If one consults a map of the North American continent, it will be observed that the rolling plains, stretching westwards from the shores of the Great Lakes, are fringed on their western edge by a massive, tumbled and lofty wall—the Rocky Mountains. This is the backbone of the New World, stretching from Mexico in the south to far-away Alaska in the north, on the slopes of which rise the mighty rivers to flow east and west to swell the waters of the Atlantic and the Pacific. Their successful conquest by the iron horse on its way from coast to coast contributes some of the most thrilling incidents to railway history.

If the map is consulted closely it will be seen that this range assumes its most broken character in the State of Colorado. Here Nature became unduly playful in her process of moulding, and left her handiwork in a badly-finished condition. Beetling peaks crowned with eternal snow are separated by yawning ravines—mere cracks in the earth’s crust—where the walls are half-a-mile or more in height, and through which rivers foam and tear along tumultuously. Yet the dishevelled mass of rock is intersected by steel threads which comprise the respective systems of the famous Denver & Rio Grande, and the Chicago & North-Western railways, the latter being known popularly as the “Moffatt” road, after its originator.

To grasp some idea of the exceptionally mountainous character of Colorado, a comparison with Switzerland may not be amiss. This State is so vast that the playground of Europe might be stowed within its borders six times over, and then there would be several hundred square miles to spare. Among the Alps the number of peaks which jut their pinnacles over 13,000 feet towards the clouds may be counted on the fingers of the hands; on the other hand, in Colorado there are no less than 120 such monarchs, 35 of which rise to an altitude of more than 14,000 feet. In other words, there are compressed about ten times as many lofty summits in the 193,925 square miles comprising this State as are to be found scattered throughout the whole of Europe.

The village having the loftiest situation in Europe is Avers Platz in Switzerland, which nestles among the Swiss Alps at an altitude of 7,500 feet above the sea, while the highest inhabited point is the Hospice of St. Bernard, at 8,200 feet. Contrast either of these with the flourishing town of Leadville, whose 15,000 inhabitants move, live and have their being at an elevation of 10,200 feet above the ocean. Yet this does not mark the uppermost limit of civilisation among these rocky fastnesses, because there are several prosperous mining camps at 13,000 feet or more.

The highest artery of traffic in Europe is the wonderful Stelvio road which enables the Tyrol to be crossed at an altitude of 9,042 feet. This is a zigzagging highway for vehicular and pedestrian traffic. In Colorado, the Denver & Rio Grande railway crosses the backbone of the continent through three passes, each over 10,000 feet above the sea, while at Ibex the station platform is at an altitude of 11,522 feet. On the Moffatt road, in order to overcome the range, the metals are lifted still higher at the Rollins Pass—to 11,600 feet, or nearly 2¼ miles above the Atlantic.

Incalculable mineral wealth lies buried in the hearts of these peaks, and it was the discovery of this rich storehouse of Nature that led to the opening up of the country by the iron road. There was a gold rush in 1859, followed by a silver strike, and Leadville was one of the first towns to spring into existence in the wild scramble for sudden wealth. Though this locality nestles in the range some 70 miles distant, the pioneer miners braved perils and privations untold to gain this hub, and the town sprang up as if by magic. But the isolation of the situation, and the lack of transportation facilities soon became manifest to an acute degree. Every ounce of material had to be carried to and fro from the outside world by wagon, mule-pack, or manual effort, involving an exhausting, slow and expensive journey through deep gulches and over broken mountain trails.

The cry for a railway was raised, but it was difficult to find pockets sufficiently deep or capitalists so plucky as to finance such an undertaking. However, constant agitation maintained for years bore its fruit. A small company was formed, and the Pueblo & Arkansas railway was commenced. The promoters shrank somewhat from the project, fearing that construction would run into such a prohibitive figure as to bring ruination in its wake, so they resolved to spend the minimum amount of money on the scheme. To this end they decided to follow the easiest route available, and suggested the course of the Arkansas River from Pueblo into the mountains, and then at a convenient point to strike into the range to make the ascent to Leadville. Yet those half-hearted financiers had visionary dreams, and were spurred on by a certain amount of ambition. They did not intend to come to a dead-end at Leadville, but once they had gained the higher level, to push right across the Continental Divide to Salt Lake City, and thence to the Pacific Coast. Some thirty years passed by, however, before the latter part of the project was completed.

