By the time the Roaring Twenties ground to a halt in 1929, Colorado mining had changed radically. Leadville was still a grimy, industrial town, but even it had slipped under the $1 million annual production level. Gilpin County, once number one, barely reached one-twentieth of that total. Georgetown was promoting tourism, as was Idaho Springs. Several mountain communities would have loved to have done the same, including Breckenridge, Ouray, and Aspen, but they remained isolated far from tourist destinations. Railroads carried few tourists anymore; most came by automobile, and Colorado’s roads beyond Denver and the foothills were not too good, particularly those over the mountain passes. Only the adventuresome toured there; the rest stayed on familiar and better maintained roads.
Where miners had once lived, worked, and played, there were only ghost towns, abandoned mines, and a few diehard old-timers, trapped in yesterday. Silver Cliff, Animas Forks, Ruby/Irwin, Vicksburg, Buckskin Joe, Parrott City, and the appropriately christened Sunset—names that had once sparkled in silver and gold dreams—were mere shadows of their former glory.
Tourists already wandered around sites with rotted boardwalks, gaped at mill skeletons, and scrambled over dumps looking for a high-grade souvenir. They peered into mine portals and yawning holes, where once the earth had poured forth gold and silver, and opened doors to abandoned cabins, speculating as to what had happened there and when. They took home souvenirs, then forgot where they had found them. Meanwhile, the remains of the vibrant communities of only a generation ago were disappearing.
A haunting, poignant image of Kokomo in 1912 captured clearly what was happening. Older people were slouched along the plank walks “with a far-away look in their eyes as if they had lost something which was never to come back to them.” That look could have been seen at Caribou, Platoro, Gothic, Independence, or any of the dozens of once-promising and prosperous communities that dotted the Colorado Rockies. The description of Tabor’s Matchless Mine that appeared in The Mining Investor, back on September 16, 1907, serves as an epitaph for an era now departed into history and legend: “[When] the rich ore was exhausted, operations practically ceased, and the ancient dumps, formed thirty years ago, and dilapidated shaft houses are in evidence on every hand as relics of a prodigiously rich period.”
11
Mucking through Depression, War, and New Ideas
Mucking is defined as “the operation of loading broken rock [ore, debris] by hand or machine[,] usually in shafts or tunnels.” In the 1930s through the 1960s, mucking pretty much described what the mining industry was doing on various levels, from the office, to mining methods and innovations, to miners working at the breast of the drift. Eventually, the industry had to confront the new attitudes of the general public toward mining.
Long before all that happened, however, mining, Colorado, the rest of the United States of America, and the whole world had to face the crash of October 1929 and the subsequent grinding Great Depression, which in many parts of the state lasted for nearly a decade. The industry would eventually get some help from the sweeping New Deal programs advanced by President Franklin Roosevelt, and gold mining would actually make a comeback, but that was in the future. The present reality, in 1929 and 1930, was grim.
Still staggering from hard times during the 1920s, mining, like agriculture, was further damaged when a concatenation of factors caused the October crash of the stock market in 1929. Those factors pushed the nation over the edge both emotionally and financially. It did not happen all at once. Some people, businesses, and industries were affected in 1929, others in 1930, and the whole state within a year. By then, the economic collapse and the futile efforts to overcome it permeated almost every aspect of life.
Coloradans might argue which was worse, the hard times of the 1890s or the 1930s, but the answer was more or less academic. With people thrown out of work, money lost in bank failures, and homes, farms, and other property foreclosed on and sold under the sheriff’s auction hammer, Americans saw only tribulations and troubles wherever they turned. From bread and soup lines, and unemployment running between 25 and 30 percent (or higher), and with a general feeling of discouragement and hopelessness, Coloradans watched dark clouds settle over their land, dreams, and hopes.
