Walking the Same Ground - A Musical Audio Book

Music Mountain Prelude

Three Sides to Every Story

Walking the Same Ground

Peripheral Vision

Gone Fishing

Del Norte/St. Mary's Glacier

Dark Skies (Field of Light)

Schoolfield Road

Rhythm of the Morning

They Came to Play

When I Close my Eyes

Notes From my Window

Westcliffe Wind

The Rest of the Story

Book written and read by Dick Jones

Music and Lyrics written and performed by Richard Arnold Beattie

Drawings and Art by Andy Mast

Piano- Yancy Strode/ Harmonica- David Metsch 

(c) (p) 2026 RAB-Studios Westcliffe, Colorado

In cooperation with Sound Century Academy, the University of Colorado and The Harry Tuft Collection. 

Transcript

SPEAKER_01 2:12

Whenever I speak at events like this, I always look around the room to see if there's anybody present who has lived in the valley long enough to accuse me of lying. If you're one of those people, then please bear with me. As someone has said, there are three sides to every story: your side, my side, and the truth. Usually no one is intentionally lying, we just remember things differently. And as Mark Twain said, when I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it happened or not. But I'm getting older and soon I shall remember only the latter.

SPEAKER_04 2:43

There's a right way and a wrong way. Sideways and a long way. There is my way or the highway. Precise to every story. There is my way your way and every way Sunday on this day. So many ways. There are three sides. And more sides do we earn. Two sides of a roofline. My side, there is your side, and there is the tree. The broad side of a barn. There are four sides, there are three sides, more sides to a yarn. Two sides of a river. And your side, and there is the truth. There is my side, there is your side, and then there is the truth.

SPEAKER_01 4:50

A couple of years ago, I was having a conversation with one of the Valley's old timers, not mentioning names, but her initials are Waleen Squire. We were remembering Westcliff's past, and she said, There are books about mining and ranching, but nobody has written anything about the last 50 years. So you need to do it. And knowing Waleen, I knew this wasn't a question, so I took up the challenge. And my book, Walking the Same Ground, Reflections of Community, was the outcome of my conversation with Waleen that day. Maybe it will give you just a little taste of the Wet Mountain Valley's past and introduce you to a few of its people as I remember them. No names have been changed to protect the innocent, mainly because no one is innocent. They are all guilty of helping to shape something called community. A half century ago, there were only a little over a thousand people in all of Custer County. This amounted to about one and a half person per square mile. Westcliff had only one restaurant, five churches, no chain stores, no dentists, no bank. Traffic was what you might call light. In fact, if you saw more than five cars in a row, there had probably been a funeral. A semi-truck was a rare sight on the wet streets of Westcliff. If one did come to town, the school children would run to the fence to watch it pass, motion the driver to honk his horn. Highway 69 was still a dirt road from the county line to Gardner. One time my old Jeep broke down at Madino Pass, so I set out to hitchhike back to Westcliff. In three hours, only two vehicles came along. The second one picked me up. At the intersection of Main Street and Highway 69 North, where the four-way stop is today, it used to be a two-way stop. Each year in December, the town Christmas tree sat in the middle of the intersection. We just slowed down and went around it. I wonder how many conversations I had with Ben Kettle, Bud Camper, Harvey Rusk, or Jack Dero sitting in our trucks in the middle of the county road. I never heard anyone honk a horn or shoot us a dirty look. They just slowed down, waved, and went around us. Norma Salamino didn't have a car, so the school bus picked Norma up and brought her to town. No one worried that she might sue the school if something happened. Myrtle Cody occasionally left her car running in the middle of the road while she ran back into the house for a minute. Or twenty. We just slowed down and went around it, and John Comstock's green pickup rarely saw over 30 miles per hour on Highway 69. We just slowed down and stayed behind it. The Department of Motor Vehicles had just gone from the wall chart to the little box you look into for the vision test. The examiner came to Westcliff once a month, and I happened to be in to renew my license the same day as Harry Vandenberg, or Harry Van, as he was called. The examiner told Harry to look into the little box and read the smallest line he could. Harry looked, turned his head this way and that, finally looked up and said, Look in here and read what? The examiner said, Okay, Harry, stay in the county and don't drive at night. He gave him his license. He didn't go fast enough to hurt anybody, and when we saw that gray jeep coming, we all just slowed down, moved over a little, and let Harry pass. And so, with Highway 96 beginning here, and much of Highway 69 not paved, with no internet, no cell phones or direct dialing, no Google Maps or Internet GPS, nobody who was just passing through the valley 50 years ago. If you were in Westcliff, you intended to be here, or you were lost.

SPEAKER_04 8:47

Talk this way without even trying, and when I got here, I've walked this town for fifty some years, walking the same ground for most of our lives. We've been here raising our children through laughter and tears. I've walked these roads, pastures and fields, work the ranch through the smell, stays in fields, and I'm so glad that you came around, listen to the stories of walking the same ground. I'm so glad that you came around to listen to the stories about walking the same ground. Walk in the same ground. Now we're walking the same round. Never flew over the vast lands of Alaska. I've never had to get to overleast Pacific, never rode a horse through the bad lands of Nebraska. I'm so glad that you came around to hear these stories about walking the same round. I'm so glad that you came around to listen to the stories about walking the same round. Walk in the same round walking the same round. So many stories, so many faces that's been allegories. I never met a cowboy I didn't like, and I always love the Starfields on a chili valley night. And I'm so glad that you came around to listen to the stories of walking the same ground. I'm so glad that you came around to listen to the stories of walking the same ground, walking the same ground. Now we're walking the same ground. I've walked through the wind, through mud season, walk waist deep through the mountain snow, I've walked through a river to fish at the lake, to eat what I caught at the end of the day.

