We be townies 
November 18, 2013


Several perusers of my blog made mention after the last posting that I told about purchasing a house in Prescott, then proceeded to ignore that admittedly major-by-most-standards event, writing instead about friends, hiking, kayaking and the beauty of our environment.  Some individuals were left wondering about our newly acquired abode.  A person might surmise that after 37 years in one house, the dwelling itself might be the subject at hand.

Thinking back, it seems two factors were at play.  One is simply that people and the outside environment are of primary importance to me.  The other takes into account our previous attempt at house-buying: a move for which I packed all our belongings and did all the other things that one does in preparation for a move, only to have the our sale fall through three days before departure. 

This time, I was taking no chances - my preference was not to talk about it at all until the deed was done.  That proved to be impossible, but I was not counting this house as ours until each and every signature of the multitude required was dry on the page.

But first . . .

While the purchase was wending its way through the serpentine circuit required these days, we availed ourselves of yet another outing.  This one was a random choice - drive out a road to the south a short distance and head off along a drainage through the forest.

An unknown long-ago prospector had tried his hand at locating riches; we found a number of ambitious prospect holes and shafts into a promising quartz vein, one that evidently played out without the hoped-for gold. 

That find set us upward on a hill-slope.  Should be simple enough; however, the thickly vegetated south slope made the going exceedingly rough, at which point I spouted once again my over-utilized mantra: “We’ve come this far; we might as well keep going”.  This encouragement is a companion’s clue to head back the way we’ve come, but in this case, it did lead to some spectacular views of Lynx Lake nestled in the Bradshaws.  I do occasionally wonder why I can't just hike on trails like normal people, but then I wouldn't make all the cool discoveries, would I?

By the time we crested - twice (as is often the case, the perceived mountaintop is not always the actual peak) - we were so ripped and torn by brush and tired from climbing over and through the many bedrock protrusions that we wished for a helicopter to come deliver us to level land.  Despite many times over many years of wishing for that exact rescue, I once again was required to get myself back whence I came and that is what we did.

I love the lichen colors.

Okay, now the house . . .

Be it ever so humble.

This house in what I call Monopoly land became our shelter from the storms on October 16; the intervening time has been a blur of activity.  Why Monopoly land?  The development is officially called Cliff Rose, but all the streets are named after imaginary properties on that classic board game.  We are on Marvin Gardens, just off Boardwalk, and no, I have not yet attempted to erect a large red hotel on the property.

The neighborhood is lovely; the neighbors act as if they just couldn’t wait for the Wuehrmanns to show up.  There are folks out walking and greeting constantly; it is the loveliest thing to sit on our front porch and be a part of this little slice of the world while watching the sunset on Glassford Hill.

This is a close-knit community, one filled with people who come together regularly to support charitable works, including food banks and shelter services.

Such people proximity might have required more adjustment had we come directly from our five-acre shangri-la isolation in Chino Valley, but the intervening year has been one of RV park dimensions in which one could reach out of one’s window and shake the hand of neighbors reaching out of their window should one have wanted to do so.  Relatively speaking, our new tiny lot is huge: sizable enough for a whole slew of RVs, none of which are sharing it with us, thank goodness.

Our "stuff" in a storage unit. Moving in would have been easier if Chris had not been away working that day. Thank goodness for those four strong young men who were patient with me.

And the house: we love our new home; it is light-filled and welcoming, albeit a tight fit after its predecessor.  From five acres to one-fifth acre and reduced square footage requires real adjustments, hence a gigantic sale is in the offing soon, after which we will be able to park in our garage.

Rowdy and I especially love having room to stretch and move, and we all love sitting on the front porch greeting neighbors as they walk by and watching the sunsets/moonrises over Glassford Hill.  Rowdy does get a little huffy with the folks who are walking their dogs, though.

And . . . I have a clothes dryer for the first time in 37 years - zounds!  I’m finding it very easy to do laundry with this handy-dandy appliance.  My fountain is trickling away; the grandmother clock chimes the time and the cuckoo joins in with its contribution - feels like home for sure. 

The new space is somewhat insufficient for all our family history files but at least I do have access to it now as I continue my research on my gigantic computer monitor that I miss much while abiding in the Totee, at least as much as Rowdy misses his “tree”.  He now divides his snoozing time between the top of his tree and various and sundry chairs and couches - it’s all about choices - we like havin’ ‘em.  Who knew a full-length bed could be such a luxury!

We arrived just in time to experience this beautiful autumn-turned maple in the back yard.

The back patio before our "stuff" filled it up.

