Journeys

Land & Water

Emerald Cove . . .

Our two jaunts this week could scarcely be more different from each other, but both were superb in their own way.

Emerald Cove was the much-too-distant first destination. By that, I refer to seven hours of driving for four hours on the water is not something I intend to repeat, but am satisfied at having done it once.

I had occasionally run across photos of the place, admiring the beauty of it, but had taken no action to experience it for myself. That changed when my friend Crystal took the plunge, mostly figuratively, and offered to return with others of us in tow.

When the day arrived, participants had dwindled in number to four. Chris & I had not been in our boats for two years; even so, we opted to jump in whole hog right out of the chute. Our Tacoma pickup has a short bed in order to accommodate the extended cab, so the kayaks must hang far out over the tailgate, at least until we acquire an over-the-cab rack.

With only one missed turn (I'm not naming names, Crystal), we managed to entertain ourselves all the way to Willow Beach, our put-in point on the Colorado River. With our equipment and kayaks off-loaded, we munched a lunch before launching.

In the meantime, I shot a few pics . . .

. . . and struck up a conversation with a couple who were just wrapping up their fishing excursion. Their unique outfit caught my attention, and I quickly learned that they were more than happy to tell me all about it.

The gentleman of the two had built their clever angling equipment buggy beginning with a child's little red wagon. A whole passel of modifications later, the contraption carries six rod & reel sets and all of their tackle boxes and paraphernalia. They were so proud of their invention and so pleased to be able to talk about its predecessor, its evolution and their plans for its successor that they revealed the location of their favorite fishing spot. Don't even ask; my lips are sealed. That will be the subject of a future trip blog post.

Enough of the lollygagging: the time arrived for our launch, accomplished uneventfully, thank goodness. And we were on our way upstream - destination Emerald Cove. As the adage goes, it's the journey, not the destination, but boy howdy - that was one difficult journey.

There I was rethinking the wisdom of not kayaking for two years and then embarking on that trip as a reintroduction; however, it was way too late for second thoughts. All around me was the spectacular beauty of Black Canyon, but then there was that river current and slight headwind that seemed determined to prevent me from proceeding.

At the same time, I yearned to photograph the scenes through which I passed (ever so slowly . . .), but really it took all I could manage to keep up with my younger companions. I had brought along my older camera with the thought that if I did dump myself into the water, I would feel less bad about losing it than my newer one.

To snap or not to snap . . .

This is how it went when I could resist snapping a shot no longer: stop paddling and begin immediately to move in the wrong direction, open dry bag, extract camera, try to remember how to use it after so long of becoming accustomed the new one, realize that in the glare of daylight I can scarcely discern what is showing on the screen, lose the desired sight altogether because the boat is turning in circles without the guidance of paddles, give up and return camera to dry bag, try to make up the distance lost during those fruitless efforts. Sigh.

The lineup . . .

As in many things with Earth's ever increasing population and said population's penchant for seeking places of interest and beauty, the fabled Emerald Cove is being loved to death. Its popularity is not actually harming the place, but it most assuredly is making it more difficult to access.

There are all those kayak tour companies out of Las Vegas and wherever else they issue forth from, and then there are the individuals and private groups, all of whom want a piece of the action. The result is that after finally attaining the grotto's proximity, one is sometimes required to get in line, something like at the ladies room after a popular movie at the theater.

There, though, one only needs to cross one's legs as one waits her chance to relieve herself after consuming a large Coke. Lining up on the river requires a great deal of finesse to keep one's boat in the queue without drifting away and without hitting fellow kayakers with one's paddle. Truthfully, as I attempted to maneuver my boat while not losing my place in line, I was hit in the head only once by an errant paddle from behind. It remains a mystery whether that clonk was purposeful in an attempt to gain a better spot in the line, but I did not give way.

At any rate, at the risk of losing my spot, I managed to shoot a photo of those clamoring for their turn ahead of me.

Tour guides were obliging their paying customers by photographing them during their brief time inside the grotto. No such luck for our little bunch, but we did manage to accomplish a photographic memory of our turn at the no-so-serene scene.

I will say that the river's water fully earns the description of "emerald", and it is accentuated in the alcove.

