Technology, getting lost
March 26, 2020

Mr. T(echnology) and I seem to be at war this week.  Perhaps if I had not left my IPhone on the hood of the car and perhaps if it had not fallen off on Highway 89 where I found it after it had been run over, Mr. T and I might still be friends; however, that is not the case, sad to say.

As anyone of technological expertise will tell you, it should be a simple matter to replace said phone when one has insurance for just such carelessness, but boy howdy, would they be wrong!  The conversations about how straightforward it all should be are nearly as irritating and irksome as the frustration of spending three days working on it non-stop.  In this instance, the señor took on the job to get ‘er done when it became clear that I was not up to the task.

Not to be left out of the fun, my computer then declared its inability to absorb one more bit of data because its appetite had been sated.  “I’m full”, it stated in no uncertain terms.  Once again, the señor stepped up to the plate, simultaneously working on one device in one room and another device in another room.

Adding insult to injury, the current pandemic precludes my myriad in-person social interactions; even those are mostly reduced to dependence upon Mr. T’s abilities to facilitate communication. 

Okay, I’m over my little rant, but Mr. T has a lot of ‘splaining to do before he gets back in my good graces.  Also, I will not be throwing any more cell phones into traffic.

We get lost . . .

So, the loss of employment results in spans of time to be filled otherwise.  No lack of projects in the Wuehrmann household, but springtime and fewer jobs also brings a yearning for the out of doors, thus Ruby’s getting a workout as we grind our way over a few more dirt roads.

Oftentimes, we set off with no particular destination, or at least with the mindset that wherever we end up is fine and dandy.  On the day in question, though, I verbalized a desire to return to a certain place on Burro Creek.  We camped there on Easter weekend long ago with our friend Casey and Dad and the Hastings bunch.  The memory of that wonderful time has long been percolating to precipitate a return.

All well and good, think we.  It’s a pretty long drive out there, so we control our inclination to be sidetracked.  With nary a stop along the way, we tootle right along to Burro Creek Road, where we are surprised at the juxtaposition of vegetation: how odd and unusual to see saguaros standing amidst juniper trees intermixed with ocotillos, crucifixion thorn and quite a mix of plant life not typically (or ever?) growing together.  Our reward for staying the course is to have a walk around, take a few photos and enjoy being out there.

Sensing that our goal is near, we climb back aboard our trusty steed and with excited anticipation, continue toward the creek, moving right along with our rooster tail of dust following . . . until we are startled to see up ahead - not Burro Creek, but a highway!  Wait! What?  That can't be . . . but sure enough, it was.  Up ahead, traffic zipping past rushing to their destinations that certainly were not Burro Creek.

Clearly, we were not actually lost.  Oh no, we knew exactly where we were; unfortunately, the where we were was not the where we meant to be, and we were clueless of how to get from where we were to where we meant to be.

A little backtracking ensued, but casting around this way and that did not appeal.  Why not just enjoy the where we were instead of spending time looking for the where we meant to be?  And so we did: that alluring sand wash that led to who knows where was our route for an afternoon hike, and Burro Creek would wait for another day.

Intentions are fine, but when we are led another way, might just as well relax and enjoy it, and so we did.  Weather was sublime and the sights even more so.  As we hoofed it down the wide winding waterway, our eyes feasted on wildflowers in abundance, granite hillsides dotted liberally with cactus and varied vegetation.  As we lunched comfortably seated on a rock, we counted a dozen different flower types within a six-foot range of our boots!

As always, according to my somewhat limited knowledge of the science of gravity, what goes down must come up.  I think that's how it goes . . . at any rate, our hike back seemed about twice as long as our walk in, it being an upward incline and all.

The big surprise of the day - one that seemed slightly on the cool side for snakes to be venturing out - was a rattlesnake stretched full out on the road.  Of course that required a stop.  I thought at first it had been injured because of its extreme lethargy.

That was not the case as we learned after some prodding with a long stick, but clearly, he had jumped the gun on getting out and about.  Despite our gentle molestations, the reptile never rattled nor coiled.  In fact, it scarcely moved, so we transported it out of the road to prevent it being run over and watched as it slithered slowly to cover beneath a bush.

