ghost story #3: The Legend of Silver Heels

This is our third and final ghost story for October, and it's one of my personal favorites. You'll see versions of it on the web, in mountain eatery's, in and around Alma (which is about 18 miles south of Breckenridge) and Alma's grave yard. 

The story comes from Buckskin Joe, which was a small mining camp a couple miles west of present-day Alma. Today, Buckskin Joe is one of many ghost towns in the mountains of Colorado, but back-in-the day it was the County Seat of Park County. (Today, Fairplay - about 6 miles farther south than Buckskin Joe - is the county seat and has a restored 1880s mining town, South Park City.) The picture below is the original courthouse from Buckskin Joe. 

The town of Buckskin Joe started life as a mining camp and grew tremendously during the 1850s during the gold rush. Once the gold was mined out the population dwindled to a handful. 

Silverheels was a dance hall girl. No one remembers her real name, but she was very beautiful and an accomplished dancer when she appeared in Buckskin Joe's during the height of the gold rush. She quickly became a favorite. 

As was the custom in early gold mining camps, fans showed appreciation by tossing  "pokes" (small leather bags) of gold dust on stage at her feet. She accumulated enough from the pokes to build a small cabin across the stream from camp. Legend says she accumulated a small fortune by saving gold from the pokes. One admirer fashioned a pair of solid silver heels for her dancing slippers. The silver heels became her trademark and the source of her nickname, Silverheels.  

Then, in 1861 disaster stuck in the form of a smallpox epidemic. Most of the miners stayed in camp for fear of claim jumpers, while most of the women and children were sent to Fairplay or Denver. Silverheels, however, choose to stay behind in camp.

She transformed herself from dancer to devoted nurse and took care of the sick and comforted the dying. Many men died of the highly contagious and usually fatal disease while cradled in her arms. 

Inevitably, she caught smallpox as well but did survive. Her beautiful face was disfigured by pockmarks. When the epidemic had finally run its course, the "Angel of Mercy" left town but returned often to offer prayers at the graves. 

If you visit Alma today and seek out the area of Buckskin Joe's, you may see a figure moving along in the long abandoned graveyard. She's elegantly dressed in Victorian-era finery. She wears a long, black, silk dress and a black, silk broad-rimmed hat. The hat holds a heavy veil preserving the privacy of her grief, and shielding her face from view. 

The original wooden grave markers have long since rotted away, but you can bet Silverheels knows where each and every one is. She moves slowly from one grave to another, placing a single red rose and offering at prayer at each. She may seem oblivious to the living, but if you try and approach she'll disappear. This is the ghost of Silverheels.

The grateful citizens who survived the epidemic name a nearby peak Mount Silverheels in her honor. A pic of it is shown below. It stands 13,825 feet high.

ghost story #2: the gang from Robber's Roost

Just west of La Porte, Colorado on scenic state highway 14 outside of Ft. Collins, a family of tourists from Ohio was traveling and taking in the scenic views of the mountains.  It was early fall in the canyon of the Cache La Poudre River and the red rocks varied from a deep maroon in shadow to brilliant scarlet in the full sun. The golden leaves of the aspen trees against the deep green of the evergreens complimented the turquoise sky and wispy white clouds so that it was a picture perfect day. Even the kids in the back had quit bickering and were taking in the mountains.


Then they saw a 3 guys on horseback dart onto the road from the cover of a large grove of evergreens. They were dressed in classic 19th-century Western gear:  tattered jeans, cowboy boots, leather chaps, checkered blue-flannel shirts, leather vests, and broad-rimmed felt hats. Each of them also had a gun belt slung low on their hips and a Colt .45 pointed at the family.


As Dad stomped on the brakes of the SUV, he looked around for a film crew, so perfect was the reproduction that they must be filming a Western nearby. He was waiting to hear "CUT" yelled out. But there was no one else in sight. Not another car or truck or person. It was just the family and the 3 robbers on horseback pointing their guns at them.


No one said a thing. The 3 robbers motioned with their guns for the family to get out of the SUV. They clamored out and stood silently with their shaky hands held high in the air facing the thugs.


KABLAM! The explosive sound startled everyone and the family watched what appeared to be a reddish-colored cannonball hurtling across the road and crashing into the trees behind the robbers. Instantly the robbers their guns and their horses all disappeared. 
  
The family continued standing there in the middle of the road in front of their SUV with their hands held high for a long moment after. They didn't moved (except for putting their hands down) until a State Police cruiser pulled up behind them with its lights flashing. The trooper got out and came up to them. "Any reason why you folks are stopped smack in the middle of the road?" "Did your engine die? Do you need help?"


