One river - two rambles
March 30, 2016

Always, the fascination in arid climes is with water, water anyway we can get it: running, pooled, confined in reservoirs, falling from the sky or rushing crazily as a flood out of its channel.  Perhaps we desert rats are more intrigued than the typical earthling, but so it is. 

As I find myself looking out the window at snow falling on the 30th of March after a sublime spell of spring weather, I decide it is the perfect time to cease wailing about the day’s high temperatures sadly in the 40s(!) and buckle down to sharing about a couple of recent hikes.

The Preserve . . .

Yavapai College’s semester commenced before we wound up the Great Photo Project, unfortunately, so we have found ourselves mired in classes and field trips that Chris is teaching, music gigs, handyman and genealogy jobs, all while sorting, identifying, organizing and scanning thousands of family pictures and attempting to maintain our already hectic daily life.  That relatively demanding schedule is made more palatable by an occasional escape to unpaved regions.

A recent destination - the Hassayampa River Preserve - was determined because of an approaching YC trip Chris was to lead but that he hadn’t scouted.  Inexplicably, neither of us had been to the place near Wickenburg despite hearing about it many times.

I had envisioned a more developed area, but was pleased to find that the Nature Conservancy has allowed the riparian area to remain in a fairly natural state.

Upon arriving, we learned that the Preserve was formerly part of a homestead of the Frederick Brill family, whose rambling historic ranch house now serves as the visitor center and is backdropped by an imposing row of humongous palm trees.

This metal agave sculpture is perfect for hanging bird feeders and immediately went on my wish list.

The docent told us where to watch for a resident family of ringtails which I excitedly anticipated spotting, but the animals declined to appear on demand for us.  Instead, my wildlife sightings consisted of a large long-toed reptile that relied on its similarity to the surroundings to consider itself concealed.

The name Hassayampa is said to mean river that flows upside down, a perfect description for that stream that runs on the surface only intermittently, with most of its length being underground where it often feeds moisture-loving cottonwoods and willows.

This dry tributary channel is choked with debris, revealing how violent desert floods can be.

Placidly flowing now, the Hassayampa's moods can vary wildly, as do all desert waterways.

The "new" camera and I continue to butt heads, especially regarding close-up shots; I just can't make them work as I did with the old tried-and-true apparatus.  Chris suggests I read the manual; however, I have so far resisted that obvious step. 

I wonder how many disappointing shots like this I will take before I learn this camera's workings.

At the time we were reveling in the beauty of hiking through lush surroundings, the cottonwoods were doing their spring thing - downy seeds were flying everywhere so that in places, the ground looked as if a winter storm had just gone through.

The Preserve's riparian habitat is known as a prime birding area.  Our visit there was in midday, not the best time for observing avian activity; however, we did spot some, mostly on the pond and in the surrounding desert vegetation.

Much of the little lake is obscured by overhanging trees and brush; despite that difficulty, peering back into the farther reaches, we identified black phoebe, northern mockingbird, mallard, red-winged blackbird, neotropic cormorant, American wigeon, hooded merganser, cinnamon teal and American coot.

Away from the water after we were back at the visitor's center and into the surrounding mesquite bosque, we saw Costa's hummingbird, Anna's hummingbird, black-chinned hummingbird, broad-tailed hummingbird, verdin, lesser goldfinch, house finch, Gila woodpecker and vermilion flycatcher.

Lyke's lookout . . .

One of the trails, named for the man who donated the land to the Nature Conservancy, climbs up and away from the serene shaded greenery along the river's course to a high vantage point that reveals distant mountain ranges and allows an overlook of the forest that is fed by the upside-down river.  It is beautiful whether you are under or above the leafy canopy.

That relatively small change in elevation supports entirely different vegetation of the less leafy and more prickly variety.  The ocotillo buds were just about to open to their striking crimson/orange beauty.

A tragedy. . .

I have previously written about the infamous Charles Stanton, but had no idea he would be brought up during our visit to the Hassayampa Preserve.  Along the dirt track that leads to the river is a sad reminder of one of the villainous deeds attributed to him.

The shaded peace of the Martin family grave site belies the violence that ended the lives of Barney & Rosa Martin and their two young sons.   As the tale is passed down from the 1880s, the Martins were proprietors of a mercantile that their competitor, Stanton, ordered to be burned twice until they gave up the enterprise.  They loaded their belongings into a wagon and headed south, but were murdered in the vicinity of Morristown, with robbery presumably the motive.  When their burned wagon and bodies were discovered, Brill had them brought to his ranch for burial there and as Justice of the Peace, charged Stanton with the murders.  Stanton himself was murdered before he could be brought to justice.

Homeward . . .

Leaving the beauty of the Preserve behind, we (of course) opted to try a back road for our route home.  This side jaunt was intended to get us to another part the river's course, this section being of the upside-down variety.

We were treated to some awesome distant views as we climbed up and over the ridges bordering the river valley; however, the lateness of the hour and the uncertainty about whether our chosen route, the old stage road, was still passable all the way to and through the ghosts of Stanton, Octave and Weaver, deterred the attempt until a later date.  The section of road that utilized a sandy wash bottom was a little daunting; we have dug ourselves out from such before, but doing so after dark did not strike our fancy.

