The spice of variety, boylessness
February 2, 2015

A change of scenery is just what we ordered after a few months of doing what the doctor ordered, and glory-be, that is what we got.

Since our short little Thanksgiving trip up Kingman way, we found ourselves in a maelstrom of medical miasma.  Chris’ shoulder surgical site was infected to the point the surgeon needed to perform a second surgery to clean it up.  That procedure showed that the rotator cuff repair had failed; four days of hospitalization ensued, followed by six weeks of daily intravenous antibiotics and a rousing round of physical therapy that is still continuing.

We have now become far too well acquainted with a variety of medical professionals who are, to a person, as nice as can be; however, I have had it.  End of patience with all things ill, when along came an opportunity to get out of Dodge without expending any hard-earned cash - irresistible!

A reinstated (long, sad story) trial RV resort membership in a place of  climatic warmth not very far from us at all paved the way for us to put home in the rear-view mirror for a spell.  And that is how I found myself sitting outside the trailer chatting with neighbors while Chris played away on the keyboard, that particular outside being on the California bank of the Colorado River near the town of Parker.  Scattered palm trees and occasional oleander hedges attest to the clime’s temperatures more moderate than those in Prescott.

That was our first RV trip sans “the boy”.  Rowdy and his feline needs were such an integral part of our trip preparation and routine that the lack of it has brought the grief at losing him to the forefront, necessitating a bit of a cry-fest upon arrival.  Admittedly, the travel routine is simpler in his absence, but then easier is not always better.  In his 19 years, he certainly managed to ensconce himself into a permanent heart space.

Yarnell Hill . . .

To attain our goal, we could have taken the longer but faster route northward through Kingman and arrived via a an Interstate highway stretch, but opted to wind our way down from the mountains via Iron Springs and Peeples Valley.  That steep curving route necessitated my admonishing Chris to take it slower, all the while he was driving at a safe and prudent speed.  Not exactly white-knuckle as some places we have taken the trailer, but sufficient to keep our attention on the road.

Emerald Cove . . .

We encamped in dedicated snowbird country.  RV parks, resorts and camp sites abound - those homes-on-wheels are everywhere on the roads in these parts - all sizes and types are here at the behest of their northern-dweller owners who are thawing out instead of freezing their tushies off in Minnesota, South Dakota, Oregon, Idaho and other inhospitably frigid places. 

The park is adequate - level gravel pads, picnic tables supplied (I dislike the places that don’t have tables for each space because I prefer to eat outside whenever possible); the siting right on the Colorado River is the big draw, as it is with the many-miles-long string of private and government-managed parks interspersed with side-by-side waterfront private homes.  Owning one of those is something I could get behind without hesitation.

Our park’s waterfront is a long sandy beach where residents park their boats.  Chris’ shoulder situation precluded our bringing the kayaks this trip, but another time, we might do that.

Although we spend little time at “home” in the park, we did manage to enjoy the very nice spa.  That and the pool adjoin the open-air bar and restaurant, an eatery with good food at dirt-cheap prices, prices so low it almost negated the advantage of getting a free dinner as part of the package for sitting through a sales spiel.

The loot . . .

We were at Emerald Cove only because of the loot we were offered - and a generous package it was.  First off, the four-night stay was free of charge and $200 gasoline credits more than paid for our transportation.  In addition, we were given an Android tablet (wondering if we can sell that?), the dinner, and a $200 two-night stay at a five-star hotel.  And . . . we get four more four-nights stays during the year.

Well shucks, I can spend 90 minutes listening to almost anything for that; as it turned out, we made it clear from the get-go that we were not buying a camping membership, so instead of a high-pressure megillah, we had an interesting talk with a nice woman who happened to be the same age as our oldest son.  How in the world do these adult people end up the same age as our children!?  It’s all very disconcerting when I am reminded that I’m one of the gray-hairs now.

Winterizing . . .

Admittedly, there is substantially more to be done to take the trailer out during the winter, which is why we never did it with the old Totee and why it would be preferable to have the opportunity to be gone longer now.  First we have to un-winterize the rig when we get there and re-winterize it before we return to our colder clime.  These are not world-ending chores, but do take up more time than fair-weather RVing.

 

Parker Dam was an interesting stop.  We hiked from one side of it along the shore of Lake Havasu.  The lake's water level comes very close to the top of the dam which is also the highway.  I had hoped there would be interior tours, but no such luck.

Bliss . . .

Without a doubt, the highlight of this sojourn was a visit from Corina, the baby I midwifed 30 years ago in Chino Valley.  She lives in Lake Havasu now, near the RV park, and brought her sweet new little one to spend  an afternoon and evening with us. 

I believe that adorable child was actually taking my opinion into consideration.

Corina’s mother and I were partners in a landscaping business lo these many years ago after having been neighbors.  She attended the home births of my two youngest and I was honored to not only reciprocate but to be her midwife.  The euphoria of that day will never fade from my heart.

What fun it was to see first-hand what a fine young woman Corina has grown to be, especially because she has always felt like one of my own, and now I see what a good mother she is to her charmingly cheerful little one.

Impermanence . . .

From our here-and-now human perspective, a town of more than 2,000 people with all the necessary markets and services seems to be a permanent fixture on the landscape; however, when its raison d'etre ceases, the population shrinks rapidly and the structures left behind fall into forlorn decay.  Such is the case of a 1930's-era village called Cross Roads that we ran across.

The town site, near to our RV park, dissolved quickly whence it came, although a handsome rock ruin of the Cross Roads Mercantile Co. stands still to mark the passing of the era of dam construction.

On another of our explores, we ran across a prehistoric archaeological site on a rise just over the river and saw a few potsherds scattered here and there.  Walking downriver from there brought us to the remains of what we guessed might have been a bridge or ferry landing.

Birding . . .

As is our habit, we always put out seed and nectar feeders to attract whatever birds are lurking around the park, and so we followed that routine at Emerald Cove.  Much to our astonishment, we attracted nary one finch or sparrow, never even saw either of those usually-plentiful species.  That has never happened before. 

Not surprisingly, grackles gathered right away but were unable to land on the feeder, so gave it up except for an occasional comical bird that would stand under it looking upward and waiting for manna from heaven.  One highly evolved female figured out how to cling to the pole and reach over to snatch a seed, but evidently deemed it more trouble than it was worth.

Even the red-winged blackbirds that will often mob a feeder passed it by after a few glances.

Although there were few birds on the main river channels, some of the still backwaters were teeming with avian life.  A slight issue with the scope caused us not to be able to utilize it when it would have helped the most, but even without it, we identified a goodly number of species.

Besides the ones already mentioned and ravens, turkey vultures and Brewer’s blackbird, we saw the ever-present coots and great blue herons, in addition to pied-billed grebe, California gull, mallard, common goldeneye, canvasback, double-crested cormorant, lesser scaup, bufflehead, ruddy duck, northern shoveler, great egret, ring-billed gull, snowy egret and killdeer.

On one hike, we spooked out a northern harrier that swooped low out of his brushy hideaway.  The country thereabouts often consists of a salty semi-barren landscape, interspersed with thickly vegetated areas that are home to a plethora of bird life.  Some that we spotted in those area included bushtit, blue-gray gnatcatcher, yellow-rumped warbler and black Phoebe.  Despite the complete lack of finches and sparrows, rock doves (pigeons, that is) gathered by the dozens on rooftops in town and we saw one Anna’s hummingbird in the brush above a river beach, although none of that species visited our nectar feeder.

Phainopepla are plentiful in that arid clime.  I love hearing their call and spotting them in their favorite type of perch - at the top of their chosen tree or shrub.

Burros . . .

As plentiful as sand buggies and tourists in that country are the so-called "wild" burros.  They are feral, true, but one could hardly realistically label them wild.  True to their gentle nature, they have become so accustomed to people that they simply wander in and out of yards, RV parks and anywhere else that offers a tasty graze.

Yup.

Please note the headless animal - curiouser and curiouser.

We are admonished not to feed them, but it is obvious that some of them have come to expect a handout.  One black beauty saw us stop for a photo and trotted right on over for his treat; he settled for a good long head- and ear-rub in lieu of an apple.

