Taking requests
June 18, 2012

Although I never expected to be taking requests for my day off, we can not deny my sister’s desire to tag along.  Knowing that she would never appreciate being part of our usual boondocking shenanigans, we agree to her request to go swimming.

Her sole idea of where to accomplish that does not fit even her own criteria.  She had heard good things about agua cool-offs at Fossil Creek; however, she does not want to go on a dirt road that is “too long”.  Neither she nor we know what that means exactly, but we are sure the access to Fossil would fit that category, so we enter into prolonged discussion as we head down the road to a decision-necessary intersection.

Chris cheats by refusing to do more than offer alternatives, so I am forced to point a direction.  We will go to the Verde River above Clarkdale, along the road to Sycamore Canyon, I declare.

New river access, rescue . . .
Erk!  Already Chris spots a road that appears to offer river access, one that we have never checked out, so we bump on down the short distance to the Verde.  An interesting spot: we find a wide backwater backed by an impressive stand of reeds with the main river channel barely visible beyond.  I’m guessing it would be a marvelous fishing hole; indeed, a man and his young son are already indulging in that pastime.  Mark this one up as a must-return spot, but for today’s swimming goal, not so good.

On our way back to the main road, we pull up next to an evidently-disabled vehicle occupied by a couple of hot, frustrated fellers.  They’ve just dropped off their pick-up vehicle for a canoe trip; the canoes and kids are waiting upriver under the Clarkdale bridge.  We give the requested ride to one of them and leave the driver alone with his Jeep that I surmise he will soon shoot to put it out of its misery.

Dropping Tom, our new friend, off under the bridge, we think this might be a good stretch of river to kayak and fish if someone joins us so that a take-out vehicle will be available, preferably one that runs.

Tuzigoot, Dad story . . .
As we near Tuzigoot National Monument, we opt to utilize the restroom facilities there before our journey’s final leg.  We discover that Christie has never been to this incredibly interesting Sinaguan ruin with its fine museum/visitors; center, but water calls and she is not inclined to tour it now.  The extensive hilltop 110-room ruin was occupied as early as 1000 A.D.  Even the visitors' center is historically interesting; it was built in 1935 after the site's excavation and designed to blend in with the rock structure remains, even using some of the rocks taken out during the work.

As we approach the section of river I have in mind for the day’s excursion, I get to relate one of our favorite Dad stories to Christie.  Dad was probably in his mid-80s when we took him, the kids and friends Irv & Diane to this spot on the Verde.  Easily accessible by car, it afforded shade, wading, swimming, fishing and picnicking options.  What more could we want?

In addition, we saw the opening and outer wall of a prehistoric dwelling perched high up in the middle of the far shore’s vertical cliff.  Intriguing, we all agreed, and then went on with our water activities.  Later, we heard someone hollering from a distance.  It took a while but eventually we determined the calling was emanating from Dad who had climbed the rubbly, steep cliff all the way up to the ruin . . . in his cowboy boots . . . with his fused ankle that was broken in a motorcycle wreck on Prescott’s White Spar Road when he was a kid . . . in his 80s . . . with his little granddaughter, Sara, in tow . . . wearing flip-flops.

Short of calling in a helicopter to lift them off there, there was not much we could do at that point but watch the dynamic duo make their way back to the safety of level ground 300 feet from their previous perch.  Life was never boring with Dad.

Old gray mare, historic power plant, osprey, no trespassing. . .
Back to current day, it is about now that we realize this long section of the Verde, one of my favorite areas on the river, is heavily posted with “no trespassing” signs - I am appalled and mystified.  Further perusal reveals that this whole section that is accessible by car because of wide valley here is no longer open to us.  The only explanation I can conjure is to keep out those who abuse this and other wonderful waterways with ATVs and partying.  I am beyond disappointed.

As we scout this road, our oncoming traffic consists of a grey mare and her foal trudging toward us until they veer off to a flat that gives hope of a bit of graze.  The mare does look fairly disconsolate and Christie worries that they are "lost" and thirsty until I remind her there is a river just below the road.  The droughty conditions, though, have obviously necessitated the horses’ search for food.

