This is Not a Ghost Story (But it Sort of Is)
- Mike Loveridge
- Aug 30, 2025
- 7 min read
Updated: Sep 8, 2025
Uncovering ghost towns, sacred sunsets, and a dog who still shows up when it matters most.
The Last Turn Left
I hadn’t been to Leadville, Colorado, in a long time. And I hadn’t been ready. Not really.
This mountain town was one of Caiya’s favorite places—and mine. Every turn, every trail, every breeze up here reminds me of her.
But recently, I decided maybe—just maybe—I was ready to face the pain. Like a gladiator entering the arena.Or, more accurately, like a shivering baby rabbit being air-dropped into a wolf den.
It was late Sunday afternoon, August 3, 2025, when Leslie and I drove into town. I steered the big silver Mercedes adventure van—officially named the Silver Sasquatch—around the final bend and onto Main Street. The turbo purred like a travel-weary cowboy settling into a hot bath.
The last time I made that turn was in my first adventure van, the Blue Bison, with Caiya seated next to me—regally perched atop a foldout loveseat, capped by a throne-sized square pillow we had dubbed “Caiya’s Throne.”
Caiya was my buddy—a thrill-seeking Border Collie–Retriever mix with the soul of a redwood. She and I chased mountains for years… until the complications of advanced hip dysplasia caught up to her in 2021 and brought everything to a halt.
Leslie knew Caiya. Really knew her. She had generously agreed to be my emotional support animal for this very personal rematch with memory.
Church Bells and Gunpowder
It didn’t take long to remember why Caiya and I came to Leadville in the first place—or why we kept coming back.
Here are just a few of the reasons:
Leadville, Colorado, is the highest incorporated city in the United States, perched at a lung-burning 10,154 feet and surrounded by 14,000-foot peaks. It used to be a mining town—born in 1878 during the gold rush, when the phrase “strike it rich” was both a slogan and a survival strategy.
First came the gold. Then silver. Then other minerals. Basically, humanity’s version of eating dessert first, then raiding the pantry for whatever was left. All the while, miners tore up the mountains like dogs in a sandbox—digging, burrowing, tossing dirt everywhere with wild abandon.
When the boom was over, nobody stuck around to clean up. That wasn’t part of the business model. The miners—and their barbers, barkeeps, and brothel managers—just packed up and vanished.
What remained was a ghost town of epic proportions.
Lucky for us, their poor environmental practices (by today’s standards) left behind a goldmine of historic relics: a lingering window into the Old West of gunfights, whiskey, saloons, and grit. The kind of grit that built fortunes, broke bones, and built a nation.
These remnants are everywhere in Leadville. More than most towns, maybe anywhere.
Main Street is lined with grand old buildings from Leadville’s glory days—icons like the Silver Dollar Saloon, the Tabor Opera House, and the Delaware Hotel. And unlike the flat wooden false fronts of most ghost towns, these buildings are true Victorian beauties: decked out in ornate details, asymmetrical facades, and gabled roofs steep enough to host a ski lift. Fancy stonework and gingerbread trim included.
My favorite? The Big Pink Church. Its steeple towers over the town, topped with a wooden cross that leans precariously to the side like it’s been in a bar fight. It’s a perfect symbol of the era: gold and silver may have been gods to many, but skipping whiskey and showing up to church on Sunday was still encouraged.
Where there were once gunfights, top hats, and billowing dresses cinched tight with corsets, now you’ll find mountain bikers, trail runners, and Subaru-driving Patagonia wearers.
Mount Massive (14,428 feet) and Mount Elbert (14,440 feet) flank the town to the west. To the east, bright orange mining tailings and crumbling wooden ruins scatter the slopes like the remains of a great wooden empire—half splintered, half sacred.
Pack Burros and Emotional Baggage
It was about 7 PM when Leslie and I rolled into town. We’d spent the day hiking on top of Cottonwood Pass above Tincup—which was stunning—but were both a little bummed to learn we had missed the highlight of the day: the Leadville Boom Days Pack Burro Race.
If you’re unfamiliar, here’s the gist: humans (dressed like ultramarathoners) and burros (dressed like, well… jackasses) team up to race a 22-mile course through the mountains.
The rules are straightforward and completely ridiculous:
“The runner may lead, drive, push, pull, or carry the burro, but may not ride the burro.”
Hilarious. And also: How is “carry” allowed?! Have they seen these animals?
Anyway, we missed the spectacle. So instead, we drove to Caiya’s favorite place to boondock for the night.
