Go north!
Oct. 25, 2015

"Go north" was the imperative on my to-do list, a far more appealing option than cleaning house or shopping - and an easy task to convince Chris we should do just that.  Not quite as simple, though, when I looked at the calendar: uncommitted days were at a premium and lots of rain in the forecast, so I jumped at an open afternoon and off we went.

No particular destination in mind, simply a direction.  The to-do notation was penciled in because I realized that winter would be here before you could say "Jack Frost", during which season jaunts tend to be southward for my warmth-loving bones.

Bill Williams Mountain . . .

That mountain always visible on our northern horizon, the one named for the early trapper who pioneered in this region, quickly became our focus.  Past the mountain into the town of Williams we went, and turned south from there to begin the climb.

Before we embarked on the upward drive, we encountered two shaven and shorn still sheep that were working their mime routine: nary a peep nor a move was noted even though they looked quite realistic.  I dubbed them Sheb Wool-less.

With all the recent rain, the dirt road could have been a rutted rough drive, but as luck would have it, a road grader not only had just done its leveling work, it was still up top above us somewhere.  Still plenty of curves and switchbacks but a fine road surface carried us up, up, up.

The forecast had promised sunshine; however, the storm was not finished with us.  Light rainfall continued throughout the area - a fortunate happenstance for the stupendous scenes at every turn.  As the cloud shadows moved across the landscape, the sun worked at sending its rays to touch here and there on hills, rocks and valleys, even offering up rainbows to delight us.

A different perspective . . .

So often we look toward Bill Williams Mountain without thinking of how different it is looking back from that loftier perspective.  Our perch up there at the 9,000ish-foot elevation allowed us to see Mingus and Granite mountains nearer to Prescott; sunlight breaking through the clouds lighted up the red cliffs of Sycamore Canyon, and surrounding valleys were spread out for many miles in all directions.

Mount Floyd looms in the distance from this Finger Rock vantage point.

 

We expected to see lots of colorful aspen leaves, but not so much - it appeared that we were a week or two late for the autumn show except for isolated groves that had not yet dropped their leaves.

We delighted in seeing a small elk herd on the mountain.  From their sheltered place in the trees, they were fairly unconcerned with our presence, finally opting to slowly turn up their oh-so-arrogant noses and disappear into the brush.

Day is done . . .

As daylight dimmed, we made our way back off the mountain, taking in even more scenes of awesome beauty.

As we headed homeward, my well-loved Granite Mountain turned an amazing shade of pink, startling enough that we pulled over on the highway so I could troop off through the wet brush to return with a wholly inadequate photographic remembrance.

By then, the sunset off to the west was glorious, so away I soggily clomped in that direction for a shot of it.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, this big ol' Cooper's hawk stopped in for a drink and hung around for breakfast, which never showed up, the smaller birds being disinclined to be the main course.