It’s Pike’s Peak Day today. When we were here in 2018 we rode short buses up the mountain and experienced the brutal wind and cold temperatures which are the norm at 14,000 feet. As I recall, the skies were not clear, therefore the view was limited. Today was a different story.
The weather was perfect with blue skies and mild temperatures down at 5,000 feet where our hotel is located. Having been duly warned, we all had plenty of layers for our hour at the top where the temperatures were almost freezing and the wind frigid, even with the sunny skies.
We rode the train to the top this time and it was beautiful. Our tour guide, Brian, was enthusiastic, informative, and had an endless wellspring of Dad Jokes. He asked if there are any Texans on the train. A rowdy bunch of cheering ensued. “So,” says Brian, “Is it true that everything is bigger in Texas?” They responded with loud exclamations to the affirmative. “Well, “says Brian, “Look out your windows.”
We looked. A large area covered with rocks ranging from baseball to beach ball size were piled everywhere. “In Colorado that’s what we call gravel,” Brian told us and we all had to laugh. Yes, that was one of his better jokes. But he was so friendly and mixed in just enough facts with all his malarkey to keep us interested.
Brian told us it takes 63 gallons of fuel for the train to reach the top and only 1 and ½ gallons to return to the bottom. He talked about the annual Hill Climb race won by Frenchman Romain Dumas in a Ford F150 electric truck. He beat his own previous record by a few seconds with a time of 8 minutes and 53.553 seconds. The distance is almost 13 miles and has 156 hairpin curves – without guard rails. We heard about the brave, or crazy, or both, souls who hike to the top. And there are runners who compete in a foot race. The record for that is 2 hours and 20 minutes.
If you have ever climbed the normal size staircases in the welcome center at the summit you can more fully appreciate how amazing a feat it would be to run up this mountain. I am fortunate I don’t suffer from the high altitude maladies that some others do but I did get short of breath climbing those stairs. One poor lady from our train didn’t make it to the buildings after disembarking before losing her breakfast. Last I saw of her she was hugging a support pole and retching repeatedly. Paul chose to stay below after his experience on our last trip up. He didn’t throw up but he wasn’t right for days after.
Today the views were amazing in all directions. A slight haze from the California wild fires wasn’t thick enough to hide the mountain peaks, valleys, and lakes spread out below us. My imagination runs wild thinking about the first humans to see this sight. We saw several weathered and broken down shelters that, at one time, someone called home. What are their stories?
Brian told us about Mr. Mann, a donkey that helped the crews working on the mountain years ago. Legend has it that they even shared their whiskey with the donkey and all became fasts friends. One day, Mr. Mann was loaded down with dynamite when something went wrong and he blew up, pieces of him raining down upon his devastated companions. So they gathered him up and buried him, marking his grave with a pickaxe marker, which Brian told us lay just ahead. I never did see the marker and I’m not sure if he was telling the truth or weaving another tall tale but it made for an entertaining story at any rate.
We returned safely to the bottom of the mountain and rejoined those who hadn’t gone up, traveling a few miles up the road to a picturesque little town whose name I don’t know. It was filled with small restaurants, tourist traps, smoke shops and a very nice little coffee bistro. We ate lunch with a few of our group at a lovely little place with outdoor tables covered with colorful umbrellas. The food was good and the company better.
I decided on my way back to the bus to stop at the aforementioned bistro for a cold, fancy coffee. The nice man behind the counter told me they have a drink, ice-cream with coffee poured over it, that sounded like just what I needed. So I plopped down an exorbitant fee and hastened on my way, mouth watering in anticipation of the drink I could sip at my leisure on the bus. Can I just say that I think the curbs in Colorado are a tad too high??! I misjudged the last one before reaching the bus and down I went.
They say you can tell if you’re old or not by the reaction you get from witnesses when you fall. If you’re young they laugh. If you’re not they all rush up, with great concern, to help. In case I didn’t know before, I no longer qualify as young. People came out of the woodwork. Out of the grassy park. Off the sidewalks. To help the old lady up.
“Are you okay?!” They said in one accord and someone who looked less fit than me wanted to help me stand. I assured her I was fine and clambered to my feet, my now smashed drink leaking ice-cream and coffee all over my hand.
I wailed in dismay, telling them I was so sad I lost my drink and one kind lady told me to go get another. Well, I didn’t have time for that so I rushed on to the bus, sticky fingers and injured pride along for the ride. I’m thankful though. The same lady told me she fell down once and broke five bones. I’m pretty sure all my bones are intact but I will have some road rash on one elbow and some bruises on my legs. But that drink!! I’m going to mourn its loss for awhile.
Tonight we go to the Flying W Ranch for a Chuck Wagon Dinner Show. I’ll tell you about that tomorrow.
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