Camera tryouts at the river
January 30, 2019

Runnin' far behind on writing about adventures, but I'm making a start anyway with another jaunt to the Verde River.  Might seem repetitious, but because the Verde River is my favorite place in the whole world and because it is not very far distant from home and because I love exploring its canyons and moods and because it's a wonderful birding destination and because I love fishing from its banks and even occasionally kayaking its waters, it is one of our more common objectives for a day trip.

On one recent excursion, we ventured to what's referred to as the middle Verde, upstream from where we were last at Beasley Flats but still in the Verde Valley, which lies east of us on the far side of the Mingus Mountain range.  We took the shorter but more convoluted route over the mountains and winding down through the picturesque "ghost town" of Jerome.

After a bit of dirt roading whilst the señor muttered about whether to take the left or the right fork, we halted at a precipice overlooking a winding of the river and on the opposite canyon cliff from the Verde Canyon railroad bridge.

Our trail downward had disintegrated into a washed-out rubbley mess over which I stumbled and bumbled slowly but surely.

All was tranquility below as I experimented with my DSLR camera, an entirely new experience for me, and my fishing guide prepared angling equipment.

Knowing next to nothing about how to operate the fancy-dancy camera apparatus, I spent most of the time switching lenses back and forth and trying to get comfortable with the mechanics of it. 

I attempted a few close-ups of a woody shrub surprisingly blooming already, presumably because of the warmer micro-climate in the canyon depths.  I was very happy of that temperature differential, by the way: up top, a bitter wind was blowing.

Shortly after we arrived, a freight train passed by up above transporting its load into Clarkdale.  Later, the outbound scenic train rumbled along.  We have often been down at the river when the passenger train has passed up above, and always, those hearty souls who are out in the open cars enjoy waving to us in the canyon below, so of course we greet them back until our arms tire.  I often opine that the railroad should put us on the payroll for providing entertainment.

Without understanding any of the various intriguing settings, I mostly shot with my usual automatic modes.  Always, I am fascinated with the textures of my surroundings, so just clicked away as I familiarized myself with the new Nikon.

Although there were no beavers in evidence, their presence at some point was indicated by the stub of a fairly large tree they had felled. 

As I sat quietly on the riverbank catching nary a fish (which was exactly the sum total of the day-long result - not so much as a crawdad expressed interest in our bait), I was thrilled to spot an otter swimming placidly along before he turned tail and dove below the surface - magical!

We encountered only one other person during our day down under - a kayaker, but not just any kayaker.  We heard this guy coming from far above; instead of putting into the river at some semblance of a normal place, he actually dragged his boat from the cliff overhead crashing and carrying on down that long rough trail.  It took us a while to discern what was causing the ruckus we were hearing; after all, who would believe anyone would do such a thing.

After all his commotion, he seemed perfectly happy to glide along with the river's course, and mentioned that the next rapids was his favorite.  Presumably, he had arranged for a ride back to his vehicle up top.

Art walk . . .

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we enjoyed a lovely evening at the Mountain Artists Guild gallery as they hosted the señor entertaining for the 4th Friday Art Walk.  I love watching people enjoy Chris' music: his playing seems to touch people's hearts as it gets their toes to tapping.  I tried out the new Nikon there also with stills and even a video, although the struggle with mastering how to use the video was real.

Duff Springs . . .

Another awesome day in the beauty of Arizona's outback and one fraught with frustration photographically.  I expected magic to happen once a good camera was in my hands; however, it becomes obvious that first one must learn to use the thing.  Like any other tool, it requires some knowledge of its workings.  I have enrolled in a class for that purpose; in the meantime, trial and error is the order of the day.  A Nikon tutorial was helpful and the señor has assisted, also, so some very slow progress is being made.

As we traveled northeastward from home, we were treated to a scene I have seen a million times and shot nearly as many - the snow-capped San Francisco Peaks high above a rim of Sycamore Canyon (Do we live in the most stupendously incredible place ever or what???).  So I knew enough then to get some depth of field for the shot, and thought I was quite clever - ha ha - well, it's a start anyway.

For the remainder of the day, photography was back to being just frustrating.  I am reminding myself that everyone who is a great photographer at one time was a beginner.

We set the Verde River again as our destination that day, but the Duff Springs area is many miles upstream of our most recent hike.  As we hiked down into the canyon, we followed the route of an old wagon road (below) that connected various ranches along the river. 

