This is the sixth and final article in a periodic series discussing one of the single most significant excavation projects in the Park City area — the construction of the Snake Creek Drain Tunnel.

In 1953, upon graduating from Park City High School, Richard Martinez went to work at the Mayflower Mine. He carried on a family tradition, the third generation to work underground. In 1960, United Park City Mines (UPCM) recruited Richard to work at the Judge Mine. He retired from UPCM in 2003. His career was “exceptional.”

Hardrock mining is dangerous work. For practitioners of the profession, it is the responsibility of each generation to preserve and transfer the accumulated knowledge to those who follow. Richard Martinez represented the embodiment of this sacrosanct tradition. Two of his sons would join him at UPCM, infused with his wisdom. They would make him proud.

Facing ever-increasing water demands, in 2003 The Midway Irrigation Company contemplated reopening the Snake Creek Drain Tunnel. As mentioned earlier in this series, in 1923 the U.S. Supreme Court decreed that they were the rightful owners of the water associated with the original ill-fated project. Their ability to capitalize on that ownership proved fleeting from that moment in 1923.

Later that year, a catastrophic cave-in 2,500 linear feet from the portal sealed the tunnel. The water stopped flowing, making their ownership moot. Now, 80 years later, they intended to find their water.  

To do so, they contracted with a regionally renowned civil engineering firm: The Xcavation Company. The founder and CEO was Clark Martinez, the fourth child of Richard Martinez. In 1982, following Noranda’s abrupt closure of its Park City operations, Clark embarked on a journey to control his own destiny. The creation of his company represented a mission accomplished. 

Clark reviewed the project with his father. During their conversation, Richard advised Clark to “be damn careful.” Clark was slightly surprised at his father’s comment. He was always “damned careful.” It was part of his gene pool. Clark respected the power of subterranean energies. He knew that the strongest timbers could be snapped like toothpicks, steel beams twisted like pipe cleaners. 

Based upon his time at the Judge Mine, Richard knew the Snake Creek Drain Tunnel was different. There was only one way in and one way out. No escape routes existed. The tunnel was a proven killer. The moment one entered the portal, danger lurked.

Though confident in his and his crew’s ability, Clark assured his dad that extra precautions would be taken. This included building floor-to-ceiling protective barriers using 32-inch-thick concrete blocks. Steel doors secured the passage. These precautions would be lifesavers.

The portal was opened and rebuilt in February 2004, with a steel gate installed to prevent uninvited guests. Clark and his crew began removing debris. It was arduous. At 1,600 linear feet, they were surprised to encounter a formidable cave-in. Based upon 1923 reports, the tunnel was supposed to be clear to 2,500 linear feet. 

For this first year, work concluded in April 2004. The mountain had been quiet — that would be the last time. Crews returned in 2005, 2006 and 2007. After a pause, work resumed again in February 2013 and ended in February 2015.

Each year, the outcome was the same: The mountain thwarted every attempt to clear the blockage, and vengefully so. Mud, boulders, sand and water would periodically demolish all previous accomplishments. This included blowing the steel doors off their hinges on Clark’s protective walls. Risk was omnipresent.

As the crews removed their equipment for the final time, water was finally flowing again, but at a mere fraction of the 7,000 gallons per minute recorded in 1916. The team, all hardrock mining veterans, agreed that in their careers, none of them had ever encountered a situation like the Snake Creek Drain Tunnel. They vowed “never again.” Their sentiments and fears were similar to those who preceded them. And so, the demonic tunnel resumed its hibernation.

Thank you to Clark Martinez for your time and generosity in recounting your experiences with the Snake Creek Drain Tunnel. Your input made this article, this series, a reality.

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher.

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Editor’s note: This is the fourth article in a periodic series discussing one of the single most significant excavation projects in the Park City area — the construction of the Snake Creek Drain Tunnel.

As a reminder, the third article detailed the first collapse during construction that occurred at a tunnel depth of 4,066 feet on Feb. 5, 1912. To remedy the “heavy ground,” workers installed the strongest timbers available, 10 foot x 10 foot Oregon pine, which failed in less than 24 hours.

