Getting our kicks, with Thanksgiving
Dec. 9, 2014

Another bee in ye old bonnet: Mama decides we oughtta fulfill a long-time wish - to go to Kingman for a spell of this ‘n that, and so we opt to head that way over the Thanksgiving weekend.  No big family gathering this year, so after surgery has confined us to the premises (well, not completely, but it has been a passel of sitting around and hanging out), we are rarin’ to get away.  To be truthful, I’m not entirely sure Chris was rarin’ to do anything, but he’s a good sport to go along with my yens.

It was amusing to hear various reactions from friends about our stated destination: comments like “interesting” were what I heard when folks were maintaining courtesy, but once again, wondering what’s afoot with those crazy Wuehrmanns.

Once a Kingman destination is agreed upon, normal folks would hop onto the interstate to zoom right on up; obviously, that is where we differ.  There exists an alternative route to those environs; therefore, we determine to utilize it, thus to get our kicks on Route 66.

Along the way, we discover that the old much-loved Burma Shave signs have been resurrected, adorning the roadside in a poetic way, adding to the journey’s interest, not that we ever fail to find interest wherever we go.

As we putz along 66’s rough pavement (I’m doing all the driving these days with Lefty’s arm in his immobilizing sling), Chris points out other iterations of the revered historic road.  From its inception, it has been reconfigured several times.  The original Route 66, then called the National Old Trails Highway, was completed in 1922; it officially became Route 66 in 1926.  In 1932, a new realigned version was done and in 1938, pavement was complete.  Now we drive on the 1950 "high-speed" road, except for those times when some of us veer off on one older stretch or another.  If these facts are not completely factual, talk to the señor; they are his facts.

Intervening years since 1932 have nearly obscured this old section of Route 66.

One wants not to spend too much time behind the wheel, so one opts to call a halt now and then to see what the countryside has to offer.  As we stretch our legs walking along a section of overgrown old highway, we come upon the site of a long-ago tragedy, the rusted-out hulk of a vehicle that appears to have rolled off the upper road, landing upside-down, strewing auto body parts in the process.

Wherever humanity has passed, one is likely to spy artifacts left behind, and Route 66 is no exception.  Along its length are autos and their various parts, cans and bottles tossed cavalierly from their windows, license plates, hubcaps and whatever else might be discarded purposely or accidentally.  We saw one hubcap that sported a logo completely unrecognizable to us.  Maybe one of my readers will identify it for us.

I was interested in a water tank with its manufacturer’s name painted on the side: “Holbrook & Co.”, wondering if it indicated a relationship with the northern Arizona town of Holbrook, which was named after the first engineer of the Atlantic & Pacific Railroad.  I was not able to discern whether it is so or not.

These are handsome remnants of a Route 66 bridge.

Seligman . . .

This relic of a once-livelier town is in general a rest stop and little more..  We were sorry that Delgadillo’s Snow Cap was closed the day we were there: it’s always the funnest place to go, and an ice cream sounded like just the ticket to lend energy to the journey.  To assuage our disappointment, we wandered off the main road to survey neighborhoods, a favorite pastime.  It quickly became obvious that Seligman is a dream place for a photographer who is a fan of rickety wooden structures and miscellaneous artifact-strewn fields.  I did not indulge myself that day.

Peach Springs, Grand Canyon, memories . . .

The tiny burg of Peach Springs serves as the center of residence and activity for the Hualapai tribe; it was familiar to me from childhood and has been a destination for many years for Chris’ Elderhostel groups and now his Edventures tours.  It is the jumping-off point for the long dirt road that transports a person by vehicle to the bottom of the Grand Canyon.  It is not widely known that you can drive right down to the Colorado River beach that way.

Although Chris has a long-standing acquaintance with that area and counts many Hualapais as friend, my association there is from far in the past.

There is little sign of it now, but when I was a youngster, there was a saw mill at the north side of what is now the main residential section.  As one approached the mill from the south, there was a row of what I think were company houses lining the road.  They were identical or nearly so, maybe 20 in number (it was a very long time ago), small wooden structures, each with a covered front porch.

