranges, Powell wanted political districts to encapsulate watersheds. He wanted local administration of water so that citizens and neighbors could control their own fates.As soon as the Union Pacific transcontinental railroad was completed, Maj. John Wesley Powell was there at Green River, Wyoming, to off-load four wooden boats and begin his epic journey down the Green River to the Grand (now Colorado) River to make his way through the Grand Canyon. Today, a Wyoming state park includes Expedition Island, which commemorates other historic boat trips. Powell’s launch May 24, 1869, was the first.John Wesley Powell’s 1869 Colorado River Exploring Expedition Illustrated Map & Adventure Antholog Powell would have been aghast at our trans-montane water diversions where Denver and other Front Range cities siphon off Western Slope water and giant federal reservoirs hold, but also evaporate, our most precious resource. He learned the aridity of the West firsthand, and his fated journey taught him much. Wallace Stegner’s biography of Powell, “Beyond the Hundredth Meridian,” is my favorite, but there’s also Donald Worster’s “A River Running West,” and I like Edward Dolnick’s “Down the Great Unknown.” New books for the 150th anniversary include “River Master” by Cecil Kuhne, “The Powell Expedition” by Don Lago and “The Promise of the Grand Canyon” by John F. Ross. For 2019, there will be displays at the Sweetwater County Historical Museum in Green River, Wyoming; the John Wesley Powell History Museum in Green River, Utah; the Moab Information Center; and the National Geographic Visitor Center/Imax Theatre at the Grand Canyon. But there’s only one new map. ••• “So beautifully written. Simple, concise, packed full of interesting details of Powell’s life from boyhood to scientist to adventurer,” says Loie Belknap Davis of Westwater Press, which produces river guides and maps. “What a perfect way to capture the John Wesley Powell story in a fresh way – to celebrate the sesquicentennial of the journey into the great unknown, 1869-2019.”A dramatic scene in John Wesley Powell’s account of his trip through the Grand Canyon was when he got rimrocked and could go not go up or down on a cliff face. He was hiking with another boatman, but they had forgotten to bring rope. The boatman above him took off his clothes, including his long, wool, red underwear, and used the long johns as a makeshift rope to lower them down. Powell leaned back with his only arm and grabbed the dangling long johns. He wrote, “and thus I am saved.”John Wesley Powell’s 1869 Colorado River Exploring Expedition Illustrated Map & Adventure Antholog Time Traveler Maps has a winner on its hands. Lister has produced maps of the Colorado Plateau and its borderlands, satellite images of the Four Corners, guides to the Santa Catalina Mountains in southern Arizona, maps of Navajo Country and the Hillerman Indian Country Map & Guide, but the new Powell map is a stunning, timely tribute. “This is not a river guide. This is to haul around in your dry box and take out and study at night – on all sections of the journey,” Lister says. He’s right. Time to pack my river gear. Hopefully, we’ll get epic snows for epic flows next year. It will be a season to honor the patriarch. The dangers he faced will be adventures for us. Powell mapped the canyons and named the Plateau Province. We can only follow and row in his memory. Andrew Gulliford is a historian and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/can-we-learn-to-live-with-wolves-again/</link>
        <title>Can we learn to live with wolves again?</title>
        <description>In Colorado, we have 12 streams named Wolf Creek, yet officially, we have no wolves in our state. A reprint of a rare book helps to explain the loss of Colorado’s wolves, and the Durango Wolf Symposium at Fort Lewis...</description>
        <pubDate>Sat, 10 Nov 2018 05:00:00 -0700</pubDate>
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        <media:thumbnail url="https://imengine.public.prod.dur.navigacloud.com/?uuid=CA46F4C6-4E52-444A-B15E-14C3F241348E&#038;function=thumbnail&#038;type=preview&#038;source=false&#038;width=600&#038;height=400" />
        <content:encoded><![CDATA[In Colorado, we have 12 streams named Wolf Creek, yet officially, we have no wolves in our state. A reprint of a rare book helps to explain the loss of Colorado’s wolves, and the Durango Wolf Symposium at Fort Lewis College will provide diverse perspectives on wolf ecology. Join us on campus Nov. 29 for the two-day event. Arthur Carhart’s book, “The Last Stand of the Pack” (1929), describes in grim detail the struggle to pursue and kill the last Colorado wolves ranging in the wild in the 1920s. Across the West, the same predator mania continued. The frontier had officially ended in 1890, and the last vestiges of wilderness had to be cleansed of their large predators, especially the feared, gray timber wolves, which may once have numbered in the thousands in Colorado. “The Last Stand of the Pack” is now back in print, published by the University Press of Colorado in a critical edition edited by me and Tom Wolf. All of Carhart’s original words are there, and we added new essays on the eco-possibilities of wolf re-introduction. ••• The Bureau of Biological Survey claimed to have killed Colorado’s last wolf in 1935. Scholar Michael Robinson believed the date was 1945 in Conejos County. Either way, it has been decades since Colorado’s mountains have heard the full-throated howls of a wolf pack on a moonlit night, but that may be changing. Single wolves are returning to their former habitat and a breeding pair may meet in the next decade. With raw words, sparing no blood, Carhart described the last wolves killed in Colorado. This was nature writing at its best. Carhart made clear the economic losses suffered by ranchers and their visceral animosity toward wolves. Always on the run, harassing livestock because of the depletion in game, the last wolves had names like Old Lefty from Eagle County, the Phantom Wolf near Fruita, the Greenhorn Wolf south of Pueblo, the Unaweep Wolf from Unaweep Canyon, Big Foot at DeBeque, Old Whitey near Trinidad and Rags the Digger at Cathedral Bluffs in Rio Blanco County.James Shaw holds a dead wolf killed near Thatcher in Las Animas County. This was one of the last wolves killed on Colorado’s eastern plains.Courtesy Western History Collections, Denver Public Library Wolves harassed livestock because wild game populations had dramatically dropped. Most of Colorado’s elk had been shot and killed by market hunters, who were paid 10 cents a pound for elk, deer and antelope. Today’s elk herds evolved from elk transplanted from Montana and Wyoming. The state’s elk herds are doing fine, but there are rising fears of chronic wasting disease. How to combat the disease? Introduce gray wolves to cull the weak, the young and the sick. Wolves can help restore our Colorado ecosystems. As a deer and elk hunter, I want wolves back. No one knows how wolves will fit into the Colorado landscape, but many of us are waiting to find out. A survey conducted by Colorado State University found that 73 percent of Coloradans, most living on the Front Range, support wolves in Colorado, and 20 percent do not. Obviously, that 20 percent includes ranchers who have a different perspective, but that’s all the more reason to begin a dialogue on wolves. ••• So if wolves are coming back to Colorado, coming down from Yellowstone National Park only to be killed along Interstate 70, why not help them out? Why not reintroduce wolves? Three times, the Colorado Parks and Wildlife Commission has passed resolutions opposing reintroduction of wolves to the state. They did it in 1982, 1989 and 2016. Perhaps it’s time to revisit that important decision. If wolves arrive on their own, we’ll have to live with where they appear. If wolves are introduced, there can be more flexibility on where they live and certainly more planning. Wolf reintroduction into Colorado will take time and patience. Folks who would never normally speak to each other – because they wear different hats, different footwear, drive different vehicles and support different causes – will have to sit at the same table and share their values, their thoughts, their hopes for their families, as well as their future.How odd that across Colorado and the West, hunters ruthlessly pursued wolves yet valued their power and presence enough to have them mounted, stuffed and then photographed in the same mountain landscapes from which they had been extirpated. Ecologist Aldo Leopold wrote: “Man always kills the things he loves, and so we the pioneers have killed our wilderness.”Courtesy of Photo Collections, History Colorado With 5.5 million people, Colorado is essentially an urban state with suburban sprawl on the Front Range and less than 250,000 people on the Western Slope where wolves would be introduced. Why not restore our full complement? We’ll probably never have grizzly bears back in Colorado. They take too much territory and live at elevations that we do, but wolves – I think we could adjust. I think we could learn to accommodate ourselves to another top-tier predator besides ourselves. But I admit, as a Colorado wildlife biologist told me, “More hearts have to be won.” ••• Wolves are part of our Western wildlife heritage. Learning to live again with them in the Rocky Mountains may be one of our most important 21st-century lessons in ecology and humility. We killed wolves with poisons, traps and guns. Arthur Carhart came to realize the pervasive power of industrialized death. A year after publishing “The Last Stand of the Pack,” Carhart questioned co-author Stanley P. Young whether exterminating wolves “to please squawking stockmen” could be justified. “Isn’t it a just consideration that the cats and wolves and coyotes have a damn sight better basic right to live in the hills and have use of that part of the world as their own than the domestic livestock of the stockmen?” he asserted. Carhart, father of the wilderness idea, wanted wild creatures in wild places.“Enchantress from the Mist,” wolf cover art by Becky Hoyle Lukow of Fruitland, N.M.du1-i-syn What would Carhart think of wolves returning to Colorado? As a wilderness advocate, a “wilderness prophet” in the words of author Tom Wolf, Carhart surely would have seen the connection between wild landscapes and canis lupus. As a hunter and a sportsman interested in healthy big-game populations, he probably could have come to learn what Lewis and Clark understood and what Aldo Leopold tried to teach – that wolves have their place. I hunt wildlife, and I agree – wolves belong. At the Durango Wolf Symposium, guest speakers will include Michael Philips, executive director of the Turner Endangered Species Fund, and Carter Niemeyer, a retired U.S. Fish and Wildlife Services employee who personally went to Canada to bring wolves to Yellowstone. We’ll host other experts, including local rancher Tom Compton, who believes, “The development of sound public policy requires careful consideration of all aspects of an issue, paying particular attention to the potential for unintended consequences.” Northern Rockies rancher Joe Engelhart manages a large cattle operation where there are active predators. He will give a talk called “Ranching with Wolves and Other Predators: A True-Life Story.” “There is nothing to be learned or gained from a dead wolf, but we can learn a great deal about sharing the landscape with them by first being willing to understand them,” he says. University of Colorado-Denver professor Diana Tomback will speak at the symposia. She argues, “There are compelling practical reasons for restoring the gray wolf to Colorado. The ‘balance of nature’ is not just a poetic catch phrase; it refers to a real ecological state.” ••• I tell my FLC students that wolves are coming home to Colorado. Hopefully, in my lifetime; certainly, in theirs. We need them back. We need to hear their howls on moonlit nights deep in the Weminuche Wilderness or high on the Flattops on Colorado’s Western Slope. Gray shadows should leave paw prints in snow beneath dark trees. Maybe wolves will even return to their old haunts where Carhart wrote about them in Unaweep Canyon, on the Book Cliffs, along Huerfano Creek, beside the Purgatoire. Wolf recovery in Colorado will be a grand experiment. I wish Arthur Carhart were alive to write about it. He’d love to record the cycle of ecological change and humans foregoing hubris for humility. “The Last Stand of the Pack” is a valuable historical account. Now in the 21st century, we should turn a new page and allow a top-tier predator to bring balance back to our ecosystems. Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/the-woolly-west-sheepscapes-tell-the-story-of-sheepherding-in-colorado/</link>
        <title>The Woolly West: ‘Sheepscapes’ tell the story of sheepherding in Colorado</title>
        <description>Everybody writes about cowboys. Nobody writes about sheepherders. Of the hundreds of books written about cowboys and cowboying in the American West, there are few volumes on sheep and sheepmen. So I set out to write the first full-length history...</description>
        <pubDate>Sat, 13 Oct 2018 05:00:00 -0600</pubDate>
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        <media:thumbnail url="https://imengine.public.prod.dur.navigacloud.com/?uuid=B387965A-3A21-4358-B7C1-F7633B447E28&#038;function=thumbnail&#038;type=preview&#038;source=false&#038;width=600&#038;height=400" />
        <content:encoded><![CDATA[Everybody writes about cowboys. Nobody writes about sheepherders. Of the hundreds of books written about cowboys and cowboying in the American West, there are few volumes on sheep and sheepmen. So I set out to write the first full-length history on the sheep and cattle wars in Colorado and modern sheep grazing on public lands. The book, “The Woolly West: Colorado’s Hidden History of Sheepscapes,” is published now. I hope I didn’t do a baaaaaaaaaad job. A lone sheepherder would be in charge of a band of about 1,000 sheep, and though he might have had a horse, it was really his dogs that kept the sheep in line, bedded them down and guarded them through the night against coyotes and bears. In the herding tradition, the morning star is the shepherd’s star – La Estrella del Pastor because herders rise in the dark. Cowboys get the fancy hats and hand-tooled leather boots. Sheepherders wear whatever they can find and carry a staff or crook to catch errant sheep by a rear hoof. It’s an ancient practice, far older than 19th-century cowboying and trailing cattle north to railroad terminus points as America moved west. Sheepherding stories and metaphors abound in the Bible and in diverse cultures worldwide, but I wanted to learn about sheep in Colorado, where they came from, how they arrived, who owned them, who herded them and what impact they have had on the environment for almost two centuries. ••• This book began in an aspen grove as I studied carvings left by dozens of herders over decades. Some of the herders carved their initials each year they returned to the same grove. As I contemplated the carvings and thought of the baaing, blatting sheep moving through the smooth-barked aspen, I wondered – why were sheep hated? What was that deep-seated animosity against white, woolly creatures by cattlemen?This classic photograph depicts the attitude of sheepmen and their herders in the West, particularly Basque and Greek herders, in defending their flocks’ grazing rights on the open range.Courtesy of the Sheep Photo File, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming Why did cowboys prosper in poetry, folksongs and myth as rugged individuals, while sheepherders, who truly worked alone, are all but forgotten in the annals of the American West? Or when they are remembered, they are despised. Yet after the cattle and sheep wars finally came to an end by the 1920s, some sheepmen came to run cattle and some cattlemen chose to try sheep. As a historian, I know that the deeper you probe into primary sources and original documents, the broader the story goes. In Colorado history, there are a few villains and even fewer heroes. We used and abused the land in certain ways and now we know better. Like thread hand-spun from raw wool, I try to unravel the skein of people, place and purpose across Colorado’s high country. How did free range become government grass at the turn of the 20th century, and now in the 21st century, as we face global warming, climate change and probable long-term drought, how do we evaluate grazing permits in high alpine meadows? Should past practices be continued? And within the deeply woven story of cattle and sheep ranchers who own private land in Colorado’s mountain valleys, what are those family connections to soil and sheep and ranching traditions? How do modern ranch families persevere in a complicated world of competitive uses for high country they have always grazed? Colorado remains the third largest wool-producing state. As I seek answers and try to understand the language and culture of a few Basque, Greek and Hispano families who still raise sheep and graze them on public land, I am captivated by the tree carvings and the legacy of lone herders high in Colorado aspen groves, on foot or on horseback, etching names, dates, symbols, portraits of women and also carving the occasional curse. ••• A 100-year history of sheep grazing on Colorado public lands produced some interesting stories, some deep-seated quarrels and a new awareness of pioneer families who succeeded because of pluck, perseverance and a willingness to risk rain, snow, coyotes and cold nights alone, all in an attempt to raise lambs, put weight on the wethers and make an income twice yearly – from wool and from meat.The Denver & Rio Grande, Colorado’s mountain railroad, off-loads sheep that herders will trail into the high country. Sheepmen often wintered their woolies near Canyonlands in Utah and then moved them by rail into Colorado for summer grazing.Courtesy of the Denver Public Library Indeed, Colorado has 15 streams named Sheep Creek and 19 peaks christened Sheep Mountain. Modern issues get tangled up when traditional pastures are bisected by hiking trails like the Colorado Trail, the Continental Divide Trail or any of the dozens of routes that bring backpackers into Colorado’s high country. What was once rural and remote is no longer. Friction exists between old-style ranchers just trying to make a living and urban vacationers out to experience nature, especially in wilderness areas like the Weminuche, Mount Zirkel, Flat Tops, Lizard Head, Big Blue, West Elk and Maroon Bells. The working landscape of high-country sheep grazing in the summer and winter range in the deserts of northern New Mexico, southern Wyoming or eastern Utah have all been modified. Sheep pastures are now leisure landscapes for tourists and wealthy second homeowners, who purchase expensive private lots near Vail, Telluride or Copper Mountain. The working West exists alongside an adventure-driven tourist-based economy. Where Colorado sheep once wintered in the broken canyon country between the Green and Colorado rivers, parts of that area are now Canyonlands National Park. Dynamite-blasted sheep trails are popular hiking and mountain biking venues by visitors who have no idea that lonely sheepherders once clutched cold coffee cups where they luxuriate in distant views. Thousands of alpine acres where sheep once grazed in large numbers are now federally protected wilderness areas with even more restrictions than national forests. Hikers having walked for miles into wilderness retreats seeking silence and solitude do not favor the sound or smell of sheep. ••• In “The Woolly West,” I define sheepherder landscapes, or “sheepscapes,” such as carved aspen trees, stone cairns, wooden corrals in canyon bottoms and painted portraits in sheepsheds. To understand winter range for sheep, I’ve camped at the bottom of Rattlesnake Canyon, arriving by canoe on the Gunnison River. I’ve hiked into Escalante and Dominguez canyons where sheep and cattle conflicts erupted into a shooting war.On the Mattern Ranch north of Steamboat Springs, Bill and Beth Sagstetter photographed a variety of arborglyphs. The sheepherder artist who impressed them the most was Ben Vigil, who carved this handsome couple. This tree and his other carvings can no longer be found. Photo circa 1980.Courtesy of Beth Sagstetter High on the Flat Top Mountains, I’ve backpacked into camp among the lakes and meadows herders love and, by Jeep, followed old stock driveways from Colorado into Wyoming. In the San Luis Valley trying to hike into the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, I’ve been stopped by late-spring flooded creeks, which washed out a trail that would have taken me to a stone monument for a herder who died of a heart attack close to his sheep. As always, there is much to learn from landscapes in the West. In winter, I cross country ski up La Plata Canyon. Silence with snow. Aspens shorn of leaves. Low clouds drift overhead. I find again the aspen tree I’d been looking for. Robert Martinez carved his name on it and the date, 1953, the year I was born. That simple inscription across time and space brings me up short as it always does. For every day of my life, this aspen tree has been waiting for me, a herder left his name and a July date when he was there with a summer flock. I was born four months later. In many ways, I’ve written a eulogy – or perhaps a ewelogy. There are far fewer sheep grazing the high country of the San Juan Mountains now than in the early 20th century when just the Pagosa Springs district alone had close to 100,000 sheep. But if there are fewer sheep on Colorado’s public lands, Colorado lamb is now a high-quality product served in the nation’s best restaurants. I’ll talk about my research and tell a few tales at the Durango Public Library the evening of Nov. 15. Hopefully, some of the area’s sheepherders and sheepmen will also come, share the lectern and tell us more about the woolly West. Andrew Gulliford is a historian and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/for-15-years-my-dog-finn-was-a-hiking-partner/</link>
