April 16, 2020
Boondocking during the pandemic . . .
Yes, we are often off on a jaunt with just the two of us, but lacking our usual social interactions is having an effect, so we experimented with an excursion while maintaining the new norm of so-called social distancing. Odd how some terms come into existence and so quickly become a part of our lexicon.
At any rate, friends Gail & Normand opted to accompany us on an outing down toward the Weaver Mountains, to the ghost town of Placerita, which Normand quickly decreed was "Rita's Place". Made perfect sense, but in all the years I've known about the place, I had never made that connection with my name.
Because it has been decreed that six feet is the distance that we must maintain between people, it was pretty clear that we would have to travel in separate cars.
We attempted to maintain telephone contact during the drive in order to share whatever thoughts about the countryside features that came to us. It only worked nominally: certainly lacked the spontaneity of conversation and then there was the issue of spotty reception.
Less than ideal, but there's no faulting the wonderful terrain through which we drove. The Bradshaw Mountains filled the horizon behind us as we would our way over the hills that were thickly chaparalled. There ya go: I made a new word!
First stop was to enjoy that view and to peer into the depths of a vertical mine shaft, safe from toppling in because of a perimeter fence.
Ephemeral flowers continue to flourish for a longer period than I ever remember, perhaps because of the weather remaining cooler than typical.
An unusual copse of trees that stood out from the surrounding vegetation caught my attention and required a stop just because it was such an inviting place.
As we walked nearer to the grove, we heard the sound of running water, the source of which must always be inspected, at least in my world.
What we found was a small spring seeping down over the rocks, slightly dammed up into a pool, and that was routed into a trough, and perhaps was feeding the roots of those trees.
An abundant crop of rose hips was beautiful . . .
. . . as was the view from that height.
Closer inspection of the trees revealed why there were swarms of bees at the spring: they were hived in the hollow of one of the oaks.
Oddly enough, it appeared that there had been at attempt to block the hollow with cloth and some other substance, but it had fallen away and the bees were freely flying in and out.
Placerita . . .
A number of years have passed since we last ventured down that way, which led to confusion about which dirt track would take us to the site of the long-abandoned town. We saw a rock cabin from a distance, with its roof caving in to the interior.
Because of the rough terrain and extreme overgrown conditions, we did not bushwhack over to the cabin.
Interesting to look back at a photo I took of that same cabin years ago. Evidently, our sweet little Bandit dog accompanied us, which I would never have remembered, but there he is right in front of the structure. I think I must here give Chris credit for scanning and indexing 9,000 of our old family photos after we sorted, sorted, sorted, agonized and discarded so many. Otherwise, this pic would not be retrievable.
Those same conditions make it difficult to impossible to find much in the settlement's remains. We peered into a caved-in mine shaft that was accessible . . .
. . . and just generally enjoyed the beauty of our surroundings. . .
. . . while relaxing at lunchtime, together but not.
Just because we were in the neighborhood, we gave a call to our friend, Ella McCracken, the "dairy queen" of Hassayampa Farms, to inquire about accessing the Walnut Grove cemetery and to see if we might purchase some of her delicious cheese.
Ella owns the Gold Bar Ranch and maintains the historic burying ground on her property. It is the final resting place of our shirt-tail kinsman and former Prescottonian, Robert Williams. We like to place flowers on his grave while we are down that way, and so we did. Robert's original grave marker has disintegrated; Ella and her husband Mike have replaced it and others with new stones - what dear people they are!
They are taking advantage of the quarantine time to refurbish their delightful bunkhouse bed & breakfast. . .
. . . while still allowing some camping and fishing at their picturesque lake. There we are, still maintaining our distance.
Getting to the Walnut Grove graveyard requires a crossing of the Hassayampa River, a feat that Gail accomplished quite well, despite some pretty extreme trepidation.
She and Normand were adventurous enough to join us despite the desert pinstriping their vehicle received while traversing those back roads that are just wide enough to maneuver but not wide enough to prevent the brush on both sides scraping along the car's sides.
Our final activity of the day was to follow Ella into the Hassayampa Farms "Casa de Queso".
Unfortunately, current conditions prevented us from entering and touring the cheesemaking operation, but Ella brought out cheese wheels from which to choose . . .
. . . and in grand Ella style, made the presentation!
Watson Woods Preserve . . .
Not a day trip at all, but I thought I'd throw in a few photos from Watson Woods. The place is about a two-minute drive from our house. I go there many days to soak up the beauty and marvel at my good fortune to be so close to such a wondrous place. I can walk to Watson Lake easily from there and enjoy even more of Granite Creek's environment. This particular day, I had camera in hand and couldn't resist some shots of the amazing afternoon.
