Home stretch . . .

Up at quarter past six, on the road two hours later. Not sure what to expect at home but Leslie tells me the snow dumped by a late winter storm is disappearing quickly. Most likely it has created some havoc with my spring bloomers and undoubtedly spelled doom for our peach crop.

Nor did the widespread storm do a whole lot for our last day down south - Saturday was gloomy with nearly constant rain, no sunshine at all, cold and windy. Today, though, we are blessed with lots of blue overhead and calm for our drive.

A last look at Mount Wrightson beyond surrounding communities shows it skirted in low clouds. A bit later, we see the entire desert floor seeming to smolder as the mist rises eerily out of the ground. North of Tucson, a break in the clouds reveals Mount Lemmon’s snow-covered summit.Despite the extreme drought in Arizona’s southland, I am happy to see the palo verde trees beginning to burst forth with their bountiful yellow-green blossoms. I’m still surprised to find how dry the winter has been here in sharp contrast to one our most moisture-laden seasons for a long time.

We filled our dreary Saturday with preparations for today’s departure and worked some more on our Hoppes genealogy before spending the afternoon and evening at Barb & Jim’s. They will head back to Michigan soon; we likely will not see them again soon so the time together was appreciated, as was the great supper Barb prepared.

We also set up for me to begin doing a bit of research on Barb’s Beebe ancestors. Now that I have begun doing genealogy research commercially, I find that I am even more excited to be home and back to “work”.

Seems that Rowdy knows we are heading home (I did tell him so, after all); he has plenty to say today about how long it’s taking, keeps coming up front to urge Chris to put the petal to the metal and get us there.

Our drive northward astounds us with the wintry scenes - snow-covered mountains everywhere we look: east of Phoenix even and near New River, notably non-snowy locales, and of course our region is also sporting whitewashed peaks.Final birds for the trip were Anna’s hummingbird and red-shafted northern flicker for a tally of 71 - not too shabby.

An appropriate end to this trip journal is a picture of Rowdy urging us forward as we approach home.

Wednesday, April 6
Leavetaking . . .

Taking time to imagine the best possible final evening of our stay at Roper Lake . . . oh never mind, no need at all . . . .the reality is so much better than anything I could have conjured. A sweater afternoon culminated an all-day storm-clouded sky and made a dip in the hot spring sound most appealing. The hot tub at the park is a stone pool about ten feet across carved out of the ground so that when fully immersed, one’s head pokes up above ground level just enough to allow admiration of the desert trees and shrubs all around.

Mount Graham has disappeared completely and the huge jagged peaks that make up its foothills are shrouded in mist - rain or snow. We have the hot spring to ourselves; it is a perfect evening meditation, soothing our bodies and quieting our minds.Having heard no news for a week, we can nevertheless see that rain is imminent, so bring in the camp chairs, awning and rugs in anticipation and will spend the remainder of the evening safely and warmly tucked inside.

Emmy Lou Harris sings us down the road this morning as we turn our noses westward toward Green Valley. Much of this traverse is on interstate which we avoid as much as possible, preferring to make our way on back roads and byways. We do keep the trailer on pavement, though, so as not to shake it to pieces, reserving dirt roading for the Toter alone.

Last night’s storm dissipated without dropping more than a splatter on our campsite. The residual clouds darkened Graham’s forward peaks and revealed the mountain itself to be nearly devoid of snow now - presumably rain melted most of the winter’s final snowpack.Yesterday was a not-feel-so-good day. I was overcome with drowsiness as if I were recovering from the flu that I never had, so as Benjamin Franklin only half recommended, I was early to bed and late to rise. Feeling much better today, thank you very much.

Pre-pit stop . . .

Planning a pit stop along our way today, we unfortunately chose an exit under construction. By itself, that would not have been a problem, but a truck in front of us broke down in the midst of his turn, backing traffic way the heck down the interstate. I thanked the heavens that I was not that truck driver, who seemed to be in quite a panic over his dilemma. At least there were plenty of construction workers around to help him mill around. It appeared that when he opened his hood, the engine would work and when he closed it, it ceased running. Finally, they guided him out of his stalemate while he drove with the hood open, an interesting maneuver, luckily just a short one to get him out of the road.Green Valley . . .

