One hundred miles from Montrose is the hamlet of Lake City. It is a town of 400 year-round residents which once had a population of 3000 miners and their support people. Those supporters would have included grocers, blacksmiths, and a coterie of ladies whose job it was to take those miners’ minds off their hard and hazardous lives for a short while.
Today Lake City survives by providing shelter, food, artworks and trinkets to a wandering group of tourists, and in this way take their minds off their troubles for a short while. It is nestled in the mountains and on our visit there this past Monday the sun shone on snow-white peaks and frosted trees once we got above 11, 000 feet in altitude. It was gorgeous.
The San Juan Mountains are fresh ones. They are not rounded and worn by the passage of time like the Appalachians or the Black Hills of South Dakota. They are sharp-edged and angular, suggesting one definitely should take care before trifling with them. One of our goals was to take a side road back to a series of ponds that moose often frequented, but the snow was several days old and had gone through enough freeze-thaw cycles that those side roads were slick with ice and treacherous. We were not willing to tackle that small gravel road on that particular day. The joys of driving sideways and ending up pointing downwards into a snow-filled ditch were powerful attractants but we demurred.
The town still had life in it, even in early winter. The proprietor of one gallery spoke to us at length about life up there, his career as an artist, and the stories portrayed in several of his paintings. His voice was low-pitched and mellifluous and we three were hypnotized for half an hour before we could break away. Even then he followed us out of the store to talk about a photograph in the window of his shop.
Lunch in Lake City was a stop at the Cannibal Grill. Back in the late 1800s, Alferd Packer and four other men ignored all advice and set out in winter for the town of Breckinridge CO. They never made it out alive except for Alferd, who wandered into Lake City months later as the sole survivor. In the spring the bodies of the other four were located, and it appeared that they might have been killed and partially eaten by something or someone. Suspicion naturally fell on Alferd, and he was convicted of those crimes. The verdict was initially thrown out on a technicality, but the intrepid prosecutors ignored that setback and successfully re-tried him.
The story of his exploits lives on in the name of our restaurant. And who can resist asking their waiter how the establishment got its name?
******
Another gallery is maintained by a gifted photographer, Michael Underwood. Here is his photograph of one of the two main streets in town. Following the link and seeing more of those works might make your day a happier one.
All in all, Lake City is a pretty charming place for a day trip.
******
There was one day this past week when my heart stood still. Robin, Elsa, and I had walked up a short trail called Warner Point up at Black Canyon National Park, and were returning. It had rained during the night, and those rocks were slippery in places, so we tread carefully, but Robin did slip and fall, suffering abrasions to her hands and right knee and a hard knock to that same knee that was awfully painful. I helped her sit up, and we were going to remain there for a moment or two while she collected herself before we continued on down the trail.
She became quiet, and I looked up at her face, where I saw that although her eyes were open, she was unconscious and unresponsive. I helped her to lie back on those wet rocks so that she would not strike her head. Although the time that passed was just seconds, it seemed like forever before she began to breathe deeply and come around. By that time a younger couple had come down the trail to where we lay and they became our helpers and coordinators.
We weren’t entirely sure what had happened, and the period of unconsciousness was probably less than 30 seconds, but were alarmed enough to call for help. The number 911 was dialed, and the EMS people immediately began their journey from Montrose, which was 16 mi away from where we were. All the while I was lying on my left side on the rocks and cradling Robin’s head.
We did not allow her to sit up, but quizzed her repeatedly about her injuries and mental status to make sure that there was nothing important that we had missed. The emergency medical service also sent out a helicopter, just in case it was needed to transport her. That aircraft began circling overhead during the entire time, adding the loud sound of its engines to the feelings of urgency.
The half-hour spent waiting for help to come, as I lay there holding up the head of my best friend on the planet, was a very long 30 minutes. Eventually the team arrived, and after making their own assessment, they helped Robin to her feet and supported on both side as they walked her down the remainder of the trail to the parking lot and an ambulance, which whisked off her to our local hospital. Eventually the diagnosis of vasovagal syncope was made, the proper lab testing and an EKG were performed, and after several hours in the Emergency Department we returned home.
I did not sleep well that night. Robin’s period of unconsciousness, when I didn’t know yet what was happening, had struck a pure vein of terror, and I had not yet recovered. Actually, three days on I still have a way to go, even though all has settled into the usual routines at our home. During that brief time when she was unresponsive, the thought occurred to me that I might be losing her, and that was a jolt unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
Happy ending after all. Grateful for the help we received. On to better things.
******
******
