RAMAH

The drive from Colorado Springs to Ramah takes you due northeast across the middle of El Paso County, one of Colorado’s largest counties by area and my old stomping grounds. That November morning in 2020 we had met my brother at the location of the family’s old cattle ranch east of Colorado Springs near the town of Ellicott. The old ranch on SH 94 was known from the “W hanging B” brand that my grandfather came up with. It gave precedence to the Watt family name, since I suspect (without evidence) that the newest married-in member of the family, my uncle Tom Watt and grandpa’s new son-in-law, was funding a large part of the purchase from his Texas family’s fortunes. The hanging B was of course for “Brookhart”, but we grandchildren of the first of grandpa’s daughters to marry, Barbara Brown, always considered it shorthand for “Brookhart and Brown”. While it is doubtful that my father had anywhere near enough financial resource to have contributed to the purchase of the Old 94 Ranch, he was front and center—always—when it came to the sweat equity required to make the ranch go. It was my grandfather’s dream to get back to cattle ranching like the days of his youth. He never made any money at it, and like a lot of ranchers in those days, it was lucky that he had a good paying job in town.

I recount the story mostly because traveling out to the Old 94, and then through Calhan to Ramah, brought back a flood of memories from my childhood days on land that most folks don’t associate with Colorado scenery at all—dry, windy, dusty plains that cover fully half of the state, where it takes nearly 20 acres of dryland grass to support one measly cow. Ranches are big because they have to be big, and distances are large because the land ownership demands it. 

About 45 minutes from Colorado Springs is the town of Calhan, home to the El Paso County Fair and the unofficial capital of eastern El Paso County. My father once tried to make a go of it in the lumber business there after leaving a family lumber business in Colorado Springs where he no longer fit the mold. The recession of the late 1980s beat him out of it, but I remember that he seemed supremely happy to be part of a rural way of life where handshakes and honesty ruled. The old lumber yard is abandoned now. An antiques consignment store seemed to have made a go of it, but it looks like Covid-19 did them in, too. 

Nine miles further northeast on US 24, just as you are about to reach the El Paso County line, you come upon a small wooded oasis on the Big Sandy Creek called “Ramah.” Stories differ about how this town, for all practical purposes “in the middle of nowhere” got its biblical-sounding name. As with most other towns along the railroad rights-of-way established during the rail-building boom of the final decades of the 19th century, the name “Ramah” was apparently suggested by the daughter of an executive of the Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific Railroad (generally known as the “Rock Island Road”) from something she had come across in the bible.[1] The connection with this particular place and environment is lost on me, but the name stuck. Similarly, the executive’s wife or daughter also selected the name “Simla” for the town 5 miles east of Ramah and just over the border into Elbert County. Simla was selected because, as true for Kim, Colorado and perhaps other rail stops along other lines, these railroad families had been reading a lot about the glories of the British Indian Empire, including books by the likes of Rudyard Kipling. Simla, or as it is now known in India “Shimla”, was the historic summer mountain capital of the Indian Raj—high enough up in the foothills of the Himalaya to escape the oppressive heat of New Delhi. There, like other British colonies of the day, the fair-skinned colonialists built a city that resembled more a mid-country Victorian village than anything in its surroundings. Simla no more replicates ‘Shimla” than Paris, Texas looks like Paris, France.

Ramah was really a creation of the Rock Island Road, and when the Rock Island closed its ‘Limon Shuffle”  track to Colorado Springs in 1966, Ramah was left to fend as a ranching outpost on US 24. You can see the old Rock Island track bed in town and all the way into Colorado Springs along the side of US 24. It is the only tracked I can recall that has actually had the rails and ties removed. The county has placed park benches part of the way between Falcon and Peyton (10.5 miles); now known as the Rock Island Trail, partly funded courtesy of the federal government’s America the Beautiful Trails initiative.

Ramah is a statutory town and had a population of 123 according to the 2020 Census. It sits at 6,094 feet in elevation—qualifying for “high plains” status in my book. The area used to be known as “Old Zounds” and had a post office of that name from 1881. In 1889, the El Paso Land & Water Company (probably an affiliate of the Rock Island), announced that it had platted a townsite and the place would henceforth be known as “Ramah.” The town incorporated in 1927, with a population of record in 1930 of 171 souls.

As the Rock Island flourished during the Second World War, the population of Ramah reached its zenith at 186 persons. After the war, and with less and less traffic coming through the Rock Island, the population of the town continued to decline though the end of the 20th century (101 in the 1970 Census, 119 in 1980 and 94 in 1990). However, as Colorado Springs grew ever eastward, Ramah began to take on characteristics of a “bedroom” community, and the population began to increase again, from 117 in 2000 to the latest estimate of 130.

When we drove into Ramah last fall, we first stopped to take pictures of a quaint and well-preserved Baptist Fellowship Church—adobe style and rather Catholic-looking, as opposed to the white clapboard and steeple architecture one expects of a Baptist church. No sooner than we had snapped a couple of photos, up sauntered Dennis Carpenter, mayor of Ramah, to inquire what we found of interest in his little town (and probably to assess what sort of threat we might or might not present to the peace and quiet of the community). Mr. Carpenter couldn’t have been nicer. He proceeded to point out that Ramah was now primarily a bedroom community for Colorado Springs. The school had closed, and what young people there were went to school in nearby Simla. There were no businesses and no employment left in town. The Post Office remained (zip code 80832), but occupied what was once the town’s bank. 

