A summer dash-away 
August 29, 2014

One thing leads to another . . .

Before I launch into what I hope will be the saga of a long(ish) time away from home, or at least in our home-away-from-home, I shall throw out a mention of a fine day trip we enjoyed recently with friends Briggs & Khristine.

Precipitated by an earlier blog about a prehistoric rock art site, we four packed up our picnic and drove off without any real destination in mind, just a few maybes running around in our brains.  Ruby transported us to regions east from the Verde River headwaters.

When I tired of riding and felt a need to stretch my legs, we embarked upon a nice hike up to a ridgetop, whilst wandering this way and that through the piñon/juniper country.

Because we had been preceded by others of our species, there were what I call cultural intrusions - scattered bits of trash here and there which Briggs picked up to take back for disposal, his usual habit and a highly appreciated one.

A rough dirt road led us to the river at Bear Siding, one of the few places this side of the mountain where a person can drive to the river’s edge.  We had it to ourselves, surprisingly, on a Saturday.

The current was sluggish there due to a rocky obstruction and formed a wide mostly-waist-deep pool, which was invitingly cool for some serious wading despite the muddiness.

Yup, there we are with the Verde behind us . . . but why are we all listing to the left???

Steep cliffs across the way continued below the water to deeper eddies; I found a way to cross without dunking myself and explored a hidden canyon on that opposite shore.  From our picnic-site vantage, it appeared to be a shoreline with nice cottonwood trees, but once I trooped around back there past the brush, I discovered an obscured semi-slickrock canyon that appeared to be a good hiking access to the river from the south.  Most places along the Verde end with a steep rocky rim that doesn’t allow access, so this one is a rarity.

Chatting, wading, munching and just plain relaxing on the riverbank was a pleasure.  Eventually though, we hied ourselves back to the car and headed home via the route past Perkinsville, where we were astounded to see how green the valley has grown with recent monsoons.

Last but most assuredly not least, we stopped to visit the Garchen Buddhist Institute and temple perched in the hills east of Chino Valley.  Briggs had never been there, so we took the opportunity to experience the place and were treated to having many of our questions answered by one of the residents.  The energy of the facility is palpable and peace-filled.

Meanwhile back at the ranch . . .

At our home in Monopoly-land, we have been making nightly forays to search for and extract snails from our small garden.  We were astounded to find a beautiful salamander reclining under the spearmint (maybe salamanders don't recline exactly, but he was there at any rate).

Can’t help but wonder where he’s been lurking lo these many months or even where he lurks still.  And in case anyone wonders: we have relocated far upwards of one hundred snails from that little patch - I have no idea why there are so many but I do know they are fond of eating my plants and I am fond of retaining my plants, so we are mutually exclusive.

One would think that moving from the more rural area in Chino Valley, one would leave behind critter craziness.  As it turns out, one only trades certain critters for certain other critters.  Because of our back yard fencing, we are spared the havoc wreaked on some gardens by javelina and deer; however, some so-far unseen munchers occasionally feed on my garden.  I would like to blame it on the tarantulas (two so far, which is two too many) and snakes (we have some beauties co-existing with us, but I did take exception to the baby that I discovered in the house - I can't help but wonder if Mom resides with us also).  We have registered as hosts for airbnb; don't have to guess just what kind of review would result from guests meeting up with said reptile.

We released that tiny reptile back into the yard to live with his much-larger relatives and the multitude of lizards who skitter away whenever I venture forth - as with the snails, there seems to be a serious reptile overpopulation on Marvin Gardens.

Departing for other parts . . .

I muse as I wander - the marvel of laptop computers allows me to put fingers to keyboard while I fill my spot in the passenger seat and Chris propels us down the road - new gigantic Totee behind.  Rowdy also wanders - despite it being a new truck that was purchased since he lost his sight, still he manages to make his way into and out of his carrier on the back seat, figure out how to climb onto the console and of course Mom’s lap, and back to the rear, his assigned domain - a brave little feller he is.

