The glory of Colorado, in the splendor of its waterfalls, the awesomeness of its mountains, the wealth of its mines, and the picturesqueness of its natural parks, is by no means confined to those Rocky Mountain districts which we have just pictured and described, for greater marvels remain to be spoken of, and pictorially represented. Returning to Denver, our tour took us southward, across a plain that hugs the gnarled bosom of the Continental Divide, by the pearl of Palmer Lake, and on to Colorado Springs and Manitou, the twin cities that sit at the feet of Pike’s Peak. Here we are compelled to pause in a spell of mighty wonderment before the amazing prodigies of a riotously eccentric nature, that bursts into an exuberance of dashing cascades, top-lofty mountains, darkling caÑons, gruesome formations, monolithic spires, babbling brooks and magnetic springs. Here are God’s acres of tumultuous stone, grand, amazing, chaotic, aberrant; a pantheon of forces, a Jovian council, a mythologic assemblage that sits like a Sanhedrim on the issues of Titanic upheaval, erosion, conglomeration and elemental disturbance. There, rising like a giant specter above its lesser brothers, and dipping its hoary head into the milky baldric of the heavens, stands Pike’s Peak, the grand old sentinel of millenniums, with sides gashed by tumbling cataracts and yellow with quivering leaves of the frosted aspen. So lofty that the stars can almost whisper to it, and the clouds, when tired of sailing through the sky, circle and settle upon its peak, while eternal night sleeps undisturbed, save by the lion’s call, in the deep gorges that split its base.

The first white man who caught sight of this towering mountain was Lieutenant Zebulon Pike, who was sent out by the Government in the year 1806 to make an exploration of the Territory of Louisiana and the Provinces of New Spain, a district now characterized as the great Southwest. From his diary of Saturday, November 15th, 1806, we quote the description of his discovery:

“Passed two deep creeks, and many high points of rocks; also large herds of buffaloes. At two o’clock in the afternoon I thought I could distinguish a mountain to our right, which appeared like a small blue cloud; viewed it with the spy-glass and was still more confirmed in my conjecture, and in half an hour it appeared in full view before us. When our small party arrived on the hill, they with one accord gave three cheers to the Mexican Mountains.”

On the 26th, following, this intrepid explorer attempted an ascent of Cheyenne Mountain, ten miles to the east of Pike’s Peak, from which to make an observation of the more lofty eminence, which he thus describes:

“Expecting to return to our camp that evening, we left all our blankets and provisions at the foot of the mountain, killed a deer of a new species, and hung its skin on a tree with some meat. We commenced ascending; found the way very difficult, being obliged to climb up rocks sometimes almost perpendicular; and after marching all day we encamped in a cave without blankets, victuals or water. We had a fine clear sky while it was snowing at the bottom. On the side of the mountain we found only yellow and pitch pine; some distance up we saw buffalo, and higher still, the new species of deer and pheasants.

“Thursday, 27th November.—Arose hungry, thirsty, and extremely sore, from the uneveness of the rocks on which we had lain all night; but we were amply compensated for our toil by the sublimity of the prospect below. The unbounded prairie was overhung with clouds, which appeared like the ocean in a storm, wave piled on wave, and foaming, whilst the sky over our heads was perfectly clear. Commenced our march up the mountain and in about an hour arrived at the summit of this chain; here we found the snow middle-deep, and discovered no sign of bird or beast inhabiting this region. The thermometer, which stood at nine degrees above zero at the foot of the mountain, here fell to four degrees below. The summit of the Grand Peak, which was entirely bare of vegetation, and covered with snow, now appeared at the distance of fifteen or sixteen miles from us, and as high again as we had ascended. It would have taken a whole day’s march to have arrived at its base, whence I believe no human being could have ascended to its summit. * * * * The clouds from below had now ascended the mountain, and entirely enveloped the summit, on which rest eternal snows.”

Being convinced in his own mind of its inaccessibility, Lieutenant Pike contented himself with the above brief notes in his diary, little thinking that his name would become perpetuated in the discovery, and that for all the ages thereafter Pike’s Peak would be one of the most famous of American mounts.

Not again was the lonely desolation of the mountain, or the marvelous scenery about its base, disturbed by the invasion of explorers until, forty-one years later, Geo. F. Ruxton came as a hunter to view its grandeur and make his camp within its game-haunted shadows. Soon afterwards gold was discovered in the vicinity, and then quickly followed a rush of adventurers whose hardy spirit accomplished that which Pike was fearful to undertake. An ascent of the peak was now made and the altitude ascertained to be 14,174 feet above the sea level.

