Benchmark at 7,420 Feet

Scraped morning frost off a flat slab near the drop and spotted an old brass surveyor’s benchmark pinned into the granite. Decades of dark lichen and dried pitch had crusted over the stamped lettering. I knelt down in the cold stone, took a stiff pine twig, and picked the grit out of the grooves until clean metal showed through. 'Elevation 7,420 FT.' Pulled the cedar compass block from my saddlebag and set it flat beside the disc to true the north needle against the gorge line. Numbers line up clean with the paper map. Slid the timber block back into the leather pouch and cinched the buckle down. Time to start the descent.