66, left brain/right brain

July 21, 2012

No need to look up the date this day: it is my 66th birthday and began with loving greetings via phone calls, snail mailed greeting cards, electronic greeting cards and facebook messages.  This particular age sends me a message.  I intend to emulate Route 66 and traverse the country.  No idea now how that will transpire, just holding it as my intention.

Left brain is nagging at me to stay home today and get some much-needed yard work done.  Right brain argues forcefully: “It’s your birthday - forget those obligations; get out there and enjoy the day”.  Left brain counters that Chris and I have both been working all week, so chores have fallen behind and must be caught up in case someone (a buyer) comes calling to tour the house.  And besides, L.B. continues, the peach trees are loaded with fruit that needs to be picked and processed.  And there’s that one tree that has broken under the weight of the peaches: do something about that.

R.B. scores the victory, though, insisting that when someone wants to buy the house, those few things will not deter them.  Fun and joy always trump drudgery; well, maybe not always, but they oughtta.  I’m even pretending that we are on an RV trip and bringing along my computer, hence this stream of consciousness drivel that is issuing forth from my fingertips as we drive.

Being responsible adults, we did complete our morning chores, Chris even mowed the lawns that have flourished since the beginning of monsoon rains.  The day is overshadowed by the tragedy in Aurora, seems even more reason to embrace life while honoring those who lives were taken so suddenly.

Rain was forecast for today, my reason for cancelling a planned open house, but now appears not to be imminent.  At any rate, these 360-degree decisions could be made by throwing a dart at a map.  Chris and Ruby have turned us to the northwest, taking Williamson Valley Road to somewhere.

Windmill, garden, Simmons . . .

Photo ops occurred right away with a wood-towered windmill and then a beautifully-constructed raised-bed garden.



To keep out the critters, these folks have fenced utilizing rock corner posts and built up beds with decorative block.  Nary a weed to be seen - my kind of garden, but then I tend toward the obsessive about that.  Passers-by used to ask me how I kept the weeds out of my gardens.  The Santa Claus method, I told them - hoe, hoe, hoe.  Seems that many are looking for a more magical way, such as chemicals, but I figured if I were going to grow my own food, it would be silly to poison it and myself in the process.  I can buy the poisoned kind of groceries at the supermarket.

All of which has nothing to do with day trippin’, but that’s what happens when I am riding in a car with a computer on my lap. 

Okay, here’s a short stop at the site of Simmons, an erstwhile settlement on this back road between Seligman and Prescott.  The place is named for the man who homesteaded here in 1864 and established a stage station on this historic route between the then-mining town of Prescott and the Hardyville and Ehrenberg toll roads leading to the Colorado River. There is little to see at the site, at least from the road (and one is admonished not to enter the property): a cottonwood grove, fields under cultivation and one house tucked back into the trees.


Limb casts . . .
Before chronicling this day, I hearken back to a previous post when I wrote about interesting rock specimens I picked up.  Chris opined that they didn’t fit into the volcanic area in which we were hiking. 

Friend Betty picked up the identification challenge because of her family's lifelong interest in gemology/rockhounding.  She consulted her brother; following is his surmise given without the advantage of seeing the actual rock.  It sounds logical to me.  He says “the picture looks like it could be what is called a ‘limb cast’.  It is true that petrification will not occur after a volcano, as your friend says, and there are also crystals or agate involved. All agate is crypto crystalline, which will not occur during petrifaction, so your specimen is not petrified."

He continues, "A limb cast forms when a tree limb has fallen and becomes covered with mud. If, over time, the mud hardens and a volcano takes place, it can either burn out the center of the limb, or if it has already rotted out, there is a hole there. In either case, there is going to be a hole there.  Solutions involving and caused by volcanic activity fill the hole, and if silica gets in there, it will form agate or crystals.  The limb doesn't have a chance to petrify, but it looks like petrified wood and can even appear to be because it is so hardened. I have seen a lot of these various types of things over my lifetime and many are exceptionally beautiful.  There is a type of opal found in Nevada called Virgin Valley opal that has been formed in much this way. Exceptionally beautiful stuff - looks like the opal is right in the center of the wood.”

Thanks much, Betty and brother! 

Surprise! . . .
Okay, back on the road.  While stopped at Simmons, I want to pull out my binoculars, so ask Chris where he put them when he stowed our gear in the car.  “Right behind my seat under my backpack,” he says, so I reach back there, groping around until I feel them.  Imagine my surprise when I extract a brand-new pair of binocs - my birthday gift.  My surprise is even more profound when I discover that I am holding my first-ever “good” binoculars as opposed to the cheapies that tend to be disposables after using them for several years of frustration at their deficiencies.

Chris purchased this pair at Jay’s Bird Barn in Prescott, our favorite-ever emporium for all things wild-bird-related, and they are whing-dingers - lifetime guarantee!  The difference when I use them is astounding; I am thrilled.  Thanks to Eric, proprietor of Jay’s, for great advice.  I am inspired to do a Vanna White display.

Our drive continues northward through ranch country that is posted “no trespassing”.  Nothing makes me want to explore a place more than someone telling me I cannot, ergo, I whine piteously until we are past that very large, incredibly enticing slice of Arizona.  When at last we are beyond the property on which I am not (legally) allowed, we try out a couple of side roads until we find just the right one, a la Goldilocks and the Three Bears, except that our reward is a great hike, not a bowl of porridge.

Our path takes us upward to elevations that afford wonderful distant views of mountains and gorgeous Arizona monsoon skies.  We see off to Black Mesa, the northern boundary of Big Chino Valley, with Bill Williams Mountain beyond,















Granite Mountain in another direction (don’t ask which; I have lost my bearings), Picacho Peak (it means Peak Peak and yes, I know there is another of the same moniker in southern Arizona),










and Juniper Mountain with its alluring wilderness area.  Already I drool to explore each and every one of these places.











As we work our way up through the brush and just enough catclaw to slow us down (wait-a-minute vine according to Dad, and aptly so), we spook up two magnificent elk.  Surprisingly, they stop to look back as I holler to Chris who hasn’t seen them yet, and I am able to snap a couple of photos before they disappear over the ridge.

It is not too long before thunder sounds in the distance (well, not really distant enough) and I seek the safety of the much-too-far-away vehicle.  Chris is leading, but oh so slowly.  My lightning fear spurs me to go into overdrive and I find our way off that mountain lickety-split.  So what if I am torn up from hurried carelessness in the catclaw - at least I am not struck by lightning.

I was not always this paranoid about lightning; it was that long-ago monsoony day when a lightning bolt shot out of the ceiling ten feet away from me.  That was plenty close enough.  I choose not to make a better acquaintance.

My stampede slows somewhat once we get to lower ground, just a rapid steady pace until Ruby comes into sight. 

As we motor more northward, we outrun the storm front, so stop at the Walnut Creek bridge to peruse the water below, what little there is.  Just upstream is a high metal dam that has been there long enough for it to have completely filled in with soil behind.  The result is an extensive wetlands riparian area that extends far upstream, a completely overgrown area that would allow some fine birding opportunities.


As we pass the home place of the K4 Ranch, a pasture inhabited only by a few bulls offers a bucolic scene.  Suddenly, the story changes abruptly as the field erupts into a melee: one bull attacks another, then continues to paw up dirt in anger, and continues and continues while his pasture mates seem quite unimpressed and go back to grazing.  I wonder what burr he got under his blanket.  





 




We have met not another soul anywhere along our route, so it is with great surprise that we encounter a couple stopped for a look-see at the bridge.  The great surprise part is not that they are there, but that they are friends from Prescott.  What are the chances?  Anyway, we pause for a chat before proceeding on yet another side road that takes us across Apache Creek just above its confluence with Walnut Creek.

I have declared this will be a shorter-than-usual jaunt.  We are both tired from our schedule and I wish not to arrive home completely collapsed.  We pull out creekside for a bite to eat and I immediately spot an exceedingly strange blob on a nearby tree.  Closer inspection does not explain what it is (hopefully, a helpful reader will know), but I pick and prod at it for a spell.  It’s about six feet in circumference just over my head in a walnut tree.  It appears to be composed of bits and pieces of juniper growth but walnut leaves are growing out of it.  Even Chris, that inveterate story-teller, can’t think of an explanation.

As he peruses it from the other side, he urgently calls me over there.  He has spotted a snake in residence.  As it turns out, while I was poking and prodding and plucking and photographing, I was nearly touching the snake and had even gotten it into one of my shots without realizing it.