Moving in . . .

Better without boxes . . .

Rowdy is diligent about his job of insuring packing paper does not get away.

Feeling more like home . . .

As new townies, we are not quite sure how to deal with everything: no compost pile, no brush-pruning structures to shelter the quail and other critters; nevertheless, the animals seem to have adapted to their human counterparts.  Birds abound and the occasional bobcat and mountain lion are reported in the near vicinity, not to mention chipmunks and javelina.

And about those birds: while doing this blog since our Midland adventure began, I have chronicled the avian life we have identified, but somewhere after arriving in Prescott land, I ceased recording that aspect of our attention, which I will remedy forthwith only to add a certain consistency.

It has been a very birdy year - to date, our list numbers 212: 23 of them are life birds.  Growing schlocky with my blog, I neglected to name the new feathered ones we gathered since the Pagosa Springs sojourn.  In southern Arizona, we picked up an Abert’s towhee.  In the northern section of the state, we have identified pinion jay, bushtit, greylag goose, Anna’s hummingbird, white-breasted nuthatch, Say’s phoebe, Gambel’s quail, bridled titmouse, green-tailed towhee and Oregon dark-eyed junco.

It will be fun to watch the seasonal changes in our new back yard, avian and botanical.  We have inherited some of the most glorious roses ever, obviously carefully chosen for both their stunning colors and alluring aromas.  Scarcely ever do I pass them without stopping to admire each one.  Here are a few photos of some:

And now I see that I have once again digressed from the life lived indoors to the one I prefer which is outside.

A month later, we are primarily unpacked; most everything has found a location to rest or has been added to the exceedingly large mountain of stuff relegated to the anticipated garage sale.  I am open for genealogy business in smaller than before quarters, and Chris has been playing music.

We are grateful to be townies, to forgo the long driving times and costs, to have convenience of proximity to activities that before were difficult or not pursued at all.  The quiet solitude of our previous residence was precious; however, I am happy to trade it for friendly greetings as I step out my door.

Last year at Thanksgiving, we found ourselves on the cusp of a great unknown and truthfully, we were both pretty apprehensive at facing that chasm of questions.  Everything that has happened in the interim is added to our life’s memories and for it all, we give thanks.

Prescott

Writing, house hunting, attempted forest closure . . .

Since our return to Prescott, I have been clutched in the claws of inertia, at least as far as writing is concerned.  Seems that when I am writing, I keep writing and when I am not, I am completely not, only thinking about it. 

Not to misstate my case, I am ecstatic to be here, especially in comparison with my Mid-crazy-land experience, and have carted the camera everywhere with me, snapping, snapping, snapping each welcome sight.  After 37 years of relishing the sight of Granite Mountain from my house in Chino Valley, and as many years hiking in the area, I think I have photographed that landmark from every possible angle in every possible light and every possible weather, yet its fascination continues for me.

We temporarily reside in an RV park in the Granite Dells area of Prescott with that magnificent mountain backdropping our view across the boulders; still I do not cease photographing it.

The writing, though, that’s another thing.  All experiences since our return in late August have chronicled themselves in my mind.  Without a focus or starting point; however, I have managed not to commit a single word to paper until now.

Perhaps I hearken back to the timelines of my newspaper days: without that looming deadline, it's easy enough to allow procrastination full sway.  Now, the impetus to write is partially because of an impending move: us from the Totee, our shelter since December past, into a house, the real kind that the big bad wolf cannot blow down.  Once that happens, Wednesday next to be precise, I expect I shall be preoccupied for a spell with little leisure in which to write.

As our sojourn wound down, I made an appointment with a realtor and had gotten us financially pre-qualifed via telephone, so that the day after arrival, we were able to begin the search.  Never had we anticipated when we departed for a working stint in Mid-job-filled-land that we would not be returning to our abode of decades, but when the long-anticipated sale of our house occurred, we knew we would become permanent Prescott residents.

We found a house we both liked in just a week and a half.  That was the good news.  The bad news was that Chris liked one and I liked another.  Without going into how that little stumbling block was bypassed, suffice it to say we will move into our house on October 16th.  Having lived in only one house for most of our adult lives makes the idea of settling ourselves into different digs a bit disconcerting, a lot exciting, and very much sleep-interfering.

The next impetus to write was our latest foray into the National Forest, yes, that locale, the Prescott National Forest to be exact, that those whom we have elected to govern us have absurdly enough declared “closed”.  Nothing could induce me to venture forth more than being told I cannot, and so we did, have and will continue to do so.  If I should find myself in a jail cell for trespassing on public land before I get into my house, I will take it as a badge of honor. 