The situation demanded installation of Mr. Friendly’s innovative but very expensive steel reinforced concrete lining. The liner held. His next monthly report was brief and optimistic, conveying a business-as-usual tone. For those toiling below ground, the situation was anything but “usual.” 

Workers voiced their concerns regarding the increasingly dangerous conditions. They recommended that each section be braced with full tunnel sets and heavily lagged. Should those fail, the concrete lining was necessary. Management disagreed. They balked at spending the money.

Unfortunately for the workers, tragedy arrived at the end of July 1912 when another collapse proved fatal. Twenty workers walked off the job due to the unsafe conditions.

Mr. Friendly’s associated report simply referenced an “accident” and that work was suspended for five days. He lamented the contractor’s inability to procure enough workers to support two shifts. The Snake Creek Drain Tunnel was acquiring an ominous reputation — one which would prove indelible.

Labor problems and unstable ground persisted. Correspondence noted that crews were not fully compensated for work performed in October 1912. And this was not the first time.

Even more outrageous, the proprietor of the laborers’ boarding house, Mrs. Ellen Hancock, had also been stiffed.

The aggrieved parties requested that Mr. Friendly pay them directly in full before continuing work.

He was anxious to do so, explaining to management that delays in completing back work were “dangerous” to the tunnel. Without the required bracing, the bore was prone to “rapid” closing, the result of “swelling” ground. Eventually, the money issues were resolved, and so excavation resumed. 

Construction of the tunnel took six years, from 1910 to 1916. Different contractors were employed, most notably Free & Taylor, McIIwee, and The Mid-West Tunnel Company.

For workers, danger increased the deeper they penetrated the mountain. Beyond 3,200 feet (reached on May 2, 1911) the prospect of “bad ground,” dead air, raging water, equipment failures, and death were daily worries. 

On March 30, 1916, the Snake Creek Drain Tunnel reached its end: 14,499.7 feet. While designed to accommodate two tracks, only one was installed. Regrettably, there was no need for the second one. For financiers of this endeavor, economic justification depended primarily on accessing vast new ore reserves, monetizing the water, and the tunnel’s structural integrity.  

As it relates to discovering valuable mineral reserves, ore samples taken at tunnel depths of 7,581; 9,700; 10,193; and 14,280 feet were conclusive: There was no commercial potential.

Mr. McKay noted, at Mr. Friendly’s request, that water now represented the most valuable output of the tunnel.

And there was water to spare. The maximum tunnel flow, recorded in October 1922, was 14.54 cfs —7,000 gallons.

However, ownership of the water rights remained unresolved. The resolution initiated a protracted legal engagement destined to reach the U.S. Supreme Court. Their 1923 decision was regretful for the tunnel builders. The lack of commercial ore reserves combined with the failure to secure water rights delivered financial heartbreak to Friendly and friends.

This series will be continued.

The author is indebted to Steve Leatham and Clark Martinez for their contributions and patience to generously address my copious questions.

Happy Hanukkah from the Park City Museum!

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher.

The post Way We Were: Labor problems, unstable ground slow tunnel construction appeared first on Park Record.

This is the second article in a periodic series discussing one of the single most significant excavation projects in the Park City area — the construction of the Snake Creek Drain Tunnel.

In our first chapter, we discussed the establishment of the Daly-Judge Mine, their ambitious plans, and the pressing need to dewater their subterranean holdings. Failure to do so threatened their continued prosperity.

In March 1910 salvation beckoned with the formation of the Snake Creek Mining and Tunnel Company. The general manager of the Daly-Judge, G.W. Lambourne, would also serve as the GM of the new entity. His managerial demeanor was described as “demanding.” His oft repeated motto, “We must have results,” was known to all under his reign. Fortunately, the Daly Judge’s available cash — $750,000 (about $25 million in 2025) — attracted employees with exceptional talent.

The company purchased 750 acres of patented mineral land. Also, they bought 320 acres five miles west of Midway. This location, at the junction of Snake Creek and Wolverine Canyons, would be the staging area for their tunnel project.

No question, this was going to be a large project, but the acreage provided ample space for expansion. Their ultimate plans envisioned the construction of a smelter, a reservoir, and eventually a new town. Work commenced in May 1910.