Not sure what kind of snake: it is docile (obviously, since I was disturbing its habitat with great abandon and it never struck at me), slender and very long.  We are never able to see its entire length, but the part that is visible is easily three or four feet.

We have stopped but the storm has not, so has caught up to us.  As the rain begins to splatter, we set our sights for home, enjoying quite a deluge as we go.  Ruby is completely trashed from our dash along the dirt road turned quickly to sloppy mud and we are exhausted after all, but it’s a good exhaustion - a happy birthday for me.

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Kin at Kaibab 
June 30, 2012

Life has become inordinately structured and full of late; seems that we seldom can be spontaneous which is by far my preferred lifestyle, so when the opportunity arises today, I jump at it.  Perhaps not any big deal, but it feels good to me.

We both spent the morning at a church function, arriving home about 1.  Cousins Donna and Rob had texted last night and this morning about their first outing with their fifth-wheel RV at Kaibab Lake. 

Because of our previous commitment, we could not join them.  After texting back & forth a while about various RV care questions, I decide it is silly to keep that up when they are only an hour away and the most we will do here is busy chores.  We pack up the fishing gear and Ruby, the Four-Runner delivers us safely to the National Forest campsite at Kaibab.

We have no idea what their vehicle or RV look like and when I talked to Donna on the phone, the connection was poor so I don't know their campsite number, either.  This circumstance causes us to drive a ridiculously circuitous route even after I spot them across the way.  It is one of those "you can't get there from here" deals.  Chris persists and at long last we are at the intended destination.

It is great fun seeing them - it's been way too long - and we love admiring their new rig.  They are brand new at the RVing gig, so we are happy to show them the ropes so they may avoid all the dumb mistakes we made when we were starting out.

Soon, we hear the lake calling us so we gather gear and walk down to a spot that Rob declares to be a good fishing spot.  This lake, like most others in the West, has a substantially depleted water level. 

Not too productive fish-wise, we four nevertheless enjoy our time visiting and relaxing by the water, watching deer coming for a drink on the opposite shore.  Fishing for trout, we instead pull in a couple of bass.  One does not survive the hook extraction and later I am awed to see an osprey swoop in the snatch the floater off the surface.

Our preferred shoreline spot is near a dead tree that is the preferred roost for area cormorants.  It looks like some kind of macabre Christmas tree.

As we prepare to depart, we know we must come back with our little trailer and be here for at least a couple of nights as we have in the past.











Opting out, estate sale
July 7, 2012

I’m not feeling the magic this morning: tired and just generally in naw-I-think-I'll-stay-home mode.  Left to my own devices, I would opt out of the day’s journey, whatever it is, but pushy Chris will have none of it.  In his mind, the show must go on, enjoy it or not, so I manage to gather a few items to take along and we depart after I shoo out of the garage the teensiest, tinsiest ittiest bittiest lizard I have ever seen.

Hah!  That doesn’t take long.  We get as far as the first corner where I spy an estate sale at the Teapot Inn, my most despised B&B, detested only because I dislike the oversized lighted sign they were allowed to install out front in a residential area.  Why in heaven’s name does a Chino Valley B&B with a name that suggests Victorian lace and teacups need that grotesquerie?

Okay, never mind that diatribe; we stop to peruse the offerings arrayed on tables all over the lawn, front porch and parlor, the stop becoming effective only after some sighing from Chris for dramatic effect.  There is a cute little Tiffany-style lamp I wouldn’t mind having, but the $30 price tag acts as an effective deterrent.  Bargaining starts tomorrow, they tell me, but I will be at church so someone else is destined to own that lamp.

Cherry Road, San Dominique, Garlic Paradise . . .
This week, our day off falls on a Saturday, the one after Independence Day, and I want not to encounter the crowds I expect will be at choice water holes so it is Chris’ choice today.  Many times in the past, we have wondered where one particular road leads.  Today we will find out.  Taking Highway 169 (the Cherry Road in my vernacular) east from Dewey, we cross over I-17, but instead of our usual turn to the north there, we continue on the now-dirt road.  It actually looks like just a stub going nowhere, but we quickly learn otherwise.

My pard has mentioned a winery over there somewhere; naturally, I declare we must locate it.  The first turnoff is to the right and sports signage indicating that is the way.  The crudely made sign to San Dominique Winery turns out to be a correct indicator of what we are to find.  A bit further along is further confirmation that we are not approaching a thriving business - a dead tree is festooned with “Garlic Paradise” signs touting various items for sale.

