A Communion of Discovery

 Dedicated to Estella Leopold, conservationist. *

Melting ice washed gravels down,
burying the mammoth—hiding it through the ages.
And I found a rock at its grave, 
with secrets deep inside.
I broke it, crushed it, sifted it;
dissolved it in a beaker, 
spun it by a centrifuge, 
and peeled back layers of time.

Now only hidden fossils remain:
Pollen grains and mossy spores—
once floating on an Ice Age breeze.

Now in that communion of discovery
these small fossils yield
the deepest glimpse through time
to the world before we came, and warn
of a future we must face—
while just outside forests change, 
species die,
and life recedes.

By Steven Wade Veatch

An imagined scene of the Ice Age mammoth
found at the Florissant Fossil Beds
created by the author using AI.

* Estella Leopold assisted me in the actual paleontological research mentioned in this poem. A sediment layer associated with the burial site of a Columbian Mammoth at the Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument was found to contain Ice Age pollen and spores. This research resulted in a paper presented at the Geological Society of America in Denver in 2013. Estella was one of the original “Defenders of Florissant” and was instrumental in the Florissant Fossil Beds in becoming a national monument. Estella is the daughter of Aldo Leopold, who wrote the Sand County Almanac. Estella passed away February 25, 2024. She was 97 years old. 

Note: this poem is an expanded version of an earlier poem entitled "Mammoth" by the author.

Geological Anomalies: Chalcedony Breccia in a Cinnabar Matrix and the Disappearance of Michigan’s Geology Professor

 By Steven Wade Veatch

Hidden among geological marvels at a mineral show was a cinnabar-bearing chalcedony breccia-specimen (Figure 1). The term "breccia" refers to a rock composed of angular fragments, while "chalcedony" describes a type of cryptocrystalline quartz. Adding "cinnabar" specifies the presence of mercury sulfide, which creates a distinctive red color. 

Figure 1. Chalcedony breccia in a cinnabar-matrix. While attending the Central Michigan Lapidary and Mineral Society rock show in 2023, the author noticed this specimen for sale by a vendor and purchased it for its interesting geological story and the sad tale about its original collector. From the collection of S. W. Veatch. Photo date 2024 by S. W. Veatch.

This breccia specimen reveals the Earth’s natural forces and is a reminder of the mysterious disappearing act of a professor. The specimen, a chalcedony breccia, embedded in a cinnabar matrix, unveils a story of geological upheaval. It is also a reminder of the personal upheaval of the man who collected it.

Professor M. W. Harrington collected the cinnabar specimen from a streambed in Nappa County, California (Figures 2 and 3). At some point after he collected this sample, he disappeared. His wife and son relentlessly searched for him over many years. This article takes us on a journey to uncover the mysteries and wonders of this fascinating specimen and the tragic tale of its collector.

Figure 2. Label of the cinnabar-bearing chalcedony-breccia specimen collected by Professor Mark Walrod Harrington for the University of Michigan’s Natural History Museum in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Photo date 2024 by S. W. Veatch.

The formation of the chalcedony breccia, which consists of chalcedony fragments embedded in a matrix of finer-grained, granular cinnabar, results from complex geological processes. These types of breccias usually develop in areas of intense tectonic activity or volcanic eruptions, where rocks break apart and then fuse back together. 

The distinctive feature of this specimen is cinnabar, a vibrant red mineral consisting of mercury sulfide. Cinnabar typically is found in veins associated with volcanic activity and alkaline hot springs (Chesterman, 1990). It’s the primary ore used to refine elemental mercury and has historically been used to create vibrant red pigments like vermilion. 

Geological thought suggests that the formation of this chalcedony breccia within its cinnabar matrix likely occurred during periods of volcanic activity and low temperature hydrothermal circulation. The fracturing of the pre-existing chalcedony, possibly because of volcanic eruptions or tectonic movements, provided the initial substrate for the deposition of chalcedony fragments. The introduction of a cinnabar-rich solution through subsequent hydrothermal processes led to the cementation of the breccia, resulting in the creation of the intricate mosaic we currently observe.

From a scientific standpoint, this specimen offers valuable information about past geological events and environmental conditions. Researchers can reconstruct part of the region’s geological history by studying the composition and texture of the chalcedony breccia and its association with cinnabar. These investigations enhance our knowledge of volcanic processes, hydrothermal activity, and mineral-deposit formation.

The cinnabar- and chalcedony- breccia specimen discussed in this article was collected by Mark Walrod Harrington (1848 –1926) for the University of Michigan’s mineral collection. Harrington was born in the pleasing town of Sycamore, Illinois and he attended the University of Michigan. The grandeur of the historic buildings on campus captivated his eyes while the distant sound of student chatter filled the air. Graduating in 1868 with a bachelor’s degree, he continued his studies, delving into the world of academia, as the aroma of old books and the sound of pages turning surrounded him. In 1871, he earned his master’s degree, and his heart filled with a sense of accomplishment. 

