Just water over the dam

Along a river's banks, streams change course

 By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

I struggle sometimes, putting things back together in my head, but enjoy the exercise so much, I tend to travel there. Maybe it is a bad habit, or a good one. Maybe it is just water over the dam. But it certainly enchants the murky, mental, muddy water in a morning's wanderings. We become what we do over and over again — try to remember stuff and tell a story about it.  L.M. Montgomery wrote in The Story Girl that “Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.”

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Over on Eighth Street in Dolores, one block over from where I grew up, at the corner of Central (or Main Street at time) the Highway 145 Drive-In had pink naugahyde thrones around a aluminum edged formica counter up front in the kitchen area. That generally was not what you remembered, but the soft-serve cones, and the French fries, and even the burgers, somehow made a lasting impression on a kid eight, nine, ten... years old at the time.
Seems like there also was knotty-pine paneled walls in adjoining room, slightly larger, with rickety tables, and marginal western art on the wall. Two entrances on the white-sided exterior, one on the corner and a side entrance opening into the paneled 'dining area,' defined what kind of customer you were, I guess.
It has been a long time, but even a kid that age could sometimes scrounge enough pocket change from selling coke bottles, or digging in sofa cushions, to afford the soft serve. Maybe you had wait for a cub scout special meeting, or some other trouble, to eat burgers and fries in the dinning room served by a harried high school waitress, between coffee top-offs at the counter.
The place was later a print shop, and maybe other things, but for me, memories gravitate to that restaurant of yesteryear. Other locations fade in and out — lap at banks on the water's edge.

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Water, especially river water, is an odd, driving force and difficult to explain. It keeps moving and changing, defying a written representation, or account of a person. Along its banks, structures, life and times all change with it.
The whole town moved. Big Bend to Dolores. Picked up its buildings, and life and times and relocated a couple miles up river. Harris Bros. Mercantile, (later to become Taylor Hardware) migrated to meet the railroad. Memories relocated. Dreams re-evaluated. Streams changed course.

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"Members of the Montezuma Valley Irrigation District were discouraged by the continued bankruptcy of the district and the poor service and maintenance but surprisingly their spirits lifted with the beginning of the Montezuma Valley Irrigation Company in 1920. Charlie Porter, a director of the Montezuma Valley Irrigation Company, summed up the situation, says Maureen Gerhold, in The River of Sorrows: The History of the Lower Dolores River Valley.
"It wasn't set up to make enough money to pay the toll, so up 'till 1920 it was a history of little companies going broke, farmers not doing well enough to pay their ditch companies and they needed water everywhere. They formed more companies and borrowed more money and went into default, and it was in the 1920's before our ditch companies got on a decent basis at all," Gerhold quotes Porter.

"Settlement of the Montezuma Valley in southwestern Colorado was made possible in the 1880's by the construction of the Montezuma Valley irrigation system. Organized by James W. Hanna, the system consisting of a tunnel (5,400 feet long), "Great Cut," siphons and wooden flumes channeled water from the Dolores River through a steep divide. The system constitutes one of the earliest large scale, privately funded and continuously operating irrigation projects in the Southwest, Gerhold writes.

Though diversion of the river began long before.

Dry as we were, for centuries, folks tried to get water to a place where it could be used effectively.

"The crude stone terraces or check dams of the Anasazi cliff dwellers, the first to practice irrigation in this area, can still be seen in Mesa Verde National Park. The Navajos also used a primitive form of irrigation to adapt to the climate and geography.  In 1852 the Mexican American settlers in the San Luis Valley began the oldest continuously operating irrigation system in Colorado," notes Gerhold.

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Years ago, the raft races dropped down near the old dam and rafters struggled down there, I recall. The old headgate mechanism was of interest to a youngster, with gears, and cogs and wheels that would make any steampunk proud. 

Not far from the shadow of ol' Blue Robinson's barn, the canal meandered, and the old steel bridge crossed the the river at the bottom of Ritter Hill. The lizards and a few rattlers sunned themselves on the flat layers of rocks in the pinion and juniper near the top as you descended the hill. Sometimes you could point them out with your chocolate-covered fingers, on the rocks from the road, through the rolled-down windows, of a car freshly stocked with candy bars and Cokes from the Three Cornered Store. 