My pard, the inveterate map peruser, declared that we must try out a hiking route that would take us to the canyon of the lower Hassayampa River. As he explained, that water courses along through a deep canyon for 40 or more miles with no easy access; therefore, it became our goal for the day.
Our starting point was where Cherry Creek crosses the road from Waggoner to Crown King, the plan being to follow the creek all the way to where it empties into the river.
It was a goodly distance to point A, so we had plenty of time to see what was around us and to talk about whatever subject came up. We spotted two deer, a new foal, a pen of bulls and a great blue heron standing in the middle of a huge grassy pasture with no water anywhere in sight. Odd enough, but he was still there when we returned that way many hours later. I know he could fly, because he did, but I can't imagine what was the attraction of that place.
A major portion of our conversation revolved around the Walnut Grove dam that broke in 1890, with the resulting disastrous flood killing as many as 150 people - settlers, miners, ranchers and prospectors who either didn't hear the water's approach in the middle of the night or who couldn't get out of the way in time. Houses, people, livestock all were swept away in the 100-foot-high wall of water.
We watched for the lake's site and determined that it is on the Cooper Ranch, just above where the canyon narrows and the dam would have been constructed. This photo shows a portion of that lowland.
Chris had in mind to possibly hike up the Hassayampa canyon to view the dam site. We crossed Minehaha Creek (I only know the names of most of these places because of said pard's penchant for studying maps) along the way.
Before we reached our starting point, a sign informed us that there is a Cherry Creek Trail right along there, which got me to thinking we might actually walk on a trail at some point and that seems like a good one to try out.
We were delighted to see that spring flowers are continuing to flaunt their beauty.
Our trek started off easily enough as we followed the water where it wandered sinuously around the many-hued rocks littering the stream bed. The multitude of colors and textures of water, stones and sand created a scene of such beauty that we exclaimed over and over again.
As we knew it must in order to reach the river, the gradient began to drop, slightly at first.
At every twist and turn - and there were many - we marveled in amazement at all that was around us, pointing things out to each other and feeling incredible gratitude for being able to do that trek.
The deeper we went, the wetter the conditions, making us wonder if at some point it would be impassable. Water seeped right out from the rocks and added to the stream's flow. There would be a level spot followed by a drop-off - waterfall after waterfall that we had to climb down or around. The canyon narrowed substantially in places as we continued along the jumbled canyon floor.
Following his guidance, I got positioned part way down while he took advantage of the photo opportunity. He explained how I could make it down: "Just a scoot and a hop", he said, and all will be well. Following those rather vague directions, I went for it. The reality bore very little resemblance to what happened next - it was actually more like a scoot, slide, bump, crash. Luckily, Chris remained upright as I fell on him, so we managed not to topple over into the rocks.
The canyon continued to get wetter and wetter with streams of water running out from all sides, even from under the humongous ash trees that were growing out of the canyon's walls.
With years of fallen branches and vegetation blocking the way, it became even more difficult to make our way through.
The increase of water volume and the eventual flattening out of the canyon bottom created lots of quicksand, which Chris managed to land in up to his knees more than once. We did a lot of floundering and scrambling.
And what a surprise to find a large pool, maybe four feet deep, that actually contained turtles! If we had wondered whether the water was permanent in those depths, that dispelled all doubt. That pond was thick with mosquito wrigglers - I would not want to be there in a couple of weeks!
It did seem like an unnecessary blow to find a seemingly impassable fence blocking our way as we approached our goal, especially as we slogged our way through more and more quicksand. It certainly was preventing cattle from getting up into that canyon, and it appeared that it would keep us from getting to where we wanted to go, an especially daunting thought because I did not for one minute believe that we could get back up whence we had come.
After a bit of fiddle faddling, though, we managed to slide beneath the hiked-up bottom wire after discarding packs, binoculars, camera, bird book and whatever other straps and luggage were hanging off our persons.
Not too long afterward and after quite a lot more of slogging through quicksand, and within sound of the Hassayampa River, we were astounded to spot a building. Obviously, that material had not come down the canyon behind us, but had been transported down a jeep trail that terminated at the river there. That jeep road was the ace up Chris' sleeve all along; even if we could have retraced our steps to climb back up out of that canyon, it would have been a most difficult endeavor, speaking in the most conservative way. Truthfully, it would have been a hellish experience, and one during which I most likely would not have been oohing and aahing and taking photographs.
