Woodchute wilderness
May 24, 2012

Eastward we point ourselves this morning, but our primary destination is not far distant.  Chris has a yen to explore the Woodchute Mountain section of the Mingus range.  With typical ambivalence about where I’m going, I’m just thrilled to be on a wander, so agree to his so-called plan.

He informs me that there is a Woodchute Wilderness Area up there: there being the mountains that separate our Chino Valley from the Verde Valley.  I have been adventuring up there since childhood, but there remain plenty of untrammeled-by-me areas.

The road is windy (that’s a long “i”) and the weather is not windy (short “i”), giving us optimism for a perfect hiking day.  We stop at a Forest Service mailbox that announces via a sign that trail maps are inside, and sure enough, they are.  Unfortunately, as maps, they are seriously deficient but no matter, we wander on.

As we near a nearly dry tank, I spot fluttery bird activity and we disembark for a look-see.  Perhaps the little remaining water contains intoxicants; the two strikingly-colored acorn woodpeckers are acting in most strange ways, seeming to emulate flycatchers.  We get good looks at them because for this trip, I have loaded up our super-duper spotting scope (thanks, Jay’s Bird Barn!).

The tank is at the lower end of a sloping meadow surrounded by piney forest.  As we saunter through the meadow, we see check dams built to stop erosion and enhance riparian habitat.  I remember writing an article for the newspaper about this type of project by the Forest Service, impressive and successful.

As we work our way upward into the trees, we realize that our saunter has turned into a hike on a trail, something that we don’t too often embark on.  Much of our boondocking is more in the nature of bushwhacking in the back country somewhere with no idea where we are going nor why.  Sometimes, the why never does become apparent, but we always end up somewhere anyway.

Great Western Trail . . .
We are informed by yet another sign that we are hiking on the Arizona section of the Great Western Trail, whatever that might be; we have never heard of it, but we are glad to have use of it to get us through this steep, rugged, rocky and brushy terrain. The trail skirts around the crown of the mountain top, no very steep inclines, just gentle climbing.

Flowers are in abundance everywhere: the wild iris blooms are just drying on their stems, others are in full-bloom profusion.  I have never seen so many penstemons; there are veritable thickets of them.

 

Valley views, lizards & such . . .

As our path turns northward, we are surprised to discover that we are on a ridge top allowing us great simultaneous views of Verde and Chino valleys.  I don’t think I’ve been in such a position before.  As we take in the vistas, we find both views to be exceptionally hazy with drifting smoke from the Gladiator fire.

My first glimpse of wildlife consists of a large lizard with shimmering fat sides covered with golden scales.  As he poses for my photo shoot and shows off his push-ups, I topple onto my keester.  Chris does not come to my rescue; indeed, though just steps away, he is oblivious to my plight and I regain my footing unaided and with awkward abandon.

Further along our path, we encounter another large lizard, this one in capital letters LARGE.  This guy does not appear to note our presence due to the fact that he is manufactured of metal and bolted onto the tree.  What a great specimen he is!  His creator obviously formed him to meld perfectly into this exact spot.  He blends so well into his niche that it’s difficult to photograph him well.  At any rate, he is a real beauty - how fun that someone went to so much trouble to give fellow hikers this visual treat.







Our hike takes us into an area that has burned.  It is not a large burn but the contrast from our middle perspective of one hillside denuded of foliage and the other of thriving pine forest is extreme.

It is interesting that we are hiking far above Highway 89A threading its way around the mountain on its way to the former ghost city of Jerome.  I have ridden that route a zillion times at least and never had an inkling about this great hike above me.

Eventually, it becomes clear that we have cleverly left our water, food and most other provisions in the car, so as the day heats up and so do we, we opt for turning back.  We do have our binoculars and scope with us, so all else pales in necessity.  We are astounded at the amount of bird activity up here on the mountain.  We are engulfed in birdsong, but the only ones we identify are: mourning dove, white-breasted nuthatch, western wood peewee, American raven, dark-eyed junco, lesser goldfinch, and northern flicker.
 



A Jerome skeleton . . .

Our hike of several miles works us up to an appetite, but instead of eating the lunches we (Chris, actually) packed, he suggests we go down the mountain and eat a restaurant meal in Jerome.  I agree so we are off to the Haunted Hamburger for a sandwich served up on the deck that teeters over the steep slope onto which Jerome clings.