They were occupied not by Indians despite the location on the reservation, but by individuals and families who were there because of the mill and the logging activities in the nearby high forested plateau.

My father and uncle both owned logging trucks that were kept busy hauling fallen trees to the mill.  Great fun, I thought, to tag along whenever the opportunity arose.  Some memories of those times have survived.  I found great interest in the people who populated the area.  Frank & Ruby Makison took me under their wing and treated me as one of their own; Frank drove Dad’s truck and became my idol.

If I were set down now in the midst of that unique environment, I would be observing, asking questions and delving into the lives and backgrounds of those folks.  How sad that my shyness prevented such in those long-ago times.  I recall only snippets of who they were and what was going on.  There is a visual memory of one of the men who worked in the mill, a very scary operation in an open-ended metal building with a huge unprotected saw blade in the center.

Another individual who piqued my interest was an older woman (I’m thinking she was someone’s granny) who reared back against the house wall in her wooden chair on the porch, chewing tobacco, with an uncanny ability to let loose a stream of tobacco juice that sailed effortlessly across the porch, over the front railing and onto the ground beyond with nary a stain along the way.

In that minuscule society, there was nothing for distraction beyond the neighbors’ activities; therefore, everyone knew everyone else’s movements, relationships and activities, and everyone was more than happy to pass judgement on every bit of it.

There was the couple who were at odds (for what reason, I have not the slightest recollection): he was not allowed into the house, and was relegated to residing out back with the pigs and chickens.  He was sometimes seen skulking along back there.  As that is my sole memory of that unhappy pair, I have no Earthly idea if that was a semi-permanent situation or a short-lived affair.

One buxom young woman breast-fed her baby in what was seen as a brazen inappropriate manner, so she became the subject of much conversation, none of it approving.  How difficult must have been her circumstances - I expect her husband was employed in the mill or out in the logging camps, as were all who resided there - everyone worked long hours and very hard, and there she was with a baby in primitive circumstances without even indoor toilets.  Each house had its own outhouse.

There were older children there, too: I remember them especially because they would drag me along with them for some of their less-savory shenanigans, the most memorable being an evening game of chicken at the local air strip.  Without a doubt, my mother would have fainted, revived and killed my father if she had known what was going on.  About all I remember of those episodes was watching through the windshield, seeing those headlights coming straight at us out of the dark and relief washing over me every time one or the other car swerved at the last second to avoid a head-on collision.

One other event there remains in my memory banks; it involved Dad’s logging truck, which was a White model, red in color.  It always amused me that he had a red White.  Anyway, one day his truck was late enough getting to the mill that he became concerned and we set off toward the mountains to see if it had broken down along the way. 

As we approached the lower slopes, the truck’s headlights came into view a ways above us, but as we watched it approach, suddenly the lights began rolling.  It was horrifying to know that the truck was rolling over off the road, even though all we could see were the headlights.

As we were drove rapidly upward on the winding dirt road, we encountered the truck driver walking toward us, t-shirt off and wrapped around his profusely bleeding head.  We picked him up; Dad dropped me off at Frank & Ruby’s and took the driver to the Kingman hospital, where he was determined to be okay.  Later, looking at that truck’s completely flattened cab made it seem impossible that anyone survived the roll-over, as he clearly was not thrown out in the accident.  At any rate, that was the end of Dad’s logging truck; of course he had no insurance nor a way to replace the truck. 

What a great experience (okay, not the “chicken” part) it was to spend time there on my own, sometimes with my cousin Johnny along, flexing my freedom to roam and wander at will.

Well, that was quite the tangent; perhaps now that I have it out of my system, I will no longer bore Chris with my Peach Springs stories every time we are in that vicinity.

It was fun to stop this trip for a quick photograph of the historic Peach Springs Trading Post, now the headquarters of the Hualapai game & fish department, and to see the pictures posted out front of activities from days gone by.

At long last, we are there . . .

