Your Story

Dirty Old Men and Other Aspen Bands

2011-02-07T21:41:00Z

I played the tuba in a few Aspen bands in the seventies, including HEIDI AND THE BARVARIAN BUSHMEN, ALBERT FLOSSMAN'S BAVARIAN BAND, and the DIRTY OLD MEN JAZZ BAND. Those were great years, teaching skiing and playing polkas and dixieland and dance tunes.

But my time with Aspen's famous Dirty Old Men is a story I share often with my musician friends here in Wisconsin: Aspen Ski School supervisor, Bob Knight, invited me in December of '68 to bring my tuba to the next rehearsal of the DOM at Cliff Brelsford's house. Upon arrival, I met Cliff, Dr Baxter, Dr Whitcomb, Bill McEachern, and an old fellow whose name I don't recall - the owner of Aspen Construction.

Each such Wednesday evening rehearsal began in Cliff's living roof with about forty five minutes of whiskey and talk. That's about how long it took to solve the world's problems and loosen up our musical instincts. Then down to the basement to gather around the piano and play some jazz. Great guys, I mean I really enjoyed these fellows, but the music - well, it was a little rough. As Ulfar would say, rrrather RRRRustic.(roll the r's)

I took the bandleader, Bill McEachern (director of the Aspen High School band), aside after a couple of Wednesday nights and hinted at my concern for the quality of the music. "You see", he said, "I'm rather a pro on the piano, so I play the tenor sax - to fit in with this band. And Bob Knight is a professional trombonist, so he attempts the piano with this band. Now you, Jerry, is there some other instrument you might play?" "I've always wanted to play the trombone...." I said, "I think you get the message," said Bill.

One year in the early seventies, I learned a tough lesson while we were playing for the Annual Hospital Benefit. I think it was at the Aspen Inn. Besides gaining trombone experience, I was using my DOM time to sharpen my vocal presentation in front of people. After delivering a (pretty good, I thought) rendition of Pennies From Heaven, I was somewhat hurt by some very lukewarm applause, but attributed it to the chatty atmosphere in the room - they were too busy having a good time.

A few songs later, Dr Whitcomb had the microphone for his favorite: Talk Of The Town. - The last line of which is "Everybody knows you've left me, its the Talk Of The Town." Now, from the moment he starts croaking it out, the audience is on their feet, clapping and screaming, it was like Frank Sinatra and his "bobbysoxers". Now this was less than ten minutes after I had just poured my heart out with Pennies From Heaven, and my ego was slipping lower by the minute. This ate away at me the rest of the night, till as we were packing up to go, I mentioned my discomfort to Jay Baxter. The good Doctor saved my ego and my ulcer with these kind words: "Look, Jerry, You didn't have a chance. You see, that other singer delivered about half the people in the audience, and delivered the babies of the other half!"

I could go on, but........

Jerry Dunn

Red Onion Tales

2010-04-30T16:43:00Z

RED ONION TALES

My family moved to Aspen in 1956, when I was nine, and the Red Onion soon became the hub of many of our family activities. My mother, Rose Crumpacker, worked as the "one woman chamber of commerce" in a tiny cinderblock building next door to the Isis Theater, and every Friday night we had a week's end ritual of dining at the Onion. I can well remember the delicious salads, dressed with Werner Kuster's oil and vinegar dressing, that accompanied our steak and baked potato dinners. Werner would greet us and seat us in the dining room, far from the commotion of the bar.

My older siblings, three of whom were in college, preferred "Beer Gulch", and usually went there directly apres ski. Often, during summer or college breaks, they would never make it home for dinner, worrying my mother.

Everyone loved the nightclub, which featured smoky-voiced singers and jazz combos, on weekends - even I was allowed to enter and sit at one of the small tables, drinking cokes and feeling quite sophisticated.

My great grand uncle, Thomas Latta, had built the Onion in the 1880's, and a tile with his name still presumably graces the entry to the bar. The building also sports the Latta name on the very top. My sister Marguerite Maddalone's middle name is Latta...the Latta family was from Greensburg, Pennsylvania, and my grandmother, Rose Latta Turner, was born there and lived there until she moved to Indiana to marry my grandfather. The Latta family was very, very proper - my mother remembered having to present her calling card to a butler with a silver tray, when she traveled to Pennsylvania, at age twelve, to visit her grandmother. Thomas Latta was the uncle, and the black sheep of the family. He came out west, searching for his fortune, and ended up building and running the Red Onion as a dance hall, bar, and brothel.

When I was eleven or twelve, we had a little gang of kids who liked to get into a bit of trouble during our lunch hour from school. Several of our parents had charge accounts at the Delice Bakery, so after grabbing a sandwich or pastry, we would adjourn to eat our lunches on either the fire escape of the Wheeler Opera House, or the fire escape of the rooming house for the Red Onion employees, across the alley from the Onion, in the building that became the Paragon. It was on the latter fire escape that we all witnessed sex for the first time....as we furtively peered in a curtained window of one of the rooms...I think it was the hostess of the Onion, as we all recognized her.

