Round and round we go

“Everything an Indian does is in a circle, and that is because the power of the world always works in circles, and everything tries to be round.”

__ Black Elk (Hehaka Sapa)

Certainly newspapering and telling stories is a circular process. Back in 2007, when I wrote (what I thought at the time) was probably my last column for a certain newspaper, I mentioned the basic truth that, in communities like these, a person never runs out of good stories to tell.

Having spent so many years with the same newspaper company, many of them in the Teller County and Monument areas, I have even acquired a few stories of my own.

I recall spending more than $700 one week to clear snow from the parking lot in Monument (when we were in the building that now houses Expectations Salon) after the October 97 blizzard.

Jeremy Bangs and I logged a lot of hours in those days addressing Tribunes by hand and prepping bags for the mail.

One of the funniest newspaper tales I have ever heard involved having to face the crazed meanness in the eyes of a publisher who had just figured out he only has flats for 34 pages of a 36-page paper when he arrived at the offsite printing facility. I guess that is what happens when rushed and, in haste, you throw completed flats in the back of the pickup where they can be sucked out a crack between the endgate and the topper latch on the way to the printer.

Not everyone knew of the secret escape hatch through the closet in the editor’s office (and out to the back door) in the stucco house on the corner. I never had an opportunity use it, but still found it comforting in case of an irate advertiser or an enraged reader.

I also recall watching out the front window of the Ute Pass Courier newspaper office in Woodland Park, as the police, including local city and county officers, and Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, FBI and federal marshals, arrested members of the Texas Seven in the Coachlight mobile home park directly to the east of us.

“No information at this time,” from emergency personnel, was the only explanation offered for the six or seven ambulances and various police cars lined up in our parking lot for a full twenty minutes before they could tell us what was going on.

It was another media circus, but perhaps more dangerous one to staff and the community, when the Hayman Fire burned out of control for three intense weeks in June of 2002. For members of our staff at the newspaper, the weeks of stress related to intense long-term sustained coverage of a big story was compounded by whether or not their house, or place of employment, or both might burn. And all their friends and neighbors were in a similar predicament.

But among the “big stories,” was always that small but important thread that needed to be pulled for goodness sake.

It is my intention this time, to give those threads the attention they require with an intense local focus that we all know they deserve.

Thank you for the opportunity to circle around. I hope to earn the title of you calling us “my newspaper” and look forward to telling many of your NEW, good stories, all over again.

After three years as advertising manager of the Colorado Press Service, the business arm of the statewide press association, I have decided to move closer to the local "Front," if you will. 

I am rejoining the battle in a familiar position, in Woodland Park and Monument, as the Editor and Publisher of the Pikes Peak Courier View and Tri-Lakes Tribune.  

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Looking like a doctor, and a cure worth the pain

All I remember, is most folks in my hometown seemed to have some sort of “Doc” story that could have transpired anytime in their life’s journey 

 By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

Having never been a big fan of medicine, (I guess I am in agreement with the Greek historian Plutarch about “the cure is not worth the pain,”) and I hold the general sentiment that some remedies are worse than the disease.

But I was not totally unfamiliar with the practice. My grandmother was a company RN for the coalmines in Kentucky and Tennessee. Coming from that experience (growing up in the company clinics), my mother had certain ideas on how medicine should go.

She didn’t like Doctor Edward G. Merritt, but she did show a healthy respect and admiration for his ability. Having said that, it may be necessary for readers to keep a jaundiced eye on the story I am about to tell.

I don’t recall when my first experience with Doc Merritt occurred. All I remember, is most folks in my hometown seemed to have some sort of “Doc” story that could have transpired anytime in their life’s journey — from the day they were born to curtain close. And they loved telling them.

“Doc was a good man. Short on bedside manner but there, when you needed him, as so many did over the years. He was mostly bluster and if you didn't let him get to you, he'd back right down,” wrote Mary Dempsy Littlefair in a recent Facebook post.