We easily locate our new parking place, Green Valley RV Resort, and are led to our space by Herb, a nice little man in a golf cart. The park is akin to the one we have used in Tucson, lots of permanent setups - probably primarily seasonal - some park models and RV spaces. All very nice, clubhouse filled with folks doing jigsaw puzzles, ladies sewing away (quilting?) on their machines, others lolling in the sunshine by the pool and jacuzzi, others walking here and there - all very friendly and with full hookups.

That last is a big deal because now we can use water in a more normal manner instead of extreme conservation to avoid filling the tanks. At the state park and other places with only water and electric, the tanks can only be emptied at the exit so caution is the name of the game.

I take full advantage here and go into overdrive with cleaning thoroughly, a dire need after the past week in dusty digs with zero cleaning. Follow that up with a shower at the park’s facility (sure beats bathing utilizing our seven-gallon water heater) and all is well. Chris works hard at getting our shepherd’s hook into the caliche soil so we can hang our bird feeders. The awning unrolled, patio rugs put down, chairs and table set up outside and we are home. Surprisingly, this place provides nice patio slabs but no picnic tables, so meals will be inside.

Visiting . . .

The day’s routine of moving improved instantly with the arrival of Norma and George for an evening of visiting and dining. Root beer floats, purple cows and o.j. started us off, cooled us down and got us ready for a meal of spaghetti and salad, seemingly enjoyed by all.The logistics of preparing meals in our meager kitchen space has evolved so that we have become fairly proficient as long as we remember our limitations.

How nice to have time to catch up with our friends. Seems knee replacements are all the rage these days (I’ve lost count of how many people I know running around with bionic joints) and George is soon to join their ranks.

Weather cooling drastically, we all don sweaters for our evening outside after supper - time to catch up and reminisce.

Saturday brings Barb and Jim come to pick us up for a day in the mountains. Uncooperative weather causes adjustments to planned activities. Hikes in the open give way to canyon birding in order to avoid howling wind as much as possible. Madera Canyon in the Santa Ritas provided a somewhat sheltered interesting and beautiful place to spend our day.Eureka! . . .

The day’s birding began with a whimper and built to a bang with the sighting of our first life bird of the trip - an elegant trogan! What a beautiful bird, and what a thrill to see it not once but twice in different places and for extended periods. Without a doubt, we would have walked right on past him (he hunches down on a branch and moves not a muscle), but a man and his daughter had spied him and were photographing as we approached.By day’s end, we had garnered another life bird - hepatic tanager - and a bunch of other trip birds. The canyon is renowned for the variety of species within its confines. Several lodges hang multiple feeders out for their guests’ pleasure.

Also added to the trip list are: Gila woodpecker, wild (in this case, not very) turkeys, white-breasted nuthatch, painted redstart, hermit thrush, ruby-crowned kinglet, acorn woodpecker, Scott’s oriole, black-headed grosbeak, pine siskin, broad-billed hummingbird, bridled titmouse, chipping sparrow, Mexican jay, lazuli bunting, broad-tailed hummingbird, cedar waxwing, Wilson’s warbler, canyon towhee, Bullock’s oriole and canyon wren.

Frogs and food . . .

As we wandered off-trail and down the route of a small canyon-bottom creek, we discovered the most intriguing tiny frogs that hid chameleon-like in depressions on granite boulders. Each one picked pocks that matched its size, blending in so that they became nearly impossible to see.Wind-blasted, we made our way home to showers and a change of clothes before the six of us met up for an excellent supper at Manuel’s, a popular raucous dining establishment, then retired to our house for swapping stories of adventures past and yet-to-be.

More Monday, April 4
“Fishing” the Gila, Pimas, gadwalls . . .

Oh for crying out Pete’s sake, I didn’t mean to include the Dankworth Pond stuff in the last email I sent out; I never even read what I wrote and now it’s too late so I will not go back and see how bad it is. Evidently easily confused, the delay between doing, writing and sending is starting to get to me. Oh, to have my good ol’ wifi at hand. Oh well, I am assisting Safford’s economy: today we purchased one small soda pop to share lest I feel guilty taking up space, however brief, at Burger King.

Anyway, Dankworth was yesterday so I guess it’s just as well the account is out of my hair. And then there’s today. The bright idea for the morning was to get out early to fish in the Gila River. Okay, so we exited the trailer fairly early and then were on our way . . . but wait . . . Chris wanted to take the scenic route. A woman at Walmart chatted us up when we were buying fishing licenses, always an excuse for visiting, and told the tale of the giant catfish. Luckily, C knew exactly the spot Moby Dick was hooked. Unluckily, he knew a “better” way to get there. Too bad that road doesn’t go through any more.