Seems that whenever I am in this bustling “ghost” town, I am with other folks who like to do normal people things: check out the teeming arts & crafts shops, galleries and historic sites, so I seldom get to the lesser-known haunts (pardon the expression).  This time is not that much different except that I spot the gaping empty gable window of an abandoned Victorian house somewhere above us (everything in Jerome is above or below; no wonder parts of the town have slid down the mountain), and want to find how to get to it.

We trespass only a little in the attempt, never managing to get to that specific building, but I shoot photos of another vine-covered house skeleton.  I can see just enough of it through the foliage to see that it was once a magnificent dwelling, but am a bit nervous about my trespass and venture no further.  It is intriguing and beautiful, looks more like something that would be found in the viney jungle of the American South than a forlorn house in an Arizona mining town.

 



Side tracks/two-tracks . . . 

This boondock detoured into civilization; now we set ourselves homeward bound via the former narrow-gauge rail bed.  This railroad was used to transport copper ore from Jerome to the standard-gauge railroad that traversed the east side of Chino Valley.  We are scarcely out of Jerome before we stop to photograph empty buildings that I know I have seen before but do not remember.  It is a large complex on a road that is blocked to entry, something that always add intrigue for me.

Only a bit farther along, a two-track off to the side calls to us.  Chris suggests that we just walk it out to a point to see what we can see.  That point comes and goes, but onward I am called, always to see what is around the next bend in the road or surely there is something to be checked out over the next rise.  Chris confiscates the camera long enough to shoot a photo of me that he calls "Rita takes the road less traveled."

We walk until we tire, see from this high vantage point that old roads crisscross these hills inexplicably going here and there, finally disappearing in the valley bottom.  Bear grass clumps are sending up their contorted blossom stalks, which I have to photograph before we climb back up to Ruby and continue on our way.

Narrow gauge . . .
This section of the railroad bed is maintained with some regularity; we even remark on how nice the dirt road surface is.  Famous last words as it turns out when we depart the primary road that would take us to Perkinsville and on into Chino.  The choice is to continue on that route or veer off onto a mostly unused section of the railbed.  It shortly becomes obvious the top soil has completely eroded away and we are driving on a one-lane rocky surface that perches precariously on the sides of cliffs.

The sign that cautions us to go no faster than 15 mph for the next seven miles turns out to be unnecessary to the point of laughability.  I am convinced that driving faster than five miles per hour on this stretch would cause us to be bounced enough to pitch us right over the side. 

I spend quite a bit of time and energy admonishing Chris to drive more carefully, totally unnecessary haranguing, but occasionally one cannot help oneself.  We stop now and then to cease the jolting and to see the sights.  In this case, it is perfectly fine to park in the middle of the narrow one-lane road because no one else is demented enough to drive this route.

We discover that our “road” is a continuation of the Great Western Trail, much more suited to bicycling than vehicle travel.

We manage to add a few birds to the day’s list: Chipping sparrow, Scott’s oriole, turkey vulture and western scrub jay.  And I enjoy snapping a shot of a few bovines lounging by the only tank that has any water at all and it not much.  I call this picture “Life on the shady side”.

Necessary slow travel causes us to arrive home feeling a bit battered (something like Betty Botter’s batter which is a bit better after . . . well, never mind that) but blessed to be able to spend our day boondocking.

 
Sycamore Canyon, White Horse Lake

May 18, 2012

5:30 a.m.!  Sure enough, that’s the time Barb & Bud said they are picking us up for a spin up to the Sycamore Canyon area.  We are retired, so what is up with this dawn patrol?  We manage to roll out of bed in the wee small hours and be ready for our chariot, which arrives right on time.

Mr. B is the chauffeur of the day, so Chris climbs into the front passenger seat while Barb and I do what I call “the old lady thing” and share the back seat.  I so clearly remember seeing “old” ladies doing just that while I, in my judgmental youthfulness, marveled that anyone could be so aged and decrepit as to do such a thing.  My, don’t perspectives change. . .

We take the back road through Drake to arrive at White Horse Lake, disembarking into a breezy cold morning on the shore.  I am so glad I opted not to wear shorts!  After milling around for a spell, we disburse to outhouses and then to water’s edge to see what bird life is apparent.

No spotting scope with us again because after all, this is a hiking foray to scout possible Sycamore camp sites for the Bs, but we are astounded at the number and variety of birds, especially the osprey.  I have never seen so many in one place.  They are vocally flying back and forth over the lake searching for prey, often swooping down into the water to snag a fish for breakfast, sometimes to miss their target.