Figure 3. Photograph of Mark Walrod Harrington, during his tenure as Director of the Observatory at the University of Michigan, which he held from 1879–1891. A renowned American scientist in the late 19th century, he held the distinction of being the first civilian to head the United States Weather Bureau and had previously served as president of the University of Washington. He also held positions at the United States Weather Bureau before his disappearance in around 1899. Photographer unknown.
Public domain.

He then started his career as the assistant curator at the University’s Museum of Natural Sciences in Ann Arbor, Michigan. The hushed whispers of students exploring the museum echoed in his ears. With each step, he felt the weight of knowledge and responsibility grow. Eventually, the university made him the professor of botany, zoology, and geology, and then gave him the honor of directing the esteemed Detroit Observatory, where at night the twinkling stars above filled him with awe and wonder (Mark Walrod Harrington, 1895-97, n.d.).

In 1874, he married Rose Martha Smith, a woman hailing from his Illinois hometown. Shortly after, they welcomed a son into their family. However, tragedy struck in 1876 when their young child passed away. Initially, Harrington had intended to take a year-long sabbatical in Germany alone. However, because of the heart-wrenching loss, he and his wife embarked on the journey together. During their time in Europe, they immersed themselves in the German language, embraced a simple lifestyle, and grieved the loss of their son (Swanson, n.d.).

The president of the University of Michigan appointed Harrington to be the director of the Detroit Observatory in 1879. The Harringtons welcomed their second son, Mark Raymond, in 1882. The boy, like his father, had an insatiable curiosity. Harrington divided his time between the Observatory during the day and exploring the Ann Arbor countryside with his son in the evenings and on weekends, looking for plants, rocks, and arrowheads (Swanson, n.d.).

After leaving his university post, Harrington took on the position of the first civilian director of the United States Weather Bureau, which fell under the authority of the US Department of Agriculture (US Department of Commerce, n.d.). He only maintained this position a few years before problems with managing non-academic staff led to his dismissal. Next, he became the president of Washington Territorial University, but he faced issues again and had to resign. His leadership abilities seem to have been impacted by a newly emerging mental illness. After briefly returning to the Weather Bureau in a lower position, he resigned in 1899 (Swanson, n.d.). Later that year, on a summer evening, he told his wife and 17-year-old son that he was going out for dinner (Swanson, n.d.). He never came back (Swanson, n.d.). He vanished for almost a decade, a tragic event that overshadowed his academic accomplishments. 

During the lost years, it appears that Harrington first spent his time working menial jobs. After that, he traveled to China where he tutored students in English. Unfortunately, he became ill during his time there, but he managed to save up enough money to sail back home. Upon his return, he landed in the American South after passing through the Panama Canal (Swanson, n.d.). He worked on sugar plantations for a while before deciding to travel west and stake a mining claim. Eventually, he found work as a lumberman. After these adventures, he returned to a sleazy Chicago flophouse and later made his way to New Jersey (Swanson, n.d.). Sadly, it was in New Jersey that his memory finally and completely failed him. 

In 1907, alone and frightened in Newark, he sought shelter from the rain at a local police precinct. Upon seeing his condition, the authorities took him to a mental institution and admitted him under the name of “John Doe No. 8.”

Harrington’s whereabouts remained a mystery to his wife Rose and her son for the next 10 years. During his collection of Native American artifacts out west, Mark Raymond, Harrington’s son, stumbled upon a newspaper report in 1908 about a peculiar admission to the Morris Plains Asylum for the Insane. He wasted no time contacting his mother, who soon found out that the man identified as John Doe No. 8 was her long-lost husband.

While at the asylum, the doctors determined that Harrington was suffering from severe mental illness. According to the University of Washington in Seattle, his wife claimed that, while he was investigating clouds over the campus during his brief tenure as president there, lightning struck him. The exact cause of his madness, however, remains unknown. Although there was some improvement in Harrington's mental state, he was never able to return to a normal life and refused to acknowledge his former name or personal history. As a result, he remained institutionalized for the rest of his life and passed away in the New Jersey State Mental Hospital at Morris Plains in 1926.

Harrington was a resolute scholar who delved into various fields including botany, astronomy, meteorology, and geology. He actively contributed to these disciplines through his studies and publications. And his knowledge extended beyond his vast scientific skills, as he was proficient in six different languages. 

The chalcedony breccia, with its intricate patterns and vibrant hues, is a mesmerizing sight. As we gaze upon it, the contrasting colors of the delicate chalcedony captivate us against the vibrant red backdrop of cinnabar. The texture of the chalcedony feels smooth and cool to the touch, and the smell of earth and minerals fills the air. Professor Harrington’s cinnabar is a testament to the timeless beauty and geological complexity of our planet, reminding us of the boundless wonders that lie beneath the surface. And this specimen recalls the sad end of a brilliant scientist.