Much tracking, backtracking and retracking later, we arrive at our destination, a likely looking hidey-hole for monster fish - Jaws could be hiding in there. Much discussion, crossing to the other side on a bridge, more backtracking to the first side, slipping down the slope to the water, rigging our poles - now to cast on out there - dagnabit! My first cast clears the water entirely and hangs up across the way. More climbing out, crossing the bridge, back- and re-tracking - better luck this time, relatively speaking, luck indeed if one is fishing for large green heavy gobs of algae.Our fishing hole is immediately below the diversion dam with which early farmers rerouted the river to water their crops. Encyclopedic partner tells me that those pioneers impoverished the downstream Pima Indians who depended on the Gila to water their crops which were a mainstay of early Phoenix settlers’ diets, leaving the natives in starvation conditions.

But I digress (as usual). Substantially cooler today, the temps hover around the crossover point of 70s to 80s, and a darn good thing, too, after the shenanigans we conjure for the afternoon.

Tiring quickly of the aquatic weed blobs we harvest for our efforts, we decide to move upriver from the dam away from the channelized water. The bad news is that the river is extremely wide and shallow there but by then we’re tired from our efforts not to slide down into the water at the other spot, so C goes back to the truck for lunch and chairs. The spot is pleasant, the current is slow, a kildeer calls as it flies past, so who really cares that any fish worth his salt wouldn’t dream of wandering into the ankle-deep water.

Eventually embarrassed about calling the pastime fishing, I decide we might try farther upriver. A quick glance behind us confirms a stand of trees and brush too dense to even think about entering and being without any river bank on which to advance, we scramble back the way we came, find a way behind the dry jungle-like vegetation and advance toward our goal. Well, not far really, just enough river-rocky footing to wear us out and convince us of the folly of our ways.

Hmmm . . . perhaps we should abandon this stretch of water for now, do additional backtracking and head out to the Gila Box area where surely we will find good river access. After all, we’ve been out there before, so more driving while listening to music out of the back seat grab bag of CDs I have cavalierly tossed in. This time we come up with Daniel Nahmod and Heidi Claire, an unlikely but enjoyable musical duo.

At the first sign of a two-track in the direction of the Gila, we turn off the dirt road we are following and proceed on a rocky track that is scarcely discernible until it quickly ceases to be. Off to the east across about a quarter-mile canyon bottom, we see black cliffs backdropping a solid bank of tall cottonwood trees and hear the siren call of the river.

Too bad that between here and there are first a steep rubbly drop-off, followed by thorny thickets of mesquite, catclaw and various other vegetations determined to keep us from our assigned fishing. At least ten minutes of discussion ensues: should we risk catapulting to our imminent demise down this slope on our right or ought we take our chances with sliding downward and being crushed by a rockfall on our left? And then if there should perchance be a survivor, could they manage to finagle a way through the thicket guarding the river in order to keep our appointment with scores of small-mouth bass?

Okay, the left side it is: carefully planting each tennis-shoed foot to avoid beginning the slide that might not stop. Oh yes, did I mention that neither of us has come prepared with our boots today? Success - we do it with nary a slip and continue toward the thickety thicket when C remembers that he forgot - the worms. They are safely stowed in the back of the pickup perched atop the steep slope. He forgot ‘em, seems only fair that he retrieve ‘em. Before that rash move, though, Chris scouts ahead to determine if we have half a chance to penetrate that impenetrable brush wall before us.

The good news is we can probably get through very carefully if we don’t mind being slashed from stem to stern in the process. The bad news is that beyond the brush there is an uncrossable water-filled canal. “Dash it all”, I exclaim in my carefully modulated and managed response. Well, not really, what I really do is accuse Chris of lying about the canal in order to avoid returning for the worms, but dash it all, I am now exhausted and frustrated, but unwilling to give it up after such efforts.

So Chris promises that we will return someday in an ultralight or some other unkeepable promise and we climb out, a much easier task than the downward motion one.

