A plan
November 25, 2018

Whew!  We got there, and even more importantly, we returned!  The "there" was the wilderness area/wildlife refuge along the lake where Blankenship Valley meets the river.

As weariness dissipated (thankfully, it always does), we made plans for a full day.  We would rise early to take the boats out for some fishing.  Presuming we would tire of that at some juncture, we intended to take a trek into a wilderness area in Blankenship Valley.  That walk would take us to the national wildlife refuge that brackets much of Havasu’s shoreline.

As plans sometimes do, that one went awry pretty quickly after we discerned our weather situation.  Wind was whipping along at a good enough clip that the lake had whitecaps and the birds even grounded themselves.

We would have been blown to who-knows-where in our little kayaks, so the planned afternoon activity rose to the head of the line.

Equipment and clothing rearranged, we set off to that desert region north of the city.  The requisite road was a bit unclear; the map and the zig-zags made by off-roaders don’t necessarily match.  We tried one gravel road because the mountains in that direction looked interesting.  Not too far along, we felt a little bit of a sinking sensation, and I don't mean in our psyches; the Toter was perhaps not up to the task of navigation in sand-bottomed drainages.  After several attempts, a few turn-arounds and a good bit of discussion, we  decided that where we were was just right, despite the rooster-tails of dust were emanating from passing ATVs.

After all, we were heading into the Havasu Wilderness Area where they could not follow.  The designated motorized-free space encompasses 18,000 acres and is within the Havasu National Wildlife Refuge, which borders a good bit of the river.

Our walk downstream through the wide Blankenship Valley was hemmed on one side by one of the most gnarly rugged ranges ever, with beckoning twisted rocky canyons.

At times, our route was through water-cut narrows . . .

. . . and sand washes . . .

. . . but often just wandering through creosote-dotted gravelly flats and slopes, criss-crossed with burro tracks.

The occasional palo verde tree found a place amidst the creosote as in the photo below.  That picture shows the other side of the valley: an impressive line of sand dune mountains.

As we neared the valley's terminus, we could not see water, but knew it was near by the line of vegetation up ahead.  Skirting around high dunes, we headed for what looked like the nearest waterline,  Alas, we were met by an impenetrable jungle.

It was a heck of a long trek to get there and not get to water . . .

. . . so we followed a burro track up onto a high dune, presuming that if the animals went that way to get to water, so could we.  So much for that idea.  Our higher perspective did allow us to see a backwater marshy area (the lake along the river's course was still far distant), but it would have taken a machete, a chainsaw and waders to get us through that morass.

A bit more regrouping and wandering did allow us to locate a very nice lunch site with a view of the water that we were clearly never going to stand beside - darn good thing we hadn't planned to fish out there.

We caught sight of a beautiful northern harrier while we lunched and were surrounded by hordes of violet-green swallows.  We heard a phainopepla, which also got added to the list.

I am grateful that my wonky feet continue to do what I ask of them, but they and I pay a price for those demands.  By the time I reach the terminus of a long trek, I am feeling the pain, but obviously, there is no choice but to return, and so I do, and they continue to get me there despite it all.  

On the north side of the valley in front of that range of twisted leaning rock was a continuous high miles-long dune.  I really wanted to see what was at the foot of the mountains on the other side of it and I really didn't want to climb it; however, curiosity won out.  Up we went on the steep slope, only to discover that there was another line just like it, so our curiosity would have to remain unsatisfied.

Our higher vantage point did allow looks back at whence we came.  From down below, we were unable to see water anywhere at our approach, but this view was entirely different.  As we walked that high ridge, we often followed a burro track that made the way easier on the steep side slopes.  Even then, there were times when I balked at a traverse that was slippery enough to give my stomach flip-flops.  My modus operandi at those times is to refuse, balk, whine, whimper, refuse again, and then to give in to doing something I really don't want to do, but with the señor holding my hand for moral support, we get 'er done.  In that case, he cajoled that if the burros could do it, it must be perfectly safe.  I saw no bleached bones below; perhaps he was right.

As much sign as we saw that indicated the presence of burros, we were surprised not to encounter any.  That changed when we were up on the high ridge; I spotted a small herd of five burros across on the slope of the rocky range.  They were far too distant to get a photo, especially since the wind was blowing gale force.  It was work to remain upright - holding the camera still enough for that kind of shot was impossible.

We inspected what must have been a remnant from the granddaddy of all floods.  It appeared that water built up a large mud dike across a section of the wash and then washed most of it away.

When all was said and done, we were wind-blasted and tired and I was foot-sore, but we had had another adventure and seen a piece of country that was new to us.  Our eight-mile trek was done and we were grateful for our place in the world.