Cripple Creek and the Courage to Crawl - Ice Castles
January in Colorado is cold, and the Southern woman in me wasn’t sure how I’d cope with winter travel. Yet, the sun shone brighter here than it had at home.
The powdery snow glittered under the sun, reminding me of childhood snow days—sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, waiting for my school’s name to appear on the closure list. Now, as an adult in animal healthcare, snow days are nearly nonexistent.
Determined not to let long workdays and uncomfortable hotel beds dampen my spirit, I planned an adventure to make winter feel like mine.
I slipped on my warm socks and favorite hiking boots, grabbed my thick winter gloves and beanie, and headed out the door. As I drove from Denver, I was once again in awe of Colorado’s natural beauty. Each twist and turn revealed mountain views, rich white snow, and towering trees.
As the road climbed higher, I was humbled by my smallness. How am I here—feeling so much, so fully? I stopped often to capture the landscape—a red carpet not designed for me, but for life itself.
Lost in thought, I didn’t notice I’d entered the old mining town of Cripple Creek—until my watch pinged a turn. In the distance, the ice sculptures came into view. I spent the next 30 minutes getting lost, reading signs, and doubling back again.
Finally, I made it to the Ice Castles of Cripple Creek. Walking into the event, I was met with towering, glistening ice and a friendly face who briefed our group on what not to do.
As I nodded in understanding, I soon found myself walking through a tunnel of icicles. Small openings in the roof allowed the sun to peek through, touching different areas of the masterpiece—where one spot glowed, kissed by rays, another reflected that kiss, creating a canvas of enthusiasm and adventure.
As I explored the castle grounds, I noticed a small opening marked by a sign. No one else attempted the crawl, but I was here for adventure. I tucked my camera into my jacket, dropped to the ground, and at 5’9”, wriggled through.
It was a maze of absolute wonder—darkness never descended, as the sun touched every inch. I turned left, then right, then left again before emerging into a giant igloo. There, I found two young women who had also made the journey. We giggled at how we felt like little girls again before snapping photos of each other.
After they left, I began exploring once more and found an exit on the other side. A small slide—meant for tiny hands and feet—was now on my left, and tables with hot cocoa stood in front of me. The sun was now setting, illuminating three towers nearby. I snapped a photo.
As I exited the winter wonderland, I recalled my thoughts on the drive—how small I had felt. Yet here, the feeling was different. I felt like a kid, but not because I was returning to my younger self. This felt entirely new. My childhood, most of the time, was more about survival and escape. How strange and humbling it felt, at 31 years old, to feel so free and unburdened—to giggle and explore.
Leaving was difficult. As I looked back one last time, I saw myself in that young girl running toward the slides. I drove out of Cripple Creek with a smile, stopping at a mountain overlook to watch the sun set over the layered horizon.
This is what life is about—finding moments that humble me, and recognizing that every piece of who I am is stitched together through self-discovery and healing.
