Journeys

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.