Several years later, there was a terrible knife fight between two Swiss or Austrian Red Onion chefs, beginning in the kitchen and ending in the alley, at night, when we were having a Friday night dinner. The police were called, and both chefs were taken to the hospital. Not too long after that, Werner Kuster sold the Onion. His wife, Rosemarie, moved to Santa Fe and owned the Palace Restauraunt there for many years.

The Red Onion always stayed a little tied to it's wild west roots. My brother Tom, a recent graduate of the University of Michigan law school, brother-in-law Danny Maddalone, an Aspen ski patrol, and cousin Bob Brown, captain of the U. of Michigan football team, were involved, one spring break, in an awful brawl that began in the nightclub. The brawl moved out onto Cooper Street, and they were all dragged by a car down to Pinnochio's.

"Beer Gulch", with its horseshoe-shaped table and bench at the front window, was home to the Aspen ski patrol and packing crew for many years. The wonderful blue caricatures of celebrities and famous visitors graced the booths and hallways. Many, many tales and stories were told in beer gulch, usually skiing stories, and I was an enthusiastic participant while in my twenties, after work at Gretl's or the Sundeck. Peter Luhn was a habitue, as were Shady Lane, Scott MacDougal, Richard Tapley, Hanuman, Steve Wishart, David Wright, and Defoe Dushane.

In the mid-seventies, when new owners bought the Onion and turned the bar into a more upscale "fern bar", replacing the gulch and booths and caricatures, there was a big revolution. The habitues all couldn't take it, and staged a protest by throwing all the new potted ferns out onto Cooper Street, and hundreds of dollars of ferns were ruined There may or may have not been arrests, but a statement of priorities was certainly made.

--Posey Melson

Retired Teacher

2008-06-10T16:47:00Z

I grew up in Grand Junction and often skied at Aspen. In the 1940s we stayed at the Jerome Hotel for fifty cents a night and had meals there of similar price. Bathrooms were down the hall. We skied out the front door to the rope tow on AJax. Those were the days !!!

Elinor MCginn

Dr. Robert Oden, 1922 - May 18, 2008

2008-03-11T03:52:00Z

Bob Oden 1922–May 18, 2008

Dr. Bob Oden (that is pronounced O–Dane for non-Scandinavians) is one of the kindest, most beloved physicians in Aspen — a description he shares gladly with his close friend, Harold Whitcomb, aka Dr. Whit. The stories of his generosity and caring would fill many books as he has extended the principles of the Hippocratic oath to every facet of his life.

My husband tells me he "got to go to college" because of Dr. Bob. While Aspen stories abound about the good doctor, not many know this one. Bob was serving as chief flight surgeon in the Air Force during the Korean War. He was appalled to discover that his wounded colleagues were not getting proper care and seemed to have been forgotten. He lobbied acquaintance General Curtis LeMay (who was unaware of the veterans’ plight) to assure that proper benefits were allocated by the government. As a result, the G.I. Bill was successfully carried through the U.S. Congress, and many veterans were deservedly rewarded.

Dr. Bob served for many years as a U.S. Ski Team doctor and has been inducted into the national, Colorado, and Aspen ski halls of fame. He holds other honors — too many to list. However, his personal sense of accomplishment comes not with recognition but with the pleasure of watching his handiwork give success to people’s lives.

– Georgia Hanson

Bridger Gile 1999

2008-03-11T03:48:00Z

Bridger Gile 1999–present

Hi, my name is Bridger Gile. After being featured in two Warren Miller Films, winning a NASTAR national title and skiing 80 days a year, I am finally attending kindergarten. At first I was worried that school was going to squeeze my ski time, but like any true Aspen local, I think I’ve figured out a way to get in plenty of vertical — half-time kindergarten and the new Deep Temerity lift at Highlands!

I can’t wait for winter, although summer hasn’t been so bad. I’ve been playing soccer, golf, competing on the swim team, riding my bike, and working on my cliff-hucking (jumping the punchbowl at the Grottos). I even got to go to France to see Lance Armstrong win the Tour. That was exciting!

Wax up those skis and I’ll see you on the hill soon.

(written by Bridger – 2005 - with a little help!)

Amous Bourquin 1857 to 1943

2008-03-11T03:43:00Z

Amous Bourquin 1857–1943

Letter from Aspen, Colo., April 17, 1881

Dear Jule:

I have been here a couple weeks so I will try to let you know what little I can of Aspen. I will begin at Denver. I left there in the morning about half sick. Reached Leadville 7:30 pm. I had intended to stop in Leadville one day to look around the City but a couple of hours the next morning satisfied me as it was a cloudy day and very muddy and cold. I then took the stage for Independence 35 miles but the snow got so soft before night that we had to stop at the foot of the range 10 miles from Independence. We started again at three o’clock in the morning in order to cross the range while the snow was frozen. We reached Independence for breakfast, and it was a hard old breakfast for a fellow that had a hard days walk to do here the less. I left my baggage for the jack train fitted on my gum boots and prepared for a snowey tussel for Aspen. Reached here about five o’clock and found the boys all well.