        <title>For 15 years, my dog, Finn, was a hiking partner</title>
        <description>By Andrew Gulliford Special to the Herald It has been enough time now that I can finally write this column without choking up. These are some of the hardest words I’ve ever written. Tears have clouded my vision but not...</description>
        <pubDate>Thu, 13 Sep 2018 18:25:45 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[By Andrew Gulliford Special to the Herald It has been enough time now that I can finally write this column without choking up. These are some of the hardest words I’ve ever written. Tears have clouded my vision but not my heart. Earlier this summer, I lost my springer spaniel-Labrador retriever, the best dog I ever had. Mark Twain said that if dogs can’t go to heaven, he didn’t want to go either. I completely agree. Our pets, our canine companions, help make us human. Finn was a true friend, but more than that, he had a fabulous character, with one white paw, a white blaze down his chest, a white stripe on his forehead and a howl that sounded half bloodhound. At 63 pounds, you knew when he wanted to sit on your lap or your feet. We bonded like bricks and mortar. In the house, he followed me from room to room. Outdoors on mountain trails or in the bottom of desert canyons, he bounded forward, then back to check on me or my hiking buddies. He lived to be 15½ and was never out of my sight at home or in the field. In his last months, he couldn’t move much, but he figured out how to use the bathroom mirror to watch me from the bedroom. I miss him terribly, his warm scent, his soft velvet ears and those Labrador eyes that took in everything.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford <br><br>Finn was always ready to hike.du1-i-syn Like all good dogs, he listened well. We walked miles and miles together never saying a word, not needing to. He also knew how to collaborate with our cat, Gemmi, to knock food off the kitchen counter onto the floor where it disappeared. My friend, Lynell, remembers him this way: “Finn running through the gate to greet me, or sneaking up on the futon (where he was not supposed to be), poking his nose under my bed covers trying to get me out of bed to feed him in the morning or laying his 40-pound head on my arm while I was trying to drive.” ••• He was the best trail dog I ever had. His outstanding exuberance occasionally smacked into friends along narrow trails or even bent a new hiking stick after he ran into it racing ahead in the South San Juan wilderness. As an older dog, he was a gem. As a puppy, he tried our patience. He ate three pairs of my reading glasses. He chewed 2 inches off the top of one of my cowboy boots. Remodeling the kitchen, we had removed cabinet doors. When we weren’t home, Finn snuck into the pantry and dragged a 5-pound bag of flour all over the house, leaving a distinctive white trail across the carpet. The same night, to prove his loyal love, he found a large dead crow and carefully placed it on our bed between our two pillows. How do you scold a retriever like that?Finn was my shadow and was always with me. Here, we are near an ancestral Puebloan kiva ruin along the San Juan River in Utah.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford Unlike other dog breeds, Labs never have a bad day. Their disposition makes them a popular breed, and because he was half springer spaniel, Finn had hybrid vigor and the best of both bloodlines. When it came time to go for a walk, he would sit and vibrate with excitement. He flunked puppy kindergarten, never fully learning the essential commands. Friends said he wasn’t the brightest, and he could certainly be bullied by border collies, but put that dog outdoors on a trail and he was having fun, looking for dangers, enjoying every minute. He also had legendary flatulence. On a cross-country ski outing on the coldest of winter days at 10,000 feet, he could fart and make everyone in the vehicle gasp for breath, roll down their windows in record time, stick their heads out and gulp mountain air. ••• My dog had personality. Once camping off Little Buck Road on the west side of the La Platas, we had turned in early just before dusk. As dark descended with no moon, Finn emitted a low growl inside my tent and the hair rose up along his spine. I felt for my pistol then grabbed a flashlight. I turned it on to find the tent’s zipper, accidentally blinding myself while I heard a loud clatter and commotion coming from nearby ponderosas. Finally, I got the tent open to peer around but saw nothing. Finn didn’t sleep that night. He stayed up on guard. When daylight came, I surmised that the noise had been a mother bear and her cub in camp. When Finn growled, the cub scampered up a nearby tree and later came down in darkness. No breakfast for my dog that morning. As soon as he could, he jumped into the truck, sat upright in the passenger seat and made it very clear to me that we should leave. We did. Another time, we hiked with a friend from the parking area near Sharkstooth Pass west 12 miles down to Transfer Campground. The middle of the trail, deep in the Mancos River watershed, is remote. Suddenly, on a narrow stretch of the route, we found ourselves cliffed up with a big, bad, belligerent pack goat blocking our path. Clearly, this goat was a runaway despite his ear tag. He wanted to play billy goats gruff and keep us from proceeding. This was his turf, and we had invaded his privacy. Finn didn’t bark. He didn’t growl. He just flew into overdrive, running around that billy goat as fast as he could. The goat, never having seen a crazy dog like mine, kept jumping around to place his horns in a direct position to butt my dog. Because my dog kept flying past him in tighter and tighter circles, the old goat kept spinning and eventually fell over. My dog stopped. The goat wobbled off, leaving us free to walk on.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford <br><br>Finn was always ready to hike. He often knew where I was headed before I did, and he always stayed about 30 feet in front of me to protect me from anything that might be there.du1-i-syn My wife worried about me solo hiking. I told her I wasn’t alone. I always had Finn with me. She made me promise not to climb any peaks, descend any slot canyons or go anywhere Finn couldn’t go. She didn’t realize he had four-paw drive and could go anywhere. We did, wearing out hiking poles, boots, dog tags. He often knew where I was headed before I did, and he always stayed about 30 feet in front of me to protect me from anything that might be there. If I was on a trail, he never wandered to chase game. If there was no trail, he’d constantly look back at me to check my bearings, to read my mind, to head up the canyon bottom or across the flower-strewn alpine tundra. Summiting a peak, Finn got there first, waited and took in the sunshine, rain or snow. He’d let the wind swirl around his big springador ears. If he got ahead of me, he’d quickly return for the sheer doggy joy of zipping back and forth, testing the air, keeping those sleek Labrador muscles in perpetual motion. When he stopped, he dropped like a stone, dead to the world, sprawling off the couch, deep asleep with the occasional snore or sharp woof as he chased animals in his dreams. ••• I miss him terribly. Our veterinarian, Dr. Becky, wrote me to say, “I feel very honored to have known Finn for so long – what a handsome, smart, sweet, amazing friend he was. He will be missed by so many of us. Thank you for filling his long life with love and adventure ... and for knowing when he was truly ready to cross the Rainbow Bridge peacefully.” Tears are coming. My throat is constricting. My cheeks are wet. John emailed me and said, “Sometimes, we have such wonderful relationships with our dogs. And it’s so hard when they pass on. I’m one of those that believe when I pass on, all my good dogs are going to be there waiting for me. I’m sure that will be the case with Finn.” Yes, Finn has hiked on without me. He has never done that before. Andrew Gulliford is a historian and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/lessons-of-the-416-fire-show-how-our-approach-to-wildfires-has-evolved/</link>
        <title>Lessons of the 416 Fire show how our approach to wildfires has evolved</title>
        <description>The 416 Fire shows how our approach to wildfires has evolved</description>
        <pubDate>Sat, 11 Aug 2018 05:00:00 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[The 416 Fire shows how our approach to wildfires has evolved The summer of 2018 in Durango will go down as a summer of fire and smoke. There are many lessons to learn from the devastating pattern of drought, wildfire and debris we are enduring, but one of the first lessons began over a century ago in 1910. Five years earlier, in 1905, my hero, President Theodore Roosevelt, created the U.S. Forest Service. Under Gifford Pinchot, chief of the Forest Service, forest reserves became national forests. But Western politicians, prodded by cattle and sheep ranchers, deeply resented enforced grazing fees and the inability of ranchers to homestead on land that had been withdrawn for forests to be permanently protected. With Teddy out of office in 1909, politicians schemed to dismantle the U.S. Forest Service he had proudly created for conservation. Then came The Big Burn. The 1910 fire consumed huge parts of Idaho and Montana. It threatened farms, ranches and cities and grew as large as the state of Connecticut. Smoke from The Big Burn drifted across North America to obscure ocean shipping channels in Liverpool, England. Ocean liners could not find the harbor or the docks. “To the enemies of the Forest Service, the fire was a chance to kill the crusade of conservation,” writes Timothy Egan in his book “The Big Burn.” Instead, the bravery and heroism of the first generation of forest rangers solidified public support for national forests. “Barely 10 months after the fire, Congress doubled the money in the Forest Service budget for roads and trails, giving the rangers what they had begged for in previous years,” Egan explains. ••• So what is the first lesson of the 416 Fire? We needed the Type I tactical team that masterfully took charge. Public land wildfires require a federal response. Those rural counties and politicians that routinely complain about the U.S. Forest Service or advocate unrealistic ideas like turning federal land into state land had better take note. The 416 Fire grew to 54,129 acres at a cost of $32 million. Which Colorado county or state office would want to pick up that tab? And what about those counties that argue about turning Forest Service roads into county roads? If a fire starts on a county road, are those county’s taxpayers liable for firefighting costs? As Durangoans, let’s not just thank the firefighters and first responders. Let’s thank the U.S. Forest Service itself for its skilled management teams, its public relations officers, its helicopter and fixed-wing pilots, its hot-shot crews and so many others. At its peak, fighting the 416 Fire took 1,100 firefighters. A major wildfire disaster requires a firm, fast, federal response, and we had one thanks to the management team at the San Juan National Forest whose goal was to protect human lives and private property. They succeeded. “We were watching the indices and watching the drought. We had people ready in position and prepared. We set things up in advance so we could react quickly,” said Jerran Flinders, San Juan National Forest fire officer. “In 15 minutes, we were on that fire,” San Juan National Forest Public Information Officer Gretchen Fitzgerald said. Knowing the drought conditions, the forest management team already had 140 firefighters, including hot-shot crews and tankers, in place before June 1. They opened the fire air-tanker base two weeks early. “We were talking about this in December 2017. We knew something could go big any day – driven by the drought conditions we were in,” Columbine District Ranger Matt Janowiak said. ••• So if lesson No. 1 is to thank the federal government, which protects our public lands, lesson No. 2 is to prepare in advance for landscape-level wildfires. Over the decades, the Forest Service itself has learned some hard lessons. Beginning in 1935, the policy was to put out every fire by 10 a.m. the day after it started. The 10 a.m. rule resulted in widespread fire suppression. Firefighters died. Crews put out so many 20th-century fires that in certain areas we now have too many trees in the forest. The natural pattern of a diverse forest mosaic of differently aged trees and shrubs was replaced by large tree stands subject to disease and catastrophic mega-fires. So lesson No. 3 is that fire is a natural part of a high country ecosystem. Like a reset button on a computer, wildfire has an important ecological reset function. We need to learn to live with wildfire, and here in La Plata County, we are doing so. Friends and neighbors in Falls Creek and Hermosa performed serious fire mitigation. They cleared their properties of small trees, dead pine branches and clumps of dry grass and moved woodpiles away from houses and garages. They became “firewise,” and it made the difference. “When the 416 Fire began, we were so grateful that we had done the difficult work, year after year, to mitigate around our homes and to cultivate a healthy, resilient forest,” said Paulette Church of Falls Creek. “Our work is credited with saving homes and, even more importantly, making a safer work environment for our courageous, passionate and exhausted firefighters. By mitigating to develop defensible space around homes, our work allowed firefighters the time needed to defend our neighborhood with water-filled ‘pumpkins,’ hand lines, hoses and sprinklers. They used back burns beginning as close as 30 feet from some homes to create the black area needed to remove fuel and prevent an uncontrolled fire from coming down from the cliffs above.” Church added: “By educating our community and coming together for challenging and fun work days, the culture of valuing mitigation and pride in reaching shared goals strengthened relationships and built a culture of collaboration. We create jobs for loggers and contractors.” Lesson No. 4 is to mitigate fire danger in advance. Lesson No. 5 is to collaborate with other community groups and to have excellent emergency communication. The Type I team with the 416 Fire brought in 22 public information officers. We saw their work at grocery stores, on sandwich boards and many other places, including the Durango Community Recreation Center. People wanted updates every hour, especially with the closure of U.S. Highway 550, and they generally got them. “We’ve gone from a fire hose of information to just a small drip,” Janowiak said. “In retrospect, perhaps we should have kept some of those fire information officers longer. Residents still have many questions, especially about debris flows. What you are seeing cross the highway happens with more force within the Hermosa drainage.” ••• Lesson No. 6 is about fire behavior. The 416 Fire was a fuel-driven fire. Southwest winds pushed it to the northeast. It grew wherever the fuels were available on south-facing, drier slopes. But something else happened that very few people experienced. “The smoke plume created shade and stalled the fire south of Purgatory where there were some greener fuels and aspens,” Fitzgerald said. Janowiak experienced the difference: “I drove through shade from the huge plume. There was no smoke on the ground, yet the temperature dropped 10 degrees. You could feel the difference.” The final lesson will be ongoing, and that lesson is how the blackened, ash-filled landscape will heal. A Burned Area Emergency Response team has visited for an assessment. They believe that the mosaic pattern of the fire has provided an adequate seed source, so there are no present plans for forest rehabilitation or aerial reseeding. “A week after the fire, baby aspens, strawberries and other forbs sprouted to stabilize the soil,” Fitzgerald said.Time-lapse photography shows a pyrocumulus cloud rise to over 10,000 feet above the 416 Fire. Most La Plata County residents found the 416 Fire both awful and beautiful. The 54,000-acre wildfire made national news and resulted in conflicting emotions of fear and wonder for people who saw it. Economic impacts on summer tourism may result in a 35 percent loss for the local economy.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford Debris flows cannot be stopped, and they are difficult to channel or move without doing damage to either public or private property. Though some residents want the San Juan National Forest to control the roiling rivers of stones, trees and mud that set up like concrete, forest officials say the flows can’t be stopped. The Hermosa area will probably be closed until spring. We’re all breathing more easily with less smoke and no evacuations. But drought is a wild card, and in a world of human-caused climate change, hotter, drier summers are inevitable in the Southwest. Andrew Gulliford is a historian and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/mancos-mans-father-helped-build-durango-brick-by-brick/</link>
