Thirty-Eight Years of Unearthing Stories

 By Steven Wade Veatch

 

The Deepest Secrets of the Earth

They say that a person starts writing to record history, but they keep writing because they’ve become a part of it. I still remember the physical toll and the sudden, breathless reward of a specific dig in the Colorado dirt: my rock-hounding partner and I had excavated eighteen feet down, a vertical journey through layers of time. Then, we found it.

Reaching into a fresh rock pocket, my fingers brushed against the cool, sharp faces of blue, blocky amazonite and smoky quartz crystals. The amazonite crystals were stunning. We found over 100 specimens; several amazonite clusters could cover a dinner plate. Some of the smoky quartz crystals were long, elegant scepters; others were stubby crystals larger than an apple. In that moment, I set aside the heavy metal tools for the delicate touch of wooden chopsticks or a small branch, gently coaxing these treasures from their dark berths. 

Breaking into a pocket at the Red Elephant. A blocky cluster of amazonite crystals is being held in place by tree roots. Photo date 1997 by S. W. Veatch.

That tactile connection to the Earth is part of the reason I have spent the last thirty-eight years writing for the Colorado Springs Mineralogical Society (CSMS) newsletter. For me, writing isn’t just about documenting minerals, rocks, and fossils; it’s about the human connection—the friends I have made through the CSMS, the field trips I have gone on, and the memories that fill a lifetime.

 

A Legacy in the Rock

 I write a lot about Cripple Creek. My fascination with the "World’s Greatest Gold Camp" isn't academic—it’s ancestral. When I write about Cripple Creek, I’m not just tracing veins of gold; I’m tracing the footsteps of my own family. Sharing stories of my great-grandfather, who worked at the Elkton mine, allows me to honor the grit it took for him to survive and prosper in the gold-rush atmosphere of the mining district.

View of the Elkton mine. My grandfather worked there for over 20 years. Photo courtesy of the Cripple Creek District Museum. CCDM A82-143.

The same holds true for Boulder County. Researching my grandfather’s family and their time at the Caribou mine transformed a cold piece of silver ore into a warm family legacy. Through these articles, I’ve been able to bridge the gap between the modern collector and the pioneer miner, reminding our members that every specimen in a display case once represented a person’s livelihood.

Spencer Penrose reshaped Colorado Springs, transforming it into a destination city through landmark projects like the Broadmoor Hotel, the Pikes Peak Highway, and the El Pomar Foundation, leaving a civic and cultural legacy that still defines the region today. Photo form the Collection of S. W. Veatch.

My writing has taken me back to the stories of my grandfather, who was the personal private secretary for Spencer Penrose. Penrose made his first fortune in the goldfields of Cripple Creek and then his biggest fortune in the copper mines of Utah. My grandfather told me many “insider” stories about Penrose. After Spencer Penrose’s death my grandfather worked for his widow, Julie Penrose, and then for the El Pomar Foundation until his retirement in the 1960s.

From Dinosaurs to Diamonds

Writing for the CSMS has granted me a "press pass" to explore the vast geological timeline of our state. Over nearly four decades, I’ve had the joy of diving into:

• Ancient Life: Documenting the delicate preservation of the Florissant fossils and the towering giants of the Garden Park dinosaur beds.
• The Mining Frontier: Recording the fascinating and often rowdy histories of Alma, Buckskin Gulch, Gilman, Victor, and other Colorado boomtowns.
• Exploring the diamond fields: Finding red garnets, bright green chromium diopside, and other minerals among diamond-bearing kimberlite pipes on the Colorado-Wyoming border.
• The Thrill of the Find: Sharing the technical and visceral excitement of field collecting topaz and amazonite across the rugged terrains of Park and Teller counties.

The Heart of the Society

While the rocks are the catalyst, the people are the soul. Some of my most rewarding experiences has been working with and being a friend of CSMS members for over 59 years. Recently, I have been writing profiles of past members of the CSMS, individuals who were the stewards of our hobby. By recording their stories, I ensure that their contributions to Colorado rockhounding aren't buried by time. We are a community built on shared wonder, and their stories are just as bright and faceted as the gems they collected.

Why I Keep Digging

People often ask how I haven't run out of things to say after 38 years of writing for the CSMS Pick and Pack. The answer is simple: the more you dig, the more you find. Every article is an excuse to explore a new wonder or unearth a forgotten narrative. Writing has turned my hobby into a lifelong quest for discovery.

I don’t just write to fill a page; I write because, like the miners of Cripple Creek or my great-grandfather at the Caribou mine, I know there is always something precious waiting just beneath the surface. As long as there are stories left to tell in the shadows of Pikes Peak, I’ll keep my pen—and my rock hammer—ready.

 

 

The Front Row Perspective: Remembering John Harrington

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Masterclass in the Field

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Legacy of Curiosity

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

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

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

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

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

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

 By Steven Wade Veatch

 

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

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

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

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

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