Weekend of leaves: Twin Lakes and Leadville

In leaf season, only early works. Knock out two hours of driving while the hordes still sleep. They will descend in time to turn the mountain hamlets into rush-hour nightmares. I hadn’t been to Leadville in years, and this seemed like the time. 

At 5 a.m. I headed up Ute Pass, the first of several passes on the route to the Upper Arkansas Valley. I didn’t contemplate some of the more popular viewing spots such as Guanella Pass, which has gotten so congested that hundreds of motorists were ticketed or towed this year. 

I had not headed toward Leadville in several years, so I was overdue. I had faith it would work. The special feel of the Upper Arkansas arrived quickly – well, it comes the moment that Mount Princeton fills the horizon. The biggest peaks lie out here - the Collegiates, named for Ivy League schools, then Colorado’s tallest and its closest rival, Mt. Elbert and Mt. Massive, respectively. 

I headed straight for Twin Lakes, the best viewing spot for Elbert and Massive. People were light at 7 a.m. On this cloudy morning, the peaks of Elbert and Massive were hidden in a snowstorm that dropped rain along Twin Lakes and into Leadville. Their large aspen groves with visible, with the many blotches and slashes of yellow giving the 14’ers a rusted look.

The highest incorporated city in the country would wait; I turned off south of town and headed across the flood plain where the Lake Fork and Arkansas meet, then stopped at the forested foothills of Mount Massive. 

There lies Leadville National Fish Hatchery, the nation’s second-oldest fish hatchery and home to multiple high-altitude trails that few people bother to hike. Numerous species of trout ages in the long concrete raceways at the hatchery’s entrance. 

The hatchery stocks waterways with Hayden Creek cutthroat trout, rainbow trout, and greenback cutthroat trout. The greenback cutthroat is Colorados’ state fish. Considered extinct by the 1930s, it remains a threatened species, with current stock based off a few small populations from in tributaries of the Arkansas and the Big Thompson River, although some introduced populations are breeding naturally along the Clear Creek corridor. 

The fish were a sideshow for this trip. I was here for the trails. In the hills above the hatchery grounds lie a series of lakes and some unexpected history. While not as high as Leadville, the hatchery sits around 10,000 feet above sea level and will catch up to the unprepared hiker quickly. 

At this elevation, many aspens already bore yellowing leaves.  

Aside from the occasional chirping chipmunk, this forest was quiet. Not even a ripple disturbed the lakes’ perfect reflections of their surrounding pines and aspens. The trails pass the wreckage of the Evergreen Lakes Hotel, an early carriage inn that burned down in 1894. In summer, those who made fortunes on Leadville silver journeyed out to row boats on the Evergreen Lakes. The foundation and a historic sign remain, as do the lakes. 

The access road back to the hatchery was thick with turning aspens. I passed a bearded man when headed down the trails back to the hatchery. He laughed when I said, “It’s all yours.” I wasn’t lying. In the light rain no one seemed likely to venture here. 

I walked around the hatchery, with its stately visitor center and fish nursery that served as home to the superintendent in its early years. Fish and Wildlife Service rangers lived in the assortment on cabins on the grounds. While it shared some architecture with the Booth Hatchery in Spearfish, the Booth was much larger with expansive grounds, display ponds, and historical buildings. The Leadville hatchery had a modest display pond with grown trout, and it was difficult to spot them with the overcast sky. 

Leadville is closer to Denver than Colorado Springs, so weekend see a major influx of visitors, including a line waiting for entry to Melanzana, the small-production clothing store that does everything in-house. Still, it was all of five minutes from the hatchery, so I walked around its historic buildings until the storm atop Massive brought heavier rain. 

With Elbert and Massive coming into view, I decided to give the Twin Lakes area a second pass West of Twin Lakes the road rises above 12,000 feet by Independence Pass, almost always the last mountain pass to open in spring and the first to close. It connects the Arkansas Valley with Aspen; the views and leaf viewing between are renown. 

