Wednesday, November 24
Staying in, getting out

What ho - another dreary day - and colder than a polar bear’s hind-end. There’s nothing for it but to do some writing and family history sorting out while huddling inside. Can’t even warm up in the spa; it’s not fixed yet.

Now we’re getting into our Colonial Brackens, Cantrells and Stalcups who began their American lives in Philadelphia, built and filled the Old Swede’s Church in Delaware and later hightailed it to North Carolina and Ohio. An interesting bunch that we amassed loads of data about.

I do have an article to write for the church newsletter but am deferring it just for now. Plenty to distract me from genealogy when I get home. I will take advantage of this time to do lots of catch-up. Finally, though, my butt wearies of sitting as all butts must and I suggest an outing, wishing I had packed my heavy coat.

A part of today’s destination was the historical museum, but we never got there, having been sidetracked by other things. I had in mind a drive up Oak Creek Canyon, one of the more picturesque spots in Arizona. On the way there, we stop to see the Hart Store of 1926 vintage. It is a charming place, now on the National Register of Historic Places, currently open as the Hummingbird Store. From the waterwheel outside to the inviting picket-fenced front yard to the interior, every room brimming with antiques and boutique items, it is fun to wander and exclaim.

Oak Creek Canyon . . .

Driving northward up Oak Creek Canyon, we are enthralled with the convoluted canyon cliffs softened by the autumn-hued cottonwood and sycamore trees following the winding waterway. At some places, Grasshopper Point and Indian Gardens, we stop for a walk down to the creek. Our walks are not a leisurely pace nor do we linger long creekside because the wind is numbingly cold and we are getting sporadic snowfall. None of that minimizes the beauty of the drive, one I have seldom done this time of year. The Canyon usually calls me during the summer months when the creek’s icy waters and the cliff’s sheltering walls are a relief from higher temperatures.

Grasshopper Point is as fine a swimming hole as one could want, but our yesteryear play destination of choice was always Slide Rock. How that has changed since it has become a State park, fenced and regulated. In the olden days, we squeezed our vehicles off the main road as best as we could to still allow traffic to pass. Then it was every man for himself as we slid our way down the dirt slope. If we were there in August, the anticipation built while we paused to pick blackberries along the way.

One trip to Slide Rock was sufficient for us to learn how to prepare before leaving home. That preparation involved cutting off the legs of a pair of denim jeans and sewing the legs onto the netherparts of the now-shortened pants. True, it looked pretty odd but was the only way to go; otherwise, two slides and your pink cheeks would be hanging out.

Unfortunately, the site has been “discovered”. The resulting hordes from the Valley have necessitated improvements and regulation, but I have resolved to return once again next summer to enjoy the frigid and fun slide.

I never think of Slide Rock without remembering the old home movies Grandma took while my sister and I and a mob of our friends chased Dad around the canyon bottom in order to toss him into the slide, which I think he only nominally resisted before whooping it up during his exciting ride down.

When we turned back homeward bound, we were astounded to see north slopes with substantial snow accumulation.

Best altered highway sign: the original lettering was “Watch for rocks”. Someone had carefully added “big red” just before the last word.

Thursday, November 25
Thanksgiving

Certainly my most unusual Thanksgiving day but with the typical phone calls back and forth, text messages received and sent, greetings exchanged all around and gratitude expressed for the blessings of an abundant, wonderful life.

Not willing to completely forego our traditional menu of the day, we brought with us a turkey breast, which Chris roasted to a turn. I sautéed vegetables to add to the stovetop stuffing and made a fine gravy. The homemade and frozen mashed potatoes were nowhere to be seen, undoubtedly left behind in the home freezer, but a modest feast was had nevertheless, even though the cranberry sauce came from a can.

While the smells of roasting turkey permeated our suite, we bopped out in Ruby hoping to shoot a self-portrait that would prove we had indeed been in Sedona. Mobs of people were out and about, also freezing their buns off so parking was at a premium. Perseverance paid off and we managed to drag the tripod and camera down several walking trails that allowed us photograph ourselves with Sedona’s trademark red rock cliffs in the background.

Chapel of the Holy Cross . . .

Our last stop was at the Chapel of the Holy Cross, one of Sedona’s most photographed man-made structures. An interesting story led up to its construction which I partially quote here: “The first conception came to Marguerite Bruswig Staude in 1932 in New York City while observing the newly constructed Empire State Building. When viewed from a certain angle a cross seemed to impose itself through the very core of the structure. She wanted to build a structure that would glorify her Creator and in thanksgiving for all that her family had received. She traveled throughout Europe looking for the ideal location. She returned to the United States and while she traveled through Sedona, she was struck by the beauty of the area and decided that this chapel should be built here. ‘This would be a monument to faith, but a spiritual fortress so charged with God, that it spurs man's spirit godward’.

Built on a twin pinnacled spur about 250 feet high, jutting out of a thousand foot red rock wall, ‘solid as the Rock of Peter’, the building of the Chapel was completed in April, 1956.” Staude dedicated the church to her parents.

As we entered the sanctuary, we once again felt the incredible energy of the place. I offered a lit candle in thanksgiving to all those who have gone before.

Birds added to the not-very-impressive trip list were house sparrow, cardinal, Bewick’s wren and pigeon.

Meeting folks . . .

Meanwhile back at the ranch, the turkey was nearly done but first we took another turn at the now-repaired spa and met some interesting folks while steeping ourselves. Claudio, originally from Ecuador, was there with his two preteen sons. He is an artist of many media, a goldsmith, and owns a jewelry shop, El Dorado, at the Hyatt in Sedona. Evidently, his creativity does not extend to musical ability but he has passed on his love of music to his boys, the oldest of whom plays classical and flamenco guitar and is now branching out to other instruments. One of his enjoyments is playing a native Andean stringed instrument that was originally fashioned from the shell of an armadillo - too bad I can’t remember the name of it.

After they left us, we were joined by a Japanese woman who had participated in a triathlon that morning in Goodyear. Her daughters were swimming in the pool instead of using the warmer spa. I never even checked the water temperature in the pool; with the weather we were experiencing, nothing but a 101-degree spa sounded at all attractive.

Coming home . . .

Anxious as always to return home, we packed quickly (as quickly as possible, at least, with that much paraphernalia) and are on the road at 10 a.m. Interesting as we approach Prescott to see snow in the higher reaches of the Bradshaws and the beautiful snowcapped San Francisco Peaks.