A bit farther along, I snap a photo of a long-abandoned coal-fired power plant.  Chris thinks he remembers reading that it was built in the 19-teens, but doesn’t know when it was decommissioned.












Near the power plant, I employ my finely honed “Stop, stop, stop, go back, go back, go back” technique when I see an osprey perched in a dead snag above the river and just about eye level with us.  I snap his portrait from the car, but unfortunately, he declines to sit for further shots when I disembark.



The river . . .

Disappointment voiced and put aside (well, not entirely), we return whence we came until we are past the unwelcome signage and lug our food, fishing tackle, chairs, towels, camera, binoculars and pretty much everything else we own down to a beach that is partially shaded by what Christie calls “willing weepos”, a misnomer that sends me into endless fits of hysteria.  When I finally cease guffawing, she states her love of weeping willows, but these are not they anyway.

At long last we settle in: Christie ventures onto the water reclining on her air mattress, eyes closed, relaxation complete.  I stumble over smooth jumbled rocks on the river bottom to submerge up to my neck while Chris gets the fishing gear ready.  By now, it is midday - not the best fishing time, so our total take is two small-mouth bass whose size matches the description of their mouths.

No matter - lunch on the beach, relaxing and talking are perfect pastimes until we three go for a swim, the icing on the day’s cake.

We enjoy watching the Verde Canyon train at a distance as it makes its picturesque run to Perkinsville.  I encourage Christie to take that excursion; it is one of my all-time favorites.

The water is perfect today - cool enough to be refreshing, warm enough to be able to stay in for hours.  We are wonderfully relaxed and decide that we will hunt up yet another swimming hole.  This is Arizona, after all, and water is a cherished commodity. 

Beaver Creek . . .
Beaver Creek is our late-afternoon stop, a delightful one at that.  Perfect clear water flowing through a pool created by a small handmade rock dam, red cliffs from which to cannonball into the water, ample beach under the trees (sycamores, not willing weepos) with just enough adults and children enjoying themselves to enhance the ambiance and I am off to bob and float to my heart’s content.











Driving home in our wet swim suits keeps us satisfactorily chilled for the duration, more memories made.  Life is good!

Goin' to water

June 7, 2012

We arise this fine morning to 51-degree temps and a forecast high of 86, and all I can think of is water - must go to water.  This protracted dry spell is getting to everyone; my desert rat self must have water; if it won’t fall out of the sky, then I must find it otherwise.

Amazingly,  the reality hits that we never went fishing at all, not one bloomin’ time all last year, but if we are to be at water, the rule (mine) is to have swim suits and fishing tackle, not much good without licenses, so we begin our day’s journey at Wally World obtaining the State’s permission to drown worms.

Which way do we go, Camp Verde, Dad & cherry cokes . . .

That is the easy part.  Next comes a decision: which way to go.  In our usual indecisive way, we go back and forth longer than usual until I declare we shall head to the Rim, the Mogollon Rim, that is.  That leaves a vast open territory to argue about later.

Our route takes us through the historic town of Camp Verde, site of a frontier fort turned museum.  The Verde Valley is one of my favorite places in the world.  It seems likely that if I didn’t reside on the Prescott side of the mountain, my family’s old stomping grounds, I would choose to live my life there.  This valley of small holdings, horse pastures, chicken yards and fruit trees reminds me of a midwestern town . . . well, except for those mountains ringing it on every side.

The highway that delivers us to the valley bottom offers spectacular views from above of the patchwork farmsteads along the river.  That sight is one of my favorite childhood memories and I treasure it still.  That steep descent puts me in mind of summers with Dad when he took his combine from place to place for harvest.  Never will I forget walking into those patches of field corn with stalks looming far over my head, feeling the humidity in that claustrophobic maze.

