Here, there & the next place
May 27, 2014

Juniperwood, squatters . . .

Freed a while back from our self-imposed urban sentence, we gathered the paraphernalia that we prefer to have on boonie jaunts - binoculars, camera, hats, backpacks and bird book fill the bill in addition to Chris' never-leave-home-without-it string cheese - and set off in our trusty Four Runner, Ruby to . . . hold the phone - we weren't really headed anywhere, only away from the daily haunts!  So which direction to turn?

"Hmmm", said I, "We haven't been to Juniperwood since we got back to Arizona; why don't we check it out."  Juniperwood Ranch, a checkerboard of 40-acre properties created when an erstwhile cattle outfit succumbed to the modern western tendency to reduce the magnificent expanses of days gone by into fenced and posted postage-stamp parcels, lies to the west of the never-a-metropolis of Ash Fork.  It just so happens that Chris and I, like pretty much everyone else in the region, own one of those "ranchettes", as they are occasionally termed by city folk who are awed by any bit of dirt larger than a house and dog run.

It's an investment, we told ourselves that day we wandered out Kaml Road with Jake the realtor to view our bit of Arizona, and in the meantime whilst we wait and wait and wait (well, you get the idea) to realize the profit from our brilliance, we explore the parts of Juniperwood that are not prohibited from doing so.

Consumed since our return from Mid-oil well-land with securing an abode and rendering said abode to our liking, I realized we hadn't visited our little section of paradise for a couple of years, so that became the day's destination.

Hoping that someone had not come along and clear-cut the trees off our land in our absence, we drove the 45 or so minutes to discover that Kaml Road had been upgraded in name only to Tata Lobo (Father or Grandfather Wolf, I think), that despite its renaming, the last section of road has seriously deteriorated from its previous not-so-hot condition, a situation that deterred Ruby not in the least.

As we approached the parcel that we pay taxes on, Chris invariable says something like "This is where our property starts", followed by my never-changing query, "How can you tell?"  I am fairly certain at those times that he is making it up; after all, one juniper tree pretty much resembles the next juniper tree in my opinion.  He insists that the way one particular tree is shaped is somehow his clue.  I carefully look at the one he indicates, then look forward to the next one and backward to the last one and realize that if left on my own, I would never know where ours begins and someone else's ends.

I can recognize the far boundary, however: it involves a driveway to our full-time neighbors.  There are homesteads here and there throughout Juniperwood on which people reside, although the vast majority remains as it has been for a very long time.

Interlopers! . . .

Gasp!  What is this?  No, clear-cutting has not occurred, but someone has moved in.  Despite the hazy haphazardly surveyed borders of our parcel, it appears that interlopers have camped on our property with an eye to permanency.  No one is at home, but a motor home, motorcycle, pickup truck and various belongings point to squatters settling in.

This is a somewhat alarming situation.  After Chris' pacing off lines and corners, we are fairly certain that we have been interloped, so we write a polite but stern note and tape it to their door, insistent that they must contact us at their earliest convenience.

Grateful that we arrived prior to those bags of concrete being used to create a permanent structure, we enjoyed the remainder of our day with only the barest concerns intruding.  Pursuant to our note, the feller did call us soon after, explaining that he had purchased the property adjoining ours and believed that he was actually ensconced on his bought-and-paid-for piece.  Chris' opinion differed (as for me, remember, one juniper tree looks like another, so I could offer only outrage that someone was camped on what may or may not be my very own property); arrangements were made to meet with our neighbor, squatter, intruder or thief, until he called back with the news that he had hearkened to Chris' admonitions about which tree was which and he was moving over.

Well, our mommas didn't raise no dummies, so we thought it prudent to make another trip north to insure that wool was not being pulled over our eyes.  I was a bit apprehensive to meet up with a bunch of outlaws (the passage of time, however short, allowed possible motives to grow in my mind in a decidedly negative direction) who were attempting to rustle our land.

A sigh of relief . . .

