PIKE'S PEAK.
The name has a familiar sound; I have heard it almost every day for
nearly three decades, and wherever English is spoken the name has been
mentioned. Having it in sight daily, with its long slope reaching up
to the apex over fourteen thousand feet high, its north face always
clothed in or fretted with snow, it might seem that it would grow
monotonous. Monotony is not possible with the magnificent eminence
and, like the presence of one we love, it is always welcome. The
great ice-field at the pole is as to the earth but the thickness of
a hair, the great mountain range as a wrinkle on the surface; but we
measure the thickness and the heights by miles. They who made the Bible
possible loved the high places of the earth; the law was there given
to the great leader, and the beloved Master sought the mountain top to
pray. It lifted him away from the earth while he was of it, but brought
him nearer to the Father. It is the vantage ground of humility, the
sanctuary where arrogance cannot enter.
The devil was lacking in tact when he offered the world to the Master
from a mountain top; his royal highness was out of his element, the
atmosphere was repugnant. Neither he nor his pupils lack ambition, but
on a mountain top there is nothing to which mortal may aspire, except
the unknowable, and for the unknowable he is made willing to bide
his time in meekness. It is no place for his majesty to proselyte;
his most zealous disciples even, are liable to step into the path he
never designed for them. No doubt the devil would have failed, on
the occasion in question, had he selected a valley where the air was
impure, but to seek a mountain top as the theatre for the bribery of
One purer than the element he breathed, only goes to show that the
devil, with all his accredited intelligence, was a very great ass.
The only mystery to me is that he himself was not then and there
led captive and future generations saved from his machinations. The
solution may be that, being already condemned, he was beyond the pale
of divine influence. I would, however give the devil his due, and
should be glad to surmise that he longed to be clean, but was so much
of a dolt as not to be worth regenerating.
The first man to climb a mountain peak may be pardoned exultation at
the accomplishment of his feat. The gallant officer whose name this
mountain bears essayed that exploit and failed, though history says
he wrought valiantly. Grand monuments are not infrequently erected to
the undeserving. We have other mountains with titles a little more
satirical; there can be no objection to commemorating the memory of
a dead hero, for a man is rarely a hero until he is dead, and this
is no paradox. But except in a very few instances, it were well to
leave the erection of memorials to the intimate friends of the dear
departed, rather than to appropriate, without permission, the works
of the Almighty. Mountains, however, are abundant, and we, not being
the owners, can afford to give them away; it were better, though, to
reward our live friends out of our own earnings. We know in such case
they would have the chance at least to appreciate our acknowledgment of
their merits.
He who goes up a mountain by trail may exult in a lesser degree than
the first explorer. But all may not surmount unexplored mountains;
many cannot do so even by trail. To him, then, who makes the happiness
of conversion from the ills of this life possible to all, if only for
an hour, great credit is due, and he may, with an easy conscience no
doubt, exact toll for his achievement.
To the æsthetic it may seem like a sacrilege to disfigure a great
mountain with a road; but a road for human needs is so slight a scratch
here on the earth's surface that it does not mar the surroundings. The
good that it does outweighs the apparent desecration. As the Major and
myself aspire to that which is high, and as neither of us might reach
the summit of the peak by the primitive methods any more than office
may now be so reached, the opportunity to gratify our ambition by
carriage was a blessing. The novelty must be considered as adding to
the zest.
The mountain is not visible from Cascade, the initial point of the
road; the intervening hills shut it out. Starting thence we follow
the Fountain up a very little distance, then turn to the left along
the face of the first hill, then to the right, and so winding our way
for two miles we reach the vicinity of the Grotto in Cascade Cañon.
In a direct line we are half a mile from the starting-point. Over and
through the pines that sparsely cover the mountain side, and over beds
of wild flowers that carpet the slope, we can, before this distance
is accomplished, obtain a fair view of the valley of the Fountain,
Cascade and Manitou, thence out on to the broad plains, rising blue and
dim until they kiss the horizon. One does not look for valleys in the
mountain tops, but a mountain top reached is still further surmounted,
and the road winds through aspen glades and the air is freighted with
the odor of pines.
