VICTOR RECOLLECTIONS--MOUNTAIN DOCTOR, SMALL TOWN COP, GUS'S SPORTING GOODS, & LITTLE TOY POCKET KNIFE.
By Floyd Frank
By Floyd Frank
MOUNTAIN DOCTOR
Doctor Campbell Denman came to Victor in 1934. A display of his medical equipment can be found in the Victor~Lovell Thomas Museum.
The first time I got a sore throat in Victor, Colorado I knew I needed to see a doctor. The air was dry and thin there at an elevation of 9,600 feet above sea level. I asked around and found out that there was a local sawbones who worked three days a week, mornings in nearby Cripple Creek and afternoons in Victor. His office was three doors up from a street corner bar.
I went to his office and talked to his receptionist, a good-looking brunette of seventy or so with horn-rimmed glasses. She recorded my vital signs and introduced me to Dr. Denman. He was about eighty. He looked into my wide-opened mouth and said, "Yep, looks red." He talked to his receptionist-nurse, picked up a hypodermic syringe of penicillin, and told me, "Okay, drop your drawers, bend over, and say 'Ouch."
When he was finished with me he gave me four Tetracycline capsules to take the next day. I had to pay cash before I left - six dollars. This was in 1981. A day later my sore throat was cured.
A couple years later I noticed a fair-sized lump on my back. It was totally benign, less than an inch in diameter, an in-grown zit, probably. I figured, shoot, Dr. Denman could remove this. So I told him and made an appointment when I was not working. He took a blood sample from one of my nice big veins. He said, "I could hit that vein with a track spike."
I went into the back room, took off my shirt and lay down on a stainless steel table next to a huge wall mirror. "Cool", I thought, "I can watch him work." He gave me a small local anesthetic so I was totally conscious of what he was doing as he operated on me. Very relaxed, I smiled and rested my head on my folded arms and watched his reflection in the mirror. I could feel him as he cut into the lump but there was no pain. Just a kind of tugging sensation. He said, "Boy, you sure have tough hide." My eyes opened wide but I figured he was just kidding around, so I relaxed again. That was, after all, a compliment. My smile, however, was gone. Then he said, "Boy, you're a bleeder, aren't you?" I looked into the mirror and I was somewhat chagrined to see that he had blood on both forearms up to his elbows. "It's just a little lump. Oh well," I thought, "There's not a lot I can do." I certainly didn't want to say something that would get him excited.
He got the source of the lump out and put it aside. He washed up, got some sutures and prepared to sew me up. I watched in horror as his needle hand shook like palsy until the arc-shaped needle got to an inch from my skin. Then his hand became rock-steady and he finished the stitch. Five more identical stitches and he was done.
He showed me the cause of the lump, a spherical sebaceous cyst. He even sliced it in half with his scalpel. Outside, it was gory tissue. Inside, it was white with the consistency of moist clay. He was done and he charged me cash. Again. Twenty-five dollars this time.
He closed his office and his short legs carried him down the sidewalk, across the street and into the bar, where he had his usual shot of whiskey. I drove home feeling cured and thrifty. I'm proud of my scar and I'll show it to you if you'd like.
I went to his office and talked to his receptionist, a good-looking brunette of seventy or so with horn-rimmed glasses. She recorded my vital signs and introduced me to Dr. Denman. He was about eighty. He looked into my wide-opened mouth and said, "Yep, looks red." He talked to his receptionist-nurse, picked up a hypodermic syringe of penicillin, and told me, "Okay, drop your drawers, bend over, and say 'Ouch."
When he was finished with me he gave me four Tetracycline capsules to take the next day. I had to pay cash before I left - six dollars. This was in 1981. A day later my sore throat was cured.
A couple years later I noticed a fair-sized lump on my back. It was totally benign, less than an inch in diameter, an in-grown zit, probably. I figured, shoot, Dr. Denman could remove this. So I told him and made an appointment when I was not working. He took a blood sample from one of my nice big veins. He said, "I could hit that vein with a track spike."
