We be Arizonans . . .

. . . which equates to a near-obsession with water, in whatever form it comes: falling from the sky, seeping or gushing from beneath the Earth's surface, or running atop said surface.  In the majority of instances that a perennial stream exists, mankind has sought to control it in one way or another via diversion or damming.

The Winslow region is blessed with water in several ways; we had thought we might try our hands at fishing while there, but the unceasing cold wind deterred us.  It did not dampen our intention to be out and about, fortunately, but I was grateful to be bundled up a la winter.

At Chevelon Creek where its flow is directed by a deep rocky chasm before its route crosses Rock Art Ranch, we walked upstream hoping to find spots that might allow us to launch kayaks.  The one we found would work, but only if we worked harder than we might want to dragging them to it.  

As far as we went, one bank of the creek was steeply rock-sided; both banks are heavily brushed with very few breaks and those only where occasional flood water flows in.  Those are mostly steep enough drop-offs that we could probably scramble down them, but there would be no way to climb back out.

We did get in lots of good walking during our stay, and anticipate returning for much more.  Because of an arrangement between the Game & Fish Department and the Hopi Tribe, a lot of ranch land owned by the Indians is accessible to the public, so the opportunity for on-foot exploration is exciting.

Because our walk was near a water source, we encountered lots of evidence that many had been there before, both prehistorically with stone chipped in the process of tool making and bits of pottery . . .

 

. . . and historically with large scatters of old sun-colored green and purple glass.

It is a stream that beckons; we still hope to find a route to put in our boats and kayak through its canyons.

Clear Creek . . .

Not to be outdone, not-too-far-away Clear Creek boasts an even more spectacular canyon.  There we are certain to have access via its dammed-up reservoir.  

 

 

It would be easy to put in at McHood Park's boat ramp, from which we could soon be upstream beneath those very precipitous bluffs.

This is the kind of terrain we romped around and across to get glimpses of the watery chasm below.

 

The country side also has interesting red rock formations that often leave massive tabletop platforms teetering atop relatively spindly columns.  Unfortunately, many of them that are near roadways have become surfaces for graffiti expressions.

My sentiments exactly . . .

Surprises and serendipities

Exploration was the name of the game for our Winslow sojourn, and explore is what we did.  Once that obligatory dinner was finished and digested, I briefly browsed a freebie hand-out map on which someone had written "Little Painted Desert" and a milepost number. 

"Huh", said I sagely, or maybe it was more of a snort, but no matter, we headed for milepost number whatzit.  A mere quarter mile or so off the paved road, we encountered an abandoned Navajo County park, replete with derelict grafitti-covered ramadas and aging crumbled blacktopped entrance.

Immediately, though, our attention was diverted to the landscape ahead of us.  As we approached bluff's edge, we were astounded at the vast desert badlands before us, horizontally striped with bands of buff, ochre and gray.  I could not imagine that such a beautiful place would be so relatively unknown and unvisited.  I made some feeble attempt not to go overboard with photos, but the task was too much for me.  I offer "a few" of them here.

We spent quite a bit of time sauntering and examining the view from various vantage points until we came upon the scant remnants of an erstwhile trail that had once accessed the depths.  The señor opted to traverse that route until it was no longer possible.  I, on the other hand, being of sounder mind, did not risk life & limb on said activity.  In fact, I refused to allow him to take my camera on his dangerous mission, and even went so far as to suggest that he leave the truck keys with me, "just in case".  He pretty much ignored my request, but did manage to shoot the following two photos of The Trail.

As might be expected, he made his way back up to where I maintained my stance on ground more likely not to shift out from under me, and we continued on our walking tour of the rim.  We have every intention to return and find a route to the bottom that does not require life-threatening steps, and that without a doubt will involved a good deal of butt scootin' on my part.

There were very few cacti in that area; the tiny one shown below was new to me, and was fruitful indeed.

 

The plain was thick with Indian rice grass, its spindly stalks all bowed under the weight of their ripened seeds.

As we stopped here and there to see what was to be seen, we stopped to offer tribute at a 9/11 memorial with two huge mangled steel beams from New York's Twin Towers.  The energy was palpable as we paused there.

 

 

The Little Colorado River gave evidence of recent high-water flooding, but at our passing, it had receded to a still-more-than-usual stream size with its bed quicksand-like.

 

Just like the many early inhabitants of that region, Winslow area's historic settlers came and remained because of available water.  Mormon pioneers were among the earliest to put down roots, with cattlemen staking their claims also.  Now it's all about trains - a constant stream - long strings of cargo boxes, boxcars, flatcars and tank cars rumble past the town famed for its place on historic Route 66 and La Posada, a restored Harvey House.

