Two Brothers Share a Moment in Time

By Steven Wade Veatch

Two brothers, on a sun-drenched afternoon in 1906, take a break from fishing in a nearby lake. They are in a forest clearing, somewhere near Crystal Lake, Michigan. Pine and deciduous trees surround them. Green mounds of moss grow at the base of the tree trunks. Grass pokes up through fallen leaves and pine needles. The air is heavy with the languid perfume of pine. 

Walt (1897-?) and Vic (1898-1999) Wannamaker take a break from fishing. Walt shows his younger brother how to clean a fish. Their love of the outdoor life in Michigan is evident in the photograph. Unknown photographer, photograph circa 1906. From the Wannamaker family collection, courtesy of the Benzie Area Historical Society (21562-3).

The older brother, Walt Wannamaker, sits on a wooden crate in shorts, wears a sweater, and sports a cap. He rests his bare feet on wooden planks. Walt is teaching his younger brother, Vic, how to clean a bluegill. Vic, likewise, in shorts and barefoot, sits on the ground. Vic watches his brother with ardent attention. It is a day they will not forget.

One can imagine Walt and Vic’s many sublime encounters in this forest. Drawn to the water’s edge of a lake, they sat on stones next to the shoreline and looked at fresh racoon tracks along the bank. In this idyllic place the two boys loafed around and fished when they chose to. Sometimes they built a fire to cook their catch. It is likely no one knew about their favorite fishing spot—they kept it top secret. The boys also recognized it was sometimes the best place in the world to just do nothing or soak up the sunshine. 

The forest seemed like a magical place. Plots of purple and white flowers were in full bloom. The sound of chirring insects and birdsong eased the boys into the landscape. The wind, like some medieval magician, rustled the leaves. There were lakes and ponds to fish, streams to watch, where the swirling currents transported sand and small pebbles, and ravines to investigate. These bold boys surely slipped into clearings and watched hawks glide low and silently through the air. Once, a porcupine ambled by at the edge of the woods, poking its nose in the air to confirm the boys were nearby. 

Their boyhood orbit must have included exploring forests, building forts, catching frogs, chasing turtles, swatting mosquitoes, and swimming. These wanderings allowed them to follow the infinite possibilities of a bucolic boyhood. For these two young Wannamaker brothers, the forest and their fishing spot must have been a place of indelible colors, smells, and encounters that could not be found anywhere else. The bond that developed between them from their time together in this place, where wild berries grew, bears roamed, and deer browsed, lasted a lifetime.

Walt, being the older brother, had an obligation and privilege to teach his younger brother the many mysteries of the outdoors. Teaching my brother how to fish and clean his catch is one of my fondest boyhood memories. On the days I fished with my brother, I recall how I spent more time untangling his line than I did fishing. Many times, I rowed the boat to the shore to rescue my brother’s tangled fly hung up in a tree limb. To me, there is rarely anything more exciting than a big brook trout pulling my line as it dives deeper into a lake’s cold water. Fishing became an essential element of personal experience for both of us. And, like Walt Wannamaker teaching his brother about fishing, I could do no less for mine. 

Rockhounds and Legends: Encounters with Chris Christensen

By Steven Wade Veatch

During nearly six decades of membership in the Colorado Springs Mineralogical Society (CSMS), I’ve watched the club’s history unfold through the hands, eyes, and stories of its members. Many mentors and friends are no longer here—people whose voices once filled meeting halls and whose laughter was heard on field trips. I especially miss Ray Berry, Jerry Suchan, and Jack Thompson, whose wisdom shaped my rockhounding adventures, and my companions Roger Pittman and John Harrington, with whom I shared countless treks into Colorado’s high country in search of mineral and fossil treasures. Among them all, one mentor stands out in my memory like a flawless topaz crystal catching light—Chris Christensen.

Figure 1. Chris Christensen is showing a student some finer points of automobile engine repair. From the 1966 Palmer High School Yearbook.

Chris was an active member of the CSMS for many years. I saw him at every meeting I attended. He served in many capacities: vice president, then president; he taught lapidary arts, mineral identification, and crystallography to club members. He also enjoyed showing people microminerals through a microscope. Chris told new members of the group that you can collect the most beautiful specimens in the world and keep them in a small box or cabinet.

