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FrontRangeLiving.com -> Escapes -> Historic Cemeteries
 ‘Sweet be thy slumber’: Historic Cemeteries Provide Contemplation,
Beauty
By Kathy Kaiser
In the Nederland Cemetery, above the old mining town, tucked into a forest of
tall ponderosas, are three small marble tombstones, all in a row, the lettering
worn on some so it’s not easy to decipher all the writing. But this much can
be noted: that three children, two of them sisters, one the "only son of
N.W. and V.J. Brown," died within a month of each other.
There’s Roy Brown, "Aged 3 yrs, 6 ms., 3 ds," whose stone reads:
Tis a little grave
But oh have care
For world wide hopes
are buried there.
And next to that, under the dark silence of the pine trees, are the graves
for Jennie, 12, and Allie 8, daughters of "Parents: L.T. & V.J.
Nossaman." Jennie died on June 8, 1879; Allie on June 2, 1879.
Nearby, among the purple asters and yellow gaillardia that float among the
tall grasses, is a more contemporary tombstone, from a man who died in his 60s.
His epigraph is short and to the point: "I’m happy now."
 There’s enough sadness and tragedy in Colorado’s historic cemeteries for
innumerable novels, movies, or grand operas. But there’s also a beauty and
stillness that inspire meditations upon life and death.
The early residents of mining towns—such as Georgetown, Idaho Springs and
Empire—chose places of beauty for their loved ones’ final resting place.
Above town or down the valley, the cemeteries were removed from the noise and
chaos found in many early mining towns, where every square inch was covered by
hastily erected tents and cabins and where the hillsides were scarred by mining.
But in the cemeteries, the bereaved would have been soothed by the fine
lettering on the marble tombstone, by the sounds of the creek or beauty of the
surrounding mountains.
In the intervening years, time and nature have added their own signatures to
these places of repose. Aspen trees have emerged from once barren hillsides to
cast their holy light on the white marble stones, while the wind through their
leaves provides a soft, hushed refrain. Chickadees flit from the trees, a
woodpecker hammers, and wildflowers border the tombstones and partly disguise
the graves.
 These are places mostly forgotten over the decades, left to the aspens,
junipers and pines, the sagebrush and juncos. There’s a sense of desolation
and of removal from the world and its frantic pace. Over the decades, the
straight lines and orderly rows have been replaced with a more haphazard
design. Tree roots have pushed up the soil, wooden caskets have sunk, lilac
bushes planted 100 years ago have taken over family plots. Many of the old
tombstones are half buried in the dirt, covered with the detritus of dead leaves
and twigs, while orange and black lichen have added their own lettering to the
tombstones. Vines twine through wrought iron fences, and purple harebells align
themselves with the remains of a fallen wooden fence.
Nature’s artistry is complemented by the work of humans. Early stonemasons
inscribed the names, dates and poetry in distinctive styles; their lettering
could be florid, elegant, or delicate. On top of children’s tombs, lambs catch
your gaze with their soft looks and vulnerability. On other gravestones,
disembodied hands hold each other in some gesture of togetherness even in death.
And then there’s the poignancy of handmade markers and burial plots: in the
Georgetown cemetery, hanging from a small aspen tree are two small birdhouses,
made of wood and obviously finely crafted, as if they could be the object of
contemplation themselves. Wrapped around the aspen tree is a necklace of blue
and orange glass beads that glitter in the sunlight.
Colorado has a wealth of historic cemeteries, most dating from the state’s
mining days, starting around the 1860s and 1870s. Even if poor, especially with
children, the residents of these towns would find enough money to mount an
appropriate memorial. Often the grandest tombstones are to the littlest humans,
as if the shortness of their years could be counterbalanced by the bigness of
their resting place. There’s no shortage of graves for women who died in
childbirth and for their children, who died young, often from epidemics, such as
influenza and diphtheria.