The Colorado Commissioner of Mines, John Joyce, thought this the perfect time to rejuvenate state precious-metal mining. While he found it “most encouraging” that old mines were resuming operations, there seemed to be a negative attitude toward the industry among the “business, industrial and financial interests throughout the state.” What is needed, he proposed, “is intelligent and loyal support in a wholesome manner, instead of the disheartening way that generally marked their attitude toward mining in Colorado during the past decade.”1 Joyce did not elaborate on why, but the conservative state government and the dominant Republican party of the 1920s had not offered much support to the industry. Nor was the public much interested in mining anymore—with a few individual exceptions.
During some of the darkest Depression days, a young man went to work at the Camp Bird Mine in 1932 to “get a stake” to get married, as he expressed it. In One Man’s West, Coloradan and author/historian David Lavender captured the lure and the pride of mining as few others have been able to do. A few excerpts yield insights into the miner and his job that could have been noted at any time since the first miner dug into the Colorado Rockies.
The miner goes to his wet, lonesome, sunless trade with his head up; he calls himself a quartz man, a hard-rock stiff, and considers himself superior to the grubs who toil in softer, easier mediums. . . .
Nothing can convey the impression of the overwhelming darkness. It was not just the absence of sunlight, for the sun had never touched this spot. The top of a mountain, the middle of a desert have their stars, wind, dawn, their feel of space. Here was nothingness. Eternity passes our comprehension. . . .
The mouth of the shaft was surrounded by a wooden floor. Water dripped on this and mixed with the mud to form a slime. Footing was uncertain to say the least, and working around the edges of that three-hundred-foot grave kept me in a dither that no amount of familiarity could alleviate. Fear is a wonderful skin preserver. In certain respects a greenhorn is safer in a mine than a veteran, for the tenderfoot is imaginative. He sees danger in shadows, hears it in every creak of a timber, every thundering explosion. The veteran—pooh, he knows all about those things and they don’t bother him. . . . [P]erhaps they should. It is a fact that most mine accidents happen to the oldest hands.2
Lavender’s experience in the Camp Bird reflected that of the industry. Mining too had no margin of error in those days. No safety net, no surplus, helped it through the hard times. With little or no state or federal assistance during the Republican-dominated 1920s and into the 1930s, the industry stagnated, keeping miners out of work. Their only hope seemed to be the untested, basically unexplained New Deal that Franklin Roosevelt and the Democrats promised during the 1932 campaign. When they won, Washington rode to the rescue, starting with the famous hundred days that saw so many programs instituted. Eventually, the New Deal brought more government involvement in people’s lives and in the American economy, including mining.
This became plain to mining when, on March 19, 1933, an executive order prohibited the free export of gold, except for business requirements. That was followed by Roosevelt’s ordering all persons to turn over their gold to banks, thus abolishing individuals’ right to possess or export gold. Congress took this a step further in June by taking the country off the gold standard, and outlawing clauses in private and public contracts that called for payment in gold.
Mining got some of the help it needed when the price of gold was raised to $35 an ounce on January 31, 1934. That spurred excited interest during these hard times in both placer and hard-rock mining. Even finding a small portion of an ounce promised better times than living off the dole.
Silver also received assistance. When the idea of putting more silver in circulation was proposed as an
other method of inflating the currency and raising prices, it was almost as if the Populists had been resurrected. Nevada Senator Key Pitman led the charge. With the president having previously been given authority to increase the nation’s currency at his discretion, and to coin silver at any ratio to gold he might choose, Roosevelt had the Treasury begin to buy “newly mined domestic silver” on the basis of a 16-to-1 ratio.
In a real sense, Bryan and free silver had finally triumphed. Silver was officially purchased by the government at $1.29 cents per ounce, rather than the then-current market price, which hovered in the mid-forty-cents-an-ounce range. But all was not as it seemed. The government retained what it defined as “seigniorage,” or half the silver. Even then, the price to producers was still 64.6 cents, or about 19 cents above the world market price. This constituted nothing more nor less than a government subsidy to silver producers. That was followed, in May 1934, by the Silver Purchase Act, which directed the Secretary of the Treasury to buy domestic and foreign silver until one-fourth of the value of the nation’s monetary stock was composed of silver, or the price reached $1.29 an ounce on the world market.