I stopped at the actual town of Twin Lakes to visit the mercantile, which proudly advertises 80 years of not offering public restrooms. The tiny town was a crowded mess and I stayed as briefly as I could. The one circular parking lot was crammed with cars and people ignoring cars. 

 When the sun emerged, I knew the crowds would grow larger. Buena Vista seemed like it ran at summer capacity. Many cars turned for Cottonwood Pass, which runs even higher than Independence Pass and is just as seasonal. A farmers market ran in the public park and people walked everywhere. 

I didn’t want to stop, but hunger necessitated a burger from K’s Dairy Delite, which has served travelers for more than 50 years. The burgers and shakes live up to their name. K’s stays memorable because they don’t ask for a name for your order, they give you the name of a celebrity, so don’t lose your receipt. I sat on a busy street and finished my burger, my day in the high country ending just as many more only began. I couldn’t’ contend with the swarm of people. 

East of Buena Vista, I watched Mount Princeton slowly disappear from my rearview mirror. A 14’er can hide easier than expected once one winds through the rugged hills separating the Arkansas Valley from South Park. Autumn would soon marcher down in elevation, but a quiet morning below the highest Colorado peaks fulfilled my leaf-watching needs. The hatchery trails would be there when I need their solitude.

Progress comes to an old corner

2025

2009

Progress grabs my old corner For a renter, I don’t change addresses a lot. Those places tend to stick with me. As the first stop in a major life change, 5100 Delaware Avenue in Nashville was probably the place on I checked most. I could see the house from Interstate 40 and passed it often when driving through West Nashville. I always had to look. Once I left for Colorado, I scouted it on Google Maps. 

The house changed over the years. The landlord cut down trees, installed sidewalks and an actual driveway for the central apartment. Hard to believe now, but for almost three years I just parked on the grass near the gate and mailbox. The fence became overgrown with shrubs, forming a decent hedgerow. Unfortunately, my digital check-ins fell off. Nothing could shake the surprise of driving south on 51st Avenue and seeing the house replaced by the same shoddy overpriced apartments that dominated Nashville neighborhoods since The It City moment began in 2012. 

A decade later, the developers finally got to the corner of 51st and Delaware. I should have know its days were numbered. After I moved out, the vacant lot next door became an apartment complex, with the same drab construction that plagues the rest of Nashville. 

The lot was on a busy corner, even in the late 2000s, when Nashville felt sleepy compared to its current incarnation. The old house had been divided into three apartments. Mine came with the porch, and large rooms with high ceilings. A large garage near the alley was home to Mr. Poole, an older man with a lisp and heavy Southern accent. He was the kind of interesting character you don’t often find in post-It City Nashville. He took care of the grounds, mowed the lawn, and trimmed hedges. Even after I moved out, we exchanged waves if I saw him when I drove past. He was old, and a few years later I saw a car that definitely wasn’t his parked by the garage regularly. 

The busy corner provided subtle entertainment. One evening I counted 17 police cars making the turn. The neighborhood was on a rebound, but that never made me feel completely safe. At dusk, Mr. Poole would his two cats on dog run cables in the yard. Some nights I would sit in the living room window, pretending to watch TV when I couldn’t take my eyes off the flannelled man and his cats. He never saw me, watching the dusk as he smoked a corncob pipe. 

Less friendly people walked by at all hours. Many nights I watched television in the dark, so I could keep an eye on who passed by. During the drought and heat wave during my first summer there, I once frolicked in a rainstorm that broke a streak of 100-degree days. No one saw me. 

The place was far from perfect. I hear plenty of sex through the kitchen wall. Percy got a horrendous case of fleas after we moved in. I went through several cans of expensive spray to banish those little fiends. Having hardwood floors and two small rugs helped. The heater was a single unit in the living room that often forced me to sleep there on the coldest nights. At least the Nashville winter is short and brown, and rarely sees more than one good snowfall. A week after I moved out, I saw the whole unit on the curb, its weakness finally apparent to someone other than me. 