Simultaneously, through the exploration of industrious prospectors, all the many amazingly curious formations which now render the region one of incomparable natural marvels were discovered, and the settlements of Manitou and Colorado Springs were presently made.

Pike’s Peak has been, since the time of Ruxton’s ascent, an object of great interest to travelers, and as early as 1852 a rough foot-trail was established to the summit, which was greatly improved twenty years later so as to admit the passage of vehicles. In the meantime, the towns of Manitou and Colorado Springs had grown steadily and the number of visitors increased until some one conceived the idea of constructing a railroad from the base to the summit. This idea was seized upon by some eastern capitalists in 1884, and a large capital being subscribed for the purpose, the work of building this unique road was begun. The original company, however, met with difficulties which they were unable to overcome for lack of capital, and in 1888 a second organization, under the title of Manitou & Pike’s Peak Railway Company, succeeded the first corporation, and adopting what is known as the Abt Cog-wheel System of Mountain Climbing, renewed the work thus interrupted. As the higher altitudes were reached the air became so rare that labor was extremely difficult, so that the strongest men were unable to exert themselves for more than a few minutes at a time. In place of wagons burros were employed to carry on their sturdy little backs all the needful materials of ties, rails, tools and spikes, up the steep mountain side, and without them the obstacles would have been insuperable. But thus the work went on until the 20th of October, 1890, when the last spike was driven and the highest railroad in the world received its finishing stroke. Special locomotives and cars were built and by the use of cog-wheels the pinnacle of Pike’s Peak was thereafter to be gained comfortably, if not swiftly. The length of the road leading to the summit is nine and one-quarter miles, and at times the grade seems positively appalling (being 25 per cent.) as the noisily-laboring engine pushes the passenger coach up the devious way, over great bowlders that have been flung down by some Titan from immense heights above; under overhanging brows of threatening cathedrals of stone; over mad-dashing waterfalls; through ever-green forests of silver pines, then into groves of dwarf aspens, until at length the route reaches up and on above the timber line. The steepness of the way still continues, but there are no longer abutting rocks, nor rush of water; the mountain now becomes a measureless pile of broken stones, between which the chipmunk and woodchuck play hide and seek; mists of clouds begin to gather, the snow line shows itself beyond the breath of summer, and a cold wind rushes around the peak making sport of the enterprise that invaded their frigid solitude.

After two hours of pushing and climbing the train ceases its deep respirations and stands seemingly exhausted before the stone observatory that crowns the peak. Ah, now what a view, when the clouds pass away and the sun bathes with golden splendor the panorama that lies in the greater charm of indistinctness many leagues below! Towards the west and south and north is a mighty army of mountains, in companies and battalions, bold, rugged, majestic; always standing in review before the Captain and Creator of worlds who seems to have halted His regiment for inspection before an impending battle; while away towards the east spreads the fading prairies, losing themselves in the horizon; and down below, in a long stretch of landscape, is Colorado Springs, with its intersecting streets looking like a corn-field, and its smoke-stacks like scare-crows.

At other times a terrible snow-storm may be raging on the peak, while summer sunshine bathes the plains below; or, standing under the arch of a clear sky, the summit visitor may see the rolling clouds gathering into scrolls of darkness, and the livid lightning running through the storm that is breaking in torrential rain away down the mountain side. So that winter and summer, storm and sunshine, have their eternal meeting place on the age-swept breast of this giant peak, and at this trysting place of the extreme seasons is one of the most beautiful lakes that ever nestled in the bosom of a mountain.

One of the most picturesque, grand and charming routes in the world is Ute Pass, which starts out of Manitou and climbs around mountains, through caÑons, and emerges into a roadway that leads direct to Leadville. The most beautiful section of this pass, however, is in sight of Manitou, where it rises with bold precipitation around the mountain side and passes Rainbow Falls, which has a perpendicular descent of seventy-five feet, and looks down into Cascade CaÑon, that is weirdly wild and awesomely imposing. The beauty of the pass is not more in the rugged margin, bordered with precipice and waterfall, than in the marvelous coloring of the roadway and abutting rocks of sandstone which at a distance appear like the petrified primaries of the rainbow wrapped around the mountain.

