tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31208044930545542862024-02-24T13:46:58.289-07:00Colorado Earth ScienceThis blog explores Colorado (sometimes Michigan) geophenomena by focusing on geology, mineralogy, paleontology, and other related Earth science topics. Gemstone sites in the Pikes Peak region are examined. Dinosaur and other fossils in Colorado are investigated. Essays on Colorado mining and history are on this blog. Sometimes there will be poetry related to Earth science. Copyright by Steven Wade VeatchSteven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.comBlogger110125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-53650953823759702024-01-29T15:49:00.008-07:002024-01-29T15:49:56.694-07:00Rocks in Balance: A Closer Look at the Geological Marvels of Precariously Balanced Rocks<p> By Steven Wade Veatch</p><p>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. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg89GWqi5IK8NspSfLv-FG2ctmRdjj85ZpiKkfkb2X5ShBk7OhPDNyh9NjlZRpaRAHbaDZIV7oSFd9etVvefv3nbAxMsnsAQLwCdDuMxZMJ4teDYzQbtm6c2w14wBmmgfRd6eJzpGvx0trRv9Skad2AxFT79XKMsHwGBqgaQg5ah8kKpw5b-E35jsERNnE/s967/image001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="967" data-original-width="726" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg89GWqi5IK8NspSfLv-FG2ctmRdjj85ZpiKkfkb2X5ShBk7OhPDNyh9NjlZRpaRAHbaDZIV7oSFd9etVvefv3nbAxMsnsAQLwCdDuMxZMJ4teDYzQbtm6c2w14wBmmgfRd6eJzpGvx0trRv9Skad2AxFT79XKMsHwGBqgaQg5ah8kKpw5b-E35jsERNnE/w300-h400/image001.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTBMG1_s64NbcJ98doNO0OFtBw3FjTd5uiVDmFL_j0QBa6oPSXFweXkyl3-ggKdFZ6WVSSx4858bwjkJhn6C9Po-5AWMKcpGtRIxG8MW5jqq3Xi5F7YlSOxlMnEeRTd3jnCz26r0qeLmImWTD5_pmhDWHu6C_4h8rThEPkA0gIczBvJCSGCiXRo8e_Nc/s1107/image002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="1107" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTBMG1_s64NbcJ98doNO0OFtBw3FjTd5uiVDmFL_j0QBa6oPSXFweXkyl3-ggKdFZ6WVSSx4858bwjkJhn6C9Po-5AWMKcpGtRIxG8MW5jqq3Xi5F7YlSOxlMnEeRTd3jnCz26r0qeLmImWTD5_pmhDWHu6C_4h8rThEPkA0gIczBvJCSGCiXRo8e_Nc/w400-h260/image002.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGLJp64Xde0x34fPzM50ov89OnkLH3aMC6Sf2wE7T6xxK3Gl2tPlUj23WMuL0qUFrKZ0cIZcVNPKdgJ4FOq0Cw7fwrrNTau54B6XlquIL7AMMrU9dW422wxIs4ZcbObJ3bZswRN14dmNidtxVAHRDr9qn0hyNFI-w3fz0E0dj6aLbmeg6WSnMhhn_l08U/s658/image003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="658" data-original-width="419" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGLJp64Xde0x34fPzM50ov89OnkLH3aMC6Sf2wE7T6xxK3Gl2tPlUj23WMuL0qUFrKZ0cIZcVNPKdgJ4FOq0Cw7fwrrNTau54B6XlquIL7AMMrU9dW422wxIs4ZcbObJ3bZswRN14dmNidtxVAHRDr9qn0hyNFI-w3fz0E0dj6aLbmeg6WSnMhhn_l08U/w255-h400/image003.jpg" width="255" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 3. Big Balanced Rock Near Douglas, Arizona. Postcard circa 1948. <br />From the collection of S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyc5KWxZEu2CDkm_VdP1iQ_4ryn2ogB_u4gca7DbrMNplX_YHyGwLeqoBzikTByMsDEtXPfakhTptfZimLVaIs9Xq3tVhCIeWhWyRR14G9_Gi7tcJbn-3BIuyNeUnxlAzMIPwjIRod5NuIbftE_BCCBmNKtyrlHhDBTjL48WVefsqaa-jvuumUQqdcZYQ/s653/image004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="653" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyc5KWxZEu2CDkm_VdP1iQ_4ryn2ogB_u4gca7DbrMNplX_YHyGwLeqoBzikTByMsDEtXPfakhTptfZimLVaIs9Xq3tVhCIeWhWyRR14G9_Gi7tcJbn-3BIuyNeUnxlAzMIPwjIRod5NuIbftE_BCCBmNKtyrlHhDBTjL48WVefsqaa-jvuumUQqdcZYQ/w400-h259/image004.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 4. Balance Rock, Idaho. Postcard circa 1940s. From the collection of S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-aC0dfWLfKdrara9OqV5z05bsgGMYi9HrXEyArjtpPXKUfIL5cAPgNGktvXxDGhuCpoDcBvXC32VeYTfqVlibSQuyW85Em7r-_BtiZqcv5viZ2iaxbl09NVwQNWtISFrx6avwehv5Jo5rye1SJpHJobBA_8_3GaZ6Fndcf-3JcWiPWQDqAlPyExLpS4A/s899/image005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="572" data-original-width="899" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-aC0dfWLfKdrara9OqV5z05bsgGMYi9HrXEyArjtpPXKUfIL5cAPgNGktvXxDGhuCpoDcBvXC32VeYTfqVlibSQuyW85Em7r-_BtiZqcv5viZ2iaxbl09NVwQNWtISFrx6avwehv5Jo5rye1SJpHJobBA_8_3GaZ6Fndcf-3JcWiPWQDqAlPyExLpS4A/w400-h255/image005.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidrKr06Ks_0yLbXbdifRqJ7QblWrKcrwbheM74CPQbVBZqrJ7puhzUxH6GoTMzEkWkF76W_IMHN00N_Da4nFDifW_bhTqNrrF6Q2h9QXqK4czoFyYx1LRPH5XLpBjoUkNWIJthJ8UkuOaSM3sTYDbTJzHCyv-iIH3xHA8EX6L-DCzI_Jb5jatHsiPnupA/s770/image006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="564" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidrKr06Ks_0yLbXbdifRqJ7QblWrKcrwbheM74CPQbVBZqrJ7puhzUxH6GoTMzEkWkF76W_IMHN00N_Da4nFDifW_bhTqNrrF6Q2h9QXqK4czoFyYx1LRPH5XLpBjoUkNWIJthJ8UkuOaSM3sTYDbTJzHCyv-iIH3xHA8EX6L-DCzI_Jb5jatHsiPnupA/w293-h400/image006.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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. <br />From the collection of S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>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. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMLIaycXsz-TRtFWEelo1L-jehXihTPegoJAAREdcP09jtvPLGiANAxmhprI0jiS1YBujzz8TAzYR9UroHqrmKcHJPNvsj4RjkVcJRq-RYFo8D5adfwtlqCOFhiIsEjBLVAlavMrLUsJDIJDjI7rMaTVOM8YnmCebfVquwWcxg4Pib1UzKxbSzifrXulU/s671/image007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="671" data-original-width="503" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMLIaycXsz-TRtFWEelo1L-jehXihTPegoJAAREdcP09jtvPLGiANAxmhprI0jiS1YBujzz8TAzYR9UroHqrmKcHJPNvsj4RjkVcJRq-RYFo8D5adfwtlqCOFhiIsEjBLVAlavMrLUsJDIJDjI7rMaTVOM8YnmCebfVquwWcxg4Pib1UzKxbSzifrXulU/w300-h400/image007.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 7. A sandstone PBR at Garden of the Gods, Colorado Springs, Colorado. <br />Photo date 2020 by L. Canini.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNaUUlS22ijfEDmGAO2fcEqxPGiSRf-frhH_K_pVZnLTQIX_QTrP8qIWOBhMfIbb_oCRZbS1nUvs4-dd5coJaj2SezuBJ4dGcB1QTnQx6aVUOV7c8GHoNy3cjlFa63eGVesWDxrycJSyo6_kGq7bVxVHUKcBY-JLsPQtrwbUAnguekuDVvBFsYCR5vM4E/s578/image008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="434" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNaUUlS22ijfEDmGAO2fcEqxPGiSRf-frhH_K_pVZnLTQIX_QTrP8qIWOBhMfIbb_oCRZbS1nUvs4-dd5coJaj2SezuBJ4dGcB1QTnQx6aVUOV7c8GHoNy3cjlFa63eGVesWDxrycJSyo6_kGq7bVxVHUKcBY-JLsPQtrwbUAnguekuDVvBFsYCR5vM4E/w300-h400/image008.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 8. A sandstone PBR at Red Rocks Open Space, Colorado Springs, Colorado. <br />Photo date 2020 by L. Canini.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg70MF2QuRN83yK1RfRP032vuGQAkVmJz6AN5dZPmORfSdTPht3iTKjoiz84-4T10enqab56k2caJkd-flEtiN_CzzyIXHPP2fZWRJlmenp-VI7TdZFgg-25ATRz2WA6WeIhrlbefKxBd4m7HxgL5INjl11wV4yZkpVWopMr-tTS6zvDcp3Z8lLkForfmk/s666/image009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="666" data-original-width="499" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg70MF2QuRN83yK1RfRP032vuGQAkVmJz6AN5dZPmORfSdTPht3iTKjoiz84-4T10enqab56k2caJkd-flEtiN_CzzyIXHPP2fZWRJlmenp-VI7TdZFgg-25ATRz2WA6WeIhrlbefKxBd4m7HxgL5INjl11wV4yZkpVWopMr-tTS6zvDcp3Z8lLkForfmk/w300-h400/image009.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 9. A sandstone PBR at Garden of the Gods, Colorado Springs, Colorado. <br />Photo date 2020 by L. Canini.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnCzPitcR_ewZ_m4nhM8DxZ15Yz279-JE0dfiOxWVHzdBrgo-I9yJ44V8sMUZBhcPjpGucKKVADx_vMNcE0hgexQvYjeAm05fVz_6bwvwUzzudE1OrCW2rdEkThRuVwG0YwXXWlFZTlvyXq99fUO6q5Q9_vbZDKoGrqYI6LAcDOWpzHDJg76zIOWRj7wM/s739/image010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="739" data-original-width="554" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnCzPitcR_ewZ_m4nhM8DxZ15Yz279-JE0dfiOxWVHzdBrgo-I9yJ44V8sMUZBhcPjpGucKKVADx_vMNcE0hgexQvYjeAm05fVz_6bwvwUzzudE1OrCW2rdEkThRuVwG0YwXXWlFZTlvyXq99fUO6q5Q9_vbZDKoGrqYI6LAcDOWpzHDJg76zIOWRj7wM/w300-h400/image010.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 10. A sandstone PBR at Palmer Park, Colorado Springs, Colorado. <br />Photo date 2020 by L. Canini.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>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). </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5GTK-Rsralho6yccSDBgL59N4zjzOTh7v6LqVq1smoHPq5bKUw3o-xXo9NfEOQKhfAGUyOsZ-ibGlxSZKA-Np93aD5NCJCi89YCmjuC8jeWBjB8Rw7ja7e-yXxqj0IqutpazKQbKZnYsVPDqdf0brwjkkW8KW8pbF5ldu8soXOUr5EalariCJEmqPYJ4/s875/image011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="875" data-original-width="553" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5GTK-Rsralho6yccSDBgL59N4zjzOTh7v6LqVq1smoHPq5bKUw3o-xXo9NfEOQKhfAGUyOsZ-ibGlxSZKA-Np93aD5NCJCi89YCmjuC8jeWBjB8Rw7ja7e-yXxqj0IqutpazKQbKZnYsVPDqdf0brwjkkW8KW8pbF5ldu8soXOUr5EalariCJEmqPYJ4/w253-h400/image011.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9hsOXy11W91TAiPs-83bBBBqd1UtTloRFLtf1S3-pqKbDKfv0bo_LCHiZRaTlCeDQ8gikcZhpF0HpY0fmZpaS8GQdg473OZadPZsbR5ioLKPH1VHH6-ki1VW3PmE6VifdV4O-HDFoSRoOeIJBZzSRDGaIu1AbFIxTk8U-i8VbYFpJ0K_w4feQTTxhKRE/s964/image013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="964" data-original-width="724" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9hsOXy11W91TAiPs-83bBBBqd1UtTloRFLtf1S3-pqKbDKfv0bo_LCHiZRaTlCeDQ8gikcZhpF0HpY0fmZpaS8GQdg473OZadPZsbR5ioLKPH1VHH6-ki1VW3PmE6VifdV4O-HDFoSRoOeIJBZzSRDGaIu1AbFIxTk8U-i8VbYFpJ0K_w4feQTTxhKRE/w300-h400/image013.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 12. A granite PBR. Devils Head area, part of the Rampart Range <br />of the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. Photo date 2020 by L. Canini.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipH5uCVoMWO69XMvF7QcUGhUzYEbY4MvU0P8XYOG-UqjyKmjKIxwUHnB4QdnuTNaLA-86yU5wOjkLlcU2ncL75FP3rlN_bSFFX0gn0fP1r4h-1jz4AnEOVTVEx5wiRmQY9x7DWyUgSxROcNtRuMPSPQdGWzerSaiV3b7Su-sNRVMp19MBCBQw0bMPaoyA/s771/image012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="771" data-original-width="579" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipH5uCVoMWO69XMvF7QcUGhUzYEbY4MvU0P8XYOG-UqjyKmjKIxwUHnB4QdnuTNaLA-86yU5wOjkLlcU2ncL75FP3rlN_bSFFX0gn0fP1r4h-1jz4AnEOVTVEx5wiRmQY9x7DWyUgSxROcNtRuMPSPQdGWzerSaiV3b7Su-sNRVMp19MBCBQw0bMPaoyA/w300-h400/image012.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 13. A PBR perched on granite at the Lake George Community Park, Lake George, Colorado. Photo date 2020 by L. Canini.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvESSZ-NwmA-5xQYy3kPF0DHbVGM98BUuG1G0CcQoTWEGQJDFjWlQmBXb1bor3vhjoYsF0A_xD_jzXN4ispOWRFAWgHO3U_HI9hq0A9sZ-2yewJjo28imyxtmxR9S1CxzUCu1AGm6Sf29j48rMHkkps6JEjrCgmM4hs1eErhzPlkeoTu24Aa96k5Yq6w4/s1141/image014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="855" data-original-width="1141" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvESSZ-NwmA-5xQYy3kPF0DHbVGM98BUuG1G0CcQoTWEGQJDFjWlQmBXb1bor3vhjoYsF0A_xD_jzXN4ispOWRFAWgHO3U_HI9hq0A9sZ-2yewJjo28imyxtmxR9S1CxzUCu1AGm6Sf29j48rMHkkps6JEjrCgmM4hs1eErhzPlkeoTu24Aa96k5Yq6w4/w400-h300/image014.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpPBKtPD7nqEE5Rf4J9XJr03SYNcT3WR6_hfpvjpvDyFJx4SvKWW5_WjLQnSQdH-2nLv07EnRNnxs_BlmuRxFh0QWQm22GrOVHD7desYnE8C72eishxrnuE3NsHN7pz0pcDCLMJdv42W9OCkigvpd27oLJ1uVauD4lFSNzq0F7TI-u2XZ7yacJ5rczK8Y/s600/image015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpPBKtPD7nqEE5Rf4J9XJr03SYNcT3WR6_hfpvjpvDyFJx4SvKWW5_WjLQnSQdH-2nLv07EnRNnxs_BlmuRxFh0QWQm22GrOVHD7desYnE8C72eishxrnuE3NsHN7pz0pcDCLMJdv42W9OCkigvpd27oLJ1uVauD4lFSNzq0F7TI-u2XZ7yacJ5rczK8Y/w400-h266/image015.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>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. </p><p>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). </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_x9FWbnaWJMIJBrYk182nP9LIvopCKqOBkvg-xV766l0RtcgfaQzCmdWDQDw4A9EYzxg7o-1C08cq5-qD2n7f0R8qMZDKAIPSMXEONpi88jluWM5GB6nxfMBdgKGzA5uE1SywQS40svZcLV4Pnx3RD4N_LRDo223HkPE2O5vz2CwVMzoOUS30TtV_1bw/s694/image016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="521" data-original-width="694" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_x9FWbnaWJMIJBrYk182nP9LIvopCKqOBkvg-xV766l0RtcgfaQzCmdWDQDw4A9EYzxg7o-1C08cq5-qD2n7f0R8qMZDKAIPSMXEONpi88jluWM5GB6nxfMBdgKGzA5uE1SywQS40svZcLV4Pnx3RD4N_LRDo223HkPE2O5vz2CwVMzoOUS30TtV_1bw/w400-h300/image016.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 16. A PBR stands as a lonely sentinel in Arches National Park, Utah. <br />Photo date 2013 by S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>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. </p><p>Acknowledgments</p><p>The author greatly appreciates the help of Laura Canini of the Colorado Springs Mineralogical Society, who provided interesting discussions and photos of Colorado PBRs. </p><p>References and Further Reading</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p><br /></p>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-39773449841748734242023-09-18T12:58:00.005-06:002023-10-01T21:08:33.840-06:00Discovering Hidden Treasures: A Journey through Leelanau Peninsula’s Lighthouse West Natural Area<p> By Steven Wade Veatch</p><p>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.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLtM7GM_r1ai6QjfjT42OJN_dEYy8N8p3wXjUz0Jyx0j3fT7k7yfy-mx6L1aFuJcAccamG-VAQswvNQYzBGvFe9xS2ZSk2maD7JOmIyZ6C0n0PrNlHajUeLwcNuOGL4rlW7fLtt5oeDkN25BMS3LtDjG5bqcbQRBalxElCxhuwlc4WNMip9o_2Y1z10i8/s1005/image002.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="1005" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLtM7GM_r1ai6QjfjT42OJN_dEYy8N8p3wXjUz0Jyx0j3fT7k7yfy-mx6L1aFuJcAccamG-VAQswvNQYzBGvFe9xS2ZSk2maD7JOmIyZ6C0n0PrNlHajUeLwcNuOGL4rlW7fLtt5oeDkN25BMS3LtDjG5bqcbQRBalxElCxhuwlc4WNMip9o_2Y1z10i8/w400-h300/image002.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Much of the Lighthouse West Natural Area’s trail goes through dense woodlands. <br />Photo date August 2023 by Shelly Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>First, the trail enters an old orchard with pear and apple trees. Patches of wild raspberries and blackberries are profuse there. </p><p>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.</p><p>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). </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrYa3wyoGkqjxAaLV0isCwBuxCfyQrgg3c3Rc9w_1XfpIfl3HwuLqM5ZbBoolwk7PVDi9UelNyvN7bvgHS1vlX3fXCe-PlqSjLxPS-Yo9KbblUTrxU1bt5TMMADnVVQPZE4SXXEmsM3hbUupD4L_liVpfFx2ksF3b3m-xPLYb-SYWfGc5Usn24GNjGyZ4/s552/image005.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="414" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrYa3wyoGkqjxAaLV0isCwBuxCfyQrgg3c3Rc9w_1XfpIfl3HwuLqM5ZbBoolwk7PVDi9UelNyvN7bvgHS1vlX3fXCe-PlqSjLxPS-Yo9KbblUTrxU1bt5TMMADnVVQPZE4SXXEmsM3hbUupD4L_liVpfFx2ksF3b3m-xPLYb-SYWfGc5Usn24GNjGyZ4/w300-h400/image005.png" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boulders of various sizes, deposited by receding glaciers, <br />are along the stairs and trail. Photo date 2023 by Shelly Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>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. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUCxZXea_Oydy758s_1UXB1QBmscHlEGsuVrrqpeFSw4i8sjOxKnOg7jwZdsI0ckcSKzJFJzTfNNECgxr1oZFBB6OGlqZztmFvH31Jbc3xq-NjLDWe7x0sFfBoa9U8ggsTUAiN8ZM2G86MhEX09gSxEbRhniyKivwZBzBbi8ukWF4Mlg972JUldr8Sd_M/s1431/image008.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1073" data-original-width="1431" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUCxZXea_Oydy758s_1UXB1QBmscHlEGsuVrrqpeFSw4i8sjOxKnOg7jwZdsI0ckcSKzJFJzTfNNECgxr1oZFBB6OGlqZztmFvH31Jbc3xq-NjLDWe7x0sFfBoa9U8ggsTUAiN8ZM2G86MhEX09gSxEbRhniyKivwZBzBbi8ukWF4Mlg972JUldr8Sd_M/w400-h300/image008.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A large boulder or glacial erratic, carried by Ice Age glaciers, <br />was dropped here when the ice melted. The boulder is made of granite. <br />Photo date 2023 by Shelly Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI7ka2ZLNVIDOF3QuYHDCIn81qOpSunzqFGqaiAcSA5O8CDUDH7y2YsUaO4VRzz2lS6C9eZp2CLfSZLJoMpD9EuPRkF_X6FxPtWs4UgLqzxRvRv4FyUckxVIFEQ88Hm0YZn0vVO6w5ZD5_d32ZB-c2p-NIt2920gwAD2eZ-SmJsn_QxbO0umYDqF4hzac/s498/image011.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="354" data-original-width="498" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI7ka2ZLNVIDOF3QuYHDCIn81qOpSunzqFGqaiAcSA5O8CDUDH7y2YsUaO4VRzz2lS6C9eZp2CLfSZLJoMpD9EuPRkF_X6FxPtWs4UgLqzxRvRv4FyUckxVIFEQ88Hm0YZn0vVO6w5ZD5_d32ZB-c2p-NIt2920gwAD2eZ-SmJsn_QxbO0umYDqF4hzac/w400-h284/image011.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Closeup of a freshly broken surface of the large granite erratic. <br />Note garnet phenocryst (approximately 1 cm) circled in red. <br />Photo date 2023 by Shelly Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2Ru3fHfUJRgzbDjkBF1c4aOQlOZM7tAyBqmzuM9Wlujon-_V80wG2jii9uYVC9qWFzNMRTbj1wZGolo2js8CbdGcPTcdq5r1u-92Iy1ZmHmr1zSSBCrL9XfO1f9-bxCsemzMrGAzzqtpzwf448kxphHLCHiZs5mVnVVFacbh-l_PdaYMfkSvFCdk3fc/s780/image014.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="780" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2Ru3fHfUJRgzbDjkBF1c4aOQlOZM7tAyBqmzuM9Wlujon-_V80wG2jii9uYVC9qWFzNMRTbj1wZGolo2js8CbdGcPTcdq5r1u-92Iy1ZmHmr1zSSBCrL9XfO1f9-bxCsemzMrGAzzqtpzwf448kxphHLCHiZs5mVnVVFacbh-l_PdaYMfkSvFCdk3fc/w400-h266/image014.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lake Michigan shoreline is a cobble beach. <br />The boulders and cobbles were released here by melting glaciers. <br />Photo date 2023 by S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNIkZdaKGpZNJGV2EN8hO3tXbJkXz8NONiT7DffEgHZ49QoylpPt0r8YmDxcCmXpL1SGqUvnHgTYQiBD87OZASFmb-vUviVcQKomG2k5RtKItEzUozPph5ywFinzMths0d2RtLlPgFISe1vuPWYrBAq_KUQaissHRSeSgCOM55wbSpjk7JEmHHRQaR_Bs/s1316/image017.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="987" data-original-width="1316" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNIkZdaKGpZNJGV2EN8hO3tXbJkXz8NONiT7DffEgHZ49QoylpPt0r8YmDxcCmXpL1SGqUvnHgTYQiBD87OZASFmb-vUviVcQKomG2k5RtKItEzUozPph5ywFinzMths0d2RtLlPgFISe1vuPWYrBAq_KUQaissHRSeSgCOM55wbSpjk7JEmHHRQaR_Bs/w400-h300/image017.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A large Paleozoic limestone erratic has impressions <br />of coiled ammonoid fossils. Photo date 2023 by S. W. Veatch. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>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. </div><div><div><br /></div><div><u><b>References and further reading</b></u></div><div><br /></div><div>DuFresne, J., 2021, The Trails of M-22, Michigan Trail Maps, Clarkston, MI.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fagan, B., 2009, The Complete Ice Age: How Climate Change Shaped the World, Thames & Hudson, London.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lighthouse West Natural Area Leelanau Conservancy: Retrieved from</div><div>https://leelanauconservancy.org/naturalarea/lighthouse-west-natural-area/ on 08/11/2023.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-34118779272612099832023-08-06T08:34:00.003-06:002023-08-06T08:39:32.520-06:00Bolts of Tragedy: A Teen's Fatal Encounter in the Cripple Creek Mining District<p style="text-align: left;"> <span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">By Steven Wade Veatch</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-no-proof: yes;">Young John Bowen had
lived</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> 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).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_uWOKe-yoAvbmDBnw9D-fNoENafMKVofs8Ler64nMVEo9ok0-nUQKBblKfth1mte1l2-_7LvzD4JbIxgk7ggUnTTpcny1rCjfnBC0MNtf4ZVlDos_ab0KM728GcoQRlzTUf5TNY6nOCghDFf65F8HNKedIya-8bC31wiQvY2t_QpWiB5zqYVPmQyJVmg/s1024/image001.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_uWOKe-yoAvbmDBnw9D-fNoENafMKVofs8Ler64nMVEo9ok0-nUQKBblKfth1mte1l2-_7LvzD4JbIxgk7ggUnTTpcny1rCjfnBC0MNtf4ZVlDos_ab0KM728GcoQRlzTUf5TNY6nOCghDFf65F8HNKedIya-8bC31wiQvY2t_QpWiB5zqYVPmQyJVmg/w400-h400/image001.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A silver mine in Leadville. </b><br />The author created this AI image <br />with the assistance of DALL·E and MS Bing.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">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.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> He passed
by several of the big gold producers (the Burns, Pharmacist, and Zenobia mines)
in the Cripple Creek District.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijOmzSLvTHmZ1sgwMipIym4APvsMx2UuO40aIJFHtTl9UpIK_bQSvkViv3GZAhyIFP71IB5D3qNH1_LuG7Ap8VD7UtP7qAf1jZrOvplEAkWMyqHHSGbG93hq8ZNoEp_CD2xQO1EYvKraJYlBeA7axSnRgZOII6jzmJ_uwGUazJBwFnZlCgZ5SpBbKn_5A/s1414/image002.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="1414" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijOmzSLvTHmZ1sgwMipIym4APvsMx2UuO40aIJFHtTl9UpIK_bQSvkViv3GZAhyIFP71IB5D3qNH1_LuG7Ap8VD7UtP7qAf1jZrOvplEAkWMyqHHSGbG93hq8ZNoEp_CD2xQO1EYvKraJYlBeA7axSnRgZOII6jzmJ_uwGUazJBwFnZlCgZ5SpBbKn_5A/w400-h220/image002.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Main Street (Baldwin Avenue) in Altman. </b><br />Photo date unknown. Courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum. </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-themecolor: text1;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-themecolor: text1;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-themecolor: text1;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-themecolor: text1;">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.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-themecolor: text1;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-themecolor: text1;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-themecolor: text1;">Just
as John and his donkey were nearing Altman, lightning </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">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 <i>Rocky Mountain News</i>
published this incredible report on July 16, 1914:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 1in 8pt; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 1in 8pt; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 1in 8pt; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 1in 8pt; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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 </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">(Youth
Crazed by Lightning, 1914).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">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). <span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">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 </span>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.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Sr2dRc1309lKtOxnKL2YbVDZLQj2rPxC2x5Adul4SFHz4wIuWihJhIk9auAtr2t1lF_T3OyL2ummoLlWQpqoAduxIpJ9_lhNvwAj5vcUhkHVjvi4W_cck1Ox3sMBDcJSNo6ICdBrxtMP1gnN_BHOTH55UYEaSlbPJbD8gYSZUCLzQojBlhMMFTIJicw/s1024/image003.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Sr2dRc1309lKtOxnKL2YbVDZLQj2rPxC2x5Adul4SFHz4wIuWihJhIk9auAtr2t1lF_T3OyL2ummoLlWQpqoAduxIpJ9_lhNvwAj5vcUhkHVjvi4W_cck1Ox3sMBDcJSNo6ICdBrxtMP1gnN_BHOTH55UYEaSlbPJbD8gYSZUCLzQojBlhMMFTIJicw/w400-h400/image003.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>John Bowen, a spirited teen boy, riding his donkey back to his home in Altman</b>. <br />Rain started as the clouds grew darker. The author created this AI image <br />with the assistance of DALL·E and MS Bing.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">John</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> died at his home at the top of the hill.