But I had a wraparound porch where my potted plants received ample sunlight. Even on hot days, it never felt too bad.  At the time, it was 10-15 minutes from work. I could walk to a few things along Charlotte Pike, although 51st was a collection of gas stations, bars for old locals, and thrift stores, not the hipster playground it has become. 

 After I left Nashville, I checked on the place. My Donelson house got more views, as a few monstrosities rose from modest 1950s houses. But I definitely didn’t check on Delaware Avenue enough, because the apartment complex stands on Google Earth. 

That’s one of the reasons I turned away from Nashville. Too busy trying to become a big city, running away from what gave the city character. They can tear down a house built in the 1910s, they can stock it with fresh faces thinking they have found Nashville authenticity. 

In my memories, I have views they can never own. The tree-shaded porch can never be torn down. Percy can still romp in the yard and sprint inside the second a semi-truck turns the corner. Only I can know the modest apartment that served me well as a Nashville neophyte. 

But that is how progress works.

A heavy metal trifecta

 

“I can’t skip that one.” 

Once in a while, a concert on a calendar earns that reaction. Alice Cooper, Judas Priest, and Corrosion of Conformity delivered that evening in early October. This Colorado concert involved no travel, as they landed at the Broadmoor World Arena and not up in Denver. 

I delayed on tickets, feeling that it would not sell out, and two weeks out, I picked up two floor seats for $160. Still there was a marathon ahead - three bands with two playing headline-length sets meant an early start and a long night. 

By the time we got into the arena at 6:40, Corrosion of Conformity already rumbled away. They would not rumble long, barely a half-song and six songs, three each from its peak albums in the 1990s, Deliverance and Wiseblood. On their own, COC would have played a much smaller venue, but I imagine opening for two heavy rock legends was too strong a draw.

 They teased a new album but didn’t drop any music. Not that they really had the time. Concluding with Albatross then Clean My Wounds was pretty much what I needed to hear from the Southern metal masters. 

A lifetime ago, my mom and her sister saw Alice Cooper. My good friend from high school met him while he was touring the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Cooper greeted him warmly and gave him free tickets to the show that night. For all the raw, gnarled vocals, he has a good reputation. 

For not owning any music by Cooper, I knew a surprising amount of the set. No More Mister Nice Guy stayed fresh and cutting. Poison, Feed my Frankenstein, and Hey Stoopid all received decent airplay in the late 80s/early 90s. Not all of them connected with me – through my tinnitus, Spark in the Dark sounded too much like "Sparky the Dog" and made me laugh when it shouldn’t have. 

But the early set had few moments like that. He moved through tracks like House of Fire and Eighteen with the agility of a much-younger man. 

 

Alice Cooper’s set took some unexpected turns that didn’t necessarily win me over. The giant Frankenstein puppet that roamed the stage during Feed my Frankenstein was only the start. 

The second half of Cooper’s set veered into the theatrical, entering a storyline I didn’t really understand. Cooper performed in a straight jacket and ended up in a guillotine through a series of songs that didn’t necessarily need those flourishes. 

He did stick in Going Home before the night-ending unsurprisingly with his best-known song, School’s Out. Of the songs I hadn’t heard before, Going Home was a clear winner for me, both heavy and vulnerable, traits that have kept Alice Cooper in arenas for a half-century. 

Sure, Alice Cooper wrapped up the night. Early in his set, it became clear the audience clearly came for Judas Priest. 

A few songs into Cooper’s set, many of the fist-pumping people around us disappeared. I can only imagine what they would have thought of the late-set theatrics. I couldn’t argue with them leaving, since Priest was my primary draw. 

I had wanted to see them for the past two decades, but the opportunity never came. This time, I would not be denied. 