It’s amazing how rapidly a week flies by. . .

Sunday, November 21
Home and pigs

An early rising and quickly leaving, no not for a dawn balloon ride over the red rocks, but for a jaunt back across the mountain. Today was our own Rev. Tom’s 20th anniversary at our church; the temptation to join in the celebration was too much, so off we went and glad of it. It felt very good to share in the fun.

And . . . since we were over the mountain anyway, we stopped by home to feed and water the birds and pick up a few forgotten things. My fervent hope is that the added items don’t necessitate two trips to move out of here.

Not very happy making: the pig had returned while our backs were turned. A javelina has been visiting our abode, turning the new quail block into a nubbin and even rolling it down the driveway as he chews it up. For crying out pete’s sake, pig, pick up a hoof and hold it down at least.

This event would not be unusual if we lived in Prescott with an unfenced yard because the critters are everywhere about, but is a rarity in Chino. Unfortunately, in the process of creating a bird and wildlife haven, we have made it a hog heaven for the very few piggies in the neighborhood. In 35 years at this house, I have seen only three javelinas. This one makes the number four, but I have yet to actually spot this one, he being the sneakiest one of all. We have been victimized by one pig in the past 30 years and that one was also fairly recent. Wondering if they are one and the same. If so, he has altered his habits to avoid the wild woman who lives in my house - me.

After realizing that I was getting no assistance to encourage the last one to vacate the premises, I devised a plan of action that was successful, but only after extended effort. This is how I did it (understanding one has to see the animal in the act): Assemble items near back door - saucepan and wooden spoon (not anything with rivets). Glance out dining room window, spy javelina gnawing away at quail block with great abandon; snatch assembled weapons, throw open the door and tear out as rapidly as possible screaming at full lung capacity a sound that may resemble ancient warriors fighting for their lives; simultaneously running full speed toward the pig (pretending those long sharp tusks are not there); (this is time for multitasking) beat wooden spoon on bottom of sauce pan without ceasing (this is when it becomes obvious that a plastic handled riveted spoon is not up to the task because the handle immediately separates from the metal rendering it useless in light of those tusks one is racing toward); continue to run as noisily as possible toward the interloper, hoping that he drops his meal and turns tail before you get there, otherwise plan B is necessary. Haven’t devised plan B just yet.

Experience shows that the pig will run a short distance because he has been startled by wild woman, but unless the chase is continued, one has wasted one’s time. The bad news is that continuing the chase (please picture wild woman screeching guttural oaths while running full speed and pounding a wooden spoon on a metal pan) causes one to race past startled neighbors to whom wild woman cannot take time off to explain the mission. Thus it becomes a decision: do I care if the neighbors ever speak to me again or do I invite said piggie to live at my house. My decision was clear: it took quite a large number of screaming meemies to convince the javelina never to return.

And now I have another visitor. I surmise this is not the same one because he comes calling only at night, leaving me helpless to rid myself of him. I shudder to think that it is only a matter of time before he polishes off the quail block and begins rooting in my carefully tended gardens. Ah well, a challenge for when I return.

Hiking or not . . .

Weather-wise, this is being a not-nice week, causing most of our red rock viewing to be from our room windows or inside the car. If I were visiting here for a week from New Jersey, I would be inclined to bundle up and foolishly venture out for a daily hike; however, what I wanted was to get away for a spell and that is what I have done. I can drive over here any day I want when the weather warms and consider myself much more sensible.

Chris happily consoles himself by lolling on the bed watching the football game (this is a treat of the first order for him, being without television at home) while gazing at the magnificent spires of Cathedral Rock out the window.

Ancestors . . .

Being room-bound is not at all a bad thing when one has ancestors to keep one company. The intrigue of discovering whence I came has not only stayed with me for lo these many years, it has grown into some kind of mystical connection that I feel with all those who came before (oh okay, so it’s some kind of obsession that extends far beyond my forebears and to all of who and what happened to lead us to this time).

Chris and I have been extracting information from manuscripts and books we copied while on last year’s travel trailer trip. The amount of material we found at our various stops was huge enough that we are continuing a year later to assimilate it into our history.

When we discovered our Quaker and Huguenot ancestors of New Netherlands, we hit pay dirt. We followed them to North Carolina and visited their final resting places. We find that our families Dubois, Blanchan, Vernoy, Cool and others were Colonial settlers of great mettle and are remembered by many. A fascinating volume written by three other Dubois descendants who visited New Paltz, New York, in 1840 (260 years ago!) told of their horseback ride to those environs settled by our mutual ancestors. How I would have loved to make that journey with them (and how I would love still to visit that place)!

The Huguenots fled their homeland’s religious persecution and lived out their lives this side of the ocean, wresting a life from the wilderness, living with and at war with the Natives, being captured by and sometimes rescued from those whose land they invaded. Remnants of their endeavors exist yet, but better still to read the early histories and firsthand accounts of their daily lives.

In my imaginings of the difficulties of their lives, I conjure images of a veritable struggle to survive, constantly on the edge of hunger, striving to build and maintain rudimentary dwellings. And then I find accounts of incessant legal shenanigans indicating that our current litigious society doesn’t hold the proverbial candle to these Colonials. Seems there was nothing whatsoever that wasn’t appropriate for legal wrangling. One example of a multitude of instances: our Matthew Blanchan was sued for churning butter on the Sabbath. Methinks they might have been a bit lacking for outside distractions.

So there, I have lost myself in the past and care not that outside the room is cold and rainy.

Monday, November 22
Creeping

More family history charting, more fun, a bit of writing, but finally, one cannot stand the idleness any more. At home I would have been outside, inside, upstairs, downstairs a gazillion times, so find that I must hie myself out of doors. We pack up with snacks and coats without knowing a destination, at least so I thought, but Chris has a plan.

Normal people go for drives. I know this because occasionally I speak to normal people and they tell me these things. We, however, being abnormal evidently to a great degree, go for a creep. A creep is Chris’ version of a drive. It is effected in a vehicle, but a pace substantially akin to that of a six-month-old baby crawling across the living room floor.

In this case, the pace (or lack thereof) is necessary because Ruby is tiptoeing up a black-boulder-riddled path created by the eruption of House Mountain some time in the distant past, probably before ancestor Louis Dubois’ journey to our shores. With no goal set, we continue our creep upward until we have distant vistas set out before us in every direction. One can’t help but wonder just why we came to red rock country and then did our creep outside those incredible scenes. The high slopes on which we find ourselves are beautiful in their own way - wild, cactus-filled and surprisingly carpeted with small yellow flowers.