That place is named for Alexander Duff, who homesteaded there in the late 1800s after he had served in the Civil War in a regiment that he joined at age 16.  Because Chris leads educational Yavapai College trips to that spot, and because I am hopelessly fanatic about learning people's stories, I long ago researched Mr. Duff's background.

Like many others, after mustering out of his military service, he ventured out west where he trapped, hunted and prospected.  He established his ranch on the Verde River at that time, having married a Shoshone woman named Margaret in Nevada.  Two of their four children were born in Arizona Territory, one supposes those births may have occurred at the Duff Springs site in rather primitive circumstances.

Unfortunately, Margaret suffered some sort of mental derangement and was hospitalized for the remainder of her life which ended during her 30s.

Mr. Duff continued prospecting and establishing mines throughout Yavapai County.  Among other political activities, in 1897, he was appointed deputy sheriff of Jerome Junction, where he also built and operated a saloon, hotel and store.  He homesteaded 160 acres there and built a school for which he served as trustee.  Alexander married second a woman named Ella who had come to the area as a teacher; that couple had two children born at Jerome Junction, probably in better circumstances than her predecessor experienced.  The family eventually sold their holdings in Yavapai County to relocate in Oregon.

As I wander the area around Duff Springs, I wonder about all those folks who were there before me, the ones who laboriously built roads for their wagons, who lived in such isolated and difficult circumstances, visiting when possible with distant homesteaders, ranchers and prospectors. 

There remains so little evidence of their presence, derelict corrals with wooden posts sculpted by wind and sand . . .

. . . leveled fields once irrigated and cultivated but now covered with horehound weed that prefers to grow on disturbed ground . . .

. . . and scarcely discernible rock outlines of fallen-down buildings with trees and brush grown up through them,

Was one of those the place where Margaret tended her children and birthed her babies?  Was that field and the surrounding hills where her youngsters played?  Did she sit out in the sunshine on the same rocks where I sat?  What was it like for her when her mind began to fade?  I will never know the answers, but I honor all those who walked that way before me and feel a kinship in my love of that wonderful country.

Before Alexander and Margaret Duff settled in that country, there were many who called it home, but for whom we have no names or about whom we know little beyond what archaeologists discern from what they left behind.

Halfway up the cliff and between the gate posts in the next photo, there is a small ruin that was constructed and occupied before history recorded those things.  Because we turned downstream to explore, we got only one other slightly closer shot of the ruin, although we have been much nearer in the past.

Scattered throughout the area, there is much evidence of those cliff dwellers such as the potsherd shown below.

The Verde changes, sawanaboori . . .

The river's headwaters are miles up from Duff Springs, but this is one site of many where various underground waters bubble up to the surface and contribute their part to the Verde.  Although we have been to Duff Springs a number of times previously, we have never explored whence that particular water comes, so I determined that we would follow it to its source.

That seemed as if it might be a substantial endeavor; however, that sawanboori turned out to be far less than expected.  Instead of climbing up into the narrow canyon, we quickly found the stream's source a short distance away and with little difficulty.  I was unable to get a photograph that showed it clearly, but after just a bit of scabbling through the limbs of a fallen tree and balancing on its stump, we saw exactly where the spring issued forth from under the bank - a sizable clear stream bubbling out of the ground.  In its pool, there were blades of green grass, islands of watercress, even a crawdad that skittered under a rock at our intrusion..

Downward the water flows until it nearly reaches the river where it spreads out to create a wide marshy area with large clumps of now dry matted grass.  I found it barely possible to jump from one clump to the next to cross the area with getting into the soggy places in between.  Unlike our typical results, the señor was the one to get his boots wet that time.

We carried fishing equipment with us, but were very surprised to find the river's character to be completely changed from previously; there were no suitable places for angling anywhere along there.  Where before, we had fished a long still pool while perched on flat rocks at river's edge, now we found banks filled in completely with cattail reeds, matted grasses and brush and trees overhanging the now rushing rapids-filled water.  With extreme difficulty, we worked out way downstream until the Verde entered a steep canyon and found no places that were fishable.  I surmised that the extreme change is due to cattle being fenced away from the water, completely changing the Verde's character, although I would guess that this reversion is likely more to its original condition.

Another adventure ended with a relatively strenuous trek out: somehow, the two miles into the canyon felt more like four miles out as we headed uphill for the duration..