Chapter 7 ~ Page 98
A few of our other errands included trying to talk a shoe repairman into sewing up my boots. He took one look and threw up his hands. Every other night for the rest of the summer I stitched them up myself. James had completely worn through two pair of boots by Bishop; BJ needed his second. There was no money to waste on me.
We had a really great laugh when the shoe clerk brought out a "really rugged" pair, that happened to be the same make and model that James had left behind 500 miles ago. The problem is that cowboy boots today are sold for someone to walk about in, as to a rodeo. We never did find a boot that could stand up to the test of trail riding.
One thing we did get our money's worth on, was haircuts. The boys walked in looking like wild left-wing hippie fanatics, and walked out as right-wing super-American's with hats balanced on bald ears.
The radio interview also returned a profit. I was buying maps when the proprietor of the bookstore came over—he obviously knew who I was—to tell me what I had decided to be the truth of the situation. We were on the wrong side of the mountains. Thanks!
This did, however bring forth a customer who had overheard our conversation. He joined in to tell me about one trail that might, possibly, with a bit of luck, etc., lead us back into the mountains. It was called the Granite Stairway. I remarked that was a colorful name, and he treated me to the story of how this trail had been built.
"Well sir, once there was this granite pinnacle on top of the mountain. Well sir, one day a giant bear was scratching his back on it when the rock broke off, and crashed down the mountainside, bouncing back and forth between two ridges. Well sir, wherever that rock hit and gouged, the Forest Service came by and marked as trail."
Nobody could tell me how we were to continue on into Yosemite Park if we did make it over the stairway, but at least we had a way back into the Sierra.
We had a really great laugh when the shoe clerk brought out a "really rugged" pair, that happened to be the same make and model that James had left behind 500 miles ago. The problem is that cowboy boots today are sold for someone to walk about in, as to a rodeo. We never did find a boot that could stand up to the test of trail riding.
One thing we did get our money's worth on, was haircuts. The boys walked in looking like wild left-wing hippie fanatics, and walked out as right-wing super-American's with hats balanced on bald ears.
The radio interview also returned a profit. I was buying maps when the proprietor of the bookstore came over—he obviously knew who I was—to tell me what I had decided to be the truth of the situation. We were on the wrong side of the mountains. Thanks!
This did, however bring forth a customer who had overheard our conversation. He joined in to tell me about one trail that might, possibly, with a bit of luck, etc., lead us back into the mountains. It was called the Granite Stairway. I remarked that was a colorful name, and he treated me to the story of how this trail had been built.
"Well sir, once there was this granite pinnacle on top of the mountain. Well sir, one day a giant bear was scratching his back on it when the rock broke off, and crashed down the mountainside, bouncing back and forth between two ridges. Well sir, wherever that rock hit and gouged, the Forest Service came by and marked as trail."
Nobody could tell me how we were to continue on into Yosemite Park if we did make it over the stairway, but at least we had a way back into the Sierra.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia