Many years ago, the first Americans crossed a land bridge between Siberia and Alaska, entering the New World through an ice free corridor between two large ice sheets that covered Canada at that time. The extreme cold weather made life hard for these early people, but they plodded wearily along. One of the young hunters in the group, along with his companion, decided to push on ahead further south, hoping to find warmer climes. This hunter so detested the cold, that his fellow travelers dubbed him”FrioMan,” in jest. Many moons passed as FrioMan and his companion trekked south. It seemed they would never find their way out of the deep snow, and the endless mountains of ice. Late one sunny afternoon, the pair crossed over a cedar ridge, and stood in awe of the splendor before them. Below was a clear waterway cascading across limestone cobbles, its banks lined with ancient cypress trees. Wild game was abundant, and shelter was readily available. But most important to FrioMan, he was warm, and knew that they had reached their destination. His partner, being the wise woman she was, decided to name the cool stream the Frio River, which pleased him greatly. They never left the canyon.
No comments:
Post a Comment