Anasazi

Over eight hundred years ago, a people roamed the land of the present day four-corners region who the Navajo would later give the name, Anasazi, or ancient enemy.

Although it is popular belief that they migrated south and became the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico, no one knows for sure who they were, why they left, or where they went. During the fourteenth century, the Anasazi vanished from the area.

But what is certain is that these ancient people left their dwellings scattered throughout almost every canyon in the four-corners region. During the final two centuries before their disappearance, the Anasazi began to construct homes on high, nearly inaccessible ledges and cliffs, as if they were under pressure from another people and attempting to protect themselves.

One of my favorite hobbies is to trudge through and explore the same land where the Anasazi once dwelt. I am in awe at their craftsmanship and ingenuity. 

The following photos are of a few dwellings that I have come across during the last few years. With exception of some of the more popular ruins, I do not disclose their locations. These sites are sacred and should be treated as such.

Located in a little-known canyon that is choked with vegetation, this ruin is rarely visited. 

Can you imagine living here! Look at the dwellings along the seam of this sheer-faced cliff.

What is the meaning of these moon-like pictographs above this ruin?

A typical Anasazi granary.

Cliff Palace at Mesa Verde National Park

A Park Ranger instructs a group at Balcony House in Mesa Verde National Park.

A whole new meaning to an upstairs bedroom.

The architecture of this ruin is very impressive. The corners and edges are very smooth, and the masonry perfectly fits the contour of the rocks. 

The stonework of this habitation is less perfect than some.  It is interesting to note the different levels of masonry skill.

Smith Ruin. This structure is located so far from anywhere that we decided that no one had ever given it a name.  So, we did. 

Like an island in the sea, this ruin sits isolated atop a slab of stone.

An Anasazi watchtower.

This ruin remains well hidden.  From above it is blocked from view, and from below it is protected by the chasm of a deep canyon.

Fourth of July―Blanding

Last night when we drove up the hill from Westwater and past Shirttail Junction, we found the first cell-reception in nearly four hours. I read my only text as I drove the dimly lit highway into town: “As many of you may have heard, the softball fields have been flooded. We are currently working on draining the fields so they are playable for tomorrow.”

My heart immediately sank. This was the biggest reason why I made the six-hour drive to Blanding.

Last year we were in Blanding, my beloved hometown, for the Fourth of July. We sat at the ball fields at a softball tournament called Midnight Madness. Flood lights engulfed the two ball fields with illumination. Half the town seemed to be there, sitting on blankets or in bleachers, chatting with old friends or cheering on the games. The place was alive. It was a quarter to midnight and the games would continue through the night and into the morning, hoping to finish before the parade at 10:30.

My daughter, Kaitlyn, leaned toward me and begged, “Dad, can we please do this next year? It would be sooooo fun!”

I knew it would be, so I set off during the next year to twist my work schedule in such a way that we could make the trip.

I spent the weeks preceding the tournament making phone calls to garner a team and then hours on the field honing softball skills that I hadn't used in nearly a decade. I was pumped to finally play in Midnight Madness.

That's why my heart sank when I read the text. A flooded field had never crossed my mind. I guess it made sense. On our drive here, as we drove past Salvation Knoll, we watched a lightning show dancing like a fairy beyond the rim of Comb Ridge.

This morning I woke up with eagerness and drove to the fields. The high school baseball team had been working on them all night and were now waiting for a load of sand to come. One of the coaches assured us that―barring another storm―the fields would be ready tonight.

So, here I am. Our first game draws near and I am in my hallowed hometown about to play in my very first Midnight Madness.

At a meeting with team captains, I run into a girl from high school named Brittany. She is my first cousin, once removed, but we haven't talked to each in over twenty years. She is married to another classmate who is a chiropractor in Cortez.

I ask her if her husband, Adam, is playing in the tournament. “No,” she says with a sigh. “He would prefer to sleep and then wake up early in the morning and go up on the mountain and find a bull elk. Then he's usually back in time for the parade.”

When discussing kids, she says that her son plans on spending the next school year in Blanding. “That way,” she says, “he can get the Blanding experience.”

Soon after my discussion with Brittany, it is time to play ball.

Midnight Madness is fast-paced. It has to be. There is no other way to whittle down twenty-four teams during a nighttime tournament.

Games last thirty minutes long. Each batter gets one pitch. That's it. His own teammate gets to pitch it. If he swings and misses or hits it foul, then he's out.