I went into the back room, took off my shirt and lay down on a stainless steel table next to a huge wall mirror. "Cool", I thought, "I can watch him work." He gave me a small local anesthetic so I was totally conscious of what he was doing as he operated on me. Very relaxed, I smiled and rested my head on my folded arms and watched his reflection in the mirror. I could feel him as he cut into the lump but there was no pain. Just a kind of tugging sensation. He said, "Boy, you sure have tough hide." My eyes opened wide but I figured he was just kidding around, so I relaxed again. That was, after all, a compliment. My smile, however, was gone. Then he said, "Boy, you're a bleeder, aren't you?" I looked into the mirror and I was somewhat chagrined to see that he had blood on both forearms up to his elbows. "It's just a little lump. Oh well," I thought, "There's not a lot I can do." I certainly didn't want to say something that would get him excited.
He got the source of the lump out and put it aside. He washed up, got some sutures and prepared to sew me up. I watched in horror as his needle hand shook like palsy until the arc-shaped needle got to an inch from my skin. Then his hand became rock-steady and he finished the stitch. Five more identical stitches and he was done.
He showed me the cause of the lump, a spherical sebaceous cyst. He even sliced it in half with his scalpel. Outside, it was gory tissue. Inside, it was white with the consistency of moist clay. He was done and he charged me cash. Again. Twenty-five dollars this time.
He closed his office and his short legs carried him down the sidewalk, across the street and into the bar, where he had his usual shot of whiskey. I drove home feeling cured and thrifty. I'm proud of my scar and I'll show it to you if you'd like.
SMALL TOWN COP
Ohrt Yeager made the chili and Shorty Bielz provided the music at Zeke's Bar on S 3rd Street. Photo by Arthur Coltrin, 1995.
Victor, Colorado is an unsophisticated mining town on the southern slopes of Pikes Peak. Its elevation is 9,600 feet above sea level and snow is there for a good part of the calendar year. It doesn't snow a whole lot, maybe eight or nine feet a year, but the snow that falls there after Christmas will probably still be around in April. Victor's downtown consists of six blocks that (in 1981) included five bars, the Elks Lodge, a post office, a few antique stores and a gas station. The three churches were away from the center of town close to the residential areas.
During the winter of 1981 I worked as a shift boss overseeing a crew replacing timber guides in the vertical shaft of a deep gold mine. We worked the swing shift and finished up each night's work just before midnight. I often went to Zeke's Bar for a beer or two after work. The owner of Zeke's made the best chili in town and Shorty, the one-man band, provided live music now and then. This was a very nice way to take the edge off before I went home to sleep. My house was next to an alley three blocks from the bar and half-way up a steep hill. I was a single man with no demands on my free time.
During the winter of 1981 I worked as a shift boss overseeing a crew replacing timber guides in the vertical shaft of a deep gold mine. We worked the swing shift and finished up each night's work just before midnight. I often went to Zeke's Bar for a beer or two after work. The owner of Zeke's made the best chili in town and Shorty, the one-man band, provided live music now and then. This was a very nice way to take the edge off before I went home to sleep. My house was next to an alley three blocks from the bar and half-way up a steep hill. I was a single man with no demands on my free time.
After finishing a shift in the Ajax Mine at midnight, a beer or two at Zeke's was a nice way to take the edge off before heading home. Advertising photo courtesy of LaJean Greeson.
One of those nights I came out of Zeke's, which closed at one in the morning, and found that a foot of new snow had fallen during the hour that I was sipping beer. I drove a front-wheel-drive Audi Fox and usually had no problem driving in the snow, so I just cleared the windshield and headed home.