 Their names—Elsie, Percy, Eliza, Edward, Wilhelm, Matilda, Olive, Edna,
Flora— the day they were born and the day they died create a kind of
litany or dirge. The older tombstones are mostly marble; for the poorer folks,
sandstone or wood, even though granite was all around, being blasted out of the
mountain daily by the miners to get to the gold and silver. But the marble must
have symbolized something classical, eternal; the purity of the whiteness
associated with heaven and angels.
These historic cemeteries are often tucked off the beaten path, known mostly
to locals. In Gold Hill, high above Boulder, the cemetery is on the back side of
town, where the dearly departed face south, overlooking several lines of peaks
and valleys extending to Mount Evans. In Georgetown, the early residents settled
their cemetery on a hill above Clear Creek, a few miles east of town.
In some cases, the cemetery holds more souls than the town. And in a few
cases, the only indication that a town even existed is the cemetery. Outside of
Fairplay (up the road toward Tarryall Reservoir) is the Bordenville Cemetery, on
a hill overlooking Tarryall Creek and surrounded by soft, low hills covered with
short green grass and a few aspens. The large metal sign for the cemetery is
almost grander than the cemetery and almost the biggest structure around, for
the town is long gone, not even the foundations of buildings to denote that this
was once a community.
 Most of these historic cemeteries are a respectful distance from their towns,
which would have meant long funeral processionals, often uphill, carrying the
casket, through winter snows, spring mud or harsh winds. It would be a symbolic
journey from the hardships, uncertainties and joys of life to the quiet,
stilled places of eternal slumber, and an opportunity for the survivors to
measure, with each footstep, their sadness and grief.
Even today, the historic cemeteries seem removed from the world, in Empire,
past the ball field and over the hill from the frenetic noise and movement of
traffic on I-70, you slip through the metal gate and the world stops, as if time
has been suspended. Silence greets you and your heart slows; suddenly, every
detail is significant and full of meaning. At the entrance, a tall granite
monument soars against the sky and mountains, recently erected to honor the
memory of three of Empire’s more prominent citizens. Old and new stones are
scattered on the hillside, among the yellow potentilla bushes and small groves
of aspen.
 Some of the cemeteries, like the one in Empire, sit in the bottom of the
valley, sheltered by the mountains, while others, such as Idaho Springs, is
on a steep slope south of town, affording views both of Idaho Springs, nestled
in the valley below, and the Mount Evans wilderness area to the south. After
having their first cemetery washed out by a flood, citizens set their second
cemetery on a hill so steep that, in places, stairs have been built into the
hillside for descendants to reach the family plot. While there is likely no
danger of flooding, the possibility exists of tumbling down to the creek while
visiting your loved one’s grave. Many of the plots are shored up with stone
work or concrete, and some of the walls are splitting as the forces of nature
push everything downhill toward the creek. Walking through this cemetery while
trying to stay upright garners an appreciation for the early grave diggers who
must have had to work hard to keep the dirt from rolling back into the grave.
The Georgetown cemetery
sits on a gently sloping hill with
views to the west of the high peaks. One of the first tombstones you see is a
tall obelisk belonging to Louis Dupuy. In 1875, the Frenchman built a hotel in
Georgetown known for its elegance, the Hotel de Paris, which is now a museum.
The inscription on the obelisk is in French, with a mysterious notation: "deux
bon amis," but who was the other good friend?
 These historic cemeteries are full of tombstones that pose questions for
which often there are no answers. A few stories are well known. In Central City’s
Masonic Cemetery, on a hill overlooking Main Street’s old brick buildings, is
the gravestone of Sarah Ella Rudolph and her two children, who all died on the
same day, buried in an avalanche in their home in nearby Apex in 1899. The
Denver papers carried the story with all the details: how many rescuers, how
long it took to find the body, the faint cry of one son who survived, and how
they found Stella with a wooden beam on top of her, holding her daughter.