“June (Doc’s wife) was a saint for putting up with him all those years I think but they were both really good people, each in their own unique way. My kids and I used to clean his offices for him and I cleaned June’s new house for her for a while before I went to nursing school. My husband would take him a snickers bar to every appointment and he never turned it down, even while telling him he had to lose weight. He was a good old-fashioned doctor. Gruff, but well-loved. June was taken from us way too soon. She was quite the lady!”

First contact remembered for me, might have been during a Little League physical, when hundreds of eight-, to 12-year-old, junior Mickey Mantles and Babe Ruths piled into his office every spring to turn their head and cough.

There we were, jammed into waiting room, staring at the aquarium until somebody (maybe receptionist Myrtle Sesler, or perhaps nurse Dixie Sturman) opened the door to the hallway, called us in by name, and shuffled us off into one of the tiny rooms with the odd steel examination bed with white paper over it, and slid the pocket door closed behind on us.

Then it was, wait some more.

For awhile you, you could entertain yourself by messing with stirrups on the examination bed, or the jars of tongue depressors and Q-Tips on the cabinet, or unscrewing the pieces on the examination light, but even that got old before the Doc arrived.

Doc Merritt also had a bit of a “mining medicine” background by nature of location.

“I hadn’t imagined myself working for a mining company but I was 27, it was 1948, an I needed that additional income to survive,” Doc told Caroline Arlen for her 2002 book Colorado “Mining Stories: Hazards, Heroics, & Humor.”

“My wife and I would go up to Rico every Thursday afternoon to see the patients.  That was my day off. They had some 225 miners up there when I started. I would take care of them for $1.50 for single men, $2.50 for a family. Some of the Navajo interpreted ‘family’ as anyone related to them. Aunts, uncles and grandchildren.”

Merritt told Arlen that a lot of the miners working in Rico at that time were Navajos.

“The Union came in and tried to unionize them. Got them all drunk one night. Well, most of them had been in the service as code talkers. The Germans couldn’t understand or decode Navajo, because it was such an unknown language. So the Navajos were a big asset during the war. When they got drunk that time, they wound up bringing out their sabers and swords and mementos like that, which they had brought back from the war. They had a real furor that night against the people that were trying to unionize and went on a rampage. But it eventually simmered down.”

When I was about 12 years old, Doc’s mother (she was always known as Grandma Merritt, in the circles I moved in) contracted me to mow her lawn. The woman was particular and precise, but I enjoyed the interaction and the challenge. It was easy for me to see how Doc developed the discipline and meticulous nature that is required to practice medicine. He came by it naturally.

“I enjoyed medicine,” Doc told Arlen. “When I was eight ears old, I had a ruptured appendix. I would up having three operations. I got into medicine for the benefit of making people well.”

Most of the stories went that way, but didn’t always have to do with medical practice, at least in the traditional sense.

“My older brother Philip drove like a maniac,” related longtime Dolores resident Ellis Miller. “One evening Doc Merritt pulled us over and read Phil the riot act for the way he was driving. Of course, we thought Doc was rude (which he was) and way out of line (which he wasn't). I later learned that Doc had just come back to town from being called to an accident were some young people were killed. Doc was a good friend to our family for many, many years.”

In high school, while working at Taylor Hardware, I had the opportunity to witness the interesting interaction between long-time friends Merton Taylor and Doc. Being in business together for years (Dolores State Bank) created an interesting dynamic between the two men. If you heard them talking, you would swear they were mortal enemies. Merton, when pressed into it, had a tendency of hurling insults that (initially) sounded like complements. Doc, on the other hand, pulled no punches. At times in their regular banter, I wondered if wouldn’t digress into a physical duel with cant hook handles out in the side street between their regular daytime businesses. Though it never had, and never would.

Both of them were uniform wearers. Merton, in his blue carpenter jeans and khaki work shirt, Doc in a suit and tie.

“I was the only doctor that made house calls in the area. I delivered babies in peoples homes. No matter what the situation was, I always made sure to wear my suit and tie,” Doc told Arlen.

“There was this old miner who liked to tease me because, one time, he called me at 2:00 in the morning, and I beat him to the hospital and still showed up wearing my suit and tie. I always thought if you were a doctor, you should look like one. I don’t go for the sloppy way a lot of young doctors dress now.”

