Chapter 8 ~ Page 102
Far more interesting, and in need of signs, was the Granite Stairway. If I had thought to take that old-timers name and address that had spun the yarn on this trails 'construction,' I would have written him a note that said, "Well sir, you're right."
We had been in granite country from the start of the trip. Most of the time this hard, beautiful white rock had been in the form of scattered boulders, or a sand made up of the weathered rock. This part of the Sierra was solid. Granite was formed deep in the earth. The larger the crystal, the more material that covered it, and the slower it cooled. For miles we traveled on a sidewalk of white, where I could see very coarse crystallization from horseback.
Perhaps 'sidewalk' might sound prosaic, or our way through easy. It wasn't. The hard to find trail, unmarked, except by monuments made of the same material, showed all the signs of the violent forces that it took to bring this granite to the surface. The rock was not smooth. Yet, as each step a horse took was marked by the ringing of a horseshoe, 'sidewalk' seemed appropriate.
As did stairway. Not all of the climb was straight up. We did much switchbacking, which definitely is not how stairs are designed. But, the higher we climbed, the steeper the staircase became, and near the top—also on account of the snow—we had to take giant steps. In one difficult place the horses had to be led individually, and made to leap up. Then without stopping, coaxed into taking another jump to the right. We also ran into difficulty crossing a snow bridge covering a tangle of rocks. The ice held until The Colonel came along with his heavy load. He gave a warning snort that meant trouble. James and I hit his lead rope with all we had, and pulled him across before the bridge opened to take its toll.
For once, going down the other side of a mountain was going to be easier. We had reached the divide. Water dripping from the snow bank we rested upon, could make two different journeys to the sea. Chance might have it that it would fall on the east side and race down the slope only to be captured by the aqueduct to supply some Los Angeles commuter the vital element necessary to wash his car. Or maybe if it was lucky, it might escape to nurture some of the fastest alfalfa growing land in the country. On the more gentle western slope, that drop would gurgle and lap and bubble on a more pleasurable journey. It might be put to work producing hydro-electric power, but hopefully it would get to cross under the Golden Gate Bridge, where a storm cloud would pick it up to start the cycle all over again.
We had been in granite country from the start of the trip. Most of the time this hard, beautiful white rock had been in the form of scattered boulders, or a sand made up of the weathered rock. This part of the Sierra was solid. Granite was formed deep in the earth. The larger the crystal, the more material that covered it, and the slower it cooled. For miles we traveled on a sidewalk of white, where I could see very coarse crystallization from horseback.
Perhaps 'sidewalk' might sound prosaic, or our way through easy. It wasn't. The hard to find trail, unmarked, except by monuments made of the same material, showed all the signs of the violent forces that it took to bring this granite to the surface. The rock was not smooth. Yet, as each step a horse took was marked by the ringing of a horseshoe, 'sidewalk' seemed appropriate.
As did stairway. Not all of the climb was straight up. We did much switchbacking, which definitely is not how stairs are designed. But, the higher we climbed, the steeper the staircase became, and near the top—also on account of the snow—we had to take giant steps. In one difficult place the horses had to be led individually, and made to leap up. Then without stopping, coaxed into taking another jump to the right. We also ran into difficulty crossing a snow bridge covering a tangle of rocks. The ice held until The Colonel came along with his heavy load. He gave a warning snort that meant trouble. James and I hit his lead rope with all we had, and pulled him across before the bridge opened to take its toll.
For once, going down the other side of a mountain was going to be easier. We had reached the divide. Water dripping from the snow bank we rested upon, could make two different journeys to the sea. Chance might have it that it would fall on the east side and race down the slope only to be captured by the aqueduct to supply some Los Angeles commuter the vital element necessary to wash his car. Or maybe if it was lucky, it might escape to nurture some of the fastest alfalfa growing land in the country. On the more gentle western slope, that drop would gurgle and lap and bubble on a more pleasurable journey. It might be put to work producing hydro-electric power, but hopefully it would get to cross under the Golden Gate Bridge, where a storm cloud would pick it up to start the cycle all over again.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia