Been there, done that
April 12, 2015

Lest the suspense build, I am immediately giving away the ending - yes, at long last we made it to my grandparents' homestead.  The how, however, is another matter.

Awakening recently on a rare uncommitted non-working Saturday, I voiced my bright idea: "Let's go to the homestead", said I, as if we have not attempted to do just that any number of times unsuccessfully.  I've previously detailed some of those aborted trips and had about given up, but once planted, the seed was persistent.

I had two major reasons for the quest.  First, after I heard that Maughan's Ranches had bought the place, I wanted to determine if they had shut it off from public access.  My other thought concerned Matilda York's (Old Lady York was the only way Dad ever referred to her) Blackwater ranch; I got it into my head that if we could drive to Grandma & Grandpa's place, it would give us a jumping-off place to get to Blackwater.  Why I feel such a need to get to Blackwater is an unknown; I just do, and that's that, but dang, that country is next to impossible to get around in.

Absent eyerolls, getting there . . .

A person might think that Chris would roll his eyes and at least think something along the lines of "Here we go again", but no, he was perfectly amenable to another attempt, so we were Yarnell bound in a flash.

Getting as far as Peeple's Valley for our usual pit stop, I finally noticed the cute cowboy mural gracing the side of the building.  Then one more stop to admire an iris-festooned front-yard hillside before turning off down the hill just past the Ranch House Restaurant on Old Stage Road.

Ruby meets her match . . .

Old Stage Road is the back way down the once-treacherous Yarnell Hill - a dirt road that skirts west of Rich Hill to connect the ghost towns of Stanton, Octave and Weaver and loops back to the pavement near Congress.

Previous forays to the region revealed most roads into the back country are gated and posted - straying onto someone's private gold claim is not an advisable activity.

The only track we've found that is not closed is the one we hoped would get us to the homestead.  I started onto it last year when wandering down there with Donna and Patty, but quickly discerned that it was far more rough than we three fair maidens ought to be traveling.

With macho man at my side, though, we took a chance at it, but not for long.  The road has been washed out to a fare-thee-well and not maintained for a good long spell - even all-terrain vehicles would be hard-pressed to traverse major portions of it.  We confabbed about the situation and decided that we would try hiking to our destination since our trusty steed, Ruby, the Four Runner, was not up to the task.

The road looks innocuous enough here, but is impassable a bit farther along.

It's over there . . . or there . . . or . . .

Getting around out there on foot is nigh on to impossible if one is traveling cross-country; thick thorny brush and cactus cover the hillsides, so we opted for the exceedingly circuitous route along the road, or what remains of it.  The mountainous terrain kept us stumbling up and down slope throughout the walk, working to maintain our footing on the rocky rubbly surface.

As our route twisted and turned, we tried to keep in mind where in tarnation we were intending to end up.  Much discussion (read argument) ensued along the way as logic told me that heading that-a-way when the goal is this-a-way is flat wrong.  Oh, to be that proverbial crow flying . . . over all those steep grades and wait-a-minute bushes that rip at clothing and skin.

The sights . . .

Remembering that the joy is in the journey, we exclaimed at the distant vistas as we ascended the heights and marveled at the abundance of wild flowers.  A brisk breeze cooled our way even as the sun warmed us.  That same wind throughout the day caused the flowers to dance out of focus for my photos.

Do you see the deer on that hillside?

A second shot with telephoto reveals them, carefully watching the interlopers in their territory.

 

Although wild flowers were in abundance, with only one exception on our route, the cactus had not yet opened their blooms.  I expect one week later and this one would be beautiful.

Agua . . .

The miracle of the desert: springs of precious water seeping, trickling, sometimes even gushing forth from rock ledges or up through sandy wash bottoms.  Perhaps my desert rat nose sniffs out the life-giving commodity; crossing one of a multitude of dry arroyos, we detoured up the ravine to find a clear stream of water pooling up at the foot of a rocky cliff, the perfect place for a rest and a snack.

Antelope Creek runs through this canyon, feeding the spring-greening cottonwoods there.

Uncle Jim's cabin? . . .

The serpentine windings of our route snarled into my brain like the computer cables behind my desk until I was fairly certain we were heading in the wrong direction for the homestead; that is until we spotted "the cabin".  The tiny stone hut was the remembered landmark that revealed we were not hopelessly off track.

In stark contrast to vast miles of mountains, mountains and more mountains, the structure is a reminder that, not only has humanity passed this way, but that the family homestead is not too far distant, relatively speaking.

We veered off our track to once again visit the welcome sight/site, enjoying our lunch in the shade of a large cottonwood tree that shelters the house.  The one-room abode is lovingly cared for by the owner of the mining claim on which it sits.  The front door is latched but not locked, leaving the interior accessible to anyone who ventures that far.  

Inside is a log book signed by the few visitors (ATVers?).  The interior walls are whitewashed, all is clean, well-stocked and orderly, awaiting the lawful occupant's return.  A note asks that there be no overnight camping and it appears that by and large, folks have been respectful of the space.

The one exception I saw was on the cleverly crafted outdoor seating.  A log has been cut cleanly in half lengthwise, with hinges and a handle attached so that when closed, it is a log and when opened it is a bench seat.  Inexplicably, someone has spray painted graffiti on the inside of the bench - who in hades comes this far out in the first place, but then also carries along a can of spray paint???!!!

What lack of self-esteem compels someone to spray paint their initials onto someone else's property?

There's the log bench tidily closed up near the front door.

The pantry is neatly stocked with essentials.

The furnishings are sparse, with legs carefully placed into cans of water to deter critter invasion.

That climate is conducive to outdoor living; a bedframe and springs await a bedroll.

As I do whenever I encounter evidence that fellow beings have passed this way, I wonder who they were and what their life was like.  In the case of the stone cabin, I have some very specific thoughts that revolve around my grandparents.  Zack & Pearl Kelley's homestead was not very distant from the cabin, which may fit into an oft-told family tale.

Dad - Ira Kelley - always told me that Grandma's brother, Jim Taylor, lived near them in what he called a shack.  I think that Jim was in the region prior to Zack & Pearl, probably was the one who told Grandpa about the area (why oh why did I not ask more questions when I had the opportunity and why oh why did I not write all of it down instead of relying on memory that rearranges facts over time?).  

At any rate, I don't know if Great Uncle Jim built his own abode, owned the property or when he arrived, nor do I know if he was ranching or trapping or what exactly brought him there.  The Coopers and others from the same area in Texas as my family were in that section of Arizona, so undoubtedly the word was spread via relatives and neighbors.  

I do know that he lost his eyesight in later years and was taken back to the family ranch in the hill country of Texas.  Before that, though, Grandpa looked after him, carting food and supplies to his place regularly.  I suspect that he had macular degeneration and therefore was able to function to some extent on his own with peripheral vision.  Of course Dad was not specific about that part, saying only that Uncle Jim went blind.

I wondered if the stone cabin was Jim Taylor's in earlier years; however, a talk with my older brother later disabused me of the notion.  Frank had been able to visit Jim along with Dad and remembered that his cabin was wooden with a dirt floor.  He recalled Jim as being a friendly fellow and was fascinated that Jim's dog was also blind, a perfect example of the blind leading the blind.

So who built the stone hut and when remains a mystery, as does the location of Jim's cabin.

Turn back?  Not a chance . . .

As we enjoyed our afternoon meal in the shade at the cabin, Chris opined that we had best turn back and embark on the long hike out.  Tired and footsore as I was, I was shocked at the suggestion.  Having come that far and certain we were nearing our destination, my vote was to continue; evidently, I held the majority vote.

We were fairly certain our hoped-for journey's end was just on the other side of the mountain, but the road we had been following promised a long convoluted route, so we opted for an off-road trek up and over.  Bushwhacking over the mountain saved time but not necessarily energy; once we topped out, we could see down into the valley of East Antelope Creek to the site where Kelleys settled in 1931.

Zack & Pearl Kelley's homestead is down in that canyon just about where those two dirt tracks converge at East Antelope Creek.  Wish I knew if there's a way to drive in on those roads and if they are passable, unlike the one we followed out of Yarnell.

Spirits and energy lifted once the goal was in sight and we were soon once again at my grandparents' homestead site.  Little has changed since our last visit there except for it being more overgrown with vegetation.

Even the corrugated tin that Grandpa Zack carefully stacked after disassembling their house remains there under the brush.  Undoubtedly he intended to utilize it at their next place, the one they bought from Van Cleves; folks in those days did not waste anything.  He and Dad later drove to the village of Cordes to take down a building there to be used at the new headquarters.

While fending off the gnats, I took lots of photos to remember the place by:

 

Okay, Chris took one, too.  I am standing just where, in the 1930s, Grandma & Grandpa stood for a photo in front of their corrugated tin house, now gone.  All their supplies and building materials were packed in by horseback; there was no road to the place when they settled there.  Their shelter for the first winter consisted of ocotillo branches wired together vertically to form walls and canvas stretched over the top for a roof.

 

East Antelope Creek.

Nine miles later . . .

Now . . . we have returned to the homestead, unfortunately not by car, and after that rough nine-mile hike, we are not likely to do it again.  I still haven't given up on the idea of finding the Blackwater Canyon homestead of Matilda (Dusoe) Dunham York, although it appears that I will have to come at it from a different direction.

Along the route out, we enjoyed more wildflowers and blooming shrubs and stopped for a look-see at an oasis of desert lushness watered by spring water that overflows through a rancher's trough.