Journeys: July 2014

Still shaking down
July 30, 2014

Canyon Diablo . . .

Many of us explore the environment in far-away lands more than in our immediate region; Chris and I are no exception. Case in point is Canyon Diablo, noted by a sign on the highway between Flagstaff and Winslow. Each of the gazillion times I have passed that way, I declared, “I want to go there some day”.

Our stay in Williams, only an hour from home, gave us the opportunity to see what was to be seen at Canyon Diablo, a ghost of a town perched solitarily in a desolate landscape of rock and dry scrub grass tufts.

Seemed an odd location to take in while we were ensconced in the midst of a ponderosa forest, but it was a good jumping-off point for the opportunity.

The "road" to the ghost town of Canyon Diablo.

In its heyday, the town of Canyon Diablo was notorious, known primarily for violence, untamed by the few lawmen who attempted to bring order to chaos. It is said that the first marshal began his job at 3 p.m. and was dead by 8 the same day. None lasted more than a month; seven succumbed to violent deaths in two years. My first thought is that a person would have to be very, very desperate for work to embark on that job, either that, or possessing an ego the size of North America to think he could be successful in such an arena.

The town perches at the lip of an impressive gorge by the same name.

Begun in 1882 as a construction camp for the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, no different than many others, its tenure was lengthened first by the difficulty of bridging the canyon, then by a substantial hiatus of building while the incorrectly-sized bridge girders were replaced.

The resulting lack of work, boredom and isolation along with a plethora of saloons and brothels likely contributed to the out-of-control banditry and gunplay. By all accounts, killings were rampant, robberies occurred numerous times daily.

As we wandered through the site, we saw various rock building ruins and located the graveyard where only one marker remains. It is in memory of a trading post owner, Herman Wolfe, rumored to be the sole natural death in the region.

Histories recount about 35 graves at that spot, but it is impossible to determine at this juncture: the site has been driven over extensively, eradicating nearly all signs of burials. Many others are said to be in disbursed graves.

A desolate final resting place if ever I saw one.

It is a fact that there exist photographs of the corpse, John Shaw. He was shot and killed in 1905 after he robbed a Winslow saloon and fled to Canyon Diablo. The photographs were taken after Shaw was disinterred and propped up in order to give him a final drink of whiskey. That ghoulish incident conveys a bit of the drunken debauchery that prevailed.

The infamous town was populated by about 2,000 people and was in existence from about 1882 until its demise in 1903, its final gasp a trading post for commerce with the Navajo on whose reservation it is located.

As always, keeping half an eye out for birds, we spotted horned lark, black-throated sparrow and one lone yellow-headed blackbird.

Seemingly a subterranean water tank.

The ground is partially covered with what appears to be ash from the volcanic field near Flagstaff.

An innovative method of fence-building to avoid digging postholes in bedrock.

Bits and pieces from lives gone by.

As evidenced by tiny Chris in the distance, this building was exceptionally large, most likely the trading post.

This cot frame lies where it fell after the canvas rotted off.

This large collared lizard was an especially stunning sight amidst his barren surroundings.

Two Guns . . .

Further upstream along the same serpentine winding gorge is another settlement site - Two Guns, occupied first prehistorically and later into the 1920s and beyond by Anglos. Some of those building remains are easily seen from Interstate 40; our exploration revealed many other crumbling ruins south of the highway.

By the time we came back through there, approaching sunset and fatigue prevented me from snapping very many photographs. At both locations, the canyon itself is impressively precipitous and lushly vegetated in the bottom. I am intrigued enough to want to return and do some scouting along the bottom, presuming a safe route down can be found.

Two Guns is sited on old Route 66 and was quite a tourist mecca at one time with camping and lodging facilities and attractions with wild animals and Indian wares.

The bridge across the gorge was crumbly enough that one of us - me - chose to get out of the truck to cross on foot, while one of us - him - proclaimed the span to be perfectly fine. “It gets driven on all the time,” he declared; however, as we were the only vehicle in sight anywhere around, I have no idea how he came by that notion.

A bit of research reveals much activity at the Two Guns site prior to Anglos arriving. Warfare between the local Navajo and raiding Apaches led to a massacre of the latter in what is known as Apache Death Cave. Evidently, there are also rock markings from early Spanish explorers. Methinks a longer return trip is necessary to further check out what is to be found.