But more often, the stories are buried with the dead. In the cemetery in
Empire, three generations of Crokes are buried side by side, but all male. There’s
Garnet A. Croke, who lived to be 96 years old; Kevin C. Croke, presumably his
son, who lived only 58 years; and the third Croke, David Kevin, who died at age
4. But where are the women, the wives, the mothers?
Nearby a tombstone for "Ralph Salmon, 1854-1915," stands alone,
with the word, "Brother." Who was the brother or sister who paid for
this memorial, but died elsewhere? Mining towns were transient places, where
spouses and family members often left after the death of a loved one,
leaving behind blank spaces, unfinished legacies.
 In the cemetery for Como (near Fairplay), the only designation on a marble
tombstone is for "Wife of H.W. Keirstead. Died June 4, 1892. Aged 16
years." Did H.W. not want her name on the stone? Or was H.W. already dead
and buried somewhere else, so whoever erected the stone only knew this girl as
someone’s wife? In mining camps, girls married young, but how could she be so
unknown, without any family or friends?
Inscriptions on the tombstones can be blunt ("Killed on South Maroon
Peak, July 27, 1965, Age 28" says one tombstone in Marble near Aspen). More
often, the epigraphs are vague as to the cause of death and are designed to
soothe a broken heart. These poems can be hauntingly beautiful and sad.
Rest loved one rest
Our footsteps wake thee not
Still is thy grave a consecrated spot
Sweet be thy slumber in the narrow cell
And soft thy pillow dearest one farewell
In contrast, some of the more recent remembrances can be almost flip: "Prop me up before the jukebox," intones one for a woman buried in
1998 in the Georgetown Cemetery, where another tombstone is " in memory of
a swell guy."
Yet some can be inspiring. In the Gold Hill Cemetery, the date of birth and
date are followed by: "Reborn the day I came to Colorado."
And, in the Como cemetery, where the thickness of the aspens inside the
cemetery is counter-balanced by the wide open spaces of South Park, is another
comforting reminder:
The spirit now free
of earthly restraints
soars
 And did the lamb atop their child’s tomb comfort parents, as if this
portrayal of sweetness and innocence would lessen their suffering? The Idaho
Springs cemetery has a section just for children, and the number of tiny lambs
decorating the tombstones can break your heart. For the Victorians, tombstone
symbols had clear meanings. Not just the lamb, which indicated the death of a
child, but flowers, hands, birds, crosses, even draperies could indicate hope,
eternal life, a winged soul or fidelity. In the Georgetown Cemetery, where the
traffic on I-70 is a constant reminder of modern life, one tombstone shows a
hand, the index finger pointing up, between two stage curtains. The finger is
pointing to heaven, while the curtains frame this yearning in a symbol of
mourning or mortality. Hands clasped, a common theme in these historic
cemeteries, mean farewell and the hope of
meeting in eternity.
And there’s the more modern, unofficial symbols: a miniature football
helmet, a toy plastic industrial truck with "waste management" written on
the side, a brown felt cowboy hat with a Bud Lite pin stuck in the brim, teddy
bears, and a full-life replica of a golden Lab puppy with an eager look on its face, as
if the owner might rise up any minute from the grave and take the dog for a
walk. For family and friends, these small icons must symbolize the lives of the dearly
departed and bring some comfort. In the Nederland cemetery, many of
the more recent granite stones depict the same view of a line of mountains with
pine trees in the foreground. This seeming monotony is broken by one such
tombstone, in which, below the mountains, a man sits on a bulldozer. Here’s
someone who had a sense of humor.
In many of these historic cemeteries, you can trace the lineage of the town’s
founding fathers and mothers. In Georgetown, there’s the Guanellas, for which
Guanella Pass south of Georgetown was named. Here, at least three generations,
comprising some 20 tombstones, share a plot among the aspens and purple asters.
Many of the early settlers came from across the ocean. In Georgetown, three
marble tombstones in a row are for young men from England who died in a mining
accident, including: "Lewis Garrett, Born in Dalby, Isle of Man"; and
"John Gregory, Born in Beeralston, Devon, England."