I will not bore you with details from our horrendous attempt to play softball. Suffice to say, we are man-handled by both teams that we play, our final game ending at 11:30 pm.

I stay and watch a few more games while Kaitlyn hangs around the fields with her cousin, Nizhoni. When we leave at 2 am, the crowds are thinning out, but still alive with people.

But this post is not about softball, but about a small town and their Independence Day celebration.

In my humble opinion, the Fourth of July celebrations in Blanding should be experienced by everyone. It is a time for families to reunite, bringing thousands of people from out-of-town. I'm sure that the size of Blanding―population just over three thousand―at least triples during the Fourth of July.

The next morning we find a shady spot on Main Street, just across the street from the old High School. We are about to watch the parade. My kids are ready with bags in hand for lots of candy. I hold my camera and a bottled water.

You never know what you're going to get at a parade in Blanding.

I remember back in the late eighties when the Federal Government was having one of its usual skirmishes with some of the townsfolk. The dispute was over cabins on the mountain. Many years earlier, the government said that some of the families could build cabins on the mountain, as long as they were actively mining. The families continued to mine and to build and use the cabins. When there became a lull in the mining industry and the mines were no longer operating, the families still continued to use the cabins. By now, these old wooden structures nestled amidst the pine and aspen were almost like family. They had been in use for nearly three generations.

But the Federal Government didn't like that. After a lengthy dispute, the Forest Service took dynamite on the mountain and blew up the cabins. That didn't sit well with local citizens.

When the Fourth of July Parade rolled around, payback was in store. A backhoe drove down Main Street. Swinging from the scooper, a dummy dressed in official Forest Service uniform, hanging from a noose.

Now, in 2015, I doubt that will happen. Our current county commissioner is in deep water with the Feds, but I'm not sure if you'll see a noose again in our local parade.

Soon the procession begins and a long stream of motorcycles scream down Main Street. There must be at least fifty of them, if not more. This ride has become tradition to honor a local hero. Jason Workman, a Navy Seal, died in 2011 from a helicopter crash in Afghanistan when his Chinook Helicopter was shot down, killing all thirty-eight soldiers on board.

The parade is is filled with the usual small-town items: tractors, horses, cheerleaders, drill team, and lots of candy. One thing that I have always admired about Blanding's parade, is that they still make floats. I mean real floats with crepe paper, fringe, arches, paint, all sorts of festooned decorations, and a theme. In the town where I live now, there are few homemade floats. Instead, most of the entries in the parade appear to be little more than business advertisements.

One of the floats that catches my attention is dedicated to “Some of our heroes.” Right away, I recognize a picture of Jason Workman and another of Nathan Winder. Nate lost his life in Iraq just a year or two before Jason. I smile and snap a couple pictures of the float. Nate was a close friend.

As it passes by, I suddenly notice a picture of my grandpa, Burdette Shumway. He is dressed in his Navy uniform with Rex Neilson. Although he didn't die at war, he truly is one of my heroes. A sudden chill enters my body and I glance over to my mom to see if she notices the picture also.

The parade lasts for nearly an hour. Not bad for a small town.

After the parade, we drive to Centennial Park at the south end of town where booths selling food sprawl across the grass. This is one of my favorite parts of the Fourth of July holiday here in Blanding.

Located just half an hour north of the Navajo Reservation, Blanding is a good mix of Anglo and Native American culture. One of the big draws of the booths comes from that culture. This year I see Navajo tacos, Navajo burgers, fry bread, roasted mutton, and even mutton stew for sale. There is also plenty of non-native food such as kebab's, roasted corn on the cob, hot dogs, and lemonade.

I find a booth selling steak sandwiches. Immediately I recognize the man behind the apron. He is Spencer Willie, a Navajo classmate of mine, whom I haven't seen in seventeen years. The best way to describe Spencer: as nice as a Teddy Bear. He recognizes me also and we shake hands. I can tell he is busy and I see the sweat percolating on his forehead. He is a little preoccupied tending flat-bread on the grill.

“You came all the way from Window Rock to cook?” I ask, hoping that I remember correctly from Facebook where he is living now.

“Yeah, we advertised all over on KTNN that we were in Blanding cooking for the Fourth of July. I think we'll get a lot of people.” (KTNN is the radio station of the Navajo Nation and the only place where you will find Merle Haggard, Pow wow music, and Navajo language all in one bundle.)

A Navajo lady working with Spencer takes over my attention and explains what the steak sandwich.