Driving farther into the box, we stop at an overlook because in my delirium, I believe there may be an actual trail to the river. No trail, no surprise, but we spy waterfowl on the river far below us, entirely too distant to identify with binoculars so I retrieve our trusty spotting scope from the truck. Not easy even with the scope at this distance, but much looking, checking the guidebook, more looking interspersed with discussion and disagreement, we at last positively identify the little flock floating on the Gila as gadwalls. Very exciting - we’ve gotten them in California, Utah and Oregon, but never in Arizona. The book says this is within their winter range, but April seems to be pushing that. And we would never have gotten them without that great scope sold to us by Eric at Jay’s Bird Barn in Prescott.

With a success under our belts even if it is not of the fish kind, we head back home, wandering a bit first in the Solomonville graveyard and through that small town filled mostly with mobile homes and interesting historic adobes. The burying ground also rests on a mesa top - seems the early farmers planted their deceased in the only places they couldn’t plant their crops.

This cemetery has an entirely different, less civilized atmosphere than the Graham County plot. Hundreds and hundreds of graves are strewn willy-nilly across the area, through drainages onto adjoining hilltops and nearly all are mounded high with river rock. Indeed, the surface is so rocky it defies logic how even one grave could be dug here. Easily 90% of them are unidentified and new ones are interspersed with old and unknown.

Enough: we head for home tired and dirty but happy with our day.

Other birds for the day include: kestrel, rock dove, black-throated sparrow, western kingbird and kildeer. There was a small wren spotted by the river but we never got a positive i.d. on him.

Tuesday, April 5
Cluff Ranch, Pond #3, ramblings . . .

Yummy! Fresh Wuehrmann-caught rainbow trout for supper. Quite a surprise to us to catch rainbow trout at all at Pond #3, but then to catch nothing but rainbow trout was even more unexpected. Good thing we always get trout stamps on our licenses.The Cluff Ranch, once an important gathering place for local folks as the Cluffs hosted many picnics and lake parties, now a nature preserve, remains a popular spot for hikers, birders, fisher people, swimmers and picnickers. This day, we were fisher people and swimmers. For our day at the lake, the sun warmed us and the breeze cooled us and when it did not cool us enough, a swim was deliciously refreshing. Previously, we have hiked and birded at Cluff Ranch.

Pond #3 with its nondescript name is a lovely body of water in the foothills of Mount Graham, fed by Ash Creek. It appears to be larger than Roper Lake. We got three new trip birds there: verdin, phainopepla and pied-billed grebe. There were more, to be sure; however, we were more interested in what was in the water rather than what was over it.

We saw some young men catching crappie when we arrived and thought that would be what we would likely get, but in the end, we caught eight trout, kept four and ate three. If that doesn’t add up quite right, it’s because one Houdini was missing when we pulled up the stringer, seems C neglected to close one of the clips. He recited his oft-repeated refrain of “I don’t know what happened!!!” Oh well, the three we got home with made a perfectly nice meal after Chris prepared them on the grill.

I didn’t mention earlier that while scouting around above the Gila, I found rocks that I thought could be meteorites. Casey knows about these things, hopefully, she will give me some pointers on identifying them.

Our feeders have attracted a chipmunk who blends right in with the ground-feeding birds. What fun it is to sit at the picnic table enjoying the huge variety of birds (and animal) that gather there in some semblance of harmony. The various colors and habits are wonderful to behold. This morning, we had nine varieties at once, including the beauty of a yellow-headed blackbird, red-winged blackbird, male and female cardinals, Abert’s towhee and more.A couple of days ago, while I was sitting outside writing, I shot a photo of this butterfly perched for the longest time on my lap desk. I wonder if it was a sign from my friend Diane, who died while we were previously at Roper. We had just seen her at the heart hospital in Phoenix on our way down south.

Melissa tells me that their climate in Hendersonville, North Carolina, is much sunnier, less gloomy she says, than that in Boone, so she understands why the Boone, NC couple might appreciate the bluer skies of Arizona.

We both (Rowdy, too?) are covered with small red insect bite bumps but we can’t figure out what they are from. We agree they don’t seem like mosquito bites and they don’t act like gnat bites (Dad was so allergic to gnat bites that his eyes would swell shut). They really seem like chigger bites but we have never heard of chiggers in Arizona and we have been no place that would seem to harbor chiggers if they did exist here. I didn’t know a chigger from a hole in the ground until I first went to Texas. Even then, the cousins had to explain to me the cautions necessary to avoid the nasty little beggars. Unfortunately, none of us escaped the maddening itch of chigger bites - C, me, Lewis and Sara - all learned our lesson the hard way.

