October 12, 2018
Stunned - yup, I was stunned into incredulity. I had consumed considerable time tipping-tapping away, waiting impatiently as the internet took its own sweet time uploading my blog photos. I had taken even more time researching, writing, weaving tales of our various day trips into a story that I felt fine about sharing and was fairly certain that folks would feel similarly about reading.
Yup, there I was, nearing the end of my saga’s telling when Bam! it disappeared from the screen and just as quickly the heretofore slow-as-molasses internet program saved the now-blank screen. Oh, the anguish and the gnashing of teeth! Was the sudden loss caused by a tremor which afflicts my extremities? I didn't think so, but could find no other explanation. No matter: my efforts had been erased.
I sat staring at the grayness for quite some time whilst my brain whirled, clicked, figured and hopelessly hoped for a miracle that all my efforts would somehow be retrieved; I would breathe the proverbial sigh of relief and be grateful that I had skirted disaster and come out the other side. That reprieve did not occur, however; I determined to blog no more.
In the hours and days following, I occasionally returned to the site, in a way akin to continuing to probe at an injury just to make sure that it still hurts. This may not sound like a big deal to some, but to me, it most assuredly was.
It hearkens back to the reason I write the blog. For pretty much as long as I can remember, I have had the inclination to share my experiences. As I am awed by the majesty of a scene - or as I experience something so mundane as the rustle of dry grass seeds as I walk through a field, or the smell of water unseen but detected nearby nevertheless, my mind is clicking along, cataloguing the experiences of life’s sensations, offering a running commentary of it all.
In the end and after a period of time, I have reversed my decision to suspend the blog. As long as I enjoy doing it, I will write it when I wish to and those who wish to read it will hopefully enjoy being along on my meanderings through the world and those of my mind. And besides, the blamed thing kept turning mental cartwheels while I was trying to sleep.
So perhaps this will suffice as a shortened reprise.
Our back yard . . .
Having lived the bulk of our lives in Yavapai County, and having spent a bit of that time wandering in the outback exploring whatever presented itself, we thought we had a pretty good handle on what’s out there. Not so, as it turns out: there is a whole passel of outback countryside that we haven’t ventured into.
On one drive, we had thought to venture into the back country in search of Blue Tank, a previously unknown-to-us destination. As I am wont to do, I derailed that search by sending us off on side roads of interest (side road and interest are synonymous to me). This time, though, we were determined to wear our blinders and continue to the goal.
But wait! As we were traversing the peaceful valley that houses the Yolo Ranch headquarters, the picture-perfect ponds precluded our passing (sorry, couldn’t help it). As serene a scene as I have ever seen (good grief!), I had to disembark for a short saunter with my camera.
At that moment, I determined that I would be happy to reside at the Yolo forever if only Chris would get a job on the ranch; however, his enthusiasm for the endeavor was quite a bit less than mine, and I can see no other option that would allow me access to that place so sublime.
On our way again . . .
Although Chris had google-earthed the location of Blue Tank, the exact route was in some doubt. Departing from the lushness of Yolo’s grassy valley, we descended in elevation into a rockier, more sparsely vegetated area where neighboring ranchers still managed to maintain herds without the benefit of forest and meadow.
Seems this posted injunction is redundant, but that's just me . . .
. . . and this one left us wondering. Who knew there was such a thing as a Arizona State Parks Off Highway Vehicle Program and why way out there, where as far as I know, there is nary an Arizona state park anywhere within spittin' distance?
Eventually, our dirt road led us back up into a treed terrain, up and down and around the heads of canyons, wandering for many dusty miles. It seemed so much simpler when tracing the way on a computer screen, but we enjoyed perusing the countryside as we marveled at the vastness of the newly discovered region.
Abundant seasonal rains have insured that canyon bottoms are flowing freely with clear streams. We skirted halfway down one arroyo’s side looking down into the waterway . . .
. . . which eventually we crossed . . .
. . . turning us from our southward route for a view back toward Prescott’s Granite Mountain.
Once again dropping into more arid surroundings, we began to despair of finding the fabled (well, that’s a bit of an overstatement) Blue Tank, from which we desired to catch some nice bass.
The road stretched out in front of us, crawling up and over the rough terrain, dropping lower and lower but without giving us much hope of gaining our objective.
Just as we were thinking we were on a hopeless quest, we came in sight of ranch buildings perched way out there in isolation.
The señor had noted structures near the waterhole when he was researching our jaunt, so we were again hopeful enough to continue.
As we passed, we saw that outlier was also part of the Yolo’s holdings; however, the road deteriorated substantially at that juncture, with still no sign of Blue Tank. I urged my driver to continue on just a ways past where he anticipated abandoning the journey and there below us was Blue Tank.
