Clear Creek, the Grand, lost & found
March 24, 2018

Another wilderness . . .

I set a goal some time back to hike in every wilderness area in Arizona without having the slightest idea what that meant.  Now that I have unknowingly cut another notch in my belt or my hiking boots, I thought I'd best check what I've gotten myself into.

Well, it appears that designated wilderness areas number in the upper 80s (kinda makes you wonder how there's anything that isn't in the designation)!  Obviously, I had trooped into some of them before my bright idea, but I'd best conjure some sort of plan if I am to complete the goal in my allotted time.

At any rate, a fun foray recently with friends was into the West Clear Creek Wilderness area over the mountain in the Verde Valley.  Nancy suggested whither we would venture - what a lovely day we had of it! 

Our route led through a thick stand of deciduous trees - a very birdy section - and along the creek, rimmed on one side by a rugged high range that had patches of late spring snow on its north-facing high peaks, and held in its course on the opposite bank by a grassy alluvial plain until farther upstream where it cuts through rocky cliffs.

That region has seen much human activity over the years: there is evidence of irrigation water being piped from the upstream heights down to arable ground.  Imagine the work it took to build a pipeline up along those rocky heights with loose crumbling slabs threatening life and limb!

We wondered at an old stone structure that had only a very tiny high window, assuming it must have been built and utilized for storage purposes. . . or cave people.

 Spring was in the air - its nearness evidenced by tender shoots of green grass along the stream . . .

 . . . and the burgeoning buddings of the willows.

At every juncture, Arizona shone her magnificence with pride of sweetness and grandeur mated in perfection.

There are some mighty impressive trees in that region.  This fallen fellow was taller than we mere mortals even in his horizontal state.

 Meanwhile, back toward town, we were surprised to spy a mute swan far from his purported range.

He entertained us with his mostly down-side-up stance.

The lost is found . . .

Most of us can return to the homes of our childhood for that proverbial walk down memory lane, but for some, that look backward must be relegated to memory.  A while back, I wrote about a search that Chris & I undertook on behalf of a nonagenarian who yearned to return in more than recollection.

Manuel Sanchez’ adult children had worked very hard, albeit unsuccessfully, to help him return to the Yavapai County homesite he had occupied as a youngster when they contacted Yavapai College staff for help.  One message led to another until Chris was queried about the quest.  After consulting with knowledgeable friends and comparing notes about Manuel’s memories, the señor and I struck off for a look-see.

Moving forward to a recent day, we drove up to Paulden to meet with the gentleman and his daughter & son-in-law, so that we could take them to the place.  The cold and windy day did not encourage much loitering out there in the juniper/piñon-studded grasslands, but we hope it satisfied the yearning that had led to so much searching by the Sanchez family, who have been residents of the region for several generations.

It was our first time to meet Manuel; what a sweet man his is!

We had previously located sparse evidence of early habitation at that nondescript spot on Highway 89 between Drake and Ash Fork; however, we had tromped around only on the west side of the road up to the nearby railroad track.  Manuel told me that his home had been on the east side of the highway, so after the family’s departure, we determined to search over there where we hit pay dirt in a big way.

Building foundations fit well with what we had been told about the tiny settlement: that there was a gas station, grocery store and several houses.  As we wandered further back from the highway, we were astounded at the large amounts of debris, cans and bottles scattered throughout the area.

. . . even a well, which appears to be a possible hazardous step for someone not watching where they are going.

Because Manuel had told us that he had climbed a hill behind the town and found a circular structure that sounded as if it were an Indian wickieup, we opted to head upwards to see what could be seen.  Much of the ground out there is rubbley purplish volcanic rock, so the footing is rough.  We climbed and scanned the hillsides, finding some prehistoric artifacts but not the circular foundation.

With all the evidence we located, historic and otherwise, we left after a great afternoon satisfied that we had located the town remembered from nearly 90 years previous as Pride.

Another search satisfied . . .

Stories, stories, stories: seems like everything involves stories.  This one starts with a three-day visit from cousins Johnny and Patty, over from the high country in Heber.

On one of those days, we collaborated on the idea to bop on down to the Wagoner area, the stompin' grounds of old-time family and kin.  As always, first stop had to be at a ranch pond renowned for its resident waterfowl.

Continuing on, we crossed the Hassayampa River, on the bridge that sports a plaque attesting to its historic status, having been completed in 1929, which by the way is just a year prior to my paternal grandparents arriving in that country from Texas.  Come summertime, the stream provides a welcome respite from the midday sun with its shade-giving overhanging trees.  At this early season, it presents a slightly more bleak appearance.

For me, crossing the Hassayampa at that point always feels like an entrance to a well-loved back yard, albeit one so vast that it would take years to explore its every hill and canyon.

And now the stories intertwine.  We had come to visit the grave of Johnny's Uncle Robert Williams, a long-ago resident of that region.  Robert and his family relocated to Prescott early in the 1920s, same time as my maternal grandparents, and that is where his parents lived until their deaths.

Robert suffered from Buerger's disease, a malady which led to the amputation of both his legs.  Despite that unfortunate circumstance, he continued to live alone after marriage, children and divorce at his house near the Hassayampa.  We thought we might search out Robert's home place; however, with the location remembered by Johnny only as the first turn left after crossing the bridge, we were at a loss as to how to go about it.  Dirt roads through ranches are not necessarily the same as they were 50 years ago, so for now, Robert's place will remain unknown to us.

His gravesite, though, is another matter, and that's where another story threads its way into this one.

This one takes us back to the 1960s in Phoenix, where I lived and worked at the time.  A co-worker and I became close friends: Celia was a single mother with three children living in a small house.  Her one daughter was of an age when a bit more privacy would be appreciated.  To that end, Celia had the idea to turn the open dining room into a bedroom for her daughter, and recruited a little help from her friends.

The event having transpired quite a long time ago, I don't recall too many details; however, I know we descended on the house like a horde of backwards termites and erected walls, a door and whatever else was deemed necessary for the project.  Food is the great encourager, of course; I do remember that Celia fed us in gratitude for our efforts.

Now, what in the world does that story have to do with 2018 in Yavapai County ranchland?  To answer that, I go back just a few years - to my first stop at the Gold Bar Ranch.  At that time, I was on an outing with Dad and a passel of family members.  Dad knew about Robert Williams' burial, which is at a graveyard on the Gold Bar, and intended to take us there.  He either knew Robert or knew of him through our allied families: my Uncle Lewis was married to Margaret Williams after she was widowed by the death of her first husband, Thomas Miller, and Aunt Margaret is Johnny's sister (don't ask me to say that three times fast).

So there we were at the Gold Bar headquarters asking permission to access the cemetery.  A pleasant conversation with the ranch owner ensued, during which she told us a graveyard cleanup was scheduled in case we wanted to pitch in.  When she showed us the burial map, I recognized several last names of Yount of being the same as my long-ago friend Celia, who I knew was from up Yarnell way.  Now how any of this could have come together is beyond my comprehension, but there I was many decades later conversing in the ranch yard with Ella - the very same young girl/now beautiful ranch owner whose pre-teen bedroom I had helped to build so many decades previously!

In the intervening years, the señor and I have availed ourselves of Mike & Ella McCracken's Gold Bar Ranch b&b in their nicely-appointed guest house, and again I found myself being warmly embraced and welcomed by this lovely woman.

How magical are the ties that bind us!

Ella & Mike are the self-appointed and meticulous caretakers of the cemetery that lies down a dirt track back of their house, not only keeping the grounds clean, but maintaining a record about those who are interred there.  Of course I will share with them what information I have gathered about Robert Williams.

Johnny remembered his uncle's primitive gravestone to be nearly illegible at his previous visit, indeed, it has now succumbed to the scouring effect of weather and is basically nothing more than a piece of sandstone.  Someone, however, has created a newer marker for Robert and some others in the cemetery, much to Johnny's gratification.  What a kind gesture!

A very sad addition to the cemetery is the site for Travis Carter, one of the 19 Granite Mountain Hotshots who died in the 2013 Yarnell fire.  Travis was from the long-time Carter ranching family of that region.

The Gold Bar has its own little lake that is prime for camping, picnicking, fishing and playing, along with RV camp sites.  The McCrackens enjoy hosting weddings and events of all kinds; I highly recommend their B&B and event sites: http://www.goldbarranchbb.com/.

A true statement posted at the Gold Bar - when people used to ask me how I kept my extensive gardens so weed-free, I told them I used the Santa Claus method: Hoe, hoe, hoe.

The grandest of all . . .

A region that tells its own story in its millennia of rock layers: the Grand Canyon.  Our guests had never been on the only road that leads to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, so we jumped into Ruby, drove to Peach Springs, where we obtained our permit to travel onto the Hualapai Reservation, and set off along the 23-mile dirt road to the point where Diamond Creek flows into the Colorado River.

In this case, it was more of a mud road, though; the day was overcast with clouds dropping mistily over cliff faces, scudding rapidly to cast shadows and sun spots racing along canyon walls, all the while spitting rain.

In some circumstances, the weather might have been unfortunate, but in this case, it created incredible scenes of awesomeness at every turn.  I only wish my photographs were not so inadequate to convey the majesty.

A seagull startled us with its lone presence in Diamond Creek.  Early in the drive, we witnessed the bizarre display of a falcon chasing a gull and shrieking at it until the swooping and diving ceased when the gull had departed the neighborhood to the falcon's satisfaction.

Grand Canyon Caverns . . .

Decidedly on the anticlimactic side, we ventured underground for a tour of the Grand Canyon Caverns.  The cave is neither the most nor least dramatic I've seen, but I think the experience would be enhanced by lessening the purposely corny jokes strewn throughout the tour.

The señor and I have toured the Caverns a number of times, but new to us were the large structures inside it: one was to be a dance hall, that is until it was complete and they discovered that a permit would not be given because of having only one access/egress, and the other is a facility for overnight guests, should one be inclined to take leave of one's greenbacks for the privilege of sleeping underground.

Not so new - in fact quite old - are the giant sloth and mummified bobcat.  Then there are the hundreds and hundreds of stores stashed there during the Cold War for the possible eventuality that things heat up to an uncomfortable degree.

My modest claim to fame is that I was in the cave before it was open to the public.  For reasons unknown to me, Dad took me there during the span of time he was logging out of Peach Springs.  I remember climbing down rickety ladders to gain access and coming out with a beautiful specimen of crystallized rock which I retained for years.  Now I wish I had kept it; clearly, I was a rock nut from early days.

There are plenty of low bridges that keep tall folks like Johnny ducking.

There are a lot of steps in there; the descent can be pretty hard on the knees.

Meanwhile, back at the hacienda, or at least nearby, we spotted a juvenile common blackhawk over by Willow Lake . . .

. . . and enjoyed a sashay to nearby Watson Lake  . . .

 . . . and a saunter to the wildlife pond in Watson Woods.