Eventually of course, we get to where we are going despite side trips, jogs and stops.  Kingman is surrounded at some distance by impressively rugged mountain ranges and quite a variety of topography and plant communities. 

We were surprised to find on one exploratory jaunt to Hualapai Mountain Park that we had attained an elevation of nearly 7,000 feet and were into a granite and pine environment in appearance very much like our home around Prescott.

One difference was the distant views of mountainous ridges spotlighted in the lowering sunlight.

The game population seems to be very high and very gentle; once when I was out of the car for a photo, I turned around to find a deer standing right behind me browsing on oak brush.  After I got my heartbeat back to normal, she allowed me to photograph her before she went back to munching.

A bit farther on, we saw two elk that stayed in sight plenty long enough for their portrait to be taken, quite a feat since I was driving and photographing; Chris assisted by taking over the steering wheel whilst I tromped the gas to stay up with them, alternating with stomping the brake to stop when they did.  All in all, I can’t say the photo turned out nearly as nice as I was hoping.

This homestead in the Hualapai Mountain Park is said to be at the site of an 1871 encampment by the Corps of Engineers led by Lieutenant George Wheeler. 

Pursuing old-time connections . . .

Somewhere in the throes of researching the genealogy of every person ever born, or at least what seems like it, we knew that one of the Texas Sweeten daughters, cousin of Delia (Sweeten) Gardner of Prescott and of Nel (Sweeten) Cooper of Walnut Grove, married Aubrey Gist and ranched near Kingman, so we had in mind to do some tracking down while we were there.

Chris’ bright idea to get to that ranch by way of anything but a main road took us on a phenomenally washed out track - old Highway 93 - which turned into quite the adventure.  Along there somewhere, I spotted an old corral and tank and thought it might be a good spot for a hike and some birding.  Mind you, this is our first back-country trek since the surgery two weeks previous, and he is still in a ridiculous immobilizing sling.

 We managed the hike okay, did not trip nor injure him in any way and saw some interesting country, especially from the crest of a hill that needed to be climbed.  Birds we managed to identify there and over the weekend included: western meadowlark, Gambel's quail, red-tailed hawk, northern harrier, raven, grackle, starling, Brewer's blackbird, mourning dove, western scrub jay, phainopepla, verdin, chipping sparrow, white-crowned sparrow, golden eagle, dark-eyed junco, roadrunner, western bluebird, house sparrow, rock dove and brown-headed cowbird.

Who are these people??? . . .

After substantially more rumbling along on a road not really worthy of the name out there in the middle of nowhere (or so we thought), we were surprised to see cars parked up ahead.  That sight was downright astonishing as we realized there were plenty of autos and as it turned out, lots of people milling around.  We had to laugh when we saw that we had arrived at a Christmas tree farm that was having its annual winter festival and all those folks had come in from the opposite direction on a good road just beyond there.  So much for our perspective of being miles out in the middle of nowhere.

In the end, we attended the little festival, but never did find the ranch we were looking for.  

A Thanksgiving refugee.

A ghost in the bushes . . .

Not locating one thing does not preclude finding something else of interest.  Tiring of our quest, we stopped for a lunch break along the bed of the Big Sandy River, a wash so overwhelmingly dry that I couldn’t even make myself photograph it.  Near there, we followed as long as possible a side track that abruptly ended where a washed-out section had become a steep-sided deep canyon.  That tributary, Knight Creek, carried a wide shallow stream of clear water.

Somewhere upstream, it appeared to me from the vegetation that there might be a spring, something that always requires an inspection.

Usually, we would simply proceed; however, as the way became exceedingly brush-choked, the señor began to weary from trying to keep “the contraption”, as I call it, from getting hung up on branches, while at the same time insuring that no harm would come to his shoulder.  He was, after all, only two weeks out from a major surgery; the upshot is that we did not reach the supposed spring.

