Staying home, straying from home 
October 15, 2014

I have a yen to write a bit about our close-to-home journeys, the whirlwind of activities in which we have been since we returned from the last RV trip, and so I shall herewith share some highlights.

For some of these journeys, we didn't need to leave our hometown; they came to us.  The to-dos keep expanding; nevertheless, the done category is expanding also.  In addition to chores, chores, chores, we have mightily enjoyed friends, friends, friends.

We were honored that Chris was asked for the second year to play for the prestigious Wander the Wild event, a fundraiser for the Highlands Center for Natural History.  He provided the music and also one of the auction items: a guided hike to a historic site on the Verde River.  The $400 bid garnered for his offering was one small part of nearly $30,000 of donated auction items.  Pretty danged impressive support, I'd say.

Weather or not . . .

We had not been home long before we got another taste of how quickly dusty dry can turn to roiling wet.  The rains came, for the second time this summer in hurricane-reminiscent force.  I'm supposing that folks from wetter climes are not as awed by wet as am I; it would seem that I simply cannot tear myself away from the windows when comes a downpour, and that time was no different.

As a desert rat, the fascination never ends.  Watching out one window is never sufficient; I am compelled to wander from one to another, front to back, snapping photographs all the while to record the amazing sight of water falling from the sky in drenching buckets.  Even more boring for anyone stuck inside with me at those times - I have to continue talking about it, marvelling at how hard it's falling, how strong the wind.  The whole affair is incredible.

And then when it's over, the Arizona native is further compelled: must go driving around to view and exclaim about the residual effects: how many dry washes are flowing, how much water is pooled here and there, how high the creeks have risen and the water level in the lakes.

In the recent storm, Granite Creek once again lost all track of its usual course and went hog wild across the bottomland, filling Watson Lake to overflowing with help from myriad other watercourses.

The rain fell in prodigious enough quantities to once again erode gullies where once was landscaping.  We were fortunate not to have further damage at our house; however, that was not the case in so many places around town.  Montezuma and Gurley streets were transformed into raging torrents as were many other areas.

Despite it all, there have been many of our typical autumn days of perfection - sunny, balmy - the kind that demand a person be out and about to baskingly absorb October's sunshine, decidedly unique, just a little softer and kinder than the harsher rays of summer.

So, although the times I am glued to the windows exclaiming about rain are more dramatic, there is far more of the time being out and about with friends.

One of those was when Gail introduced me to "Sammy's hill" near Granite Mountain as we reveled in an after-work climb to take in the expansive views and to check out a petroglyph site.

Coloradans . . .

Another treat was when we were visited by new friends Tom & Karen.  Oddly enough, we met them whilst we all soaked in Pagosa's hot springs.  We enjoyed an instant connection and soon enough, they came calling at our invitation and we showed them a few of our local sights and sites, hiking near Granite Basin Lake and on the Peavine Trail alongside Watson Lake until the mosquitoes discovered us, checking out downtown and showing off the timeline in front of the Courthouse, activities rounded off with a wind-down evening at home.

Days past remembered . . .

Any who read this missive with any regularity know that I am not above claiming dang near anyone as shirt-tail kin with the slightest provocation.  Louella is one of those who is near and dear to my heart and whom I readily call cousin.  In other people's reality, she is first cousin to Margaret, who is my aunt by marriage, so you see, the connection is less defined by DNA and more by preference.

At any rate, our scheme was to gather with Louella and other kinfolk in Prescott to talk about and tour family haunts from the olden days.  She and Aunt Margaret grew up here as did my mother, so we love to hear the stories of those times when Prescott was a very different kind of place.

Cousins Donna & Rob joined Chris & me, Louella and our favorite local oral history interviewer, Sylvia, for a day wandering neighborhoods once residence to our long-ago relatives.  We placed flowers on Louella's grandparents' graves, Charles & Margaret (Brannen) Williams, and discussed how to get a stone placed on the unmarked grave of cousin Johnny's father, Thomas Miller - great grandson of Prescott pioneer Jacob Leroy Miller.  It doesn't seem right that his place is not noted.