A flock of double-crested cormorants lounge on the rocks and in the water at the far end of the lake and we spot the usual redwing blackbirds, American coots, mallards and great blue herons.  I am happy to identify a spotted sandpiper near to shore on a lone rock.

We have breakfasted briefly during the drive northward, so are able to don packs and head off into the forested hills that comprise the lake’s bowl.  Our general direction is eastward toward the canyon.  We follow a track that quickly becomes two tracks, then more tracks.  The idea was to actually hike on a trail marked on a map, but we necessarily abandon the plan when it becomes obvious the mapmaker was delusional in indicating only one trail.

No matter: we find the canyon and thoroughly enjoy the expanses spread out before us.  This is an area of Sycamore that is much brushier than others and does not invite a climb down into the depths.  It would be a bushwhacking nightmare and possibly does not offer a climbable route to the bottom from here.

Wandering there and back, we spot more birds, including western bluebird, northern flicker, grackle and Steller’s jay.

Instead of returning to the car via the same route, we circumvent the lake, get a good hike and spy additional birds.  The most exciting is a bald eagle that Barbara points out perched high in a dead tree across the lake - magnificent!

To our list, we add pied-billed grebe, house wren, raven, lesser goldfinch, red-faced warbler and Say’s phoebe.













Now we reload and drive south to Sycamore Point via a longish road that is barely bumpy enough to keep Buddy, our driver, awake.  Along the way, we see a huge osprey nest with a baby safely tucked inside and being fed by its fisherbird parent, a fun and unusual sight.









We eat our picnic lunch while comfortably seated on rocks right at the rim of the canyon that is spread out far below us.  The views from here are vast and beautiful, but hazy.  I am thinking this is smoke from the tragic Gladiator fire that continues to consume our wonderful forest in the Bradshaws.

Our vantage point gives us superb views of the dry creek bed meandering through the canyon bottom, a torturously winding trail coming down from the opposite rim and the spectacular rock formations of Sycamore in addition to far-reaching vistas beyond.  I am inspired to shoot photo after photo, invariably carried away by all the beauty and interest around me and spoiled by the digitization that allows me to click incessantly.












I don’t think this particular point allows good access into the canyon, but there are others that do, and Sycamore is a splendid place to hike, camp and explore.  We have before and we shall again.

Johnson Canyon tunnel, meandering
May 14, 2012

Ah, as good a day as any to venture out, even better than most because we have kept it free of obligations.  First we must do a kamikaze cleaning.  Having become quite adept as a house-cleaning team, we do the white-tornado whirl through and are ready for adventure by 11 a.m.

Eagles . . .
The direction of travel today is north, expecting that we will find cooler weather up towards Williams.  Before we even get out of Chino, though, I want to stop by the bald eagle nest to see what the babies are up to.  Both of them are huge and out of the nest; however, they seem to be hanging around in the trees near the nest waiting like ravenous teenagers for mom and dad to return with a nice fat fish or gopher.

The springs there at Puro are quickly becoming mud flats, but permanent water beyond encourages us to take a look for birds.  We have forgotten to bring the spotting scope, a lack I will bemoan throughout the day.  In this case, the binoculars are enough to reward us with a life bird: a snowy egret, not one I’d expect to get here, but there he is perched above the reedy pond.

But first . . .
As we continue on our way up Highway 89 passing the mostly-dry lake bed at Little Hell Canyon, I am struck by the idea that it would be a great time to search that area for critter prints, so a U-turn is executed and we walk down to more mud flats.  Never a large body of water, to put it mildly, we nevertheless recall times of taking the kids and their friends canoeing and fishing out there, hard to believe when viewing it today.  In fact, the spot has been a lovely refuge for us many times.

One past memorable event: Chris and I lazing away on the shore, fishing lines in the water as an excuse to do nothing at all when we hear something in the trees behind us.” Listen,” Chris whispers, “It’s a wild turkey.”  We silently and surreptitiously turn to peer in that direction and there it is: our oldest, meanest rooster that we had previously relegated to this locality.  Despite our intense dislike for this particular fowl (he existed in a continual state of vicious attack mode), we took pity enough to give him a fighting (pardon the expression) chance at survival with good cover and water.  I am guessing that he ruled that lake roost for quite some time afterward.  I suppose that we were in danger of retaliation as he crept up behind us, but we were able to continue our doing-nothing-at-all even in his presence.