A. D. Bourquin

(letter is edited – full letter on file at Aspen Historical Society.)

Bill Heron - 1897 to 1970's

2008-03-11T02:58:00Z

Bill Herron 1897–circa 1970s

Bill Herron was an Aspen-born, lifelong silver miner who staunchly believed that the mining glory days in his beloved hometown would return.

As a newcomer in the early 1950s, I first saw Bill and a few old-timers clustered around the brass spittoon wisely provided by the postmaster, Alton Beck, in the post office (now Amen Wardy’s site). They were peering through the steamy window, watching skiers on Aspen Mountain. They used the P.O. as a warm place to meet and talk. "Look at them crazy snowsliders. You ask me, they got rocks in their heads, messing around like that!"

That was Bill Herron addressing his cronies. It was mystifying to them that these strangers were paying money to play in the snow, on the same steep mountainside that all the miners had to climb to get to work during the "good old days."

I met Bill at his mother’s home on Main Street (now Herron Apartments). He lived with Cassie, his 85-year-old mother, but his real headquarters was the Red Onion. Since our family’s bed-and-breakfast inn was across the street, I’d visit with Cassie often and hear the latest gossip.

Bill and his pals took comfort in "Beer Gulch," sharing pitchers and moodily recalling how things used to be before the music people and snowsliders discovered Aspen. Beer was the drink of choice, unless someone stood them to something a bit stronger. It was beer, and Bill’s fondness for it, that was undoubtedly the reason the town marshal took Bill’s driver’s license away: "For his own good and that of the rest of town too."

His ancient Ford was retired among Cassie’s lilac bushes, between the rhubarb patch and the woodshed. "When are you going to get rid of that thing?" she’d ask. Bill would shrug, "Don’t know, maybe when I get my license back."

Almost every night, Bill would carry a hot meal home to his mother. He’d get the cook to wrap up the Onion’s special, and he’d walk clear across town with it, through stormy weather, if need be. It would always be a surprise meal for Cassie, because she never knew when he’d arrive or what he’d bring.

His Irish charm and inborn gallantry was a delight. There was always a slight bow, a tip of his hat and a flattering word when we met. He complimented our children and our "lucky husbands." He was a gentleman.

Bill moved to a boarding house in Glenwood Springs when Cassie died in 1962. We’d see him down at one of the riverside bars, where his portrait hung on the wall and he still held forth with a diminishing group of old-timers. He’d insist on buying us a beer, and we’d try to satisfy his curiosity about Aspen’s goings on.

When we asked about him a few months later, a grizzled old man mournfully shook his head.

"Old Bill has gone and died — left us for good."

– Jony Larrowe

Al S. Lamb - 1855 to 1940

2008-03-11T02:55:00Z

Al S. Lamb 1855–1940 by Buzz Cooper and Larry Fredrick

In late 1886 or early 1887, Al Lamb, a pharmacist, decided to cast his lot with the new silver boom at Aspen. The Lamb Drug Store became the center of community affairs, and Lamb himself became a powerful influence in local government.

He won high regard for his integrity, enterprise and good citizenship. A good businessman, Lamb became well-known all over the state and his store was a genuine landmark. Many remember his old-fashioned soda fountain. To this day, there are old-timers who would have no remedies other than old "Doc" Lamb’s prescriptions.

Lamb was an active and early member of the Benevolent Order of Elks and the Lions Club, and a member of the State Board of Pharmacy. His active public spirit served not only Aspen, but the county and the state.

He loved the mountains, fishing and hunting, and he loved horses and dogs. It is said that his favorite spaniel died within 15 minutes after his beloved master. Lamb was so fond of his champion hunting dog Max that when Max died, Lamb had him stuffed. His granddaughter Peggy (Rowland) recalls that when she visited her grandfather, her errand was to dust off Max.

Bil Dunaway - 1923

2008-03-11T02:50:00Z

Bil Dunaway 1923

–present

Bil Dunaway was a great newspaper publisher and has a huge heart, but what he was known best for around The Aspen Times was his fiscal conservatism. On any given day, he could be found up on the roof dabbing tar on a leak, shoveling the sidewalk, repairing a toilet with baling wire or whacking the furnace into compliance. Often when talking with me at my desk he would, unable to bear the waste, reach out and turn off my electric typewriter.

One morning, shortly after I had pointed out that his vinyl office chair was in tatters, we found what appeared to be a crop circle on the carpet of the ad office. Bil had cut out a circle of newsprint, laid it on the floor, placed his chair in the center and spray-painted it, leaving a ring of black sunburst.

God love him, he is the least pretentious person in Aspen.

–

Su Lum

Betty Jane Harbour - circa 1950 arrival

2008-03-11T02:46:00Z

Betty Jane Harbour

From Port Arthur, Texas, Betty Jane Harbour came to Aspen around 1950 with her husband Jack. She built the houses that bracket the east end of Castle Creek bridge.