The pot-bellied stove in the store had been surrounded by loafers in overalls, trying to remember stuff, or make up new stories — if they struggled to put it together correctly in their heads. Perhaps, it was a good habit, or a bad one. Along a river's banks, streams change course. Structures, life and times all change with it.

Maybe it was just water over the dam. We become what we do over and over again. Nothing is lost if we remember it.

 By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

Photo info:
1. Big Bend, about 1887.
2. Headgate mechanism controlled intake to tunnel.
3. Cement structure replaced wooden diversion stucture about 1949.
4. The barn at the old Ritter ranch.
5. Andy Pleasant and myself, on a makeshift raft near the river in Dolores.
6. The original wooden headgate in Dolores River valley.

"Big Bert," Santa, Stampede, pocket full of cash

Founder and main benefactor of the 

Woodland Park Santa Claus Club

By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1gmail.com

When Woodland Park's legendary figure "Big Bert" Bergstrom died on March 12, 1986, more than 500 people filed past his casket a few days later at Woodland Park Saddle Club Arena in the center of town.
A fitting tribute for the founder and main benefactor of the Woodland Park Santa Claus Club, the man who donated the ground for the Saddle Club itself, and the owner of several area gambling dens and houses of ill repute.
Even today, stories swirl around in the thin mountain air about the "big Swede" with heart of gold and a community conscience, along with the far-reaching illegal operations to help finance them.
In July of 1950, the local newspaper, Woodland Park View, reported a “Large Parade” and “Exciting Rodeo” for the three-year-old saddle club.
An earlier article outlined how the club came into existence.
“Organized under a large pine tree in the south corner of the ball park, in August, 1947, twelve charter members were present: Mr. and Mrs. Ira Hollingsworth, Mr. and Mrs. Bob White, Mr. and Mrs. Ed Bean, Mr. and Mrs. Tom Atwell, Mr. and Mrs. Walter Maximoff, George Klumph, and sister Catherine, Carl Silbaugh, and Jack Willis. Ed Bean was elected the first president, with Herb Lyons succeeding him,” according to the View, which itself was only in it second volume and year. It was undergoing some changes as well.
“In true editorial fashion the Woodland Park View is going from the old to the new this weekend. Moving from Mrs. Whitmore’s Antique Shoppe where it has been comfortably located for more than two months, the View will make its new home in the very modern United Gas Co. building. We welcome you, your news and your patronage,” noted a front page box in the same issue as the story on the successful Ute Trail Stampede.
“Through the generosity of Bert Bergstrom, new rodeo grounds were made available in the fall of ’49. The new grounds are located in the center of town, south of the business section. With the co-operation of the people of the county and active members of the Saddle Club, the new grounds are being completed with a race track and a grand stand to be built later,” reported the View.
A few years ago, in a conversation with Oscar Lindholm, who was 93 at the time, Bert Bergstrom was remembered as a “big, rough, tough Swede, saloonkeeper at the Ute Inn, 231 pounds, that could drink quite lot of beer.”
Oscar acknowledged, at the time, he could go through a fair amount of beer himself. But Big Bert and Oscar were not alone, especially when the Stampede was in town.
“… With the casino blaring away, all the local night spots lit up (and others?) and the square dance at the school ‘fillin’ up the floor’, Everybody had a GOOD TIME,” according the 1950’ article in the paper.
Cowboys and spectator alike agreed, “It is the best arena in the state and so beautifully situated with Pikes Peak and the breath-taking mountain scenery in the background,” reported the View.
The paper itself, published by Kenneth and Margaret Geddes, with Maurine Johnson as the city editor, only operated under that name for about five years, said Ken Geddes, Jr. the son of the former publishers and an attorney in Colorado Springs. He said when his parents sold the Cripple Creek Times to Blevins Davis, (who renamed it the Gold Rush) the View was discontinued.
“But that is the reason my mother call it ‘The View,’ I think, Woodland Park has that great view of the Peak,” said Ken Geddes, Jr. in a conversation years ago.
It was said that Bergstrom did all of his banking out of his shirt pocket.
"He lived for his elk hunts," reported Liza Marron, at the time of his death in the Ute Pass Courier. "Terry Morse, (then) current saldleclub president, can vouch for his generosity."
Morse went elk hunting with Bergstrom on the Dolores River, near Durango. "When  we got ready to get in the motorhome, Clara (Bergstrom's wife) tapped he shirt pocket and Bert nodded," Morse said.
Gabe Brock, longtime owner of the Crystola Inn, remembered the elk hunting trips on the Dolores River as well. According to Brock, as reported by Marron, he had been going to the same spot for 38 years and his reputation preceded him. People from Maine to Texas would show up at his camp just because they knew he was there.
"He would bring all the food, beer and four or five cases of whiskey. He had a big tent and he was the host. Anyone who came would get fed. A lot people sponged off him but Bert was one who didn't mind. As long as he was having a good time. He called them all friends," Brock was quoted in 1986.
Brock verified gambling in Woodland Park in the late 1940s and the early 1950s.
"He had 75 slot machines and I had 75 slot machines. We pooled them and put them out all over the county. We had sanction from Teller County Sheriff. We went along there for about four years without any trouble. We would rake a little off each week and with that we build the Woodland Park Community Church. The VFW was in trouble,  and Bert bought them a building behind the Ute Inn," remembered Brock, as quoted by Marron of the Courier.
The Eldorado Club, which later became Preschool in the Pines, was also one of Bert's gambling clubs, Brock told the paper.
"The proceeds from gambling built a lot of Woodland Park," he said, but it all ended in 1952 when a new mayor closed things down, according to Brock.
Bergstrom is buried in Woodland Park Cemetery.
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Photo Info: Out buildings were once part of the vast Thunderhead Ranch, one of the largest in Teller County. Though the farmhouse burnt in 1927, the barn, built in 1886, and the ice house survived and became part of the folklore surrounding nearby Thunderhead Inn. The Inn was reportedly a gambling and prostitution den built in 1935.

