This is a collection of my photos of the Alpine Tunnel area from 1991 through 2004 compared with original photos from 1880-1910.

PILGRIMAGE #3

PILGRIMAGE #3: 13 Years Later
Over a decade had passed from the moment I took my last look at the east portal and went on my way. Since then I had gone to college, gotten married to a wonderful woman, landed a teaching job, and even bought a house. All the while, the small narrow gauge whistles still echoed in my memories, beckoning me back to that railway of debris.

My wife and I discovered that we loved to travel. We had backpacked across Europe twice and even took a school trip to Ecuador. Next on our list was a road trip to the West and Colorado. No trip to Colorado would be complete, however, without a pilgrimage to the tunnel. This time, I convinced my sweet wife, we would visit both portals!

This trip began with a special treat: we were staying overnight in St. Elmo. The St. Elmo General Store rents out a one-room cabin. It was certainly rustic, particularly with its only bathroom facility being an outhouse. Oh, and we were told to watch our for some young bear cubs who frequented local trash at night. That made nighttime bathroom runs a bit nerve-wracking to say the least. Still, what was lost in comfort was made up in recalling that we were staying overnight in the town that was once a boom town on the DSP&P. What thrill to think that the street outside our window once swarmed with miners, railroad men, and swindlers. With these dreams I closed my eyes with the excitement of the next day welling up in me.

We were awakened in our bunk bed, not by the sound of chirping birds, but by the revving of ATV engines. This, of course, has replaced the revenue source for St. Elmo once supplied by mining. It was early, but it was a good time to get started. We had a long drive ahead, this time in our own Honda Civic. Not exactly a mountain vehicle.

As our Honda bumped and bounced its way over the rocky railway-turned-road we soon realized that making it to Hancock by car might not be wise. We parked near Romley and went on foot. In a mud puddle off the side of the road I found something I had not seen in any of my trips to the tunnel: a railroad spike! Either nature or souvenir hunters I assumed had taken them all. In the back of my mind, the spirit of Alpine and the sign up at the station reminded me: “Take only pictures and leave only footprints.” I hoped that this spike might someday remind some unsuspecting child that there once was a great railroad here on this dirt road. So, I left it behind. I was later told in a store at St. Elmo that most people would not have been so benevolent.

We trekked over the Romley bridge. It was still in great condition, but closed to auto traffic. We had once driven over it in our rental car, but now cars had to travel down the ravine and back up. While I’m thankful for having had the chance to drive over it, I’m glad someone is protecting history. As we got closer to Hancock there was a mine building that apparently snapped in half some time in the course of its derelict history and jutted out precariously over the road. I would have guessed it would fall any time if I hadn’t remembered seeing it in the same position over a decade earlier!

We reached Hancock and a soft wind blew through the grasses as the sun shone on a perfect day. The only signs of civilization were two big, yellow school buses that were parked next to the site where the Hancock depot once stood. I wondered what a school group was doing up here. I never did see them. We rounded the big curve and set off on our last three miles to the tunnel.

I was delighted to find much of the roadbed as I remembered it back in 1991. Many ties still clung desperately to their place in various cuts and wooded sections. I tried my best not to walk on them, hoping to preserve them, but knowing many other hikers would not be so kind.
Just like the last time I had come I found a great thrill as we exited the trees and began to walk the grade clinging to the shelf with the great Chalk Creek valley below. My wife was certainly on this trip out of love for my interests, but this sight convinced her as well that we were not just at another scenic overlook. This was a sight few eyes have been blessed to see.

We continued on, walking around a few boulders here and there. A wooden culvert still remained to guide water under the rails, though it had long since filled with dirt. There was even one lonely telegraph pole leaning toward the steep fall to Tunnel Gulch. It had been that way thirteen years earlier, so I trusted it would continue its defiant grip.

