Tincup Adventure

Got a coin? Drop it into the slot of this blogocular-to-the-past......adjust the focus and zero in on the summer of 1980.

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Yup.....that's me you're seeing through the lens.......at just-turned-22-years-old, sitting on top of the world along Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park in beautiful Colorado.......specifically, at the Forest Canyon Overlook. Hunh?......speak up.......what's that you're saying......what was an Iowa farm girl doing in Colorado? She was on vacation during the week between her graduation from practical nursing school and the start of a hospital job. Look closely, you'll see she's clutching a DeKalb seed corn cap......so as not to get homesick or forget her roots.....apparently.

Certainly, this memory must be from another life......a life before children, before cell phones, before VCR's, CD's, DVD's, before the internet, before extra pounds, before a houseful and lifeful of the accumulation of many years of marriage and kids. Honestly, I can't even recall what it was like to be the person sitting in that photo......I don't know where she disappeared to; maybe she tumbled over the mountain's edge after the photo was snapped.

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In the summer of 1980, my husband and I had been married for two years, and as stated, I had just finished a one-year practical nursing course at a local technical school. The decision to drive to Colorado for a few days was done on a last-minute basis. We took our own accomodations along---a tent---the acquisition of which turned out to be rather complicated. The details of that will remain bubbling in the stewpot to serve up later in another blogpost.

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Suffice it to say, we left home early one morning in late June and drove as far as Fort Morgan, Colorado, where we pitched our tent after dark in a crowded campground. After a pitiful few hours of poor sleep, we packed up and headed for Rocky Mountain National Park and a cruise along breath-taking Trail Ridge Road, spending the next night at another crowded campground near Winter Park. The following day's route took us to Leadville, and then Aspen via Independence Pass, and then on to Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. Yes, we were making some pretty fast tracks, trying to take in as much as we could in a short time.

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From the Gunnison area, our plan was to motor east on U.S. 50 to The Royal Gorge and then Colorado Springs. While Husband steered our sickly-green Chrysler Cordoba, I perused maps and travel brochures for interesting places to stop. As we prepared to leave Gunnison that evening, I pointed out a little town called "Tincup".......the name seemed fascinating for some reason. I suggested we take an alternate route through Tincup and from there take a mountain road over Cumberland Pass and loop southward back to Highway 50. Whatever possessed me to come up with that idea, I have no clue. Perhaps the trickster was at work once again.

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It was almost dark when we found a nice little roadside campground northeast of Almont, across the road from the rushing Taylor River. No amenities, of course......the campground's water supply was a cold mountain stream bubbling gaily along amidst towering pine trees.

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The next morning---a Sunday---we left around 5 a.m., journeying past the Taylor Reservoir on the way to Tincup, thinking that later in the morning we could get some breakfast in Salida. Yeah, right.....what a plan......our naive, flat-lander sensibilities at work.

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Tincup turned out to be a tiny, sleepy mountain resort town; most of the residences looked like cabins. The photo below shows the sign which greeted us: This is God's country. Please don't drive through it like Hell. But---heck---there was a church in the background, meaning this surely must be a decent place. We also noticed the miniscule "Tincup Store" with its "CLOSED" placard hanging on the door.

Well.....bye-bye, Tincup......we were just passing through.......heading toward our pleasant, scenic Sunday morning drive through the mountains. Had it even registered in my head that the road I had chosen to traverse from Tincup was not paved? No, the little colorless squiggly line on the map held no sway over my poor judgement that morning.

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We began our ascent, not worrying a bit. The Cordoba---though rather low-riding, which would be its downfall---had lots of horsepower for surging up the progressively steeper mountain road switchbacks. Tall pine trees on either side stood with branches quivering in silent laughter, probably......knowing what lay in store for us. Husband and I were happily oblivious to the possible risks of this route, knowing we would soon reach the top of the mountain road which would surely offer a stupendous view of snowy Colorado peaks. Finally, we neared the point of reaching what appeared to be the top, from whence the road would surely curve around to the other side of the mountain. I was expectantly awaiting the stunning view from there. Ha......my vision was focused too far ahead to even notice what lay right in front of us.

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In retrospect......from a second or two after the incident, until now, almost twenty-nine years later......I am quite sure that out of the corner of my eye I did catch a glimpse of The Rock right before we hit it, or it hit us, or whatever the heck happened. It wasn't even very big, just a nondescript, gravelly rock, maybe 4 or 5 inches in diameter. It didn't appear capable of inflicting the extensive damage that it ended up doing. Evidently, it was simply not in the cards for us to travel to the other side of the mountain......perhaps something worse awaited over there. Anyway, one second things were fine---our car's engine humming along, its strength carrying us steadily along---the next second, a dull clunking sound and then an immediate, sickening clattering and vibration throughout the whole car.

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Husband braked and quickly turned the ignition off......"SON-OF-A-B____!" (That's his voice, not mine. He emits such exclamations only on very choice, specialized occasions.) We clambered out of the car and were met by the painful sight of a river of oil streaming from underneath the car. Several wounds had been inflicted, the most serious being a gaping hole in the oil pan.

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Our only recourse was to start walking back down the mountain to Tincup. Instead of following each curvy switchback in the road, we slipped and slid down the steep, pine-needle-blanketed slopes in between. At one point, we emerged on the road just as a Jeep carrying a man and a woman rounded a bend; they stopped when they saw us. The man rolled down his window and said, "Hey, you shouldn't be hiking on these slopes! There are abandoned mine shafts all over this mountain. You could fall into one!" And, then, "Do you need help?" We explained our predicament, and the couple kindly offered to turn around and drive us back into Tincup. I even remember the guy's name......Michael Carman.......he was the director of the Pioneer Museum in Colorado Springs.