References and selected reading

Chesterman, C. W. 1990. The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Rocks and Minerals. New York: Knopf.

Mark Walrod Harrington, 1895-97 [Review of Mark Walrod Harrington, 1895-97]. University of Washington Libraries Special Collections. Retrieved April 12, 2024, from https://www.lib.washington.edu/specialcollections/collections/exhibits/presidents/images/mark-walrod-harrington-1895-97/view

Swanson, F. (n.d.). Fault of His Stars [Review of Fault of His Stars]. Bentley Historical Library. Retrieved April 2, 2024, from https://bentley.umich.edu/news-events/magazine/the-fault-in-his-stars/

The Seattle Post-intelligencer 22 August 1895 — Washington Digital Newspapers. Retrieved May 1, 2024, from https://washingtondigitalnewspapers.org. 

‌US Department of Commerce, NOAA. "History of the National Weather Service" Retrieved May 11, 2024‌ from www.weather.gov. 

Whisper of the Past: Things Lost

Steven Wade Veatch

On a lazy late fall Sunday in 1991, I walked down to Cripple Creek’s business district with my wife Shelly, my friend Mitch, and his wife Jane. Colorado’s legislature had recently legalized gambling in this historic gold mining town. Several entrepreneurs were converting some of the old brick buildings in the historic downtown into casinos. The excitement of the prospect of limited-stakes gambling was spreading along the Front Range of Colorado. It was thought that people from Colorado Springs, Pueblo, and Denver would be crowding gaming houses when they opened, so investors bought up historic buildings and began the process of modernizing them.

The only sounds that Sunday morning were a few cars going down Bennett Avenue. The lingering scent of the chilled mountain air invigorated us, reminding us of the majestic beauty that surrounded us. 

As we were walking along, we noticed several buildings on the corner of Bennett Avenue and Second Street were being torn down for a new casino to be built there. This was once the site of the town’s old movie theater. The Star Theater showed “moving pictures” as early as 1915. We walked down there for a better look. 

Figure 1. The Star Theater at 218 East Bennett Avenue, Cripple Creek.
The sign by the entrance declares this theater part of the Sullivan and Considine
Circuit that provided Vaudeville entertainment. Photo courtesy of the
Cripple Creek District Museum. CCDM 2001 156.

The owners had started to demolish the old historic building. “Let’s go down in there and look around,” I said to Mitch. Shelly and Jane were reluctant to go, but they followed us down to the site’s ground floor.

We knelt in the dirt, looked through the rubble, and found lots of old broken peanut shells dropped by theatergoers 70 years earlier. The shells had fallen through the cracks in the theater’s floor. We found more. Lots of them. Then Jane found clippings of motion picture films, probably created from splicing or repairing the films when they were being shown in the gold camp theater. 

As the sunlight broke through the clouds, Jane caught sight of a shining object in the debris. I carefully pulled it from the dark earth with my fingers. It was an Indian head nickel, money from the gold rush days. Next, Mitch yelled that he had found a dime, one with the head of the Roman God Mercury on it. This coin was minted in 1918. Shelly found a Standing Liberty quarter—the denominations kept going up. 

Figure 2. The obverse of the Standing Liberty quarter dollar.
A number of these quarters were found at the old Star Theater. Photo is public domain.

The process of finding these numismatic artifacts was slow. I turned to Mitch and said, “This process is taking forever; but we need to go through the entire site here. We’re about to hit a jackpot.”

“I have an idea,” Mitch said. He stood up, climbed out of the spot we were working on, and walked up to his house a few blocks away. He returned carrying four green, plastic strawberry baskets, one for each of us. We used the baskets to sift the dirt and could go through a lot of material with them. We found lots of silver coins. The more we looked, the more we found.

Jane yelled out, “OH MY GOD! Look what I found!” She held up a woman’s ring. It was solid gold with one small, simple ruby, something a miner’s wife would own and wear. We looked at her discovery with awe and wondered how someone could have lost it, and how sad the owner must have been after losing it a lifetime ago in the Star Theater. 

Figure 3.  The author’s recollection of the ring found in the ground-floor sediments of the old Star Theater. AI generated image.

We had dirt and dust all over us from digging, turning our clothes and faces completely black. While working through the dirt, we couldn’t help but notice the curious gazes from passersby. Soon a small group of tourists gathered around the site to watch us. By then we had recovered 29 silver coins and a gold ring, all artifacts lost to time, but now found. We decided it was time to quit.

