A lake, a river, a ranch & more
April 5, 2020

Argh!  My mind wants to dwell on how much is changed in our lives - employment, or lack thereof, and attempting to create a life transformed but still productive and positive, and my fingers ask to go there on the keyboard instead of just relating an adventure.  What is the point of that, though: everyone knows, and everyone is in the same boat, so at least for now, I will write about a couple of recent day trips.

With more than one possible destination in mind, we set off driving out of our mountains, winding our way eventually down Yarnell Hill and out across the desert to end up on Highway 93, where a decision was necessary.  Go right for a second attempt at Burro Creek or go left to head toward Alamo Lake.

After a mental coin toss, we chose the lake, turning on to the dirt road that was formerly the main route between Kingman and Wickenburg.  The past wet winter had turned the road into what we finally admitted was little more than an ATV track.  Giving it a valiant effort, but realizing the many miles ahead of us to reach our goal, we opted to turn around.

Whilst we were in the midst of doing just that, a pickup pulled up next to us - the only other vehicle seen anywhere along that long stretch of rough riding.  The driver informed us that the section we were on was unmaintained by Yavapai County (we had already discerned that), but the next section was regularly graded by its governmental entity - Mojave County.  He promised that if we persevered through the scarcely driveable, we could whiz along at 60 mph afterward.  He was so accommodating that he waited at a fork in the road to steer us in the right direction, advising that the right choice was not the correct one because it descended into the dry bed of Date Creek where it became too sand-filled to traverse.

We soldiered on and sure enough, at long last, we came to a section of wide graveled road that was more than tolerable.  By that time, though, we were feeling pretty beat up, so we disembarked to walk around and enjoy the colorful expanses all around.

As we looked out over the valley and the dry sandy bed of Date Creek, I was in awe of the incredible panorama of Arizona expanses that always fill my heart with gratitude that I live here and can explore the landscape and experience it up close and personal.  What a gift!

Remembering Alamo . . .

We had not been to Alamo Lake for years because its water levels had been drastically low.  Now it is up to full pool, as they say.  We ran into a couple who were RVing nearby, and had a nice time chatting from a safe distance.  It was exactly as it would have been before Covid-19 - a little stretch of normalcy in what is increasingly an abnormal existence.

They noticed my camera and suggested that I could get a shot of a bald eagle perched over the water.  As is sometimes the case when people point out what they think is an eagle, it was an osprey instead, sitting out there near a double-crested cormorant.

We spent most of our time there at the lake's upper end where the Bill Williams River pours into it and the water is backed up into the brush-choked coves.  It would be an awesome place to launch a kayak and paddle through the channels.

Before departing, we drove downstream to peruse the dam area and get a gaze at the main lake from above. 

We spotted a few critters along the way, including a calf that seemed to be fascinated with us, but that followed his mama dutifully nonetheless . . .

. . . and more exciting: a small herd of burros off in the distance.

Having learned our slow bumpy lesson, we chose the paved version of a road home.  Coming out of the desert into irrigated land is always a bit of a surprise.  The agricultural fields around Wenden are an abrupt cessation to the arid lands surrounding that valley.  We saw rows and rows of huge baled hay structures ready to be trucked out to parts unknown.

Another day, another jaunt . . .

Our next day trip took us through Chino Valley on our way north, so we stopped to see if the bald eagle pair had returned to their perennial nest there.  And sure enough, there was a pair of fledglings perched up on their nest.  Both adults were nearby; one is visible in the next photo to the left of the nest, but it takes some looking to spot it.

We were headed toward the upper Verde, the stretch of river that is on "our" side of the mountain, as opposed to the middle Verde that winds through the Verde Valley and the town of Camp Verde.  As much as I feel a need for the socialization with other folks, I absolutely revel in being out away from the hubbub of civilization.  Any place as mundane as the following scene is just fine with me.  I can take off walking, wandering, exploring, experiencing, and feel wonderfully complete.

There is a place out east of Big Chino Valley where four sizable canyons converge.  Our route to that spot involved some hit-and-miss as we traversed various dirt tracks, all of which looked similar and none of which involved anything resembling a straight line.  Eventually, we chanced upon a directional sign that would have been far more helpful if it were placed at the turnoff instead of a ways down the correct road.

To Hell Point we went, a part-driving, part-hiking destination.  Well worth the wander, our vantage from far above the convergence of Hell Canyon, MC Canyon, Bear Canyon and the Verde Canyon out across the countryside to Sycamore Canyon's red rugged cliffs was spectacular!  A trail of sorts winds downward into the depths from there, but we chose not to tackle that steep route that day.