In Gold Hill, the family of Julia Verehlighte retained their German language
for the afterlife: "Geboren Den 12, Nov 1856. Gestorben Den 26, Nov
1886." As did the Italians in Central City, who are buried together in one
section of the Catholic Cemetery: "Andreatta Na. 22 April. In Memoria I
Suoi Fratelli."
 Many of the miners came from Cornwall, England, where they had worked the tin
mines, and not only is their heritage written on the tombstones, but also in the
buildings and stone work in these mining towns. The Jamestown Cemetery, which
sits on a hill above James Creek, has many plots enclosed by beautiful rock
walls, perhaps the work of Cornishmen. The cemetery entrance is marked by a
tall, white picket fence and arch, a surprising bit of domestication in this
otherwise unruly landscape of dry hills and mining scars above this town west of
Boulder.
And, of course, there are tombstones and memorials for those who died in the
wars. Often, the stones for World War I are grouped together, as in the
Georgetown Cemetery, where dozens of small marble stones contain just names,
with no date of birth or death, plus a reference to the soldier’s military
service: "64 Ill. Inf." Presumably, these men died overseas, and the
town put up these stones to commemorate their deaths.
Reportedly, many cemeteries have burial plots facing east, a Christian
practice of waiting for the rising sun on resurrection day. (And, those who were
not good Christians, such as gunslingers or prostitutes, were deliberately
buried on a north-south axis, according to some historical reports.) Indeed, in
the Catholic Cemetery in Central City, all the tombstones, sitting in a meadow
of yellow potentilla bushes, face east. But across the road, where the
Oddfellows are buried, the stones all face downhill, toward the southeast and
Central City. This old mining town, now a gambling stepsister to wealthier
Blackhawk, has 11 cemeteries. Once considered the richest square mile on earth
because of all the gold that was removed, Central City had a population big
enough to support individual cemeteries for every conceivable fraternal
organization plus a few religions, including the International Order of
Oddfellows (IOF), the Catholics, the Masons, and the Knights of Pythias.
These fraternal organizations, including Woodmen of the World (whose
distinctive tree trunks, made of sandstone and symbolizing a life cut short, are
spread throughout the historic cemeteries), were more than chummy men’s groups
that had strange club rituals. In the days when health insurance didn’t exist,
and one’s family might be a thousand miles or more away, these groups were an
essential part of the community and offered security, paying for the tombstone
for a miner who lost his life and helping the miner’s widow and children
survive.
 In Central City, those not belonging to one of these organizations were left
with the City Cemetery, where a respectable family of four might find themselves
next to a lady of the night. While it’s hard to know which tombstones belonged
to the fallen women, several modest stones in the City Cemetery list first names
only, including "Kitty"—no last name no date of birth or death.
Compared to the Catholic Cemetery, with its even rows of large granite markets,
the City Cemetery is poorer, more ramshackle, with more wooden markers and
modest gravestones. Here, too, there is more desecration, with headstones pushed
over, heads of lambs gone. This cemetery, along with the adjoining Knights of
Pythias and IOF, is located at a crossroads a few miles outside of Central City,
easily spotted from the road, which has heavy ATV traffic.
What some may consider another form of desecration are the fake flowers that
adorn many of the tombstones, even those from a hundred years ago. Made of a
tough fabric or plastic, sun-bleached and frayed, these fake roses, daisies,
peonies look garish among the otherwise subdued aspens and grasses. (This
practice of using faux flowers is apparently not a new one. A photo taken of
women, wearing long dresses and bonnets, at a burial plot somewhere in
southwestern Colorado, shows cloth flowers "planted" around the
gravestone, similar to the ones that still droop over many tombstones.)
In the Nederland cemetery, which is on a hill above the old mining town west
of Boulder, are two graves covered with Astroturf, two plastic crosses, and six
baskets of plastic flowers, most of them fading. Several purple harebells
growing along the edge of the grave make a valiant attempt to compete with this
profusion of fakery. Many descendants, apparently wanting maintenance-free grave
sites, simply cover family plots with rocks, often of local origin but sometimes
using decorative stones that would look more in place in a 1950s driveway.