The twin-guitar attack rushed from the gate and barely paused for 80 minutes. Even at 74, Rob Halford’s multi-octave range remains startingly intact. I suspect Halford’s visits to the side stage involved a few hits of oxygen, but he never let up or showed age in his voice despite the altitude. 

Despite the aggressive nature of most Priest songs, Halford comes off as a soft-spoken gay uncle while he isn’t hitting glass-shattering notes. Priest knows how to construct a setlist – a few tracks from its surprisingly strong 2024 record, Invincible Shield, their chart hits from 40 years ago, and an assembly of fan favorites. 

 With a tour loosely themed around the 35th anniversary of their 1990's Painkiller, the album received the most attention during the setlist. The album has aged gently, with its brutal songs shining among more recent tracks – the title track, Hell Patrol and Night Crawler roared through the arena. 

The inescapable songs were Breaking the Law and You’ve Got Another Thing Coming. Later int he set came their classic opening from Screaming for Vengeance, the instrumental The Hellion followed immediately by Electric Eye, an all-too-prescient track about government surveillance of its citizens. Invincible Shield got less play in Colorado Springs, with just Gates of Hell and Giants in the Sky making the cut. 

For the encore, Halford stuck to tradition and rolled out on motorcycle start to Hell Bent for Leather before shifting to another inescapable track, Living After Midnight. 

The “Judas Priest Will Be Back” banner felt a little too hopeful given the band’s original members are all in their 70s. But after Priest delivered all that I hoped, I would not hesitate to spend another night with these guys and their heavy brand of rock. 

Summer of Springs: The Narrow Cimarron

I tend to start all trips over Raton Pass the same way, with a hearty breakfast at the Oasis Restaurant. This one was no different, but I left the crowded Oasis with a new route for once. 

 For the first time I  jogged west from Raton. I had visited Taos and the towns on the western flank of the Sangre de Cristo, but I had not followed the Cimarron River up to the high country. So set out running on the lonely roads. 

The canyon is protected as a state park, and stopping anywhere requires a permit. Since I picked Labor Day weekend, the campgrounds were at capacity, and even parking was tough to find. 

About 10 miles from Eagle Fire, I lost the fire to continue. I don't really know why. After all my western explorations,  this one didn't catch on this particular morning. 

I turned around and followed Cimarron Canyon back to its namesake town. The river churned away, and the highlight came in my hope that a large red-tailed hawk was actually a golden eagle. 

Cimarron was significantly smaller than its name. There were a few historic sites. The plaza surprised me - it was a gazebo in a grassy field accessed by a muddy path. Everything along the main highway felt touristy, and I didn't feel like stopping. 

One of these places would have sufficed for lunch had I not indulged in my usual Oasis tradition. Next time in Cimarron, I will arrive on an empty stomach. 

I can't explain the feeling. I wanted more and needed to spend more time but I could not muster the drive this day. 

Another day, I might feel differently. It cannot come soon enough. 

Summer of Springs: Pikes Peak sunrise

The stop at Santa’s Workshop came faster than I expected. I passed a dozen Cascade businesses I didn’t know existed and one trash can clearly raided by a black bear earlier in the night. Three cars sat in the lot. 

More importantly, three school buses sat on its edge. I parked and walked a few laps around the lot. Seeing people peel into the lot at 4 a.m., I decided to just queue up for my bus spot. They capped the buses at 20 people. The engines fired up, and a forest service ranger told the drive to follow her through the downhill lanes, because too many cars waited to drive the road. She was accurate. We passed several hundred cars at the Pikes Peak Toll Road entrance. 

The buses went first, everyone else followed. I had no problem and neither did anyone else ascending the 19-mile road’s 7000-foot elevation change in the dark. I knew nothing of the road ahead. I would be shocked at details on the daylight descent. But I chose this path. I had no desire for my first Pikes Peak drive in the pre-dawn. The $35 bus fee seemed more than fair for peace of mind to reach the summit. I looked for any landmark I could find. 

