Bobcats, town & ghosts
January 24, 2014

Yahoo! We are daytrippin’ again while at the same time relishing the closer exploring opportunities.  In comparison with the places available for walking in Chino Valley (nearly none and getting less daily), Prescott is a hiker’s heaven.

On those days that are laden with commitments and offering only short time periods for out-and-abouts, it is delightful to take to the trails a mere five minutes from home, especially because the vast number of options gives a person choices among forested climbs, boulder hopping, grassland traverses, lake and creek meanders and urban trails for the timid or tired.

Although it seems that spotting bobcats and mountain lions hereabouts is a relatively common occurrence, I was over the moon about my first encounter with the smaller of those.  It happened as we were bopping merrily along up the Butte Creek trail: we occasionally noticed through the trees the Hassayampa golf course that also winds its way along the drainage.  My shock was extreme when one such glimpse over to the manicured green revealed a large bobcat sunning on the grass.

His late-in-the-day last chance at catching rays was curtailed by my excitement at trying to get a photo of him, although his departure of the area was at a leisurely saunter with glances over his shoulder at me, the unwelcome intruder.  As we watched, we realized a second of the species was also eyeing us from just over the rise.  A very exciting encounter for me, although I harbor a pang of guilt for interrupting the big cat’s nap . . . or golf game.

Another close encounter, this one nearly just across the road, gave us views of the avian brand of wildlife.  Down along nearby Granite Creek, we got a good beginning to this year’s bird list.  The stark colorful markings of a passel of roosting wood ducks caught my eye as they artfully arrayed themselves along a low-hanging horizontal limb.

Placerita, wagon road . . .

When we allowed ourselves an entire day without home chores or other work-type distractions, we loaded up and headed for the site of Placerita.  To name it a ghost town would be attributing far more distinction than seems earned, although I did spot one tumble-down house that boasts two standing walls, but could not discern a way to get to it through the thickets of scrub oak, manzanita and various head-high vegetation.

On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the thickest brush cover imaginable, that country rates at least a 9.99. 

Manzanita's beautiful red wood is iron-tough.

Placerita is so named for the placer gold that was found thereabouts.  We visited the region quite a few years back with Dad and friends.  At that time, some of us were dropped off in Peeples Valley so we could walk up the old wagon road from there to Placerita.  Now that two-track is gated off and posted “no trespassing”.  I am glad we did the hike when it was possible.

Ranching pioneers . . .

Despite the difficulty of getting around, I am attracted to the area.  Just over the mountain from Placerita is the ranch my grandparents, Zack & Pearl Kelley, homesteaded in the early 1930s.  After leaving the hill country of Texas, they landed somewhere in the mountains west of Peeples Valley, as well as I can remember from Dad’s stories.  Their meager belongings were stashed for the winter in a cave or mine shaft which flooded and ruined everything.

Deciding he preferred the mountains to the east, Grandpa moved them across the valley where they took up residence on East Antelope Creek at the foot of Rich Hill.  Their first shelter there was built of upright wired-together ocotillo stalks for walls with canvas stretched across the top.  There were no roads into the place (Dad always after called it the “old pack-in place”), so everything had to be brought via horseback.

Their second dwelling was constructed from corrugated tin.  We have ventured to the site and found the tin tidily stacked down in the bushes awaiting a second life after the house’s deconstruction.

Uncle Lewis with my grandparents, Zack & Pearl (Taylor) Kelley & pooch at the "old pack-in place" on East Antelope Creek, east of Yarnell.  Dad (Ira Kelley) must have been at his own ranch to the east at Hell's Gate.

 An artifact from there is the desert cooler that Grandpa built.  These clever contraptions allowed settlers in arid climes to keep foodstuffs preserved - it is basically a wood-sided cabinet with the longer front and back screened;  a tray of water sits on top with burlap draped over the screened sides wicking moisture through which breezes pass and cool the contents.

A subsequent visit to the site allowed us to salvage the desert cooler and reassemble it after cutting out the dry rot.  It sits today on my front porch.

My brother Frank and me with Grandpa's desert cooler.

