How I Spent My Summer Vacation Part IV

  My Aunt Shanna’s house in Telluride was a shotgun miner’s house. Built during the late 1880’s in the gold and silver rush years, it was long and narrow, set on a constricted skinny lot that was one of several on a street that climbed the side of the mountain like so many steps in a staircase.  The main room featured a large bay window that looked out on the end of the box canyon that reared into the sky at the end of town.  The leaded glass provided a view of the slag heaps of the distant Tomboy mine, two thirds of the way up the mountain side, which still produced a bit of zinc, copper, and tin.  My aunt had paid $2000 for the home fully furnished which she thought was a great bargain. (And considering that it sold recently for over $2,000,000, one could say that was an understatement.  Sad to say, no one in our family owned it at the time of that sale.)

   At this point in my narrative an introduction to my aunt in the cast of familial characters might be instructive.  My Aunt Shanna was my father’s only sibling, six years older than he.  At the age of 38 in 1961, she remained unmarried, though she had broken five engagements by that time. She was a daunting personality having obtained a bachelor’s degree from UC Berkley, a master’s degree from the University of Minnesota and a PHD in clinical psychology from Case Western Reserve University-no small feat for a woman who came of age in the 1940’s.  She had recently accepted a teaching position in the psychology department at Idaho State University after doing a stint as the deputy sheriff in Gunnison, Colorado which is how she became acquainted with the Telluride area.  I have a photograph of her, wearing a black and gold brocade vest, the shining sheriff’s star pinned securely over her heart, pointing her six- shooter at the camera She looked every inch a woman you didn’t want to mess with. She had a fondness for Irish whiskey and telling tall tales, her voice rising and falling with the melody of Ireland that was present in my grandfather’s voice.  Her prickly personality and dislike of children aside, she was trying to convince my parents that a purchase of a summer vacation home in Telluride would be a good investment for the family.

  My brother and I were ensconced for the night on army cots in the enclosed back porch directly behind the kitchen.  I could hear the low murmur of voices as my parents and aunt discussed the real estate choices available in the area within my father’s limited academic budget.  The discussion centered around the pros and cons of two possibilities-a permanent summer rental of an apartment over the local power company offices on the Main street in Telluride or a more intriguing possibility-the purchase of an old one room school house near Ophir, Colorado, population 2, some twelve miles from Telluride.

  Early the next morning we piled into the stationwagon, sans trailer, my aunt leading in her own vehicle to make the trek to Ophir.  A couple miles out of Telluride we turned southwest onto the gravel road that would take us to the Ophir School.  Telluride sits at an elevation of approximately 8750 feet above sea level. The road to Ophir, another thousand feet higher in elevation, was a one lane gravel affair that ran straight up-or at least that is how it seemed to me.  The upward slant deviated from time to time around a sharp curve or hairpin turn where local custom required drivers to stop, honk and then proceed around the curve with caution.  Two cars could pass abreast, but with great care.  I looked out the window as we climbed ever higher, the valleys filled with pine trees disguising the drop off that fell away from the road.  From time to time the curtain of trees parted and revealed a mountain meadow far below, in which tiny elk or mule deer grazed peacefully.  Looking up and out, I could see waterfalls flowing in crazed free fall, the mist thrown about created droplets that shone like minute prisms sparkling from the cliff face opposite.  My appreciation for the scene was somewhat diminished by increasing lightheadedness. 

  “Daddy, I feel funny,” I thought I ought to mention this fact to my father who, as the driver could do absolutely nothing about my condition.

  “Do you feel sick to your stomach, Chicken?” My father took his eyes off the road to quickly glance towards the back seat.

  “Sort of.”

  “It must be altitude sickness.  Can you hold on a few more minutes until we get there?”

   “I think it’s all the up and down the road is doing,” my mother added her two cents. “Are you going to be sick?”

  “I don’t think so.” I swallowed hard.  Simultaneously, my brother erupted.  He sat still as a stone, his breakfast dripping off his hands into his lap.

  “Oh, yuk, that stinks,” I gagged.