We hauled away our discoveries in the strawberry baskets and went back to Mitch’s house. All of us tidied up and then sat around Mitch’s kitchen table and looked at the coins and gold ring we found. With a tremor in his voice, Mitch leaned in closer as he embarked on a deep conversation about the weight of loss and the desperate search for a glimmer of hope on the uncertain road that stretched before us. We wondered what precious pieces of ourselves would slip through our fingers as we embarked on this uncertain journey. 

Unearthing Ancient Fossils: A Reflection on the Giants in My Life

By Steven Wade Veatch

I remember a scorching summer afternoon in 1992, when, with my new wife Shelly and mother-in-law Karen, I walked on a trail that meandered down the hill known as Cope’s Nipple—named after the 19th-century paleontologist who explored this site for dinosaur bones. People refer to the area as Garden Park, and it is located a few miles north of Cañon City, Colorado. 

With my mother-in-law in tow, I took the lead and attempted to be on my best behavior. She was visiting us from Interlochen, Michigan. As we walked, her presence loomed over me, casting a shadow that seemed to stretch endlessly. The air was heavy with her silent intensity, making the surroundings feel eerily quiet. I imagined a pleasing scent in the air. It reminded me of my mother-in-law's garden in Michigan. This added a mysterious touch to the atmosphere. It felt as if every step we took was heavy, as if her presence alone had a gravitational pull. My thoughts went back and forth between making a good impression on her and conjuring in my mind—since we were walking on a dinosaur graveyard—a spike-tailed Stegosaurus defending himself from an Allosaurus.

Depiction of an Allosaurs prowling about in Garden Park
during the Jurassic Period. AI generated image.

As I walked through this area, memories flooded back from two years before when I had explored it with a friend. As we made our way up a hill on that sunny day my friend and I unexpectedly came across a hilltop ornamented with an abundance of petrified wood. The sight was mesmerizing, with the hill covered in these ancient, hardened remains of trees. The wood appeared as if frozen in time, its intricate patterns and textures on full display. The crisp sound of our footsteps echoed through the stillness of the hilltop, adding an eerie ambiance to the scene. A faint scent of earthiness lingered in the air, reminding us of the long history embedded in these petrified remains. As we gently touched the wood, a cool, smooth sensation greeted our fingertips, connecting us to the past. We were the first ones to see all of this petrified wood. If someone had been there before us, all the wood would probably have been taken.

Shelly and Karen kept up with me as we continued to descend Cope’s Nipple. The scorching sun baked everything in a relentless heat. While we were going down a gentle slope, Shelly and Karen talked about how different this landscape was than the woodlands and humid air of northern Michigan. Shelly vividly recounted to her mother the harrowing encounter she had had a year before, when a venomous rattlesnake unexpectedly lunged at her on an earlier trip here. She urged her mother to remain vigilant and attentive while going down the pathway.

It was the hottest part of the day as we continued to walk along the trail that now cut through a dark-red disintegrated siltstone, part of the world-famous Jurassic-age Morrison Formation. Insects buzzed under an intense Colorado blue sky. A scorpion scurried with a quick dart beneath a cracked slab of siltstone, its jagged edges leaning against a smooth cobble of quartz. Time seemed to slow down in the heat, and seconds lingered in the dry air. 

I had been here in the spring of 1991 with a prospector buddy. On that day, while ascending a ravine, we stumbled upon huge heaps of bentonite clay. It had rained the night before, and the clay had swollen up to five times its normal size. Nodules of a lilac-purple St. Stephen’s agate were bulging out of the swollen, wet clay. I crawled up the side of a clay mound and plucked out one of these agates. As I held it to the sunlight to see the concentric layers inside, I slipped and slid down the slick clay on my backside. Wet, cement-like clay covered my back to my head. There was no way to wash it off, and it was solidifying in the arid air. My wife had a lot to say about this when I returned home. She also wanted to see this place, Garden Park, the next time I went.

Now my adventure with my wife and mother-in-law heated up. The dirt-covered path, lined by piñon pine, was in the middle of a dinosaur graveyard and was under the protection of the Bureau of Land Management—no fossil collecting allowed. I couldn’t imagine dinosaurs once ruled this dry, semi-arid land covered with yucca and cactus. As we walked along the trail Shelly’s voice poked into my consciousness. She had just bent down to pick something up from the side of the path. She was describing it to her mother: “It’s cone-shaped with a subtle curve. It has a pointed end.” She continued, “The other part of this is not pointed. There is a serrated edge.” The word SERRATED thundered across my consciousness. I asked her if I could see it. She handed it to me. I knew at once she had stumbled upon an extraordinary find—a pristine Allosaurus tooth, a relic from a formidable dinosaur that once reigned supreme in Garden Park’s prehistoric ecosystem. The ancient fossil, with its sharp edges and intricate ridges, exuded a sense of raw power. As I held it in my hand, I could feel the weight of its history, imagining the ferocious battles it had fought. The sight of the tooth gleaming in the sunlight transported all of us back to a time when mighty dinosaurs roamed the land. The faint scent of earth and ancient fossils lingered in the air, arousing a sense of awe and excitement. 