While much of what I found along the way had been the same as my previous visit, our arrival at the east portal was completely different. Fewer timbers were remaining from the snow sheds and more weeds and grass had grown at the sight. There now was even a sign stating that this was the Alpine Tunnel. However, this time, there was no tunnel arch to be found. Last time I had seen, touch, photographed, and videoed the top of the arch. This time I could find no trace of it. I looked in vain, but only found more rocks. Years later I learned that some time in the intervening years the east portal had simply collapsed. Those redwood timbers had defied the pressure of nature for over a century, but it had come time to go home to the embrace of the earth. In fact, Ray Rossman, who works for the forest service and has been instrumental in the preservation of the tunnel area, remarked that in 2002-2003 a portion of the tunnel on the western side collapsed as well. He said in an email that “For those lucky few to have seen the interior, I think they have glimpsed at a piece of history perhaps now gone from our view.” Certainly discouraging news, but it makes me thankful for the small glimpse of the immediate interior that I did have.

It was time for us to head back because the skies were darkening. See a trend? We were greeted with a mild hail storm that passed quickly but reminded me again of the battle of nature against running a railroad “way up here.” So we walked and walked. When we returned to our car, we had walked 13 miles. A generous vacationing family had treated us to a ride for at least the last mile back to our car! With sore feet, but happy and accomplished hearts, we bumped and rolled back to our little cabin in St. Elmo.

The next day we headed down to Salida, over to Parlin and up to Pitkin. It was a long drive and we were wiped out by the time we set up our tent at a campsite just north of town. Ah, but it was a sweet moment to know we were bedding down with the Quartz Creek quietly lapping right next to us.

The following morning we made our way north and turned onto the railroad grade. This time we didn’t want to walk thirteen miles, so we got more daring and let our little Honda handle the rocky road. It was slow-going to say the least. We made it as far as Woodstock and decided to enjoy the full beauty by walking the rest. A new treat was that I finally got to walk Sherrod Curve. Interestingly, someone had laid just a few feet of track on the curve. To this day I don’t know if this was the beginning of a project or just a piece of track left over from the work up at the station.

We climbed the four percent grade up and around the palisades. One thing that surprised us was that there was apparently a house of some sort built between the upper and lower portions of the grade. It was above Woodstock or so. I don’t know if it was a residence or not as it was apparently still under construction. We continued on and noticed the Williams Pass stage line above the grade was now a jeep road, but there was a sign stating that it was only open for one month each year. Boy, would I love to make that trip someday, but not with our Honda!
We spent lots of time recreating the same photos of the Palisades in a before and after fashion. How exciting to stand at the same location as so many train crews and passengers at the famed split rock.

When we arrived at Alpine Tunnel station we were greeted to a great many changes. There were nice wood sided bathrooms off the road! In addition, a great deal of preservation work had occurred. The old outhouse behind the telegraph station was completely restored. What appeared to be a cellar once attached to the frame boarding house had been unearthed and you could now walk down into it. There had also been extensive excavations in the burned out ruins of the engine house. One could clearly make out where there was once turntable pit inside. Once a source of argument among DSP&P aficionados, the existence of this turntable was now undeniable. The telegraph office was an entirely different color from my last visit. They had also added the “Alpine Tunnel” sign to the roof. Most exciting of all, though, was that they had lain several feet of track including a switch and harp switch stand.

Moving on toward the portal I discovered that there was also extensive rebuilding of the turntable. Much of the wood and railing around the pit was now standing and a sliver of new track also led from the mainline to where the turn table would be. We progressed onto the cut leading to the west portal and I was surprised that, where I previously I had to walk over mounds of rotting snow shed timbers, the cut was entirely cleared out. I was a bit disappointed to not find any rails there, as I know they were there before. I’ve often wondered what happened to them. The portal itself, though, was a great surprise. Unlike last time when there was just a small hole that I could peer into, now the major portion of the top stones above the arch were in full view. The tunnel itself was apparently “sealed” but the great stones were incredible to behold. I was able to match them exactly to the stones in an 1880s photograph of the portal (one of the few without a snow shed blocking the view).