We bade adieu to the green, green hills of Prescott, destination northward.  Our part of Arizona, and from what I hear the rest of the state too, has transformed from the brown sere landscape of a few weeks ago into a lush greenscape yellowed with flower-filled meadows.  Everywhere we look is water: standing water, filled lakes, rushing gushing streams.  The very air seems to glow with it all, and still more rain - lots and lots of it - amazing and lovely.

Speaking of rain, we had some  during the day we were loading the trailer, which was tucked up against the sidewalk on the street in front of the house; I told it true when I said we would never again attempt to finagle that monster into our small curved driveway.  Street parking worked just fine.

Oh yes, about that rain: as we toot along on Highway 89 north of Flagstaff, the skies are gray and rain is drenching us.

Flower-filled meadows light up the landscape.

Besides welcome moisture, the good news is that we no longer need to wonder whether the bed in the trailer is getting wet from a leaky window over it.  That little trailer housed us for many months, but the adjectives “comfortable” and “dry” do not come into play in that regard.

Page . . .

The timing of our trip - the span of time between jobs and other obligations - put us smack on top of the Labor Day holiday.  With us headed for that vacationer’s paradise of southern Utah, we needed to make reservations at various RV parks lest we end up camping in a Wal-Mart parking lot for lack of an allotted space in better quarters.  For an easy first-day out, we opted to land in Page at the top end of Arizona for a couple of days.  Page was founded in 1957 for the building of Glen Canyon Dam on the Colorado River.  Although we've been here before, we have not really done a bunch of exploration in the region, mostly pass-through kind of stuff.

I had in mind to visit Lee's Ferry and some sites near it; however, I did not realize how problematic that would be because of the Highway 89 closure.  A collapse at Echo Cliffs a few years back has resulted in complete closure of that route as it spans the space between Marble Canyon/Lee's Ferry and Page.  Major rebuilding is slated to be complete in a couple of years.  In the meantime, the previous 35-mile distance from Page to Lee's Ferry has turned into an 80-mile detour.  It will be easier to visit the region south of the construction from home than while staying here.

Glen Canyon dam . . .

A brief stop at the Glen Canyon dam visitor center was interesting with some historical information and good for an overview.  I had not remembered about Georgie White, the early river guide, first of the female persuasion, nor about how the USGS surveyed the Colorado River for potential dam sites.  There was even a slab with dinosaur tracks on it, not an uncommon thing in these parts.

Glen Canyon dam

The Colorado River below the dam. Its name means red in Spanish and that was its color before the dam. Now the flow is regulated and the river runs clear & cold from the bottom of the lake.

This trip was no exception to previous brief stays; we spent only two days there, but it was plenty to leave us determined to return for an extended stay.  The big, and I do mean big, attraction here is Lake Powell - a humongous (1,982 miles of shore line at full pool) body of water frequented by houseboaters and speedboaters, in addition to fishermen lusting after those lunker striped bass.

The Glen Canyon arm of Lake Powell with a coal-fired generating plant in the background.

Possessed of only our kayaks as watercraft, we did little more than explore fishing accesses and wade out into the water on Powell.  Well, only one of us waded into the water and that would be the Arizona native who knows better than to bypass agua without some semblance of enjoyment.

Lone Rock from my vantage point in the lake.

The reason for our decision to return, besides fishing, that is, is that a person could spend an entire lifetime exploring canyons and mountains here without making a dent in what’s out there.  The intrigue of the unknown lures me; I have a need to know what lies beyond, and always there is something of beauty or interest revealed.

Hanging gardens . . .

One quick late afternoon foray ostensibly to scout lake access ended in an excellent detour.  Along the way, I saw a sign about Hanging Gardens, something I had read about, so we opted to stop to learn more.  Turns out a ranger was at hand and asked if we were going on the tour.  Having no idea there was such a thing and not being a big fan of organized tours, I shrugged; Chris shrugged with me and then we joined right in.

Ranger Peter Krocek, an immigrant from Czechoslovakia, was impressive, both in height - 6”3”, and as a tour guide.  A small group, we were the only U.S. citizens, and Peter spoke in their language to the others by way of greeting.  There was a young couple from Quebec, a Polish couple with their son and a German family with two boys.