I was therefore quite relieved to discover not only no one at home at the squatter's camp, but to literally not even be able to tell where exactly they had been - that well had they cleaned out the previous scatter of belongings.  So . . . did that mean they really had been attempting to acquire property by means of adverse possession?

One might conclude so, at least until one spoke to a real estate agent who listed the neighboring parcel and who also wondered just why someone was camped somewhere on the border of it.  After much discussion and map-reading, the realtor was able to convince Mr. I'm Going to Live on my Ranchette that he was clueless about what he had purchased, his parcel being a good half-mile from ours.

Okay, trees intact, property secured - we are ready to sell our little piece of juniper paradise.  Anyone interested in 40 acres of lovely treed property with nice views and one small prehistoric dwelling site?

Agua . . .

A few waterholes on the ranch remain semi-wet despite continued lack of rain.  I hate to pass one by without at least a quick look-see for birds.

We hiked up to our favorite tank that is backed up behind a very large earthen dam.  First glance revealed relatively shallow water mired in the midst of an unattractive mud flat.  Little foliage at water's edge and no avian life in evidence, but we decided to have a snack and wait to see what might appear.  Much to my surprise, our patience paid off as birds began to appear, including an Oregon dark-eyed junco that regarded us from a nearby branch and a Townsend's solitaire, a life bird for us.

Speaking of solitaire, a lone killdeer was busy at pond's edge for a long time until he was finally joined by another of his ilk.  That kind of thing sets me off on a wonder - where did it come from?  Why is it at this isolated tank?  Did it just happen to fly over on its way to a more prestigious body of water and decide this is the one?  Then I start in with questions about the aquatic animals like turtles, even fish - for crying out loud, I know they were not just winging past when they decided to stop for a spell.  More mysteries to ponder.

A past enigma I never did solve to my satisfaction was the raccoon that came to live with us in Chino Valley.  That puppy had to cross some mighty dry acres to get to us, a decidedly welcome spot for him.  This is how I visualized it happening: raccoon displaced due to overpopulation out at maybe Del Rio.  Furry hobo shoulders his pack on a stick and sets off down the road.  Walking down Road 1 West, he suddenly spots a sign - "Backyard Wildlife Habitat" and realizes he is home.  Don't laugh; how do you know it didn't happen just like that?

Other birds spotted along the way: chipping sparrow, lark sparrow, turkey vulture, house finch, gray headed dark-eyed junco, Say's Phoebe, white-crowned sparrow, raven, mourning dove, horned lark, juniper titmouse, spotted towhee, kingbird, common yellowthroat, and bald eagle.  In the interest of full disclosure, the eagle was not at Juniperwood, but at their usual nesting place in Chino Valley; I had to stop and see if they were still there - they were.

To judge by the artifacts scattered around the this tank, the dam was built on a drainage that once had a homestead on its bank.  Previous to the Anglo settlers, native peoples were populous in the region.  Our property and many others are littered with broken stone tools and chippings and some potsherds.

Quarries . . .

Presently, there is lots of flagstone quarrying just below the dam and of course, the Ash Fork area in general.  We have not encountered work in progress in our hikes up there; however, it obviously takes place in our absence.

This flagstone is ready to be picked and transported to market.

An idyllic sidetrack . . .

Sycamore Canyon - yes, let's spend a day over there: a destination actually determined prior to departure.  Tootin' right along, getting close, but wait: what was that sign we just passed?  Must turn around and check it out and glad we did.

Our travel to Sycamore was taking us along a dirt road that parallels the middle Verde River, a section that we had enjoyed immensely until access was closed off, so I was very interested in what the status might be.  I was delighted to find that the nearby town of Cottonwood has acquired use rights from the power company that owns the land and has opened it to recreation once again.

The bad news is that they plan to "develop" it, which likely means crowds of folks.  At any rate, on that particular day, it was all ours: even better, we were fully equipped with fishing gear.  This is a particularly special place on the Verde with lots of memories of fun times.

