Hellions and Moonshiners

Hellions

We were not gangs in the meaning of the word "gang" today. We were pals who roamed the hills around Creede, fished together and ate wherever conditions were right, the main condition being if there was enough food to go around. Our gang usually had a dog or two and we always had one character, hell fired, who could get us all in trouble.

Soapy's Pool Hall and Barber Shop had a bench facing west by Main street where the oldsters with miner's consumption (silicosis) would congregate after lunch to hock, cough, and let each other know they were still breathing, enough, at least, to make the rendezvous. One old fellow could never stay awake long after the first greeting in the warmth of the afternoon sun. If that bench was on our route, Earl J couldn't resist scaring the hell out of old Norm. He would steal a paper sack from the A. H. Major Grocery, blow it up as tight as possible, and burst it with a fast punch near Norm's head. It didn't just scare Norm, it scared the others as well who would be half awake. I hid around the corner of the building when Earl J performed where I could hear the action and the exchange of words. Norm could never catch Earl J but he would yell, "You smart little bastard, I'll kick your ass'til your nose bleeds" or "I'll kick your ass'til your ears whistle Yankee Doodle." Another might add, "I'll punch you so hard in the nose you'll blow snot down the back of your neck for the rest of your life." I never approved of Earl J's revivals but it probably gave those old fellows a much needed shot of adrenaline.

The dumpgrounds was a favorite hangout of "our gang." We Jackson boys had a Chesapeake retriever who loved to hunt and our pals had a mixed breed that was a little faster. They made a good team. The dumpground was overrun with squirrels and the favorite hiding places of the larger ground squirrels were in old rusted-out kitchen stoves or under tin. Our part of the bargain with the dogs was to overturn the stoves and make the squirrels run out to a wild chase or jump up and down on a pile of tin until they shot out dusty and bleary eyed. The hunt went on until we were filthy and too tired to shake another stove or jump on another pile of tin.

Ode to the Moonshiners

Who, now, would guess that Snowshoe Mountain
born of a seething volcanic mass
once proudly served as a moonshiner's fountain
its waters as clear as a telescope's glass

Piped into tubs made to house sour mash
yeast, corn and sugar brought to a boil
white lightning to ferment but never to flash
its vapors condensed by a funnel and coil

to drip into sterilized half gallon jugs
no time for aging by charcoal in kegs
when needed in place of a pharmacy's drugs
to fire up ill miners on unsteady legs

A moonshiner's life was a burden in prose
distillery wares stitched in hundred pound sacks
to be carried far from a Revenuer's nose
by ambitious men with strong, muscled backs

serving a purpose, taking care of a need
for those who would challenge a new frontier
struggling to fashion a boomtown called Creede
while fighting the elements and coping with fear

Thundermug 2003

The Moonshiners

Distilling liquor was an accepted industry in Mineral County during prohibition and the distillers or "moonshiners" were part and parcel of the social structure with no stigma because of their unlawful practices. Poaching of deer and elk was unlawful, too, but a majority of the males and a few females engaged in hanging a carcass when meat was needed on the table and jobs were scarce around Creede.

Moonshining was mainly a sideline for the few I was acquainted with except for Archie "Spud" Fellows who operated his distillery as a full time business and never seemed to lack for funds. It was rumored that Spud dispatched a Revenue Agent to a different medium with a gunshot to the head, but I asked my grandfather about it since he and Spud were good friends and he told me he didn't believe it was true. He told me that Spud had killed a man in Saguache County when he was a boy and readily admitted it. The man was beating Spud's Mother and he very efficiently stopped his heart from beating with the help of a club. It was deemed self-defense and Spud was acquitted of any felonious intent.

Spud's main still was up the East fork of Deep Creek at the foot of Snowshoe Mountain and the last time I passed by it when my Dad and I were elk hunting, the copper coil, funnel, and mash tubs were still in place. Spud was particular about all the ingredients as well as the process and his liquor was judged the best of all liquor produced in Mineral County.

William "Bill" Swinehart Senior had a ranch to the West adjoining the Fellows homestead and his still was in a steep canyon that branched from the West Fork of Deep Creek at the foot of Snowshoe Mountain. All the stills I personally knew of were clustered around Snowshoe Mountain where the water was pure and isolated enough to get little attention. My brother, Scooter, and I had stumbled onto Bill's still while elk hunting and though it had been inactive for years, it was set up to cook. Everything was in order with clean jug, funnel, and copper coils over the mash tub and two oak barrels ready to receive the finished product.

All that was needed was the corn, sugar, and yeast. A spring behind the cabin supplied all the water needed. Bill operated a garage in Creede with his son and distilling whiskey helped in slack times at the garage. Last summer I took a nostalgic hike from Moonshine Mesa to the still and found it easily enough but the ravages of time and weather had made it nearly unrecognizable and the cabin with equipment was covered with soil and new growth of willows and aspen. A fitting end to an era.

The distillery we were most familiar with was southwest of my grandfather's ranch, less than a mile in Gardnier Gulch, also branching from Snowshoe Mountain. This enterprise was run by Howard Barber who had the adjoining homestead to the west and found Gardnier Gulch to be convenient to all in the area, either distilling or drinking the product. My grandfather, uncles, and friends were his best customers which greatly displeased the women folks, but it was better than hell-raising in Creede where the Justice of the peace depended on fines for his subsistence and drunk and disorderly cases provided the bulk of his income.