Betty had a smile that could melt boilerplate and a foghorn of a voice. In the ’60s, during a whiteout on Aspen Mountain, Betty left the Sundeck with her ski class of 14. By the time they reached Little Nell, there were 44 terrified skiers following the sound of her voice.

After Jack’s death, Betty traveled the world, hunting big game in Alaska and living in the Maharani palace in Katmandu. She trekked to Everest base camp three times — after losing a kneecap when her Norwegian Dun slipped and fell on her. Though she’d never finished high school, she enrolled at CU in Astrogeophysics just as her daughter Cyndie was finishing her master’s.

Betty died while she was building her fifth house, in the mountains of northern New Mexico. She’d been living in the first and only completed part of the house — and the most important to her — the observatory tower.

– Doug Franklin

Barry Smith

2008-03-11T02:41:00Z

Barry Smith 1966

–present

Full-time humorist and former audio-visual guy, Barry Smith has, in 15 years of living here, unassumingly become a modern-day embodiment of the "Aspen Idea." Not content with writing an award-winning weekly column in The Aspen Times, writing and directing award-winning short films, writing and performing award-winning theater (his monologue "Jesus in Montana" won Outstanding Solo show at the 2005 Fringe Festival in New York City), Barry also writes poetry, entertains a vast number of friends with anecdotes and observations, convenes a weekly writers’ salon, and is planning to tour his stage show

— among other creative projects.

If this makes Barry sound like an overachieving Renaissance man

— wait, it gets worse. He can also be found playing blues guitar, snowboarding, hiking, biking and trying not to topple over while holding complex yoga poses.

Popular theory may hold that the Aspen Idea is as much a shadow of the past as smooth-running traffic on Main Street, but Barry is proof that the Idea still flows on.

–

Katherine Sand

Harley Baldwin

2008-03-11T02:25:00Z

HARLEY BALDWIN 1945 - 2005

Harley Baldwin Harley was an Air Force brat often rumored to be heir to the Baldwin Piano fortune. Harley had a reputation, among those who didn’t know him very well, for being a tough business man and rather stingy with his time and his money.

In truth he was a soft touch and his generosity was the stuff of stories that will live for many generations. He just had an infuriating tendency to name-drop that gave him an aura of snobbism. It did put me off on many occasions, and I would leave the room feeling "less than" for not knowing of what he spake AND not wanting to admit it to him. I always attributed this annoyance to his need for approval.

At his core, Harley cared desperately about every living thing. I remember catching him with tears in his eyes, deep in a canyon on a camping trip to Lake Powell in 1970. There was a snowy egret perched high above us. It had reminded H.B. of the egret that had died when he and I both had jobs feeding the animals at the Syracuse Zoo during college.

– Georgia Herrick Hanson

Aspen State Teachers College

2008-03-11T02:20:00Z

Dr. Slats Cabbage "The Dr. of Fluid Mechanics" (aka Marc Demmon) 1951–present

Slats was the manager for the Aspen Mine Company and announced "this will be your headquarters for the new mall construction." He told me about the Aspen State Teacher’s College and immediately dubbed me the Dean of Destruction. I think the "Cabbage Racing Team" was the spark that made the college a reality. Slats and I walked into City Market and he was carrying a 6-inch bolt in his hands. He walked up to the produce manager and said he wanted a big cabbage.

"How big?"

"One that will fit on this bolt!"

It became the hood ornament for the "Screamin’ Eagle" No. 137 race car.

ASTC was one of the cleverest ideas in America, and Slats and Al together were a formidable, hilarious team to watch. "Who the hell is Slats Cabbage?" Those who don’t know him have really missed something!

– Big Jim Furniss, ASTC alumnus

Al Pendorf "Dean Fulton Bagley 1938–present

What can I say? It was the ’70s. I moved into an apartment with Jack the Butcher and a third "mystery roommate." I lived there for weeks before I ever met this other guy, but we left notes trying to figure each other out.

Finally, we bumped into each other in the hall and I met Al Pendorf, a man on the go (and it was not just work). As the offseason waned (there really was an offseason then), we looked at each other one fall evening and decided to go into town to check out the "freshman class" of new winter season arrivals. Ah, thought Al, we had a freshman class but no school.

That was the start of it all: Aspen State Teacher’s College, a spoof in which "the whole town is the college. Classes are taught everywhere."

Al was in the printing business (not to mention a very strange puzzle contest "business"). It was a natural fit to produce a handbook and a school paper called "The Clean Sweep." Al, known as Dean Fulton Begley, teamed up with Slats Cabbage and Aspen State Teachers College became very real (including T-shirts, a marching band, a football team that always won by default) to all of us "students of the ’70s."Don’t miss the ASTC alumni reunion at the Elks on Oct. 8. We are still trying to find someone who actually graduated.

– Maddy Lieb, Class of ...

