The Last Narrow Gauge Train Robbery. Robert K. Swisher Jr.

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СКАЧАТЬ are but tokens on the ranches, living legends who, for a few years, will live their glory; sleeping with the young cowboy girls poured into their tight Levis, dreaming of six guns and cattle rustlers, reading their Louis L’Amour books until the day comes when they get one of the little cowgirls pregnant and move into a trailer, then rising each day to work in the mill or drive a truck.

      The mountains that are excluded from the boundaries of the ranches are considered wilderness or natural forests. A huge tract of land running between Pagosa Springs and Durango on the west, and Chama and Antonito on the south and east remains relatively unspoiled. Left to the government, it will be spoiled. The trail heads are areas where one may start into the wilderness either on foot or horseback. Motorized vehicles are not allowed. In the lakes that dot the wilderness, brook and cut-throat trout leap into the air from the stillness of mirror-smooth water. The people who come to this country come to be alone or to be with friends. It is a small haven for the lost and disenchanted ones who come to be with the wind and the forest. It is a place to run to, to breathe the fresh air, and to see one’s life.

      Before the 1860s, there was nothing back in the wilderness except a few outlaws and a few Indians. By the 1870s, gold and silver had been discovered, and a rough-cut road circled up and through Grouse Mountain, Cumbres Pass, and Munga Pass, ending at the small mining community of Platoro. Here, miners worked for the large mining company until they had a grub stake, and could then head into the mountains to pan the streams and dig the outcroppings in search of their glory hole. The trails that came from these miners are the trails that people follow now, searching for quiet. It is a timeless place, a place where the seasons come and go without our help. A place where nature is alone most of the year, sealed by remoteness from our perils.

      Snaking around the edge of this wilderness is the Narrow Gauge Railroad. Running partially by the super highway, it is a black, smoke-belching attraction that makes all the cars stop and look in wonder at a portion of our past. The train runs by the highway for ten miles before it cuts off into the forest, climbing over the passes to coast into Colorado. It is a living memory, a memory of gold and silver, guards with double-barreled shotguns riding with the cars, nervous, waiting for the sound of the rifle or crack of a pistol. Hanging in the office of the Narrow Gauge Railroad is an old, browned-out photograph of four men who tried to rob the Chama train. They are strung from a cottonwood tree by the river, their necks extended out past life, dreams of riches and no work gone forever. Standing around the four is a group of smiling men, their hats pulled over their eyes, their guns crossed in their arms. There is no date, there are no names. It was just another event in the mountains not worth remembering.

      When the mine played out, and the rivers did not yield enough gold to warrant any more exploring, Platoro, Chama and the railroad died, slipped peacefully back into the seasons. A few crooks and ranchers stayed on, along with a few hermits. Not until the 1960s did the land wake up once again. Hippies, the disenchanted ones, moved in from all over the world, looking for peace and love and the truth. They found Mexicans who hated Anglos, cowboys who hated Mexicans and about everything else, including cold, and the truth. But they also found the wilderness. A wilderness not overrun like Yellowstone or Yosemite. And then, as if by magic, people began to remember the forest. People all over the country were filled with the fear it was ending. One day there would be only photographs. Elk and deer would be stuffed or in zoos, and people began to flock to the outback. It was here that Bill, Ronnie, Riley and Frank came every year, came to remember old times and old places, came to laugh at the days when they cut wood to heat their homes, and walked through the snow to the outhouse. They laughed about being stuck in the woods, carrying guns to scare off the Mexicans and cowboys who didn’t like longhair s.

      It is different now. People don’t care about the hair. There are enough problems without worrying about someone’s hair. Like the train, the gold, silver, and the big ranches, Frank, Riley, Bill, and Ronnie settled onto the shelf of antiquity. They settled their shoulders a little, and took life for what it was.

      “It’s a mind-fuck,” Ronnie exclaimed.

      “It’s a cocksucker,” Frank declared.

      “It’s a bunch of shit,” Bill knew.

      “It’s a photograph of a rose-colored asshole,” Riley observed.

CHAPTER 5

      They all woke up at the same time with the morning sun streaming through the truck glass. By the wood corral built by the Forest Service, a meadowlark was singing. They stepped from the truck, stretching cramped muscles. Around them in every direction the mountains loomed, studded with granite and limestone bluffs. On each vista, the snow-capped peaks poked through the early morning clouds. Down an aspen-studded hill, they could hear the main branch of the Conejos River running. They immediately went to work. The horses were unloaded and fed, the saddles lined up along with the other gear that must be evenly loaded onto the two pack horses. After an hour of running around posing for photographs for Riley, they started to load the gear. After the horses were saddled and the pack horses loaded, they pulled out their costumes, as Ronnie called them. With ceremony, each put on his worn and dirtied chaps, each strapped on his spurs with the ringing dowels, each pulled on his own well-worn hat. Bill had a white hat that dropped low down over his eyes; Riley a bowler with a turkey feather stuck in the band. Ronnie had a small-brimmed gambler’s hat, he called it; and Frank a bulldog rolled straw hat.

      With a holler, they started down a slight downgrade that led then over the river and onto the trail to Green Lake. Of all the years of packing in the wilderness, they liked Green Lake the best. In August, the meadows are crawling with elk eating the last weeks of green grass and surveying their domain. The lake is deep and cold, blown into existence eons ago when the mountain top blew. It holds large cut-throat trout when one can catch them. As the men forded the stream down from the valley, they heard the faint cry of the Narrow Gauge train as Matthew Crane pulled the whistle.

      The time passed. The horses snorted and filled their lungs with the mountain air, straining against reins to nip at the lush, green grass. After three miles, they stopped. It was a traditional stop. Here the trail bends to begin its climb out of the valley floor. The South Fork of the Conejos tumbles by as it rushes off the mountain. Beyond them was the turmoil of life, here the sound of the stream, and the smell of the aspen and birch. Letting the horses graze, the men stood in a circle, held hands, and hollered in unison, “One more year, we fucked you one more year.” Then they threw their hats into the air and sat down and lit up a joint.

      Beginning here and now, there was no time — rain, bugs, the sound of chopping wood, horses, yes, but no time; no government, no gross receipts tax, no kids needing shoes, no truck or car needing its endless supply of money to keep it running, no electric bill, no gas bill, no doctor bill.

      “Jesus God,” Bill proclaimed, “how in the hell can we make it without the stress?”

      Ronnie took a hit on the joint, “I don’t know. Maybe if we invent a pill that gives people stress we’ll make a fortune.”

      Riley stood and took several photographs.

      “Don’t you think that through the years you’d have enough pictures?” Frank asked.

      Riley snapped the shutter, “Never, never enough. You guys stand over by those aspen and let me get another shot.”

      By evening, they would be by the lake. Along the way, they would see deer and elk sign, grouse, sparrows, jays, a few wild crows, and the remnants of coyote-killed sheep. They spoke little, noticing the trees and leaves and the relaxing sound of the forest.

      Reaching the lake, they went to hiding spots and pulled out nails, grills, and their pine tent poles they had been cut years earlier. They immediately fell into the routine of setting the camp. The ridge pole was run through the wall tent. Nailed between СКАЧАТЬ