What I love most about exploring places with camera in tow is meeting new people along the way.  I’m not sure if I’m just overly grateful or am super lucky but it seems like I always meet at least one truly special person during a photo excursion that leaves an impression on me in which I reflect upon many times well after my trip.

Today I met someone truly special.

My Saturday morning started promptly at 5am.  I had planned a long over due photo shoot in a ghost town I’ve yet to see, St. Elmo.  I spent the night prior in Buena Vista to cut three hours off my morning drive.  I knew the pre-dawn stretch would take a little longer than usual though since I would be hitting morning rush hour…deer feeding rush hour that is. Additionally, I expected it to be rather chilly given the altitude and time of day so I made sure to dress in layers. What I didn’t expect was the temperature to be a swift kick-in-the-butt-32 degrees when I got up there.  I dressed in layers but I forgot to bring gloves.  That’s right, gloves in August.

Of course, I forgot gloves.  I really needed gloves.

Nonetheless, I was there with both cameras ready to shoot and I knew they would operate properly in temps as cold as 17 degrees.  They pretty much go on strike below that.  So there I was in St. Elmo by 6:30am (freezing) and there wasn’t a shred of evidence of anyone else being up there in that ghost town except for me.  I was solo and on a mission; I was going to capture the essence of this ghost town before I froze to death. And it was obvious (to me at least) I WAS going to freeze…to death.  I couldn’t wimp out now.  Nope, I would shoot images until I froze to death.

I really needed gloves.

My “layers” were no match for mother nature’s frost. In no time at all my fingers were numb, dysfunctional-numb.  Thoughts of frost bite kept nagging me and interfering with my creative process. I was rethinking my “shoot until I die” proclamation.

I kept shooting.  But I really needed gloves.

The town felt heavy. Perhaps it was lingering energy from the past and the people who once lived there.  I couldn’t help but try and visualize what the day-to-day “hustle and bustle” of this old mining town looked like in it’s booming days of glory.  I tried to picture the citizens of St. Elmo back in the mining days while trying to forget about my ever numbing fingers, looming frost bite and inevitable death.

Finally at one point I realized that my fingers were so numb I couldn’t  press the buttons on my camera any longer.  I simply had no choice but to warm my hands before I could shoot another picture.  So I made a mad dash (okay, a clumsy dash actually like the rusty tin man in The Wizard of OZ) back to my car, turned on the heat and sighed as I held my hands over the vents.

That’s when Roger appeared.

Out of almost nowhere Roger was walking up the dirt road (aka the main street of St. Elmo) towards my car.  My car wasn’t his destination of course, he just happened to be walking in my direction.  Roger could have easily been overlooked but I took notice.

Borderline burly, Roger sported full whiskers, a floppy hat, plaid shirt and regular ol’ blue jeans yet he had a soft nonthreatening energy about him.  He swaggered very slowly almost as if he had never seen this town before and was trying to take it all in.  I had a feeling though that this was not the case.  His snail-like pace seemed to have purpose.  It was as if he was walking in and out of a time machine while lingering in the past for a reason. Going through a mental card catalog he was making notes in his head.  He also had gloves and a huge thermos cup (filled with what I assumed the standard issue…coffee). At one point I found myself staring at those gloves.  They looked warm.  I was jealous.

I needed gloves.

He had to be a local.

I watched him step up onto the wooden sidewalk, I  was worried he might slip on the slick icy surface like I almost did earlier.  Roger proved though to be more sure-footed than I was.  Nonetheless that prompted me to get out of my car and say hello. I don’t even recall if my hands were properly warmed yet.

I coveted his gloves and coffee.

Roger greeted me warmly as if he had been expecting me.  And there we stood on that wooden sidewalk and talked for a very long time.  Actually, Roger did most of the talking, he had (by far) more interesting things to share than I.

Roger is a chemical engineer who recently retired.  He and his wife have been raising their grand daughter since she was less than two (she’s now 8).  They no longer live in Colorado due to a job transfer Roger accepted much earlier in his career however, they still own (and love) the cabin in St. Elmo that his father purchased when he was a young boy.  Roger, his wife and grand daughter just happened to be on vacation during the same time I was visiting.