The Germans hailed from Bremen, the birthplace of Chris’ grandfather, Johann Frederich Hans Wuehrmann, which was my excuse for engaging them in conversation.  They said they love this region so much that this is their third time here.  The younger son did not have good English, but the others were quite fluent.  My German is very rusty (as if it was ever much more) so I appreciated the chance to talk to them in Englsh.

The Bremenite father and sons listen as Ranger Paul explains how the ferns and lichen took root in the cave.

I wondered why the boys were not in school at this time, and learned that because of overcrowding, especially at tourist destinations in Germany, the schools stagger the times of holidays to ease the situation.  Every year, the time of holiday for each school is different.  This year, the Bremen boys are the last to resume school.

It is necessary, they explained, because in spite of the holiday accommodation, they end up with “car jams” up to 50 kilometer in length.  It’s enough to make a person appreciate our wide-open spaces, presuming one needed a reason for doing so.

Peter was a top-notch guide and is highly educated and conversant with Southwest geography, archaeology and botany.  His home is in Phoenix; he extensively studied the rock art on that city’s South Mountain and co-authored a book about those petroglyphs.  I had thought I would purchase it out of curiosity and interest; however, its hefty price deterred me, just a bit much to scratch that curiosity itch.

The walk to Hanging Gardens led us through stupendous view sites on every hand - truthfully, there is scarcely anywhere  in this region that is not an astounding view - red rock hoodoos, white rock monoliths, red-and-white striped hills, startlingly black mountain bases with white stripes atop them supporting ranges of sandstone peaks.  It is country that simply must be seen to be believed.

Where are the birds? . . .

We have been surprised at the dearth of avian activity here.  At our feeders, we have seen only rufous & black-chinned hummingbirds, house sparrows and house finches.  On an outing, I was thrilled to see a brilliantly hued western tanager.  Others on the trip list are mourning dove, vultures, collared dove, roadrunner, raven and Bewick’s wren.

Storms pursued and curtailed some of our backroading.  Flash floods had obviously been through much of the drainages; although the water had subsided, many places were still running a goodly flow of water and others were just too mucky to cross.  Perhaps Ruby could have done it, but Toter would have sunk like a stone.

One road allowed us into the back country where we planned to hike in Wire Pass, but stopped short of the destination at a low water crossing.  In a serendipitous way, it turned out to be a super access to all kinds of fabulous hiking.

A digression: A couple we met at Lake Powell recommended Wire Pass and even invited us to return for 3:30 "cocktail hour".  I mention them because they were full-time RVers, had been for seven years, and were in a small trailer with the only extension being a fold-out for the bed.  Chris estimated their tiny abode at 21 feet - full time!  Shades of tiny Totee only worse!  Think about living in a 21 feet by 8 feet space, the mind shudders!

Back to the part about not getting to where we intended.  We randomly chose a canyon, upper Buckskin Gulch, that appeared to be a rather nondescript box to discover it continued on as a chasm that deepened substantially as it went, twisting and turning with crumbling rock cliffs towering far over our heads and only a sliver of sky overhead with few places where sunlight penetrated.

Its drainage was flooding although it, too, had subsided by a large amount.  We enjoyed our lunch while perched on rocks that had tumbled from the cliff face; I attempted to choose perches as far from the steep walls as possible, my little attempt at not being squashed like an ant.  Late in the day, we came to a place that was not passable without fording the stream.  That was our signal to turn back: crossing that silt-laden current sounded like far too much mess for the result.  Except for its movement, the water was nearly indistinguishable from its surroundings; it resembled chocolate milk more than anything.

Near the entrance to that canyon, Chris spotted a prehistoric rock/adobe granary tucked into a tiny alcove up on the bluff side.  Like the running water, it, too, blended into its surroundings so well it was hard to distinguish.

Amangiri . . .

In the process of wandering, I noted a sign with one word - Amangiri - which meant nothing at all to us.  There was a road involved, however, so there was nothing for it but to check it out.  The way was not overly long; the end was definite - another sign - Amangiri - and a locked gate.  No buildings in sight, the drive led into one of the most intriguing landscapes I have ever seen and the fence surrounding the very large property was sternly posted with “no trespassing” signs at close intervals in case of someone like me purporting not to have noticed them.

