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.

Godspeed Barry

This week, I found myself back in a community theater in spring 1998.  

After three hours of Elizabethan dialogue, it was hard to forget the cry of anguish when King Lear returns to the stage, with his daughter Cordelia’’s body in his arms, his own death moments away. The spine shivers, and emotion wells up - Shakespeare wrote a crescendo. Seconds after Lear thinks he sees Cordelia breathing again, he collapses and dies, ending the play. 

That final scene is even harder to forget when it’s one of your favorite college professors playing Lear. 

Barry McAndrew died in late July 2025. A lifetime ago (for me), he was Mercyhurst College’s Shakespeare professor, and one of the kindest, friendliest professors at Mercyhurst. 

He retired from the classroom in 2005, and I had not seen him in a long time. We were connected on social media, but didn’t really communicate. After a while the words don’t come as easily, and the legions of students he encountered in 40-plus years of teaching would have required some reintroduction. 

His passing brings me back to a time when I dove eagerly into the classics of literature. He taught the English department’s Shakespeare course for 40 years. I took it in Winter Term 1996-97, my first step to the harder coursework the English degree required. The harsh Erie winter passed with days of reading, rereading, and writing a term paper on one of the six plays we did not cover in class (three comedies, three tragedies). 

The class was a rite of passage for Mercyhurst's English majors, and the first time I encountered Barry as a student. Originally from Scranton, he lived in the language of Shakespeare and Chaucer, but American literature as well – he taught our African-American literature course. He had an energy for the work. Outside class, he was an affable man, who played Santa Claus at children’s events on campus and announced at the men’s and women’s basketball games. When we had irregular English department gatherings, you could count on him for good banter. 

With Barry, it always came back to Shakespeare. He taught Chaucer, and played roles in Canterbury Tales during the summer, but I never got to take the class, which was a rare offering at Mercyhurst. 

But I got to witness his peak moment in acting. He took Lear seriously in the classroom, and grew even more serious when he took the role. Barry had a head of curly gray hair. In the leadup to playing Lear, I passed his office and did a double-take – his hair was cut short, bringing the silver out. 

“That’s a new look," I remarked. 

He smiled tightly and said, “It’s for Lear – only for Lear.” 

Before the actual performances, he would shave the top bald to give his Lear a look similar to Lawrence Olivier. The production exceeded three hours. 

I was excited for it. King Lear is complex and not for the faint. Barry and the actor who played The Fool had exceptional chemistry. When the Fool enters the stage, Lear runs over and hugs him. The Fool famously disappears halfway through the play, his voice of reason drowned out by Lear’s madness, although this production kept him in the background even though he had no dialogue. 

I once asked the college’s drama director if he saw it. It was hard to forget his response – “The production was crap, but Barry was magnificent. He put all of himself into Lear.” I enjoyed the effort at community theater tackling a difficult classic, but was glad the drama director singled out the performance. 

But most days, Mr. McAndrew really put it all into teaching. Whether King Lear or Sonny’s Blues by James Baldwin, he could always bring out the poignancy and skill in the work. As a student, I only saw a sliver of Barry McAndrew, but teaching was a key piece in a many who lived a multi-faceted life.

Three years of Van and George

Teaming only for food

Every day, I wish they got along. Their time in a cat sanctuary room left me hopeful they would. 

But that center did not hold. They are not bonded. They probably never will be. 

Van tries to dominate George. He gets a “get the fuck out of my face” reaction every time. That’s the way it goes. If George senses a dominant move coming, he will conduct preemptive swipes and hisses. 

George and Van might nap within a few feet of each other, but there’s no cuddling. They just aren’t those cats. That’s fine. They don’t have to bond. Mostly they tolerate each other. The fights are superficial, not the death bouts that would force a tough decision from me. 

Always initiated by Van, fights end quickly. George seeks the high ground, whether a cat tower or coffee table, then starts swiping fiercely. 

 We have had a mostly smooth experience, which might be why I write about them less than the fiery Mister Percy. 

After 16 years of Percy aggression, I used my place at the cat rescue, I waited for cats with pleasant personalities. I struck gold. Not that they get every advantage of Percy. Nobody goes outside. They can watch birds, squirrels, rabbits, and mule deer from the cat towers in every window. I wonder if Percy’s end was not hastened by his outdoor adventures. During summer in Colorado, Percy could spend 20 hours outside. I can’t chance that with these boys. 

Working remote presents another problem. They get too accustomed to my presence. Half the time, I go to Denver for work to take a break from them. They will make separate demands during the work day that take away my concentration, even when deadlines loom. Deadlines mean nothing to cats; full food dishes mean everything, even if they don’t have more than a lick or two. 

Closeness confuses them

Both were surrendered for different reasons. Van didn’t get along with the new kittens his previous owners brought into the house. No one ever surrenders the kittens. George was more complicated, as the balance of a three-cat household was upset and he had to leave. Despite the lack of bonding, they do alright. They won’t ever get surrendered unless I get a fatal diagnosis or keel over. If the weather turns too hot, they will resort to sleep on the tile. 

But mostly they stick with me. At night, they burrow next to me. We all sleep until they demand food. That’s the price of cat ownership. They don’t always get what they want, depending on how much I want to sleep. But they get enough. In winter, I can hardly step into the cold morning knowing those two little space heaters have warded off the coldest part of night. 

