Garden of the Gods

I just spent a couple of days working down near Colorado Springs. I wasn’t really working, I was attending a conference but I did speak for 90 minutes on one of the days and I got paid for the whole thing, so it counts as working. Kick off was 7:45am on the first day, which meant I’d to rise at an even more ungodly hour than normal ready for the two-hour drive down there. The good news was that the journey itself, down Highway 126 through Pine is one of the prettiest around and there are worse ways to spend an early summer morning. Colorado Springs is one of the few places in this state which holds little appeal for me. Fortunately, conference wasn’t in the town itself, but in a nearby park called The Garden of the Gods.

The park is a magical place of towering spires and balanced boulders, with sheer cliff walls soaring upwards towards the Colorado sky. These massive rocks of white and red are remnants of sandstone sediment laid down in ages past and long covered by an inland sea. Mountain uplifts within the past 75 million years not only drained the water by also twisted, turned and tilted the rock layers into upright positions. The process of erosion then stripped away the soft sedimentary layers, sculpting each rock into its distinctive form.

The mild climate, enchanting wildflowers, abundant game and heavenly scenery led early Indians to revere the place as home to the Good Spirit, however the area was generally overlooked by the explorers and mountain men who first passed through the Pikes Peak region. In fact, Pike’s Peak is named after one Zebulon Pike, who missed the area altogether. The major attractions of the early 1800s were the “highest peak” and the “boiling fountains” where the town of Manitou sits today. Despite this early indifference, the red rocks continued to beckon, the soaring fingers being visible to travelers more than thirty miles away. The adventurer Rufus B. Sage wrote a best selling book entitled “Rocky Mountain Life” which extolled the virtues of the area and in time, the wonders of the Pikes Peak region became known nationwide.

Another Rufus played an important part in the Park’s history, one Rufus Cable who with his friend, Melancthon Beach, rode down from Denver City in 1859 to lay out a new town at the foot of Pikes Peak. They named their new town Colorado City after the nearby red rocks (Colorado stems from “rojo”, the Spanish for red). The pair visited the rocks soon after their arrival and Beach immediately suggested that the place would one day serve as a great spot for a beer garden. “Why, it is a fit place for the Gods to assemble”, replied Cable, “and we will call it the Garden of the Gods”. It didn’t seem to appear to either of them that the Gods may have enjoyed the occasional cold one because the beer garden never transpired but the place has indeed been known as the Garden of the Gods ever since.

In the late 1870s there was however, a large beer saloon located under the rock formation fondly known as the Kissing Camels, one of a number of money making enterprises hoping to exploit the natural beauty of the site. These included a stairway climbing to the top of one of the spires, Gateway Rock built by a speculator named Billy Bryan who owned a nearby resort where he celebrated the 4th of July with fireworks and moonlight dances. In 1895 a group of entrepreneurs announced their plans to build a streetcar line from Colorado City to the Garden. At the terminus they planned a casino, a restaurant and a magnificent glass structure called the glass palace which they intended to house plant specimens from around the world. Perhaps not surprisingly in lieu of the $600,000 estimated construction costs, the project never got off the ground. One scheme which sadly, did take place was the establishment of a gypsum quarry mine in the park. The resulting trench like scar is still visible today.

Cable and Beach were the first to lay claim to the land surrounding the Garden of the Gods although numerous land claims were established over the next few years. In 1879, at the advice of his friend General William Palmer, the founder of Colorado Springs, the park was acquired by one Charles Perkins, who intended to build a summer home there. His occupation as president of the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad for the most part, kept him away from Colorado and management of the park was left to a gentleman named Henry Wills, who for twenty-five years paid the taxes, oversaw the removal of trash and debris, and kept the giant rocks open and free to all visitors.

Perkins died in 1907 but shortly before is reported to have scribbled a note on an old envelope, outlining his desire to have the Garden of the Gods given over to the city of Colorado Springs. His family honored this wish and in 1909, the city voted to accept the gift. The reason this required a vote is that Perkins established certain restrictions. Namely that the property be forever known as the Garden of the Gods; that no buildings be erected there, except those necessary to properly maintain the area as a public park,; that no intoxicating liquors be sold (there goes the last hopes for a beer garden!) and that it be forever free to the public. Violation of these restrictions would result in the property being returned to Charles Perkin’s heirs and as of today, they are still being honored.