Throughout that area, the water is as clear as glass. As you look into the brilliant green surface, ripples on top artistically accent the stream's round-rocked bottom. The effect is truly stunning.

When we had finally attained our turn at the watery cave, we had a frenzy of selfies and photographs among the group with phones and cameras both. This first one makes me laugh: we look like we've just been caught with our colllective hands in the cookie jar.

The catwalk pictured below is an astounding sight as it clings to the sheer cliff face. Farther along, it becomes a skychair of sorts over open water - a terrifying sight! I don't know its vintage, original purpose or when it fell out of use (part of it literally fell), but I have great admiration for the folks who constructed it. I hope they survived to tell the tale.

Stopping to stretch our legs . . .

. . . and giving me a few more photo ops.

That's the señor on the home stretch.

Limestone Canyon, historic lime kilns . . .

The señor has been commissioned to present a program and field trip for Chino Valley's Historical Society about the old lime kilns in Limestone Canyon, south of Ash Fork. With that in mind, it was a perfect impetus for a day out perusing the area.

We had not been up that way for quite some time; friends Gail & Normand were game for a ride-along and even indulged other stops to point out various historic sites and to listen to our stories of past experiences in that region.

Only one of three original kilns still stands, and it does not appear to be long for this world, extensive cracking foretells a collapse at some point. It is an imposing structure even now in probably its 130th or so year. Timbers that I believe were put up to stabilize the stone oven now lie in disarray around its base.

As we scouted around the area, we encountered the expected detritus found around long-abandoned settlements and work camps, including multiple barrel hoops dropped where they fell when the wooden stays dried up and collapsed.

The location of the cement-making operation was made possible by the construction of the Santa Fe, Prescott & Phoenix railroad, known appropriately as the Peavine, that was completed through Limestone Canyon in the early 1890s. What an engineering feat that was with its necessity for multiple high wooden trestles to traverse the steep side canyons. And by the way, ten miles of that line is on the National Register of Historic Places, thanks to the efforts of Nancy Burgess.

The kilns were a project headed by George Puntenney, although it was a short-lived venture: that section of rail line was bypassed just ten years later because of the high level of maintenance needed for all the trestles.

Chris & Gail are gazing out at the steep drop-off edge where a trestle once traversed the canyon.

Flowers, a saunter, a puma . . .

Despite very droughty conditions, we were surprised to find a plethora of wildflowers. Verbena literally carpeted entire hillsides, cactus blossoms were opening, fairy duster was blooming profusely, and nature displayed an array of various colors.

No smoke . . .

Grateful to be out of the Crooks Fire smoke that was especially heavy in Prescott that day, we took to the hills to see what we could see. I have walked that country a fair amount in long-past days, and always feel drawn to it.

As we gained elevation, our distant views revealed the smoke trail pluming across the horizon.

Rock Butte rose steeply nearby . . .

. . . and as we continued we found much of interest - a fossil sponge . . .

. . . more flowers . . .

. . . a pleasant rock grotto (another grotto - must be my theme for today), dubbed Lion Rock by Ms. Gail . . .

. . . and where we fell into a frenzy of selfies (another theme for this post) . . .

. . . even !!! A Mountain Lion !!! Yuppers, there it was for all to see, although it seemed unenamored of our presence as it slunk away through the thick brush. Pretty exciting stuff there! It was positively my very first time to see a mountain lion in the wild; I opted to watch rather than waste time trying to get a poor photo.

A rocky road, and I don't mean ice cream . . .

Although Normand did not join us on our trek-about, he was front and center as we traveled north, sometimes on the abandoned rail bed, sometimes crawling and creeping over the washed out bouldery track that dropped into and up out of canyons previously spanned by long-gone trestles (or as Sara used to term them - trellises).

That northward drive was someone's bright idea to get to Cotton Dam. That someone (me unfortunately) had in mind that it was just a short way up the road - an up and back jaunt. Not! By the time we got to that destination, we were ecstatic to know that we could get out of there by continuing on into Juniperwood Ranch, thence to Highway 89 instead of retracing our route. To say that was a rough road would be the understatement of the year.

We stretched our legs at Cotton Dam while admiring the corral that is no longer a corral, but instead a picturesque reminder of cattle roundups that once were.