Mom spoke up since the others hadn't yet recovered their voices. She told the trooper what had just happened and the trooper was understandably skeptical. The youngest broke into the conversation pointing to the swatch of freshly broken tree limbs by the side of the road saying, "that's where the cannonball hit! You can't ignore that!" 


The trooper replied "Yes, something crashed into those trees but it wasn't an artillery shell. It was a falling rock. It happens now and then, especially this time of the year. Water goes into cracks in the rocks, then freezes during the frosty fall nights. The crack becomes a split and eventually loosened chunks of rock fall down."


"That's not what happened," said an unexpected voice from the back of the trooper's car. "you saw some ghosts from Robbers Roost, right up the cliff there. A bunch of robbers used to hole up there and rob travelers on the old La Porte-to-Ft. Laramie Trail. That there Robbers Roost was such a natural fort that the army had to use a cannon to persuade the bad guys to give it up." 


"Pay no attention to old Sam there," interjected the trooper. "I picked him up drunk as a skunk and I'm taking him home. He's harmless but he likes to tell old stories."


Was it falling rocks or cannonballs that chased off the phantom robbers? Most old timers and  tourists are inclined to believe old Sam . . . even if he is an old drunk. 


(Adapted from Haunted Colorado by Charles Stansfield, Jr.)

October is ghost story month: #1 Legend of the Moaning Sand Dunes of Death

This October, I thought I'd try something a bit different. Since it is the time when the veil is the thinnest, I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to share some good, old fashioned Colorado ghost stories with everyone. :)  This is the first in the series. Enjoy!


The origin of the Great Sand Dunes  in the 80 sq mi Great Sand Dunes National Monument is not especially controversial. They are thought to be the remnants of an ancient inland sea, long since evaporated. The winds blew the exposed sands across the San Luis Valley and up against the western edge of the Sangre de Cristo (Blood of Christ) mountains. The highest peak of these mountains is a 14er (Sierra Blanca Peak is 14,345 ft), so the sands are trapped at the foot of the mountains. President Herbert Hoover was the one who designated the national monument in 1932 and he believed that the only possible value of the "sea of sand" was in its unique, forbidding scenery.  Geologist and ecologists know the dunes as "singing sands" --- when the wind blows, the sand grains have been so rounded and perfected over time that when the winds kick up, it blows through the spaces between the grains causing a singing or moaning sound. Tourists can also cause this sound when they're "sand skiing" down the slopes. Visitors are always warned not to venture too far into the dunes... because the landscape constantly changes so it's easy to become lost.


There are American Indian legends of the dunes dating back to ancient times telling of their evil nature. They have long been known as a region of death and disappearance. There are stories of lost Indians, vanished sheepherders, and even entire wagon trains that have gone missing around the dunes. The sand is quite deep in some places, up to 1500 feet down to bedrock and they routinely reach over 750 feet in height. Bodies and body parts have been found in the dunes, along with skulls polished until they gleamed.


The Indians tell tales of a web-footed horses that appear along the edges of the dunes near dusk and dawn. Their webbed feet allow them to race across the sands, luring people to chase after them. Those who did, were never seen again.


Early during the white settlement of the area, there is a story of a pair of sheepherders who wanted to take their flock from the valley up to the higher meadows for summer grazing. To do this, they needed to skirt the dunes at Mosca Pass. The two lead a pack train of mules loaded with supplies, and a herd of 1,000 sheep along the flanks of the dunes. None of them survived the trip.


Another story tells of a wagon train that stopped at the edge of the dunes where shallow stream of cool, clear water was. It seemed the perfect place to camp for the night. By morning, the wagons, wagon master, all the animals and people had vanished. And the stream was gone. 

Perhaps the most chilling story is the story of the Martinez family. The Indians warned them not to try and homestead in the shadow of the dunes because the dunes harbor evil spirits and could shift hundreds of feet in one stormy night. But the family ignored the warning. One day their young son stumbled into a distant ranch, dazed and unable to speak. The sheriff found his parents sitting at the table in their home --- dead --- their mouths filled with sand and dinner plates piled high with sand. 


The rancher, where the boy had gone for help, took in the boy who made himself useful tending sheep. One day a sandstorm enveloped the boy and the sheep. Neither were seen again. 


Be cautious when visiting the Dunes. The park closes at dusk, so don't linger long once night falls. And be careful if you go out the play and "sand ski" during the day. The Dunes have a long history of taking the living. 


(Adapted from Haunted Colorado by Charles Stansfield, Jr.)