Six trails lead to the main ridge. They are all
good trails, so that even the casual tourist in the
little Spanish-American town on the seacoast need
have nothing to fear from the ascent. In some spots
they contract to an arm's length of space, outside of
which limit they drop sheer away; elsewhere they
stand up on end, zigzag in lacets each more hairraising than the last, or fill to demoralization with
loose boulders and shale. A fall on the part of your
horse would mean a more than serious accident; but
Western horses do not fall. The major premise stands even the casual tourist has no real reason for fear,
however scared he may become.
Our favorite route to the main ridge was by a way
called the Cold Spring Trail. We used to enjoy
taking visitors up it, mainly because you come on
the top suddenly, without warning. Then we collected
remarks. Everybody, even the most stolid,
said something.
You rode three miles on the flat, two in the leafy
and gradually ascending creek-bed of a canon, a half
hour of laboring steepness in the overarching mountain
lilac and laurel. There you came to a great rock
gateway which seemed the top of the world. At the
gateway was a Bad Place where the ponies planted
warily their little hoofs, and the visitor played "eyes
front," and besought that his mount should not
stumble.