SPEAKER_01 13:24

No one seemed to mind that Otto Elsie had a junkyard behind his main street home. Sue Canda and Ruth Lang, who lived on either side of Otto, were not concerned about property values because they never planned to sell their homes. Nobody took their kids out of school when our game warden Dan Riggs brought deer and elk meat to be used in the school lunch program. Dick Wilson, the school superintendent, and I once skinned an elk and two deer that Dan had dropped off behind the school. We then took them to Jennings Market to be ground up and added to the school menu. Business transactions were also somewhat different than they are today. When Bill Falkenberg was busy in his hardware store, you just held up an item, told Bill the price, he wrote it down, and you walked out. It never crossed Bill's mind that you might not pay for it later. When children visited Evy's variety, and I do mean variety store, with cash in their pockets, the toy they wanted always seemed to cost the exact amount of money they had. The monetary benefit was always in the child's favor. The Henry's kids had a drive-through fishing worm business. You drove around Bill and Anita's driveway, took a box of worms from the big mailbox, and left the money in the Velveeta cheese cart. I'm pretty sure the number of boxes of worms and the amount of money came out pretty close to even. Jennings Market wasn't open on Sunday, but that didn't keep Harold from opening up and getting someone a quart of milk if it was needed. Everyone had an account at Jennings. We paid once a month, or as much as we could, or when we could. Some ranchers paid in the fall when they sold hay or calves. Bois Crow managed the Westcliff Post Office back then, and Chuck Kasendick manned Silvercliff. Jim Kristoff delivered mail around the valley. They knew everyone in the county, so a local address on a letter was optional. We once received a letter addressed Dick and Barb Westcliffe. No last name, no state, no zip code. One December 9, 1978, just before Christmas break at school, we had a home basketball game. I was coaching the girls, and our game was over, so when the payphone rang in the hall, I picked it up. I don't remember who called, but the voice said, Donnie and Linda's house is on fire. Get everybody out here to help. Without another word or waiting for a reply, he hung up. He gave no last name, we would know. He gave no directions, we would know. It was Donnie and Linda Camper's house, which was the old U Lay School. It wasn't a question and it wasn't a suggestion. Someone we all knew was in trouble. Nothing else needed to be said. I went into the gym, announced the situation, and those who were able exited the gym and we met in the parking lot to carpool to the fire. In those days, it seemed as if our lives were woven together both unintentionally and on purpose. We saw the same people in Jennings Market, at school plays and ball games, in the post office, on Main Street or in Susie's cafe. Some people didn't have a phone, and if we did, we only dialed four numbers for local calls. So we knew almost everybody's number. Most of us were on a party line, so we knew almost everybody's business. Sometimes you even knew more about people than you really wanted to know. Someone has said, in a small town, the idiosyncrasies of one are slammed against the sensitivities of another. It was a time when a no-trespassing sign was about as rare as a paved road. Over the years we gathered, branded, butchered, ate, fished, fenced, hunted, hayed, agreed, disagreed, worshipped, laughed, and cried together. We were a community. Times are different now, and I realize the details of what I've said can't be duplicated. But this is more than just nostalgia. There's a moral to the story. True community does not come through big events, surveys, meetings, or forums, although this all may be good. It's not the product of common interest or conformity of thought. It doesn't often come by aiming at it directly at all. Community is shaped organically by the intertwining of lives in very ordinary and daily ways. It is nurtured by shared work and play, shared joy and pain, shared memories and stories, good conversation and compassion given and received. It is forged out of the daily encounters and the relational nuances of life lived together. It cannot be planned, organized, or imposed. Community comes to us peripherally. Usually it simply overtakes us as we walk the same ground together. And there are no shortcuts.

SPEAKER_04 17:58

Look around. Smell the season. Taste the wisdom from the kitchen. Feel the fabric of the plum against the wind. Peripherosion. Peripherosion. Woven together in trucks and cars. Taking our time and most of Talking together across backyards. Just slow down for the river of river of the small town. Our strengths and our floes slant again against the senses. In a small town, our only cause is jammed into someone in me. Smell the season.

SPEAKER_01 21:47

A Westcliff Education. A new Disney flick called That Darn Cat. Unlike many, Barbara. And I did not come to Westcliff for the beautiful view of the mountains. On our only visit before moving to Valley, it snowed 14 inches. Clouds completely hid the mountains from sight, and there was no internet to look it up. We were young, I needed a job, and Paul and Jean Zeller needed a Wrangler for the summer at Horn Creek Lodge. And so, with teaching applications strewn all over the Midwest, we packed one suitcase each and came to Westcliff for the summer. Surely a permanent job would come up back in Indiana or Illinois. It did not. Little did we know that we would soon bring to Westcliff a four by eight trailer with everything we owned. When August came and no other job had materialized, I decided to take Paul and Jean up on their offer to stay at Horn Creek through the winter. Having taught a year in Illinois, Barb applied for a teaching position at Custer County School. K-12 school enrollment then was about 175 students. The 17 seniors of the class of 74 had just graduated from the old two-story brick building which had served the students of Custer County since 1924. It was torn down shortly after graduation. Barb had called Charlie Brodett, the school superintendent, several times for an interview, but he informed her that there were no positions available. Probably to keep Barb from calling anymore. He finally agreed to give her an interview anyway. When his phone rang during the interview, Charlie had to get down on his hands and knees and track the wire to find the phone. The interview lasted about two minutes, with the only question Charlie asked being, Are you old fashioned or newfangled? This was followed by a tour of the new school, which is now the old school. School started the day after Labor Day, and it was nearly August, and we had pretty much given up on Barb getting a teaching position. However, we were the ones about to be educated as we were introduced to the Westcliff Information Network. I think it was founded on the party line's phone system. The Friday before school started, on Tuesday, Barb was picking up a few groceries at Jennings Market. As she was checking out, the cashier, Anita Henrich, saw the name on her check and commented, Oh, you're the new school teacher. Barb denied it, and Anita said, Yeah, I'm pretty sure they hired you at the school board meeting last night. Well, Paul Zeller owned the little buildings along the east side of Highway 69. One is now the Stage Stop Cafe. Paul rented them his apartments for about$50 a month. And when Barb got home, she learned that one of his renters, a teacher, had just called to say she was leaving. Even though it was Labor Day weekend, Barb kept calling the school until finally an electrician who was wiring part of the new building answered. He looked around to find the phone number for Iris Wilson, the school secretary. Barb called her and Iris said, Do you mean Charlie didn't tell you? Iris gave her the number of Superintendent Blodgett, who was visiting family for the weekend in eastern Colorado. When Barb called Charlie, he calmly replied, Oh, I was gonna call you as soon as I got back in town on Monday. Remember, school started on Tuesday. Barb then called Fred Luthy, the school janitor, who led her into the building to work almost nonstop until Tuesday, when she walked into a sixth-grade classroom of 17 of the newest generation of Dereux, Cooks, Colemans, Roscoe's, Roy's, Rice's, and Campers, some of whom still live here today. And so Barb signed her first contract at Custer County School. Well, actually, she didn't sign it until mid-January, when Iris Wilson discovered that Charlie had never even given her a contract. And this began a 42-year teaching career, the longest ever at Custer County. Barb is followed closely by Hattie McLeod 39 years, Gordon Thornton 36 years, and Betty Munson 33 years.

