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Nothing like a crisis to unite a community, right? Well, not if that community is Leadville, Colo., seat of Lake County and the highest incorporated city in the United States at 10,152 feet above sea level. The old mining town has been in the news lately on account of a clogged mine drainage tunnel.
There's a water treatment plant at the mouth of the 12,000-foot-long tunnel. But somewhere behind it there's a blockage that may date back to 1995, and contaminated water has accumulated underground. If the growing water pressure pushed through or around the blockage, it might wash out the treatment plant and a nearby mobile-home park, and send a toxic plume down the Arkansas River.
Lake County Commissioners despaired that the tunnel's owner, the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation, would ever get around to fixing the problem. So a month ago, they declared a state of emergency. This worked like the proverbial two-by-four applied to a mule: It got the beast's attention. Even the New York Times has covered the story.
As someone who lives 60 miles downstream from Leadville in Salida, it was fine by me. We are dependent on river-related tourism here, and the last thing we need is another (there was one in 1983) big release of orange mine-murk discharge that kills most aquatic life in the river.
If a mere declaration of emergency is what it took to get the Bureau of Reclamation to meet its responsibilities, well, at least they didn't have to try to find some way to tie it to a suspected Al Quaeda sleeper cell bent on poisoning the sixth-longest river in America.
But the commissioners' action did not sit well in much of Leadville. Mining lasted longer as a mainstay there than in most other mountain towns, but it hasn't been a significant economic factor for a quarter of a century. Leadville has evolved into a bedroom community for workers who toil in the ski resorts of Eagle and Summit counties, and it's starting to attract tourists all on its own.
It has block after block of ornate Victorian architecture, many museums including the National Mining Museum and Hall of Fame, the Mineral Belt Trail that wanders through the old mining district, and a summer tourist railroad that climbs to timberline. The two highest peaks in Colorado and the Rocky Mountains, Elbert and Massive, are less than a dozen miles away, and the highest pass in North America sits on the other side of town.
In other words, it's got history and altitude and it's trying to build on both to attract more tourists. But the Disaster Declaration didn't help. The Feb. 28 edition of the local paper, the Herald-Democrat, was full of letters from merchants and civic leaders bemoaning the effects of the declaration.
Mayor Bud Elliott said the county commissioners made a
drastic, unilateral move
that caused serious and
long-term impacts on the image, economy and quality of life
in our community.
Former Mayor Chet Gaede wrote that
the commissioners chose to cry wolf to the national
media
and he feared that the wolf will come back to
bite us all.
Restaurant owner Dave Wright had heard
of large numbers of cancellations in local motels/hotels,
representing thousands of dollars lost in lodging income
and tax,
and his establishment had received phone calls
from out-of-towners asking if it's safe to visit
here.
This brings to mind that scene from the movie Jaws where the mayor tells the police chief not to mention the shark attack, since it could hurt tourism.
For my part, I figure it is as safe as it ever was to visit Leadville, and that is something I do with some frequency. I've long had an affection for the place, and that's the result of a long-ago trip to the mountains which might explain some difficulties with the tourist economy.
It was in the summer of 1970. My red hair cascaded down to my shoulders, and Martha and I drove an old hippie van. We had set out from Greeley for a week of wandering around the Colorado Rockies.
Just over the top of Frémont Pass, the fan belt broke. We coasted into Leadville, with me dreading an Easy Rider confrontation with hostile rednecks. But the guy at the gas station was quite friendly. He didn't have that belt in stock, but he called the distributor, who came by, installed it, and refused to take a nickel for his trouble.
The distributor introduced himself as the mayor of Leadville, and said he hoped we would enjoy our visit. We did. We camped near town and visited museums and old mines and the railroad yards.
How different gritty Leadville was from chic Aspen, where we basically felt like Al Sharpton might at a Ku Klux Klan rally. It was obvious that economically-challenged young people driving old rattle-trap vans were not wanted in Aspen.
Over the years, I've pondered that difference. I concluded that Aspen, at least back then, relied on decadent Euro-trash and didn't want downscale folks who might provoke the VIPs into jetting to Gstaad for their next spree.
Leadville was then a mining town with more than 2,000 men working at the immense Climax Molybdenum Mine. That was Leadville's sustenance, and with that regular payroll, it could well afford not to give a damn what others thought of the place. It didn't need to care about its public image. Scruffy visitors were guests to be treated well, rather than possible affronts to the upscale revenue-stream tourists whose opinions mattered.
That might explain the apparent contradictions of a hostile tourist town and a firendly non-tourist town.
It saddens me now to see that Leadville has to worry
about its image for tourists, but in this age of
adventure tourism
and thrill-seeking X-treme
sports,
some clever marketing might save the day with a
slogan like Are you tough enough for reality?
All towns have their problems from time to time. But they're unlikely to get fixed if nobody talks about them, lest potential tourists might find out.
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