The Durango–Silverton narrow gauge has been pulling people up this canyon since 1882. I first rode it in the mid-’80s, again before the decade ended, and once more in the 2010s. The cliffs never change, the Animas always glitters, but the passengers do.
In the ’80s, people stared in silence, letting the mountains speak. In 2021, every seat vibrated with narration. Phones aloft, passengers filming every pine tree like they were producing a nature documentary. The wilderness doesn’t need your commentary, Sweethearts. It was here before your selfie sticks.
Silverton greeted us like it always does — a town that knows it’s on display. Main Street crowded with ice cream cones, souvenir shirts, and the air of people who think a three-hour train ride counts as adventure. By late afternoon, whistles blew, smoke drifted, and the tourists filed back into the cars. The town deflated, waiting for tomorrow’s performance.
We stayed. Others did, too. Silverton is famous for the trains that bring most of its visitors. Others visit in other ways, mostly by car, visitors for the day or a few hours. Some stay longer. Restaurants are busy.
Checked into the Teller House, a 19th-century walk-up restored just enough to keep its dignity. No lobby, no concierge. Six rooms upstairs, four with private baths, two sharing a hallway shower. Creaking stairs, faded wallpaper, iron bedframes that carry the memory of miners’ boots. For the first time all day, Silverton felt real.