“It is steak with grilled onions and a green chili on a flat-bread called náneeskaadí. It's really good!”

It doesn't take long to sell me and soon I am handing her eight bucks and she is giving me a steak sandwich wrapped in foil and slid inside a paper bag. I walk to a grassy hill near the fence and pull my lunch out of the bag.

Two slabs of seasoned steak with a long green chili sit atop a thick tortilla. The flat-bread is at least half an inch thick and appears much healthier than the fry bread that I am used to. I take a bite and can taste the fluffiness of the bread, the tenderness of the steak, the small kick from the chili, and the sweetness of the onions. Very good!

I meander through the different booths and exchange friendly glances with old familiar faces. I don't know if they see me the way I see them. To them, I am probably one of several thousand kids who were raised in Blanding and have since moved away. They probably can't keep us all straight.

Many people I don't know, but recognize their face as a Blanding face. Some I can pinpoint as a Pugh, a Knight, a Shumway, or a Black. That may not be their last name, but they certainly have some kin blood in their veins.

The horseshoe tournament is held in the pits near the booths. This is my first year not competing in the tournament on a year that I have been in town for the holiday.

“There's still a slot open,” Troy Palmer says to me with a big smile on his face. Not only does he run the horseshoe tournament, but he umped last night for Midnight Madness. He probably hasn't slept in thirty-six hours.

“I didn't even bring my shoes,” I remark. Troy is a nice guy and was a year older than me in high school. Those close to my age are the ones I recognize most easily.

At one o'clock is the “diving for dollars” competition with the kids. I round up my two youngest daughters and we walk to the public swimming pool which is next door to the park. Along the way, we pass my niece, Nizhoni, who is playing in the four-on-four volleyball tournament on the grass of the baseball fields.

The swimming pool is packed with a couple hundred anxious munchkins lined around the edge of a pool, with dots of silver-colored coins shimmering at the bottom. Usually my wife brings the kids to this while I am playing horseshoes. But since she isn't here this year, I am gladly seeing what the fuss is all about.

The day is hot and I can feel the sun scorching the back of my neck and calves. A jump in the pool would feel really good right now. I dip my hand into the transparent water and spatter a couple handfuls on my face.

A lady with a megaphone rounds the toddlers to the shallow end of the pool―enough water to reach the middle of my shin bone―and at her call, they jump and splash into the water in search of quarters.

Then, with each succeeding group, the coins are placed in deeper water, and the challenge of scouring them from the bottom of the pool becomes more intense.

Savanah, my nine-year old, struggles to find any coins at the bottom. I don't think that she likes getting her face wet. But Jenna, who is eleven, has no problem diving to the floor of the pool and meticulously searching. With each coin she finds, she returns to the surface and hands the quarter to Savanah, who is anxiously waiting on the edge. She finds a total of $1.25.

The “free swim” immediately follows, and I decide that there is no need for me to stick around and watch my kids among a swarm young enthusiasts. Impromptu, I decide to walk next door to the air-conditioned quilt show.

I'll admit that I have never been to a quilt show before. In my youth, I helped tie a quilt at my grandma's house and again with my future wife on a date.

In this large room, several dozen quilts hang delicately for display, as if it were an art museum. Knowing that a quilt is not an easy thing to make, I admire the many hours that were spent to create the patchwork in this room.

As one who appreciates local culture, I also ponder on the art of making a quilt and how this skill was highly necessary when people didn't have the convenience of running to Wal-mart and buying a blanket. I am also saddened to think that the skill of quilting is probably in decline, and “hanging from a thread” like many of the other skills that our ancestors possessed.

The one quilt that catches my attention the most is a collage of San Juan County. I see depictions of hot air balloons in Monument Valley, the Bears Ears, South Chapel, and pioneer wagons traveling up a steep hill (probably San Juan Hill).

With a little time on my hands, I decide to drive to the football field for the seven-on-seven football tournament. My brother, Adam, is playing, and I quickly see that the field is young―very few players over the age of thirty. They all look like they were starters on the high school football team during their glory days, and are now back to prove themselves again. I get the impression that this is a version of San Juan High School all-stars from the last fifteen years. There is a lot of talent on the field, as San Juan has been a perennial powerhouse in class 2A football for the past twenty-five years.