The four horses trundle the light Beach wagon along most of the way at
a trot. The driver tells you that after a little while the horses must
be brought down to a walk. The grade is not steep, but "in the light
air a fast gait would be a little hard on the stock."
Eight and a half miles we have come in a little less than two hours. "A
pretty good road," that allows the making of such time to an elevation
of over three thousand feet, at a guess. We are half way and are still
in the timber. "The horses are changed to mules here"--an extraordinary
metamorphosis, certainly--that is the way the driver put it, but there
was no mystery in his language, except to a Boston lady, who was
anxious to witness the process. Verily one must speak by the card in
such a presence, or "equivocation will undo us." The four mules seemed
to consider their load a trifle and they moved as jauntily as if out
for a holiday.
To beguile the tediousness of the way we were assured that on returning
we should "come in a whirl." The motive that prompted the information
was commendable, and the driver to be excused--he travelled the road
every day and his early pleasure had simply turned into an attractive
matter of business. We told him not to hurry on our account, as it was
our desire to miss no part of the scenery. He said he should come back
in two hours and a half. I had ridden behind mules before--I mean in
period of time--and was doubtful touching the prospective gloriousness
of the journey, but he assured me that it was perfectly safe. He spoke
of a "switch-back," and there was an intimation of occult peril in his
manner. When we reached the vicinity of the timber line he pointed
out the mystery. From our point of vision the zigzag scratches away
up on the steep mountain side reminded me of old times. I was having
a longitudinal view of a few sections of worm fence running up a hill
at an angle of seventy degrees; at least a man under the influence of
spirits would say it was a longitudinal view. Considered as a fence,
from an economical basis, the angles were unnecessarily acute; it might
fairly have represented five miles of fence and half a mile of ground
in a straight line, or it looked as if unknown powers at each end were
trying to jam the thing together and make it double up on itself.
I was very much interested in it. As a line for an irrigating ditch
it might be pronounced a success. As nothing goes down a ditch except
water, and very little of that in a dry season, nobody is put in
jeopardy.
"And you come down there at the rate of eight or nine miles an hour?" I
asked.
"Yes, oh, yes, easy enough."
"I should think it would be easy, especially if you went off one of
those corners."
"You wouldn't know the difference."
"No, I suppose not. It must be a glorious ride, coming down at the rate
of eight or nine miles an hour, I think you said?"
"Yes, eight or nine, mebbe less, dependin'."
"You can make it in less time, then?"
"Certainly."
"And turn round those corners?"
"'Course, how else? You don't s'pose I'm thinkin' 'bout rollin' down
the mountain side?"
I wondered what else it would be without snow on the ground; but the
driver seemed a little too short of breath to answer. I accounted for
his deficiency in this regard because of the altitude; we were above
timber line, eleven thousand feet and over from sea-level. The pines
had become dwarfed, naked on one side, and were leaning toward the
rocks above them, or, in their sturdy struggle for existence, they
clung to the precipitous mountain side like matted vines. Looking down
from a certain point I observed a large quantity of the road resembling
a corpulent angle-worm in several stages of colic. I could not resist
appealing to the driver again; I don't think anybody could.
"Do you go round all those places at the rate of eight or nine miles an
hour?"
"Of course."
"And you don't slow up?"
"What should I slow up for?"
"So as not to turn over, you know."
"I never turned over in my life, and I drove stage in California twenty
years."
I believed he was a liar, but deemed it inexpedient to tell him so,
although he was a small man.
"Never had a runaway either, I suppose?" and sitting behind him I
casually--it being convenient--put my hand on his biceps; the arm was
not large, but assuring.
"No."
My opinion of his veracity was not augmented.
"I hardly think you can make the time you say you can."
"Just wait and see."
"I'm sure it will be grand; I've been suffering for such an experience."
"I didn't know but you was gittin' a little nervous--they sometimes do."
"Nervous! I'm an old stager. I have ridden with Bill Updyke and Jake
Hawks many a mile in these mountains. Take it in the winter time, down
hill, for instance, the road covered with ice and the driver obliged
to whip his horses into a dead run to keep the coach from sliding
and swinging off such a place as that," and I pointed to a precipice
several hundred feet perpendicular at our left. "That's coaching!" and
I placed my hand upon his shoulder affectionately. During the colloquy
the Major had not opened his lips.