We are welcomed, hiking, kayaking . . .

We have been wonderfully welcomed home, wined, dined, welcomed, feted, hugged, kissed, and welcomed some more.  What fun reunions we are having; I am grateful for every bit of it!

Ensconced in the Dells as we are, we have only to step out the door to fabulous hiking and climbing opportunities.  Primarily, I am a back-country hiker, eschewing developed trails only out of preference; however, convenience in the midst of house-purchase chores, has caused us to be exploring some of the myriad trails in and near Prescott. 

Granite Mountain (here) and Thumb Butte (below) are both seen from our trailer.

One of those trails follows the old Peavine railroad line through Granite Dells.  As we walked southward on that one, the scene revealed got me to wondering about times past.  When my maternal grandparents moved to Prescott in 1921, they left behind Grandma's ailing mother in the San Fernando Valley.  One particular spot along that train route brought me to realize I was most likely looking at the exact sight that my grandmother would have seen as she approached home on the train after returning west at the death of her mother.  Then, as now, Thumb Butte signals that Prescott is at hand.

For adventures of the wetter type, we have taken the kayaks out on Watson Lake, just the proverbial hop, skip and jump from us.  We were there ostensibly to fish; more than that, we basked in our boats and marvelled at the beauty at every turn, each inlet more amazing than the last, while we reminisced about the multitude of times we have climbed around, swam in, picnicked at, boated and fished on this body of water. 

That's Chris out there doing his rock imitation.

Got a shot just before he slipped off the rock and into the water.

Whaddaya know? There's Granite Mountain again.

This feller appeared to be walking on water.

Not so very long ago, Watson and environs were not much utilized by the local population.  It seems the building of trails and the development of the lake-side park were required to alert folks to this gem in our midst.  While we were out this time, the fish population was wholly uncooperative with our attempts to extract said specimens from their watery lair, but that detracted not a whit from the day.

In fact, while I was drifting here and there, once again realizing the difficulty of photography from a boat that insists on moving just as I frame the best shot ever, I got my fishing line snarled at the front of the boat, a wonderful happenstance; in the process of giving the kayak its head, it turned me right around to see a bald eagle circling behind me.  Now that was a photography challenge extraordinaire: neither the boat nor the bird would cease moving.  I dang near tipped myself right into the water while trying to follow the elusive target.

Retrieving Ruby . . .

Our trusty Four-Runner had been carefully tended by my brother and sister-in-law in southern Arizona whilst we ventured cross country, so a couple of days were set aside to retrieve her and to enjoy some time with them.  A great visit and the best stir-fry ever, bar none (thank you, Pat!), that will hopefully be followed up with a longer stay in the near future.  I also got enough information to begin family history research on Pat’s side of the fam, a process that is proving to be fascinating.

Pow-wow, English dance, et. al . . .

An annual event, the Intertribal Social gathering was held at Watson Lake in September, so we trooped over the hill to revel in the powerful energy of that singing and dancing.

And speaking of dancing, we are happy to be back to our English country dancing, an activity we have sorely missed in past months.  Hopefully, we will gather newcomers who want to join us at this fun and easy-to-learn historic dance.

Chris was privileged to play for the Highlands Center dinner/auction, a memorable event, and has played at church again, too, in addition to getting back with Country Pride.

We have lunched with the Chino bunch, who name us traitors for our move into Prescott, but who allow us to remain with the group despite it, bless their hearts (this is a mandatory Texas sentence add-on). 

What else?  Sharlot Hall Museum’s folk music festival was a must-do.  Our mutual shagginess was relieved by visits to our tried-and-true hairdresser and barber, and we savored delectables from friends’ gardens and the farmer’s market.  All in all, it all feels just right.

Seasons . . .

Summer has transitioned to autumn, alerting us to the urgent need for more substantial shelter before winter’s arrival.  As always this time of year, some days herald the future with a crispness, others stubbornly cling to the sunny warmth soon to be left behind.

Leaves are scarcely into their color change, but hillsides are golden with fall flowers, bright enough to fairly cause the air to shimmer with brilliance of gold-nugget-yellow.  As I hike, I can't help but think of the words to the Jimmy Rodgers song, “I dreamed I walked in a field of flowers”, and yes, I sing it but try to keep the volume down enough not to offend anyone within earshot.

Surely someday I will tire of photographing horned toads, but not yet. This one was a wee baby and very cautious of the giant person pursuing it.