The Palette & Chisel, Vol. V, No. 6, June 1928. Tom Moses’ Trips, Breckenridge, Col. Concluded
“I went down the road to make a sketch of a real old-timey stage coach, which was rapidly falling to decay. As I sat there sketching, and fighting insects, the awful silence was very oppressive, occasionally broken by the cooing of the wood-dove, the buzzing of a bumble bee or the distant cluck of a hen. The dazzling heat waves from the sandy street reach to the top of the tarred roofs of the buildings, then drift away to the cooler waves from the mountain peaks.
Concealed somewhere in those peaks are tons of gold, and some day these two men will find it as I hope they to. I hope long before this they have gotten some part of the many tons, have left poor Frisco to the past, returned to their old homes and dear friends, and look back on their days in the gold fields as something to relate in after life; an experience that most of us usually get, if we have enough red blood in our veins to attempt it.
We bade the trio good-bye, and late in the day we started back to Dillon, after a very warm and dusty walk. A good, cold wash-up made us fit for dinner, and I am pleased to mention the fact that we had another helping of trout. After dinner some of the boarders entertained Young and me by telling of the wonderful country back of Dillon. The mountains across the valley east of Dillon looked about four or five miles away. The natives said “Ha! Ha!” and informed us they were about forty miles away. It was hard to believe.
We encouraged the story-telling, and usually wound up with one of the hair-raising stories of the wonders of Chicago. They seemed to enjoy our yarns. The mosquitos were something awful; we were thankful to have screens in our windows so we were able to get a good night’s sleep, which put us in good shape for the next day’s work.
We started early and made several sketches. After a light luncheon, which we carried with us, Young proposed we cross a ravine in a dry water flume. I was game, as I could reach a high point without a lot of hard climbing. We walked across the ravine, steadily going higher. The cross braces in the flume made it very hard, as we soon got tired of stepping over them.
The bottom of the flume was thick with alkali, and our eyes burned and our tongues swelled up badly. We could hardly talk. We thought we were going to die of thirst, so we scrambled back to where we started as quickly as possible. There was a railroad water tank not far away and we made for it in double quick time. We couldn’t reach the rope to pull the spout down, but got relief from the small pool, formed by the dripping water. As it was all clean sand and gravel, we were soon in normal condition. I can easily imagine what one must suffer in the desert from thirst. No more dry flumes for us.
In going throughout the woods we struck a deserted cabin, and, nailed to the gable was a magnificent pair of antlers. Young wanted to get them and ship them to Chicago. We tried to get them down, but found them too heavy, so we had to leave them. They would have made a fine hall or studio decoration. It was here we saw our first flying squirrels. It was fun to watch them; it seemed no effort for them to sail through the air fifty feet, or more.
The town of Dillon is very nicely situated in the valley of the Blue River, surrounded on all sides by high mountain ranges. Mr. Hamilton took us for a long ride, and we saw a great deal of the valley. Looking from Dillon across the river to the farms and pasture land beyond, is some of the best farm land in the state and it all reminds one of some of the Swiss pictures of the Alps.
On returning to Breckenridge we had a good visit with our short-tie acquaintances, made a few more sketches, packed up and started for Denver. We had a much trouble with a “wheezy” engine and to cars going back as we had coming in. Had a late luncheon at Como, and, without anything happening worth while, we reached Denver in time for a good dinner, which we both enjoyed. Went to the Tabor Grand Opera House for the evening.
We were up bright and early the next morning, visited several friends, and strolled about the city. And there is plenty to be seen, public buildings and fine private homes. Took and evening train for Chicago, by the way of Kansas City.
As we were rather shy on cash, we went to the smoker, and ahead of this was a tourist sleeper. Young made up his mind that he was going to use the tourist sleeper, and he did. I remained in the smoker, expecting to get a good night’s rest. After mid-night, notwithstanding the awful thick atmosphere, the passengers were pretty rough. Among the bunch were five tough cow-boys, going back to Texas. One was a negro. He espied my sketching outfit and insisted upon knowing all about it. I did not want to start anything, so I answered his questions as civilly as possible, to impress the passengers as they were the real article.
The cow-boys continued drinking, swearing and singing, and wound up one burst of wild yelling by doing a regular western act – shooting the lights out. There was only one shot out, because a single-handed brakeman came in and took the guns from the whole bunch. He threw on of the men down in a seat, and threatened to punch his head if he moved again. One of them wanted some fresh air, and he went out of the car. We traveled for at least an hour, and the fresh air man couldn’t be found. The conductor wouldn’t stop the train and go back, so one of the cow-boys got off the train at the first stop, intending to go back and look for his partner. We never heard any more about it. The remaining three soon went to sleep, as nearly everyone did. In the morning everything was quiet. Young had enjoyed a good night’s rest and had missed the fun. These cow-boys were the most typical of the race I have ever seen. Their burnt and leathery skin, from long exposure, was characteristic of the tribe, and their general make-up was picturesque. They felt hurt to think a lone brakeman had made monkeys of them before a lot of passengers that they wanted to impress with the idea that they were a hard lot.
We arrived in Kansas City late in the afternoon. Young and I found a chair car would fit our money better than a Pullman. We looked pretty rough, and even a porter was not anxious to have us. He seemed to think we wanted the smoker, but a half dollar in advance soon supplied us with a blanket and pillow and we enjoyed a night’s ride to Chicago.”
(The end of Moses’ article)
Historical note about the town of Dillon:
The original town of Dillon was built as a stagecoach stop and trading post on the Snake River. Named for a prospector Tom Dillon, the town was incorporated in 1883. It was soon relocated to the west bank of the Blue River when Denver and Rio Grand Railroad came to Blue River Valley, but bypassed Dillon. Dillon was relocated a second time in 1892 when the Denver, South Park, and Pacific Railroad arrived from the northeast. In 1956, the Denver Water Board notified the remaining residents and business owners that they must sell and leave by September 15, 1961. Dam construction began in 1961 and was completed by 1963. The dam diverts water from the Blue River Basin through the 23.3 mile Harold D. Roberts Tunnel under the Continental Divide into the South Platte River Basin. Other than the surrounding mountains, the town of Dillon that Moses visited no longer exists, as it became the Dillon Reservoir.