I have fun checking out the footprints left in the mud from animals who had come down to drink from the little water remaining.  Not the best trackers in the world, but we see some great blue heron and webbed bird prints, plus what we think are bobcat and elk.

Not expecting much bird activity at midday; nevertheless, we see lesser goldfinch, house finch, killdeer, pinyon jay and sage thrasher.  There is another solitary bird that intrigues us, but despite getting a good look at it numerous times as it scours the mud flat for insects(?), we do not manage an identification.

Route 66, railroad bed . . .

Seems I find so much of interest that it’s difficult to get more than ten miles from home, but we press on, veering north of Interstate 10 after deciding to visit the Johnson Canyon area.  A portion of our route is along one of the old iterations of Route 66, now demoted to a back road to nowhere.  We had a good chuckle at the road sign that pictorially indicated the end of pavement - evidently some might not notice such without a sign to tell them or so the Arizona government minions must think.

Some years back, we packed up the kids and Dad on a long hike to the site of the work camp of the men who were building the railroad through Johnson Canyon.  The camp was above the railroad line, so we only looked down on the Johnson tunnel, an entrance to a long traverse cut through the mountain, but never visited its interior.

Although long-abandoned, the tunnel’s entrance stands as impressively today as it did when it was first completed.  Dad was so taken with the look of it that he made it is mission afterward to take folks there to see it.  Dad loved touring people to one sight/site and another, so this was a perfect destination for him and it seemed that all his “tourees” enjoyed it, too.

Today, though, we are approaching the tunnel via the derelict rail bed for the first time.  As we trundle along, easily imagining the sounds and feel of traveling this same route pulled by a steam engine, we are astounded at the work that was necessary to build this line.  Not utilizing the typical wooden trestles, the road has been built by adding untold amounts of fill on the side of the mountain, some of it held in place with huge metal stabilizers, some of which stand empty because the fill has eroded out from behind them.

The railroad bed shows the effects of time and weather, becoming increasingly precarious as we proceed.  Finally, I escalate from “This road is scaring me!” to “Hell no, lemme outta this car!” and I disembark with dispatch.  From a less-terrifying vantage, I watch as Chris edges Ruby past a spot plainly showing the tire track of a vehicle that suddenly found itself hanging over air instead of ground on one side.  Even the warning barriers have fallen into the hole.

After passing that place safely, I declare that we will walk the remaining distance and we do.  It is far preferable to relax and enjoy the hike instead of wondering whether we will topple off the side of the mountain, and I am doubly glad we departed the car when I found this old railroad spike in the track.  It would not have been good to have that in a tire.



 






On one cliff face, we find something unexplainable.  Someone has mixed concrete at this remote place and used it to write the initials H.E.B. on the cut rock surface.  Those letters are about two feet tall; below them a concrete patch has scratched into it the words H.E. Berry 12-3-53 and something else we can’t read.  A mystery still to be solved or perhaps never explained.  It was evidently important to someone; this was not a casual undertaking.

We are at this place in midday and see no sign of water in the canyon bottom, but surprisingly, this does not deter the birds.  They are many and active.  We identify a few of them: canyon wren (by its call only), spotted towhee, scrub jay, turkey vulture and a black-headed grosbeak that treats us to its melodious joy while perched among the sweet-smelling blossoms of a cliff rose.

Eventually, we get to the tunnel itself and find it even more impressive than it seemed from above.  The outside arched rock work would not be out of place on a city building.  The interior is just as well built: it appears to be about 25 feet high with cut rocks on the side walls up to about eight feet and the remainder entirely lined by curved metal plates.  It is no wonder it remains intact 130 years after its construction.

We walk the length of the tunnel, enjoying its cool interior.  It is perhaps 600 feet long and curved so that you can’t see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel until you are part way through it.  It is a bit eerie when we hear the distant whistle of a Santa Fe engine while we are in there, giving the feel of a ghost train approaching.

Lizards & lakes . . .
On the return drive, we spot a beautiful large green collared lizard, but he’s much too fast and shy to be photographed.  Shortly after that aborted photo op, we stop to see a humongous sink that Chris estimates at 300 feet across and 100 feet deep, an impressive hole in the ground.