O.N. Friendly, a gifted engineer, enjoyed an enviable reputation in Western mining communities, Park City included. He exuded confidence. Like other distinguished engineers of the era, Mr. Friendly believed firmly that the application of scientific discipline could surmount even the most difficult of challenges. This was a time when folks embraced the concept of an “unsinkable” ship. That bubble burst on April 15, 1912, when the Titanic descended to the ocean floor.

Mr. Lambourne appreciated that delivering results depended upon employing the “best and brightest.” Thus, Mr. Friendly received an offer he could not refuse. He was hired as the lead engineer for the tunnel company. His plan: Construct a double-track bore of 14,500 feet (2.75 miles) to access the underground riches of the Daly-Judge Mine. The tunnel would be 8 feet, 6 inches wide, and 8 feet, 6 inches in height (above the rail line), with a water channel 4 feet by 4 feet below the tracks. The two tracks would significantly increase productivity. A boardwalk would also be constructed to further enhance worker performance.

Excavation started in Snake Creek Canyon at an altitude of 6,932 feet. At its deepest point, the bore would be 3,730 feet below ground. The challenges increased the deeper the crews excavated and it was a dangerous working environment — one that all generations of miners know well.

For six years, 60 men worked full time on the project. A small town evolved in close proximity to the tunnel: boarding houses, bunk houses, extensive machine shops (complete with carpentry and blacksmith facilities), a power plant, staging and storage buildings, etc. For the workers, no comfort was spared: electric lights, telephone service, hot and cold water, and shower baths. Mr. Lambourne wanted a comfortable and highly motivated workforce.

The project was fully funded, employed the best of the best, embraced the most advanced technology, and offered high-quality living conditions. What could possibly go wrong? Our next chapter will cover the ensuing calamities.

The author is indebted to the contributions of Steve Leatham and Clark Martinez for this series of articles.

The Park City Museum is hosting lectures on four of the next five Wednesdays. Read about each one here: https://parkcityhistory.org/events/.

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher.

The post Way We Were: Tell me your story, part 2 appeared first on Park Record.

This article is the first in a periodic series discussing one of the single most significant excavation projects in the Park City area — the construction of the Snake Creek Drain Tunnel.

My introduction to this historic site occurred in the fall of 2019. Steve Leatham, a fourth-generation Parkite now living in Heber City, arranged the encounter.

It was a cool, cloudy, autumn day. I inquired about the origin of the creek’s name though I had a pretty good idea. Our host explained that when the first settlers entered this canyon, a thriving colony of rattlesnakes greeted them. Observing my nervous expression, Steve advised “not to worry,” there were no recent reports of venomous reptile activity. Despite such assurances, I kept a wary eye. 

We walked to the sealed portal. The size was impressive. A trickle of water emanated from the barricaded entrance. Hard to believe that 110 years ago, approximately 8,000 gallons a minute gushed forth.

Equally intriguing was that the ensuing legal conflicts associated with who owne this water would eventually be argued before our nation’s highest court. Their decision, rendered in 1923, proved fundamental to determining water rights, not only in Utah but in other Western states as well. It remains so today.

In the immediate area, the rock debris field related to the excavation was stunning, even more so than the dormant entryway. It stretched as far as one could see. The detritus of a Herculean struggle to build the tunnel.

Since the bore closed 105 years ago, nature is doing its best to repair the scarring. A peaceful, heavily wooded forest now thrives in the rocky landscape.

I became curious as to the history of the Snake Creek Drain Tunnel. Surveying the scene, I said to no one in particular: “tell me your story?” This series of articles explains some of tunnel’s stories. 

The Daly-Judge Mine was incorporated in 1901, and the quality and volume of its production quickly established the company as one of Park City’s premier mines. It soon rivaled the famed Silver King Coalition Mine and would do so for 20 years. Flush with cash, anything was possible – until it wasn’t.

The Daly-Judge pursued audacious expansion plans. Their to-do list included constructing one of the largest drain tunnels in the Park City mining district, building the area’s first industrial scale electrolytic zinc smelter, and installing a state-of-the-art aerial tramway.