Roger said he spends two weeks every year in St. Elmo and 50 in Vegas trying to figure out how to move back to Colorado.  I get that.

Roger shared a great deal of historical facts about St. Elmo I’m guessing most people don’t even have a clue about.  He grew up spending his summers there after his father purchased a cabin…a retreat they all took from the wheat fields of Kansas during the typical busy locomotive season in which his father preferred to escape (his father was an engineer).  I was blown away with the details Roger effortlessly recited about his childhood memories of growing up there and how much the town (what’s left of it) has changed since he was a boy.

Quick digression: Roger had such an enduring smile and tone when he abruptly switched gears and talked about meeting his wife (she’s from from Oklahoma).  He was so proud to bring her to Colorado and quite pleased with himself for coaxing her into jumping across the Arkansas river.  He also showed me the building (now closed off) where their wedding reception was held. Roger obviously loves his wife to the core of his being.

Jumping back to his childhood he told me about how he and his friends had the keys to all the deserted buildings and would open them up to give people tours before most people even knew about the town.  “That was probably a huge mistake, we should have kept it a secret” he said.  He still has a sealed jar of cinnamon from the original general store.  The glass has turned purple over time.  I suspected it had something to do with a chemical reaction.  Naturally being a chemical engineer, Roger wasted no time in explaining that process (a rather small scientific digression) as it had to do with the specific methods of glass-making back in that era.

He then proceeded by pointing to each building and told me the names of the families that once owned the homes and which families spent the same summers in St. Elmo as he and his family did.  “There were about eight of us, about eight families that spent our summers here every year” he said. I thought it must have been a magnificent time for a boy spending his summers there.

St. Elmo (originally called Forest City) was a ghost town when Roger was a young boy.  However back then it held a bounty of historical treasures accessible to those with endless curiosity and a sense of adventure.  Unfortunately over the years St. Elmo has been stripped of the rare artifacts that once told the town’s story authentically.  Sadly now it’s barely left standing as a hollowed skeleton of a once thriving mining town very much alive in the mountains of Colorado.

Roger continued sharing his knowledge about the founding miners and families of St. Elmo and of their legacies, property battles, acquisitions and fortitude to survive the harshest of winters. He knows the detailed history of this town like he knows how to spell his name.  He also talked about his career as a chemical engineer, DDT, the plight of bees, how enzymes react to different chemicals, the variety of hummingbird species there are in Colorado …and Vegas, about locals mispronouncing “Buena Vista” and how sad he is that most people seem to lack the respect or appreciation for the town of St. Elmo.

While Roger digressed now and then (but not much) I was impressed by his wicked intelligence and vast knowledge bank.  He was mindful of every word he spoke before they came out of his mouth. He wasn’t just talking to hear himself speak, Roger talked about things that mattered.

At one point I stopped the conversation (because I secretly felt guilty for lacking the ability to retain all he had shared thus far) and said “Roger to be honest, I don’t think I will ever remember all of the details you have shared with me to today”   He just smiled and asked “have you seen the old school house building?”

I asked him which cabin was his, he said “let’s walk a little”.  And so we did.  We walked down the road a short distance and he then pointed up the hill at the cabin in which his father purchased (for two thousand dollars) and then proceeded to tell me how much grief his mother gave his father for spending so much money on a cabin in Colorado.

I no longer noticed the chill that once cursed my fingers.

Roger and I continued to talked for a very long time…about everything and eventually he just stopped and looked towards his cabin and said “well, I suppose my wife will be ringing the supper bell soon (meaning breakfast is served)  I should probably start heading back”.  I graciously thanked him for such wonderful conversation.  He then took off one of the coveted gloves and shook my hand.

As you might guess, Roger didn’t actually head back right away, no, we still lingered and talked….about everything…for a little while longer.  Eventually though we did say a final goodbye.

By now the sun had finally warmed the frost and transformed it into a misty dew.

I no longer needed gloves.

I peeled back some layers and shot a little while longer before heading down the mountain and back into the city.  For some reason I didn’t walk up the hill to take pictures of Roger’s cabin.  I guess after all he had shared with me that morning I thought it would be best to allow him privacy with his family and his childhood cabin in St. Elmo, Colorado.

~The Urban Mountaineer