Along the ultra-lonesome State Route 21 in the western expanse of Utah, somewhere just beyond the realm of nowhere, the fading remnants of Frisco sit on a slope to the north. You’ll miss it if you’re not looking for it. Even then, you may pass clear through the San Francisco Mountains without seeing anything but desolate hills and some sheep. But, if your eye is trained to study the terrain scarred by old mining operations, you may see, at the appropriate point, standing structures, rusted equipment and a glimpse of the beehive charcoal kilns. As with anywhere else, if you really want to see what it’s about, you have to pull over and take to foot.

There are two roads into Frisco; one which you can drive about a quarter mile until you come to a large ditch, then hike to the townsite and mine, and another road a few hundred yards east, in which you can drive around mill remains and get fairly close to the kilns. I suggest both! However, be prepared for hilly trudging. Wear good hikers and bring water.

There is a certain beauty to the stillness and silence. It would seem the ghost town is at peace, which contradicts its shaky and violent past. 23 saloons, brothels, gambling houses, stores and perhaps even a church occupied this hillside. Theft, brawls, gunfights and trails of blood marked this once lawless silver mining town.

It was 1875 when silver ore was found here. The rush was on and a boomtown ensued. Frisco had issues from the very start. There was little water to be had, and so it was hauled in. Another problem was a climbing population of lawless miners and bad men with the nearest lawman two hours away. Murders and gunfights were rampant. Officials contracted wagons to regularly go through town, pick up the murdered bodies and haul them off to the boot hill cemetery. Finally, a lawman from Pioche, Nevada, was hired to come in. Being a fair man, he told the populace up front that he had no intention of arresting anyone or building a jail. Instead, you had two choices if you were a bad man. You could peacefully leave town or be shot. His first night on duty he shot and killed six men. The town quieted down a tad after that.

Despite its rough beginnings, several mines were in operation; the ever-expanding Hornsilver being the largest and most productive. The smelter, with its five beehive ovens were constructed. Frisco became the Post Office and commercial center for the district, and by 1880, the Utah Southern Railroad made its terminus here. A school, hospital, hotels and a newspaper sprung up among the sea of saloons and houses of ill repute. At its 10-year mark Frisco was at its apex with a population of 6000 and things were looking permanent, until…

The Hornsilver Mine suffered a complete cave-in in 1885 and profits became limited. Many of the miners left that day. Mining operations struggled along, but the lethal blow had been administered. By 1900 less than 500 people and only a handful of stores remained. Twenty years later not a soul remained except for those lingering in the cemetery.

Which is why things here are so nice and quiet now. However, on this day, it was population one as I walked into town. A Main Street is scarcely discernable, as lingering structures are spread up and down the hillside. Rotting wood remnants of homes and businesses, as well as crumbling brick shells number in the dozens. Up against a sheer mountainside is the hollowed-out goliath cavity of a mine, possibly the Horn Silver or the King David. A very well constructed stone building sits at this end of town. I imagine it to be, perhaps, the mine offices, or something equally important. The interior is in fair condition with tall framed windows looking out over the valley below.

On the way back down, I entered the cemetery. Headstones with dates and names of infants and children, coupled by evidence of vandalism over the years, makes this graveyard even more depressing than necessary. Worse yet, I had read a story somewhere in which grave robbers had dug up children’s graves and decapitated the skeletons, stealing the skulls.

Okay, my foray into gruesome details is over, and I will attempt to return to a more stable diet of specifics for the remainder of the post.

I went to the other side of Frisco, which by all appearances, is the more industrial side of town. This is evidenced by rusted machinery, mill remains and, of course, the beehive kilns. The five kilns are of varying sizes and were used from 1877 to about 1885. They were charcoal fueled and used to extract precious metals from the ore. Built of thick stone, these relics remain mostly intact. One kiln has partially caved in, but the other four, besides a few missing stones here and there, have stood tall for over 140 years. A chain link fence surrounding the kilns has collapsed in several places and one can easily walk up and into the kilns. Beware the danger of unstable portions and loose stonework. These kilns were put on the National Register of Historic Places in 1982. As with everything else in Frisco, treat with respect. Leave only footprints and take only pictures.

Frisco is a wonderful place to explore and learn from. The ghosts of Frisco; the standing buildings, the mines, the mills and kilns, the cemetery and the ordeal of life and death, of both the people and the town itself, exist as a testament to the determination of our forebearers in the pursuit to carve a living and prosper in the harsh and callous American west of the 1800s.