Day 72 - Lamar to Pueblo, Colorado

It was sure nice this morning in Lamar, Colorado. Just a bit cold when I went out to pack up the water hoses, but not so much that I needed a jacket. Our camp in Lamar, plans for which we made at the last minute, turned out to be reasonably quiet even though it was on a busy highway. I wouldn't say the camp was palatial, it wasn't. In fact, it needed a lot of maintenance as far as we could see. But it had all the necessary utilities, all of which were in good shape, and that's good enough for me. For some reason they do allow stray pets to wander the camp unleashed, which will probably bite them on the ass someday, figuratively or literally speaking.

Our plans for the day called for backtracking just a bit to the north -- about fifty miles -- to visit the Sand Creek Massacre site in eastern Colorado. This is a place that I have been wanting to visit ever since I was a twenty-something and my mother told me I was related to an Indian fighter from the old west. Naturally, that news perked me right up. I learned of this because Mom had accidentally discovered a relative right in Carson City who was the granddaughter of her grandmother's brother, or what you might call a second cousin I suppose.

When Mom met with this relative she learned about Benajah P. Stubbs, her grandmother's brother, who joined the Colorado 100 days Cavalry back in the wild and wooly days of 1864. While most of humanity was off in the East fighting brother against brother in the Civil War, Benajah Stubbs fancied himself an Indian fighter and volunteered to put his life on the line to protect the settlers in the Colorado Territory.

That would have been very laudable if his troop hadn't gotten severely carried away and participated in an attack on a village of largely non-combantant, friendly Indians who had taken up residence in the river bottom land along Sand Creek, a place specifically sanctioned by the U.S. Government. One of the Chiefs in residence along Sand Creek was even flying an American flag above his Teepee to signify the groups friendly status.

Here's what Wikipedia says about what happened: "After several minor incidents in what would later come to be designated as the Colorado War, in November 1864 a force of 800 troops of the Colorado home guard, after heavy drinking, attacked an encampment of Cheyenne and Arapaho at Sand Creek, murdering between 150 and 200 Indians, mostly elderly men, women and children. This Sand Creek Massacre or 'Massacre of Cheyenne Indians' led to official hearings by the United States Congress Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War in March and April 1865. After the hearings, the Congress Joint Committee in their report on May 4, 1865, described the actions of Colonel John Chivington and his Volunteers as ‘foul, dastardly, brutal, and cowardly’."

Now the the 100-days men were not the only military present. Present also was a company of regular army soldiers who were supposed to carry on the fight. The volunteers had been ordered to round up the Indian ponies and not take part in the shooting. However, as it was explained to us today by the park ranger, the volunteers were worried that they might not be seen as having done their full duty. So they threw themselves into the fray, and once involved completely lost their heads and began shooting anything that moved, even unarmed women and children. As few as 125 and perhaps twice that many are thought to have been murdered.

As you might guess, that terrible morning in 1864 has been quite a black mark on the military history of Colorado. In modern times, actually only since 2006 or so, the National Park Service has worked with the involved Indian tribes to do archaeology work at the site of the massacre, establish where the various tribal clans were camped at the time of the incident, and properly bury any remains found. It's been quite sensitively accomplished and we were quite impressed with the job they've done.

At the time my mother made contact with this cousin I became the recipient of a brass powder horn and a sort of large spoon for melting lead to make bullets. Both belonged to her grandfather, Benjah Stubbs. The cousin didn't have any heirs, and she thought that I was the perfect person to have these artifacts. At the time, I did not know about the terrible history that these artifacts might possess.

No, at the time, all I cared about was that I was related to an real live Indian fighter. Only much later did I learn of the significance of what I had inherited.

But the story goes even deeper now that Mom has passed away. One of the things that Mom got from this cousin, now in my possession, was a diary kept by my Great Grandmother, sister to the Indian fighter, during this period of her brother's "heroics" at Sand Creek. When I mentioned this fact to the ranger, himself an avid historian, he became quite excited and asked if there was any way I could make copies of the pertinent pages available to him and the Park Service for inclusion in their study of the massacre. I remember my mother reading the diary to me forty years ago and still can hear my Great Grandmother's account of how her brother and his fellows returned from the raid with scalps hanging from their saddles.