As it related to the drain tunnel, the expected volume of water could be monetized both for the generation of hydroelectric power (a necessity for their zinc plant) and sold to the thirsty agricultural communities of Heber City, Midway and Provo. Fulfillment of their grand vision depended on the drain tunnel. 

Like most mines in the area, the Daly-Judge was bedeviled by water. A vast underground riparian ecosystem rendered their richest ore bodies inaccessible. Despair awaited unless the water issue was resolved.

Fortunately, the Ontario Mine had set the example for mitigating this troublesome inconvenience. Beginning in the late 1870s, they built extensive dewatering systems using massive pumps and long, gravity-engineered tunnels to drain the water, the Keetley Drain Tunnel being their pièce de résistance. To this day it remains a vital liquid artery for the Jordanelle Special Service District.

The Daly-Judge envisioned building a tunnel and associated infrastructure the likes of which the mining district had never seen, greater than even the aforementioned Keetley Tunnel. Our next chapter reviews their colossal endeavor: the Snake Creek Drain Tunnel. 

The author wishes to thank Steve Leatham and Clark Martinez for their invaluable contributions to this series.

The Park City Museum is hosting lectures on four of the next five Wednesdays. Read about each one here: https://parkcityhistory.org/events/.

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher.

The post Way We Were: Tell me your story, part 1 appeared first on Park Record.

Welcome back to our second and final article discussing a decade of change for Park City as the mining community diversified its economy and modernized its mining infrastructure. In the previous article we discussed the success of the Mayflower Mine in the Blue Ledge Mining District east of Park City. Encouraged by this prosperity, United Park City Mines (UPCM), owner of the storied Ontario Mine, decided to construct a new shaft to access promising ore beds, commencing construction commenced in 1965. This would be an internal shaft beginning at the 1,500-foot level.

Ultimately the new shaft reached a depth of 2,400 feet. Besides excavation, dewatering systems and a new hoist were required. Between the two, procuring a hoist was the most challenging. The proverbial combination of time and money threatened construction schedules. The ingenuity of the company’s machine shop crew would ultimately resolve the dilemma. In this article, we’ll learn how the newest mine shaft in Park City came to use the oldest hoist.

In a period of transition best describes UPCM as the 1970s beckoned. The company’s two largest investors, Anaconda Company and ASARCO (American Smelting and Refining Company), were negotiating with UPCM to establish Park City Ventures. Essentially, UPCM leased the mineral rights to the new corporate entity for $2.5 million. UPCM would receive a royalty based upon net profits after deducting for capital expenses.

Park City Ventures debuted in 1970. Over the next eight years the company would invest $26 million (approximately $100 million today) to revitalize Park City’s mines. It would prove for naught. 

The new owners of the Ontario Mine needed a hoist for their new No. 6 shaft, and quickly. Their business models, and the justification for their sizable investment, were predicated upon realizing certain production volumes. Failure to do so threatened the entire enterprise.

The cost of a new hoist was approximately $1 million — sticker shock indeed. However, even worse, the lead time was 12 months or more. This was completely unacceptable. What to do?

One of the mines under Park City Ventures purview included the famed Silver King Mine. For decades the Silver King had been exactly that — the king of silver production. Alas, the good times were but a distant memory. The mine closed in 1953.

The Silver King’s vast subterranean labyrinth included an area known as Silver Hill, which was developed circa 1910 underneath today’s Bonanza Flats. There were no surface structures. The entire operation was below ground: the power plant, machine shop, hoist, etc.

At the time, its lift was the world’s largest internal hoist. Though inoperative for almost 20 years, the hoist was in remarkably good condition.

The resourcefulness of the company’s multiple machine shops was legendary, as exemplified by their foreman, Richard Martinez. For them, no task was insurmountable, including the disassembly, transportation, cleaning, refurbishing and reassembly of a 65-year-old, 900-foot hoist. They estimated four months to do all of that work with a total cost of only $200,000 (one-fifth the price of a new hoist and in at least a third of the time required to install a new one). It was an easy decision.

Acknowledgments: This article owes its existence to the contributions of Keith Droste, Jim Hewitson, Steve Leatham, Clark Martinez, and Sandra Morrison.

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher.

The post Way We Were: The Ontario recycles from the Silver King appeared first on Park Record.