Indian trader Lorenzo Hubbell built one of his trading posts in Winslow; it now serves as the visitors center alongside the train tracks.

 It is one of many historic buildings in the area.  I especially liked this beautiful residential structure.

After the surprise and fun of visiting the Little Painted Desert, we stopped in at the Old Trails Museum downtown.  It's always a throw of the dice as to what you might find in small-town museums; that one was a combination of townsfolks' donated items and a historian's organization.  Speaking with Ann-Mary, who was manning the place in lieu of available volunteers, was educational and interesting.  She has compiled calendars loaded with historical photographs and information, written one Arcadia book about Winslow, and has another in the works that will be a "then & now" of buildings.  She has done a marvelous job of curating the collection in a thematic way.

The museum is housed in the former Valley National Bank building, complete with vault.

And speaking of historic structures, we had the most serendipitous and just totally lovely experience at St. Joseph's Church, which celebrated its 100th birthday last year,  As we walked by and tried the locked door, we were noticed by a passing driver.  As the timing happened, we were on the doorstep just as a fine lady who is associated with the church drove by.  Undoubtedly, she - Kathy Hernandez, by name - was on her way to something or other, but that did not stop her from diverting her plan to stop and ask us if we wanted to see the interior.

Yes indeed, we were hoping to, we responded, at which she proceeded to give us a tour.  Kathy was a kindly and enthusiastic emissary for St. Joseph's.  Not only did she take time from her day for us, she asked for our address so she could send us the centennial pamphlet from 2021 that includes good photos of the stunning stained glass windows.  Because I told her we had recently seen churches in Santa Fe, she mentioned that a group from the church is planning to go there for that purpose.

 

From Ann-Mary, we learned that a television program - Home Town Kickstart - had chosen Winslow for one of its programs.  The process as stated by the producer is thus: "HGTV's small town renewal movement goes across the country as six teams of renovation superstars give struggling cities the kickstart they need to thrive".  Not having television, it was all new to us.  

We were told the efforts in Winslow centered around revitalizing one business and one residence in addition to putting on display two "art cars".  Did it work?, we asked, and were told that it encouraged some folks to paint and rejuvenate their homes.

 

As we walked around town, of course we must peruse certain items related to railroading . . . 

. . . which included the señor contemplating a honking big piece of equipment (to each his own, but it certainly didn't blow any air up my skirts, nor would it have had I been attired in a skirt).

Most of what Winslow is about (besides "standing on the corner" a la the 1970s Eagles song, undoubtedly the most popular activity in town) is historic, and the 1929 airport is no different.  It is named for aviator Charles Lindbergh after having served as one of 12 critical refueling stops for his Transcontinental Air Transport network, the nation's first transcontinental air passenger line.  It may be the only one still intact; the others have been swallowed up by big city airports.

 

Part of the charm of our Route 66 Delta Motel was the line of primary-color chairs outside each room.  When we arrived, they were in use in front of our room by a Canadian/Scottsdale couple who were enjoying an evening nibble & beverage.  They had moved to our spot as they tried to soak up the last of the sun's waning warmth.  

As with everyone else we met, they were fun and interesting to chat with.  When all was said & done, they thought they would like to come up to our neck of the woods to meet for drinks/dinner/visiting.  We look forward to that.

Passin' by the corner

We've done the obligatory "standin' on the corner in Winslow, Arizona", and have no need to repeat that, but that didn't stop us from heading up that way again to see the sights.  What else is to be seen there, you might wonder, but trust me, there's a whole huge world out there waiting to be explored - sights just over the next rise, around the next bend, and just beyond whatever is in your vision right now.  And I just realized that I was meaning that as much metaphorically as literally.

But first, I must digress to put this three-day jaunt into some perspective.  I leave on November 1 for a ten-day tour of Israel, one of those bonuses that life occasionally tosses one's way.  As a relatively inexperienced international traveler, the occasion has raised swirls of questions for me; they continue to float to the top of my consciousness, and I must snatch at an answer at that moment lest they sink back out of reach. Thus, the past few weeks have been ones of some intensity as I attempt to resolve one thing after another.

Probably absurdly early, I gathered appropriate luggage and packed, packed and repacked, changed my mind endlessly, added, subtracted and exchanged what I would take along, working hard not to overpack, as is my wont.  Throughout the process, I was determined to continue with my usual filled-to-the-gills schedule, and managed it fairly well, at the possible expense of my sanity.