        <title>Mancos man’s father helped build Durango, brick by brick</title>
        <description>Father’s Day is special for most of us, but for one son, it has a particularly deep meaning. When writers start a story, they never know what threads will weave together. I thought I would be writing about a 19th-century...</description>
        <pubDate>Mon, 11 Jun 2018 18:25:49 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[Father’s Day is special for most of us, but for one son, it has a particularly deep meaning. When writers start a story, they never know what threads will weave together. I thought I would be writing about a 19th-century buggy. I had no idea I would learn about Durango’s industrial past and an unexpected son born to an affectionate father who just happened to be 77 years old. This tale begins with a leather dashboard – the 19th-century term for the front of a buggy that protected the driver’s legs. Lisa and Loren Skyhorse had created the leather panel, which reads “THOMAS G. PIERCE, Peerless Coal & Brick.” The dashboard interested me. Little did I know that this story would take me back to a Durango coal mine, a brickyard and 35 graves from the same family in Greenmount Cemetery. We started in Danny Pierce’s garage behind his three-story Victorian-style house in Mancos. I had seen an old black carriage in the front yard. Now, I saw a disassembled black buggy scattered in pieces, from the metal carriage steps to the highly varnished oak-spoked, rubber-tipped wheels. “The Amish still deal in buggy parts, so all my parts come from Pennsylvania,” said Danny Pierce, who has spent two years and hundreds of hours on his wagon restoration. “There’s so much sanding and cleaning. Some pieces have been re-made by a local blacksmith,” he said. In Pierce’s garage, I saw metal parts, wood parts, the folding convertible top, leaf springs and parts painted in a shiny black lacquer as well as a deep maroon red. “It was an expensive carriage in its day. I’ve made some changes to make the buggy stronger,” he says, smiling. Pierce plans to completely restore the buggy and carefully hand paint original pinstriping on the wheels and body. This is a labor of love. He admits that. And when Pierce is through, he’ll give the buggy away. “It looks awful now. It’ll take two more years to finish the job. But it was a sound carriage when I bought it in New Mexico. I don’t have a horse. I won’t drive it down a lane. When I’m finished, I’ll put it on display in my yard or donate it to a museum or historical society.” Why go to all this careful work just to give it away? To honor the memory of Danny Pierce’s father. Over a glass of wine, I learned of a son’s love for a father who died when the boy was only 6 years old. Danny was the last of 16 children, four of whom died in infancy. ••• Thomas Guthrie Pierce was born in Cheriton, Iowa, in 1869, four years after the Civil War. Because of an abusive father, “Dad left home at age 15 and came out West on his own. He knocked around and did a variety of things,” his son says. Thomas Pierce worked for Charles Goodnight in Texas and later on the narrow-gauge railroad over Marshall Pass near Sargent.A handsome young Durango entrepreneur in the early 20th century, Thomas G. Pierce owned and operated sheep camps, coal mines, a restaurant and the local brickyard.Courtesy of Danny Pierce In 1891, while laboring as a miner in Crested Butte, his older sister, Dora, and her young child died in an avalanche at the Bullion Gold Mine near Irwin. Dora was buried in a casket holding her daughter in her arms. Saddened by Dora’s death, the family moved to Durango by 1892, where he ran Pierce Brothers Restaurant on Main Avenue and baked pies to perfection. The entrepreneurial Thomas Pierce branched out into coal mines west of town, including the Peerless Mine and the Sunshine Mine, producing high-grade coal for blacksmithing as well as domestic coal. He owned other mining properties at Red Mountain, up Junction Creek and in Nevada. He also started and managed the Durango Brick Yard. Contractors used Pierce’s red bricks to build the western addition to the Strater Hotel, the J.C. Penny Building on Main Avenue and as structural bricks for the Smiley Building. “He was one of the earliest pioneers. He was a generous man, and he literally built the town with bricks,” his son told me. Pierce ranched near Cedar Hill, New Mexico, and ran sheep at Lime Creek, beyond Silverton and to the top of Stony Pass. The nine older children that Danny came to know told numerous stories of tending sheep. When the Great Depression hit in 1929 and everyone owed money, Thomas Pierce understood. There were few social safety nets. Out of jobs, local people went hungry, and in winter, they froze. Poor families who owed Pierce money came quietly asking for coal. He rarely turned anyone away. “During the Depression, he kept many families warm and alive,” his son tells me, his voice choking up, tears welling in his eyes. If your father dies when you are young, an important father-son bond is shattered, but Danny said, “I got to know my dad through so many of the ‘Old Timers’ who were still living. Those who knew my dad always spoke highly of him. Family members told stories, too. His word was his bond. When he went into the Burns Bank for a loan, he always walked out with cash. The bank president would say, ‘Come back when it is convenient for you, Mr. Pierce. We’ll have the paperwork ready for you then.’” ••• Thomas G. Pierce employed family members in all his business ventures, whether herding sheep, distributing coal, firing bricks or delivering finished bricks to job sites. He married his first wife, Belle Mathis. When she passed on, he was a handsome, wealthy businessman, suddenly available, who caught many a lady’s glance. “He was a highly sought-after man between his marriages,” Danny says with a wink.Like the famous Telluride mine owner and innovator L.L. Nunn, Thomas G. Pierce began his financial holdings in the Durango restaurant business. This photo is of the Pierce Brothers Restaurant on Main Avenue. Their specialty was baked goods. Thomas Pierce excelled at pies.Courtesy of Danny Pierce In 1935, in the depths of the Depression, Thomas Pierce married his second wife, Lilah Matilda Stonebarger Powell, a pretty young widow with three small boys. Her husband had worked in one of Pierce’s coal mines before his untimely death in 1933 of kidney failure. It was a marriage of convenience. They were 33 years apart in age. Thomas was 66, Lilah was 33. “She freely admitted to marrying Dad for his money,” Danny said, “but it was a great marriage. They each gained a good, reliable partner.” Lilah grew to love him. When he died, he left her three houses and a coal mine, not knowing that natural gas would replace coal as a domestic heating source. They lived at Fifth Avenue and Fifth Street on Durango’s south side. Danny says of his sisters, “Daily they breathed in coal smoke and coal dust from the train. Later, when the winds were right, uranium particles and radioactive dirt blew into the neighborhood from the old smelter across the river. Sure enough, it killed them,” he says, but adds with a grin, “They all lived into their 90s.” When his mother was 45 and his father was 77, Danny was born. “Dad was embarrassed, so he wouldn’t take mom to the hospital. He called a cab. But after I was born, he came to the maternity ward twice a day. People would ask, ‘Is that your grandson?’ And he’d snort, ‘No, that’s my boy.’” At 79, Thomas Pierce was still building five-room brick houses in Durango, working 12-hour days, digging basements by hand and laying bricks. “I’m the youngest, but luckily I got to know all my brothers and sisters,” Danny Pierce tells me. He is now 71 with a handsome white beard. “My dad and I got along quite famously. We were buds. He never retired. He just worked.” •••A historic black buggy in the front yard of Danny Pierce’s home in Mancos. He is lavishing attention on a second buggy and doing a complete restoration to honor his entrepreneurial father who was born in 1869 and owned coal mines, sheep flocks, restaurants and the Durango Brick Yard.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford To honor his father, Danny Pierce is restoring an old buggy. It’ll have a special strong box under the seat, and in it, will be papers and photos telling his dad’s story. Family history is like that. Sometimes, love for a father deepens the ties that bind. Like the oak spokes of a buggy wheel, family tales go round and round. Andrew Gulliford is a historian and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/in-bluff-the-silver-dollar-bar-becomes-the-bears-ears-education-center/</link>
        <title>In Bluff, the Silver Dollar Bar becomes the Bears Ears Education Center</title>
        <description>Downtown Durango thrives because buildings get recycled. Former car dealerships are now brewpubs and office buildings. Our historic electric power plant is the Powerhouse Science Center, and a decades-old tire repair shop has evolved into an upbeat gym and fitness...</description>
        <pubDate>Sun, 13 May 2018 13:00:00 -0600</pubDate>
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        <media:thumbnail url="https://imengine.public.prod.dur.navigacloud.com/?uuid=0FB1D8B7-C5A5-4701-87F1-1C083A58F250&#038;function=thumbnail&#038;type=preview&#038;source=false&#038;width=600&#038;height=400" />
        <content:encoded><![CDATA[Downtown Durango thrives because buildings get recycled. Former car dealerships are now brewpubs and office buildings. Our historic electric power plant is the Powerhouse Science Center, and a decades-old tire repair shop has evolved into an upbeat gym and fitness center. Durangatangs know how to recycle commercial buildings. So do Bluffoons. Two and a half hours west of Durango, the small desert town of Bluff, Utah, is experiencing a canyon country renaissance. A dozen new tourist cabins are going up. A 54-unit resort is being built. A former trading post is a thriving restaurant, and the old Silver Dollar Bar built in 1955 has found new life as the forthcoming Bears Ears Education Center. Bluff is on the southern end of the controversial Bears Ears National Monument and local residents, Bluffoons, are proud of it. The town just incorporated. This summer, it’ll have a mayor and city council, and the Silver Dollar Bar, once home to beer and burgers, will serve up tourist information and cautionary comments about desert hiking and visiting archaeological sites with respect. ••• Recently purchased by the Friends of Cedar Mesa, the Silver Dollar Bar once catered to sheepherders, truckers, uranium miners, “just whoever came down the road,” says 84-year-old Duke Simpson. “There was all kinds who came to Bluff over the years.” As for dancing at the bar, Simpson says, “It was Saturday night live,” with patrons waltzing into the wee hours of Sunday morning. Writing about a bar fight in Alaska, Ed Abbey waxed nostalgic. He described it as, “Just like down home: The Club 66 in Flag, the Eagle in Gallup or the Silver Dollar in Bluff on the edge of the Navajo Reservation – the only bar in Utah where you can hear squaw dance music on the jukebox.” “I went in and ordered a hamburger,” Simpson told me, “and the old man who was cooking tipped his head back and spit on the grill to make sure it was hot enough. Then he plopped down a beef patty and proceeded to cook the burger. But after watching his grilling style, I declined the sandwich.” The Silver Dollar catered to locals and the occasional tourist willing to risk dusty, dry roads to get to Bluff. “Everyone going through Bluff just kept going,” remembers Bureau of Land Management River Ranger Larry Beck. “A few river runners stopped in, but it was lonely at the counter, often only me and the bartender. I used to walk to the bar and then walk home. I liked to joke that when I left Bluff that the poor bar might go out of business with my departure.” That was in the 1980s. ••• Over the years, Bluff’s three bars disappeared as restaurants developed to serve beer and wine. The tourists passing through are now staying. Bluff is emerging as a vital destination between the Grand Canyon with its 5 million annual visitors and Arches and Canyonlands national parks with 2 million tourists. National monument status for Bears Ears, even with President Donald Trump shrinking it by 85 percent, has brought a whole new generation of canyon country hikers trying to avoid crowds and trying to find wilderness values of silence, solitude and darkness. But there’s no information center. No local source of maps, directions, suggestions, though the San Juan Record reports that visitation to BLM lands in southeastern Utah is up 35 percent. To the north in Monticello, on its new campus, the Canyon Country Discovery Center orients travelers to the entire Colorado Plateau. The BLM has an office in town, but no place to host displays or to engage visitors. In Blanding, the Edge of the Cedars Museum and State Park does a superb job of interpreting ancestral Puebloan artifacts with engaging exhibits on historic and prehistoric themes, but it functions as a museum, not as a public lands visitor center. Up on Cedar Mesa, volunteers at the Kane Gulch Ranger Station do their best to answer questions, but in their small space, they are frequently swamped. So the Friends of Cedar Mesa are raising funds and donated labor to do what the federal government does not have the budget or the staffing to accomplish. Meanwhile, Bears Ears National Monument’s status and boundaries are in turmoil. President Barack Obama’s 1.35 million-acre monument may become “Trump’s small units” of just two areas – a Shash Jaa’ Monument along Comb Ridge north to the Bears Ears buttes at close to 9,000 feet and the famous climbing sandstone spires of Indian Creek. Tribes, environmental groups and partners in the outdoor recreation industry are suing over Trump’s unprecedented action, which is without parallel in the history of the 1906 Antiquities Act. “Right now, it feels like the Bears Ears Education Center is one of the only positive things happening for the monument. The incredible national support we’ve seen for the center indicates people’s hunger for positive, proactive actions to take on behalf of public lands,” says Amanda Podmore, assistant director of Friends of Cedar Mesa. “It’s exciting to turn this historic bar and community space into a venue where visitors, locals and friends from everywhere can ‘belly up’ for information about how to visit Bears Ears with respect.” ••• Indeed, in true Western fashion, the outside of the building facing the highway has glass block walls so patrons inside could not be seen. Most laborers in the working West heading to a bar had spent plenty of time outside, so the last thing they wanted was a window with a view. They wanted to see cold beer and an array of whiskey bottles. At the old Silver Dollar, the bar is still there as is the back bar with its wooden drawers and refrigerated cases. Over the years, the Silver Dollar became a private residence with the nickname of the Nada Bar, or not a bar, and children and adults playfully placed painted handprints all over the ceiling and front of the bar. Why not? Handprints are found in canyon alcoves and above room blocks and habitation sites across the Southwest, so why not in a saloon? Former owner Kyle Bauman is pleased with the sale and says his vintage bar building “was handed off to an organization which will continue the tradition of a community-based location for keeping the community united in art, information and adventure.” The 3,800-square-foot building on 0.43 acres is being transformed as is Bluff itself. Extra rooms will become office space, meeting space and staff living quarters. There’ll be outdoor patios, courtyards and parking in the back. “The Nada Bar, now the Bears Ears Education Center has a long and endearing history to many Bluffoons,” says Tamara Desrosiers, volunteer board member. “It went from being a low-rent rez-border-town dive to an unofficial community center after Kyle Bauman bought it, and had to post on the door ‘Not a Bar.’ Gourd painting, poetry readings, music, lectures, Thanksgiving dinners, dances, parties ... there are a lot of memories reflected in all those painted handprints on the ceiling above the old bar.” The goal for the project is $840,000 for the building purchase, renovations, bathroom and electrical upgrades, solar installations and staff salaries for a three-year start-up period. Friends of Cedar Mesa have raised $600,000, with $100,000 coming from outdoor supplier North Face. “We are extremely grateful and excited to have received such broad support for our efforts to create the Bears Ears Education Center,” says Vaughn Hadenfeldt, board president and local guide. So stop in and watch the transformation. If you can, swing a hammer or apply a paintbrush. Writing checks to Friends of Cedar Mesa is useful, too. I hope the potlucks and the parties continue. After all, bears like to eat and dance. Andrew Gulliford is a historian and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/miera-y-pacheco-was-first-european-to-map-the-four-corners/</link>
        <title>Miera y Pacheco was first European to map the Four Corners</title>
        <description>In 18th century, Miera y Pacheco was first European to create maps of our region</description>