Though the course along the Arkansas River was selected as the cheapest and easiest route, the preliminary surveys sufficed to demonstrate that even that location would offer difficulties out of the ordinary. The 9½ miles run through the Royal Gorge, one of the natural wonders of North America, promised a heavy struggle. This defile at places is 2,700 feet deep, and the walls rise up so perpendicularly as to defy the slightest foothold to a chamois, let alone a railway. The bottom of the gulch was found to be occupied by the turbulent waters of the river, which in times of flood lapped the base of the mountain wall on either side, though at normal level a narrow shelf was exposed at the foot of one cliff.

The engineer responsible for the building of the line, Mr. A. A. Robinson, decided to seize that shelf. It could be made just wide enough to carry the line and no more, while it could be raised sufficiently to escape the ravages of high water. The river was kept within bounds by a wall of rough, heavy masonry carried to a point well above the highest watermark, and on this the track was laid upon a bed of rock ballast hewn from the mountain slopes.

However, when the eastern portal of the ravine was gained a serious obstacle loomed up. The ledge which the engineer had pressed into service up to this point disappeared abruptly into the water, and did not reappear for some distance beyond. The two sides of the canyon, towering up to nearly 3000 feet, come closer together, leaving only a narrow vent barely 30 feet wide. As a result the river channel is constricted, and the water thunders over the boulders through the wedge-shaped defile with the velocity of a cataract.

The engineer was brought to a full-stop. How was he to span that gap? The character of the torrent absolutely prevented any possibility of sinking piers in the waterway to carry a bridge across the breach in the ledge. Nor could a path be carved out of the mountain-side to carry the line around the obstacle, because the maximum gradient had been attained already on either approach to the gap.

As Mr. Robinson related, the first solution that occurred to his mind was to tunnel the shoulder, and thus to avoid the difficulty completely. But the bogey of expense stood in his way. There were scarcely sufficient funds available to build a surface line, and, under these circumstances, tunnelling was quite out of the question. Moreover, it would have required considerable time, and the public was clamouring wildly for the completion of the line.

He haunted the gorge for days, and spent much midnight oil in the hope of discovering some simple, quick and cheap means of solving the problem. But the quest seemed hopeless. Then suddenly it occurred to him that, as he could not hope for assistance from the river-bed, why not force the walls of the ravine to his aid? In short, why not sling a bridge from the cliff faces on either hand?

Thereupon he evolved a plan to throw heavy iron girders in the manner of rafters across the gulch, to anchor their ends to the solid rock, and then to suspend the bridge carrying the metals from this structure in such a way that one side abutted against the wall. The more he pondered, the more convinced he became of its practicability, despite the fact that it was something entirely new to railway engineering.

Being intimately acquainted with the late Mr. C. Shaler Smith, who at that time was one of the foremost consulting bridge-engineers in the country, he communicated his plans to him. The consulting engineer was interested, and arranged to accompany the designer to the site to judge the feasibility of the scheme at first hand, and after acquainting himself with the prevailing conditions. As a result of this investigation, Mr. Smith concurred in the method of spanning the gap, and there and then the arrangements for carrying out the work were commenced.

It was realised that the task was somewhat delicate, and Mr. Robinson accordingly entrusted the preliminary operations to Mr. J. O. Osgood, who was appointed Division Engineer on this section of the railway. Mr. Osgood carried out the whole of the surveys for his chief personally to facilitate the accurate design and details of the whole structure.

The surveyor related to me that when he first entered the canyon no one had ever traversed the gorge at that point, except on the ice, for the simple reason that it was impassable. Nor could one get across by clambering along the rock face where the line was to go, as it was too steep. The situation was first reconnoitred from all practicable points of vantage. Then, in order to complete the essential preliminary work, he caused a narrow pathway—nothing more than a ledge, from 12 to 18 inches in width—to be hewn in the cliff above the site, from which he made his final surveys.