As the road winds upward a mile from Manitou, a branch strikes off from Ute Pass, and continuing another half mile around and up the mountain the visitor finds the way abruptly terminated by the entrance to a giant cave known as the Grand Caverns. Like most places to which visitors are attracted by flamboyant advertisements, these caves are not so wonderful as they have been represented, yet they possess considerable interest. The corridors are spacious and comparatively level, with here and there formations of stalactites and stalagmites of considerable beauty, though never large. Each compartment has been given a romantic and attractive name intended to increase the imagination, and give support to the marvelous tales with which guides entertain visitors, such as Canopy Avenue, Alabaster Hall, Stalactite Hall, Opera House, Concert Hall, Jewel Casket, Bridal Chamber, etc. The one principal object of interest in the Grand Caverns—a curiosity indeed—is what has been denominated the “Grand Pipe Organ of Musical Stalactites,” a formation which gives forth a great variety of sounds, capable, under the skilful touch of a player, of producing really ear-entrancing music. An “organist” is employed to entertain visitors by performing many familiar instrumental pieces, which, emanating from such a strange instrument, and echoing through the torch-lighted chambers of the grotto, produce a charming effect not easily forgotten.

In another compartment, particularly dark, if not noisome, and partitioned off by a grating to prevent profanation, are deposited some very ancient skeletons, which are said to have been found inurned here by the original cave discoverer in 1881. The photographer, by a trick, has pictured these bones as gigantic in size, whereas in fact they are slightly smaller than those of modern men.

A half-mile further around the mountain, towards William’s CaÑon, and approached by a long stair-way that leads down to a dusky, rock-hewn platform, is the entrance to the “Cave-of-the-Winds,” as unforbidding a place as Mephistopheles himself could choose for his abode. This cave is nothing more than a tunnel, too narrow to admit the passage of a fat man without squeezing, and with ceilings so low as to compel a person of ordinary height to keep a stooped position. It is up and down steep stair-ways, across chasms of uncertain depths, and over obstructions which are quite enough to exhaust the visitor before half the cavern is traversed. The stalactites that are found here are very small, but often clustered in resemblance of chrysanthemums and other composite plants. Like the Grand Caverns, every little chamber in the Cave-of-the-Winds is designated by some curious or charm-impelling name, such as Cascade Hall, Canopy Hall, Boston Avenue, Diamond Hall, Hall of Beauty, Dante’s Inferno, Crystal Palace, etc.; while the coral-like stalagmites are represented by the tricky photographer as being of imposing size and bewildering splendor.

Emerging from the stifling, half-artificial Cave-of-the-Winds, and passing down the hill a few yards, a magnificent view of William’s CaÑon bursts upon the enraptured vision of the spectator, the contrast from the dismal and disappointing cave lending additional sublimity to the scene. The south entrance to this herculean gorge is within a short walk of Manitou, and at the very door-way the walls rise up perpendicularly to a stupendous height and in fantastic forms that positively bewilder with a grandeur and beauty almost unexcelled by any scenery in the world. This gigantic gash in the mountain is evidently the effect of erosion, the result of a rushing torrent that drove down for centuries through the pass until it wore out a bed hundreds of feet deep and then found other outlet, or became absorbed in the process of drying-up which the world is undergoing. High upon the sides of this wondrous channel may be seen the distinct markings of glacial drift in deposits of shell-fish and bowlders, while in the bed there are fragments of tufa, betraying the action of volcanic fires which burned out ages upon ages ago.

Two miles north of Manitou, and reached by a perfect roadway, over which carriage driving is a supreme pleasure, is the gate-way to that chaotically curious and fantastically marvelous district known as the Garden of the Gods. I know not who gave name to this region of grotesque formations, but its appropriateness lends belief that it was christened by one who had in mind the heroes of some eastern mythology, the Assyrian or Chinese, or the witchcrafts of the Samians. The Greeks, the Romans, and Egyptians conceived their gods as physically perfect, symmetrically beautiful; the idols of these people could never have suggested the wild, distorted, conglomerate forms that are marshalled in this garden of sweet confusion. Yet, the Greeks personified evil in horrid forms, and we have here their conception of deep iniquity done in nature’s sculpturings.