Chris shocked me by announcing our departure date, day after tomorrow. It seems as if we just got here - much too short! Three days in Green Valley, then home. If we could find a place with full hookups here, we could stay longer; obviously a months-long stay would not satisfy all that we want to do in this region. Will just have to pack each day full and enjoy it to the max. It’s always as good to get home as it is exciting to leave.

Sunday, April 3
Days of rest, blogging, birds . . .

Sunday: a day of rest, but then that seems to be pretty much all we’ve done since we got here and no complaints on my part.

We walked the perimeter of the lake and identified quite a few new trip birds in the process. Later, got even more while sitting at outside the trailer. So far, we’ve added to the list: lesser goldfinch, cardinal, yellow-headed blackbird, Say’s phoebe, great-tailed grackle, hooded oriole, ruddy duck, lesser scaup, white-winged dove, vermilion flycatcher, bufflehead, curve-billed thrasher, osprey, roadrunner, northern mockingbird, Abert’s towhee, black-chinned hummingbird, house finch, green-tailed towhee and Brewer’s sparrow. A pretty good list for hanging out and doing not much of anything. We’ve actually become relatively adept and identifying and enjoy it as something that can be done everywhere we go.We’ve placed a cut-off yogurt container under a nearby leaky faucet to make it easier for the birds to get a drink while dining at our feeders, although they are very adept at hanging upside down from the spigot in order to sip.

This morning, we wandered into town to sip coffee and send the travelogue from Burger King. The lady at the counter was very friendly. When she offered us free refills of “senior” coffee, Chris asked a pretty silly question: how did she know we were seniors? She just smiled and said, “It takes one to know one.”

Roper Lake is a nice little state park, one of those that was to close due to State budget cuts, but was saved by joint County, State and volunteer efforts. Seems there is less paid staffing and increased volunteerism and law enforcement by the County Sheriff’s office.

The sites all have water and electric hookups for RVs and nice ramadas with picnic tables. There is substantial day use of the hot spring and lake by local folks in addition to the 38 RVers. Because there are no sewer hookups, it is necessary to use the bathrooms and showers provided and they are kept up very nicely. This is our fourth stay here and probably not the last, although we have not been here this late in the season before. It has been hot, of course, but not awful. Today seems to be staying a bit cooler - breezy, in the 80s, and the nights always cool off substantially. And if one gets too warm, there’s always that lake to jump into.

It has been kinda buggy in the evenings - the gnats and mosquitoes drove us indoors a couple of times; that was not a problem when we were here earlier in the season.

Kachina Spa . . .

Reason enough to drive down here, I visited Kachina Spa yesterday for the usual incredible experience they offer. First is a 15-minute soak in the 108-degree mineral water flowing through a private Roman-style tiled room. Following that was an hour-long deep-tissue massage (Leann was my therapist this time), another soak in the water and polished off with a sweat-wrap and 15 minutes of reflexology. The word bliss does not convey.

Whilst all that was occurring, I had a nice chat with Leann, a Safford native who is raising her 10-year-old granddaughter. A nice lady and a great therapist, she has endured some incredibly rough territory and come through it bitterless.

Safford natives and ancestors . . .On the subject of Safford natives, we made a pilgrimage to the Graham County cemetery to clean family graves and leave flowers. My sister-in-law Sharon is buried there as are her ancestors, my niece Shannon’s forebears. Peter O. Peterson, his wife Mary Anderson and their daughter Mary Peterson Brown were Mormon pioneers in this valley, arriving here in 1882. Plaques to that effect have been added to their gravestones since we were here last. Besides those ancestors, we also left flowers for Shannon’s grandmother Thelma Brown and her cousin Kaci Forte.The graveyard is atop a mesa with 360-degree mountain views, but still has a desolate feel to it. Peter Peterson’s name is one of those inscribed on the gatepost.

Farming, bubonic plague . . .

Right now, this whole region seems fairly desolate, obviously not having gotten a fraction of the ample moisture that winter brought to the north part of the state. Besides the unfortunate winter kill here, all is sere brown vegetation except in the drainages where the cottonwoods, willows and tamarisk provide green ribbons across the valleys.

