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On A Donkey's Hurricane Deck

<h3>CHAPTER XXXVIII. Sights in Cripple Creek</h3> TOC BY PYE POD. <div class="poembox"> It is the property of great men to rise to the height of great events.<cite>—Victor Hugo.</cite> </div> The city of Colorado Springs possesses many attractions, and is growing in population and wealth. Here is a good-sized collection of pretty homes, built on wide and well-shaded streets, where reside beside the health hunter of independent means the mining king, the wealthy ranch owner, the Eastern capitalist, and the English tourist or speculator. Friday morning we entered that picturesque Swisslike hamlet of Manitou with flying colors. The summer tourists were either lounging on the broad verandas of the hotels or assembling for burro trips to the Garden of the Gods and other famous retreats in the mountains. Coonskin and I rode our favorite mounts to the principal hotels, Hiawatha Gardens and the iron and soda springs, at which several places I delivered lectures to the amused tourists and reaped a small harvest. The Garden of the Gods is some distance from town, the popular drive being fourteen miles from start to finish. To ride our slow steeds there would mean a sacrifice of a day's time. So after much prospecting, I bargained with a garrulous but genial guide to drive us with his team to the Garden and Glen Eyre for the sum of $2. What a gay old ride that was, in a cushion-seated carriage! I'll bet there wasn't one square inch of the seat that I didn't cover before I got back. Some way I couldn't seem to get in a comfortable position. The driver-guide was very accommodating and offered to go back to put a saddle on the seat for me to ride in, if I would but say the word. The Garden of the Gods is a picturesque and grotesque natural park, the rock formations of red and white sandstone resembling roughly most every bird and beast and human character imaginable. In fact, one old pioneer whom we met insisted that the place is the original Garden of Eden, and that when Adam and Eve were caught eating the sour apple, God caused the earth to cough, whereupon it threw up mountains of mud and petrified many fine specimens of the menagerie. The mountaineer struck me as something so unique in his make-up and mental get-up that I bribed him to accompany me and explain those wonderful exhibits of the earth's first zoo. "Now there is Punch and Judy," he said; "most folks take them as sech." "I suppose you make out they are the stone mummies of Adam and Eve?" I interrogated, showing effusive interest. "Our first parents, sure's you are born," he returned with conviction. "And there yender is th' old washerwoman what done up Eve's laundry." "But," I argued, "the Scripture says Eve didn't wear clothes, so she couldn't have had any washing." The man coughed.—"Well, my young man," said he, "I've lived a good many year and in a heap of places and seen a lot of females come inter the world, or seen 'em soon after they did come, and I never yet saw one come in dressed, but yer kin bet yer last two-bit piece, from what I knows of women, it didn't take Eve more time than she needed to catch her breath to change her 'mother Eve' fer a 'mother Hubbard." Then the pioneer pointed out the "Kissing Camels," the "Seal" and "Bear," and the "Baggage-room." "Are there any petrified elephants in this menagerie?" I asked. "I'm fond of big exhibitions." "N-n-no, they ain't no elifants here," said he with a jerk of the head. "Yer see when the mud was coughed up, they got so fast they left some of their trunks. That's them in the Baggage-room yender." And he ha-hahed over this poor joke. As we passed successively the "Buffalo's head," the "old Scotchman," the "Porcupine," the "Ant Eater," the "old man's wine cellar" and the "Egyptian Sphinx" my guide enlightened us on geology, botany and mineralogy far beyond my powers of understanding, but not desiring to reveal my ignorance, I listened attentively, and now and then gasped: "Well, I never!" "I do declare!" "Would you believe it!" and "Gracious sakes alive!" The "Gateway" to the famous park lies between two giant towering rocks three to four hundred feet in height, and further on the "Balancing Rock," a mammoth mass of sandstone, appears to be on the verge of a fall. Before leaving the park with its myriad curiosities, I called upon the "fat man" who runs a bar, restaurant, curiosity shop and miniature zoo. There lying in a box partially covered was a sculptured figure of a Digger Indian, which some enterprising mortal must have buried, unearthed, and sold to the hoodwinked man, for genuine petrified aboriginal meat. Rainbow Falls, Grand Caverns, William's Canyon, Cave of the Winds and Cheyenne Mountain Drive all had their peculiar attractions. On Cheyenne Mountain is the original grave of Helen Hunt Jackson, author of "Ramona." It was about midnight when, with a small lunch in an improvised knapsack and revolvers in our belts, Coonskin and I began the ascent of Pike's Peak, the first attempt to do it having been so summarily defeated. By 1 a. m. we were well up Engleman's Canyon and with the aid of a lantern we surveyed the wild and steep cog track with about the same pleasure one feels in descending a deep mine with a lighted candle. Higher and higher as we rose toward the starlit heavens we found it more difficult to breathe and easier to freeze. At times the grade was so steep that we had to creep on our hands and knees to prevent sliding backward to Manitou. The so-called beautiful Lake Moraine looked disenchantingly black and icy, and the timber line, still far above us, seemed as elusive as a rainbow. We had to stop frequently to rest our knees and to breathe, for air up there was at a premium. Later on we built a fire of railroad ties and ate our lunch. By four o'clock we overtook others striving to make