I drove slowly down the hill from the bar, turned to the right onto my street and accelerated across the flat so I would make it up the hill to my house. Well, I didn't accelerate enough, because I stopped, front wheels spinning, just below my parking space. So I got myself turned around and drove up the alley. This allowed me to get around the block so I could approach my house from above. I came down my street, turned into my parking spot in front of my house, and kept on going -- just sliding right past my house straight down the street. I was getting mad! I wanted to get home and go to sleep! And here I was, batting 0 for 2.
I drove slowly down the hill from the bar, turned to the right onto my street and accelerated across the flat so I would make it up the hill to my house. Well, I didn't accelerate enough, because I stopped, front wheels spinning, just below my parking space. So I got myself turned around and drove up the alley. This allowed me to get around the block so I could approach my house from above. I came down my street, turned into my parking spot in front of my house, and kept on going -- just sliding right past my house straight down the street. I was getting mad! I wanted to get home and go to sleep! And here I was, batting 0 for 2.
The home of Floyd Frank at 411 Spicer Ave (on left) stands on a steep hill which makes parking tricky after a snow. What to do--try accelerating up hill, or riding the brakes down hill to avoid sliding all the way to the bottom?
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The hill in front of Franks house is not as steep today as it used to be. But parking in front of the house remains a challenge--whether approaching from below, from above, or through the alley.
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I drove a block further past the level area, got myself turned around at the intersection and gunned it. With snow flying in all directions I speeded up the street and drifted into my parking place, an inch from my gate. Hah! I felt good as I got out of my car and prepared to climb over my fence.
A voice yelled out to me from the alley across my street. I looked and saw the town cop leaning out of his dark blue Ford Bronco police car. He shouted, "All right! You made it so now I can go home." He had enjoyed watching me learn some new driving techniques and he wanted to make sure I was okay.
I got a good feeling from this as I went inside my warm house. The Golden Rule looks good on paper, but out here it's the law.
A voice yelled out to me from the alley across my street. I looked and saw the town cop leaning out of his dark blue Ford Bronco police car. He shouted, "All right! You made it so now I can go home." He had enjoyed watching me learn some new driving techniques and he wanted to make sure I was okay.
I got a good feeling from this as I went inside my warm house. The Golden Rule looks good on paper, but out here it's the law.
GUS'S SPORTING GOODS
Every time I pick up a Reader's Digest I find a story about a place like Gus's store. That magazine's editors relate to blue collar folks and their articles usually point out something in our lives that affects us in a positive way. Gus's place is in Victor, Colorado and he specializes in guns, ammo and fishing gear because the town of Victor is surrounded by terrific hunting and fishing areas. Gus was usually there. When Gus was not working Bob, an old-timer, watched the till.
Every few years I go to Victor and neighboring Cripple Creek to visit my kids and grandkids in Colorado. I always drop by at Gus's store when I am in Victor because the locals stop in, sit down and talk about local issues. A small back room has store supplies, a bathroom and an old round-topped refrigerator. A coffee pot, a couch and a couple chairs fill a corner of the sales floor. Gus will let me make a bologna sandwich if I am hungry. I will wash it down with strong coffee. I always see people I knew when I worked in Victor twenty-five years before.
Every few years I go to Victor and neighboring Cripple Creek to visit my kids and grandkids in Colorado. I always drop by at Gus's store when I am in Victor because the locals stop in, sit down and talk about local issues. A small back room has store supplies, a bathroom and an old round-topped refrigerator. A coffee pot, a couch and a couple chairs fill a corner of the sales floor. Gus will let me make a bologna sandwich if I am hungry. I will wash it down with strong coffee. I always see people I knew when I worked in Victor twenty-five years before.
Some people say Gus Conley's specialty is strong coffee and friendly conversation--guns, ammo, and fishing gear may just be a sideline.
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Gus's G & S Sporting Goods store is located in the middle of the historic "Bank Block" at 102 North Third Street. Click photos to enlarge.
