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Thursday, Oct 10, 4 pm EST

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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.

 

Beyond the Lab: A Scientist's Meditation on a Poem

 By Steven Wade Veatch

There are many ways to view and understand our world. Science provides theories, psychology probes human nature, philosophy ponders reality, religion shapes faith, and literature offers insight. Poetry, on the other hand, shines light into our lives, and reveals essential truths.

Poetry inspires me; it is one way I experience and know the world. Poetry’s charged words make the speeding bullet of my life slow down so that I can enjoy the best parts of living.

One of my favorite poems is the sonnet “Ozymandias” that Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote in 1818, when Egyptian archaeology was in its infancy. Ozymandias is the Greek name for Ramses II, arguably one of the greatest Egyptian Pharaohs. Ramses II erected magnificent statues of himself to ensure his immortality. The text of Shelly’s sonnet follows:

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

‘My name is Ozymandias King of Kings;

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Ozymandias, the Greek name for the Pharaoh Ramesses II (r. 1279–1213 BC), was a sonnet written by the English poet Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822).
The Examiner of London first published it in 1818.
Image made through Bing AI Image Creator.

Shelley’s poem contains the message about the decay of empires over time. Ozymandias represents despotism and tyranny. The crumbling, ancient statue of Ozymandias underscores the fact that power and glory are brief—they do not last; even though the “shattered” face of Ozymandias, with his “sneer of cold command,” his “wrinkled lip,” and his “frown” survived through the millennia, the great Egyptian Pharaoh no longer commands anyone.

The poem is also about the fleeting nature of life, fame, and fortune. “Ozymandias” shows the ephemerality of our existence and what survives, what fades, and what vanishes.

Through the poem, I sense the endless desert. Where sand reaches in all directions around “that colossal wreck, boundless and bare.” Time has no bounds, every person is its subject. With Ozymandias, the passing of time took its toll on him and his kingdom, leaving a crumbling, lifeless statue drenched in silence, gripped by parching heat, and surrounded by somber swirling sands.

Everything is gone. Gone. The sculptor who made the statue is gone, Ozymandias is gone, and the traveler, seeing the ruins, is gone.

Shelley’s poem pushes me to consider what is left and what is not; what is important and what is not. The sobering thought of the fate we all share—death, decay, and ultimately ceasing to exist, looms large.

Like science, poetry delivers discovery and brings understanding. Poetry also crafts beauty despite the chaotic landscape on which life plays out.  And through “Ozymandias” I concede the time-bound nature of humanity—knowing that at one point I will disappear from the Earth and be forgotten—and that poem a stark reminder to live for what matters.

Poetry is a pause in my hurried and hectic life—an oasis to find some measure of truth in my journey, even if only for a brief time in the swirling, shifting sands of life.

Note: the author is an Earth scientist and was a volunteer ranger at the Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument, Colorado for many years.