When I finally put my foot down about this torturous climb, we turned our noses to lower elevations and more pleasant outing weather. A jaunt down to the old V Bar V Ranch, now a public place of interest netted us a most pleasant afternoon. A fascinating place, both for its Anglo history and the amazing array of petroglyphs carefully guarded on a creek-side cliff. Touted as the largest rock art sites in the Verde Valley, the pecked-into-the-rock-face images are said to have been created between A.D. 900 and 1300. The Houston couple who now live at the site were as nice as could be. She mans the visitor’s center while he acts as guide and interpreter at the petroglyph site, which is accessed by a lovely hike along the creek bank.

In my past life as administrator of Yavapai College’s lifelong learning institute, I sent busloads of folks over to an annual celebration at this heritage site, but had never been myself, even after living so near to it. All in all, a super place to visit.

Leaving there, we did a bit of a scout elsewhere along the creek and enjoyed the autumn colors and the relief of being outside.

While out and about this day, we get a few common birds, including raven, common grackle, ruby-crowned kinglet, western scrub jay, western bluebird, dark-eyed junco, black phoebe and white-crowned sparrow.

The bad news upon returning was that the pump on the spa was kaput, a situation learned only after suiting up, swaddling ourselves in pool towels and trooping over there in the cold dark. Big bummer there, made me want to drive home to our very own hot tub, but somehow a three-hour round trip for a 20-minute soak seemed a little over the top.

Tuesday, November 23
Birding & more

We awaken to continuing dull gray skies and cold. At least it is no longer raining. No worries: stay in and work on various projects. If we get any more relaxed, we will have to begin calling our first meal of the day “brunch” instead of “breakfast”.

Because of a query from Eric about how many bird species we have identified at home over the years and because consolidating that information had been on my “to do” list for ages, I brought my birding folder with me and we set about getting that information into a coherent form.

We have been keeping a yard list only since 2007 and have been away for extended periods during those four years. We did include a few notable birds that we got before 2007, but the list is primarily since then. After spending quite a bit of time typing them all and Chris alphabetizing the list and removing duplicates, we were astounded to come up with an even 100 species - surprised at the large number and more surprised at the even number that sounds as if we are making it up. I certainly did not expect it to be that high; certainly we do not spend inordinate amounts of time attempting to identify birds on our place, nor do we do much away from the feeders area; I am certain we have missed many more that I have heard but never identified.

We also keep lists of birds identified on various jaunts near and far and enjoy being able to pursue this pastime everywhere we go. The Costa Rica trip of course was a bonanza of new birds. We thought the same would be true of Greece, but an unfortunate occurrence there put a stop to that when we laid the expensive Greek bird book down at an interesting ruin site and failed to retrieve it. It was after that I determined to purchase a field guide bag in which to keep the bird book.

Glad to finally have my yard lists consolidated, I am inspired to move on to my long-delayed life list. Hope I can keep that resolve after I return home.

The Earps, Big Nose Kate & Doc . . .

Thanks to Vicki and Richard, I now know loads more about the Dodge City/Tombstone/Prescott clan than I did before. They have sent me a couple of articles that Richard researched and wrote for the Courier that answered lots of my questions and meshed well with the research that I had done.

Evidently, that is about all I will find out via email for a while because the wifi here has gone kaput. Promises that it will be fixed have gone unfulfilled; my short blog has become much shorter.

Rowdy, touring, movies . . .

Since starting Rowdy on his medicine, we have watched for signs of either intolerance or improvement. We thought at first that he wasn’t going to be able to continue on it due to upset tummy. One wonders how one would detect some of the other side effects, such as aching joints and sore muscles. As Leslie notes, it would be so much easier if pets would just hack up their symptoms as easily as they do a hairball. At any rate, we seem to have moved beyond the stage where we wonder if he isn’t looking just a bit perkier to the “Yippee! He’s really getter better!” level. Still weak but definitely on the mend.

Not braving the continued inclement outdoors, we pretend to be normal people and go for an actual drive on an actual road. The lighting is wonderful, the scenery sublime. We stop for several look-sees and photos. Each time, we are reminded of how clever we are to be auto touring at the moment instead of hiking as we shiver in the wind.

Javelina Cantina, forebears . . .

Our only dine-out of this journey is a lunch stop at the Javelina Cantina (sounds like what I am operating at home). Somehow, Chris remembered that we had eaten there way back with Norma and George and that we had liked it. Well, we still liked it - food great, atmosphere dandy, views to die for and good service.

A fun happening during lunch: a group of women was there celebrating two of their members’ birthdays - 97 and 99. It was irresistible to me; we had to stop by their table to wish them each a happy birthday. It was fun to share in their party for a moment.

With impeccable timing, we arrive at the movie theater to see “The Next Three Days”, which turns out to be a long and wildly suspenseful flick. Great acting by Russell Crowe (of course) and the entire cast (I disremember who any of the others were). Highly recommend.

Best business name: Knit Wits

Saturday, November 20
Moving, but barely

I’m off to a late start this morning for several reasons. First off, I haven’t felt at all well since Wednesday. Second, I stayed up late last night watching the movie “Tombstone”, and third, what the hey, I’m on vacation. A direct result of foregoing television for 35 years is the tendency to become catatonic in front of a set that is in operation, no matter the programming. In this case, the movie was excellent. Val Kilmer was superb as Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp was brought to life by Kurt Russell. Sam Elliott excelled as Virgil Earp, but then Sam Elliott could just stand there and spout any old drivel and I would swoon. The supporting cast was great; I was mesmerized.

Now I have become wildly curious to have questions brought up by the flick answered, so have resolved to do some research. I have been especially taken with the knowledge that Doc Holliday’s gal pal, Big Nose Kate, lived and died in the Arizona Pioneer’s Home in Prescott, that selfsame abode that supported my own father’s final years. And I knew that at least one of the Earps lived in Prescott - Virgil, I think, but will determine who, which ones and when with some scouting around.

The Verde & kachinas . . .
As we ventured forth at a not-so-early hour, I wanted primarily to crawl back into my hidey-hole for the day. It was cool, windy and cloudy, a not very auspicious beginning to what Chris hoped to be a fishing day. Ah well, that first step is usually the hardest, except when it leads one to be outside, unprotected in the face of crumb-bumb weather.