SPEAKER_00 26:05

Every day you open your eyes and the mental checklist of all that you have for the day blocks your vision. You get past the bedroom, the bathroom, the breakfast, and the drive-thru. You arrive at your desk, and there are voicemails and emails and snail mails, and you process through until lunchtime. That's what you see every morning. Then, when we rewind the AM and go back, you find the morning that you didn't see. You ran past your husband who was trying to find meaning in his work. You snarfed down the burnt toast and left the coffee maker on, and oh, and you cut off your neighbor who was bringing his wife home with their new baby. You were in your own zone as you raced through the school zone. That can change your life.

SPEAKER_01 28:21

In the 1970s, Dan owned a 1940 Chevy pickup that he had nicknamed Zeke. Now Dan's a very honest man, however, his fishing vocabulary is open to interpretation. For example, if Dan says to me, Oh, to get to that lake isn't really a bad trip, the translation is, oh, to get to that lake might be humanly possible. It was mid-August, Father Dan and I were going fishing. To get to Dan's chosen spot, Blind Lake, we had to drive to the top of Hermit Road, hike down to Rito Alto Lake, up and over another ridge and down into the lake. Hermit Road was and is still definitely a four-wheel drive road, but nobody had told that to Mr. Two-wheel drive Zeke. We loaded our gear into Zeke and headed out at 5 a.m., bouncing our way to the top of Hermit. It was a beautiful sunrise. We did not see another vehicle all day, but we did see a lot of wildlife, caught lots of fish, and got back to the truck at around 7 p.m. As we were passing Horseshoe Lake, Dan stopped the truck and said, I think the fish are breaking down on horseshoe. He grabbed his rod and headed down to the lake. I took a nap in the truck. When Dan returned, it was dusk. It had settled on the mountains, and we were on our way again. Barely below timber line, Zeke had a flat tire. By the time we got the spare on, it was almost dark, and we started down the road again. But we soon discovered the tire was too big and rubbed the fender around every switchback. Understanding Zeke's idiosyncrasies, Dan always carried a very large hammer with him. He knocked the running board loose and hammered the fender out so that the tire would clear. By now it was pitch dark, and as we slid into the truck again, Dan informed me that Zeke's lights did not work. And so, all the way down the mountain, I leaned out of the window with a flashlight to keep us from going off the edge. When we finally did get home, my wife was beginning to plan my funeral. Later, I learned that Lucille Paquette, who lived next door to Dan, had watched from her window as our flashlight had bounced all the way down the mountain. Someone has said you know you live in a small town when the only time you lock your car doors is in the summer, and that's only to keep somebody from putting more zucchini from their garden in your back seat. And there are other nuances of living in a small town. Ruby Giroux called it neighboring. Neighboring is when the work that needed to be done was too big to be done alone, so people came together to lend a hand. Used to be a common practice in the valley. Spring branding was one of the best examples of neighboring. I've had the opportunity to help brand at several ranches. Most of the time I was on the ground crew, vaccinating, branding, or castrating the bull calves. When they did let me get on a horse to rope, it was usually a good time for the ground crews to have a little rest. One catch in every six or seven throws on the rope was a pretty good run for me. In later years I would move to the other side of the corral fence and sign on as cook. Gathering the mamas and babies often began at daybreak, and if everything went as planned, we would begin branding soon afterward. There were, however, other possibilities than everything going as planned. One time we had about 300 pairs just ready to funnel into the corral when a few cows did not share our enthusiasm for this plan. One minute we were looking at tails, and the next minute we were looking at heads and horns. We couldn't hold them, they scattered, and the cows went north and the calves headed south. We spent all morning rounding up the rebels. We didn't brand a calf until after lunch. Speaking of lunch, food was always the highlight of a day of branding. Oftentimes it was a matter of sitting around on the ground by a homemade feast, while swapping embellished stories and outright lies. Other times, lunch took place at a local hangout. When we were branding at Wolf Springs Ranch, it would mean a trip to Mandela. Mandela's was the best Mexican restaurant in Gardner. In fact, it was the only restaurant of any kind in Gardner. Afternoon branding may have moved a little slower after Mandela's, but the good conversation shared made it worth it. Neighboring took many forms. I borrowed horse trailers, bulldozers, tractors, trucks, horses, and tools. In 1975, when my sister was ill and later died, our vehicles were questionable reliability. Harvey and Gene Rusk loaned us their car for 10 days so that we could drive to Indiana. Writer Wendell Berry called these friends the membership of our lives, and he had explained it well in his novel Hannah Culter. Work was freely given in exchange for work freely given. There was no bookkeeping, no accounting, no settling up. What you owed was considered paid when you had done what was needed doing. Every account was paid in full by the understanding that when we were needed we would go, and when we had need, the others, or enough of them, would come. None of us considered that we were finished until everybody was finished. The membership of our lives, neighbors or friends, whatever you call them, they touch some of the deep God-given needs of our lives friendship, belonging, and community. Over the years, Barb and I also have tried to share what we had, give what we could, and be there when we were needed. None of us are heroes, and a real community is just what you do.