Working our way back toward home, we wander the area south of Williams and come upon Coleman Lake, more a swampy meadow than anything.  How have I never known that was there?  It appears to be a sterling bird-watching spot, so we shall definitely return (note to self - wear water sandals to wade out closer to the water and bring the scope).  I get a cool photo of a great blue heron perched atop a dead snag.  Even at a distance, the binoculars allow us to see a ruddy duck, Canada geese and mallards on the water.

Homestead site, owl . . .

Further explores as we turn onto a tiny two-track that seems not to have been used for decades.  We park at a site that I guess was in days past a homestead and hike on up the canyon where we find a seep that feeds a scarcely-moving stream over bedrock, surely the water source for whoever resided lower in the canyon.


As we walk, a great horned owl spooks out of the trees and is harassed and chased by a raven that has been keeping watch.  Each time we come close, the chase is repeated until the owl moves farther than we are hiking and the raven gives up his worrying.  I am guessing that he is nesting nearby.  We find a delicate feather and wonder if it is from the same bird.

More southward driving takes us by MC Tank, Dutch Kid Tank and picture-perfect countryside: tall pines interrupted by large grassy meadows, perfect elk habitat.  We are intrigued by a sign for a stage-stop bike loop.  We don’t know the history of this particular stage stop, but it surely is a must-return site and so we shall.

Day tripping

Friday, April 20

I wither unless I wander . . .

It would seem that I have an itch that must be scratched; thus I am picking up my blog once again, but with a difference.  Because I cannot be traveling at this time, I will write about my day trips with the hope that they will become more numerous.  I’ve often intended to do so but allowed the intention to fade into what - judgment that it’s a dumb idea; the procrastination that ensues when daily chores and routines win out; laziness? 

At any rate, I find that I have developed a severe case of cabin fever and with the onset of fantabulous weather, I must at the least be out and about locally.  I wither unless I wander, so wander I shall and chronicle I shall.  And as long as I am recording my musings, I will share with any who care to follow.

Decision made: not an easy one for some reason, but who cares the why.  I only acknowledge the agonizing and move on.

So . . . day tripping . . . I suspect my version is something very different than the one harmonized about by the Beatles.

Last week a blizzard, this week shorts- and tank-top-weather draws us out of the house, away from the genealogy jobs, away from the house maintenance, away from the routines that fill the calendar when we dare to turn our backs.

Responsibly, we do whatever needs doing to insure the house and property are showable should a prospective buyer take a yen to gander, and then away we go.  As always, we stow backpacks, water bottles, hats, spotting scope and binoculars, bird book and camera.  Oh yes, a bag of corn chips and some clementines fill out the luggage of the day.

South to the Bradshaws . . .

South is the direction of the day and a back road we’ve never explored even after all these years of boondocking.  Through the quaint burg of Mayer and on to the old wagon road that connects the now-ghost, Goodwin, to Crown King, tiny but a much-sought-after destination for the cool-seekers from the Valley of the Sun far below.

The country in which we begin our traverse is lower elevation than home and a dry deserty environment.  One thing and another draws our attention or else we just want to get out and explore, so we do, even finding an old steamer-type trunk that has inexplicably been utilized for target practice.  Isn’t the world just chock-full of things that will always leave us with unanswered questions!
 
Old farts questioned . . .
Further along, where the road crosses a dry wash, I deem a hike is in order.  As we set off, a truck pulls up and disgorges a Forest Ranger named Justin, according to his name tag.  When did the Forest Service begin hiring middle schoolers to patrol these back roads!?  We venture back to determine if we are in violation of some obscure directive only to have the very young fellow offer us a map of the area.

I think I hear his thoughts: “Here’s a couple of old farts about to get lost or in trouble out here and if so, I will have to work on my day off, so I’d better convince them of the error of their ways before it’s too late and they actually set off walking cross-country with no earthly idea of where they are going or how to get back or how to keep from getting into some kind of trouble that will necessitate my working on my day off”.

Naturally, he keeps those thoughts safely tucked under his Forest Ranger hat and we decline the map after Chris sets the youngster’s mind at ease by telling him that we like to hike the back country, get lost and then call mountain rescue for help.  Justin looks as if he wants to call our keepers or at least his supervisor, but instead reluctantly remounts his transport after I assure him that Chris is not deranged (completely) and that we have never had to be rescued and have no intention of necessitating such action today.