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There is Carl, a long-time volunteer fireman who brags that he and his crew have never lost a foundation. There is Jimmy, whose son Booner is a professor at a university in Canada. There is Tom, a cowboy who gave me perfect advice when I was troubled by the mystery of approaching fatherhood. He told me, "Teach them right from wrong and then let them go." There is Bob, who led me to a reservoir fishing hole where we caught bunches of German brown trout before the watchman emptied his pistol in our direction. Bob doesn't cover the ground as quickly now since he is in his early nineties. Watching Gus's store and gambling in Cripple Creek are about all he does now. He was once a "dump rat", scavenging high-grade lumps of gold ore from the nearby mines during the Great Depression. He often made more money back then than those who had full-time jobs. There is Stanley, who once generously shared his beer with a rabid bat.
I am sure that Gus will never make much money selling sporting goods. His markup is pretty high and his clientele learns of his store only through word-of-mouth advertising. The last time I dropped in, in the summer of 2008, Gus needed to help his brother deliver propane. He asked me to watch the store and unlocked the cash register so I could make change. He said they wouldn't be gone more than an hour and a half, so I told him, "Go ahead. No problem!"
When they returned, four hours later, I had not sold a single thing. One person had come by to ask what kind of bait the trout were biting, and I told him to try grasshoppers. (That is my favorite bait. I'm not a compleat angler but I like hoppers. I always have had as much fun catching bait as I did catching fish.) Gus thanked me for watching the store and he never mentioned my lack of sales.
I could hardly believe it when I saw Gus's older brother Jim. He is amazing. He looked the same as he did twenty-five years ago. Of course, he looked pretty raggedy back then. In fact everyone I saw during that last visit looked pretty much the same as I remembered them. It seems as though I am the only one who has aged over the last twenty-five years and, if you ask me, I look okay most of the time.
Those of us who have moved a lot over the years are saddened by our loss of strong ties. Places like Gus's G & S Sporting Goods Store remind us that the things we miss are still there. My visits to Gus's store refresh my spirit and strengthen my faith in the future.
I am sure that Gus will never make much money selling sporting goods. His markup is pretty high and his clientele learns of his store only through word-of-mouth advertising. The last time I dropped in, in the summer of 2008, Gus needed to help his brother deliver propane. He asked me to watch the store and unlocked the cash register so I could make change. He said they wouldn't be gone more than an hour and a half, so I told him, "Go ahead. No problem!"
When they returned, four hours later, I had not sold a single thing. One person had come by to ask what kind of bait the trout were biting, and I told him to try grasshoppers. (That is my favorite bait. I'm not a compleat angler but I like hoppers. I always have had as much fun catching bait as I did catching fish.) Gus thanked me for watching the store and he never mentioned my lack of sales.
I could hardly believe it when I saw Gus's older brother Jim. He is amazing. He looked the same as he did twenty-five years ago. Of course, he looked pretty raggedy back then. In fact everyone I saw during that last visit looked pretty much the same as I remembered them. It seems as though I am the only one who has aged over the last twenty-five years and, if you ask me, I look okay most of the time.
Those of us who have moved a lot over the years are saddened by our loss of strong ties. Places like Gus's G & S Sporting Goods Store remind us that the things we miss are still there. My visits to Gus's store refresh my spirit and strengthen my faith in the future.
LITTLE TOY POCKETKNIFE
Gary Horton used to have a Swiss Army knife that I enjoyed ridiculing. It had a dozen blades – all of them too small to do any useful work. A little stainless knife, a tiny pair of scissors, a miniscule saw, (I’m running out of synonyms for LITTLE). They folded into a streamlined red plastic and steel sheath that slid into your pants pocket. I suppose that if you are caught outdoors without a toothbrush, you could whittle yourself a toothpick! Gary carried it everywhere.
Anyway, Gary and I hiked to the top of the small mountain behind his Goldfield house. It was early summer and we both needed to get into the woods. An hour’s hike through aspens got us to the summit, where pine trees predominated. We set up camp and I gathered squawwood to get a fire going. I kicked a branch from a dead pine, but, underestimating the toughness of the wood, I sprained my ankle. They say that a sprained ankle is more painful than a broken one. It’s true. I spent all that night moaning a song of misery to Gary, who tried to ignore me.