Johnny Williams, my Aunt Margaret's father, built this house for his family possibly in the late 1930s.  He also built others in the Prescott area and later in Phoenix.  We knew him always as "Mr. Williams"; he was a master carpenter and builder.

The STORM . . .

In capital letters because  . . .  well, that particular storm will not be quickly forgotten by anyone who experienced it.  It approached in the most eerie kind of way, the sort of front that sends a chill down your spine at its ominousness.  It crept toward us in a most unreal manner - a solid seeming cloud bank along about sundown, came just so far and no more, hanging over us with a threatening countenance.  I am not the only person who fully expected a funnel cloud to drop out of it.  Its progression in the sunset kept me snapping pictures as it swirled and turned.  I share a few of them  here.

Cement plant & graveyards . . .

While Chris was off leading a Yavapai College trip to the Rock Art Ranch, I stuck closer to home and toured the Drake Cement plant with the Chino Valley Historical Society.  I had been concerned since the construction of the mammoth facility that it had obliterated the tiny historic Puntenney Cemetery.  As it turns out, the graveyard has been preserved; it now lies incongruously as a fenced weedy patch out of time surrounded by towering metal silos.  The name now used for it is Cedar Glade.

Our tour start was delayed as the powers-that-be searched out sufficient protective gear for our group.  In addition to hardhats (I got a sporty red jobbie), we were given and required to wear safety glasses and some very odd strap-on steel-toed doo-hickeys over our shoes; these were stylishly yellow.  The underside metal straps caused us to sound like a herd of horses clip-clopping along, reminding me of the classic and hilarious film, "Monty Python and the Holy Grail".

Jorge, our Peruvian engineer guide was adorable, which would have been quite enough, but very informative as well.  I can't say that I am now happy that a monstrous plant and its accompanying quarries and accouterments are now a blot on an otherwise scenic and historic landscape; however, I did find the workings to be fascinating, especially Harry, the robotic quality control mechanism.

Thanks to Kay Lauster for these photos; somehow, I was out there without my camera.

Inside the chain-link fence is what's left of the Cedar Glade/Puntenney Cemetery, fenced in amidst a modern-day production facility. Imagine the consternation if those long-departed souls who labored hard in the quarries could now see their final resting place.  I admit to being somewhat disoriented at visiting that current-day site; the last time I was there, the graveyard was a lonely quiet place of contemplation surrounded only by scattered piñon & juniper trees.

What a colorfully stylish bunch! I dub us red-headed yellow-footed history seekers.

Flats, ruins, bugling . . .

Thank heaven for a freed-up day amidst a pretty crazed October schedule!  A cherished day with not one notation on the calendar gave us the opportunity to get out of Dodge and away we went, my stated goal to see and hear elk.  If I have ever heard their fabled autumn bugling, it is not in my memory banks and I was loathe to allow one more waning season to pass ere I attained that objective.

But of course first things first: I called a stop in Chino Valley to determine if the bald eagles had returned to their nesting place after the summer away.  Clockwork-like, there they were perched wing to wing in the dead cottonwood tree near the nest they have utilized for who knows how many years.  I have to wonder how long before those brittle limbs give way beneath the weight of the massive nest.  Chris questions why those trees are dying at all - they obviously have their feet into soil well watered from the upstream spring, but the line of cottonwoods is clearly giving it up even when their neighbor willows are thriving.

Much to our surprise, our stop alerted a herd of deer bedded down in the brushy streambed at the base of the trees.  We had no idea they were there until they rose up to see who was disturbing them.

At least one of them didn't even bother to get up, just poked his antlered noggin above the log to peer back at us.

Thrilled to see those magnificent birds returned and to get a nice photo, we left them to continue our northerly journey, but will check back through the winter and spring, hopefully to see another pair of fledglings.

A previous short stop at Sunflower Flat Wildlife Area near White Horse Lake had piqued my interest, so we returned with an eye to a longer hike in the region.  Recent dousing rainfalls had insured that the marshland lake had open water, although the only waterfowl we saw at the site was a lone eared grebe.

