In Cerrillos, the small town I grew up in, there stood a gnarled hill with two cliff faces that climbed up to the precipice. The front Face, or at least what we considered the face, looked as though the Devil's large boar-like head burst up from the earth, his snout extending through the boulders piled around it. As children, we leaped from boulder to boulder until we climbed to the top of the snout. We shied away from climbing higher than the snout on the face of this hill, as it seemed crumbly, steep, and dangerous.
|Devil's Throne side|
However, the other cliff face, although completely vertical, had solid grips and hand holds. This side of the hill had been cut away to allow the train tracks to run past. I had spent many hours climbing this cliff, but the most exhilarating moment happened when a friend and I crossed a ledge no more than four inches across and close to 100 ft in the air. The wind slapped our hair and clothes around us. As I crossed this ledge, my heels and back tight against the rock, I could see the sheer drop below me, and I thought about going around; however, at the point I decided this, I would have had to shift my weight and start going that direction, and that was not happening. So, after ten or so feet, we crossed over to the unknown crevice, which fortunately had the hand holds to go the rest of the way up instead of back across the ledge.
This fits into one of those experiences that can make good stories. I may one day include some variation of this one.
|Devil's Throne front|