There & here

As we contemplate, anticipate, consider and plan for a week away from the homestead, my mind wandered the other direction (not the first time I have admitted that my thoughts are prone to ramble aimlessly through the time continuum), back to a few excursions not heretofore related.

Back when summer was in full swing and we were homeward bound from a delightful swing through Wyoming, I experienced an urgency to be home.  Despite the journey's wonders, my psyche required the solace of familiarity, and the señor was amenable to an earlier-than-planned return.

That southward drive transported us through additional landscapes of stellar scenery: my enthusiasm, while at once appreciative and enthused, was dulled by a sense of apathy.  I actually feel a touch of guilt that portions of the day were underappreciated in my readiness to be done.

Our route took us along a narrow winding blacktop road following the Colorado River's course down the mountain, thence to a back road, familiar from previous trips and memorable for extraordinary scenery.  I was roused from my lethargy enough to once again photographically record the beauty in which we found ourselves.  That truly is an area that we must return to for further exploration on foot.

Although time has passed, as time is wont to do, I decided to share these scenes.

Meanwhile, day trippin' . . .

. . . the comfort of familiar settings encouraged us to be out and about exploring in closer-to-home environs.  A familiar litany we repeat is that we must spend more time in a particular place or further check out another site or look for some certain spot we've heard or read about - more options than could be done in a lifetime, we continue trying in and amongst work & social commitments, home maintenance and all the other activities with which we fill our time.

One such place that has drawn me for many years is the area of Limestone Canyon.  If you've read this far, perhaps you know that I am apt to share sometimes more than some might be ready to hear.  This is one of those.

Several decades ago, I was camping in the Black Hills that run along the north side of Big Chino Valley.  At that time, I told my companion that I was going to walk off in a certain direction.  "Something's calling me", I distinctly remember remarking in an off-handed way, without realizing the import of those words.

I set off alone, light-heartedly walking along the forested ridgetops, enjoying distant scenes as they came into view between the trees along my traverse.  I had no sense of time passing, destination, urgency nor need to be anywhere other than exactly where I was, although I later was told that my time away was extensive enough to cause concern that I may have been lost or injured.

At the terminus of my saunter, I experienced an almost-out-of-body sensation.  As I approached a prehistoric dwelling site, I suddenly knew that I had lived there.  I knew exactly who I was when I lived there: a young Indian woman, and I knew exactly who my father was at that time, as certainly as I know anything in my current lifetime.

I have no explanation for what happened, but today, nearly 50 years later, it is as certain as my sitting to type this at my computer.  I knew that I was happy in that life; it was as if I had walked through an unseen doorway into the past as I relived the emotions.

Not surprisingly, the area continues to call to me; recently, the señor & I returned there, but with insufficient time to satisfy me.  Although we climbed up near to that site, we had to stop short as daylight was failing us and we had a completely unmaintained washed-out road ahead of us for our return.  Alas, another day.

Besides that route that is scarcely suitable for two-wheeled dirt bikes, but that Ruby managed with my pard's careful (or crazed) handling, we spent a good bit of time wandering on foot looking for the site of Camp Cotton.  One of us was pretty certain he could go right to it after perusing an old map, and one of us remains unsure if we even found it,  Oh well, it was a good day spent away from civilization.

During our wanderings, we located artifacts that told of some habitation and ranching activities there . . .

. . . and things of nature that captured our interest.

On yet another day, knowing that the north country would be in its autumn yellowing stage, we scooted off first to Mormon Lake, and were, as always, stunned by the vast stands of flower fields so brilliant that they nearly light up the very air.

At various times, Mormon Lake's wide shallow expanse is crispy dry, greenly lush and flower-filled, swampy or watery enough to become populated with endemic and migrating birdlife.  We saw lots of white-faced ibises busily wade-feeding.

Turning our noses a bit eastward, the drive revealed the result of a wet summer, with tanks and lakes full and often-dry valley drainages watery, clearly irresistible for some.

We were the only folks around at JD Dam, but there were frogs, tiny & huge, in the millions.

We tried a bit of angling with varying success at Kinnikinnick Lake, whose distant shoreline appears to be the edge of the Earth  . . .

. . . White Horse Lake . . .

. . . and Lower Lake Mary, that netted us some white perch.

Back-roading of course on the way home, we caught views of Sycamore Canyon and Perkinsville.

 

 

An aside for a story from Chris' youthful backpacking days.  As he set off for a solo journey, he noticed a place along his intended route where he thought he could stave off the tedium of backpacking fare with a hamburger.  That hopeful locale was designated as Perkinsville on the map, which he learned on arrival was nothing more than a ranch headquarters sans anything even remotely like a hamburger joint.

As a desert rat born & raised, the brilliant green of willows and cottonwoods off in the distance foretelling the presence of water is always a welcome sight and one that denotes the relief of an oasis-like habitat.

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Uncounted days of my life have been spent at the Verde River, along many different stretches of it from the headwaters through the Verde Valley and all the way along its lower stretches after its release from dammed-up reservoirs when it pours its waters into the Salt River.

It is a home-coming for me when I am on its banks, a place of solace & surcease from toil - whether fishing, birdwatching, swimming, sauntering, snoozing or just savoring.

We stopped near the Perkinsville Bridge, surprised & a little pleased that vehicle access along the river has been eliminated there.  We've many times camped along there, as have many others - too many in fact who did not respect the nature of the place, trashing it and destroying the valuable habitat.

One final fishing, but not a lot of catching, for our day's finale.  Crawdads were by far the catch of the day, and all was right with the world.