Hey Applewood neighbors! Let’s hop back to the 1860s, when Golden was a gritty gold-rush speck and folks like David Wall, John Lee, and a young Adolph Coors kicked off the ditches that still shape our neighborhood—Lee, Stewart, and Eskins, Rocky Mountain, and Agricultural. These muddy marvels turned Clear Creek into Applewood’s lifeline, sprouting our big trees and calling in deer, elk, rabbits, foxes, bald eagles, raptors, and owls. My ditch is part of this wild tale, and I’m fighting to keep it alive—stick with me for a fun ride through history and see why we need to save it now!
Golden, 1860: a dusty chaos of tents and tumbleweeds, miners hollering over the roar of Clear Creek just below us. The Pike’s Peak Gold Rush had panners elbow-deep in icy water, saloon pianos plinking late into the night, and mules hauling gear past cottonwoods that’d one day shade Applewood. Enter David Wall—a Missouri farmer turned gold-chaser turned ditch-digging legend. By 1860, Wall, one of Jefferson County’s first Commissioners, saw beyond nuggets. “This dirt’s gold if we water it,” he grinned, eyeing the scrubby plains. With pals like John Lee—a wiry settler with a knack for engineering—and the Stewart brothers, he scratched out the Lee, Stewart, and Eskins Ditch. Armed with shovels and stubbornness, they diverted Clear Creek east, turning sand into fields of oats and hay by 1865. Picture Wall, knee-deep in muck, laughing as rabbits nibbled fresh shoots and an eagle swooped overhead—Applewood’s roots were sprouting.
Then there’s the Rocky Mountain Ditch—enter Adolph Coors, or at least his shadow. In 1861, Adolph was a 14-year-old Prussian stowaway, not yet brewing, but miners like George West—Golden’s newspaper man and ditch booster—were plotting this beast. Bigger than the others, it snaked from Clear Creek’s north flank, watering sprawling ranches by the 1870s. Coors’ family grabbed hold later, fueling barley fields for their beer empire—family still kicking around Applewood today. West, a wiry guy with ink-stained hands, once bragged, “This ditch’ll outlast us all!” Foxes darted along its banks, owls hooted from pines, and elk left hoofprints—Golden’s VIP waterway was born.
The Agricultural Ditch rolled in around 1863, thanks to folks like Mary Welch—a tough-as-nails widow who swapped her apron for a spade. She rallied settlers tired of panning, dreaming of wheat and apple orchards (yep, Applewood’s name nods to those early trees). They carved it south of Clear Creek, winding through what’s now our neighborhood’s core. Imagine Mary, skirts hitched up, shooing kids splashing in the shallows while raptors circled and farmers cheered water hitting dry dirt. By 1870, it was Golden’s heartbeat—feeding a town of 1,500 that swapped tents for brick.
Why’d these ditches matter? They flipped Golden’s script. Gold fizzled by 1862—panners like Wall pivoted to farming, and his ditch kept families fed when claims ran dry. Coors’ Rocky Mountain turned ranches into goldmines of grain—Adolph’s beer owes it a toast. Mary’s Agricultural Ditch stitched a community—orchards bloomed, wildlife thrived, and Applewood grew shady and green. They weren’t just water—they were Golden’s backbone, changing a boomtown into a home.
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