A Little Silver Fish Goes A Long Way

The world's edge closed in, it was grey and murky, downy and soft. Soft, yeah, that is what it was, soft. But heavy, and burdensome at the same time. It pushed down on the mountain tops, lowering them. Funny it did not seem to make their heights any easier to attain. The edge shifted and slid, fading and coalescing again, and again. A tide encroaching and withdrawing. In places I could see where sharp spires, locking arms with wide spread ranks on either side endeavored to hold back the tide, keep the edge from sliding down the slopes, enveloping this narrow canyon completely. Slowly drawn upward, seeking to join the fray, a lone figure following no other tracks; cold and mist thrown off the edge in ragged strips burrowing into skin beneath a thin covering of cloth.

White Saddle - the edge dispersed, pushed back and in retreat. I give chase down into the belly of the Silver Fish, but pursuit is futile, there is no longer a conflict to be waged here,  and so I turn to grind back up. Birdsong returns to nearby slopes, disturbed only by booms resounding from distant peaks where rages the edge, and cold fingers of breath slowly dissipating. I notice red at my knee, a drip of blood pulled by gravity, but can not recall why it should be there, a stab from the distant foe, an unremarkable strike during the chase, perhaps.

Sawpit and Silver Fish Canyons might go a long way, but I only had so much time today, and so my journey into the belly of the Silver Fish left me far from Stone Cabin Flat and the bee hives. Well, Winter is long up there; perhaps there will be another trip before the Spring.

that slippery turn gets me every time.

the encroaching edge

high damn dam

great billow bunches of grass along sections of the Sawpit Canyon verge

each bike I have ridden up here has had the opportunity to pose by the old water tank

sweeping turn

approaching White Saddle

the sun illuminating Stone Cabin Flat  down in Silver Fish Canyon

the way down into the SF

above the towers...

and below

the high San Gabriels

switchbacks

like roadrunners, quail are hella hard to photograph - skittish creatures, always on the run

view south from White Saddle, down Sawpit Canyon and into the Big Valley

view north from White Saddle, and down into the Silver Fish

the white rock of White Saddle

trail up, trail down

in five miles of descending there was only one other rider, coincidental that i should chose to stop for a photo at the exact moment he appeared around the bend