Doc medical methods might have been described as old style on occasion as well, but they seemed to work.

On one of the few instances in my life in which I required medical assistance, Doc was the one who treated me.

While playing basketball in seventh grade gym class, I somehow managed to dislocate the end joint of my pinkie finger. It was twisted around enough so that end joint had slipped down and was parallel with the second joint.  The two bones rode sort of side-by-side and it hurt like an All Star.

They took me down to Doc’s office, and without too much of a wait, because of the odd appearance, and the pained look on my face, he saw me right away. I figured he would examine it gingerly, maybe take some X-rays, give me a local for the pain and send me over to emergency room to have it reset.

Instead, Doc took a quick look at my hand, and the troubled finger, grabbed the end and yanked it with a snap — right back into place. No drugs, no fuss, no worries.

I have never felt so much pain (either before or since) in my life. But, to this day I have never had a bit trouble with that finger, not even the arthritis that inhabits many of my other joints.

In that case, Doc proved to me, that sometimes, intense pain is just a part of the cure.

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Photo info: A group of doctors pose on a porch at Denver General Hospital at West Sixth Avenue and Cherokee Street in the Lincoln Park neighbohood of Denver in about 1930. The men wear white uniforms and black neckties. Western History/Genealogy Dept., Denver Public Library.

Hopelessly lost, but making good time

Into the 100-year time warp

By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

Sometimes, as I wander in the hills and think about those who wandered there before me, I can’t help but feel a little lost. Lost in time, lost in space, lost in my own thoughts.

“Not all who wander are lost,” however, according to J. R. R. Tolkien. But the story-master didn’t know this little hobbit.

Wistfully during the wanderings, I often imagine a 100-year warp, or fold, or rip in the time continuum, in which one is able to freely pass from this century, backwards and on into the last.

At almost precisely such a moment, I’ll trip and stumble over an old, stonewall, or a rail tie, or cement foundation that extends a finger out from the past.

It may be difficult considering how much is left, but I almost turfed it one day as I daintily danced over the foundation remnants of East Husted Station.

The dogs like to run down the Santa Fe Trail that follows the former rail grade on the edge of the United States Air Force Academy. Just a little south of the North Gate, on the trail, lies the remains of lost village of Husted. We generally stay on the trail but there is a marker out there calling attention to the once-thriving metropolis. You can wander out a little ways into the yucca, dry grass and oak brush. Evidence of a road winds around down through the gamble oak and pine trees.

What remains of the remains, is not much. You have to almost scratch at the ground to find the base of the one-time train stop on the Santa Fe and the Denver & Rio Grande railroads.

“Husted was never a big village but it had stores, a saloon, church, school, post office, and a restaurant. When automobiles became popular it had several filling stations along the highway,” wrote historian Lucile Lavelett in “Monument’s Faded Neighbor Communities and its Folklore.”

The community’s history stretched way back into the early 1860s (and perhaps before) when the first white settlers came to this area. Sawmills, the Indian uprising of 1868, lynchings for cattle rustlers in Dead Man’s Canyon, whiskey stills in prohibition, a D. & R.G. roundhouse, fox farms, and a horrific train wreck in 1909, all played prominent roles in that colorful account. But by 1920, the place was pretty much on the wane, as the Post Office closed and railroads began to shift from steam, reconfigure traffic, and eliminated the need for a round house. The coming of the Academy was the last straw, as the government purchased the property from those living in the burg, and surrounding ranches as they prepared to build the new installation. Several of the buildings from the town were moved into Monument and are still used today.

Where is the life we have lost in living? Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?

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• Waved to his wife and headed for a train wreck.