   “Stop the car-we have to get him out.” My mother’s shoulder’s slumped – the first mess of the day required attention.

  “I can’t right now there’s no place to stop.”

  My mother rummaged around in the diaper bag.  “Here-help him clean up.”  She thrust two clean cotton diapers into my hands.

  “It stinks,” I gagged as I dabbed at the front of my brother’s jeans.  Relieved of his breakfast, my brother’s face looked less pale than it had just a few short moments ago.  He wiped his hands on one of the diapers.

 “Is Ophir a ghost town?” My brother, already past the issue of upchucking his breakfast, had been pondering the problem since my aunt had mentioned that most of the buildings in the town had been abandoned when the mine shut down.

  “Not, exactly,” my father answered as he cranked his window all the way down.  “Two people still live there-the post mistress and her husband.  If we buy this place, we’ll have to go there to get the mail.”

  “Well, I expect it is haunted,” my mother interjected. She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, blue smoke spiraling up from the smashed end of the cigarette.  She shook the pack of cigarettes and pulled another out.  She waved the air in front of her face as if to dispel the sour odor coming from the back seat..

  “I poop.”  My sister leaned over the back seat bouncing on her toes.

  “Oh, Lord, I don’t know if I still have a clean diaper.”  My mother began digging in the diaper bag again.

  “Are we almost there?”  I held my nose, assaulted by new noxious odors.

  My brother’s eyes got big as dinner plates.  “Are there ghosts there?” He continued the previous conversation oblivious to the ripe aromas emanating around him.

  “Of   course there are ghosts there.  It’s a ghost town,” my mother replied, annoyed.  “Damn, I thought I had one more diaper.”

  “Do you think we can catch them?”  My brother’s interest was piqued.  “How would we catch them?”

  “With the vacuum cleaner, of course.  We will suck them up when we see them.  Ah, here we go. Thank goodness, a clean one.”  Triumphantly she pulled out the remaining clean diaper.

    “There are no such thing as ghosts,” I reminded my brother and my mother who in my opinion most certainly had lost her mind.

  “Of course there are ghosts. Why else would they call it a ghost town,” she asked logically.  “Not everything can be explained by science you know.”

  My brother grabbed his knees and shivered in anticipation.  “I’d like to see a ghost.”

  “I doubt that,” I argued smug in my certainty.

  “Yes siree, I’d punch that ghost in the mouth.”

  “No you would not.”

  “Would too.”

  “Would not.  You might scare it away cuz you stink.”

  “Do not!”

“Do so.”

  “Hey! You two, stop that back there. Here we go-here’s the turn to the school house.”  My dad took control of the conversation in the car.

  He turned onto another gravel road, this time the road dipped down.  I looked to my left, at the bottom of the valley stood a one room school house, complete with a belfry.

  “Look at that!”  My brother was impressed.  “Hey Daddy, you won’t have to whistle when you want us to come in for dinner-you could just ring the bell.”

  “Are you making fun of my whistling?”  My father laughed as he pulled up to the structure.

  I pushed my door open as soon as the car stopped rolling and stepped out into waist high grass.

  My brother rocketed out of the other side. 

  “There seems to be some mowing to do.” My dad observed.  “Look-there’s the guy from the power station to let us in.

  “I’m Shorty,” the man introduced himself.  I’ll let you in to look around.  “It does need some tidying up though.”

  We followed Shorty through the tall grass.  I looked around.  Mountain peaks soared another four thousand feet in the air around us.  From one side of the property I heard a definite roar.

  “What’s that noise,” I asked?

  “Oh-there’s a trout stream down there,” Shorty answered without a second thought.

  “So I could take the kids down there fishing,” my dad commented as Shorty dug around in his pocket for the key.

  “You can-but at the other end of the valley. That there,” he pointed toward the roar of the stream, “is a drop of a couple of thousand feet.

  “Wow!”  My brother, the bits of breakfast on his pants forgotten, and Teddy took off toward the edge of the gorge. The dog disappeared over the edge.

  “Teddy!” I screamed.

  “Hey!” My dad turned to go after him.

