All One River GIS

I just spent a weekend working under cover as a normal person. By that, I mean I wore a dress, braided my hair, and sat in a chair at a booth during a festival to sell my artwork and books. The venue was a kayaking race and festival on the Arkansas River in Salida. At such an event, it would be disastrous to let on that I work in mining. At least, that has been my experience when outside my personal circle of river-running, kayaking, fishing, rafting, mining friends. 

It’s easy to avoid the tender topic of mining in Colorado when you have books and art in your booth until the address of Victor, Colorado comes up.

“Where’s Victor?” nice people ask when reading my business card.

“Near Cripple Creek,” I answer, though I can tell that is a vague black hole in geography to some.

“What do you do there?” a more pointed question to avoid.

“I don’t live there anymore. That’s where I keep my business post office.” I answer.

“Why there?”

At this point, the truth is nearly inevitable and I feel the compulsive urge to blurt out, ‘I WORK IN THE MINING INDUSTRY – I MINE – I’M A MINER!!!!!’ like a mad woman possessed with the truth. By then, the customer has usually decided I am a kook and is ready to move on. That’s the way it is when you’re a booth babe.

I had a rather nice discovery while at the booth, though. I knew that the region had been an agricultural and railroading center with a rather dour economy prior to the latest surge in real-estate development and river-running enthusiasm. At FibArk, the ranchers were now mingling with the river rats walking that kind of slow, meander from left to right making their way down the aisle between booths. The river people walk fast, kind of stomping and wear, well, scant clothes. The ranchers wear, well, cowboy clothes. The latter were the people I targeted for conversation. Ranchers like to be asked things like,

“How long have you lived here? Are you retired? Do you have grandkids? Do you ride horses? What kind of cows do you raise? Is the rain good this year for hay?” Things like that. For some odd reason ranchers like to yell the answers at you, too.

“WE BEEN HERE 27 YEARS!!!!!!!!!! DON’T RAISE NO COWS NO MORE!!!!!!!!!!! DON’T RIDE NO HORSES NO MORE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! NOT ENUFF RAIN THIS YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” etc.

My nicest discovery came early in the morning on the last day of the show. Most of the other booth people don’t stir quite so early in the morning (feeding elephants, I suppose) so I am usually alone. I had already set up my booth and was walking down to the river to sit a while and wait for the sun to climb high enough to warm my awning. On my way to the bank I saw a very elderly man holding on to the perimeter barricades down by the river. He was kind of tippy.

“Mornin’, ” I said.

“Mornin’, ” he answered. He was a dapper looking guy, nicely dressed, blue eyes, safari-style hat.

“That’s a nice hat,” I told him.

 ”Why thank you. My daughter bought that for me.” I think his eye twinkled. I melt when old guys’ eyes twinkle at me.

 ”Are you a rancher?” I asked him.

 ”No, I’m a retired miner.” He answered. “I worked at mines near here all my life until I retired thirty years ago.”

I put my arm through his and we made our way back to my booth while Lloyd told me all about drilling, blasting and mucking in his underground mining days near Salida at Chalk Creek and Monarch. Our mining heritage (and future) is intact.