Editor’s Note: This is the second and concluding article regarding the history of square dancing in Park City.

In 1949, Judd and Beth Flinders purchased a 900-acre dairy farm in Kimball Junction.

During the depths of the Depression, they opened three restaurants in Salt Lake City. Under their customer-first philosophy, all three businesses flourished.

Besides the eateries, the family operated a small yet diverse farm in Millcreek. It too was a money maker. The demands of their success encouraged the family to buy the Park City ranch. On their new property, the Flinders would continue their winning ways for decades to come. Over time, the family developed nine separate yet interrelated businesses on their property. One of them was square dancing. 

In 1950, Judd applied for a license to operate a dance hall and confectionery business in Kimball Junction. This coincided with the opening of the Flinders Mountain Meadow Ranch Restaurant. In no time it became one of finest family-style restaurants in the area.

After operating the dairy farm for several years, Judd determined that raising beef cattle was financially superior. He made the transition without hesitation. 

An added benefit of the change: the elimination of milking operations on the lower level of the Big Red Barn. Of course, the massive hayloft remained a necessity to store cattle feed for winter’s duration. However, the hayloft was empty by the middle of May and would remain so until the end of August. Thus, the hay loft could be leveraged to start a new seasonal business. Square dancing beckoned. 

Before the move to Park City, the Flinders were well versed in the nuances of square dancing. A family friend, Wilf Marwadell, was a PE instructor at the University of Utah. The university offered a course in square dancing for one credit. Wilf was both the instructor and caller. He also belonged to the same LDS ward as some of the Flinders relatives in Salt Lake City.

Predictably, square dancing events occurred regularly at the church. On such occasions the dance floor was jammed with adults and children enjoying themselves. A bigger venue was needed.

Judd had a solution: modify his hayloft to accommodate dancing. He wasted no time doing so. 

Judd installed a set of 10-foot-wide stairs to access the loft. Next, a sound system, a calling stage, lighting (wagon wheels with tin cans as shades) and an ample supply of 78 RPM records. The entry fee was $1. Ice cold soft drinks were 10 cents. The loft could hold 194 dancers, or 24 squares. The first event sold out, and it would not be the last. 

During the summer season, dancing occurred on Friday and Saturday nights. Another of Judd’s many talents included promotion. He commissioned the painting of a billboard on the front of the barn, which faced Old Highway 40, advertising square dancing. The Flinders’ barn became a mecca for dancing and fun.

Alas, the advent of haying season signaled the end of square dancing (in the barn) until the next May. The Flinders hosted the seasonal dances for over 25 years. 

We’ll close out this story with a patter familiar to those aficionados of square dancing …  “All jump up and never come down, swing your honey round and round, till the balls of your feet make a hole in the ground. Granny, does your dog bite? No child, no.”

The author thanks the surviving Flinders siblings (Leland, Melvin, Jerran and Elizabeth) and Scott Smith for sharing their memories of square dancing at their Big Red Barn.

The next free admission day at the Park City Museum is Saturday. Free Days are sponsored by the Summit County Restaurant Tax Grant Program.

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher.

The post Way We Were: Ranching to dancing, part 2 appeared first on Park Record.

On Mother’s Day years ago, the most coveted reservation in Utah was a table at the Flinders Mountain Meadow Ranch restaurant — its reputation for superb food and service legendary.

When asked his familiarity with the restaurant, fourth generation Parkite Steve Leatham leaned back in his chair as a wistful, faraway expression gradually appeared.

“Yes, I knew the Mountain Meadow Ranch well. It offered the finest family style dining in Utah. We ate there only on special occasions — Mother’s Day, birthdays, or when Uncle Doc visited from LA,” Leatham, said. He described the heavenly aromas and savory cuisine as if yesterday rather than decades ago.

The restaurant was owned and operated by the Flinders family. The popular eatery was located on their 900-acre ranch. It was one of the “big three” ranches in the Snyderville Basin area. The other two were owned by the Tree and Bitner families.

Judd and Beth Flinders purchased the ranch in 1949, raising dairy cows and cattle. Besides grazing, they grew hay, alfalfa, and harvested sod. The restaurant was a family affair. To ensure first-class service, on the busiest days you might find three generations of Flinders working. Their numbers were augmented as needed by ranch hands or workers from the surrounding communities.

