In mid-October, she rode a horse from Denver to Colorado Springs. She came through the Palmer Divide, describing places that are quite recognizable today. Some of the details have changed, some she didn't get quite right, some place names have changed. It's still quite interesting to read about the area as it was 135 years ago.
The weather in mid-October is unpredictable. It can be warm and sunny one day; cold and snowy the next. Blizzards with 2-3 feet of snow are not all that unusual, though they do not occur every October. Ms. Bird encountered a typical October snowstorm on her way through the region. Brr! I wonder if we'll get one this year?
Here are some excerpts from letter 10, written in Colorado Springs on October 28 and describing the previous week's events. I've skipped several bits and added a few extra paragraph breaks.
-------------
That night on which I last wrote was the coldest I have yet felt. I pulled the rag carpet from the floor and covered myself with it, but could not get warm. The sun rose gloriously on a shrouded earth. Barns, road, shrubs, fences, river, lake, all lay under the glittering snow. It was light and powdery, and sparkled like diamonds. Not a breath of wind stirred, there was not a sound. I had to wait till a passing horseman had broken the track, but soon after I set off into the new, shining world. I soon lost the horseman’s foot-marks, but kept on near the road by means of the innumerable foot-prints of birds and ground squirrels, which all went in one direction. After riding for an hour I was obliged to get off and walk for another, for the snow balled in Birdie’s feet to such an extent that she could hardly keep up even without my weight on her, and my pick was not strong enough to remove it. ...---------------
I rode twelve miles, but it was “bad traveling,” from the balling of the snow and the difficulty of finding the track. There was a fearful loneliness about it. The track was untrodden, and I saw neither man nor beast. The sky became densely clouded, and the outlook was awful. The great Divide of the Arkansas was in front, looming vaguely through a heavy snow cloud, and snow began to fall, not in powder, but in heavy flakes. Finding that there would be risk in trying to ride till nightfall, in the early afternoon I left the road and went two miles into the hills by an untrodden path, where there were gates to open, and a rapid steep-sided creek to cross; and at the en-trance to a most fantastic gorge I came upon an elegant frame house belonging to Mr. Perry, a millionaire, to whom I had an introduction which I did not hesitate to present, as it was weather in which a traveler might almost ask for shelter without one. Mr. Perry was away, but his daughter, a very bright-looking, elegantly-dressed girl, invited me to dine and remain. They had stewed venison and various luxuries on the table, which was tasteful and refined, and an adroit, colored table-maid waited, one of five attached Negro servants who had been their slaves before the war.
After dinner, though snow was slowly falling, a gentleman cousin took me a ride to show me the beauties of Pleasant Park, which takes rank among the finest scenery of Colorado, and in good weather is very easy of access. It did look very grand as we entered it by a narrow pass guarded by two buttes, or isolated upright masses of rock, bright red, and about 300 feet in height. The pines were very large, and the narrow canyons which came down on the park gloomily magnificent. It is remarkable also from a quantity of “monumental” rocks, from 50 to 300 feet in height, bright vermilion, green, buff, orange, and sometimes all combined, their gay tinting a contrast to the disastrous-looking snow and the somber pines. Bear Canyon, a gorge of singular majesty, comes down on the park, and we crossed the Bear Creek at the foot of this on the ice, which gave way, and both our horses broke through into pretty deep and very cold water, and shortly afterwards Birdie put her foot into a prairie dog’s hole which was concealed by the snow, and on recovering herself fell three times on her nose...
The snow began to fall in good earnest at six in the evening, and fell all night, accompanied by intense frost, so that in the morning there were eight inches of it glittering in the sun. Miss P. gave me a pair of men’s socks to draw on over my boots, and I set out tolerably early, and broke my own way for two miles. Then a single wagon had passed, making a legible track for thirty miles, otherwise the snow was pathless. The sky was absolutely cloudless, and as I made the long ascent of the Arkansas Divide, the mountains, gashed by deep canyons, came sweeping down to the valley on my right, and on my left the Foot Hills were crowned with colored fantastic rocks like castles. Everything was buried under a glittering shroud of snow. The babble of the streams was bound by fetters of ice. No branches creaked in the still air. No birds sang. No one passed or met me. There were no cabins near or far. The only sound was the crunch of the snow under Birdie’s feet. We came to a river over which some logs were laid with some young trees across them. Birdie put one foot on this, then drew it back and put another on, then smelt the bridge noisily. Persuasions were useless; she only smelt, snorted, held back, and turned her cunning head and looked at me. It was useless to argue the point with so sagacious a beast. To the right of the bridge the ice was much broken, and we forded the river there; but as it was deep enough to come up to her body, and was icy cold to my feet, I wondered at her preference. Afterwards I heard that the bridge was dangerous. ....