My final pilgrimage was complete and it was time to head back because, as with nearly every visit, the weather began to look menacing. Thankfully, it passed, but it sure got us moving! We made our way past Alpine station, around the contours of the mountain, and when we arrived at the great palisades we decided to shorten our trek. I thought it would be great to take the old Alpine & South Park stage line down to Woodstock to reach our car. I had seen its outline in all the pictures, so I figured it would surely be a nice walk and a fun exploration.

That was the right idea for a short while. But not long after the incredible below-view of the palisades, we had a hard time locating our trail. We would find it for a few feet then lose it. Eventually, we couldn’t find it at all. We decided to just scale the mountain. This was not what we had expected, nor were we wearing the shoes for this. Much dirt made its way under our feet as we, at times, even slid down the mountain side. Still we made it down with a few scrapes but a good many laughs. From there we saddled up our Honda and headed back to camp.

So, here I am now, a 32 year old, married for 10 years and a father of two little girls. Still, something about this old tunnel draws me. I have some hope that my passion will be passed on as my oldest daughter is hooked on Thomas the Tank Engine. If I can keep this going, maybe she’ll be willing to join me someday on a trip to that old place. Certainly there are greater things in life. Anyone standing on the grade at east portal and looking out at the great expanse of Chalk Creek can tell you there are…Greater things. Still, that same Creator has given us lesser things that are sweet. This rotting tunnel has sweetened my life by connecting me with the past and the people who made this railroad, ran it, abandoned it, and the people that have worked to save it. I can only hope that one day I can walk with my wife on those grades once again, but this time with my two little ones at my side. That, will be, I hope, my fourth pilgrimage, and, potentially, the sweetest one of them all.

West Portal 1991

PILGRIMAGE #1

When we turned off of US 50 at Parlin my heart began to race. I recall seeing a sign on the road with a cheesy train exiting a tunnel. It read “Gateway to the Alpine Tunnel.” After passing through Ohio City and Pitkin we found the dirt path off to the right where the roadbed began. Our white Ford Taurus rental car was certainly not designed for off-road adventures, and the rental company was adamant that it not be taken off paved roads, but my dad was an outdoorsman and we did it anyway.

We slowly rolled over several miles of rocky road and wound up some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen. We passed Tunnel Gulch tank, which was just a base, and then passed Midway tank. Midway tank was built after a snow slide destroyed the town of Woodstock and its water tank farther up the line. The Mile High Jeep Club restored Midway tank from a precarious leaning state in the late 1950s and it looked great on this summer day. We decided to park our car here and walk the last three miles.“The next three miles of roadbed are possibly the most amazing stretch of railroad in the world.” There was a sign somewhere along the way that stated the above and we were not disappointed.

We eventually came upon the ill-fated remains of the town of Woodstock. All that remained were the six stones that once supported the water tower (with its supply pipe still gushing water), and some scattered timbers. We looked up to our left where the deadly snow slide had originated and saw the incredible Palisades, still towering and formidable, holding up the roadbed on a cliff over a century after its construction. My dad and brother Karl, being the daring guys they are, decided to climb straight up the mountainside to reach it. Being the faithful baby of the family, I stayed with Mom and we began walking the grade toward Sherrod…until we heard screams.

Up above we could make out my father standing on the palisades waving his arms and yelling. What he was yelling we couldn’t make out, but it made us panic a bit, especially because we didn’t see my brother. Had he fallen? Had some wild bear attacked him?! We were relieved to see a Park Service pick-up truck coming up grade toward us. He asked if we wanted a ride and we accepted. I was disappointed when he took a sharp curve and completely avoided Sherrod loop. In my concern for my brother’s welfare, I even missed the fact that we had driven right over and past the famous Palisades. Disaster was averted when we came upon my dad and brother walking leisurely along the grade where the Williams Pass stage line continued its ascent above the railroad grade. We soon discovered that my dad had simply been trying to wave a hello from the Palisades, but his muffled words did not reach us. We thanked our driver and continued our stroll along the roadbed.