It was now time to finish the hike. We left the hotter, drier landscape for a riparian environment. Four Mile Creek greeted us as it sliced its way through a scenic valley adorned with cascading layers of limestone, siltstone, and sandstone. The gentle sound of flowing water filled the air, harmonizing with the rustling of cottonwood leaves along the creek bank. The earthy scent of wet soil along the stream mingled with the refreshing aroma of the nearby vegetation. As we stood there, we couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe and wonder at the natural beauty surrounding us. 

The day changed, it shifted into something new. Shelly’ discovery was important. You don’t find an Allosaurus tooth every day. My mother-in-law had a breakthrough in how she thought about me. She enjoyed our day together and listening to me talking about a vanished ecosystem filled with dinosaurs.

And I discovered how fortunate I was to have these two women in my life.

Rocks in Balance: A Closer Look at the Geological Marvels of Precariously Balanced Rocks

 By Steven Wade Veatch

Balanced Rock, in Colorado Springs’ Garden of the Gods Park, is an example of a type of geologic feature called “precariously balanced rocks,” or PBRs. These interesting rocks are common in the American West, where dry climates preserve them. They are also found worldwide in other climates. 

Figure 1. Balanced Rock is a famous PBR in the Garden of the Gods Park, Colorado Springs, Colorado. The rock appears to defy gravity by balancing on a small base. This rock is an erosional remnant of the Fountain Formation. Photo date 2021 by S. W. Veatch.

PBRs can vary in size from small boulders to massive stone monoliths weighing thousands of pounds—and many are precariously perched on a pedestal. They look like they could topple over in a strong wind. 

People have long been fascinated by PBRs. In the past, certain cultures linked these rocks to spiritual or supernatural realms and used them in religious rituals. Balanced rocks also held spiritual significance in Native American culture as markers for guiding mystical journeys. They were also used by early Anglo settlers as they made their way to new homes in the west. In addition to their spiritual significance, PBRs have become popular tourist attractions, and in many cases are surrounded by parks where tourists come to see these incredible geological wonders and marvel at their implausible balancing acts.

Figure 2. An old postcard view of graffiti-covered Balance Rock, Pittsfield, Berkshire County, Massachusetts. A creation of the last glacial era, this 25 x 15 x 10-foot boulder balances on a small rock below it. Postcard circa 1902. From the collection of S. W. Veatch.

Figure 3. Big Balanced Rock Near Douglas, Arizona. Postcard circa 1948.
From the collection of S. W. Veatch.

Figure 4. Balance Rock, Idaho. Postcard circa 1940s. From the collection of S. W. Veatch.

Figure 5. An old postcard view of the mushroom-shaped “Seat of Pluto” rock formation in the Red Rocks Park, Morrison, Colorado. Postcard circa 1912. From the collection of S. W. Veatch.

Figure 6. An old postcard view of Balance Rock, Camden, Maine. This glacial erratic is located on Fernald's Neck peninsula near Lake Megunticook. Postcard circa 1910s.
From the collection of S. W. Veatch.

PBRs are formed in several ways. Some PBRs result from weathering and erosion. When water percolates through fractures in rock, those fractures can grow and ultimately break the larger rocks into several smaller pieces. Over thousands of years, as erosion lowers the ground level, the rocks are exposed at the surface, and are frequently stacked on top of one another. Weathering and erosion of the exposed rock by wind, rain, and relentless cycles of freezing and thawing removes rock material around the balanced rock, leaving the harder rock behind. Over time, a rock pedestal is formed as the softer material erodes away, leaving only a small base of support protected by the more resistant rock. 

Figure 7. A sandstone PBR at Garden of the Gods, Colorado Springs, Colorado.
Photo date 2020 by L. Canini.

Figure 8. A sandstone PBR at Red Rocks Open Space, Colorado Springs, Colorado.
Photo date 2020 by L. Canini.

Figure 9. A sandstone PBR at Garden of the Gods, Colorado Springs, Colorado.
Photo date 2020 by L. Canini.

Figure 10. A sandstone PBR at Palmer Park, Colorado Springs, Colorado.
Photo date 2020 by L. Canini.

A glacier can create a PBR when it snatches up a boulder and carries it away in the moving ice. When the glacier melts, it drops the entrained boulder onto its new location (see fig. 2, 6, and 15). Glacial meltwater then removes the softer till and outwash, leaving larger rocks (erratics) perched on smaller rocks. Gravity is another way of creating a PBR when it pulls a larger rock down a slope that comes to rest precariously on another rock or rocks (figure 11). 