My conference was being held at the Garden of the Gods club, a private resort overlooking the park. My room opened out onto lush green lawns populated by a seemingly inexhaustible supply of rabbits, that didn’t seem to be the slightest bit perturbed by my presence, even when I crept up close with my camera. The room was the kind which was too luxurious to want to waste time asleep and as it happens, I didn’t do too much of that. We were home late from dinner and I was up early the next day with my camera to take advantage of the early morning light playing over the rocks.

You can certainly see why the Gods would want this place as a garden, beer or no. In this setting, one couldn’t help but feel close to them.

Whitewater

We had another band performance this weekend. This time we were down in Salida, about 100 miles south down 285. The town of Salida is a beautiful little artists’ community. With the Rockies as a backdrop, mineral hot springs in abundance and the Arkansas River providing a natural playground, it’s been a popular resort destination for many decades. The event was the 51st annual FIBArk Whitewater festival, and we were to be part of the big parade.

The Arkansas River Valley is yet another part of this beautiful state I have still to visit. I’d heard how attractive it was and Dear Wife has been down a couple of times visiting friends, but this was to be my first trip. I wasn’t entirely sure how long to allow for the journey as I’d heard the cops down that way were even more aggressive towards speeders than our own beloved tax collectors in Park County. Not only that, the drive up from town the previous night had been quite an adventure due to the fog which made driving something of an exercise in memory and telepathy. The rain, which had been more or less constant in the latter part of the week, was forecast to continue all weekend and sure enough, the storm clouds were hovering ominously as we set off.

As it happened, we needn’t have worried. The clouds were soon left behind and other than a handful of artificial looking cotton wool jobs, didn’t make an appearance until much later in the day. In fact, we drove with the windows down the entire way and reveled in the cool air blowing away the cobwebs. And what a spectacular drive it was too. From the ruler straight plains of South Park (yes, it’s the famous South Park, but for the record, the obscenity ridden TV Show was apparently based on the town of Conifer, much closer to Denver) to the meandering trail through acres of rolling farmland, each vista was spectacular.

Before settling on Denver, we spent several years exploring the American West, looking for a place to call home. We didn’t have a clear idea what we were looking for other than that we were tired of the desert with its palate of pale brown and washed out green. Visiting Colorado in midsummer, we were struck by the greenness of it all and this was one of the many factors which caused us to fall in love with the place. Even though I’ve been living here for over two years now, this drive reminded me once again what beauty there is in rural farmland, green pastures and groves of lush looking trees. Working as I do, in downtown Denver it’s not really practical for me to live any further out than I do. That said there were half a dozen places I would have been happy to rest my weary bones before we’d even covered half the distance.

The FIBArk Festival, as I’m sure you’re itching to know, stands for “First In Boating on the Arkansas”. (No, I would never have figured it out either). It’s a series of boat races down a 56 mile stretch of the river from Salida to Canon City through the famous Royal Gorge. The event began with a canoe race in 1949; a bet between two friends. Word of the challenge spread from mouth to mouth, generating such interest that a parade and a festival were organized. 23 entrants in all chose to take part in the contest including two Swiss boys who had heard of the race while visiting the country. Their boats were small folding affairs yet that first year; they were the only ones to reach the finish line. Nowadays, boaters come from all over the world to run the Arkansas during FIBArk and this year saw entries from France, Germany, Czechoslovakia, Belgium, Scotland and Israel among others.

Fortunately, we weren’t being asked to take part in anything quite so adventurous. All we had to do was march down Main Street while playing a handful of tunes even I know comparatively well. That said, with fifteen minutes to show time, my heart was beating as fast as any of the river runners because at that time, I was the only drummer in attendance. I have quite a bit more experience than the last time I was in this situation, when I marked my third ever public appearance with a solo performance in one of the local bars except this time, I would be expected not only to set the tempo for the entire band, but to remember how to play the tunes while marching at the same time. I’m told a green complexion doesn’t suit me.

