Words cannot describe...

It’s hard to describe the beauty of the Sierras. Saying something like ,”There is a big beautiful waterfall high up on a mountain above Lake June” doesn’t tell you much. Sadly, neither does a photograph of said waterfall. Or a bunch of photographs. Somehow it only seems to look as impressive in person, and when you are a writer, and cannot communicate that beauty, you have failed at your craft.
Suffice it to say, these mountains are something special, the secret California that Easterners like myself have only heard rumours of. They are the equal of the Rockies, tamed but still plenty wild. They are the Adirondacks times ten and the Catskills times twenty. They are half of the Andes and a third of the Himalayas, and much more approachable, somehow, and more welcoming. Still a tough climb but doable if you have not spent half your life at Mcdonalds.
So, today, as I had thoughts of Harry Chapin in my head, it being the 30th anniversary of his passing, I went for a walk up a mountain, to try to get near to this beautiful veil of water that was cascading down the rocks from a height of several hundred feet above the ground. Though it was far away the sound of the crashing splashing torrent was easy to hear and made it seem all so close.
I knew that a trail led the way. I found it, and began my upward trek. It was not a trail for humans, but more designed for donkeys and horses, which were in abundance as pack trains of them carried both tourists and gourmet food to the top of the mountain, far above even the waterfall, which seemed to come out of the side of the mountain. Several times I had to stop as the animals were frozen in front of me. Their loads often shifted, huge sacks full of the supplies that sometimes had to be re-strapped to their sides by the cowboy guides who escorted them all up the hill. It felt like stopping for a crossing guard or a red light.
The rocks and steep upward angle of the trail were painful to my feet, feet that have been pounded into almost raw tissue over the almost 2000 miles I have walked thus far. Add to that the seeming tons of horse and donkey dung that filled the trail in spots, and there were plenty of obstacles to get past if I was going to make it to the water fall.
Finally, I crested a hill and as the trail turned right, to the left, across a ravine, I saw it. It was powerful and fast, a spray of cold snowmelt water that splayed out at almost 45 degree angles to the drop, and then curved hard to the left as it went down a hidden course inside the rocks and crevices. I snapped a few pictures, and a fellow walking man took a shot or two of me with the falls behind me.
It looks so small in the picture. But it wasn’t small. it was big. And beautiful. My words cannot convey that in adequate terms, so it is up to you to use your imaginations. Close your eyes. Hear the distant crashing of water…and see what I saw.