Figure 11. A PBR in Mount Manitou Park, Colorado. A large boulder of Pikes Peak Granite has moved downhill and rests on a smaller boulder. Postcard circa 1912 from the collection of S. W. Veatch.

Figure 12. A granite PBR. Devils Head area, part of the Rampart Range
of the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. Photo date 2020 by L. Canini.

Figure 13. A PBR perched on granite at the Lake George Community Park, Lake George, Colorado. Photo date 2020 by L. Canini.

Figure 14. This PBR is made of an egg-shaped piece of Pikes Peak Granite and is located on Ute Lakes Fishing Club property, about 6 miles north of Divide, Colorado. The 1.08-billion-year-old Pikes Peak Granite often forms rounded and even dome-shaped structures as it erodes. This is due to three main factors: ice, water, and the release of pressure from the overburden. Photo date 2020 by S. W. Veatch.

Figure 15. A balanced rock on Azure Mountain in the Adirondacks. This glacial erratic was set in this precarious position by a continental ice sheet about 19,000 to 14,000 years ago as the ice gradually melted. Photo USGS, Public Domain.

PBRs are not only fascinating sights, but by remaining balanced, reveal a lack of regional seismic activity from the past (Rood, et al., 2020). These balanced rocks also indicate the maximum intensity of past earthquakes (Brune, 1996; Imbler, 2020). By collecting data on PBRs, seismologists examine uniquely valuable data on the rates of rare, large-magnitude earthquakes. 

Over time, erosion, weight changes, or earthquakes will cause PBRs to topple. Tragically, acts of vandalism can destroy PBRs, as seen in 2012 when a scout leader and a friend pushed over a small PBR in Goblin Valley State Park in Utah (Botelho and Watkins, 2014). 

Figure 16. A PBR stands as a lonely sentinel in Arches National Park, Utah.
Photo date 2013 by S. W. Veatch.

PBRs show the power of nature and add to the incredible beauty that is found in the natural world. These rocks are a reminder that the forces of nature can transform even the most stable objects. Whether seen as cultural artifacts, geological curiosities, or sources of seismic information, precariously balanced rocks never fail to fascinate and inspire awe. 

Acknowledgments

The author greatly appreciates the help of Laura Canini of the Colorado Springs Mineralogical Society, who provided interesting discussions and photos of Colorado PBRs. 

References and Further Reading

Botelho, G. and Watkins,T., 2014, Ex-Boy Scout leaders involved in pushing over ancient Utah boulder charged. Retrieved from CNN https://www.cnn.com/2014/01/31/us/utah-boulder-boy-scouts/index.html on January 29, 2023.

Brune, J. N. 1996, Precariously balanced rocks and ground-motion maps for Southern California. Bulletin of the Seismological Society of America, 86 (1A): 43–54. 

Imbler, S, 2020, Why Scientists Fall for Precariously Balanced Rocks, Atlas Obscura, January 9, 2020, Retrieved from https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/precariously-balanced-rocks?fbclid=IwAR2DS3LCMGd0xYlw9OXG3lgCDeLtgWNgpTA2Er7tnNzEompibGCbnXNlHN0 on October 1, 2022.

Rood, A.H., Rood, D.H., Stirling, M.W., Madugo, C.M., Abrahamson, N.A., Wilcken, K.M., Gonzalez, T., Kottke, A., Whittaker, A.C., Page, W.D. and Stafford, P.J., 2020, Earthquake Hazard Uncertainties Improved Using Precariously Balanced Rocks. American Geophysical Union Advances, 1: e2020AV000182. Retrieved from: https://doi.org/10.1029/2020AV000182 on 10/01/2022.

Discovering Hidden Treasures: A Journey through Leelanau Peninsula’s Lighthouse West Natural Area

 By Steven Wade Veatch

Leelanau’s Ice Age history is on full display in the Lighthouse West Natural Area. This 42-acre conservation area, with 640 feet of cobble strewn shoreline along Lake Michigan, is on the tip of the Leelanau Peninsula.  It is near Leelanau State Park, which has a lighthouse. This preserve, although it has “lighthouse” in its name, does not have one. The Leelanau Conservancy established the preserve in 2004, and it is known for attracting birds that stop for food and rest during their migration to nesting grounds farther north (DuFresne, 2021; Lighthouse West website). A 1.2-mile trail, built in 2009, crosses various habitats and geological features.

Much of the Lighthouse West Natural Area’s trail goes through dense woodlands.
Photo date August 2023 by Shelly Veatch.

First, the trail enters an old orchard with pear and apple trees. Patches of wild raspberries and blackberries are profuse there. 