A desert river . . .

Easter Sunday after church again found us on the Hassayampa, further upstream from the Preserve, a spot we had explored previously, but one we had vowed to return to.  On our first visit, our attempt to continue upstream had been stymied.  This time, we hoped to continue up-canyon past a small but unscalable dam.

At that previous time, a mining operation was in its beginning stages on the mountainside above the river.  This time, we found it is in full swing, although there was no activity while we were there.  Unfortunately, the stillness of the mine equipment was more than compensated for by humans seeking recreational opportunities with their canine companions.

Icy water temperatures seemed not to deter what I considered crowds and what were in reality only four or so parties.  It seems more than a little rude for folks to congregate in a place I consider my private domain, but then to be accompanied by numerous large excited dogs unleashed and running wildly out of control put a damper on my enjoyment.

On the other hand, we were early enough to enjoy the beauty of the area before most of the hubbub began.

I never cease to marvel at the miracle of water in the desert, in this case right-side-up for a distance.

These cottonwoods at a higher elevation had only just begun to release their snow-like seed.

Now about those people I was maligning a couple of paragraphs earlier: Yes, one of their 70-pound dogs hit me full speed in the back of the knees and nearly sent me crashing to the ground; however, some one of them (likely not one with a wildly careening canine) installed a ladder to facilitate access up and over the rock cliff.  Nice, huh?

Even so, I was not overly keen on climbing up those round metal rungs - even less about hoisting myself up the rest of the way hand-over-hand on the knotted rope that extended beyond the ladder's reach.  No matter: with the requisite whining and balking out of the way, I did it anyway, and was rewarded by a most awesome sight.

Perched above the stony drop-off and dam are a series of sandy-bottomed clear pools that stretch for about 75 feet, steep rocky cliffs on each side and culminating at a beautiful waterfall cascade.  I wanted very much to wade to the top of the pools to be at the waterfall, but three attempts later, I gave it up, and it takes a lot to make me do that.

The snow-melt water was so frigid that no matter how determined I was, the pain from being in the stream was too much for me.  When I say I wanted to wade, I am understating the depth.  Beginning at ankle deep, I quickly was in up to my thighs and heading for at least waist-deep water, if not more.

Finally abandoning the river itself and the people who evidently enjoy spending their peaceful day in the out-of-doors continually yelling at their dogs that completely ignore them and continue to frolic with dogs belonging to other people enjoying their peaceful day in the out-of-doors continually yelling at their dogs that completely ignore them, we set off on a hike up a dry side canyon and enjoyed our lunch sans any human- or canine-caused cacophony whatsoever.

When the climb got too steep for me, I planted my butt in the least slippery spot I could find and waited for the señor to continue on for a spell to see what he could see.

He did not get far; evidently, what he could see was not all that interesting, so he opted for a shot of me on my perch, asking if I could manage a smile before I went careening head over heels down the mountainside.  I did my best, more of a grimace than a smile, I think.

A spring, prehistoric site, lion's lair . . .

Later in the day, we hiked off into some other areas that got our attention.  One walk brought us to an interesting sizable prehistoric camp site littered with broken potsherds and scattered stones that had been worked by those industrious folks who lived there so long ago.

The Hassayampa where it has gone underground again, as it is for most of its distance.  There is much evidence of destructive hydraulic gold mining through that area.

Another hike took us up a canyon toward a spring that we deduced was there when we saw the tell-tale sign of spring-green cottonwood leaves against the backdrop of desert flora.  The arroyo was narrow and in places convoluted slick-rock that we had to duck under and around.

There was not a sign posted about who shelters in this cave-like overhang, but it felt like a lion's den to me.

The spring was fully diverted into a pipe that fed a water tank further down the canyon.  We were amazed to see that the folks who did that also built a stile over the fence for easy access.  Imagine - no taking off your pack and squeezing carefully between tight strands of barbed wire while your companion pulls up on one to facilitate your passage without hanging the back of your shirt on the barbs!

I have never seen mining claims marked like these two coffee cans nailed to a tree.  Back in the day, the standard was to carefully fold your claim papers into a Prince Albert can that was then secreted into a rock cairn at the corner of the claim.  Of course some prospectors, dudes without a doubt, might have used Sir Walter Raleigh tobacco cans, but really, that just wouldn't have been proper and acceptable.

Some hillsides were profuse with yuccas just opening their blossom spikes.

Still haven't read the camera manual and still not happy with up-close shots, but getting a little better.  Maybe Colorado Tom will visit and give me some pointers and then I won't have to read the manual . . .

I always love the sweetness of cliff rose filling the air.

Not very flowery and a little thorny at times, but I couldn't resist the natural frame.

Did you hear about the mushroom that walked into a bar and ordered a beer, but the bartender wouldn't serve him.  "Why not", asked the mushroom; "I'm a fun-gi".  

Our first snake of the season - back home at Willow Lake - exceedingly odoriferous!