I wish I could say it was akin to some sort of Shangri-la after such a long haul to get there, but no, it is just another ranch pond built with a dirt dam to water their stock. It is larger than many such tanks, but even with summer’s moisture, it was not at its highest level.
I was a little apprehensive about a large bull stationed at the high end of the pool, but he seemed uninterested in our presence beyond offering a stinkeye in our direction.
Another younger one, however, pawed up voluminous clouds of dust while bellowing continuously and advancing towards us. I hid behind some of the few trees at the waterside until he took a different track.
When we sat in the shade to enjoy our lunch, Ferdinand settled down nearby; evidently, all the carrying-on had been meant to convey his greeting and welcome to have our company.
We tried our hands at some angling for those huge bass I was convinced were lurking beneath the water’s surface, and we did manage to catch something . . .
After the fishing excitement, we wound down our enthusiasm scale and headed back toward civilization. We embraced the opportunity to see even more new country; instead of backtracking the way we had come, we continued on south toward Bagdad.
Marveling at the incredibly rugged terrain in that direction, we could scarcely believe the high steep bouldery mountainsides to the east of the road, while to the west, the land leveled off and tapered downward toward Burro Creek.
We made a couple of stops and determined that a return for on-foot exploration is in order. That route brought us much more quickly to paved road just outside of Bagdad. Clearly, if one was to return to Blue Tank, it would make sense to access it by coming in from that way, although it would still be a bit long for a casual day trip.
Prickly pear fruit is in great abundance throughout the region, doubtless thanks to lots of summer moisture.
Camp Hualapai . . .
Some jaunts are just because we want to go day trippin’; others are intended to reach a stated destination. Whether we actually get there is beside the point. Very few - well, really none before - of our Yavapai County journeys begin with zebras, but there they were corralled at Williamson Valley's Zebrascape Ranch, so naturally, I called for a turnaround and photograph.
Not too long ago, the señor got a bee in his bonnet about looking for old Camp Hualapai, a 19th-century U.S. Army post that was assigned the protection of the Hardyville Road between the Colorado River and Prescott.
Established in 1869, the fort was established as Camp Devin following the end of the Hualapai War, then renamed Camp Toll Gate for its position on the Hardyville toll road, but soon renamed Camp Hualapai. When it was abandoned in 1873, nearby folks moved into the structures and the settlement became Juniper.
Our quest took us off onto a northward-oriented dirt track from Camp Wood Road. I don’t know whether we were following the alignment of the old Hardyville Road at that point, but it seems possible because Camp Hualapai was situated on that route.
It was not long before even Ruby the Four-Runner could no longer traverse the way, so we set off on foot. As we gained elevation then turned back south toward Walnut Creek, we came upon a small fenced burying ground. After the army post was abandoned, the military remains were moved elsewhere for re-interment, leaving only civilian graves.
We respectfully photographed the few memorials that remain legible: four in all.
Marilla Jane Roger’s grave is the most prominent with its stone bearing her information painted and covered by glass.
Above her memorial is a large wooden plank that bears a few lines of prose:
"Within this grave an Angel lies, no myth that flits
above the skies. A host in life of friendly ties, bespoke an Angel good
and wise."
The barely legible stenciled lettering stands out from the severely weathered wood.
The one metal grave surround stands sturdily, but wooden fences, even Mary Jane’s beautifully crafted picket structure, are leaning one way and another or are completely collapsed.
W. T. Shook's grave is marked with his name and dates, born Oct. 5, 1879, died Dec. 6, 1881.
Ed Scholey and presumably his son Roland Scholey are remembered together on one stone. The handsome memorial is inscribed with their birth and death dates: 1851-1881 and 1878-1881.
Now that is very curious. Two youngsters of the same approximate age and one of their fathers all dying in the same year. Was there an accident involving the trio, a contagious disease? One wonders.
Another grave’s marker has disappeared except for its framework.
When I read that there were said to be 26 students at the Walnut Creek school in 1879 and that the schoolmaster was S. Charmingdale Rogers, I very nearly succumbed to research mania: a crazed desire to research all residents of that area. Surely, S. Charmingdale Rogers was related to Marilla Jane. Is he buried there also? Is he Marilla's husband or son? Did he move away when his livelihood there ceased? Finish the blog post or go off on a tangent - decisions, decisions! I could surely find the answers to these questions and all the other whirling within, but I am attaching my blinders and moving along (for now).
The burying ground lies on a flat above Walnut Creek to the south, which flows along the lighter-hued cottonwoods in this photograph.