It was less than a few minutes later that a flock of wild turkeys made their way across Main Street. The mayor happily noted that wild turkeys were common and numerous in Ramah; and that they formed a sort of informal policing force. No one speeds in Ramah for fear of hitting turkeys. They are joined in their duties by deer as well. As we have found over years of trailing wildlife for photographs around Colorado, there always appear to be more wildlife in town than in the countryside. The safest place for wildlife in Colorado is in town.

We drove around town a bit and largely confirmed what Mayor Carpenter had said. No businesses to speak of, although a small family-owned antique store (closed for now) was on Blasingame Road [2]near the tracks—converted from the old General Merchandise Store. Drown’s Dance Hall still graces Main Street, but now serves only as the American Legion post. The old schoolhouse has been converted into an attractive and unusual residence, and the old O.I. Garage is not taking much business these days, but has an attractive set of 1940s sedans out front—the type that would fetch thousands at an antique car rally in south Florida, but that sit by just rusting away here in the high plains.

The 2000 Census put Ramah’s population at 117 in 50 households. Slightly more than the national average (12%) were senior citizens, and 27% were under 18. The median per capita income was $29,250, and median family income was $48,000—both numbers strong enough to ensure that although not a wealthy community, no one in Ramah existed below the poverty line. The agenda posted on the Baptist Fellowship bulletin board for the most recent town council meeting showed a town wandering through its existence peacefully—an update on the sewer project, plans for the town Christmas party, and amended budget to be approved, and reports on public works, the cemetery and the town clerk. Indeed, the town election scheduled earlier in 2020 was cancelled altogether for lack of interest.

Sometimes this kind of quiet existence is exactly what the world is yearning for in these days of Covid pandemic, election anxiety, income disparity and violent extremism. Ramah lives in its peaceful world of wild turkey patrols and noiseless railroads, and it may just continue to prosper just because of it.

[1]Ramah is generally thought to have been a settlement about 5 miles north of Bethlehem in Judea, where the matriarch, Rachel, was thought to abide some 6 or 7 centuries before Christ. Rachel is considered the “mother” of the three northernmost tribes Israel, including the tribe of Benjamin.

[2]The Blasingame name definitely rung a bell for me. In checking the cemetery records, I found that Jack Blasingame and his wife were both buried in Ramah Cemetery. A rancher, I am sure that my father knew of him, for it is an unusual name that I have heard before. I thought he might be a Pikes Peak Range Rider, but found no reference there. He might well have been a rodeo cowboy, though. The cemetery records are extensive, and on the next trip we can explore for hints of more history.

McCoy is an unincorporated town located about 17 miles north of the town of Wolcott on Interstate 70—on a stretch of the highway that leaves the pricey ski towns behind and anticipates the exciting drive through Glenwood Canyon as the Colorado River makes its way west. From Wolcott, you take Colorado State Highway 131 north toward Steamboat Springs, passing the small town of Bond along the Colorado, and as you take a final turn before the river moves away from the highway, you come upon McCoy just before passing from Eagle to Routt county. 

McCoy rests in a small valley at an elevation of about 6,690 feet where Rock Creek meets the Colorado River. It is a picturesque little village of some 24 persons with a working post office (zip code 80463), a school converted into a community center, a church and a curious shop where “antler” art of every kind is displayed and sold. Up the road is the Table Rock Ranch, a 785-acres fly fishing property listed for sale at nearly $16 million, and typical of the recreational ranch properties in the area being sought by well-heeled buyers looking for wilderness with proximity to fancy skiing. Meanwhile, McCoy proper must be satisfied as a shady rest stop for motorcyclists making the run from Wolcott to Steamboat. 

The town was named after cattleman Charles H. McCoy, who settled the area in the late 1800s. The post office was established in 1891. 

On July 9, 1843—to the day exactly 109 years before I was born—John C. Fremont, during one of his five survey journeys across the mountain west, camped on the shores of what he called “a small stream” not far from the rough pioneer roadway that linked Fort St. Vrain, on the South Platte River, to Bent’s Fort, down on the Arkansas. The site of his encampment was probably near what is today known as Russellville Gulch, and hence quite close to the townsite of Elbert, Colorado—population 200. 

Fremont noted that the next day, they had a clear view of Pikes Peak, “luminous and grand” in a blanket of new snow (in July!). During many winters, like the most recent, those snows could easily sneak down and cover the flat and rolling plains of Elbert County well into spring, creating tough conditions for the livestock and the men who tend them for a living here in Colorado cattle and sheep country. But on the bright fall day that we drove into Elbert, there was little evidence of foul weather, former floods, tornados or fires that occasionally sweep down on this quiet community wedged between the Front Range and the dry plains. A beautiful new school looms on a hillside near the entry to town, across from a new and imposing water tower. County Road 83 and US 24 connect Elbert south to Colorado Springs in about an hour; the same road north takes you to Castle Rock in only 45 minutes. Despite being close to two metropolitan areas, however, Elbert has maintained its ranching roots. Many of the Pikes Peak Range Riders I have known call Elbert home, and I can remember sunny weekend days at barbecues hosted at one ranch or another near the town.