Original weather station

In the dark, I noted the city lights from Manitou then Colorado Springs as we ascended. I watched the aspens along the road turn into pines then turn to the tundra above the tree line. Rock formations loomed next to the road. Then we turned - again and again and again. In the dark, the volume of switchbacks clearly stood out. I couldn’t see if it was a dangerous drive, but we didn’t wind up the mountain at any great speed. 

At times I stopped trying to see anything. I zoned out to ignore the coughs, burps and other random gas coming from the seat behind me. The bus driver’s music choices helped; as it cycles through a few popular tunes, it returned to Scottish bagpipe music every few songs. That gave me something to cling to as we rounded repeated switchbacks. 

Album cover photo

The buses pulled in. I pounced out to see what I could before the sunrise came and people mobbed the good viewpoints. I wore a hoody and felt fine with the wind and 38-degree temperatures. My hands didn’t feel the same after dozens of pictures from multiple cameras. Even on the bus, I could barely write down the notes that were the primitive beginnings of this post. They were numbed to an unexpected degree. Next time, I won’t skip gloves. After actual sunrise, the crowds dissipated immediately. 

The city stopped coming into view as the road faced onto the west flank of Pikes Peak, home to small towns that barely generated enough light at any hour.

Clouds and fire smoke effectively walled off anything more distant than Cripple Creek and Florissant. By the summit light arrived. We would not have long to await the sun’s first rays. I underestaimted our daylight based on the clouds and rain the night before. We had clouds but nothing that would heavily obscure the sunrise. 

When a red tile emerged in the distance, I was unsure it was actually the rising sun. But as the thin rectangle swelled into a disc, I knew where to watch. People scrambled everywhere for a view. Some moved onto the scree below the railing for a people-free view. The Pikes Peak Cog Railway tracks ran thick with people, some dropping camp chairs to watch. No trains would arrive until late morning, so there was no risk for spectators. 

I wandered a few platforms away from the eastern edge. I seemed to have it to myself till an older man with a dog came by. We talked briefly. He asked about my Cat Rescue hoodie from Tennessee, and I asked about his whining dog, who had no problem with the altitude but wanted to want and not stand in one spot. We talked while I snapped photos of the growing sun. I expect I might encounter him again. With the sun officially up, my hands had their fill of the wind. I needed warmth. 

It was either the bus or the summit house, so I wandered into the summit house. I shrugged at the thought of a doughnut and coffee given the obnoxious line. I ducked into the gift shop because it was payday. 

The summit houses didn’t hold me for long. I had to wander the summit since cutting immediately after sunrise was the trend. I took in the views from each side. Many familiar places emerged – I spotted Woodland Park, Divide, Florissant, Cripple Creek, and the foothills between. I enjoyed the mountain’s shadow falling somewhere near Divide. 

 I wondered about summit wildlife. I knew what lived up here, but would I catch any evidence? I thought I heard birds. Then I realized I actually heard either yellow-bellied marmots or pikas. They both had squeaky notes for other species, and I never spotted either species. The squeaking only came when the wind ceased. That window closed for the rest of the stay at the top, and I could not confirm who lived at 14,115. But it was obviously marmots or pikas. 

I spotted the meager grasses that grew at this height, mostly in the shadow of rocks. This grass might take decades to reach a few inches tall. The peak residents would harvest what they could for their upcoming six-month slumber. Not that I could see them. Pikes Peak's summit residents would stay safely anonymous. 

I told the driver I would return for a future sunrise opening and jumped into my car, throttling back through Manitou and OCC, work and several heavy cups of coffee awaiting me as I tried to work. Seeing the brake checks and the dozens of switchbacks above me, I felt delighted to spare my ancient car the wear of that drive. 

Almost immediately I looked at the mountain differently. I feel silly saying so, but one trip up and the view changes. I notice the contours differently, looked for any sign of the road leading to the summit visitor center. From any angle, I could feel the view from the summit. 

