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.