The cutting of this path in itself was a tedious task, and gave some idea of the labour that would have been involved in tunnelling the rock. This narrow shelf, however, proved of inestimable value in handling the heavy overhead members of metal and setting them into position. The dimensions and weight of the latter had to be kept as low as possible to facilitate handling under the peculiarly cramped conditions. Actual erection was exciting and hazardous. The men had to be lowered by ropes and had to ply their tools while swinging in mid-air or when clinging to precarious footholds. However, the cumbrous overhead pieces were successfully set in position, the ends were bolted to brackets sunk deeply into the cliff faces, and from these girders the track floor was suspended, the ends resting on the solid edges of the rocky ledge, while one side was bedded against the wall.

Such is the story, as communicated to me by the engineers, of the origin and erection of what ranks as an unparalleled novelty in engineering. The “Hanging Bridge” was built in the Royal Gorge nearly 30 years ago, and although the first structure has been replaced by one of larger and heavier dimensions to accommodate weightier trains, the fundamental principle is precisely the same as conceived by Mr. Robinson.

Yet the “Hanging Bridge” is but one of many engineering wonders to be found on this railway. Go where one will over its 1,800 miles of track among the Rockies, and some striking and daring work confronts one at every turn. Here the railway threads its way through a winding abyss, there it passes over the crown of a towering peak, or toils laboriously up the side of a sheering cliff. No two miles are alike. In all it traverses five yawning canyons, each possessing a strange individuality, and crosses the mountain backbone by which the continent is split in twain by three different passes. Level sections are practically unknown. It is one continuous up-hill pull up the one, with a long coast down-hill with steam shut off, on the other, side—a switchback upon a stupendous scale.

Let us take the route over the Marshall Pass. At Poncha, on the Atlantic side, the line is at an altitude of 7,480 feet. The summit is six miles away by the iron road, but in that distance the train has to climb steadily at 211 feet to the mile over an extremely meandering route. The mountains become wilder and more broken as the summit is approached. The engineer took advantage of every natural facility that opened up to him. In turn the rail crawls along ledges cut in the mountain flanks, over lofty embankments, spidery trestles, doubling and redoubling upon itself in the most amazing manner. The occasional presence of snow-sheds draws attention to the fact that the metals are above the snow-line, and the many terrible dangers to which the track is exposed from avalanches and landslides.

Two huge engines are required to negotiate the heavy ascent, and at last, when the top is attained, the train is 276 feet in excess of two miles above the Atlantic on the eastern, and the Pacific on the western side, respectively. The tortuous path of the iron road is revealed below in a graphic manner. It may be seen in no less than four separate terraces, rising in steps one above the other, the lowest being almost invisible, connected by huge loops, until it finally winds away and is lost in the dim haze of the horizon. The descent is a replica of the ascent—the same gradient prevailing, viz. 211 feet to the mile. No steam power whatever is needed to drive the train. It is travel by mere gravitation alone, held in check by the powerful air-brakes.

Yet the railway is crossing the Divide at another point some miles to the north rises twice to an altitude exceeding 10,000 feet. This is on the extension of the original line from Pueblo to Leadville, where, after leaving the mining town, there is a tedious climb to Fremont Pass, where the track is laid 11,330 feet above the sea. A few miles to one side the line attains its maximum altitude, with 11,522 feet, at Ibex station, on a short branch road. After negotiating the Pass there is a sharp descent to Leadville junction, where another locomotive has to be hitched on to haul the train up a bank, rising 211 feet to the mile, to the summit of Tennessee Pass, lying at 10,240 feet, the highest point being gained in a tunnel, one mile in length, bored through the mountain peak.