Time had slipped away from him, a life mostly unlived.</span><span style="color: #1f4e79; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">The
death of a teenage boy is a tragedy that makes us question our existence<span style="color: #1f4e79; mso-themecolor: accent5; mso-themeshade: 128;">. </span>It
reminds us to appreciate the fragility of our time on Earth and appreciate the
people around us.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtjy_7l0dstZ5Y3mq1l-1sWeO_06YTt5bAwMBR82lEMnaKX5hXT0eJUQpZhDguDNYcD-Ry12BDHs2HFyS1d1jsXsfDnMEuFPBHGRIfZlbeoP9fBmCZ5ThWb8A7dUoeMPXL1zCg_xLCL48yB8WC6Ugd2LRkwr9YhdvOtOU1JBX4_E7nSD-Hd0zeG7uzum8/s969/image004.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="761" data-original-width="969" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtjy_7l0dstZ5Y3mq1l-1sWeO_06YTt5bAwMBR82lEMnaKX5hXT0eJUQpZhDguDNYcD-Ry12BDHs2HFyS1d1jsXsfDnMEuFPBHGRIfZlbeoP9fBmCZ5ThWb8A7dUoeMPXL1zCg_xLCL48yB8WC6Ugd2LRkwr9YhdvOtOU1JBX4_E7nSD-Hd0zeG7uzum8/w400-h314/image004.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>John Bowen’s tombstone at the Sunnyside Cemetery, <br />Victor, Colorado.</b> Photo date 2023 by S. W. Veatch</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><b><u><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">References and
further reading:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">1905
Cripple Creek City Directory. Denver, CO: Gazette Publishing Company.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Auerbach,
P. S., 1980, October. Lightning Strike. <i>Topics in Emergency Medicine</i>
2(3): p 129-136.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Fontanarosa, P. B., 1993, Electrical shock and
lightning strike, <i>Annals of Emergency Medicine</i>, Vol. 22, Issue 2, Part 2.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Youth Crazed by Lightning, Sends Bullet into Body in
Presence of Family., 1914, July 16. <i>The Rocky Mountain News</i> (daily), Vol.
55, No. 197. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-14657794485910387072023-06-29T09:08:00.000-06:002023-06-29T09:08:00.972-06:00Beyond the Lab: A Scientist's Meditation on a Poem<p style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">By Steven
Wade Veatch</span></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Poetry
inspires me; it is one way I experience and know the world. Poetry</span><span lang="FR" style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">s charged words make the
speeding bullet of my life slow down so that I can enjoy the best parts of
living.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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</span><span lang="FR" style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">s
sonnet follows:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span lang="FR" style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I met
a traveller from an antique land,</span></i><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Who said: “Two vast and
trunkless legs of stone<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Stand in the desert. . . .
Near them, on the sand,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Half sunk, a shattered
visage lies, whose frown,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And wrinkled lip, and
sneer of cold command,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Tell that its sculptor
well those passions read<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Which yet survive, stamped
on these lifeless things,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The hand that mocked them,
and the heart that fed:<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And on the pedestal, these
words appear:<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">‘My name is Ozymandias
King of Kings;<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Look on my works, ye
Mighty, and despair!</span></i><i><span lang="FR" style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span></i><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Nothing beside remains.
Round the decay<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Of that colossal wreck,
boundless and bare<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The lone and level sands
stretch far away.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></i></p><p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></i></p><p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB49DQBD76oxgnt3fxOOT7q1EY2mr5k7cW5EKztM3c657FZiH3JfClolAucDX4-k-me2C5g9AOYqASMbYmlS57tQ38NPhP6tEqo5RLtBJL_8se3Uqu5M9pefajrH3dwqx5TbS_IYYNIic5KL6D_wz73UQIIxo_Ps5Zu2VzsSA-GTH-XLk9S9dvWXAGvos/s1024/image001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB49DQBD76oxgnt3fxOOT7q1EY2mr5k7cW5EKztM3c657FZiH3JfClolAucDX4-k-me2C5g9AOYqASMbYmlS57tQ38NPhP6tEqo5RLtBJL_8se3Uqu5M9pefajrH3dwqx5TbS_IYYNIic5KL6D_wz73UQIIxo_Ps5Zu2VzsSA-GTH-XLk9S9dvWXAGvos/s320/image001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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). <br />The Examiner of London first published it in 1818. <br />Image made through Bing AI Image Creator.</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: right; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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 “</span><span lang="DA" style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: DA; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">shattered</span><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">” 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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 40.5pt;"><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Everything
is gone. Gone. The sculptor who made the statue is gone, Ozymandias is gone,
and the traveler, seeing the ruins, is gone. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Shelley</span><span lang="FR" style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span><span lang="NL" style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: NL; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">s
poem pushes me </span><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Like
science, poetry delivers discovery and brings understanding. Poetry also crafts
beauty despite the chaotic landscape on which life plays out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br /></p>
<p class="Body" style="line-height: 200%;"><b><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Note:</span></b><span style="border: none; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> the author is an Earth scientist and was a volunteer ranger at
the Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument, Colorado for many years. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-44506531321309317212023-06-09T17:19:00.001-06:002023-06-09T17:19:05.683-06:00Memories and Milestones: Reflecting on My Time at Bates Elementary School<p> By Steven Wade Veatch</p><p>My elementary school opened in 1957, three years after I was born, with over 600 students attending. With a magnificent view of Pikes Peak from its front yard, the grade school was named for Katharine Lee Bates, the famous author of America the Beautiful. Bates Elementary School remained open for 56 years, a pillar in the Cragmoor subdivision of Colorado Springs. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA15LC22eEdZjEoKeqjBfUw0hSoOJp8vhsoixtihpKXpwF5wFsxm69Q5RCKMKW6zMIKJLtjleMYZ328pWdOOE1vdJjfUfz9WzwbarcSt1xeHUZ0dEn4NZjDx_8tm9kmHpBRzFWbZIHeuAXi2JvILXcTv7-D4puu84yHfXtg50mTzT88l9DHDMtEPBg/s983/image001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="737" data-original-width="983" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA15LC22eEdZjEoKeqjBfUw0hSoOJp8vhsoixtihpKXpwF5wFsxm69Q5RCKMKW6zMIKJLtjleMYZ328pWdOOE1vdJjfUfz9WzwbarcSt1xeHUZ0dEn4NZjDx_8tm9kmHpBRzFWbZIHeuAXi2JvILXcTv7-D4puu84yHfXtg50mTzT88l9DHDMtEPBg/w400-h300/image001.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 1. A sandstone sign marks the location of Bates Elementary school. <br />Photo date 3/2015, by S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>I recently learned that the aging of the neighborhood, school district boundary changes, and competition from charter schools caused enrollment to fall to 200 students, forcing Bates to close in 2013. I wanted to see my school one last time, so I pulled into the parking lot on a brisk spring day, two years after Bates closed. Austin Bluffs Parkway, roaring with traffic, ran like a ribbon of sound behind the school. The rapidly growing University of Colorado at Colorado Springs (UCCS) had gobbled up the land next to my little school. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_WU67C8dxTQr1MKziO8dP3yByWzCSOBg50AKaLgtlOP7MlY9vo_uq_5EmedefUMwAsifmSsJwQGwS7sN3_fEL3fqwhhV8luyki70PVg9QNJ2FuZzBPcT2355W5gX5B4zQ10v4CA2uu9TmyvzfesDTwAHpsaKSA-Ok7kI0lHgkR_3fjABFtF3B8gsi/s1187/image004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="890" data-original-width="1187" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_WU67C8dxTQr1MKziO8dP3yByWzCSOBg50AKaLgtlOP7MlY9vo_uq_5EmedefUMwAsifmSsJwQGwS7sN3_fEL3fqwhhV8luyki70PVg9QNJ2FuZzBPcT2355W5gX5B4zQ10v4CA2uu9TmyvzfesDTwAHpsaKSA-Ok7kI0lHgkR_3fjABFtF3B8gsi/w400-h300/image004.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 2. A view of Rattlesnake Bluff, UCCS student housing, <br />and, in the foreground, Bates Elementary School. <br />Photo date 3/2015 by S. W. Veatch. </td></tr></tbody></table><p>As I stood looking at this old building, an easterly wind sent leaves spinning across the broken pavement. I walked around the tired buildings. A silent, rusting school bell clung to a brick wall. Children’s voices had long since faded into time’s dark abyss. Afternoon clouds gathered, casting blue shadows. The day frowned.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg9DeeqKuXMFY9W3e3EmUUvduCPb8NDC1LUEuEtjI6PsAlnFjqSOS_LhcFMAiH-HSJhzE1u_LtAZp-NyLfHBu6MzRx-Ph453hknX-ZhLos1QCO4TIC_pw3YMX2reTUVaTnU608L4RgQ7O70MigQoyc17FWnyvCYbV6_T3Vv5XdEnU2R3PizgnzG_gv/s695/image007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="609" data-original-width="695" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg9DeeqKuXMFY9W3e3EmUUvduCPb8NDC1LUEuEtjI6PsAlnFjqSOS_LhcFMAiH-HSJhzE1u_LtAZp-NyLfHBu6MzRx-Ph453hknX-ZhLos1QCO4TIC_pw3YMX2reTUVaTnU608L4RgQ7O70MigQoyc17FWnyvCYbV6_T3Vv5XdEnU2R3PizgnzG_gv/w400-h350/image007.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 3. The school bell no longer rings to call students to class. <br />Photo date 3/2015 by S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I caught my reflection in a school window. My image looked sad. Sixty years ago, I played outside on these school grounds. I became aware that so many years had evaporated in an instant. </p><p>A notice, taped to the window, stated that the school district had sold the elementary school to UCCS. The university had scheduled the school for demolition to make way for more student housing. An architectural design, taped next to the notice, revealed this proposed development. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrIyegwfA-VN31a9be308l9it8LFk8A1uCbZqnT9ecHX2lfcjUtg-6aUvuNIYOjzesoTlTjo6NWPDr2kyRz9yVxONhyctKhEIH884efqiZo_f1u1dMoG8nMyCS_I9oEYDJkG4-kXgwkyNhbmMpuf2NrJNm1incvKdGm2mnhpqw5Kg7w-leAfrOORcB/s868/image010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="651" data-original-width="868" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrIyegwfA-VN31a9be308l9it8LFk8A1uCbZqnT9ecHX2lfcjUtg-6aUvuNIYOjzesoTlTjo6NWPDr2kyRz9yVxONhyctKhEIH884efqiZo_f1u1dMoG8nMyCS_I9oEYDJkG4-kXgwkyNhbmMpuf2NrJNm1incvKdGm2mnhpqw5Kg7w-leAfrOORcB/w400-h300/image010.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 4. Front view of Bates Elementary School. <br />Photo date 3/2015 by S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The sounds of the university’s expansion broke into my thoughts. I could hear pounding jackhammers and nails, whining electric saws, rumbling cement mixers, and workers smacking down bricks—one on top of the other. Despite this noise of change, a kaleidoscope of flashbacks emerged in my mind: homework, Big Chief tablets, Elmer’s Glue, sharp pencils, playing four-square during recess, playground banter, Christmas programs, carnivals, and Boy Scout meetings. The monkey bars, the same ones I climbed so many years ago, were still standing there. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLFAk5_JjlGZoPj61inORLwMeBrEgAFQhm8ylPzBrwiBEyVNYVrj38PQh8SAu3YAlXtZBZvo4trhygCETnwHbc8-81QvL8K5kWr4mFtsT4n63vjapl6rbcPmYxBMwP7y87TN0rJ-3xaHs2miq6AII33OaRrBbHaC0qaCbBes6se3gvi9CR-K8CzwA3/s1172/image013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="879" data-original-width="1172" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLFAk5_JjlGZoPj61inORLwMeBrEgAFQhm8ylPzBrwiBEyVNYVrj38PQh8SAu3YAlXtZBZvo4trhygCETnwHbc8-81QvL8K5kWr4mFtsT4n63vjapl6rbcPmYxBMwP7y87TN0rJ-3xaHs2miq6AII33OaRrBbHaC0qaCbBes6se3gvi9CR-K8CzwA3/w400-h300/image013.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 5. UCCS looms large behind the lonely monkey bars <br />on the Bates school grounds. Photo date 3/2015 by S. W. Veatch. </td></tr></tbody></table><p>I continued around the back of the building to peer into the classrooms. More recollections materialized from mental shadows, including memories of my fourth grade in 1963. Mrs. Paula Hurst taught that class. Mrs. Hurst graduated from Colorado College in 1959, and she came with four years of teaching experience when I started in her class. I remember learning that year about three kinds of rocks: igneous, metamorphic, and sedimentary. Little did I know how relevant that would be in the future. We also worked on a unit on Colorado history and practiced cursive writing. Mrs. Hurst carefully taught the basics of our government while we considered President Kennedy and the changes he made. </p><p>Other freeze frame moments from 1963—this time, from my long-ago home—spiraled into my consciousness. I remembered that Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom with Marlin Perkins debuted on NBC, and how my family gathered around the television and watched each episode. The Beatles released I Want to Hold Your Hand and I Saw Her Standing There. My parents did not like any of their music and believed the Beatles would corrupt American youth. Peter, Paul, and Mary’s Puff (The Magic Dragon) climbed to the number two spot on the music charts. My parents like their music, and the song became one of my favorites. </p><p>I didn’t know it at the time, but in a few years my country would experience much civil unrest. While the cries of Martin Luther King Jr. and others were seldom heard inside the Bates hallways, they permeated our homes and the conversations of classmates when our teachers’ backs were turned. </p><p>I remember some of the political issues from 1963. George C. Wallace, a man my parents talked about after the evening news, became governor of Alabama. As I grew up, I learned about a speech he made when he became governor: “Segregation now; segregation tomorrow; segregation forever!” On June 11, Governor Wallace tried to prevent Black students from registering at the University of Alabama. On the same day, President Kennedy declared segregation to be morally wrong, and it is "time to act.” Martin Luther King Jr., on August 28, delivered his “I Have a Dream” speech at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington DC. A few weeks later, four Black girls died in a church bombing in Birmingham, Alabama. </p><p>One recollection of my fourth grade at Bates Elementary School stands out the most: President John F. Kennedy’s assassination on Friday, November 22, 1963. I was home that day with a cold. I heard my mother doing her daily rounds of household chores until the phone rang. Several minutes later: she walked into my room; her face was grim. She said, “Stevie, your grandfather called. He said someone shot the President Kennedy in Texas. We should watch the news.” We both went to the living room and turned on the Admiral black and white television console. Walter Cronkite, looking somber, announced that President Kennedy had died at 1 p.m. Central Standard Time. </p><p>Days of continuous television coverage followed that first news bulletin. I did not understand then this President’s violent death that day robbed our nation of a future we will never know. </p><p>To think about Kennedy’s assassination 52 years later is to see how I reacted to the death of someone I learned about in school, a person my parents talked about. It was the first national crisis I experienced, and it cemented my interest in current events. </p><p>Time has a way of moving on. Mrs. Hurst retired from teaching in 1982, ten years after I graduated from high school. I retired in 2011. I remember, back at Bates school, in the fourth grade, I wished to grow up right then. Looking back now, I see that my wish came true, I grew up fast, quicker than I thought possible. Time had passed in an instant. And, despite the passage of time, our nation’s struggle with civil rights continues to this day and screams for more work to be done. </p><p>When workers bulldoze Bates Elementary, something vital from the past will be lost. But, for the present, the remembrances of countless students will remain with them. As for me, I found lost memories of the school today. When I think about my school days and share them with my friends and family, Bates Elementary will always remain as it was 60 years ago. </p><p><i>Published first in the </i>Ute Country News<i>, June, 2023.</i></p>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-29791987615486146762023-05-06T13:08:00.002-06:002023-05-06T13:08:25.748-06:00The Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument, Colorado: A Place of Change<p> By Steven Wade Veatch</p><p>In 1965—when I was a boy—I picked up a chunk of petrified wood (about 34 million years old, or Late Eocene age) at the Florissant fossil beds and wondered how it was formed. This simple act changed my life: it started me on my lifelong hobby of collecting rocks, minerals, and fossils, and later influenced my decision to study science at college. Both were big and long-lasting changes in my life.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUTRJNny_55egh3S22XNsTejp1YjvQVvmF24WLYfTbCtwJstz1cqdo439CBBH-yGUhapBfSYb4RiZKMUpvWl_MPquZUMeu0VR8V3b9bq0fwmjs1smWQk8jgIcZzqUnyf_NGU2Yg2IGuWPjNxESo1kV24JjmVGp-jUh5YNnaeiqtAWJjeYqiG0COgo_/s849/image001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="805" data-original-width="849" height="379" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUTRJNny_55egh3S22XNsTejp1YjvQVvmF24WLYfTbCtwJstz1cqdo439CBBH-yGUhapBfSYb4RiZKMUpvWl_MPquZUMeu0VR8V3b9bq0fwmjs1smWQk8jgIcZzqUnyf_NGU2Yg2IGuWPjNxESo1kV24JjmVGp-jUh5YNnaeiqtAWJjeYqiG0COgo_/w400-h379/image001.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steven Veatch (11 years old) and his brother Greg Veatch (4 years old) <br />sitting at the fossilized Big Stump at the fossil beds in 1965. <br />This was when the park was a private tourist enterprise. </td></tr></tbody></table><p>Years later, I experienced another transforming moment—meeting legendary scientist Estella Leopold at the fossil beds. On that special day, Estella and I ambled along the trail to the petrified stumps, deep in our thoughts. We plunked down on a park bench and chatted the afternoon away while sharing the excitement of Ice Age pollen discovered in a Pleistocene rock layer at the fossil beds. We shared a singular purpose then—to reveal a part of the Ice Age here at the fossil beds. Because the record of Ice Age pollen in the Rocky Mountains was limited, our work on Florissant’s Ice Age pollen was important. </p><p>The Florissant Fossil Beds is also a place of change. Its landscape is a mosaic of montane forests and rich meadows enfolded in ever-shifting patterns of light, sound, and fragrance. It is a gateway to nature, to the past, and to the present. It is a tale of imagination, of scientific exploration, and of the Ute people. Whenever I visit, I find myself sinking mindlessly into its petrified past while I ponder its present.</p><p>The natural beauty at the fossil beds is also an invitation to explore its possibilities, to plunge into the forest and consider the flight of pollen grains, borne on a morning breeze. Or to follow a moss spore’s journey. Water moves slowly through Grape Creek. Moss-covered boulders slow the creek, making small pools. Gnats flutter above the creek, and green grasses, dotted with wild iris and other wildflowers, line its banks. Springs, coming from deep inside the ground, help feed the watercourse. I can feel this stream and its sounds deep within my soul. It is sublime.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhePm9iIWk_EJC8C3cj_TluI5TgDc-Abh_lFIkdxnOth-pMYa5OqIZ5pYWfNhLRhNhsys6djrNQCEOEtbY0Sjo1DK4izWlyfWsWe9_ew2KvuhAR99KLKlDYGfNxeFQfxpJcqP5eqkErO0XtZZ2vC4na3USm72lbDqudnxsYbkElVUz_kxAhZn_B4Cg8/s1430/image005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1073" data-original-width="1430" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhePm9iIWk_EJC8C3cj_TluI5TgDc-Abh_lFIkdxnOth-pMYa5OqIZ5pYWfNhLRhNhsys6djrNQCEOEtbY0Sjo1DK4izWlyfWsWe9_ew2KvuhAR99KLKlDYGfNxeFQfxpJcqP5eqkErO0XtZZ2vC4na3USm72lbDqudnxsYbkElVUz_kxAhZn_B4Cg8/w400-h300/image005.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grape Creek in the fall. This creek runs through the monument. <br />Photo date 2018 by S. W Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>My wife and I walk the forest trails often, and the landscape feels alive. Beard lichen’s wiry hair drops from forked branches. Chickadees and woodpeckers live with owls, deer, and black bears. There is a forest symphony of sounds composed of hums, trills, chatters, and peeps. Frogs call their mates. Wind stirs through the trees, rustles branches, and knocks down yellow mists of ponderosa pollen.</p><p>Black Abert squirrels leave a litter of chewed cones and tiny twigs, stripped of their bark, on the ground. In the winter, these cones, seeds, and twigs lie on the snow, showing that these squirrels do not hibernate. In the spring, pasque flowers poke up through the fallen pine needles and bloom in a soft lavender.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYGyahituCFxwoJfCCnNkx9EOw_K2giuXKIc9TitZPDZCtiKhZLCLQPFHMJXjOqkaUulA17u0ekdb3uYw5aETVjRAYESaz6JA0KH7Qj_O_9_PZg8fgFV2FHmc2AsU8mSSmM9ad2Y31Z4uYIPpToZ0PS4QRWtV_5j4OIqJY-aOjm3YSxeHEtJ3OrdLq/s1431/image007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1073" data-original-width="1431" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYGyahituCFxwoJfCCnNkx9EOw_K2giuXKIc9TitZPDZCtiKhZLCLQPFHMJXjOqkaUulA17u0ekdb3uYw5aETVjRAYESaz6JA0KH7Qj_O_9_PZg8fgFV2FHmc2AsU8mSSmM9ad2Y31Z4uYIPpToZ0PS4QRWtV_5j4OIqJY-aOjm3YSxeHEtJ3OrdLq/w400-h300/image007.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A pasque flower, a harbinger of spring, blooms <br />at the Florissant Fossil Beds. <br />Photo date 2019 by S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I notice the slow changes to a rotting log on the fossil bed’s forest floor. The log shows the passage of time on a different scale: the time it takes for a big, downed tree to be transformed back into soil—two centuries, or about seven human generations. </p><p>Brimming with life, the log—now crumbled bits and pieces of wood covered with leaf litter—is a habitat for many species. Beetles chew the wood, forming serpentine galleries beneath the bark. Colonies of ants live in the cavities, forage for food, and remain subordinate to the mother queen. A mouse lives beneath the log’s rotting roots; fungal strands penetrate the decaying wood. Patches of lichen and moss grow green on its surface. Spiders spin webs on spindly branches. </p><p>The log is now a spongy, mossy mound that once was a living tree. In this thriving microcosm of decay-dwelling species, there is a quiet yet energetic chemical factory recycling nutrients and organic matter. Altogether, this log, and others like it, nurture the forest by adding nutrients that sustain its health. And so it is that this landscape “nurses” my spirit.</p><p>There are other beneficial changes at the fossil beds. A combination of lightning strikes, a dry forest, and dry winds can cause a wildfire, which spreads across the landscape, bringing sudden change. Ponderosa pines are resistant to fire due to their thick bark and limbs that extend above the forest floor. Fire maintains the ponderosa pine forest by killing off competing trees. The ash from wildfires revitalizes the forest. </p><p>Change at Florissant comes in many ways with the cycles of day and night. The red dawn splashes the sky with morning possibilities. The midday sun floods the valley with brightness while the spires of green trees poke at the sky. Wavering shafts of afternoon sunlight reach the forest floor. After sundown, the twilight spreads like ether, and the mountains cool like stone while the valley fills with a flood of moonlight. The stars become pinpricks that sizzle in the night sky.</p><p>The circling seasons of the sun, snow, and rain bring change on a longer scale. Summer sunlight falls from unbelievably blue skies. There is music in the rain as it slaps aspen leaves, bounces, and splats on the ground before it disappears into the soil. In the fall, the air is crisp, and the aspen leaves are a brush stroke of radiant gold and orange. In the winter, elk weave tracks across snowy slopes. Coyotes send their penetrating calls bouncing across the white meadows when the frosty night comes on.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx-xQaDSW45-xIUxsH0FptkL9K69qSW10Soc4KSfuPmRqUaAhV-sqXymP8U9zyDYQAGqTrM_0i1_IMbowyI8Lh8zLgOZAf5fEbX2a0UJ5w-AYjD08fM7jXzzOoMdMoVv-mik9YNpZ77AzeYDg_veksKFuXHCBcotCZh-5DyU2auLBhI_YX2UYS31L3/s1274/image011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="953" data-original-width="1274" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx-xQaDSW45-xIUxsH0FptkL9K69qSW10Soc4KSfuPmRqUaAhV-sqXymP8U9zyDYQAGqTrM_0i1_IMbowyI8Lh8zLgOZAf5fEbX2a0UJ5w-AYjD08fM7jXzzOoMdMoVv-mik9YNpZ77AzeYDg_veksKFuXHCBcotCZh-5DyU2auLBhI_YX2UYS31L3/w400-h299/image011.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Raindrops bead up on fallen aspen leaves at the park. <br />Photo date 2004 by S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Physical processes, such as the imperceptible progress of drifting continents, erosion, soil formation, or freeze-thaw cycles, bring change. And there are more rapid agents of disturbance—such as nearby volcanic eruptions that occurred 34 million years ago. These cataclysms sent flows of mud coursing down the river valley, forming a dam and lake that transformed organisms into fossils. The mud also surrounded the bases of trees, and, over time, petrified them. </p><p>Today, petrified stumps stand like sentinels in the forest. Lichens cling to petrified wood like starfish on rocks. Kingdoms of moss stake their claims on fossil tree stumps. Whenever I hold a Florissant fossil or look at a stone stump, I experience the physical vastness of time and space.