With the memories come emotions - heart-filling contentment from a long-ago sun-filled day at the river with family and friends.  Swimming/floating in the long languid pool, pulling in a few fish that are returned to the water, relaxing under the streamside trees, grilling lunch, laughing and talking while sharing a meal.  But suddenly in the midst of that sloooow day: a call from a distance.  

Alerted from our torpor-filled summer-day lazing, we soon realized we were being hailed from far up the cliff across the river.  Dad, 82 years old, shod in slippery soled cowboy boots, had clambered and scrambled and climbed up to a small cliff dwelling about 200 feet up on a steep rocky rubbly incline and wanted to be sure we were aware of his feat.

We all hollered and waved back, startled at the precarious position he'd put himself into.  Suddenly, we noticed another small figure way up yonder - Sara had followed Grandpa up there and made the climb in loose flip-flop sandals! 

After being sufficiently admired by those of us of sounder mind, the two of them completed the descent safely while I held my breath the entire way.  This tendency to explore must be a genetic thing, carried throughout the Kelley family.  Stories abound of the dumb things we have done in our exploration excitement.

I suspect I may have shared that saga of Dad's adventure previously; however, I think it is a story worth repeating.

That was before the "No trespassing" signs barred us from enjoying that part of the Verde; now the powers that be magnanimously allow us to be there.  

I wish that rivers and streams were not shut off from the public.  To be fair, though, I certainly understand why it is so when abuse of the countryside is so evident.  This photo shows the damage that is done when people think they must drive all the way down to the river's edge instead of carrying their picnic supplies.

And yes, that is a hideabed sofa on the river's bank (scratches head in unbelief).

Memory making . . .

No, we never made it to Sycamore Canyon, but who really cares.  The day was sublime - relaxing, a few fish caught (one sucker, two bluegills and eight smallmouth bass, to be precise), hiking far upriver and back and just generally lovin' life as it is meant to be loved.

Beaver have worked along this section of river, but I saw no fresh sign, so perhaps they have departed for conditions judged to be more welcoming (sans hideabed, perhaps).

The smokestack towers over the site of the long-abandoned power plant across the river.

Full moon over Jerome . . .

The late drive home allowed us to enjoy a wonderful sunset with the full moon rising over the Jerome, perched on the east side of Mingus Mountain.  Later, I made some pathetic attempts to photograph the lunar eclipse with my point-&-shoot.

 

Wait for me . . .

Ha, the señor developed some crazy idea that he might head off without me, but I quickly disabused him of that notion.  Granted, his jaunt was simply to do a short scout for an upcoming Yavapai College Edventures trip he was to lead, but one never knows what experience might ensue once one sets off for the tulies, and I can invariably turn a straightforward drive or hike into something else entirely (that's most often a good thing, but I deny responsibility once we've gone off the tracks - whatever happens is what happens).

The proposed YC trip was to be a mostly driving tour kind of thing out Williamson Valley Road and back around to some sights off of Highway 89.  Nothing in the works that we hadn't done before; however, much time had elapsed since we had last been to some of the spots.  One would not want to take a group out only to find that a road had been closed or a housing development built on the once-pristine site.  A good guide would never allow himself to be taken by surprise when planning would prevent it, and Chris is a very good guide.

A.S.H. F.O.R.K . . .

First stop was to determine how to drive to one of the more mysterious things we've ever found.  It happened by happenstance, as the best happenings do.  Long ago and not so far away, we exited Ruby at Little Hell Canyon Lake and set off on an explore.  After a spell, we came upon a two-track that had the look of antiquity to it, and so we followed its route, seeing what we could see.

In addition to having a great hike whilst admiring the awesome Arizona countryside, we chanced up something that puzzled even Chris.  I can and do marvel at just about everything in my path, occasionally even conjuring an explanation for what I'm seeing; Chris, on the other hand, never fails to understand and explain everything.  That was the case until this particular thing.