  “It will be okay, let them go.” Shorty projected calm. “There’s an old carriage trail just below the ridge that leads to the other end of the valley.”

  My mother clenched her jaw.  “I don’t think…”

  “I’ll go take a look,” my dad cut her off.”

  “It’s not safe…” she tried again.

  My brother and the dog popped up, racing back to us.  “It’s really neat! You can see the water way down there.”

  “Son, there’s a creek down that way,” Shorty pointed beyond a small hill.  “If you want to rinse off your hands and face-it’s cold, but will clean you off a bit.  My brother and the dog took off at a lope in the direction of the stream. “That’s where the good drinking water is,” Shorty continued.  “You should haul all your drinking water from the creek.  The pipes in this place are pretty old.”

  “I’m not sure about this at all.”  My mother set her lips in a thin line.

    “Come on Missus, let’s take a look inside.” Shorty shoved the solid oak door open.  The door complained loudly on long rusted hinges.  Inside dust motes floated in sunlit pools that filtered through shutters on narrow tall windows.

  “Oh my!”  My mother put her hand to her mouth.  Cobwebs and old fly paper dangled from the twelve foot ceilings.  A large blackboard was attached to the wall between two of the windows. Gargantuan horseflies buzzed, beating themselves against the windows in a futile effort to escape. An empty hearth sat disused, whatever stove that had occupied the space was long gone, the open stove pipe gaped from the wall.

  “Wow!  Look at this place!”  My brother, the front of his shirt and pants soaked, appeared in the doorway. 

  Underfoot the floor crunched as we stepped across the open room.

  “Hey!  What’s this?  I know what it is-there’s poop all over the floor. What kind of poop is that?”  My brother, ever the expert on scatology, kicked at the dried droppings around his tennis shoes.

  “Well, now, that would be pack rat droppings.”  Shorty identified the rodent leavings.  “Do you know about pack rats?” He directed the question at my brother.

  “What’s a pack rat?”

  “A pack rate is a critter that will steal your stuff.  If you leave something shiny out on the table where they can see it such as a small piece of jewelry or a bit of tin foil, that critter will pick it up and take it to its nest.  They are fascinated with sparkly things.”  He addressed the last to my mother who had just whisked my sister off her feet, interrupting the baby’s examination of the pack rate excrement that she had stuck to the end of her index finger.  My sister squawked in protest. My mother brushed her finger off.

  “That’s nasty.”

  “Natty,” my sister parroted.

   Shorty smiled, “I wouldn’t worry about them too much-they don’t do too much damage, but they will keep you up at night.”

  “How’s that?” My dad asked.

  “They are nocturnal.  So you can hear them running up and down inside the walls.  But other than the skittering and scratching, they won’t bother you none.”

  My mother looked unconvinced.

  “Can we leave some tin foil out for one,” I asked.

  “No! We don’t want them in here.” My mother emphatically ended the conversation.

  “Seems to me like they were already in here,” I mumbled as I drew a line in the rat poop with the rubber toe of my sneaker.

  “Look here,” Shorty redirected everyone’s attention.  “Two wash rooms-boys and girls.”  He pointed at the two bathrooms at the end of the big room.

  My aunt stuck her head inside.  “There’s no shower or bath tub.”

  “Have to get a big washtub I suspect,” Shorty answered her.

  “That’s how we bathed when I grew up,” my mother remarked.  “Look at that woodstove!”  She peeked her head around the corner into the kitchen. “That stove looks just like the one in the kitchen at the farm!”  She was genuinely excited for the first time.  She pried the cast iron lids off of the stove top. “I haven’t seen one of these since I left home for college.  We can stoke this up, get the kitchen all warm and take baths in here.”

  “Like the stove Hop- Sing uses on Bonanza?” I asked.

  “Just like on Bonanza,” my dad said.  “You kids can help me cut wood for the stove-I noticed quite a bit of deadfall out there.”

   Our examination of the accommodations complete we stepped out into the back yard.

  “Two more bathrooms out here-no waiting,” Shorty pointed to two small huts one hundred yards from the main building.

  “Out houses! I had one of those growing up too,” my mother smiled.