        <pubDate>Tue, 17 Apr 2018 11:28:41 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[In 18th century, Miera y Pacheco was first European to create maps of our region More than 200 years ago, friars Dominguez and Escalante traveled north from Abiquiu, New Mexico, in search of a route to Spanish missions at Monterey in Alta California. Their travels are well-known. What is less known is information about the short, scrappy Spaniard who accompanied them, taking notes, drawing pictures, befriending Native Americans and complaining about the priests’ overbearing attitudes. An artist, he would become a mapmaker and give us the first map of the Four Corners and the Colorado Plateau. At only 5 feet, Bernardo de Miera y Pacheco (1713-1785) could easily be overlooked. But that would be a mistake. Indefatigable and resourceful, Miera had all the attributes of an adventurer exploring the Spanish frontier, with a thirst for knowledge, a willingness to endure freezing nights, cold mornings, blistering afternoons and a desire to learn from Native Americans. He would become an early ethnographer and provide the first assessment of where Navajos and Utes lived in the canyons, mesas and mountains of the Southwest. A devoted family man, he was rarely home. Instead, he walked and rode on Indian trails, learning, assessing, trying to understand the culturally complex world around him. But who really was Miera y Pacheco? Born in Spain, how and when did he get to Mexico and how did he eke out a living on Spain’s northern frontier, “the ragged edge of Christendom”? ••• I’ve followed Miera across the Four Corners. I’ve traced him from Abiquiu up to Durango on the La Posta Road. I’ve followed him northwest toward Moab, traveling above the Abajo Mountains in Utah. I’ve been to Divide Creek in Garfield County, where the expedition may have crossed the Colorado River. I’ve hiked his footsteps in Canyon Pintado, named by the friars, as they journeyed north toward Rangely. I’ve crossed the Green River with them at Jensen, Utah, and stood at Musket Springs, which they named, east of Vernal. There, Miera patiently waited with his braying burros, his lack of fresh food, dust on his clothes, his saddle bags, his beard. The overheated friars in their dark wool cassocks complaining again about their Ute guides, occasionally running fingers over their rosary beads, muttering prayers, staring into the relentless western sun. I’ve followed Miera across the Colorado Plateau. I knew the route, but not the man. Distinguished Spanish colonial historian and La Plata County resident Dr. John Kessell set out to uncover the life of this mysterious mapmaker who spent a decade in El Paso but was then lured by the governor of New Mexico to Santa Fe in the mid-1750s as an alcalde major, or a minor government official. Miera would die there of natural causes 30 years later. Kessell became intrigued by Miera. A retired emeritus professor from the University of New Mexico and a former research historian for the National Park Service, Kessell has written classics, such as Mission of Sorrows; Kiva, Cross and Crown; Friars, Soldiers, and Reformers and the magisterial Spain in the Southwest: A Narrative History of Colonial New Mexico, Arizona, Texas, and California. In six volumes, he edited with colleagues the journals and letters of don Diego de Vargas, a project that required two decades of research. Kessell’s numerous awards include the Orden de Isabel la Catolica, Cruz de Oficial from the king of Spain. I’ve seen the framed document and admired his medal. “It’s like a knighthood for research,” he says as we sit in his house with a view of the La Plata Mountains beyond his spacious deck. Finally, in retirement, he gathered the facts for a biography, Miera y Pacheco: A Renaissance Spaniard in Eighteenth-Century New Mexico. He thought he was finished with the peripatetic Miera who had been a friend and confidant of the powerful, brooding governor and soldier Juan Bautista de Anza. But at a book-signing, Kessell was asked the significance of Miera’s maps. How did they change the way we see the Southwest and how did they influence exploration and travel across the Colorado Plateau? ••• Never one to duck a challenge, Kessell chased the ghost of Miera one more time. The result is a magnificent new book, Whither the Waters: Mapping the Great Basin from Bernardo de Miera to John C. Fremont. At long last, Miera has received the credit due him, and Kessell has given us a valuable gift – the gift of place, an understanding of where we live and the local nomenclature we take for granted. It was, after all, Miera y Pacheco who cemented for us with his paints and parchment the names we know and live by – the San Juan River, the Rio de las Animas, the Piedra, the Pine, the Florida, the La Platas. Miera gave us Chaca, now Chaco, Canyon. The full name on his map for the Piedra River was Rio de Piedra Parada or Standing Rock, meaning Chimney Rock, now a national monument. “My impression is that many of the names, especially the secular names, like the La Platas and the Rio de Los Pinos, were first applied by Hispanic New Mexican traders who came north to trade with the Utes,” Kessell says. Miera put rivers and mountains on his map, forever naming geographic features where we live. “By 1778, Miera was the most knowledgeable person in the kingdom who understood New Mexico’s human and physical environments,” Kessell says. Despite what Kessell discovered about Miera, as an historian, Kessell also knows what has been lost. “We do not have an original of the first map he drew in May 1777, only copies. The original we cite was his revision in 1778,” held by the British Museum. Dutifully, Miera drew native peoples in their locales and habitats. Yet when the Spanish royal engineers copied Miera’s work, “they left out the Indians Miera had so carefully placed on his map,” Kessell says. Miera prophesized opportunities in the Great Basin that would have changed the Spanish Empire. He found and drew the Great Salt Lake, though he erred in combining Salt Lake and Utah Lake in an hourglass shape. Miera named the Green River the Rio de San Buenaventura, though that name did not stick, and he whetted appetites for countless explorers by drawing in a westward-flowing river, the Rio de Tizon, that others later projected ran to the Pacific. No such river existed, but explorers would search for it well into the 19th century. The land that Miera traversed in northern Utah could have profited the Spanish colonies, if they had settled the Salt Lake Valley, but by the 1780s,“Spain was so overextended that there was a void which the Mormons moved into,” Kessell says. “The map produced by the Dominguez-Escalante Expedition was one of the landmarks in the cartographic history of the North American West. It would influence other maps for more than a generation,” writes Richard Francaviglia in Mapping and Imagination in the Great Basin. “Today, the sprawling Salt Lake City metropolitan area stretching north and south along the Wasatch Front seems inevitable, but Miera’s prophecy deserves credit as visionary,” he says. Despite Miera’s errors, his map “represented the first attempt of any European to portray cartographically, from personal experience, the complex upper Colorado River basin,” says cartographic historian Carl Wheat. In Whither the Waters, Kessell combines the work of Miera with the 1845 map made by the mercurial and twice court-martialed, self-promoting Capt. John C. Fremont, who was often led by the nose by mountain men like Kit Carson. Fremont’s map superceded Miera’s, but it, too, had mistakes. ••• I’ll give the cartographic credit to Bernardo Miera. We love to explore the Colorado Plateau because it has more national parks, national forests, national monuments, wilderness areas and Native American reservations than anywhere on Earth. As a mapmaker, Miera saw it on paper in his mind’s eye – squinting into the sun, naming where we live. He gave us the mountains we climb and the rivers we run. Andrew Gulliford is an historian and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com. If you goDr. John Kessell will give a lecture about Miera y Pacheco and autograph copies of his new book, Whither the Waters, at 1 p.m. April 28 at the Animas Museum, 3065 West Second Ave., Durango.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/world-war-ii-bombers-once-roared-through-the-grand-canyon/</link>
        <title>World War II bombers once roared through the Grand Canyon</title>
        <description>‘Visitors on the South Rim craned their necks to see what was coming’</description>
        <pubDate>Wed, 17 Jan 2018 11:48:40 -0700</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[‘Visitors on the South Rim craned their necks to see what was coming’ My dad grew up in the Great Depression and had nothing, not even his father’s name. An illegitimate son, he had to succeed on his own. He walked railroad tracks to pick up loose coal that fell off trains. He worked night shifts in Ohio steel mills. He could not afford college, so he attended flight school, earned his wings, joined the Navy and, when World War II broke out, was recruited into the U.S. Marines as a pilot to fly photo reconnaissance in the South Pacific. He flew the large, heavy, slow B-24 Liberator bombers that came to be known as aerial death traps. In the Pacific Ocean Areas Theatre, for every plane lost in combat, six crashed because of accidents. “As planes went, so went men,” wrote Laura Hillenbrand in Unbroken. “In the air corps, 35,946 personnel died in nonbattle situations, the vast majority of them in accidental crashes.” Unbroken is about Louis Zamperini, an Olympic runner whose B-24 plunged into the Pacific. He later endured savage beatings in Japanese concentration camps. His B-24 went down as his crew searched for another missing B-24 and its crew. Hillenbrand writes that in just one month, January 1943, planes that Louie flew had mechanical defects including “two in-flight engine failures, a gas leak, oil-pressure problems and landing gear that locked – fortunately, in the down position.” And that was all in good weather. “B-24s were hard to manage even in smooth skies; in some tropical tempests, not even the combined strength of pilot and copilot could keep the plane in hand,” Hillenbrand wrote. ••• The big bombers leaked fuel, yet flight crews often smoked cigarettes, sometimes causing their own destruction. Islands were hard to find in the Pacific and runways too short. In combat, the slow, lumbering bombers could hardly evade the fast-moving Japanese Zero fighter planes that buzzed at them, spitting machine gunfire and rapid death. Antiaircraft flak “burst into razor-sharp metal shards that sliced planes open.” Coming near targets, the American planes flew in straight lines to make their Norden bombsites effective, but what the pilots needed to do was to practice evasive action and fly erratically to avoid being hit. But they couldn’t. The Norden bombsites locked controls into a flight pattern.Top center, David Gulliford is photographed with the valuable aerial maps that the photo squadron VMD-254 created. Photographer and fellow Marine David Douglas Duncan took this image. He would become one of the top combat photographers of the 20th century, shooting dramatic images in Korea and the Vietnam War and also befriending and photographing Pablo Picasso.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford To leave the Pacific theater and return stateside, plane crews had to make 40 combat missions. Statistically, their survival rate hovered at 50 percent. It was a deadly, dangerous business winning the war and re-taking those Pacific islands. But at least the standard B-24 crew had plenty of machine guns, bombs and small arms. ••• My dad kept his 1911 Colt .45 automatic in a shoulder holster under his left armpit, but he didn’t have many machine guns. And no bombs. Instead, he had cameras. He’d fly over Japanese installations and take their photos. They’d shoot at him or send up the deadly Zeros. He’d click camera shutters. The ground-pounding, island hopping, Marine grunts needed to know what they were getting into. They needed his photos so he headquartered in the Solomon Islands and Emirau, according to John G. Bishop’s book, Cameras Over the Pacific: Marine Photographic Squadron 254. “It is not widely known that the Marines ever had photographic reconnaissance squadrons during World War II ... High altitude photography made it possible to create maps of any area within the range of our photo planes. The photographs could also be scrutinized for enemy troop and weapons concentrations on islands where future invasions were planned ... There is no way of determining the number of American servicemen whose lives were spared by this system,” Bishop says. ••• Where did my father learn his aerial survival techniques piloting the notoriously fallible B-24? I’ll never know because he died in a construction accident when I was 9, but there are plenty of family stories. Not the least of which is how he met my mother. She couldn’t afford college either, so she lied about her age and enlisted in flight school in Winona, Minnesota, not knowing that she’d be the only female in a class of handsome, dedicated, adventure-bound young men. She had her choice of eligible, high-flying bachelors. That’s where she met my father, but only after she had honed her own flight skills and became the first female to fly solo over North and South Dakota. That may not seem like much now, but in the months leading up to World War II, it was an accomplishment. And she was brave. The oldest of three sisters, she took a chance – on my father.Courtesy of Andrew Gulliford<br><br>In their wedding photograph, Mildred Jellis stands beside her husband, David Gulliford. They married as soon as he was commissioned as a pilot and an officer. Against her parents&#x2019; wishes, she took a long, lonely train ride from Winona, Minnesota, to Corpus Christi, Texas, to be with the man she loved. Against her parents’ wishes, and with no extra money, she bought a one-way train ticket from Winona to Corpus Christi, Texas, to marry a young pilot with no family and no prospects. Mildred Jellis left at night so there’d be fewer questions, fewer friends to see her off. Imagine that long train ride south across the country and worrying if she was doing the right thing. Nibbling at snacks. Eating apples. Not able to afford the dining car. But she was in love. As the war escalated, thousands of young men and women passionately embraced. Her fiancé David Oliver Gulliford had a cocky attitude, a great smile and he shared his dreams. At 6-foot-2, he could dominate a room full of people with his booming voice, close-clipped mustache and deep-set hazel eyes. She fell for him. He was in the Navy and soon to become a Marine pilot. Semper fidelis. Always faithful. Soon to ship out overseas like so many others. ••• Probably the Grand Canyon enters in when he was stationed at Marine Corps Air Station Mojave in Mojave, California, in 1943 in what would become VMD-254. I don’t have the particulars, but I do have the story, and a one-of-a-kind 11-by-14-inch photograph made from a black-and-white contact negative the same size. It was the Fairchild K-18 aerial camera that he would use in the Pacific piloting crew No. 11. But before he got to the ocean, he wanted to see the desert, and so he practiced with large-format cameras over the Grand Canyon. Family legend says that my father, who had a sense of humor, chose to fly into the canyon from the east out of the rising sun, which was the preferred Japanese method of aerial attack. As the loud roar of slow-moving B-24 bombers rumbled off canyon walls at dawn, terrified visitors on the South Rim craned their necks to see what was coming. As the four planes neared the exclusive hotel El Tovar, Capt. Gulliford ordered his three other pilots to join him flying sideways through the canyon displaying American symbols on their wings and fuselage. Recently-awakened tourists cheered, applauded, yelled and waved once the planes had been identified as American. Capt. Gulliford probably wasn’t supposed to fly his bombers into a national park, much less perpendicular to the steep canyon walls. These were slow, hard-to-maneuver B-24 Liberators, but he didn’t care. Always a risk-taker, he smiled behind his reflective aviator sunglasses and grinned when he looked eyeball to eyeball at the amazed park visitors. He knew he’d never get the chance again, so they flew in formation through the canyon, below the rim. Later during the flight, he photographed Lake Mead and Hoover Dam, but censors snipped the dam out of the photo as a security precaution. He retired from the U.S. Marine Corps as a major, and with family in tow, by the late 1950s, David Gulliford returned to the Grand Canyon driving a 1956 emerald green Packard Caribbean all the way from St. Paul, Minnesota, to Cameron, Arizona, and then along the rim. I have those photos, too. He loved the canyon and wanted his children to get to know it and to experience the serene sunrises and sunsets of the Southwest. The canyon endures. Rocks remain. Bright sunlight flashes off pine needles in the early minutes of morning, but never again will B-24 bombers, piloted by young Americans ready to defend their country, fly in formation below the rim. Andrew Gulliford is a historian and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/the-soul-of-bluff-visionary-gene-foushee-built-restored-desert-town/</link>
        <title>The soul of Bluff: Visionary Gene Foushee built, restored desert town</title>
        <description>After 60 years of marriage, Gene and Mary Foushee passed on this summer just nine days apart. The couple was 88 years old and had lived a rich, full life. They will be remembered for many things, but their most...</description>
        <pubDate>Tue, 17 Oct 2017 19:49:57 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[After 60 years of marriage, Gene and Mary Foushee passed on this summer just nine days apart. The couple was 88 years old and had lived a rich, full life. They will be remembered for many things, but their most important achievement was saving the small town of Bluff, Utah, and building Recapture Lodge. A spectacled geologist with an empty wallet, Gene had a mind brimming with ideas. He always pointed a stubby pencil at two-by-fours, friends, neighbors, anyone who would listen. He taught young Navajos the basics of carpentry, and he led some of the first tours into Monument Valley. An April 1963 ad in Desert Magazine proclaimed, “RECAPTURE! The fun of adventure in the Red Rock Country ... beauty and serenity in Indian Country ... DISCOVER the excitement of geology in textbook country, Recapture Court Motel, Historic Bluff, Utah ... P.S. Everything for the traveler.” Except good roads. They had yet to come. In the early 1960s, asphalt ended at Cottonwood Wash. The road west was dirt and gravel. Bluff was the end of the road, but Gene Foushee had a vision. ••• When the Foushees arrived in Bluff, the Mormon village had been almost abandoned by settlers, who had moved north to Blanding and Monticello because, all too often, the San Juan River raged, flooded and ruined their farms. Navajo Reservoir would tame the muddy river, but modern civilization took a long time getting to Bluff. Electricity arrived in 1957. A year later, there was a telephone, but only one for the entire community. The Foushees had built a motel, a few rooms at a time, with doors facing east which is Navajo tradition, and they had the only automatic washing machine. When they were finished cleaning and folding motel sheets, Navajo women who had been standing in line got to use the washer. When U.S. Highway 160 went south of the San Juan River and largely bypassed Utah, that alignment set Bluff back two decades, but Gene Foushee was patient. He had to be. In the 1960s, San Juan County, Utah, had “a little bit of ranching, oil and gas was starting, but it was pretty bleak,” says Bluff resident Jim Hook. Uranium mining boomed and busted. “You could have bought Moab if you had a good credit rating. The only place to get a piece of pie was the Atomic Café.” Born in North Carolina in the Great Depression, Foushee knew how to straighten nails, re-use lumber, work hard and encourage others. He lived by the Depression adage: “Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without.” He had been on Union Carbide’s payroll in Uravan, but when he moved to Bluff, “there were some skinny years there in the beginning.” “It was exhausting to work with him,” Hook says with a smile. “He had so many ideas about what to do. Everyone who ever met him had a list given to him by Gene. I still haven’t done everything on the first list he gave me and that was over 25 years ago.” Hook and his wife, Luanne, bought the Recapture Lodge from the Foushees in 1989 after they had run it for 30 years. The Hooks, originally from the Fort Collins area, had “10 years of wrangling llamas and we were ready to do something else,” so they took over as managers of Recapture Lodge in the fall of 1988. “I learned how to fold towels and do whatever. In a year, they started talking about selling it to us, but we had no money,” Hook says. The Foushsees gave them a raise so they could make the down payment and begin a mortgage. No bank. Just credit and carry back the loan based on their character. “They were like our parents. He was always the visionary. We really miss them,” says Luanne Hook with a tear in her eye and a catch in her throat. “They were a unit together. He was the face of the community, but she was behind the scenes, the bookkeeper. She was actually the nuts and bolts, the welcoming face at the front desk. They were the saviors of Bluff who raised two Bluff kids, Geno and Marybeth.” ••• Gene would get a project started, move it along, then pass it on for someone else to finish, and he’d begin a different project. He lobbied for better roads. He planted shrubs, river privets, currents, lilacs and dozens of trees, including Carolina poplars, pecans, mulberries and fruit trees, whose shade