At first glance, we suspected the rocks we saw aligned on the ground made up some sort of prehistoric structure.  Closer looks, though, eliminated that possibility.  Well, were the rocks laid out in a way to hold back water?  No, that couldn't be the case; they were not in any kind of drainage location.  Racking our brains (even my encyclopedic partner was at a loss to even make up an explanation) until we conceded the mystery and turned to leave.

A few steps out, I suddenly was struck with the idea that the rocks might be laid out to form letters.  Trees had grown up through and around the stone alignments, making identification very difficult; however, once we looked at the formations with a fresh eye, we were able to determine they did indeed spell out words and more.

Because of their large size and the trees grown up through them, it was difficult to make out, but finally we discerned what the rocks spelled out - Ash Fork 12 followed by an arrow pointing the way.  Neither then nor in the years since, however, have we been able to determine who might have done this nor why.

It is not a small lightly-taken project.  Each letter is about 15 feet wide, maybe 15 feet high, with the entire structure measuring more than 200 feet in width, quite an impressive display, but for what and for whom?  It seems to have been created long ago, which may eliminate the idea that it was some sort of stony beacon for aircraft. 

The years since we first found the sign have been hard on it.  It appears that campers have moved some of the rocks and ATVs have been through there.  Someone coming on it at this time would be unlikely to even notice that the rocks form any kind of structure.  It is a conundrum indeed, right up there with the raccoon moving in.

I was unable to photograph the mystery rocks in any way that made the letters identifiable, so C cleverly (or so he thought) formed the letter "R" with his fingers to indicate that he is standing in the midst of that stone-letter.

This squirrel had plenty to say, and very loudly, as he precariously perched way up there the whole time we were in his territory.

Kinfolk antics . . .

Challenge: Take four very busy women and attempt to find an entire day when they are all available to gather in the same place at the same time.  The task seemed for a while to be insurmountable, but kinswoman Pat persevered as we four arranged our schedules for a boony-hop as my cousin Donna terms a stint on the back roads.  "Let's do it for the old man", she cheered us on, referring to many years of back-roading with Ira Kelley - my father, Donna's uncle and Pat's best friend.

I came from Prescott's perfection, Donna traveled out of hot-box Phoenix and Pat from Heber way up on the Mogollon Rim to meet midday with Louella in Wickenburg.  The morning was set aside for the three of us to wander the desert in my grandparents' and parents' old stomping grounds near Yarnell.

We met in Congress and laughed and joked our way along winding dirt roads, trying this one and that one, thinking we might land at the site of the Kelley homestead at the foot of Rich Hill.  Never completely lost, but never completely sure just which road might or might not take us to that goal, it mattered not.

Perhaps if we'd had the entire day to wander, we might have actually gotten there, but we couldn't have had more fun no matter what.

Our first sidetrack was to check out a mine for sale, the name of which I have misfiled in my brain's cubby holes.  That track took us past a man, a most memorable man he was and one I wish I had photographed, but it felt rude to ask permission.

Relatively young, he was ensconced at a completely nondescript spot, seemingly had been camped there for an extended period of time.  A dirtier or more disheveled person I don't think I have ever seen.  Not wanting to just pass him by without a howdy-do, I stopped and inquired about the mine up ahead.

From his truly awe-inspiring ratty countenance issued a refined articulate voice that answered our questions.  That feller had a car, whether it ran or not I cannot say, one-gallon jugs of water set on the ground, a plastic chair and very little else.  Even now, I want to return to ask him what, why and how he is living there.

Proceeding to the for-sale mine, we scrambled around some and two of us ventured a ways into the substantial horizontal shaft despite posted admonitions about the danger thereof.

Donna will have trouble denying she saw the "No trespassing" sign after I photographed her photographing it.

One of us had enough sense to remain outside.

The palo verde trees were on the verge of full blooming.  The red spot in the distance is an old truck abandoned when the mine was no longer worked.