SPEAKER_04 43:10

Shine shine on the night. Shine till night Shine 'til to Shine 'for today.' Shine, we shine right. For another day, we can shine on till tomorrow, shine on for the day in the darkness. We shine bright, shine bright this evening, shine on through the night, shine till the morning light, shine on till tomorrow, shine on till today when we're silent, we shine bright on the eye. West word from God, just to come to me, just to play my guitar, ride a shotgun, school field road. I'm riding shotgun, school field road. There were teachers and preachers, poets and a song. We took the path from school field, school from where we are, back to the border of school field, same as it ever was there. The only change I made was to that old flat tire. We were running on the rim. Sparks through light, a small glass fire. Oh, you could smell where we had been. Looking back on the road to the places we had been, we traveled on for miles and started out again back to the country. School field. I'm going back home again. The only change I made was to battle flat tight. We were running on the rim. Sparks of light, a small grass fly. You could smell where we had been. Looking back on the road to the places we had been. We traveled on four miles and started out again back to the country. School field road. I'm going back home again. Same as it devil does. School field road.

SPEAKER_01 50:30

I begin this last story with a few lines from a poem entitled Child Herald's Pilgrimage, written between 1812 and 1818 by Lord Byron. All heaven and earth are still, though not in sleep, but breathless as we grow when feeling most, and silent as we stand in thoughts too deep. Then stirs the feeling, infinite, so felt in solitude, where we are least alone. Solitude. It's something little appreciated today. In our time and culture, employees are called team members. We form students into study groups, we have pools of office workers, we organize people into consortiums, coalitions, collaborations, and committees. I have a friend who says that in his church, if three of them fell out of an airplane, they'd form a committee before they hit the ground. No doubt much good comes out of all this togetherness. However, it sometimes seems that our culture has bought into the lie that nothing good can come from being alone. In the sangries, when grazing leases were still in use, a sheep herder might spend days or even weeks alone in the mountains, moving flocks from one canyon to the next. A few miles up Herman Road, there used to be a copper mine. Hardly anything still visible in the mine today, but in a clearing on Middle Taylor Creek, there once stood a two-story boarding house for the miners. When we first came to the valley, part of it still remained, along with the old tin shack used for storing dynamite. Ernest Sparling once told me that the caretaker would go in after the mine shut down in the fall and stay all winter, only snow shoeing out one time for supplies. I wonder if that's how the name Hermit came to the area. In the wilderness, there are no mad-made distractions, no television, no radio, no clock, computer, phones, or to-do list, and no music other than that of nature itself. Yes, with today's technology, you could bring some of these with you, but the wind and creeks would only laugh. We hurry and scurry and organize and plan, but the mountains are indifferent to human time schedules and plans. In fact, the mountains are indifferent even to human presence. The San Garde Cristo Mountains are the most prominent feature of the Custer County landscape. Many know them only as a beautiful view, to be enjoyed over a cup of coffee. But some old timers, such as Harry Deakin, knew them much more intimately. You see, there's a great difference between admiring the mountains through a picture window and standing in a dark spruce forest and being chilled by a sudden gust of wind. Or being caught in a lightning storm and stands your hair on you. Or as we used to do, drink from a mountain stream so cold that it hurts your teeth. As English author Clarence Warren once said, aesthetic appreciation is inferior to active participation. To see something is not as good as to live it. I've been fortunate to spend a good deal of time, up close and personal, with the mountains. And the singers have become both my close friend as well as my bitter heir. Locals know Horn Peak well. It's the dominant feature on the eastern slope of the Sanger Cristos. It may appear to be the highest peak, but at only 13,450. Five peaks visible from the valley look down on it. But there is a view that's not so familiar. It's an aerial view looking down the spine of the sangries as they zigzag their way into New Mexico. Where would Horn Peak be found there? All it is is a little pointy knob just left of the blue dot that I put in a picture once so I could find it. The Sang de Cristo Range is the longest, highest, continuous range in the world. 242 miles long and covers 17,193 square miles, or more than 11 million acres. The depth and magnitude of the sangreach is not evident to the casual observer of a beautiful view, and neither is their depth of meaning. The wilderness, uncultivated, untamed, uninhabited by humans. It may conjure up to quiet beauty, but it can also be a place of great danger. It may even try to kill you, especially when you're alive. I've been in every canyon from Brush Creek to Mountain Pass, a few lakes over the top, and some others west of Gardner. I am humbled by the mountains. And wisdom tells me that in the wilderness we are all visitors, not owners or residents. We should tread lightly. To enter into wilderness, we must be willing to relinquish control and leave behind the safe and the predictable. It is the price to be paid in order to walk on this holy ground. Wilderness is more than a geographical location. It is prophet, priest, and teacher. It is a place of intense experience where the carefully crafted veneer of our lives is stripped away. Everything that seems to matter so much down below money, position, ownership, power, control, and getting things done all disappear in the mountains. It was October 1975. Kent Zettler was in junior high school. He's now a retired patrolman from the Colorado State Patrol. We had planned to go elk hunting, however, Kent's plans changed at the last minute, so I went alone. I camped at Macy Creek as I anticipated the next day's hunt. However, the quiet and serene beauty of the mountains was forgotten when I found myself lying on my stomach on the north face of Baldy in a hundred mile an hour wind, trying to keep from being blown off a cliff. Grabbing hold of one scrubby bush after another, I managed to inch my way along the ground until I got to a crevice sheltered a little from the wind where I could sit up. Sitting down and scooting down a draw of slide rock on my backside, I managed to reach level ground. With legs shaking, I returned to my camp. The elk were safe that day as I spent the rest of it recovering my strength and being thankful that I was still alive. On another beautiful day in May, some forty years ago, I was hiking to Goodwin Lakes for a little fishing. Again, I was alone. The sun was shining as a beautiful spring day. The snow was waist deep, but most of the time I could stay on top. However, I could hear water flowing underneath the snow, so I knew that it was melting below as well as above. All of a sudden, my foot broke through the snow and got wedged between two tree roots. My left foot, however, remained on hard pack snow above. I was a little more flexible in those days. While I couldn't get my right foot free, I also could not get enough leverage with my left foot to break through the snow in order to help out. So there I sat, pondering my fate and wondering who might find my remains later that summer when the snow melted. The mountains were totally uninterested in my predicament and continued on as if nothing had happened. For them, nothing had happened. After about half an hour of thrashing back and forth, I finally managed to make a wide enough hole in the snow to lower my left foot until I could take pressure off my right foot and wrestle it free from the roots that held it captive. I did finally make it to the lakes to enjoy some fishing, and I did not see another human being the entire day. Nellie Camper and Helen Montgomery both lived to be more than a hundred years old. Now, no offense to Nellie or Helen, but those who study such things tell me that the lichen on the rock at Timberline that I once picked up grows at the rate of about one inch per century. A hundred years. That's about the same time it would take a bristle cone pine near Timberline to grow a four-inch diameter sapling. The oldest bristle cones in Northern California are thought to have been seedlings when the Egyptian pyramids were being built over 4,000 years ago. It is humbling to be among those ancients. However, if I allow them, they may help me gain perspective on my own life or not. Sometimes in Westcliff, I think I can spot people who probably love to look at the mountains, but have rarely, if ever, spent much time in them. And if they have, they didn't learn anything. They're just a little too impatient, a little too demanding, a little too self-important. One morning several years ago, I was having breakfast at Dave and Karen Purnell's little cafe on the south side of West Main Street, next to the old building that used to be the school bus barn. A young couple was sitting at the table next to me, and I couldn't help overhearing the man, with an air of condescension, placing his order. I want two eggs over easy, but I do not want the whites running. I want my bacon crisp. I want dry wheat toast. And what kind of potatoes do you have? As I listened, my mind wandered back to the many trips I had taken into the sangries and some of the meals I had eaten there. You know, those times when I cooked in the rain, while huddled under a tree with smoke burning my eyes and water dripping down the back of my neck. Eggs over easy, but whites not runny. You have got to be joking. In the mountains, I've eaten eggs that have been dropped in ashes, drugged through dirt, and washed off in the creek. And no, the whites were not runny. But they were not white either. Crisp bacon? Well, in the mountains, if you take the raw ends of my bacon and then add them to the burnt middles and divide by the number of pieces that didn't fall into the fire, I guess you could say my bacon sort of averages crisp. And what about dry toast? Well, in the wilderness, dry toast does not mean without butter. It means that part of the toast that's left after I retrieve it from my soggy boot, which sits smoldering by the fire, and cut away half of it. The part that's left is dry toast. What kind of potatoes? Well, it's probably best that you don't ask any questions at all about my potatoes, or you might find out more than you want to know. Not only have there been unidentified black specks found that were not pepper, in the mountains I've stirred things into potatoes that at home I would have stepped on and killed. You see, in town at a restaurant, we come to expect eggs done our way. We're easily disappointed if the bacon doesn't meet our expectations. I've even seen people become irritated and angry if they have to wait a few minutes for their food. The food that we complain about in town, we will be thankful for in the mountains. So in the wilderness, go ahead. Demand away, complain about the food or the service. In fact, get up and walk out. But it'll be a long walk. I've often wondered why when we're in a place void of the evidence of human presence and surrounded only by what God has created, we say that we're in the middle of nowhere. Seems to me maybe we have it backwards. I think Elizabeth Barrett Browning thought so too. In her 19th-century poem Aurora Lee, she writes, Earth's crammed with heaven, and every common bush a fire with God. But only those who see take off their shoes. The rest sit around and pick blackberries. Browning suggests that creation will not give up its secrets to the one who comes only for a beautiful view or some utilitarian purpose. The wilderness is a place to look wrong, listen carefully, and ponder wrong. For me, the wilderness is not the middle of nowhere. It's a place where I have heard its whispered truth, inviting me into its mystery, its wisdom, and its ancient past. It has left me with questions unanswered. But it is enough. I will come again. I will look and listen and ponder and take off my shoes, and maybe catch a glimpse of glory. In closing, a word to the impatient, the self-important, and those who demand safe, predictable, dry toast, and eggs over easy. Just stay out of the mountains.