today’s residents enjoy. He found funds for a small airplane strip at Bluff, and he built a hanger for visiting aircraft. He created the town’s first water system from shallow wells and an artesian well. And one by one, he restored the town’s historic stone houses built in the 1890s and early 1900s by successful Mormon ranchers and merchants. “Gene saw the beauty and craftsmanship that went into the Mormon pioneer homes constructed by the brave souls who came through the Hole in the Rock in 1880, and then were abandoned and left to fall down or, in some cases, burn,” Alvin Reiner wrote in the San Juan Record. “One by one, and brick by brick, Gene salvaged as many as he could.” The preserved houses in Bluff’s historic district, most of native sandstone, include the Jens House, the Adams House (which is on the National Register of Historic Places), the Decker House, the Olin Oliver House, rancher Al Scorup’s house (also on the National Register), the Lyman House and the stone mansion of Lemuel Hardison Redd. Over the years, Gene repaired, repainted and re-roofed all of them. He’d buy the houses, fix them up, get somebody living in them and tackle another one. The Adams House had pallid bats in the upper story and “you could have thrown a cat through the roof anywhere.” “Everybody has stories about him. Almost all local Navajo families have someone who worked for him at one time or another,” Hook says. “He mentored a lot of Navajo kids,” says guide and outfitter Vaughan Hadenfeldt. “Foushee was a recycler. It was too far to go to get supplies, so everything got re-used. In fact, Gene probably never knew this, but the Navajo language is flexible and adaptive. They came up with the phrase ‘to Foushee it,’ which meant to make do with what you had. I’ve seen him re-use old plumbing pipes, which appalled me, but it was just his generation. They made do. Gene was always drawing pictures in the dirt to explain things. He had a tape measure on his belt. He was always in construction mode.” ••• Slowly, carefully, the Foushees brought Bluff back to life, preserving the history and heritage as much as possible. The Southwest Heritage Foundation maintains Bluff’s Chacoan-era Great House. The Jones Farm has a conservation easement on its 100-plus acres to prevent Moab-style development. There’s a river trail south of the Recapture Lodge and plans for a trail to go from Bluff to the Bureau of Land Management’s Sand Island Boat Launch. There’s a Bluff Historic Preservation Association that Foushee started, the original Bluff Fort, an annual balloon rally in January, and Bluff proudly proclaims itself as the gateway to the new 1.35 million-acre Bear Ears National Monument. Tourists now come from across the United States, England, France, Italy, Germany, Argentina, Brazil, Switzerland, Australia and China. In November, Bluff residents will vote on incorporating not only the town but the entire Bluff Valley to control development and their deep well-water sources in the sandstone benches north of town. The Foushees would be proud. Their vision is coming true. Jim Hook’s eyes well up. He’s remembering Gene Foushee. “Who gets to go and build a town? Nothing gets done unless you do it. There’s no way he could have been in a nursing home. He’d have brought his tool belt and remodeled the windows.” Andrew Gulliford is an historian and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/inside-the-walls-of-time-in-hermosa-fisher-house-carries-1890s-legacy/</link>
        <title>Inside the walls of time: In Hermosa, Fisher house carries 1890s legacy</title>
        <description>In grocery stores today, we can buy fruit from all over the world. A century ago, farm products were local, and a thriving orchard business had begun in the Animas Valley at Hermosa under stunning red canyon cliffs. Some of...</description>
        <pubDate>Tue, 12 Sep 2017 15:29:16 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[In grocery stores today, we can buy fruit from all over the world. A century ago, farm products were local, and a thriving orchard business had begun in the Animas Valley at Hermosa under stunning red canyon cliffs. Some of those fruit trees still stand, as does the historic Fisher house, which is a testament to early agriculture, the first brewery on the Western Slope and to a Texas family that has been a steward of the land. For decades, the descendants of Herman Schulz have kept up the old, white, two-story Victorian-era house with its graceful wrap-around porch and distinctive gingerbread-style woodwork in the eaves. Since their father bought the 50-acre property in 1956 on County Road 202, Sunny Branch, Jeanne Hejl and Susan Scheffer have shared the house and gardens with children, grandchildren and quite a few bears that have a taste for fruit and the occasional meat loaf. On the back porch, “bears came through the screen door so many times that we had to board it up,” Susan says. “They’ve torn up the screens and gone in to see what they could find. So we’ve had to put up plywood. This year, the bears are scarce. They’re all in town.” With senior water rights from the Pomona Ditch, the property became known as the Pomona Orchards – home to apricots, apples, plums, cherries, pears and an ice house that still stands. Doug Branch says, “When the ditch runs red, it’s rained (in the mountains), then the water is red, red, red.” Specialists have visited the property looking for heirloom fruit trees and found an apple called a winter banana because it’s yellow. That tree has been grafted with hopes of preserving its rare fruit. ••• The Texas descendants of Herman Schulz come north to Hermosa in the summer to cool off when it is over 100 degrees near Houston. But the family of Charles Fisher, which bought the original homestead and built the house in 1892, came south to the valley from Silverton to warm up. Originally from Germany, Fisher opened the first brewery on the Western Slope in Howardsville and had a successful ice business, selling 1,000 tons by 1889. Five years earlier he had married another German immigrant, Emilie Topf. “It appears that the Fishers followed the lead of a number of wealthy Silvertonites who purchased farms and ranches at the lower and warmer elevations in the fertile Animas Valley,” says Jill Seyfarth, historian and cultural resources specialist. “They bought this property and built a grand house, but this house was not their primary residence.” The couple had two children, and tragically, Emilie died at 42. Devastated, Fisher sold out and moved to Denver, yet perhaps his family’s spirits still linger. A bedroom on the second floor may have ghosts. The three sisters tell me, “They just give you a feeling. The ghosts. A friendly and motherly presence.” Though it is annoying when the closet door opens in the middle of the night for no reason. In 1900, Edgar and Nettie Buchanan bought the property. He was a Silverton lawyer, county attorney and investor in the Golden Fleece Mine. She was on the Durango library board. They established themselves in the Animas Valley, and his obituary in the Durango Democrat noted, “Mr. Buchanan’s law practice in Durango was wide and varied. He was an expert on irrigation litigation, and due to his judgment in the priority of water rights, his advice was eagerly sought.” Later, the Hicks family owned the property and cultivated a truck farm and the Pomona Orchards, selling fruit near the county road. In the apple shed, an original wooden apple press lies in pieces. On the shed’s wooden walls, names and telephone numbers of fruit customers are penciled in. A hand-painted sign promotes cherries. ••• When the Schulz family bought the property 60 years ago, the house was empty, but previous families had heated with coal “and left us a lot of coal dust.” Old wallpaper was falling off the walls. Eventually, the Texas family felt the need for a second bathroom because “for a long time, we dealt with 15 people and one bathroom.” The sisters remember their father “loved it up here. We came up to Durango to ride the train, and the next day, Dad said, ‘Let’s go look at property.’” He was in the abstract and title real estate business in Fort Bend County. Though he bought and sold Texas property, once he purchased this Hermosa acreage, it has remained in the family ever since. The wide expansive front porch faces east. Sunny Branch says, “We sit out on the porch to get warm in the morning and cool in the afternoon. You get your daily dose of vitamin D.” The house has four bedrooms, no air conditioning and remains virtually untouched with original woodwork, flooring, plastering and windows without screens, so they’ve had to purchase modern half-screens to help with ventilation. An outhouse tilts gently back toward Hermosa Cliffs. An old rusty paint can on a post shows repeated hits from a BB gun. The grounds are neatly cut and trimmed with various colorful flower patches and tall pine trees to the east of the house. “Most all the kids and grandkids come up in the summer. The place is so popular they have to put their names on the calendar to get available dates,” says Sunny, who is proud that four generations of her family have now benefited from her father’s foresight to buy a Colorado retreat far from the Texas heat. As we sit on the front porch, I ask Doug Branch for another bear story. He launches in: “This tree right behind me is an apricot tree, and it’s the most delicious fruit you’ve ever had. And these girls (meaning the retired sisters sitting on the porch) make the best jelly from those apricots. Well, it’s the middle of the night and dark and we hear noises outside the house. I get up and there’s a bear in the tree. I found a long stick and I poked that bear. Then I saw its huge face. That was a very big bear. I ran back in the house and the bear dropped out of the tree, but something was still moving in those branches. Turns out that was a big mother bear who left three cubs up there still eating apricots.” I had to ask about the meat loaf, too. “Sunny and I used to come up here in April,” Doug says. “She’d come over to the big house (which is what they call the historic Fisher house), and she’d put a meat loaf in the oven. We were staying next door in the cabin. So she came over to the back porch to check on the meat loaf, and there was a bear standing by the back door trying to do the same thing.” He laughs. We all laugh. ••• Memories linger in an old house. Time ticks away. The family has certain annual rituals. They cross the valley to the Bar D Wranglers for dinner and cowboy music. On the upstairs balcony, there are stories of children locking other kids out on the porch. “We finally fixed the screen door. Grandkids would lock each other out and then poke holes in the screen door to undo the latch and get back in,” Jeanne says. Each year, there’s another project of sanding and repainting. Fixing things. But mostly it’s sitting on the porch, talking, reading, soaking up the sweet scents of a Colorado summer. Sharing time with family. Seeing grandkids grow. Watching clouds scuttle across the sky. Wondering if it’ll rain in the afternoon and whether there’s a bear in the fruit trees or on the back porch. Andrew Gulliford is an historian and an award-winning author and editor. Reach him at andy@agulliford.com.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/the-sublime-yampa-quiet-canoe-miles-on-a-wild-river/</link>
        <title>The sublime Yampa: Quiet canoe miles on a wild river</title>
        <description>Imagine being on a Colorado river in the heart of the summer and seeing no one else on the water for 32 miles, three days and two nights. I couldn’t believe it, but there we were in June on a...</description>
        <pubDate>Mon, 14 Aug 2017 21:01:27 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[Imagine being on a Colorado river in the heart of the summer and seeing no one else on the water for 32 miles, three days and two nights. I couldn’t believe it, but there we were in June on a Centennial Canoe Outfitters trip for the San Juan Mountains Association on the Yampa River paddling west of Craig. We saw more eagles, both bald eagles and American eagles, than people. The Yampa River is the last free-flowing river on the Colorado Plateau. Only the Yampa in the northwest corner of Colorado flows unimpeded as it drains the ancestral Rockies and creeks coming off the Flat Tops Mountains. I’d rafted it before, through Dinosaur National Monument, and I’d had my shares of thrills and chills going through Class IV Warm Springs Rapid. The canyons of the Yampa tower above the water level. River lore compels rafters to kiss the Tiger Wall, with dark desert varnish stripes, as good luck before entering Warm Springs. I’d done that, but I’d never been on quieter sections of the river. We canoed through the Little Yampa Canyon, designated by the Bureau of Land Management as a Special Recreation Management Area. We saw only a few dirt roads, one ranch hand and a family camped by the river over Father’s Day weekend. But no other paddlers. No one else to share the islands and shorelines. We put in at South Beach, close to the Craig Power Plant and the Trappers Coal Mine, and took out at Duffy Mountain. Parking cost us $7 a day. On the river, where else could we spend our money? ••• Naturalist MK Gunn helped us identify a plethora of plants, including tumbling mustard, princess plume, prickly pear cacti, yarrow, woolly mullein, black medic, yellow sweet cover, scarlet gilia, milkweed, lupine and invasives like leafy spurge and hounds tongue. I liked the wide open stretches of rolling grasslands with no fences. When afternoon winds came up, we “barged” our canoes, tying two together for better balance and safety. We camped the first night on a lush island under a gallery of narrow-leaf cottonwoods that mosquitoes obligingly shared with us. The food was good, the beer was cold and skeeters became only a minor distraction. Because we camped on BLM land, there were cowpies, of course, which Assistant River Guide Nolan McDonald said made great extra pillows or lumbar support under his sleeping pad. On one section, we paddled a 14-mile meander to go only 4 miles, but floating in a canoe, who cares? We weren’t in a hurry. River time is like that. Up at dawn, bedded by dark. At 3,880 cubic feet per second, the river itself moved a comfortable 5 to 6 mph. Blue posts marked public land and red posts marked private ground, but we didn’t see many posts. Instead, Head Guide Pam Fitz had excellent maps. “We like multi-day canoe trips. We meet new people and watch good paddlers that you can model. It’s nice to be spoiled by camp cooks. We bought a new canoe so we can learn more,” said Lou Burkett of Dolores. “Chris and I like the SJMA trips because we learn new history though we’ve lived in Colorado 40 years.” Karl and Gemma Rundle came from Great Britain and laughed, “This is a very relaxed river.” Serious birders on our trip found yellow-headed and redwing blackbirds, meadowlarks, doves, spotted sandpipers, spotted towhees, robins, cliff and bank swallows, cowbirds, ravens, merganzers, flickers, kingbirds and ferruginous and redtail hawks plus seven bald eagles. Birds thrive because the land does. The Yampa is really only runnable in June because the natural hydrograph of the river is still intact. The Yampa’s spring flow of snowmelt quickly drops off after preserving critical wildlife habitat. ••• For a variety of ecological, historical and geological reasons, no other river is like the Yampa. In Patrick Tierney and John Fielder’s book, Colorado’s Yampa River: Free Flowing and Wild from the Flat Tops to the Green, this unique Colorado riparian habitat has found its biographer and photographer. They’ve written and photographed a love song to flowing water. It’s also a cautionary tale. Ongoing threats to this natural ecosystem exist. Tierney explains: “From its source at over 11,500 feet high in the Flat Tops Wilderness of northwestern Colorado to its confluence with the Green River in the 2,500-foot-deep slickrock canyons of Dinosaur National Monument, the Yampa retains a wilder nature along its banks and a more natural flow pattern than any other large river in the southwestern United States.” He adds, “Enduring characteristics make the Yampa a benchmark by which other rivers can be compared and well illustrate the threats facing rivers throughout the West in a period of climate change and rapid population growth.” Colorado’s Yampa River is a superb synthesis of science, passion and joy. It chronicles the journey of Fielder and Tierney from the river’s headwaters to its confluence. Because of Fielder’s years of experience as a fine-quality book publisher, this volume sets a new standard for river writing, river photography and river publishing in the American West. I reviewed the book online for Colorado Book Review, a part of the Center for Colorado Studies at the Denver Public Library. So with delight, I was finally able to canoe one of its best stretches. ••• Our second campsite was totally different. In a lower, drier, canyon environment, we camped on a sagebrush bench that was hot in the afternoon but cooled as the sun slowly set. Some folks hiked, others swam. I made seat repairs to my old 16-foot Discovery Scout, well used already when I bought it 20 years ago. We all watched the stars parade across the heavens and awoke to the smell of coffee, pancakes on the griddle and frying bacon. A light mist rose above the river, and we talked of the mountain lion den hidden on the Yampa’s other bank. “To canoe a river is to become part of nature. You get to see wild America. People on the river become different. Especially for us in the West, it’s so important to be on rivers,” Lou Burkett tells me in the morning. Janet Glasser of Lafayette concurs. “It’s so good to get away from the business of the world, to learn to go with the flow and to increase confidence in what you can do,” she says. We packed up with one last look for forgotten gear or micro-trash. Slowly, we left our grassy beach. We paddled upstream a few strokes and then made the graceful downstream arc that is the proper way to turn a canoe in moving water. Carefully, quietly, bow into the current. Always balanced. We had practiced our paddle strokes before, and we were ready for the rhythm of the day. We said nothing. Instead, we just listened. Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College. He can be reached at gulliford_a@fortlewis.edu.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/19th-century-fur-trapper-denis-julien-traveled-against-the-current/</link>
        <title>19th-century fur trapper Denis Julien traveled against the current</title>
        <description>The mystery of 19th-century fur trapper Denis Julien</description>
