Fear and Wonder of Mile-High Spacious Skies

The Colorado sky beamed bright blue on Day 8 of our adventure. The glowing sun meant business. Fortunately, our early start allowed us to experience our first stop in relative comfort.

Still, the Centennial State’s atmosphere, not the temperature, dominated our thoughts. It felt bigger. And wider. As if it had a life of its own. You could almost hear it breathe. Beneath these mile-high, spacious skies, you couldn’t help but believe God’s hand seemed closer.

You see this immediately. Once you’ve escaped Denver’s urban grasp, outcroppings of red rock emerge from the earth—as if even the stones themselves strained to reach heaven. Yesterday, we left the grand mountainous cathedral of the Tetons. Today, we would ascend a far different earthly temple to the roof of America. We’re going from geological reverence to spiritual heights.

This wouldn’t be merely a simple drive-by. We’d leave the Expedition’s wheels in various parking lots for the bulk of the day. Our feet would bring us up close and personal with the Colorado sky. And on this stroll, fear and wonder walked hand in hand. Which will win this epic battle?

We arrived at Red Rocks Park and Amphitheatre shortly after 9 AM. We kept pushing our scheduled arrival time back from 8:30 AM. The itinerary suggested we leave by 9:30 AM, but that wasn’t going to happen. Timing on this day was critical because we had to be at the base of Pikes Peak in time for our ride on the cog rail. We bought our tickets on February 3^rd, four and a half months before the boarding call for the 1:20 PM train.

Granted, we built a comfortable cushion into the timing of our Red Rocks visit. What wasn’t comfortable was the steep grade of its namesake amphitheater. It reminded me of the upper tier of Fenway Park. Not good. I stayed far away from the fenced cliff.

Not so Betsy and her friend, whom we met there. Or the kids, who took the steep trail that looped around the park. We elders opted for the wide ramp with a gentle slope that curved upward to the courtyard that plateaued above the amphitheater. I can’t overstate the “wide” part. It offered plenty of space between me and the rail overlooking the valley below.

Despite my acrophobia, the geology of the place pulled me in. These sandstone formations were impressive, both in beauty and in the implicit power responsible for their formation.

They were also old. The Earth forged the oldest rocks some 300 million years ago. Colorado’s high-altitude Red Rocks Park rises to a “mere” 6,450 feet. The height might draw oohs and aahs from flatlanders hailing from eastern parts, but it was nothing compared to what we would experience later in the day.

And it seems every rock has a name. Rising over 300 feet, the two tallest —Creation Rock on the north (to my left) and Ship Rock on the south (to my right)—bookend the courtyard and amphitheater. The natural acoustics of these ascending stone walls drew interest at the end of the 19^th century. As early as 1906 and ever since, musicians and vocalists have performed on the flat rock stage.

Of course, the stone seating came courtesy of Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s Civilian Conservation Corps. In the 1930s, engineers dynamited the loose boulders above the stage to create the benches we see today.

Sure, entertainers deliver the music, but the ancient walls echo a spiritual tone as if in a holy place. It’s nature’s architecture married to human talent. A chapel for the performing arts carved from stone.

Perhaps I would have sensed the warmth of these rocks under the lofty skies if the mile-high aspect of things—and the urgency of our schedule—hadn’t overwhelmed my imagination. Of course, after visiting the museum built within the outcroppings themselves, we browsed through the nearly century-old adobe trading post for the usual mementos.

Quickly, though, it was off to the towering white peak ahead. Pikes Peak. Rising toward the roof of America. To a height so dizzying we’d nearly touch that Colorado sky. If not for… well, let’s tell that story from the beginning.

You’d think transitioning from the hard sandstone reds to the soft alpine greens would cool things off. You’d be wrong. The midday sun cooked the outside air to 95°. Staying inside the Expedition kept us somewhat comfortable.

I say “somewhat” because, well…

Remember, we were on the clock. The tram departed at 1:20 PM, and it seemed everyone arrived at Manitou Springs for lunch at the same time. Traffic was slow. The summit drew crowds like worshippers to a shrine. Cars of Believers filled the parking spaces. Our road had become a pilgrimage route. We had left a chapel for the lure of a cathedral spire in the Colorado sky.

After several frustrating drives up and down the main street, we threw in the towel and parked a bus ride away. There, we ate our Ruffrano’s Hell’s Kitchen Pizza while waiting for the bus.

The bus took forever. Or were we watching water boil? The minutes ticked closer to our departure time while the bus line grew larger and larger. We had to make sure we got on the next bus.

Do you think that made me apprehensive? That was nothing. The anticipation of the altitude caused greater anxiety. Not even the realization of what Pikes Peak actually represented could mute this exaggerated fear.

Pikes Peak symbolized western expansion. It sits as the eastern gateway on the edge of the Rocky Mountains. Early American explorer Zebulon Pike saw it in 1806 and named it “Highest Peak.” Later, it was named for Pike, and the United States Board on Geographic Names dropped the possessive after Pike’s name, so it became “Pikes Peak.” We’d learn a more important fact (and quite a few unimportant facts) as we ascended the railway.

