Getting to this point, however, was anything but fast -- or smooth.
Just past the sign welcoming westbound traffic on I-70 to Clear Creek County, "Mountains of Things to Do," a massive scar cutting across the slopes to the right marks the start of the Central City Parkway, a $38.3 million road funded by Central City and built in a little over a year -- after ten years of planning. The exit for that road lies just a mile further on, at Hidden Valley, and from there, an 8.4-mile, four-lane fun ride quickly takes you into Gilpin County and on top of the world -- where you can look out over as-yet-undeveloped mountain landscapes -- and just as quickly (at an 8 percent grade!) drops you down on top of Central City, right where Colorado was born when gold was discovered here 146 years ago.
More of Central City's past -- the original train station -- is buried in that pile of mine tailings to the right. Fourteen years ago, when voters passed an amendment to the Colorado Constitution allowing limited-stakes gaming, the measure was supposed to preserve what was left of three historic towns. But history takes more turns than the most ambitious road.
It's twelve minutes from exit 243 to the parking lot of Dostal Alley. All told, the drive from downtown Denver to Central City is a good ten minutes shorter by this new route than by the old, up Highway 6 and then Colorado 119 through Black Hawk, and the man inside the saloon/casino/brewpub is very happy to hear the news.
Central City's mayor, Buddy Schmalz, was the first brewer elected to head a Colorado town, beating John Hickenlooper by at least six months. His father, Bruce, was the mayor of Central City when residents first got the idea of joining with Cripple Creek to push for gambling to save the two old mining towns; when Black Hawk, the mill town a mile down from Central, asked to join in, they didn't see any reason to refuse their sad neighbor's request. Under the proposal, a large portion of the gambling revenues would go to the State Historical Fund, which is now the largest historic-preservation program in the country. A smaller portion would go to the gambling towns themselves, in the same ratio that the towns generated the revenue. And very soon, that meant that Black Hawk was raking in the loot. Early on, when Central City approved a moratorium to make sure that the industry intended to save the town didn't destroy it, Black Hawk was only too willing to scrape away the past in order to build for the future.
To save itself, Central City finally decided to build a road off I-70 that would allow gamblers to bypass Black Hawk altogether -- a move that seemed paved with bad intentions to the town's now affluent neighbor. A lawsuit and a land grab and grand-jury investigation later, the Central City Business Improvement District finally authorized the tax to pay for the project and began working with local and state agencies to build the road.
The Central City Parkway was completed a day ahead of schedule, then opened with a flourish of red ribbons and a flurry of vintage race cars. The one in the lead, piloted by former Indy 500 champ Buddy Lazier, deposited Buddy Schmalz in Central City in just five minutes.
"That was fun," Schmalz says. But then, his job as mayor has been a lot more fun since the road opened. He spends eight to ten hours a day perched in his brewery, the state's smallest, which happens to have a gorgeous view of the road down the hill to Black Hawk. Central City has always looked down on Black Hawk physically, and for many years, when this town was the center of commercial and cultural activity, it did so psychologically, too. The dirty work was left to Black Hawk.
But all that changed a decade ago (except, perhaps, for the dirty work). While gamblers flooded Black Hawk, Schmalz would look out at an empty parking lot behind Dostal. Today, though, he sees a steady stream of cars -- even buses -- coming through town, stopping in town. "There was a huge surge that first weekend," he says. "From the first of December until Christmas, for thirteen years those were our three worst weeks of the year. Now it's looking better."
Not perfect, but better. The weekend after the road opened on November 19, snow fell, and Schmalz heard a woman complaining about the road. Turns out she was complaining about Floyd Hill -- once she hit the Central City Parkway, everything was clear. Those two, shiny new public-works trucks made sure of that.