        <pubDate>Thu, 10 Dec 2015 01:24:17 -0700</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[The mystery of 19th-century fur trapper Denis Julien Above the white sand beaches in Whirlpool Canyon lies a 19th-century secret lightly etched in ancient stone. Two initials and the date 1838 tell of a lost world and one man’s singular perseverance. For years, I’ve been looking for Denis Julien. A Creole French-American beaver fur trapper, Julien lived his life on the fringes of 19th-century frontier society. While many trappers worked as “company men” for St. Louis firms, he traveled alone. The fur trade pivoted between the northern and southern Rockies, yet Julien explored the middle. He left inscriptions with his name and date in Green River canyons across Utah and Colorado, and I’ve been trying to find them. It’s taken me decades. One of the many mysteries about Julien is why and how he was paddling solo upstream. Most canoeists “go with the flow” downstream, yet by studying the dates of his inscriptions, it’s apparent that he traversed the Green from south to north, leaving his initials and dates in what is now Canyonlands National Park, on Bureau of Land Management lands in Labyrinth Canyon, below the Book Cliffs close to the Utah/Colorado state line, on a bluff near the Uinta River and in Dinosaur National Monument. Obscured by tamarisks, willows, and nearly two centuries of overgrowth, some of these inscriptions are difficult to find. Added to the mystery are Julien’s dates. He paddled upstream searching for beaver after the fur market started to fall in 1834. Once as important to world economics as oil is now, the value of beaver plews plummeted. Gentlemen in Paris, London and New York had previously demanded fur felt hats, but tall-masted clipper ships found their way to China. The new fashion rage was silk hats. Yet Julien paddled north, alone, looking for beavers in river channels and trapped out sidestreams. Even if he found furs, their price had declined. He was far from anywhere, far from friends, far from the boisterous camaraderie of other French trappers, coureurs de bois, who loved to sing, dance, drink and carry on. What was he doing in these remote Southwestern canyons? I wanted to know. And part of that knowing was to find his inscriptions. HHH The rest of the group stayed on the beach. I took my canoe to paddle upstream on the Green. Staying close to the far shore to avoid the main current, I struggled for half an hour slowly making my way upstream, paddling first on the left and then the right. Finally, I tied off and scrambled through the brush looking for the inscription that was supposed to be there. No luck. Just scratches on my arms and face. Twigs down my T-shirt. Turning into the current, in minutes I was back at the beach ready for beer and dinner. The next year, in high water, I found it. Scratched on the rock with his distinctive block printing: 16 mai 1836. What was he doing out here alone? If it took me 30 minutes of hard paddling to go less than a mile, how could he have traveled hundreds of miles upstream? Mountain men from Missouri, Kentucky and Tennessee moved north up the Platte and Arkansas river valleys on horseback, trailing a pack horse, rifle cradled in one arm, reins in the other hand. They learned the low mountain passes and how to avoid steep snow-covered north-facing slopes as they sought out creeks and streams to set their traps wading thigh deep in ice cold winter water. Mountain men treasured their horses, but the French trappers chose America’s waterways. Instead of horses, they used canoes and wore bright red sashes. Raised Catholic, they said their prayers. Married to an Ioway Indian wife named Catherine, Julien baptized three children in the St. Louis Cathedral and buried one between 1798 and 1804. By 1808, governor of Louisiana Territory Meriwether Lewis described him as “an old and much respicted (sic) trader among the Iaways (sic).” As a young man, he had a small farm and established a trading business on the Mississippi with a clerk and hired help. But something happened. Maybe other farmers moved in. Maybe he ran up debts for merchandize he couldn’t sell. As an older man, he went west. He paddled the Green River in canyons still remote almost two centuries later, and he left inscriptions from 1831 to 1844. HHH I’ve found his initials and dates in Whirlpool Canyon in Dinosaur National Monument. We had to clear away poison ivy and hack down tamarisk, but there on river right are his initials D.J. and the year, 1838. It’s difficult to land a raft there. Few people get out. The inscription is in deep shade so it’s hard to see, but it’s there at arm’s length. No one will ever know why he continued to travel Western rivers and trap furs after the market had faltered. Some men are like that, especially in the West. They cling to a way of life after it is gone. Maybe it’s the landscape that compels them to stay. But for at least one of Julien’s secrets, he left a large clue on a boulder in Hell Roaring Canyon just north of Mineral Bottom and the start of Canyonlands National Park. We left our canoes in the shallows and hiked toward his inscription. Of all his carvings, this is the largest and most dramatic. He took the time to spell out his name, D. Julien 1836 3 mai, to draw what may be a flying bird and the shape of his flat-bottomed boat, or in French, his pirogue, perhaps 18 feet long. On the boulder, he revealed his secret – how he traveled upstream mile after mile. He etched a mast. His boat had a sail. Of course! On river trips, wary of afternoon winds, guides try not to evoke the river gods and never use the word “wind.” Instead, they speak of the “W” so as to refer to wind without actually calling it by name. In late spring and summer, afternoon winds blow upstream sometimes with enough force to stop a fully loaded raft or to at least hamper its passage. Ingenious. Julien had a collapsible mast and sail on his boat. He traveled in late afternoon at exactly the same time that modern river trips are setting up camp. River guides warn of the “W” picking up, fearful of their clients’ lightweight tents blowing away and sleeping bags rolling into the water. He knew the river and the canyon’s moods. He didn’t fight nature; he used it. HHH As for the man himself, he disappears from American history after leaving his mark in canyons. What we know of him has been carefully researched by scholars from archives and historical data, but it is precious little. Hardly enough to do a sketch of his life, and certainly not a full portrait. Nine Julien inscriptions have been discovered. There may be more. In time, they’ll be located. I’ll keep searching. I think of him just before dark when the winds die down, guiding his boat upstream, on his knees, looking for beaver in the last of the day’s light, perhaps singing a French love song to the women he left behind. Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College. Email him at gulliford_a@fortlewis.edu.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/a-century-old-dinosaur-national-monument-deserves-additional-protections/</link>
        <title>A century old, Dinosaur National Monument deserves additional protections</title>
        <description>River, canyon country deserves additional protections</description>
        <pubDate>Thu, 09 Jul 2015 01:12:35 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[River, canyon country deserves additional protections We launched our rafts on the Yampa River at Deer Lodge Park, lunched at Stubs Cabin, stayed at Ponderosa Camp and ran Little Joe and Big Joe rapids. On our second afternoon, we pulled into Mather’s Hole Camp under an overhung cliff wall 500 feet above us. As I set up my tent in blessed shade on clean, white sand, I thought about Dinosaur National Monument’s 100th birthday this year and Stephen Mather, the first director of the National Park Service. A successful businessman, Mather started 20 Mule Team Borax in Death Valley, California, to sell soap. To encourage customers, he wrote letters to newspapers across the country posing as a happy housewife extolling the virtues of Borax. His marketing scheme worked. He became a young millionaire, but Mather remained restless with his good fortune and continually sought outdoor experiences. While visiting Yosemite National Park in the early 1900s, what he saw appalled him. Cattle tromped along rivers and streams. Sheep skinned the high country. Car campers parked everywhere. Trash was strewn about. Outraged, he wrote Secretary of the Interior Franklin K. Lane about the poor condition of the national parks. Another Californian, Lane wrote back to Mather, “Dear Steve, If you don’t like the way the national parks are being run, why don’t you come to Washington and run them yourself.” Mather did. HHH Tall and handsome with piercing blue eyes and a rugged outdoorsman’s physique, Mather became a commanding presence. Reporters claimed Mather had an “incandescent enthusiasm” and “an eight-cylinder 60-mile-per-hour sort of personality,” which was exactly what was needed to transcend legislative lethargy. Congress had voted for national parks. Presidents had established national monuments, but no unifying system integrating progressive management yet existed. Mather campaigned to change that, and in 1916, President Woodrow Wilson signed the Organic Act, creating the National Park Service. Next year is the centennial of the National Park Service, but this year is the 100th birthday of Dinosaur National Monument, also signed into law by President Wilson. A key element of the Organic Act is the language that all units of the national park system “should be left unimpaired for future generations.” Mather’s vision helped produce that emphatic statement. As I set up my tent in Mather’s Hole and then walked to the riverside for dinner with other travelers on a History Colorado expedition, I thought about what we’d seen and the pristine nature of Dinosaur’s rivers. Originally, President Wilson set aside the Dinosaur quarry near Jensen, Utah, as an 80-acre tract. In 1938, President Franklin D. Roosevelt added the Green and Yampa River Canyons. The monument’s boundaries now include seven ecosystems and 210,000 acres of some of the wildest river and canyon country in the nation. On Dinosaur’s rivers, no motors are allowed, so rafters enjoy the silence, solitude and darkness of a pure wilderness experience. Campsites are assigned so river runners know exactly how many miles they need to paddle each day. Visitors discover animal and bird tracks on sandy beaches, hear the shrill cry of peregrine falcons, spy osprey and see mule deer, trophy-size elk and bighorn sheep at river’s edge. Even moose have wandered into Island Park. Proof of Dinosaur’s wildness has been the successful re-introduction of bighorn sheep, which had been killed out by lungworm and poachers. In the 1950s, the National Park Service brought 20 bighorn into Lodore Canyon, and two decades later, the NPS traded peregrine falcons for sheep from Poudre Canyon to re-populate Whirlpool Canyon all the way to Split Mountain. Because bighorns have no natural predators that come from water, paddlers can drift closely by sheep along riverbanks, and they show no alarm. In Dinosaur, rafting groups learn “river time” to relax and “go with the flow” under cliff walls carved by oceans that grew and receded a dozen times. Here is an opportunity for adventure, teamwork, self-reliance, personal responsibility and family fun floating beneath the nests of cliff swallows and listening to the descending musical notes of canyon wrens. HHH Yes, Dinosaur has plenty to celebrate for its 100th birthday, but we need to do more. Harper’s Corner on the Colorado side has one of the best night skies in the country because it is miles from a light source. Wilderness river trips create floating communities of friends, and we need wilderness to help maintain the unique qualities of our American character. In 1956, the conservation community rallied to stop a dam at Echo Park and Split Mountain and the modern environmental movement was born. Now, for its 100th birthday, it is time to give Dinosaur a few presents. Only God can make a tree, but only Congress can make a wilderness. The 90 percent of Dinosaur that is roadless should be federally designated as wilderness in both Colorado and Utah. That takes an act of Congress. Dinosaur should be touted as one of America’s great wilderness parks. Equally important, the Yampa River, which begins and ends in Colorado, should be congressionally designated as a Wild and Scenic River to protect its flow through the monument. The Yampa is the last undammed river on the entire 256,000 square miles of the Colorado Plateau. Four endangered fish, the pikeminnow, razorback sucker, humpbacked chub and bonytail chub, desperately need the pulse flows and warm water cobble bars of a natural flowing river to survive. Because of our decades-long orgy of dam building, there are only two places left in the world where these 2-million-year-old endangered fish spawn. We stood on one of those cobble bars as the Yampa quietly swirled at river-right. We pondered what blend of water, temperature, stream flows and side-canyon sediment deposition makes this stretch unique. Nature has its secrets we do not yet understand. “What is going to happen to this water? Where is it going to go?” a concerned park ranger asked me. A Wild and Scenic River designation “would add a significant layer of protection” to the canyons’ rivers added the ranger. I agree. For Dinosaur’s 100th birthday this year, and for the centennial of the National Park Service in 2016, let’s do more than just celebrate the past. Let’s take decisive action to preserve one of the unique ecosystems in the West and a special park shared by two states. HHH As stars poured over the cliff, the Yampa’s lapping sounds echoed off of the canyon wall in Mather’s Hole. That night in my tent, I thought of Stephen Mather, his dedication and his vision. He left us the 20th-century legacy of an outstanding National Park System. Now, in the 21st century, it is our turn to further preservation goals for parks. Wilderness and Wild and Scenic River designations for Dinosaur would be lasting achievements. Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College. Reach him at gulliford_a@fortlewis.edu.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/where-pioneers-are-buried-la-plata-countys-historic-cemeteries/</link>
        <title>Where pioneers are buried: La Plata County’s historic cemeteries</title>
        <description>She was dying as she took her place on the wooden wagon. Wrapped in quilts and an oil cloth against the cold pelting rain, her relatives spoke urgently, encouraging the team of horses. But it was no use. “They got...</description>
        <pubDate>Mon, 22 Jun 2015 18:27:33 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[She was dying as she took her place on the wooden wagon. Wrapped in quilts and an oil cloth against the cold pelting rain, her relatives spoke urgently, encouraging the team of horses. But it was no use. “They got as far as that hill. In that deep, wheel-sucking mud, the horses wore out and could go no further. She died that night, and they buried her here,” said Ralph Klusman, telling the origin story of the Oxford Cemetery, one of 22 publicly known pioneer cemeteries in La Plata County. “Her name was Mrs. Hattie Maynes, and she had the Spanish flu,” Klusman said. “It was 1918, and they left Ignacio trying to get her to Mercy Hospital in Durango, but here, near Oxford, the adobe mud is legendary, and the horses gave out right here on the hill. When she passed, they buried her among the junipers.” HHH Despite waking up to snow and rain on a May morning, 25 residents braved the chilly spring weather to join Ruth Lambert, archaeologist for the San Juan Mountains Association, on the second annual Historic Driving Tour of La Plata County. The La Plata County Historic Preservation Commission sponsors the tour during National Historic Preservation Month. This year’s theme focused on select cemeteries in the county, and the cold, wet day accentuated graveyard tales of longing and loss and memories of the departed. Across rural La Plata County on hillsides, above creeks and rivers, sit historic cemeteries containing the remains of county pioneers. Volunteers such as Klusman keep up the cemeteries, help with maintenance and fencing and assist relatives searching for their dead. “Cemetery research pulls in all lines of information – genealogy, gravestone art, archaeology, oral and family history,” Lambert said. “Researching cemeteries adds a deep and meaningful context to local history.” Lambert organized the driving tour that featured volunteers and spokespeople at four sites, beginning with the Pine River Cemetery or Bayfield Cemetery, which dates to 1883, 15 years before the town incorporated. Like the Oxford Cemetery, the Pine River Cemetery began with a single burial, Susan Dunham in 1882, on land later donated by Walter Dunham. Beth Sower told stories of the Pine River Cemetery and explained graves of pioneer families, Civil War veterans and two farmers killed by neighbors in separate incidents fighting over water rights. “The folks who are telling stories are terrific,” said SJMA volunteer Wendy Allen. “I love it. Two of these cemeteries I’ve never been to.” HHH The McClure, Hood and Hampton families rest in the Florida Cemetery near the 1912 Baptist-Presbyterian clapboard church listed on the La Plata County Register of Historic Sites. C.E. Hampton homesteaded the land and set a portion aside as a “burial ground.” Later sold to John Conway, son of Irish immigrants, the cemetery was deeded to the Baptist church. Now, the Florida Cemetery Association maintains 600 recorded “old burials” – some with wrought-iron fences and wooden, marble and even tin grave markers fabricated to replicate stone. This is an authentic pioneer cemetery where no fees are charged for community members and original farm and ranch families bury and care for their dead. Out of the rain, inside the wooden church, visitors munched crackers and cookies as Fred Robyns, sexton and president of the Florida Cemetery Association, spoke. “Here, historically, people have literally buried their own with a pick and shovel,” he said. “At this traditional cemetery, it’s very personal. If family or loved ones can be involved, it’s deeply healing, because death is a confusing time. Some families make their own caskets. Often family and friends put a symbolic shovelful of dirt on the casket as the grave is mounded up.” “A year or so back, this fellow lost his mother,” Robyns told the group. “With death, people are upset and deeply grieving. She had been cremated. When he became aware that he could hand-dig the burial site for her urn, a couple of feet into this sandy, clay soil, it gave him a last duty to perform for his mother. It’s significant, because it’s a personal thing that you can do, one last responsibility.” HHH Because of the importance of these sites, Lambert has a $46,000 project supported by the State Historical Fund to document and research 13 rural cemeteries “to compile a burial record for each cemetery, an inventory of internments and a thorough field verification of the sites because some headstones have fallen,” she said. The two-year project includes seven SJMA volunteers and public-history student interns Erin Pierce and Whitney Wyngaert of Fort Lewis College. “By documenting the cemeteries and encouraging people to research their own families, the San Juan Mountains Association is working to keep the area’s history alive,” Wyngaert said. “Whether or not you have family connections, the rural cemeteries are an important part of La Plata County’s history. We are hoping to show that the cemeteries’ history is really everyone’s history.” Visitors agreed. “Cemeteries are my thing,” said Naomi Riess, a member of the county’s preservation commission. “It’s enlightening to know more history of the county,” said tour-goer Tina Marie Trump. Also on the tour, La Plata County Commissioner Julie Westendorff agreed. “I think cemeteries are interesting. I’ve been known to stop in on cemeteries for vacations, and it’s great to see this turnout on such a rainy day,” she said. HHH From Florida Cemetery, visitors drove to the Oxford Cemetery and then on to Ignacio East Cemetery, established in 1918 on land owned by Ute native May Shoshone who sold her Indian allotment to create a community cemetery with burials relocated from the west side of town. Laura Whitt discussed the cemetery’s evolution. Aspaas family members, some of the first Anglo residents in the county, are buried there. “They came to make it rich in the mines. They never did, but they found other opportunities,” said a cheerful Helen Ruth Aspaas, smiling under her open umbrella. “So here’s the clan and all my family.” She told a variety of stories, including one about Susie Turner, who married into the Aspaas line, taught at the original Fort Lewis Indian School and was nicknamed “Mrs. Lotsa Soap,” by Native American children who attended her classes on hygiene. For those on the driving tour, it made a meaningful day. We thought about our own loved ones buried across the nation. We felt respect and admiration for pioneering La Plata County families and their descendants committed to maintaining historic burying places. I cannot get out of my mind the pathos of trying to rush a sick woman to the hospital in Durango only to have wagon wheels mired in mud. To sit with her through an everlasting night only to bury her in wet clay soil the next day. Because of rock, clay, sand and dirt, “not many folks are six feet under here at the Oxford Cemetery,” Klusman said. “If you got five feet, you were lucky.” “My grandma let kids walk to the Oxford store for candy, but only as long as they dumped a milk-can full of water on the lilacs and flowers planted on the graves,” he said. That’s cemetery stewardship, keeping and maintaining family connections over generations. Those are the ties that bind. Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College. He can be reached at gulliford_a@fortlewis.edu.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/where-rocks-have-names-running-rapids-on-western-rivers/</link>