Chris taught auto-shop classes in the industrial arts program at Palmer High School. He also taught lapidary art at the high school as part of an adult continuing education program for the City of Colorado Springs. For several years, Chris’s evening lapidary class at the high school became my Tuesday night ritual. It wasn’t just a hobby—it was my workshop, my laboratory, and my chance to work alongside a master. The class offered access to Palmer High’s exceptional lapidary equipment—trim saws, slab saws, grinders, polishers—tools far beyond what I could own at home. Each semester, I re-enrolled, eager to keep learning from Chris and to keep grinding rocks on those machines.

Eventually, my persistence caught the attention of the continuing education office. After my third or fourth consecutive registration, the calls began: “Are you sure this is the right class for you?” The implication was that I might be lost, confused, or stuck. Chris and I shared a quiet laugh about it—he understood perfectly. I wasn’t repeating the class because I’d forgotten what I’d learned; I was there because every session brought new skills, fresh projects, and time in the company of a gifted teacher.

I was fortunate to visit Chris at his home on the corner of Cascade and Uintah in Colorado Springs. His living room was a repository of the Earth's artistry, revealed in rocks and minerals. Imposing cabinets, resembling ancient reliquaries, lined the walls and exhibited specimens from the Pikes Peak region. Topaz crystals pulsed with a light that seemed to transcend the ordinary, while smoky quartz stood in dark, silent contemplation. Amazonite blushed blue. The very air hummed with the echoes of geological ages, a symphony of color and texture that spoke of fire, heat, pressure, and time. His collections displayed nature’s enduring power and beauty, contained within a space that felt both intimate and vast. It was here that Chris hosted the CSMS micromount group and served his famous stew for them to enjoy.

Figure 2. The author used AI tools to recreate his long-ago memory of Chris Christensen's home display of rocks and minerals.

While I visited Chris at his home, he counseled me to avoid dividing the rock club’s youth group, the Pebble Pups, by age. Chris envisioned a tapestry of Pebble Pups woven with the vibrant threads of kids of all ages. He talked about the delicate alchemy of a shared space, where younger pups would look up to the older ones for guidance and support with their new hobby. The older pups, entrusted with this subtle mantle of responsibility, would discover a newfound sense of purpose and find value in mentoring the younger ones and helping with the Pebble Pup class sessions. This model of the Pebble Pup program continues to this day. 

Chris’s kindness is what I remember most vividly. A perfect example of his thoughtful nature occurred at the Calumet mine. He once carried his mother-in-law all the way up the steep tailings dump and gently set her down at the mine's edge. He then made sure she was comfortable, spreading out a blanket for her to sit on and setting up an umbrella to provide shade. He would begin looking for mineral specimens to take home only after she was completely settled (Don Collins, pers. comm).

Chris had a real passion for trading specimens. I remember a story about the time he traded a bag of diamond dirt—material from one of the diamond pipes on the Colorado-Wyoming border—for two spectacular, palm-sized smithsonite specimens from New Mexico’s storied Kelly Mine. The smithsonite specimens from the Kelly Mine so thoroughly intrigued Chris that he traveled to the mine and explored the old workings himself. He made many trips there, climbing up and down ladders and prospecting various levels of the mine. He seemed to have a knack for always finding museum-grade specimens.

Figure 3. Smithsonite, Kelly Mine, Magdalena District, NM. 9.5 cm tall. New Mexico Mineral Museum specimen (NMBGMR#16785). Jeff Scovil photo.

But fortune is a fickle partner underground. During one expedition, he climbed up a ladder covered by dust and weakened by age. The ladder failed unexpectedly with an audible snap resounding in the darkness. He sustained bruises and, though unsettled by the incident, narrowly avoided serious injury. That narrow escape marked the end of his Kelly Mine adventures. From then on, the smithsonite he’d once traded for was not just a prized specimen—it was a reminder of how close his passion had come to claiming his life (Don Collins, pers. comm).

For several years, Chris made regular collecting trips to Chihuahua, Mexico. He would gather a truckload of denim jeans and take them with him to trade with the local Mexican miners. In return, he would fill the back of his camper with beer flats full of gleaming mineral specimens. His most successful trades often resulted in him getting stunning silver specimens.

