Summit

The seats were configured in pods of six, with three seats facing the front, and three facing the back, on both sides of the train. My back was to the summit as we ascended, and the lack of room under my feet meant the bag sat on my lap on the way up and back.

The full ascent took about an hour and was mostly uneventful. However, it was strange to feel the temperature drop as we climbed. It wasn’t dramatic, and the close proximity of the guests in the train cars kept things feeling comfortable, but I was happy that I took my puffer jacket out of the Trail Pack before we left the station, just in case.

I’ve been on a handful of adventures that take me above timberline (also known as the alpine tree line or forest line), which is a cool phenomenon that occurs in mountainous regions where trees stop growing at a certain altitude due to a mix of environmental elements related to oxygen, wind, and sunlight. However, it’s rare to be in a situation where you reach timberline so quickly and have such a clear sense of the distinction between montane and alpine zones. The depot in Manitou Springs sits at an elevation of just over 6,500ft, which means the train climbs nearly 8,000 feet straight up the side of the mountain.

A guide recalled the same tale about the ill-fated honeymooners and I thought back to how much it spooked me when I was ten years old. The fact I remembered it two decades later I think means it had its intended haunting effect all those years ago. But this time, it felt more like a ghost story someone tells around the campfire – a yarn that somehow isn’t fully fact or fiction. It left me with an inflated sense of respect for the Rockies. I thought about how not all have heard the term “wilderness” and paused to understand what it actually means.

As we approached timberline once again, two pairs of lines set side-by-side were visible on one of the hills in the distance. A staff member told us they were indents in the earth from wagon wheels dating back to before the turn of the century. At an altitude of around 11,000 or 12,000 feet, it takes about 100 years for the ground to change a single inch. Almost like dinosaur tracks, I thought, these wooden wagon wheel markings are Colorado history in one of its purest forms. History imprinted on the land itself.

We took the shuttle back into town and walked off the last of our altitude jitters. At a restaurant in Manitou Springs, we laughed at the hecticness of the Summit House, and how cool it was to have met Richard with his classic Seamaster – once again recognizing how watches have the ability to unite strangers and facilitate conversations in ways impossible to find with nearly anything else.

We kept the theme of the day almost unbearably Coloradan by splitting bison and elk burgers, while discussing our plans to possibly drive up to the summit again this summer. Maximizing time for the informational exhibits, but most importantly those Summit House donuts, this time.

The cog railway will likely remain an activity I suggest to tourists who want a quick way to see the state and get a sense of what drew pioneers and prospectors here all those years ago. But my story with it feels complete. In some sense, I wish I was able to chat with my ten year old self to let her know this place will feel familiar one day. But in another sense, part of the love I have for the state feels purer because that love had to be worked for and earned.  

Pikes Peak can remain America’s Mountain, with all the weighty and glorious aspirations that come with an epithet like that. For me – just one Colorado girl – it’s simply a 14,000 foot reminder that here, now, is home.