The vicinity is the dwelling-place of desolation; nothing but rocks
about us. What had once perhaps been a solid mass of trachyte is split
to fragments in the mill of the centuries, and bits from as big as
one's fist to the size of one's body or a small house lay tumbled in
a confused and monstrous heap, as though there might have been in the
remote ages, a great temple here dedicated to the gods of old, and now
in shapeless ruins.
Of the view from this great mountain peak, what shall I or any one say?
Nothing! It does not admit of description; upon it, you can understand
why the Indian never mounts so high. It is one of the places whence
comes his inspiration of deity, the temple of his god, and he may not
desecrate it with his unhallowed feet; it gathers the storm, and the
sun caresses it into a smile and crowns it with glory, as he views
it reverently from the valley. But we, the civilized, penetrate the
mystery of these heights and find, what? humility! and feel as though
we should have worshipped from afar. We have risen to receive the
divine inspiration, our brother has remained below to kiss submissively
the nether threshold of the sanctuary. Which is nearest to the Father?
It is very still to-day; no sound greets you save the gentlest murmur
of the summer wind brushing lightly across the uninviting rocks. The
wide plains checkered with green and gold, stretching away out below
you, give you no sign. The city you see there, bustling with the
ambition of youthful vigor, is silent as death; you recognize it as a
town-plat on paper, that is all, except that it adds to the sense of
your own insignificance; it may make you wonder, perhaps, why you were
ever a part of the life there; it may be a shadow that you look down
upon, as you would recall an almost faded dream. You turn.
"And the mountain world stands present
And behold a wond'rous corps--
Well I knew them each, though never
Had we met in life before--
Knew them by that dream-world knowledge
All unknown to earthly lore."
Just below you a vast ocean bed of billowy hills, with its stately
pines dwarfed to shrubs, its shores looming up in the dim distance
through their dainty veil of gray, and brooding over all that
"Awful voice of stillness,
Which the Seer discerned in Horeb;
That which hallowed Beth El's ground."
It seems like sacrilege, but the interest in that town-plat down there,
or in one like it, begins tugging at the skirts of one's adoration. The
sun is going down and we also must go.
I had an interview with the driver, out behind the barn. (There is a
signal station on the summit and the barn is a necessity.)
"You are sure you can go to Cascade from here in two hours and a half?"
I inquired.
"Certain."
"Take something?" and I made a feint of reaching into the inside pocket
of my coat for "something" I did not have.
"Can't! that's agin' the rules--I'm a man of family and I don't care to
lose my job."
"So am I a man of family, and my friend, the Major there, he has a
family--a wife and nine children, all young. You love your family?"
"What do you ask that for? 'Course I do."
"So does the Major love his--the eldest only ten years old. You
noticed, perhaps, on coming up, when we were talking about making time,
going down 'in a whirl;' I think you expressed it so? Yes, he said not
a word, just sat and listened. He was thinking about the seventeen
miles down hill, round those short curves, in two hours and a half.
The Major has a slight heart trouble, and any little excitement, like
rolling down the mountain side, or getting upset, might be injurious to
him. Being a man with a large family I desire to avoid his running any
risk--you understand? His family is dependent on him and he has no life
insurance. Now, the making of this trip in two hours and a half might
be well enough for me, because I am used to it, you know; I haven't
so much of a family, and I've ridden with Bill Updyke and Jake Hawks,
and there is nothing I should like better than just such a ride as you
proposed--I'd glory in it, but I'm a little uneasy about the Major. The
doctor has already warned him against any undue excitement. Hold on a
minute! there is another matter: he'd never hint that he is nervous, he
is very averse to having it thought that he is troubled that way--see?
And just as like as not, to show you that he is not nervous, he would
tell you to 'Let 'em out!' Now--hold on a minute! if he should tell you
so, don't you do it--you just go round those curves quietly, and trot
along easy like, or walk. He's a very close friend of mine, you can
understand. Take this," and I slipped a half-dollar into the driver's
hand. Just then I heard the Major yelling to me with the voice of a
strong man in enviable health to "hurry up."
