May 10 22
It was neither the appropriate time nor were we wearing suitable shoes. It was just that the thing jutted up so suddenly and significantly — we felt somehow compelled towards it. To be clear, we were driving back from Puente Santo, down the 93 (by the quartz mine, just past where the 27 and the 8 intersect) when abruptly, over the ridge of the highway, arose a giant granite tower. Obviously there are tons of esoteric geologies out there, but this one we hadn’t remembered ever seeing.
We almost skidded off the shoulder, so sudden was our decision to stop. Without much thought we locked the car, side skipped down into the drainage ditch, hopped over a little trickle of black and green water, and bounded up the other side.
The north face of the mass started, almost at the edge of the bank; so we had to kind of wobble sideways to make our way. Emergence from the shadowed, narrow path, revealed a modest dirt field ringed by a few Palo Blanco trees. All blasted by the sun.
In the shade of the farthest one (about 25 feet away) sat an elderly man wearing a plaid shirt, jeans and green baseball cap. He was playing an accordion; which he stopped upon seeing us. Behind him there was a dilapidated bus partially blocked by a few branches. We could just make out some faded words on the side: “Juan Barrow and the Dusty Acres.”
Involuntarily we waved at him. He didn’t wave back but nodded sleepily and pointed up toward the stony peak. We walked following the direction of his hand, feeling a little confused as to why we did so.
There was a parting of the stone face that had the beginnings of a trail — really just loose rocks, tufts of brown mossy stuffs and hard-packed dirt. Looking up it seemed to be about 100 feet to the top. We took a deep breath, found our first sturdy foothold and started our ascent.
The heartsick accordion swells renewed. They seemed to change shape the higher we climbed.
End of Part One…
We almost skidded off the shoulder, so sudden was our decision to stop. Without much thought we locked the car, side skipped down into the drainage ditch, hopped over a little trickle of black and green water, and bounded up the other side.
The north face of the mass started, almost at the edge of the bank; so we had to kind of wobble sideways to make our way. Emergence from the shadowed, narrow path, revealed a modest dirt field ringed by a few Palo Blanco trees. All blasted by the sun.
In the shade of the farthest one (about 25 feet away) sat an elderly man wearing a plaid shirt, jeans and green baseball cap. He was playing an accordion; which he stopped upon seeing us. Behind him there was a dilapidated bus partially blocked by a few branches. We could just make out some faded words on the side: “Juan Barrow and the Dusty Acres.”
Involuntarily we waved at him. He didn’t wave back but nodded sleepily and pointed up toward the stony peak. We walked following the direction of his hand, feeling a little confused as to why we did so.
There was a parting of the stone face that had the beginnings of a trail — really just loose rocks, tufts of brown mossy stuffs and hard-packed dirt. Looking up it seemed to be about 100 feet to the top. We took a deep breath, found our first sturdy foothold and started our ascent.
The heartsick accordion swells renewed. They seemed to change shape the higher we climbed.
End of Part One…