To my immense relief, one of the tenors and two other snare drummers appeared with minutes to spare. Pam, the tenor drummer has experience with the bass, and as that was decreed to be more important for a parade, soon found herself on the receiving end of a field promotion and underneath a very large, very heavy drum. It was a warm day for her to be lugging that thing around but that wasn’t my problem. The pressure was off and I could begin to enjoy myself.

Most people seem to enjoy pipe bands and the crowd here was most appreciative, bursting into rapturous applause each time we halted. This was exceptionally good for the ego, even though I was aware they simply didn’t realize how badly I was playing. As it happened, we learned later that the friends, whom Dear Wife has visited, were following us down the street, stopping when we did and encouraging the other spectators by clapping and cheering as loud as they could.

The whole thing was such fun I was quite disappointed when we reached the end of the route only about twenty minutes after we’d started. We’d been advised the parade would take between one to one and a half hours to complete but I suspect this referred to the time between the first and the last entrants as I doubt we marched more than about half a mile. In fact, the whole thing was over so early, the bars weren’t even open by the time we were done.

It was a long way to go for such a short performance but even so, I’ve no complaints. After a week cooped up in the office, I can think of worse ways to pass a Saturday morning that strolling down Salida Main Street while banging a drum.

Rhubarb rhubarb

So we spent last Saturday morning in the rhubarb capital of the world. “Where the heck is that?” I hear you ask. Well, it’s in Pine, Colorado of course; or at least that’s what the townspeople claim. For one weekend a year at least, when this tiny hamlet on the banks of the Platte River gives itself over to a celebration of all things rhubarb.

Although I’ve been intrigued by the concept since I first saw an advert for it whilst house hunting, this is the first year we’ve made it to the Festival Like many other events, it was cancelled during our first year due to the fire danger and last year we had a prior commitment so had to give it a miss. Not this year though; we were up bright and early and down to Pine before the crowds.

This is in fact, the 17th annual Pine Rhubarb Festival, put on by the Pine-Elk Creek Improvement Association (PECIA), an organization that was apparently founded in the 20's and still active in the community. Proceeds from the event go towards community services, including road grading, dumpsters, maintenance of an historic community building, and the local volunteer fire department. It’s world famous – at least in these parts. With rhubarb pie bakeoffs, a duck race and of course a parade, which some years takes several minutes to complete, the festival is as pleasant a way as any of passing a summer’s morning. The highlight for us though, was the all you can eat breakfast provided by the fire department volunteers.

$7 got you a heaping plateful of pancakes, sausages, and potatoes all topped with a generous helping of rhubarb sauce. Dear Wife experienced a bit of a culture shock with that last bit; raised as she was on pancakes with maple syrup. Fortunately, that was available too. And all this was before you got to the desserts, fruit juices and coffee. There was no problem with you going back for seconds, in fact that was positively encouraged but truth be told, I was plenty full after the first round. We met a friend and his family while standing in line so we sat and ate with them, while catching up with the gossip.

Time to explore the vendors next and as Dear Wife was in tow, I firmly expected the bank balance to take a hit. To be fair, she restrained herself quite nicely and other than a rather overpriced T-shirt, didn’t really spend too much. Not that she was short of choice mark you; there were all manner of goodies on sale. From incense, to perfumes, wood carvings and antiques, to the inevitable jewelry, it was all here.

Dear Wife is something of a jewelryholic and despite owning more baubles than Liz Taylor is always on the lookout for more. So it was with some dismay I looked along the rows of jewelers hawking their wares. However, she appears to be devoting her energies into collecting ideas for her own fledgling jewelry making practice and seems to be quite content just looking at the pieces. Having dodged that bullet, I was more than happy to simply follow her around, stare vacantly at the things she showed me and grunt at what I hoped would be the appropriate moments.