The driver accepted the half-dollar and went round one end of the barn
to the carriage, while I took the other way. When we were seated he
touched the off leader gently, the team started, and then he twirled
the long lash of his whip with a graceful and fancy curve that rounded
up with a report like that of a small pistol. The mules struck into
a gallop and I concluded that my half-dollar was wasted, literally
thrown away, to say nothing of my other appeal. The loss of the latter
caused me the more chagrin--the money was a trifle. But think of that
blessed stage-driver ignoring my eloquence! By the great horn spoon!
as Joshua would have expressed it, if I had a gun and was not deterred
by the thought of consequences, I'd leave the wretch as food for the
eagles--he'd never be missed. Just about the time I had him fairly
killed and his body comfortably rolled over a precipice where it would
never be discovered, he came to the first turn. The mules were on a
dead run, and what did that--blessed driver do? He just let that silk
out again, gave a yell like a Comanche and whirled round that bend
without so much as allowing the wheels to slide a quarter of an inch,
and away he went, down the short, straight stretch as though he had
been paid to go somewhere in a hurry. When he made the next turn I
leaned over and said quietly: "Let me see that half-dollar I gave you;
perhaps it is plugged."
He changed his lines and whip into his left hand and passed over the
suspected coin with his right. I substituted a silver dollar, which he
slipped into his pocket, straightened out his lines and brought the
mules down to a trot.
"Why don't you let 'em out, driver?" inquired the Major.
The driver looked round as if he thought I had addressed him.
"I think you can let 'em go," I said, and he did! Along the straight
chutes! around the bends! away and down, with a merry jingle of the
harness, the cool air turned into a breeze that caressed our cheeks
as lovingly as the kiss of a child! Away and down, with the gleeful
"hi! he! g'lang there" of the driver, the mountains began to tower
above us! Away and down, with the sharp reports of the curling lash,
the cold granite and dwarfed shrubs changed, and we sped in among the
stately pines! Away and down, with hearts as light as the perfumed air,
the flashes of the sun stealing through the trees salutes our flushed
faces, and every moment a Te Deum Laudamus whispers in ecstasy from our
half-closed lips. Eight miles and a half in thirty-five minutes! Was
there ever before such a ride vouchsafed to mortal?
We sighed for four fresh mules to take us the remainder of the way. The
exhilaration was not lost behind the horses, it was only toned down.
As the evening shades began to touch the valley and while the sun yet
kissed the mountains above us, we brought up at the starting-place,
happy.
PINE VALLEY.
TWO CHARMING STORIES
By LEWIS B. FRANCE.
A marvel of the book-maker's art is "PINE VALLEY."--_Colorado Sun._
"PINE VALLEY," by Lewis B. France, contains but two stories, but these
two are veritable cameos carved from the boundless treasures of the
Rockies.--_Denver Republican._
There is little that could be suggested in the way of improvement in
the dainty volume issued by the Chain and Hardy Company of Denver,
entitled "PINE VALLEY," by Lewis B. France.--_Colorado Springs Gazette._
Its very simplicity is its highest charm. It is realistic because
incomplex. There is no stage effect. It is heart to heart from the
first sentence ... to the orphan baby's lisping grace at that eventful
Christmas feast which made the desperado, Baltimore Hatch, a new
man.--_David H. Moore in Western Christian Advocate._
PRICE 75 CENTS.
PUBLISHED BY
THE CHAIN & HARDY CO., DENVER, COLO.
Colorado Midland Railway.
PIKE'S PEAK ROUTE.
Through a Scenic Region that has
No Equal in the World.
The Popular Route for ...
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_Scenery Unequaled. Equipment Unequaled.
Delightful Health and Pleasure Resorts._
SPORTSMEN
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RATES, DESCRIPTIVE PAMPHLETS, AND OTHER INFORMATION
SENT ON APPLICATION.
H. COLLBRAN, CHAS. S. LEE,
_Gen'l Manager._ _Gen'l Passenger Agent._
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
-Plain print and punctuation errors fixed.