 With our day of adventure ending, we headed homeward . . .

This sign between Bagdad and Prescott speaks for itself . . . Dezirae's pull-out, born here 08-09-2009.

My safe place
March 23, 2020

In conjunction with the year 2020, I have perfect perception of where I feel safe, the place in which I am comforted, where I am nurtured and where I am uplifted.  Fortunately for me, that place is anywhere that I am in nature.  No particular environment is necessary for me; as long as I can be in natural surroundings, worries literally fall away from me and concerns evaporate as I take in the wonders of mountains, deserts, seashores, forests and skies unimpeded by human construction.

Although I do my best to avoid news about Covid-19 and its viral destructions, it is still in the forefront of my consciousness, along with most other folks.  We are trying to retain as much normalcy as we can while sensibly being cautious and careful; however, the knowledge of this pandemic weighs heavily.

That is why the advent of spring weather has brought about my decree: For every day of project work around the house, we shall enjoy one day of boondocking.  With the loss of paid jobs that has resulted from the Corona virus, we have been tearing into various formerly shelved projects.  While that has brought a good bit of satisfaction, it has not elevated my energy like experiencing the natural world does.

Admittedly, winter's cold clutches have deterred me from getting out and about as much as I would like, but that circumstance is easing with the season, so we loaded up and went, and how wonderful it was!

About our only criterion for going was that it be warmer than our mountain lair, so we headed south with no particular destination in mind.  Some recent historical research has alerted my curiosity about a couple of 19th century houses in Skull Valley.  A friend's beautiful photographs revealed excellent detail about the houses, but not much regarding the location.  We were driving through Skull Valley on our lower-elevation quest, so we detoured off onto a couple of side roads to take a gander.

Turkeys, polo, buffalo & chinaberries . . .

And speaking of ganders, we were startled to run across a flock of - no, not geese - turkeys.  There must have been 20 of them; the toms were in full display while the hens ignored their strutting and grazed casually through the grass.  They really are impressive birds!

When we tired of watching the turkeys, I noticed that across the road was a chinaberry tree that brought back some childhood memories.  The hard pellet-like berries were a favored weapon when I was a youngster in Phoenix; chinaberry fights were unpleasant events during which we pelted each other with them, ruthless ruffians that we were.  The large fully leafed-out trees are quite lovely, though; their shade is most likely the reason our elders planted them.

As we had not set out with any plan whatsoever, we did not have the historic house photos with us, so we couldn't really look for them anyway.  It was a peaceful time as we wandered that lovely place and talked about whatever the sights brought to mind.  We have many memories embedded there.

At the end of a dead-end road, we had a nice chat with an interesting chap who was headed out for a chore on his small tractor.  He is Belgian by birth, Chilean by residence before the U.S. and is in the process of building a polo field on his property.  Polo matches have been being held on the Dickson Ranch for the past few years, but will move when the new field is complete.  I happily anticipate attending the affairs that include pot luck meals and camaraderie.

Leaving that place behind with the intention to return with photos in hand, we called a halt farther down the road when we saw buffalo grazing a grassy green field surrounded by arid desert land.  I had not known that any were down that way.  Now that I think back to that encounter, I am astounded that those huge beasts are not confined by a fence of stronger construction!  They are known to push through fences as if they are not even there, and that one we saw was certainly not buffalo-proof. 

As we wandered down the highway that would have eventually taken us to Bagdad (presuming we could ever stop being sidetracked), we saw so many places that call to be explored.  Some were gated and locked with "No trespassing" signage; some had closed gates to keep livestock in but without other deterrents, and others were unfenced dirt tracks off to who knows where.  Something in my genetic makeup requires that I must follow all those tracks just as far as I can go, and when the vehicle can go no further, I must abandon it to set off on foot.  Our casual survey of that intriguing section of country revealed a passel of places to return to, and return we shall.

Stop, stop, stop; go back . . .