Although farming is much reduced hereabouts, there remain fairly extensive irrigated acreages. I think much of this land is planted to cotton; the fields have been disked, furrowed and are now having their first irrigation. Some of the water comes from the Gila River and some is groundwater that is pumped out. I wonder if a dearth of both has curtailed much of the cultivation.
On the way from the graveyard, we photographed one of the odder houses I’ve ever seen. It appears to have originally been a very tall cylindrical water tank and now sports windows, doors and decks with railings. Clever, I suppose, but not terribly attractive.Earlier when it was too hot to be bustling around, we did some genealogy work with a book we purchased long ago but had yet to peruse. Its subject is the history of the Swiss Happes/Hoppes family. One sobering section concerned our ancestors, Anna Froelich and Peter Hoppes. Both of them perished in 1611 along with two of their three children - all from bubonic plague. The family’s only survivor was infant Joachim, less than one year old. The province where they lived lost nearly half its population within three months - unimaginable.

Hummingbirds, root beer, more . . .

It took a while for the hummingbirds to find our feeder but now that they have, there is the typical warfare with their kind. Chris wondered why hummingbird feeders even have multiple feeding stations; they are seldom used simultaneously as the wee ones defend their territory.

Yesterday afternoon was topped by root beer floats and popcorn; what more could a person want? Oh yes, while online at Burger King, I rediscovered the first name of the man from Fort Thomas who organized the first Lions Club - he was Melvin Jones, born at that frontier outpost as the son of a U.S. Army captain.

Quote for the day (from Newton via Mary Morrisey): “If I have seen further, it is because I have stood on the shoulders of giants.” Here’s to all those who came before.

Monday, April 4
Dankworth Pond . . .

Yesterday afternoon when I was finally able to tear myself away from my book (I’m reading Barbara Kingsolver’s fascinating “The Poisonwood Bible”), Chris agreed to forego any more music work (he was rewriting some of his choral pieces to accommodate a soloist) and we hied ourselves over to Dankworth Pond. It is an outlier of Roper Lake Park, a lovely little place. A 15-acre water catchment, Dankworth was built to be a fish hatchery for rearing catfish. It has grown up with cattails choking most of its perimeter and we learned that it has not had fish stocked since a dieoff caused by algae build-up.

There is a 1.75-mile trail around the pond, along the seasonal stream that escapes it and up onto a nearby mesa. We decided that our late-afternoon visit was just right for setting off and so we did, with balmy temps and a nice breeze. It didn’t seem as far as the sign proclaimed (I usually think it’s much farther) and we enjoyed our jaunt thoroughly.

As we approached the parking lot, we were met by the resident volunteer, Buddy, an 82-year-old veteran. He has lived in a tiny RV on the premises for six years, but has been told he must leave by the end of May; seems someone in the “system” has decided he has been there too long.

Buddy doesn’t know where he will go, but says he has appointments at the VA Medical Center in Tucson so needs to remain in the area for medical care. This is how we treat our elders and our veterans. I wonder if anyone will have an idea for him . . . I am more than a little outraged that this gentle man would be treated thus.

A real treat for last night’s appetizer: bread dipped in olive oil from Queen Creek Olive Mill and mellow delicious balsamic vinegar from Olive U Naturally in Prescott’s Bashford Courts. The vinegar was a gift from cousin Eva Miller from Missouri and is it ever wonderful - thank you, Eva. We purchased the olive oil at the mill when we visited that interesting place last year with Barb and Bud.

New birds are Brewer’s blackbird, violet-green swallow, barn swallow and red-tailed hawk.

Southeastern Arizona heat

Leaving . . . or not . . .

We have escaped the home place and all its attendant duties. Beyond hectic getting ourselves shoveled out as we attempted to finalize every livin’ last item we had agreed to and to ensure that the Totee was fully stocked with every livin’ last item we might wish to have in the next ten days. Turns out on the first morning that we have a list of forgotten things that will be remedied by a kamikaze run to Walmart at some point.

No matter: the important thing is we got here, here being Roper Lake near Safford in southeastern Arizona. We began this journey in fits and starts. We have just completed our third cd of Chris’ music - this one Celtic in nature and had been promised delivery of the final product on Wednesday just in time for a Thursday departure. After the agonies of its birth, we were anxious to view the baby; however, the midwife was late and it was not pooked out until Thursday.