The old legends tell us of the Sabbat, a nocturnal assembly at which demons and sorcerers celebrated their revels, and to the imaginative mind, stored with remembrances of the tales wherein are described the riot of nameless things and loathsomely fearful personages around the throne of Satan, it is easy to fancy this spot as the assembling place, and the strange forms of stone, that sit like dumb monstrosities waiting the call of a master, as the bodies of maleficent devils petrified in the very midst of their orgies. There on that mound squats old Sagittary, the man-beast who shot arrows of lightning from his bow, until he was struck down by a bolt of his own forging. A little beyond is the foul witch Sycorax, the dam of Caliban, whose raven wings shelter a demoniac progeny. In that depression, which looks afar like a seething quagmire, sits Abaddon, the promoter of wars, combustions and plagues, his face awry with fretful anxiety to renew his course of destruction. Behind a mound, that may well be called a breastwork, stand ÆgÆon, Cottus and Gyges, the brother triplets, each with a hundred arms and fifty heads, who made war upon the Titans and then stormed Olympus with stones plucked from the core of Ætna. Still further up the hillside, protruding from a gash in the side of a giant bowlder of red sandstone, is the distorted face of Hagen, that demon dwarf of a single eye, whose devilish claws tore out the heart of Siegfried. Everywhere, to the right and left, are these garish and ghastly remembrancers of the tales that make children crouch closer to grandmother’s knees, and people the darkness with forms infuriate. But the comical side is not wanting; for nature is protean in this godless garden of quaint conceits done in stone. If we have cause to laugh, it is at the Brobdingnagian frog that we see to the left of the door of the garden, sitting beneath a mushroom, with his gaze towards the mountain. But there is a whole settlement of giant fungi, each capable of giving shelter to a pond-full of modern-day frogs; and we can only explain the absence of other representatives of the croaking batrachia by the possibility that the one who has his home under the petrified umbrella was a political boss in his time and compelled all his followers to remain out in the rain when the big wet spell set in. On the first rock that we pass as we enter the garden, is the perfect outline of a stag’s head, with antlers laid back and nose high, as if startled by the sudden baying of the hounds; while a few yards within the entrance is a huge stone of two hundred tons weight perched like a spinning top upon the shoulder of another, so nicely balanced that every wind seems to threaten its stability, and yet centuries have failed to disturb its equilibrium. Still further on, and to the left, are to be seen a duck complete in all its outlines, and as demure as though she was hatching a brood. Then in succession is shown an alligator stretched out at full length, taking a siesta as natural as though it had life. Next in this procession of statuary wonders are Punch and Judy, peaceful folks in vermilion raiment, with faces full of righteous satisfaction, as if they were on their way to church. Punch’s cap is a little the worse for the long service it has seen, and Judy has a rent in her gown, but they affect no false pride and are evidently content with their fortune. Why should they not be happy, when within a few yards of them there is a poor old washer-woman bending over a tub, and a child tugging at her skirts? Certainly by contrast their lot is infinitely more bearable. And the washer-woman has been at her hard task as long as Punch and Judy have been on their way to the meeting house.

As we advance further into this museum of wonders, and turn our eyes away from the imps, reptiles and broad-smiling people of stone, our gaze is arrested by still stranger freaks of nature. There, before us, in awful sublimity, is the red sentinel who guards the north portals of the garden, flanked on either side by cathedrals and fortresses of amazing size, and aflame with brilliant coloring. There are thin slabs of sandstone standing on edge and lifting their heads a hundred feet high, on which the gods or witches have sculptured images of birds, animals, and moving caravans. A herculean lion is crouching on the peak of one, looking towards the north, where a bear and seal are eyeing each other from a lofty perch, uncertain of their safety, and undetermined whether to attack or retreat. Away up on the pinnacle of another peak sits a little old man in a rusty coat, but semi-respectable in a plug hat, very intently contemplating a coach-and-four driven by a pioneer stage engineer muffled to the chin in a shag overcoat, and bowling along over the dangerous comb of the Tower of Babel. Turning to look back, our sight is arrested by the towering form of Pike’s Peak, and a view that is incomparably and overwhelmingly grand.

Leaving the Garden of the Gods, and passing massive hills of gypsum, virgin in their whiteness and soft velvety reflection, the roadway north lies through a large prairie-dog village, where scores of wish-ton-wishes, of Indian name, scamper through the grass and lift themselves into comical postures on their little mounds to watch the carriage roll by. To the left is Glen Eyrie, where a few disaffected gods seem to have started a small, independent park of wonders, chief of which is Major Domo, a monolith of red sandstone thirty feet in circumference and more than one hundred feet tall; a frowning shaft with slightly inclined head, as if threatening the lesser forms about its base.

Five miles still beyond, nature has opened another museum of surprises, which some human invader has named Monument Park, but which might better be called Fiddler’s Green, or the Devil’s Ante-Chamber, for tradition tells us that the former place is located just five miles this side of Hades, and that all fiddlers en route stop there twenty minutes for refreshments. This assembling place of monstrosities; this parliament of satyr, sibyl, succuba and grim-visaged ogres, is rarely visited, not particularly because the sights superinduce nightmare, but probably because it is at the end of a long and dusty way, and the gruesome formations are not numerous. The views which delight those who love to fellowship with the incongruous and distempered products of nature, are pillars of white—almost calcareous—sandstone which the wind and sand have eroded into fantastic and outre shapes, leaving a top layer of dark limestone to complete the multitude of strange images.