I did see a few remaining ties in the dirt and took a small piece of one with me as a souvenir. My dad found a large rusted nut and bolt that I also added to my treasury. Whether it was from a wrecked Mason Bogie or a beat up Chevy pick up I still don’t know.We wound our way along until we turned a bend and before us lay the holy city: Alpine Tunnel station.

It was guarded by a gate keeping vehicles out. It also sported a sign that read: “Take only pictures and leave only footprints.” In the mid 90s the only preservation efforts on the site (excluding the addition of a leaning port-a-potty) were to the telegraph station and the coaling platform. The engine house was merely rubble and the frame boarding house appeared to be a pile of abandoned lumber. I did acquire some coal dust from the coaling platform that I subsequently glued onto the tenders of my model trains back in Ohio.

There was also a random length of rail lying in the grass just outside the engine house. The telegraph office was in great shape, though it did not have the famous “Alpine Tunnel” sign on top. Inside was a small table where people had placed miscellaneous finds including nails and spikes that were on display.

We continued outside and around the rockslide for my first glimpse of Alpine Tunnel. As the roadbed began its cut into the hillside a large wood beam blocked the way. In its center was a wooden replica of one of the arches inside the tunnel. Famed supporter of the tunnel Francis Trudgeon had constructed the replica out of discarded wood and installed the memorial at the site. To the left of this was the the “tombstone” to the tunnel placed by Trudgeon, Dow Helmers and Mac Poor back in 1967. It was missing a significant portion of the top right corner. I’ve always wondered what broke it. Some say vandals, some say an avalanche.

The cut leading to the west portal was piled high with old snow shed timbers. It made things fairly difficult to walk through and I can understand why they were later removed. When I made it to the portal it was almost entirely buried by rock fall into the cut.

Someone had created a rectangle of discarded boards to protect the little of the stone archway that they could. When peering inside the rectangle you could see maybe four or five of the archway stones and there appeared to be a small hole leading down and to the left, large enough for maybe only an animal to scurry through. Unimpressive as this may sound, I on the other hand was amazed: I was really here! Holy ground! I was standing at the west portal of the Alpine Tunnel! The pilgrimage made a passion. And then came the storm.The sky was getting quite dark. I have since read the railroaders knew that the weather could change quite dramatically on this line; we were yet novices and were very concerned about the distance between ourselves and our car downgrade. We quickly made our way toward the station. I stopped to snap a picture of a piece of original South Park rail submerged in water beneath the snow sheds. I also passed the turntable, which was simply a mound of dirt with only two of the three timbers on the roadbed that used to form an abutment for the roadbed leading to the long-gone turntable.

I took one last shot of Alpine Tunnel station and turned to join my family as we made a mad dash to our car. In order to save time my dad decided that we should just walk down Tunnel Gulch. Thankfully, the weather seemed to subside eventually so we slowed our hustle to a hike. It was more like a climb considering we were traipsing through the woods without a path. Just before reaching our car we stumbled upon two or three decayed cabins. Were these old work camps? Finally, we hopped in our car and noticed: we were low on gas.We knew we could make it to Pitkin, so we weren’t too concerned. However, upon arriving at the one station in town we discovered a sign in the window that read: “Closed Mondays.” Of all the days of the week, you can guess which one it was.

So began a much retold story among my family. We turned the car on and accelerated to the top of the many rolling hills, then turned it off…and we rolled. The repeated dialogue went something like this. Mom: How’s the gas? Dad: Low. Mom: Keep rolling. So, we rolled all the way to Gunnison, gassed up and hit the motel. I had just experienced an adventure, a journey, a pilgrimage. That pilgrimage led to two more because this pilgrimage, the chance to see in person something I had only read about, turned into a passion.