Archive | December 2015

What’s In a Name?

…Actually, quite a bit for our baby boy

Our daughter McKinley was named after what was then named Mt. McKinley in Alaska, North America’s tallest peak at over 20,000 feet.  We wanted to attach a moniker to our daughter that reflected our lifestyle, our values, and what we hope will become her lifestyle and values as well.  As the birth of our baby boy loomed in 2015, my wife Liza and I wanted to approach his name in a similar manner.  Most importantly, like McKinley, we wanted a name we wouldn’t find on one of those souvenir store keychain displays—we wanted something unusual.

We had a middle name picked early, deciding on James to honor my father and Liza’s grandfather.  During Liza’s pregnancy, we had some very preliminary discussions about first names, but not often and never extensively.  So when our little guy was born 12 weeks early in March 2015, we were caught more than just a little off guard.

Our working list of names reflected our inclination for outdoorsy, nature themed monikers, such as Hunter and Rainier.  Bryce was inspired by Bryce National Park, which we visited on our honeymoon.  Everest has obvious origins.  Taylor was a name that ended up on both Liza’s and my final favorite three list.  Taylor is the name of a river, a lake, and a high mountain park in one of our favorite areas of Colorado—near Crested Butte.  Also on both of our final favorite three lists was Logan.  Located in the Canadian territory of Yukon, the 19,551-foot Mount Logan is the second tallest peak in North America.  Logan had probably been my favorite name, as I figured that if our first born was named after our continent’s tallest mountain then our second born ought to be named Logan.

Liza’s main concern with Logan was that it has become exceedingly popular with parents lately.  It ranked in the top twenty of all male baby names.  The same could be said about Taylor, which was in the top 50 and rising fast thanks to the moron from the Twilight movies.  Unfortunately, those two names will undoubtedly be on those souvenir store keychain racks soon, if they aren’t already.

I began to second guess what was probably my favorite name, Logan, the moment our boy was born.  Arriving as early as he did, some twelve weeks, nothing is a given.  His lungs weren’t developed enough for him to breath on his own, so a machine had to keep him alive initially.  It was enough for even a positive person like me to have horrible “what if” scenarios racing through his mind as we prepared for Liza’s C-section.  So when I watched our son delivered, being pulled from the womb literally kicking and screaming, I witnessed for the first time how tough he is.  In the following days, he progressed faster than we could have hoped.  He was removed from the ventilator and placed on a lessor breathing apparatus.  Some of his vitals were more in line with preemies a couple of weeks or more along.  I realized that as much as I liked the name Logan and the concept of our second born being named after North America’s second summit, our boy was one tough son of a gun and he did not deserve to take second to anything.

The third name on Liza’s and my favorite lists was Denali.  Inspired by the national park, it is also the Native American name for Mt. McKinley.  While researching the name Denali, we learned that it’s an Athabaskan word which translates (roughly) into “the great one.”  It’s appropriateness struck Liza and I immediately.  It also seemed to us quite a meaningful bond for McKinley and her brother.  We gave ourselves a full day “trial period” of using the name just between the two of us before we decided officially.

Denali James Grimes is indeed a “great one,” a tough kid who at only a few days old was already impressively fighting a battle most of us luckily avoided.  He was as determined to stay as an immovable mountain of rock.

Without a doubt, when the kids are old enough we will take a family trip to Denali National Park.  When the early morning mist begins to clear and our kids see for the first time Denali towering before them, I will explain to them that their names are not just names.  Their names are a shared symbol, an appeal from their parents to always explore, seek adventure, and to rise above all the challenges and obstacles in their lives.  I have no doubts McKinley will do just that.  Denali was already doing it the day he was born.

7:30 Mine and Griffin Monument Hike

 

Clifford Griffin did what he could to turn tragedy into triumph.  His beloved fiancé unexpectedly died the day before their wedding, sending his life into a tailspin.  In an attempt to escape the heartache and rebuild his life, he moved from New York to Colorado with his brother, Heneage.  It was the late 1860s, a time when it seemed gold and silver poured from the mountains and riches were awaiting anyone who would swing a pick into the ground.  The truth is few ever struck it rich from the gold and silver rushes, but the Griffins were lucky.  Heneage founded the 7:30 Mine 1200 feet above the town of Silver Plume, and Clifford became its manager.

