Journal 55: The Outhouse and Spanish Colonialism (time-slip fiction)

While following Bend Creek up Raspberry Mountain, Eli Turner’s discovery becomes a passage through time, revealing how Spanish colonialism first carved its mark on the Cuchara Valley. From Ulibarrí’s 1706 claim to the clash with Cuerno Verde, Eli witnesses conquest, faith, and resilience shaping a land that still remembers.

He followed the creek up the steep side of Raspberry Mountain looking for a rumored mining camp. Instead, Eli spotted a weathered wooden outhouse leaning at an odd angle among the pine needles. Its door hung ajar, and the darkness inside called him closer almost promising a secret waiting to unfold. 

He stepped inside the cramped outhouse and the smell of damp earth and aged wood enclosed him. For a moment it was silent darkness; then a sudden gust of wind slammed the door and rattled the walls. Eli gripped the frame as the floor seemed to tilt and echoing hoofbeats and distant voices swirled around him. He shut his eyes against the dizziness, and the wind died as quickly as it had risen. When he opened his eyes, warm golden light was seeping through the cracks of the door.

Spanish Expedition and Claim (Spanish Peaks - 1706)

He emerged into blinding midday sun high on a mountain pass. Squinting, Eli ducked behind a thicket of aspen and pine. From his hiding spot, he saw a line of travelers winding up the rocky trail below. There were dozens of them – Spanish soldiers in dusty leather armor, a friar on a mule fingering a rosary, and a fluttering white banner with a red X-shaped cross at the center of the caravan.

Eli’s heart pounded. He could clearly hear the caravan’s approach now: the jingle of bridles, the creak of wagon wheels, and low Spanish prayers of relief as they reached the ridgetop. The air was alive with the scents of sweat, leather, and crushed sage. Eli realized with awe that he was witnessing a journey from over three centuries ago – likely the very expedition that first claimed this valley for Spain. 

“¡Alto!” the leader called, raising his hand. The procession halted near Eli’s thicket. One soldier at the front removed his hat and pointed toward two massive peaks on the northern horizon. “Las Cumbres Españolas,” he murmured, awed by the sight. The friar climbed down and planted a wooden cross in the rocky soil of the pass.

Captain Juan de Ulibarrí – Eli recalled the name from local lore – stepped forward and unfurled a map on a flat boulder. “By order of the Governor,” Ulibarrí proclaimed, “we claim this entire region for the King of Spain!” His voice rang against the slopes. The men lifted their voices in a cheer, and some crossed themselves as the friar blessed the moment with Latin prayer. Eli felt a chill. He was witnessing European flags staking a claim in this silent valley for the very first time. He was there at the birth of “New Spain” in North America!

At that moment, one Pueblo scout among the Spaniards snapped his head toward Eli’s hiding place. Eli froze, holding his breath. Before the scout could investigate, Eli ran back into the outhouse as a brisk wind roared over the pass, whipping up dust and pine needles. He quickly closed the door as a spinning cloud of grit enveloped everything. Eli shut his eyes against the sting and sensed the very fabric of time twisting on that wild wind.

Battle with Cuerno Verde (1779)

When the dust settled, the shouts and hoofbeats had vanished.  Eli lowered his arm from his face and slowly opened the outhouse door before stepping outside. The Spanish caravan was gone; the trail lay empty and silent, as if the travelers had never been there. He stood alone on the ridge once more. He emerged into an orange-gray twilight under a storm-heavy sky. Warm, thick air over rolling plains told him he was at a lower elevation now, perhaps on the valley floor. The atmosphere crackled with tension and it smelled of rain and dust. Eli crept through dry grass toward a rhythmic thumping in the distance – like drums, or perhaps thunder. He sensed he had jumped forward in time by only a few decades.

A sudden chorus of war cries shattered the silence. From beyond a low rise, a band of Comanche warriors on horseback burst into view, yipping and hollering. They wore bold streaks of black and ochre paint on their faces, feathers streaming from their hair. Across the clearing, from the opposite side, came the thunder of hooves and the glint of steel as Spanish soldiers on horseback charged in with lances and sabers ready. Eli’s stomach lurched – he was caught in the middle of an 18th-century battle.

Hooves pounded from all sides. Eli pressed himself flat as Spanish cavalry thundered past in a blur. Arrows whistled overhead and muskets exploded with smoke and flame. The acrid bite of gunpowder filled his nose. Heart in his throat, Eli dared to lift his head enough to glimpse the chaos. He saw a Comanche warrior tumble from his horse with a cry as a Spanish lance struck home. Amid the frenzy, one figure at the front caught Eli’s eye – a tall Comanche chief wearing a striking horned headpiece painted bright green. Cuerno Verde – the Green Horn. This was the legendary Comanche leader himself, leading his warriors in a furious charge.

A brilliant flash of lightning split the sky. In that stark instant, Eli saw the green-horned chief pitch backward off his horse – struck by a Spanish musket ball. Cuerno Verde hit the ground and did not rise again. As the darkness closed in after the flash, the Comanche attack broke apart in confusion. Within moments, the battle was over. Surviving warriors fled into the night, leaving the fallen chief and many others lying still on the prairie.

A ragged cheer rose from the Spanish ranks. One soldier hoisted the fallen chief’s horned helmet high, shouting in triumph: “¡Cuerno Verde ha caído!” 