On those trips, Dad would stop in town - was it the old hotel? - and buy me a cold drink at the soda fountain.  That’s where the 10-year-old me first sipped a cherry coke.

There I go - digressing again, but what’s a journey without a little reminiscing.

Zane Grey RV Park, ponderosas, views . . .

Down into the valley we go and back up the other side toward higher ground, on the way checking out an RV park in high hopes.  The Zane Grey RV Park looks like a nice enough site from which to base explorations; perhaps we will be able to try it out one of these days.

As we gain elevation, the sere countryside gives way to dirt tanks actually containing water, unlike those we've seen in other places, and abundant grass dotted with juniper.  Appearances notwithstanding, the entire state is tinder dry - a fire waiting to start - but we enjoy the change of scenery as we climb past that eco-zone and enter mountainscapes forested by majestic ponderosas.  Numerous side roads call us to return over and over to see what there is to see at each one that disappears into the trees.


Topping out, we enjoy distance-misted views of the Mazatzals, another of Arizona’s wilderness areas and there is Four Peaks, a much-loved landmark when seen from the other side down Phoenix way. 










And to the north, we have yet a different view of our beloved San Francisco Peaks.

Manzanita, living rooms, Tonto Forest, burns . . .

Stretching our legs with a couple of hikes up here, we explore through areas with lots of manzanita and Gambel oak, some of it alive with pine cicadas.  These insects are much smaller than the cicadas at home that will beset us with their racket later in the summer.  Their size is mirrored by the diminutive sound they emit, more of a soft clicking than their counterparts’ deafening buzz.

Tiny salmon-hued blossoms cover the manzanita bushes that create impenetrable thickets with their iron-strong smooth red branches.











As we hike, I like to wonder if I am the first person to set foot on that bit of Earth; however, the answer is definitely in the negative when we stumble upon a “living room” in the woods.  It is near a small rock quarry whose hard workers evidently chose to enjoy the comforts of home by bringing it along with them.  Too bad they did not take their paraphernalia with them when they departed.

Moving on into the Tonto National Forest, we pass an area that appears to have had a prescribed burn in the not-too-distant past.  These fires are effected by the Forest Service, ostensibly to reduce fire danger which said Forest Service has mismanaged into a frightful state, and are sometimes called controlled burns, a misnomer since they are unfortunately known to run out of control.


Strawberry, the bear, 1888, totem pole . . .

Back in our trusty Four-Runner, Ruby, we approach the little mountain town of Strawberry, which like its neighboring Pine, sports historic structures interspersed with the new.  For the umpteenth time, we visit and photograph the 1888 Strawberry schoolhouse. 

I’ve never been here when it was open so have never been inside, but I do manage a couple of photos of the interior by holding the camera right against the glass.  Now the sign informs us the structure is closed because of a lack of volunteers.

This is the oldest standing schoolhouse in Arizona.

I love the handsome totem pole that stands inexplicably beside the road.

We pass a memorable spot on the highway that I cannot go by without mentioning “the bear”.  In days past, I spotted a good-sized bear cub on the road cut above as we went by.  Bearing (sorry) in mind this is a narrow two-lane mountain road, we were unable either to stop or to back up to get a better look.  I was so excited I was jumping up and down in the seat, so there was nothing for it but to continue driving until we reached a pull-out spot, turn around and go back for a better look.  Upon our return, nothing had changed: he was still there and the traffic still did not allow us to stick around for more of a gander.  Now it was necessary to travel another couple of miles in the opposite direction to find a turnaround spot.  By the time, this maneuver was completed, the bear was gone, thank goodness, or there’s no telling how many times we would have zipped back and forth for yet another look.  It’s the only bear I’ve ever seen in Arizona.

Museum, grave . . .

Oh my, I spy a museum that I have somehow never been into, so stop we must, it being illegal in my world to pass by a museum of any kind, with the exceptions of sports museums, calligraphy museums and tournament bridge museums; can't think of anything else I wouldn't be interested in.