I dragged my feet to a fare-thee-well on leave-taking morning as labor pains intensified, but still no CD. Finally, my excuses ran out and we loaded up ourselves and Rowdy and headed down the road. In the hubbub of departure, I somehow forgot about the four cups of coffee consumed and so a stop at our very own local convenience store was necessary. I typically wait until a couple of towns down the road at least. Then: Eureka! There’s the Fedex man! Wow, this is perfect - it has been conspired that we get the CD before leaving, after all, but no, he is not the midwife.

I give up (well, not really - those words don’t seem to be in my vocabulary), and we set off once again. Until, that is, I spy the UPS man exiting a business on the opposite side of the highway. “Stop!” I holler, sending Chris into a bit of a snit. My mood veers toward incensed: I mean doesn’t he want to get the CD as much as I before we are gone for ten days?! There is the small matter of pulling a travel trailer and being on a busy four-lane highway that seems to deter him from slamming on the brakes and whipping a U-turn to chase down the big brown truck that is speeding away with our offspring.

At last convinced, he finds a place to turn our rig around and we proceed whence we came, right through the middle of town trying to locate the kidnapper. What if, I think, he was actually headed to our house to drop off the prize? So . . . we swing by there, give the housesitter a call from out in front, but no luck. A half-hour after we began, we begin again, both relieved (of coffee) and resigned (to no CD).

A call later in the day from the housesitter informs us that our child awaits and has been stashed in the closet awaiting our return. As new parents are wont to proclaim: we’re just glad it’s healthy, and besides, it’s something exciting to look forward to when we get home.

The drive was relatively uneventful except for that one large pickup red-light runner right at our corner, an incident that precipitated some serious talking-to in our cab, I assure you. Chris was swinging a bit wide into the left lane to make our right turn on a very yellow light when I saw said getting-huger-by-the-minute guy flooring it to get through the intersection and yelled to beat the band. In his usual way, Chris was responding in a let-me-explain-everything-away mode instead of heeding my screeching. When all was said and done, the driver skated by us in a blur, leaving Chris and me with something to “discuss” for several miles.

Sights along the road . . .

Our route along U.S. highways 60, 70 and then 191 affords an incredible variety of scenery and interest. As we pass Boyce Thompson Arboretum, I remember that my cousin Jim Pipkin plays music there and loves the place, as do I - just wish it wasn’t quite so far away from us. I determine to make it a destination in the near future. The most memorable time we visited there, my in-laws were with us. That was the pleasant part. The part where I make a fool of myself in their presence was yet to commence. That came about when I buried my schnozz into a rose to savor its aroma and encountered a bee that protested my presence at his meal.

Coming through the mineralized mountains is a beautiful drive surrounded by various-golden-hued rocky cliffs. As we traverse these lower elevations, we see that the palm trees are all dead, evidently not surviving this past winter. We lost plantings at home, too, when the temperatures dropped into subzero levels.

We always enjoy being on the San Carlos Apache Reservation - much history in this area.

Just south of there, is Fort Bowie. Several times we have hiked into that stockade and been wowed by how immersed in days past it feels. It’s a wonderful hike with interpretative plaques along the way. The signs include historic photos taken at that exact spot which enhances whatever the imagination comes up with.

Amazingly, we find a historical marker not-previously-perused, so stop we must. This one in in the tiny burg of Fort Thomas, site of yet another Indian Wars-era stockade. The marker, however, is not about that at all. It marks Fort Thomas as the 1879 birth of --- Jones, the founder of the now-international Lions Club. Who wouldda thought? While stopping there, we were greeted by a local Lions member who invited us to join up on the spot. He was hosting some of the club’s big wigs from Chicago. Very friendly folks - after a short “Where are you from?” and “My, hasn’t it grown there!” we again set off.

We’ve been trespassed . . .

About six hours after our departure (the second one), we pulled into Roper Lake State Park, did the self-pay thing because the ranger had departed for the evening and discovered a trailer sans truck parked in our reserved space despite the obvious reservation maker out front. We cast around here, there and the next place hunting for a ranger, to no avail, and still no one home at the offending domicile. This has never happened to us before; we are road-weary and anxious to set up and relax but it is not to be. We find a non-reservable space in which to cool our jets and determine to wait it out. I write a polite note to tape onto the interloper's door and we go for a walk. Darkness has set in and the stroll is pleasant, especially when we meander by the park’s hot spring pool, find two friendly folks there who invite us to join them.

