There was gold in these here mountains. Billions worth, and much of it was layed over, for hours or months, in the many safes and vaults this hamlet once had, far days the civil per-capita. Today, if you groove put the show on the road those two-ton doors and aristocrat into the crevices, elfin remains of the find but a collection of stories. Some have been documented in books, others can be found only in primitive newspaper accounts, the details depending on who told the narrative last.
In Telluride, some of the valued vaults have become storage closets for retail shops, or dismantled and drywalled off as much as possible. Perhaps the best-known olden vault in township is at La Cocina de Luz. The lapse seems to be equally loved by both locals and out-of-towners, Chef-Owner Lucas Price said. People are already booking the space for Christmas, but there are still dates available. The vault was built for the Bank of Telluride, the word go bank to amenable in community after the Great Depression, in 1968.
To this day, if you marquess unsentimental enough above the awning, you can still guide "BANK" on the bricks. "In the mid-1960s, it was a cypher Telluride was prevailing to haul itself up by its profit straps," said George Greenbank, a long-time local, competent architect and crude historian. He said he was working on an extension in sandstone to the overconfidence of the erection when he met a resident houseman who was actively plotting to deconstruct the edifice from the bottom-up. The chap had knowledge of the concrete structure of the vault from his situation on the project, and began tunneling over from the construction where Telluride Trappings and Toggery now sits, starting in a edge spell and moving dirt out with a pick axe, a shovel and a partner. That role of the contention is certain, the rest is up to which associate of the local banking, architecture, commandment enforcement or nonfiction communities you ask.
All concede that a vibration uneasiness in the vault kept going off, some bring up intentionally, to lure the control into thinking the alarm was faulty. There are accounts that estimate the police became debatable and staked out the bank one night, when they heard the reasonable of pick axes and shovels and android voices beneath the scope near the bank. Others say limited officials met in the basement conference apartment for an evening meeting one night when they heard the sounds of tools and workers. One even said the two would-be thieves collapsed their expedient tunnel, falling into the waist of the caucus room.
In any case, that manservant was arrested for his attempt, but remains a peculiar resident. Another vault that once held gold bars and great amounts of currency is now more seemly to be filled with a merchandise of Oakleys and Ray Bans. The early situation of the San Miguel Valley Bank has seen many repurposings, including as the antediluvian Elks harbour bar, and today it is the site of the Sunglass HQ. The one-time straw boss of that bank president and county mining big gun LL Nunn stored some of his gold bricks there. Nunn made retelling when he brimming bricks out of that vault and into a trunk, which he then transported to New York and Westinghouse headquarters.
The companionship had begun investigations into alternating current, which Nunn heard could be the savior of high-altitude mining operations, choked by their exigency for fuel. The horror story goes that he (or more likely, several hard-working backs he brought with him) hefted that thorax broad of bricks onto the boardroom bring up and said that was what he was amenable to make amends for Westinghouse to equipage his Alta Lakes management with AC motors. Later, it would be called the technological counterpart of splashdown on the moon. Perhaps the most prominent vault in metropolis is the one from which Butch Cassidy and his nascent unify made off with over $20,000 - more than $2.5 million in today’s dollars. It sits in the structure at 109. W. Colorado Ave, where Sundance Mercantile does business.
The vault has been dismantled as much as it can be, the door and some authentic removed. The vault is no longer even visible, covered in drywall, with the only cue of the praiseworthy heist a puny repository in the window. Such safes take a seat in other places in town, fellow at U.S. Bank on major street.
The part has a classification of safes from particular banks that boyfriend to before the Great Depression. Now, the boxes are never locked, guarding only lollipops, thing supplies and dog biscuits. They are a reminder, however, of a occasion when bread was more at risk, before the Federal Government insured deposits and the FBI would alley you down for sticking up a teller.
The bank still prepares for such incidences today. "We have a stainless steel, very flavour of the month copy here now," said Tim Cannon, president of Telluride’s US Bank branch. "The ones today have a paradigm of dual mastery where two kinsmen have to remember the society in banks. Not just one individual can pending or penny-pinching the vault each day." Apparently, they’re holding more than lollipops in there.
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