I was intrigued to find online an old photo of a building that I recognized during my foray through the site, but could not figure out what its use could have been. Turns out it was a zoo of sorts: a line of rock rooms housing mountain lions and other denizens of the region.

The only bird addition there was a busy ash-throated flycatcher.

An Arizona Ranger, Medal of Honor . . .

A request from our friend Hank led us to the Williams cemetery to look for the grave of an Arizona Ranger, Herbert Wood. The task appeared to be pretty daunting: it’s an extensive graveyard, certainly impossible to walk the entire area without utilizing far more time than we had available, so we opted to first try driving up and down access roads, hoping like crazy that we’d spot it that way.

No luck, but I was intrigued by a marker for Woo Tony (or is it Tony Woo?) who died in 1935; it was painstakingly inscribed in English and Chinese (I think) by hand.

Back to the drawing board - Further research revealed that our Ranger was buried in Section 10. One would think this information would be helpful; however, the place has been renumbered and there is no Section 10. In fact, it is two burying grounds merged into one: the older section is known as Mountain View cemetery, the newer Williams Cemetery.

Trying once again, we attempted to imagine if one was entering from the old entrance, how would one number the sections? Much walking, muttering, wondering and mosquito bites later, we were nowhere nearer to the goal, although in the process, another grave caught my eye.

That was of Frederick Platten, recipient of a Medal of Honor for his part in the Indian Wars in 1875 in Sappa Creek, Kansas.

Also somewhat unique was the information on his wife’s stone; it indicated Mary was born on Kodiak Island, Alaska Territory, in 1869.

That aroused my curiosity, partly because I know someone who lives on Kodiak Island and partly just wondering about these Anglos being on Kodiak at that early time. Caving to the curiosity, I did a touch of research to see if I could determine what that family was doing there.

I did not come up with a definitive answer, although I think there is more to be gleaned, but I did find some interesting stuff. First off - Mary (Ford) Platten’s parents were Irish immigrants, Pat & Sarah Ford, and they lived in Prescott in 1880 where Pat was a store clerk.

They evidently immigrated between 1851 and 1860, which is when they were in Illinois. When Mary was but a year old in 1870, she was at Camp Harney in Oregon with two siblings, aged seven & four, resident in what was called an officer’s family’s garrison. Fort Harney is no longer in existence; it was used as a supply depot and administrative headquarters from 1867 to 1880 during the Army's campaign against northern Paiute bands in eastern Oregon and the Bannock uprising in the same area. Also listed there were members of a “haying camp” and a “lumber camp”, but no mention of parents or guardians for the three young ones.

It seems there were at least eight children in the family - born in Illinois, Washington Territory, Alaska Territory, Washington D.C., Minnesota and Arizona, so I’m surmising that her early life was probably equally as interesting as her time with Frederick, who must have been substantially older than her if he was warring when she was only six years old. Obsession may require me to follow up with more research on both the Fords and the Plattens, just for the halibut.

So much for the intriguing Plattens/Fords. Three trips to the burying ground and one to Williams Town Hall and much more searching finally yielded the original target: Arizona Ranger Herbert Elmer Wood, 1881-1953, and his wife, Cecil Mae (Bunnie) Wood, 1895-1964.

Sebastian . . .

It is not uncommon to encounter herds of sheep summertime in the high country, and always fun to watch the interactions between the shepherd, his dogs and the herd. Driving a back road toward White Horse Lake, we stopped while a large herd crossed in front of us, and naturally, I disembarked to shoot some photographs.

The shepherd noticed what I was doing and waved; I took his acknowledgement as an invitation and approached for closer pics. His job is a lonely one - we have before seen that lone shepherds are anxious for human contact. As is often the case, they speak little or no English, making communication tricky when one has little Spanish.

I had a nice chat with this fellow although we did not speak the same language: his sole English word was “Pepsi”, a beverage he wished that I had to offer, but which I unfortunately could not supply, nor did I have any liquid besides water or I would happily have shared such with him.

Sebastian was his name. Two of his dogs greeted me as he indicated they were friendly. I wanted to know more specifically how many sheep he was caring for; his “mucho” told me only what I could plainly see - a whole bunch of animals spreading across the countryside like an white woolly ocean. Realizing that I would not understand the number of animals conveyed in Spanish, Sebastian picked up a rock and lightly scratched onto his forearm “1500”. Now that’s a whole bunch of mutton, and a darn unique way to communicate.

