A narrow trail cut up the steep slope behind the ranger’s trailer. It continued a seemingly endless ascent up the south side of the canyon, along broad shelves and modest ridges that could hardly be spotted beyond the thickets and low canopies of oak groves. In spite of an ample supply of shade from trees and ridges, the heat of the day and the unrelenting ascent were punishing.
Grizzly Giant and Galen Clark, ca. 1858
For all its strenuousness, this route—called the Garfield-Hockett Trail—is more agreeable than the old route that Armen had planned to tackle. The old route keeps closer to the river, but it really only grants access to the river at one point. This is because by keeping so near the river, the trail has to hold to the thicket-choked cliffs of the lower canyon. By the time the trail returns to the cool, sweet water of the little river, it’s time to begin its steep ascent up a dry ridge toward the high country. This presumes, of course, that one can cross the river. Whoever attempts to make that crossing in spring or early summer might find the whitewater and slippery rock more homicidal than a rogue bear. The Garfield-Hockett Trail, in contrast, takes the high road and so avoids the rugged terrain that tends to accompany rivers. In this case, the high road is forested and well-provisioned with springs. On the down side, the route can present an avalanche hazard in winter and early spring, but it is generally quite passable at any time of year.
The boys dropped their packs and bags at first water and immediately kindled a purification fire on the trail. As soon as the fire had stabilized, Armen laid a pot of spring water upon it.
The boys put the fire to sleep, donned their loads and continued up the trail. The sun’s heat was soon riding them again, though the trailside oaks provided them with ample shade.
Once, while they traversed a sunny ridge, a broad shadow swept across their path. The shadow was gone as soon as they noticed it, leaving its substance a mystery. Perhaps it had been a bird of some kind. The boys looked at each other, looked around and around, turned to each other again, then turned to continue lugging the heavy sun toward a shadier stretch of the trail.
Dust-powdered sneakers pounded the narrow trail in turns, as Armen gazed blearily down. Sweat ran down his dark bangs to his eyes, and he stopped, moved his bedroll over to his left side, and wiped his brow. Another body paused behind him, Sam straightening a bedroll as the two bodies resumed the ascent. The sun blasted directly from above, and shadows were short and clung close to their substance.
Sam noticed that Armen was falling behind. He stopped and let Armen take the lead so that he wouldn’t need to wonder how far back Armen was.
After a few hours of lugging, they were rewarded for their toil with the appearance of the Giants. These were grand muscular monoliths that projected a tangible presence rarely perceived in mere men or gods. The boys lost their pace. They’d stop, each on his own, gazing here and there, up slope and down slope, striving to make sense of the magnitude of these “trees.”
As the long shadows of late afternoon began to blanket the ridge, the trail crossed a great field of broken rock. They looked uphill to see the cliffs of Dennison Ridge. They had arrived at Snowslide Canyon, an avalanche chute named for its propensity to cradle snowfields well into spring. The snow-free summer trail was a little hard to follow through the rock field, but it was easy to recover on the far side. The trail then reentered the forest and began a moderate ascent among the Giants to Snowslide Camp.