In a small way, Uncle Sam also helped, when, in 1933, the government “temporarily” suspended the required yearly assessment work on unpatented claims. This freeze was in effect until 1939, when the rule was reinstated. Washington had at last become a friend to gold and silver mining. Old-timers could not believe their good fortune, and prospectors started scurrying about the valleys and hills seeking their strike. However, as the industry eventually discovered, once Uncle Sam arrived, new rules and regulations inevitably followed.
The hard times, plus the boost from federal government policies, revitalized interest in gold and silver mining. A spectacular surge in production followed. In 1933, Colorado’s gold production topped $6 million, while silver languished in the $700,000 range. In 1934, gold production jumped to $11 million and then annually topped $12 million for the rest of the decade. Silver production did not reach those heights, but vaulted to $2 million in 1934 and found itself in the $3-million to $5-million range for the remainder of the 1930s.
Another effect of the renewed interest appeared in 1934. That year the number of active lode mines in the state more than doubled, to 672. It must be kept in mind, though, that not all of these were gold and silver mines.
In 1939, such old familiar mining counties as Clear Creek, Teller, San Miguel, Park, and San Juan all topped $1 million in gold and silver production, with Teller in the $5-million range. Even such familiar names as Boulder, Lake, and Gilpin Counties found gold mining at least somewhat ahead of what it had been in previous decades. The major producer, however, was Eagle County, with its Eagle Mine, a combined copper-iron-gold-silver operation, which led the state in silver production. The total Colorado precious-metal production that year surged to nearly $19 million.
Just the prospect of finding a few flecks of gold looked exciting to those who were out of work. It could be the key to getting off relief and regaining some pride and purpose. An ounce or so a month would greatly help in keeping body and soul together, so off wandered the would-be prospectors, tramping into the hills and mountains in hopes of finding enough to keep themselves and their families fed. The only problem was that many of them knew absolutely nothing about where to look, how to pan, or what equipment would be needed. Nor did they usually understand that even if the property looked abandoned, owners might be paying taxes on it and would not look too kindly on a stranger’s panning for “their” gold.
In stepped the New Deal. The Public Works Administration in Denver sponsored classes in the “art of placering,” with both men and women taking lessons. Once they learned the skills, many of them did not go far to prospect. Gold was being panned in Denver’s streams, including Cherry and Dry Creeks, which had started all the excitement back in 1858, as well as in nearby Arapahoe and Adams Counties. Only small amounts were found, but anything helped. The mountains offered more hope, though. What the nineteenth-century miner would have thought of all this may only be imagined.
During the summer and fall, new life came to old Gilpin County districts, such as Russell Gulch, and around long-ago mining hot spots Central City, Black Hawk, and Nevadaville. Clear Creek became a mecca no matter where it wandered. Out went the men with their pans and shovels, and soon with sluices and rockers. Quickly men were busily panning and sluicing, not only there, but throughout the older gold-mining districts as well. Clear Creek and its tributaries had not seen so much work and excitement for a generation or more.
An interesting observation by a nurse at a Durango hospital during these years sheds a bit of light, describing the men (in this case, both hard-rock and coal miners): “You’d get one of the miners in. They’d been used to a lot of liquor and they were the poorest subjects for anesthetic. Took forever to get them to sleep before the operation could begin.”3 A 1937 report estimated that Colorado placer miners averaged sixty working days per season and managed to recover about $146. There were not fortunes to be made, but anything helped during those trying times. Merchants in such communities as Fairplay and Alma gained a bit of income supplying the miners, and Silver Cliff gained a moment of fleeting fame when some rich strikes were uncovered nearby.4
For most of the 1930s, interest in placering remained high, despite the fact that the number of placer operations decreased after the early enthusiasm wore off. In 1939, only 21 remained, employing a total of 119 miners. Larger operations continued, including dredging in Park and Summit Counties. One dredge in the Breckenridge district, for instance, worked 808,000 cubic yards during the 1937 season. Its eighty-eight buckets probably moved more earth that season than its human placering counterparts did during several years.