I would like to have spent more time questioning him, but the sheep were moving on without him, so we parted after he stood for his portrait.

Remnants of life . . .

As we drive back roads and wander off on random hikes, we often find the remains of human or animal life that has moved on. One such walkabout revealed the fallen-down timbers of what was a cabin, possibly a rancher’s line shack and a hand-dug water well on McDougal Flat, so-called for a family who pioneered here.

San Francisco Peaks from McDougal Flat.

An interesting way to get a feel for the history of a region is to note the names given to landmarks - mountains, valleys, plains, roads and so on, then a survey of the local burying ground shows the ancestors of those families who made their mark on the area. The McDougals are among those in the Williams cemetery as well as being the namesakes for a picturesque part of the world.

Sycamore . . .

Another stop was to inspect what we simultaneously spied - a glimpse of what seemed to be an inviting riparian area. Turned out we were at the very head of Sycamore Canyon, a smaller, though still spectacular version of what it turns into downstream. It was quite beautiful, rocky walls cut through lava beds, water in the bottom, greenery abounding. Just as my photo shoot began, so did the skeeters. We both would have loved to hike the area, instead made a run for the truck to escape the attack.

Skeeterville

Further downstream (by vehicle sans mosquitoes), a sign directed us to Sycamore Falls. How has this spot never been in our consciousness before despite all the time spent in the region? A short hike in brought us to what is surely the most spectacular part of Sycamore Canyon, a gorge that outdoes itself at every turn with awesome scenes.

The falls were waterless, totally vertical, tortured-rock, vertigo-inducing cliffs: my stomach did quite a few flip-flops as we attempted to take advantage of every vantage point. Again, the camera was kept busy, and again, the resulting images did nothing to convey the beauty.

We absolutely shall return to this spot when water is cascading over those rocky depths and also to hike up on the rim, not sure if there’s a way to get to the canyon bottom, but would also love to do that, both here and at Canyon Diablo.

Drought . . .

I have been enjoying the Williams area lakes for my entire life (yes, that long!) and have never seen them so horribly low as they are now. The low water sight at White Horse was heart-breaking; Dog Town fared slightly better.

The bird list expanded here with cliff swallow, house finch, western bluebird, mountain bluebird, double-crested cormorant, and Bullock's oriole.

The one waterhole we expected to be bone dry because of its relatively small acreage, JD Dam, was actually the best of the lot.

We were the only ones there besides two fellers fishing from their inner tube boats. They had been experiencing some success at their endeavor, but were mostly relishing the tranquil solitude.

That was by far the birdiest of the lakes; the habitat is more varied with some reedy and marshy areas. That was where we picked up Canada goose (yes, there were three of them there in the middle of summer), Hammond's flycatcher, American coot, red-winged blackbird, ruddy duck, mallard, and black phoebe. Later at Sunflower Flat, we added red-tailed hawk and lark sparrow.

JD Dam was teeming with frogs, most of which tolerated our presence, continuing to float lazily with their faces turned up to what little sunlight shone through thunderheads.

Hopefully, the storms that have brought so much moisture to Prescott will also replenish those northerly lakes.

Persistent drought does not seem to have decreased the substantial elk population in those forests.

This buck carried a startingly huge rack, but he was camera shy and opted to head for the tall timber as soon as we stopped for a photo.

Growing wiser, hopefully . . .

While we were away, I celebrated a birthday. A friend told me that when asked her age, she says only that she is 21 and legal. Taking a page from her book, I declare that I am now officially 21 times 3 plus 5, an age that suits me just fine.

Guests . . .

Immediately upon returning home, we welcomed my older brother and sister-in-law, who visited from southern Arizona. With them came the rains, and I mean real rains - about four inches worth at our house in three days. Nearby Granite Creek turned into a raging torrent; we were amazed by the amount of rainfall, seldom seen in these parts in those quantities. Our roof sprang a leak that was handily repaired by our handy handyman, Chris.

Between storms, we managed to get in some explores, a bit of hiking and even a movie. Destinations included the ghost site of Welch, north of here at Johnson Canyon, an impressively humongous sinkhole near there, a rock art site on Partridge Creek, and absurdly - at Granite Creek, a significant amount of time watching in fascination as a parade of hundreds of crawdads walked upstream, evidently heading “home” after being washed down in the flood.