Scarcely down the road a mile and I spy a Saturday market. Impossible to proceed without checking it out, I am sure, so clear around the next roundabout we go to bring us in the opposite direction to see what is what. We both were glad we did (well, probably me more than C) because it was a as fine a gathering of artisans as I’ve seen in quite some time. Some of the wares were really very unique jewelry, wonderfully crafted, and others included items I've never seen before.

The calcite lamps were wonderful - tubes of translucent crystal manufactured to be lighted from inside by electric bulb or candle - each one a natural work of art from the earth and fashioned by man. This man in particular actually mines the calcite himself and then cuts it into the tubular shapes, some set into gnarled manzanita burl bases. I hated to leave without one of those; they were just lovely.

We enjoyed good conversation with a Hopi man by the name of Virgil Long, a kachina maker. He worked away as we chatted and we were unable to resist coming away with one of his creations: White Chin Kachina.

Journey resumed: again we turn toward the Verde River, my absolute favorite place in the entire world. We have hiked into a multitude of places on the river, each one with its own distinctive character due to varying geology and vegetation. We have been to this particular spot several times over the years and have found it to yield some very large fish. It is unusual in that you can drive fairly close to the river, presuming, that is, if your vehicle sports four-wheel drive like Ruby, our Toyota 4Runner, and you are slightly deranged, just enough to tiptoe your conveyance down a steep washed-out rock-strewn trail. When we are touring with the travel trailer, we employ Toter, the Toyota Tundra, which is strong enough to pull the Totee, but at those times miss being able to back-road with Ruby’s agility.

Chris loves doing this; shifting into four-wheel satisfies some of what he lost when I won the argument about whether to purchase standard or automatic transmission ten years ago when Ruby came to live in our garage.

The weather did not improve for the day; however, we did get some scattered sunshine and protection from the wind while down in the canyon and enjoyed the hiking. Because of the wind, I’m guessing, we saw bird none despite my schlepping the spotting scope down into the canyon. We caught no fish, had nary a nibble; however, the fishing was great. I have yet to see a time when the fishing wasn’t great no matter what the catch.

I should temper that overly enthusiastic proclamation: when I was sick enough to roll around on the boat deck in the fish blood and guts, vomiting all over anyone and everyone while being tossed around off the coast of Mexico and while I was sick enough to make the decision to throw myself over the side to end the agony but was too ill to rise enough to make the leap - well, the fishing was not so great that time (whether or not we caught anything).

We likely will not be able to return to this spot on the Verde for months. It is subject to closure from December 1 to June 30 because of nesting bald eagles. Those closures keep us from several places we like on the Verde, but there are plenty of others.

This is a good place to enjoy the Verde Canyon train as it passes each morning and afternoon. We have often been lolling on the bank or cooling off in the water as it rattles along the canyon wall above us. I think they should put us on the payroll as we add local color and wave enthusiastically to the passengers who greet us similarly. Once when it came along as we were swimming, we were surprised to see (and be seen by) Chris' secretary who was out enjoying her weekend excursion.



On the way home, we were thrilled to see the full moon hanging over House Mountain.




Final tally for the day . . . birds 0, fish 0, people happy.

Friday, November 19
Sedona

On the road again - hoorah! How I have missed getting out and about this year, a long stretch to be home and in town, such as it is. Last year at this time, we were returning from a 4.5-month RV adventure across the country, having been lately at North Carolina’s Outer Banks and visiting Mom & Dad and Darren.

This year, however, we deemed it necessary to remain homebound in order to get done some of the things we didn’t tend to whilst we were gallivanting. Lots was accomplished and is still being so, but now we’re off for one week of a scenery change, and who knows, perhaps this week that just-right person will visit our house, fall in love and buy it and we can begin the exciting task of moving into Prescott.

Because we are away, I shall attempt a short blog to chronicle this sojourn. Coming down from some sustained and intense activities, I am not entirely sure that this tiny journal will be worth the “paper” it’s written on, but I shall make the attempt.

We are here and not at home because I had his crazy notion of a nontraditional Thanksgiving somewhere in warmer environs, one that included lots of outside time. For many years, with one notable exception, I have been the “mom”, hosting lots and lots of lovely folks for a feast, but now the yen for a change has prompted this trip.

Our destination criteria were: a place not far away, a place that afforded many options for hiking and fishing, a place for which we could trade our time share and a place that would allow Rowdy to accompany us. In the end, only one option fit the bill - Bell Rock Inn in Sedona, a mere 1.5 hours drive from home, and that seemed an entirely acceptable situation, although I had hoped for something a bit lower in elevation and thus warmer. Alas (back of hand to forehead in resignation), this will just have to do.

Rowdy . . .
Speaking of Rowdy, the boy has been more and more under the weather, so we were off to the vet this week, coming away with the news that he has hyperthyroidism, a condition we are told will necessitate ingestion of a tiny white pill twice daily for the remainder of his life. Now there’s some news that could have been better. Still, we are relieved that it is something alleviatable. He had gotten progressively weaker and less active until it became obvious that something was seriously amiss.

Of course he believes he is being punished by having pills forced down his throat, a mindset undoubtedly made worse by the indignity of packing him into the car for a ride over the mountain. Ah well, I expect he will be feeling better very soon and may forgive me some day.

Burning . . .
Interesting on the drive over here that we saw three different prescribed burns: various National Forest personnel clearing underbrush in a controlled way. One burn was close enough that we saw the flames as they worked the area north of Cherry at the south end of Mingus Mountain.
Then another appeared to be somewhere south of San Francisco Peaks, and a third was up on the Mogollon Rim.

I told Chris I was disappointed about the burn we passed near Cherry because I would like to explore that area. Of course I would, he replied; adding that there is no place I don’t want to explore. That really is true; after all, one never knows just what one might find over the next rise and around the next bend. Life is indeed exciting!

Red rock country . . .
On to the stupendous red rock country and Sedona. A stop at the Coconino ranger station for a new forest map to replace our decades-old one and a quick photograph of Bell Rock. $10 later (whatever happened to free maps from the Forest Service???) and we arrive at our Bell Rock Inn right about the 2 p.m. check-in time.

