3 Days in a Ghost Town

The year is 1891. Under the watchful eyes of emigrants from French Canada and England and homesteaders from Missouri and points east, more than a thousand head of cattle and hundreds of sheep roam the countryside in a little Colorado town known to most as Freshwater. The engine of a train on the Denver, South Park and Pacific line blasts a sooty puff of coal-fire smoke, then departs with a racket that synchronizes with that of pickaxes and shovels shattering the crust of the rock-strewn soil.

“The Prospector,” the community newspaper in this Park County enclave, foretells big changes coming soon to the little town – the township will be recognized by the State of Colorado with the name “Guffey,” a tribute to James McClurg Guffey, one of its first settlers. If one stuck a pin in the very center of a map of Colorado, it would land very close to Guffey. At 8,891 feet above sea level, Guffey sits at the center of the Thirtynine Mile Volcanic Area between three volcanoes that erupted 34 million years ago. The volcanic activity gave birth to one of the world’s largest fields of dinosaur fossils in nearby Florissant while bringing many minerals and treasured metals to the surface.

In 1858, prospectors struck gold in Cripple Creek. In Freshwater, a shade less than 20 miles southwest, two men dug two holes in the dirt and laid claim to the mining rights. Enough gold was found to entice more settlers to come, but not enough to sustain anyone’s fortunes. Some viewed the Freshwater Mining District as a hoax, but truth be told, it did contain traces of gold and silver, and was rich in other minerals, including copper, lead, zinc, mica and feldspar.  

Between 1891 and 1896, Guffey reached its zenith. The town boasted more than 500 residents and became the largest cultural center and commerce destination in a 40-square-mile area. The Freshwater cyanide mill processed more than 60 tons of ore each day, making it the largest in the world. Cyanide is used to extract gold from the ore, and the mill was equipped to do so efficiently and at a profit.

The Freshwater Saloon attracted ranchers, miners and mill workers for libations, music and dancing. Within the town, institutions like schools, a library, a city hall, restaurants and trading posts reflected the essence of prosperity.

Within a decade, it was gone.

In 1902, the newspaper folded. The railroad went bankrupt. Gold- and silver-laced dreams vanished. People moved away. Mostly. At one point, the number of residents dwindled to just 46 people.

Two Black Mountain cowboys, Robert Pope and J.T. Witcher, put Guffey on the map in 1907 when they located the largest meteorite ever recovered in Colorado while driving cattle three-and-a-half miles outside the city. After rubbing off some of the black iron oxide skin, the cowboys assumed they found silver. The nickel-iron (ataxite) rock measured 36.5 inches long, 15 inches wide and 8 inches in height, weighing 682 pounds. The Guffey meteorite is the fourth-largest meteorite recovered in the United States. It was sold to and is on display at the American Museum of Natural History in New York City.

Today, Guffey (population 100) exists primarily as a respite for hunters, fishermen and old souls weary of city life. It may not qualify as a true ghost town because there are residents, but buildings and landmarks have been preserved in their original decrepitude. Occasionally, a bear, a fox or a few elk may amble through. Traffic congestion might amount to two vehicles passing on Main Street. The Freshwater Saloon recently shut down (with promises to re-open under new management), but the Wind Spirit Mountain Lodge restaurant still thrives Friday through Sunday with a loyal following who swear by the burgers, pulled pork and Cuban sandwiches. A bakery featuring pastries and fresh food is open Friday through Sunday. The Colorado Mountain Distillers serve up food, live music and “libations at elevation” Wednesdays through Sundays.

Last Chance Antiques is a sprawling graveyard for remnants of the past such as automobiles, claw-foot bathtubs, woodstoves, wagon wheels, milk cans, tools and just about anything you can imagine.

With my trusty fuzzball Siberian friend, Boru, I was fortunate to make camp for three days with one of the residents and a rather fluid and fluid-loving assortment of 6-8 visitors from all parts of the Centennial State. We shared in the party-like frivolity under robin-egg blue skies alongside a cattail-rimmed pond and Ponderosa Pines climbing the hillsides and mountains, with strains of classic music playing, everything from Billie Holliday to Willie Nelson to Gov’t Mule. Some of the guys took to nearby streams for fly fishing. I indulged in a 2-mile hike, scrambling over streams and boulders to Paradise Cove. The majority of time whittled by in a folding chair on the deck, just letting a relaxing pace take over.

In the words of James Taylor, “at night, the stars, they put on a show for free.” (“Up On the Roof,” written by Carole King in 1962) At elevation, the sun dips behind the mountains and twilight lingers a long while before passing the baton to the night. Gradually, the stars become luminous, then grow and glitter until you find yourself under a shimmering sequin blanket. Elevated in the atmosphere, the stars look like softballs, or glowing apples ready to be plucked. With a naked eye, one sees billions of them. Millions more are reflected in the pond, a veritable sea of tranquility. Unencumbered by civilization on Earth, quasars, gamma rays and photons radiate where there are no streetlights, house lights or car headlights. An occasional gust of wind kicks up dust from the ghosts of miners and ranchers of a century past.

In the early morning, pre-dawn hours, a lone elk meekly tests his trumpeting skills. In a month’s time, full-throated bugles will pierce the night air announcing that it is rutting season. Boru lets out a stifled bark, and I am here.

“I am here.”

It seems like an obvious, almost childish statement. It is not.

I am. I am here.