SPEAKER_04 1:06:20

Sixa bawn.

SPEAKER_01 1:07:30

Custer County's changed in the last half century. Five times more people, from 1,100 to over 5,000, hundreds of new houses, hundreds of miles of new roads, and much more traffic. I see fewer familiar faces, and there are businesses on Main Street that I've never even been into. If you want a cup of coffee or something to eat, you can now choose any one of nine restaurants or five coffee shops at last count. And today it's difficult to tell where Westcliff ends and Silvercliff begins, or if you prefer, where Silvercliff ends and Westcliff begins. A Main Street that used to be gas station, grocery, and hardware is now gift shop, art gallery, and restaurant. A pack gym for a Friday night ballgame has given way to concerts in Shakespeare. We have shifted from a ranching economy to a tourist economy, and from a working culture to a leisure culture. Occasionally I close my eyes and I can see it all again. Charles Cook, Art Dickens, or Steve Whitcomb pumping gas at the Texaco station, Lois Crow managing the mail at the post office, Evie Miller standing at the door of a store, and Lawrence Ents, Harold Jennings, and Dick Wilson talking behind the meat counter at Jennings Market. In Canda's meat locker across from the Jones Theater, someone hands Sue Canda a$5 bill, a month's rent for a freezer drawer. On the north side of Main Street, Joe and Pauline Payton are working to get the Wet Mountain Tribune to press on time. A few people are visiting as they exit Susie's cafe. Bill Falkenberg gets a couple of boards for a customer while Inus takes the candy jar from the counter and holds it for an eager child's hand. As I imagine my way up Main Street to the east, a few cars go by. I know them by their license plates, Chet and Mary Cassendick, ZA1, Jim and Myrtle Christoph, ZA2, and Harvey and Gene Rusk, ZA9. I go by the old hotel. The night it burned down, the fire melted the siding on Doc Stanley's house across the street. I pass Ray and Lucy DeWall's, Candace, Sue Candace, Otto and Laura Elsie's, and Ruth Lang's houses. I see Bill and Myn Armstrong on the porch as high school students run across the road to Bud Benson's Phillip Phillips 66 or Marvin McKinney's whatever store for an after-school snack. Some people move to the valley looking for a place to call home. They would like to stay, but economics, family, or other circumstances require them to leave. The peace of their hearts remain here. They will miss the valley, and we'll miss them. Others are not so much coming here as they are running away from somewhere else. They weren't satisfied where they were, and they're still haunted by annoying restlessness. If they're to know the valley as home, they will have to realize that they brought themselves with them, and the contentment is more internal than it is geographical. Still others come to the valley for the slower pace of life, and then pass me on the county road doing 65 miles an hour. They come to get out of the city and then realize that it's a long way to Walmart. They come for the small town, and then complain because it really is a small town. They come for the view and then discover that life is more than looking out a window at the mountains. As someone has said, moving doesn't change who you are, it just changes the view outside your window. Most of them don't stay long, two or three years more or less. The novelty wears off, there's too much wind, winter's too long, and it's still too far to Walmart. They somehow thought that the road that wasn't paved when they bought their property fourteen miles from town surely should have been paved by now. A few stay long enough to learn that they can actually survive without daily trips to Walmart. The dirt roads, flat tires, and broken windshields are a normal part of life in the valley, and that fast and easy are not the same as good or the ultimate measure of progress. They begin to develop an affinity for the human as well as the natural landscape, and if they stay long enough, they may realize that the valley has a way of tapping into that deeply rooted need we all have for belonging. I think it was Ernest Georges who said that anyone whose family arrived in the valley after 1892 was a newcomer. But those families who came in the 1860s and 70s probably thought that Ernest's family were newcomers. And of course, to the Southern Utes, they were all newcomers. Maybe belonging is not so much about how long you lived here, but whether or not we've grown into the nature and character of this place. It takes time, and there are no shortcuts. Over the years, Barb and I have come to realize the valley does not belong to us, we belong to it. We have learned more than we have taught, we have received more than we have given, and much more than us shaping the community, the community has shaped us. We call it home.