Chris passed away on February 7, 1995. The CSMS mourned one of its luminaries, and I lost a friend and mentor. My membership in the CSMS has yielded unexpected relationships rooted in a shared fascination with rocks, minerals, and fossils. Over the years, the rockhounding community in the Pikes Peak region has changed. The experienced members, the mentors who taught valuable techniques and shared their hard-earned knowledge of where to find treasures like amazonite, eventually passed on. Books and online videos can offer information, but they cannot replicate the spark in a mentor’s eye, the encouraging nod over a grinding wheel, or the shared triumph of revealing a perfect crystal dug out of a pocket.

Yet the CSMS continues to thrive. Each new field season and mineral show brings fresh faces eager to learn. In time, they will become the next generation’s guides, carrying forward the traditions and skills passed to them.

I still picture Chris's living room: rock cabinets line the walls, topaz glowing like sunlight, smoky quartz watching over amazonite. I hear the trim saws from Tuesday nights at Palmer High School—feel the cool water spray, smell the damp grit, and recall Chris’s quiet advice. His minerals held the Earth’s memory; his guidance, like a polished stone, still shines when I make cabochons today. Chris's rockhounding spirit endures brightly, and it’s my honor to pass his story on to you today.

Secrets in the Shadows: A Mystery at Black Mountain, Colorado

1894 found Spencer Penrose and his partner Charles Tutt immersed in the Cripple Creek gold rush. They worked tirelessly to extract gold from their COD (Cash on Delivery) mine and broker real estate deals in the gold camp. Spencer’s brother, Professor Richard Penrose, a renowned expert in geology and mining, would occasionally visit the two partners in Cripple Creek, offering them valuable advice on the operation of their gold mine.  

Sometime in 1894, after a few too many drinks at Johnny Nolan’s saloon, the three men decided to escape from the town’s hustle and bustle and embark on a prospecting trip to the scenic Black Mountain area in Park County.  Leaving from Cripple Creek with minimal equipment, the trio planned to stay for a week. 

After riding about two days and covering 40 miles, they entered a canyon with blood-stained walls—scarred with the remnants of a gun battle, a chilling reminder of the bloodshed that occurred there years ago. The sounds of the wind whistling through the canyon seemed to echo the cries of the fallen warriors.  The canyon opened into the Black Mountain area, and seeing nothing there to warrant any prospecting, the three men rode on to look for a favorable spot for camping before nightfall claimed them. 

Stopping, around 5 p.m., they stood before a strikingly large and impressive house. It was a surprise for all of them. Its construction implied wealth and success. They stopped at the property’s entrance, where a broken gate and damaged fence hinted at neglect. As the three men looked around, they found the house’s front door and several windows open, with no signs of life. The sight of scattered debris and broken glass hinted at the possibility of a sinister event. The sound of the wind whispered through the towering pines, creating a haunting symphony that pierced the silence. The soft scent of damp earth and decaying aspen leaves mingled with what they saw and enveloped them in an atmosphere of mystery and intrigue. 

Image of what the abandoned house in the Black Mountain area of Colorado may have looked like when the Penrose brothers and Charles Tutt came upon it in 1894. Art by the author using AI.

The three men entered the house. One room opened to the right, its door slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of what was inside. Another room opened to the left. A hall staircase separated the two rooms. Someone had evidently used the room to the right as a library or den. The silent rows of dusty bookshelves, holding a dozen forgotten books, looked like a tomb of lost stories. A mineral cabinet, holding some specimens, was built into the wall; someone had thrown other glittering mineral specimens onto the floor. A well-used riding crop, the leather polished smooth, hung beside a pair of elegant fencing foils and masks. This dusty room held the faint scent of leather and metal and echoed with the absence of laughter and life; only the rug on the floor hinted at past warmth. Then came a cold and unsettling surprise.

A chill snaked down their spines as they saw a woman’s long brown hair spread across the floor, its presence heavy with unspoken dread. Someone had squeezed the hair, hacking the ends off with a dull knife—the cuts jagged and rough—and then violently threw it. “Well, we had come there for mineral, not murder,” said Richard Penrose.  The entire scene was dreadful. 

As twilight descended, casting long shadows, the Penrose brothers and Tutt walked outside and saw kitchen utensils scattered across the ground. Peering into a barn they saw, that like the house, it was deserted. As it was getting late in the day, the trio decided not to investigate further, but rode on beyond this abandoned property into the open country a few miles away in order to select a spot to camp before night settled in.

At nine o’clock a loud snap of a twig sounded over the comforting crackle of the campfire, making everyone jump up from their blankets, where they’d been enjoying the fire’s warmth after their supper. A weathered prospector, his face tanned and lined, walked into the camp with a Winchester rifle slung across his shoulder. A burro, laden with supplies, followed close behind. “Hello partners; what luck?,” said the prospector. The conversation soon turned to the abandoned house. ‘Well boys, said the visitor, “I saw it go up. And the owner was always around. He was one of them English dude arrangements, wore an overgrown cap and yellow boots—kind of a sport. Never took no notice of nobody. Had one of them God Almighty airs with him.”   As recounted by the prospector, the Englishman spent money on the house and furnished it with items he hauled in from Balfour and Alma. The prospector claimed the English “dude” left for three months and then came back with a woman. “I’ve seen them many a time riding together, and damn me, I never saw such hair as that gal had. It was just about two years ago this spring, they both skipped God knows where. Some say they didn’t skip.”  According to the prospector’s account, another Englishman, an older man, showed up at the house. “That was the last of the young fellow and the girl with the fine locks.”  The prospector said that rumors suggested the old man was her husband, and she had run away with the younger Englishman. The old man—her husband—had followed and caught up with them at the Black Mountain property, after which the house was abandoned. 

The Penrose brothers and Tutt were lost in thought after the old prospector’s chilling tale. A hush fell over them as they listened to the whispers of the wind in the trees. The crackling fire cast an orange glow on the faces of the group as they sat around the campfire, pondering the old man’s tale. What happened to the woman? Why was her hair cut off? These questions lingered in their minds: why had the owners left the house and its sprawling grounds behind? The unanswered questions hung heavily in the chilly night air. The old prospector spent the night with the three men, saying he would not stay overnight at the Englishman’s house “for all the gold in Colorado; for the damn place is haunted.”

As dawn broke, the old prospector, armed with his Winchester, disappeared into the shadowy hills of the Black Mountain district with both his burro and his tales. The three men from Cripple Creek eagerly mounted their horses and left. The horses’ hooves resonated in the air, stirring up a cloud of golden dust that danced in the sunlight as they rode back to the gold-crazed Cripple Creek mining district, where ambition and the promise of riches fueled the energy of the town. 

In the years that followed, the Penrose brothers and Charles Tutt forged a path of tremendous success through minerals—copper and gold—and found their way into the history of the West and the American imagination. No one heard or wrote anything more about the mysterious woman and her lustrous locks. The old prospector slipped into oblivion.

Acknowledgments: I thank Bob Carnein for his insightful comments and help improving this manuscript.

References and Further Reading:

“Mystery of Colorado.” The Denver Press, September 7, 1894. p.6.

Veatch, S. W., 2017, The World’s Greatest Gold Camp: A Concise History of the Cripple Creek Mining District, in L.C. Kleinhans, et al., eds., Gold and Silver Deposits in Colorado Symposium: Golden, Colorado, Colorado School of Mines and others, p. 78-83.

Rockhounds and Legends: A Youthful Encounter with Richard M. Pearl

 By Steven Wade Veatch

 

        The year was 1966, and I was 12 years old. I was a relatively new member of the Colorado Springs Mineralogical Society (CSMS) and learned that Richard M. Pearl (1913-1980), a respected member of the society, would present a program at one of its monthly meetings. This was an opportunity I did not want to forgo.
        I had been reading several books written by Pearl, a professor of geology at Colorado College. The first Pearl book I owned was a gift from a family friend, Hermine Weber, who was Mrs. Julie Penrose’s private and personal maid. She purchased a copy of How to Know the Minerals and Rocks for me at the gift store in the Denver Museum of Natural History after we spent the day looking at the museum’s rock and mineral displays.

Figure 1. Richard M. Pearl was a professor of geology at Colorado College. He started teaching at Colorado College in 1946. He went from “Professor” to “Professor Emeritus” in 1978. Photo courtesy of Colorado College Special Collections, Tutt Library. From Pearl’s papers.

        Pearl wrote at least 40 popular geology books. My favorite was Colorado Gem Trails and Mineral Guide. In those long-ago days I was constantly trying to get my parents to take me on rock-collecting trips based on this book. I also read Colorado Rocks, Minerals, and Fossils several times. I referred to Successful Mineral Collecting and Prospecting regularly. These and other books written by Pearl deepened my lifelong interest in Earth science and maintaining a rock, mineral, and fossil collection. I still have these books today on my bookshelf. And, I still collect rocks, minerals, and fossils.

Figure 2. Colorado Gem Trails and Mineral Guide. Several editions of this quintessential guide to Colorado gem trails fueled many rockhounding expeditions by those who read it. 

With anticipation, I counted the days for the night to arrive when Pearl would speak. My parents drove me down to the meeting. We parked and walked inside the IBEW building on Spruce Street, where the CSMS held their meetings back then. Inside, the room buzzed with anticipation as members of the CSMS took their seats, their chatter punctuated by the occasional clink of rock samples on tabletops. It was an evening we had all been looking forward to—Richard M. Pearl, the renowned mineralogist and author, was our speaker.
        Pearl, a balding man wearing a well-pressed white shirt and a tie, arrived with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent a lifetime among rocks and minerals. His eyes twinkled behind his glasses as he took in the eager crowd. I remember how he carried himself—not with the air of an untouchable academic, but with the warmth of a teacher who genuinely loved sharing his knowledge.
That night, Pearl discussed Colorado's mineral resources, mentioning gold, silver, and gemstones. He recounted his explorations across the state, his voice filled with the reverence one reserves for old friends. And, of course, he had stories—about prospectors who stumbled upon mineral deposits, about the science behind some of those deposits, and the wonder they inspired.
When he finished, the room erupted in applause. Questions came eagerly, and he answered each with patience, his enthusiasm never waning. Someone asked about his book, Colorado Gem Trails and Mineral Guide, and he chuckled, admitting that even after years of research, there were always new discoveries waiting.
        Afterward, as members gathered around to show him their latest finds, he examined each specimen with genuine interest. He treated every piece—whether an exquisite amazonite or a simple smoky quartz crystal—with the same respect, making each person feel their curiosity was as valuable as the specimens themselves. In my memory, this night with Pearl sparkled like an open geode.
        That night, Pearl left me with more than knowledge. He inspired me with a renewed sense of wonder, confirming that the study of the Earth’s riches can fuel a life-long pursuit of knowledge and curiosity. As he shook my hand before departing, I couldn’t help but feel that I had not just met an expert—I had met a kindred spirit, one who understood why I searched for beauty revealed in rocks and minerals.

Finding Zircons in North Cheyenne Cañon

By Steven Wade Veatch

A long-forgotten Colorado Springs rockhounding memory reawakened for me as I looked at a vintage postcard (figure 1) that shows the crossroads of High Drive and the Colorado Springs and Cripple Creek District Railroad, also known as the Short Line Railroad. It was just a short distance from here that I had stepped away from my motorcycle to take a deeper look at the area. On the edge of a steep slope, the shape of some crystals leaped to eye and mind.

Figure 1. Intersection of High Drive and the Short Line railroad.
Note buggy tracks on High Drive.  Postcard from the collection of S. W. Veatch.

I thought about the rich history of the area. Workers completed the Short Line in 1901. Today, the Gold Camp Road follows the old route of the railroad as it winds its way up the mountain to the goldfields of Cripple Creek. Both the Short Line and High Drive were used to access the Bruin Inn (figure 2), which was located near Helen Hunt Falls. 

Figure 2. Bruin Inn (circa 1910) located at the base of Helen Hunt Falls in North Cheyenne Cañon Park. Built in 1881, it was originally intended to be the home of Edward Payson Tenney, then-President of Colorado College. Over time, it became a popular tourist attraction. It burned down in 1957. Postcard from the collection of S. W. Veatch.

General William Jackson Palmer, founder of Colorado Springs, commissioned the construction of the High Drive in 1903 as a scenic carriage route. Gold Camp Road follows the old Short Line Railroad between Colorado Springs and Cripple Creek. The railroad went bankrupt in 1919. W. D. Corley purchased the line in 1922, removed the rails, and converted the right-of-way to a toll road (known as the Corley Mountain Highway) for cars in 1926. 

Figure 3. The red arrow on the topographic map shows the intersection shown in figure 1.
The post card photo was taken a short distance north of Helen Hunt Falls and the Bruin Inn. 