I sit down on the grass next to the sideline and immediately begin to decipher the unique rules of the game. Only one end-zone is used. Play begins on the forty yard line and if you make it to the twenty, then you get a first down. After scoring a touch down, there are no extra-points. A one-point conversion can be scored from the five-yard line, or a two-point conversion can be scored form the ten. They play touch football, not tackle.

With less than one minute in the game, Adam's team pulls the victory and wins the tournament.

At six-thirty, I am back at the park with my three girls. We bought tickets for a BBQ pork sandwich dinner from my nephews, Gavin and Ashton, who are trying to earn money to go back east to the Scout Jamboree.

After eating at a park table, we sit on the grass for the free concert in the park. The weather is perfect right now. A cool south wind is blowing and storm clouds are brewing. Hundreds of people, just like us, are sitting on the grass, or on a blanket, or in lawn chairs.

The band does a good job, playing covers from the 50's, 60's, and 70's. Right now they are playing a couple of Santana songs. But just as they do, the wind picks up even stronger, sending gusts onto the stage that sway the speakers and threaten to topple the backdrop.

The band takes a small break, and they remove the backdrop and speakers and put up their instruments, hoping the storm will just blow by. But it doesn't. Soon, there are large bolts of lightning in the southwest, close enough that we can see the length of the bolts, as if we were on the front row of a drive-in movie.

Small patters of rain fly in from the southwest and we decide we had better pack up. I let my sister-in-law take the kids so they can play with their cousins.

I return to my mom's house. On the drive there, the storm transforms from David to Goliath. Rivulets of rainwater gurgle down the gutters while my windshield wipers turn to full-blast.

I wonder about the firework show that is scheduled for tonight at the park. It is only a few hours away and is supposed to be the culmination of Independence Day events in Blanding. Since arriving yesterday, I hear that it will be the largest in town history. A local businessman donated $25,000 to the cause. They say the show will be choreographed to music.

A good firework display is a tough thing for a small town. I remember as a kid, most of the firework shows in Blanding were lackluster, with what felt like a minute gap between each blast-off. I remember one year, when the firework show was held at Recapture Reservoir, and some sagebrush and juniper trees caught fire and burned the side of the hill.

That won't happen this year. Not with all the rain we're getting right now.

I park on the hill at my mom's house, a vantage point that is lofty enough to see into four states on a clear day. From here I watch the lightning show. It isn't as grand as it was twenty minutes earlier at the park, the rain having supplanted much of the lightning. The strikes seem more distant, still moving south to north, now moving across Brushy Basin.

The rain is constant now, dampening the juniper trees and clay that adorn the hill, and creating small puddles on the blacktop. Having faith that the firework show will go forward, I drive back to the park after a small rest at the house.

It is obvious that the rest of the town has faith also. For half a mile along both sides of the street and in the parking lot and any available space imaginable, there are cars park bumper to bumper. Other Blandingites quickly pace toward the park with umbrellas perched overhead.

The rain isn't too heavy now, just enough to mist the hair.

I walk for ten minutes, passing hundreds of people hunkered down in lawn chairs and braving the elements. I find a secluded spot away from the grass and beyond the pavilion on a mound of dirt and weeds. I settle down and set up my tripod and hold the umbrella at an angle to arrest the rain from the northern sky.

Soon, the first ball of red light is launched high into the sky and explodes into a dozen burning streaks. A boom echoes across the air and instantly, the crowd hollers and gives an approving applause.

The show begins.

Purple Peaks

Heavy Thunderstorms in PM on Saturday. This was the weather forecast that I read in the paper. That probably won't effect me, I thought, but I should keep an eye on it.

Friday morning I parked my vehicle at the summit of a road at nearly 11,000 feet in elevation. I inhaled the high mountain air as I strapped an over-loaded backpack onto my body. Soon I was stepping along a faint trail on the side of the slope that led to the east, toward some less conspicuous peaks with a purple hue. I guess that's where they got their name.

I walked roughly at the level of the treeline. To my right and slanting steeply upward, the slope lay barren with nothing but copper-colored rock, strewn about in the shape of wood chips. To my left, trees and shrubs began to grow in abundance, and quickly dug a deep ravine into the earth. I negotiated this precarious trail, knowing that it kept me balanced while walking through the slant of the slope.

Below me, a thick carpet of white and yellow flowers grew.  Mountain springs freshly gushed from the hillside and I watched two bucks mosey through the knee-high growth, their heads down, cropping the plants. When one lifted his head, I saw that he had a wide rack of antlers, still in the velvet and rounded at the tips. I counted four points on each side.