Truthfully, it took us most of the morning to pack for this trip. Knowing that some folks throw a few articles of clothing into a suitcase and jump into the car after stowing their one or two pieces of luggage, we are not a bit abashed that we have filled Ruby, our trusty Forerunner, to nearly max capacity. After all, Chris must bring his keyboard (along with bench, small amp and other paraphernalia) and then there are Rowdy’s needs - food, bowls, princey pillow, litter box, scooper, medicine, stuffed bunny and toys. I, of course, require my computer, binoculars, spotting scope, bird book, camera, flashlight and backpack in addition to five pairs of shoes (but never the ones I want). Fishing equipment is a necessity and heaven forbid that we would venture out without bringing a passel of genealogy stuff to work on. And because we will be eating in, there is the food and preparation needs, which really is a big part of the load.

A partial list to be sure, but it gives an indication of our predilection to travel heavy. No wonder a four-month trip in the travel trailer is a chore to plan and pack.

By the time we check in, unpack and wander over to the farmer’s market where we find more-than-passable sweet corn and excellent asparagus, we are ready for a hot tub soak. Aaahhh, soaking our grateful bodies while soaking up the red rock formations at every angle is as fine a way to end a day as I can imagine.

Tuesday, August 17
Soaking & chatting

Laundry and chores in the a.m. and then a nice long afternoon at the springs, our final opportunity to enjoy those odiferous warm waters. While in a 104-degree pool, we got into conversation with a Columbus, Ohio, couple; all of us managed to get overhet because we were enjoying the talk so much that no one wanted to interrupt it.

He was retired from the faculty of a Methodist seminary and she continues to work as a dietician at a large teaching hospital. He reminded me a bit of Dad W. when he got teary telling touching dog stories. The man is fluent in German and Latin, at least, has visited ancestral homes in Germany, and was as interesting a conversationalist as I’ve run across in a long time.

Unfortunately, when we finally tore ourselves away before we fainted from the heat, our new friend took a nasty fall on the flagstone walk. Nothing broken, but surely sore and bruised today. The walks are not slick but somehow are relatively treacherous - Leslie take note for your visit in October. I’ve seen several people fall; in fact, I was one of them last year when I slipped going down the steps. It happens very quickly. I sported a hip-to-ankle bruise for a while afterward.

The springs sights for the day were the cleverly balanced rock cairns built in the middle of the river and the little green grass snake that got lots of notice as it was an unpaid visitor to the spa.














To polish off the day, we dined outdoors at the Dogwood Cafe, our favorite from previous trips. Their menu could be from anywhere in Louisiana with gator, okra, green beans with bacon, grits and the like - we love it!

Wednesday, August 18
Homeward bound musings

8:05 a.m.: we’re on the road after a nice farewell from Junior Nation and his wife whose name I have forgotten. They invited us to stop and see them in Lawton, Oklahoma. Junior and wife were two “doors” down from us at the RV park. Between was Junior’s sister, Trula and her husband, Chuck, from Texas. They spend their summers here. We are among the very few non-Texans in the park. Colorado is a favored summer getaway for those from the great state of.

I heard via email that our Littlefield friends left for home yesterday; they were up closer to Leadville; another of the sisters left just before that from visiting the third sibling near Denver. The Littlefield sisters are the ones who answered my newspaper query years ago and sent me my great grandmother Julia Winans Kelley’s Bible that their father had saved for 40 years waiting for a Kelley family member to show up.

We will definitely stay at the Blanco River RV Park when we return to Pagosa. It is a lovely grassy place right on the river and with minimal traffic noise. Wonderful clean facilities and the clientele are among the nicest we’ve encountered anywhere. It will require reservations as it is mostly full.

When I was researching where to go when we left our first RV site here, I saw this one and Acres Green as possibilities. I chose Blanco River because it had the better website. As it turns out, the two were formerly one. The story goes like this: it was begun as a partnership. Within two years, the relationship went sour, so they dissolved the business and split the park lengthwise, which is how it remains today, but with different owners. Absenting directional signs, a person would think it’s all one and the same. Odd but it seems to work.

Ray, the current owner, told us that when the two original partners were still there, there was considerable rancor; if one guy’s renter walked on the other guy’s road, he would come out and yell at them. Amazing how silly we can be.

Rowdy did his usual mopey cringe (or cringey mope) when we began to pack up this morning even though I told him we were going home. I think he would rather teleport than spend the day in the truck. Truthfully, it sounds pretty attractive to me, too, but I enjoy seeing the sights more than he.

We are soon on the Jicarilla Apache Reservation following U.S. Highway 64.

Okay, I’m back and it’s now noon o’clock and much has occurred in the meantime. Never been exactly sure what “meantime” means exactly but we’ll save that for later cogitation. There we were toolin’ along Highway 64 when I noted a road sign that called it Narrow Gauge Road. Hmmm . . . I had a bit earlier said something about it not seeming right, but C was sure it was only a moniker given to the highway because it was passing through the tiny town of Dulce.

Just as I wondered aloud if we were actually following a narrow gauge railroad bed, we spied ahead a defunct railroad bridge and an old water tower left from steam train days. No traffic in sight so we perform a quick middle-of-the-road stop so I can take a photograph. Proceeding, abruptly we run out of pavement and see the dirt road beginning a winding journey into the hills - this can’t be a good thing!

Fortunately, just before the serious winding gets going, we find a place to turn our rig around and get pointed back whence we came. A bicyclist engaged me in conversation, offering comfort in the observation that she sees folks miss that under-signed turn at the four-way stop numerous times.

Great -- we’re not alone. That’s the one thing I’ve come to understand in this life. It is literally impossible to be the first person to do anything, no matter how creatively doltish it may seem.

At any rate, it was interesting to drive through Dulce because it’s the site of one of many genealogical mysteries. Why, when he lived in Pagosa Springs at the time, did Lewis Beemer Rhodimer, brother of my great grandfather, Charles Bradner Rhodimer, go there to get married? A small thing but one I wish I could find an answer for. It seems even odder because of the town’s location on the reservation.

As it turns out, regaining our chosen route on 64 was not the best thing that happened today. It is a narrow winding road much in need of construction. Indeed, a lot of it is under construction, making those sharp curves infinitely more harrowing because there are no road markings and the pavement is buried under loads of loose gravel. To top it off, it traverses miles of rockfall country - those that have not already fallen onto the pavement are awaiting a prime moment to do so. Concrete barriers offer little solace; they have been breached and broken in numerous spots by boulders losing their hold on the cliffs above.