In March 1982, I was riding my Yamaha all-terrain motorcycle with a rock-hunting friend, Jerry Odom, who was also on a motorcycle. I was working for 7-Eleven then, and had the day off. Jerry was an officer with the Colorado Springs Police Department. We rode past the intersection of High Drive and the Gold Camp Road, continued on the Gold Camp Road, and entered North Cheyenne Cañon, a 1,000-feet-deep cut into the billion-year-old granite. With its hidden geological wonders, the area has long been a treasure trove for gem and mineral hunters. We did not make it far, as the road was soon filled with snow and we had to stop. We turned our motorcycles around and then stepped off of them to stretch our legs. 

Figure 4. View of the Corley Mountain Highway, now known as the Gold Camp Road,
on the southwest side of Colorado Springs. Postcard from the S. W. Veatch collection.

We lost the sun as it sank below the canyon rim. Shadows lengthened as the afternoon moved on, and the air was cold. Some snowflakes under a pine tree swirled about on a lofting breeze. Below, a stream flowed over immensities of time and through cycles of erosion and deposition.

I looked at the ground and saw, next to the road, near the edge of the canyon, a hunk of Pikes Peak granite that had been broken loose by a road grader. I noticed that it had a long cavity running through it. I looked a little closer and found crystals that resembled two tiny Egyptian pyramids that had been glued together. I had stumbled on a pocket of zircon crystals!

The discovery of the zircon crystals’ unique shapes among the granite rocks was exciting—a moment of wonder that linked me to Earth’s ancient past. These reddish-brown crystals held a billion years of history, adding deep time to my early spring adventure. The excitement continued beyond the discovery as we rode back down the mountain and then into Colorado Springs. 

Collectors continue to find zircons at a half-dozen sites in the area. At the nearby Eureka mine— where prospecting is more intentional—collectors use a black light in the dark tunnel that causes  zircons to fluoresce a vibrant yellow, making them easy to find.

Figure 5. Zircon crystals. From the L. Canini collection

Figure 6. Zircon crystals. From the L. Canini collection

Figure 7. Zircon crystals under a black light. From the L. Canini collection.

Figure 8. Zircon specimen from the North Cheyenne Cañon, El Paso County, Colorado.
Courtesy of the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. DMNS
 EGM.10328.

This is an experience that I vividly remember nearly 44 years later. It is just one of many adventures for me hunting for rocks, minerals, and fossils in the Pikes Peak region. For both expert geologists and amateur rock collectors, finding a zircon crystal sparks a passion for rockhounding and searching for local mineral treasures that are part of El Paso County’s rich geological heritage.

Acknowledgments: 

The author thanks Eric Swab for his assistance with this manuscript. Bob Carnein improved this manuscript. Many thanks to his years and years of editing my work.

A Florissant Fossil for the White City

 

by

Steven Wade Veatch

 The “Big Stump” at Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument, Colorado is one of the larger petrified stumps exposed in the Monument: it measures 3.6 meters tall and is 3.7 meters in diameter at breast height (Meyer, 2003). This solitary petrified stump is all that remains of a tree that was more than 60 meters tall when a volcanic mudflow (lahar) buried its base during the late Eocene.

Figure 1. This postcard, ca. 1894, shows a wooden framework
built around Big Stump. From the E. Simmons collection.

Big Stump is similar to the modern Sequoia (redwood) and is the type specimen described by Andrews in 1936 for Sequoioxylon pearsallii. An often-confusing aspect of paleobotany is that different organs (e.g., wood and leaves) that belong to the same living species are sometimes preserved isolated and unattached, in the fossil record. Therefore, it can be difficult to prove that they belonged to the same living species. For that reason they are sometimes given different names as fossils. At Florissant, Sequoioxylon pearsallii is the name assigned to the fossil wood and Sequoia affinis is the name for cones and foliage. They likely belonged to the same species of tree when they were living, but this cannot be proven unless these organs can be found attached in the same fossil. Philosophies differ, however, and in 1953 MacGinitie placed Sequoioxylon pearsallii into synonymy with Sequoia affinis. (Synonymy in the fossil record refers to the situation where two or more scientific names have been applied to the same fossil taxon.)

