I recently sat on an escarpment of granite, deep in the mountains, which made a natural dam and basin eons ago, before the first ancestors of humanity drew breath.
Mound after mound of granite sit atop each other like giant rolls, elevating this particular protuberance to the highest elevation. Recent rains left puddles of water collected in basins etched into the top of this dome. The enormity of time, and my own insignificance, became glaringly apparent.
Rain. Rain falling on top of this hard, dense stone eroded these basins. Non were especially deep, as found in sandstone country, regardless, erosion causes constant change. Further examination of the outlet of this puddle provided a view of the river’s origins. It formed during especially hearty rains, having dug a channel, at largest, five inches across, in the face of this living stone, a battle scar from the great clashing of elements.
I recall the Boulder Banolith in Montana. The King and Queen formations at Pipestone. I travelled there often in high school and thereafter, meeting my climbing partner from Butte at a secluded camping area, known only to climbers in those days. There was no population this far removed from the main road. The last miles to camp required riding mountain bikes, unless a 4x4 was available, and the road had not washed out.
We began climbing in the cool morning, the sun warming the King. My hands were cold, and the metal gear we carried on our harnesses jingled. I pressed my cheek against the wall, and smelled the earthy tang emanating from the rock. Large crystals in the formation allowed foot and handhold away from the main cracks, and tiny irregularities in the surface gave means of upward progress. The texture of the rock there, I have felt no where else.
As the morning sun became afternoon heat, we finished our first climb, and rappelled to solid earth under our feet. Moving around the west, we began climbing shorter routes, harder routes, which took advantage of the shade of the trees. We sat at the base of the face in comfort, and set up top ropes to fight our way through the difficulties of each climb. I would make an attempt, fall, and hang in my harness, attempting to decipher the meaning underlying the surface of the rock, vain efforts to understand the puzzle. I felt free, and although directly connected with my partner via our rope, disconnected from everyone and everything. I existed in a bubble on the wall, in my own experience.
I spent many nights camped among the granite spires. They erupted from the landscape as islands in a lake, all needing explored. The only absence of stars in the night sky was a result of the intrusions blocking the night sky above me. During the full moon, I would climb their silver faces, the route surreal, and clear as day. Crisp air amplified the smell of pine trees and sage brush wafting on the breeze. I was home, and wanted to be no where else.
JFL