SPEAKER_04 1:13:36

Between my neighbors and my friends see what I can see when I close my eyes. Can you see the Christmas tree in the middle of Main Street? Hear the voices combling down to Susie's for Christmas tree and something so sweet when I close my eyes when I close my eyes, it can take me back again to another time as the old railroad tracks. It may be a memory. See what I can see the way it used to be when I close my eyes. Come sing along with me the way it used to be when I close my eyes.

SPEAKER_01 1:16:55

However, it will get home eventually. This morning I'm sitting, riding, having breakfast at the Dutch Mill restaurant in Antonito, Colorado, a small town near the New Mexico border. Antonito, originally a sheepherding camp near the Canellos River, is home to the oldest church building and congregation in Colorado, Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church, built in 1857, almost 20 years before Colorado became a state. As I drove around, I only saw two other churches in town, another Catholic and a Presbyterian. One of Antonito's claims to fame is Fred Haberline, an American muralist who grew up in Canos County and painted several murals in Antonito. The Dutch Mill is a little cafe with a bar in the back and a few Fred Haberline adorning the walls. It's the only restaurant I found open on Main Street. I'm not sure, but it may have been the only restaurant in town. As I walked in, I immediately noticed that my cowboy hat was definitely not the only one present. I asked my waitress how long the Dutch meal had been there. She told me that she didn't know for sure, but her grandparents had run it 40 years ago, and it was still in her family. The two waitresses were busy, so one of the customers grabbed the coffee pot, made the rounds, and poured refills. I'm sure that this was a common and accepted practice. I had asked for an extra napkin, which I never received. I was not offended, however, as my waitress had gotten sidetracked by stopping at another table to visit, and I was enjoying listening to the laughter and stories being exchanged. In our modern day of hurry, I did not want to forget the small town restaurant protocol, there is a procedure called patience. After a while, I just went to an unoccupied table and got my own hair. On this particular Sunday morning, as probably every Sunday morning, the cafe was full of people who all seemed to know one another. No one left without stopping at other tables to give somebody a hug or a handshake, visit with friends, or catch up on local news. Since I was seated near the door, everybody saw me as I left, probably thought that they should have known me simply because I was there. Most of them said hello as I passed by. No sooner did people leave than others still came off the street to take their place. During the hour that I was there, most of the tables were always full. Finally feeling a little selfish I left when I saw a mother and a young daughter waiting for a table. As I sat at the Dutch male enjoying my bacon and watching others, I wandered back to Westcliff in 1970. Similar mornings at Suzy's Cafe. Those days, Susie's, name for Susie Sanchez Oakman, who was the proprietor, was the only restaurant in town. Silvercliff may have had the prospect of cafe or Silver Mail. I don't remember. As for the people in Dutch Mail, I would have known almost everybody present. And coffee refills were the responsibility for anyone with a free hand. Hugs and shakes and stores would have been as common as the cowboy. Raymond and the Linda's brother and sister. May have been somewhere in the restaurant helping out, just been fine for the local band, Meadowman, would have been playing. To be sure that the Ranchers and other early riders had a place to catch up on later style to open at 6 o'clock a.m. This cafe didn't have an original Fred Haberline, but it did have a Thomas Hug mural of the same crystal range until as with the Dutch mail, Susie's bar was in the back, separated a little from the cafe. And like my breakfast in Antonino that morning at Susie's on that day long ago, would have been filled with good food, good conversation, much laughter, and a good dose of local news. A few years ago, Barb and I were in one of the local restaurants. There were probably 30 or so people in other tables. We knew three Mary Katnick, her son Bob, and his son Tom. Mary has passed away, Bob has moved to Missouri, and I think Tom lives in Gunnison. So my restaurant friend list continues to dwindle. This is not because people in Westcliff are no longer friendly. They are. The restaurants serve good food and the waitresses are great. I suppose it's because of my introverted nature, and then I'm no longer so involved in the Westcliff social loop. When there were way fewer people in the valley, and I was a teacher, a pastor, and a coach, I knew almost everybody, and they knew me. I don't get many hellos anymore, however, as I said, this is my own fault. Maybe I need to give a few more myself and sit near the door more often. It doesn't seem possible that Susie died over twenty years ago. But on the front of the building that was once Susie's is this plaque commemorating her many years of service. It says, Susie Sanchez Logan, 1930 to 2001. If you haven't been to Susie's, you haven't been to Westcliff. Mom, her heart, her home, haven't to Sam's thirty children, caregiver to the sick, the elderly, and the hungry.

