Joaquin Murrieta was sixteen when the war ended and California was hijacked, along with Arizona and Texas, to became a state. He would have have heard his uncles tell the story of how it was stolen by the Yankees and lands that were lost or sold for pennies, but it was his grandfather who could remember the glory of Spanish rule and the royal road through the mythical land. California. He would have heard stories of grizzly bears, and the ranchos, and the wild horses that roamed the valleys, for he had a large family, all were vaqueros, and he had ridden in a saddle from the time he could walk. From what is known, he was well educated, so when the letter came from his older brother urging him to come and make his fortune mining for gold in the foothills of the sierras, he wrote in response. He was strong and young, and had a good horse, and with his sixteen year-old-newly-wed-wife by his side, his younger brother, and many in his family, he crossed the Sonoran desert to stake a claim on his future; he had no intention of stealing from anyone, he was off to make his mark in the world. By all accounts he was a man of composite presence, intense in bearing with blue eyes and a lineage from both Spanish and native blood, Marked with a congenial disposition he made friends easily, and was welcomed wherever he went. It wasn’t until later, when the trail he rode deep into the mountains reached the point of no return, and he had taken it too far and he knew it, that there was no turning back, and only the ridge in the distance and the pristine springs of the mountain path could save him and his hundred stolen horses. Out the window, along that creek, making the assent now, with the ridge in the distance – La Vereda del Monte.