James McKew

Gertrude McGillicuddy stared out her soot-stained window at the sharply pointed roof of Conner Peak in the distance. Her long, singular eyebrow poked out from her forehead like the ridge hairs on a feral hog. She drummed her fingers on her chin and thought, I need to do something about that darn mountain.

In 1868, James Melville Conner, a failed tumbleweed farmer and former child prodigy on the early mutton-busting circuit, took a job as tax collector for Wahoo County, Colorado. The job paid him a regular monthly salary for reaping what he did not sow, and sowing discontent amongst the population in a very biblical way. For his deeds, he was immortalized with the oft-heard colloquialism, “Don’t be a Crappy Conner.” He also happened to be the hero of a dangerously deep spring flood, where he rescued no less than three small children from drowning. For that act, a mountain was named in his honor.

Back to Gertrude and her dirty window. She had a simple plan: rename Crappy Conner Peak (Conner Peak officially) into something less offensive, something more fitting with the times. A century and a half of seeing the thing out her window every morning and thinking about tax dollars had soured her.

Her effort started small, with a County Commissioner’s meeting and a suggestion box at the grocery store. The only requirement was that the name should not stray too far phonically from the original. Fine.

Suggestions started pouring in:

Con Peak seemed too close to the original meaning and was therefore rejected in the first round.

Condor Crest was easy on the tongue. The great black bird of the Southwest, brought back from the brink of extinction, with a shadowy nine-foot wingspan and the strong odor of roadkill on its breath, the bird idea was eliminated rather quickly because its beady eyes resembled those of an IRS agent.  

Condom Climax, the idea of naming a mountain after a rather common and unmentionable object had a certain comic flair, and all 436 high schoolers slipped a piece of paper in the suggestion box, filling it to capacity. Alas, naming a mountain for such a contentious birth control practice put all the Catholics on edge.

Confederacy Mountain, just the mention of the word brought on visions of the stars and bars, and turned half the population into an angry mob. Next.

Conquest Point, much the same problem here as Condom Climax, with the male genre getting glossy-eyed and giggly just saying the words.

Conway Twitty Heights had the largest following from the “grey hairs” who remembered a Nashville crooner with an afro and a libido both bigger than Mars.    

Debates were held, the population turned out in droves, and everyone added their two cents on the subject. Feelings went deeper than any vote for law, rule, or political office.

Continental Mountain, Congeniality Peak, and Contraception Crown all got their shot at making the list, but none of them passed muster.

The naming got back around to Conway Twitty Heights, which was narrowly voted out by a population of husbands whose jealousy ran deep over a tall, handsome man singing “Tight Fitting Jeans” and “Hello Darling” from a peak that overlooked every bedroom in town.

Then, as the morning dawned on the all-night debate, the process took a turn. Conway was out, only to be replaced by Connie Peak…as in Connie Francis, a female singer from the 1950’s and 60’s. The first woman to reach the Billboard Top 100. Connie sold over 200 million records in no less than seven different languages. The final vote even won over Gertrude McGillicutty, who started this whole thing in the first place.