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7DfPZ0Vfq1jugG07Ja4SN-bUTt99E-hmBEAJL4oB6Gu6N0wBmBdxi6z1DWSTCzvwQ8ZJ49kLEnVEdoZk0U6KNqGC-LfHnL_p3gLYSPtC64z6XPP-Z71sVVstXgflttapnDm9n7qr-2PV8nDrP7EtV2W8-YQjSuSJo36WuTS2441dMYzWcu3MUp48/s503/image014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="503" data-original-width="462" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7DfPZ0Vfq1jugG07Ja4SN-bUTt99E-hmBEAJL4oB6Gu6N0wBmBdxi6z1DWSTCzvwQ8ZJ49kLEnVEdoZk0U6KNqGC-LfHnL_p3gLYSPtC64z6XPP-Z71sVVstXgflttapnDm9n7qr-2PV8nDrP7EtV2W8-YQjSuSJo36WuTS2441dMYzWcu3MUp48/w368-h400/image014.jpg" width="368" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A National Park Service archaeologist points out a peeled or <br />culturally modified tree at the monument. The Utes used <br />the bark for cradle boards and scraped the cambium layer <br />for food and medicine. Photo date 2004 by S. W. Veatch. </td></tr></tbody></table><p>Cultural change is a part of the fabric of this land of petrified forests and fossils. This was first the home of the Ute people, where their elders said you could learn a lot from listening to the land. The land was taken from the Utes, and these people were sent to less desirable places to subsist. I find evidence of these people today in the trees they modified or by finding an occasional arrowhead that is washed to the surface by summer rains. Roads brought homesteaders, who worked the land. Nearby goldfields intensified settlement. </p><p>Lastly, the values of people change. After decades of being a commercial tourist attraction, people wanted to preserve the fossil beds. Activists, including Estella Leopold, helped to prevent the destruction of the fossil beds until the National Park Service could preserve the area for future generations. Outside the park, the forest and meadows were plowed under by bulldozers, subdivided, and further broken up by lots, fences, and roads. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jaXLcmloBcTRWh0Hdi2M2AenJFzhhvhtnJoiyF5BsGR2n8u3xnvfvxOwSGXmD_aBANQtXJF4cZrI7sHo9bTi84wxdDMUMZceInFONwFelybszGnQbYlPNcSNoTDDIKZE0h4xglASGa9HMX4Tbe9IBbDrHumRzBF3-Mhfge5i8A93CVBebHtIuLWt/s615/image017.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="615" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jaXLcmloBcTRWh0Hdi2M2AenJFzhhvhtnJoiyF5BsGR2n8u3xnvfvxOwSGXmD_aBANQtXJF4cZrI7sHo9bTi84wxdDMUMZceInFONwFelybszGnQbYlPNcSNoTDDIKZE0h4xglASGa9HMX4Tbe9IBbDrHumRzBF3-Mhfge5i8A93CVBebHtIuLWt/w400-h350/image017.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Advertisement for one of two tourist establishments <br />at the fossil beds circa 1965. Two tourist operations operated <br />at the fossil beds before it became a national monument. <br />From the S. W. Veatch collection.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Forests change, species evolve, and life proceeds. Today, the beauty of this place invites overuse, while the effects of climate change threaten the fossil beds with future habitat destruction and species extinction. </p><p>For me, the Florissant landscape is a sacred place: A place of change, a place to meditate and scribble in a journal—a place to gain insight into how to live my life. It positioned me to think about time and change, to peer into the past and imagine the future. And to feel the present while I reflect on life, death, order, disorder, continuity, and change.</p><div><br /></div>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-37542640549935137232023-03-29T16:49:00.001-06:002023-03-29T18:33:40.785-06:00The Red Elephant Mine, Crystal Peak Area, Colorado<p>Steven Wade Veatch</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For as long as I can recall, I wanted to experience what it would be like to find the legendary crystals and gemstones that Pikes Peak is famous for. In some places Pikes Peak Granite contains an incredible suite of minerals that formed magnificent crystals in cavities at least a billion years ago. Large crystals of white microcline or feldspar are common. Amazonite, a variety of microcline, is present in well-formed crystal groups in varying shades of blue, ranging from a faint pale-blue to a brilliant blue-green color. The distinctive color is thought to be derived from varying levels of lead present in the amazonite when it formed, although this is still debated by mineralogists. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwtl0jFyBruj5DeS44YR1E30dDFvbKPwFrNgrzIJZCAKui_chDsEq7FuJC4CGCvkZ7myyfxRhqcaXhBSLMBC2igxmRBAmGdn5R5r3Sb5JIICnGaXmSiB_oCYUAtrFOWRoOscvpc6ncJU-ghpjaQiLHlueBWeyLPBAlyAeAWQAj3XGDKDxvcQTU6m61/s3008/Microcline_feldspar_variety_amazonite.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="3008" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwtl0jFyBruj5DeS44YR1E30dDFvbKPwFrNgrzIJZCAKui_chDsEq7FuJC4CGCvkZ7myyfxRhqcaXhBSLMBC2igxmRBAmGdn5R5r3Sb5JIICnGaXmSiB_oCYUAtrFOWRoOscvpc6ncJU-ghpjaQiLHlueBWeyLPBAlyAeAWQAj3XGDKDxvcQTU6m61/w400-h266/Microcline_feldspar_variety_amazonite.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Microcline feldspar variety Amazonite with smoky quartz <br />from the Halpern Mineral Collection, Colorado, USA <br />This file is licensed under the <br />Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Generic license. <br />Photo Date 2006 by Eric Hunt.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The amazonite from the Lake George area is distinctive because of its large, well-formed crystals, and its large size, and its intense blue color. Amazonite, named after the Amazon River where unusual rounded pebbles of this gemstone were found, was part of the Pharaoh Tutankhamen's ring and was described as the third stone in Moses' breastplate. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Smoky quartz crystals are associated with the amazonite crystal groups, and most of the smoky quartz crystals are flawless—ranging from pale brown to midnight black, all with a stunning gem clarity. The smoky color is caused by radioactive elements in the granite. Slowly, over the millennia, the quartz darkens in response to the radiation. Purple, greenish, and light blue fluorite crystals also occur in this suite of minerals. These magnificent gemstones eluded me for over four decades.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One summer day, I asked my rock hounding friend, Dave Jackson, to go with me to the Crystal Creek area, which is noted for deposits of these gems, and to look around. The area is reached by following a two-track Pike National Forest road that begins at Lake George, Colorado then branches off at a towering raw granite formation known as Sheep’s Head, fords Crystal Creek, and then follows a steep grade to a ridge. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On our first trip there, I noticed the hillsides were perforated by numerous holes dug by previous prospectors. I thought that was a good sign that others searched here before us. After parking Dave’s truck, we manhauled our gear in five-gallon buckets the rest of the way. We each carried two buckets: one in each hand; one bucket was empty; the other bucket had our tools. The empty bucket was for the gems we might find. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We began our hike up the steep hill. It was a beautiful climb: granite boulders were spotted with various species of lichen; mountain mahogany dotted the landscape; and kinnikinnick grew near the top of the ridge, where a cool mountain breeze passed through the pines. Dave and I decided to go to where the pine trees edged a small opening in the ground and to dig under the dumps of several small abandoned prospects. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> My old friend </span>Rich, a first-rate prospector, ran into us on that sunny summer day and showed us an old gem mine next to where we were: he knew this site would be a good one for us to work. Rich said, “I worked the area next to this spot with good results. I’m telling you this is a good place to dig.” Rich is one of the rare people in life whom you run into who are doing exactly what they were meant to do. Rich is an exemplar in the mineral world, and spends most days outdoors working at his mines. His face and hands are weather-beaten—almost like leather—from a lifetime of mining, both as a profession and a hobby.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Discussions with Rich that day brought back to me a number of pick and shovel moments of chipping crystals out of a cave together six years before in the mining town of Ouray, Colorado and being run out by the property owner. Rich and I did not know it was private property. Four years earlier we had collected blood-red agates on a hill of volcanic ash near Cañon City, Colorado. Exposure to the weather turned the ash into bentonite clay, and recent rains made it swell up with a surface slippery as ice. While trying to pluck red agates out of the bentonite with Rich, I tripped and slid down the hill on my back, getting covered with wet bentonite clay. It took forever to get the clay out of my clothes and inside of the car. Rich laughed for hours. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was glad we ran into Rich that day and got his help finding a good place to dig for gems. Dave and I followed his advice and began the arduous work of digging with picks, shovels, pry bars, old screw drivers, and rock hammers. When the pick struck the granite, it would vibrate in our hands, sometimes sparks would fly, and always the thud of the pick against the granite filled the forest. The granite would break up from the relentless pounding with the pick—leaving piles of crumbled granite. We shoveled the granite gravel into a bucket and then hauled it to the surface and dumped the gravel on the ground, forming a “tailings pile.”</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the Crystal Peak area, the gemstones and crystals occur inside of what is called a “pocket” or ancient bubble in the Pikes Peak Granite. This granite was formed just over a billion years ago as a melting, monstrous blossom of red magma pulled off the Earth’s mantle in a stately phenomenon forming a magma plume in that hostile and hellacious inferno. This molten plume made an unrelenting climb through the beleaguered crust, mixing the mantle and crustal material together and forming the Pikes Peak Granite. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtPoI2zXGDM24fffpVxns7ItCTRxe5BS0J_wGQ257E_9N2n6qnSUNTAhmTu2MGP0iCVyKZPE-94AY9R8DT-KEthQDzf_5mT21M59d8sXIH1V8sAaIUM9r0InGKC2QKpXFl49KcEdB9u1BRDeK8i0h1TXbV3KGjJwH8Vau2wWc7vuA7T2er2sPt4d-9/s3264/Amazonite_and_Smoky_quartz_diorama,_Denver_Museum_of_Nature_and_Science.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtPoI2zXGDM24fffpVxns7ItCTRxe5BS0J_wGQ257E_9N2n6qnSUNTAhmTu2MGP0iCVyKZPE-94AY9R8DT-KEthQDzf_5mT21M59d8sXIH1V8sAaIUM9r0InGKC2QKpXFl49KcEdB9u1BRDeK8i0h1TXbV3KGjJwH8Vau2wWc7vuA7T2er2sPt4d-9/w400-h300/Amazonite_and_Smoky_quartz_diorama,_Denver_Museum_of_Nature_and_Science.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amazonite and Smoky quartz diorama, <br />located in the First-Level Rocks & Minerals Exhibit <br />at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. <br />Representing an unspecified 'Crystal Peak' location in Colorado. <br />This file is licensed under the <br />Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike <br />4.0 International license.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Mzet9duhCONLfiofWKRMY9fniwF9UHhAMMhJs1mH9KZQC4Wb2nyelUbAsovyswnjhjYgrQ-0LK2QqLj24XqiewjctAUVfp7Z4uuNHROPKXzgADWbiqR-da7ZTDkVzQLskbm3drKKJUbA8sXdYbHMiZPpvlQOcrK-qH0drIZIT7BdiLuZoQJ4Xn_4/s2288/Bird%20216.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1712" data-original-width="2288" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Mzet9duhCONLfiofWKRMY9fniwF9UHhAMMhJs1mH9KZQC4Wb2nyelUbAsovyswnjhjYgrQ-0LK2QqLj24XqiewjctAUVfp7Z4uuNHROPKXzgADWbiqR-da7ZTDkVzQLskbm3drKKJUbA8sXdYbHMiZPpvlQOcrK-qH0drIZIT7BdiLuZoQJ4Xn_4/w400-h299/Bird%20216.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of Crystal Peak near Florissant, Colorado. <br />The area is known for its gem mining sites. Most are under claim. <br />Photo date 2006 by S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Parts of the Pikes Peak Granite became pegmatite, a coarse granite that sometimes yields precious gems. The granite pegmatite is derived from magma in the Pikes Peak Granite that formed during the last stages of its cooling. At this point volatile components trying to escape the magma, were trapped in the granite as bubbles. As the granite cooled and contracted, the bubbles or open cavities provided a space for crystals to grow to unusually large sizes and line the interiors of the voids. Our prospect hole was in just such a granite pegmatite.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Rich’s directions paid off; after digging a few hours, Dave and I made a-six-foot-deep excavation that we could both fit in. We took turns with the pick and shovel work. The pick would break up the granite. When the disintegrated granite became deep, one of us would shovel it into a plastic bucket and haul it to the surface to dump. It was cool and damp in our excavation pit, and the scent of fresh dirt and moist gravel was strong. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There is an abrupt change in the pegmatite as one approaches a gem cavity. The feldspar and, quartz that form the pegmatite change in appearance near a pocket. The component minerals become elongated or contorted, revealing what look like small swimming tadpoles or cuneiform writing—a mysterious script with an important, yet coded message declaring gemstones are near for those who are clever enough to follow the clues and find them. This is known as graphic granite.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Suddenly Dave yelled, “Look at the granite, it is changing—it is graphic granite for sure! See that old pine tree-root? It has worked its way through granite cracks and disappears straight into the rock. There must be a pocket behind the root.”</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Let me take a look,” and I yanked out the root, and then took my glove off and carefully put my finger into the hole. I said to Dave, “Holy God, I can feel the crystal faces!” My throat tightened, my heart almost beat out of my chest, and Dave’s eyes were open wider than an owl’s at night. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The root sought out moisture in a small cavity, leading us to that discovery. We immediately switched to wooden tools: tree branches, wooden skewering sticks, and wooden mallets, to open up the cavity slowly, carefully, and methodically. Metal tools can nick or fracture the valuable crystals and gems. Once we enlarged the hole to the cavity, our flashlight revealed shining smoky quartz crystals; a gemmy, sky-blue amazonite- crystal group; and sparkling deep purple and light blue cubic fluorite crystals. One group of fluorite crystals clustered around the base of a gleaming smoky quartz crystal. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Our next step was to empty the pocket, about the size of a grapefruit, of its gem hoard. Each crystal and gem had to be carefully wrapped in newspaper for carrying it down to Dave’s old truck. This pocket was the sign we needed to continue working the gem mine. If there is one crystal pocket, there will be others. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Our digging and removing crystals from the pocket burned up most of that first day. The shadows were shifting in the forest, and the sky was filled with pastel colors. I took one last look to the west and watched the setting sun redden the clouds over the boundless, tree-covered ridges; it was time to leave. Soon the dark blue of evening would spread, and it would be hard to travel the old road in the dark. The moon was beginning its rise over Crystal Creek, and it was time to leave. </p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We came back the following weekend working the claim for a few hours and then having lunch near some fallen pine trees blown down by a violent summer storm. But on this day, the logs were our seats for lunch under a thick canopy of towering aspen trees. We each had a can of Red Elephant, an imported beer that has a great flavor and comes in giant cans and has a punch—it even made my lips numb. We decided to name our mining claim after the beer.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>While relaxing and finishing my Red Elephant beer, I noticed a nearby decaying stump was full of life and realized that one day the forest would consume it. The stump was actually a dwarfed ecosystem. Many types of insects lived in the stump. A beetle stuck its head out from a hole it had bored in the bark. It left a pile of frass just below on a blanket of pine needles. I spotted a pill bug and a centipede, and noticed the different colors of moss and lichen that covered the stump. During the stump’s decomposition, new niches for life opened and old ones closed as the stump evolved from fresh-cut wood leaking resin to rotting wood dripping nutrients into the soil. The stump will eventually become crumbled fragments and mold, invaded by roots of plants and covered by dead twigs and leaf litter fallen from the canopy of the trees above. It was time to stop thinking about a stump and return to the hard pick and shovel work of the afternoon.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After several hours of moving rock and gravel, we had a hole that was ten feet deep—straight down. I found out just how hard this work is: breaking through granite by dint of force and muscle with a pick is not easy at this depth, the gravel and rocks have to be hauled to the surface in a bucket on the end of a rope. The deeper the excavation, the harder the work is—gravity is constantly working against us. In our deep hole, we opened up a pocket larger than a watermelon. </p><p><span> </span><span> </span>A treasure trove of mineral specimens lined the pocket. Some crystals had detached from the pocket ceiling due to local vibrations from earthquakes and freezing and thawing cycles over many winters and fell flat on the pocket floor. The pocket floor was filled with flawlessly formed amazonite crystal groups—most over nine inches across—on sections of pegmatite granite. There were clusters of 12-inch-long smoky quartz crystals radiating out in various directions. Most of the crystals were as black as midnight. </p><p><span> </span><span> </span>I took my jacket off and covered the crystals on the floor of the pocket so they would be protected as we removed the ceiling crystals and as we broke away more of the granite rocks above. Removing the crystals and gems requires care. Any rush to extract them could make an ugly chip or fracture. All of the crystals were carefully removed by hand and then wrapped in newspaper to protect them. I carefully cleaned the pocket out with a wooden chop stick and whisk broom, and then sprayed the interior with water for a good view. At this point, the world’s problems melted away and we are focused on protecting these gems. We were the first ones on the planet to see these primordial, unique, and quite valuable crystals. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On the way out, the buckets full of wrapped gems in one hand and the buckets of tools in the other hand balanced us as we walked down the hill. Crystal Creek was flowing with a murmuring joy within its banks. Willows lined the creek until the road crossing where we drove through it. Some little birds were dipping at some of the pools of Crystal Creek. Deer were keeping an eye on our activities. Dave and I glanced at each other, and I said, “We sure hit it big, Dave; we made a big strike today.” Our excitement filled the gem fields.</p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On our last trip to the Red Elephant that summer, Dave’s truck was being repaired, and I was willing to risk my brand new Jeep on the forest roads and all of its hazards to get to our mine. I drove my new Jeep Cherokee up the road and got stuck. Dave and I pushed, pulled, swore, and sweated, but remained stuck on the old 2-track road in the middle of Pike National Forest. My biggest concern was what my wife would do to me if I banged up our new Jeep. Cell phones did not exist yet, so I could not call out for help. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Soon we heard the sound of another car, and it was headed in our direction. I could not believe we would run into anyone on this road on a weekday. It was Ray Berry, a member of the local rock club (Colorado Springs Mineralogical Society) I belonged to. Ray is another mineral exemplar. On his way to work his claim, he pulled us out in seconds with his winch. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Dave and I began to work the Red Elephant, and soon we were down to 14 feet when our pick shattered the typical granite and revealed graphic granite—a sure sign we were close to a pocket of gemstones. We discovered several more pockets ranging in size from a softball to a basketball. Some of the pockets we found were located by following quartz veins to the crystal-lined pockets. The color of the granite also provides a clue that a pocket is nearby—reddish granite tends to bear more pockets. Other pockets that day were located by pure luck. </p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The entire Crystal Creek area has been yielding amazing gemstones for centuries, providing material for an expanding gem market and yielding specimens that provide clues to help scientists understand the nature of the Pikes Peak Granite. Today there is still gemstone mining activity over the entire Crystal Creek landscape.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This land also has meaning beyond the valuable gems and as a gateway to scientific understanding. I noticed an old cabin and a few outbuildings in the forest. The cabin is deeply weathered. Parts of the buildings are gone or caved in. The chicken coop, always an important homestead structure, is still in good shape, built as strong as Fort Knox. Eggs and skillet fried chicken were important to a family that eked out a living in this remote forest a century ago. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Before homesteaders, this quiet land once belonged to the Ute people. Chief Ouray and his wife, Chipeta, camped in tepees during the summer, and Ute braves hunted in the area. When they were not hunting, the men climbed hilltops with good views and made arrow and spear heads from stone. The women made clothing from deer and bison hides and attended to other duties. Children played games in the aspen trees.</p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Currently, the area is an active gem mining site, and the place where I finally experienced the excitement of making a rich strike. On weekends, countless hobbyists work their claims. Some people work their claims all summer long. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was the last day of our mining season. Leaning back on a ponderosa pine on the surface near the Red Elephant, I reflected on the season. After hunting the elusive Pikes Peak amazonite for decades, I finally found it. I learned from this experience to never give up on something you want to accomplish. If you give up, you will never know what could have been. This is an important lesson for many aspects of life. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Then there is the hard work—the digging; digging deep into the ground that yielded the elusive gems. The digging that put me into direct contact with the nature of the granite gave me a deeper insight to the geology of the site and the architecture of Pikes Peak Granite over wider areas. I realized that I could physically keep up with the hard digging. I learned about people: that Dave was fair and split the specimens we found evenly, and that Rich was a good friend to direct us to a site that he knew contained valuable gemstones. Rich did not have to provide that information. I also experienced nature on a deeper level. When I took a break from the digging, I saw the cycle of life at the decaying stump. It was truly a season with nature, one without the technology that has invaded every dimension of our lives. I knew there was more to learn out there in the forest, and that means to continue digging, always deeper.</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was getting late on our last day of the mining season. We packed up our gear and headed down the trail, crisscrossed by deer tracks, to my jeep. With darkness fast approaching, we drove down the old forest-service road. As the Jeep forded Crystal Creek, a small herd of deer—waiting to get a drink—watched us from the trees. A hawk silently flew overhead, towards the setting sun.</p><div><br /></div>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-61519283791002820992023-03-16T08:06:00.000-06:002023-03-16T08:06:01.797-06:00A Glacial Erratic in the Krumwiede Forest Preserve<p> By Steven Wade Veatch</p><p>The immense limestone rock (in figure 1) looks out of place, sitting on a prominent ridge in the Krumwiede Forest Reserve in Leelanau County, Michigan. That's because it is—during the Ice Age an advancing ice sheet plucked this rock from the bedrock it was moving over and absorbed it into its base. The stony mass slowly rode along, inch by inch, in the glacial ice that had grabbed it. When the climate warmed, some 12,000 years ago, the ice began to melt and recede (Hooker, 2014). Finally, the glacier ice released this boulder from its icy grip and dropped it on this spot in the Krumwiede Forest Reserve. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOn1d6agNJhmPximADWPA1cMNZxrhoLkgTYINiZay9bNDGmRQrtNl0syA3coyF1yBXBGvjNjtGEAHFm2xmUkAo0FY52Cher6XLBPPKDpNmWqVsqYylk-9QpbOobBua6wM8vCFTR4ILAnG_L8evD7jTHexESfVJ6YLgFI40UAduaH2XZvGKx9tvFaI2/s1059/image001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1059" data-original-width="794" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOn1d6agNJhmPximADWPA1cMNZxrhoLkgTYINiZay9bNDGmRQrtNl0syA3coyF1yBXBGvjNjtGEAHFm2xmUkAo0FY52Cher6XLBPPKDpNmWqVsqYylk-9QpbOobBua6wM8vCFTR4ILAnG_L8evD7jTHexESfVJ6YLgFI40UAduaH2XZvGKx9tvFaI2/w300-h400/image001.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Figure 1.</b> This weathered erratic, about midway on the Ridgeline Trail, most likely came from Canada. Moving ice transported this large boulder during the Wisconsin glaciation around 12,000 years ago. Photo date October 2022 by Shelly Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Geoscientists call this rock a “glacial erratic.” These erratic rocks, whose compositions don’t match the local bedrock where they are found, range in size from cobbles to enormous boulders. Melting ice also dropped till, an unsorted and unlayered mixture of sand, gravel, and rocks of varying size and shape, that is scattered throughout the local landscape. Early settlers gathered boulders left by the glacier to build foundations for their homes. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk4AZ5wh6NwhpG3P1PZKQAACnRLfNN8z50mC32Ae1880RY0HMY1bNfBQhqcUemhgoUxheA2jAhMSXwRKV9Q_W7ZKXLUcsDibfYKTPj5M224HCuCsOwRluATC5La9SZRsV9ZXLD3lbqrbj1Xiv8QKyWKG6TKYObTPLlOfA_lrB81oSpcb70fZ05JZGA/s830/image002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="783" data-original-width="830" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk4AZ5wh6NwhpG3P1PZKQAACnRLfNN8z50mC32Ae1880RY0HMY1bNfBQhqcUemhgoUxheA2jAhMSXwRKV9Q_W7ZKXLUcsDibfYKTPj5M224HCuCsOwRluATC5La9SZRsV9ZXLD3lbqrbj1Xiv8QKyWKG6TKYObTPLlOfA_lrB81oSpcb70fZ05JZGA/w400-h378/image002.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Figure 2.</b> An ice sheet, about one mile thick, once covered Michigan. Image Credit: Alexandria R. Baszler. Courtesy of the Institute of Water Research at Michigan State University. https://iwr.msu.edu/kht/TrailSites/5_Glacial_Landscapes.html</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The Krumwiede Reserve, part of the Leelanau Conservancy, is in the western part of Cleveland Township. A trailhead is located on Wheeler Road, south of M-22 (figure 3). The 1.6-mile Forestry Loop climbs and crosses a hill (a moraine left behind by a retreating glacier nearly 12,000 years ago) and then descends into a beautiful valley on the other side. The Forestry Loop trail then climbs back up onto the moraine to create a loop. There is evidence of glacial till scattered along the old forest road that now serves as the trail. Wheeler Road occupies a valley where a river of melting ice flowed between two high moraines (DuFresne, 2021). </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8owTOmHgCscc4jhZvI9YtskrCSU5ODKde8IXsj6xLm9UXBciS5Z278wdovnnqH1bqxEDVCiP1SYdd26jOpcoaV184Js9MJAvCQhvgor15HGY4CSVRURaQabPn9DmkF2MRRumB663lBqTfPjeGwIb8Hv2qul76JN89E28R_bSA4DMrAjcuUGskcNOO/s792/image003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="792" data-original-width="612" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8owTOmHgCscc4jhZvI9YtskrCSU5ODKde8IXsj6xLm9UXBciS5Z278wdovnnqH1bqxEDVCiP1SYdd26jOpcoaV184Js9MJAvCQhvgor15HGY4CSVRURaQabPn9DmkF2MRRumB663lBqTfPjeGwIb8Hv2qul76JN89E28R_bSA4DMrAjcuUGskcNOO/w309-h400/image003.jpg" width="309" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Figure 3.</b> Tail map of the Krumwiede Forest Reserve. The property is in its natural, forested condition. Courtesy of the Leelanau Conservancy. </td></tr></tbody></table><p>To see the erratic, start on the Forestry Loop trail in the parking area (figure 3). Head south. Near a ridge (after 0.4 miles), take the narrow Ridgeline Trail footpath north (or turn left) to reach the erratic, which is situated halfway along the trail. This rustic path follows the top of the ridge for about .03 miles before reconnecting to the Forestry Loop trail. Turn left at the Forestry Loop trail to return to the parking lot.</p><p>Ice sheets from the last Ice Age left their calling cards in the form of boulders on Michigan’s landscapes. Today, these rocks engender wonder when they are encountered.</p><p><b>References and further reading:</b></p><p>DuFresne, J., 2021, <i>The Trails of M-22</i>: Clarkston, Michigan Trail Maps.</p><p>Hooker, T.S., 2014, <i>The Last Ice Age and the Leelanau Peninsula</i>: Indianapolis, Dogear Publishing.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-11897566211698925122023-03-12T10:39:00.004-06:002023-03-12T17:20:19.179-06:00Gowganda Tillite: Evidence for Early Proterozoic Continental Glaciation<p> <b style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">By Steven Wade Veatch</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Gowganda tillite (figure 1) <span style="background: white; color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">is lithified glacial
till (sediment deposited by glacial ice) from a Precambrian glaciation event
that occurred over two billion years ago. Glacial till was buried, and over
time, it lithified or turned into rock (tillite). </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oVok1UQHwL0klL2V3jwlivkonvziAZBiuV-XpyuCSD4WrrbpDwztpR9ExbBTXtphd5NV18UlZuB062DzNdjaYdEBYq4W0J1A6AjUT2SXkgPa5Xc2zYm8_IVYg0T4imzXi5SFvnkw6eDWwS3rwxrU1x-x5l5AYcEi1ZkRNw-1yl143qfIMEuJQm0F/s1030/image002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="1030" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oVok1UQHwL0klL2V3jwlivkonvziAZBiuV-XpyuCSD4WrrbpDwztpR9ExbBTXtphd5NV18UlZuB062DzNdjaYdEBYq4W0J1A6AjUT2SXkgPa5Xc2zYm8_IVYg0T4imzXi5SFvnkw6eDWwS3rwxrU1x-x5l5AYcEi1ZkRNw-1yl143qfIMEuJQm0F/w400-h300/image002.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Figure 1. </b>The Gowganda tillite is composed of sediment that was deposited by a glacier and later cemented to form a rock. Its pink clasts make it distinctive. Gowganda tillite is among the oldest rocks on Earth—about 2.3 billion years old. This specimen is from the outer limits of the city of Gaylord in Otsego County, Michigan. <i>From the collection of S. W. Veatch. Photo by S. W. Veatch. </i></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-themecolor: text1; text-indent: 0.5in;">Billions of years later, glaciers
from the last Ice Age moved fragments of Gowganda tillite from their source
location in Canada and dropped them onto the Michigan landscape as the climate
warmed and the ice melted. </span><span style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-color-alt: windowtext; text-indent: 0.5in;">Their pink clasts make them distinctive. </span><span style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-themecolor: text1; text-indent: 0.5in;">This </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">is only
one of several Precambrian tillites found in the glacial drift of Michigan. </span><span style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-color-alt: windowtext; text-indent: 0.5in;">The Gowganda and
other tillite deposits in North America provide a rock record of the
continental glaciation that occurred during the Early Proterozoic (Lindsey,
1969; Young and Nesbit, 1985, Crowell, 1999).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">Geologists are now convinced that widespread glaciation
occurred throughout the Early Proterozoic Era, based on at least 300
Precambrian sites, including Finland, South Africa, India, and Australia, that
have tillite or deposits that resemble tillite (Wicander and Monroe, 2016). Five
more major periods of widespread glaciation followed the Early Proterozoic (see
table 1).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="background: white; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">
</span></p><table border="1" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoTableGrid" style="border-collapse: collapse; border: none; margin-left: -0.25pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184; width: 558px;">
<tbody><tr>
<td colspan="2" style="background: white; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-background-themecolor: background1; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 418.5pt;" valign="top" width="558">
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt;">Table. 1.</span></i></b><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt;"> When Glaciers Covered Parts of
the Earth (Crowell, 1999)</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 16.4pt;" valign="top" width="22">
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="background: white;">1</span><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 402.1pt;" valign="top" width="536">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Late
Cenozoic glaciation: began 33.9 million years ago at the Eocene-Oligocene
Boundary and is ongoing<o:p></o:p></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 16.4pt;" valign="top" width="22">
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="background: white;">2</span><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 402.1pt;" valign="top" width="536">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Late
Paleozoic ice ages 338 to 256 million years ago<o:p></o:p></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 16.4pt;" valign="top" width="22">
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="background: white;">3</span><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 402.1pt;" valign="top" width="536">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Late
Devonian-Early Carboniferous ice ages, two short episodes between 353 to 363
million years ago <o:p></o:p></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 16.4pt;" valign="top" width="22">
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="background: white;">4</span><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 402.1pt;" valign="top" width="536">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Ordovician-Silurian
ice ages 429 million years ago to 445 million years ago <o:p></o:p></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 16.4pt;" valign="top" width="22">
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="background: white;">5</span><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 402.1pt;" valign="top" width="536">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Late
Proterozoic ice ages ~ 520 million years ago to 950 million years ago<o:p></o:p></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 16.4pt;" valign="top" width="22">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">6<o:p></o:p></p>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 402.1pt;" valign="top" width="536">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Early
Proterozoic ice ages ~ 2.2 to 2.4 billion years ago<o:p></o:p></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 16.4pt;" valign="top" width="22">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">7<o:p></o:p></p>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: 1pt solid windowtext; border-left: none; border-right: 1pt solid windowtext; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 402.1pt;" valign="top" width="536">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Archean
glaciation ~ 2.91 to 2.99 billion years ago<o:p></o:p></p>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-themecolor: text1; text-indent: 0.5in;">The source of
Gowganda tillite is the Gowganda Formation which forms part of the Huronian Supergroup
of Precambrian sedimentary rocks exposed in central Ontario, stretching from
Lake Superior to Quebec (Lindsay, 1969; Elyes and Young, 1994).<span style="background: white;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; text-indent: 0.5in;">Radiometric
dating places the age of the Huronian Supergroup from 2.1 to 2.5 billion years
old (Van Schmus, 1965, p. 769).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">Geologists have interpreted rock fragments in the </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Gowganda tillite to be the outwash associated
with the Early Proterozoic Gowganda glaciers<span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;"> centered southwest of Hudson Bay</span>.
Melting ice rafts (calved from ice sheets) dropped these pink granite
fragments—from tiny particles to boulder-sized debris—into open water. These
pink pebbles fell through the water and settled into fine-grained sediments
(Kurtz, 1980). Those sediments likely originated around a glacier's margins
(Kesler, 2019). Over time, these sediments were lithified or turned to rock. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">After these sediments were lithified, they
were carried away, at least two billion years later, by Pleistocene glaciers.
After the ice of these last Ice Age glaciers melted, the ancient conglomerates
were released onto the landscape, later to be found on beaches and in farmers’
fields in Michigan. <span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">Scientists have also found Gowganda tillites in Wyoming and
Quebec, Canada. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Gowganda tillite (figure 2) is a conglomerate
composed of well-rounded to sub-<span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">angular,
to angular, poorly sorted clasts (granitic and gneissic pebbles dominate) scattered
in a tough, massive matrix of coarse to very fine sand and chloritic<a href="file:///D:/1%20SEAGATE%20External%20Drive%20TITAN/1%20Active%20files/Geology/1%20Articles,%20Publications,%20Field%20Guides/1%20Articles%20by%20Veatch/Articles%20Published/000%20Gowganda%20Tillite/Gowganda%20tillite.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-themecolor: text1;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
material ( <span style="background: white;">Kurtz 1980).<b> </b>Rounding suggests
some history of water transport prior to incorporation into the tillite.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja3WkW6liuWY2AL-P5ORfXPWrRsa2qYR2xfYgliAU4adt8DjhJRdWiZrGvvIKtwjc17zRlETv9GkxgpZRpoAsFNJ-Ncb5OLs-67z1LhrBdtwSfeemZnl6bZGGeIoQCUz9SNQIfl9tjnrSapZYeDxz1oBc3ARxBMaH2oSb3XO8LyCsi9xUcUfdbJDOH/s446/image005.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><b><img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="441" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja3WkW6liuWY2AL-P5ORfXPWrRsa2qYR2xfYgliAU4adt8DjhJRdWiZrGvvIKtwjc17zRlETv9GkxgpZRpoAsFNJ-Ncb5OLs-67z1LhrBdtwSfeemZnl6bZGGeIoQCUz9SNQIfl9tjnrSapZYeDxz1oBc3ARxBMaH2oSb3XO8LyCsi9xUcUfdbJDOH/w395-h400/image005.png" width="395" /></b></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Figure 2.</b> A sawed section of Gowganda tillite shows dropstones of various sizes. Sorting is completely lacking in most Gowganda tillite. <i>From the collection of S. W. Veatch Photo by S. W. Veatch.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The Gowganda tillite is one of the most
well-known ancient glaciogenic deposits in the world because of its
characteristic pink, granite clasts (pebbles) held in a fine-grained gray
matrix (Kesler, 2019). </span><span style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-color-alt: windowtext; text-indent: 0.5in;">Today, the Gowganda tillite—among some of the oldest rocks on
Earth—continues to be studied by geoscientists. Samples are also sought after
by rock and mineral collectors for their unique combination of unsorted pink pebbles,
age, and interesting formation.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">References and
further reading:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Crowell,
J. C., 1999, <i>Pre-Mesozoic ice ages: their bearing on understanding the
climate system</i> (Memoir 192). Geological Society of America.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Eyles, N. and G. M. Young, 1994,
Geodynamic controls on glaciation in Earth history, <i>in, The Earth’s Glacial
Record</i>, eds. M. Deynoux, <u>et</u> <u>al</u>, eds: Cambridge, Cambridge University
Press, p. 1-28.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Kesler, S. E., 2019, <i>Great Lakes
Rocks: 4 Billion Years of Geologic History in the Great lakes Region</i>: Ann
Arbor, University of Michigan Press.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Kurtz, D. D., 1980, <i>Stratigraphy
and Genesis of Early Proterozoic Diamictites: North America</i>: PhD Thesis,
Huston, TX, Rice University. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Lindsey, D. A., 1969, Glacial
sedimentology of the Precambrian Gowganda Formation, Ontario, Canada: Geol.
Soc. America Bull., v. 80, p. 1685-1702.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Young, G. M., and H. W. Nesbitt, 1985,
The Gowganda Formation in the southern part of the Huronian outcrop belt,
Ontario, Canada: Stratigraphy, depositional environments and regional tectonic
significance: Precambrian Research, v. 29, p. 265-301.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Van Schmus, R., 1965, The
geochronology of the Blind River-Bruce Mines area, Ontario, Canada: Jour.
Geology, v. 73, no. 5, p. 755-780.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Wicander, R. and J S. Monroe, 2016, <i>Historical
Geology: Evolution of Earth and Life Through Time</i>: Boston, Cengage
Learning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><br clear="all" />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/1%20SEAGATE%20External%20Drive%20TITAN/1%20Active%20files/Geology/1%20Articles,%20Publications,%20Field%20Guides/1%20Articles%20by%20Veatch/Articles%20Published/000%20Gowganda%20Tillite/Gowganda%20tillite.docx#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>Chlorite
is a group of silicate clay minerals occurring in both macroscopic and clay
particle sizes; they are hydrous aluminum silicates, usually of magnesium and
iron. Chlorites have a silicate layer structure similar to that in micas.
Source: <i>Britannica.</i><o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
</div>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-81699463248748743992022-10-13T11:13:00.001-06:002022-10-13T11:22:13.132-06:00A Ute Youth and His Dog<div style="line-height: normal; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">By Steven Wade Veatch</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">John Hillers, an early
American photographer, took this remarkable photograph known as the “Indian Boy
and His Dog,” in 1874. The youth in the tea-colored photograph belonged to the Uintah, one of 12 bands of the Ute tribe, and lived
in Utah's Unita (no “h” at the end) Valley (Simmons, 2000). “Uintah Utes”
refers to western Ute bands who were relocated after 1863, by the federal
government, from central Utah to the Uintah Reservation (Jones, 2019). This
band lived in the Unita Basin to the area around the Green River and the
Tavaputs Plateau (Cuch, 2000).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqu0col7yQjzFO_FFbJJSij7CcDtMaM9L0cghEKMK-ZehkosE_XQ5K_mP7Mn_gcCnPqWhHLP4Xs2G-WTuUhtOVwR2tDs3Wp4NuSoxYLGOQSqFqEGXrSFmRTRMQOVzYuPx-6SwWbLsCCA24vDorBUbE6oijMYGQoeKnT_tY9vPT8xgDfQPUv842Pd-/s2698/master-pnp-stereo-1s00000-1s01000-1s01600-1s01639u%20(3).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2698" data-original-width="1874" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqu0col7yQjzFO_FFbJJSij7CcDtMaM9L0cghEKMK-ZehkosE_XQ5K_mP7Mn_gcCnPqWhHLP4Xs2G-WTuUhtOVwR2tDs3Wp4NuSoxYLGOQSqFqEGXrSFmRTRMQOVzYuPx-6SwWbLsCCA24vDorBUbE6oijMYGQoeKnT_tY9vPT8xgDfQPUv842Pd-/w278-h400/master-pnp-stereo-1s00000-1s01000-1s01600-1s01639u%20(3).jpg" width="278" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Indian Boy and His Dog" (1874). A male Ute teenager poses with his dog. Dogs were an important part of Uintah Ute culture. His bow and arrows are across his lap. This photograph, though posed, provides an important glimpse into the youth’s way of life. From part of a series: U.S. Topographical and Geological Survey of the Valley of the Colorado River of the West, by J.W. Powell and A.H. Thompson. From the Library of Congress, Call Number: LOT 13577, no. 9.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">This young man is in
his late teens, perhaps 17. This is the age when Chief Ouray joined his
father’s warriors (C. Kaelin, personal communication, August 28, 2022).</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background: white; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Warriors were highly
respected because they offered their lives to protect their people. This teen
spent much of his time hunting, fishing, and making weapons to hunt with and
for protection (Pettit, 1990). Although his name is not recorded, he too may
have joined a warrior band.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">The young Ute is not wearing his everyday outfit. He
is undoubtedly attired for the photographer, who asked him to don all his
regalia. The teenage Ute is wearing his hair in traditional Ute style with two
braids hung over his chest. The Utes never cut their hair (Rockwell, 1998). Ethnographer
Ann Smith reports: “Men wore their hair parted in the middle and arranged in
two braids, with otter or weasel skin braided in towards the ends for
decoration” (Smith, 1974, p. 78). The cylinders covering his braids are likely
made of buckskin decorated with colored porcupine quills. A length of fur from an
animal—possibly otter, mink, or the summer fur of a weasel—is attached. </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">He parted his hair in
the middle, and put decorations in his part, doubtless disks of <i>dentalium</i>
shells, as they have a consistent size and shape (C. Kaelin, personal
communication, August 10, 2022). These shells were cherished trade commodities
and are still worn on regalia. The large shell that crests the three disks in
his part is an <i>olivella</i> shell (a medium-sized to large marine snail), also
a coveted trade item that is found in abundance in Ute territory. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">The young man is
wearing what appears to a necklace made of bone or shell beads strung together
with a sinew string. According to Celinda Kaelin, noted historian, “The pendent
is quillwork in the shape of the Four Directions symbol. This symbol is sacred
to the Ute and is represented in their Medicine Wheels” (C. Kaelin, personal
communication, August 10, 2022).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">A sinew-wrapped bow and
several arrows are spread out across the Ute teen’s lap. Arrows shot from bows
were lethal up to 70 yards (Rockwell, 1998). One arrow point might be obsidian,
making him a person with sacred abilities. Other points were made of metal. The
Utes were practical. They would utilize metal for tips if it could be easily
found. If not, they would resort to using stone points. Smith (1974. P. 111) reports:
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 58.3pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 58.3pt 8pt 0.5in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Arrow points were described as being from ¾
inch long from point to beginning of the tang up to 2 ½ or 3 inches long. The
end of the arrow was split, the tang inserted, and that section of the arrow
was wrapped with sinew. No glue was used. Old arrow points, discovered when the
people were roaming, were picked up, sharpened and used. Some hunters fashioned
their own arrow points; others had them made by skilled old men.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">The young Ute is in
common men’s wear of leggings and a breech cloth. He is also barefoot, which is
common in the summer and depends on personal preference.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Dogs were important to
Ute culture, and they were often large. According to Pettit (1990), “This
well-bred dog may have been obtained through trade or was a gift.” Utes denied
ever eating dogs (Pettit, 1990). Dogs barked whenever an enemy approached and
provided an alarm for the Ute warriors. Dogs also<span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;"> guarded against wolves. Since dogs
were never fed, they cleaned up all waste around a </span>village (Pettit,
1990). Each family owned between one and twelve dogs. Other animals, such
as hawks and fawns, were kept by children (Pettit, 1990). This photo shows how
much the Utes loved their pets. All animals were considered relatives in their cosmology.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">John Hillers (1843 -
1925), who took this photograph, began making photographs in 1871 while part of
Major John Wesley Powell’s second expedition of the Colorado River (Fowler,
1972). Hillers was nine years old when he emigrated from Hanover, Germany with
his family to the United States in the 1850s (Fowler, 1972). He spent several
years in the army and saw some action during the Civil War (Pitt Rivers
Museum). At the end of the war, he re-enlisted and was posted to several
Western forts (Fowler, 1972). Following his discharge from the army, Hillers
worked a variety of jobs. In 1871, the 28-year-old veteran army sergeant worked
as a boatman on John Wesley Powell’s expedition to map the Colorado River. While
on Powell’s boat, the <i>Emma Dean</i> (named after Powell’s wife), he entertained
the crew with rollicking stories and spirited songs (Flemming and Luskey, 1988).
He quickly became interested in the survey’s photography and was soon the
photographer’s assistant (Fowler, 1989). By 1872, Hillers was the expedition
photographer (Getty Museum Collection).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha-Sd-6kZVlvn-n2H6Z7y3UNq7UHXe2_cDtHgcD98D5p7fTsd-f7RIOpXsIrlIiSRW7aGEU3WAIprKcOn4Nj8FrXTso8uQ4_IyfIztZvkb9T5S4v76wC9M1-HAjFZ27mm-NsJnFitS1qE_hVRUe9-lwfTq8Uac8qtaFBuFKOGryXfembRJc26TaZ6X/s1427/John_K._Hillerspr.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1427" data-original-width="1072" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha-Sd-6kZVlvn-n2H6Z7y3UNq7UHXe2_cDtHgcD98D5p7fTsd-f7RIOpXsIrlIiSRW7aGEU3WAIprKcOn4Nj8FrXTso8uQ4_IyfIztZvkb9T5S4v76wC9M1-HAjFZ27mm-NsJnFitS1qE_hVRUe9-lwfTq8Uac8qtaFBuFKOGryXfembRJc26TaZ6X/w300-h400/John_K._Hillerspr.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hillers at work with his negatives at a campsite on the Aquarius Plateau, Utah Territory, July 1875. Photograph by Almon Thompson or Grove Karl Gilbert. National Archives photo no. 57-PS-805 (U. S. Geological Survey Collection).</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">After Hillers saved Powell from drowning in a
stretch of rough rapids, they formed a friendship that was to last over three
decades (Fleming and Luskey, 1986). He was one of the first to photograph the Grand
Canyon.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;">Hillers
worked for the entirety of his extraordinary 29-year career as a photographer
for the federal government and made more than two thousand negatives of
anthropological and geological subjects (Fowler, 1972). He </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-color-alt: windowtext; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">left
behind possibly the most spectacular visual record of the 19<sup>th</sup>
century West. His work </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">contributed to <span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">transforming
American photography from being strictly utilitarian into an art form (Foresta
1996). </span><span style="background: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><b><u><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">References and further reading<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Cuch, F.S. (ed), 2000, <i>A History of Utah’s
American Indians</i>: Salt Lake City, Utah State Division of Indian Affairs and
the Utah State Division of History.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Flemming, P. R., and J. Luskey, 1988, <i>The
North American Indians in Early Photographs</i>: New York, Dorset Press.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Fowler, D. D., 1972, <i>Photographed All the
Best Scenery: Jack Hiller’s Diary of the Powell Expedition, 1871-1875</i>, Salt
Lake City: University of Utah Press.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Fowler, D. D. 1989, <i>The Western Photographs
of John K Hillers: Myself in the Water</i>: Washington, D.C., Smithsonian Institution
Press. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Foresta, M. A., 1996, <i>American Photographs:
The First Century</i>: Washington, D.C., National Museum of American Art with
the Smithsonian Institution Press.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Getty Museum Collection: John K. Hillers. Retrieved
from https://www.getty.edu/art/collection/person/103KGQ on August 8, 2020.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Jones, S. G., 2019, <i>Being and Becoming Ute:
The Story of an American Indian People:</i> Salt Lake City, The University of
Utah Press.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Pettit, J., 1990, <i>Utes: The Mountain People</i>:
Boulder, Johnson Printing Company.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Pitt Rivers Museum: Among the Pueblos, John K.
Hillers. Retrieved from https://www.prm.ox.ac.uk/event/among-the-pueblos on
August 8, 2020.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Rockwell, W., 1998, <i>The Utes: A Forgotten
People</i>: Ouray, Colorado, Western Reflections.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Simmons, V. M., 2000, <i>The Ute Indians of
Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico</i>: Boulder, University of Colorado Press.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Smith, A. M., 1974, <i>Ethnography of the
Northern Utes: Papers in Anthropology (Museum of New Mexico), no. 17:</i> Santa
Fe: Museum of New Mexico Press.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-21556506178517998042022-09-30T22:39:00.001-06:002023-03-12T10:11:53.746-06:00Fossils<h4 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">By Steven Wade Veatch<br /></span></h4><div><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><h4 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Mammoth bones,<br />petrified trees,<br />insects trapped in amber,<br />pine pollen, a moss spore,<br />impressions in paper-thin shale,<br />stony steps of a dinosaur trail.</span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Just fragments of time,<br /></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">puzzling pieces, vestiges<br /></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">in layered ground:<br /></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">A kingdom come,<br /></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">a realm now gone,<br /></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">past worlds in stone.</span></p></h4><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEFrxIlrLXUE9UP9Dsmj8nxx4gVqZYpAFSkmoPGkzCY5E2el5dtI-1yHt_3KpAt5kCFP4JX8i2KyyuQZXBDDIP7HkgtYiqTbnhn7vRqrgYzanllGUBlpNlZCFV5KGCJQzsrR1zIMIA236BnIJAzpMfbjFiS-y4RdQFHphgwQEZGaB8C0rxsTADD_84/s648/image002.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="648" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEFrxIlrLXUE9UP9Dsmj8nxx4gVqZYpAFSkmoPGkzCY5E2el5dtI-1yHt_3KpAt5kCFP4JX8i2KyyuQZXBDDIP7HkgtYiqTbnhn7vRqrgYzanllGUBlpNlZCFV5KGCJQzsrR1zIMIA236BnIJAzpMfbjFiS-y4RdQFHphgwQEZGaB8C0rxsTADD_84/w400-h201/image002.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fossil branches of the Florissant redwood, <i>Sequoia affinis</i>. <br />Specimen FLFO-4858 from the collection <br />of Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument. <br />Image date Oct 2003 by S. Veatch.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEies41vaiYgA14jB1kRWt4UzoPNmJZvmUJB6T8A2jF2o4yOBC5aN4SDd0OTXO7gjdmS2XPbL_PQmW-yKQxsG3nFp4Z4Gi5rNS3HTi-H0XqWNlFJ7SN-a039O4rMnqzLirvWP3GkYeonHtHZOp1KS9szFiId4Tnpfz2qbmeUK-_aIg0gC6n0Ld-unSx1/s924/image001.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="616" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEies41vaiYgA14jB1kRWt4UzoPNmJZvmUJB6T8A2jF2o4yOBC5aN4SDd0OTXO7gjdmS2XPbL_PQmW-yKQxsG3nFp4Z4Gi5rNS3HTi-H0XqWNlFJ7SN-a039O4rMnqzLirvWP3GkYeonHtHZOp1KS9szFiId4Tnpfz2qbmeUK-_aIg0gC6n0Ld-unSx1/s320/image001.png" width="213" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">October 12th is National Fossil Day! </div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-968900509664259022022-09-29T14:16:00.001-06:002022-09-29T14:17:20.230-06:00A Tree through Time<p> By Steven Wade Veatch</p><p>Thirty-four million years ago on a dismal Eocene afternoon near present-day Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument in central Colorado, woodland creatures fled as the ground shook from a fiery power held deep within the Earth. This dark force manifested on the surface, where toxic gases, ash, and molten rock shot through open vents —filling the air. A red glow painted the sky as cinders rained down through the smoky, sulfurous air onto the landscape. Flows of searing lava, which can reach 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit, oozed from volcanic vents, burning everything in their path. </p><p>Following this concentrated chaos, hot ash and mud raced down the slopes of several volcanoes. Swirling mudflows pulled in surface materials, knocked down and carried small trees with their root wads, and then surrounded the bases of towering redwood trees. </p><p>After frequent periods of active eruptions, the volcanic complex ultimately quieted down to dormancy and peaceable extinction. The mud that encased the bases of the redwoods enabled the slow petrification process to begin. The wayward mudflow also dammed a prehistoric stream and quickly formed a lake. Plants, insects, and other organisms were trapped in the lake sediments. As time passed, the lake sediments turned into shale containing fossils of these organisms.</p><p>Today, enormous redwoods grow at their ecological limit in a narrow zone along the California and Oregon coasts. Redwoods still exist at the Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument, but only as fossil leaves, cones, or petrified stumps. It would be impossible for redwoods to grow today in Florissant’s cool, temperate highland climate. Redwoods reached towering heights in Florissant’s Eocene past, when the climate was warm and temperate.</p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p>There is a remarkable site at the monument where a singular fossil redwood stump endures despite the unavoidable and inexorable power of erosion and weathering. This petrified redwood base is unique among the others: It has a ponderosa pine tree growing from its stone center. I have always been spellbound by this juxtaposed image—the prehistoric stone stump with a living ponderosa tree growing out of it. I wanted to look at it again and make a deeper connection with this geological marvel. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjk15T65ykvGJdqNuPIzTODhqbCJUFTXxDh5ojW1bVEyQkVZ5mfceEu2zIfn2D29_MweNduXRUpmG1f-7Kse3PyzT2d2mtqlhOkwsk25maAO-WXMps5OUClm-5EFs0sVVxVCWrTgjlsErKHB_yNppV-mlSxL-q8NIezWHMBjTdHUUT5T7DO9mznmQ/s909/image001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="909" data-original-width="682" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjk15T65ykvGJdqNuPIzTODhqbCJUFTXxDh5ojW1bVEyQkVZ5mfceEu2zIfn2D29_MweNduXRUpmG1f-7Kse3PyzT2d2mtqlhOkwsk25maAO-WXMps5OUClm-5EFs0sVVxVCWrTgjlsErKHB_yNppV-mlSxL-q8NIezWHMBjTdHUUT5T7DO9mznmQ/w300-h400/image001.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A living ponderosa pine tree grows<br /> from an ancient redwood that has turned <br />to stone. Photo date 2013 by S. S. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>As I walked on a trail to its location, Pikes Peak loomed in the distance. I passed a long, low, grass-covered meadow bounded by treed hills. A green swath of lichen-capped rocks fringed the trail. As I neared the scene I sensed a weight to the afternoon: windy weather brought a grey, clouded sky that rolled over the land. The warm, heavy smell of rain soon rose from the wet and glistening forest floor. Glittering drops of water rested on leaves. The wind began to whistle through the trees while flowers of sky-blue flax nodded. As the rain clouds broke up, an elk wandered this high stretch of land while a coyote trotted by. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUo_zc65SVgibfLBKVVt-5Zfgq4QztogxFek9_gQaEjLBJLfpO7RnD676yvHPbNACoCvxoZ7nWJK-_yKCbGz1M0oZlI-3ty-FhrkNwyRUS0VqJMNXd2E5ZeMqiO4l0jGAxNIicClrXv4wSd7g6XtoWqMdb_723eGIsT8E-0vsgCvwrbdxCZ62abqf5/s1201/image004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1201" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUo_zc65SVgibfLBKVVt-5Zfgq4QztogxFek9_gQaEjLBJLfpO7RnD676yvHPbNACoCvxoZ7nWJK-_yKCbGz1M0oZlI-3ty-FhrkNwyRUS0VqJMNXd2E5ZeMqiO4l0jGAxNIicClrXv4wSd7g6XtoWqMdb_723eGIsT8E-0vsgCvwrbdxCZ62abqf5/s320/image004.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A blue flax blossom at the Florissant Fossil Beds <br />National Monument. Photo date 2003 by S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>When I reached the fossil redwood, I sat down on a bench to soak in the experience. As I looked at this remarkable remnant of a primeval redwood I noticed patches of soft, velvety, emerald green moss gripping sections of the petrified stump. There are small forest sounds: a bird chirps in the distance while a chickadee croons a love song from a place deeper than daydreams. A jay scolds me from the safety of a high branch overhead. There are little rustlings in a tree behind me where a black, tufted eared Abert’s squirrel worries a pinecone. These sights, sounds, and smells make me content, and mark this natural place as special. </p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p>Fossils are the letters that form words in a geologic story. Together, these words complete the pages of the area’s paleontological record: messages from a distant time telling a story of plants and animals that once lived here and are now gone. The pages document the broader climate and the ecosystem it supported. Most importantly, these intimate histories—written in stone— yield a narrative of how an ecosystem responds to climate change. The Eocene marks the start of a gradual global cooling.</p><p>The secrets of deep time are exposed in fossils on pine covered hills and grassy meadows of Florissant. At the Florissant Fossil Beds lie some of the world’s richest fossil deposits, remnants of life ranging in size from a tiny grain of pollen to massive redwood trees. Time is no longer the trickster under Florissant’s vast summer sky; instead, time is captured as a memory in each fossil and is brought forward to the present, where these vital fossils reveal a primeval Eocene ecosystem. I immersed myself in its story. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XgtgfWBli13rCYs052XCm-okkXe_I-GothhLzbX84ont3tFkUZy1gIV-4qonPbF0PuJCKQTGyIGJXqIztD9YMk25C1OuyFiOdUb5JdAWEut2tMjH8NgYk5XTEZaABY_LhRQcn2xxcGrau4aQ5De87BSNichpPF7siJpuVZi9BCAuu-qbnKdUK_jI/s2736/DSC00990sss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="2736" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XgtgfWBli13rCYs052XCm-okkXe_I-GothhLzbX84ont3tFkUZy1gIV-4qonPbF0PuJCKQTGyIGJXqIztD9YMk25C1OuyFiOdUb5JdAWEut2tMjH8NgYk5XTEZaABY_LhRQcn2xxcGrau4aQ5De87BSNichpPF7siJpuVZi9BCAuu-qbnKdUK_jI/w400-h266/DSC00990sss.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big Stump at the Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument.<br />Photo date 2020 by S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-81147091875926435552022-09-21T14:56:00.010-06:002022-09-29T14:16:59.125-06:00A Communion of Discovery<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Dedicated to Estella
Leopold, conservationist</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></p>
<h3 style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Melting ice washed gravels down,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">burying the mammoth—hiding it through the ages.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And I found a rock at its grave,<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">with secrets deep inside.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I broke it, crushed it, sifted it;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">dissolved it in a beaker,<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">spun it by a centrifuge,<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">and peeled back layers of time.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Now only hidden fossils remain:<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Pollen grains and mossy spores—<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">once floating on an Ice Age breeze.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Now in that communion of discovery<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">these small fossils yield<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">the deepest glimpse through time<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">to the world before we came, and warn<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">of a future we must face—<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">while just outside forests change,<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">species die,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">and life recedes.</span></span></h3><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-weight: normal;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd4ysqh7bbKMS18JpvPChDJ7qqfsKlDVj5WP6MTziHjvhdzPc4bo8mMRW2NuVtoWhHS7VAabvjwPNHADb_1t2Ie3HYDLGk1Dwa8kgR1y3z3DDSTWk1T7AcSqFfcFckp6wBaEiRNLqYMs3H59VOOEOqzbVNULNhQ64o3inN47yE29VVf3T9kgjKSkV7/s587/image001.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="484" data-original-width="587" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd4ysqh7bbKMS18JpvPChDJ7qqfsKlDVj5WP6MTziHjvhdzPc4bo8mMRW2NuVtoWhHS7VAabvjwPNHADb_1t2Ie3HYDLGk1Dwa8kgR1y3z3DDSTWk1T7AcSqFfcFckp6wBaEiRNLqYMs3H59VOOEOqzbVNULNhQ64o3inN47yE29VVf3T9kgjKSkV7/w200-h165/image001.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spruce (<i>Picea</i>) palynomorph from the <br />Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument, <br />image by David Jarzen.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText">Estella Leopold assisted me in the actual research of Pleistocene pollen from Florissant. A layer
associated with the burial site of a Columbian Mammoth at the Florissant Fossil
Beds National Monument was found to contain Ice Age pollen and spores. This
research resulted in a paper presented at the Geological Society of America in
Denver in 2013. Estella was one of the original “Defenders of Florissant” and
was instrumental in the Florissant Fossil Beds in becoming a national monument.
Estella is the daughter of Aldo Leopold, who wrote the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sand County Almanac</i>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><o:p> </o:p></p>
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</div><br /><p></p>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-49171139892732161862022-08-14T10:48:00.001-06:002022-08-15T12:06:20.920-06:00Underground<p> By Steven Wade Veatch</p><p><br /></p><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Thunderstorms batter the sky.<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The porch shakes while lightning </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">wages war.<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Black and purple mix like a bruise.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Wind whirls through the aspens.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Icy rain soaks the ground—<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">wet soil and decaying leaves<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">smell like an underground mine.<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Dank scents bring memories<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">with annotations. My thoughts spin<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">then strike the borderland of my memories,<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">breaking through to a place<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">of shafts, dimly lit voids, and ore carts.<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">My great grandfather trudges<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">through confining spaces, groaning timbers,<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">dripping water, and rusting rails.<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Muddy places smear his clothes with grime.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">His pick bounces off rocks again and again.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Booming blasts fill the drifts with acrid<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">smells. A taste of sulfur lingers.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I see him reach down and scoop<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">up a handful of gold ore,<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">he lets it fall through his fingers,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">and tells me how to live.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">So much to remember.<br /></span><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I should have listened more,<br /> </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">but I am far away.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The blackness swallows<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">the flickering light of his candle<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">and his face recedes from view.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">His words flood my mind—<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">a generational reckoning—<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">part of my ritual of becoming.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I carry some stories, like blaring bells,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">others I have lost.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">In me, these inheritances manifest:<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">a lifelong journey toward a glittering<br /> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">horizon, but I never get there.<br /></span><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I should have listened more,<br /></span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">and now my time is gone.</span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3YSfSGTaNKlXjyUnDSKgygaGjQr_5o0qnqH2HBpSLkjBdjnjv7XXWoe8GdG0NJQvTBnOpbAQlXWzNTUa_tYIUSDt76IeOo-RYHG9-2TBnFO3DHeY3RQFbuexkqhCJCySRqxe6EztLI-2jGH5pN-C1hWaHzfHwz1EFmGPV45ubeL_o05v9xYr3FGS/s6271/National557.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3752" data-original-width="6271" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3YSfSGTaNKlXjyUnDSKgygaGjQr_5o0qnqH2HBpSLkjBdjnjv7XXWoe8GdG0NJQvTBnOpbAQlXWzNTUa_tYIUSDt76IeOo-RYHG9-2TBnFO3DHeY3RQFbuexkqhCJCySRqxe6EztLI-2jGH5pN-C1hWaHzfHwz1EFmGPV45ubeL_o05v9xYr3FGS/w432-h258/National557.jpg" width="432" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Elkton mine,
Cripple Creek Mining District. The author’s great grandfather worked in this
mine for over two decades. Photo date 1894, courtesy of the Cripple Creek
District Museum.<o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-41501080787391886532022-07-20T09:05:00.008-06:002022-07-20T09:12:46.112-06:00The Michigan Puddingstone<p> <span style="font-size: 12pt;">By Steven
Wade Veatch</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I saw the stone on a long furrow, after the farmer’s spring
plow,</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">like a glob of pudding packed with raisins, nuts, and bits of
cranberry. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">When I picked it up, I held eons of time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">As I wondered how the stone looked long ago, it broke its
silence <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">and whispered its ancient origin, from an era when rushing
streams <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">tumbled rock fragments, in a wild dance over time’s expanse. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">As the days passed by, slowing water scattered pebbles on sand
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">and mixed them. Over time the material hardened into a rock <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">with a chaotic fabric of colorful stones cemented by sugary grains
of white quartz. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">More time, then more time, and with heat and pressure <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">it became quartzite, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">a metamorphic
rock, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">a puddingstone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">And then more change, and the days grew gray, cloudy, and cold,
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">with dark, blowing winds. Glacial ice crept south and plucked
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">this stone from Ontario’s bedrock <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">and carried it away. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The climate shifted, the blue ice melted, and the stone released<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">on a quiet Michigan landscape for me to find 12 centuries later.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I put the stone back down, where agents of weathering <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">and time will change it once more, breaking<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">it down to its original ingredients.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The puddingstone makes me pause and ponder,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">and I am here to say the only true constant <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">is endless change. Nothing stays the same,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">not time, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">climate, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">the puddingstone,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>or even me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS5WlJ738mK5VL1PTMsLU-hIhmswMcDN8TAxiNIEmVwcnoCI9aTnes4M-eq1lL6smGCwqsfgGPtu8ALolh69NItFjhKR8KFRwH01YCMzB5PxXkYZ-RkVVeQnQcHLcA6fuRY-Ioazh8I8kNXeB0dlHpAJgvFa0mQjgazZzJyxj1vM-_erAc02L5L89O/s1314/image002.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1314" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS5WlJ738mK5VL1PTMsLU-hIhmswMcDN8TAxiNIEmVwcnoCI9aTnes4M-eq1lL6smGCwqsfgGPtu8ALolh69NItFjhKR8KFRwH01YCMzB5PxXkYZ-RkVVeQnQcHLcA6fuRY-Ioazh8I8kNXeB0dlHpAJgvFa0mQjgazZzJyxj1vM-_erAc02L5L89O/w400-h260/image002.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An unpolished puddingstone from Michigan. Some puddingstones contain trace amounts of gold and diamonds. These rocks are commonly found just after farmers plow their fields in Michigan. Puddingstones were brought to Michigan by Ice Age glaciers. A Jo Beckwith specimen. Photo by S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">First published in the <i>Betsie Current</i>.</span><p></p>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-79025633894086674202022-07-04T10:31:00.001-06:002022-07-04T10:31:51.418-06:00Petroglyphs<div>By Steven Wade Veatch</div><div><br /></div><div>Desert varnish </div><div>drips down rocks</div><div>marking time.</div><div><br /></div><div>Spirals, stars, </div><div>animal shapes, </div><div>sacred symbols,</div><div>pecked on rocks</div><div>from centuries past</div><div>reveal a silent song </div><div>and the shaman’s path. </div><div><br /></div><div>A breeze whispers</div><div>through sagebrush </div><div>while a sunbaked lizard</div><div>rests on a rock. </div><div>A hawk, flying high, </div><div>disappears into the canyon </div><div>where echoes of ancient </div><div>chants draw me</div><div>to where I </div><div>belong.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8sZeW1nb0iC8-v40mqs-zW4-PczHe719FGkKVPmFNgMWTU_wtD398QGoXw4Jo9UoMV7fe5jeS4aprNke4tF7pOXaXq9dlxWep2h48GD4Blq5gWrqP660ikKDm63ehXLCG0NhUh8vUms03pymfwaN2rWz9RlyNdhY9mjGEhMhE8iaGqrgeozHrODLF/s853/image001.png" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="701" data-original-width="853" height="329" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8sZeW1nb0iC8-v40mqs-zW4-PczHe719FGkKVPmFNgMWTU_wtD398QGoXw4Jo9UoMV7fe5jeS4aprNke4tF7pOXaXq9dlxWep2h48GD4Blq5gWrqP660ikKDm63ehXLCG0NhUh8vUms03pymfwaN2rWz9RlyNdhY9mjGEhMhE8iaGqrgeozHrODLF/w400-h329/image001.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Fremont petroglyph panel, Dinosaur National Park and </div><div style="text-align: left;">surrounding areas. Photo by S. W. Veatch.</div><span><div style="text-align: left;"><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></span>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-60625273609176566052022-05-07T09:09:00.001-06:002022-05-07T09:14:41.584-06:00A Headframe to the Sky<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By Steven Wade Veatch</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Faint traces of a wagon road in
backcountry<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">curve to a gold mine hidden in the
trees.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The mine’s headframe reaches to the
sky—<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">a crown of confidence on unbreakable
dreams.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The ore sorting house rusts through
time<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">while moss invades stone foundations.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Blue pines rock and wild grasses tip
in the wind.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Gray clouds nod in the distance.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Miners once made their way with burning
candles <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">toward rhythmic clangs of hammers and
drills, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">while stepping aside for donkey-drawn
ore cars<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">running on narrow rails deep underground.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Two men, with blistered hands, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">pounded steel that drilled the rock<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">then packed dynamite in the holes
they made.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A rattail of fuse detonated a round with
a thundering blast.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Timbers in tight embrace held the
Earth in place<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">as spectral Tommyknockers scurried
and hid <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">in opaque blackness beyond the candle
flame <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">while golden veins and rich ore wait discovery. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Now the gold mine is silent, the
sheave wheel stopped.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The underground workings—still as
held breath.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The mine a monument to how the West
was won.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A progress secured by the lure of
gold.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Morning shadows cover yellow spills
of flowers<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">where deer dip down to browse nearby.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The mine still makes its claim on the
land<o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Harkening to better days and simpler
ways.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ceXJsfPMghQWgj9bLxo2OymZ5TW2omqrR0iJv7X-tw1Chcd1_Tv3ZpvY5HJrJ3aDlaXYyel_yMRrDxFx9WSNFzZC50iCX2n6q9nXQk-MJub0kOKDbWTdUarb-9xfNFKtFZudQXEu4ZN7jTMVLimlGN6ahcjgPsQd4EKVyRpkXUh-cNC9EE4r2tWM/s3883/Empire%20Lee%20646.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2569" data-original-width="3883" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ceXJsfPMghQWgj9bLxo2OymZ5TW2omqrR0iJv7X-tw1Chcd1_Tv3ZpvY5HJrJ3aDlaXYyel_yMRrDxFx9WSNFzZC50iCX2n6q9nXQk-MJub0kOKDbWTdUarb-9xfNFKtFZudQXEu4ZN7jTMVLimlGN6ahcjgPsQd4EKVyRpkXUh-cNC9EE4r2tWM/w400-h265/Empire%20Lee%20646.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;">Empire Lee mine, Cripple Creek mining district.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo by Gene Mourning, courtesy of the</div><div style="text-align: center;">Western Museum of Mining and Industry.</div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><div><br /></div><p><br /></p>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-50042869504680495572022-03-23T09:33:00.005-06:002022-03-23T09:33:53.645-06:00Pillars of Hercules<p> <span style="font-size: 12pt;">By Steven
Wade Veatch</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">On August 10, 1908, a visitor to the
Pikes Peak region traveled up the dusty, winding road through South Cheyenne Cañon.
