Memoirs, 7: The Cabin

Lake City, Colorado

Our "cabin" was at the top, right side

LAKE CITY RECOLLECTIONS

The "Cabin".  A cabin it was not.  It had two stories, the bottom made of large pine logs, the top of shiplap siding.  It sat on the NE shore of Lake San Cristobal, Colorado (hereafter, the "Lake"), with a stupendous view across the water to mines and miners shacks on the other side, with a mountain range in the background.  There was a garage, and off the garage a storage room.  Heating was entirely from firewood, as was cooking.  There was a gas-driven electrical generator for lights.  No phone, no TV, even no radio.  However, there was a wonderful wind-up "Victrola", which played heavy 78 rpm records, most of them from the early 1900's.  More about that later.  The toilet was a one-holer off the storage room, which adjoined the huge kitchen.  It was liberally supplied with lime, hence stunk only slightly; however, it was not a place to linger and read the newspaper.  (Of course, we had no newspaper).  All the rooms had names; this "outhouse" was called "This is the Place".  More about that later, too.  The Cabin burned to the ground the year after we sold it, probably in 1958.

We acquire the Cabin.  The Bebee clan was Colorado-based until the late 1940s.  Fly fishing was the outdoor recreation of choice, and naturally it had to be performed on Colorado waters.  Dad tried fishing in the Sierra Nevada (near Bishop, I remember), but it just wasn't the same.  During WW II there was no access to tires, and gas was rationed, so trips to Colorado were out of the question.  However, by 1947 things had eased up, so we (Becks:  Mom, Dad, Susannah, me) traveled to Grand Junction, Colorado - to fish.  Some other of our Beaumont relatives may have made the trip: I don’t remember .

Grand Junction was the first destination, because that was where "the Folks" - Grandma, Ruth, Florence, Dale - were living at the time.  To fish, we went to Lake City, which was hard to reach in those days (more below).  We stayed in some little cabins on the main street - they still exist - and we fished the lake, and several of the rivers.  It must have been at this time that my elders spotted the Cabin and started proceedings to buy it.  In my mind there sticks some numbers, probably fallacious - they got the house, garage and 10 acres, for $5,000! 

Why Lake City?  This was Ruth's call.  For those family members who never met her, she was the second oldest of the Bebee brood, probably born about 1896.  Her last name was Crowder because, although all my life I knew her as a single lady, she had been married once, to Charlie Crowder, whom nobody of my generation ever met.  Charlie was a Cripple Creek miner, and perhaps also something of a cowboy.  Ruth married Charlie, I know not when (probably just after WW I - let's say, 1919, when she would have been ~23).  On their honeymoon they rode horses into Lake City, and went fishing.  That must have been one of Ruth’s fondest memories.

Although Lake City had been nearly inaccessible in the early 20th century, by 1947 it could be laboriously reached by car, over a truly rotten road from the Gunnison River.  There also was a road in from the other side - from Creed and Pagosa Springs - but it went over two passes (Spring Creek and Slumgullion), and was if anything worse than the road we used.  Naturally both roads were dirt - as were all roads in Hinsdale County - and they were downright dangerous when wet.  Needless to say, all this inaccessibility, plus an incredible abundance of water, led to fantastic fishing. 

I know next to nothing about Charlie Crowder, except that he had been in WW I, had probably been gassed, worked as a miner briefly after that war, was a crack fisherman - and died very young.  I have his Brunton (geologist's) compass at home; it is identical to the beautiful antique that belonged to my grandfather, Eben Bebee, now in a display case at Western Washington University.

Fishing.  That's what we did when we were at the Cabin.  Everybody fished.  Men fished with flies; women and little boys fished with worms (or salmon eggs).  It was a male rite of passage to obtain your first fly rod; I got mine at about age 13.  (Bill is the only other (Lake City) male in my male-impoverished generation; I wonder when he got his).  In the 1940s and early 1950s there was almost no limit to the number of trout one could catch in the Lake City area; the legal limit was 25 at first, then reduced to 20.  The primary fish-harvest was done in the evening.  My involvement was primarily as a boat-rower.  A typical evening would go as follows.  We would go down to the boat about 1 to 2 hrs before sunset.  Often there were three of us; Dad, a male guest, and me.  (Susannah often went along for the ride).  We would motor to the upper end of the lake; this was where the Lake Fork emptied in, and where the principal rise of trout occurred at sunset.  Then the two adults would begin to fish.  Often the mosquitoes were terrible; both adults smoked like mad to drive them away (it didn't work).  After an hour or so one or the other would "limit out".  Then it was my turn.  Sometimes I also limited out, but often I didn't.  Also, it was common for one of the adults (with a limit already in his creel) to continue fishing, but using flies with barbless hooks.  That way you could release the fish with no damage.  As I recall, my uncle Lynn sometimes fished with flies with no hooks at all!  (You just counted the strikes). 

