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.