This road, long hailed as "The Grandest Mile of Scenery" in Colorado,
ends at Seven Falls, a tourist attraction since the early 1880s. Fascinated
with the sights along the way, he bought a postcard at the local curio shop to commemorate
his tour.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Moved by the striking geology along
the road, he began to consider the geologic processes at work. He observed how
South Cheyenne Creek relentlessly carved down through the faulted Pikes Peak
Granite to create the cañon. He wrote messages on both sides of the postcard to
remember how these geologic wonders moved him on that summer’s day.<b> </b>On
the front of the postcard, he wrote:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: .75in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 1in 8pt 0.75in;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">On either side are perpendicular walls, nearly a thousand
feet high and at one place, but forty feet apart, barely giving room for the
creek and roadway between them. Indeed, the whole space was originally occupied
by the stream, which had to be crowded from its bed. Saw this Aug. 9, 1908.</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: 1in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">And then, on the back of the
postcard, he typed: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: .75in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 1in 8pt 0.75in; tab-stops: 4.5pt;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Before us are two tremendous cliffs “The Pillars of
Hercules.” They seem to stand squarely across the cañon, completely filling it
and demanding a halt. The way seems barred, and the stranger is at a loss to
know which way to go, but the brook has found a way and so must we. Here is a
most wonderful demonstration of the action of water. For hundreds of feet the
cañon at this point has been worn through the solid granite.</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: .75in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 1in 8pt 0.75in; tab-stops: 4.5pt;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: .75in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 1in 8pt 0.75in; tab-stops: 4.5pt;"><i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZrHwaoksDE5BerbDHNPy8jjpRPzpv-QfQS52ZtiQ6rizBwU5lnjsVdjvmyJ8ijPFb3_6v0e2IDwxT54ABPTQWGgrsF7PZPBwmlTpdJLM0OurtE6CDkvWLx3sj3BDfelkQsRepgdlDJ2RFfWe9rl8fN5yyZqRZQaS6t4_tBT9z8haATLC1yA9WKAe/s1377/image001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1377" data-original-width="878" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZrHwaoksDE5BerbDHNPy8jjpRPzpv-QfQS52ZtiQ6rizBwU5lnjsVdjvmyJ8ijPFb3_6v0e2IDwxT54ABPTQWGgrsF7PZPBwmlTpdJLM0OurtE6CDkvWLx3sj3BDfelkQsRepgdlDJ2RFfWe9rl8fN5yyZqRZQaS6t4_tBT9z8haATLC1yA9WKAe/w255-h400/image001.jpg" width="255" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 1. Postcard showing South Cheyenne Creek flowing between the imposing granite Pillars of Hercules. A visitor to the Colorado Springs area in 1908 wrote a message on the front and back <br />of the postcard. From the S. W. Veatch postcard collection.</td></tr></tbody></table></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The anonymous visitor did not mail
the postcard but kept it with his important papers and keepsakes. That this
postcard has lasted all these decades is as remarkable as the magnificent
mountain scenery it portrays. The cañon continues to this day to impress
visitors. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-54465610947860769232022-03-22T13:03:00.001-06:002022-03-22T13:03:15.646-06:00A Photo at the Museum<p> <span style="font-size: 12pt;">By Steven Wade Veatch</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I see you in
the fading photo looking back at me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Evidence
that shows you lived.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I wonder who
you were, touching the world,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">learning in
a one-room school, following <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">a deer trail,
and then working in a gold mine. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Nothing else
mattered. Just years passing by.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">You stepped
into an unknowable darkness,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">then you were
gone, and your<b> </b>possessions disappeared—<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">one <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">by <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">one.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As your
world collides with mine,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I ask:<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">What will
I leave behind?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A yearbook,
a photograph album, postcards, letters. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Will they go
to a museum?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Or a
dumpster? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Will they
fill a cigar box?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I am lucky,
I filled <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">someone’s
heart. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfwx-NN9pPSdiOdbFegCCfiiYkaCnTjMxMAhaG3wJRLwCdJCJ4-ZRSpsw4B2u2pD9gfrHGO6d1h6qxdWSrco4_muwpHDXaeoA5iHHwJm0sdV18PjkIWMtslN8h-Aw-tfHwrmQUjrHWdzMFgsbm3_0U7Nk3HGFOAcvHJDQ6G7KrGMm_mZ1OdHNpb7Wh/s440/image001.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="398" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfwx-NN9pPSdiOdbFegCCfiiYkaCnTjMxMAhaG3wJRLwCdJCJ4-ZRSpsw4B2u2pD9gfrHGO6d1h6qxdWSrco4_muwpHDXaeoA5iHHwJm0sdV18PjkIWMtslN8h-Aw-tfHwrmQUjrHWdzMFgsbm3_0U7Nk3HGFOAcvHJDQ6G7KrGMm_mZ1OdHNpb7Wh/s320/image001.png" width="289" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A young miner in the Cripple Creek Mining District. Photo circa 1899. Courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-11035511047339350612022-02-25T08:10:00.002-07:002022-03-03T11:28:52.277-07:00 Independence: A Troubled Town in the Cripple Creek Mining District, Colorado<p>By Steven Wade Veatch</p><p><span> </span>A troubled man, with a festering and poisoned mind, emerged from the shadows on a Saturday night, just five days before Thanksgiving, 1903. He went down the shaft of the Vindicator mine, a substantial gold producer in the town of Independence, one of more than a dozen camps in the Cripple Creek mining district of Colorado. While down in the mine, this man planted a device that would later explode, killing two men. He had hoped to kill more. This was not the last act of violence committed by the fanatic bomber known as Harry Orchard. He later planned another attack, one that would be more destructive and more lethal for the town of Independence. And there would be other incidents of mayhem: saloon fights, gunfights, railroad accidents, and injuries from mining. Independence was anything but a quiet town.</p><p><span> </span>First known as Hull’s Camp, the town was renamed by promoters after the storied Independence mine, which is 2.5 miles south of the townsite. According to <i>The Morning Journal</i>, Mr. W. S. Montgomery, one owner of the Hull City mine, said, “Yes, there will be a town at Hull’s camp and it will be known as Independence. The site of the new town is an admirable one, with plenty of water and well sheltered by the surrounding hills. It is the center of the most productive section of camp. The streets are now being laid off and already several large business firms have signified their intention of locating in the new town” (The Morning Journal, Oct 28, 1894). A group of town organizers formally platted Independence on November 11, 1894 (MacKell, 2016). </p><div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEickcVNpIv5NTMRRAmB3VnF34CKha7puxq6vH6C3EFTtsLcb4_yLPeN032AQ-j3_qpyKDrF75O9g4x-wsIlujnTgF5lhmqgvyJfF2UPW-wK6fliLJsj0NJPlR1ZUounwyVq51ri0ppfCfN24l5q3fINuVfp1zlayb4VL94EAIM6El4sIo14Momg-MIm=s869" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="869" data-original-width="796" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEickcVNpIv5NTMRRAmB3VnF34CKha7puxq6vH6C3EFTtsLcb4_yLPeN032AQ-j3_qpyKDrF75O9g4x-wsIlujnTgF5lhmqgvyJfF2UPW-wK6fliLJsj0NJPlR1ZUounwyVq51ri0ppfCfN24l5q3fINuVfp1zlayb4VL94EAIM6El4sIo14Momg-MIm=w366-h400" width="366" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Figure 1</i>. Map of the Cripple Creek mining district. A red arrow points to the town of Independence. The Vindicator mine is almost due south of the town of Independence. The Independence mine is northeast of Victor. Modified from Jameson, 1998.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><span> </span>Independence was a place where miners and their families lived, and by 1896, the population reached 500 (MacKell, 2016). An active business district along Montgomery Avenue included of an assayer, jeweler, photographer, and one doctor (MacKell, 2003). There was a drugstore, grocery, meat market, bakery, barber shop, two saloons, and a lumber mill. According to the newspaper, Mrs. Marshall “set a good table” at her restaurant (The Morning Journal, February 27, 1895). Willard F. French ran an active assay office in town. Independence also had a boardinghouse and two hotels (MacKell, 2016). Mrs. Mamie Crook’s Hotel Montgomery offered a “Nice home for miners, good board and clean rooms at reasonable rates” (MacKell 2016). <i>The Independence Retort</i> published a weekly newspaper. </div><div><br /></div><div><span> </span>The Midland Terminal Railway stopped at the modest depot on First and Montgomery to handle freight and passenger traffic (MacKell, 2003). While the railroad built the depot, the station agent lived in a nearby box car (The Morning Journal, December 13, 1894). While laying tracks toward the depot, the railroad made a cut in the ground on the property of the Longfellow mine number 2 and exposed a gold vein. The cut was near where the depot was to be built. Owners of the claim picked up some pieces of rock from the vein and threw them into the firebox of a nearby locomotive. The rock came out of the fire blistered with gold. Within five days, miners had dug a carload of ore (The Morning Journal, December 19, 1894). Station agent Jackson of the Midland Terminal depot at Independence later became a joint owner of the lease on the Longfellow number 2. Newspapers later reported of several gold strikes there. The Florence and Cripple Creek Railroad also had a depot in Independence (figure 7).</div><div><span> </span>Accidents and injuries were not uncommon at the railroad depots in Independence. In one example, a moving train struck a Mr. Adams near the main Independence depot about 6:30 pm on Tuesday, June 20, 1899. Adams was from Pueblo and was on an excursion to the mining district. He was taken to the Sisters’ Hospital in Cripple Creek and died that evening (The Morning Journal, June 20, 1899).</div><div><br /></div><div><span> </span>Saloons did a brisk business in Independence. <i>The Morning Journal</i> reported this unusual story: “John Lamb of Independence, commenced a suit in district court to recover money lost by him in an Independence gambling hall. The defendants in the case are Charles Zeigler and Charles Cunningham. Lamb alleges in this complaint that while on his way home from work he dropped into the gambling hall and saloon of the defendants and after being given a drink or two by them his brain was so stupefied by the drink and drugs that he did not know what he was doing. He alleges that the defendants then induced him to play a game of chance, and he lost $117 . Scott Ashton, of Victor, is the plaintiff’s attorney” (The Morning Journal, August 15, 1899).<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span> </span>Independence was likewise the location of a large ore loading rail yard. Locomotives made it a noisy place, with their pistons chuffing, whistles blasting, and brakes screeching. Switch engines and crews traveled around to the various mines and mills and switched ore cars out—pulling the loaded ore cars away and replacing them with empty cars. The switch crew would then assemble loaded ore cars into a train that hauled the ore to a mill for treatment. People in town surely would have noticed the heavy rumbling of a train as it rolled by, pulling loaded ore cars. They watched locomotives that ran through the area, belching plumes of heavy black smoke, soot, and cinders. The air smelled of coal and hot valve oil, and the wooden railroad ties reeked of creosote. </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Figure 2 shows the Midland Terminal Railway engine number seven, with its switch crew taking a break at the town of Independence in 1904. The photograph also reveals the dual gauge track and extra link-and-pin coupler socket on the engine, allowing it to handle either standard or narrow-gauge equipment. The coupler—for narrow gauge cars—was offset, while the standard gauge coupler was centered (the coupler can be clearly seen above the “cowcatcher” in figure 2). Both the Midland Terminal and the Colorado Midland were standard gauge, but other railroads in the district were narrow gauge. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2LSEG33eR86mQ245YQ2edp_5mLnC9p1U7KpwkCdI6xcajuSjd5scvkBoH3_hbGdQxbhQTxAPm06AFGk3c0aK02w_FBhmHCrpAOCdcPoeebyIeyouIxHgleSdEZ5p_TPJRxmIM_7k0D_pVlNTVhqNc6rla75IUi3BGSW0OWlMAJ6T8I3nlgt_xtn6x=s1431" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="963" data-original-width="1431" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2LSEG33eR86mQ245YQ2edp_5mLnC9p1U7KpwkCdI6xcajuSjd5scvkBoH3_hbGdQxbhQTxAPm06AFGk3c0aK02w_FBhmHCrpAOCdcPoeebyIeyouIxHgleSdEZ5p_TPJRxmIM_7k0D_pVlNTVhqNc6rla75IUi3BGSW0OWlMAJ6T8I3nlgt_xtn6x=w400-h269" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Figure 2.</i> Switch engine and its crew in Independence, Colorado. Hull City mine in the background. Photo date 1904 by an unknown photographer. From the Joata (Osborn) Bottcher collection. Courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum, CCDM A8524.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Independence continued to grow, and by 1899, 1,500 people called it home (Sprague, 1953). The town crowded around two important mines, the Vindicator and the Hull City mine. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglBjUmNiVF7Gn7MO5uxsEdLeB5OizUQvTCyD7Q2ZQ-9yi6H1JI_v-jZ5nZ0CGB2MhryXKl3I_XGLIqOxysD02_J2aIgqX8YGYFMbv4mA-r9nXI8_rZaA4GKQJmJa62f8x3_Hvcjbz7nne8BLnliZ8bhofwJM3pu1KxelCRgdfs8rhy9737mP9bNeDv=s1166" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="687" data-original-width="1166" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglBjUmNiVF7Gn7MO5uxsEdLeB5OizUQvTCyD7Q2ZQ-9yi6H1JI_v-jZ5nZ0CGB2MhryXKl3I_XGLIqOxysD02_J2aIgqX8YGYFMbv4mA-r9nXI8_rZaA4GKQJmJa62f8x3_Hvcjbz7nne8BLnliZ8bhofwJM3pu1KxelCRgdfs8rhy9737mP9bNeDv=w400-h236" width="400" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Figure 3.</i> The town of Independence, Colorado, looking northwest. Photo date 1897. Webster and Yelton photographers. Courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum. CCDMA82. 329A.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><span> </span>The Vindicator mine was in the Montgomery gulch section of this small gold-rush town. It was a steady producer, and by 1907, <i>The Mining Investor </i>reported the mine had almost 25 miles of underground workings and had distributed, in total, over $1.7 million in dividends to stockholders (The Mining Investor, March 2, 1908). By 1910, the Vindicator was the fourth largest producer in the district, employing 350 miners who worked there.</div><div><br /></div><div><span> </span>The rich Hull City mine, which covered an area of 39 acres, was within the town limits (Lindgren and Ransome, 1906). According to Lindgren and Ransome (1906) the “Hull City had a complex vein system where calaverite, the main ore mineral, coated narrow seams in these veins. Quartz and fluorite coated small vug holes.” By the end of 1899, the mine had produced $900,193 in gold, and during the next three years (January 1, 1901 to January 1, 1904) generated gold worth $999,174 (Lindgren and Ransome, 1906). </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6QVuypXuX9PjmmcRqXMbyCekRak2wyTkbhNxOUpMQCpLFOiomX3SdoA5xLUa2aKLC1AtggfAhGUYWfpxWbp8HBIjdDM8Iydk-MPTpCDCYoOgFsEwgL7AOmL2j4fe1IBv2NWZcWr-7fCXqOzIrjJIbl4cA5EbnB5J39-EYoiIyXBZtFVKi4K-MuhTZ=s942" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="942" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6QVuypXuX9PjmmcRqXMbyCekRak2wyTkbhNxOUpMQCpLFOiomX3SdoA5xLUa2aKLC1AtggfAhGUYWfpxWbp8HBIjdDM8Iydk-MPTpCDCYoOgFsEwgL7AOmL2j4fe1IBv2NWZcWr-7fCXqOzIrjJIbl4cA5EbnB5J39-EYoiIyXBZtFVKi4K-MuhTZ=w400-h272" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Figure 4.</i> The town of Independence with the Hull City mine (foreground) and the Vindicator mine. Library, The State Historical Society of Colorado. CCDM A82-132.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>By 1906, the Hull City’s main shaft reached a depth of 1,265 feet, with 11 levels; a second shaft, the King shaft (sometimes called the Vaughn or Glorietta shaft) was 860 feet deep, with 12 levels. This King shaft was in operation near the southern boundary of the mine (Lindgren and Ransome, 1906). </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The record of accidents and deaths miners suffered at the Hull City mine is incomplete. <i>The Aspen Weekly Times</i> reported that an explosion killed James Drury in the lower stopes of the mine on June 4, 1901. According to the reporter, “He was warned before going into one of the stopes that one of the shots had failed to explode but went on and drilled into the blast. The entire side of this head was blown away” (The Aspen Weekly Times, 1901). Another mine accident killed A. M. Mellon on the morning of April 5, 1902, as he rode in a cage in the Hull City shaft. When he carelessly stuck his head out from the cage, a passing timber crushed his skull and snapped his neck. He had no relatives (The Telluride Journal, 1902). Records show that rocks from a bucket dropped on John Williams, killing him (Sherard, 2006). The nearby Vindicator injured and claimed the lives of an unknown number of miners. The true extent of these grim statistics for the Vindicator and the Hull City mines will remain largely unknown.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxcrxCavO74cB3Sw7R8khgxR9fysHYtT1WpAWSFkCruwMZPQVd4Kh7_MjjPb4Yc4GxHaXVWkTlwOyeQafhD6h7yNuBaRMx4j18g3Kt-SZ-Rsq6aA2rOAvDQ0-3t-w9I-AVGcTnUUP9scPDGYiVaSGlpH-i1dGMm_VneU42qzvocROcAcx3R-rDqrD8=s1431" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="936" data-original-width="1431" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxcrxCavO74cB3Sw7R8khgxR9fysHYtT1WpAWSFkCruwMZPQVd4Kh7_MjjPb4Yc4GxHaXVWkTlwOyeQafhD6h7yNuBaRMx4j18g3Kt-SZ-Rsq6aA2rOAvDQ0-3t-w9I-AVGcTnUUP9scPDGYiVaSGlpH-i1dGMm_VneU42qzvocROcAcx3R-rDqrD8=w400-h261" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Figure 5.</i> Early photo of Independence. Mining operations dot the landscape. Photographer and date unknown. Courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum. CCV93GKCCM WA.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div> Cripple Creek was a Western Federation of Miners union stronghold, and a crisis arose on August 8, 1903, when Cripple Creek union miners walked out in support of the striking smelter workers in Colorado City, Colorado (Taylor, 2003). The issue was over hours worked each day and pay. By August 11, at least 3,500 men had quit work in 50 of the district’s mines (Jameson, 1998)..The district soon became a battlefield, with confrontations between labor, employers, and the state of Colorado. About that same time, the district’s labor wars spilled over into the town of Independence. The disputes resulted in injuries and loss of life. Harry Orchard, who resided in Independence, became embroiled in the district’s labor strife, and committed several acts of violence. On November 21, 1903, a bomb set by Orchard exploded on the sixth level of the Vindicator mine, killing superintendent Charles H. McCormick and shift boss Melvin H. Beck, who were inspecting the mine (Orchard, 1907; Annual Report for the Vindicator, 1903).</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTqz5pQS7TUAysaQrXi4IKUcCzbnXfD-c_vUxQPxR45d5LP4TFy3gD2b4xVPlxIiRTVdlXwQtZIkpy_O6uzqKg-IWMQOMuM9ilazhYZ3rviiSdL_Ga_WHmC26mG_Jc4VJnbTxwEddBgEExTdazQPt8ulEM_uhfPa_i3VRD9HlpUJA2QvQqNwmq2Xgc=s816" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="816" data-original-width="645" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTqz5pQS7TUAysaQrXi4IKUcCzbnXfD-c_vUxQPxR45d5LP4TFy3gD2b4xVPlxIiRTVdlXwQtZIkpy_O6uzqKg-IWMQOMuM9ilazhYZ3rviiSdL_Ga_WHmC26mG_Jc4VJnbTxwEddBgEExTdazQPt8ulEM_uhfPa_i3VRD9HlpUJA2QvQqNwmq2Xgc=w316-h400" width="316" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Figure 6. </i>Harry Orchard, whose real name was Albert Edward Horsley, lived in Independence and left behind a bloody trail in the Cripple Creek Mining District. Photo courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><span> </span>About six months later, Orchard, with the help of Steve Adams, placed between 150 and 200 pounds of dynamite under a loading platform at the Florence and Cripple Creek Railroad depot in Independence (Jameson, 1998; Sprague, 1953). On June 6, 1904, at 2:15 am, while a crew from the Findley mine waited for a train, the bomb exploded. The blast blew one miner 150 feet away from the depot, killed 13 miners, and injured another 20. Orchard and Adams covered the soles of their shoes with kerosene, so the sheriff’s bloodhounds could not track them, and disappeared into the darkness. Colorado’s lieutenant governor declared the county in a state of insurrection and mobilized the National Guard (Jameson, 1989).</div><div><br /></div><div><span> </span>The strike lasted for fifteen months before finally coming to an end. Thirty-three people were killed, but organized labor lost out as a result of determined opposition by mine owners and the state of Colorado. With no further union representation in the district, miners worked under the tight control of mine owners (Taylor, 2003).</div><div><br /></div><div><span> </span>Harry Orchard was later convicted of blowing up the former governor of Idaho, Frank Steunenberg, in 1905. Facing the death penalty, Orchard confessed to the murder of the former governor and 16 other people. Orchard died in the Idaho state penitentiary April 13, 1954, at the age of 88.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMwrPd0t5rZWbxXiVKKFvIBE12SDqrC4S4wKLar0EkQ7VDJuq7NQnQa3VfUO3dOm0shClxq71MTyWFfj17sYDO_UP9dUoxCLj67cusSQSb7IcbIWxsU6IcwBu8i3ZkesM0twQqkklfqKPcJIG-xt1jypk6_bYyS69Jwau4Zr2CD5GzzhdAoJxRCN2J=s1430" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="961" data-original-width="1430" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMwrPd0t5rZWbxXiVKKFvIBE12SDqrC4S4wKLar0EkQ7VDJuq7NQnQa3VfUO3dOm0shClxq71MTyWFfj17sYDO_UP9dUoxCLj67cusSQSb7IcbIWxsU6IcwBu8i3ZkesM0twQqkklfqKPcJIG-xt1jypk6_bYyS69Jwau4Zr2CD5GzzhdAoJxRCN2J=w400-h269" width="400" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Figure 7. </i>The Florence and Cripple Creek depot in Independence after Harry Orchard blew it up on June 6, 1904. Courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum. CCDM 82 420.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>More commotion would come to Independence on February 11, 1906, when two masked gunmen robbed the Silver Bell Saloon. A gun battle broke out that killed one robber, while the other outlaw fled packing $1,800 in cash (MacKell, 2016). </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After the district’s labor wars ended, Independence’s population shrank. Records reveal that, in 1919, 500 people remained in town. The town’s population continued to dwindle as gold mining declined. Its post office closed in 1954, and the Hull City mine ended operations in 1958. A handful of people remained for a few years after that, but then the town nearly disappeared—melting into thin air. Today, only a few ramshackle historic structures survive.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><u>Acknowledgments </u></b></div><div><span> </span>I thank Ben Elick for modifying the map used in this paper. I thank the Colorado Springs Oyster Club and Dr. Bob Carnein for their critical reviews. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><u>References and further readin</u>g</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Annual Report for the Vindicator Consolidated Gold Mining Company, 1903.</div><div><br /></div><div>Jameson, E., 1998, <i>All That Glitters: Class, Conflict, and Community in Cripple Creek</i>: Chicago. University of Illinois Press.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lindgren, W., and F. L. Ransome, 1906, Geology and Gold Deposits of the Cripple Creek District, Colorado: Washington, Department of the Interior, U.S. Geological Survey Professional Paper No. 54.</div><div><br /></div><div>MacKell, J., 2003, <i>Cripple Creek District: Last of Colorado’s Gold Booms</i>: Charleston, Arcadia.</div><div><br /></div><div>MacKell, J., 2016, <i>Lost Ghost Towns of Teller County</i>: Charleston, History Press.</div><div><br /></div><div>Orchard, H, 1907, <i>The Confessions and Autobiography of Harry Orchard</i>: New York, The McClure Company.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sherard, G. 2006, Colorado Mine Accident Index: Fatal and Non-Fatal, Retrieved from https://history.denverlibrary.org/sites/history/files/ColoradoMiningAccidents.pdf, on January 21, 2022.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sprague, M., 1953, <i>Money Mountain: The Story of Cripple Creek Gold</i>: Lincoln, University of Nebraska Press.</div><div><br /></div><div>Taylor, R.G., 2003, <i>Cripple Creek Mining District</i>: Palmer Lake, CO, Filter Press. </div><div>Aspen Weekly Times, June 8, 1901, p. 3.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Morning Journal, Oct 28, 1894, p. 1.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Morning Journal, December 13, 1894, p. 8.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Morning Journal December 19, 1894, p. 3.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Morning Journal, February 27, 1895, p. 1.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Morning Journal, June 20, 1899, p 4.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Morning Journal, August 15, 1899, p. 4.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Morning Journal, December 26, 1899, p. 94.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Mining Investor, March 2, 1908, p. 70.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Telluride Journal, April 10, 1902, p. 6. </div></div><div><br /></div>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-50932225079170440912022-01-18T19:22:00.004-07:002022-01-19T19:23:55.249-07:00Beside the Waterfall<p>Steven Wade Veatch</p><p>Fountain Creek rushes </p><p><span> <span> </span> </span>Over granite and sandstone</p><p><span> </span><span> <span> <span> </span></span></span>And plunging falls form</p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span></span>Uncovering layers of time</p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> </span>Revealing the history of the Earth</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> <span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span></span>While beside the waterfall</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> <span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> M</span></span></span>y days flow by as fast</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_RyuJADyNR5dlH1LwTh7NzHIpwDnGhhAbI7d3HOFJ1m67LtiZ7yDHT5TnWDxsQGv0lzoPsOng_qCYFGclw6EXi3tHvCDnszY-OSCfpTRdQHuBi2Aiqwzb7qHnTZSpM_CtcTLBRUfVSjf613GhKbvFrVDeG5fxmsZMqDMB74ldhN7oVWiXAMErgOlE=s1526" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1526" data-original-width="1012" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_RyuJADyNR5dlH1LwTh7NzHIpwDnGhhAbI7d3HOFJ1m67LtiZ7yDHT5TnWDxsQGv0lzoPsOng_qCYFGclw6EXi3tHvCDnszY-OSCfpTRdQHuBi2Aiqwzb7qHnTZSpM_CtcTLBRUfVSjf613GhKbvFrVDeG5fxmsZMqDMB74ldhN7oVWiXAMErgOlE=w265-h400" width="265" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fountain Creek running through Ute Pass. From the postcard collection of S. W. Veatch</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-53624155445434514252022-01-09T18:24:00.003-07:002022-01-09T18:25:58.829-07:00Beaver Brook StationBy Steven Wade Veatch
A recently discovered historic photograph (figure 1) reveals a Colorado Central Railroad locomotive at Beaver Brook station, located in Clear Creek Canyon in Jefferson County, Colorado. Beaver Brook was one of several depots and water stops in the canyon on the narrow-gauge line that went from Golden to the goldfields of Central City and Blackhawk.