The rest of the day’s ride was awful enough. The snow was thirteen inches deep, and grew deeper as I ascended in silence and loneliness, but just as the sun sank behind a snowy peak I reached the top of the Divide, 7,975 feet above the sea level. There, in unspeakable solitude, lay a frozen lake. Owls hooted among the pines, the trail was obscure, the country was not settled, the mercury was 9 degrees below zero, my feet had lost all sensation, and one of them was frozen to the wooden stirrup. I found that owing to the depth of the snow I had only ridden fifteen miles in eight and a half hours, and must look about for a place to sleep in.
The eastern sky was unlike anything I ever saw before. It had been chrysoprase, then it turned to aquamarine, and that to the bright full green of an emerald. Unless I am color-blind, this is true. Then suddenly the whole changed, and flushed with the pure, bright, rose color of the afterglow. ...
The next morning was gray and sour, but brightened and warmed as the day went on. After riding twelve miles I got bread and milk for myself and a feed for Birdie at a large house where there were eight boarders, each one looking nearer the grave than the other, and on remounting was directed to leave the main road and diverge through Monument Park, a ride of twelve miles among fantastic rocks, but I lost my way, and came to an end of all tracks in a wild canyon. Returning about six miles, I took another track, and rode about eight miles without seeing a creature. I then came to strange gorges with wonderful upright rocks of all shapes and colors, and turning through a gate of rock, came upon what I knew must be Glen Eyrie, as wild and romantic a glen as imagination ever pictured. The track then passed down a valley close under some ghastly peaks, wild, cold, awe-inspiring scenery.
After fording a creek several times, I came upon a decayed-looking cluster of houses bearing the arrogant name of Colorado City, and two miles farther on, from the top of one of the Foot Hill ridges, I saw the bleak-looking scattered houses of the ambitious watering place of Colorado Springs, the goal of my journey of 150 miles. I got off, put on a long skirt, and rode sidewise, though the settlement scarcely looked like a place where any deference to prejudices was necessary. A queer embryo-looking place it is, out on the bare Plains, yet it is rising and likely to rise, and has some big hotels much resorted to. It has a fine view of the mountains, specially of Pike’s Peak, but the celebrated springs are at Manitou, three miles off, in really fine scenery. To me no place could be more unattractive than Colorado Springs, from its utter treelessness.
The rocks really are that scenic. The sunsets really can be that spectacular. And yes, the cold and snow and silence are all features of our winters. I've hiked in that kind of weather. But it's always been a short journey, with a warm car and warm clothes at the end of it. It must have been an exceedingly cold and unpleasant trek on horseback in October, 1873.
The area Ms. Bird referred to as Pleasant Park is now called Perry Park. An upscale rural subdivision is there now, though the geology is still lovely and mostly accessible. I find the reference to the servants interesting; the homogeneity of the current population makes me suspect that this part of Colorado has a "sunset town" history.
The "top of the Divide" with its "frozen lake" is the site of Palmer Lake. Its elevation is 7225', not the almost 8000' Ms. Bird claimed for it. The hills around Palmer Lake are certainly higher, of course.
Monument Park was a famous tourist attraction in the late 19th and early 20th century. It was an area of interesting eroded buttes and spires that is now part of Colorado Springs. There are many famous photographs of the area in old archives. It no longer exists except in these old accounts. What's left of it can be seen in places like Woodman Valley Open Space. Probably some suburban houses have bits and pieces in their back yards or in small suburban green spaces. It's quite possible that some of the spires have finished eroding and fallen to bits after all the tourist activity and construction activity. I'll probably babble about Monument Park in some future blog post.
Glen Eyrie is just north of Garden of the Gods. Both are in modern Colorado Springs. I'm not sure if she considered them to be separate places or if she's referring to the whole valley and ridgeline.
There are many more people here now than there used to be. But parts of the area are almost as wild and empty as they were in 1873.
We usually get our first really awful weather no later than Halloween. Sometimes it's earlier. Halloween is notorious for its dreadful weather -- snowy, icy, cold, windy, and so on. Rarely we'll have weather that is merely cold and windy instead of actively dangerous.
The entire book is fun to read. It's not Deathless Literature for the Ages. It's interesting for its glimpse into the western US during the 1870's, and for its portrait of an English Lady Traveler. Ms. Bird writes about her travels, shares tales told to her by others, gives her impressions of the locals, describes the places she visits, moralizes at random moments, and name-drops quite shamelessly.
No comments:
Post a Comment