Ascent up Geiger Grade
Now, if a man ever finds himself ascending the Geiger Grade, the twisty, vertical staircase of a road that hoists you up to the high-heeled majesty of Virginia City, he is liable to feel a touch of lonesomeness. The kind that creeps in from the thin air and the dizzying drop-offs.
Even the jackrabbits give you a look that says, “You sure about this, friend?” as if they’ve seen better men fall flat on their noses.
But I soon discovered, much to my relief, that I was not traveling alone. No, sir. I was merely attending a grand, silent reception hosted by some of my oldest and most steadfast acquaintances.
The first to greet me was “Winding Road,” a chap never accused of being straightforward. He gave me a sharp, zig-zagging tip of his hat, warning that the path ahead was as crooked as a Comstock lawyer with a debt to collect.
Close behind came that slick character, “Slippery When Wet.” He’s a cautious sort of fellow, always fussing over a damp patch as if the mountains themselves might melt under a drizzle. I swear he looked at me like I might skid off the cliff if I so much as breathed wrong.
And then there was my dear, stoic friend “Falling Rock.” He’s a native, born of this craggy land, standing guard with terrible patience and a grim, stony sense of humor. You never know when he might lurch down to remind you who’s boss, but he’s a reliable sort, in his own intimidating way.
As the climb grew labored and my legs began to mutiny, I encountered the Triplets. There’s “Slow Vehicle Use Turn Out,” the bossy eldest, keeping order among the traffic like a sergeant in the mountains. “Turn Out Ahead,” the middle child, gives polite notice of what’s coming, like a footman with just enough dignity to make you feel courteous. And the youngest, the bashful little “Turnout,” hides in a dusty corner of the hill, offering nothing but a bit of dirt and a place to breathe, a humble fellow, but a welcome one.
By the time I reached Lousetown Road, my heart was as full as a lucky miner’s pocket. And I realized something true: in this vast and rugged territory, there is a proper place for every soul on the hillside, even if that soul is just a weary traveler, passing through the company of iron-posted friends who never ask for a dime and never speak a discouraging word.
I tell you, a man could go to the ends of the Comstock and never meet finer companions than these signs, and if he’s got eyes to see and legs to carry him, he’ll find comfort where most would find only vertigo.
