soon as he possibly could.
That day I received three telegrams from George. The Reverend Dr. Coyle would wait for us and perform the ceremony. At seven we reached Cheyenne and boarded a special two-coach train waiting to run us to Denver. Barring another delay we would be there in four hours. But after a steady run of thirty minutes, we pulled on to a siding and stopped! I hunted for a conductor and abruptly asked, “What now?”
“We are waiting to give the right of way to the regular northbound train due through here any minute,” he explained.
One hour later it whizzed by. That delay determined the date of our wedding. At one in the morning I stepped off the train for George’s eager greeting. Together at last, our hearts pounding with happiness, we hugged each other tightly, the strain of the unpredictable trip momentarily forgotten. From the depot we drove to the Hotel Savoy where the bridal suite had been reserved. To this I retired a very exhausted and lonely bride-to-be, while George joined his friend, and best-man-to-be for the night.
Next morning he hurried to the jeweler to have the date corrected in the wedding ring, arrange for the ceremony, and order dinner sent up to our suite. Meanwhile, I spent the time laying out my wedding clothes.
My new corsets were too tight and the lacings had to be loosened. The silk feather-stitching of my long flannel petticoat recalled to mind my mother’s patient needlework on my simple trousseau, consisting of three of everything. The white petticoat had three ruffles and I made certain the button on the waistband was secure. A white corset cover with eyelet embroidery and white drawers with ruffles were carefully smoothed free of suitcase wrinkles. Black lisle stockings were more expensive than the customary cotton ones, but recklessly I had purchased three pairs to wear with my shiny patent leather shoes accented by pearl gray buttons.
The engraved marriage announcement card. Because of a train delay, the announcement has the wrong date.
Mother had packed my wedding suit with tissue paper, and while unfolding it my hands trembled. It had cost such a big share of money saved from my school teacher wages of sixty dollars a month. I smoothed the satin-like reseda broadcloth, and the lovely jacket trimmed with gold and green passementerie that, once glimpsed, had become irresistible.
By my watch, time was flying, so I began dressing. Three times I coiled my hair and pinned it on the top of my head before being satisfied. George had often said it was my two long braids of hair that first won his heart on a well-remembered day in high school. The blouse of ecru net fluffed out of the front of my jacket. Petticoats and skirt were ankle length and correct according to Armand Calleau of the exclusive San Francisco shop where I bought my suit.
From a hat box came my crowning glory. Oh, that hat! White felt with a turned-up brim faced with black velvet and topped with a curving white ostrich plume, the ultimate in style. No bride, ever before, was so proud of her bridal outfit.
Smoothing on the fingers of my gloves I gazed into the mirror hoping George would be pleased. And so he was when he arrived with the ring and a velvet box containing a gorgeous sunburst of diamonds and pearls. With shaking hands I pinned it at my breast.
“The carriage and my uncle are here,” he said.
In the manse of one of Denver’s splendid churches, George placed on my finger the wide gold band which never has been taken off, and Dr. Coyle said, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
We stayed in Denver until Saturday night. I was so conscious now of being Mrs. George Backus that I felt as if all who saw me must be aware of it. George bought me a pair of pretty russet-colored, high-button shoes, and it was a long time before I became reconciled to his extravagance; five dollars for a pair of shoes!
“I’m not going to tell you anything about how and where we will live,” he said. “I’ll let you find out for yourself.” He smiled, as if picturing the somersault my life was to take. “But I think you should buy a cookbook for high altitudes.”
He was so right. I needed a cookbook, any kind, because I was unable to cook a meal at sea level in Oakland. For the first time he handed me some money. Into my mind marched Grandmother Fish with her stern admonitions about propriety. I had to remind myself that now I was a wife, thereby permitted to do so shocking a thing as to accept money from a man. The Rocky Mountain Cookbook became my guide, philosopher, and daily companion.
George insisted that I buy warm gloves, long tights, and “arctics.” I strenuously objected to the latter—heavy overshoes with thick rubber soles and high cloth tops fastened with buckles.
“I wouldn’t want to be seen in such things!” I protested.
“Without them your feet and shoes would be soaking wet. All the ladies wear them. Look.” Certainly I could see several well-dressed women with them on. So, reluctantly I bought a pair of the hideous things and suffered whenever I looked down at my feet, which looked gigantic to me in the arctics.
On Saturday night we left Denver, arriving the following morning in Salida where we changed to a narrow-gauge railway. There had been no dining car on either train and no time to eat at a depot restaurant. George dashed to a store and returned with a can of sardines and some stale soda crackers for our honeymoon breakfast.
Now we were rolling through the Black Canyon of the Gunnison River that opened into its lovely valley and on to Montrose. There we changed to another narrow-gauge railway. When we reached Ridgway Junction it was dark and cold. The Stub, a small dingy train, was to carry us to Telluride and proved to be a mere foretaste of what was ahead. The engine, baggage car, and dismal passenger car were relics of a past generation. We mounted two steps from the small station platform and with three additional passengers stumbled along the aisle. At each end of the car dirty oil lamps shed a smoky light on adjacent seats.
With great effort the small locomotive shuddered and jerked into motion on a narrow, shaky roadbed. Puffing and straining it climbed higher into the piedmont of the lofty San Juan mountains. The cold increased rapidly and we were thankful for a potbellied stove at one end of the car. Also, I began to appreciate my warm gloves and the arctics. Such cold was new to me.
Night had fallen when we reached Telluride, named for the ore tellurium, a silver-white metal having properties like sulphur found near gold or silver-bearing ore. Telluride was the terminus of the miniature line which entered the gulch through the only break in the surrounding mountains. We were on the floor of the canyon but walking in the darkness along the path to the only hotel we could feel the precipitous walls closing us in. The Sheridan, a plain brick structure which had seen turbulence and mob violence, was quiet. A lonely clerk sat behind a desk in the bare lobby, dismal and dimly lighted. As I climbed the stairs a tugging sensation in my chest was a reminder that we had risen in the world 8,765 feet.
Our cheerless hotel room contained a double bed, a dresser, one chair, and the usual stand with a water pitcher and basin. Wearily falling into bed, we found the sheets cold and damp.
Next morning, in his quiet way, George said he would have to make arrangements for our trip to the mine.
“I’ll show you the stores and you can buy some food, not very much, because we’ll have a big order sent up to us,” he admonished.
Order food! I had not the faintest idea about what brands to choose, what cuts of meat, what quantity of anything we would need, but I had to make a start and began at Mr. McAdams’s meat market.
“A steak, a slice of ham, and some lamb