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Once back in Tincup, we drove around trying to figure out what to do. Michael Carman stopped the Jeep in front of the Tincup Store, which, not surprisingly, was still closed at 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning. I don't recall for sure, but there must have been a notice posted on the door for anyone having an emergency outside of the store's operating hours. It must have given directions to the store owner's house, for next we drove to a house and knocked on the door. A tall, poker-faced, coffee-cup-clutching fellow answered our summons. Husband and I sheepishly related what had happened to our car. The man---the summer operator of the Tincup Store---was Joe Pinkerton, hailing from Texas at other seasons of the year. He was older, but not that old......I would say perhaps in his late fifties......which seemed much older to the 22-year-old me back then than it does to me now, of course.

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Joe's first utterance to us was a muttering about people who attempt to drive in the mountains without an appropriate vehicle. I could easily understand his annoyance with us, and surely he was not too thrilled about being bothered early on a Sunday morning. But---not to worry---by the next breath Joe was offering to use his rubber-bumpered 4WD pickup to push our car back down the mountain road to Tincup. The Carmans took their leave then; Husband and I hopped in with Joe for the trek back up to our stricken car. Once there, the guys prepared the car for a long roll downhill, making adjustments to prevent more damage to the car. Honestly, I can't recall which vehicle I rode in on the way down......it might have been with Joe. Husband had his hands full with managing the car with no power steering or braking on that steep downhill journey.

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Finally we coasted safely back into Tincup, Joe's pickup nudging the car gently into an empty lot adjacent to the store. There Joe and Husband did a more in-depth assessment of the car's injuries. Hole in oil pan, hole in exhaust pipe, small hole in transmission housing. Joe laid out the options........the nearest tow truck was 40 miles away in Gunnison and they would charge a big price to tow on Sunday, IF they would even do it. We didn't have alot of money with us, just enough travelers checks and cash to get by, and no credit cards. Joe then said he had "a few" tools that Husband would be welcome to use should he wish to attempt removing the oil pan by himself. If he could get it off, Joe knew a welder who lived near the Taylor Reservoir who might be able to repair it sufficiently enough to get us home. Then Joe opened the doors to the lean-to area behind his store......his tools were in there......absolutely every kind of tool a car mechanic could possibly want. Husband gaped in amazement and then said that, yes, he would work on the car himself. Joe said the oil pan would have to be off by 4 p.m. in order to fit into the welder's schedule.

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So, this was the scene for the next several hours.......Husband sprawled under the car, surrounded by idyllic, snow-dappled Colorado mountain peaks, a sight sadly unappreciated by us at that point.

The only way to get the oil pan off was to jack up the engine from below, so that was a challenge. Every so often, a few older guys would wander over to take a look at how things were progressing, shaking their heads pessimistically. I did what I could to help, which wasn't much more than handing tools to Husband, fixing him peanut butter sandwichs with bread I bought at the Tincup Store (yes, Joe sold tin cups in there, too), and keeping the Thermos filled with drinking water. The sun beat down and I was well-burnt by day's end. Husband ended up covered in grease and oil.

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Around mid-morning, I noticed cars pulling up to the church down the road, so I walked over there and attended the Sunday morning service, too. Most of the church-attendees were from campgrounds in the vicinity. Lots of families with young kids. I don't recall anything specific about the sermon, but one of the Bible readings seemed to fit the situation Husband and I were in, though I don't recall the reference anymore. (Yeah, like everything needed to be about us, right.) There were wildfires in the mountains north of Tincup and I recall that being mentioned in the prayers.

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After much frustrating trial and error, Husband was finally successful in finally removing the oil pan.....at 3:30 he and Joe headed down the road to the welding shop. I didn't go along......I recall walking across the road and sitting by a rushing river, maybe reading a book. Once the guys got back, then Husband's new challenge was to reinstall the oil pan. Also, he temporarily repaired the exhaust pipe by fitting another piece of pipe around it. The transmission housing hole was small and apparently not much of an issue, except that we had to keep checking the fluid level on the trip home.

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By 7 p.m., the car was sufficiently fit for driving again. Since Gunnison was an hour away, Joe kindly said we were welcome to pitch our tent behind the store if we wanted to. Husband and I were filthy, exhausted, and starving, however, and decided to take our chances with driving to Gunnison to try and find a motel room. We ended up getting the last room at the first motel we stopped at. I was never so happy to see a bed in all my life.

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Despite the patching of the exhaust pipe hole, our car ran very loud. At the Royal Gorge the next day, we felt most conspicuous as we rumbled across the tourist-filled bridge over the deep gorge. At Colorado Springs, in lieu of driving up Pike's Peak, we rode the train to the summit of Mt. Manitou, elevation 9440 feet. We also stopped at the Air Force Academy to see the unique chapel which looks like fighter jets lined up standing on end.

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The temps were over 100 degrees as we crossed Kansas on our way back home to Iowa. We couldn't run the air conditioning, and the floor of the car became too hot for bare feet to tolerate.

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We arrived home safely. The welded repair on the oil pan was so strong that it didn't need to be redone. We've never forgotten our encounter with The Rock on the mountain road above Tincup, and the kindness of the people who came to our aid, along with the fortuitous supply of tools in Joe Pinkerton's shed. We felt very blessed and loaded with a great story to tell family and friends back home.

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I'll leave you with this scene from near Tincup:

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Oh, yeah......by the way.......where were you in late June of 1980?

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