Once we’d made our way along the rows of vendors, and back along the other side, we realized what should have been obvious all along. Despite its intriguing concept, the Pine Rhubarb Festival is rather, well, small. We’d eaten the breakfast, we’d checked out each vendor in way more detail than I’m usually prepared to devote to these things and it wasn’t yet 10am. The pie bakeoff wasn’t until 11:30 and the parade wouldn’t be held until after that. I still don’t know when the duck race happened; suffice to say it didn’t happen while we were there.

A friend who lives in nearby Buffalo Creek explained to me later, that the rhubarb festival is one of those things where the idea is better than the actual event itself. Mind you, this is the same friend who’s threatened to put her hair in a beehive, dress herself in rhubarb leaves and go as Rhubarbarella, so take from that what you will. She also told me of the Buffalo Creek tradition whereby it’s considered to be bad form to bake the rhubarb pie using ingredients from your own garden. There’s an unwritten rule, which dictates the rhubarb must be swiped from somebody else’s crop. Buffalo Creek’s even smaller than Pine and it’s reasonable to assume that should your rhubarb stock decline unexpectedly, you’ll know the bandit personally.

Now this was captivating enough in its own way, but it didn’t help us fill the morning. There was an endearingly cheesy jazz band, made up of high school aged kids, setting up on a flat bed trailer so we watched them for a while as they bashed around a number of classic standards, some of which were even recognizable. Eventually they were replaced with a couple singing folk rock type numbers who were actually pretty good. The day was beginning to warm up considerably and as I’d met a couple of friends by this time, including the one of Rhubarbarella fame who disappointingly, was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, Dear Wife took a seat to watch them while I wandered off and socialized.

Something else I learned during this conversation is that just prior to the commencement of the parade; the festival organizers appoint a Rhubarb King and Queen. Nothing out of the ordinary in that you might think, until I explain that gender has little to do with the title. The Rhubarb Queen has, on more than one occasion, been male. And you thought Pine was just a sleepy little backwater.

Anyway, having browsed along the vendors’ stalls once more and after checking out the vintage cars lined up for the parade, there was no escaping the fact that we’d done about all there was to do. We learned our lesson and while we’ll definitely be back next year, perhaps we won’t arrive quite so early. It was still a pleasant day out though and as we headed back up the hill we couldn’t help reflecting what a pretty place Pine would be in which to live.

We nearly did buy a house there, but decided it was just a little too close to the road for comfort. It’s worth remembering that if we had, I would have to come up with a different name for my Blog. “The State Route 126 Files” doesn’t have the same ring to it.

Pow Wow

When we first moved up to Bailey, Colorado after 9 years in the living death that is Phoenix, Arizona; I made the decision that I would throw myself wholeheartedly into small town life. I was going to follow the high school sports teams, attend local theater, help with volunteer organizations, you name it. However, after two years as a resident, I'm ashamed to admit that my contribution to the local social scene has been virtually non-existent. Oh, I've sunk a few beers in the local hostelries, don't get me wrong, but I've attended very few of the local events.

To be fair, this isn't entirely my fault. The fire danger was so extreme during our first summer that many events were cancelled and by the second year, I was so immersed in my work that there was very little time or energy remaining for fun stuff. But this summer's going to be different, you hear? There's a lot going on even in a small community such as this and I intend to do my bit to support it. To that end, this afternoon I went to my very first Pow Wow.

There are several versions of the story as to how "pow wows" began what the term actually means. Some say it refers to a healer or a priest although over time it came to mean a ceremony or event for religious or healing ceremonies. With the help of Hollywood, the name "pow wow" has come to mean a council or a meeting. There is evidence pow wows were held in the spring as a celebration of the new stage in the cycle of life. Not only were they opportunities for people to get together, sing, dance, make new friends and meet old ones; they were also used for naming, honoring and memorial ceremonies; events of deep significance to many Native Americans.

This particular pow wow was being hosted by one of our local churches; Deer Creek United Methodist Church in Pine and I'm ashamed to admit, this almost put me off going. My own religious beliefs tend towards the pagan and while I grew up in a semi-Christian environment, I'm afraid the behavior of many so-called Christians has somewhat soured me on that particular faith. I wasn't sure why a Methodist church would be holding a pow wow and I rather expected to find a bunch of white people trying to imitate the native traditions. Sort of like a boy scout camp for grown-ups. However like I said, I want to support the local events, so along I went.