This facility is housed in a 1915 Church of Jesus Christ of LDS chapel.  This area was pioneered by Mormons and the museum reflects that influence.  They have done something I have not seen before: Stories of the early families have been published in looseleaf form and made available for perusal.  Additional copies are for sale, so any descendants who wander in can take home their family history from there.  As a genealogist, I see this as a real treasure.  I have found so much about my ancestral families and about those I do the research for from local histories.  They are invaluable.  If not always totally accurate in detail, they offer personal insights into who the people were, something that is often lost in time.

Next stop is to answer the question, "What is that?!"  Pulling off onto a side road, the answer is a white-picket-fenced grave of mother and child.  This is the final resting place of Carrie M. Holder, 1872-1900 and baby Olive, July-Nov. 1900. 

An old newspaper article found later tells us that mother and child succumbed to typhoid.  According to that account, Carrie and her husband Sydney were raising Angora goats for the wool market, an enterprise that my grandparents, Zack & Pearl Kelley, also pursued in Texas and later on East Antelope Creek near Yarnell, Arizona.

This spot appears to have been the site of a homestead overlooking the now-dry creek.  How tragic to have lost the young mother and baby, made even more poignant by the peace of the setting.

Ah - East Verde River, fishing . . .

Still not to water, we venture on until we reach the East Verde River which we have previously crossed over but never stopped at.  Our first foray to the water leads us to a beach area and swimming hole backed by an impressive rock cliff.  I have fishing in mind, so we go upstream from the revelers where I am awed by how beautiful this spot is. 

A good-sized water flow is cascading over, around and through a boulder field with a likely pool at the bottom.  I change into swim suit to accommodate my usual modus operandi of fishing from the water - Arizona . . . summer . . . water . . . must get in . . . ah, life is good!

We fish there for a spell before driving further upstream and finding a road that follows the river for several miles, giving us our choice of access.  Several stops and walks later, we catch the oddest assortment of fish: one yellow cat, one sunfish and one rainbow trout, in addition to innumerable crawdads.  I have never seen so dang many crawdads!

The trout is very nice, I’m sure at least 12 inches, but my wet blanket partner declares it to be only 10 inches.  I discover that holding fish close to the camera allows a wondrously distorted view of their size, a method I hereby adopt for all future fish pics after seeing the effect of a small sunfish.

We are shaded by cottonwood and sycamore trees stretching high to reach sunlight above the canyon walls.  I instantly fall in love with this river that has so much to offer: easy access, nice flow, great beauty of watercourse and canyon and a variety of moods.  Steeper boulder-obstructed fast water sections are replaced by long, slow pools reminiscent of flat rivers in the American South, minus the humidity, chiggers and mosquitoes.



We remain until late in the day, fishing and snacking and cursing crawdads that are quick to find our bait, yet vow to return many times. 




 This sign that promises a "nice home on the river" goes onto my dream board.

Cat dragged inn  
May 31, 2012

Look what the cat dragged in!  No sooner have we set out on day’s journey than we enjoy a hearty chuckle at a custom recreational vehicle fashioned from a very old bus.  Actually, in this case, I think it is less an RV and more a full-time abode.  I want to talk to the occupants but they are nowhere in evidence, so I am left to wonder.  It has Arizona license plates, so they are not from too far distant.

This is the sort of thing I would have put on the front page of the newspaper when I was involved in that endeavor.  Pretty much the only time I miss doing the newspaper is for things like this that I like to share.

Bald eagles, drought . . .
Our second stop of the day finds us still not out of Chino Valley; I want to check out the situation at the bald eagle nest.  We find only one of the adult parents at home perched near the nest.  The other adult eagle and the two young ones are off fishing in the Verde or some such.  I wonder how long they will remain here before heading to cooler climes.  I presume they will migrate together because they mate for life.

On our way northward, we see that Little Hell Canyon’s lake turned tiny pond has completely disappeared, leaving nothing but a dry cracked mud flat.  Arizona is perilously parched and far from hopes of summer monsoon precipitation.  Everywhere we go we see one dry tank after another, a dire situation.