The Spanish soldiers erupted in a single, thunderous chant:

“¡Cuerno Verde ha caído! ¡Victoria para España! ¡Viva el Rey Carlos III!”

Eli’s Spanish was rusty, but the meaning was unmistakable. Green Horn had fallen, Spain had triumphed, and long life was hailed to King Charles III. The air itself seemed to tremble with the weight of empire and victory. Eli knelt in the grass, shaking. He knew this was Governor Juan Bautista de Anza’s 1779 victory over the Comanches, but seeing its brutal reality left him chilled to the bone. He could see the Spanish Peaks off in the distance to the south-southeast and knew he was about 45 miles north of the Cuchara Valley.

As cold rain began to pour, the victorious troops quieted. In a flicker of lightning, Eli glimpsed an officer standing over Cuerno Verde’s body, crossing himself in solemn respect. Even in victory, the cost of the fight lay heavy on the weary men. For a moment, Eli felt the ache of both the fallen Comanche chief and the weary soldiers who had slain him. He wondered how many times this same ground had soaked up the blood those wanting or defending the land.

Thunder boomed overhead, jolting Eli back into motion. In the darkness and driving rain, no one noticed a lone stranger crawling away from the battlefield. Through the gusting rain, Eli’s groping hand found the rough wooden door of the outhouse standing solid in the tall grass. He pulled it open and threw himself inside just as the sky unleashed a torrent.

Homestead in the 1830s

Soon Eli sat under the shaded porch of a small adobe house, cradling a tin cup of atole (warm cornmeal drink) offered by the farmer’s wife. The couple, Tomás and Elena Ortega, froze in the doorway, eyes wide with alarm and fascination as they studied the stranger’s odd clothing. Eli, sensing their fear, raised his hands in peace. He was grateful for the scraps of Spanish he remembered and managed to ask, haltingly, “¿Qué año es… y dónde estoy?”

For a moment only the wind answered. Then the man stepped forward, voice cautious but kind. He said quietly in Spanish that it was the 1830s and they had built this little rancho when the valley was part of Mexico. 

They raised goats and corn by the Cuchara River, and they rarely saw strangers. Eli explained he was lost and meant no harm, which the Ortegas accepted. Grateful for their hospitality, he offered to help with some chores before nightfall.

Twilight found Eli and Tomás finishing the day’s work together ensuring the goats were penned and water drawn from the well.  Elena stirred a pot of beans and calabaza squash over the hearth. That evening, Eli shared a humble meal with the family on the porch. As he ate the spicy beans and sweet roasted squash, he felt a comforting sense of kinship. Despite the century separating them, he recognized in their laughter and gentle teasing the same warmth of community he knew back home.

When dinner was done, dusk settled softly around the homestead. Crickets chirped in the tall grass as Eli and the Ortegas gazed at the silhouettes of the two great peaks against a starry sky. In a hushed tone, Eli asked about those mountains. Tomás smiled and pointed with his pipe. “The Indians call them Huajatolla,” he said reverently in Spanish, "the Breasts of the Earth." Elena nodded, rocking their drowsy toddler, and added that the peaks are sacred – guardians watching over the valley and all who live here. Eli realized these were the same twin mountains that had silently witnessed every era of history he’d glimpsed.

A cooling night breeze whispered through the pines, and Eli knew it was time to take his leave. He stood and thanked the Ortegas sincerely for their kindness. They wished him safe travels, still mystified by this stranger’s sudden appearance. At the edge of the yard, beneath a gnarled pine, the little wooden outhouse waited with its door slightly ajar. Casting one last grateful look at the family on the porch, Eli stepped into the outhouse – and vanished from their sight.

Return to the Present

Eli emerged into the cool gray light of early morning in his own time. Dew sparkled on the grass as Pinehaven’s cabins slept quietly nearby. A jay called from the pines, and the familiar outline of the Spanish Peaks dominated the brightening sky. Everything looked unchanged and peaceful – yet Eli felt an extraordinary shift within himself. He stood by the old outhouse for a long moment, listening to the silence. In that silence he could almost imagine ghostly figures from the past moving through the trees: Ulibarrí’s weary soldiers trudging up the pass, Comanche riders galloping on the plains, Elena Ortega lighting an evening candle for her family. All those lives, all those stories, were still here somehow, layered invisibly into the soul of this valley.

At last, Eli placed a hand on the outhouse’s rough door frame thankful for whatever magic lingered in the timbers. He gazed once more at the Spanish Peaks glowing under the newborn sun – steadfast sentinels that had witnessed all he saw and more. The mountains remembered, even if people forgot. With that comforting thought warming him, Eli Turner slung his daypack over his shoulder and walked slowly back toward the cabins. The morning was fresh and new. The land was quiet and enduring. And Eli carried with him the understanding that the spirit of Cuchara Valley lives on through every era and every story, binding past and present into one timeless continuum.

END

* Authors Note: Time-slip fiction, as used in the Cabin in the Pines blog, is a form of historical storytelling in which a modern character, Eli Turner, travels between eras through an old mountain outhouse that serves as a portal in time. Each journey uncovers the people, geology, and folklore that have shaped the Cuchara Valley across the centuries.

These stories are distinct from the blog’s fact-based historical pieces by their titles, which begin with the words “The Outhouse at the …” Though fictional in form, each tale is rooted in authentic history blending real people, places, and events with creative imagination to bring the valley’s past vividly to life.

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