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.

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

References and Further Reading:

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

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