 If I nap in the afternoon, they gravitate to the bed. It’s become a communal thing. I won’t deny it’s nice to have them join. Van swats at me if I dare to nap on the couch. But it’s more that he doesn’t want me going it alone. George has different priorities. He insists on an arm at night or for a nap. I have to extend my left arm and he will flop down. Sometimes a bent knee will do. He will rest behind my bent legs. But George likes his nap spot with an angle. 

WIth these two, I won't get the 15-plus years I got with Percy. I adopted older cats. George turned 10 in March, Van hit seven in April. We might have fewer days ahead than if I adopted kittens. We likely have fewer days ahead than we’ve already had. In the meantime, we’re going to have good days, full of toys and treats. 

Yet I see these sweet boys that never take a violent step toward me. As someone sharper than me once said, and that has made all the difference.

Goofball Van.

A never-dull drive

You can get back to Colorado Springs in just five hours taking the interstate. But every chance I get, I opt for U.S. 50. The drive takes an hour longer, but the scenery and lack of traffic make it worth the extra time. Rather than write up the route that feels like second nature, I'll just offer my road pictures from that quiet Sunday. 

Dawn behind Grand Mesa

Farm ads in Delta

More farm ads in Delta

Blue Mesa Reservoir on the Gunnison

Blue Mesa looking east

The roaring Gunnison

Gunnison on the Neversink Trail

Don't fall in the Gunnison. 

Approaching Monarch Pass.

Eastern view atop Monarch Pass. 

Mountains south of Salida from the Arkansas Valley

A night along the Colorado, below the cliffs

Campsite looking south.

Campsite looking north.

Rio Colorado in DeBeque Canyon.

I coasted into the Grand Valley. Despite wanting to set up my tent, shower and unwind with a few beers, I had not crossed Grand Junction in almost two years, mostly due to a bridge closure on U.S.50. 

With the heat pushing 100, I scurried into the Lowell School for a Belgian-style wheat beer at Gemini Beer Company. My often-planned night in downtown Grand Junction would remain a dream. 

I wanted to eat somewhere in downtown Grand Junction but felt the pull of tradition. I headed east to the doorstep of my last stop. 

Yet again, I ended up in Palisade at the 357 Bar and Grill for a burger and some ice teas. The quiet bar in downtown Palisade was the decompression I needed. Other spots called to me – the tasting rooms, fruit stands, boutique stores – but I already crossed the desert for a campsite. 

In the morning, I would take the slow route back, crossing U.S. 50 all the way to Canon City, across Monarch Pass, through Delta, Montrose, Gunnison, and Salida. 

First, I had a last night under the stars and an enviable campsite to relish. James M. Robb Colorado River State Park covers five units from Fruita to Island Acres, the latter sitting east of Palisade in DeBeque Canyon along the river. 

My day end at Island Acres, the unit which turned out better than I could imagine. Island Acres is wedged between the river and its steep cliffs. 

A few miles past Palisade, the exit has a gas station and access to Island Acres, nothing else. A brick visitor center sits along a tree-lined casting pond. 

The sun already passed the canyon, and the cliffs hundreds of feet above the Colorado River shielded us from the remains of the day. The heat immediately backed off. I set up camp, put up my feet, and read a few pages while I cooled down. 

After a shower and a few sips from a huckleberry beer, I walked on the riverfront path. Island Acres has no boat launch due to a small dam upstream that produces dangerous currents. 

But the high cliffs and proximity to the river more than compensate. Less than 100 feet from my campsite, I could walk along the Colorado. I have spent surprisingly little time on this river, so It was fitting that I could make its acquaintance at a spot as scenic as Island Acres. 

Outside of some small talk across the tent section, I didn’t talk to anyone. The tent-only section had a parking lot and a half-dozen lots. 

Despite a full campground, no one occupied the two sites next to mine. I felt civilization peel way at other stops, but here I just felt the beauty of relaxation so close to civilization. The river coursed by, the canyon cliffs loomed, and I unwound. Sometimes watching the way the light plays on the cliff faces is enough. 

I strolled along the Colorado path, then along the fishing pond path, and somehow avoided getting mauled by the local mosquitoes. Once again, I stayed up far later than my fatigue should have allowed. I had no campfire, but as I saw the neighboring fires dwindle, sleepiness finally took hold. 

Earlier I couldn’t properly stake the tent. The ground on the tent pad was harder than concrete. That would suffice until 2 a.m., when the wind kicked up and the tent tried to move away with me inside. For once I was thankful for the extra pounds, as I held still. 

I tossed in and out of sleep until 4 a.m., which the first hints of light helped me crawl out and start tearing down camp. Island Acres had grown so quiet that I could hear the river as I packed up. I hadn’t wish to bid goodbye this early, but the urge for going arrives quickly when camping. 

I took a pass through the full campground and looked forward to the sunrise erupting sometime before I hit Montrose. Meantime, I cherished my few hours at Island Acres, where nature does all the heavy lifting. The cliffs, the daylight, and the river supplied all the majesty anyone needed.

Fishing pond at first light.

Early departure.