The next morning was pleasant, except for the fact that I could not put any weight on my right foot. By the time I was out of the tent, Gary had sawn a three-inch aspen into a crutch. I tried it out for length. He sawed a couple inches off so it fit me comfortably. The saw blade on his pocket knife went through the small tree like a warm knife through butter. "Hmm", I said. "Not bad." We had no trouble getting back to his house.
Another adventure we shared saw us heading to the Crestone Needles. I drove my pickup truck. Gary’s son and my son made four of us altogether. We drove the High Park Road from Cripple Creek and finally approached the paved highway. That was when we saw a small rattlesnake sunning itself on the gravel road. I considered myself a fearless mountain man, so I stopped, pinned the snake down with a stick, and caught it. I held it tightly behind the head and went to show it to our kids. When I was halfway back to my side of the truck, I felt a sharp little sting on my index finger. I knew I had been bitten.
I stopped, threw the snake back into the sagebrush, and headed back to my truck. "Sorry, guys. We’re not going to the mountains today. We’re going to the hospital." I knew the way to the Canon City hospital, so I drove. It took twenty minutes to get there. I drove with the same philosophy that got me through college – "Pass Everything". I borrowed Gary’s Swiss Army knife. With its knife blade I cut a gash or two around the fang hole. I then sucked poison-flavored blood and spat it out my window as I drove eighty.
At the hospital’s emergency room I told the receiving nurse my problem and she got me started. By the time I was done, I had been hooked up to antivenin, painkiller and epinephrine. Even with the intravenous painkiller, the pain in my right hand made it feel like I was roasting it over a campfire. The swelling was enormous all the way to my shoulder. All this from an 18" rattler who only bit me with one fang! The poison that I sucked from the wound caused a tingling in my gums as it entered them through osmosis. Thank goodness for Gary and his sharp pocketknife!
Gary was always a good partner. Easygoing and well-prepared. I don’t see him often but I think about him, especially when I am relaxed, sitting by the campfire and chewing on the toothpick I just whittled with my Swiss Army knife.
Anyway, Gary and I hiked to the top of the small mountain behind his Goldfield house. It was early summer and we both needed to get into the woods. An hour’s hike through aspens got us to the summit, where pine trees predominated. We set up camp and I gathered squawwood to get a fire going. I kicked a branch from a dead pine, but, underestimating the toughness of the wood, I sprained my ankle. They say that a sprained ankle is more painful than a broken one. It’s true. I spent all that night moaning a song of misery to Gary, who tried to ignore me.
The next morning was pleasant, except for the fact that I could not put any weight on my right foot. By the time I was out of the tent, Gary had sawn a three-inch aspen into a crutch. I tried it out for length. He sawed a couple inches off so it fit me comfortably. The saw blade on his pocket knife went through the small tree like a warm knife through butter. "Hmm", I said. "Not bad." We had no trouble getting back to his house.
Another adventure we shared saw us heading to the Crestone Needles. I drove my pickup truck. Gary’s son and my son made four of us altogether. We drove the High Park Road from Cripple Creek and finally approached the paved highway. That was when we saw a small rattlesnake sunning itself on the gravel road. I considered myself a fearless mountain man, so I stopped, pinned the snake down with a stick, and caught it. I held it tightly behind the head and went to show it to our kids. When I was halfway back to my side of the truck, I felt a sharp little sting on my index finger. I knew I had been bitten.
I stopped, threw the snake back into the sagebrush, and headed back to my truck. "Sorry, guys. We’re not going to the mountains today. We’re going to the hospital." I knew the way to the Canon City hospital, so I drove. It took twenty minutes to get there. I drove with the same philosophy that got me through college – "Pass Everything". I borrowed Gary’s Swiss Army knife. With its knife blade I cut a gash or two around the fang hole. I then sucked poison-flavored blood and spat it out my window as I drove eighty.