There were some problems with this routine.  One involved thunderstorms.  In early summer, thunderstorms will come up quickly and dump cubic miles of water on you in the space of a few minutes.  Thunderstorms came at us from "up-river".  Thus, we kept an eye out in that direction, and at the first sign of a dark cloud we fired up the little one-lunger of an outboard and headed for home.    We rarely got there in time; mostly we arrived soaked to the skin.  A few times we could see that we hadn't a prayer of getting home in time, so pulled to the bank and took shelter in one of the numerous little "prospects" - short tunnels dug by miners - along the lakeshore.  Late summer was best; no thunderstorms, few bugs, but still plenty of hungry fish.

Another problem, as far as I was concerned, arose from the fact that, if you caught fish, you were expected to clean them!  Susannah came in handy here; it almost seemed that she LIKED to jerk the guts out of the slimy little buggers!  But if she wasn't along, or if she hadn't finished by the time we got back to the Cabin - you cleaned your own fish, at the cove where the boat was docked.  I was a conspicuous slacker; I did as quick-and-dirty a job as a thought I could get away with.  My mother, or the other ladies, would often let me know how useless I was - but I don't remember ever having to do them over again.  (Who says crime doesn't pay?). 

We also fished some of the streams, but not often.  The Lake Fork (of the Gunnison River) was best, although many of the best stretches were "posted" - owned by, usually, the Texas Cattlemen's' Association.  I frequently ignored the postings and fished there anyway.  The other main stream was/is Henson Creek, which was not very productive.  However, I looked forward to Henson Creek because of the abandoned mines (more below).

There are other lakes in the area, several very productive.  Crystal Lake (site of my first back-pack trip) had large trout, although they could be difficult to catch.  (It was a hard five-mile uphill hike to Crystal Lake).  Another excellent lake was Waterdog Lake, owned by the Vickers family.  (They still own it, and will take you up there to fish - for a price).  We went up there once that I can recall; I spent the day rowing the boat for various Texans who were too busy slaughtering fish to propel themselves around.  More on Texans below.

 Lake City.  The town of Lake City (population ~100 then) was/is the capital of Hinsdale County, in population the smallest county in Colorado.  It was a beautifully preserved example of Victorian architecture - three streets of historically important houses and shops.  Lake City was a big silver-mining boom-town in the late 1800s.  Several of the mines were extremely productive, and the area must have grown to 10,000 people or more.  Then the mines got deep, the price of silver fell - and the town went flat bust.  By the time that Ruth and Charlie rode in there was almost nothing left of the mining.  However, some old-timers hung on, hence the beautiful homes remained in good repair.  In the 1940s and early 1950s we knew two such old-timers.  One was a man named Steinbeck, whom we hired to look after the Cabin when we were gone.  Another was an elegant lady named Wupperman, not from a mining family, who had settled in Lake City with her husband many years before.  He was dead, and she lived on in one of the beautiful Victorian homes.  Dad in particular liked to visit her; she was from Europe (Germany, probably) and dripped culture. 

By the time we came on the scene there were a few businesses in Lake City.  There were two grocery stores; one run by a man named Hoffman (who was certainly honest), and the other by Mike Pavich, who probably wasn't.  Mike had a slot machine in his store, which I frequented.  There was also a little bowling alley, a laundry, several saloons, and the City Armory, where they had dances.  (These were a real kick).  There must also have been at least one gas station.  Susannah remembers the post office, but I don't.  Lake City had electricity at that time; probably from a hydro generator on Henson Creek.  Vicker's Ranch was there, and already a dude ranch - they had some run-down-looking cabins, a small store, and the all-important ice house.  Their ice kept our fish (and other food) cold, all summer long.