The cemetery was clearly visible; ruins of the fort/settlement not so much. We searched from the graveyard outward in ever-widening circles but found only a very few pieces of old metal and a couple of potsherds. Because of prolific summer rains, the grass and vegetation has flourished prodigiously, which hampered our search.
A person would have to be right on top of any remaining structure remnant in order to spot it. Dried seeds also hampered my retention of my socks after that foray. I had two choices: spend hours picking tiny seeds and stickers out of my socks or throw them out - no contest.
There is a wonderful 1953 photograph of a woman and a Daughters of the American Revolution marker at the site of the post: http://azmemory.azlibrary.gov/digital/collection/shmmilit/id/302/. Unfortunately, I cannot seem to use it here; indeed, I have begun to wonder if my attempt to insert it is what glitched the blog post. Ah well, I shall not take that chance again; readers may utilize the link to see it.
As we admitted defeat in our search (although I am inclined to try again at another time - sans socks), we walked back by a different route, following a wash bottom that at times was wide with clear footing and other times so congested that we had to climb out and find a bypass.
The O RO . . .
Similarly to our walk out, we opted for an alternate driving route home and were so pleased that we did. We were not really certain of what dirt track was going to lead where - there are numerous turnoffs that beckon the explorer. The one we chose took us past the dead-end road into the O RO Ranch. Dead-end or not, we ventured up to their entrance gate before turning back onto our way out of the mountains.
There is nothing quite like a "No trespassing" notice to create the most intense desire in me to discover what is beyond.
Notice in the sign that the "O" is separated from the "RO". Although the outfit is sometimes referred to as the ORO, the brands are different for horses (RO) and cattle (O RO), and is often called simply the RO, which is how my father always referred to it.
The Baca Float nomenclature often conjures questions about what it means. I found an interesting bit about it in a True West magazine that explains it pretty succinctly:
"The Baca Float acquired its unusual name as a result of a law suit filed by the heirs of Don Luis Maria Baca in New Mexico. It was one of five 100,000 acre grants authorized by Congress in 1860 to Baca’s heirs as compensation for the 500,000 acre Las Vegas grant. In 1821, Baca petitioned the Spanish government for a grant known as the Las Vegas Grande some 60 miles east of Santa Fe. In the ensuing years Baca and his son were killed and the family abandoned the ranch. Years later others came, claimed the land and founded the town of Las Vegas. The Baca heirs protested and since both claims seemed valid Congress was in a dilemma. It was easier to let the heirs select other lands in the New Mexico Territory (Arizona didn’t become a separate territory until 1863) than try to evict the 2,200 residents of Las Vegas. The result was five 100,000 rectangular tracts of non-mineral land called 'floats.' As a result of changes in boundary lines with Arizona and Colorado, two grants are in present-day Arizona and two in Colorado."
The Greene Cattle Company purchased the outfit in 1937. From the same publication:
"Bob Sharp who managed the Baca Float from 1937 to 1952 wrote: 'The Baca Float was one of the last big outfits to run under the code of the old time ranchers, a code which respected the knowledge of the men on the payroll. When I first took over the ranch in 1937, most of the men had cowboyed all their lives. They were experienced in handling cattle, loyal, and had an unconscious love of nature and freedom of action.”
"The ranch employed one cowboy at each line camp and it was his responsibility to keep an eye on 50,000 acres. He rode from daylight to late afternoon, seven days a week, 'keeping an eye on the cows.' He’d bring out salt for the cattle, brand mavericks, doctor cattle, ride fence, and 'look out for anything, good or bad.' It was a dangerous, lonely existence but it had its rewards; the cowboy was his own boss, he had plenty of fresh air to breath and lots of space to roam."
So there you have it. The O RO is an intriguing natural and historical region of Yavapai County.
The real prize was in our departure route: we climbed high up into the mountains and encountered stupendous distant views before the road carried us back toward Prescott, but with a strong taste for further explorations in those parts.
Abbie . . .
Friends Jim & Nancy are pretty much as addicted to mysteries as I am. As they accumulate old photos and stories of our region, they sometimes end up with more questions than answers. Recently, they ran across information about a young man called Abbie - Samuel Abner Kuykendall - who lived in Skull Valley.
Abbie was killed in Europe during World War I at the age of 27 in 1918. Where he was interred and why his body was not returned to his family until 1921 seems to be unknown. J & N acquired an interesting 1927 photo of Abbie's grave in Skull Valley in its unusual enclosure - a masonry wall with pyramidal structures atop each corner.
That brought up the question of whether the so-called stockade was still intact. I had been several times to the Skull Valley graveyard, but it was way back and I did not recall that particular feature, so Nancy and I headed off for a look-see.
Our question was soon answered. Abbie's grave lies well protected still within the secure enclosure. His is said to be the first interment there after the land was donated for the purpose. A few others of older vintage were re-interred from elsewhere.