Curiosity satisfied by an internet search: Amangiri is a resort of the sort frequented by potentates and professional football players - the least expensive one-day room & board is $1,200!

The notion of resting my head on those pillows set aside in no uncertain terms, I still wanted in the worst way to explore that region, so off we went on a road that I hoped would lead us around to the back side of the area.  A dirt road led us to a range of mammoth proportions that demanded further exploration.   Leaving that adventure for the next day, we did a bit more sight-seeing and oohing and aahing along the edge of the Paria Wilderness, which will be my next destination when we return here.

Grottoes galore . . .

Returning next day to the site of the solid rock mountain, we were awed by how it rose abruptly from the sandy sage-dotted plain and determined that we must explore the series of rain- and wind-carved grottoes lining its face.

Attached to that bright idea was an intention to find a way to skirt around the summit and crest over a gap in the jagged ridge line to the side; all this from being told that I could not trespass on the dadgum Amangiri property which I thought this fine plan would allow me to see from the back side.

Hmmm . . . it looked so much easier while peering through the binoculars.  These is no way to gauge the mammoth size of these formations.  One is simply dwarfed by this landscape.

We gave it our best - scrambled up rock faces that looked to be impossible to climb and then back down into crevices and grottoes and really delightful places.  Some were dry; others had seeps in their back wall.  Some were barren; a few had plants and lichen.  One had a healthy stand of poison ivy (thanks for alerting me, Chris - despite the Girl Scout-learned admonition: “leaves three, quickly flee, berries white, take flight”, I never seem to recognize it).

We lunched and cooled off in one cozy rock shelter, then were transported by the wonder of the largest that was the culmination of a very narrow winding sand-floored slot guarded by slender high-reaching cottonwood trees - pure magic!

 

The box end of the cliff cleft was a stupendous rock overhang with its own hanging garden and ledges above on each side more than sufficient to hide several mountain lions, which thankfully were not in residence.  Everywhere the rocks are streaked with multi-hued lines caused by rain and seepage flow.

Despite the sense of having discovered our own secret Shangri-La, there was evidence that others had preceded us to that hidden place: there were a number of melted candle remains - seems the spot is as revered to someone else as it felt to me.

A respite in the enchanted place was just the ticket for weary hikers.

Having underestimated the gargantuanicity (yes, now it is a word) of the area we set out to explore, we realized after we exited Shangri-La that no way in the world were we going to be able to find a route to the top of the adjoining ridge, much less check out the other side - pipe dreams only: to be saved for next trip.

I am endlessly fascinated by the striations in this sandstone; lines curving gracefully one way and then another, then overlaid by a set coming from the other direction.  Amazing that when watching a stream of water receding and lapping at its shore, it becomes evident exactly how these grooves were created.

Frustration sets in to a large degree as I find myself unable to convey the stature and beauty of these environs, either with words or photography.  Yet I continue to try.

False advertising . . .

Upon returning to the RV park, we relaxed our tired bodies by jumping into the “heated” pool - not entirely true - one of us jumped into the pool where I am pretty sure I saw ice cubes floating.  The smart one (what a big chicken Chris is!) lounged in the hot tub.

Big water . . .

We took a turn through the tiny town of Big Water just for the halibut.  It is known to us and to many people as the home of the polygamous Joseph family.  Several of Alex Joseph’s wives worked for Chris when he was running Yavapai College’s Elderhostel program.  Patriarch Joseph died quite a few years ago; in his heyday, he was mayor of Big Water, which is not on the water and is not big.

A nearby settlement, Church Wells, was very dilapidated and seemed to be much abandoned, but did surprise us by leading to a back road into the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument (what an absurdly unwieldy name that is!).  Taking advantage of that happenstance, we drove until we couldn’t drive any more - that dad-ratted rain coupled with the sandy, sandy, sandy soil put a stop to our forward progress, but along the way, we were awed by the scenery at every side.  I really wanted to hike around out there where not another person was in sight; however, towering looming storm clouds were dark and booming with lightning and thunder, my signal to be under cover.

More fun photos:

Sunset colors on cliffs and Navajo Mountain, a lava blister, according to my encyclopedic partner.