As we work our way along the wash bottom, we find that it is occasionally pocked with prospect diggings, none of which seem to show signs of the gold being sought.  It isn’t long before we tire of bushwhacking our way through thick oak brush and manzanita and return to Ruby, our trusty Four-Runner, to continue on our way, wherever that might be.

Claret cup and another small cactus (hedgehog?) are just beginning to open their brilliantly colored blossoms.  Another day or two will provide a real show of beauty from them.  The desert is so often maligned, but I find beauty in it everywhere.


A canyon treat . . .
What a surprise we encounter as we bump our way along the long-ungraded dirt road and wind down into a canyon anchored by a lovely small stream and filled with ponderosa pines.  It is more the norm to climb up out of the desert to find these magnificent trees, so this is an upside-down kind of place.  The stream’s water is cold from its journey down out of the mountains and offers a lovely spot to just be for a spell.






























Further down the road we find an entire valley of ponderosa surrounded by hills of brush, another upside-down place.


We are seeing forest trail markers here and there: Arrastra Creek Trail, Pine Creek Trail and others, but no sign that anyone has set off on these meanderings.

Gold ghosts . . .
We come near to Palace Station and to the site of Goodwin, both mining boom-times remnants, but turn our noses southward into the Bradshaw Mountains.  My encyclopedic partner fills in some history previously unknown to me at various places along the way.  Seems that pre-railroad days when miners were extracting gold out of these mountains, some of the ore was transported to San Francisco, but at a price.  A full three-fourths of the transport cost was incurred in getting it off the rugged Bradshaws to Prescott, contrasting with the much-longer leg of the trip from Prescott to San Francisco, a clear indicator of the torturous travel conditions endured by the ore-laden wagons hauled by oxen.

We feel relatively beat up as Ruby takes us along the same route, even with our air-filled tires and shock-absorbing frame, impossible to imagine how those freighters did it with their primitive equipment time after time.

We find several mining claims marked in a modern way using a colorfully striped PVC pipe and a metal embossed tag proclaiming them to be the property of the Roadrunner Prospectors Club.

For me, I miss the old rock cairns with a Prince Albert tobacco can carefully hidden in the interior holding the claim papers safely shielded from the elements.  Of course that reminds me of childhood misdeeds (someone else’s) in which the misdoer calls a random telephone number and asks if they have Prince Albert in a can.  When the answer was “yes”, the child misdeeder (not I) would giggle and ask why don’t they let him out and quickly hang up the receiver.  I clearly remember that someone (never me) truly thought this activity was clever and a worthwhile use of time . . . but I digress.

More sights along the way, more exploratory hikes, more joy at being out and about.  Ambling around at the site of Bradshaw City further up the mountain, we find minimal rock foundations and fallen down walls to mark the passing of a town that was once home to 5,000 people.  Methinks we are more transient on the landscape than we realize.



















Chris continues to fill me in on tidbits of mining and railroad history, adding to the allure to return for further exploration.  The Bradshaw range holds a wealth of rugged and varied landscape that would take a lifetime or more to adequately explore.  Signs of past habitation and the associated mining and ranching activities rest in the quiet now, causing me to wonder at who has passed here before and who will once again be this way after I am gone.

Crown King, railroads . . .
Washboard dirt roads, dust billowing, frequent stops for exploratory hikes later, we find our way to Crown King, the highest point of this day’s boondock, snap a photo of the historic saloon and follow our noses into its interior where we are served a satisfying supper before heading to lower climes past the wooden remnants of Cleator and Cordes, where a few hardy folks continue to reside in the weathered ramshackle buildings.

Our return takes a different route, often following the former railroad bed out of Crown King.  Fascinating to note the ingenious ways those long-ago folks managed to build a rail bed that would allow not-so-flexible trains to climb up that long, steep grade.  At each hairpin turn, the train continued off onto a spur and then backed up the grade to the next tight turn.  Then it was backed into a spur far enough to allow forward momentum for the next step.  Of course these maneuvering places escape my notice until my partner explains it along the way, pointing out the spots where these switches took place.

Down the mountain we go, stopping at steep narrow cuts in the rock to allow upward-bound vehicles access through the one-truck-wide stretches.  Not surprisingly, we encounter a fair number of them: tomorrow begins the weekend chili-cookoff festivities in that historic forest enclave, and then there are the usual ATVers that gather there to celebrate their time away from the city.  I am happy to leave it to the revelers, grateful that retirement allows me to be out and about during the less busy times.