Mountains

There's a rim of mountains hugging the edge of town. They're always right there, standing like guardians. If you take the winding road up to the entrance of the Canyon park, you start to feel like you are walking into the feet of giants.

Let's compare mountains.

The difference between these mountains and the grey-topped treeless demons of the High Sierras is the way these shoot upwards in elevation and brim with creatures in total natural disarray. They skyrocket upwards as if there was a rush to grow tall, now adolescent mounds of earth. Like a series of green volcanos in waves.

The High Sierras on the other hand are the ancient royalty of California, powerul in their lengthy rule along the north and south of the eastern border. They command silence, stern and wise, old kings watching, barracading whimsical intruders.

The mountains here are but desert princes. No coxcombs spiked with rock and snow adorn their heads, but the smooth green of youth. And
the chaos in their canyons! The High Sierras' geography has grown sturdy with age, nature's order filling the lakes and rivers, covering the foothills with well-spaced pines, leaving room for meadows, dropping occasional boulders and straining rivers clean and white in paths perfected.

But these desert children have no such order. Bugs and twigs are gypsies, weeds overgrow trees, meadows are smothered, rivers trickle to naked dirt; time was not spent to create these canyonlands, they seem to have appeared as if overnight, begging for fame and fortune but ending up a messy desert playground for squirrels.

Still I see through their infirmities, I see the makings of kings. These irresponsible kidmountains have greatness in their past and many stories ahead, so go I to search for something old and untouched.

Mikie