Instead, we mimicked the young eagles and perched ourselves on rocks overlooking the immensity, relaxing into the experience.  What a perfect place to enjoy lunch and to just be with each other, talking about whatever came to mind.

There was the Verde down below us, as green as its name implies. . .

 . . . rainwater pools still in Hell Canyon . . .

 . . .  and a small circular corral of cedar posts in Bear Canyon.

What a rush it was when a golden eagle soared right up the cliff in front of us and circled overhead as if to share his joy of flight.

A fall . . .

Chris surmised that those bluffs in the lower left of the photo below are probably the ones from which he fell 40 feet in 1969, breaking his back, bouncing off to fall another 20 feet, smashing his wrist to smithereens and landing in the river.  Quite an athletic feat, to put it mildly, resulting in a difficult rescue long before there were back-country rescue teams.  Thank goodness the severe wrist injury and surgery did not hamper his incredible piano playing gift!  And even after that, his back is stronger than most!

Round-up . . .

Perhaps some instinct kicked in to get us off our reverie-ing duffs; as we were walking back to our car and just before we got there, we were met by cattle coming our way.  Shortly after, it became clear why that was so: three cowboys were herding the bovines toward the cliff trail which we had just vacated.

We got out of their road as best we could and watched as they gathered their herd from amongst the trees.  I am curious as to why they were pushing the animals down into the Verde Canyon.  We had already noticed some cattle down there, and I had wondered about that because I had thought that cattle had been taken out of there to allow for naturalization regrowth along the river.  In fact, from our high vantage point, we could see that reeds had grown up thickly all along the banks.  Something to go "hmmm" about.

 Fences, King Spring, Territorial government . . .

As we left those cowboys to their job, I hopped out once again to open a gate so we could drive through and to close it behind us.  I am adept at that job, having mastered various methods to deal with various gates, but I am here to tell you, those are some of the tightest gates I have ever encountered!  They require using my technique of "shoulder cupped around the gate post while pulling the gate toward me with both hands" to get the job done.  One has to be very careful not to drop that wire loop over one's finger, lest one loses one's finger.

Other things have changed in that region besides the tightest gates ever.  Barbed wire fences have often been replaced by the electrified variety, none of which were charged, as best as we could see.  We climbed over several that were nothing more than two strands of smooth wire with scary signs attached.  Evidently, the cows can read, because they were all staying put in their correct corrals.

We didn't have quite as much trouble finding our way to King Spring as we did to Hell Point, although the sign was not much better.

The trail into the canyon where King Spring is located was absurdly steep and rubbled.  Crazy that something at that angle could have ever been even a jeep road, but such seems to be the case.

Water flows up from the depths right at the base of the escarpment pictured below.  As the señor explained to me:  The line where the red rock ends abruptly on the cliff face delineates the fault that causes the spring flow, evidenced by the thick green vegetation in the canyon bottom.

When the first Arizona Territorial governor's party came to central Arizona in 1863 to establish a government, they rode into that canyon from the north, probably at a spot just beyond the escarpment on the left in the next photo, camped at King Spring . . . 

. . . and likely proceeded down the canyon to climb out on the south rim along the slope at the right of the next picture before proceeding toward the springs at Del Rio in Chino Valley, where they established a semi-permanent camp..

After our scouting around here and there, my pard was ready to depart the area via the route by which we arrived; however, I had spotted a badly deteriorated sign pointing toward something called "Deep Hole Tank", supposedly a mere one-half mile distant.  It's not like we had to get back for work or anything, so off we went.  It was a pretty unexciting sight, surprisingly low on water after our very wet season, but along the way, I spotted something hidden up in the trees that needed checking out.

The something turned out to be two huge water storage tanks set uphill from some livestock troughs.

The troughs were equipped with critter ladders to aid any fallen water-seeking creatures in escaping.

Valves that allowed water to flow from the storage units to the troughs and dirt tank were located deep in underground silos topped with City of Phoenix stamps.  Methinks those covers might have been obtained as surplus from that entity.

By the time we had wandered away from our return route, we surmised that there might be another way to leave the area.  We topped out to a mostly treelless plain from where we could see the Drake cement plant.  It was just a matter of trying a few of the dirt roads that criss-crossed the landscape until we passed just south of the plant.  In order to get to the highway, we had to cross the railroad tracks one way or another.  In that case, it was an underpass, just barely adequate in width to accommodate our vehicle, and then only by holding our collective breaths.

Then it was a matter of passing by the limestone quarry that has been enlarged beyond anything I could believe to hop onto Highway 89 just across from the Limestone Canyon road and turn toward home.