Garden of the Gods: A Black journalist’s journey through Colorado’s rocky wonder

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There’s something inherently dangerous about traveling alone across the country. America is wide, vast, and in many ways experiencing a constitutional crisis. Throw in the added layers of being female and Black while venturing into an assumedly ‘white’ activity, like hiking, and it’s enough to give most people pause.

But then I remembered that, firstly, more women are opting to travel solo across the globe, especially Black women, despite fears of being unsafe or unwelcome.

And secondly, when millions of Black people left the South in droves generations ago, they didn’t all just land in New York City and Chicago and LA. They made their homes in the West, mid-west, Texas, the tip of Minnesota, and everything in between. No matter where I go, what state, what town, I know I can find a little piece of my history waiting. Because, we too, are Americans.

So in the spirit of my fellow wanderers, and in the tradition of my grandmothers and great-grandfathers, I set off from my apartment in Brooklyn at an ungodly hour in the morning with my hiking boots to catch a flight.

I had booked a nestled-in looking Airbnb cabin in Colorado Springs, some 1,842 miles away in the middle of the country, for the weekend. From there, the plan was to go hiking in the city’s Garden of the Gods park, which is known for its skyscraper-sized red-sandstone rock formations. The rest of the city lies at the foot of the Rocky Mountains and faces Pikes Peak, a behemoth of a mountain with an icy glacier on its 14,114-foot summit.

After a few hours in the air, my thoughts randomly strayed to what air traffic control might look like in Colorado. Some of my friends are too nervous to fly right now out of fear that a panel or a loose door will land them in someone’s backyard, instead of their intended destination. I specifically avoided flying out of Newark airport for the sake of my sanity. But if we’re being honest, flying out of Jersey was hazardous, long before the President started slashing the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) budget.

The views from my seat inexplicably quelled most of my fears. ​​I wondered at the flat and brown surface below the plane and pushed away the small voice of death possibly knocking on my window. The cotton ball clouds. The scattered houses and shiny dot roofs. The road lines, so wide and sharp, they look like they were precision drawn by a ruler until they hit the squiggly patterns of civilization etched into the ground. The trees, from up there, looked tall and skinny and dark and ashy green. It wasn’t until we touched down on the tarmac that I got to see the mountains, covered in a thick fog in the distance. It almost felt like home.

Ariama C. Long photos

Towards baggage claim, a platoon of army boys all decked out in their uniforms, excitedly held up a welcome home sign. I assumed it was for the Black girl with the tight corn maze stitch braids, swooped baby hairs, and army fatigues, who was sitting in the middle seat behind me. I smile a little bit seeing them await her. I think I’m safe here, Black girls aren’t some mythical creatures to gawk at, here, we are soldiers in arms.

The next day, on the Rocky Mountain Food Tour I took, I learned that Colorado Springs is home to a number of military and air force personnel living on or near Fort Carson, Peterson Air Force Base, Schriever Air Force Base and the prestigious U.S Air Force Academy — which is usually open to visitors but was operating with limited public access as of January 4, 2025.

Some people scoff at tours being too curated or too cheesy. But if I’m by myself in an unfamiliar area, I consider the best way to get to know a place and its people quickly is through trying as much food as possible. The Rocky Mountain tour was three hours of stuffing my face and drinking, with a dash of a history lesson, that I was pleasantly surprised by.

Our tour guide, Behr, a native Coloradoan, breezily walked backwards down the wide, sunbleached sidewalks in the downtown area as he told us about the city’s history. It was founded by General William Jackson Palmer in 1869 (on the side of the Union, he hastily adds at my glance), but the territory at the base of the mountain was originally settled by the Ute, Cheyenne, and Arapaho tribes mainly.

The Ute named the mountain, Tavá Kaa-vi (or the Sun Mountain), but it would eventually be widely known as Pike’s Peak, after the white explorer Zebulon Pike.

Colorado Springs has an extensive Black History as well. In addition to building out his vision of establishing a resort town, Palmer integrated schools for Black families headed west during the Great Migration. He eventually donated land that one of the first African Methodist Episcopal (AME) churches was built on in 1897, called the Carter Payne. The town had its own Cotton Club, run by entrepreneur Fannie Mae Duncan in the 1950s and 60s. And was home to Ron Stallworth, the first Black detective in Colorado Springs’ police force. In 1979, Stallworth successfully infiltrated the Ku Klux Klan and disseminated information to the community. His story was adapted into a film by Spike Lee, called the BlacKKKlansman.

I also learned that people don’t jaywalk in Colorado Springs. They just stand there, idly obeying the law while all but two cars drive down the street. Baffling and high-key funny as hell because I hadn’t even thought to cross at the light. Apparently, the best way to identify a New Yorker is not by accent, but by how blithely they stroll into traffic.

The next morning, I woke up early to fog and misty rain outside. Not a drop of sun. The downside, it was cold and damp on the hiking trail. The upside, with only the bottom of the sand stones visible, it looked like the tops reached past the clouds like sleeping, floating giants. The rain kept most hiking crowds away, but there were a dedicated few out on the trails. I managed to snag at least one hiking buddy who was handy with a camera and seemingly impervious to the cold. I was enviously bundled up in my camo print hoodie and fur-lined sweats.

The elevation was an adjustment. Colorado Springs, like Denver, is over one mile above sea level, which makes it harder for us smog city dwellers to breathe. For comparison, New York City is a coastal city that’s an average of 33 feet above sea level. Due to the effects of climate change though, the boroughs are struggling with tidal flooding and worsening storms coming further inland as sea levels rise. There’s also the added issue of the city’s infrastructure sinking under the weight of its buildings. So suffice it to say, I was used to a little rain.

We trekked and climbed about six miles over and through the park’s reddish boulders, hills, and cliffs before the sun decided to grace the sky with its presence. Suddenly, the park very much felt like a dry, scraggly desert as I perched on a cliffside to strip off some layers. Scores of other hikers and cars appeared, as if summoned by sun magic. I snacked on almonds and fig bars while I sat on the cliff, and contemplated the possibility of stumbling onto honey ants, magpies or other wildlife nearby.

The top of the rocks, jutting out of the ground like jagged orange-red blades, and the mountain were finally visible in the afternoon sun. The sky was blue and clear and empty. No buildings or constant noise.

I felt small. Not in the way looking at the Chrysler makes you feel, since at the end of the day, it’s man made. But small and connected to everything, in a way only nature can make you feel.

I sat there, feeling the gravel in my socks, the mud caked on my boots, the sweat trickling down my back, and the slight ache from carrying a heavy backpack. After some time passed, we found the map and compass to check where we were, and I headed back to the rental car a few miles away.

I’ve never felt more at home.