The 1880 Census for Elbert County (of which Elbert is county seat) counted 66,803 sheep, 12,275 range cattle and 1,582 milk cows—a surprising number of sheep for this area of the country—and about 48 creatures for every person in the county at the time. Today, cattle far outnumber sheep in the state of Colorado, and people outnumber creatures by about 2 to 1.

The town is situated generally along the small valley formed by Kiowa Creek—normally a gently flowing stream well contained in its banks. But on four occasions since the founding of the town in 1875—in 1935, 1965, 1997 and 1999—Kiowa Creek became a rushing torrent, bringing flood waters, sand and silt roaring into town and leaving a path of destruction. The flood of 1935 was the worst. Striking in May after a torrential downpour, it destroyed three-fourths of the structures in town (59 buildings) and all of the bridges. Nine people died, and the town was covered in 15 feet of water and 5 feet of sand in some places. Many of those structures were never rebuilt.

One structure that does remain, however, is worth note. Situated near the hillside entrance roads into town, the Russell Gates Mercantile Company stands strong. Built in 1906, it was the biggest and most modern store in Elbert, built of solid brick with expansive front glass show windows. Russell Gates was a New York native who had built a reasonable fortune in the nursery business before his health began to fail at age 30. Like many afflicted with respiratory disease, he was encouraged to move West for the clean, dry air. He moved to Denver first, then to Colorado Springs in 1875, where he became a successful sheep rancher. In 1888, Gates moved to Denver and purchased a controlling interest in the Summit Grain & Feed Company. Headlong expansion of western railroads in the 1880s, including expansion of the Denver & New Orleans Railroad through Elbert in 1882, seemed to Gates to be a great opportunity for retail trade in the newly-connected railroad towns of the Colorado plains. He opened stores in Eastonville, Calhan, Peyton, Limon, Elizabeth, Kiowa, Elbert and several other towns. As such, he was considered one of the pioneers of the “chain store” concept—and he was quite successful at it. He led this successful venture until his death in 1916 at the age of 71. His is one of many stories I recall about men and women—presumed terminally ill at an early age—who made moves to different climates and eventually beat their diseases and led healthy, long and very productive lives.[1] 

The Russell Gates Mercantile building in Elbert was the largest of Gates’ ten stores in Colorado, at a generous 10,800 square feet, it was built in 1906 and stayed in operation for nearly twenty years. Although closed, the building came in handy after the 1935 flood, serving as a temporary schoolhouse, and then home to the International Order of Odd Fellows, the Elbert Fire Department and the Elbert Grange at various times since the 1940s. The building is currently owned by the Elbert Women’s Club, and is being gradually restored. It is the only surviving former Gates’ store in the state.

Elbert is not an incorporated town, but it is a Census Designated Place. Although the population of the town is only 200, the population of its primary zip code area (80106) is slightly over 4,000, so the town serves as a center for the surrounding ranch community—especially with respect to education. The new Elbert School is beautifully designed, another tribute to Colorado public infrastructure spending whose coffers have been boosted not only by the Colorado Lottery, but now significantly by taxes on recreational marijuana. About 3 miles west of town, on the way to the town of Elizabeth, we came upon a quaint little green building on about an acre of land that harkened back to the days when schools were simple one-room affairs. The old West Lincoln School, built in 1913 by Jens Olkjer on land donated by a local rancher, Ed Clark, the beautiful little schoolhouse has been preserved as a historical site. The school first opened for the fall term of 1913—just in time for the worst recorded snowstorm in Colorado’s history, the “Big Snow” of 1913. Four to five feet fell across the entire front range. One of the local residents who went to West Lincoln recalls walking on snow over the tops of fences to get to school. 

Elizabeth stopped to get some photos of the schoolhouse in particular, but then turned her attention to one of her favorite subjects—friendly cows from the old Clark ranch curious to see what this human was up to. True to her “cow whisperer” persona, she got some great portraits of these gentle creatures in the setting sun. We noticed a truck that had pulled into the ranch entrance just east of where we were parked and saw it stop a couple of times on the way to the ranch house. I was pretty certain we would soon be getting some inquiries about what exactly we were doing with (or to) those cows. Sure enough, several minutes passed and the truck came out again, headed to the entrance and (I suspect) for us. I told Elizabeth that avoiding the interrogation, even if friendly, was probably a good idea. We headed on west.

It was probably good that we moved on, for just a few miles ahead, as the road turned north towards the town of Elizabeth, my sharp-eyed wife found the perfect combination of golden evening light, abandoned farm buildings, distant mountains and a curvature of harvested corn rows that shouted out “perfect composition!”. Elizabeth got the shot, and it is one of my top ten favorites of all time.

[1]Among these stories are the likes of Jim Moran, who built a fortune in the car business in the southeastern US after leaving his thriving Ford dealership in Chicago with a diagnosis of Stage IV cancer.