An argument . . .

. . . between new knee and old knee ensued when we set off recently for a bit of a boondock.  As we drove over the mountain in search of warmth in the Verde Valley, all was well; after all, nothing at all was being asked of either knee at that point.

It was not very long afterward, though, that things began to become contentious.  Once we had paid our admission fee to Dead Horse park, old knee must have sensed that something was afoot (pardon the expression).  New knee was rarin’ to go; however, old knee was whimpering something about wanting to go home.

Not to be deterred by its pleading entreaties, we set off at a pretty steady clip around the little lakes and down to the river, savoring the soft balmy breeze, a fine relief from Prescott’s continuing chilled air.  Although the weatherman promised a handful of slightly warmer days, they have been far too few for my liking during this season.

The Verde’s level was lower than we expected after what seemed like a lot of precipitation in the form of rain, snow, hail, grauple & sleet (I said it has been nasty now, didn’t I), and was not muddy from runoff, either.  

Just an observation that was, didn’t matter in the slightest to our mission, which was to saunter one way or another way while enjoying whatever we encountered.

Prescott’s winds had followed us, remaining mostly at an elevated altitude, and creating high up in the sky feathery vaporous clouds.  I spent a good deal of time getting a kink in my neck while exclaiming over the plethora of fantasy shapes.

Dead Horse never disappoints: the picture-perfect scenes are a balm to the spirit, and that time was no exception.  I never tire of the Verde River and its environs; that developed spot along its course is far more manicured than much of its winding way south - serene and beautiful in its unique way.

We were not alone in savoring the scenery; many were fishing in the ponds.  While that was undoubtedly a fine way to while away some hours, there did not appear to be any actual catching going on, including for this seemingly very patient fellow out in his boat.

During their wintering season, bald eagles frequent the area.  Although I am presuming a nest was in the vicinity, we did not search it out nor did we inquire whether any young had hatched & fledged.  We did enjoy watching a female bald circling the area.  A male eagle had a bit more of a laissez-faire attitude as he remained perched on a snag (the avian equivalent of staying home watching the game while his mate shops, the señor opined).

 

We compiled a bird list for the outing - mostly composed of the expected sightings; however, we did spot one individual that was way out of its usual territory.  We were surprised to see a lone cattle egret; it was far enough out of its range that we went to particular pains to be sure of our identification, and we have no doubt.  Unfortunately, I couldn't get a photo of it.

Stretching out the new knee without hurting the old knee was the goal of the day (his anyway, my carefully kept secret was that I desperately needed to be outside one way or another), so we kept moving, enjoying chatting with those we encountered, including a lovely couple visiting from Montana, enroute to Prescott shortly.

Beyond Dead Horse is the intriguing-to-me Tavasci Marsh; as the day waned, we wandered that direction, but soon found ourselves overextending both new knee, old knee and the señor’s post-surgical stamina, so reserved further explorations for a later date and relished high-up views of the river . . .

 

. . . and the Tuzigoot hilltop ruin.

As day's end approached, we took advantage of our location near old-town Cottonwood to top an idyllic outing with dinner at Nic’s, always a treat.

 

A quest . . .

A partially open day (why are they so infrequent?) allowed us the opportunity to head over to the Santa Maria River in search of desert wildflowers, also in search of my sanity that lies in that vast and alluring land out of doors.

While there, I glimpsed my sanity and felt the soul-soothing scenes bathing my senses as we wandered the riverbank.  Unlike the dazzling displays further south, the flowers in the Santa Maria area were shy & retiring, showing their colors only to those patient enough to search them out.

Not at flood stage, the Santa Maria was nevertheless exhibiting an impressive flow, more notable because it is typically no more than a wide rocky sand wash.

That country grabs me: its rugged ranges, canyons and peaks ask to be explored.  As we commenced our drive toward home, I spotted a particular route that I want to take cross country.  Spirits willing, but knees not; we will be sure to return for that trek.

And yet another . . .

Prairie: a railroad siding and a settlement of sorts that has caught our fancy after an historic inquiry from a now-elderly fellow who resided there as a youngster.  We’ve been to the site several times, with Ruben, and on our own.

 

A recent visit was as much for that sanity/outdoors purpose as anything, a perfect excuse to keep the knees operating, and we found ourselves (and the knees) well able to put on some miles while exploring the countryside.

We were a bit taken aback by rows of highway-side flaggings marked “Avoidance area”.  Not understanding to what or to whom they referred, suffice it to say we did not avoid the area.  

At one point, new knee finally made its presence known with its reluctance to bend backwards quite enough to allow our usual ingress method of crawling through a barbed-wire fence, so we simply found another way.  Clearly, additional PT must ensue; crawling through barbed-wire fences is pretty much a way of life for us.