The Big Stump has been depicted in early photographs and postcards that date back to the late 1890s. Geologist Arthur Lakes, on an early expedition to the area with paleontologist Samuel Scudder, marked the location of a "petrified forest" on his original watercolor map in 1878—the general area where Big Stump is situated.

Figure 2. A broken and rusted saw blade remains wedged
in Big Stump from an attempt to cut it into sections and ship it to
Chicago for the World’s Fair. Image date 2003 by S. Veatch.

There was once a local effort to send this incredible fossilized tree stump to the World's Columbian Exposition (The Chicago World's Fair) of 1893. A plan was made in 1890 to remove the stump, transport it to Chicago by rail, and then rebuild it at the fair. Fortunately, the attempt to remove Colorado's prized fossil was unsuccessful. As it happened, the workmen’s saw blades became permanently wedged in the fossil wood. The plans to send Florissant’s famous stump to the Columbian Exposition were then quickly abandoned.

The World’s Columbian Exposition, one of the greatest cultural events of the nineteenth century, was named in honor of Christopher Columbus and celebrated the 400th anniversary of his arrival in the New World.

Figure 3. This ticket admitted the bearer into the World’s Columbian Exposition
in Chicago, a landmark event in American history and culture.
From the Michele Veatch Collection. 

Thousands were employed in the development of 633 acres of fairgrounds and the construction of 200 buildings in Chicago’s Jackson Park. Many of the fair buildings were located along constructed waterways fed by Lake Michigan. The Court of Honor buildings (14 main buildings) were covered in white stucco. Visitors, after seeing these white buildings, began to call this the White City. After three years of planning and building, and at a cost of twenty-eight million dollars, President Cleveland opened the fair on May 1, 1893. Ticket prices were 50 cents for adults and 25 cents for children.

Visitors to the Columbian Exposition enjoyed more than 65,000 exhibits and attractions. The fair contained many marvels and introduced Americans and the world to picture postcards, carbonated soda, hamburgers, and a gigantic wheel (built by George W. Ferris Jr.) that visitors could ride. The fair also introduced the nation to the Pledge of Allegiance and a new holiday—Columbus Day.

Figure 4. View of the Colorado building at the
World’s Columbian Exposition. Stacks of petrified wood
appear to be on either side of the entrance
to this building. Photo from the Michele Veatch Collection.

Most of the states and territories had exhibits at the fair, including Colorado. The Colorado building had a wide variety of displays from the Centennial State. If Big Stump had been cut and quarried into sections, the Colorado building would have been a likely destination. Colorado Day was celebrated September 12 at the fair without Big Stump—Colorado’s famous fossil remained at the Florissant Fossil Beds, intact. Although Big Stump did not make it to the Columbian Exposition, other Colorado fossils probably made it to the fair, perhaps even fossils from Florissant. (See note below.)

Figure 5. Fortunately, Big Stump did not make it to the
White City but remains for visitors to the Monument
to enjoy. Image date 2003 by S. Veatch.

By its closing date on October 30, 1893, more than 27 million people had visited the White City. If Big Stump had been removed and displayed at the fair, this oddity of nature would have been lost. This magnificent fossil is now protected by the National Park Service, and visitors to the Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument can view Big Stump in its geologic setting.

 Note: Some photos of the Colorado building depict stacks of petrified wood by the entrance. Because the Big Stump didn’t reach the Columbian Exhibition, I think this petrified wood is from Florissant. I contacted the Field Museum to see if they still had some of this petrified wood. The Earth science curator said they had some unidentified petrified wood in the basement. I went to the Field Museum, met the curator, and examined this petrified wood. It was not fossil wood from Florissant. The origin of this wood in the museum’s basement is unknown. The wood in old photos of the Colorado Building might have come from Florissant and is no longer at the museum. We may never really know what became of the fossil wood in the photos or where it originally came from.

Acknowledgements

            I thank Bob Carnein for improving this manuscript. I also benefited from many discussions of the Big Stump with park ranger Jeff Wolin. I dedicate this article to him.

References and further reading:

Andrews, H.N., 1936. A new Sequoioxylon from Florissant, Colorado. Annals of the Missouri Botanical Garden 23 (3): 439-446.

MacGinitie, H.D. 1953. Fossil Plants of the Florissant Beds, Colorado. Carnegie Institution of Washington Publication 599:1-198.