Here we find the Devil’s Anvil, apparently used by his swarthy majesty in the dim ages in fashioning his roasting spits. And near by is a concourse attending what is known as The Dutch Wedding, where all the goodly company are disattired outrageously, for not one has a stitch to his or her back. But they are more decent folks than old Mother Grundy, who stands in a nook to herself, trying to gossip with her shabby surroundings, and looking for all the world like a hag who has lost her teeth through salivation. Not far below her is The Idiot, as repulsive appearing a fellow as ever violated the laws of nature, and who might well be the offspring of a harridan like Mrs. Grundy. But there are other shapes and misshapes scarcely less wonderful; and if the visitor is at all imaginative, they take forms that are variable and astounding. DorÉ never pictured creatures of his fancy more weird than the wind-sculptures of Monument Park.

Turning back, and passing south of Colorado Springs some four or five miles, we are brought again into the Rocky range and enter at one of the Cheyenne CaÑons, between beetling brows of tremendously high cliffs, through which a mad-dashing water-course has eaten its way. Whether we visit North or South CaÑon, the view is augustly sublime and awful in its grandeur. We stand in the bed of the gorge and gaze upward on either side to a dizzy height, where the eagles float lazily about, just below the level of the summit, and build their nest upon the breast of the escarpment because the apex is sky-piercing in its loftiness. Yet tumbling down from that great eminence, where the gray spires of the peaks are dwarfed by distance until they grow thin as needles, is a stream of water, fed by springs that lie in the lap of still taller mountains in the rear, rushing in tumultuous flow until it breaks into seven waterfalls, and then checks its pace as it joins the river that runs on to the sea. A stair-way has been built alongside of the falls, by which the visitor may mount to a height of two hundred feet, and then stand upon a platform and watch the play of leaping waterfall as it breaks into rainbows and mist below, and hear its ceaseless song of praise mingling with the echoes that sport between the caÑon walls. They who can feel no inspiration under the moving power of Cheyenne Mountain are hopelessly prosaic, who close their ears against the most entrancing hymns of nature.

It is not strange that the simple people who were reared centuries ago in this cradle of natural wonders entertained strange conceptions of the curious formations and mighty mountains that distinguished their surroundings from other places. Indeed, it would be matter for surprise had the primitive tribes of this region left no legends telling how Manitou, the Great Spirit, had upheaved the peaks, fashioned the grotesque images, scooped out the caÑons and set his sign of ever-flowing mercy in the welling spring and roaring waterfall.

Among the several traditions which are preserved, we have the fragments of the following, which appear to have been left by the Toltecs, who undoubtedly at one time had their dwelling place in the Manitou district: A certain tribe, whose name is forgotten, living somewhere on the great plains towards the east, were driven from their homes by a mighty flood, and hearing that lofty mountains lay several days’ journey towards the setting sun, they fled to these for refuge. Having thus escaped the fury of what they believed was an angry god, and found safety under the benign shadow of Pike’s Peak, they came to regard it as the dwelling place of Manitou, and instituted a form of worship as an evidence of their gratitude. The climate being healthful and the region abounding with game, this tribe prospered and so increased in power that they made war on their less fortunate neighbors and reduced them to slavery. In other ways they so offended Manitou that, having once saved them from a deluge that drowned a large part of the world, he would now punish them with another flood visitation. And so the windows of heaven were opened, and the rain poured down in such volume that the valley was soon overflowed, and the rising waters began to rapidly climb the mountain sides. Perceiving that the deluge was an infliction sent upon them for their sins, the tribe gathered all of their possessions and with them hastened to ascend Pike’s Peak—which no one before had ever attained—to make an offering to the Great Spirit of all that they had, with the hope of propitiating his anger. All the members of the tribe succeeded in reaching the summit, where they prayed so fervently that the heart of Manitou relented and he consented to save the people by admitting them into heaven. But he would receive none of their earthly possessions, and these were accordingly thrown down and in time were changed into stone, so that by the accretion of the burdens thus rejected, the mountain became much higher than nature had formed it. The deluge was finally assuaged by a dragon which Manitou unchained from a huge rock in heaven, where it was kept prisoner, and sent down to drink up all the water. This dragon never came back to heaven, for after abating the flood it was turned into stone and laid on Cheyenne Mountain, where its crocodilian form may still be recognized by an observer stationed at Colorado Springs.