Crystal Palace Not Always So Palatial

2008-03-06T22:23:00Z

Crystal Palace Not Always So Palatial

Yore Aspen

The Crystal Palace in 1962, with the Owl Cigars advertisement on the side. Aspen Laundry was in the one-story white building to the left. (Frank Willoughby/Willoughby collection)
Click to Enlarge

Tim Willoughby
September 22, 2007

Imagine dump trucks inside the Crystal Palace, staying warm so they could start on cold winter days to haul miners up the backside of Aspen Mountain. Before Mead Metcalf started his dinner theater there, the Midnight Mine had its headquarters in the building. It reeked of old timber molds, carbide lantern fumes, rock dust and machine lubricants rather than today's captivating aromas of broiling prime rib and uncorked merlot.

Owned by the Midnight Mine, this Coleman truck in 1927 used to park in the Crystal Palace. (Willoughby collection)
Click to Enlarge

The pending change in ownership of the Crystal Palace may alter more than names on the title, especially if Mead Metcalf takes the stained glass and crystal chandeliers with him. His colorful remodel in 1960 made the building more Victorian than it was in 1891 when it was built. Victorian structures in Aspen, with the exception of St. Mary's and the Community Church, had simple windows of small squares of colored glass surrounding plain glass rectangles. Most colorful and elaborate stained glass was imported from New Orleans and Denver during the '60s - the 1960s. The Palace and other buildings were reinvented more than restored.

The Palace from the mid-1930s to 1951 was the company office of the Midnight Mine, Aspen's major employer. It was the ideal building for three reasons. Like most commercial buildings in the downtown core, it had a second-floor office area where the company could accomplish its paperwork. It had a very large ground floor, big enough to park and service its trucks and store equipment and materials. Finally, it was just one block from general manager Fred D. Willoughby's home. He lived at the corner of Hyman Avenue and Aspen Street in the white house that looks today like it looked back then.

In its Victorian heyday the Crystal Palace was a commission house much like today's wholesale distribution warehouses. Goods traded hands on the ground floor where ice cut from Hallam Lake cooled a walk-in meat storage box. E.M Cooper was the proprietor in the early 1900s and in addition to White Owl cigars, as advertised on the exterior wall, he sold produce grown in the agricultural boom areas of Delta and Mesa counties.

The Midnight Mine acquired the building after it had been abandoned for a number of years. The older roof was flat and in desperate need of repair. The Midnight changed the pitch to shed snow, giving the building the odd shape it has today.

The Midnight office accommodated 55 employees in the 1940s. Miners and mill operators worked both day and night shifts, plus the building was the center of business activities and vehicle repair. As Willoughby served as mayor of Aspen through many of those years, it also doubled as an unofficial city hall office.

Aspen's elevation is too high for most fruit trees. Crabapples are one of the few species to prosper. The Monarch side of the building provides great sun exposure with the brick wall holding enough heat to incubate trees. Begun with an apparent toss of a plum seed, a tree still grows there. The Midnight staff marveled at the seedling's survival and gauged the passing of years by the growth of the tree.

Other than The Aspen Times and a few lodges, it's unusual for commercial buildings in Aspen to retain the same use over the long term. Metcalf's nearly half-century as the occupant of this building has provided countless visitors with a unique Aspen experience. Old buildings, especially the brick commercial-core buildings of Aspen, are hard to maintain and to adapt to modern uses but their historical soul is a major ingredient in the Aspen ambiance.

May the next occupant make the most of the legacy.

Tim Willoughby's family story parallels Aspen's. He began sharing folklore while a teacher for Aspen Country Day School and Colorado Mountain College. Now a tourist in his native town, he views it with historical perspective. He can be contacted at redmtn@schat.net.

First Grade Fears in 1914

2008-03-06T22:21:00Z

First Grade Fears in 1914

Yore Aspen

Washington School in Aspen's West End. (Willoughby collection)
Click to Enlarge

Tim Willoughby
September 29, 2007

Starting school is a tough transition for children. The prevalence of preschool has eased the transition between home and school, but the first few weeks are still a challenge for 5- and 6-year-olds.

Kindergarten teachers tell hundreds of humorous stories about the distorted perceptions and fearful experience of first-timers. The student who asks, "Is it lunch yet?" a half-hour after the day starts. "Did I eat my lunch?" asked a half-hour after the PB and J was consumed. Finding their lunch, knowing what to do with an unpeeled orange, and the buckets of tears shed over the slightest deviation from a home routine round out those long first days in school.

When my mother started first grade in 1914 there were more ominous challenges.

For one, it wasn't until the 1970s that there was a larger first-grade class. Aspen was a shrinking-but-still-large town in 1914. The Panic of 1907 had cut the population of the county by 25 percent but in 1910 it was still 4,600, about half the size of Albuquerque at that time. The 1914 first grade was the last big class. In 1917-1918, Aspen's largest mine, the Smuggler, shut down over an electricity rate dispute and the influenza struck, reducing Aspen's population an additional 30 percent.