        <title>Where rocks have names: Running rapids on Western rivers</title>
        <description>A rock is a rock is a rock, unless it is in the middle of a fast flowing river and you are about to smash into it with the front of your boat. In which case, you’re apt to give...</description>
        <pubDate>Fri, 22 May 2015 06:01:00 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[A rock is a rock is a rock, unless it is in the middle of a fast flowing river and you are about to smash into it with the front of your boat. In which case, you’re apt to give it a name. River runners have been christening rocks and rapids for more than a century, and the names have stuck. John Wesley Powell started the practice in May of 1869 when the one-armed Civil War major launched 10 men in four wooden boats from Green River, Wyoming, on his historic expedition through Grand Canyon. Powell named Flaming Gorge, the Gates of Lodore, and deep in the 500 million-year-old canyon, Disaster Falls, Hell’s Half Mile and Triplet. He named Disaster Falls because his men accidentally smashed a boat on the large rock in the river’s center. Powell desperately needed the scientific instruments in the boat’s wreckage and was grateful that his crew swam the channel to retrieve his lost barometers. They did not tell him that part of their motivation was to find the three-gallon keg of whiskey hidden in the boat’s bow. I’ve had my own encounter with Disaster Falls. One September with a relatively low water flow, we positioned for the run in my double duckie or inflatable kayak. I had a friend up front in his mid-80s and all of a sudden the octogenarian bid me farewell, jumped ship and latched onto a big, blue Hyside raft. Everyone had left the beach. There I was, packed and loaded for two people, and I was in the stern. So I launched anyway with the front of my duckie rising up in my face like a big banana headed for my own private disaster because I could not see a thing. Luckily, I sneaked the run on river left. HHH All across the West, rocks have names. On whitewater, the names continue to accrue as generations of river runners have their own rendezvous with destiny and experience mishaps, poor judgement and luck, both good and bad, especially in the larger rapids. Powell went down the Green in 1869 and 1871. Private boaters and commercial outfitters run those same lines week after week adding their own patina to a rich river lore. Powell named Hell’s Half Mile, but subsequent river rats have been more selective, finding, just under the surface, the boulder Lucifer with a constantly changing lip of water flowing over it. If you dance beside Lucifer but slip too far river right, then you’ll fall into the arms of Huggy Bear and get abruptly stuck. Your fellow river runners will help you off the rock, but you’ll pay a price in embarrassment and beers in camp. “I caught a lot of that hole,” says Adrift Adventures guide Andrew Piccirillo. How to make the run with subtlety and grace? He explains: “There’s a boulder on the right. Go two inches off a small marker rock. Then watch for the big hole on the left. Lucifer’s on the left. Push hard behind it to avoid Huggy Bear.” Try remembering that with split-second timing and guests laughing, yelling and getting soaked. “The first few times, I didn’t remember the run, but after a while, I’ve come to know each rock and some by name. You need momentum, and you need to know where and when to make your move,” he says. HHH Powell named Triplet and had the sense to stay out of The Birth Canal on river right, which is a narrow, fast-moving passage between huge boulders deftly done by kayakers, but no place you’d want to be in a 16-foot raft. Hence the name Birth Canal, where you’ll be re-born whether you want to be christened or not. My wife and I have capsized in Greasy Pliers, named for the tool river runner Bus Hatch used to lift metal lids while cooking with a Dutch oven. Along that stretch is Bus’s Birthday Cake, a honeycombed sandstone ledge, where, on one expedition, relatives left Bus birthday presents, each on a small sandstone shelf. I’ve watched friends fall out in Moonshine Rapids, and I’ve been taught a lesson in Schoolboy, where I missed the run, flipped my duck and had my hat claimed by river gods. Godzilla is the big rock in the Yampa’s Class IV Warm Springs Rapid. The hole is respectfully called Maytag. On the Colorado River west of Grand Junction in Westwater Canyon, there’s Skull Rapid, with the Room of Doom, which is the eddy to the right. On the Dolores, there’s Snaggletooth, Chicken Raper and Stampede. On the Animas, there’s Smelter and Corner Pocket. On the Arkansas, be wary of Sunshine Falls, Sledgehammer, Wall Slammer, Lion’s Head, Spike Buck and Lose Your Lunch. HHH Of course, when it comes to naming rocks, rapids and beaches, the Grand Canyon is in a class all its own. Stories stick to stone. There’s Badger Creek Rapid, Soap Creek Rapid and the waterfall at Vasey’s Paradise, named by Powell “in honor of the botanist who traveled with us.” There’s Kwagunt, Nankoweap and President Harding Rapid named in 1923 by a U.S. Geological Survey Expedition who learned of Harding’s death near that previously unnamed rapid. Hance Rapid commemorates miner, rancher, guide and storyteller John Hance, who often left his wife for months at a time. There’s Grapevine, Sockdolager, Serpentine and Bass. Dubendorff is named for a plucky boatman who lost it in a 15-foot drop and though badly bruised, ran it again. Powell named Vulcan’s Anvil, a huge black rock a mile above Lava Falls. For decades, boaters left offerings on the rock as a blessing for a good run in the rapid below, but the Walapai Tribe prefers that the rock be left alone. HHH Place names are born from an intimacy with rivers and rocks, and names evolve over time. In the Grand Canyon within the last few years, a policeman father became agitated that his bikini-clad daughter was becoming a little too enamored of a handsome, tanned, male river guide. Perhaps she liked his tattoos or his copper bracelet. One morning at breakfast, the officer lost it and fired two warning shots from a 9 mm pistol over the top of a coffee pot. The father/daughter received a quick exit courtesy of a National Park Service helicopter, and now, male guides, always wary of feminine attachments, call the place Nine Millimeter Beach. Upset Rapid has the Shorty Burton Pie Tin Memorial. He flipped a motor rig and died there in the 1950s, when his life jacket became entangled in the boat’s tiller. Because he was famous for baking, Hatch river guides commemorate the spot by leaving a pie tin on a rock. Park service river rangers take down the tin. Hatch guides replace it with a new one. “Sleep when you’re dead. Eat dessert first, and if you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much room,” river guides believe. So get out there. Get wet. Get wild. Go where the rocks have names. Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College. He can be reached at gulliford_a@fortlewis.edu.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/the-murals-at-mama-ds/</link>
        <title>THE MURALS AT MAMA D’S</title>
        <description>In Salida, wall art tells story of railroads and mountain troops</description>
        <pubDate>Fri, 24 Apr 2015 06:01:00 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[In Salida, wall art tells story of railroads and mountain troops SALIDA – Traveling around the West, when it’s mealtime I’ll eat anything – and I have. Friends tell me that I am blessed with an iron stomach and a tasteless palate. Perhaps. I was in historic downtown Salida in search of that quintessential road food – a chili dog – when I discovered Mama D’s Deli. I walked in to place my order, but what I found on the walls made me forget my hunger. I was captivated by what I saw. Lunch-counter patrons from the 1940s stared back at me. I had to smile because I had found a popular culture treasure in this old railroad town and a darn good dawg, too. Just a block or two from the Arkansas River and in the heart of Salida at 140 N. F Street, Neil’s Café, its name before Mama D’s, struggled through the Great Depression. Like Alamosa, Durango and Chama, the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad created Salida, a sooty town complete with coal dust, tired railroad workers and the occasional bindle stiff or hobo who walked down the tracks looking for handouts. With lunch-counter fare, Neil’s Café rode out the Depression thanks to loyal customers and teenagers who after school mixed malts and grilled burgers. Diners and cafés come and go across the West, but Neil’s, owned by Mae and Neil Prunty, had staying power. Originally the Rio Grande Café, named after the railroad, and then the Shamrock Café, as a nod to Irish railroaders, it became Neil’s Café. HHH By World War II, “Salida was a booming railroad town, and the railroad paid the Pruntys a subsidy of $2,800 a month to keep the eatery open 24 hours a day to serve railroad employees,” said Arlene Shouard in the Salida newspaper The Mountain Mail. Then came the 10th Mountain Division and Camp Hale near Leadville with soldiers on skis. “Mae and her husband would get an order from the railroad that a troop train was coming through. They’d stay up all night cooking 300 hamburgers and fries plus hot pies for the troop trains,” longtime local David Arnett told me. In the middle of that hustle and bustle, in 1945, Neil Prunty hired Bill Blake to work at the café. Salida is a small town. Whether Neil knew that Bill had been arrested for grand theft auto remains unclear. Even though there were “mitigating circumstances,” Prunty gave a thief a chance, and in his spare time, Blake sketched drawings and cartoons of employees, customers and other characters. Seventy years later, his murals still adorn the diner’s walls. That’s what stopped me when I walked in to order my chili dog. I was entranced. All around the diner, men and women ate their lunches, chatted, gossiped and drank coffee. When I sat at a table, they looked at me across time and space and suddenly it was 1945, and I was dining with them. HHH On one wall, a Rio Grande Freight motorman (now we’d call him a truck driver), his hat at a rakish angle, smoked his Pall Mall and sipped his coffee next to a well-coiffed waitress, plates in hand. A large panel portrays a railroad engineer, checking his watch, flanked by his brakeman and conductor with their pocket watches open. I can imagine how many trainmen ate in this diner decade after decade. A society woman wearing pearls seems out of place. I wonder who she was. Across the room, a Hispanic cowboy in a Charro outfit with his jacket off but his sombrero on sips coffee. A teenager tries to stuff an entire hamburger into his mouth. This is similar to a character from the newspaper cartoons or “funnies” of the 1940s. In the “Popeye” cartoon, Wimpy would plead, “I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.” After the war, Great Britain, the land of fish and chips, adopted hamburgers, which the Brits promptly nicknamed “Wimpies.” Two beautiful single women, with full curvaceous figures and narrow waists, eat lunch. A wolf wearing a tie sits between them, spinning his head trying to decide which lady is lovelier. “In the 1940s, the term ‘wolf’ meant a man on the prowl looking for women,” says American culture scholar William Grant. “He would use a loud whistle with a double note – one rising then falling – to try and turn a pretty girl’s head.” “I like the wolf the best, but the cop licking his spoon is pretty funny,” laughs Salida resident Julia Busse. HHH “I like the wolf, too. He’s the only half animal/half person in the murals. People do a double-take,” says Mike Baker, who now owns the restaurant with John Quinn. “Hundreds and hundreds of local people have worked here, and we want to keep the tradition going,” says Quinn. “This is part of the town. This is Salida. It would be a shame if anything happened to these drawings. A lot of people care about these paintings. It’s a grand tradition,” Baker says. “Kids like ’em. They think it’s neat. This is a historical town. People like things that have been around awhile.” Perhaps the Pruntys cooked all those hamburgers for Camp Hale troops on a woodstove. Baker shrugs his shoulders, “There was a wood burning stove to heat the food where I now have a $22,000 soft-serve ice cream machine. How did they do it?” Almost hidden behind bags of chips is a face of a handsome young man, two artist’s paint brushes behind his ear. Just as stone carvers on Europe’s cathedrals etched each other’s faces on images of gargoyles, the mural artist at Mama D’s left us his self-portrait – in the corner, slyly looking at us across the years. HHH I ate my chili dog, and I’ve been back for the Chicago Dog, which harkens to the Great Depression when in the Windy City you could get a hot dog on a bun with vegetables – all four food groups – for a nickel. The Chicago Dog at Mama D’s costs more than in the 1930s, but the murals are still there. Unfortunately, the red is almost gone from the cowboy’s shirt as are the roses on the brunette’s yellow blouse. Next to her, the wolf’s red tongue and his businessman’s tie are losing their luster. On the wolf’s left, the buxom blonde in her scoop-neck Marseilles T-shirt wears faded color stripes. I hope the paintings can be saved. In Salida, the Durango & Rio Grande trainmen are history, but a new generation of mountain bikers, river runners and tourists need to visit Mama D’s. They should make friends with the former customers staring back from the diner’s walls. Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College. He can be reached at gulliford_a@fortlewis.edu.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/some-like-it-hot-soaking-up-the-history-at-new-mexicos-ojo-caliente-springs/</link>
        <title>Some like it hot Soaking up the history at New Mexico’s Ojo Caliente springs</title>
        <description>On frigid winter days with long winter nights, there’s nothing like a soak in a natural hot springs and one of the most historic in the Southwest is at Ojo Caliente, N.M. Pioneering Hispanic settlers called springs ojos, or eyes,...</description>
        <pubDate>Fri, 20 Feb 2015 07:01:00 -0700</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[On frigid winter days with long winter nights, there’s nothing like a soak in a natural hot springs and one of the most historic in the Southwest is at Ojo Caliente, N.M. Pioneering Hispanic settlers called springs ojos, or eyes, because eyes water or tear up so Ojo Caliente literally translates as “warm eye.” Conquistadors named Ojo Caliente and a variety of historic figures visited the area, including Zebulon Pike in 1807 while under arrest by Spanish authorities. When Gen. Philip Kearney and his American troops invaded New Mexico in 1846, his lieutenants drew one of the first maps of the area soon to be annexed as U.S. territory. Ojo Caliente appears on the map. Traders along the Santa Fe Trail between 1820 and 1860 also may have veered west off the trail to enjoy Ojo’s healing waters. Certainly, prehistoric Native Americans speaking the Tewa language soaked in the sulfur-free mineral springs that gush 100,000 gallons daily containing lithia, soda, arsenic and iron. For the Tewa, it was a sacred site known as Posipopi, or the green springs/greenness pool named for the emerald colored algae that grew on adjacent river cobbles. Two of New Mexico’s first archaeologists explored the nearby pueblos and abandoned terraced gardens. Posi-ouinge, or “village at the place of the green bubbling springs,” was the largest of four nearby pueblos or prehistoric Indian villages studied by Adolph Bandelier and Edgar Hewett. Native village life stayed vibrant until the 15th century, and guests can hike prehistoric access trails on Bureau of Land Management land adjacent to today’s Ojo Caliente Mineral Springs Resort & Spa. HHH I hiked alone above the springs into the chaparral in late afternoon as melting snow began to freeze. With New Mexico’s soft rolling hills blending to the west toward the Chama River and the Jemez Mountains, I saw no one. I could have been in any era for I was alone on ancient paths. As twilight deepened and I reversed course to return to the springs, I sought the warmth of both mineral waters and human companionship. At Ojo, both have been plentiful for centuries. Though I like “to take the waters” during the day, they are especially inviting at night. There’s nothing like a long hike and an even longer soak. Boots off. Winter clothing shed. When the stars come out, step quietly among different heated pools. The air gets cold, the water stays warm. Signs read, “Please whisper,” and most folks do. Night lighting at Ojo is especially dramatic, as visitors sit in intimate pools beneath a highlighted 80-foot-tall conglomerate rock cliff. Above, the galaxies swirl. At pool level, steam rises. I wonder if Kit Carson had a swimming suit? He certainly came to visit. War parties of Comanches and Utes drove back the initial northern New Mexico Hispanic settlers, vecinos, who came to farm and raise sheep but fought for their lives. Settlements advanced and receded in waves in the 17th and 18th centuries. Because of fear of Indian attack, families settled, abandoned and then re-settled the Ojo Caliente land grant. Then in 1868, Antonio Joseph, New Mexico territory’s first representative to Congress, built the first bath house. Ojo began to provide overnight lodging, a post office and a general store, where historical ledgers prove Carson purchased supplies. HHH The thick adobe-walled bathhouse now boasts a Finnish-style sauna, and visitors can schedule a variety of massages. The historic Ojo Caliente has become a modern resort and spa, which is an acronym for the Latin “salas per aquas” or “health through water.” “It’s great to work here. I meet people from all over the world,” says Victor Jaramillo, a high school teacher who monitors security on the resort’s 1,000 acres. The current owner, Andrew Scott of Taos, who holds a college degree in natural resources management, seeks to develop yet preserve the rectangle of land