Beth Flinders was the chef. She was the undisputed maestro of the kitchen, setting the menu, sourcing the freshest ingredients, and cooking. Judd Flinders stood by her side, ready to assist as required. Together they represented a formidable culinary duo. Their slogan embodied the dining experience: “Our Best Advertisement is Eaten -—Not Written.” The restaurant, ranch and family prospered.

Mother’s Day was one of the busiest days of the year. The first cars trickled in by 10:30 a.m. or so. The restaurant opened at 11 a.m., when the trickle turned into a torrent. For the next 10 hours, the scene could best be described as choreographic.

For one 1960s Mother’s Day, the most opulent private dining room, the San Francisco Room, was reserved for a family celebration. The San Francisco Room featured a gas chandelier, heavy velvet drapes embroidered with gold trim, museum quality furniture, and a braided rug. It was fit for a king, or a prophet. The name on the reservation was nondescript of all the other bookings on that sold-out day.

Working as a waitress, one of the Flinders children, Libby, entered the kitchen, mentioning to her parents that the McKay family was seated in the San Francisco Room. The eight new arrivals reposing in quiet luxury were just another family set to enjoy a wonderful Mother’s Day feast. Except that they weren’t just another family. A quick conversation ensued. Judd and Beth stated that they “needed a minute” to don clean aprons. They would briefly abandon their command post.

The Flinders were practicing LDS members. David O. McKay, attending to Mother’s Day matters in the San Francisco Room, was the ninth president of the LDS Church, a position he would hold from 1951 until his passing in 1970. Within the church hierarchy, his stature was equivalent to that of the pope. Like all the other diners that day, the McKay family eagerly anticipated experiencing the Flinders’ renowned hospitality and cuisine. They would not be disappointed.

Upon entering the private chamber, pleasantries were exchanged. With a smile, President McKay thanked Judd and Beth for their gracious hospitality. He appreciated the demands on their time, especially this day, and wished them well as they returned to the kitchen. Thus, a new chapter was added to the Mountain Meadow Ranch Mother’s Day lore — hosting the prophet. 

Acknowledgements: The author expresses his deepest appreciation to Leland Flinders, his surviving siblings (Melvin, Jerran, Libby), Scott Smith, and Steve Leatham for sharing their Mountain Meadows Ranch Restaurant memories.

Happy Mother’s Day from the Park City Museum! The museum is open every day, 10 a.m. to 5 p.m., even in mud season!

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher.

The post Way We Were: A legendary meal appeared first on Park Record.

Saturday, Feb. 27, 1971, provided a rare opportunity to experience a historic event: riding the final passenger train to Park City. The occasion received extensive media coverage.

Trains began serving Park City in 1880. Regularly scheduled passenger service ended in the early 1950s. Freight service continued until 1988.

Special winter excursions had commenced in 1936. These trains, always popular, coincided with Park City’s annual Winter Carnival. Such events, promoted by Salt Lake City, Ogden and Park City, showcased the town’s winter recreation possibilities. Skiing, sledding, sleigh rides, kite flying and ice sculpting represented some of the more popular activities.

After an extended hiatus, these winter extravaganzas and the trains to transport the revelers were resurrected on Dec. 4, 1965. In addition to the Salt Lake City, Ogden and Park City chambers of commerce, a new sponsor emerged: the Utah Olympic Organizing Committee, as the state had submitted a bid to host the 1972 Winter Olympics. The proposal highlighted Park City and its unique ability to accommodate the Olympics.

The ski train, named the Hootspa Special, departed the Union Pacific’s majestic Salt Lake City Depot that December day at noon. En route, the train stopped at Ogden Station to pick up additional patrons. It arrived in Park City at 4:30 p.m., 30 minutes past due. The sold-out train (350 passengers) featured local dignitaries, Hollywood stars, famous athletes and representatives from 40 travel agencies. It would return to Salt Lake City that evening, departing Park City at 8 p.m.

The following year, the excursion was renamed the Snowball Express.

