To the casual observer, a full time RVer might seem to be wandering at random, at least on a daily basis. But on a seasonal basis that is certainly not true. As the summer progresses he moves upriver to higher altitudes. Doing so, all roads lead to Leadville, CO. This is the end of the road, altitude-wise. The city is at 10,150 feet.
I had never been to Leadville before. A woman in the torrid lowlands downriver (at 7000 feet) told me it was ugly. But I sized her up as a fussy-female type, and consider her comment a positive recommendation. Indeed, approaching the city limits of Leadville there were mine tailings and dilapidated shacks with the windows boarded up with plywood. I was hooked.
The first surprise was to see a large Mexican-American population. Apparently they work in construction in the ski resort, condo, and McMansion towns. They live in Leadville because they can.
Are we really only a couple generations from the hardy men who mined around Leadville? The modern American economy is a complete enigma to me. What would Carl Sandberg do today if he wanted to write a poem about a city with big shoulders? Maybe Shanghai, but not Chicago.
Just imagine January at 10,000 feet. I will imagine it from southern Arizona.
One of the gift shops had a Victorian era theme, which is certainly appropriate since Leadville boomed in 1879, after a pre-boom in 1860. The shop had a wax figure of a woman in Victorian dress. I had to look several times to convince myself that it wasn't a real woman. She was sitting in a chair at a table, like she was thinking about writing something.
I walked on. A couple seconds later I returned to the shop because the figure's skin tone looked too realistic. And "she" was quite attractive. [Maybe I need to get out more.] Once again, the figure was utterly motionless. And then her hand moved. She stood up and walked to the back of the story. What an eerie experience!
If I have the story straight, the Climax molybdenum mine is still in operation, partially. A gift shop had a rock with a large vein of molybdenum in it. It has a dull dark grey look to it. No sooner did I walk out of that shop than I saw this appealing medley of grey:
No wonder they used to call this town, "Cloud City." Mt. Massive and other nearby mountains are professional cloud makers every afternoon.
I had never been to Leadville before. A woman in the torrid lowlands downriver (at 7000 feet) told me it was ugly. But I sized her up as a fussy-female type, and consider her comment a positive recommendation. Indeed, approaching the city limits of Leadville there were mine tailings and dilapidated shacks with the windows boarded up with plywood. I was hooked.
The first surprise was to see a large Mexican-American population. Apparently they work in construction in the ski resort, condo, and McMansion towns. They live in Leadville because they can.
Are we really only a couple generations from the hardy men who mined around Leadville? The modern American economy is a complete enigma to me. What would Carl Sandberg do today if he wanted to write a poem about a city with big shoulders? Maybe Shanghai, but not Chicago.
Just imagine January at 10,000 feet. I will imagine it from southern Arizona.
One of the gift shops had a Victorian era theme, which is certainly appropriate since Leadville boomed in 1879, after a pre-boom in 1860. The shop had a wax figure of a woman in Victorian dress. I had to look several times to convince myself that it wasn't a real woman. She was sitting in a chair at a table, like she was thinking about writing something.
I walked on. A couple seconds later I returned to the shop because the figure's skin tone looked too realistic. And "she" was quite attractive. [Maybe I need to get out more.] Once again, the figure was utterly motionless. And then her hand moved. She stood up and walked to the back of the story. What an eerie experience!
If I have the story straight, the Climax molybdenum mine is still in operation, partially. A gift shop had a rock with a large vein of molybdenum in it. It has a dull dark grey look to it. No sooner did I walk out of that shop than I saw this appealing medley of grey:
No wonder they used to call this town, "Cloud City." Mt. Massive and other nearby mountains are professional cloud makers every afternoon.
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