The ess-curve nature of the road requiring 35-miles-per-hour speed limits played havoc with what was alreadty anticipated to be a long travel day. It also did nothing for my nerves and I wasn’t even driving. Probably would have been better if I had been. It would have saved me a lot of yelling at Chris to slow down.

On the upside, when the cliffs do not appear to be poised to collapse onto the truck, they are very picturesque - a long rugged route down through sand-hued canyon walls.

Underground oil is plentiful in this stretch: we see a continuous string of well, pipelines and storage tanks. Too bad that this oil production requires very wide tanks to be transported on this very narrow road. I had to hold my breath each time a wide-load truck passed us going the other way. Obviously, if I had not done so, we would have not fit past them.

As we at long last left that behind, I vowed never to pull a trailer through there again. Off the Jicarilla Reservation, through the Carson National Forest that tantalizes with markers for Navajo Lake (can’t believe we didn’t do any fishing a’tall while there, will have to double-time it next trip), into New Mexico and onto the gigantic Navajo Reservation. I wonder if it’s good p.r. that Chris is wearing his White Mountain Apache t-shirt, but then Chris has no such qualms.

We stop for gas in Shiprock, fuel up, wash windows and trot inside for a pit stop and a cappuccino. Sounds much simpler than it was. One restroom and it’s occupied, so we wait, and wait, and wait. People line up behind us to wait, get tired of waiting and leave, and others line up behind us to wait. We wait so long that the clerk decides something is amiss and comes over with a key. She raps loudly and prepares to unlock the door, I guess presuming that someone has become entangled in the commode in a way that renders them unable to call for assistance. But no, a voice responds that she’s almost done. Finally, she emerges with effusive apologies but I am not sure if she’s even talking to us because she’s the same one I saw pacing outside earlier talking either to herself of to someone hooked into that apparatus attached to her face.

All the while we are experiencing our little bathroom debacle, Rowdy waits patiently in the truck. He has been more talkative than usual this morning. I think he translates our slowing and stopping so many times as nearing our destination, yet, to his consternation we keep going.

The roads this morning have all been very rough surfaced, making it difficult to type. I have learned from sad experiences that typing in my journal while being driven down the road can cause some odd paragraphs. Because I am gazing out at the landscape while I am typing, I fail to notice when a bump has caused the cursor to jump to an entirely different place. Or worse, it will sometimes highlight and delete large sections that I don’t notice until I have saved and gone on, so my masterpiece has disappeared forever.

We see that there has been recent rain through this area, and lots of it. The range and mountains are greened up to a fare-thee-well, Large stands of ponded water further attest to precipitation in the last couple of days. As we left the town of Shiprock and were passing the landmark after which it is named, Chris managed to find a bit of a place to pull to the right enough to stop so I could get a picture of that pinnacle as rain fell on it.

I always enjoy seeing the Navajos’ livestock grazing near the roadside. I see some fine horses, lots of sheep, a few beeves and some Angora goats busy producing raw material for the Indians’ incredible blankets. An unusually large garden we passed was a four-scarecrow corn field.

I noticed this morning that when Chris came home from his Wolf Creek trek and wanted me to insert in the journal a note about his three-toed woodpecker, that I placed it right in the middle of the dark-eyed junco sighting making it sound as if the woodpecker was hopping around on the ground, which it wasn’t.

Best billboard message: “November 2 - election day - time to take out the trash.”

We finished the trip with 58 birds, five of them life birds.

Sara just called to tell what she decided to fix for dinner at the Ronald McDonald House in Topeka, one of her community service ventures. She chose a new recipe from the Simple & Delicious magazine we send to her - a bacon/spaghetti/tomato dish, sounded wonderful. I’m proud of her for doing that; she heads the community service program for The Gap, her employer. Lewis does various community service projects through Walmart.

Aaah! Arizona - there’s no place like it; I’m glad to be home and will be even more happy to be at home. Wow, as we roll along with San Francisco Peaks in our sights, it’s obvious that it has been exceedingly wet here while we were away - tall grass, flowers and green everywhere. I do love our forests; they’re perhaps not as exotic with such an abundance of botanicals as Colorado’s, but they are marvelous nevertheless and besides, it’s home. Dropping over into the stunningly sunflowered meadows between Flagstaff and Williams while a light rain falls offers all a person could ask for in a homecoming.

Monday, August 16
Opal Lake, Wolf Creek, closer doin’s

A drizzly early morning shows every sign of working up to a pretty steady rain. With little experience of Colorado mountain weather, I don’t know if this might pass on through to reveal a bright sunny day or if what we see is what we get. While Chris is away and the rain is falling, I will get some cleaning done. That is when I am most grateful for the trailer’s small size.

Chris took rain gear and headed up for Wolf Creek Pass to do some hiking on the Continental Divide Trail. Last year, we hiked a bit up there and up to Treasure Falls in that locale. We were remarking on the bird difference between Treasure Falls and where we went yesterday. Up Wolf Creek way, we encountered an abundance of great birds; however, yesterday when we trooped into Opal Lake, there was not much at all. We did get a life bird (Eric will correct me if I can’t call this a life bird, but I think it qualifies): a gray-headed black-eyed junco. We have the non-gray-headed variety at home but this one is distinctly different and very pretty.

At Wolf Creek Pass, Chris got another life bird - a three-toed woodpecker.

The encounter was fairly amusing. The sighting was an adult feeding babies who were hopping across the ground after it and the bunch of them acted as if I were nowhere in their universe, and even when I walked right up to them, they darn near jumped on my feet.

We loved the hike into Opal Lake although it being Sunday afternoon, there were a few other people on the trail. It was a bit more open than the foray into the wilderness area. I’m surprised at how different various sites are from the each other given their close proximity.

The lake and its feeders streams, as might be surmised from its name, have a slight milky cast. It’s a pretty little lake, but perhaps not the good fishing that the guides give it credit for. One couple from the Midland/Odessa area of Texas was fishing but had no luck at all. We hiked part way out with them and had a nice talk along the way.

We spotted these striking hallucinogenic mushrooms on the way up the mountain. I know for sure they are hallucinogenic in two ways. First, because I saw the bear cub eat them and hallucinate in the film, “Bear”. The second proof I have that they cause hallucinations is that I ate one and immediately afterward, Chris began to talk about relationships and emotions.















About halfway up to the lake, we saw a small green-goop pond, near-stagnant and teeming with algae. It was nothing like the clear mountain waters usually found in Colorado, much more reminiscent of something that might be encountered in the deep South, an altogether different world but one with its own intriguing charms.