Early dude ranch fantastic, but almost forgotten

Cowboy ethics for conspicuously citified characters

By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

Dude, I want to be a cowboy.
Perhaps more than almost any other fantasy (if you disregard some of my racier ones) as Willie Nelson said, “I grew up dreaming of being a cowboy, and loving the cowboy ways.” It has always been simmering in the background. Growing up in the West, that is probably no surprise. But obviously, I am not alone.
“A famous early dude was Theodore Roosevelt. After World War I the popularity of dude ranches increased enormously and during the 20s and 30s they were the main tourist attraction in the Rocky Mountain area. Writers like Owen Wister, Zane Grey and Mary O’Hara and painters like Remington and Russell brought the fabulous romance of cowboy life on an open frontier to millions throughout the world. Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show was an unprecedented success in Europe and the East,” according to Bayard Fox, who established “The Bitteroot” ranch in Wyoming in 1972.
“Perhaps no other era in recent times has provided such picturesque color unless it is the East Africa of Isak Dinesen (Out of Africa), Beryl Markham (West with the Night) and Earnest Hemingway during much the same period. Two people who saw both cultures and wrote about them were Hemingway and Theodore Roosevelt though Roosevelt especially concentrated heavily on the hunting aspects of his long trip to Kenya.”
From The Dude Ranchers' Association based in Cody, Wyoming:
“Dude ranching did not begin at a defined time. It evolved slowly from several divergent sources in different locales. The first organizational gathering of these independent- minded pioneers occurred in Bozeman, Montana in September of 1926 at the urging of the Northern Pacific Railroad. The rail road, looking for an additional source of revenue and a means to combat the new method of travel, the automobile, saw the dude ranches of the area as natural partners in the burgeoning tourism industry of the West. This meeting of ranchers from the Yellowstone area led to the formation of The Dude Ranchers' Association,” according to the organization’s website.
“The Association's original membership of thirty-five ranches from the Yellowstone area has now grown to 100-plus member ranches in 12 western states and two Canadian provinces. In spite of this growth, the Association today remains dedicated to preserving the beauty, natural resources, and the original western ranch experiences that attracted the first visitors.”
Within this framework, the association regulates standards, and promotes dude ranch vacations. The Dude Ranchers' Association is a diverse group, composed of cattle ranches who accept paying guests and mountain top lodges that offer a ranch atmosphere.
“The formation of lasting bonds and memories still brings families back to ranches generation after generation. This is truly a living testimony to the timelessness of the values and standards of the original dude ranchers. Today, as it did over a century ago, the western dude ranch experience offers relief for both the body and spirit of those seeking refuge from the pressures and routine of modern life.”
So while recently sifting through old photos in Denver Public Library’s historic archive, I was fascinated by shots of Skelton Ranch early in the last century.
Erik Swab, a former computer programmer turned historical researcher, apparently had a similar experience. Although Swab was first directed to the early ranch in Teller County by the United States Forest Service, his research for them, and his interest in hiking in the Pikes Peak area, according to a March story by Dave Phillips in the Colorado Springs Gazette.
“When I first started asking about this place, there were so many rumors: It was a Japanese internment camp or a brothel or other things,” he is quoted in Phillips story.
In fact, he said, it was a dude ranch — one of the first in the state. It was many things over the years, including a resort that courted the moneyed class, and a place where locals attended community dances and suppers, according to the account.
The Skelton Mountain Ranch apparently operated from 1905 to 1916 and was situated three and half miles west of Woodland Park, with 400 acres there, and an additional 1,140 acres near Divide, according to Swab’s research.
“William Skelton was born in Kentucky in 1864 and married Lizzie Butler in 1885. They moved to Denver in 1898, where Skelton was a member of a law firm and briefly held the position of Judge. The couple left Denver in 1906 to reside in Woodland Park at the ranch,” writes David Martinek in Pikes Peak Country, citing Swab’s research.
“The resort ranch was famous. It had 30 log guest cabins, a 10-room house and log dining house, a large three-level barn, and a 104-foot long chicken house and an assembly hall with a large stone chimney. The promotional literature claimed that each cabin had indoor plumbing, but the reality was that there were surely several outdoor privies, instead. The ranch could accommodate up to 250 people at $15/week. And they only accepted “refined people as guests,’” writes Martinek.
According to Swab’s research, a fire in 1908 destroyed several buildings and may have cut short its life as a dude ranch. It was sold to a St. Louis shoe company executive named F.A. Sudholts, in 1916, and was to focus mostly on raising stock, but was largely vacant after that until the 1940s.
Despite that, the sentinment lives on, and people still aspire to learn cowboy code.
Cowboys are heroic — not just because they do dangerous work, but because they stand for something. Principles like honor, loyalty and courage lie at the heart of the Cowboy Way.
The Center for Cowboy Ethics and Leadership in Texas, promotes the following ten principles for Cowboys to live by:

1. Live each day with courage

2. Take pride in your work

3. Always finish what you start

4. Do what has to be done

5. Be tough, but fair

6. When you make a promise, keep it

7. Ride for the brand

8. Talk less and say more

9. Remember that some things aren’t for sale

10. Know where to draw the line. 

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Photo Info:


View of riders on base of Balanced Rock at Skelton Mountain Ranch. Oats raised without irrigation, Skelton Mountain Ranch, Woodland Park, Colo. Photographed by Louis Charles McClure, between 1900 and 1919. L.C. McClure Collection, Western History/Genealogy Department, Denver Public Library.

Shaking my fist in the wind

A couple of days ago (or maybe a longer time frame), in an act of shaking my fist in challenge to the forces of nature on my 50th birthday, I took down the Christmas lights in the gale force winds that blew over the Palmer Divide that morning. 
Though I only flew off the ladder once, and didn’t break anything at the bottom of the 20-foot fall from the eves, it was a beautiful reminder of my place in the battle of elements… and my chances of winning.
In Carl Hiaasen’s novel “Sick Puppy,” a recurring character called ‘Skink,’ ties himself to the top of a bridge in the Florida Keys to commune with an incoming hurricane, reminiscent of John Muir riding out a Sierra gale in the treetops.
‘Skink,’ a.k.a. Clinton Tyree, once upon a time was a football star, a hero of the war in Vietnam, and a populist governor of the state of Florida, reflects Hiaasen's own political tastes, and Hiaasen freely admits to creating him because he wishes such a man really existed.
Muir on the other hand, describes his now famous adventure of climbing to the top of a 100 foot tall Douglas Spruce to experience first-hand the force and beauty of a fierce Sierra wind-storm. This adventure takes place in a tributary of the Yuba River in December 1874. 
John Muir writes, “The sounds of the storm corresponded gloriously with this wild exuberance of light and motion. The profound bass of the naked branches and boles booming like waterfalls; the quick, tense vibrations of the pine-needles, now rising to a shrill, whistling hiss, now falling to a silky murmur; the rustling of laurel groves in the dells, and the keen metallic click of leaf on leaf--all this was heard in easy analysis when the attention was calmly bent.”
Blowing around out there as fog rolled over the Ramparts, and bouncing in the bushes on the side of the house, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was creating a man defiant of howling winds and unafraid of nature on a whim — a man created just because, I wish such a man really exists.
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Midas touch, saddle burrs, and a generous spirit

Couldn’t touch something without it turning to gold, but made him very unhappy

By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

Wealth and power can be a burr under the saddle to someone that is not used to taking that seat.  At the end of his life, Cripple Creek’s first, and greatest, millionaire Winfield Scott Stratton, couldn’t touch something without it turning to gold or money. It made him very unhappy.

“This wealth came to a man who had spent most of his life working as a carpenter for $3 a day,” wrote historian Kenneth Jessen in a recent newspaper article in Loveland Reporter Herald. The Independence Mine contributed the bulk of Stratton’s wealth.

“At today’s gold prices, the Independence yielded over $2 billion and when Stratton sold the mine, he received nearly a quarter of a billion dollars,” noted Jesson.

But that is not the interesting part.  The perennial ‘nice guy’ who never forgot where he came from, ended up giving most of it away.  His fortune, born on the Fourth of July, was pretty much spent and/or handed out as gifts by the carpenter-turned-miner at the Christmas of his life.

