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.
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.
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.
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