Winding along for about a half-mile, we turn onto the winery property that appears to be completely abandoned, even down to the outdoor deck with tables and chairs that have been awaiting patrons for a very long spell judging by their derelict weathered condition.

So much for this stop, we say, as we pull up by the main building to turn around.  That is when we see the door standing open; who can resist - we will take a peek inside.  Something akin to the popular Christmas story, “when what to our wondering eyes did appear” not a little old elf or eight tiny reindeer, but a withered man who turns on the lights only because we have arrived and reveals an interior filled with dusty bottles of wine and other products.

He unenthusiastically welcomes us and proceeds with a spiel that is incongruous with his surroundings.  The patter continues on about the jarred products until he takes a breath, allowing us to take a look around and offers to continue afterward with patter about the wines.  We are amazed at the variety of concoctions - preserves, barbecue sauce and pickles plus so much more, all of it waiting forlornly on shelves, unlikely to be purchased ever.

Making one obligatory purchase, we decline the offered wine tasting or information.  In response to our questions, the lone proprietor relates something of his former glory days: acres of lush vineyards, a boutique winery, catered special events for up to 160 people, prosperity and opulence, until he says he caught the disease of divorce and everything changed.

With that depressing understatement, we bid him adieu wondering if our tiny condiment purchase will even pay for the lights he turned on for us.

Ranch country, oasis . . .
Back to the main road, we find that it continues on over hills dry and dusty from lack of rain.  As we broach one crest, we look down into a ranch settlement with a ribbon of greenery at its base.  That is a sure sign in the desert of at the very least subsurface moisture in that wash bottom and possibly surface water. 

As a self-avowed desert rat, I find that my fascination with water in any of its forms never ends and evidently, Chris’ long tenure in the West creates that same interest for him.  It seems that any time water is present, we find that we must stop to examine the situation.

Here we find a lovely little oasis created by permanent (as opposed to the more frequent incidences of seasonal) water.

The low area is fed by a spring and is teeming with minnows and crawdads, the shoreline shaded by huge sycamores and the waterline partly defined by reeds.

We find it a welcome place to wander and explore the magic of water bubbling up through the sand to bring life where little could exist without it.  I am excited to spot a huge hawk feather, more than a foot long, floating on the water’s surface.

 For some reason, I can't pass up a photographic opportunity when confronted with a lizard, any lizard.  Here I spotted one of  extra large size that blended perfectly with the bark on his chosen tree.




A sign pointing the two-mile distance to Box T Springs brings us to a decision to return to hike that direction another day.







Ruby falters, Squaw Peak Tank, Indian ruin . . .
Back to Ruby, our trusty Four-Runner, we begin to question just how reliable she is just now.  When we make another stop to snap photos and walk, we notice an unusual odor emanating from beneath the hood.  The engine is not hot, although we are pretty much sweltering.  After much discussion, argument, theories and disbelieving snorts from me about Chris’ theories (I can’t bring myself even to relate them), I decide the smell is that of engine coolant; however, there appear to be no leaks of any kind.

Shucks, what to do now?  Should we pursue the adolescent avenue of fulfilling our wishes despite warning signs?  We saw signs noting the distance to Squaw Peak, but it’s a ways off and besides, would obviously be uphill, being a mountain and all.  Should we take the adult route and turn back now?  We are way the heck out here in the boonies after all; would we have to sell our first-born to pay for a tow truck (and would anyone make an offer on him)?  Finally, we talk ourselves into the possibly deluded notion that we can proceed at least to something called Squaw Peak Tank, a half-mile further.

That turns out to be a dirt tank with a smidgen of green gunk, enough moisture to last perhaps another day or two if rain fails to replenish it.  I am not even certain there is actual water under the green until C tosses in a rock to prove its presence.  Two cows, one with a new baby calf, are hanging out here, keeping a cautious eye on us as we enjoy our lunch in the shade of a juniper tree.

We got this far and it seems that the car will not fare any worse for sitting here, thus a hike is in order, the longer to defer turning back.  Walking is a little slow in this area because the ground surface is rubbly with volcanic rocks, but that’s just as well because it is hotter than Hades out here today.  We are so spoiled with our ideal climate, just not accustomed to this much heat.