The mines.  On the west side of the continental divide, Hinsdale County is half dug away by mining.  One of the most prosperous groups of mines, at the NW corner of Lake San Cristobal, is visible from where the Cabin used to be.  Another profitable district is located a few miles up Henson Creek from Lake City.  However, there were mines, little towns, prospect pits, saloons, houses of ill repute, etc., etc., located all over the place.  There are even some mines near the summit of Engineer Pass, at nearly 12,000' above sea level.  Two ghost-towns exist: Capital City, up Henson Creek, which had several thousand inhabitants but now - being easily accessed by car - is almost gone, and Carson, which still has many standing buildings (reachable only by a nasty jeep road).  In our early days there it was possible to find mining equipment, mineral specimens, relicts of old households, etc., almost everywhere.  Now most of that is gone, although the holes and some of the buildings are still there.  A good popular history of the Hinsdale mining excitement needs to be written.

The mountains.  Colorado mountains are tall but, in general, not particularly hard to climb.  There are five 14,000 ft peaks in the LakeCity area that I can think of; only one is much more than a very long hike.  There are also many 13,000 ft peaks in the area, some of which require technical climbing.  Most of the peaks in the area (the San Juan Mtns) are rock pyramids that rise from a rolling grassy plateau with a mean elevation of perhaps 12,000 ft.  Frequently there are herds of sheep, with Basque shepherds, up there on the plateau.  It is a pleasure to watch them and their dogs work the sheep.  Most of these guys speak not a word of English.  I have tried my Spanish on them, too, and got nowhere - either they speak only Basque, or my Spanish needs a lot of work.  Everyone who has the chance should climb the tallest of the San Juan peaks - Uncompagre, at about 14,300'.  It is a long (a very long) walk through a meadow, with ten minutes of scrambling at the very end.  The cliffs on Uncompagre are spectacular, as is the view.

"The Place".  Brigham Young is said to have uttered these words (This is the Place) when he first saw the Salt Lake valley.   (Actually, he had scouts out in front, and knew all about where he was going).  Be that as it may, Uncle Dunham (Dunham Taylor, husband of Martha, youngest of the Bebee siblings) gave that name to our outhouse.  This may have been because, as Dean of the (Episcopal) Cathedral in Salt Lake City, Rev. Taylor had had more than enough of Mormonism.  As described above, "the Place" was functional, but not pretty.  A large negative was the presence of large, buzzing flies.  The first Myrl, my father, wrote a poem to urge people sitting in the Place to use the fly swatter that hung nearby.  The poem was lost in the sale and subsequent burning of the Cabin:  I wish I could resurrect it.  It consisted of several (perhaps four) quatrains.  Here is the best I can do.  Can anybody fill in the blanks?

                        How swiftly speed the sands of time

                        How short our span of life

                        . . . . . . . . . .

                        With misery and strife

                        (Probably another quatrain, which I have lost completely.)

                        As round your head the blue flies buzz

                        You cannot concentrate

                        And 'complish what you might, because

                        Your heart is filled with hate

                        So if you indeed you would be great

                        Your destiny fulfill

                        These pests you must eradicate

                        These blue flies you must kill!

USE THE FLY SWATTER!

I also remember a perfectly horrible picture hanging in "the Place".  It was black and white and showed a snowy mountain scene, with a lake in the foreground.  Standing on the near bank of the lake was a large stag - I think it was meant to be an elk.  It was buggling.  In the middle of the lake, swimming toward our foreground elk, was another male of his species, blood in his eye.  A battle was imminent.  The title of this picture was "The Challenge".  On a cold morning it got you out of "the Place" in a hurry.

Firewood.  Darned tootin I was in charge of gathering firewood.  Sometimes it seemed that was all I did.  I would go up the hill behind the cabin, find dried limbs, and hurl them down.  I would also scrounge up and down the rudimentary road that ran past our cabin.  The Cabin devoured firewood.  All cooking and heating originated with me; I found, transported, sometimes cut and split, and ultimately stacked - all the fuel.  Even now, nearly 50 years later, my mother's words "Myrl Jr., you need to fill the wood box", sometimes pops into my head.  Yeah, sure - sometimes the adult men would play at helping me, especially if we had some big logs to haul.  (To our eternal shame, we destroyed the remnants of a log cabin just up the road from our place).  No doubt Bill carried his share of wood.  It was a sexist age; guys carried, girls cooked.  I don't know how the Lynn's (with two daughters)  kept warm.

