the station at Manitou at 9.40 and arriving at the summit at 11.25. We thought it was a slow trip and a tedious climb, but it wasn’t when we consider the experience of some other people in connection with this mountain several years ago. Ambition and desire are strong impulses in human nature, often having more influence than a sense of duty.
When Major Zebulon M. Pike first sighted this mountain that bears his name on the morning of November 13th, 1806, he had a burning desire to give it a close inspection, and led his followers a ten days’ rugged march before he reached its base. From this point he looked up to its apparently inaccessible snow-crowned summit, and concluded it would be impossible to scale its rocky, bouldered sides. Retiring from the locality, he reported that he “had discovered a grand mountain peak, bare of vegetation and covered with snow, but he believed that no human being could ever ascend to its pinnacle.”
When, thirteen years afterwards, on the morning of July 13th, 1819, Dr. Edwin James and his four comrades stood and gazed upon the terribly wild and awful grandeur of this mighty mountain peak, they faced the same conditions that caused the intrepid Pike to turn his back upon the scene and withdraw: perpendicular cliffs whose walls no man can climb, enormous rocks and giant boulders impossible to remove or surmount, great chasms that cannot be crossed or bridged, deep, wild ravines that seem to be impenetrable. All this they saw, yet they did not hesitate, for they were filled with a wild ambition and burning desire to accomplish what Pike had not dared to undertake. So they started, and after two days of perilous hardship and toil they reached the summit, on July 14th, 1819.
Their ambition was gratified, and so is ours. We did not come up for pleasure, for there is no pleasure in it; the novelty of the thing brought us here, and we find it novel enough. We wanted to stand on the apex of these snow-bound, wind-swept, zero-blistered heights, 14,147 feet above the beating billows of the sea, and see what it is like. We are finding out; it is colder than Chestnut Hill in midwinter. The snow is six feet deep and the wind whistles a tune as it sweeps through Colonel Layfield’s whiskers. The sun is shining when we get out of the car, and with the snow whirling down our backs and tears streaming from our eyes we spend three minutes looking down upon the far-away valley scenery and the towns of Manitou and Colorado Springs. Then we enter the old Government signal station, which has been turned into a curio shop, telegraph office, post office, and restaurant. We find the temperature more congenial, and put in the time examining and purchasing novelties which are neither valuable or cheap, but are wanted for souvenirs. We buy postal cards at ten cents each and mail them to friends, and send telegrams at five cents per word. Manager Wyman sends a dispatch to Ticket Receiver Stackhouse, Philadelphia, informing him of our whereabouts and condition, but he couldn’t tell it all. The message didn’t tell how near Waddie was to being fired off the train at Hell Gate because he couldn’t find his ticket, as Restein had it in his pocket; nor how eager Sloane was to chase the badger we saw running over the rocks above Timber Line, but the conductor wouldn’t stop the train to let him off.
We have got enough of Pike’s Peak and are ready to go, but the engine is away with the snow plow and we will have to wait for its return. We have seen all there is to be seen and have bought what souvenirs we want. My last purchase was a tissue-paper napkin; I gave thirty cents for it, but had a cup of coffee and a sandwich thrown in. Our engine has returned and we go out to get in the car. The sun is hidden by a great dark cloud, the wind blows harder than ever, and the car is locked up. A photographer is on hand with his outfit and wants to take a picture; somebody ought to throw him over the precipice. We are huddled about the end of the car like a tempest-stricken flock outside a sheepfold gate, shivering and shaking in the blast. As the picture fiend adjusts the camera it begins to snow; in thirty seconds we are in a raging blizzard, the instrument snaps and the car door is unlocked, but before we all get inside many of us are covered with snow.
We are in the storm until we get below Timber Line, and the force of the wind drives the snow across the car as it sifts through the ventilators and in around the windows, and some of us are feeling pretty groggy. I do not like the sensation; when I speak I talk through my hat, and my ear drums feel ready to burst. When I go up so high again I want to go to stay; there may be such a thing as becoming acclimated.