The señor could not see what looked like a pool of water below us that was visible from my side of the road, but he was amenable to braking and finding a place to pull over when I called out.  We walked back and scrambled down into a little canyon where we found a dam - artfully constructed of concreted river rock with a substantial flow of water pouring over the dam's lip and ricocheting energetically down the rocky canyon.

We followed the stream for a ways down its rubbley course where it was sometimes ponded up on the bouldered canyon floor.

As we took time to admire our surroundings, we saw that we had dropped enough in elevation from our piney home environment to see that forest replaced by a magnificent stand of saguaros somehow rooted in granite-covered mountainsides, and surprisingly punctuated by bright splashes of butter-yellow flowering shrubs.

More surprises . . .

That region was interesting, but we had thought we would go lower than that as we sought warmth and wildflowers, so again we loaded up and made it a few more miles before the next halt.

At a locked gate that precluded driving into the back country, we found a walk-through passage that allowed us in on foot, so we opted to have a little look-around.  Still not as far down the mountain as we wanted to go, but I thought we could check it out for a later explore.

Even at that elevation, we found the desert beginning to burst into springtime bloom in response to the season's abundance of precipitation.

 Far above us just below the mesa top, we saw promise of even more to come.

As we enjoyed our nice little walk, determining that it was a perfect place to return to for hiking when the weather warms a bit more, I was very surprised to hear the sound of running water.

Following the sound as we wound through some thorny brush, we found a healthy current of water gurgling along over rocks that probably seldom carry so much as a rivulet.

Hidden in sheltered places under trees and cactus stands, we enjoyed the sight of wildflowers in full bloom.

 A particular canyon cut into a massive mesa top looks like an intriguing explore for another day.

We shot the photo below after turning around for a better look at a valley floor crowded with still-winter-bare vegetation.  It stood out starkly against the surrounding hills and looked for all the world to be blue as we passed by, so much so that we got a better look with binoculars to determine if the hue was from blossoms of some kind, but it evidently emanated from the bare branches only.

The Santa Maria floods, spring blooms . . .

Because of our many stops on the journey, we never did get quite as far down as I had thought we might.  We exchanged one possible route for another and took the road that follows along the Santa Maria River.  What a surprise that was, although in retrospect, it probably shouldn't have been, given how many dry washes and canyon bottoms we had seen running water.

There was ample evidence of a just-passed high flood stage where the river had seemingly doubled or more its bed.  As we saw it, it was still flooding, but the water had receded some, and was far over any amount we had seen before - very impressive indeed!

Just in case I have failed to convey how soaked the countryside was, I took the next picture to show that even the road was randomly running streams across its route.

Our lunch perch on a high cliff overlooking the river's course gave us a nice vantage point across the countryside.  That pointy butte is ringed by a dirt road that we intend to follow at a later date; it requires a river crossing to get there, and somehow, that seemed inadvisable at the time.

Our drive followed the Santa Maria for much of the time, sometimes veering away to avoid terrain too tough to cut roads into.  Everywhere, the stark beauty of the rugged mountains was enough to keep my heart in gratitude for the opportunity to be there.

And wildflowers were as abundant and varied as a person could ever hope for - absolutely magical!

Joshua trees, Arrastra Mountains, wilderness . . .

As we approached the intersection with our dirt road and the highway that would take us back north toward home, we came into a Joshua tree forest; indeed, it is called the Joshua Tree Parkway.  Before rejoining other travelers rushing to their respective destinations, we wandered a bit to peruse those very odd plants, relatives to the yucca.

I found the mountains beyond to be even more captivating: the Arrastra Range with its designated wilderness area is starkly stunning as it beckons to be explored.

Honoring kin. . .

Before we headed back up Yarnell Hill, we turned off onto Ghost Town Road in Congress for a stop out at the Congress cemetery to leave flowers at my Aunt Lucille's grave.  What a grand gal she was; she and my mother were best friends.  I will never forget them two of them giggling into the night when Lucille came to visit.

And because we were in the neighborhood, we stopped at the older 1887 pioneer burying ground, too, for more reminiscing about those who came before us.

At the end of a long day after a challenging week, peace was restored in my heart, and I was reminded of where my safe place is, and that I can carry it with me always.