BACK TO DENVER.
"The sun is about to rise," whispered Mr. Ramsay, as he softly
opened our room door and then disappeared. Mr. John P. Ramsay is the
Government signal officer in charge of the station at Pike's Peak, a
young wheelman that everyone likes from the first. We were sleeping
soundly in a comfortable bed on the top of the Peak this Sunday
morning, entirely oblivious of the somewhat severe experience we
had in climbing, the afternoon before, but at the first sound of the
call we jumped out of bed, slipped on our shoes, and, wrapping some
heavy blankets around us, went out the east door and stood on a mat,
which was frozen stiff, and where the wind blew about our bare legs
and up the folds of the blanket with decidedly too much freedom. We
waited there fifteen or twenty minutes, shaking from head to foot,
but the sight amply repaid for the discomfort. The sun was sending
great broad streamers up into the sky, and a bank of black clouds,
which in the distance looked like a range of mountains, still hid the
sun from view. We looked over the brow of Pike's Peak, which, on top,
is nothing but huge boulders and rocks imbedded in banks of snow, down
upon other peaks twelve or thirteen thousand feet high surrounding
us on all sides, and looking cold and black in the dim light of the
morning. At the base of the Peak on which we stood the level plains
stretched out probably 150 miles to the east, where a band of gold
was just beginning to gild that bank of clouds. No fog, or mist;
nothing obstructed the view in any direction, and everything, even in
the darkness, seemed to stand out with peculiar clearness. Soon the
broad streamers faded away, the band of gold rendered more dazzling
by the blackness of the clouds, began to widen till the whole bank
of clouds seemed to be one mountain of gold. Finally, after a long
while, as it seemed to us shivering in the cold, the upper outlines
of the sun could just be seen through the fiery clouds, and when the
round ball stood out clear and distinct above the clouds we crawled
back to bed and to sleep. Is seems almost useless to try to describe
such a scene, for no one can get an idea of the sight from the most
perfect description.
The house up there, built of stone, contains six good-sized rooms. Six
or eight persons can be comfortably housed over night, and no one
who has experienced the difficulties of the climb would complain
of the food, for we had a variety and it was well cooked. I sat out
doors nearly all day in the warm sun and the view was not hidden till
nearly night. We could look down into the streets of Colorado Springs,
fifteen miles away, almost as one would upon a checker board.
During the day several parties came up, some on horses, to within a
mile and a half of the top, where snow covers the trail and renders
further progress on horseback impossible, but everyone looked pale and
exhausted. Hot coffee brought them around all right in a short time. A
party of us went over to the north side of the Peak and tumbled rocks
down the side. Some of these went crashing down nearly two thousand
feet before they stopped.
During the afternoon clouds gathered, but just before sunset the sun
came out and the shadow of the Peak was plainly seen against the
clouds to the east. Even the shadow of the square stone house was
discerned, and then two of us went out to one end of the house, and
surely, there we were, standing like the spectres of the Brocken near
the shadow of the house, out over the plains twenty-five miles away
and fourteen thousand feet above the ground. To be sure our shadows
were not as clean cut as though we were nearer the object on which
the shadows were cast, but anyone could see the general form.
About 9 o'clock that night a terrific thunder storm raged out over the
plains to the northeast. The highest clouds were not much above, and
most of them far below us. We heard none of the thunder and saw very
little of the lightning as it flashed, but the whole mass of clouds
was lighted up incessantly. It was a grand sight. The whole sky to the
north, west, and south, was perfectly clear, and the stars shone out
with remarkable clearness, notwithstanding the full moon was shining
so brightly and placidly out over the plains to the east. Everywhere
else the world was at peace, but in the northeast those clouds made
silver by the light of the moon, were rolling and tumbling and were
constantly lighted by the fiery flashes of lightning. And yet not a
sound was to be heard. There was no wind, and everything above and
below was so quiet and still. And from the northeast, where we could
see such a great commotion, there was not the faintest sound. If
there had been no clouds anywhere that night the stillness would
have seemed natural enough, but to see such a terrific storm raging
(and I never saw lightning before), and to see the wind tearing those
clouds all to pieces, and yet to have everything so silent you could
almost hear yourself think, that was a most weird situation.
