There is a stairwell that grows from the damn's belly.
Wrapping around the steps he and I paused, nearly halfway to the top of the cement structure at one of the landings our vision was lead in an unlikely direction. The path opened mostly in both directions, revealing a dark internal passageway, damp and chirping we took to the open enclave in the opposite well lit direction leading to the damp dark upper extensions. Inside in the peeking light there MOTT's marks made me marvel. Sure it was maybe 1,000 yards from where we parked the night before we were still 45 miles into the mountains playing the weekend away in Los Padres National Forest. Far out. I adore the mystification I get at the depths and deep ends graffiti artist seek out packing cans all the way.
Where is my heMarKt?
