Tradition succumbed . . .

. . . to circumstances as we embarked on a most atypical Christmas.  On the morning of “the” eve, as we breakfasted on the gift of most outstanding biscotti, friend & neighbor Gail stopped in to join us.

We had haphazardly (mostly me) packed (the señor was quite a bit more proactive on the getting-ready-to-go activity) for our two days away from home, and enjoyed the hiatus.

Eventually, we were on the road at the crack of 10, heading to Arizona’s north country where we were to meet with our son Lewis in Holbrook.  His work schedule did not allow time for coming to us in Prescott, so the mountain went to Mohammad.

Loathe as I am to venture onto highways, and most especially interstate thoroughfares, we traveled via back roads up toward the Mogollon Rim.  Clearly, not many others were of the same mind, or the more likely scenario was that the number of people traveling to Holbrook for Christmas was nil, none, zippo, nada, zilch.  At any rate, we had the road pretty much to ourselves, and enjoyed watching the scenery change as we climbed out of the lovely Verde Valley and into the higher-elevation forests.

At that point, our bird list consisted of ravens, and a roadrunner we spotted up ahead doing what they do best.

We bypassed Winslow, veering off the pavement and onto the gravel of the Territorial Road, and coming into Holbrook’s hinterlands of scattered homesteads.  

We stopped at the bridge over Chevelon Canyon, reminisced about previous visits, and discussed our many visits to nearby Rock Art Ranch where we became friends with rancher Brantley Baird.  Brantley and his family have just this month decided to close their fascinating place to tours due to liability concerns.  I find it impossible to pass over that one-lane bridge without stopping for photo ops.

Our route took us along Brantley’s fence line; the wide open grasslands is a haven for numerous large flocks of horned larks.  As we passed, they startled and dramatically flew as one to different patches of countryside.

My self-appointed role in these journeys is to point out things of interest, to wonder “What’s that?”, and to “suggest” (sometimes forcefully depending on our speed and my interest) that we stop, back up, or venture onto a divergent route, as the situation requires.

Dirt tanks built by ranchers to serve as water catchments for livestock are interesting stopping points, sometimes eliciting interesting birds or critters come for a drink.  I called a halt near one; as we walked up the slope to see what we could see, we identified a Say’s Phoebe that had taken up temporary residence atop a fence post.  It and a few cattle were the sole denizens just then.

Even with our leisurely departure, we had plenty of time to explore the nearby burg of Woodruff.  We had been there briefly some decades previously and I recalled being totally taken with how attractive the town was; I had mentioned it a number of times.

Sadly, it appears that the years have not been good to Woodruff; in fact, I was shocked at the general deterioration we found.  It’s not a time-consuming affair to drive pretty much every street in town.  The population was reported as 200 in 2010; it's now down to 40.

The older, previously impressive houses have been abandoned, left to deteriorate under the unrelenting advance of time.  

 

 

It was disconcerting to see: I could find not the slightest semblance of the beautiful little town we had visited 30 years ago.  A very odd feeling indeed to witness a vital village becoming a ghost town.

A few homesteaders are raising small livestock in their yards; we saw chickens, goats, sheep, pigs . . .

. . . and one scruffy llama.

Along with some unique architecture, we questioned the what, why, when & who of several abandoned dugouts in the mix.

 

We spotted one bucolic nod to the season, a hay bale/car tire greeting.

As genealogists (and seekers to know all), of course we followed the winding lane of Cemetery Road and perused the local burying ground, somewhat unkempt - no doubt because of the dwindling population.

There we found many names of Arizona pioneer families and those of the LDS persuasion, names that were familiar to us.  Woodruff was a Mormon settlement from the get-go, as are many other northern Arizona towns.

As a result, some of the earliest stones had plaques that indicated those folks were what is known as handcart pioneers.  

Not surprisingly, many of those so designated were of Scandinavian origin, as the LDS church was proseletyzing in those north countries: converts were arriving in the U.S. by the thousands and then trekking across the plains to settle in Utah.  My niece, Shannon, has ancestors who were handcart pioneers and eventually settled in southern Arizona, whence came my sister-in-law Sharon.