SPEAKER_04 1:22:00

Susie, the Custer County legend, loads from the window, rose in the wheel, under my window, springtime tomorrow, and we can return once again. From east to the west, frozen and scattered season to rest, will those and icicles mingled in nest.

SPEAKER_01 1:27:19

I think that many of you who knew Susie as I did will vouch for the truth spoken on that plaque. I don't know the exact year of this menu, but I think the prices may offer a clue. In that day fifty years ago, there was a specialty sandwich served with French fries and your choice of lettuce, tomato, onion, and pickles with fries for$4.99. Apart from visitors riding the train to Chama, New Mexico, tourism doesn't seem to be particularly thriving in Antonito. And other than a family dollar and a couple of retail cannabis outlets, out the town has changed very much in the past half century when it was probably three churches in the Dutch Mill. On the other hand, Westcliff. It's about the same size as Anonito then has changed considerably. Currently we have about twenty five churches in the county, six restaurants, five coffee shops, two bakeries, four more restaurants in Silvercliffe. No cannabis yet, but we do have a family dollar, a dollar general and subway, along with a lot more tourists and a lot more traffic. I guess this morning as I'm sitting in a Dutch mill cafe in Antonino, I'm feeling a little nostalgic. I find myself missing the days in Westliff when there were just five churches and Susie's. Blizzards and bus trips. Some years ago, blizzards with blowing snow, zero visibility, huge drips, and roads closed seem to be more common. Maybe this is because the county's limited snow equipment back then. Maybe it's my editing of my own memory. However, I'm including a few pictures in my defense. One looking down Kettle Lane north of Schoolfield, where there's about four or five feet of snow stacked on either side. Another is of Harvey and Jean Rush Driveway, which has snow about six feet high on either side, and me shoveling out from a five-foot snow in 2003. Lila Hobby, who lived at the upper end of Junkins Park, told me of the winter 1959-60 when they received five feet of snow in a few days. Fort Carson had to airdrop feed for some cattle. Following that winter, Ken Armstrong decided to drill a couple of new wells to ensure water for his cattle. However, snow records show that this was not the winter with the most snowfall, which was 123 inches. The official snow report reveals that eleven winters since 1960 have had more. The four's highest were 1969 when there was 151 inches, 1983-84 with 140 inches, and 1986-87 with 145 inches. The greatest accumulation of snow often comes with spring storms. One year we got almost three feet in May. In 2003, when we were living out Brush Hollow, we got over five feet of snow the first of April. Of course, snow depth depends on where you live. There can be six inches of snow in Westcliffe and a foot and a half in Rosita. Ernest Sparling told me of one huge wet snow he remembered. He didn't say what year it was, but the Westcliff feed store was still in operation. They took a stick and scraped around the truck scale to weigh the snow, and it came in and whopping eleven tons. 22,000 pounds of snow. Ernest also told me of a blizzard that hit the Bone Yard Park area where he lived. Someone had tethered a horse in a barn stall, and when they left the barn they didn't get the door completely closed. That night the wind howled as we know it can, and the next day they found the horse dead. It couldn't keep its head above the snow and had been completely buried by drifted snow that had funnel through the partially open door. The southern youths called them chinooks, the snow eating wind. Not only do these winds eat snow, they can swirl it a hundred feet into the air, pile it up several feet in one place, snap power poles and trees like twigs, and create a whiteout, making it impossible to see anything. A mile or two isn't too far, but in a whiteout, all sense of direction is lost. When snow blows, it can sweep a road clean in some places and pile snow three feet deep in others. One December evening, Barb and I had gotten stuck in a big drift on Kettle Lane about a mile north of Stan and Jean Coleman's. After digging for an hour, we were able to get out and pull into Ridley Lane, which is County Road 136. About that time we saw headlights heading south on Kettle, and I knew it had to be Stan and Jean headed home. I flagged down that old yellow international travel all and warned Stan of what was ahead. Stan decided that his international was a match for anything, so he backed up forty yards, floored it and hit the drift. Snow flew and the travel all disappeared. When the white cloud settled, the score was snow won, Coleman Zero. We had to dig down a foot into the snow to even get Jeannie's door open. Fortunately, the next headlights we saw belonged to the county plow. He pulled Stans International out, broke through the drift, and we all went on our way. In 1975, Macy Lane had drifted shut, and the temperature dropped to thirty below. The drifts were so hard I drove my Jeep over the top of them without sinking in. The county plow just bounced off the drifts, and Floyd Katneg, our county road boss, had to bring in a D eight bulldozer to open the road. Since the strongest winds often come out of the southwest, they then went out on the west side of Macy into the meadows and pastures of Lee Adams and Carl Rorick and the Candace, and ploughed windrows in the fields to catch the blowing snow before it got to Macy. This was common practice, and it worked well until the snow filled in the wind rose and found its way back to the road. School did not close for snow very often, but sometimes the wind made it impossible for some teachers and students to get to town. While it could be completely calm in Rosita, wind could be horrendous in other parts of the valley. I can remember a few times the football field had to be ploughed before the Friday night game could be played. Snow would be piled six to eight feet high surrounding the field, and those piles would become the seats for the student cheering section. One fall in the late 1990s, we were staying in a motel in Denver when a storm hit with such intensity that it caved the roof in above the swimming pool. The airport and I-25, as well as many secondary roads, were completely shut down. CDOT estimated that 700 cars were stranded on I-25 between the Wyoming and New Mexico borders, and a few people died that night. When we finally left Denver four days later, we counted seventy vehicles on the shoulder of the interstate. The only thing visible on many of them were the roof and the radio antenna. Castro County's football team was scheduled to play a playoff game in Westcliff. The game was postponed a couple days, and I believe that was one of the times that the piles of snow doubled as bleachers. When the high school basketball team played in Alvita, we usually cut through on the Yellowstone Road rather than take the longer route through Walstenberg. It was a dirt road, but then so was the long stretch of Highway 69, the Coda Paxi cutoff and the High Park Road to Tripple Creek. Most travel to ball games required some dirt road. There was one little bridge on the Yellowstone that had a weight limit which the school bus exceeded. However, there was a pull around through a dry creek bed, which we