That sounds like just the ticket so we head back to our trailer to deposit Rowdy (he has been carried along on the walk and is quite enjoying being out and about for occasional rolls in the dirt) and change into swim suits for our dip. As plans sometimes do, this one went awry; a truck has appeared at “our” space, so that needs to be dealt with. I begin unsetting the Totee while Chris informs the trespasser that he is trespassing. He is less than ecstatic to hear from us, it being yet another bump in his already bumpy road. Briefly: his wife kicked him out of the house, he spent the night in jail and had just settled into (he thought) a place of respite. Chris kindly helped him to relocate and then we moved and reset ourselves in the dark.

There is no wifi service here, if I decided to transfer my journal to the blog, I will have to do it later at home or retire my computer to a more civilized place.

Our birds so far consist of those pretty much expected: House sparrow, raven, turkey vulture, red-winged blackbird, Gambel’s quail, mourning dove, mallard, American coot, white-crowned sparrow, yellow-rumped warbler and northern harrier, not much that we wouldn’t see at home. We put out our feeders and the quail immediately took advantage of the scattered seed.

After our cold winter, I was anxious to get warm and warm we shall be. The thermometer that we had for the trailer window has long since been smashed to smithereens when we forgot to remove it before driving off somewhere or another, but I am sure we will be seeing low 90s today amid full sunshine. Sounds like a swimming day if I ever heard of one.

Lazy days . . .

Our first full day here and one big disappointment: we had anticipated getting together with my brother and sister-in-law who were wintering in their RV in Benson, but when we called them first thing this morning, they had just headed out for Oregon. I guess their schedule was already set and we couldn’t get away any sooner than we did.

How nice it would have been to have them over to our “house” and to join us for our afternoon lake swim. In this heat, there was nothing for it but to take a dip, so dip we did and it was just next to sublime. The water was cold enough to refresh, but warm enough to allow a person to stay in without turning into a numb lump of gooseflesh. The swim was followed by one of my favorite things: lying sleepily on the beach, eyes closed, basking in the sun, half hearing people talking, splashing, laughing. In this case, the background noise contained an undertone of a distant cacophony of red-wing blackbirds. Interesting how sounds near water are different than those on dry-land.

The view of majestic Mount Graham rising above us while we floated on the water added to the visual beauty. Even with the heat on the valley floor, there is substantial snow pack about one-third of the way down the mountain’s canyons.

We’ve met some very nice folks already. First was Bob, who sold us our fishing licenses at Walmart. Coincidentally, he used to live in Peeples Valley by us and knows our friends, the Hays family there. He also lived in Silver City, New Mexico, but now Safford after losing his wife of 58 years. He said he graduated from Tucson High School three years after I was born.

Off on a little jaunt to see the town of Artesia near here, we spotted an elderly (more than us) man with a broke-down car, so we turned around to offer assistance. About the best we were able to do was to offer him pliers and help him to stare at his useless engine. I didn’t want to leave him out there alone in the heat so we waited until his wife, Ruth, arrived. Oddly enough, Frank had been on his way to rescue his son who was stranded near Willcox.

When I asked about the evident wide-spread winter kill in this area, Frank said it got down to six degrees last winter. The damage is sadly extensive: we see everywhere dead oleanders, palms, eucalyptus and much more.

Later, we made the acquaintance of our neighbors, Bob and Andy and their cute little dog, Abby. They are in an A-liner pop-up far from their home in Boone, North Carolina. They are lovers of the West, intending to move this direction just after her imminent last semester of teaching freshman English at Appalachian State University.

They have been camping and volunteering at Chiricahua National Monument, not too distant from here, for three winters. Andy asked what seasons we have been in North Carolina, but then said it didn’t matter - no matter when we had been there, she said, it would have been cloudy, emphasizing how much she enjoys the “guaranteed” sun in Arizona.

I think tonight I would like a second soak in the park’s natural stone hot tub under the stars. It was the perfect ending to yesterday to relax in that lovely warm mineral water. We were visiting with three girls, students at Eastern Arizona Community College, but found the conversation a bit taxing when three high school boys joined us. It reminded me to never come back as a high school boy.

I expect we will not be doing as much of our typical exploring this trip, just finding it relaxing to have a change of scenery.