On the southern section of the system the line passes through some of the wildest and most impressive country it is possible to conceive, and time after time the constructional engineer was puzzled sorely as to the best route for the road. It overcomes the Divide through the Cumbres Pass. On the up-hill pull the railway skirts a towering mountain spur, making a detour of four miles to circumvent the obstacle, and then bursts suddenly into a strange country. Strange monoliths rear up on all sides their fantastically wind- and weather-carved sides, glistening weirdly in the sunlight. The line swings round these grotesque evidences of Nature’s handiwork in a sharp bend known appropriately as “Phantom Curve,” and then disappears into the depths of the Toltec tunnel, which is carved through solid granitic rock for some 600 feet. The peculiarity of this work is that it is carried through the crest, and not the base of the peak, for the opposite portal of the tunnel stands on the brink of a precipice which drops plumb a quarter of a mile into the valley.

This gulf is spanned by a solid masonry bridge almost as wonderful as the Hanging Bridge. It recalls a swallow’s nest built under the eaves of a roof, for it is thrown across the gap to the opposite mountain ledge in the form of a balcony. Sudden emergence from the inky blackness of the mountain’s heart to this frail-looking link with the frowning wall opposite, and the depth of the fissure is decidedly startling. If the Eiffel Tower were planted in this gorge it would be dwarfed into insignificance, for its topmost platform would be over 500 feet below the railway track. To throw the bridge across this rift the men had to be slung out from derricks, manipulating their trowels from an unsteady platform—the snap of a rope, a missed footing, and certain death on the splintering crags below awaited the unlucky.

It is upon this same section that one traverses the wonderful Ophir Loop, by means of which the Divide at Dallas is negotiated. The towering Ophir mountain stands directly in the path of the line. A detour was impossible; the mountain had to be ascended, but in so doing the engineer imposed a fearful task upon the locomotives.

The rise is 4 per cent. In other words, for every 25 feet the train advances, it has to rise 12 inches. The line skirts the base of the mountain, describes a sharp semicircular curve, and then runs directly backwards, the track being parallel with that a few feet below. The Stelvio road over the Alps is a wonderful zigzag climb, but it does not double and re-double more than this ascent up Ophir mountain. Terrace after terrace of track is left below, extending through cutting, over embankment and high trestles, until the top is gained.

Though the ascent and descent of the passes are impressive, they are equalled in their daring by the winding through the rugged canyons bathed in everlasting shadows cast by the mountains. The Royal Gorge is only one out of five that are threaded. The others are equally awe-inspiring, but each has a totally different aspect. There is Animas canyon. The name of the gorge is musical—“Rio de las animas perdidas,” and trips readily off the tongue, but the Spaniards were adept in christening Nature’s wonders. “The River of Lost Souls” is melancholy, but how strikingly suitable! The whole bed of the canyon is occupied by the river. There was no convenient shelf by the water’s side to carry the track. The walls rise vertically on either side, and the foam of the water as it tumbles through the gulch is scattered high on either wall. The engineer, deprived of a natural pathway, cut one for himself. And it does not cling to the river’s side. It is high up on one wall, and was blasted foot by foot out of the solid rock. At one point it is 1000 feet above the water, and the grade is necessarily steep as the river-bed rises very abruptly towards its upper end, where the line emerges but a few feet above the water.

When the pioneer engineers laid this remarkable railway the exigencies of the present were their sole concern. As years rolled by the narrow gauge proved a handicap, so it was converted to the 4 feet 8½ inches gauge. But as there was still a considerable amount of narrow-gauge traffic, the line is adapted for both classes of working, there being three rails laid, so that it is as easily available for the narrow- as the standard-gauge vehicles. Then the necessity arose for doubling the track to give an up-and-down main line through Eagle River canyon. The surveys soon convinced the engineer that it was absolutely impracticable to parallel the original line, as the earthworks along the tortuous river could not be widened to carry the second pair of metals. Consequently, they had to be laid on the opposite side of the water, at a cost of £20,000, or $100,000, per mile for 5 miles. The result is that now the river has a canal appearance, its limits being bounded on either side by solid masonry.

A few years ago a well-known banker and prominent citizen of the city of Denver, the late David H. M. Moffatt, the Silver King, created a sensation by suggesting that the time was opportune to give the important trade centre in which he resided more direct communication with the Pacific coast. He pointed out that before setting directly westwards, one had either to travel 107 miles to the north to join the Union Pacific, or 110 miles south-east to Pueblo. Why should not this mileage be saved and the journey accelerated by following the bird’s course towards Salt Lake City?