A kiss goodbye, and may I take a photo

Suddenly realized that some day soon, 

all this is going to be underwater.

 By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

It must have been sometime in the fall back in the early 1980s when I took my little Honda motorcycle up Dunlap Hill and out through the old roads and bean fields until you come out on the rim of the Dolores River canyon below town.

There was also a rough trail that dropped down into the valley as it overlooked the gravel pits. I was very purposeful that day because I had an epiphany of sorts.

For years we had archeologists from Washington State, and University of Colorado, and probably other places, sifting through the sand and dirt down river – poking in the oak brush, photographing the old buildings. We called them ‘bonediggers.’ There were also Bureau of Land Management folks, and dam contractors clearing brush, and moving cemeteries – all documenting this and documenting that. The place was busy on a global scale with contractors and subcontractors, like Obayashi Gumi Corporation, and other multinationals working on multi-year projects.

My sudden realization was that some day soon, all this is going to be underwater.

Of course we had talked about it for years. Some of my friends worked on portions of the project. Big Mark Thompson ran a mucker in the hole down there. Others moved dirt around outside, or worked as EMTs (emergency medical technicians), or cleared oak brush for subcontractors.

We had big parties in the abandoned buildings and at the Big Rock where we dived off into the swimming hole. We stumbled upon great secrets in the caves below town and ran wild over the rounded rocks. We poked around the headgates of the old dam and recalled when the raft races dangerously finished there.

We parked our cars down in the gravel pits and worked on our night moves, or drank beer in brown bottles, or green barrel-shaped Big Mouth Mickeys (grenades), or Miller ponies, if we were in a hurry.

Huge piles of road base provided impromptu parking lots for muscle cars like Lynn Leavel’s ’69 Roadrunner, Brent Hamilton’s ole’ Chevy pickup with the short bed and headache racks, Joe Scrivner’s Javelin, Bob Coleman’s Cutlass, Rusty Hector’s and Marvin Tabor’s Camaros, Rick Markguard’s ‘Cuda., and Kent Nielson’s Cobra. I envied them because I drove a beat-up 1974 green Vega, and later the motorcycle.

Which brings me back to my epiphany, my realization, and my purpose. I rolled up though the oak brush and out on to the canyon rim. I could see the gravel pits below, the burner out at the sawmill, the power lines dropping into the valley below, and off in the distance of this expansive vista was the Sleeping Ute and Mesa Verde. You could tell where the river – over how-many-ever thousands of years had cut through red dirt, grey clay, and sandstone – to carve out a bed for itself to rage, and gurgle, and trickle, and meander.

But soon the lake would be sleeping in that bed.

I snapped a photo, and rolled back away from the rim, never to see her again.
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