I was all about a westward walk I had long anticipated from the townsite , but stymied as we eventually came up against a short but imposing wall of volcanic rock liberally emblazoned with “No trespassing” signs at close intervals.  That was the end of that particular venture, but no worries, there's plenty more open country in my wonderful Arizona.

On that day, our wanders took us over plenty of countryside, much of it really rough footing through rough jumbled volcanic stones hidden beneath dry grass dotted with lots of Texas blueweed - its dried hard yellow berries seeming to hang in midair on bare leafless stems.  Our feet were relieved when we found ourselves on a veritable highway of dirt where the footing was more secure.

It is said there exists a Prairie cemetery, but the only graveyards we spotted consisted of  the detritus of long-ago occupants gone to other locales.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I have to share this absurd photo of bunny antics in our front yard, and no, it is not photo-shopped.

My long very personal journey . . .

. . . with Del Rio Ranch began late in 1976.  We were driving south on Highway 89 through Chino Valley on our way to put down Yavapai County roots when I looked over to the east side of the road and there it was.  A scattering of buildings, verdant pasture land greened from a spring-fed pond, all snugged up against low hills that stretched back from the scene.

Immediately the energy of the place cast a spell on me, bringing a connection that has persisted through my adult years.  Was it the setting?  Did it conjure a longing that had lain fallow?  Perhaps the energy projected by all those who had passed there struck me.  At any rate, it was to play a peripheral role in most of my adult life.

As I settled in to my multi-faceted life in central Arizona, I made certain that Del Rio was an often-visited site.  I learned that Arizona’s Territorial government and its accompanying military contingent was there for a number of months in 1863 & 1864 before becoming established further south on Granite Creek near the burgeoning mining camps around what is now Prescott.

Who could have foreseen that far down the time road, I would publish & edit a weekly newspaper just south of there, and for a special occasion, would use a duplicate of a newspaper’s front page that was the original one published at Del Rio in 1864.

As I explored the ranchland occasionally on foot, wandering over the hills, its history intrigued me.  No longer in reportorial mode, as I said, I intend this to be only my relationship with that important area, important because of its abundant artesian water flowing freely from the depths, and surrounding ample grasslands.

On-site accounts tell us that there were Hispanic folks living there prior to the Territorial hubbub’s arrival.  Indeed, the walls of an adobe building were standing roofless when I showed up; I recall seeing Indian pottery shards embedded in the weathering mud walls, testament to the Native population that recognized & utilized the resources so freely available there.  

It was not too long after my first visit there that a new ranch owner bulldozed those walls down.  Even now, one can see where the house stood; the tree that shaded its back yard has died and fallen over, but its branch structure is still recognizable.

In my early days there, the Del Rio cemetery was in good repair - fenced and with numerous inscribed stones marking the final resting place of many ranch families from nearby, the first being the 11-year-old Banghart boy who was killed by a lightning strike.  That family’s stage stop stands yet just north of there, now a private residence. 

I took photos in that graveyard in 1977, all donated now to Sharlot Hall Museum, and numerous other pictures around the ranch and structures, so no need to repeat those now, although they are a testament to the toll that weather has taken.

My close friends, Pam & Donna (oh, the joy of that camaraderie that I miss so much) and I wandered those hills that overlook the headwaters of the Verde River, savoring the quiet, the beauty, the birds, the pronghorn herds, and reveling in the memory of the folks who had worked hard to subsist there.

Descendants of some of the Territorial military contingent remained to homestead the Del Rio area: Hannah Postle Rees filed a homestead there, the first by a woman in Yavapai County, thereby becoming a person of great interest to me,  I have written much more about her and the area’s history, so will not do much more at this juncture.

Fast forward to more memories: the wonderful lake/pond that stored irrigation water for pasture lands, bald eagles nesting in the mammoth cottonwood trees that sprang from green posts cut for fencing.

Somewhere in the small world that was Chino Valley in those days, I became friends with some quasi-hippies (will they laugh when they read this?) who rented a house at Del Rio.  

Along the way, it followed that there was a wedding reception/barn dance on the ranch.  It was then that Chris first photographed me as I was arriving for the festivities.  I noticed him sitting on his front porch snapping away as the revelers arrived.

Not too long afterward, a life-changing event: an introduction to the señor by mutual friends, the Del Rio connection being that he was also renting a house on the property.  There followed, of course, more time on the ranch, even a funny time for our son Darren.

Harvest over and we had a bit of free time from the farm - we were both working for Gil Bisjak's farm at the time - we wed and thought a bit of honeymoon travel was in order, so Darren was to stay with Dave & Sam at Del Rio.  Without his Mom to prod him into wakefulness in time for school, he missed the bus, unbeknownst to those who were looking out for him.  In standard Darren mode, he simply spent the entire day wandering the ranch.  He gauged when it was time to show up by peering in the window to see what program was on television.  

