Where did it go???

A quick glance at my blog shows that I haven't posted since March.  This being the first of July, I have to wonder what transpired while that much time was elapsing.  If I were not in the habit of shooting photos of dang near everything and everyone in my vicinity, the intervening time would be little more than a blur; however, I clearly was doing something: the pictures prove it.  I guess I will post some of them and see if I can remember the particulars to relay.

The second surprise when I opened my blog was some bit of "official" claptrap about European Union requirements of notification about internet cookies or some such - what a bunch of horse puckey!  I did not actually read the offensive declaration; however, I could not help but notice that it said I had some responsibility to alert my European readers of something or other, a demand which frosted me about as much as the part about their putting a notice on my blog - grrr!  Anyway, if you see the notice plastered on my blog, don't blame me; it's that blasted European Union bunch.

Okay, now letting that go in the hope that some booby or bobby will not be along to arrest me anytime soon for the fearsome crime of . . . hmmm . . . not at all sure what the crime is.

Tavasci Marsh, the Bradshaws . . .

Inveterate birder Eric Moore (think Jay's Bird Barn) mentioned in a column about his foray to Tavasci Marsh, which for some reason or another I have never visited, so we took a day to check it out - a very hot day, I might add.

The lowland is part of what was previously a ranch operation and now is part of the Tuzigoot National Monument.  Although I have been to the hilltop prehistoric Tuzigoot ruin, I had never hiked down into the marsh area.  Handy interpretative signs gave us some thumbnail history about the 19th century homesteaders - the Mesa family - in addition to the later farmers - the Tavascis - who worked the bottomland from the 1920s until 1991.

I particularly liked seeing the photograph of Maria Bindiola Mesa on horseback with the cliffs backdropping the lowlands.

A wad of old baling wire was a sure sign that farming had occurred there, although my old pappy would have been very disapproving of such a hazard being left on the ground instead of installed on a fence post where it could not trip up man nor horse.

We thought it odd that the cattails were dry when there was standing water beneath them; perhaps the moisture had only recently been deposited there.

Abundant dried vegetation left no doubt there had been plenty sufficient moisture at some point.

We enjoyed a long walk along the edge of the wetlands and continued on to slightly higher ground that led us to an intriguing mesquite forest: a fascinating and also birdy area, albeit an altogether different habitat.  At this delayed date, I will not relate the avian species we identified there; maybe I will keep up further down the road . . . and then again maybe not.

The Verde River flows nearby, so after our long warm saunter, we stopped there to discern if there might be some hungry fish lurking therein.  Not so many, as it turns out, but as they say, "A bad day fishing is better than a good day at anything else", and besides, I got to cool my feet in the slow flow of refreshing water and do a little exploring upstream to boot.

In anticipation of my niece Shannon's visit, we thought we'd take a "Sunday drive" up into the Bradshaws to scout possible destinations for her.  Parts of the Prescott National Forest were closed due to the fire danger, but we were able to toot right along into other sections: it is, after all, a very large forest and a very large mountain range.

Continued drought conditions have precluded much in the way of road maintenance up yonder, though, leading us to put the kibosh on taking Shannon over those long dusty washboardy roads.  Being accustomed to such as that, it did not prevent us from wandering one way and another, driving and on foot.

On one saunter through the woods, we sat and admired the diversity of tree types.  I think that I mostly don't recognize what a wealth of variety is right here in our own back yard.

North side, I presume.

X number of woodpeckers times X number of years = a tree that is more holes than not.

The Bradshaw Mountain range was a rich gold mining area, once peopled with thousands of hard-working folks hell bent on extracting their fortunes from the rocky slopes.  Over the years, the valuable ores have been removed and the range has transformed into summer camps, mountain communities of summer and year-round cabins, and a recreation destination.

Evidence of those former pursuits is still sometimes found; on our recent jaunt, we came upon a very deep abandoned mine shaft, reminiscent of an ant lion trap.  At least that's what it made me think of as I watched the señor perched precariously on the slippery slope leading to the depths.

This is the ore they were extracting.

And this is some of their leavin's.

New Mexico locust was just coming to blossom time. . .