Perhaps the hardships and struggles of my immediate and extended family in those mountains is partially the root of my affinity for the region despite its inhospitable nature.  My aunt, Lucille (Thomason) Kelley, married to my uncle Lewis Kelley, was a child of that harsh environment also.  Born in Prescott, she grew up  a ways down from the mountain in the Congress desert: tough, as was necessary for youngsters in that hostile environment.

Lucille’s forebears ranched near Zack & Pearl.  Their place in Black Water Canyon was known for its fruit, rare as those elusive hen’s teeth thereabouts.  Black Water will be the destination for a future foray.  Aunt Lucille’s folks: the Dunhams, Yorks, Hastings and Thomasons as well as Coopers and Sweetens also in the region, were more of the hardy stock that tried to sustain life where it is scarcely plausible.

Wow, I went far off track there; am thinking I will revisit this subject at a later date.

Meanwhile . . .

Where was I?  Oh yes, Placerita.  A funny thing happened on the way there: a two-track that stretched off to the west called loudly and insistently, thus we detoured once again as we are wont to do. knowing not where the so-called road led.

As hunger pangs signaled lunch time, we disembarked and managed to locate a serpentine route through the scrub to a lovely clear spot under a welcoming piñon and to eat while enjoying a distant view.

That's me up there scarcely visible through the scrub oak.

Further along, we came upon a spring of miraculous desert water, the source sealed against intrusion and piped under the dirt track where it filled troughs for livestock and game.

A small herd of cattle nearby demonstrated in no uncertain way the difficulty of navigation in the tough thickety countryside - unable to venture off the road, they continued on it in front of us for a long distance until they found a spot not quite as dense into which they crowded while we passed.

Along the way to who-knows-where-but-I-am-always-sure-each-road-must-go-somewhere, we were surprised to find a historic ruined building perched on a north slope of Weaver Mountain, affording it a prime view of the south side of the Bradshaws.

 

It at first seemed to be the solitary sign of humanity, except for the developed spring, but we soon saw below the foundation of a stamp mill, a barely remaining remnant from days when miners there were extracting ore to be crushed and mineral extracted.

When my theory about roads leading somewhere was shot full of holes with this one abruptly dead-ending, obviously nothing more than a way for a rancher to reach his range, we turned back toward the original destination.  A boondock is only as good as its wanderings are heeded; perhaps the side-tracks will turn out to be better than the plan, or so I rationalize as I suggest various detours.

When one visits the site of Placerita, one goes only where clearings allow.  One such opening through the tough vegetation led us to an intriguing horizontal mine shaft, posted to deter trespassers of course.

Despite the admonition, we ventured into the dim interior.  This had at one time been a significant ore vein; even railed for ore cars to bring out the diggings, and has been utilized in more recent time to judge by the reinforced sides and ceiling.

Although dumb enough to enter the shaft, we were smart enough not to go into the deeper section with cracking headers ready to drop a mountain on those within.

Water, pigs, next time . . .

Surprisingly, considering how little precipitation this winter has seen, we saw several slowly flowing springs and water holes.

Passing one such created a fright for two javelina down for a drink; they took it into their minds that they must run for cover and that they must manage it by racing us in order to cross the road ahead of the car.  They were quite a sight with their hackles up and running as if their lives depended on it.  As a matter of fact, I suppose that would be the case in hunting season.  As soon as they gained cover, they ceased their headlong dash and wandered away up the hill seemingly without a worry in the world.

Unfortunately, or fortunately (I'm thinking it's all good), our wanderings had consumed a good bit of our day.  The result was that we were unable to locate much of what may be left of the once-prosperous village.  Our previous exploration there revealed some building ruins, but was so long ago that there may be little or nothing left anyway.  We will return, next time with my blinders on so that I can look neither right nor left until we are where we intend to go, wherever it may be; at least that is the plan, and we know all about the best-laid plans, don’t we.

Another case of "It must go somewhere-itis" spurred me to insist on a goodly hike along this track. I'm guessing it was a long-ago route from back-country ranches like my grandparents' down into Peeples Valley.

I'm wondering what bird shed this delicately spotted feather.