Scarcely had we begun our traverse of the area when we heard elk bugling in the trees across the valley: a sound like no other, the call of those beautiful beasts during their fall rut.  In this case, it continued throughout our five-or-so-mile walk through the forest as we got closer and closer to that particular herd.  The call is a several-notes song, beautiful, hauntingly unique, and in that case, sometimes concluding with guttural grunts.

As we gained the far side of the grassland, we got close enough to spy the huge animals mostly obscured by dense stands of ponderosa pines.  There, too, we spooked up a few deer during our walk.

After a short sit-down lunch on a bed of pine needles while enjoying the views across the grassy meadow to handsome mountains ringing the area, we reluctantly left behind those awesome animals.

Birds we saw in that area included western bluebird, Townsend's solitaire, chipping sparrow, yellow-rumped warbler, northern flicker, dark-eyed junco, black-capped chickadee, acorn woodpecker and Steller's jay. I had hoped to have our repaired spotting scope for this return trip; alas, it was not ready for us to pick up.

 

When we ascended a rocky escarpment around a mesa's edge, we saw Gambel's oak trees festooned with their fall foliage.

 

Autumn-hued aspen splash their color on the mountainside.

These contraptions have been installed at various place in the fenceline that surrounds the wildlife management area, I presume to allow game to pass back and forth without harm, but then I have to wonder: "Why fence it at all?", followed by "Why does wildlife need to be managed"?

Evidently, this is a sturdier version of the above-pictured chingadera.  It was certainly easier for me to climb over.

Another stop let us enjoy a short walk by JD Dam with some fine fall scenes, but very few birds, unlike the last time we were there.  The reason for the dearth of avian creatures was fairly obvious - we saw a hunter and his dog leaving as we arrived and had heard the shotgunning from afar.

Among those that had not been shot or scared off were American coot, ruddy duck, pied-billed grebe and red-winged blackbird.  The blackbirds had abandoned their typical haunts in the reeds, perhaps because of high water, and were perched all over a leafless tree, like so many tweeting and whistling Christmas tree ornaments.

 

Heading southward, ostensibly to Tule Canyon and a cliff dwelling that Chris has gotten a glimpse of as he led a recent Yavapai College trip, I noted a sign for "Ruin Tank", requiring a change of plans.  It there is a Ruin Tank, my thinking was, then there must be a ruin, obviously something that must be checked out.

Not having a clue where or which direction a ruin might be lurking from said tank, Chris took the obvious step of looking at the map.  Sure enough, it denoted a Ruin Mountain, somewhere obscurely off in a westerly direction, so we wandered that way until we barely glimpsed through the tree tops a rock-topped peak that appeared to be our objective.

When we gained the base of the mountain, it appeared steep and intimidating, but upward we climbed through the dense brush and rocky footing.  That country is volcanic in origin, so even cross-country hiking requires care in watching where you set your feet lest the rocks hidden in the grass turn your ankle.

Parts of the walls of the prehistoric structure perched precariously atop the summit have tumbled downward, creating a very unstable rubble slope that was difficult to climb without causing it to avalanche down the mountain and us with it.  Once we climbed over the remains of the top wall, we were safely ensconced on a bedrock-floored room, one of several.  Even without the knowledge of my archaeologist partner, I discerned that the structure had been more a fortification than a dwelling.  With 360-degree distant vistas, the place was completely secure from invaders.

Okay, I made it this far, now how to get over that wall?

This gives an idea of how high we are above the tall trees far below.  No idea what Chris is scowling about . . .

 

The sky was ablaze as we headed home from yet another phenomenal day exploring our incredible world.

 

Yep, they've definitely had a goodly amount of rain up Williams way.

Feeding my fungus fetish

 

One of many accidental photos I keep taking with the new camera; the shutter button is very close to the on/off switch.  I'll get if figured out one of these days.

Seen around town - I love this helpful carefully prepared, if somewhat ungrammatical sign . . .