Sunday, March 13, 2016
In good winters, the snow fell upon abundantly upon the Mountain. In the spring, it melted, percolating through the shale slides, cascading down through ancient, clandestine caverns, until the water burst from the Hole in the Rock. And so the Mountain gave life to the valley below.
The men who came before were great pioneers. They carved ditches, fields and green pasture where there had been sagebrush. Without pumps, they moved water across the Bar, using a model left for them in the ruins of the Four Corners. Few call this their native land. Those who do regard the Mountain as the engine of life.
Christian Rasmussen was born under the Mountain, else he might have gone on to be ordinary: nothing grew on those rocky slopes that did not fight like Hell to survive. Like my father before me, I am a son of the Mountain. We possess a familial bond to the Earth, and the landmarks of our place in it stalk us all our lives and make us live right.