  My father looked at my mother. She nodded. “We’ll take it.”

  Shorty shook my dad’s hand. “I was hoping you’d say that, this is a hell of a beautiful spot. Come on out to the truck. I have something for you.”

  We trailed Shorty to the front of the property.  I noticed movement on a shelf of boulders to my left.  A small yellow creature stood on its hind legs sniffing the wind.  “What’s that?”

  “Whistle pig.” Shorty continued his progress to the truck.

  Whistle pig? What a wonderful name for a cute little animal.

  “The real name is yellow bellied marmot,” my dad explained.  “They are first cousins to gophers and ground hogs.  They whistle when they sense danger to warn the colony to head to safety.”

  “Huh.”  My brother stood, hands on his hips examining the yellow animal.  One by one other heads popped up from cracks in the rocks, noses wriggling, trying to figure out our intentions.

  “Come on son, you are disturbing their sun bath.”  My dad waved my brother back to the group.

  “Here we go.” Shorty pulled a foam cooler out of the back of the truck.  He pulled off the lid and pulled out a stringer of fish.  “Rainbow Trout, caught fresh this morning.  You can have a Rocky Mountain dinner.  Welcome to the high country.” He handed the fish to my dad.  “Take the cooler.  You can get it back to me later.”

  The next few days were full of activity making the school house ready for habitation.  We were so busy I had no time to let my dislike of Colorado and homesickness for Texas fester.  The first order of business was to obtain snow fencing to create a play area for my sister.  While it was true there was a narrow trail just below the ridge that bordered the gorge, within a few feet of that trail the land fell away to the river two thousand feet below.  The snow fence would keep my sister confined so she didn’t have to be watched constantly.  I don’t remember my dad ever telling my brother and me to take care around the edge.  He probably did.  But then again, my dad is a “Darwin was right” kind of guy-so he may not have mentioned it and assumed we wouldn’t go piling into the abyss.

  Floors were scoured, wood chopped and sawn, and beds, couch, coffee table and kitchen table and chairs were acquired from somewhere and moved in.  My brother and I swatted flies. A bounty of a penny per carcass was paid as we rid the school house of six legged pests.  A week after my dad signed the papers to buy the property the piẻce de resistance arrived-a black pot bellied stove with a shining nickel grate and fittings.  It got cold in the mountains at that altitude even deep into the summer.  We would need the heat.  Once the stove moved in, we did too.

    We were sitting on lawn chairs in the front yard that first night as the sun was setting.  My parents sipped their scotch, exhausted but pleased.  Directly in front of us was a sheer rock formation known as “The Needles”.  As the sun dropped in the sky The Needles began to glow orange red.  The glow darkened to brick red and finally faded to royal purple, a spectacular array of color that welcomed the late June night. We were mesmerized by the display.  The light faded, as the sun sank behind the peaks to the west; a gentle breeze whispered through the quaking aspen, the fireflies began their dance, lights winking on and off.  I didn’t know it at the time, but that night my heart leeched into the thin soil of those mountains, and fifty some years later, it's still there.

Epilogue

  Unfortunately our time spent in the high country was short. Three summers beginning the year we bought the school house were the total of our Rocky Mountain high. The political turmoil of the ‘60’s caught up with us in the weeks following the Kennedy assassination as our family experienced the analogue equivalent of being “doxxed” after my father wrote an academic article explaining why Texas was ripe for such a horrendous act.  To ensure our safety and for him to continue his teaching and writing we had to remove to the north landing in his home state of Minnesota – too far for reasonable access to Colorado.  In addition, rumors had reached him that our valley was being considered for development, the main funders being movie people -- which is indeed what happened. While the influx of Hollywood saved Telluride, it also turned it into something different.

  Three short summers, but long enough for the Colorado Rockies to seep into my soul. I don’t get back there much as it is a long way from my current residence, but when I do it is a homecoming. There is a sense of place that centers me, making me feel as if I am a miniscule speck in time, yet gives me a sensation of belonging in the infinite unfolding of the universe. During those summers in the Ophir Valley I was as free as any human or kid can be and on every return I come home.