Burros have always been one of my favorite beasts.  Dad often bought and sold wild donkeys which my cousin Johnny and I enjoyed.  Even those that had never been around people would gentle down right away.  One of our favorite activities was to loop an old fan belt over their necks and hop on for a ride.  The creatures would sometimes tear off down the pasture, but seldom bucked like a horse with its first rider and even when they did, it was mild enough that we could generally remain aboard.  The times we lost our seat were not too damaging anyway because the animals' easy way and their short stature gave us not far to fall or to be flung.

To this day, I cannot resist rubbing their big ol’ thick ears and giving them a good head scratch, sweet animals that they are.

This mama warned me off from approaching too closely to her baby by laying back her ears.

Swansea . . .

Visiting the ghost town of Swansea has been on my agenda for years; now it can be marked off.  The site is far off and gone from anything else other than many miles of desert and mountains, an isolated place not too distant from the Bill Williams River.

After we departed from the highway, we were somewhat taken aback to encounter people, RVs, dune buggies and vehicles of every ilk - hordes and hordes of them.  Putting the proverbial two and two together, we at last determined they were there to spectate some sort of off-road rally which seemingly had not yet begun.

In preparation, though, many of them had lined up along the dirt road lounging in chairs.  It made me feel as if they were waiting for a parade and I was it.  I tried to get Chris to slow down so that I could employ my queen wave to my admirers, but he was uncooperative.

For this, I have no words . . . why this craft was sitting out there with its sail up and surrounded by RVs in the middle of the desert is quite beyond me.

As always, the journey holds much of interest.  One such curiosity stop was to climb a sand dune that seemed to be completely out of place.  All the ground thereabouts was of a dark hue and rocky, yet there was a large sand hillock that required a stop and look around.

The fun of boondocking is in never knowing what will show up.  Sometimes, the prize is vast expanses; other times it's in the details.  I love exploring without expectation, just being open to whatever presents itself.

This stumped us both; it is some kind of plant skeleton, but no idea from what.

Expecting to find nothing but foundations at Swansea made the reality so much more exciting.  I had no inkling how extensive this town had been - everything from a hospital and a railroad station to a dairy and a smelter and lots more in between.

A sure bet: Abandon a vehicle and it will get shot up.  This truck looked as if it were bleeding from the bullet holes.

Unique to this former village, the Bureau of Land Management has done stabilization on some structures; a bonus is signage throughout the area explaining the use and date of many of the buildings.

Our day involved substantial hiking: Swansea covered a large area, and I wanted not to miss a thing.  Even so, we departed with the idea that a return trip is necessary; in fact, I'm thinking even more than one reconnoiter is in the future.  I want to spend more time at the Swansea site itself, and I would love to continue past it to the river beyond.  On an earlier trip to Lake Havasu, we kayaked the upper lake and as far up the Bill Williams River as we could force our boats.  Getting to the waterway from the Swansea road would allow us to see another part of the channel.

Ruins of the Swansea smelter.

Without support, the remaining railroad station walls would have fallen into dust.

The railroad ties are slowly but surely being reclaimed by the earth.

This was exceptionally interesting, something we had never seen before.  A lengthy berm, perhaps a half mile long, had been built so that a train could pass the station and move onto a train-car-size scale, the remains of which are shown above.

This line of adjoining rooms has had some restoration work.

I've had days when I felt like this . . .

 

This adobe wall will not withstand much more weathering.

For reasons unknown to me, molten slag was allowed to solidify in the smelter cart and then discarded as a cast of the cart.

Dump diggers delight - acres and acres of it.

Many of the area's mine shafts were firmly secured against accidental or intentional intrusion, while others remain open.

This huge rock bridge is one example of some mighty convoluted stony formations thereabouts.

The Bill Williams River course crosses in front of the distant magnificent mountains.

 

Crossing the Central Arizona Project canal required a stop to admire all that water and to discern what birds are riding the current.  In this case, it was buffleheads.

 

The Gibraltar Mountains from the river side . . .

 . . . and the dry side.  Either way, they want to be explored by me.