Old hopes never died either. Commissioner of Mines John Joyce spurred these expectations on with enthusiastic comments. He felt “there are many well-known heavily mineralized sections of the state that have never been thoroughly prospected because of their early date, [and] remoteness which, at the present time, with modern advancement made in the means of transportation, coupled with new metallurgical discoveries and inventions, offer promising and fruitful fields.”5
Lo and behold, the Happy Canyon placer in Douglas County (not a particularly well-known gold mining region!) briefly garnered headlines and interest, and even, according to a 1935 report, resulted in “numerous” sales of placer claims. In both old and new discoveries, however, only gold in the amount of two ounces or greater could be sold to the mint—which was conveniently located, as it had been for years, in Denver. Smaller amounts had to be sold to dental supply firms, jewelers, and others.
Despite such excitement and expectations elsewhere, the “gold king” county, Teller, consistently led in gold production. For example, in 1939, its gold mines produced more than $5 million of the state’s $12.8 million total. Water problems, however, continually hampered the district, as the mine shafts went down during the twentieth century. The construction of the Roosevelt Tunnel for drainage solved the issue briefly, but by the 1930s, the mine’s workings dropped below the tunnel level; thus, the costly necessity of pumping arose all over again.
In July 1939, one of the major operators in the district, the Golden Cycle Corporation, which operated mines and a mill at Colorado Springs, decided to resolve the matter with another tunnel at a lower depth. Construction started in July 1939 and was finished two years later, at a cost of more than $1 million. The Carlton Tunnel, named for one of Cripple Creek’s most loyal and determined mine owners, Albert Carlton, promised relief. Bert Carlton, who had started in Cripple Creek back in the 1890s with a transportation company, got the exclusive right to sell Colorado’s best coal, which came from the Colorado Fuel and Iron Company’s mines. As the Cripple Creek mine shafts sank deeper and water became an increasing problem—at the turn of the century—Carlton found himself with a bonanza, serving the coal-fired steam hoists and pumps.
Thereafter, Carlton built the Roosevelt tunnel,
and then, in the lean days around 1916, after the rich ore was gone, he started consolidating mines. He won some struggles with other owners and, along with his Colorado Springs mill, eventually merged them all into Golden Cycle. By 1930, Carlton had consolidated almost all of the major mines into his company and kept Cripple Creek mining going profitably. After he died in 1931, his wife, Ethel, eventually became the moving force behind the tunnel project, as the new gold price put Cripple Creek back among the country’s major gold producers.
The Carlton Tunnel, six and a quarter miles long, and financed entirely by the Golden Cycle Corporation, drained the mines successfully. Completion, however, came too late to be of help, for World War II loomed right around the corner. One of Cripple Creek’s old-timers summarized Carlton’s contribution: “Bob Womack discovered the place. Stratton was its beacon light in the boom days. A. E. Carlton was its heartbeat.”6
By 1941, Cripple Creek’s underground shafts and works neared a length of approximately 1,000 miles, or, as one person noted, almost the distance between Denver and Chicago. It had become Colorado’s major mining district, surpassing all of the nineteenth-century bonanzas, and the future looked auspicious.
Clear Creek County did not have the same kind of success, although Idaho Springs’ gold mines kept the industry going, actually returning a small slice of the excitement of the old days. Silver, however, was another story, there as elsewhere. Even with a lower cost of living than in years, a reduced price for supplies and materials, and a labor surplus that pushed wages down, the expenses of deep underground mining, combined with lower-grade ore, killed whatever hopes Georgetown and Silver Plume might have entertained.
A few examples illustrate the trends of the times. The Gold Belt Tunnel, despite its name, was a silver property on McClellan Mountain. Its prospectus promised much at mid-decade, but production never matched the written blandishments. The Josephine Mine was sold for unpaid taxes in 1937, but the new owner did nothing with the property. Tax sales of mining claims and occasionally even a well-known mine occurred quite frequently, both in these years and in the next generation, when some people thought the five or so acres might make a wonderful mountain home.
The Trail of Gold and Silver Page 26
