Henrietta Hay's Column

If Superman with his x-ray eyes had flown high over Colorado in the early days of this century, he would probably have thought the state was infested with moles. There were tunnels burrowing under the Rockies in every direction. The moles who dug them, however, had two feet, a lot of muscles and a vision.

The tunnels were dug during the Gold Rush when Colorado was the richest spot in the world, or so fortune hunters thought. The gold miners dug mine tunnels and the railroad men came along and dug tunnels through the mountains for the gold-laden trains.

I don't especially like holes in the ground, and am always glad to emerge even from the wonderful, lighted, air controlled Eisenhower Tunnel. The thought of riding through those early railroad tunnels behind a huffing narrow gauge steam engine leaves me cold and smoky. But in my youth on the eastern slope, I rode through one of them in an automobile.

My love of cars may have started with the old Hudson which hauled my parents and me all over Colorado back in the late twenties. It went up hills and down hills that would make a mountain goat pause and gave my flatlander mother several brief nervous breakdowns.

On one of our jaunts in the Hudson, we started out from Leadville one summer afternoon and climbed up to the portal of the old Carlton Tunnel. We had to pay a dollar to go through it. Traffic was one way, eastbound in the morning and westbound in the afternoon. Inside, it was dark and wet and nearly two miles long. That may well be the origin of my present dislike of holes in the ground. The wonderful part was emerging into the sunshine and finding ourselves surrounded by what seemed like a million sheep. The Hudson could climb hills, but not sheep. We sat for a long time and watched the sky turn gold while wool on the hoof flowed around us. Eventually we made our way through the sheep to Basalt and on to Glenwood Springs, probably with a stop for fishing in the Frying Pan River.

The Carleton Tunnel, over 11,000 feet high, was part of the Colorado Midland Rail line between Leadville and Basalt. The 9394-foot bore was driven through almost solid granite, and opened in 1893. The Midland did not survive the gold rush, and in 1922 the rails were torn out and the roadbed was opened to automobile travel. The tunnel itself was privately owned, which gave the owners a head start on toll roads.

One of the most famous of the old railroad tunnels was the Alpine, part of the Denver, South Park and Pacific RR. In his book, "Historic Alpine Tunnel," Dow Helmers waxes poetic. "Piercing the towering Saguache Range...cradled in the majestic grandeur of the surrounding peaks is historic Alpine Tunnel, the most historic bit of railroadiana in the world. Here in 1881, east meets west in the dark confines of the first bore through the continental divide... Through the backbone of the continent rails carry South Park trains to an altitude of 11,523.7 feet above sea level, achieving the highest section of adhesion (not cog) railroad on earth..."

Before the turn of the century, travelers could ride from Denver to Gunnison City via the Alpine Tunnel for $11.50. They had a very exciting ride as the train twisted and curved and climbed through spectacular scenery.

I wish I could have taken that ride, but I know a woman who did. Lucy Ela, who died a couple of years ago at the age of 101, made the trip as a little girl. Her father was a naturalist and curator of the Museum of Natural History in Denver. He was always hunting new specimens, and they rode every narrow gauge train in Colorado. One day she told me about the trip through the Alpine Tunnel, and said it was the most exciting train ride she had ever taken. I believe it.

Most of the old tunnels have collapsed and are filled with dirt and rock, so when Superman flies over the mountains today he sees mostly the mountain tops. But the memories are still there.