Route 66, motor hotels, porcupines . . .
We turn to drive through the small burg of Ash Fork situated on fabled Route 66.  Once a mecca of motor hotels, as they were called, I see one still in operation that is picturesque, with artistic rock work.  









Next door is another: more of a fixer-upper, a business opportunity for sale to someone with great ambition.

Chris chooses a route that turns directly north out of Ash Fork on a little-traveled dirt road.  First stop is at a large porcupine den, or at least that is what I declare it to be.  After all, there’s no one to argue the point with me except for Chris, who does make the attempt.  In truth, neither of us is positive of the inhabitant of the pile of sticks, but I stick to my story.

 

Prehistoric ruins, Partridge Creek . . .

 Our drive takes us through mostly juniper and grassland country, destination unknown.  I call a halt when I decide there is a hill I want to explore.  As we work our way to the top, we see extensive signs of prehistoric occupation - lots of chipped stone all along the way, but very little in the way of potsherds.  The summit is a ridge with two ruins, each one-room rock remains, one with a large juniper tree growing right out of the middle.

We explore the entire ridge top and see no other rooms.

Continuing our direction brings us to Partridge Creek and its stunning convoluted rock cliffs understoried with willow trees and grass flats.  We know of other places on Partridge Creek that have extensive petroglyph sites, but we find none at this spot, nor is there any water besides a small very scummy algae-choked pond.

 








This meander of the creek bed is the site of an abandoned ranch and a wooden dam that would create a nice little lake in times less droughty.  I see more elk sign than I’ve ever seen in one place but we catch only a glimpse of one of those magnificent creatures.

Despite our disappointment at the lack of water, we join the cliff swallows and snug up under the rocks in the shade of the willows to enjoy our lunch.  We enjoy watching the activities of a hairy woodpecker busy in the copse while the swallows whirl all around busily catching insects for their hungry offspring.

This is also a fun spot to experience the power of the trains as they thunder along the track just beyond our resting place.

Hiking, burros, water . . .
As we continue, we turn to the east following one or another of the array of dirt tracks, most of which are not noted on the Kaibab Forest map despite having Forest Service numbers marked at their junctions.  No matter, we know we will eventually end up over Williams way and relish the journey.

The vastness of undeveloped country is amazing; I so love that I can just start off and keep going, seemingly endlessly.  Most of our route is through rolling juniper and grass prairie with an occasional pinion tree atop a rise, but giving way to the impressive ponderosa forest further east.

Great hiking country, so we indulge in just that, going nowhere with nowhere to go.  As we continue to keep the proverbial eyes peeled for elk, we are instead treated to the surprising sight of three burros standing steady at the edge of the trees.  We stop to get a not-very-good photo because of the distance.  They never cease keeping their attention on us.  Who knows which is more startled - them or us.

At last we find one tank with water glinting off its surface, a water hole called Holden Lake, beautifully situated in a large grassy valley with cattle aplenty.

















Volcanoes, country club . . .

This is near an unusual vantage point of the three tallest mountains in the San Francisco volcanic field.  Kendricks Peak, Sitgreaves Mountain and San Francisco Peaks (including Humphries Peak, the highest point in Arizona at 12,667 foot elevation) are seldom seen in one view.  It's a majestic scene.








I am shocked, but sadly not terribly surprised to see water tanks that have had to be repaired numerous times because of yahoos shooting them up.

The day is winding down; I am startled when the forest gives way to the Williams Country Club golf course, an unexpected appearance from my vantage point of a day-long wilderness traverse.  Ah well, all good things come to an end; I appreciate the proximity of civilization by treating myself to a large fountain soda pop filled with ice to quench my thirst after a hot, dry day (thank goodness I’m not in New York lest I have to order two smalls instead of one large).

Not much of a birdy day: we saw bald eagle, raven, hairy woodpecker, mourning dove, turkey vulture, robin, phainopepla, cliff swallow, killdeer, pinyon jay and horned lark.