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.