The Front Row Perspective: Remembering John Harrington

Some people enter your life with a quiet gravity, pulling you into their orbit through shared curiosity and a steady presence. For me, that person was Colorado Springs Mineralogical Society (CSMS) member John Harrington.

I first noticed John at CSMS meetings in the 1980s. In a room full of hobbyists and experts, John was a fixture in the front row. A retired Air Force veteran and a skilled draftsman by trade, he brought precision to his passion for the Earth. He didn’t just listen; he leaned in, his eyes locked on the speaker, absorbing every detail of the lecture before inevitably raising his hand to ask the pointed, insightful questions that only come from someone truly paying attention.

Our friendship took root quickly, anchored by a monthly ritual at Maggie’s Restaurant on Pikes Peak Avenue. John was a man of consistency—he’d order a Coors and a bowl of chili every single time. As the steam rose from our bowls, the geologic map of Colorado expanded through his stories.

Between sips of beer, he’d tell me about the family farms in Michigan where he grew up and his "eye" for the Earth was first developed. He described how the plows would turn up more than just soil, unearthing Indian artifacts and coral fossils hidden in the glacial till. It was there, as a teenager standing in a sand blowout with his first arrowhead in hand, that his "front row" journey truly began.

When the local library couldn’t tell him enough about the craftsmanship of those points, he taught himself the art of flintknapping. John told me that in 1957 he enlisted in the U.S. Air Force, starting a career that spanned over twenty years and took him across the globe. Despite his travels, his passion for ancient crafts never waned. He once told me about a 1959 issue of Natural History magazine he’d found while serving in the Air Force; it contained the most sophisticated diagrams of stone tools he’d ever seen. He kept that same tattered issue as a reference for the rest of his life, carrying the lessons he learned at twenty into his seventies. As a Navy veteran myself, I found a kinship in his Air Force background; we shared a language of military service and endless stories.

John’s journey is a testament to the power of curiosity, transforming a childhood hobby into a sophisticated, lifelong pursuit of a dedicated study of geology, paleontology, archaeology, flintknapping, and photography.

A Masterclass in the Field

John’s lessons were not confined to the booth at Maggie's; he wanted to show me the stories of rocks and fossils in the field. He became my guide to the hidden corners of Colorado Springs. He led me to the ancient petroglyphs etched into the sandstone at Garden of the Gods. A few miles beyond the old Sears store on Highway 115, he showed me ripple marks from ancient shores preserved in stone, along with dinosaur tracks, and unusual sedimentary structures resembling "inverted streams," or casts of ancient stream channels that are captured in positive relief in the sandstone.

Figure 1. A view of the site off highway 115 reveals the full scale of this geological marvel, showing the dinosaur tracks and ripple marks as they scale the vertical sandstone wall. From this distance, the rhythmic pattern of the ripples and the steady path of the prints highlight the incredible transformation of this ancient shoreline into a towering, nearly vertical rock face. Photo date 2008 by S. W. Veatch.

Figure 2. These inverted structures defy traditional logic, leaving experts locked in a heated debate over their origin. There’s nothing quite like hearing world-class geologists clash over a mystery this big. To find the truth, we’re heading back into the field for more answers. Photo date 2008 by S. W. Veatch.

Figure 3. This close-up reveals the structures shown in the image are offset by “mini faults” that formed during Laramide deformation of the beds. Who would know all of this was just down the road from the old Sears Southgate store? Photo date 2008 by S. W. Veatch.

Figure 4. This displaced block of sandstone reveals something that has segmented joints (none are equidistant), perhaps an ancient fossil plant. Photo date 2008 by S. W. Veatch.

I remember a trip of the CSMS Fossil Study Group that John led with the same quiet authority he used to describe a map. We assembled one special morning on Rampart Range Road. John began to tell us what we would find and how to collect the specimens. It was as quiet as a comma as John spoke. At this spot, the Lower Pennsylvanian Glenn Eyrie Formation stands exposed like the end of a tattered history book. Most of us arrived with heavy rock hammers, ready to bash our way into the 320-million-year-old stone. But John stopped us. He knew this layer—a fragile remnant of a prehistoric sea—required a different approach to collecting specimens.

Under his guidance, we traded steel for straw. I watched as the group followed his lead, kneeling in the dirt with whisk brooms. It was a masterclass in patience; by meticulously brushing the weathered surfaces, we revealed the intricate skeletons of ancient sea urchins (echinoids) nestled in the shale. Because of John’s insistence on appropriate care and stratigraphic detail, we recovered the fossils with their fine spines and plates intact—delicate treasures that a hammer would have turned to dust. 

