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.