Awakening

SAD: seasonal affective disorder.  While I don't ascribe to having any disorder, there can be no doubt that the doldrums caught up with me during the just past winter & spring, seasons that all agree were just horrid with no reprieve from cold, wet & wind.

Thus, when we hatched the idea to head far enough down the hill in an effort to escape the clutches of shiverdom, our bandwagon was quickly loaded and on the way for a two-day stay.  

Best travel method in my opinion is to have no particular activities in mind, but to be open to whatever shows itself, and that is what we did.  In this case, it was as much a result of ennui as anything; I just wanted to get out of Dodge.

Long before we reached the furthest terminus of our drive, we putzed off the pavement onto a rutted dirt road to peruse the bird situation at Gibson Tank, actually more of a small lake.  As are all the bodies of water in these parts, this one's blue had turned to brown from extensive flood runoff.

It felt good to stretch our legs, but we were surprised at the dearth of avian activity.  There was a large dispersed presence of black-necked stilts, but not a lot of anything else.  On the water, we identified American coot, cinnamon teal, ruddy duck, pied-billed grebe, and a pair of mallards.  

Along the brushy shorelines and in the area, we saw turkey vulture, chipping sparrow, mourning dove, American robin, house finch, common raven, and a first for the year: a stunning vermillion flycatcher that displayed itself for us up close and personal.

 

That same road could have taken us the looong back route to Wickenburg, an endeavor we set off on, but soon realized the late not-so-great wet weather had turned those many miles into a torturous drive, and possibly an impossible one given our lack of a bulldozer to smooth the way, so we bowed to sensibility for a change and headed back to potholed pavement.

But first, there was a wander to explore a cliffy area we spotted down a dry wash.  Still, neither of us had gotten our boondocking engines into full throttle, but it was a good walk, nonetheless, well, except for that large noisy bovine advance into our realm.  And then there was that humongo hive alive with bees undoubtedly of the Africanized variety.  I ventured closer than was advisable, according to the señor, but managed to exit without disastrous consequences.  Unfortunately, my photos did not show the extensive hive well, so I have to be content with showing only the pock-marked wash bank where the buzzing insects had constructed their home.

 

We added a couple of birds to the trip list there: phainopepla and ash-throated flycatcher.

 

Still without making landfall, or at least lodging fall, we came upon the Vulture Mine, now opened for tourists such as we.  Although continuing as an operating venture, the historic buildings have been renovated sufficiently to house an incredible array of paraphernalia from days gone past.

Not one to turn up my nose at any tourist attraction, I anticipated something much less interesting than what we found.  In fact, it was downright fascinating as we wandered from building to building, many dating from the 1880s, read about various equipment and displays, and marveled at the amazing array of artifacts relating to gold mining and life as it was in those days.

As we puttered our way through the extensive ghost town, we found not one, not two, but three pianos in various stages of decay.  Only one had a way to sit down at it . . .

. . .  and at another, the señor got quite the stink eye from one old gal peering over his shoulder.

Electricity anyone?

 

Naturally, I have to photograph items displaying the Kelly name (even if they miss on the spelling), because I are one.

The brittle bush was in fine fettle throughout that desert region, and at the Vulture Mine, it seemed to flourish even more against the buildings' warm south walls.

 

A little elbow grease and this washroom would be right as rain.

 A nice family grouping . . .

What's a mining ghost town without a burro?

 

"Welcome to Rita's".  I'm afraid to ask what that might have been.

I was clueless about the correlation between the Vulture Mine and this "artistic" endeavor.

The mine managed to get us slightly more engaged with life; however, we had not really emerged beyond the "I don't care; let's just go home" stage until "The Bluffs".  

It happened like this:  There we were tearing down State Highway 93 (tearing in order not to be run over), when through a break in the road cut, I glimpsed a large geologic formation that made me sit up and take notice.

The unfortunate aspect was that said formation was on the opposite side of the divided highway.  Then ambivalence reigned supreme: should we try to find a cross-over and go back?  And if we did find an appropriate turnaround to access the opposing lane, then would we see the spot in time to get off the road without being run down by speeding traffic.  And if we didn't see it in time, how far back would we have to go to turn around once more . . . and etc. etc.  We continued on feeding off of each other's vacillation until suddenly, there was a cross-over, and the decision was made.  We skidded to a halt on a patch of roadside dirt that led to a gate that led to a two-track at just the right spot.

The magnificent bluffs were in sight right away . . .

Unbeknownst to us at the time, the formation and the majestic mountains beyond are in the Arrastra Mountain Wilderness area across a wide sand wash that was not running water, but had been an active waterway not long before.

 

That stop was what turned the switch for us.  The sun bathed us in its warmth; a tenous wisp of breeze softened the rays, and we were immersed in the kind of grandeur that Arizona offers to those who look.

Without a spoken decision, we walked downward, often following a burro trail that wound through the brush-dotted slope in a seemingly random meander.  It was absolutely wondrous with each step as we got deeper into the canyon.  The wonder of desert flowers that magically appear when Mother Nature bestows sufficient moisture at the right time dotted the landscape with a palette unequaled by man.  I love their subtlety when I take the time to enjoy the microcosm of my surroundings, and at another gaze around, am awed by how they mass to color entire mountainsides.

I was surprised to see sour dock growing up on the slopes, but it was clear that the water table was not far beneath the surface.  In fact, we came upon one spot where a burro had pawed a hole into the sand deep enough to reach drinkable water.

Because our saunter had taken us down to the wide canyon's bottom, of course there remained the necessity of climbing back up and out.  For part of that climb, we walked up a wide tributary that had recently actively run water . . .

. . . leaving an abstract canvas at its departure.

While ambling around there, we identified additional birds, including cactus wren, Gila woodpecker, curve-billed thrasher, Gambel's quail and a striking hooded oriole, the first we've spotted this season.  Despite getting really good looks at another thrasher, we failed to identify it.  Its bill seemed too short for a crissal or a Bendire's, but it did not have the distinctive orange eyes of a curve-billed.

After we had managed to return to our waiting pickup, and maneuvered our way back into speeding traffic, the señor soon got us scooched off to the side enough that we were not run over, and again we back-roaded, this time along the route to the Santa Maria River.

There we were thrilled with miles and miles of the most amazing variety of blossoms opening to their brief time in the sun.

The river was still at flood stage, but receding.  Judging by the height of debris, we estimated the Santa Maria had recently risen by 12 or 15 feet and to a span of about 200 yards.  It is not unusual for it to be completely dry there.