When there’s a dirty job to do, I do my best to get out of it, and if I simply can’t shirk it, I do it grudgingly.

I grudgingly tooled up Miner Street and parked in front of the Underhill Museum and Book Store. In the noon light it didn’t look too dangerous – high windows at street level and sun-washed brick and mortar laid in the ornate style that masons haven’t employed for the better part of a century. Sighing deeply, I got out of the car and walked up to the door. It was closed. The spirits had smiled upon me. I took an unremarkable picture of the façade and, since I was already pointed in that direction, continued over I-70 onto Highway 103. Less than two minutes later I was standing among the mute and mossy monuments of the Idaho Springs Cemetery.

It was peaceful there, which is not uncommon for such hallowed precincts, and it was quite deserted. No voices, no chapeaued gentlemen, nothing but quiet stones and gently waving grass. Perhaps my little photo-safari wouldn’t be so troublesome after all, I thought. I am perfectly capable of enduring inconvenience, so long as doing so isn’t difficult or unpleasant. I took a few snaps and headed back across the bridge to the Argo.

“Ghost hunters come through here all the time, and we’ve had people on the tour – mostly kids – get really scared and see shadows and think they’re ghosts,” admitted Jim Maxwell, master and chief guide of Idaho Springs’ looming centerpiece, the Argo Mill. “I just ignore all that.”

Ignoring all that is what I do best. I took a couple of ignorable photographs and moved on to the Indian Springs Lodge. At noon on an autumn weekday, the place was bustling with bathers lining up for a shot at steamy, mineral-rich relief in the century-old spa’s storied baths. Jessa Logan was busy in her office, just off the lobby.

“Is this place really haunted?”

“I’ve never witnessed it myself,” Logan began, “but some people say an old gentleman sometimes appears sitting alone in Bath No. 4.”

While I understand the impulse, I’m afraid the “old gentleman” may be expecting more curative vigor than even Indian Springs’ potent waters can deliver.

“And Room No. 205 is supposed to be haunted. Some people say they’ve seen a woman wearing Victorian clothes walking down that hallway.”

“Some people” were beginning to make me feel uncomfortable, and is this office getting smaller? I excused myself, snapped an apparition-free shot of Room No. 205, and steeled myself for the main event.

The Phoenix Gold Mine rests snug and isolated in a tight canyon just west of town. Climbing the two miles up Trail Creek Road felt like free-falling out of the safe and civilized and into the mysterious and, possibly, sinister.

“Is the Phoenix actually haunted?” I asked Bob, who, like Cher, Enya, Tiffany and Charo, embraces a succinctness of self-identification.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” said Bob. “We’ve had National Geographic, Discovery Channel, and a bunch of other folks up here looking for ghosts, and they all found ‘em, too.”

“Ever seen one yourself?”

“Just one time. It was the end of the day and I saw the silhouette of a man pass in front of the light coming in at the end of the tunnel. Nobody was supposed to be in there, so I figured he was up to no good. He passed by real close, so I quick jumped to the side and swung a punch where I knew he had to be. But all I hit was solid rock. Hurt like heck, too. But you should take the tour and see for yourself.”

That sounded like entirely too much not sitting down to suit my taste, and I was about to make my apologies when I saw the boy. Tommy Lowry, 13, was visiting from Illinois with the parents and grands, and the whole troop was putting on hardhats for their guided trip into the heart of darkness.

“They say this mine is haunted,” I told Tommy. “What do you think about that?”

For the record, that’s a journalistically legitimate question, and not merely a cruel attempt to needlessly frighten a child who’s done me no wrong.

“I think it’s a bunch of baloney,” Tommy said, nonchalantly. “It’s just a hole in the ground.”

Hmmm…I may be lazy, but I’m also vain, petty and insecure, and I wasn’t about to let a kid I don’t know show me up in front of grown-ups I don’t know.

“Okay, Bob. Let’s do this.”

Outside, the Phoenix is rustic and charming and kissed by gentle breezes. Inside, it’s dim and close and looks like a poor man’s tomb and smells like cold earth and sounds like secrets you’d rather not know. I trailed after the boy and his crew for perhaps a hundred steps before realizing that I was above Tommy’s brand of childish antagonism, and that the best thing I could do was set the lad a good example of mature male behavior by removing myself from the pointless competition at once. I don’t mind saying that I felt a touch of smug self-satisfaction as I raced back into the sunlight and hunched in the parking lot clutching my chest and gasping for air. It feels good to do the right thing.

At home a half-hour later, snug in my footie-pajamas and comfortably reclined, I congratulated myself on a job well done. In nearly three wearying hours of sitting and standing, I’d uncovered lots of non-verifiable evidence for the existence of ghosts without being made to suffer the awkwardness and distress of actually meeting one. Ghost hunting, it turns out, is a business nicely suited to my sedate and sedentary nature, and I’ll be sure to mention that the next time I run into a certain type of dewy-eyed young lady.

“Behind every man now alive stand 30 ghosts, for that is the ratio by which the dead outnumber the living.”  Arthur C. Clarke, from “2001: A Space Odyssey”

“Are you troubled by strange noises in the night? Do you experience feelings of dread in your basement or attic? Have you or your family ever seen a spook, specter, or ghost? If the answer is yes, then don’t wait another minute. Just pick up the phone and call the professionals.”  Dan Akroyd, as Dr. Raymond Stantz in “Ghostbusters”

It being late October, I resolved to hunt ghosts.