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXFl5VDbgJcwfqDw8eFOnhhicsPDJKgokZWPpdM4thJXa9ODozMjoRq7HJKZb-ZfCSdWe0mR_r1Q-t__aI2lsbYwzjCfxaTAyGWz6QTiBXhs8XL6-3JKNJD_Y7JJ3gwfXYJujV0X5Go6_H5CAG1aj6IM6zRws-8z7AJ1RE7wCxvwANpOm_88c649l2=s984" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="984" data-original-width="902" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXFl5VDbgJcwfqDw8eFOnhhicsPDJKgokZWPpdM4thJXa9ODozMjoRq7HJKZb-ZfCSdWe0mR_r1Q-t__aI2lsbYwzjCfxaTAyGWz6QTiBXhs8XL6-3JKNJD_Y7JJ3gwfXYJujV0X5Go6_H5CAG1aj6IM6zRws-8z7AJ1RE7wCxvwANpOm_88c649l2=s400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 1. The Beaver Brook station on the Colorado Central Railroad. This station was frequently washed out by Clear Creek. Debris from flooding is evident in the photo. Locomotive number five (visible on the dome behind the smokestack) was built in 1873 by Porter-Bell. This number places the photo date before 1885, when number five was changed to number 31. Two men are taking a break at the front of the locomotive. Photographer and photo date unknown. Photo courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>A gold rush to the area started in 1859, following gold discoveries in the gravel of Clear Creek. George A. Jackson made a strike early that year near what would become Idaho Springs, where Chicago Creek joins Clear Creek (Ubbelohde, et al., 2015). A few months later, John H. Gregory panned $80 in nuggets out of gravels of the North Fork of Clear Creek not far from Jackson’s discovery (Abbot, et al., 1994). His location became known as Gregory Gulch. Prospectors and miners streamed into the area.</div><div>Soon Black Hawk, Central City, and Nevadaville were established (Ubbelohde, et al., 2015). These early discoveries launched the second largest gold excitement in the nation’s history. </div><div><br /></div><div>Prospectors, miners, and entrepreneurs developed access to the area. Edward Berthoud completed the Clear Creek Wagon Road by 1862. The Colorado Central Railroad followed in the 1870s and was extended through Clear Creek canyon in 1872 (Holden, 2016). The trip through the canyon was a wild ride. The train lurched and swayed as it slowly steamed along tracks above the creek. Its whistle pierced the air. Valve gears hissed, chuffed, and clanked. Wheels clacked on the rail joints in a rhythm that lulled the passengers into daydreams. When the train went around curves, the wheel flanges squealed and snapped riders out of their reverie. Cinders from the smokestack blew through open windows onto passengers who were packed into seats. The smells of coal smoke and lube oil from the locomotive filled the canyon. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxuCGlW_FagC1I26VNSgkQFSiQX-jJmCERpPC2xz0FT1_48vZvC8YVzML79jurQbnpzxmqVwicnftXTYfvHG3IlKyBA2cHGGW3D2asHCeEYkAK5aKsjBgELoe0xnJyehSlemSmVk516eL78I6VzgPC29qPo5MhJecK6c3NWpQt_UtAoV2SqNKQaBXP=s867" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="867" data-original-width="708" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxuCGlW_FagC1I26VNSgkQFSiQX-jJmCERpPC2xz0FT1_48vZvC8YVzML79jurQbnpzxmqVwicnftXTYfvHG3IlKyBA2cHGGW3D2asHCeEYkAK5aKsjBgELoe0xnJyehSlemSmVk516eL78I6VzgPC29qPo5MhJecK6c3NWpQt_UtAoV2SqNKQaBXP=w326-h400" width="326" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 2. Photograph of the Beaver Brook station and water tank. A steep wooden staircase leads up to a picnic pavilion on the canyon wall next to the wooden station. Photo by Charles Weitfle; photo source: Library of Congress, reproduction Number LC-DIG-stereo-1s01668.</td></tr></tbody></table><div>The Colorado Central Railroad also brought wide-eyed tourists who enjoyed waterfalls, wildlife, and cliffs as the train rolled through the scenic canyon. Beaver Brook station (shown in figure 2) was midway through the canyon and became a favored tourist stop (Abbott, et al., 2007). At Beaver Brook station, passengers marveled at the steep canyon walls, stretched their legs, enjoyed lunch, and accessed hiking trails (Holden, 2016). The railroad also built a picturesque pavilion perched on the slope above the station. Passengers spent time outside on the platform of the pavilion, where they ate picnics and enjoyed the views and the fresh mountain air.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_2V56-FYnJ3zhtbYUEOzvJKEa42GHSMmz8rUFNFH7uWd9MaxuuDryRdvuH3hbRFmQSaVjeP-itFveCrGR9P-LlstBmII__s7S0_y8fhsWBbka3PaWw25oQ0MI8ynfWaNtiMSD_ibK1YBLT9Q_iM20YJf7uMpsjR_h6VixVeHmW6gJOZ74cnEYgabn=s928" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="753" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_2V56-FYnJ3zhtbYUEOzvJKEa42GHSMmz8rUFNFH7uWd9MaxuuDryRdvuH3hbRFmQSaVjeP-itFveCrGR9P-LlstBmII__s7S0_y8fhsWBbka3PaWw25oQ0MI8ynfWaNtiMSD_ibK1YBLT9Q_iM20YJf7uMpsjR_h6VixVeHmW6gJOZ74cnEYgabn=w325-h400" width="325" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 3. A Colorado Central Railroad train has stopped on a bridge over Clear Creek at Beaver Brook station to take on water. People stand around the locomotive. Photo source: Wikimedia Commons, New York Public Library, MFY Dennis Coll 90-F28 Record ID: 730960.</td></tr></tbody></table><div>This narrow-gauge line became part of the Colorado & Southern Railway and continued operations through Clear Creek Canyon until 1941, when the railroad became unprofitable and the rails were removed (Holden, 2016). Today, some say that if you listen carefully, you can still hear the whistle blow as the train winds its way through Clear Creek Canyon. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Acknowledgments:</b> The author thanks Pete Doolittle for improving this article. </div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>References and further reading:</b></div><div> </div><div>Abbott, C., S. J. Leonard, and D. McComb, 1994, <i>Colorado: A History of the Centennial State</i>: Niwot, University Press of Colorado. </div><div><br /></div><div>Abbott, D., D.A McCoy, and R. W. McLeod, 2007, <i>Colorado Central Railroad</i>: Denver, Sundance Publishing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Holden, G. S., 2016, Clear Creek Canyon. Colorado Encyclopedia, retrieved from https://coloradoencyclopedia.org/article/clear-creek-canyon on June 6, 2021. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ubbelohde, C, M. Benson, and D. Smith, 2015, A History of Colorado: Portland, West Winds Press.</div>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-2255253400830390672021-11-01T16:35:00.001-06:002021-11-01T16:35:25.514-06:00The Foster Ranch: An Early Colorado Springs Homestead<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">By </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Steven Wade Veatch</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> <span> </span> </span>Marcus Aurelius Foster (1834-1923) made his
way from New Ipswich, New Hampshire, to the Colorado Territory in its early
days of settlement. He arrived in Colorado City, the first permanent town in
the Pikes Peak region, in the spring of 1860 (Foster, 1964). Colorado Springs
did not yet exist, and </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">El Paso County would
not be organized by the citizenry until 1861—one year after Foster’s arrival.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span> <span> <span> </span></span></span>The Pikes Peak region was a harsh
and wild environment when Foster arrived. It was an expanse of shortgrass
plains that ended where Pikes Peak and Cheyenne Mountain rose to the south and
west. Dramatic red rock formations—the Garden of the Gods—in their skyward reach
marked the transition of the plains to the mountains. At that time, the Utes traveled
back and forth between their mountain hunting grounds to the west and the
foothills to the east. In the winter, the Utes camped at lower elevations,
sometimes near the Garden of the Gods or Manitou Springs.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8qKGCKK48pQ8pcCfsD0zIGKNG41Tj1rBaWY0njXsQHCDKQlW5SOcydaV3om2RcljNtQ4K2omsdPXm_c0Ur-Ps4RUO2s3VcjVLeZoy0jCgYrW_QziB2WbGSGm0P3JjKOIa-3u4GZ4dn0E/s1375/image001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="866" data-original-width="1375" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8qKGCKK48pQ8pcCfsD0zIGKNG41Tj1rBaWY0njXsQHCDKQlW5SOcydaV3om2RcljNtQ4K2omsdPXm_c0Ur-Ps4RUO2s3VcjVLeZoy0jCgYrW_QziB2WbGSGm0P3JjKOIa-3u4GZ4dn0E/w400-h253/image001.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Figure 1. </b>A postcard showing the Garden of the Gods in the foreground and Pikes Peak in the background. From the S.W. Veatch collection.</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Foster’s arrival in the area marked him as one of the early El Paso
County pioneers. He came along with other men who were determined to settle
there. Few stores and fewer comforts were to be found. There were no railroads,
and the only way to travel was on roads that were mostly tracks through grass-covered
ground.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Soon after Foster arrived in 1860, he
rode up the Ute Pass trail to look
around. He went as far as cone-shaped Mount Pisgah on the other side of Pikes
Peak (gold would be discovered near there at Cripple Creek 30 years later). It
was there that Foster met Ute Chief Ouray, who was watching a buffalo hunt from
the top of Mount Pisgah. The men talked for a few minutes before Ouray raced
down Pisgah’s steep slope to help his fellow hunters stop the buffalo from running
away (Foster, 1964). After his encounter with Ouray, Foster rode back down Ute
Pass to Colorado City.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> In
1861, Foster and J. B. Riggs left Colorado City for Buckskin Joe, a gold camp
west of Fairplay. Foster and Riggs looked for gold as they shoveled gravel into
a sluice box on Buckskin Creek (Foster, 1961). The record of Foster’s
activities dims until four years later.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Foster recognized the open, grass-covered landscape east
of Ute Pass as an opportunity to claim and own land. He filed a homestead on 160 acres in South Cheyenne Cañon
on December 1, 1865. The Civil War had ended eight months earlier, and Andrew
Johnson was President. Few white people were in the area when Foster filed his homestead
papers with the land office. Five years later, the census of 1870 recorded only
81 residents in Colorado City and 987 white people in all of El Paso County. General
Palmer would not establish Colorado Springs until in 1871. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Marcus
Foster built a large ranching operation on his homestead that eventually
included another 160 acres, for a total of 320 acres (Foster, 1967). His land and
ranch house, right behind what is today the Broadmoor Hotel, was a busy place.
He kept 35 “stands” of honeybees, had pigs and cattle, maintained large fields
of hay and corn, kept a vegetable garden, and had a dairy operation (Foster,
1967).</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSTTgkXk7FXpojOo1qH7GDExO2lB82_SnBIxf9zoHF8MVD2A4fXuzuYAzmxAZajtGLOM2Rkf7BEOokeIbWFdxsz5yrpWUIX_GeAdn_Q3Uuy6L-FcH2c_7Q0jT80GZSUFb7reZVnlswUM8/s715/image002wwww.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="366" data-original-width="715" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSTTgkXk7FXpojOo1qH7GDExO2lB82_SnBIxf9zoHF8MVD2A4fXuzuYAzmxAZajtGLOM2Rkf7BEOokeIbWFdxsz5yrpWUIX_GeAdn_Q3Uuy6L-FcH2c_7Q0jT80GZSUFb7reZVnlswUM8/w400-h205/image002wwww.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Figure 2. </b>Cheyenne Mountain looking south from the Foster ranch. Marcus A. Foster, and his son, stand by the wooden cellar ventilator. Modified from a cyanotype. Photographer and date unknown. Photo courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum. <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Foster
lived on his ranch with his wife Elizabeth and raised six children: Minnie,
Helen, Marcus, Edith, Dora, and Lucy. Dora was born on the family homestead and
became a well-known columnist for the </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Colorado Springs</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Gazette
Telegraph</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. She was also the paper’s society and church editor. Besides her
work at the </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Gazette</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">, she wrote three books on Colorado history: </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Colorado
Yesterdays</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">, 1961; </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Then . . . The Best of Colorado Yesterdays,</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> 1964;
and </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">My Childhood Days in Colorado Sunshine,</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> 1967. She based her writing
on her experiences and stories from residents of the early days of the region. Dora
lived to be 94.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8p3VgL9Ve0LujpVAdCbP1WIF5-YL9vBPOxNfwkjrwHP7POMvuKqEEHLAPWaDEGfcJoPhVEiI5y8MPVFLom-gnUKssMWDVYi9__kh0bWNpwBbDHpaeNMw7ZEALjOtJ-LMTrBheeERCuCQ/s699/image003vvvvvv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="699" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8p3VgL9Ve0LujpVAdCbP1WIF5-YL9vBPOxNfwkjrwHP7POMvuKqEEHLAPWaDEGfcJoPhVEiI5y8MPVFLom-gnUKssMWDVYi9__kh0bWNpwBbDHpaeNMw7ZEALjOtJ-LMTrBheeERCuCQ/w400-h229/image003vvvvvv.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Figure 3. </b>View of the Foster Ranch cattle pen. Mount Rosa and Stove Mountain are in the background. Modified from a cyanotype. Photographer and date unknown. Photo courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum. </td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> In
the spring of 1867, Chief Nevava, with his band of 500 Utes, left their winter encampment
on the Arkansas River and set up a camp just below Foster’s ranch house. The Utes
camped there for a brief period while they waited for the grass to green up and
grow high enough for their ponies to eat before they continued on their
travels.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> One
day, the chief’s son, Nevava John, came to Foster’s house. Foster gave him
coffee and other items. During the visit, Foster showed Nevava John a picture
of William Henry Harrison’s Battle of Tippecanoe (1811) which included Indian
warriors in an old </span><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Mitchell’s School
Geography</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> book in Foster’s library (Foster, 1964). This page, with
the picture of the battle, interested Nevava John so much that he brought others
from the camp to see it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Foster
continued to maintain good relations with the local Indians. Old Chief Nevava,
when he passed by Foster’s ranch, would occasionally stop and talk to Foster
(Foster, 1964). Relations with the Indians were not always good, however. Dora
wrote that one day in April 1867, a band of Ute Indians “were encamped on the
banks of the Fountain, a short mile from my parents’ cabin. The Indians . . .
were not known to be especially friendly toward the ranchers and were planning
to drive them out of their prize hunting grounds here along the front range of
the mountains “ (Foster, 1961).<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> According
to Dora Foster, the situation with the Indians deteriorated, and in 1868, the Indians
struck at the settlers. She wrote, “People for miles around came and brought
their families for protection from them, and we were forted up in the old Anway
house located at 2812 W. Pikes Peak” (Foster, 1961). While the women and
children stayed at the Anway house, the men, with rifles, stood guard on a
nearby hill. Dora Foster continued writing about the attack:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 49.5pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 49.5pt 8pt 0.5in; tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">We were living here
when the three boys were killed by the Indians near where the Antlers Hotel now
stands. They were herding cattle when they were attacked by the Indians from
the hills. The oldest of the boys was young Everhart. He was 21 years old. The Robbins
boys were younger. They were brought here and laid out in the old log building
which was the first state house. It was located on the north side of Colorado
Avenue, between 26<sup>th</sup> and 27<sup>th</sup> streets. I can just
remember going with my sister to see the bodies, as everyone was flocking there
so horrified and grieved over it. They were a terrible sight, scalped and
speared, and they had placed their guns to their eyes and blew them out, and
faces and necks all powder burnt. The Indians also stampeded stock<i> </i>(Foster,
1961).<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> At
Foster’s ranch, the days were long and the work hard. Cattle needed tending,
the hay cut, and other crops cared for. Winters were cold and summers hot.
Besides Indian troubles, grasshoppers infested the land periodically. In 1873,
the area experienced a plague of grasshoppers. In response, Foster made a
wooden frame with a long handle. At the opposite end of the handle he tacked a
cloth sack on the wooden frame. Foster would then walk into his fields and swing
the contraption back and forth at the horde of hoppers until he captured so
many that the bag was full of grasshoppers. He would then take the buzzing bag
near the pigpen, dump the insects into a pot of boiling water, and then feed
the scalded hoppers to his pigs (Colorado Springs Free Press, 1951). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> In
the summer of 1872, Marcus Foster, Daniel Kinsman, and Carter Harlan, all of
whom had children of school age, organized a school board. Marcus Foster continued
as a member of the school board for 32 years (Foster, 1964). Foster, a skilled carpenter,
built the first schoolhouse with logs he hauled down from the east side of
Cheyenne Mountain (Foster, 1961). The rustic school, built on Broadmoor Hill,
had one room—about 12 by 14 feet—a door that faced east and four windows, two
on each side of the school (Foster, 1961). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> In
the fall, the school opened with Miss Mary Harlan as the first teacher (Foster,
1961). She was the twenty-one-year-old daughter of C.S. Harlan, the school
board’s treasurer. There were eight pupils. Light came in from the windows and
settled on the faces of the students as they sat at their desks. Each day, the
older boys hauled a bucket of drinking water up from the creek and placed it on
a wooden bench. A white metal dipper hung near the bucket. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The
school day was long, from 9 am to 4 pm with two fifteen-minute recess periods
and an hour lunch. During recess and lunch, there were ball games and other
activities outside (Foster, 1964). A huge pine tree grew in the schoolyard, and
someone had attached a swing on a lower limb (Foster, 1964). The laughter of children
filled the schoolyard during those recess periods. In the winter, there were
indoor games. A round potbelly stove that burned coal heated the little log
school. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> One
day, a group of Indians rode into the schoolyard while the children were
playing. The Indians were interested in the long hair of 10-year-old Anna
Reihard and offered to trade some ponies for her. A scared Anna ran into the
schoolhouse and shut the door. Fortunately, the trade was not made, and the
Indians rode away (Foster, 1964). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Sometimes
during the noon recess, Frank Lewis, who lived just a short distance west of
the schoolhouse, walked out on his porch, sat down on a wooden chair, and
played his banjo. Hearing the music, the children walked a short distance with
their lunch pails to his log cabin, where they listened to him play. When Lewis
was not entertaining the students, he was building a mill on a nearby hill for
Bert Myers, who had a 720-acre corn and wheat farm. After Myers finished the
mill, he used the corn to make brooms that he sold in Colorado City. Meyer’s
property later became part of the Broadmoor Hotel’s grounds.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> In
1881, Foster was elected to the Colorado legislature as a member of the House for
two years. He served with Horace A. W. Tabor, who was a state senator and
Lieutenant Governor. Frederic Pitkin was Governor. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The
Foster children entertained themselves in endless yet simple ways. In the
spring, the scent of budding flowers and the smell of newly turned earth from
Foster’s fields drifted in the air. This signaled it was time for the Foster children
to pick wildflowers for their mother. To get to the wildflowers, they went behind
the stables and crawled under a barbwire fence, and then walked down a path. To
keep their dresses from tearing on the barbs, Foster wrapped the barbs with
little pieces of cloth (Foster, 1961). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> There
were many opportunities for fun. The Foster children put flat stones on the top
of a big red anthill in the neighbor’s pasture, returning the next day to see
if the ants had moved the stones. The ants always moved the stones several
inches from the top of the anthill. They looked for wild bird nests and caught
frogs along a water ditch. A special treat was a family trip to the Garden of
the Gods for the day, and picnics among the towering red sedimentary rocks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> On
summer evenings, after supper was eaten and the dishes were cleared away, Foster
and his wife sat on the front steps of the ranch house and watched their
children play and gambol on the soft green grass. According to Dora Foster, the
long winter evenings were the best part of each day, when the parents and
children sat in the parlor room, lighted by a single kerosene lamp (Foster,
1961). It was in this room that the children read or worked on their homework.
