1960’s

 It was a twice annual migration across McLane Flats, up Cemetery Lane and into town.  From the West end of town the heard used Hopkins Street in order to avoid Main Street as the proceed out of town towards Independence Pass or up Aspen Mountain.  Besides Hopkins Street was narrower and made it easier for the Sheep Dogs to maintain control. 

A number of the ranchers down valley used the high country in the summer to graze the herds before taking them back home in the fall.  Some summers every valley up intendance pass was filled with sheep, sheep dogs and even Basque Sheep Herders.  Back then the Federal Government leased out grazing rights and the only efficient way to get the herds to the high mountain pastures was to drive them there, and I don’t mean in big trucks.

As kids we used to look forward to the twice annual visit of the flocks.  On a good visit the street were filled with droppings and all the weeds along the gutters and sidewalks were gone.  Watching the sheep dogs do their work was fascinating and the men on horses sparred little time to answer questions from the ever growing crowds of spectators.

One year tragedy struck right out in front of our house.  During a minor stampede, if that is what sheep do, a lamb was injured in the melee.  The herd pressed on and the little guy just laid there in the street.  Bellowing out for his mother, who was nowhere in plain sight and with little notice from the working dogs or men on horseback, the lamb, was soon left behind.  My sister Debbie, who has always had a soft spot for animals jumped into action.

 First she ran to the aid of the lamb but soon learned that only served to scare him more.  Next she ran to our father insisting he help.  With the next herd only a few blocks behind, my father headed down the street in the direction of the approaching riders leading the way.  Within minutes a number of the cowboys arrived to see what, if anything could be done for the stricken animal.  Not long after that a pickup truck arrived and took the lamb off in the direction of his herd.

 My sister insisted on knowing what was to happen to the little lamb and was re-assured that not was really wrong and that the lamb would be re-united with his mother and be able to spend the rest of the summer in the high country with the rest of them.

By summer’s end, with the various herds returning to their respective farms the high country looked as well groomed as a golf course putting green.  Over the years the annual migration dwindled and by the early 1970’s only the Christiansen brothers continued to graze their sheep in the high country.  By mid-1970 the migrations had ended all together.  Progress had once again claimed another aspect of a quieter time in Aspen’s past.