And I was most pleasantly surprised. This was indeed a legit pow wow; part of a circuit which sees dancers and drummers traveling around the country for most of the summer entertaining crowds and competing for small cash prizes. There were two or three dozen dancers ranging from toddlers, barely old enough to stand on their own, to gap toothed old men, also barely able to stand on their own. I saw people from the Apache, Lakota, Chippewa, Pawnee, Sioux and Dakota Nations although I'm sure there were more.

Each was wearing traditional regalia, not "costumes" as we were advised by the emcee. Some, like the Apache were dressed in comparatively simple outfits, white jackets and pants with only a few decorations; others were wearing more elaborate regalia with fine beadwork and detailing, which must have taken many hours to produce. Apparently a full set of regalia can take years to complete. The Chippewa dancers were dressed in wildly extravagant concoctions of ribbons, bells and feathers. As the two of them were extremely enthusiastic dancers the whole effect was one of swirling color and light. Many dancers wore feathers and leather which was obviously very old and no doubt fragile so not surprisingly, it’s an extreme breach of etiquette to touch anyone's dance regalia without permission.

On the subject of etiquette, as the afternoon wore on I learned I committed a couple of faux pas myself. To begin with, you're supposed to bring along your own seating; lawn chairs and whatnot but as usual I hadn’t though of it. So once the dancing started, I simply followed the lead of several others and plopped myself down on one of the straw bales conveniently located around the circle. It was only later I learned these were actually part of the circle itself and weren't supposed to be used as butt rests by lazy people like me.

Secondly, entranced as I was by colors sparkling in the summer sun, I spent a large part of the afternoon with my camera pressed to my face, trying to capture the theater in front of me. Part way through, the emcee took a moment to remind us that many native people are uncomfortable having their photographs taken and it's simple common courtesy to ask first. Of course, as they were several dozen people in the circle, I'm not sure how practical that would be, unless I was looking for individual portraits. The camera went back to the car.

Pow wows follow a structured program, beginning with a Ground Blessing, to consecrate the arena, then Gourd Dancing throughout the morning. The Grand Entry, the official start to the pow wow, was in the early afternoon and fortunately, I arrived in time to see this. We spectators were asked to rise as the Eagle staffs and flags representing the visiting tribes were brought in. The drums began a grand entry song, while the dancers entered the arena, led by a color guard of veterans. As the emcee reminded us, Memorial Day was last weekend and one of the dancers had just this week returned from Iraq, an honored warrior. The men, women, teenage boys, then girls and finally the tiny tots, children aged six and under until the arena was filled with dancers, each performing in their own unique style.

At one point, someone was heard to complain that the arena was too dusty and as if in answer, the black clouds rolled in and Colorado received a much needed soaking. It didn't stop the dancers although the vendors all had to scurry to protect their wares. Although the showers continued all afternoon, they never lasted more than a few minutes at a time and the sun was always along shortly after, to dry everyone out and make the colors sparkle.

So, not only my first local event, my first pow wow. But it won't be my last.

"Mitakuey Oyasin" - "We are all related"

The Long Arm of the Law

We just enjoyed a holiday weekend, which of course meant the roads were packed with cars, trucks and vans, trailers, RVs and boats all headed up to the mountains to enjoy three whole days of play. And of course, they were joined with the inevitable array of law enforcement officers, gleefully seizing the opportunity to write a few hundred tickets – oh I’m sorry, I mean to keep the roads safe.

There are two definite schools of thoughts when it comes to the police presence on our highways. Those who believe they perform an invaluable service by discouraging speeders, drunks and dangerous drivers and others who think this is nothing more than an exercise in tax collection. I’m with the latter.

My dislike of traffic cops began at an early age when, as a comparatively law-abiding citizen, I was harassed to the point of comedy by the local fuzz. I initially got on their bad side by having a problematic tail light, which went out repeatedly despite the best efforts of me, my Dad and several repair shops. We eventually resolved the matter but not before I’d been pulled over a dozen or so times by enthusiastic cops looking to make a name for themselves by busting a high profile case like this.