Like most cities of the time, Aspen was proud of its schools. Aspen had three elementary schools: Lincoln, Garfield and Washington. In the beginning they were multi-grade schools, each located in a different section of town. When the Washington School opened in the West End in 1890, they began separating students by grade rather than by location. First through fourth grades were located at the Washington School.

There was no kindergarten in Aspen's schools until 1955, so my mother entered school in first grade at the Washington School. Most students in those days did not make it through high school, leaving after eighth grade. The Washington School was a large, permanent brick structure with big windows and Victorian flourishes, larger than the high school and still a "modern" model, but it had one component that confounded my mother.

In 1914, indoor plumbing was rare. Children like my mother were used to using an outhouse. Her term was "the chick sail," a name popularized from a play about an outhouse builder written by Chick Sale. Cold in the winter, smelly and always too far from where ever you were, they still served their purpose. Spiders and bees were a bother, and children always feared they might fall through the hole into the gaping pit below.

The Washington School had a more modern facility, an indoor one. It was located in the basement and had a whole line of holes. What filled my mother with fear was that instead of the usual pit there was a continuously running torrent of water running below the holes, a kind of partially open sewer. Further complicating the situation, the holes were not calibrated for first-graders; they were adult size. At least they seemed that way to a first-grader.

"I was so afraid I would fall through and be carried off to God knows where," my mother told me.

She remembered little else from her first year of school. A 6-year old's nightmare aged into a senior's amusing remembrance.

Tim Willoughby's family story parallels Aspen's. He began sharing folklore while a teacher for Aspen Country Day School and Colorado Mountain College. Now a tourist in his native town, he views it with historical perspective. He can be contacted at redmtn@schat.net.

Made In Aspen

2008-03-06T22:20:00Z

Made In Aspen

The Durant Mine fabrication shop could make almost anything. (Willoughby photo collection)
Click to Enlarge

Tim Willoughby
October 6, 2007

Fifty years ago you would often encounter abandoned mining and milling equipment around Aspen's periphery. Many items had manufacturer's names and "New York, N.Y." stamped into the thick cast iron with dates from pre-railroad times.

How could heavy and often large pieces of machinery have been moved so far? Although Columbia University was a major mining and engineering school and its students did summer internships in Aspen's mines, that connection does not explain the mystery.

The explanation was a common practice in the earliest years. Aspen mines made some of the equipment in Aspen using plans they bought from companies headquartered in New York.

An example was the Durant Mine machine shop. In its prime it could build almost anything. The blacksmiths and machinists created from scratch, repaired, modified and assembled equipment delivered by train.

Mining and milling equipment was manufactured from very thick, but brittle, cast iron that was prone to rapid destruction. In the clash of metal against rock, rock often won. Mine machine shops battled to keep up with repairs. Steam-driven equipment required boilers that developed leaks whenever a rivet worked loose. Rock drills vibrated like present-day jackhammers, expanding any metal weakness into fissures. Any metal part fractures under constant use and the extreme weights that mining imposes.

Blacksmiths turned out everything from hinges to intricate fixtures. Even today in former mining locations you can find locally forged square nails. In a few places you may see metal pipe that was made by curling longs strips of thick metal and riveting it every half-foot to hold the edges together.

Until about 1890, San Francisco foundries were the major manufacturers of mining equipment. With the advent of the continental railroad, eastern companies began shipping equipment westward. Closer to western mines, Denver, Salt Lake City and Butte, Mont., dominated the business. After trains reached Aspen in 1887, and in 1888 when standard-gauge trains could haul heavy loads, most equipment came from out of town. Cheap shipping methods, and the development of steel for building, shifted many Aspen mine structures, like hoisting head frames, from wood to steel.

Aspen was the first mining town to replace steam power with electricity. One consequence was that there was less boiler repair, but electric motors became the new shop activity. Aspen Novelty Works, operated by the Blackburn brothers, on the corner of Hyman Avenue and Mill Street, offered rewinding for dynamos and motors and other electrical repairs. At another location they sold and repaired traditional mining machinery.

The 1890s were the height of American machinery. There seemed to be no end to how powerful an engine could be or how huge a drive wheel could be forged. Aspen used the biggest and best and manufactured some of its own.

Tim Willoughby's family story parallels Aspen's. He began sharing folklore while a teacher for Aspen Country Day School and Colorado Mountain College. Now a tourist in his native town, he views it with historical perspective. He can be contacted at redmtn@schat.net.

Jeep Brakes and the Wonderful Willys

2008-03-06T22:19:00Z

Jeep Brakes and the Wonderful Willys

Yore Aspen

Jeanne Willoughby Englert sitting atop a 1950s Willys in front of what later became La Cocina restaurant on East Hopkins Avenue. (Doris Willoughby/Willoughby photo collection)
Click to Enlarge

Tim Willoughby
October 13, 2007

Recently a caller to National Public Radio's "Car Talk" asked if something could be done about his Jeep brakes. The Magliozzi brothers' answer was a derisive laugh. Jeeps are notorious for poor brakes. They became dangerous when they put bigger motors in them so they could go faster than the brakes could slow them down.