Figure 5. This spine fragment (15 mm in length) once attached to the tubercle of a sea urchin was unearthed from the Glen Eyrie Formation by John Harrington. These specimens were everywhere you dusted with a whisk broom. Fossils popped up all over the place! Photo by John Harrington. Date unknown.

If the Rampart Range was a lesson in micro-patience, our next adventure required a macro-lens from the sky. Our most ambitious expedition yet involved chartering a small plane to study the Tepee Buttes—rugged, conical hills formed by ancient methane seeps—from the air.

Figure 6. The propeller is about to spin, and the energy is electric at this small plane being readied at the Colorado Springs airport! John Harrington, seen waving enthusiastically on the left, is gearing up for a high-stakes aerial reconnaissance flight organized by Steven Veatch. This mission is all about capturing the rugged beauty of the Tepee Buttes in El Paso County from a breathtaking bird's-eye view. Standing alongside John are the expert pilot and a fellow photographer, both ready to brave the skies. Veatch is already in the plane. The single-engine aircraft is on the tarmac, moments away from roaring down the runway and into the wild blue yonder. For Veatch and Harrington, the adventure is just beginning. Photo date 2005 by S. W. Veatch.

Scheduling flights with John required a keen eye on the Colorado sky. We blocked out several early morning windows, hoping to catch Pikes Peak when the "Purple Mountain Majesties" were bathed in a crisp, golden hue (plus when the low sun brought out the shapes of the Tepee Buttes), and in quiet air before the afternoon thermal turbulence rolled off the peaks. But the most memorable part of the trip happened before we even left the tarmac.

Figure 7. Rising abruptly from the plains east of Interstate 25, between Colorado Springs and Pueblo, Colorado, are cone-shaped hills of limestone and shale known as the Tepee Buttes.  These distinctive features formed by carbonate precipitation around spring vents on the sea floor during the Late Cretaceous Epoch — between 75 and 76 million years ago. Photo date 2000 by S. Veatch.

Figure 8. Low oblique view of Tepee Buttes aligned along a fault.  Fault zones control the placement of the buttes, with butte fields commonly aligned in clusters along block faults or fracture zones formed during the Laramide uplift. These buttes near Boone, Colorado (32 kilometers east of Pueblo) mark sites where methane-rich fluids seeped out of the seafloor.   The airplane used for the project was a Cessna 172 P, flown over the site high enough to capture the target in a single frame.  Photo date 2000 by S. Veatch.

The plane was a tiny, cramped thing, and the cockpit door seemed to be designed for someone half our size. As I watched the pilot turn and help maneuver our gear, I wondered how John was going to manage the climb. He didn't complain, and he certainly didn't ask for a larger plane. He simply looked at the narrow opening, looked at me, and with a deadpan expression, unstrapped his prosthetic leg.

He handed the limb to me as if he were handing over a spare camera lens. While the pilot sat speechless, John hoisted himself into a back seat and buckled up, ready for the mission. To him, it wasn't a "disability" or a dramatic moment; it was just a practical solution to a spatial problem.

Once we cleared the runway, we banked west, leaving the Springs behind and headed for the sprawling open-pit mines of Cripple Creek and the legendary "Bone Wars" territory of Garden Park. From the air, the Morrison Formation—famous for Stegosaurus and Allosaurus fossils—revealed itself in long, colorful ribbons of earth that you simply can't appreciate from the ground.

Legacy of Curiosity

John’s influence on my life eventually spilled over the edges of our geologic maps. He pulled me into the Colorado Archaeology Society, sparking a fascination with the human story that rivals my love for the fossils themselves. In exchange, I took him to the water’s edge—a shoreline, substituting the dig site's dust for the tranquil setting of a trout-filled lake for a fishing trip.

John was there for one of my milestones, too. When I received my MS in Earth Science from Emporia State University, I looked out at my graduation party at the Garden of the Gods and saw John. He had a front-row seat and was a proud witness to a journey he had helped cultivate—a navigator who had seen me through the turbulence of hard study and helped me find my own "Purple Mountain Majesties."

John passed away a few years ago, but his presence is woven into the landscape. I feel it whenever I pass a familiar outcrop or feel the serrated edge of a Jurassic dinosaur tooth or look at fossils. He taught me that being a student of the world doesn't end with a career or retirement; it is a lifelong commitment to learning.

I still remember him best this way: a cold Coors, a steaming bowl of chili, endless conversation, and a mind that never stopped searching for the "why" behind the horizon. He showed me that no matter how much you think you know, there is always a reason to keep your eyes locked on the program speaker and make sure you get a seat in the front row.