I was excited to see the spot again—but nervous too. I didn’t know what feelings might show up once we got there.
We turned right at the Delaware Hotel and headed east. Up, up, up… past blocks of quirky 19th-century homes, until the pavement of 7th Street gave up and surrendered to dirt—officially renamed “Road 3.”
We crept along slowly, past the towering headframe and Baby Doe’s cabin at the historic Matchless Mine—home of Elizabeth “Baby Doe” Tabor, Leadville’s most tragic celebrity. The road wound around in bumps and switchbacks, past a scattering of old ruins, until finally, we emerged from a stand of dense pine near Stray Horse Gulch…
And there it was. Caiya’s Spot.
The Accident Shaft Sentinel
We drove slowly beneath the towering 50-foot-tall #3 Shaft Headframe of the old Colonel Sellers Mine (est. 1880… no relation to Colonel Sanders), then pulled into a flat clearing on the other side to set up camp.
This was where I used to camp with Caiya.
Back in the late 1800s, the Colonel Sellers Mine was financed by none other than Solomon Guggenheim. It had three shafts. Shaft #3 suffered a tragic collapse that killed 12 miners. So, while it’s marked on official maps as “Shaft #3,” locals just call it what it is: Accident Shaft.
The headframe that still stands atop the shaft has seen better days. Its structure is skeletal now—but still regal. It stands like a silent sentinel, watching over the valley below.
Beside it is a tailings pile— about 20 feet high on the camp side, then spilling down the other side into the valley below —sluffed up from years of mining. The colors are wild: bright orange, rusty brown, streaks of blue and yellow. It’s the kind of place where you can climb up, plop yourself down, and watch the sun drop behind Mount Elbert and the rooftops of Leadville.
Caiya loved it here. She used to charge up the sluff pile like it was her personal Everest, then lean back on her haunches and gingerly dance-step her way back down—delighted with her own descent.
We spent many evenings there. I’d sit next to her on the windy slope, watching the sky blaze into dusk while running my hand through the fur behind her ears. She loved sunsets as much as I did.
When the light finally faded, we’d bundle up in sleeping bags and blankets, curled beside each other beneath the gaze of that old headframe giant—keeping watch over us through the night.
The Sunset She Sent
Leslie and I were parked in the Silver Sasquatch, eating dinner and relaxing, when a thought popped into my head—loud and insistent:
“Mike, you need to get up to the top of the sluff pile for the sunset. Now.”
I glanced out the van window. The sky had a bit of color, but mostly just a dull orange haze from wildfire smoke. It didn’t look promising—certainly not like one of those sunsets.
But the thought came again, more urgent this time:“Go. Now.”
“Leslie,” I said, “the sun is setting. We need to go check it out.”
What happened next was... fantastic.
We hustled up the sluff pile and walked to the edge, looking out over Leadville and across the valley toward Mount Massive and Mount Elbert. And there it was—more sunset than we could’ve imagined from down below.
Just behind the mountains, the sky burned in bright orange. On either side: soft golds and molten yellows. Above it all, the clouds fanned out like the fringe on some old pair of leather Indian chaps—painted in deep chocolate, rusty amber, and burnt sienna.
The mountains stood in navy blue silhouette, and the pine forest in front of us had turned black, edged in the darkest, fading green.
It was a firestorm of color.
And then—right on cue—a bark echoed through the valley. Just one at first. Sharp. Deep. Big-dog energy. Then the bark stretched out into a piercing yelp. Pure coyote.
Seconds later, a full chorus of yelps and howls joined in—high and low, near and far—rippling across the hills in surround sound.
It was wild. A sunset in stereo. A moment in every dimension.
Luckily, both Leslie and I had the clarity to hit ‘record’ on our phones. The whole thing lasted barely a minute. The coyote choir fell silent, the colors faded, and darkness swallowed everything. The stars blinked on. The lights of Leadville began to sparkle below.
Then another thought arrived—stronger than the first:
“Caiya is here. She’s with you. She helped orchestrate this… as a thank you for all the times you brought her here. And to remind you she’s still by your side.”
Tears slid down my cheeks. I turned to Leslie—and she was crying too. She had felt it. The same thing. The same moment.
What does it mean? What do I do with something like that?
I’m not totally sure. But I’ll carry it with me. Right next to all the other moments I keep locked in my heart, where I store the memories that matter most.
This one—this fiery, fleeting, magic minute—is proof.
Caiya is still with me. And the fire of adventure still burns.
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