The enclosure was constructed, according to the family, because the cemetery was not fenced when Abbie was laid to rest there and his mother was concerned about cattle trampling the grave.
The visit conjured many memories as we perused the various memorials, many for people I knew or knew about. It is a peaceful place with a serene view to mountains across the valley.
Because we were in that country already, I suggested going on a bit farther to Peeples Valley for a stop in the historic burying ground where the earliest burial was in 1865. That graveyard lies adjacent to the Genung Memorial Park grounds and is purported to have been relocated eastward when the road was constructed through there.
As an aside: I remember Elladean Hays telling me how upsetting it was when that road was built through their ranch. As another aside: My grandfather, father and uncle all worked on that road construction using horse-drawn equipment and hand-work. I have a funny story about Grandpa (Zack Kelley) needing to be moved to a different task because he was so small that when he ran his heavy wheelbarrow out on a plank to throw the load of dirt into the canyon, they were afraid he would be thrown over with it by the momentum.
Okay, where were we: again, my memory was jogged as I recalled attending funeral services for friends there with Dad. Many of the names noted on the stones are known from his many recollections of ranching families in the area. They were friends and neighbors of my grandparents and my parents, so I have heard their names mentioned throughout my life. He and I were there when he told me he wanted people to be able to share memories of him when his time came. We were happy to oblige: memories and stories of his 94 years on Earth abound.
The marker in the following photo is poignant indeed. So many people retained in someone's mind perhaps, but their disposition unknown. An example is my nephew's great grandfather for whom I have been searching - John Alexander Miller. He is said to have abandoned his family, but could his fate have been similar to this unknown settler?
Out-of-towners coming to visit always provide an opportunity to tour known and unknown sites, and so it was when Texas cousin Art Winans came to call. We all enjoyed a saunter out to Lynx Lake where he spotted a great blue heron far up in a ponderosa pine. Perhaps it had enjoyed its fill of fish or maybe it was looking in all the wrong places.
Because we had read a mention by Eric at Jay's Bird Barn about a birding spot up on Mingus, we determined to drag Art up to that area we had not explored on the Mountain. There we found a small check dam evidently constructed when I was in my first decade, oh so long ago. The drainage behind it has silted in and created a lovely lushness.
A trail leads up the slope behind the dam; we spared Art from one of our off-trail wanders and stuck to the beaten path.
The place was notably non-birdy during that visit, but our curiosity demanded that we return later for further exploration. As has been the norm since mid-summer rains began and continue, we found the forest verdant to a fare-thee-well. It is always amazing to me to see how life springs forth in such abundance where all was sere before the rains came.
As we climbed upward through the ravine, we utilized a casual trail. Upon topping out, the terrain was fairly level as we walked one direction and then another through the tall ponderosas.
When I sensed an opportunity to get to a drop-off that would afford us distant views, we eschewed the footpath and climbed up and over and around downed trees and uncleared ground until finally, we came to the edge of a high rocky escarpment where we marveled at the colors of the cloud-dappled Verde Valley, Sycamore Canyon and the Mogollon Rim. We were rewarded with the perfect day to see the splendor of that scene.
Granite Mountain Wilderness. . .
We encountered the same flower-strewn green-grassy conditions during a hike in the Granite Mountain Wilderness. How fortunate we are to live in the midst of such splendiferous beauty and have so many different types of areas to explore within minutes of home. It allows us to turn an uncommitted afternoon into a few hours of nature immersion.
Even in the areas ravaged by the Doce Fire, the burn scar has its own stark beauty. The landscape's resilience is miraculous; we are amazed at how quickly life regenerates.
Big Nose Kate . . .
We took a short aside while we were touring cousin Art around to venture up to the Pioneer Home cemetery to stop at the graveside of Mary Katherine Cummings, who is commonly known as Big Nose Kate. Mary Katherine was the consort of Doc Holliday and friends with the Earp clan. She spent time living and working in Prescott, notably in the Palace Saloon, in addition to Colorado, New Mexico and elsewhere.
She was admitted to the Arizona Pioneer Home in 1931 and died there in 1940. Her grave is one of the most visited in that burying ground.
Wander the Wild . . .
. . . takes on a whole new connotation when it's in conjunction with the Highlands Center for Natural History. The event is their annual signature fund-raising event. This year, Chris was asked to provide the before-dinner/auction music as he has in the past. The gala was held at a different venue this time - The Windmill House in Chino Valley.
The facility's centerpiece is a large picturesque pond that sets it apart from all other Prescott-area meeting venues.
Appropriately, there was a pair of great horned owls roosting waterside.
And he played away . . .