Sometimes Foster read stories to his children from the <i>Toledo Blade </i>that
came once each week (Foster, 1961). He must have, on many occasions, pulled a
book from the bookshelves to read to the children. His stiff fingers carefully
turned the pages while the lamplight flickered against the uneven shadows.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> On
winter evenings, a</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">fter supper, Mrs. Foster
brought a button box out and dumped its contents on the table. Dora wrote, it
was “a box full of magic for my sisters and me when we were small” (Foster, 1967, p. 1). The Foster
children, sitting around the table, played with the buttons, imagining the
buttons were individual members of local families, and acting out endless stories.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7k3eLWWfavwI7Q5d34T_HSWfGAkxV1sLL__1F8gH0mUQvgJSUrL6Odk9Yo28lxS6TKfqWtdierO_RhyyNQsCpb1W7fBxMQZuN6soID5mDaclGA1BwJF68OzOwUYBb6TgmOlIGnGiGzfg/s1431/image004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><b><img border="0" data-original-height="951" data-original-width="1431" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7k3eLWWfavwI7Q5d34T_HSWfGAkxV1sLL__1F8gH0mUQvgJSUrL6Odk9Yo28lxS6TKfqWtdierO_RhyyNQsCpb1W7fBxMQZuN6soID5mDaclGA1BwJF68OzOwUYBb6TgmOlIGnGiGzfg/w400-h266/image004.jpg" width="400" /></b></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Figure 4.</b> A typical button box. Farmers and ranchers saved buttons for later use. Photo date 2021 by S. W. Veatch.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The
Foster ranch existed long ago, a place where a family experienced the pioneer
days of Colorado Springs. In a newspaper article, Dora Forster wrote, “The soft
mellow yellow light from the lamp, and the pleasant heat from the coal-burning
stove seemed to me to be all that we wanted” (Colorado Springs Gazette
Telegraph, 1972). Marcus Foster and his family lived in a timeless place of
their own making. These historic photos resurrect those earlier days. Today,
the frantic pace of modern life has replaced the much longer and simpler days experienced
by the Fosters and other pioneer families.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Acknowledgments<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> I
thank Eric Swab and Dr. Bob Carnein for their valuable comments and help in
improving this paper. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><b><u><span style="font-size: 12pt;">References and Further Reading<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Colorado Springs Gazette Telegraph, 1972,
Dora Foster Wrote about Pioneer Family: <i>Colorado Springs</i> <i>Gazette
Telegraph</i>, March 23, 1972, p. 17BB.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Colorado Springs Free Press, 1951, Dorothy
Smith Relates Stories of Early Days: <i>Colorado Springs Free Press</i>, October
17, 1951, p. 5.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Foster, Dora, 1961, <i>Colorado Yesterdays</i>:
Colorado Springs, Dentan Printing Company. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Foster, Dora, 1964, <i>Then . . . The Best of
Pikes Peak Region Yesterdays</i>: Colorado Springs, Dentan Printing Company.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Foster, Dora, 1967, <i>My Childhood Days in
Colorado Sunshine</i>: Colorado Springs, Dentan-Berkeland Printing Company. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-36330068022437455462021-10-12T12:04:00.002-06:002021-10-12T12:11:37.799-06:00Wade's City: An Early Gateway to Cripple Creek<p> Steven Wade Veatch</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A researcher at the Cripple Creek District Museum recently examined a tattered photo album that once belonged to a family who lived in the Cripple Creek Mining District. One photograph (figure 1) in the album, probably taken in 1901, shows a building at Wade’s City, a rough-and-tumble settlement on the Old Stage Road near Colorado Springs. The person in the photograph might be Joel Hayford Wade, the man who established the place. Joel H. Wade arrived in the Colorado Springs area 14 years after its founding by General Palmer. After looking around for land, he settled at the foot of Cheyenne Mountain in 1885. Soon after gold was found in Cripple Creek, and that area boomed, the Cripple Creek stage stopped at Wade’s place, making it a busy spot.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXb1W_vuDvJ1qWXQ5nEFe_Reihn_SPk3-1F1w5YruTDtPeGzZqOQKdH-XI5ROacfHzedO4aQrGX3ub6mNdeeQ-pJpcI9OCz1Y3adNMPDkt4safH634T5wxkWsCJj2dQ5F7Y4vAHbzqNhI/s1092/image001.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="629" data-original-width="1092" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXb1W_vuDvJ1qWXQ5nEFe_Reihn_SPk3-1F1w5YruTDtPeGzZqOQKdH-XI5ROacfHzedO4aQrGX3ub6mNdeeQ-pJpcI9OCz1Y3adNMPDkt4safH634T5wxkWsCJj2dQ5F7Y4vAHbzqNhI/w400-h230/image001.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Figure 1.</b> One of the buildings at Joel H. Wade’s stage stop on the Old Stage Road. On the front of the photo this is written in pencil: “Wade’s Inn, Cheyenne Mountain Stage Road, old landmark.” This is not a photo of Wade’s Inn, but more likely a photo of a storage building due to the lack of windows. Photo date circa 1901. Modified from a cyanotype. Photographer unknown. Photo courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum. </td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The photograph reveals many things. It shows a man standing alone, in stiff silence and edgy exhaustion. He is a massive man, built like a barn door. He is shaved clean as a smooth stone, wears a jacket that does not fit, and sports a hat with a bit of swagger. Perhaps he is looking at his place one last time. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At the center of the photograph is the ramshackle cabin Wade built with heavy, hand-hewn logs notched at the ends and laid one upon another. Mud chinking fills the spaces between the logs. A tattered tarp covers the roof. Inside, the cabin is dark—tarps hang over windows. We can imagine that spiderwebs fill some cracks and smokey smells linger by the open door. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Outside, a handsaw rests on a weathered granite rock covered with splotches of lichen. A broken lantern sits nearby. Boulders behind the cabin are waiting the ages out. Helen Hunt Jackson wrote about one gigantic granite boulder at Wade’s place when she passed through (Conte, 1984).</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There are things not seen in the photo. Perhaps there are horses that nosed one another in a pole corral. There might be a downed log crumbling into soil, and on the north side of the cabin, piles of pine needles and cones covering the moss-cushioned ground. Possibly silence fills the pine scented air until an agitated chickadee starts a fit of chirping.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Joel Wade was born in New York in 1827. In 1885, at the age of 58, Wade homesteaded at the foot of Cheyenne Mountain. He chose land on the south branch of south Cheyenne Creek by the Cheyenne and Beaver Park Toll Road (Gazette Telegraph, 1934). </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxtn6it0x2t9gBucUqEtlzz8jjPbnZnib-iE-Xr-ufMUAQg5G7gQSLKs500rWzNHhnvZaGO0KJ0En-lB8rgkoPe3uGinJ9MBqXeKs4Y53CBAluJFy2CueuXxPpioOvLRF4qD8bHbQA7QM/s1131/image002.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="688" data-original-width="1131" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxtn6it0x2t9gBucUqEtlzz8jjPbnZnib-iE-Xr-ufMUAQg5G7gQSLKs500rWzNHhnvZaGO0KJ0En-lB8rgkoPe3uGinJ9MBqXeKs4Y53CBAluJFy2CueuXxPpioOvLRF4qD8bHbQA7QM/w400-h244/image002.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Figure 2.</b> View of Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. From the S.W. Veatch postcard collection.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The toll road began as a work road, evolved into a road for scenic trips to local resorts and hiking trails, and then was extended to reach the goldfields of Cripple Creek (Conte, 1984). The road ultimately became known as the “Old Stage Road.”</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Wade’s place was four miles west of the road’s tollgate. Wade thought there would be enough people traveling on the road to support a saloon. His saloon, or Wade’s Inn, became a popular place to stop (Peterson 2002). He stood behind the bar and poured drinks for travelers who stopped by for a break (Peterson 2002). As stage traffic increased, Wade added several more buildings. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Blackhawk Davis came to this area and built a blacksmith shop (Peterson, 2020). Davis maintained the machinery of the men who worked on the toll road. Davis’s surprising strength was well known. According to one account, he slung a 40-pound sack of flour over his shoulder and carried it on his back all the way from Colorado Springs to his cabin at St. Peter’s Dome, a hike of over 11 miles (Conte, 1984). </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After a prospector discovered gold at Cripple Creek in 1890, a rush to the gold fields started. In the early days of the district there were only stage and wagon roads to the gold camp. El Paso County Commissioners worked on a plan to extend the Cheyenne and Beaver Park Toll Road to Cripple Creek (Conte, 1984). Once the road was completed, there was regular stage service to Cripple Creek.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Cripple Creek stage started its run to the gold camp from the corner of Colorado Avenue (then called Huerfano Street) and Tejon Street in Colorado Springs. A team of horses pulled stages that carried card sharps, snake serum sellers, miracle medicine men, merchants, and fortune seekers.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>With the blacksmith shop and tavern in place, the Cripple Creek stage stopped at Wade’s place regularly during the mining camp’s boom days (Horgen, 1923; Patterson 2002). With the steady traffic of travelers, Wade added rental cabins for visitors to rest or spend a night or a few days to enjoy the scenery before traveling on (Conte, 1984). By one account, Mrs. Moore ran a small brothel in one of the cabins (Peterson, 2002). By the early 1890s Wade’s settlement, known as "Wade's City," had twelve buildings and covered 6 acres (Conte, 1984). However, this stage stop never became an official town or had a post office (Conte, 1984).</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A story has been told that a drunk miner entered Wade’s cabin one night when it was cold outside. He was too drunk to build a fire in the stove; instead, he started the fire in the middle of the cabin’s floor. The flames quickly spread and burned the cabin down (Conte, 1984).</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Over time Wade developed a problem with the liquor that he sold at his inn. He often came home late and stumbled through the front door, drunk. According to an article that appeared in the August 10, 1893, edition of the <i>Colorado Springs Weekly Gazette</i>, Wade checked into the Keeley Institute at 18th and Curtis Street in Denver, a facility established by Dr. Keeley to treat alcoholism (Public Opinion, 1916). The institute promoted the injections of “bichloride” or “double chloride” of gold into the patients. By the late 1800s, there were 200 treatment centers nationwide and boasted a 50 percent success rate. Dr. Keeley used an early type of group therapy for his patients that contributed to their recovery (White, 2016). </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>By 1900, the Colorado Springs and Cripple Creek District Railroad, known as the Short Line, started service between Colorado Springs and Cripple Creek. The Short Line replaced the stagecoach, and there would be no stops at Wade City or stages running after 1905 (Conte, 1984).The railroad tracks followed the same general route of the stage road (Peterson, 2002). </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PqvUuBfa863lOWCizHucgxDIFIHGG_nPcZn0yXAsOjySxVPpPF2Dk-RWL28e-aUEECwnRPnk9zUC3Ed1Yad1sY56e3sbTpXjDYFBhse0ojLw-a0wRaMiXX50CZyjznrtTZiU6oyTAWE/s995/image003.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><b><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="995" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PqvUuBfa863lOWCizHucgxDIFIHGG_nPcZn0yXAsOjySxVPpPF2Dk-RWL28e-aUEECwnRPnk9zUC3Ed1Yad1sY56e3sbTpXjDYFBhse0ojLw-a0wRaMiXX50CZyjznrtTZiU6oyTAWE/s320/image003.jpg" width="320" /></b></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Figure 3.</b> View of At. Peter’s Dome on the Cripple Creek Short Line, now the Gold Camp Road. From the S. W. Veatch photograph collection.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As time passed, Wade’s life changed. The stage no longer stopped, and Wade’s City was quiet as a deserted mine shaft. His days dwindled, and sand slipped through the hourglass. He knew he would soon be gone. That day almost came for him in February 1913, while he still lived in the settlement named for him, when he got lost in a snowstorm and nearly froze to death (Conte, 1984).</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>By this time, he was 85 years old. Mountain life had put its brand on him. Although tougher than boot leather, he was feeling the botherations of old age. Time blew away like leaves in a fall breeze, and it was time for Wade to move on. Joel Wade took a deep breath when he took his last look at his settlement and then turned to leave.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Colorado Springs City Directory shows Wade living at the county poor farm from 1913 until 1916. Although there is no record that Wade’s grandson, Fred Barr, who built Barr trail to the summit of Pikes Peak, visited him at the poor farm, it is likely that he did.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Wade died in 1916 at the age of 88. He is buried in Colorado Springs’ Evergreen Cemetery. By 1934, all of Wade’s City was gone, now part of Cheyenne Mountain’s buried memories. This old photograph of Wade’s Inn now belongs to the past, and Joel Wade has stepped into yesterday.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>Acknowledgments</b></p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I thank Eric Swab for his help with this manuscript. I thank the Colorado Springs Oyster Club critique group for reviewing the manuscript, and Dr. Bob Carnein for his valuable comments and help in improving this paper. </p><p><b>References and further reading:</b></p><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-themecolor: text1;">Colorado
Springs Weekly Gazette,</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-themecolor: text1;"> August 10, 1893.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Conte, W. R., 1984, <i>The Old Cripple
Creek Stage Road</i>: Colorado Springs, Little London Press.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Gazette Telegraph, 1934, Famous Hotels and
Inns of Long Ago Now Only Memories, Sunday April 8, 1934.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Horgen, I.S., 1923, History of Pike
National Forest. Ms. on file, National Park Service, Midwest Archeological
Center, Lincoln, Nebraska.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Peterson, H. K., 2002, <i>Colorado
Stagecoach Stations</i>, A thesis submitted to the University of Colorado at
Denver in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of
Arts in History.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><a name="_Hlk82080840"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Public Opinion
Colorado Springs, Colorado</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">, 1916, Keeley Institute: <i>Public Opinion Colorado
Springs, Colorado</i>, February 26, 1916, pg. 3, col 2.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">White, A., 2016, Inside a
Nineteenth-Century Quest to End Addiction, retrieved from </span><a href="https://daily.jstor.org/inside-a-nineteenth-century-quest-to-end-addiction/"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">https://daily.jstor.org/inside-a-nineteenth-century-quest-to-end-addiction/</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> on September 9,
2021.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /></div>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3120804493054554286.post-29774076844998838702021-10-06T10:06:00.008-06:002021-10-13T15:11:55.599-06:00A Cripple Creek Profile: Frank Finegan and His Requa Savage Mine <div class="separator"> By Steven W. Veatch</div><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Francis “Frank” Finegan (1835-1914) was an adventurer who fought in the Civil War. And he was among the first group to arrive at the goldfields of the Cripple Creek mining district, where he located and patented several mines. Stockholders elected him president, treasurer, and general manager of the Requa Savage when he incorporated the mine on April 26, 1894 (Colorado State Mining Directory, 1898). </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPO4MH-W5yomPbcfYQ4E1LymN_Oizz62Npr8dk0npyHLFW2Hhtzrcac6oIpFiQ06Dlu7Gaf4PVLjCDLsssuxp26-KNV3bWa8TV19Nx_Tzw50WBU9Jnz5Bdk4KdGd2b8OnwQfaD4YwmyQ/s1380/image001.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="877" data-original-width="1380" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPO4MH-W5yomPbcfYQ4E1LymN_Oizz62Npr8dk0npyHLFW2Hhtzrcac6oIpFiQ06Dlu7Gaf4PVLjCDLsssuxp26-KNV3bWa8TV19Nx_Tzw50WBU9Jnz5Bdk4KdGd2b8OnwQfaD4YwmyQ/w400-h254/image001.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 1. The Requa Savage mine. A miner, named “Big Swede," stands by an ore cart under the headframe of the mine. Photographer and date unknown. Courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum. CCDM A 8315.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Finegan left enough of a record to trace his interesting journeys and see the stormy corners of his life. He was born in 1835 in Loughrea, County Galway, Ireland. In 1854, he sailed out of Liverpool to New York City (Portrait and Biographical Record of the State of Colorado, 1899). He then left New York City and lived for a time in Hartford, Connecticut, where he worked as a stonecutter and mason. He moved to California in 1857 and mined on the American River, the site of the original 1848 gold discovery in California. One year later, he sailed to Australia and farmed near Ballarat. With three partners, he located a gold mine near there. The partners worked it until 1859, when they sold their interests, each pocketing $35,000—a whopping $1,091,375 in 2020 dollars (Portrait and Biographical Record of the State of Colorado, 1899). </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Finegan left Australia and returned to California for a few months in 1860. He then moved to New York City. On April 12, 1861, at 4:30 am, while Finegan was fast asleep, Confederate General Beauregard ordered his gunners to open fire on Fort Sumter, South Carolina. Cannons roared like a crack of thunder. Explosions lit up the darkness and smoke settled over the fort. Thirty-four hours later, the besieged Union garrison raised a white flag and surrendered. The Confederates committed an act of war that forced President Abraham Lincoln to act. Two days later, Lincoln called for volunteers to fight in a war to preserve the Union. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Finegan answered Lincoln’s call. He joined the 69th New York Regiment that month and was mustered into service for three months. The 69th Regiment was part of the Irish Brigade, which at the beginning included the 63rd, 69th, and the 88th New York Regiments and the 28th Massachusetts Regiment. The 116th Pennsylvania Regiment, made up of Irishmen from Philadelphia, was added during the fall of 1862 (R. Sauers, personal communication). The Irish Brigade quickly built a reputation for fierce fighting on the battlefield, and Finegan found a passage into hell when he fought in many of its engagements.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The 69th New York Regiment fought in the First Battle of Bull Run under the command of General William T. Sherman. During that battle, Confederate forces took Finegan prisoner. The Confederates released him on parole (Both sides had no means to take care of prisoners; Grant later stopped the practice of releasing prisoners). Once released, Finegan reenlisted for three years and returned to the battlefield. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Finegan saw combat at the Battle of Fair Oaks (Henrico County, Virginia) on May 31 and June 1, 1862. It was there that he saw the use of Union balloons, some reaching altitudes of over 1,000 feet, to report enemy positions and direct artillery fire. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Later, at the Cornfield Battle of Antietam (September 17, 1862), Finegan went down hard with a savage head wound while carrying the flag (Portrait and Biographical Record of the State of Colorado, 1899). Almost 8,000 Union and Confederate soldiers were killed or wounded in the Cornfield Battle. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Finegan fought in the Battle of Gettysburg (July 1 - 3, 1863), where he witnessed horrific sights. He surely would have heard flags flap in the wind and bullets whizz by. The air was heavy with the scent of blood. There were fields of slaughtered and decaying bodies everywhere. While marching down a road jammed with troops and shining bayonets, he doubtless heard the cries of the wounded and the amputees, and then noticed a heap of amputated legs, feet, arms, and hands under a tree. During the Civil War, doctors performed a lot of amputations to prevent wounds from becoming infected. Antibiotics used to kill germs had not been invented yet. Gettysburg was the bloodiest clash of the Civil War and came with a high casualty list for both sides: 7,058 died; 33,264 wounded, and 10,790 went missing (LeBoutillier, 2017). As the war continued to intrude into his life, Finegan was becoming a hardened fighter who learned his skill on the battlefield.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Finegan, who was likely detached from the 69th Regiment, took part in the siege of Vicksburg (May 18 – July 4, 1863) as Grant directed artillery fire at the city. The air burst into flames as the shelling continued, and then Grant’s army relentlessly attacked the city for over 40 days. Eventually, the food and supplies ran out, forcing the soldiers and citizens of Vicksburg to eat mules and rats (Stanchak, 2011). The Confederate forces at Vicksburg surrendered on July 4, 1863. Amid the broken bricks and fires, a few homebound citizens must have watched through shattered windows as the Union forces marched by.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Finally, Finegan survived two later battles: the Battle of the Wilderness (May 5 - 7, 1864), in Spotsylvania County, Virginia, and the Spotsylvania Court House Battle (May 8 - 21, 1864). </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Finnegan was among many who witnessed the great suffering, horror, madness, and destruction of the Civil War that resulted in a horrific cost of life in the nation’s bloodiest war—at least 750,000 soldiers died, hundreds of thousands of others were wounded in battle, and an unknown number of civilians perished (McPherson, 2015). An estimated two percent of the population was killed (Ward, 1990). The Civil War set four million slaves free, brought the downfall of the Southern planter aristocracy, and preserved the Union as one nation, indivisible. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYSYIYpmsbWTOX3MHz-44GvUKwYdiUU1xJQfiS2CB41cIMNsUFHWbIB-nE_JCrNCBPEogGoE9sRLLx9rhTwzKi2BjOfs9Gnkt_w2nRcUAkdlKWD3GnKSv9Sx2amh_eT8NgdtPxtmwmwI/s1144/image002.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="829" data-original-width="1144" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYSYIYpmsbWTOX3MHz-44GvUKwYdiUU1xJQfiS2CB41cIMNsUFHWbIB-nE_JCrNCBPEogGoE9sRLLx9rhTwzKi2BjOfs9Gnkt_w2nRcUAkdlKWD3GnKSv9Sx2amh_eT8NgdtPxtmwmwI/w400-h290/image002.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 2. Battle of Gettysburg. Painting by Thure de Thulstrup. Original scan: Library of Congress. Public Domain.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Having miraculously survived these bloodbaths, Finegan returned to New York City, where he mustered out in June, 1865. After he left the Army, Finegan returned to Australia once again. He settled in Victoria, where he worked in contracting and building. Then, in 1874, he moved to San Francisco where he worked as a stonecutter and mason. In 1880, he moved once again, this time to Colorado Springs, Colorado. He started a building business and lived at 225 S. Cascade. In 1881, he was elected alderman and served six years on the city council of Colorado Springs (Portrait and Biographical Record of the State of Colorado, 1899). </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the shadow of Pikes Peak, peripatetic Finegan was becoming restless; excitement was absent in his life. This was about to change in 1891, when gold fever from the Cripple Creek mining district infected Finegan. The only cure for him was to come to the district and step into mining. About the time Finegan arrived in the district, a prospector, with the swing of his pick, revealed a streak of bright gold ore at a spot on the side of Beacon Hill. This discovery set in motion the establishment of the Requa Savage mine, in which Finegan was the driving force. Finegan incorporated the Requa Savage so optimists could invest in the mine. Now there were funds to hire engineers and miners and to buy machinery to develop it. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Some maintain that Finegan named the mine after “Uncle” Benjamin Requa, an early settler, or for the nearby Requa Gulch. The gold mine was near Arequa, one of the oldest towns in the district. By 1896, the town of Arequa, named after Ben Requa, included the “A” as the first letter of its name, as seen in the map in figure 3 (Mackell-Collins, 2014). The Requa Savage was on the north side of the Gold Dollar mine (see map figure 3).</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVu2rlvo9pXRl-ewghHO5Ca2EEX10ZQxfjoQVeI4k9BG-wc_3P-d1lHl7eTDg7NgzYANaQgNoM29Uqk2ZO5BbwegpVQVzA9VtCFDq3OT9H7I0MdQeBRno5JGAiIYbRQ8vwdN7k-34Y3C0/s1323/image003.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1323" data-original-width="935" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVu2rlvo9pXRl-ewghHO5Ca2EEX10ZQxfjoQVeI4k9BG-wc_3P-d1lHl7eTDg7NgzYANaQgNoM29Uqk2ZO5BbwegpVQVzA9VtCFDq3OT9H7I0MdQeBRno5JGAiIYbRQ8vwdN7k-34Y3C0/w283-h400/image003.jpg" width="283" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 3. Map of the Cripple Creek Mining District, 1896. A red arrow points out the Gold Dollar mine. The Requa Savage mine is just north of the Gold Dollar. The town of Arequa is underlined in red. Map source: Hoyer-Millar (1896).</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJcZUvm529npKJd3tdky2zDJerZqdfXtaAw1bmpMwl6GX5LLnUk8SlOCyFxXhyFsMyjivlphaUR5rGRyzNu-VZMHlBkEuVHZWAfynn-tuOTJafjwwfaesjk1Dihxf97m1AKvdjO9dsHpo/s1430/image004.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="883" data-original-width="1430" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJcZUvm529npKJd3tdky2zDJerZqdfXtaAw1bmpMwl6GX5LLnUk8SlOCyFxXhyFsMyjivlphaUR5rGRyzNu-VZMHlBkEuVHZWAfynn-tuOTJafjwwfaesjk1Dihxf97m1AKvdjO9dsHpo/w400-h248/image004.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 4. View of Beacon Hill. A red arrow shows the location of Arequa. Photographer unknown, date mid-1890s. From the Olla Burris collection, Cripple Creek District Museum. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As time passed, the Requa Savage became known as a modest producer. According to the <i>Mining and Engineering Journal</i> (1910), the Requa Savage mine, in 1910, shipped two carloads of ore assaying at one ounce per ton. Other carloads yielded less gold, but the mine produced $100,000 that same year. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The passage of time would not be kind to Frank Finegan. He fought cancer but lost that battle and died on October 22, 1914, in Colorado Springs, at 79. His family buried him in the Evergreen Cemetery. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCyUM4CpAnnQgMwKLgAikQB5qaamahZMZknavmS6ibP-CHZKI3nKV3eyMwuAwuBPetFGkKhSz1DZjejHrG6iyQhAJakvzpLX5eOhXI0UpT-p7t5K6EWFc4lrhI9xtBLcyPpX4_QmjLjK0/s1430/image005.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1117" data-original-width="1430" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCyUM4CpAnnQgMwKLgAikQB5qaamahZMZknavmS6ibP-CHZKI3nKV3eyMwuAwuBPetFGkKhSz1DZjejHrG6iyQhAJakvzpLX5eOhXI0UpT-p7t5K6EWFc4lrhI9xtBLcyPpX4_QmjLjK0/w400-h313/image005.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figure 5. View of the Requa Savage mine. Ten miners pose in front of the mine. Photographer and date unknown. Courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>History records that, over time, Finegan was one of several prominent men associated with the Requa Savage mine. Records show that by 1912, the One Hundred and One Mining Company owned the mine (Mining Science, 1912). In 1913 <i>The Mining Investor</i> reported that Democratic Colorado State Senator Louis A. Van Tilborg (1870-1937) worked the Requa Savage mine for a short time. Van Tilborg, a druggist and an assayer, was the mayor of Cripple Creek from 1907 until 1911. He served in the Colorado legislature from 1911 to 1914. The presence of gas forced Van Tilborg to suspend work at the mine. Once the mine resolved the gas issues, production resumed under the lease of Kermit MacDermid, of the C.K. and N. Mining Company (The Mining Investor, 1913). By this time, the Requa Savage’s surface plant included a shaft house equipped with a steam hoist and electric compressor. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Although the Requa savage mine claimed a small area of land, it boasted five shafts. By 1914, the main shaft reached 700 feet deep (Consolidated Extension Mines Company, 1914). A crew of miners disappeared down the main shaft at the start of each shift and then drilled, blasted, and mucked in the shadows of the mine as they followed the occasional blossom of gold ore in barren rock. By 1914, the Requa Savage was owned by Rainbow Gold Mines Company. Rainbow Gold then leased it to another operator who, based on reports of good gold ore, planned to expand the development of the mine (Consolidated Extension Mines Company, 1914). </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A new group of investors reincorporated the Requa Savage Gold Mining Company in November, 1915, as the Requa-Savage Mines Company with offices at 112 N. Tejon Street in Colorado Springs (Weed, 1918). A report showed the mine was producing ore in 1929 (Kiessling, 1929).</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>According to <i>The Mining Journal</i> (1935), Commonwealth Gold leased the Requa Savage mine. Mr. Wellington Symes, who was the president and general manager of the property, subleased it to a group in Denver; and Andy Vidgen, the mine superintendent, purchased new machinery to increase ore production (The Mining Journal, 1935). </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As the years passed by, the ore decreased until the mine became unprofitable. The owners then closed the mine. Today, as you drive on Highway 67 between Cripple Creek and Victor, you will pass where the town of Arequa and the Requa Savage mine were once located. Both places now exist only in the pages of history. And we are reminded of Frank Finegan and how he emerged from obscurity and left his mark on time through his Civil War exploits and his ownership of a Cripple Creek mine. </p><p><br /></p><p><b>Acknowledgments</b></p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I thank the Colorado Springs Oyster Club critique group for reviewing the manuscript, and Dr. Bob Carnein for his valuable comments and help in improving this paper. </p><p><br /></p><p><b>References and further reading:</b></p><p>Colorado State Mining Directory, 1898: Denver, Western Mining Directory Company.</p><p>Consolidated Extension Mines Company, 1914, Referring to the Requa Savage mine on Beacon Hill in the Cripple Creek District, owned outright by Rainbow Gold Mines Company. United States Bureau of Mines: Colorado School of Mines Library Digital Collections, retrieved from https://mountainscholar.org/handle/11124/171813 on June 5, 2021. </p><p>Hoyer-Millar, C. C., 1896, <i>The Cripple Creek Gold-Fields, Colorado</i>, U.S.A: London, Eden Fisher & Co. </p><p>Kiessling, O.W., 1929, Mineral Resources of the US 1929: Washington DC, Dept of Commerce.</p><p>LeBoutillier, L., 2017, <i>Secrets of the U.S. Civil War:</i> North Mankato, MN, Capstone Press.</p><p>MacKell-Collins, J, 2014, Arequa Gulch: A Long Gone Town in Colorado, retrieved from https://janmackellcollins.wordpress.com/2014/03/20/arequa-gulch-a-long-gone-town-in-colorado/ on January 10, 2021.</p><p>McPherson, J., 2015, <i>The War that Forged a Nation: Why the Civil War Still Matters:</i> New York, Oxford University Press. </p><p>Mining Science, 1912, Denver, vol 65, no 1,682, April 18, 1912.</p><p>Portrait and Biographical Record of the State of Colorado, Part 2, 1899: Chicago, Chapman Publishing Company.</p><p>Stanchack, J., 2011, <i>Eyewitness: Civil War</i>: New York, DK Publishing.</p><p>The Mining Investor, 1913: Denver: The Mining Investor Publishing Co, no 1, vol 71, May 19, 1913.</p><p>The Mining Engineering Journal, 1910, New York, Hill Publishing Company, vol 89, Jan-June 1910.</p><p>The Mining Journal, 1935, February 28, 1935, pg. 18, retrieved from https://vredenburgh.org/mining_history/pdf/AMJ-1935.pdf on February 15, 2021. </p><p>Ward, G.C., 1990, <i>The Civil War: An Illustrated History</i>: New York, Alfred A. Knopf.</p><p>Weed, W. H., 1918, <i>The Mines Handbook</i>: New York, W. H. Weed Publishing.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div>Steven Veatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06566101278318062273noreply@blogger.com0