almost always took. But if Norm Jordan, better known as Storm and Norman, was driving, we sometimes bypassed the creek bed and hit the bridge running. It never failed us. I believe it was 1982 or 83. I was coaching the girls' basketball team. It was late December, and we had made the trip through the Yellowstone to play La Vida. Although the road was clear, there was a lot of snow stacked along the sides, and during the game the wind became ferocious. Larry Villers, our principal, and the fans, had all chosen the Walsemberg route for the trip on. However, that night Norman was driving, and he wasn't about to let a little snow and wind stand between him and a shortcut. Only a few miles in we encountered a drift. The surface had that familiar, fuzzy white blur which made it impossible to determine its length or depth. Norm got out of the bus to confront the white beast. The howling wind taunted him and seemed to be saying, I dare you. Well Norm took the dare. He returned to the bus, backed up fifty yards, and hit the gas. We collided with the drift with such force that the snow flew over the windshield and top of the bus. Right after that we heard that sickening which signals us that we were stuck. We were too far into the drift to back up, so we got everyone off and decided to attempt to push the bus ahead through the drift. With much grunting and groaning, we rocked the bus until it began to inch forward. As it gained momentum, we kept pushing until the bus had cleared the drift and we felt dirt under our feet. Norm expertly guided us through several smaller drifts until we arrived safely in Westcliff. The only casualty was a broken window on the rear of the bus. On the high park road to Cripple Creek, there was a steep hill which always caused the bus trouble when it snowed. However, experience had taught us how to deal with it. As soon as we felt the bus tires begin to slip, everyone rushed to the back of the bus to add weight over the tires and give them more traction. If this didn't work, we began to bounce up and down until the bus lurched its way to the top of the hill. In the winter of 1977-78, we made our usual trip to Fairplay to play South Park. The road was partly snowpacked, and the ditches were filled with snow, level with the road. On the way home after the game, Francie Byrne hit an icy patch, slid off the road, and buried her car. A few minutes later, we came by in the team bus. We all exited the bus, surrounded the car, and lifted it back onto the road. The next year we were playing Platte Canyon in Bailey. During the boys' game, the state patrol came to the gym and informed us that they might be closing Kenosha Pass and we should find someplace to stay for the night. Dick Wilson, the boys' coach, and I called our wives and they were making calls in Westcliff to let people know that we might not be home until noon the next day. We were on our way to camp, just outside Bailey, to spend the night when Bob Miller, our bus driver, saw a semi had just come over the pass. He got on the C B and asked the truck driver if we could still make it over. He said that if we left right now, he thought we could. Bob headed the bus for home and we took off. When we made it over the pass, there were some bear spots on the road, and George Rice had put chains on before he left Bailey. He was in front of the bus, and whenever he hit the bear pavement, we could see the sparks flying from the chains. Before Bull Domingo Ranch Subdivision, Matt Clevinger owned everything out Copper Gulch Road to Reed Road, or Reed Gulch, as Earl Cress would remind me. When you left Highway 69, there were no houses for nine miles. So in winter the road crew quit fighting the snow and just closed Copper Gulch. In 1979, Jeff McGregor was the music teacher at the school, and he and his wife Peggy were renting one of the few houses past Reed Gulf. They were in town when it started snowing and blowing. By 8 p.m. only one lane of Highway 69 was even open. Jeff called me to see if I thought they should try to get home. I advised against it. They said that they would call when they got there. In two hours they still had not called, so Mark Hanley and I chained up my pickup and headed out to look for it. Just as we were ready to turn on copper gults, we noticed some barely visible footprints crossing the highway. We turned left and went past Elton Campers following the trail. When we got to Nelly Camper's house, we found Jeff and Peggy inside, enjoying Nelly's hospitality. With visibility being zero, they had run off the road at the curb by the old inn's homestead. The only way they made it out was to keep walking between the fences on the sides of the road. Had they gone past the inn's place, there would have been no fences at all, and the night could have ended a lot worse. Well, they don't call it lizardine for nothing. In the early eighties, when a family built their house above Doc Boyer's ranch and above Katie's cabin, many had warned them that winter would pose a problem. The wife of the couple was a substitute teacher, and the next few winters were very mild, and she didn't stop reminding us of our warnings and told us that they had had no problem because of snow. Well, the next winter that would all change. Snow and wind came early that year and it did not let up. Many days she had to ride a snowmobile eight miles just to get to her vehicle. When spring came, they moved. Some years later, the man who bought their house went into Blizzardine in late October with a two-wheel drive pickup truck. Of course, snow and wind had blocked the road, and he was thoroughly stuck. It was Fred Job's first year as sheriff, and the lot fell to him to get the man out. Fred had asked me to go with him, and in order to get even close, we had to drive the ridgetops on the Boyer Ranch where the snow had blown off. The man came out with us. His pickup truck did not. It would have to wait until spring. More stories could be told and more storms will come. The county now has a whole fleet of ploughs and trucks with which to do battle. However, winter at 8,000 feet is always unpredictable. I've heard some new people to the valley brag that they have a four-wheel drive. Mother Nature simply smiles and says yes, and sometimes all that means is that you will be twice as stuck.

SPEAKER_04 1:40:29

Making up for lost time. That's what winter does. Engineers my stops and starts, leaves behind the was winter wakes me up to this. Like the coldness of the night. Green dreams scattered these. A blanket of snow white. Dark skills brings my darkness back to light. Whisk of winds through the valley. Whisk of winds. Through the sally. Coming home tonight. Leave a candle in the window. I'll just follow the light. Whisk of winds. We'll follow me back on. Coffee cups. And mama cups. Mom is on the line. Radio plays a song again. Takes me back to another time. I'm looking for a sign. Set to where I'm going. Halloween ninety six. Or sixty high. Whisk of flames. Have we coming home tonight? Whisk of the flames. Are we coming home tonight? Now the snow is finally melting. It's so good to be alive. We got to another winter. I'm carried away by the sun. Down the main street in the season. In the chalet with my lovely brother. I'm happy to be back again. With your enjoyment rise. Whisk of whales. Whisk of whales. Whisk of friends. Come on to school friends. I'll be coming home tonight. I'm gonna make it home tonight.