“On July 4, 1891, Stratton was prospecting on the side of Battle Mountain. Based on geology, he reasoned rich ore could be found there,” says Jesson. “As he searched for gold, Stratton could hear shots fired into the air as miners began their celebration of the Fourth of July. That day, Stratton found and staked out the Washington and the Independence claims.

That claim, and other subsequent moves, made him tremendously wealthy. “He would eventually own one-fifth of the mining land in Cripple Creek and Victor,” writes historian Tom Stockman.

“He was extremely generous, he bought bicycles for the local washer women to use on their rounds, and when Cripple Creek burned in an all-to-common fire, he helped the town rebuild in brick.”

Just a few on the list of Stratton’s other benefactors:

• To “Crazy Bob” Womack, discoverer but not the heir to Cripple Creek riches, Stratton wrote a check for $5,000 as consolation.

• He donated land for the Colorado Springs City Hall, Post Office, a major park and the El Paso County Court House (which now is the Pioneer Museum).

• He greatly expanded the trolley streetcar system in Colorado Springs.

• When he died, he left his money with directions to found a home for itinerant children and the elderly.

•  According to the National Mining Hall of Fame, “most memorable of the needy visitors to his door was H.A.W. Tabor, Leadville’s mining king.  He was a beaten man, whose fortune had collapsed with the end of silver coinage. Stratton gave him $15,000 and saw he was named Postmaster of Denver.

• Rescued the Brown Palace in Denver from the brink of bankruptcy by paying off the noteworthy hotel's delinquent bills.

• Gave a gift of $25,000 to the Colorado School of Mines to finish the “Hall of Metallurgy,” which now bears his name.

• Each Christmas, he had coal delivered to poor families in the mining towns he was familiar with.

According to Tom Stockman, “Disdaining the common practice of building a mansion, Stratton lived in one of the houses he had previously built as a carpenter. His many charitable acts actually drew public disapproval. He eventually attracted so many false applicants for aid that he withdrew from society, becoming a heavy-drinking eccentric recluse.”

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Photo information: W.S. Stratton’s residence on Battle Mountain, with Independence Mine at the rear. Western History/Genealogy Department, Denver Public Library.

Softness in hard times, light for dark days

Beginning in 1936, the star has been lit each year from December 1st until January 1st

By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

In the hardest of times, some people show a certain softness. From darkness, light can appear spontaneously. Maybe it is as Eleanor Roosevelt said in the depths of the Depression, “It is better to light a candle than curse the darkness.”

Folks in Palmer Lake, Colorado, seem to have taken that to heart years ago.

Every morning in December now, as I turn North toward Denver, I am guided by the huge lighted star on Sundance Mountain. Every night of the season until January 1, as I walk my hound dogs, I’m comforted by its presence on the steep slope to the Northwest.

“In 1935, during the dark days of the Great Depression, the former railroad company town of Palmer Lake found a way to light the holidays, beginning a tradition that continues today,” wrote Cathleen Norman in a 2008 story in the Denver Post.

“The 500-foot, five-point Palmer Lake Christmas star is the bright idea of B.E. Jack, who managed the Mountain Utilities electric company. He teamed up with Sloan's Cafe owner Bert Sloan, who saw the idea as a way to draw drivers to his restaurant near Colorado 105, a popular route between Denver and Colorado Springs.”

Norman quoted Sloan in her story. "We tried to keep the town from dying, and make it a good place to live. We wanted to do something the town could be proud of for many years, and the star did just that."

According to a story penned by Rod VanVelson and Jane VanVelson Potts  in 1980 for the Palmer Lake Historical Society, “After coffee Mr. Jack took Bert for a ride and stopped about ten miles south of town. Mr. Jack explained how he had visualized a giant star on Sundance Mountain that would be noticeable for miles. He felt such a star would be Palmer Lake's contribution for many future holiday seasons. Bert agreed and knew this novelty would be enjoyed by many because in 1935 the Denver - Colorado Springs highway passed through the Town of Palmer Lake. They spent most of that morning driving around looking at Sundance mountain from different angles trying to imagine how the star would look and discussing the problems of its construction. Both men agreed to discuss this idea of a star with other Palmer Lake residents.”

