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.