The weather on Pike's Peak is hardly more severe than it is below, even
during the winter. For severity, it is not to be compared with that
of Mt. Washington. The wind never blows harder than seventy-five or
eighty miles an hour. The roof of the house is a common tin one. They
keep up a wood fire the year round. The telegraph wires are not kept
in repair, so the weather reports are only sent in by rail. Pike's
Peak is not in reality a very important weather station.
As if to give us one more startling effect before we started down,
the next morning opened cloudy. The morning before we seemed to be on
the edge of some great ocean that stretched out to the east as far as
the eye could reach, but now we were cast away at sea ourselves. The
clouds covered the whole earth in all directions and were so solid
and motionless that they looked like one great sea of light gray
marble, beautifully carved and polished, but we were high above this
sea of marble, and were looking down upon it. The sun had just risen
above it when I opened my eyes, and I could hardly believe what they
told me. The light brought out every line and feature of the glassy
clouds, and the peak on which we were was, apparently, only about
2,000 feet above the level of this sea, for it surrounded us on all
sides. Occasionally, here and there, other peaks pierced through the
clouds like so many rocky islands, but there was not a rift anywhere
to indicate that there was a beautiful earth beneath this great ocean
of gray, polished marble, solid enough apparently to walk upon. Very
soon the sun took the polish off the clouds, and before long they
grew fleecy and soon broke up and passed away.
Leaving our friends at the top with regret, for I could have spent a
month there with the utmost enjoyment, we started down and reached
the base, without trouble or fatigue, in three hours and a half, a
journey of twelve miles that consumed seven hours in going up, besides
using the last ounce of strength we had in doing it, too. Coming
down we picked a few flowers near the top to send home, but every
few yards a new variety showed itself, and of course we had to get
a few of that kind, too, till our hands were full of the beautiful
tiny little things. Then we swore off and would not pick another one;
but then another variety, prettier than any of the others, peeped
up at us between the rocks, and before we came down to timber line,
12,000 feet above the sea, pockets, hands, and hats were full of the
bright colored little flowers. After a hearty meal at the Cliff House
we mounted, and our machines were so thoroughly rested they almost
ran away with us down the grade out of Manitou.
To the Garden of the Gods next. All along the base of the mountains,
from Denver south for seventy-five miles, are immense slabs of red and
white sandstone projecting into the air edgewise, and running parallel
with the range of mountains. Some of these slabs must have been 500
or 1,000 feet high originally, but the action of the rain and frost
on their crumbling nature has reduced many of them to steep ridges
of red and white soil, along the center of which runs the remnant of
the original slab, looking like the backbone of some pre-historic
animal. In the Garden of the Gods a few of these slabs remain with
very little debris about their base. Some of them, five or six
hundred feet long, stick right up into the air three or four hundred
feet high, and they are so honey-combed and the edges so rounded and
worn, that the action of water is plainly to be seen on them. No one
can visit this part of the country without being impressed with the
idea that these mountains were once the rocky shores of an immense
ocean and the incessant action of the waves has wrought out all the
curious-shaped rocks and ledges which make Colorado so celebrated. But
when the subject is broached as to what force in nature was powerful
enough to turn these strata of rocks up edgewise in the first place,
a traveling wheelman drops that subject as he would an ichthyosaurus.
Glen Eyrie is another place about a mile above, that abounds in these
same slabs, not so large, and more slender and needle shaped. This
place is private property and is nicely fixed up with drives, trout
ponds, and fountains. The drives through these places of interest
are very fine, and when we started back to Colorado Springs over
a high, level road, running along a high ridge, the wind sent us
along as we never rode before. On the level, a brake was necessary,
and we even went coasting up good steep grades. This kind of riding
lasted for nearly five miles, and was enjoyed intensely, but after a
short stop at the "Springs" with a few very enthusiastic wheelmen,
among them Messrs. Walker and Parsons, we turned about for Denver,
and faced that same strong wind for fifteen miles, till we found
a good resting place for the night at a ranch, which is simply
a good farm-house. The next morning after we got over the divide,
near Palmer Lake, the wind sent us flying again down the grade. Such
coasting! Sometimes side by side, at other times in single file, we
passed the fields of wild flowers that seemed to have improved since
we last saw them; for the pale yellow blossoms of the cactus plants,
as large as the palm of our hand, were much more numerous than a few
days before. Then we scattered horses and colts, cows and calves, in
all directions; dreadfully scared the poor little prairie dogs that
were caught away from home, and made the others who were perched on
their mounds, terribly excited. The little animals sometimes dig their
holes in the middle of the road, and as we went noiselessly along,
we thought we might sometimes catch them unawares, but no. Prairie
dogs have ears. They always heard us coming, and would keep up a
constant squeaking noise till the last minute, and sometimes after
they had dodged out of sight they would pop their heads up once more,
utter one last squeak, and disappear for good.
