A snakey affair
May 2016

"Over the mountain" is the term I utilize to signify travel from the west side of the Mingus Range where I reside to the region lying east of the Yavapai County divider, so . . . over the mountain is where Barbara and I ventured a month or so ago to visit Nancy, who has relocated to those lower climes.

What could be better than a day spent with friends; that particular one, however, had surprises in store - three to be exact.

On a short hike to a series of natural caves up in a south-facing cliff, we were astounded by the huge amount of prehistoric potsherds littering the ground on the flat below.  Although we stopped short of climbing into the caves, we could clearly see rock walls within that were constructed millennia ago to create habitations, amazing that they are still standing up to the ravages of weather.

The real surprises, though, came later when we visited the century-old Clear Creek Church.  I highly advise stepping carefully in that area.  While peering in through the closed-up building's windows, we were startled to encounter a snake partially emerged from a hole in the foundation.  It appeared that there was a substantial cavity under there, although I was unable to get my camera's flash to reveal what was in the depths.  Suffice it to say that I didn't make the attempt until after the snake had retreated.

We suspected it was a rattlesnake but could not be certain because the tell-tale-tail end was not in sight.  At any rate, he gave us a start.

With that bit of excitement past, we turned to explore the grounds and were treated to the sight of his big brother stretched full out in the open, confirming the species we were encountering, rattles were in plain view.

That big bruiser was exceptionally lethargic and pale, actually appearing to be somewhat bloated.  I thought he was dead as he showed no movement at all; even when I nudged him with a (very long) object, he managed only a tiny tongue flicker to let us know we had best leave him be.

By that time, adrenaline was flowing a bit, and hit a high point when we encountered yet a third rattler back by the building.  That feller (or gal, as the case may be) was moving right along, heading for the supposed den under the church.  At that point, we took the hint and vacated the premises pretty rapidly.  My imagination conjures a scene in those depths that is the stuff of nightmares. 

Going up . . .

Heading in another direction at a later date, we partnered up with Barb & Bud to venture into the Bradshaws with the village of Crown King and Horse Thief Basin as our destination.  Before climbing up to those higher elevations, we traversed substantial desert regions and the quasi-ghost towns of Cordes and Cleator.

Cordes, not to be confused with the highway burgs of Cordes Junction and Cordes Lakes, is a popular photography stop with its old weathered wood structures and abandoned artifacts.

I remember taking a photo of this gas pump years back; at that time, it was enveloped by a humongo prickly pear cactus.

It's been a good long time since this bladeless windmill pumped any water.

Played out . . .

Mining activity flourished for many years, both in that low country and higher up throughout the Bradshaws.  Although some of the mines continue to produce small amounts of ore, most of the residents of the region are there only because it is their preference to live away from the busyness of more populated places.

Cleator residents have a good sense of humor along with their business acumen.  The Cleator Bar & Yacht Club is an example of both.  Far removed from the slightest hint of surface water, the business thrives on tourist activity because of its uniqueness and clever decor.

Settlements sprang up in the Bradshaws in the 1860s, with the discovery of gold and silver.  Large-scale mining continued into the early years of the 20th century.  The community of Turkey Creek was established in 1884 and renamed Cleator in 1925 by its owner at that time, James Cleator.  His worn but serviceable abode still stands.

Another of the fixer-uppers in the Turkey Creek Mining District.

 We enjoyed the low desert scenery as we gained the foothills before beginning our climb up into the mountains.

What are the chances that I would catch a honeybee in mid-flight over these barrel cactus buds?  I wish I could say I planned it but I didn't see it until I looked at the photo.

I'm not sure what is the fascination at looking back over the country we have just left, but sure enough, it seems irresistible.

Horsethief Basin, Crown King . . .

After substantial dawdling along the way, we returned to piney lands and the little lake at Horsethief Basin.  I don't think I have been there since sometime in my 20s, and that is a long, long time ago.  In those days, it was a common escape for us from the summer heat in the Valley (Phoenix, that is).  It remains just such an oasis for many folks who swelter still in the big city.  The little cabins that were there as Forest Service rentals are no more, but camping opportunities fill that need nowadays.

There were very few waterfowl on the lake, but the mallards made up for it by being the moochin'est birds I've ever encountered.  They boldly followed us around demanding handouts and even chased after the car as we drove away.

 

 

 

Moochy mallards notwithstanding, we got a life bird at the lake, a marsh wren secreted in the reeds.  The trip's bird list was otherwise negligible: raven, northern mockingbird, yellow warbler, western kingbird, phainopepla, mourning dove, Gambel's quail, turkey vulture, house wren, Wilson's warbler, spotted towhee, lesser goldfinch, acorn woodpecker, house sparrow, brown-headed cowbird and the ever-popular roadrunner.

This glimpse through the trees of a structure down in the canyon necessitated a short trek to check it out.

A bit too airy for my taste.

While having a refreshment from the Crown King General Store, the owner heard us discussing the impressive tree out front.  She joined us for a chat and told us it is the oldest apple tree west of the Mississippi.  Actually, I don't think that's exactly what she said, maybe the oldest in the county/state/Bradshaw Mountains?  At any rate, she agreed to take our picture beneath it; I had to laugh when I saw the photo.  After she backed way up to get the shot, she chopped off the tree's head.

This should clear up any questions: Bud he is, but I don't think his last name is Bar.

Our canine companion, Gabby, proved herself to be a good traveler.

Watson Woods . . . 

When allotted time is not sufficient for jaunts farther away from home, we are pleased to have Watson Woods so conveniently nearby.  A few minutes walk brings us first to the reed-choked pond in Cliff Rose, our development, then across the road to the riparian greenbelt that stretches along Granite Creek and downstream to Watson Lake.

The Cliff Rose pond, formerly a cow tank before a ranch was subdivided into a housing development, is rife with red-wing blackbirds, some of which occasionally seek a second food source at the Wuehrmann feeders.

Not content to follow the worn paths in Watson Woods, we enjoy going off-trail for an explore right here in town.

 

 

 

 

 

In the garden . . .

Meanwhile, the garden at home is coming together and expected to continue well, now that Chris has built lovely wooden fences and gates to deter those wascally wabbits that took advantage of my hospitality by devouring everything in sight.

Never have I seen so many orioles and tanagers!  Among our back-yard denizens are Bullock's orioles and western tanagers.  We also spotted a pair of summer tanagers in Watson Woods.  It is sheer delight to watch the antics as they vie for ringside seats at the nectar and grape jelly feeders and the halved oranges.  Hummingbirds, too, are partaking of the sugar water in three feeders strategically placed where one tiny warrior can fight off all other comers.  In that category, our back yard has hosted Anna's, black-chinned, rufous and broad-tailed hummingbirds.

My garden amaryllis survived 10-degree temps last winter and is on its second blooming.

Most of our cherries succumbed to the late frost this year, but the ones remaining were manna from heaven as far as the birds were concerned.  They allowed us to have one small bowl full.