Large granite boulders dotted the hillside everywhere I looked, and chips of obsidian sprinkled the ground between the sage underfoot. Indeed, the energy of the place was like a grandmother whose deep-rooted awareness surrounded me, both urging me further and finger pointing as I went as if each move through the sand proved me guiltier of trespass.

She sent a cat to keep an eye on me, or so it felt. I saw no tracks in the sand. I saw no carcass dragged into a Pinion’s branches for tomorrow’s meal though could not shake the unseen eyes that tracked my every move. Wingbeats and light breeze became soft pads of curiosity traversing through the Pinion litter.

I came to a promising chunk of granite, dropped my pad, and stepped in for a closer look. Potato chip sized flakes peeled off in my hands but left nothing substantial enough for my fingertips to purchase.

Another block up the hill showed wisps of chalk and tick marks and the telltale signs of a prior cleaning. Larger flakes littered the base and the climber who came before me scrubbed clean the lichen from the tiny crimps that ran the length of the face. I unfolded my pad and laced my shoes as a feline breath blew across my neck, and a whisker tickled my cheek.