The biggest treat of the hike was finding ripe wild raspberries. It seems that no one else notices them, so we scoured the slopes as we sought out patches of the delectables. The plants are short scruffy little things with only a few berries on each one, so it was worth our while to continue the search over a large area.

These bushes topped with white berries caught my eye. Possibly the only thing I remember from girl scouts was the admonition: "Leaves three quickly flee, berries white take flight" referring to poison ivy and poison oak. Never once have I recognized either itch-causer but wonder if this was poison oak. Someone else always points out to me if I am in the vicinity of poison ivy and I am fairly sure I've never seen poison oak, at least not until now.

Chris was fascinated with traipsing up and over glacial moraines that spoke of a past ice age when huge glaciers pushed large amounts of soil into terraced hillsides. I enjoyed thoughts of a more recent past when hardy mountain men trekked these areas trapping beaver and likely looking out at the distant peaks now in my view. We saw signs of beaver, including a meadow that appeared to have been cleared of trees by them, but saw no active dams and recent activity, only derelict remains of their work in the streams.






Meanwhile . . .

Upon our return to the trailer, we enjoyed leftover pork chops converted into green chile tacos along with corn on the cob and watched a nearby gopher work steadily at creating a new home and gradually pull a huge weed into his den. I dislike developing a personal relationship with these little fellers because at home, we trap them to halt their destruction, but I couldn’t resist admiring this one’s industry while snapping a photo of him.

A jaunt into town for produce afforded us the opportunity to make some phone calls, connections we can’t have from the RV park. Sara was excited to tell me about happening onto the Discovery channel’s “Dual Survivors” program that features our very own Yavapai College’s Cody Lundin, whom we have all watched for years as he traverses campus and town barefoot. Then, the very next morning, I see that he has made the front page of our newspaper as the season finale of his new series approaches.

Thunder-boomer, domes, Rowdy . . .

Yesterday afternoon, we visited the springs, soaked and relaxed and then got out for a shower, as usual. Great timing - as soon as we exited, it came up a thunder-boomer of immense proportions, the kind where you can't hear yourself think as it pounds on the truck roof. It left drifts of hail on the roadside; we might as well not have had an awning because everything underneath it was soaked. The rain continued for quite a long time. This morning, though, (Tuesday), has dawned as clear and pretty as can be.

A short growing season and storms like yesterday's discourage home gardens here; however, geodesic dome greenhouses evidently take up the slack. We have seen them at numerous places in the area. Or could it be that a persuasive geodesic-dome greenhouse salesman was through here?

Rowdy finds comfort with his stuffed bunny while we are away and when thunder roars. We can't believe how fortunate we are to have such a sweet and patient companion.

Saturday, August 14
Townin’ it and stuff

One wonders how one can be so totally and utterly out of touch with the reality of one’s life; at least one does if one is me. No need to look back at what I may have written earlier about this trip. I know it included some claptrap about leisure, catching up on correspondence, reading, getting back to my Spanish studies and who know what other complete absurdities. Obviously, one will have to return home to do any of that because one’s thoughts now run more in the vein of “Shucks, here I am in Colorado. It would be a shame not to enjoy all this that is around me while I can.” And of course that makes perfect sense; however, one continues to be amazed that one could somehow think otherwise.

We have just spent an enjoyable (but chillier by the second) time visiting with a couple from Van, Texas, who stopped by with their dog, Claire, to listen to Chris playing keyboard. Lou and Marsha lived for 40 years in Tucson before retiring down south. They are seeking a new RV place to have their annual family reunion, one that will provide the grandkids with amusements. Obviously people of impeccable taste, they bought both of Chris’ cds.

We stuck close to town today, began with a massage for me at the Healing Waters Wellness Center across the street from the Springs Resort. The on-call therapist happened to be a naturopath and director of the clinic. Amber offered up a fine therapeutic massage whilst Chris trooped off up onto a nearby mountain.

Timing his return perfectly, he walked in the door as I was settling up. I had ordered a town day, so we set off on foot to peruse some shops along the main drag. I know that Melissa will identify with this need.

One, Handcrafted Interiors, was a gallery of creativity beyond any I have ever seen. If I had been watching Fourth of July fireworks, I couldn’t have oohed and ahhed any more. Every piece, from lamps to fine art to wall hangings to tables, was exquisite and truly the epitome of handcrafted creative uniqueness. Even Chris was taken with it all.

There were no others that could begin to compare with this one, so we didn’t dawdle much anywhere else.

We lunched in the shade of the trees over the outdoor deck at Kip’s Grill and Cantina where again unusual was the name of the game. Delicious tacos, but unlike any I’ve ever heard of. Mine was a green chile stuffed with mozzarella cheese ensconced on a bed of chopped sirloin and topped with mounds of chopped cabbage, tomatoes and jalapenos and bedded on two lightly grilled flour tortillas. Plenty tasty enough to return many times. No wonder the place is always packed.

Family history forever lurks . . .

I wanted to stop at the museum to thank the lady there for the assistance she gave us last year when we were searching out cousin Jerry’s ancestors. She was as nice and helpful as we remembered. In the course of comparing notes, we discovered several other possible ancestral connections with her. One was particularly intriguing. There was something about her Wilsons coming from Texas to Prescott, and it sounded more and more as if there will be a tie between her family and Johnny’s family for whom I have just completed a beginning genealogy. Can’t wait to see how this plays out.

When we had originally checked in with her (Ann Oldham) last year, we were looking for information about Jerry’s ancestral William Henry Walker and Lewis Beemer Rhodimer, brother to my great grandfather, Charles Bradner Rhodimer. Jerry has given me a bit more to work on with some collateral family members who were also in Pagosa in the early days. We (Chris, really) managed to find the cemetery again and we put fresh flowers on Mr. Walker’s grave. The American flag we put there last time was still in fine shape, amazingly. He served from Iowa during the Civil War.

A stop and soak at the springs was just the ticket to round out what passes for a leisurely day for us.

High hikes and bear scares . . .

Yesterday, Chris took off on his own for a long hike to get above treeline and enjoy the tundra at more than 12,000 feet. He enjoyed it so much and got two life birds and two new trip birds in the process: Hammond flycatcher, Cassin's vireo, blue-gray gnatcatcher and Brewer's blackbird. We've also added a gray jay.