I didn’t necessarily want to find ghosts, just as I suspect that many who stalk the sasquatch and the yeti don’t necessarily want to blunder into mauling range of their quarry, but enjoy the blush of romance that attaches to the endeavor and find that the implied risk of death and/or dismemberment has a magnetic affect on a certain type of dewy-eyed young lady.

While not particularly brave, I yield to no one for laziness, and it occurred to me that I could proceed most efficiently by selecting a locality that has been exhaustively pre-investigated by specialists in the field of paranormal infestation, and then re-packaging their findings as my own. After several moments of arduous deliberation, I chose Idaho Springs, which historic settlement contains both an abundance of ancient buildings and evocative settings wherein the disembodied classes might feel at home, and a crack team of spirit seekers possessing the energy and expertise needed to unlock the area’s macabre secrets while lacking the foresight to legally protect their intellectual property.

Since its inception on Halloween night back in 2009, Idaho Springs Ghost Hunters has grown to 13 dedicated members (14, if you count the black cat, Athena), who together have fearlessly probed points paranormal from Empire to Alma. Mother and son founders Teresa and Mike Kaminski agreed to meet me at their Riverside Drive home, where I found the club’s entire roster busy constructing a haunted house in the garage.

“It’s just a lot of fun,” Teresa smiled, “and if we’re lucky we might make enough money to buy a thermal camera.”

Haunted houses are a lot of fun, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little put out that they didn’t already have an $8,000 thermal camera. Somebody else’s expensive and dramatic infrared images were just the kind of high-tech and highly persuasive evidence I was hoping to get for nothing. Still, I suspected that the Kaminskis and their ghost hunting compatriots could provide me with a reasonably clear snapshot of Idaho Springs’ deceased demographic.

“Is this town haunted?”

“Oh, it’s very haunted,” replied Mike, helpfully. “Clear Creek County is definitely a center for paranormal activity.”

I suppose I should have been glad to hear it, but instead felt a powerful urge to race home, climb into footie-pajamas and turn on every light in the house at 11 o’clock in the morning. On the other hand, I’d driven almost 20 minutes to mine the Kaminskis lode of phantom lore, and bolting after a single question seemed kind of lame, even for me. I gulped hard and pressed on.

“Like what?”

“Our first investigation was the Idaho Springs Cemetery,” said Teresa. “We were there for about two hours, and there were a lot of voices saying things like ‘get out’ and saying somebody’s name.”

“We were spread out all over the cemetery, but almost all of us saw a man wearing a top hat,” Mike continued. “Every time he got close, you started feeling sick and you’d have to move away. It was a little scary, but really cool.”

“On the way home we stopped at the Argo Mill,” Teresa added. “There are voices there, too.”

Mission accomplished. Avoid cemetery and Argo at all costs, I scribbled on my pad.

“Well, that’s great,” I said, rising from the sofa. “You guys have been a big help.”

“Some people say the Underhill Museum on Miner Street is haunted,” Mike declared. “When I was a kid I took the tour, and the place definitely gave me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Oh,” I said, slumping back onto the cushions and silently hoping the Underhill wasn’t next to any of my favorite restaurants. “The museum, huh?”

“And the Indian Springs Lodge is absolutely haunted,” said Teresa, apparently not noticing my increasing pallor and hunted-animal stare. “People say a woman died in room 102, and last year we set up an investigation there.”

“The woman’s ghost communicated with us through our EM detector,” said Mike, warming to the subject even as a chill began creeping upward through my innards. “Spirits often communicate by controlling electronic devices, and we asked the ghost to indicate ‘yes’ with the detector’s green light and ‘no’ with its red light. It answered all of our questions for about 15 minutes, then just quit. It was really cool.”

Cool like the all the torments of the Pit, maybe. Stay clear of Underhill, Indian Springs, I jotted quickly, then rose with purpose.

“I think I’ve got everything I need,” I croaked, wiping the stinging sweat from my eyes onto my sleeve and forcing my lips into something that in bad light could be mistaken for a smile. “If you can just email me some jpg.s of ghosts, we’ll be in business.”

“We don’t have any,” said Teresa, smiling warmly, as if she didn’t know she’d just pronounced my doom. Fact is, she probably didn’t know it because, fact is, the Idaho Springs Ghost Hunters are, to a man, woman and black cat, nice, friendly folks who appreciate the fun aspects of their avocation at least as much as its scientific and philosophical dimensions, and who would never make me go take my own photographs out of malice.

“That’s okay,” I said, dismissively. “I brought a camera.”

But it wasn’t okay, not really. I would have to drive four, maybe even five extra miles to get the necessary pictures, and would be forced to place myself in physical proximity to people of unknown motives and temperaments who are, in fact, undead. Teresa and Mike walked me to the door.

“Whatever you do, don’t miss the Phoenix Mine,” said Teresa.

“The Phoenix has more paranormal activity than any place in this whole valley,” Mike added. “It’s famous for ghosts.”

Criminy.