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On Sept. 17, the Colorado History Group will hold yet another trial of Alferd Packer on charges of murder, cannibalism, selling arms (and legs) to the Indians, camping without a permit and sundry other charges. There will be no appeal from this verdict; the judge will be Neil Reynolds, magistrate in Leadville -- the highest court in America.
Many other luminaries will participate. Packer
(portrayed by Lew Cady) will be defended by Walter Gerash
(most recently of John Denver drunken-driving fame),
Patricia Nelson Limerick (professor of history at CU and
recent recipient of a MacArthur Foundation genius
grant
) and Denver historian Tom Noel, who swore he was
performing scholarly research for a historic saloon tour
of Colorado
when he staggered through Salida last
fall.
Chuck Green, who just stepped down as editor of these pages, will portray Frederick Bonfils, a Post founder who got shot by an irate attorney when the Post's crusading reporter Polly Pry (portrayed by Patricia Calhoun of Westword) was trying to get Packer paroled at the turn of the century.
Some rumors have it that Packer worked briefly as a door guard at the Post after his release, and he did toil as a printer's devil in Pennsylvania before the Civil War, so this journalistic fascination may be understandable.
Amid this high-powered talent, I play a small role: Amos Wall, sheriff of Saguache County in 1874 when Packer escaped from custody and stayed on the lam for nine years before his capture at Fort Fetterman, Wyoming Territory.
This required research, of course, so Martha and I ventured to Lake City, site of Packer's alleged cannibalism and his first trial.
Along the way, as we crawled up Monarch Pass behind a new motor home towing a new car towing a new boat, I wondered if we could set aside one highway in Colorado for these Conspicuous Consumption Cavalcades. They could all tool along at 5 m.p.h. past a reviewing stand, competing for trophies in such categories as Worst Gas Mileage, Biggest Towed Vehicle and Finest Interior Amenities -- Franklin Mint collector plates should score well.
Showing off must be the only reason people drive these lumbering land yachts. Figure $40,000 for the vehicle, and there's seven years of payments at $685 a month, plus taxes, insurance, fuel, etc. You can get a lot of motel rooms and restaurant meals for that kind of money. But then again, isn't money better spent at urban dealerships than in small-town motels and cafes?
Finally we got to Lake City, where Packer is a major
industry: Packer books, dolls, coffee mugs (serving our
fellow man since 1874
), glow-in-the-dark plastic bones,
refrigerator magnets (think about what you're
eating
) and preserves -- a pint-sized Mason jar
containing six small heads amid other body parts.
The woman who makes the dolls, magnets and preserves,
Lori Winblood, told me that there have been some
complaints, mostly from newcomers,
about bad taste.
Since Texans -- there are many more Lone Star than Colorado
license plates in Hinsdale County -- have never been known
to exhibit good taste or complain about bad taste, I
suggested that this recent squeamishness must be a
California phenomenon from immigrants who don't approve of
any form of meat. You said it,
she whispered, so
I didn't have to.
Following Packer's trail, we proceeded to Saguache via the Los Pinos Indian Agency. I'll skip the route details because this was beautiful and uncrowded country -- perhaps even a rare cellular-free zone -- and the fewer people who know of it, the better. Sorry.
The Saguache Museum boasts a jail cell containing a Packer dummy. Volunteer guides hasten to point out that this is just for show, that this historic jail cell did not exist in 1874 when Packer escaped.
Duty demanded that I find Packer's actual cell. Fortunately, the resident history buffs were holding a potluck picnic in the Saguache town park Saturday, followed by tours of two historic sites -- a 1939 Civilian Conservation Corps camp and the 1867 Robertson Flour Mill.
We prevailed upon our local connection, Mugs Batchelder, to lead us to some Packer information. She introduced me to Cecil Hall, a man well-versed in Saguache lore. Packer had been incarcerated in a shack on Sheriff Wall's ranch, and Hall told us how to find it.
That research completed, we joined the CCC tour. Four
CCC boys,
all residents of San Luis when they joined
during the Depression, were showing people around. The CCC,
often derided as a New Deal make-work project, built trails
and campgrounds, planted trees, stabilized eroding stream
beds. After their CCC days, these men fought in World War
II, and went on to raise families and lead productive lives
before retirement. That was a different Contract with
America,
and I wished Newt Gingrich had been with us as
we tromped around Rattlesnake Hill and heard them talk
about how the CCC improved their fortunes.
Then came the flour mill. We didn't stay long. Big bats flew at us inside. Outside, clouds of hungry mosquitoes attacked without mercy. I started to complain, but then realized that getting eaten was a fitting way to conclude my Packer research.
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