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.