We took a look at the abandoned house and its outbuildings: an older rock cabin had had a kind of slap-dash addition put on to expand the space.
The structures were evidently associated with mining activity that we saw evidence of there at the confluence of Cherry Creek and the Hassayampa. There were various tailings piles and rusting equipment in the area.
It was quite a relief to reach the river; I had been very unsure many times along the way whether it was possible via that route. It seemed to me that there was a strong possibility we would encounter an impassable waterfall (that one actually was but we managed it anyway with nary a broken bone) or that a rockfall that would impede further progress.
Musing . . .
Finding stone seats from which to enjoy lunch while relaxing to the water's music, we shared quite a bit of musing. My grandparents' ranch was beyond the mountains on the Hassayampa's far bank. They (Zack & Pearl Kelley) were friends and associates of the Coopers. When they first arrived here in 1931, Grandpa arranged with Roy Cooper to herd his Angora goats over the winter; his compensation for that work was to keep the increase (the kids that were born) to start his own herd. I remember my father, Ira Kelley, talking about riding up from their ranch to what he called "old lady York's place at Blackwater" where she kept an apple orchard and then on to Nel & Roy Cooper's place, where Nel would supply him with homemade biscuits.
It just so happens that Blackwater Creek is on the divide just over the mountain and that the route Dad and Grandpa would have likely ridden would have brought them down Cottonwood Canyon, that we were looking across at, to the Hassayampa. It was not a far stretch to imagine them appearing on horseback out of that canyon and making their way down to the river.
We know from research that "old lady York" was an intrepid pioneer woman, Matilda (Dusoe) York, or Bammy, as she preferred to be called, who thrived on her ranch far back up in the mountains. She was originally from Boston and after traveling around and having one marriage end in divorce, she somehow ended up in that rough country near the Rich Hill mining towns, where she ranched and sold her produce and where she later owned the Octave store and service station.
Finding her homestead on Blackwater Creek is high on my list of "wannas", although how to make that happen in that steep and rugged country choked with chaparral is unknown at this time. Perhaps from Placerita, we can find a way, but the route from my grandparents homestead is mostly blocked and far too long. We shall see.
The surprise . . .
After we shook ourselves out of our reverie, we debated our next move, feeling our weariness after our climb down to that spot. Chris had come with the mindset that we might be able to view the site of the infamous Walnut Grove dam. We have read many harrowing accounts of that disaster, but had never seen where it occurred. Certainly, where we sat had been scoured out by the 100-foot wall of water and debris on that fateful night.
So . . . try to make our way upstream through side streams, quicksand and flood debris or tackle the trail out, which was sure to be long and steep? Whatever we did, we still had to get back to the car, which was surely going to be a strenuous trek.
Despite that sane place in my mind that said, "Head back, you fool", my mouth said, "Criminetly, we've come this far, it would be crazy not to try", so try we did. I didn't take many photos along that way: first because it wasn't very photogenic with jumbles of broken and dead vegetation and second because it was all I could do to get through most of it.
But then came the big surprise of the day: BEAR TRACKS! At the point where found a mud/quicksand flat to walk along, we discovered that we were not alone. Of all the places where I would never in a million years expect to see a bear, this was it! I cannot imagine that country had sufficient food for one bear, and we were sure we saw the prints of a cub with it, so logical deduction tells me there was likely more than one adult bear somewhere thereabouts. Of course we had no bear spray with us, but I got out my air horn that was riding in my pack and crossed my fingers.
Eventually, our explore got rimmed off where the river meandered to a rock cliff on our side. Viewing the terrain up ahead as best we could through the trees, it seemed pretty obvious that the dam would have been not too far past where we stood. Our choice then was to ford the river and walk on the opposite bank or turn back. The current was pretty rapid there and there was no way to tell if we could safely cross, so we gave it up and retraced our scramble back to the mouth of the creek and the terminus of the jeep road.
The trek out was indeed long, steep and exposed, softened only by extensive stands of lupines in full bloom.
When we looked down at the canyon we had descended, there was not the slightest hint of the incredible beauty hidden within it nor of its ruggedness and fascinating micro-environments.
After hiking most of the way out, we discovered that we had been trespassing on the Cooper Ranch, an inadvertent indiscretion that I hope will be forgiven. Obviously, no one would have posted a "no trespassing" sign on the route we went in on because no one would think anyone would be dumb enough to go that way.
1 comment:
Rita - Most interesting and enjoyably well-written!@ Thanks for sharing. Will be on the lookout for more! Cheers to you and Chris, Peter
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