Notwithstanding the severely broken character of the Rockies, he decided to drive his railway almost in an air-line. The surveyors pointed out that approximately 75 per cent. of the track could be laid along river banks threading the mountains where grades and curves could be kept tolerably easy. The greatest and costliest features of the scheme was the double toil over the Great Divide.

The mountain ramparts practically lock Denver in upon its western side, and the railway makes a direct plunge into the mass. The South Boulder canyon affords the causeway for the railway through the first clump. Certainly the gorge is well named, for its sides are ragged in the extreme, precipitous, and strewn with ugly, projecting masses of rock.

Being unhampered financially, the engineers were enjoined to carry their work out upon the most solid lines. Timber trestling across clefts on the hill-side was to be avoided; the line was to be carried well above the river, and in such a manner that easy alignment was secured. This involved keeping well into the side of the mountains, only to meet obstacles in the form of massive humps of rock projecting from the slopes. They could not be blasted away—the only solution was tunnelling. Consequently, the train plays a game of hide-and-seek as it darts in and out a chain of tunnels. In the course of 13 miles there are no less than 30 tunnels through these spurs, ranging from 73 to 1,720 feet in length, and aggregating 16,000 feet in all. It was the constant recurrence of these tunnels that provoked a querulous traveller to ask why the engineers did not “tunnel the range the same as they do in the Alps and have done with it?”

In order to fulfil the demand of the “Silver King,” heavy excavation was inevitable. The rock thus removed was put to useful account to fill crevices and rifts to avoid trestling. It was expensive construction, but at the same time it ensured an excellent permanent way—permanent in the fullest sense of the word.

When Boulder River canyon was threaded the rise to the Continental Divide commenced. The precise point at which this should be effected demanded repeated surveying, and some time passed before the engineers found the shortest and easiest path through the range. This was by means of a tunnel through the summit. A heavy piece of work was advocated—2½ miles in length—but as considerable time would be required for its completion, it was decided to take the metals right over the crests, with a temporary line of 28 miles, in order to proceed with the grade and to open up the country beyond, leaving the boring of the tunnel till a later date. Consequently, the track was carried through Rollins Pass, 11,600 feet above the level of the sea, through a world of perpetual snow.

To lift the line over that summit proved a tremendous task: it involved the laying out of tremendous curves and wide, sweeping loops. When built, it was quite as difficult to keep open during the winter months, when the Rockies are swept with terrific blizzards, which bury the steel highway deeply beneath hills of snow. Yet arrangements were completed to meet this emergency. A rotary snow-plough, the biggest and most powerful of its type that ever had been designed, was acquired. With this huge machine the snow-gangs were out from morning to night, but they kept that narrow channel of communication clear, though it was almost a hopeless task at times.

While the railway was being pushed on from the western side of the range, the boring of the tunnel was taken in hand. It was urgent, for it reduced the summit, 2,200 feet below Rollins Pass, the portals of the tunnel being 9,930 feet above the sea on either side, rising therefrom at 1 in 400 to the tunnel’s centre line.

Although the tunnel takes the bulk of the traffic both summer and winter, the route over Rollins Pass has not been abandoned entirely. The excursion traffic mounts to the 11,600 feet, for from that tremendous altitude the panorama of glistening snow and glacier caps is magnificent. What such a summit means may be grasped better, perhaps, by comparison with the maximum altitudes attained on British railways. The Scottish Highlands railway rises to 1,484 feet above sea-level between Dalwhinnie and Dalnaspiel, while the Great Western climbs to 1,373 feet at Princeton, Dartmoor. Such altitudes are trivial beside the dizzy summits attained on the American continent. Yet the tunnel under the Rollins Pass brought its own benefits. By its provision the town of Vasquez on the western slopes of the Divide was brought 25 miles nearer Denver, the distance being 81 miles by the temporary line over the Pass, and only 56 miles via the tunnel. Such reductions of distances, with easing of grades, count materially in questions of traffic nowadays.