I  just came back from a trip to Colorado Springs. The beauty of the land is stunning.  In the little village of Manitou Springs, I experienced a great surprise–the best water I ever tasted. The water filtrates through cracks of granite rock into the bosom of the mountains, flows into layers of limestone that carbonate it, and resurfaces several thousand years later.  The end product is a drink of spectacular taste.  It might also have quite a few health benefits because of the mineral content.  The water pours out of eight different springs, each with its unique zing and flavor. The little town seems to have leaped to life from the screen of a western movie.  A walk through the Garden of the Gods Natural Park reveals the unsurpassed  creativity of Mother Nature, the red color of the sandstone originating from a primeval ocean, the shapes of  giant rocks, the majesty of the surroundings–Pikes Peak with the perennial snow– the  effigies that erupted from the bottom of the ancient sea millions of years ago: cathedral-like formation, obelisk-like structures, images of angels, camels, buffaloes.  The area that inspired the song “America, the Beautiful” can capture your heart and your imagination. Over the past centuries, Manitou Springs attracted numerous newcomers  who sought its climate and water as the remedy for their illnesses.  The following snippet from an old tale written in 1899 illustrates this migration:

At first the doctors had said that six weeks of mild air would set him right; but when he came back this assurance was explained as having of course included a winter in a dry climate. They gave up their pretty house, storing the wedding presents and new furniture, and went to Colorado. She had hated it there from the first. Nobody knew her or cared about her; there was no one to wonder at the good match she had made, or to envy her the new dresses and the visiting-cards which were still a surprise to her. And he kept growing worse. She felt herself beset with difficulties too evasive to be fought by so direct a temperament. She still loved him, of course; but he was gradually, undefinably ceasing to be himself. The man she had married had been strong, active, gently masterful: the male whose pleasure it is to clear a way through the material obstructions of life; but now it was she who was the protector, he who must be shielded from importunities and given his drops or his beef-juice though the skies were falling.

From “A Journey” by Edith Wharton