the climb—men, women and small boys, whose chief aim in life evidently was to climb Pike's Peak. Some of them had started twelve hours before; others had been twenty-four hours climbing seven miles, and from the questions they put to us were doubtless under the impression there was an error in the guide books and that they had already tramped fifty miles from Manitou. The sunrise effects from the Peak are marvelous, but Uncle Sol appeared to have as hard work in rising mornings as we travelers. The sunrise looked as uncertain as our arrival on the summit. Once, we tarried to speculate on our chances of reaching the opposite side of Manitou in time to witness the event, then resumed tramping and creeping, puffing and blowing and snorting, and venting our wrath on Mr. Pike for discovering the peak, and made the turn to find the sun as tardy as ever, with no apparent inclination to rise. One old man we overtook told me he had been "nigh on to twenty year" climbing Pike's Peak, and hadn't climbed it yet. That gave me courage. I wouldn't back out. It looked as if there were only one more turn to make, when, about half way around, three shivering maidens sitting on a rock asked me most pathetically if I had seen any kindling wood about. My heart was touched! I replied that I had not, but would try to find some. I built a fire, and the girls were real nice to me, and insisted that I share their cheese sandwiches. On arriving at the summit I was just in time to see the most dazzlingly beautiful sunrise to be witnessed on earth. Arriving on the board walk in front of the Summit House I saw Coonskin thawing in the sun, fast asleep. Inside the house a young man lay on a sofa in a swoon, for want of air. There is a golden opportunity for some enterprising man to transport barrels of air to an airtight building on the Peak, and sell it to patrons for a dollar a pint. A hundred gallons could have been sold that morning—I would have bought fifty myself. Wandering aimlessly and weakly, as if from that tired feeling, about the house and rocky-looking grounds, were several dozen mountain-climbers, shaking hands with themselves for having seen the sunrise, or examining the crater of the extinct volcano, or discussing the mysterious ingredients of their coffee cups in the only restaurant, which small concoctions cost fifteen cents each. I haven't said what was in the cups; it was supposed to be coffee. I bought a cup, and forgetting that I had drunk it, bought another, and still I didn't make out what it was. Then I purchased another, and after I had finished four cups began to have a suspicion of coffee. It cost me sixty cents. After resting an hour we started back to Manitou. It was two p. m. before the foot-sore Pod and his lung-sore valet managed to get to their hotel. In less than an hour both became rational, and agreed that the first of them to mention Pike's Peak should instantly be deprived of breath. To those who boast of their ability to grow fat on beautiful scenery I heartily commend the trail through Ute Pass, Divide, Cripple Creek, South Park, Leadville and Aspen to Glenwood Springs, crossing Western and Independence Passes. First proceeding up Ute Canyon along the banks of the turbulent stream and in the shadow of the towering cliffs, often in view and in hearing of the trains on the Colorado Midland, we passed the summer retreats of Cascade and Green Mountain Falls, at which places the tourists flocked from hotels, cottages and tents to talk with Pod and Mac A'Rony. Only a brief stop was made at Divide to enable me to replenish my larder; then we hustled on toward the famous mining camp. Early every afternoon a thunder shower drenched our party. Once or twice the thunder in advance warned us so we could pitch tent and crawl under shelter. Thus our travels in that region were impeded. Three miles beyond Gillette we climbed to Altman, said to be the highest incorporated town in the United States, some 11,300 feet above the sea. It rests literally on the summit and hangs down over the mountain sides secure enough whenever and wherever there is a prospect hole with sufficient gold in it to serve the miners a foothold and check their sliding further. The high altitude of the district makes it especially undesirable for women, causing nervous troubles. Even the male population are more or less excitable, and when prospectors think they have made a strike some of them run about like lunatics. From Altman we took a tortuous trail, threading Goldfield, Independence, Victor and Anaconda. The mountains about are honeycombed with prospect holes—or graves they might be properly called, for many of them contain buried hopes. From a distance they look like prairie-dog towns, but occasional shaft-houses and gallows-frames rise here and there to give character to the mining region, while several railroad and electric car lines wind about the hills and gulches. Many of the cabins in these towns are built of logs; the streets look to have been surveyed by cows rather than engineers. As a rule, there is no symmetry to the thoroughfares—up hill and down hill, crooking and winding, crossing and converging, in a manner to puzzle a resident of a year. The situation of most of the habitations seems to have been governed by the location of the claim of each house owner. This great camp got its name from two circumstances occurring when the locality was known for no other virtue than a grazing place for cattle. One day on the banks of the creek that trickled through the present site of Cripple Creek a man broke his leg, and the following day a cowboy was thrown from his bronco and had his arm broken. Some one, seeing both accidents, said: "I reckon we'd better call this place Cripple Creek." So the noted camp was christened. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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