As I walked, I listened for flowing water from the slopes below me. The distinction between boisterous wind, which blew across the treetops, and a gurgling rivulet of water can be faint. I heard something, but could not tell which it was.

I brought two water bottles and a canteen, but would need to refill them before my expedition was over.  I knew that a fresh stream formed at the bottom of the gully where the deer fed, but I hoped to find a spring much higher on the slopes where it would be easier to access.

After only a mile and a half of walking with the heavy pack, I found what I considered to be my home sweet home. The ground became flat in some spots and a perfect layer of grass and small white flowers grew over it, as if grown to be a cushion for my bed. A small ridge heaped up and helped block my little hamlet from the wind.  I unloaded the cumbersome pack from my shoulders, removed my camera bag, then my binoculars, and then sat down on the grass with my back resting on the flat of a large rock. It felt really good to do nothing for a minute.

I spent the next five hours exploring every peak, and vista that I could. I left my heavy backpack near the rock and exchanged it for a smaller pack where I carried my water, an apple, and Snickers bar.

There are few places on Earth that display the greatness of God more than majestic mountains. A blanket of emerald grass and wildflowers of red and lavender and amber covered the slopes, along with rock that ranged in color from gray to ocher.

Elusive little pikas raced from rock to rock, squealing loud their high-pitched warning cries. I could see them scamper across a field of boulders, only to disappear inside a crevice, deep enough and dark enough to completely evade my vision.

On the rocky slope of a minor peak, I found the skeleton of a mountain goat. The curved spine lay detached from the leg bones. The skull and horns were nowhere to be seen.

One reason I came here was to search for mountain goats. At every new vantage point I came, I would sit down and glass the expansive area before me with my binoculars. Distant patches of snow, as well as ivory-colored boulders were checked very carefully. Here and there I found clumps of their cotton-like fur and also dropping of feces. But I didn't find any goats.

I had better luck finding a herd of elk, lazily feeding on a slope far away. I counted twenty cows and calves. A much smaller herd hung out just uphill from them. I could watch both herds at the same time.

I took note of a series of purple-colored rocks that formed a spur ridge-line from the line of hills where I now walked. These were large slabs of stone, smooth on the surface with the exception of some etched lines. That looks like a fun place to explore tomorrow, I thought.

An old road of some sort had been furrowed into the hillside. I had seen it earlier, zigzagging up one of the slopes. It appeared out of use now, and certainly would only accommodate smaller vehicles such as a four-wheeler. It may have been a logging road at one time, or perhaps led to a mine somewhere on top. Whatever it was, it is nothing now but an interruption in the slope of the mountain.

I was in harsh territory. Some of these peaks lifted higher than 11,300 feet in elevation. During the winter, these ridges would be covered in several feet of snow, perhaps only melting away in July. The growing season is very short, leaving most plants small and stubby. Wind is constant, and whatever survives is stout and worn. I saw a tree on a barren slope that had grown almost perpendicular to the ground, slanting at an acute angle.

I followed a ridge-line that led north-east in direction. At the terminus, I ate a Snickers bar and enjoyed the view on another copper-colored slope, with strewn fragments of rock. I couldn't help but notice the determined wildflowers that managed to germinate and flourish, despite the rugged ground.  Small white and purple columbines grew in clusters near the summit of the peak.

The shadows cast from the pine trees below me became long, dark lines on the ground. The sun traveled closer to the prominent peaks in the west, and I knew it was time to begin my return journey to my home sweet home. My legs felt tired.

On the way back I took note of a small stream of water near the purple slabs of rock that I would explore the next day. That would be a perfect place to refill my water bottles.

As I returned back to my camp site, I revisited every vista I could, checking to see if any goats had come into the open. None had. I saw a two-point buck, feeding below and completely unaware of my watching him.

At last I arrived at my camping spot where I rolled out my foam pad and sleeping bag while I still had light. I enjoyed eating a cold military MRE while watching the sun set behind Mount Belknap. In the twilight of the sky, I watched Venus, Jupiter, and a sliver of a crescent moon, all clustered together, and all sinking into the western horizon at the same crawling pace.

Once darkness had completely settled in, the grandeur of the nighttime sky fully unrolled. Not a cloud loomed in the sky. The Milky Way bellowed like a smoky belt and I could see Sagittarius.