. . . and claret cup cactus was in full dress regalia.

Of a morning . . .

My friend Gail and I have developed a most delightful habit: we walk in Watson Woods for a half hour every morning at 7.  The path we take is familiar enough that we scarce take note of the twists and turns or the ups and downs, leaving leisure for sharing thoughts.  Sometimes, though, we are treated to surprises, such as four deer leaping away at our approach . . . a great egret standing splendidly in the water (when there was some, that is) . . .

. . . or the comical mallard couple that decided to forego the water and take a stroll down the trail - two days in a row yet.

Lynx . . .

Another day found us on a hike (no, this was not a saunter, a la John Muir) with friends Barb & Bud, accompanied by Gabby.  We departed northward from the Lynx Lake region and landed at Lynx Creek ruins, where Gabby wisely sheltered in the only shade she could find.

She later cooled her black curls later with a swim in the lake.

A snake we snapped somewhere on some trek.

We had a colorful and abundant early summer show of birds in the back yard: far more than we have seen here before - blue grosbeaks, Bullock's orioles, western tanagers, bushtits, lazuli buntings, lesser and American goldfinches and much more.

Palace Station . . .

One of the high country sites I knew Shannon would be interested in was the historic Palace Station; she's a sucker for old stuff just as I am (I started to write "like me", but thought better of that verbiage because then it would sound as if I were in the old stuff category - oh well, it would have been incorrect grammar anyway, but when did that ever stop me).

I'd give my eye teeth for that screen door.

How a butterfly led me astray . . .

Truth be told, I guess it wasn't really the butterfly's fault . . . since we 86ed our land line, I have worked very hard to train myself to be cognizant of just where I lay down my cell phone now that I can no longer call it to reveal its location.

So . . . there we were, enjoying yet another stop along the way when along comes a butterfly - seems I can never pass up a try for a butterfly portrait.  In this case, I got a not-very-good shot at which time the señor wondered aloud just what kind it might be.  Suddenly, my Miss Smarty Pants persona leapt to the forefront without invitation and blurted something along the lines of "I'll look it up".

Now, number one: I don't do internet on my cell phone and number two: we were way the heck up in the mountains, so what were the chances there would be service anyway.  Not to be deterred, Miss Smarty Pants forged ahead with the search.  Surprisingly, there not only was internet service, but Miss S.P. identified the insect in question: it was a California Sister.

So far - all well and good: I got my not-very-good photo and patted myself on the back for the identification.  We finished with whatever other fiddle-faddling around we were doing and got back on the (long, rough, dusty) road.  And somewhere down that (long, rough, dusty) road, my brain briefly came to life: I didn't have my phone!

Panic followed by only semi-rational thought and I knew it had to be at the butterfly stop, so we returned on the (long, rough, dusty) road, found it where it lay blending nicely into the rock on which I had placed it, and again wended our way along on the (long, rough, dusty) road.  I thank my lucky stars and guardian angels that my brain activation occurred when it did and not back in Prescott lest we have to do the entirety of the (long, rough, dusty) road while holding our collective breaths that the phone would still be there and be intact.  Who knows, a deer could have stepped on it or a pack rat add it to its den.

Along the way . . .

Evidently, one is disallowed to pan for gold or hunt minerals with metal detectors in that locality unless one belongs to the correct mining club and is identified with the correct name badge.

Fire lookout and cell towers perch atop Mount Union at the highest point in the Bradshaws - 7,971 feet elevation.

We did not continue up to the towers because 1. That road was far worse than the one we were already traversing, and 2. We heeded the tongue-in-cheek sign for a 75 mph speed limit.

What the hey is this?  A house with an entrance via a ladder through the roof?

Not wanting to backtrack on the same (long, rough, dusty) road, we opted to make it a loop on yet another (long, rough, dusty) road and emerge from the mountains through the area devastated one year previous by the Goodwin fire.  Chris had led one of his Yavapai College groups through there and wanted to show me how the area was recovering.

The resilience of life is astounding: charred remains of chaparral stand starkly while burgeoning greenery graces the skeletal bases.

 Blooming plants dot the stark landscape with bursts of color . . .

 . . . and squaw berries provide a tangy flavor on the tongue.

A little further on, we crossed a small stream of water supplied by a spring up above, a welcome respite from the burn-scarred land.

Shannon . . .

She did it: my niece finally came to visit in the summertime instead of her usual cold weather stints, but as luck would have it, she got here in the midst of a heat wave before the arrival of monsoons - a bit of a shock to the system of an Oregon coastal gal.

Upon her arrival, we hit the ground (actually, it was the water) running (and that was more paddling than running) by taking the kayaks out on Watson Lake.  It being her first time in one of those tiny boats, I was going to provide a bit of instruction; however, she took off so rapidly and adeptly that I could scarcely keep up with her.

We had a fun time paddling in and out of Watson's spectacular granite outcrops and inlets.  There is absolutely no truth to the rumor that we got lost before we found our way back to the landing.

The tree . . .

Next morning at first light, we were off for a hike west of Granite Mountain to the grandfather juniper tree, the one saved by the Granite Mountain Hotshots during the Doce fire.  We had never been there, so we were happy to share the experience with Shannon.

The early morning light enchanted the journey.  Although some of the trek was through the fire's aftermath, it was not nearly as desolate most of the way as I had anticipated.

A couple of weeks previous, we had scouted the trailhead area to be sure we could find the route.  We found cactus in bloom . . .

. . . and one of my favorites - century plants ablaze with their fiery blossoms . . .

 . . . two weeks later, ripe with seed pods.

The tree itself is magnificent; however, the sense of pride and loss intermingled as we remembered that saving the tree was a major accomplishment just days prior to the deaths of 19 of the 20-man crew in the devastating Yarnell fire. 

According to a Prescott Courier article by Joanna Dodder, Prescott College professor Doug Hulmes related that the lone Granite Mountain Hotshot survivor, Brendan McDonough, fortuitously returned to the site at the same time as a Prescott College group and graciously told how the tree came to be saved: "Prescott National Forest Wilderness and Trails Manager Jason Williams, a Prescott College alumnus, had asked the hotshots to clear vegetation around the tree as the Doce fire approached. Hulmes had earlier alerted Williams to the existence of the tree."

"He said that hotshots rarely focus on saving a tree, and they even considered the protocol of cutting the lower branches, but decided against it because of its magnitude,"  Hulmes said about McDonough's story.

'They dug a trench and cut back vegetation before starting a back fire that would help reduce the intensity of the fire, but left not knowing if their effort would save the tree.  The following day they returned to find the tree singed and a flame burning on one of the massive branches of the tree. A couple of the hotshots climbed out on the branch, extinguished the fire (with water from their water bottles) and dug out the burning embers with their hands.  In celebration, the hotshots formed a human pyramid at the base of the tree."  Of course we all remember their celebratory photos taken right afterward.

The article continued, "If a nearly 2,000-year-old alligator juniper could share the stories of all that has occurred in its surroundings, surely one of the most requested would be the heroic saga of the valiant men in yellow uniforms who suddenly appeared out of the thick chaparral and saved the ancient tree from a fire started by the careless ones," Hulmes wrote. "May the tree continue to stand as a recorder of Nature's memory and a living memorial for those who cared."

During our time there, Shannon noted that we could see the evidence of what the Hotshots had done to save the tree by cutting a fireline around it as flames destroyed vegetation all around.  It surely would have been killed without their efforts. 

Sycamore Canyon, cousins at Goldwater and Wolf Creek . . .

Shannon is often taken aback/aghast/embarrassed/incredulous at my habit of striking up conversations with pretty much any stranger I happen to chance upon.  On this trip, she may have gotten hooked on the process and its sometimes surprising results.

While on our way to Sycamore Falls, we stopped at a deserted overlook.  Not too long afterward, another car pulled up.  We remarked on their license plate (California), discovered that it was a rental and they were from Indiana.  One thing led to another until we had ferreted out the information that he was of the surname Daniel and that his immediate forebears had followed the exact same migration route from Kentucky to Texas as my Daniel ancestors.  It seemed quite fascinating and at the same time not overly surprising that he and I (and Shannon) could very well be kin.

Whether we are kin to the Daniel visitor or not, Shannon and I have been good buddies since she came into the world during my 13th year.

During one walk, we encountered a large herd of elk with babies freely vocalizing and moms leisurely grazing, seems they did not sense our presence at all despite our proximity. 

After several other stops and explores at various lakes, the Sycamore jaunt ended with the señor changing a flat tire just off the highway filled with speeding 18-wheelers which I was determined to keep from running over my husband.  We teamed up to get our flat fixed pronto while Shannon wisely stepped back from the pavement and shot a photo of the sad situation.  Ruby now sports two new tires.

Cousins Donna & Rob came up from the valley to join us for a picnic and day at the lake and in the woods.  That was a far too short visit, but hopefully they will be back soon, perhaps to escape the heat if nothing else.

When a bunch of wildland firefighter trucks pulled up to the lake to fill their tanks, Donna and I had a chat with then.  We discovered that some of them were from South Dakota and others from Missouri.  Seems that the hardy young folks were doing two-week stints of firefighter stationing and exchange to keep vulnerable areas like ours protected.  In the event of a fire, it's so much better to have crews and equipment on hand rather than motoring in from distant states.

Another of my good ideas . . .

Thinking that Shannon would enjoy seeing the historic buildings at Crown King, high up in the Bradshaws, we made arrangements to do the "handoff" as she called it, there when her daughter and sister-in-law - Bri and Sharla - picked her up.

One more (long, rough, dusty) road later, we arrived to enjoy a lunch and visit before we sadly bade her farewell.

Maybe next time, she will come in October - my plans are already made and the weather will be perfect, as it always is that time of year.

 In other news . . .

As we were wont to say in the newspaper business - in other news, I was privileged to photograph my friends Barbara's & Buddy's first-of-the-season cactus blossom lest they miss the show while they were away.  Their prickly plants later produced 28 of these eight-inch beauties, all lasting only one day!

Oddly enough, my cactus bloomed for its first time on the same day.  Cousin Barb identified it for me as an Easter lily cactus.  By the next day, its flowers were gone, too.  I felt like an expectant grandmother waiting on the unveiling.

Every year long about June comes the weekend-long Prescott bluegrass festival: free of charge and right downtown on the Courthouse square.  It is one of my top favorite events of the year, so despite that cousin Barb was arriving as our house guest that very afternoon, we attended and had her meet us there without even allowing her to go to the house and unpack.   Luckily, she was a good sport about it and I didn't have to miss a thing. 

As an aside, we sold the travel trailer and turned it over to the buyers that morning; even that timed out so we were not very late to the event.

I love how the crowds fill the plaza jockeying for shady spots and occasionally roving from one informal jam session to another.

This bird appeared to be enjoying all the hubbub.  Petting instructions were specific and clear: up and over - and so I obeyed.

A real highlight of the festival was when Tom Paxton topped off the bill on Sunday afternoon.  He went all out with his performance - what a treat that was!

I fiddled and finagled until I finally managed a group selfie of sorts - why does it look so simple when young people wander around snapping away with great abandon!

Can't say that a timer-activated portrait in the back yard was any better, but at least it was blessedly further away.

Our welcome sign was definitely out: friends Norma and George surprised us with a most welcome visit.  Now that they know the way, we hope they will return soon and often.

Another Prescott downtown event was celebrated with the restoration of the plaza fountain, complete with the addition of Lady Ermentrude, which has been missing for many years.

I am so grateful to live here, cannot think of anyplace that can compare, and I love our downtown events.  It's peaceful and lovely on the Courthouse Square, a perfect gathering place.  Don't know who set up the tables with chess boards, but several were taking advantage of the opportunity to play.

Late one afternoon, the señor got a bee in his bonnet that we oughtta take a jaunt out to Granite Basin.  Our late-afternoon arrival put us in the perfect situation to marvel as the last of the sun's rays illuminated the mountain's magnificent boulders.

 Campers and picnickers were plentiful, many out in boats and/or fishing.

Meanwhile, back at the hacienda . . . another butterfly . . . this time, I didn't lose my phone; however, I don't know what kind it is.