I took a walk, a short one not so very far from my home.
I parked near the trailhead for Griffith Spring and headed down a bit, on a one mile loop trail. The trail wound through Ponderosas, both tall and stumpy, all perched above pine needles and dry yet heroic bunch grasses. Then it dropped into a wash chock full of radiant green grasses, a riparian wonder with birds flitting about. Green means water, so it wasn’t long before I was standing by a shallow pool surrounded by the grass.
A large trunk lay on the opposite edge. I could see a fence post with old barbed wire wrapped around it and then another one upstream a bit, and also, of course, I could see the narrow trail that had brought me here.
Our world is made up of conglomerated consequences. This day was no exception. James Griffith was a Civil War veteran that came west to homestead in the late 1800’s. The spring was part of the homestead which consisted of over 160 acres of diverse countryside.
The spring is very old, the trail is recent. Could the fence posts have been Griffith’s handiwork? It could make for a good story.