I wiggled into my sleeping bag and folded a tarp over my bag to break the gusts of wind that continued to blow. The last thing I looked at before removing my glasses was the Big Dipper. I saw how it was tipped at a forty-five degree angle, as if just about to pour out its contents. I knew that by morning, it would probably be upside down. That is how I would tell time. I was anxious for another day of exploration.

I awoke at approximately 4:45 AM. I lifted my head from inside my bag and gazed outside to the position of the Big Dipper. I couldn't see it. Seeking clarity, I snatched my glasses from the inside of my shoe and slid them onto my face. Once again I looked to the sky and saw no stars. I blinked and concentrated my eyes into focus. I didn't see a single star. Instead, from north to south, the sky was covered in clouds.

Wow, I thought. I wasn't expecting this so soon. For a few seconds I stayed calm, hoping that it was just a light, overcast night. Then I saw the flash of lightning from the north. These were storm clouds.

I shimmied out of my bag and grabbed my phone from my backpack. I turned it on and learned the true time: 4:52 AM.

Anywhere on a mountain at 11,000 feet and a mile and half from my vehicle was no where to be during a violent storm. And yes, on a mountain such as this, they can become violent. I quickly recalled the forecast from the newspaper about heavy PM thunderstorms. I still had another seven hours until the PM!

Not only could a high-elevation thunderstorm drench me, but it could make for a treacherous drive down the mountain on a muddy road.

For several minutes, I sat on my bag and evaluated the situation around me. The wind still blew, but it smelled wetter now, and it blew from a different direction than it had the night before. Another flash of lightning burst in the north, and this time a delayed rumble of thunder followed.

Somewhere in the east, lightning was sparking the sky, enough to silhouette a nearby hill when it burst.

Then I turned and gave my attention to the south. The storm was supposed to be coming from this direction, which is also where the road was that I would have to travel on down the mountain. Lightning flashed there also, and instead of a nebulous flash, I saw distinct tentacles of electricity emerge from the clouds. This wasn't good.

A quick decision had to be made. The storm was apparently arriving several hours ahead of schedule. Either I could wait it out and hope that it was a fluke that would pass over, or I could pack up and hike out in the dark, hoping to beat the storm before the roads become treacherously muddy.

Another boom of thunder sounded and I immediately chose to pack up. I quickly said a little prayer and asked for clarity with my decision. From that point forward, I never doubted my choice to pack up and leave.

Light drops of rain began to fall from the air. All the sky was still dark, except for a sliver of twilight on the western horizon. That was interesting that the morning light shone in the west and not in the east, revealing that the storm was darkest and thickest in the east.

I folded the tarp and then rolled up the sleeping bag and stuffed it into its tiny bag while holding my flashlight from my mouth. Within ten minutes I was all the way packed and heaving the pack onto my shoulders.

Just then, the rain intensified its pace and for a moment I considered hunkering down beneath the boughs of a pine tree. But I didn't. I pressed forward.

My first obstacle was a small craggy hill that I chose to walk around, instead of hiking over. The rain made everything slick. I put my flashlight back into my mouth and grabbed the rocks with both hands for balance. The shrubs, now soaked, rubbed across my pant legs up to the knee. I thought that if my flashlight were to slip from my mouth and break inside the jumble of rocks at my feet, I would be in deep trouble.

I managed to make it over or across three rocky hills just like the first one. That put me on a ridge. Now, it started to hail. White pellets, the size of BB's, pelted across my left shoulder and face. At this same time, I felt that my right shoelace was untied and my boot was coming loose.

A ridge was nowhere to be during a thunderstorm. Within a second of having that exact thought, a bolt of lightning lit from somewhere behind and almost instantaneously, a boom barked loud. My speed instantly picked up. I must have stepped on a slick rock, because my left foot lost its hold and I fell to the ground, scraping my right hand.

I got back up and started walking down the north slope of the ridge where I hoped to find the trail. I found a small tree and bent down to tie my shoe.

The hail tapered off by now, but the ground was still slick as I maneuvered the steep downhill walk. Soon, I found the trail, a small dirt track between the green forest flora. I was relieved to find it and was able to relax a bit.

I looked down as I walked and noticed the violet and scarlet-colored flowers on the mountain floor. The trail crossed from the vegetated area to the rocky slope with copper-colored rocks the size of wood chips and I knew that I only had about a quarter of a mile left. I turned off the flashlight, as now there was enough morning light, and I enjoyed the mountain air with the smell of lingering rain.

The rain had stopped, but I could see some of the other peaks had turned white from the hail. There was surely more to come.