Colorado's Lost Campgrounds: Ghostly Getaways Swallowed by Progress

Ever get that feeling you were born in the wrong era? Sometimes, when I’m setting up my tent, I think about the old-timers. The folks who explored Colorado’s wild places a hundred years ago, with nothing but a canvas tarp and a can of beans. They had their pick of spots, places we can only dream of now. Tucked-away valleys, riverside groves, and mountain meadows that have since vanished.

It’s a strange thought, that a place as solid as a campground can just disappear. But it happens. More often than you’d think. Progress has a way of paving over the past, and sometimes, that includes our favorite patches of dirt. This ain't just a story about places being closed; it's about spots that are gone for good, swallowed up by development, drowned by dams, or scraped clean by industries that powered the state's growth. There's lots of stories about these lost getaways, and they're a part of Colorado's history just as much as any gold rush or famous outlaw.

Drowned Valleys: The Campgrounds Beneath the Waves

It’s hard to imagine, but some of Colorado's most stunning lakes are actually watery graves for entire towns and the cozy camping spots that once surrounded them. The biggest example is the Blue Mesa Reservoir near Gunnison. Before it was created in the 1960s, the Gunnison River flowed freely through a valley. Along its banks were not just one, but three towns—Iola, Cebolla, and Sapinero—and numerous ranches and fishing resorts.

Think about that for a minute. That whole area, now a massive expanse of water popular for boating and fishing, was once a valley with prime, riverside camping. Old-timers talk about the legendary fishing and the quiet spots you could have all to yourself. When the Blue Mesa Dam was built to provide water and power, all of that was lost. During a severe drought in 2018, the water levels dropped so low that the foundations of Iola actually reappeared from the mud, a ghostly reminder of the community that was sacrificed.

It’s a similar story up in Summit County. Dillon Reservoir, which provides a stunning foreground to the ski resorts, covers the original town of Dillon. The town was moved in the early 1960s to make way for the reservoir, which was created to supply water to the booming city of Denver. The old town, situated at the confluence of the Blue River, Snake River, and Tenmile Creek, was a hub with a rich history, having already moved a couple of times to be closer to new railroad lines. You can bet the area around that original confluence had some of the best, most sought-after camping in the valley. Now, it's all deep underwater.

And it wasn't just Dillon. The town of Montgomery, a once-thriving mining community with over a thousand residents, now lies beneath the Montgomery Reservoir. Built in 1957, the reservoir flooded almost the entire town, leaving only the faintest remnants behind. These underwater ghost towns are a stark reminder that some of the most beautiful landscapes we enjoy today came at the cost of erasing what was there before.

The Price of Powder: When Skis and Shovels Moved In

Colorado's ski industry is a massive economic driver, but its growth has dramatically reshaped the mountains. In the mid-20th century, as skiing exploded in popularity, the U.S. Forest Service turned over vast tracts of public land to private developers to build the resorts we know today. This led to a decades-long battle between development and environmental concerns, with the landscape caught in the middle.

It’s hard to pinpoint a specific public campground that was officially bulldozed to make way for a ski lift, but the impact is undeniable. The development of massive resorts like Vail and the expansion of others led to the creation of condos, roads, and infrastructure where quiet forests and meadows once stood. The sprawl around these ski areas has had a huge environmental impact, affecting everything from wildlife to water quality.

Think about the base areas of our biggest resorts. Before they were bustling villages with heated sidewalks, they were just mountain valleys. It's not a stretch to say that some of the most accessible and scenic spots, perfect for a simple tent and a campfire, were transformed into parking lots and high-end real estate. This is a different kind of lost campground—not one that’s underwater, but one that’s been completely replaced by a different kind of recreation. While many resorts are now making efforts toward sustainability, like using helicopters for construction to avoid building new roads, the initial boom had a lasting effect.

Scars of the Sawmill: Clearcuts and Forgotten Fire Rings

Long before skiing was king, timber was a major industry in Colorado. Starting in the late 1800s, logging companies clear-cut huge areas of forest to build homes, mines, and railroads. This was before the era of sustainable forestry, and the practices often left the land scarred and vulnerable to erosion.

While many of these areas have since regrown, the character of the forest was changed forever. The dense, old-growth forests that once existed were replaced by stands of younger, more uniform trees. It's likely that informal camping spots used by miners, loggers, and early explorers were lost in this process.

Paved Paradise: The I-70 Corridor

The construction of Interstate 70 through the mountains was a monumental feat of engineering that made the high country accessible to millions. But it also cut a massive scar through canyons and valleys. The ongoing I-70 Floyd Hill Project, an 8-mile-long construction zone, gives us a modern-day glimpse of this impact. To widen the highway, crews are literally moving mountains, and this has a huge effect on the surrounding environment, including recreational areas like the Clear Creek Greenway trail.

It makes you wonder about the little pull-offs and riverside spots that must have existed before the interstate. The highway's path was often chosen for its directness, which meant it frequently ran right through the most desirable, level ground next to rivers—the very same places people would have naturally chosen to camp. It’s a classic case of progress demanding a trade-off: we gained easy access to the mountains, but we lost some of the quiet, intimate spots along the way.

Finding the Ghosts

So how do you find a campground that doesn't exist anymore? You can't, not really. But you can find their ghosts. Look at old maps in local libraries or online archives. Talk to the old-timers in mountain towns. Listen to the stories passed down in your family. The tales of a favorite fishing hole or a secret hunting camp might just be pointing to one of these lost getaways.

Remembering these lost places isn't about being against progress. It's about understanding what came before and appreciating the wild places we still have. The stories of these ghost campgrounds are a powerful reminder that our natural landscapes are fragile and that the decisions we make today will shape the Colorado of tomorrow. So the next time you’re out camping, take an extra moment to appreciate that little patch of ground. It’s more precious than you know.