that includes the original hot springs and a stretch of the Ojo Caliente River. No pesticides are used on the landscape. Jaramillo says Scott “is a really good guy to work for. He’s trying to do outreach programs and internships for local high school students,” and yes, “the waters do possess healing powers.” In 1916, four years after New Mexico became a state, owners built a stucco hotel with a south-facing porch. To make one of the oldest health resorts in the U.S. self-sufficient, the partners constructed a two-story adobe round barn in 1924 as part of a dairy. Cows and horses were in stalls on the bottom with hay stored above. Staff members planted elaborate vegetable gardens and fruit orchards. The dairy herd is gone, but in 2002, the current owner carefully restored the round adobe barn, which is unique in New Mexico and modeled after a Shaker community barn from Massachusetts. The wooden floor on the second level is perfect for dances and weddings and locals appreciate that they can host events at the barn. The 100-plus employees at the resort look forward to the annual Christmas party at the barn when music radiates outward from its stout adobe walls. “As a teacher,” Jaramillo tells me, “it’s important for our students to see the investment and the care being put back into the community. Other small villages are fallen down.” Indeed, much of northern New Mexico, Taos and adjacent Rio Arriba counties, remain in a cycle of unemployment and poverty. The state’s motto is “the land of enchantment,” but for some multi-generational families, it’s “the land of entrapment.” Ongoing historic preservation projects and tourist dollars can make a difference by bringing new funds and heritage tourism visitors into remote places. All of Ojo’s historic buildings are listed on the National Register of Historic Places. HHH My family stayed in the hotel, soaked in the pools and ate in the restaurant. I hiked the Bosque Trail, Posi Trail and Tewa Loop, which are about two miles each on BLM land and have been constructed and maintained by the New Mexico Conservation Corps and the Rocky Mountain Youth Corps. Ojo is generally full on weekends and though the hotel or small cabins can be pricey, camping is not. Artists and chefs flee Santa Fe, drive north and spend a relaxing weekend soaking, camped by the river. “For me it’s reasonable. The lodging is affordable in my RV. I can take my two dogs and hike for miles,” says Ricardo Gutierrez, a chef and artist from Santa Fe. The guest register lists visitors from Chicago, Boston, New York, Albuquerque and even Durango. Although I would not drink the 104 degree arsenic water, a sign says: “The arsenic spring is believed to be beneficial for relief from arthritis, stomach ulcers and to heal a variety of skin conditions.” The two cliffside pools at 101 and 103 degrees contain arsenic and iron “considered to be beneficial to the blood and immune system, prevent fatigue and promote healthy skin tone.” Why not? It worked for the ancient Tewa people. “The Ojo Caliente grant was the site of a traditional hot springs, sacred to and shared by all the Pueblo Indians in the area and by members of the land grant,” writes historian Malcolm Ebright. “The land grant members still have a key to one of the private springs, the last vestige of the original hot springs, known as Posipopi, the greenness pool.” At Ojo Caliente, visitors can hike, soak and talk to family and friends in a centuries old Tewa tradition. What better way to spend a winter’s day? Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College. He can be reached at gulliford_a@fortlewis.edu.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/making-ute-history-live-the-enduring-legacy-of-clifford-duncan-2/</link>
        <title>Making Ute history live The enduring legacy of Clifford Duncan</title>
        <description>Clifford Duncan passed away this winter, and with his passing went centuries of Ute cultural knowledge about land and landscape. A World War II veteran in his 80s living in Neola, Utah, near Fort Duschene, he traveled across the West...</description>
        <pubDate>Tue, 10 Jun 2014 06:01:00 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[Clifford Duncan passed away this winter, and with his passing went centuries of Ute cultural knowledge about land and landscape. A World War II veteran in his 80s living in Neola, Utah, near Fort Duschene, he traveled across the West visiting public land managers, archaeologists and historians. “There was no one like him. No one can replace him,” says Kenny Frost of the Southern Ute Indian Tribe. Duncan knew the cultural ways of his people. To be with him in the field in the White River National Forest, on Uncompahgre Mesa, at Dinosaur National Monument, in the Piceance Basin or following the route of a proposed gas pipeline was to understand how the Utes valued the landscape they called “The Shining Mountains.” Clifford was a tribal historian working with the Northern Ute Cultural Rights and Protection Office. “Clifford had a rare ability to listen and to try to understand the world,” says Mike Metcalf of Metcalf Archaeological Consultants from Eagle and Denver. “Although he believed in and practiced the traditional values of his people, he had an open and inquiring mind and was willing to learn from and teach others, including archaeologists who demonstrated an honest interest in Ute culture.” I had the privilege of being with Clifford, Betsy Chapoose and Kenny Frost at a summer “culture camp” at Trappers Lake two decades ago, and I’ll never forget walking the shores of the lake beside Clifford and learning to see a sacred Ute landscape in a new way. He inspired me to learn about complicated issues related to tribal preservation and encouraged me to research and write Sacred Objects & Sacred Places: Preserving Tribal Traditions. “Days in the field with Clifford were always special,” Metcalf remembers. I agree. On the Ute Trail with Clifford Federal laws, including the National Historic Preservation Act (1966) 36 CFR 800 and Section 106, trigger consultation with tribal officials to identify and assess a site’s significance. Section 800.2 explains which parties must be consulted, including Native American tribes with ancestral ties to public lands. Tribes also are consulted under the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (1990) if human remains are found on federally managed lands. Because Utes historically moved during seasonal rounds throughout Colorado, Utah, Wyoming and Idaho, tribal cultural offices can be extremely busy consulting on projects for the U.S. Forest Service, Bureau of Land Management, National Park Service, other federal agencies and contractors working on federal lands. I assisted Clifford and other team members to help identify the historic Ute Trail that went from Dotsero, where the Eagle and Colorado rivers meet, 57 miles northwest up and over the Flat Tops toward Meeker. Those summers were some of the most rewarding of my life as I learned how Utes moved through mountain landscapes with their horses, travois and camps. They traveled at a pace slow enough for children and the elderly. Always on alert, scouts would ride ridgelines. Clifford helped us to understand that in traditional Ute culture, travel was never aimless or random; families and clans always had a specific purpose or destination in mind. Because of the injustices American society has perpetrated on Native tribes, some consultations can be tense and confrontational and very little accomplished. Not so with Clifford. He possessed an extraordinary ability to work with people. He listened well. He explained things carefully, and he earned enormous respect from everyone he worked with. “Clifford was a person that I would call a perfect gentleman,” says Michael Selle, Bureau of Land Management archaeologist from the Meeker office. “Gracious, and at least for me endlessly patient, he gave me information that he felt was important when he felt I was ready to accept it. He also came across as very humble.” Clifford taught Selle about cultural values and how when someone needs advice from a Native consultant, the grandfather or elder should receive a small gift of elk, venison or tobacco. For Clifford, the Ute spirit world continued to exist. He helped us to understand that the sacred and the secular were “seamlessly intertwined in traditional Ute culture,” says Selle. I learned from Clifford and Kenny Frost to give thanks after visiting a site so I offer something precious which I’ve carried far – water. From Clifford I received braided sweetgrass, which I will always treasure. “Though raised in the wisdom and values of the traditional Ute culture, of which he was an endless reservoir of information, Clifford also could look at modern science and appreciate it,” says Selle. ‘Thoughtful, forthright, honest’ In the late 1980s as energy boomed across the West, Duncan consulted on major pipelines. He consulted when archaeologists uncovered human remains. As large-scale projects are planned across federal lands, Native American tribes are involved in a government-to-government relationship. Federal staff members meet directly with tribal representatives. Private contractors occasionally serve as facilitators. Energy companies can have fixed budgets and tight deadlines. Equipment and workers sitting idle cost money, yet tribal consultation can drag on over large and small details, such as how to mitigate and preserve a prehistoric or historic site, possibly by recording it or even changing a pipeline’s route. To the relief of both federal archaeologists and private contractors, “Clifford’s approach to consultation was always thoughtful, forthright and honest,” Metcalf says. “His depth of knowledge was unparalleled, but when he encountered places or things that were unfamiliar, he would say so, and would strive to learn and understand. He respected the fact that some questions cannot easily be answered, and he never pretended knowledge that he didn’t actually have.” Clifford worked with former Grand Junction Daily Sentinel editorial page editor Robert Silbernagel on Troubled Trails: The Meeker Affair and the Expulsion of Utes from Colorado. “Although he was happy to work with whites to set them straight about Ute history, he was not one to sugarcoat things to make it easier for whites to accept,” Silbernagel says. In the treaty of 1868, Ute Indians retained the entire western third of Colorado, but after the Meeker incident in 1879, they lost millions of acres. The Meeker conflict began at Milk Creek on the northern border of the Ute Reservation. Ute sharpshooters pinned down federal troops in one of the longest sieges by Native Americans against U.S. cavalry in Western history. The commander, Maj. Thomas Tipton Thornburgh, was killed first. Silbernagel studied the site with Clifford and remembers, “I visited the Milk Creek Battle site with him, and he was the first person who I heard state unequivocally that – despite what white authors and military officials had been saying for 130 years – Milk Creek had not been an ambush of Thornburgh’s troops. ‘Look around you,’ he said, pointing to the hills where the Utes were positioned and the low ground where the troops took shelter. ‘If our ancestors had wanted to kill all the soldiers, they could have done so.’” Clifford consulted on battle sites, but he also assisted with gardens. In 2009 at the Mesa County Fairgrounds, a 2½-acre project was started named the Ute Learning Garden. Clifford “taught us and our volunteer docents a great deal about Ute culture, history and plant lore,” says Susan Rose, a horticulture education specialist. Clifford helped with projects and consultations across four states and the entire spectrum of Ute land usage. How ironic that as a boy he was sent to boarding school to learn white ways and to give up his Ute culture. Thankfully, he never did. We will miss his wisdom. Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College. gulliford_a@fortlewis.edu.]]></content:encoded>
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        <link>https://tj.durangoherald.com/saving-saguache-life-takes-root-in-an-old-town/</link>
        <title>Saving Saguache: Life takes root in an old town</title>
        <description>Set in the northern San Luis Valley, Saguache served as one of the early gateways to the San Juans and the Western Slope. When Durango was just a twinkle in railroad baron Gen. William Palmer’s eye, Saguache became an established...</description>
        <pubDate>Tue, 13 May 2014 06:01:00 -0600</pubDate>
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        <content:encoded><![CDATA[Set in the northern San Luis Valley, Saguache served as one of the early gateways to the San Juans and the Western Slope. When Durango was just a twinkle in railroad baron Gen. William Palmer’s eye, Saguache became an established town in 1874, two years before Colorado’s statehood. For those of us who regularly drive from Durango to Denver on U.S. Highway 285, Saguache is about halfway. Next time, rather than just getting gas there, stop for a longer look. Named in 2009 to Colorado Preservation Inc.’s “Most Endangered Places List,” the town is experiencing a mini-renaissance and an artistic revival anchored by the 4th Street Diner & Bakery, which is open 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. daily and longer on weekends. I judge Colorado restaurants by their breakfasts, and I pay particular attention to my favorite – huevos rancheros, or eggs sunnyside up, tortillas, whole pinto beans and green chili. The 4th Street Diner serves breakfast all day, and my huevos were excellent. My wife and I were the only tourists in the place. Locals with bashed and beaten cowboy hats clinked spoons around their coffee cups and tried to stare down their mammoth cinnamon rolls. After breakfast, I took the historic walking tour of the 4th Street Business District. HHH Pronounced “Suh-watch” from a Ute Indian word, the small town and county seat once had 1,200 people, but population peaked in the late 1920s and now full-time residents number about 500. Many of the town’s historic houses have become second homes both for Denverites and out-of-state hunters seeking a base for fall forays into the Gunnison country to the west. Hills around the town represent 35 million-year-old volcanic fields with grass on top and occasional basalt boulders. At one time, sheep surrounded Saguache and made fortunes for a few sheepmen who bought up smaller farms and ranches from earlier generations of Hispanic settlers who had ventured north in the 1860s from New Mexico. On the north fork of the Old Spanish Trail from 1829-1848, Saguache has long been a crossroads. Otto Mears helped found the town. He began with a log cabin store where he traded with Utes before building one of the first flour mills in central Colorado. When Colorado cannibal Alferd Packer stumbled out of the San Juans after a brutal winter, Saguache residents were the first to question why Packer was so healthy and what had happened to his companions. But Saguache never got a promised railroad, and it is not situated on a river. The town grew slowly, and in 1929 the Saguache Bank was one of the few in central Colorado to survive the stock market crash. Then the Great Depression took its toll. Many folks drifted away, but some stubborn local residents refused to leave. HHH One of those Saguache stalwarts is Dean Coombs, who runs the family business: The Saguache Crescent newspaper. Now in its 135th year, the paper is still printed with a linotype machine bought new by his father in 1921. Painted an eye-catching yellow, The Saguache Crescent building, erected in 1874, leans a little into the wind, but so does the newspaper itself. Everyone knows that small-town newspapers are failing across America, but 62-year-old Coombs, publishing the paper his family bought in 1917, apparently does not realize that. He’s content with a weekly circulation of 430 for his four-page broadsheet and a newsstand price of 35 cents. There’s not much advertising, but he publishes all of Saguache County’s legal notices. Visiting his newspaper building, I found aged calendars, decades of dust, blocks of standing type with phrases such as “huge garage sale” and “graveside services,” ceiling stains along the roof and no computers. Not even a laptop. Coombs does all the printing and publishing himself, but has no time for reporting, so he simply runs whatever notices and stories local citizens contribute. “I started out at 26 with all my life ahead of me, and I’ve been doing it ever since,” he tells me as he sits in front of his vintage hot-lead typesetting machine. “I’m in a small town that didn’t grow, but it didn’t die, either. So I’m still here and so is the newspaper. People walk in with copy. I do no reporting.” The oddity of The Saguache Crescent’s lasting legacy as the only Colorado paper still using handset type has brought a “CBS Sunday Morning” film crew to town, and stories about the Crescent have run in the Los Angeles Times and even the English version of Al Jazeera. Mountain Valley High School in Saguache had 375 graduates in 1964 but only 125 last year, yet the paper still comes out every week. In the back of the building is an 1898 Chandler & Price open-platen job press like the one I worked on as a high school student in Lamar. The old presses had no safety stops, and I almost lost my right hand trying to straighten a crooked envelope. As I tell that story to Dean Coombs, he nods knowingly, “No piece of paper is worth your hand.” It’s Monday, the day Coombs prints the Crescent before Wednesday’s weekly mailing. He’s busy, so I thank him for his time and walk down the street to two buildings that make up Saguache Works, a combined thrift store, welcome center, organic and local food store, and exercise/dance studio. HHH Lindy McDaniel, 70, and Marge Hoglin, 65, bought the two buildings, one constructed in 1897 and the other built in 1910. They started a nonprofit to help revitalize their community. “We always say it’s two old ladies with two old buildings,” McDaniel quips. In their store, I learn about holistic management on the third-generation Blue Range Ranch, started in 1897 and committed to increasing biodiversity with grass-fed, certified-organic cattle. I read about the Rio Culebra Agricultural Cooperative of small local farmers raising heirloom specialty crops of Bolita beans, Haba beans, Chicos corn and crops grown without pesticides, herbicides and free of synthetic fertilizers. Also near Saguache, Green Earth Farms produces fresh vegetables, medicinal herbs, herbal healing products and cosmecuticals. “Business is pretty good. Yes, it’s impressive,” says volunteer Sara Fernandez. Because Saguache County is the third poorest in the state, “People are thrilled to get $8 an hour,” explains McDaniel. “We’re hoping to expand the natural food store. We sell local foods without much of a markup. “We want to make good food affordable,” she adds. The nonprofit seeks to offer quilting and knitting workshops and to start a fiber-arts cottage industry to train residents to make warm window coverings. There are also plans for a coffee and ice cream shop to be ready for this summer’s tourists. HHH Celebrate Saguache. Stop by on your next trip to and from Denver and be there Oct. 11 for the first Alferd Packer Festival. The town hopes to cash in on the Colorado Cannibal’s cachet by selling Packer burgers, hosting a rib cook-off, a beer garden, a cannibal crawl and a “run for your life.” Andrew Gulliford is a professor of history and environmental studies at Fort Lewis College. He can be reached at gulliford_a@fortlewis.edu.]]></content:encoded>
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