Meyer, H.W., 2003. The Fossils of Florissant, Smithsonian Books, Washington, D.C., 258 p.

 

 

Wicked Cripple Creek District: A Book Review

Wicked Cripple Creek District. By Jan MacKell Collins. History Press: Charleston, SC. 2024. 176 pages with black and white photographs. Paperback.

Book Review by Steven Wade Veatch

There are dozens upon dozens of histories written about Colorado’s most famous mining district, Cripple Creek. What sets MacKell Collins' Wicked Cripple Creek District apart from the others is that it pulls back the curtain on the scandalous and shadowy history of the district. Collins masterfully describes, in richly detailed storytelling, the Cripple Creek district’s wicked ways, recounting the lives of its infamous inhabitants: saloon keepers whose establishments pulsed with raucous music, miners whose days were filled with the clang of picks and the scent of dynamite, brothel madams whose hushed whispers held secrets, gamblers whose fortunes rose and fell with the roll of the dice, conmen whose slick words could charm any victim, and lawmen whose badges couldn’t always keep the peace in the ever-expanding gold rush of Cripple Creek and the other towns of the district.

The book examines Cripple Creek’s wild side and delves the district’s dark past, including crime, exploitation, and the hardships of living in a gold camp. Yet, the author also points out the tenacity and drive of those who came to Cripple Creek to pursue riches and independence. Balancing historical accuracy and storytelling skill, her writing creates an engaging book for everyone, from history enthusiasts to casual readers.

What sets this book apart is Collins' ability to weave a tapestry of little-known stories from this period. Using firsthand accounts, historical records, newspaper clippings, and historic photos she intensely portrays the district’s darker side. The bittersweet tales of hardship and loss woven into the author’s narratives are a poignant reminder of lives lived on the edge. She directly addresses the racy tales and complex lives of the women in the mining camps’ red-light districts.

Central to the Wicked Cripple Creek District’s appeal is its focus on the human stories that make up its historical foundation. A saloon in Cripple Creek was the scene of the town’s first murder in 1892—and this was only the town’s second year—when Charles Hudspeth, following an argument in the Iron Clad Dance Hall, took a shot at the bartender but missed, hitting the piano player instead, killing him. By then shadows clung to the corners of the district’s streets, whispering danger from dance halls, saloons, and the brothels that lined them.

More mayhem and murders followed. The Victor Hotel was the scene of a robbery in 1894, just months after it opened. The fatal shooting of railroad superintendent Richard Newell stemmed from a heated construction right-of-way dispute.

In 1896, a quarrel broke out between Otto Floto and Jennie Larue, a prostitute living in the cramped confines of a second-floor apartment in Cripple Creek’s Central Dance Hall. A fire broke out in their apartment, spread, and burned part of downtown Cripple Creek. Three years later (1899), Jennie Thompson was cleaning a garment with gasoline in the Victor shack she lived in. Her careless smoking ignited the fumes, resulting in a fire that ravaged a section of Victor.

Collins describes the sad story of Mexican Jennie and how her abusive blacksmith husband, Philip Roberts Jr., filled her life with the constant sounds of his rage, while he browbeat fear into her heart until she reached her breaking point. Then, on Christmas night, 1913, inside the walls of their Poverty Gulch shack, she shot Roberts dead. The cold steel of her gun was a stark contrast to the festive season. Collins includes a photograph of the quilt Jennie painstakingly sewed in prison—a visual autobiography stitched with love, loss, and hope; a testament to her spirit: each square a memory, each stitch a story.

A more unusual story recounts how the miner John McEachern plotted to defraud insurance companies and fake his own death in a mining accident. To perpetrate his scam, he used the corpse of Bob Speed (which would eventually be buried three times) as a substitute for his body.

Jan MacKell Collins has meticulously researched and vividly written this new account of the Cripple Creek mining district, bringing its wicked inhabitants to life and preserving their stories so that the reader can almost smell the perfume of the district’s love workers, see the gamblers’ sly faces as they bet, and hear the honkytonk saloon music play. Wicked Cripple Creek District is a must-read for anyone interested in Colorado mining history and the wicked side of a mining district. Collins brings to life the bright dance halls and shadowed alleyways, capturing the spirit of a time and place where fortunes were made and lives unraveled.

Rating: 4.8/5 prospector picks