In the 1950s, Jeeps were the vehicles of choice for anyone in Aspen who could afford one. They were the perfect match for Aspen's unpaved streets and the most reliable way to navigate deep snow in the winter. The Willys Jeep, made by Kaiser in Toledo, Ohio, was not designed for fast travel. Speeds over 45 mph could be attained only if you were traveling downhill on pavement. At 35 mph on gravel washboard surfaces like Maroon and Castle Creek roads, you signed up for a noisy, teeth-shattering ride.

But if you wanted to tackle Aspen Mountain you could slip the Willys CJ (civilian jeep) into four-wheel-low range and it would purr straight up Little Nell. The low gearing enabled it to climb any slope at any altitude, even with its low-horsepower, four-cylinder engine.

Coming down was more interesting. You could stand on the brakes and even at slow speeds you might not stop, at least not for a long, nail-biting distance. However, shifting into low range held your speed to a reasonable crawl. Many Aspenites tell stories of careening down Aspen Mountain or Pearl Pass, top to bottom, with no brakes at all. Not by choice, but because their brakes had gone out altogether.

Then there was that other Willys quirk.

While going downhill with the gears holding back the speed, a bump from hitting a rock (on four-wheel-drive roads that's all there is) could throw the vehicle out of gear. The law of unanticipated consequences ordained this catastrophe when you were on the steepest grade, the sharpest turn and the narrowest of roads with a precipitous cliff alongside as far ahead as you could see.

John Healy worked on all the Jeeps in Aspen, making him the most likely the national Willys expert. He devised and patented a device to keep jeeps from slipping out of gear, and installed it on many Aspen jeeps. Who knows how many fatalities he prevented.

Some Jeeps had a forward-facing back seat, but most didn't. Children, or any other passengers, sat facing sideways on the narrow metal benches above the rear wheels. There was just enough room for a big dog and a small child, or a big child and a small dog, and a couple bags of groceries.

There was no upholstery in a Jeep. The only hint of extravagance was a tiny glove compartment where you could keep a spare fan belt. Early models, which lacked a keyed ignition, sported a button you pushed to run the starter motor. That was OK in Aspen because most people, even if they had keys, left them in their vehicles.

Except for the brake, the Willys was one of the most reliable and durable vehicles ever built. They started in the coldest weather and required minimal maintenance. Because you wouldn't take a trip to Denver in one, and usually just used them to get around town, even the old ones had low mileage accumulations.

Those blessed with having one will never part with it. Admire them, but if you see one coming up fast in your rearview mirror, then remember their brakes.

Tim Willoughby's family story parallels Aspen's. He began sharing folklore while a teacher for Aspen Country Day School and Colorado Mountain College. Now a tourist in his native town, he views it with historical perspective. He can be contacted at redmtn@schat.net.

Clearing the grizzly - mining's most dangerous job

2008-03-06T22:18:00Z

Clearing the grizzly - mining's most dangerous job

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Tim Willoughby
October 20, 2007

Blasting required careful handling of explosives. Drilling was a silent killer from rock dust cutting up your lungs. But the really dangerous job was tending to the "grizzly" - and that didn't mean chasing bears away.

Mining is the business of moving quantities of heavy rock, and the more mineral content the heavier the load. A pile of mineral-bearing ore the size of a hay bale weighs about a ton. For this reason miners prefer to work using gravity rather than against it.

Large mines drive tunnels below ore deposits and then work their way up. Using this "caving" method, miners easily move tons of material from the ore source to waiting mine cars for transportation out of the tunnel. The connection is like a laundry chute, usually about 3 to 5 feet in diameter, and sometimes more than 100 feet long.

Ore dumped into the chute from above, because it was basically in free fall, could do great damage if left to fall all the way to the waiting mine car below. The grizzly was a large grate, made of logs or steel, placed near the end of the fall to slow the flow.

Because the grizzly was a grid of squares about a foot wide, larger rocks would get caught and eventually block the flow of ore. Men were employed to keep the grizzly free and to dislodge rocks stuck in the chute.

My father, 20 years old in 1926, decided to leave Aspen to "experience the world." The Depression had already begun in the West. He was a skilled miner, having worked in Aspen's mines in the summers and on weekends since he was 14, and he talked his way into a job at the copper mine in Miami, Ariz. It was a swing shift clearing the grizzlies, but he was lucky to find any work at all.

The work, at first, was not too strenuous because the copper ore was soft compared to Aspen's silver-lead-zinc ore. It was easy to break up the rock using a sledgehammer. It was hazardous because someone far above might push ore into the chute to fall on the unsuspecting workers below. In earlier years ore was sent down continuously; workers moved back and forth at the side of the grizzly, dodging rocks. It was not unusual to have teens doing this work, and injuries and fatalities were common.