Before departing the cemetery area, I had to wonder about two nearby structures . . .

. . . but was unable to come up with an explanation for either, mysteries they remain unless my clever readers can discern their use.  Anyone?

Woodruff is sited on the banks of the Little Colorado River, a lifeblood for those pioneers.  We stopped to check out its meager flow at that juncture, and ventured out onto the old highway bridge-turned pedestrian-only as its timbers deteriorate and its superstructure gives way to the elements.

Finally remembering that there was an actual destination involved in our journey, we turned toward Holbrook via the Old Woodruff Road, driving a nicely graveled route as I opined at how much wide open country there remains unexplored by us, and noting dirt side roads that I hope to try out at some point in the near future.

As the first sojourners at our Holbrook lodging, we awaited son Lewis’ arrival after his work shift, then dined on sandwiches and sparkling cider while exchanging gifts.  Our most atypical Christmas Eve yet, a desk lamp served admirably as our Christmas tree.

Christmas arrived, as it does every year right about this time.  With it, we got a half day with Lewis after his work ended.  The three of us are equally amenable to setting off on an explore, and that is how we found ourselves in a non-national-park section of the badlands known as the Painted Desert.

The day delivered plenty of welcome sunshine tempered with a slightly cool breeze - not too shabby for an end-of-December walkabout.

Avoiding shady spots as much as possible (the temps dropped dramatically out of the sun), we wound around the horizontally striped hills, anticipating that we must return for more extensive wandering.

As we retraced our route back toward the table-top grasslands from which the hills rise, far distant San Francisco Peaks' snowy summits showed the way. . .

. . . and we spied the pickup, dwarfed by the landscape, awaiting our return.

 

As reluctant as we were to depart that natural beauty, it was to replace that adventure with the more familiar.  We dined at the historic and charming structure, La Posada, thus ending a Christmas celebration of non-tradition, or perhaps one that foretells a new custom.

 

Celebrating Shannon

Some occasions truly need celebrations, and some celebrations are seriously important enough to require hopping on a jet plane in order to attend.  Two of those occasions coincided recently, with the result that I left the señor home to work whilst I jetted off to Oregon.  My eldest niece, Shannon, reached her three-score & five birthday and at the same time, left the working-for-a-wage world - plenty momentous enough for me to depart home & hearth (such as it is: a silly little electric "flame" pops up at the push of a button) and venture northward where all is damp.

To further add to the excitement of celebrating with Shannon, there were various other important-to-me personages in attendance, including but not limited to my darling daughter, Sara.

Sara & her newly-wed husband, Terry, retrieved me from the Portland airport (don't get me started about the mile-long trek to baggage claim), and drove we three to Gearhart just in time for party central the next day . . .

. . .  but not before we hung various & sundry artwork, including some of Grandma's paintings.

Nephew Jim, always the accommodating host, fortified us with tuna melts, the ingredients of which were caught and canned by his own hands. . .

. . . and then proceeded to harvest figs from his tiny orchard.  He's nurtured each of those trees from seed.

 

 

 

 

 

Despite Jim & his never-ending feeding of the hungry hordes and always antics . . .

 

. . . and the fun of being together again (yes, I was swaddled to shield me from the Oregon coast damp cold) . . .

 

. . . all (at least most) attention was on Shannon for her simultaneous milestones.

 

The children at the school where she worked went all out to fabricate cards and posters expressing their love for her, and as usual at the Hostetler home, there was plenty of fun as we read the sentiments and went through family photo albums.

 

 

 

 

 

When the festivities moved to a local watering hole/Mexican restaurant, she was feted by mobs of well-wishers.  It was at that point that I neglected to adjust my camera setting and made a mess of the event's photos.  I'm fired!
 

 

A walk on the beach (far preferable to the proverbial park) . . . 

