A stone's throw from the Arkansas River, the Howard Colorado Cemetery awaits its next tenant.
The cemetery rests under the snowy shoulders of the Sangre de Christo Mountains. These serrated
fourteeners knife into the sky across the valley. Rumor has it a chest of 1880's Spanish gold
remains stashed in a secret cave in those hills.
A dirt parking area is empty when I arrive. Sticky burrs are the dominant plant species.
Latino and Spanish names headline many of the gravestones. 1867 was the earliest date I saw on
a marker. That was a big stone with HOWARD--the Town's founder-- etched into it.
There's a pea-gravel walkway to a large monument near the back fence. A bench and an elm invite
a visitor to sit and ponder the Fates.
Homemade remembrances decorate some graves.
A black and white period photo. A wooden wagon wheel. A weathered handmade doll.
Some graves say their piece on flat bronze nameplates fastened to the ground. A number of
monuments honor World War 1 and 2 veterans, rank and branch of service noted.
There's a trail behind the cemetery that leads to a dry stream bed. Follow it and you'll be
flanked by monolithic volcanic rocks sanded flat and smooth by the elements--unmarked
headstones for critters who have perished here.
Horse droppings decorate the stream bed. I like to think the horses are descendants of the
steeds the Spanish rode when this area was a Spanish land grant.
Footprints not mine indent the sandy trail. One stands out. Big foot lives.
Headed back and up the canyon, rock art decorates the trail. There's stacked rocks. Rocks in
tree limbs. Rocks balanced on end. Small concentric rock circles within larger rock circles.
Enthusiasts train here. There's a televised competition in the fall.
Ascending as you go into the canyon, rock climbing and scampering skills are rewarded. So too
biking gloves, hiking boots and a Moses staff to deflect face-gouging spring-loaded tree
branches.
Both sides of the canyon are sheet-rocked by flat slabs of monolithic volcanic boulders,
deposited here 300 million years ago when Mount Aetna--60 miles northwest--blew and shot a
monster fireball fifty miles into the sky.
I learned this from an online geology course taught by a local geologist. She said when the
volcano exploded, all life east of the volcano to what is now the Kansas border, was
obliterated.
When the fireball came crashing back to earth near present day Buena Vista, it rolled down
valley, scattering fiery chunks of itself everywhere as it re-arranged the valley furniture.
Equilibrium punctuated by sudden catastrophe. Nature's way.
"There...how's that look?"
In the most romantic story I ever heard, my friend Matt proposed to his gal in this canyon.
There's a cove twenty minutes in. Matt hid the engagement ring beforehand, had dinner cooking,
then popped the question.
"Honey, do you mind cleaning up the dishes?"
Leaving the hideaway, me and Ms. Molly trudge up canyon. The creek bed narrows. Discoveries
expand. Twisted barber pole dead cedars advertise a shave and a haircut ahead.
Climbing up one last ledge, golly Bill, it's a flat smooth sandy walkway. Matt tells me just a
tad further--two week walk tops--a side passage opens on the left where a boy and his beagle
can return to the cemetery via a parallel canyon. We abandoned the search for that passage when
the sun started to set.
The hike back down is easy except for ankle sprains and cartilage tears. Those don't seem that
big of a deal when the last landmark you see is the cemetery.
There are 167 marked graves in the cemetery, including that of Jonah Peregrine, who’s believed
to be the first settler in these parts. He arrived from Tennessee in 1871. Built a house here
on 16 acres.
The cemetery was once a stagecoach stop on a wagon road that led to Leadville. That was back
when this area was called Nice Valley.
Still is.
