Caboose Cabin
20" X 16"
Acrylic on Canvas
It was cold that
morning, maybe in the low twenties. We scraped the ice off the windshield and
headed toward Silverton on Highway 550. As the broad and open road climbed out
of the valley where Durango sits, it became narrower—and icier. It was a great
road, but the shady spots were slick with ice; we could hear the tires
crackling across the surface. The snow blowing across the pavement leftover
from the storm two days earlier seemed out of place in the bright sunshine.
The road got
curvier, steeper, and more shaded as wound its way up to Coal and Molas passes,
both over 10,000 feet in elevation. I couldn't believe how quickly we climbed.
The view was spectacular: breathtaking mountains draped in snow. Soon, we were
looking over the side into a deep crevice that held the creek was beside the
road just a few minutes earlier.
We rounded a slight
curve and came upon several Big Horn Sheep right in the middle of the road. We
slowed to look at them and I rushed to get my camera out. The driver of a big
rig behind us leaned on his horn—which might have been intended more for the
stupid tourists than the sheep. Either way, it prompted the sheep to scamper
off the road and up slope to our right.
Soon we came to the
summit, where we could see a deep valley ringed by mountains. In the center sat
Silverton, a handful of colorful confetti on a blanket of snow. The surrounding
ridges framed the town with deep blue shadows.
It was 18 degrees.
The streets were covered in a thick layer of ice. There were no other cars or
people to be seen. It was 10 am, but none of the stores appeared to be open.
The town was still and quiet—it looked abandoned. Steam rose off the rooftops
of the weathered buildings that looked like something out of an old Wild West
movie.
We found a building
with signs of life (Lights! A car!). A sign proclaimed "Market" and
"Coffee". Aha! Something that was open! The market had seen
better days, though it was pretty well stocked. There was a big barrel of Piñon
nuts, a sampling of produce, dusty canned goods, and of course, the last of the season's souvenirs. A
hand-lettered piece of cardboard leaning on the register read: "This
business for sale".
We left the store
with our coffee and Piñon nuts, treading carefully over the ice back to the
car. We drove around the deserted streets, (too cold and icy to walk!) taking
in the charming old buildings and churches that remained from the boom days
when Silverton was a thriving mining town. On the outskirts we found a colorful
train car transformed into a summer cabin. The weeds had grown thick around it,
the occupant long gone to some place warm for the winter.
We drove up out of
Silverton, looking back at the tiny, empty town. The Big Horn Sheep were back
in the middle of the road again. This time, no one behind us was in a hurry; so
we stopped and let them slowly meander their way back off the road.