Clearing the chutes was even more of a challenge. The usual method was to climb up the chute, like bouldering today, wedging between the sides, carrying an explosive attached on the end of a 10-foot pole. Once under the snag you could push the charges between the lodged boulders. The explosive was 40 percent nitroglycerine in a gelatin stick form. You set it off using electric primer wires. A day of blasting would fill the tight air spaces with blasting fumes. At the end of the shift, pills were issued to deal with the headaches from the explosive smoke.

Being young with no fear of death, my father's partner was placing the charges without using the pole. He would climb right into the tangled rocks. No matter how you did this job, there was always the chance that while setting the charges you might dislodge the rocks above you, many weighing much more than you did, and they would fall on top of you and force you down the chute.

One day his partner went up the chute to free a stuck chute door from below. The door was in the middle, so after he opened it an unexpected amount of material rushed past him and then got stuck on the grizzly below him. There was no way for him to make his way up to the top of the chute, so he was stuck there for 10 hours until the grizzly could be freed and the material pulled out.

Fortunately, after a few anxious days working the grizzly, my father was moved to tunnel timbering, a much safer and more skilled position. Miners at the time worked six days a week and were paid $5 a shift. There was a medical benefit, though: The mine had an unmanned underground medical station. Your chances were not much better than if you had been attacked by a grizzly bear.

Spring Ahead - Fall Back?

2008-03-06T22:16:00Z

Spring Ahead - Fall Back?

Yore Aspen

Changing the time was a bit of work on this clock gracing the lobby of the Hotel Jerome. (T. Willoughby)
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Tim Willoughby
October 27, 2007

The phrase for remembering what to do with your clocks makes it easy to handle daylight saving time (DST). It wasn't always so simple in Aspen; you really needed two clocks to track time.

Aspen has a long history of wanting to pioneer new ideas. This was especially true in the 1960s. While the rest of the state debated whether to go on daylight saving time, Aspen decided it was such a good idea that it would go it alone.

Even though daylight saving time had been implemented nationally during both world wars and some European countries had been using it since 1918, the elderly, who tend to be early risers and uncomfortable with change, complained. I remember my great-aunt being most upset. She collected cuckoo clocks. It was always interesting to visit her because they were not all set on the same time and one clock or another would gong, clang or cuckoo every few minutes.

"I'm just not going to change the time on my clocks," she said.

The agricultural communities of Colorado had the most influence in the state Legislature, and they were unanimously opposed to daylight saving time. Local ranchers said, "Animals run on sun time." Feeding one hour earlier than "bright and early" was just not going to happen.

The staunchest opponents to Aspen's solo clock change came from those who did not live in Aspen. What time would you run on if you lived in Watson or Snowmass? Would the school bus run on state time or Aspen time? People would come to town for an appointment and forget about the difference in time. With doctors often being an hour behind schedule in the late afternoon anyway, it didn't always matter. Complicating matters, the post office and state offices were required to operate on standard time.

Fishermen found fixing the time to be a great advantage. Aspen stores for years had closed at 5:30 or 6 p.m. and, without DST, fishing after work was limited. An extra hour on the streams saved more than time; it may have saved the day.

Concerts at the often-cold tent were a bit warmer. Working gardeners found more time to pull weeds even though the daylight saved did not extend the growing season.

People outside Aspen thought the town had gone crazy. They already believed people who lived there had "no common sense" so Aspen continued to serve as the punch line for numerous jokes.

Aspen was saved in 1966 when Congress established a national time standard. It did so because, between 1960 and 1966, some states, counties and cities, including Chicago, had gone on DST while others had not. The Aspen problem had gone national. By 1966, 100 million Americans used DST. The act required each state to go "all on" or "all off."

The statewide debate pitted the outdoor community against the entrenched traditionalists. It's hard to believe, but much of the opposition arose because some people couldn't figure out what to do with their clocks, and many had no understanding about time in general. One opponent said, "The extra hour of sunlight is burning up my yard." Another said, "Government has no business fiddling with God's time."

You would think that after 40 years of DST the idea would have taken root, but in 2000 Mary Anne Tebedo of Colorado Springs introduced a bill to take Colorado off DST. The legislation failed.

The music group Chicago's song "Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?" was released just after Aspen's DST affair. It really resonated with anyone who lived through Aspen's timely "experiment."

Tim Willoughby's family story parallels Aspen's. He began sharing folklore while a teacher for Aspen Country Day School and Colorado Mountain College. Now a tourist in his native town, he views it with historical perspective. He can be contacted at redmtn@schat.net.

Jeep Tales and Tips

2008-03-06T22:15:00Z

Many additional comments could be added to Tim Willoughby's Jeep article ("Jeep Brakes and the Wonderful Willys," Yore Aspen, Oct. 13). For nearly 40 years, I have had a '63 Jeep in Aspen. Bought secondhand, it has about every accessory possible. The original owner added a Dodge brake booster that works fine. Brakes are not the big problem on part of the Pearl Pass road where you need some people outriggers to keep from rolling. 60 mph is OK in overdrive.

Roland Fischer
Lakewood, Colo.