Acknowledgments: I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Bob Carnein for his meticulous review and insightful comments on this paper. His expertise and thorough feedback were instrumental in refining the technical accuracy of the manuscript. Any improvements in the clarity and depth of this work are due in large part to his generous assistance.

Whispers from Deep Time: My Quest for Dinosaur Eggs

 By Steven Wade Veatch

             Forget the colossal dinosaur skeletons, the giants of paleontology. For me, the real, heart-stopping treasures are fossilized dinosaur eggs. They're not just relics; they're delicate, astonishingly scarce snapshots of these prehistoric reptiles. Composed of fragile crystals, an eggshell is a miracle that survived eons of geological forces. This inherent fragility makes any find a momentous occasion, especially those shells from the Jurassic Period.

My journey in search of fossils led to the Morrison Formation, which crops out over a vast area in Colorado. Though famed for its giant sauropods, it unexpectedly coughed up a critical piece of the paleontological puzzle: at least six different spots containing both Jurassic eggshells and whole eggs, a true rarity for a time period between 155 to 148 million years ago. As one of the world’s premier Late Jurassic fossil sites, the Garden Park Fossil Area yielded the first discovered remains of iconic dinosaurs like Stegosaurus, Diplodocus, and Allosaurus. It famously served as a primary battleground for the 'Bone Wars,' the legendary 19th-century rivalry between paleontologists Othniel Charles Marsh and Edward Drinker Cope.

The local action centered in the Garden Park Fossil area of Fremont County, Colorado. The whole thing kicked off in 1991, when Kenneth Carpenter of the Denver Museum of Natural History found a well-preserved eggshell fragment while collecting fossil snails (Hirsh 1994). That initial find paved the way for more fragments and eventually led paleontologists to the site that became the focus of scientific inquiry: Egg Gulch (Figure 1.).

Figure 1. General location of Egg Gulch in Garden Park, north and west of Cañon City, Colorado. 

At Egg Gulch, weathering and relentless erosion had stripped away layers of rock, revealing ancient eggshell fragments scattered across a rugged, 10-meter slope (Figure 2.). The presence of tiny fossilized freshwater plants called charophytes established the site's age as early Kimmeridgian (157.3 to 152.1 million years ago), making it the oldest dinosaur eggshell site in North America (Alf, 1998).

Figure 2. Under a brilliant spring sky, the crack team of volunteers from the Dinosaur Depot and the author are in the field, exploring Egg Gulch and painstakingly unearthing rare Jurassic dinosaur eggshells. This 1998 trip followed several years after the discovery of the nest. The Bureau of Land Management protects this area. You can’t dig here or take anything without a permit. We had such a permit as the collection of these fragments was for scientific purposes. Photo date 1998 by S. W. Veatch.

The initial surface collection in the early 90s produced hundreds of shell pieces. But the biggest prize was the discovery of an embryonic dinosaur bone at Egg Gulch—proof that life and death had played out right here (Alf, 1998). An entire nest of eggs was collected there (Figure 3).

Figure 3. Dinosaur egg clutch from Garden Park, Colorado. Now on exhibit at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science.  Photo date 1997 by S. W. Veatch.

In 1989, after the dinosaur nest with eggs was found, I was part of a field party from Cañon City’s Dinosaur Depot (Figure 2.). We wanted to see if we could find something new. It was time to get serious. I felt the true weight of that when I visited Egg Gulch.

We couldn't just aimlessly wander; we implemented a systematic approach to finding eggshells by spreading out and working our way up the slope, much like a TV search party looking for evidence at a crime scene. The fragments were larger and more concentrated closer to their source. Each shell fragment was bottled and meticulously labeled. I noticed the fragments were mostly concentrated on the flat areas and small ravines, washed out during intermittent rainstorms.

I remember finding my first piece of eggshell. I froze, the heat of the summer day instantly forgotten, my breath catching in my throat as I peered into the deep, spiky shadow cast by a cactus. My heart hammered a prehistoric rhythm against my ribs. There, nestled right against the face of a sandstone outcrop, was not just another bleached pebble, but something impossibly rare and ancient: a tiny, curved shard of a shell. Its color resembled that of a black crow’s wing mixed with desert dust, while its faintly bumpy texture hinted at something hidden beneath. With trembling fingers, I carefully plucked the Jurassic dinosaur eggshell fragment from its hiding place, feeling a silent, electric surge connecting me to a world ruled by thunderous giants, a treasure that had patiently waited, buried under the silent sun, for 150 million years.

