Journeys

Better late . . .
Dec. 5, 2014

A good bit of water has gurgled away under the bridge since last I wrote: Two medical procedures, one a major shoulder surgery for the señor, within two weeks, and our Rowdy being euthanized combined to set us on a track not necessarily our top choice. Chris is facing a protracted recovery period, but we are grateful for good medical care. "Lefty" is how I refer to him now as long as he in my good graces; I get away with "Dopey" minimally when the pain causes him to rely on medication. This one-handed situation will eventually give way as physical therapy does its job. Despite the setback, I continue to drag him out into the hinterlands to see what there is to be seen.

Sycamore . . .

Prior to surgery and way back before frost nipped local buds, we tucked a couple of day trips in and around work and other commitments. A trip to Sycamore Canyon is never the same twice; that structure is of such size and varied moods along the way that each foray varies vastly with geology, season and lighting.

Our most recent trip there was about midway along its serpentine course along the tributary, Tule Canyon, and was a follow-up to one of Chris' Yavapai College trips. He had briefly glimpsed a prehistoric cliff dwelling during the course of a hike he led and taught; we thought it a good excuse to venture out there.

I use the term "venture" aptly for that drive: even at crawl speed, it was pretty bone-jarring, but Ruby did us proud and we arrived at a spot Chris announced as being appropriate for the start of our hike, and not a moment too soon; my bones were jarred aplenty by then.

Pocket Lake is the rather ostentatious moniker given to a dirt cow tank at our hike's beginning, but it does nourish the roots of a nice cottonwood tree.

Our timing put us at the early end of seasonal leaf-color change, blushing sections of the canyon walls. Our rim hike offered up scenes of deep chasms, rocky cliffs and hoodoos - rock spires sometimes referred to as fairy chimneys - a term that appeals.

Somewhere along the line, we spotted the large Indian ruin on the opposite cliff face where it was built to absorb the low winter sun's rays. It appears to be extremely well-preserved: our binoculars revealed relatively solid front walls and complete doorways. Much discussion ensued about possible routes to access the dwelling; however, there does not appear to be any viable route that would not be both very long and arduous and possibly dangerous, at least to our modern not-as-hardy-as-earlier-inhabitants-of-the-area eyes. That reality will not likely deter a future attempt, however.

From our vantage point across the canyon's expanse, the ruin is dwarfed by the massive cliff, but it likely houses at least six or eight rooms.

I was fascinated by the remains of this tree that was split right down the middle by a lightning strike.

Sycamore's beauty is not confined to the inner canyon; hiking the rim reveals myriad scenes of interest and delight.

The elusive Big Black Mesa . . .

Another jaunt took us just north of our former home in Chino. Along the upper length of Big Chino Valley lies a mountainous escarpment that holds great sway in my heart. In decades past, I camped and hiked in those hills and felt a strong sense of coming home when I was there. Time passed, as it has a way of doing, children were born and nurtured, businesses were founded and life just got in the way of a return to that haven, but its call was not forgotten.

A few attempts to access the range in the ways that I did years past have been unsuccessful. Ranches have changed hands and no longer allow traverse through their pastures; in other places, land divisions changed road configurations, resulting in dead-ends where once were tracks that continued on.

Not being prone to giving up, we determined to explore possible options, some of which took us into the foothills, but none that continued enough to gain our goal. Although I am most anxious to reach that summit, the journey, as always, was intriguing nevertheless.

We tried one road and another, followed by a couple more - all were primitive, dusty and rough - I mention it only as an observation, not that the conditions deterred our attempts. It being near to hunting season, we were not overly surprised to encounter a group scouting the area they had drawn. They might have been less than pleased at our passing lest it spook the game they sought, but upward we crawled until in one case, the road abruptly ended; alas, I thought we had hit on the route we needed.

Goal not gained, but why let that ruin a perfectly good journey. We quickly saw the reason for that particular road: at its terminus was a head-high tunnel carved into the solid rock cliff face. The initial assumption was that it was a mining operation; however, there was a lack of sufficient tailings for such an endeavor. The shaft floor was standing in water: that fact and various pipes and tanks we had seen farther down the slope led us to the conclusion that the workings resulted from opening up a spring. It seemed to feed a dilapidated concrete trough and an underground storage tank.

We climbed above the water mine through thick brush clinging tenaciously to the rock to gain a stellar view down canyon to Big Chino below, in the process finding a fossilized sponge.

Autumn arrives on whisper-feet in dry rocky climes.

This century plant is in its prime, just ready to burst forth with a many-feet-tall flower stalk.

And this century plant has shot its wad.

This woody shrub's common name, Winterfat, well describes it usefulness as cold-weather forage for game and cattle. I later learned that it was used by Blackfoot Indians to make a hair wash and by others as a decoction to treat fevers. I love its fall finery.