Smoking (and eating) fish.  Somebody, years earlier, had built a miniature smoke house just north of the Cabin.  It was tiny - it took at most a dozen large trout at a time.  Some summers, when I wasn't rowing or gathering wood, it seemed that all I did was tend that smokehouse.  It took a type of juniper - a low shrub that grows all over the place.  You had to keep the fire just right: not enough and the fish rotted before they smoked, too much and you caught the smoke house on fire.  (I did that at least once).  Our smoked trout were much prized back home in Beaumont; they went well with bourbon whiskey.

Only trout that were not "needed" for day-to-day feeding were smoked.  We ate trout nearly every day, sometimes twice.  They were pan-fried, in corn meal:  We smoked the bigger ones; the little ones tended to drop into the fire.  In a typical week we (say, the Beck family of four) would eat perhaps 50 trout.  However, we could easily catch 180!  I am sure that my mother and aunts were the best trout cooks in the world, but to this day I cannot stand the thought of eating one.  Thank God the world has gone to "catch and release"! 

Texans.  During the tourist season there were (and probably still are) very few Colorado residents in Lake City.  Texas is fairly close to Colorado, most Texans like to travel, and any sane Texan who can will get out of Texas during the summer.  The upshot of all this is that most people in Lake City during our time there were - Texans.  This may still be true.  We passed the Texan Motel on our way to town.  I think one of the saloons was called the Lone Star.  The dance music, and any music in the bars, was country. 

Now, Texans are good people.  However, there isn't a lot of fly fishing going on in Texas at any given time.  Thus, Texans tended then (I can't speak for now) to use artificial lures or, more horribly, bait when they fished.  As noted above, in the Bebee clan, fishing meant fly fishing - unless you had the misfortune to be a kid, or female.   It shouldn't be hard, then, to guess what our attitude toward Texan fishermen was.  Fly fishermen move around; bait fishermen sit still.  One of the least offensive things we called Texan fishermen was "rock squatters".

The Victrola.  We had a wonderful Victrola in the cabin.  It was a wind-up one, driven by a spring.  It played 78 rpm records, the heavy, one-sided, old fashioned kind.  It was made entirely of rich, reddish wood - mahogany, perhaps - and it had the Victrola picture of the listening dog, with the caption "His Master's Voice".   (If you don't have any idea what I am talking about here, you are too young).  There were perhaps a dozen or so records.  My favorites included "The Preacher and the Bear" (Oh, Lord, if you can't help me, for goodness sake don't you help that Bear), and "Oh, it's nice to get up in the morning".  I was an early riser, so I often went down to the living room, cranked up the Victrola, and let fly with this second song.  It got people downstairs in a hurry.  Of all the things I miss about the Cabin, I miss that Victrola most.

The sale.  Lord, why didn't I have $10,000 in 1958?  If I had, I would still own the cabin and the land it stood on - because, I seem to recollect - that's what they sold it for.  They (Dad, Mom, uncles and aunts) must have been feeling the march of time.  In 1958 Ruth, the oldest of them, could hardly have been much over 60, and the rest were younger.  However, it was a long trip from Beaumont, California, to Lake City, and maybe they were tired of it.  Also, my father, at least, was not too healthy.  My sister tells the story of his inability to start the generator; I arrived (fresh home from the army) and started it easily.  My father had always been so much stronger than me that I felt very peculiar after that experience; it was as if the torch had been passed - and I didn't want it!  The next year the Cabin was sold, and that very winter it burned to the ground (mysteriously), thus making way for a "modern" home.  If I'd had that $10,000 the cabin would still be there; modern inside, maybe, but logs and shiplap outside.  The boat would have a much more powerful motor, and I would own a jeep so I could get into the back country more easily.  I wouldn't have to live on trout, and I probably would gather wood only for a cozy fire in the fireplace.  It would be nice to own it today, and lots of fun.  But it wouldn't be the same.