Back in the lab, the shells underwent rigorous microscopic analysis. Radial thin sections, viewed under polarized light, showed the internal architecture, and highlighted that most fragments were heavily eroded. Lab technicians also used a technique called cathodoluminescence (CL), which causes the material to emit light when exposed to an electron beam (Alf, 1998; Boggs, & Krinsley, 2006; Götze, 2012; Götze, Plötze, & Habermann, 2001; Marshall, 1988; Pagel, Barbin, Blanc, & Ohnenstatter, 2000). This showed that the original shell material in some fragments had been replaced by silica.

Figure 4. Microscopic cross-section of a Jurassic dinosaur eggshell recovered at the Egg Gulch locality. According to Alf (1998) laboratory analysis revealed extensive recrystallization and diagenetic alteration in several shell samples. Siliceous replacement likely occurred as a result of the decomposition of the shells' organic matter. Photo courtesy of the Dinosaur Depot. 

Because it is not known which species laid the eggs, paleontologists use an artificial classification system called parataxonomy. The most common eggshell type was assigned to the family Prismatoolithidae, and named Prismatoolithus coloradensis (Hirsch,1994).  I also found a second, rarer, very thin dinosaur eggshell that was too altered to classify.

Remarkably, the Egg Gulch shell structure is similar to the Orodromeus eggshell from Cretaceous sites. Orodromeus was an ornithopod (bird-hipped) dinosaur. In the Garden Park area, the only known ornithopods are Dryosaurus and Othnelia. All the evidence points to one of these two as the likely parent of the P. coloradensis eggs.

 

Figure 5. Discovering Jurassic age dinosaur eggshell fragments right on the surface of the Morrison Formation is incredibly exciting because these delicate, ancient remnants offer a rare, tangible link to the reproductive lives of the prehistoric reptiles that once roamed this landscape. It's a thrill to realize that just by walking across these rocks, you're picking up direct evidence of where a dinosaur mother may have nested over 150 million years ago. Photo date 2023 by S. W. Veatch.

Collecting these rare Jurassic dinosaur eggshells marked a highlight of my summer’s fieldwork. The dinosaur eggshells unlocked a story of multiple nesting seasons and preservation, all providing invaluable data on a globally scarce fossil resource. The resulting story provides a tangible connection to life 150 million years ago, a whisper from the past made loud by patient, detailed science.

 

Figure 6. Nodular patterns or ornamentation, as seen in this image, is primarily hypothesized to have served in functions like shell strengthening, and may have also been related to respiratory gas exchange through specialized pore arrangements. Photo date 2023 by S. W. Veatch.

Acknowledgments:

            Some of the information presented in this report was gained from a number of field trips undertaken by the author to the Garden Park Fossil Area and from former Dinosaur Depot personnel Donna Engard, curator, and Phil Wilder, program coordinator. The author is grateful to Bob Carnein for his thoughtful suggestions and insightful review of an earlier version of this manuscript, which led to significant improvements. Special thanks are also due to Sawyer Blizard for creating the accompanying map and for sharing valuable time on-site examining and discussing Jurassic age dinosaur eggshells.

References and further reading:

Alf, K, 1998. Preliminary study of an eggshell site in the Morrison Formation of Colorado: Modern Geology, Vol. 23, Part 2., pp 241-248.

Boggs, S., Jr., & Krinsley, D. H. 2006. Application of cathodoluminescence imaging to the study of sedimentary rocks. Cambridge University Press.

Carpenter, K., pers. comm.: Department of Earth Sciences, Denver Museum of Natural History, March 17, 1999, (telephone interview).

Götze, J., Plötze, M., & Habermann, D., 2001. Origin, spectral characteristics and practical applications of the cathodoluminescence (CL) of quartz — a review. Mineralogy and Petrology, 71(3-4), 225–250.

Götze, J. 2012. Application of cathodoluminescence microscopy and spectroscopy in geosciences. Microscopy and Microanalysis, 18(6), 1270–1284. 

Hirsch, K.F., 1994. Eggshells from the Western Interior of North America.  In Carpenter, K., K.F. Hirsch, and J.R. Horner, eds, 1994, Dinosaur Eggs and Babies:  New York:  Cambridge University Press, pp. 137 – 150.

Marshall, D. J., 1988. Cathodoluminescence of geological materials. Unwin Hyman.

Pagel, M., Barbin, V., Blanc, P., & Ohnenstatter, D. (Eds.). 2000. Cathodoluminescence in geosciences. Springer-Verlag.

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.