The 1960s and early 1970s were a tumultuous period for the nation’s railroads. Excessive taxation, antiquated work rules, burdensome regulations and a free fall in passenger revenue ruined the balance sheets of all rail operators, including the mighty Union Pacific.

Responding to the crisis, in 1970 the Nixon administration garnered bipartisan support to essentially nationalize intercity passenger service. Effective May 1, 1971, a new federal entity, Amtrak, would operate long distance passenger trains.

The opportunity to rid itself of money-losing passenger operations was compelling — Union Pacific announced that they would join Amtrak. One of the many stipulations associated with joining Amtrak required the participating railroads to abandon passenger service. Special excursions, such as the Snowball Express, were not exempt. Thus, the curtain would fall on Feb. 27, 1971.

Considering the nostalgic opportunity to ride the final passenger train to Park City, that last Snowball Express sold out. The train would follow the same route as its predecessors. Departure time was set for 9 a.m.

The Snowball Express enjoyed a well-deserved reputation as a party train. Not subject to local liquor laws, the train’s bar cars poured boozy refreshments. Additionally, two of the 10 cars were retrofitted to accommodate live music and dancing. The bands Slocum and Slum Gullions would provide entertainment. When not performing, the band personnel mingled with the passengers.

For this historic occasion, Park City planned a reception for the ages. Mayor Sullivan, local dignitaries, and the renowned Park City High School Band would greet the train. Lewis Brothers Stage Lines provided free transportation to Main Street, C’est Bon, Park City Mountain Resort and Park West.

Considering that the previous five excursions had been at least 30 minutes late, schedules were set accordingly. Uncharacteristically, the train arrived on time (1 p.m.). A mad scramble ensued as the welcoming committee hastily assembled. No problem. For those disembarking the train, they were clueless as to the pandemonium that ensued immediately prior to their arrival.

At 4:45 p.m., the engines sounded their horns, signaling it was time to reboard the train for its 5 p.m. departure — and a place in history.

The Park City Museum will host a train themed lecture called “Snowbound,” given by David Nicholas and Stuart Stanek, on Wednesday. Feb. 28, from 5-6 p.m. at the Park City Museum’s Education and Collections Center, located at 2079 Sidewinder Drive.

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher. He expresses his appreciation to Alan Dearden, Leland Flinders, Steve Leatham, and Scott Smith for contributions to this article.

The post Way We Were: A party on rails appeared first on Park Record.

This is the first article in an occasional series covering the history of the Flinders Ranch, the Flinders family, and their family-run restaurant.

Many a chart-topping song has expressed the wonder and transformative magic of the feelings given by love. On this Valentine’s Day, we will explore a love story that personifies this curious thing called love.

In April 1930, George T. Flinders (Judd) and Beth Engh were married in Ogden, Utah, thus beginning a remarkable journey together. Even the economic contagion associated with the Great Depression proved no match for their love. Powered by love, their faith and holy matrimony, life offered only limitless possibilities. Together they would realize their dreams.

At the time of their marriage, Judd worked for the local Coca-Cola bottling plant. He drove a delivery truck, one that was not heated. His route covered Salt Lake City to Logan and all points in between. The work was physically demanding, the pay meager. But he was thankful to have the job.

Judd’s work exposed him to numerous eating establishments. His attention to detail knew no limits. He witnessed first hand formulas that resulted in either success or failure.

When not working, Judd helped Beth with their growing family, sharing his experiences and discussing his aspirations. They envisioned a future in which they would control their own economic destiny. The cornerstone, starting a family business with multiple sources of income. For Beth and Judd, failure was not an option. Their undeniable love would conquer all challenges.

In 1933 they opened their first restaurant, The Boat, at 21st South and West Temple in Salt Lake City. The business thrived. Leveraging that success, in 1935 they opened a second restaurant, Judd’s Drive In, at 3320 Highland Drive in Salt Lake. This was followed by a third eatery, Park ‘n’ Dine, at 17th South & State Street in Salt Lake. T

ogether they managed the inevitable complications of family life while running three businesses amidst bleak economic times. Their emphasis on high quality, reasonably priced meals, and a “customer first” focus proved a winning formula. It was time for their piece de resistance.