 Aside from the Astroturf gravesite, Nederland’s cemetery is more unkempt
and wild than others, reflecting the town’s hippie and unconventional
past. On the south and sunnier side, tall grasses almost hide some of the
markers, which include Celtic and plain wooden crosses, including one that
simply says "For Spike 1949-1981."
In many historic cemeteries, fences apparently make good neighbors. Older
family plots are protected with wrought-iron fences or, for the poorer folks,
with wooden fences. Newer ones are bound with black chains or a border of rocks.
Inside the fortification might be one grand tombstone or a whole family, where
you can trace the lineage, from great-grandparents to aunts, uncles,
grandchildren. Here, forever, the Gusauds are separated from the Thompsons, and
the Thompsons from the Harrisons.
Still, there is one final barrier that separates us, the living, from those
lying peacefully in these places. As one tombstone, for a Woodman buried in
Central City, states:
Our brother the haven hath gained
Out flying the tempest and wind
His rest he hath sooner obtained
And left his companions behind.
Locations:
: Four of the bigger cemeteries—Catholic Cemetery, the
Oddfellows, Knights of Pythias and City Cemetery—are at the intersection of
Upper Apex Road and Bald Mt. Road, a couple of miles above town, on the road
that goes past the Opera House. The Masonic Cemetery is about a half mile up from
town, past Glory Hole parking lot, on the right.
Como (in South Park): Cemetery is about a half mile past town (on road
that goes to Boreas Pass) on the left.
Empire: Coming from Denver into Empire, turn left on Main Street (sign
has arrow "to Bard Creek"), and a couple blocks down is a ball field.
Turn left at the road in front of the field (Minton Park) and go all the way to
the end.
Fairplay: From Highway 285, near the main intersection that takes you
into Fairplay, instead, take a left on an unmarked street that leads to the Park
County Jail (behind the Phillips 66 station). About a mile or so down, turn
left before the Middle Fork Ranch sign. (Warning, in wet weather, the red,
clay-like soil can be messy.)
Georgetown: Take the Georgetown exit off I-70, but at the first stop
sign, head back east on the frontage road, past the lake, for about two miles.
Cemetery is on your right (south).
Gold Hill: There are several approaches to Gold Hill from Boulder
(Sunshine Canyon, Four Mile Canyon, Lefthand Canyon) or from the Peak to Peak
Highway. Once in town, follow Dixon Road, just off of Main Street, south and
over to the other side of Gold Hill.
Idaho Springs: Cemetery is about a half-mile up the road (Hwy. 103)
toward Mount. Evans. You’ll see wooden sign on left side of road. The older
gravestones are on the southern end of the cemetery.
Jamestown: North of Boulder (on Hwy. 36), take Lefthand Canyon up to
James Canyon. In Jamestown, at the first stop sign (across from the red and
white Jamestown V.F.D.), turn left onto Main Street heading east. A few blocks
down, the road curves upward and you’ll see a sign that says Cemetery Road.
The cemetery is about a half mile down the road on the right., marked by a white
picket fence. You can also park your car at the town park (Elysian Park) and
walk across the park to the cemetery, which is on the southeast corner.
Nederland: Heading
north of town, just as the Peak to Peak Highway (Hwy. 72) goes uphill, is a sign
for the Community Center (the old elementary school). Turn right and take the
road behind the school, called Forest Road, a half mile or so. The cemetery is
on right, the entrance announced by two huge stone pillars. If you go too far,
you’ll hit the Peak to Peak Highway
Resources:
From the Grave: A Roadside Guide to Colorado’s Pioneer Cemeteries, by
Linda Wommack (Caxton Press, Caldwell, Idaho, 1998).
The Mining Camps Speak: A New Way to Explore the Ghost Towns of the American
West, by Beth and Bill Sagstetter (BenchMark Publishing of Colorado, Denver,
1998)
All photos by Kathy Kaiser
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