Even once the tail light was functioning reliably, the pullovers didn’t stop. My car was now in the database and every time I drove, particularly after dark, I could pretty well guarantee to be stopped by every cop that saw me. In the two years or so I drove that car, I was probably pulled over 40 or 50 times and I’m happy to say I never once received a ticket. But they tried, oh boy did they try. I never drank so much as a single beer if I was driving and the car struggled to break the speed limit anyway, but I had cops checking the tread on my tires, pushing the car backwards to check the parking brake, and one even crawled underneath to check the rust level of the chassis. It must have been very disappointing for them.

I’ve lived in the US for eleven years now and while the level of police interest is nowhere near as high as in my younger days, I’ve still had more than my share of roadside chats. These have been over such major offences as driving 60mph on a 55mph freeway, having a cracked taillight (which I had to get down on my hands and knees to see) and having license tags expired by 2 days. I will admit I’ve received tickets which were justified, almost all for speeding but for the most part, I’ve been pulled over by bored, under worked cops simply justifying their existence by taking some of the pleasure out of mine. So when I see a highway laden with cops, such as 285 was this weekend. I retain a somewhat healthy cynicism over the idea that they’re doing this out of some kind of altruism.

The police departments here, like everywhere else on the planet are constantly crying poverty when it comes to explaining why crime detection rates are so poor. The manpower isn’t there when it comes to tracking robbers, rapists and burglars. Yet show them a motorist driving a few miles an hour over the speed limit and miraculously, there are three squad cars available to handle it. Now as I’ve been told, highway patrol and crime detection are two different branches of the department, I’ll accept that. Yet there’s something inherently wrong when the police officers responsible for chasing real criminals don’t have the money to do so, while traffic cops have a seemingly endless supply of funding.

It’s not simply squad cars that they need. On SR285, the road with which I’m most familiar, it’s common to see hapless motorists sitting glumly on the shoulder while being written a ticket by some hot shot sitting in an unmarked police vehicle. To my knowledge, there are at least three pick ups, one SUV and multiple sedan cars doing duty as undercover ticket generators. Now you don’t exactly have to be Sherlock Holmes to catch speeding motorists in the first place, so why is it necessary to use a disguise? After all, if, as we’re told, the purpose of a heavy presence is to encourage safer driving, wouldn’t it make more sense for the police to advertise their presence rather than hide it?

Which also leads to the question; if the purpose of the traffic cops is to inspire safe driving, why do they only seem to be concerned with speeders? Yes, we all know excessive speed is a factor in most accidents. However statistically, other dangerous practices such as tailgating, aggressive driving and simple inattention cause more. Yet when was the last time you heard of someone receiving a ticket for tailgating? I never have. Could it just be that speeders are easier to catch, or is it that this carries a higher fine?

The fines may indeed be the key. Although Park County is one of the largest in the nation (considerably bigger than the state of Rhode Island for example) it has a comparatively small population and with no businesses of any size, the tax base is extremely low. Which means the Park Country Sheriff’s Department relies largely on revenue from traffic tickets for their income. Compound that by the fact that the majority of Park County residents inhabit the area on the extreme eastern edge and you find that a short stretch of highway receives a greater police presence than any high crime district in the metro area.

On Friday I counted 5 police vehicles in less than 5 miles of SR285. There may have been unmarked cars there too, I don’t know. Were they keeping the highway safe? Arguably, although given the number of accidents reported, that claim is somewhat dubious. Given that this is the busiest traffic weekend of the year and understanding the opportunity for revenue enhancement, I’m inclined to think they were there for other reasons.

It would have been an interesting experiment to have called the cops on Friday to report a burglary or a bicycle theft, just to see what level of attention this would have received. I’m willing to bet the phrase “nothing much we can do” would pop into the conversation at some point. Not enough manpower, see?

And if any law enforcement officers happen to be reading this; let me just say here and now, “I don’t drive a car. Nope never. Not me. Sorry, I walk everywhere. Keep up the good work!”