No matter: what we did find was far more interesting.  Actually, we were surprised when we began coming upon ruined evidence of habitation - lots of it.  Elaborate rock foundations, a water tank, and a falling-down chicken coop were peeping out from the overgrown stream bank.  The more we looked, the more ruins we found, enough for an entire settlement, it seemed.  They had even planted a grove of pine trees, which still survive.  As fatigue escalated, we opted to retrace our steps, with a vow to return when we could investigate more fully.

This steer seemed to be curious about our doin's, which admittedly were curious.

Later research to satisfy curiosity revealed the settlement was possibly Jack Harden’s ranch which carried the "Hookedy H" brand, purchased by Tap Duncan somewhere around 1900; however, I did not find enough information to be sure.  Interestingly (to me anyway), Duncan was born in San Saba, Texas, the home of my great great grandparents, James & Eliza (Means) Kelley.  The families were in that vicinity at the same time, so there is every likelihood that they knew each other.

Reconnecting, with gratitude . . .

Highlight of the trip was when we reconnected with family friends from my childhood.  Ursula, at 95 years of age, is the matriarch of the clan, and was an important maternal figure in my life.  Thanks to three of her offspring, we gathered with them for Thanksgiving dinner and getting reacquainted.

The gathering was at Terry & Karen’s home, the 40-acre site of their impressive Horse Nut Stables.  Karen is the equine trainer and riding instructor, and Terry has kept busy the past few years building a facility that resembles an old West movie set, and has done it almost completely with material they have salvaged from scrap.

It was with the greatest pleasure we heard their story and also got to spend time with two of his sisters, meeting another day with Yvonne, who accompanied us in touring local historical sites.

These “children” are the ages of my younger siblings; I babysat them now and again, once for an entire summer, and felt very protective of them.  I am very happy to re-establish our connection and to see them doing well.  Having a history with someone, especially one from childhood, creates an entirely different kind of relationship.

"Listen, do you want to hear a secret? Do you promise not to tell?"

Old-town Kingman . . .

The town of Kingman, situated in the Hualapai Valley, had its origins as a railroad siding, and is now the Mohave County seat; the area has quite a bit of historical and geological interest, although sadly, the historic downtown is sliding rapidly into seedydom.

The 1909 Brunswick Hotel is closed and shuttered, but Chris hearkens back to not so long ago when he had his Elderhostel Route 66 bicycle groups gather there for nice dinners.

The city was named for Lewis Kingman, surveyor of the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad's right-of-way between Needles, California, and Albuquerque, New Mexico.  Kingman also supervised the building of the railroad from Winslow to Beale's Springs.

Monolith Gardens Park . . .

The Monolith Gardens Park is a place worthy of a return for longer scouting around; our morning spent hiking there was entirely pleasant.

Never pass up getting a photo of kissing rocks; that's my motto.

19th century doin's . . .

Two springs, Atlantic and Camp Beale, at the outskirts of town were of paramount importance in early days, affording necessary water for settlement.  Camp Beale Spring is named for Lt. Edward Beale, who surveyed and built a road across the 35th Parallel in the 1850s, and who was instrumental in determining if camels were feasible as pack animals in that region.  I have no idea about the origin of the Atlantic name on the other spring.

The Hardyville Road that carried supplies from Hardyville (now Bullhead City) to Fort Whipple and Prescott followed that same route.

It was fascinating to explore that area of historical significance, but much more sobering to learn about the internment of the Hualapai people who were held there for several years in the 1870s, something I had not known about.

Lefty managed one photograph on the trip: somehow keeping the camera pointed at the subject - me - while holding it waist-high and hitting the right-handed shutter button with his left hand.

I wish I could say our journey was uneventful once we enjoyed this delightful view on the way home along the back road from Seligman to Prescott; alas, such is not the case.

A footnote . . .

 Our final morning in Kingman involved a sashay over to the hospital emergency room to deal with an infection in Chris' surgical site.  Next day follow-up with the surgeon was difficult, but seemingly successful.  A week later, I am writing from his Prescott hospital room where we have been since a second surgery four days ago to clean up the infection.  That surgery revealed that the rotator cuff has re-torn.  

Now we embark on a journey of a different sort.