In 1949 the couple purchased a 900-acre cattle and dairy ranch at Kimball Junction. The oldest of their five children, Leland, was 18. Like other families of the Depression era, the children, along with their parents, exhibited an amazing work ethic. They had no choice. Besides managing the ranch, Judd and Beth opened a restaurant, Mountain Meadow Ranch. In no time it established itself as one of the finest restaurants in Utah.

Pursuing their goal of financial diversification, they opened a motel and trout “catchery” (“you catch ’em, we clean ’em and cook ’em”).

Their next successful venture: square dancing. The ranch featured one of the largest barns in the state, so once the hayloft was emptied (typically May), square dancing took center stage. Friday and Saturday nights consistently sold out. In the fall, weekend hayrides superseded square dancing.

In the economic blight that gripped Park City during this period, the Flinders Ranch succeeded — a miracle powered by the love between Beth and Judd, their children, their families, and their customers.

Acknowledgements: This article owes its existence to the wonderful cooperation of Leland Flinders, his surviving siblings (Jerran, Melvin, Libby), and Scott Smith.

Happy Valentine’s Day from the Park City Museum!

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher.

The post Way We Were: Love and partnership in life and business appeared first on Park Record.

On Wednesday, Oct. 11, Keith Droste joined his fellow hard-rock brethren in the great beyond. No doubt his beloved wonder dog, Alta, was the first to greet him. For those who knew Keith, our sorrows of his passing are profound. By all measures Keith was an extraordinary person — his generosity, intellect and physical stamina.

Keith’s relationship with Park City and the surrounding communities exceeded 20 years, though not consecutively.

His first visit to the area occurred in 1959. He was 26 years old. At the time, Keith worked for Hecla, a mining conglomerate known for a culture that promoted innovation, collaboration and employee self-actualization. Keith thrived in such an environment. His assignment was to perform due diligence regarding a potential joint venture between New Park Mining and Hecla.

New Park, chartered in 1932, listed the Mayflower Mine as their principal asset. Persistently undercapitalized, New Park struggled to realize the property’s full potential. For New Park, access to Hecla’s financial and engineering expertise could be a game changer.

When possible, Keith explored the surrounding communities. Midway’s numerous calderas intrigued him. No question the underlying hydrogeological system featured heat.

Did the Mayflower Mine share geothermal linkages with Midway? Considering the mine’s location, it seemed likely. Why was this important? As a result of his education (B.S. Geology) and experience (Hecla’s fast-track career development program), Keith knew that gold deposits were typically found in igneous and sedimentary rock formations with active geothermal systems.

Keith’s intuition, combined with a thorough analysis of all variables associated with the potential joint venture, culminated in his recommendation to consummate the agreement. Hecla agreed.

Keith returned to the Mayflower in 1962 as the mine’s superintendent — a remarkable achievement for a 30-year-old. Under Keith’s management, the Mayflower achieved its full potential. By 1966 it was the sixth-largest gold producing mine in the U.S. That was another notch in the growing legend of Keith Droste.

Under the privileges of professional courtesy, Keith explored the neighboring United Park City Mines Company (UPCM) operation. He left the Mayflower in 1966, as another assignment beckoned. The mine closed in 1972 — a victim of forces beyond the joint venture’s control. The same fate awaited UPCM.

With his reputation firmly established, Keith’s expertise provided an opportunity to travel the world in pursuit of his profession. Each assignment enhanced his knowledge and aura.

Keith returned to Park City in the 1990s. It was during this time we met. I could never thank Keith enough for his patience tolerating my unending questions about Park City’s mining history and his career. To know him was an honor.

For a glimpse into the realities of subterranean employment, please read “Cage Call,” by Louie Palu and Charlie Angus. It’s not for the faint of heart. Thank you Keith for the book.

I will close this tribute with a quote from Jim Hewitson, a fourth-generation miner who knew well Keith and the mines of Park City: “I was saddened to hear of Keith Droste’s passing. He was one of the last living experts on the mines and mining in the Park City District. He will be greatly missed”.

The author thanks Winona Dale Barcon (Keith’s wife), Jim Hewitson, and, of course, Keith Droste for their contributions to this article. 

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher.

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