I stuck around home to catch up on some correspondence and odds and ends, but couldn’t sit still for long, so headed off on a walk that evolved into a climb up a nearby hill. I was completely unencumbered by binocs or camera; when I attained the peak I had tackled and saw fresh bear scat, I wondered what I might do should I then encounter bruin, the originator of said scat, when I had not even so much as a cell phone with which to bonk him on the nose. To my great gratitude, said ursa did not appear anywhere on my path back home.

Etc. . .

I find it fascinating that the Pagosa Springs municipality provides heat to its residents by utilizing the abundant hot water that pours forth from the earth. In some cases, residents have their own private heating systems, much like Prescott residents who have their own water well. I’m told that even the sidewalks are warmed in winter from this steaming aquifer.

I neglected to mention earlier that while hiking at about 10,000 feet elevation, we encountered a horned toad and snapped this pic. I was completely flamboozled that such a creature would be up here in the mountains. Evidently, they actually reside here or else this little feller was quite a traveler, creating a visual for me of his trek from the desert, dodging predators and trucks to at last enjoy a summer vacation from the desert heat.

On our way to the Pagosa burying ground, I spotted a little beaver dam on a creek right in town just at the boundary of someone’s back yard so of course we had to circle back and get a picture of it.









While Chris was playing the keyboard outside, one particular hummingbird perched atop the feeder pole and chirped away with the music. We have yet to figure out the whys of this: although our seed feeder at the other park was mobbed by birds, there has not been a single one come by to dine on our offerings here. We are in similar circumstances right by a river, but are being snubbed. The hummers, however, have no such qualms and are entertaining us with their antics.







And last and definitely least, Chris snatched the camera and caught mom and Rowdy having a Sunday sleep-in.

Friday, August 13
Wolves and meteors

A drive down Durango way delivered us to a planned visit to the daughter of our friends, Ron and Joan. She and her husband live out in the boonies near the burg of Ignacio on a high mountain slope with dynamite views. All eyes here, however, are on the wolves. Paula and Craig inexplicably transformed from people seeking a labrador retriever at the Flagstaff humane society years ago to folks consumed with saving wolves from the horrible abuse heaped on them by humans. The animals in their care number 77, and always more are in need of their kindness and understanding.

They have accepted wolves and wolf/dogs in many stages of disease, pain and mutilation. One female had been chained to others for so long that her neck muscles were atrophied rendering her unable to hold up her head. Another can scarcely put weight on a mutilated foot after being caught in a coyote trap. They’ve been beaten with baseball bats, kicked in the head frequently enough to cause convulsions, had their legs and ribs broken, and internal organs damaged. Often, their lives are shortened because of what they have endured.

When they come to WolfWood Refuge, they receive whatever is necessary to rehabilitate them. Paula offered us a tour, something she does by appointment only, and amazed us with her extensive knowledge and love of these animals. She emphasized that the goal is not to domesticate the wolves, but to socialize them and allow them to have lives as full and normal as possible.

None of them can be released; instead, Paula puts her considerable understanding and intuitive sense into determining which wolves should be housed together, alone, with a dog or alpha companion and many other possible combinations, always discerning what is best for each individual animal. Some have claimed a territory where they were initially penned and cannot be happy in a larger enclosure or away from where they are comfortable.

Countless times each day and night, she climbs the steep hill along which are dotted the enclosures just above her house to feed, medicate, observe and interact with the canines. Her knowledge of the species in general and experience with each of those entrusted to her is phenomenal.

And every bit of the wolves’ needs are met by private donations, further made possible by volunteers who assist in the huge job of caring for them. They have been saved from abuse by individuals and from euthanasia by public agencies. A few can be adopted out to carefully screened homes. Most are at WolfWood for the remainder of their lives; here they find a compassionate environment where every effort is made to provide the best physical, mental, social and psychological situation for every wolf and wolf/dog.

We very much appreciated our tour of WolfWood and will highly recommend them as a worthy recipient of monetary tax-deductible contributions. The 24/7 work involved and expenses for veterinary care, medicine, surgeries, fencing, transportation to the many educational programs, food and facilities are staggering. I can’t imagine the job these people have set for themselves, but Paula says, “We get to live our passion.” And such would it have to be in order to maintain this consuming schedule and life. (Note to self: contact information is www.wolfwoodrefuge.org, www.wolfwoodrefuge.com, wolfwood1995@hotmail.com, or P.O. Box 312 Ignacio, CO 81137.)

We took advantage of being near the city to lunch at Fiesta Mexicana in Durango where we previously enjoyed the fare with Jon and Leslie. Reminder not to eat at the Pagosa restaurant across the river from the springs. It is always so tempting because of the wonderful view from the deck overlooking the San Juan and the springs; however, after three trips and three times eating there and always saying I'm not going to again, I forget, or its convenience entices me. We don't eat out much, so it's more disappointing to have a less-than-memorable meal when we do.

Balloon and night skies . . .

On the way to WolfWood, we enjoyed seeing this hot air balloon descending beyond Pagosa Lake.

A late-afternoon visit to the springs was especially restful. We had a nice conversation with an 85-year-old man who had flown out from his home in North Carolina to vacation at Pagosa with his daughter and son-in-law. They seemed to be having a fine time and we got to talk about Mom and Dad W. in N.C.

Knowing that the Perseid meteor shower was upon us, I arose last night at an absurd hour after about 30 minutes of mentally beating myself into giving up my warm bed. Chris declined my invitation to join me with a muffled one-word sensible response.

Dressed and wrapped in a blanket, I settled into a camp chair to observe the dark night. At this elevation, the stars are nothing short of astounding. My only obstructions were one very tall ponderosa pine and the Totee. Before coming outside, I noted the time, 3:10, because I knew my sleep-befuddled brain would lose it. I was soothed by the river’s rushing just below me. Almost immediately, I was rewarded by the sight of little zippy streaks of light across the sky. Those seemed to be everywhere; at times, there were longer brilliant vapor trails that remained in sight for longer periods of time.

How amazing to enjoy the most prolific meteor shower I have ever seen! I didn’t really want to give it up but sitting out there barefoot in rain-soaked flip-flops at last convinced me to retire. I felt so fortunate that the early evening wind- and rainstorm lashed us with a vengeance and then cleared the skies for perfect viewing.

When I returned, I again noted the time: 3:33 exactly. I had counted precisely 23 meteors - one for every minute I was there.