Depending on daylight, I can see the summit visitor center easily from my street. But now it pops out from the mountain’s silhouette, as I can remember the weak breath I took after climbing its steps. 

Summer of Springs: Meet the Beetles

All these insects died long before any of us were born. 

Herkimer - they named the giant ceramic rhinoceros beetle Herkimer. 

I passed the ubiquitous statue n Rock Creek Canyon Road too many times during the museum’s offseason. 

This time , I passed Herkimer beetle, who stood sentinel over Colorado Route 115 and heralded the May Natural History Museum down a thin road along Rock Creek Canyon. 

Colorado Springs has numerous museums and I haven’t visits most of them. Not all subject matters interest. But one always caught my attention. 

With Herkimer the goliath beetle standing along the road, the insect museum might have the best lure of any museum in southern Colorado. 

The dry climate brought the unusual collection here. John May collected more than 7,000 insects and arachnids from six continents from 1902 until his death in 1956. May collected them all himself, a hobby that took off when he served in the Boer War in South Africa. 

The third and fourth generations of the May family continue to run the museum. May had the wisdom to buy up water rights for his campground, and sale of the water rights in the early 2000s allowed the family to keep the museum. 

With a modern gift shop and campstore for the Golden Eagle, the museum and its little film room feel mostly unchanged from the 1950s. That suits the collection. Just as the insects are frozen as May set them, the museum seems best if staked to the time of its creation. Some specimens are unique and have not been collected or seen outside May’s collection. 

The family was approached about selling parts or all of the collection, but decided against breaking it up. The unique and unusual draw interest from natural history museums around the world.  But the May museum’s most famous offer came from Walt Disney himself, who wanted the collection for Disneyland in the 1950s. 

When the family found out John May would get no credit for his 50-year effort, the collection would fall under the Disney name, they turned him down. 

May operated a traveling collection for years but settled down in Colorado Springs due to the dry climate. At the time, the little museum and campsite down on Rock Creek Canyon was a roadside curiosity between the Springs and Canon City. 

The city has grown up, but the museum remains. After the television special, I immersed myself in the rows of insect displays that filled a wood-paneled room. It’s overwhelming really. I immediately realized I might need to return. 

Some cases hold a few giant moths, beetles or butterflies. Some might house several dozen tiny species. It all comes a little too fast due to the enormity of the May collection. Perhaps the walking sticks stunned me the most. I had seen these insects that camouflage themselves with their twig-like bodies, and limbs. Several collected by May were thick, nearly a foot long, and would have found hiding much harder if they weren’t native to the jungles of New Guinea. 

Then came legions of moths, from specimens that barely fit on the pin to hand-sized giants. I have seen luna moths, but those felt small by comparison with the largest butterflies netted a century and a hemisphere away. Moths get the short shrift compared to their colorful butterfly cousins. But both are vital parts of their ecosystems. 

May’s collection tools and tactics also get highlighted. Collecting and pinning insects might curious or even sadistic in the 21st century. But I believe May’s hobby allows us to visit inaccessible points on the globe, forests and jungles that might have become victim to the worldwide decline in wilderness areas. 

Some insects were harvested locally, including the sphinx moths that I have encountered among my more colorful garden flowers. But this was a global collection. I could see the family love for what their ancestor accomplished. We might not hunt insects this way in the 21st century, but John May brought about many discoveries, catching insects most of us would never see otherwise and some that have not been caught by anyone since.  

The holiday afternoon grew thick with campers checking in. The oblivious folks more or less led me on my way. 

 I couldn’t leave without taking a pilgrimage to Herkimer’s hill. Boy Scouts cut a short trail from a rustic lot to the giant beetle. I had to get close. I feared snakes, but I only got grasshoppers and wasps. Herkimer never budged, his larger-than-life jaws frozen in time, ready to delight more generations of people passing by.

Clearly I was delighted.