Or perhaps all those occasions, events and visits helped me to maintain some semblance of whatever passes for normal in our lives.  Certainly we wouldn't have missed celebrating Gail & Normand's nuptials and visiting with them and their families from near and abroad.  As always, I was happy to delve into local history and genealogy when Nancy stopped by with interesting Yavapai County documents, and another highlight was a visit from dear friends-of-my-youth Pat from Wisconsin and Kathy from Phoenix.  Managed to fit it all in without a hitch - well, perhaps a bit of hitches when I packed for the Winslow journey and left behind a few minor things, like toothbrushes (justification: we needed new ones anyway).  

I mean really, think about it: I had to partially unpack the Israel luggage amidst all those swirling, rising and falling thoughts, questions and concerns.  At any rate, Tuesday morning early saw us off and gone, and even the señor was caught up in it all; we had to return for the fishing bait he neglected to put in. Wonder if we'll ever get around to fishing . . .

. . . and the answer is . . . not yet, at least.  Really, it is surprising that we even made it to Winslow, what will all the twists and turns along the way.  Good thing we eventually arrived at our destination; after all, we had anniversary celebratory dinner reservations at La Posada's Turquoise Room.  When, and more importantly, why did I ever begin taking photographs of meals?!  Anyway, this one was fabulous!

 

 

Dine & drink we did, and then returned to our snugly satisfactory lodging at the Route 66 Delta Motel.  (Highly recommend, by the way, for their individually theme-decorated rooms, exemplary service and absolutely immaculate housekeeping, so much so that everything looks brand new.)

That's the cart before the horse, now for the horse . . . our day consisted of a whole lot of back-road wanders north of the Mogollon Rim country as we took our time exploring before arriving at Winslow.

Prior to getting into forestland, we traversed a lot of high grasslands and stopped for some birding at a tank with snow-dusted San Francisco Peaks off to the southwest.  Tracks of every ilk gave evidence of the many critters that utilize the waterhole.  

Birds we identified there and nearby were red-tailed hawk, dark-eyed junco, black phoebe, raven, American robin, chipping sparrow, savannah sparrow, white-crowned sparrow and yellow-rumped warbler.

Wide open vistas gave way to forests as we headed for Lost Eden (a mysterious dot on the back roads map), but it lived up to its name and remained unfound.

No matter, the scenery was stupendous as we drove through beautiful ponderosa forest and saw an amazing amount of surface water; clearly, that area has also gotten a plethora of rain through the season and very recently, too.  Yaeger Tank, seemingly an ephemeral lake had many acres of water glistening in the sunlight.

Near there, we stopped to examine an abandoned corral that turned out to include a stock scale.  I've never seen one out on the range like that.  I love to photograph the beautifully weather-scarred wood of those long-unused catchpens, with their geometry of leaning and listing posts and poles where once there were the calls and whistles of stockmen amidst the bellering and bawling of cattle and now only the wind whispers. . .

. . . and I have evidently long had an especial affinity for loading ramps; I have a photo I took of Darren as a toddler over 50 years ago when I posed him at the top of one.

Nearby, we found a cleverly unique stock tank made from an old truck bed.  The rancher had welded the tailgate shut to prevent leakage.

Lining the banks of washes the Gambel's oaks' leaves were illuminated as the sun shone through.

In our zeal to avoid Interstate highway travel, we transected a part of the Flying M Ranch and came out at Mormon Lake, where we anticipated seeing elk that are known to gather there.  Perhaps they knew we were coming; nary a one was in sight.

We made sure to encourage a hefty four-foot bull snake off the road where he was torpidly sunning himself in the coolish weather.  I wondered if he was trying to spell out a message for me.  I got as far as "I" . . .

"U" . . .

. . . but when I reached down to gently stroke him, he moved into an unfamiliar alphabet, and expressed some displeasure at that molestation, so I allowed him to proceed off into the brush cover without finishing the message.

Closer to Winslow, we crossed Jack's Canyon and called another halt for a walk along the rim.  It was a beautiful chasm with huge cave-like overhangs.  At first, we thought it might provide an intriguing gorge-bottom hike, but a closer look revealed what seemed to be a channel impassable due to water, rubble and a floor covered with thick grapevines.

 Someone hardier than I has clearly made it to the bottom where they chalked a message on the rock face: "Be kind to nature", a lovely sentiment, but perhaps not living up to its own intention.

Along the way, we spotted a couple more common birds: rock dove and Stellar's jay.