So that I might confront my family's past, I very much wanted to drive the extra fifty miles, weather the sixteen miles of horrible, washboard road, and make that walk out to the bluffs overlooking the massacre site, even though the skies grew progressively more stormy and unfriendly as we drove north. I had really hoped for some decent sunlight to record the terrain, to give me some context in which to visualize the battle, but it was not to be. Throughout our visit and our hike out to the rim of Sand Creek, the whole place took on a sort of sombre, forbidding aurora. Later, as we drove back towards civilization, Concetta and I discussed the possibility that perhaps the Cheyenne and Arapahoe were setting the stage for us so that we might experience that November morning of 150 years ago, not as we wanted, but as they had lived it.

The rest of the afternoon we cruised west on Colorado Route 96, not seeing much to photograph, but just chatting and watching the incredible vistas of eastern Colorado slide by the windows. Concetta wanted me to be sure and tell you about the antelope who pranced across the two-lane ahead of us and then bounded away into the grasslands. I spent much of my time scanning the vintage telephone line that ran alongside the highway nearly the entire day. The line was abandoned, but still had at least a dozen glass insulators festooning the cross-arms of each pole. Overall, I imagine we rolled by hundreds and hundreds of them by the end of the day. At one point, while we were headed for Sand Creek, I actually stopped to see if I could find one on the ground, but had no luck. I could have dragged out the six-foot ladder and climbed a pole, but I didn't think Concetta would encourage me to do that. So, the whole collection is still there for the taking.

I also stopped briefly to take a photo of a BNSF train that was sitting on a siding waiting for opposing traffic. The light was nice and the engine looked new. What the heck?

But for the most part we just cruised on into Pueblo, getting there at a really nice, early hour so we could get into camp and have time for nice cocktail before dinner. Those thoughts evaporated when I stopped for gas at the first big station we encountered in Pueblo and I glanced down at the rear tires to see if they looked properly inflated as I try to do as often as possible. This time the left rear didn't look like it had any air at all in it. I went over and kicked it and it wobbled. That's a really bad sign for a heavy duty RV tire like we're running. It didn't take a genius to see that we'd lost air in that tire, which meant the whole weight of the coach was resting on one tire on that side, which is a place you don't want to go while traveling at highway speeds.

So the first order of business was to find a tire store and QUICKLY! I left the gas station driving as sedately as possible and tried to use the magnificent Davis luck to scare up the necessary tire store, like right around the corner. When that didn't work I found a nice level spot in a bank parking lot and we called the roadside assistance folks. Though the chap at Allstate Roadside didn't sound all that on the ball, he did in fact have a couple of brawny tow truck drivers knocking on our door within fifteen minutes.

The tow truck guys changed the spare out for the flat tire and installed it on the rig. Once that was accomplished we once more went in search of a tire store using directions from the tow truck guys to guide us. Though we initially missed our turnoff and ended up in a Wally World tire shop, the guy there further directed us to a shop called "Colorado Tire" and we were soon throwing ourselves on the mercy of a half dozen tire guys just down the road.

Now these guys at Colorado Tire were simply wonderful. It was almost like the old-time service stations where you drove in and six different guys came running out to service your '50 Chevy. These guys at Colorado split up the duties like they had just been waiting for us to appear. Even though they were about to close for the day, one guy took on the flat tire to see what was required, one jacked up the rig and removed the spare, and one guy re-installed the spare underneath the rig. Then, once the original tire had been fixed (it was only a faulty valve stem), the guy who had removed the spare than installed the original tire where it belonged. Meanwhile the guy who had stowed the spare back where it belonged went around and checked the air in all the tires. Amazing!

I was so impressed with the guys I gave them a ten-spot and told them to buy a case of beer on me and kick back after work. The whole process came to under sixteen dollars. Fantastic bargain! So, bottom line, if you're ever anywhere near Pueblo, Colorado, and need help with your tires, call these guys at Colorado Tire. They will do a great job for you and not charge you a fortune. And tell Shawn and Mario I sent you.

As you can see, dreams of a quiet cocktail out on the lanai wafted away in the afternoon Colorado breeze. Still, things could have been a lot worse. Had the weight of the coach been too much for the one port-side tire to support, it might have blown as well. If we would have been eight miles into the desert on that washboard road, well, getting a tire technician or the Allstate rescue squad out there might have been a real adventure.

Or, had the tire given out on the freeway we might have put the rig in the ditch. We certainly wouldn't be having cocktails for awhile if that had happened.

So, all's well that ends well, as the famous saying goes. And you have to wonder, were the spirits of the Cheyenne and Arapahoe watching over us today for having cared enough to pay them a visit? I think they were.