On the bright side

Many years ago, I attended an afternoon presentation by a lovely gentleman by the name of Chris Chenoweth.  He was an ordained Unity minister who had spoken at Unity of Prescott that morning.  I confess that I seldom retain specific takeaways from talks, films, books or articles.  My modus operandi seems to be that at best, I will gain a sense of what I heard or read or watched and will recall any emotion or impression it conjured.

Not so with Rev. Chenoweth.  While there was undoubtedly far more meat in his talk, one particular aspect not only got my notice on that occasion, it has stuck with me for years: indeed, it has become an integral part of how I live my life.

I recently had the opportunity (if it could be categorized as such) to follow the fine reverend's advice, and I am grateful that I had that important tool at my disposal.

It happened like this: the señor was anxious for us to drive south to the lower Verde River where it exits from its entrapment at Horseshoe Lake.  While I had spent substantial time thereabouts in my younger years, it was mostly when I lived in Phoenix oh so long ago, thus a doable day trip.  Departing from Prescott, however, causes the driving/enjoying ratio to be lopsided - too much driving in comparison to the time spent playing.  Thus I was not as enthusiastic as I could have been, but I agreed nevertheless.

An early start and we were away, with lots of highway travel, never my favorite, followed by our more typical dirt road stint to gain our goal.  A good bit of time later, we arrived at the base of Horseshoe Dam where the water's release creates a great roiling as it shoots from the gate.

Right at the get-go, there is a huge sign warning of the danger of venturing out onto the rocks at that location, but because it refers to possible water releases from the overflow, my pard opined that we could blithely ignore that admonition; the lake is far too low for water to be released.  In that, I am certain he was correct, but still I hesitated before agreeing to go along.

We ventured out to the far end of the rocky shelf, and sure enough, we were not washed downstream by gigantic bursts of water, I am happy to report.  I made my way out there slowly and cautiously; the uneven footing was difficult, especially with my camera strap slung across my neck and shoulder and my binoculars further weighing me down.

All was well until . . . well, until it wasn't.  Just as I approached the farthest edge of the ledge where it dropped away into the river, I felt uneasy and bent down to steady myself with a hand.  That was when we both watched my $300 prescription sunglasses and case jettison out of my shirt pocket and launch themselves into the river.  I quickly snatched a fishing rod lying next to me and coaxed the floating case back to shore, but before it could be snatched to safety, it sank into the depths.  To say I was shocked would be the ultimate understatement.  I could scarcely believe it happened.

Needless to say, I expended quite a bit of energy bemoaning the accident and beating myself up over it.  And that is when I harkened back to Chris Chenoweth's long-ago advice which I have adopted to get me through many an unpleasant situation.

However he characterized it, I call it the "yes/but" philosophy.  It goes like this (and I always come up with three examples): "Yes", that bad thing happened, "but" it could have been my phone and that would have been so much worse.  "Yes", that bad thing happened, "but" it could have been my camera and that would have been disastrous.  "Yes", that bad thing happened, "but" I could have slipped and fallen into the river, and heaven knows how that would have ended.

Seems that I can pretty much always come up with a "Yes/but" scenario from which I can feel gratitude that what happened wasn't even worse.  So . . . I have an expensive pair of glasses to replace, but certainly it could have been worse, and I am grateful that it wasn't.

We did spend some time jawing about whether one of us should strip down and go in to see if we could dive to find the lost glasses, but finally concluded that: 1. It would be a dangerous undertaking in that roiling cold water, and 2. It would probably be fruitless anyway.

Not the first family glasses to be lost in the Verde . . .

The whole affair put me in mind of a Kelley family event from my childhood, another involving the same river but further down near Ft. McDowell.  It was a favorite area for my family and friends to frequent, often spending a long summer Sunday at the Verde - fishing, barbecuing, tubing and just generally reveling in being there.

That particular time, we were with our friends & neighbors, the Congers, and we had brought along Dick Conger's canoe, which was launched easily.  Dad & Dick were playing with the boat when my older brother Frank dove into the river without thinking that he was wearing his new glasses that had been purchased just the day before.

Boy howdy, the uproar that ensued when they became dislodged from his face and sank below the surface was most unpleasant.  I feel badly for him to this day when I think about it.  A lot of time was spent in the search for those glasses, none of it successfully.  He most likely relived that fateful moment many times, just as I did, except that I had the benefit of the "yes/but" philosophy, and Frank was in deep Dutch with our parents, who had five kids to feed, clothe and provide glasses for.

The river . . .

Just as the upper Verde has many moods as it finds its way across the landscape, so it does farther downstream, but without the high canyon walls.  It runs wide & placid in places and rushes through narrows in others.  Much of the shoreline is a tangled mass of thorny vegetation, impassable for much of it.

The Mazatzal Mountain range with its wilderness area makes up the eastern skyline from that vantage point.  Although the region is replete with abundant and extraordinarily statuesque saguaros, I refrained from photographing the many splendid specimens . . .

. . . but one in particular had me calling a halt.  A ways off from the road, I spied a crested saguaro - and what a beauty it was.  Nothing would suffice but that we sauntered over to where it was standing tall on a hilltop in order to appreciate it up close.

These are a rarity; evidently it is unknown why some grow in that unusual configuration.  I admired it as a delightful sculpture by Mother Nature.