As the story goes, a few days later, Jack gave the exact same tour to Richard Wolf, a linemen in his employ at Palmer Lake an the idea began to take shape as a very real possibility.

“Palmer Lake was a small town and the word of a star spread quickly. The back booth at Sloan's Cafe had often been the favorite gathering spot for the young men of the town. They spent several summer evenings discussing and drawing plans over this back table before the actual work got underway. C. E. Rader, another Mountain Utilities lineman, drew the electrical wiring plans, as this was his line of work,” wrote VanVelson and Potts.

“Most of the construction organization was left to Bert Sloan, Richard Wolf, C. E. Rader and Byron Medlock, all residents of Palmer Lake. Because of his surveying experience Byron Medlock assumed responsibility for planning the size and layout of the star. Mr. Jack was physically unable to climb and work with the younger men but it was Mr. Jack who convinced Mountain Utilities to contribute used poles and cable for this worthwhile project. He gladly advised the volunteer crew and made available much of the necessary equipment. Sundance Mountain was a perfect place for the star but posed a real challenge. The 60 percent slope with its underbrush, yucca and rocks made working conditions difficult.”

Most of the work was done by hand, with many of the posts set in concrete because of the shallow depth of rock on the mountain. The concrete was mixed by hand and carried up in buckets.

“Finding time to work on the star was difficult since most of the men worked six or seven days a week. Many late evenings and Sundays were spent completing the task. Finding time was especially hard for Bert because summer weekends were the busiest time of all in the cafe. Nevertheless he found time as did Richard, Byron, C. E. Rader, Gilbert Wolf, Floyd Bellinger, George Sill, Jess Krueger and many other townspeople.”

Perhaps one of the truest heroes of the process was not a man however, or even human. 

“One avid worker during the building of the star who deserves mention was Bert's dog, a German Shepherd, named Dizzy after Dizzy Dean the famous baseball player of that era. Dizzy was Bert's constant companion. Bert made a small pack that he strapped to Dizzy. As the crews worked and moved about the mountainside Dizzy carried supplies from one group to another. Everything from hammers to electrical wire and even light bulbs were placed in Dizzy's pack. A short whistle or a call of his name and 'Ol Diz was soon there with energy left over.”

Beginning in 1936, the star has been lit each year from December 1st until January 1st. The star is also lit on the Memorial Day weekend. Except for blackout purposes during WWII, the Star has shined brightly since 1935.

“In the beginning the city paid for the electricity until December 15, while Mountain Utilities donated it for the rest of the month. This arrangement lasted for several years. In 1937 the Palmer Lake Volunteer Fire Department became custodian of the star while the city contributed financial support. The custody and maintenance of the star today still rests with the Volunteer Fire Department. Funds to maintain the star are partly raised at a widely attended annual ‘Chili Supper’ hosted by the PLVFD.”

According to the Palmer Lake Historical Society account, revised in 2008 by Rogers Davis and H. Edwards, “The cable, wiring and posts of the original star survived the tests of time until 1976. At that time as part of the Bi-Centennial, Colonel Carl Frederick Duffner, a Palmer Lake resident, spearheaded a fund raising campaign to replace the posts and rewire the star. This time rather than Bert, Richard, Dizzy and the rest carrying every ounce of equipment up the mountainside a helicopter airlifted the new wire and steel posts. The original cable installed in 1935 did not need to be replaced. Wet concrete was airlifted rather than carried up the mountain in buckets. This 1976 airlift of equipment took three hours compared to over three months of labor in 1935.

In 2002, the star needed renovation once again. Project Engineer Todd Bell led a community project to rebuild the star. The 50+ volunteers came from the Fire Department, Historical Society, town officials, and citizens of the Tri-Lakes area. This renovation involved replacing the electrical wiring and other major components. A new automated controller complying with the American With Disabilities Act allows remote control operation of the star. A new type of connector was installed on all sockets to prevent wire damage and also allow bulb positioning adjustments. The lights were repositioned for symmetry and another bulb was added for a new total of 92.”

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