Next, the trail enters the woods and then goes along the edge of a steep bluff with views of the hardwood forest below. You can hear the wind stir the tree leaves. The waves of nearby Lake Michigan crash on the shore and echo through the forest. The air is alive with birdsong and filled with the scent of flowers, forest, and earth.

The trail descends the bluff via a steep stairway and levels off on a boulder terrace shaded by maple and beech trees. Lake Michigan, when it was about 20 feet higher than it is today, created the terrace. This area displays these ancient lake levels and wave-cut bluffs. As glaciers receded, they deposited the boulders. The ice was gone by 10,000 years ago (Fagan, 2009). 

Boulders of various sizes, deposited by receding glaciers,
are along the stairs and trail. Photo date 2023 by Shelly Veatch.

Soon the trail goes around a large glacial erratic, the size of a compact car. This boulder is a felsic granite with small phenocrysts of garnet (almandine-spessartine series). Glacial erratics of all sizes are strewn along the trail. 

A large boulder or glacial erratic, carried by Ice Age glaciers,
was dropped here when the ice melted. The boulder is made of granite.
Photo date 2023 by Shelly Veatch.

Closeup of a freshly broken surface of the large granite erratic.
Note garnet phenocryst (approximately 1 cm) circled in red.
Photo date 2023 by Shelly Veatch.

The trail reaches a viewing deck with a bench, and then a final stairway descends from the ancient lake level to the current shoreline of Lake Michigan. Large boulders, also left by Ice Age glaciers, are present near the shore. The boulders are a variety of sedimentary, igneous, and metamorphic rocks. Limestone erratics preserve different kinds of Paleozoic fossils.

The Lake Michigan shoreline is a cobble beach.
The boulders and cobbles were released here by melting glaciers.
Photo date 2023 by S. W. Veatch.

A large Paleozoic limestone erratic has impressions
of coiled ammonoid fossils. Photo date 2023 by S. W. Veatch. 

This stretch of Lake Michigan’s shoreline conveys an air of tranquility, untouched by the bustling currents of urban life. This quiet, uncrowded, and remote place unveils a canvas of pristine landscapes. The waters here lap against a cobble beach, and their rhythmic whispers harmonize with the rustling leaves, creating a haven of peace for those fortunate enough to visit this remarkable place. 

References and further reading

DuFresne, J., 2021, The Trails of M-22, Michigan Trail Maps, Clarkston, MI.

Fagan, B., 2009, The Complete Ice Age: How Climate Change Shaped the World, Thames & Hudson, London.

Lighthouse West Natural Area Leelanau Conservancy: Retrieved from

https://leelanauconservancy.org/naturalarea/lighthouse-west-natural-area/ on 08/11/2023.

Bolts of Tragedy: A Teen's Fatal Encounter in the Cripple Creek Mining District

 By Steven Wade Veatch

 

            On a fateful Wednesday, July 15, 1914, 13-year-old John F. Bowen visited his friends at the Kilpatrick Ranch near Gillette, Colorado. It started out like any other day for John—his past behind him, his future ahead, but unlike other days, this would be his last day on Earth.

Young John Bowen had lived an eventful life. He was born in Leadville on January 12, 1901, to Irish parents. John and his family lived in the Big Stray Horse Gulch in Leadville. His father, Thomas, worked in a Leadville silver mine. Certainly, his father had heard about the roaring Cripple Creek Mining District while working in Leadville. Unable to resist the lure of the Cripple Creek goldfields, Thomas gathered up his family and moved to the “World’s Greatest Gold Camp.” By 1905, he was working as a miner at the Free Coinage Mine and lived in Altman, one of the mining camps in the district (Cripple Creek City Directory, 1905).

A mine headframe in the gold mining district.
The author created this AI image
with the assistance of DALL·E and MS Bing.

On that fateful Wednesday, John prepared to visit friends at the Kilpatrick Ranch, near Gillette, Colorado. When it was time to leave for Gillette, he no doubt kissed his mother, Mary, goodbye, waved to his siblings, and shook hands with his father, who was, by now, the town marshal. John quietly stepped through the door, went outside, and stood beside his donkey—ready to ride. He then hoisted himself onto the donkey's back, adjusted his grip on the reins, and gave a gentle kick. The donkey responded to John’s command, and with the donkey’s cautious step forward, they began their descent down a winding mountain road. He passed by several of the big gold producers (the Burns, Pharmacist, and Zenobia mines) in the Cripple Creek District.

Main Street (Baldwin Avenue) in Altman.
Photo date unknown. Courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum. 

Soon the mountain trail stretched out before them, snaking through lush greenery, wildflowers, aspens, and spruce trees. Sometimes long grass brushed against his trousers as he rode. His heart raced with excitement at the rhythmic sound of the donkey's hooves echoing through the crisp mountain air.