That house is shown here beyond some of the barns from Fred Harvey days.

Occasional times out at the ranch visiting ensued until it seemed that Del Rio’s beauty and environ was doomed to become a paved-over housing development, a sad travesty the same as so many millions of acres across the landscape . . . but then a light.

Via the visionary efforts of so many, a dream has been realized: a large portion of Del Rio Ranch, the section that has the most historic significance, is slated to become an Arizona State Park, its importance recognized.  

Our most recent visit there was to witness the ceremonial exchange of keys, cementing the culmination of so much work behind the scenes. 

It seemed fitting to have a photo on the porch of the house where the señor resided when we first met some 40-something years ago.

 And . . . we're out . . .

. . . and about - our inaugural walk on a surface not manufactured by human hands since the señor acquired a new knee.  That makes it sound a bit like something he ordered it via Amazon . . . if only, but as we know, the medical profession, in its infinite wisdom, has evolved a process to replace failing human joints that seems a bit on the miraculous side to me; at the same time, it has become so commonplace that it's akin to Henry Ford's assembly line clacking parts together and sending the completed bodies out the door.

So, with outpatient surgery three weeks in the rear-view mirror, we were off to slightly warmer climes in the Verde Valley for our maiden voyage.  Our objective was a State park in its infancy.  It is indeed new-born, and to my awareness, very little heralded.  

Somewhere or another, I had spied a notice that the great state of Arizona was opening its latest state park over the mountain from us; the Rockin' River Ranch seemed like the perfect place to try out the señor's mobility, while offering me the opportunity to get outta Dodge near my favorite stream of water, the Verde River.

Endless delays . . .

In the same way that we managed to put off and put off Chris' knee surgery, the powers-that-be have only just now opened the Rockin' River to the public, despite that seven million dollars of a conservation fund was used to purchase the 209-acre property way back in 2008.  It was slated to open to the public in 2018, but affairs of government prevented that plan, and then . . . well, we know what happened in 2020.

At any rate, we wandered our way south of Camp Verde on Salt Mine Road until the goal was attained: a day-use-only property with primitive dirt paths that lead variously along the river near its confluence with West Clear Creek and/or through the high desert chaparral.  Gravel pads here & there sport picnic tables offering views of the Verde through the dense & tangled riparian vegetation.

 

Huge gnarled cottonwoods and sycamores share status as the venerable denizens of the Verde's shoreline, while slender willows and their ilk crowd together beneath the overhead spread, and limit access to the river's edge.

I heard & watched the approach of two canoeists, colorful in contrast to the drab still-leafless thick vegetation.  They were quickly past as I glimpsed them through an open patch, moving rapidly in the receding, but still flood-stage waters.

 We saw flood debris in branches impressively far overhead; the river's flow was much reduced from that stage, but was still far out of its banks.

In accordance with medical & physical therapist advice, we did not overdo our jaunt, but I was pretty impressed with my pard's finesse while traversing gravely downslopes.

With a clear view from behind, it was easy to note the contrast between the straightened left leg and the still-bowed right one, soon to have its own procedure.

Obsession .  . .

Having recently begun to dabble with acrylic painting, I find that I am even more obsessed with the landscape around me.  Previously, my interest was confined to how to convey the world photographically; that view has been combined with how I might paint what I am seeing.  It equates to noticing nuances and details that I might before have seen in a more overall sense.

We found the surrounding mountains, Squaw Peak in particular, still spotted with snow, not to the extent on our side of the county, but more than I expected.

 

With our release from surgery aftermath ending, we called a halt at an unusual sight along the way.  There in the dirt alongside an unremarkable crossroad, curiosity demanded that we stop to discover what was up with a multi-hued cart topped by a large bright umbrella.  

 

"Fruta Picada" was emblazoned on the cart's front.  Utilizing my sometimes-handy computer/phone, I found that the interesting Mexican street vendor in that unlikely place would probably be offering something in the way of cut-up fruit.

Although the young man spoke little English and I spoke little Spanish, I did learn that his name was Daniel.  It required no language at all to see that he was a master with a very sharp knife.  His ice-filled cart carried a variety of tropical fruit and cucumbers, which he was incredibly adept at chopping into pieces.  He quickly filled a large clear plastic cup with the pieces, and ceremoniously added chamoy (a sauce used in Mexican cuisine), a red spice and lime juice.  The result is a savory, salty, sweet fruit cup that I have decided might be an acquired taste.

It was an absolute delight to watch him at work; I can't wrap my mind around how someone could become that adept and quick without losing fingers in the process.  He was quite the showman!