At the hospital’s emergency room I told the receiving nurse my problem and she got me started. By the time I was done, I had been hooked up to antivenin, painkiller and epinephrine. Even with the intravenous painkiller, the pain in my right hand made it feel like I was roasting it over a campfire. The swelling was enormous all the way to my shoulder. All this from an 18" rattler who only bit me with one fang! The poison that I sucked from the wound caused a tingling in my gums as it entered them through osmosis. Thank goodness for Gary and his sharp pocketknife!
Gary was always a good partner. Easygoing and well-prepared. I don’t see him often but I think about him, especially when I am relaxed, sitting by the campfire and chewing on the toothpick I just whittled with my Swiss Army knife.
Floyd Frank and his friend, O'Sheena at Happy Hour. "She's Irish and her hat always is part of her outfit".
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Floyd Frank lived in Victor at 411 Spicer Avenue from 1981 to about 1987. His neighbors were Bob and Ethel Pedrie (across the street), and Tish and Dewey Allen (next door across the alley).
Floyd worked for Texasgulf at the Ajax at the 3100 Level and 3350 level where they x-cutted toward the Newmarket vein, but never got there. He notes "My bosses didn't like my crazy idea about surface mining and heap leaching over at the Cresson, so we never made any money. I wasn't confident enough to press the issue. I'm glad to see the way it's being mined today."
Floyd is retired and resides in Colorado Springs. He still has many friends in Victor and says he was lucky to have lived here. Floyd is very proud of his family--daughter, Becky, heads up the highly successful Main Street Program in Victor that evolved from the Downtown Revitalization and Economic Acceleration Movement (DREAM); older son, Ben, lives in Denver; and younger son, Isaac, lives near Cripple Creek with his mother, Colleen.
Floyd Frank has written several stories about his time in Victor. His recollections about receiving medical treatment from Doc Denman, an attentive Victor cop, Gus Conley's Sporting Goods Store, and Gary Horton's Swiss Army Knife were submitted in August 2016.
Floyd Frank lived in Victor at 411 Spicer Avenue from 1981 to about 1987. His neighbors were Bob and Ethel Pedrie (across the street), and Tish and Dewey Allen (next door across the alley).
Floyd worked for Texasgulf at the Ajax at the 3100 Level and 3350 level where they x-cutted toward the Newmarket vein, but never got there. He notes "My bosses didn't like my crazy idea about surface mining and heap leaching over at the Cresson, so we never made any money. I wasn't confident enough to press the issue. I'm glad to see the way it's being mined today."
Floyd is retired and resides in Colorado Springs. He still has many friends in Victor and says he was lucky to have lived here. Floyd is very proud of his family--daughter, Becky, heads up the highly successful Main Street Program in Victor that evolved from the Downtown Revitalization and Economic Acceleration Movement (DREAM); older son, Ben, lives in Denver; and younger son, Isaac, lives near Cripple Creek with his mother, Colleen.
Floyd Frank has written several stories about his time in Victor. His recollections about receiving medical treatment from Doc Denman, an attentive Victor cop, Gus Conley's Sporting Goods Store, and Gary Horton's Swiss Army Knife were submitted in August 2016.
THE PAST MATTERS. PASS IT ALONG.
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Please Share Your Memories and Family Connections to Victor & the World's Greatest Gold Camp by
Contacting Victor Heritage Society, PO Box 424, Victor, CO 80860 or e-mail [email protected].
The Next Generation Will Only Inherit What We Choose to Save and Make Accessible.
Please Share Your Memories and Family Connections to Victor & the World's Greatest Gold Camp by
Contacting Victor Heritage Society, PO Box 424, Victor, CO 80860 or e-mail [email protected].
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Copyright © 2023 Victor Heritage Society. All Rights Reserved.