John’s hands gripped the reins firmly as the sure-footed donkey worked its way down the mountain with a steady gait. At times, the trail presented challenges—a steep incline, a narrow passage between rocks, and a bend in the road that made John lean into the curves, shifting his weight to aid the donkey's balance. Nature seemed to come alive around him. John noticed deer, hawks, and squirrels in the foliage, and each sight added to the thrill of the ride.

As they rode to Kilpatrick's Ranch, John felt the wind tousling his hair and smelled the scent of pine and earth in the air. Finally, the road brought him to a peaceful clearing—Kilpatrick’s Ranch—below Pikes Peak.

Perhaps his day can be thought of in this way: By the time he arrived at the ranch, the sun was high in the open sky as a group of teenage boys gathered at the corral. John dismounted and patted the donkey affectionately. The boys greeted one another with laughter and handshakes. The ranch, with its pastures, trails, ponds, and pine trees, promised endless possibilities. The boys reveled in the freedom that came with riding horses as they explored the sprawling landscape, galloped through open fields, and maneuvered around trees, rocks, and other obstacles.

As the afternoon ended, it was time for John and the donkey to head for home. John bade farewell to his friends, mounted his donkey, and started riding back home to Altman. He carried with him the memories of a day well spent on the ranch with his friends. The way back was uphill, and after a while, John dismounted and sat on a flat, lichen-encrusted stone to give his donkey a break. A storm seemed to be gathering.

As John and his donkey approached Altman (the camp with the highest elevation in the district) a storm developed. The sky roared with a primal fury as jagged bolts of lightning split the heavens and illuminated the darkness with their dazzling brilliance. Thunder reverberated through the air and a rumbling percussion shook the ground. Gusting winds whipped through the trees. The air crackled with raw energy, charging the atmosphere with electric tension. Nature's power was on full display, revealing unpredictable might.

Just as John and his donkey were nearing Altman, lightning stretched across the sky from hell to breakfast, and struck a nearby tree, causing it to explode. Newspaper accounts record what happened when he was close to home. The Rocky Mountain News published this incredible report on July 16, 1914:

He had visited the Kilpatrick ranch nearer Gillette and was returning to his home when he encountered an electrical storm. He had proceeded within a half mile of his home when a bolt of lightning struck a tree near the road. Rider and animal were felled by the effect of the bolt. Young Bowen was strapped securely in the saddle and when the burro arose later the limp form of the boy clung to the animal. The burro continued until he reached the yard of the Bowen home where the mother of the boy loosened him from the saddle and carried him into the house.

            Members of the Bowen family worked over the boy several minutes before he was revived. He became hysterical and asked strange questions. The family sought to calm him but failed.

            An hour after he had been brought into the house, young Bowen walked to a bureau, pulled out a gun, which was small caliber, and fired into his body above the heart, dying almost instantly.

            The shooting was witnessed by members of the family, but they were unable to reach the boy in time to prevent him from ending his life. The remains were turned over to the coroner (Youth Crazed by Lightning, 1914).

Lightning is a formidable force. It is possible that lightning struck John in this way: When lightning struck the tree, it jumped to John Bowen as well (Auerbach, 1980). John would have felt its impact through multiple systems of his body. Neurologic complications could have been severe, including loss of consciousness, confusion, memory issues, dizziness, headaches, seizures, and changes in sensation or movement. He would have suffered other problems, such as burns (from heat caused by the strike) and associated blunt trauma from explosive shock waves (Fontanarosa, 1993). Objects damaged or thrown by a lightning strike can cause physical injury. The only thing known for sure is that John was not the same after the lightning strike. His eyes finally opened, he gulped in some fresh air, got up, walked to a chest of drawers, opened a drawer, picked up a revolver, and shot himself.

John Bowen, a spirited teen boy, riding his donkey back to his home in Altman.
Rain started as the clouds grew darker. The author created this AI image
with the assistance of DALL·E and MS Bing.

John died at his home at the top of the hill. Time had slipped away from him, a life mostly unlived. The death of a teenage boy is a tragedy that makes us question our existence. It reminds us to appreciate the fragility of our time on Earth and appreciate the people around us.

  

John Bowen’s tombstone at the Sunnyside Cemetery,
Victor, Colorado. Photo date 2023 by S. W. Veatch

References and further reading:

1905 Cripple Creek City Directory. Denver, CO: Gazette Publishing Company.

Auerbach, P. S., 1980, October. Lightning Strike. Topics in Emergency Medicine 2(3): p 129-136.

Fontanarosa, P. B., 1993, Electrical shock and lightning strike, Annals of Emergency Medicine, Vol. 22, Issue 2, Part 2.

Youth Crazed by Lightning, Sends Bullet into Body in Presence of Family., 1914, July 16. The Rocky Mountain News (daily), Vol. 55, No. 197.