Because of his kindness and his policies at the 7:30, Clifford was popular with the miners in Silver Plume.  The mine’s workday began at 7:30 (hence the name), a full hour after other mines.  Clifford would buy a Christmas goose for each of his workers’ families, and he was known to buy rounds of drinks at bars in Silver Plume and nearby Bakerville.  In an age generally characterized by brutal working conditions and labor strife, the Griffins operated what could be considered the Google of its time.  What Clifford was best known for, though, was his violin.  He lived near the entrance of the mine and would play his violin on a nearby cliff overlooking the town, the acoustics of the valley allowing his concerts to be heard by all the townspeople.  They quickly grew accustomed to his playing and looked forward to the nightly concerts.  After his last melody faded in the still mountain air on June 19th, 1887, a gun shot suddenly pierced the quiet and alarmed all of Silver Plume.  The pop originated from high above the town in the direction of the 7:30, and the residents could only fear the worst.  A group of men quickly organized and rushed up the road to the mine.

My wife, Liza and I followed in their footsteps 127 years later, on a cool fall day in 2014.  Like the men running up the road all those years before, I did not know what to expect once we reached our destination.  In the anthology of Colorado legend, Clifford Griffin’s tale is an unfortunate obscurity.  Information is scarce, and the few accounts sometimes contradict each other.  So as explorers of both Colorado’s outdoors and its rich history, we set out on the 7:30 Mine road to learn whatever secrets an in-person visit would divulge.  The road starts in the middle of town and immediately begins a steep climb up the side of Silver Plume Mountain.  During the mining days it was a toll road serving about a half dozen of Silver Plume’s mines, the 7:30 being the end of the road.  Today it is closed off to automobile traffic and is a foot and bike route through aspens and scores of relics of Silver Plume’s mining past.  Old boilers, pulleys, cables for bucket trams, and other mining machinery litter the sides of the road.  Somehow, much of the equipment has escaped notice from treasure hunters and has instead been left for future generations to study and appreciate.  The road switchbacks several times on its climb out of town, but as it gains altitude begins to level out and stay true to a more constant westerly course.  Of particular interest to me was the rather liberal use of stone and wood retaining walls by the road’s builders.  Nineteenth century engineering is a fascination of mine, and these retaining walls, still resolute in holding back tons of rock and dirt from encroaching on the road, is a testament to the craftsmanship of their builders.  The stone retaining walls of the period were built almost exclusively without mortar, and the wood retaining walls have defied over 140 years of rot and deterioration in their task.  The road itself in some places hasn’t fared as well as the walls built to protect it.  In some places, erosion has worn much of it away to the point the road is now just a very narrow path through loose scree, making this trail a poor choice on which to take flatland friends and relatives, who might be unnerved to have nothing more than several hundred feet of a 65 degree slope and loose slippery rock separating them from their maker.

Almost 1500 feet above and two miles from where we had started, we approached the remains of the 7:30 Mine.  Liza and I tried to imagine the scene 127 years earlier, when townspeople came rushing up from Silver Plume after the gunshot.  Shouts of Clifford’s name surely could be heard several times before someone finally discovered what many had feared.  Clifford had fallen into a silent grave he had dug for himself in the rocky soil after sending a bullet straight through his heart.  A suicide note found nearby told of Clifford’s continuing grief from the loss of his fiance.  Tormented by her memory for years, he could no longer bear life without her.  He asked to be left where he lay in his self dug grave.  Mournful residents of Silver Plume took up a collection for a 10 foot tall granite monument near the site of his grave and the 7:30 Mine.  It was hauled by wagon up the road we had just hiked and erected on the cliff from where Clifford entertained the town with the soothing sounds of his violin.  The inscription is simple, “Clifford Griffin Son of Alfred Griffin ESQ, of Brand Hall, Shropshire, England Born July 2, 1847.  Died June 19, 1887.  And in consideration of his own request buried near this spot.”  Located just a hundred feet or so from the old road, the monument’s setting is inspiring–Silver Plume’s tiny buildings more than a thousand feet below, I-70 winding its way through the valley on its way westward toward the Eisenhower Tunnel, and the surrounding towering peaks serving as silent sentinels of Clifford’s troubled soul.  Some say you can hear his violin on breezy summer nights, reminding us that being rich is no substitute for being happy.

Stories like this bring life to what would otherwise be just another hike, just another rocky trail in the Colorado mountains.  Sometimes our hikes allow us to get away from our busy lives and learn from nature valuable lessons about solitude and simplicity.  Hikes like this one offer insight into lives and times long passed.  No matter what the trail provides, you return a little different than when you left, and the 7:30 Mine Road is one of the best at accomplishing that.

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