I have often wondered why so many plants grow here supplied with
thorns and sharp pointed leaves. There are the thistles, cactus,
Spanish bayonet, and two or three other species, the names of which
are unknown to me, but the extent to which their sharp points will
penetrate a wheelman's stockings can be accurately stated; even the
spears of grass are as sharp pointed as a needle. They do say that
sheep will eat the cactus at certain times in the year. It is not
stated at just what period in their existence the sheep do this, but
it is probably a short time before they cease to exist. When their
bill of fare is limited to a single article of diet, men have been
known to eat obnoxious things, and probably the sheep eat the cactus
for the same reason. O yes, Colorado is a great grazing country, noted
for being such. It is also noted for being a country where sometimes
forty per cent. of the stock die in a single winter, simply because
there is nothing to eat. The land will not produce enough to keep them
alive. Let the snow come a few inches deeper than usual, and the only
thing for the stock is to starve to death. The ranchmen don't pretend
to house their stock or store up fodder enough to keep them alive when
the snow has covered the few spears of grass too deep to be uncovered
by pawing. I am told that horses, raised in a warm climate, do not
know enough at first when turned out into a field covered with snow,
to paw the snow away and nibble the grass underneath, but they soon
learn to do so from seeing others, but even pawing does not always
save the poor creatures. I was agreeably surprised, in talking with
a ranchman, to hear him express himself strongly in favor of a law to
prevent anyone raising more stock than he could house and feed during
the winter. The desert of Sahara, judging from what I have read, is
nearly as good for farming as that part of Colorado I have seen is for
stock raising. New York tenement houses and Colorado stock farms are
equally good for producing young lives and for killing them off young,
too. The ranchman who expressed a desire to put a hole through us for
scaring his horses on our way down to the Springs, now recognized and
waved his hand to us as we returned. We stopped at a farm-house to get
some milk, and while waiting in the dining-room I noticed with surprise
well-worn books in the book case, such as "Draper's Intellectual
Development of Europe," "Geographical Distribution of Animals," by
Wallace, "Elements of Geology," by Le Conte, "English Men of Letters,"
by Morley, other books by Geike, and many more of like nature. Think
of such books as these being read out here on a Colorado ranch, 2,200
miles away from the intellectual hub of the universe! I am sorry to
say the ranchman by birth is not an American, but an Englishman.
A little farther on, and we overtook a lady on horseback. She did not
hear us, but the horse did, and began to act skittish, and not knowing
what to make of his actions the lady jumped off. We got by without
much trouble, however, but it would never do to ride on leaving the
lady dismounted. Here was a state of things. Not a house in sight
for miles over the level prairie, not a wagon, box, or anything but a
barbed-wire fence to assist the lady to regain the saddle, and with
her long riding habit it was impossible to do it alone. One thing,
and only one thing could be done. One of us must clasp his hands
together on his knee, and in thus making a step for her, help her
to mount into the saddle. Now, there were two of us, one tall, the
other short. For her to step up on the knee of the taller one would
be more difficult than to step up on the knee of the shorter one. So
it fell to the lot of the embarrassed writer to do the service. The
lady mounted easily to the saddle and we left her.
On reaching Denver and looking back over the trip, I felt I had
accomplished all and more than I really expected to do when I left
home. Not but that I had a strong desire before I started to see the
wonders in California, but I thought if I reached Pike's Peak, it
would be doing a great deal, all I felt confident of doing then. But
now that I reached the goal of my spring ambition so easily, no small
consideration would induce me to turn back. I was in better physical
condition than when I left home, and the farther I went the more
confidence it gave me to continue the journey across to the Pacific.
Distance on the wheel, 2,158 miles.