It is not long before we begin to encounter lithic scatters and broken potsherds, then a one-room rock Indian ruin in what seems to be an atypical location.  Although we find only the one room, it appears to have been an occupation of significant duration judging by the large amount of artifacts in the area.








During our wander, we find a patch of some of the thorniest thorns I’ve ever seen growing in a cracked former mud surface left behind as the water evaporated away.  No idea what they are and just as glad not to have made their acquaintance.





I am quite taken with several specimens of an unusual rock that appears to be fossilized bone with crystalline centers; however, my geologist companion says it is impossible to be fossil because this is all volcanic country, not sedimentary.  Then again, he can't explain just what they are.




 






Destination Squaw Peak, vistas extraordinaire . . .
Meanwhile, back at the car, the smell has dissipated, so we are on our way.  When we come to the turn-left-to-go-home or turn-right-to-continue-the-adventure place, C does the responsible thing and begins his left turn, at which point I can’t stand not to say it, so I do: “Maybe it would be okay if we go ahead.”  Without the slightest hesitation, Chris turns the wheel in the irresponsible “what were we thinking?” direction.  After all, if it goes badly, he can always blame me.

As we proceed, the road gets steeper and rougher, but is not too bad as long as we use four-wheel-drive to navigate the steepest stretches.  The farther we go, the more spectacular the vistas become, requiring many stops and short hikes to attain the best views.  I shoot photo after photo in excitement, knowing full well that my basic point-and-shoot camera is not up to the task of conveying this exhilarating beauty.  It makes me wish for a more advanced camera because I love to share the sights that interest and excite me.

When we attain the summit, we hike around the crest of the mountain to take in the spectacularity of the 360-degree views.  Because Squaw Peak, at 6,825-foot elevation, is the highest prominence in its vicinity, the vistas are unobscured in every direction.  We have great fun orienting ourselves in the midst of this vast country.  To the northeast, we overlook the town of Camp Verde with its patchwork green fields.  Beyond it, we see the red rocks of Sedona backdropped by San Francisco Peaks. 

East of us we can look down on the torturous terrain traversed by the Verde River, actually a section of it that we kayaked with a group led by our friend, Nancy.  This designated “wild & scenic” river is exactly that; however, from up here, we see that above the banks that hemmed in our kayak trip are some farms and residences, none of which was visible as we alternately lolled in pools and rushed through rapids and riffles, occasionally being dumped into the water.

A little farther on, the Verde’s path is lost to sight in the convolutions of mountainous terrain.  South and east of us are wilderness areas: Cedar Bench and Pine Mountain, that promise to be future interesting explores and hikes.  Astoundingly, we can see far, far to the south the ghostly presence of Four Peaks, nearer to Phoenix, and then all the way to San Francisco Peaks off in the North, probably a distance of 150 miles.

We see the Mingus range, our own Granite Mountain beyond the Bradshaws, the Mazatzals and their wilderness area, Mount Elden and Sycamore Canyon.  Short of being in an airplane, I don’t think I have ever experienced such a vast array of Arizona all at once.  Chris put it succinctly: “There’s a lot of Arizona out there.”  And of course I want to experience it all.

Cell towers, century plants . . .
Employing the binoculars, we scan steep mountain slopes far below us that appear to have been festooned with orange party lights.  Not visible to the naked eye, we realize that the south-facing exposures are literally sprinkled with blooming century plants, surely thousands of them.  What a sparkling sight!

In our immediate vicinity atop the peak is an assortment of communication towers soaring far over our heads.  Obviously a prime piece of real estate on which to place them for maximum line of sight to just about everywhere, it seems too bad to sully this wonderful mountain top with these modern necessities.

We cannot seem to get enough of this on-top-of-the-world experience, but eventually, we return to our transport, which has given not another moment’s indication of trouble and work our way home, noting many side roads along the way that offer more exploration opportunities.


Several more stops are required to get pictures of century plants along the way.  The ones in this area seem to be more spectacular than any I've seen.  That applies to the tall flowering stalks, not necessarily the base from which they sprout.

At one stop, a ridge-top hike leads on and on, continuing to drop down to one bench and yet another.  I am inclined to keep going, but the hour is late, the sun is withering, home calls and besides, Chris is ready to pack it in.  It will all still be there for the next time.

Birds for the day: Red-tail hawk, rock wren, western kingbird, turkey vulture, Gambel's quail, raven and roadrunner, all of which we can and do see at home.