This isn’t a run-of-the-mill railroad. The steep grade requires something different. Here, the Broadmoor Manitou and Pikes Peak Cog Railway uses, as the name implies, a cog rail to pull the cars. The gears act as both a brake and an accelerator. As much as I enjoyed contemplating gears, grade, and the marvel of mechanical engineering, the reality of heights consumed me with misery.

Seriously. Until the very last minute, I considered bailing. Much like Willis Tower in Chicago.

Except I knew I couldn’t. Not for the sake of my family, but for my own sake. There comes a point where you simply have to forget all your worries and dive into the deep end.

(Hmm, on second thought, that’s probably not the most ideal of analogies.)

Reluctantly, I boarded like cattle to the slaughterhouse and promptly took the aisle seat. Like when flying planes, I stay as far away from the window as possible. Unlike flying planes, it pleased me to know that one side of the passenger car always faced the upward slope. That’s the window to which I fixed my gaze. I took in forests of Colorado blue spruce, Ponderosa pine, and the occasional Bristlecone pine tree (some of which are over 2,000 years old). On the other side, the window revealed a Colorado sky growing larger with every turn of the gears.

Wait. Did I say, “always faced the upward slope?”

It turns out there are two points where this isn’t true. The first is a place called “Windy Point,” a little more than halfway up. I didn’t expect this. The effervescent conductor happily announced, “Dramatic views from both sides.” That meant no trees, no nets, no feeling of security at all. Only vertigo-inducing drops.

With my back to the front, my kind family played lookout for me. They told me when to close my eyes. I closed my eyes.

The second place was the very top. I was actually okay with that. I figured the train had doors on either side. I’d get out on the side not facing the cliff. Easy peasy.

What I didn’t count on was there being two sidings. That required you to exit on only one side. I heard the engineer talking about which siding to use. The dispatcher told him, “It doesn’t matter. The choice is yours.” He picked the siding closer to the edge.

He made the wrong choice. The doors opened. I took a furtive peek in their direction. Not good.

As everyone else disembarked, I sank deeper into my seat. I stayed there. I never left the train. The conductor didn’t even ask. I guess I’m not the only one afraid of heights. Still, I might not have got off the train, but I got off a few pictures through the window. Not as good as the ones everyone else got.

Here’s one thing I did right: I wore a coat. People laughed at me down at the bottom on terra firma. It was a sweltering mid-90s there. At the peak of Pikes Peak, we were lucky if the temperature was 40°. Yep. That’s right, folks. At this altitude, the snow hadn’t melted yet.

Actually, I did two things right. Although this one was by accident. Since I wasn’t moving, the lighter air had no effect on me. I didn’t require as much oxygen. Nothing bad happened to the others, but there were complaints of light-headedness at the peak later on our way down. But they remembered the cinnamon sugar donuts more.

As nervous as I was on the long way up, I perked up on the short, happy descent. Ascending, the conductor told a lot of corny jokes to lighten the mood. He shared a few serious stories, including one about a newlywed couple who froze to death on their honeymoon while hiking up the mountain just short of the peak. It was yet another reminder that, like Yellowstone, there is always danger lurking within nature’s beauty. The gift shop had a postcard of the two corpses. Peter bought it.

He told other stories both up and down. We got to peek toward the Cripple Creek Mining District. Prospectors discovered gold deposits there in 1890. It set off the last gold rush in the US outside of Alaska. Today, the rush for selfies has replaced the gold rush.

The summit offered thin air, wide horizons, and the edge between awe and anxiety. It also presented views stretching to Kansas. Standing—or, in my case, sitting—Pikes Peak evokes a cathedral without walls. Before you spreads the endless Colorado sky, majestic purple mountains below it with amber plains stretching beyond.

Do those words sound familiar? They should!

Why? Because Katharine Lee Bates, an English teacher at Colorado College in Colorado Springs, visited Pikes Peak in 1893. It is lost to history whether, like me upon reaching the top, she simultaneously thought, “You made it” and “Don’t look down.”

What history does remember is the feeling of awe that struck her. This is how she described it: “Near the top we had to leave the wagon and go the rest of the way on mules. I was very tired. But when I saw the view, I felt great joy. All the wonder of America seemed displayed there, with the sea-like expanse.”

Thus stirred, that summer she wrote a poem to capture the spirit of her feelings. She called the poem “Pikes Peak.” The Congregationalist, a church periodical, published the poem in its Fourth of July 1895 edition under the title “America.”

Today, we call this poem “America the Beautiful.”

Pikes Peak is not just a mountain. It’s the mountain that roused an anthem.

Fear and wonder might be the headliners battling it out in the Colorado sky, but wouldn’t you know it, in the thin air of Pikes Peak, inspiration snuck in and conquered all.

Perhaps the anthem works because you must be breathless to truly understand it.

Standing on the roof of America, with the mile-high heavens above and the land rolling away in hues of royal violet and imperial gold, it’s hard not to hear Katharine Lee Bates’ words:

O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain! 

America! America!
God shed His grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

Perhaps fear and wonder make the Colorado sky so unforgettable—they’re the very chords that keep America’s song alive.