A quest 
January 27, 2015

Quest: "The act or an instance of seeking or pursuing something; a search."  Based on that definition, it would seem that we have embarked on an inadvertent quest - the search to refind the route to my grandparents' ranch homestead outside of Yarnell, Arizona.

It did not particularly begin as a quest.  First, there was a casual drive down there with kin, just me and two others of the female persuasion, for a leisurely sashay into the place, or so we thought.  Perhaps I should backtrack at this point to explain our initial visit to the long-abandoned place.

Digression declared . . .

Years back, decades actually, Dad was all abuzz about a bunch of us wandering into that back country eastward and down from Yarnell on one of our giant family-and-anyone-else-who-cared-to-come-along outings to see the Johnson Mine where he had worked as a young man.

That mission accomplished and with time left over, he decreed that we would then hike over the pass to his parents' homestead that was "over yonder" in some vague direction or another, the goal being the second place Grandma and Grandpa encamped when they came to Arizona from their native Texas.  Grandpa - Zack Kelley - had come out the previous winter - 1930 - to trap and scout a site for his ranch.  Grandma Pearl's brother Jim was already ensconced in the region of Rich Hill.

When Grandpa came west with his family and all his worldly goods, he set up in the mountains to the west of Yarnell.  Deciding that country was too rough, he moved them the following spring to a likely spot on East Antelope Creek at the foot of Rich Hill.  That was the site Dad tried to get us to bushwhack our way to.  Unfortunately, there had never been a road to it; the folks had packed everything in on horseback, and since Dad had left there nigh on to 60 years previous, he wasn't too sure just how to arrive at the exact spot, which explains why we were not able to find it that time.

Another fun Kelley adventure it was anyway, but his mind was made up: we must get there!  And so at a later date, we located a primitive road that took us in the right direction and then set off on foot when the track failed, hiking along the creek, which would be the only possible way to identify the site in that vast outback.  To say it was rough going would be quite the understatement, but amazingly enough, find it we did, with head-to-toe scratches from pushing through rough brush and sore feet to prove it.

I have written before about retrieving family artifacts there, so won't repeat that.  We were surprised, however, to find that a road had been bulldozed to the site, and were able to use that four-wheel-drive trail later to get a vehicle in there.  Dad was astounded!  After all, ever since they left there 70 years before, he had called it "the old pack-in place", never guessing that a road now gave access.

That was maybe 20 years back - no one around at all except a herd of javelina, miles from any habitations.  In the year 2015, though, the skyrocketing price of gold has changed it all.  All roads are gated, locked and posted; prospector diggings and active mines have changed the face of the countryside, and houses, trailers and shacks have sprung up through the creosote and cactus.

And a road that will take us to the Kelley place seemed not to exist.  That is why I thought while my niece Shannon was here for a visit, we would get my pathfinder, Chris, to bring a successful conclusion to the quest.

In the end, we again did not get to the homestead, but surmise that the one precarious track we found that was not shut off may be the one.  Another day will have to determine that - impending darkness and rain-slickened trail surface prevented us getting there once again.

I'm not at all sure exactly why this search has firmly ensconced itself on my to-do list, but it has.  Maybe the quest is fueled by what I have heard by the grapevine: that Maughan Ranches has purchased the place, which entity appears intent on acquiring every square foot of ranchland in Arizona.  The rub is that they seem to close access to each parcel they purchase; I hope they have not done that with the Kelley place.

We enjoyed a small hastily-thrown-together family gathering before coming back up the hill to Prescott.

 Winter . . .

How did it happen that Shannon's visit exactly coincided with the only real cold snap we've had all winter?  We had hoped to warm our snow-chilled bones in those lower elevations; alas, a bitter wind demanded that we keep on our coats even there.  Without fail, though, a day out in the boonies is perfect in its own way and we did at least get out of the snow.

The bundling did not deter our fun.  We stopped in for a look around at Stanton, the only one of three ghost towns in the area that is accessible now.  When I was young, oh so long ago, my parents were inclined to gather up any and all to explore in the desert (yes, I come by it honestly and gratefully).  Some of those days were spent in the region below Yarnell Hill, where they first met at a dance in Octave.

On this day, we saw the rock ruins of Octave at a distance, but again, locked gates prevented us from venturing there as we have in the past. 

Ghost towning . . .

But back to Stanton (I am nothing if not adept at wandering in my words as well as in my travels): in my youth, Stanton was mysteriously inaccessible.  Whoever owned it for those many years kept vandals at bay by surrounding the town with a high chain-link fence, thus it was saved, unlike Octave and Weaver that have crumbled.  Whenever we drove by in the long-ago on our way to kin's diggings or elsewhere, I yearned to go in there.

Now Stanton's buildings are home to a gold prospecting club that has a small RV park there.  No idea whose foresight saved that bit of the old West, but I am glad of it as we can now wander at will.  Shannon, liking all things old (including me), was intrigued by the place that a person might mistake for a movie set if a person didn't know it is the real deal.

I am not sure if she submitted an application . . .

Charles Stanton . . .

There is no doubt the current peacefulness is in direct contrast to the 1800s norm.  The place had a horribly violent past, much of it precipitated by Charles Stanton, who was finally dispatched in the same manner in which he lived.  Reports from those 19th century times tell us the man was so despised that his burial took place at as far a distance as he could be carried lest he be interred among others of a more peaceable nature.

Looking for Weaver, Saturday Evening Post . . .

What???  Home from our journey, I did a bit of sleuthing, primarily because I was unsure of the location of the settlement of Weaver, just always knew the three towns - Stanton, Octave & Weaver - were in proximity to each other.  My inquiries put Weaver eastward from the others, closer to the Kelley homestead, but what got my interest more was a story that the magazine some of us of a certain age remember, the Saturday Evening Post, at one time owned the townsite of Stanton and that it awarded it as a contest prize.  The tale continues with so-called hippies taking up residence at a later time and damaging the buildings.

I am clueless where any of this fits with the securely-fenced place of my memory, but I will just go with what I know, and assume the other is either someone's fantasy or it somehow works with what I saw.

 

Rich Hill was the initial lure for the gold seekers who continue to search the area for riches.

Dump diggers . . .

True to the Kelley tradition, we three managed to locate a ruin site that did not sport a "No trespassing" sign and explored it at some length, hoping to find . . . well, we're never sure what we expect to find - some kind of artifact or rock, treasure perhaps, that we must cart away with us.  It is fascinating to peruse the sites of former habitations, attempting to discern something of the long-gone residents.  Could that perfect purple-hued sun-colored embossed bottle be lying coyly in the garbage dump waiting for us to cart it home?  Hope springs eternal.

Springs . . . 

And speaking of springs: in addition to being accomplished dump diggers, because we are desert rats, our fascination extends to water of any sort.  I have actually been out hiking in the back country and smelled water where I had no idea any existed.  On this particular day, we spotted the tell-tale greenery that foretold a water spring, and so embarked on a trek upward through the brush-choked arroyo until we found the source - a cage-protected seep where water trickled preciously from the rock face.

. . . a fine ending to yet another fine boondock.

 

I can't take her anywhere without she strikes up a friendship!

Relative to absolutely nothing in this blog post, I forge ahead with a shot of this big boy that came to dinner in the back yard.  Alas, dinner departed upon his arrival.