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About midway between Salida and Denver, in the Lost Creek Wilderness Area, sits a granite arch. With a span of 100 feet, it is apparently the largest natural arch in Colorado.
At least that's what Harold Bowker thinks. He discovered the arch five years ago. He says it ought to get an official name, and that the arch should be shown on maps.
But the federal officials who determine geographic names, as well as what will and won't appear on maps, disagree. For all they care, this rare granite arch--most natural arches are sandstone--can remain obscure and anonymous.
I always thought the purpose of a map was to tell you what was significant about the territory in question, but presumably the Forest Service knows better. After all, I was once so naïve about the U.S. Forest Service that I believed that the purpose of a timber sale is to make money.
That aside, there is some comfort in realizing that there are a lot of interesting Colorado spots that don't appear on maps.
I discovered Bread Rock one summer morning when I managed to acquire two flat tires by crossing a rut too fast. Naturally, I had only one spare. So I took a leisurely stroll down the North Fork of the South Arkansas (the pioneers hereabouts were obviously not very creative in their nomenclature).
Off in the woods, about 30 yards above the road, is a mound of granite perhaps eight feet high. Its parallel vertical fractures give it an astonishing resemblance to a loaf of sliced bread. Every time we venture up the North Fork, the kids won't rest until we've found Bread Rock, which usually takes the better part of an hour. A sign would sure simplify matters.
Another family favorite is Calf Rock. It, however, is quite easy to find. The next time you want to live dangerously and drive on U.S. 285, look to your left as you sweep around the curve at the east foot of Red Hill Pass. There sits an odd-shaped boulder, painted to resemble a kneeling Hereford calf, white face and all.
Every so often, it gets a fresh coat of paint, and I always wonder who maintains it. Is it the rancher there? Or one of his neighbors? Or someone who sneaks it at night?
A similarly mysterious rock sits in Rist Canyon above Fort Collins. The first time we went to visit some friends who'd just moved up there, they advised us to go past Whale Rock. They'd be in the first cabin thereafter, the house with the tree growing out of the kitchen.
We had no idea where Whale Rock might be, since it, too, appears on no maps. But we needn't have worried. Even at night, the thing was unmistakable. Shaped like its namesake, it sat right next to the road, and it, too, was painted -- lips and eyes and even a spout. Over the years, these markings faded. But one day, the landmark had been refurbished with a fresh coat of paint, although there are some who might complain that bright purple is not an apropriate color for a cetacean.
Who paints Whale Rock? My parents said they remembered it from mountain drives 30 years ago, and it had been painted then. I have heard rumors that one of the fraternities at CSU maintains this nearby landmark. But if that were true, CSU would probably have mentioned it in its advertising by now. They've covered just about everything else.
This need for more information about memorable places leads to a public-spirited suggestion for improving Colorado's economy, since our state government is intent on proving that Colorado has an attractive business climate.
At the mouth of the Yak Tunnel near Leadville, or just
over Tennessee Pass along the Eagle River, or any other
place where our rivers run orange, we might place signs to
this effect: Welcome, industry. Come to Colorado, where
you get at least a century to clean up your mess.
Or at Ludlow, where our state militia gunned down 40
striking coal miners, two women, and 11 children on April
20, 1914. The sign might read: Invest in Colorado, where
the state government will help you put labor in its
place.
We need to attract entrpreneurs as well as
industrialists, so we should set up a marker near Silver
Plume for Brick Pomeroy and his never-finished Great
Atlantic and Pacific Tunnel: Incorporate in
Colorado -- for more than a century, a world center for
salted mines and watered stock.
Even if we don't attract business this way, perhaps the tourists won't mind that they can't find the nameless arch.
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