Howard and Pearl Barber were two of my favorite people when I was a youngster and Howard was a master story teller who could keep me entranced. They lost their only son to spinal meningitis in the mid 1930s and it was a terrible blow to them. Jimmy was a husky lad, full of life and swam with us in the Rio Grande off Moonshine Mesa where a bend in the river and cliffs provided deep holes. It was believed Jimmy contracted meningitis from the river and we were banned from swimming in it for a year or two.

When moonshining faded, Howard and Pearl moved to Creede where Howard worked in several jobs before becoming a "shifter" at the Commodore Mine in 1949. I was running a cross-cut on 900 level at the time and Howard saw to it that I never lacked for supplies. We found a couple of powder boxes to sit on when he made his rounds where for a few minutes we returned to the excitement and glory of his moonshining days. We were supposed to stay out of the canyon when he was cooking, but he knew several pairs of eyes were watching him from our hiding places just above his operation.

William "Bill" Tingley was a French Canadian transplanted to Creede where he had several sawmills and two distilleries that I knew of. Bill was a wonderful old gentleman and we often had him to our house for meals. Bill's problem was he had to sample his wares to determine if he had the correct proof. My favorite story of Bill's product was concerned with an uncle and friend who bought a jug from Bill to supply a group at a dance. The jug kept stopping up after a gurgle or two and they thought a piece of cork was lodged in it. They were finally able to empty it and fished out a hairless, well-pickled mouse.

William Tingley went through a fortune in his lifetime and died penniless on Larimer Street in Denver, Colorado, as a vagrant.

Rump Roast of Rocky Mountain Canary

Roy Raupe came to Creede in the 1930s with a wife and five carrot topped kids. They lived in one of the railroad's section houses at the southwest end of Creede near the former Sulphur Mill.

Roy was a good worker, originally from Arkansas where hard work and its benefits were instilled at an early age. He worked for Bill Tingley, a sawmiller, until there was an opening in a leasing company engaged in reopening silver-producing mines located North of Creede. Roy lost part of a hand in Tingley's sawmill and later lost his teeth, but by that time he had acquired a milk cow and a pen full of chickens to help feed his family. He jumped at the chance for work at the upper Amethyst Mine but since he had no teeth, his lunch consisted of a pint jar holding six thoroughly-mixed soft boiled eggs each day. One of his coworkers said that watching him slurp those cold, half-raw eggs from the jar was more than his stomach could stand and he found a different area to eat his own cold sandwich washed down with strong coffee.

Roy Raupe, in addition to his cow and chickens, latched onto two burros left by sheepherders and used them to pack in his hunting camp in an aspen timbered basin North of Shallow Creek where two avid hunters in Creede also liked to hunt. Roy had taken a friend with him and they erected a small corral near their tent to keep the burros from straying. The camp of Al and Ashby was near the head of the same basin a half mile northeast of "Arkie's" camp.

The evening before the opening of deer season, Al and Ashby sneaked downwind of a small park of aspen and watched a herd of deer with two four-point bucks feed in the upper end of the park. Early the next morning they pussy-footed to the edge of the clearing and could faintly see the deer, some feeding, some bedded down. Just as it became light enough to distinguish the bucks from the does and aim, one of Arkie's burros greeted the day with loud braying. The deer had never heard anything like that and vanished. Next day the same thing happened and on the third day someone shot one of the burros.

After the end of the hunting season I was talking to Al about Arkie's loss. I said I couldn't see how any hunter could mistake a dark colored burro for a deer. Al said, "It wasn't a mistake, I shot that braying sonuvabitch and I would have shot the other one except it was too close to the tent." He cautioned me not to tell a soul and, after 60 years, this is the first time I have related it.

Allen (A.J.) Hosselkus

I worked on several jobs with A. J. Hosselkus, from digging discovery holes for newly staked claims of a mining firm to putting up ice for a fish hatchery. It seemed like all were cold weather jobs but we were young and able to withstand all temperature extremes for a monthly paycheck.

We put up ice the old fashioned way using long toothed handsaws to saw the one hundred pound blocks and a gin pole with ice tongs to lift them out and to a truck to haul to the icehouse where we manhandled them into square stacks using sawdust for insulation under, over, and around each block. It was hard work with temperatures nearly always below zero and wind blowing down the canyon but it was also at the top of the wage scale of the Creede area at $5.00 per shift. The Hosselkus Road Canyon Fishery was a thriving business at the time, shipping to several outlets. The trout were uniform in size, as near one half pound each as possible, dressed and iced for the long haul to major cities.

We took an extended holiday one fall for a hunting trip with his cousin, Gordon Hosselkus, using my Model T truck for transportation. What I remember with ease about the trip was the enormous bedroll of Gordon's that took up as much space in the truck bed as the tent and supplies. We opted to stay in the Jack Fleming cabin for the first days of the hunt rather than taking time to set up the tent. It was a solid cabin near the Equity Mine and was used each summer by Jack to work his claims for the yearly assessment.

Everything went well the first night until the candles and lantern were blown out and pack rats took over, followed by a herd of mice that would have fed a full coyote pack. I don't know whether the mice were trying to evict the rats or vice versa but they were jumping and running on our beds the entire night. We could hear Gordon's muffled voice swearing when one tried to work its way under his covers. We moved the following day and set up the tent.

A. J. was armed with a lever action, Winchester .33 caliber rifle with open sights that was deadly within 500 yards and he was a sharpshooter. Gordon and I were underpowered with old rifles whose barrels were worn smooth and served only to frighten game. Fortunately, it was a dry year with the elk staying high until the very last of the season when a snowstorm put A. J. on the tracks of a small herd and he bagged a spike elk. It had been a lot of fun until his elk fell high in the timber of Shallow Creek basin and the work began. A. J. was always a spoiler in hunting season.