Rich Hill beckons from the background.

Ssssssnakes! . . .

A hefty diamondback rattlesnake was minding his own business crossing the road apparently to get to the other side when along came we three creating quite a disturbance with our noisy dusty vehicle.  I saw him just in time to swerve and straddle him without damage to Ruby or the snake.

A bit of an adrenaline rush followed whilst we jumped out to get a closer look.  The snake allowed photographs, but took exception when Donna attempted to shoosh him off the road by tossing rocks his way.  Instead of vacating his dangerous spot, he went into defensive, dare I say offensive, mode, causing me to be even more excited because the photo op was stupendous.

Interestingly, the whole time I circled and shot, he never once warned us by rattling.  He did look as if he was a very unhappy camper that would just love to really show us what he could do about it.  Lots of yelling, tossing, admonishing and photographing later, we left the venomous fellow to his reptilian pursuits.  One of us had enough sense to remain in the car.

 

 

We later met up with another snake, this time not of the venomous type, thank goodness, because that specimen was even more aggressive and exceptionally active.  We took him by surprise and he tried to rapidly slither to safety.  Of course we gave chase in order to photograph it, but turned tail pretty rapidly when he reversed direction and came after us.  After a bit of excitement over who was chasing who, this one located a safety hatch and disappeared underground.

This guy was even bigger than the rattler, no small specimen himself, and not averse to giving chase when we annoyed him.

Cuttin' up, ghosts . . .

Snakes and mine shafts aside, we wandered, we wondered and we vowed to return.  Never did get to the "old pack-in place", Zack & Pearl Kelley's homestead.  The rise in gold prices has created quite a boom out there in Rich Hill territory; roads have changed, been blocked off, posted and built anew, so which would deliver us to the place?  And there was the sign that informed us we were at Octave, the long-ago town where my parents first met at a dance, but where exactly were those rock ruins that my brain insists I remember from a teenage visit?  

 

No matter - we enjoyed every minute of our wander/wonder, even the part where we drove into a driveway that had a "no trespassing" sign prominently posted because Donna volunteered to ask the resident for information despite the admonition to keep out and I'm sure she would have were it not for the dogs that rushed out to meet us alerting the homeowner who came out to see who was tripping on his bridge and who expounded at great length about how wonderful that he had been freed from demon rum and who Pat and Donna assured me afterward was high as a kite on something or other.  

My memory says that Grandma & Grandpa Kelley bought this house from McCleves and moved into it when they left the much more primitive dwelling they had built out of corrugated tin on East Antelope Creek. That may or may not be correct (I think it is) - why, oh why did I not write down everything Dad told me???

While skulking around the abandoned house, we picked up a bunch of devil's claws to cart home with us.  A person is a little unclear about how or why Donna ended up with one tangled in her hair . . .

The day's plan included being in Wickenburg by 1ish in order to meet up with cousin Louella (Underdown) Johnson.  I claim kinship with her because: 1. She's a wonderful person and 2. She's my Aunt Margaret's first cousin.  I've claimed kinship with much less substantiation, so why not.

Louella grew up in Prescott and shares great memories of those years.  Because my mother also spent her childhood here, it adds even more meaning for me when she talks about those days when Prescott was still undiscovered - a charming small mountain town.  We have long been found out and things have changed to a large degree, making it a real gift to hear first-hand what it was like in a different era.

We totally enjoyed what Louella called an "L.L.L." lazy lady's lunch, but what I call an excellent midday meal spiced with good conversation, love and laughter.  Hating to call a halt to the reminiscences, I was thrilled when Louella agreed to travel up the mountain for a day of touring Prescott to allow the sights to inspire even more recollection, an event much anticipated.

We three intrepid explorers were treated to lunch and olden-days-in Prescott reminiscences by Louella.

You won't find an ocotillo like this impressive specimen in our colder climate and you likely won't find any other three desert rats who enjoy boondocking a la Ira Kelley more than we do.