. . . Shannon (and the delightful Brisket) treated us to a walk to, and on the beach, a mere ten minutes from her home on Neacoxie Creek.  There's always something new at the seashore, and we thoroughly enjoyed the long promenade, with gratitude for the sunshine that warmed us against the brisk wind.

Not tourist-strolling weather, besides we visitors, it was a locals-only day on the sand.  I was fascinated by a feller who was wind surfing on a wheeled contraption.  He was steering it by pushing the front axle with his feet while attempting to use the kite for forward momentum and trying not to run over us and his support crew.  The gusts were confounding him a bit; as I spoke to him when he was packing it in, he was exhilarated and exhausted at the same time.  What a lot of work it was!

For this land-lubber, the ocean and environs are of endless fascination; I never get enough of it.

 

Brisket's fascination extends mostly to chasing beach birds and running through the frigid water as if it was bath-warm.

 

Snowy plovers are hilarious to watch as the flock acts as one, running inland as the waves lap at the sand and back out as they retreat, like a land-based murmuration, always at the very edge of the water.

 

 

One exciting bird we spotted was out of Brisket's range: a bald eagle majestically surveying its domain from a post atop the dunes.

We examined a tide-smoothed log that was home to an interesting city of crustaceans known as goose barnacles or gooseneck barnacles, among other monikers.  

 

We knew that only via dint of Mr. Google, and we were astounded further when we read this: "In the days before birds were known to migrate, barnacle geese, Branta leucopsis, were thought to have developed from this crustacean through spontaneous generation, since they were never seen to nest in temperate Europe . . ." Bizarre!

 

 

Too bad about the lack of focus, but I'm including this photo because it's a creature Shannon had never seen on their beach before: a Graceful Kelp Crab.

These hearty fellows made a picture-perfect scene as they fished from the beach; . . .

. . . one of them brought in his catch while we watched and I got to question him about their method of fishing - very interesting, and obviously productive.

Joined by Patty & Randy . . .

. . .  we were away to adventure at Ledbetter Point, Washington: There it is across the water . . .

. . .  and there we are after a wet and fascinating hike, tired but still smiling.

The sights along the way pretty much speak for themselves - moss, fungus, ferns - an astounding array of vegetation that thrives in sand and coastal wet weather.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As we moved from inland, approaching the beach and sand dunes, our surroundings became more piney . . .

 

 

. . .  and the ultimate fascination centered on a truck chassis mostly obscured in the sand and by vegetation utilizing it as a foundation planter.  When, why & how did it come to be there???

With celebration waning and guests departing, as always, my attention turns toward the beauty of the home and landscape that Shannon & Jim have created.  Their home on Neacoxie Creek is a place of tranquil beauty.

 

The final hangers-on, Terry, Sara, Shannon & I toured the Maritime Museum in nearby Astoria, where we learned incredible stories of harrowing seas and rescues on "the bar" where the mighty Columbia River creates forbidding conditions as it pours its monstrous waters into the Pacific.

 

As the last lingerer, I greatly enjoyed time with Shannon in Astoria as we walked along the river (it was a wet cold, I daresay) . . .

 

 

 

. . . and in the picturesque town perched on the hills above the river's mouth. 

 

 

The area was historically populated by native peoples who utilized the abundant natural resources . . . and later by fur trappers who established trading posts.  We lunched at the site of Fort George/Fort Astoria, an 1811 British stockade. . .

. . . where a savvy pigeon, previously banished from the restaurant, continued his quest for entrance.  He seemed particularly interested in my French fries.

 

Eventually, my adventure was at an end; Shannon delivered me to the Portland airport whence a very competent pilot who was celebrating the day of his birthday delivered me (well, me and those others on the plane) to Phoenix, where the señor had some little difficulty navigating to my pick-up spot, but finally succeeded in tracking me down.

One of the nicest airport experiences I have had was in Portland, where guest musicians volunteer daily to make the time enjoyable.  I had a pleasant chat with Josiah Austen, who played the piano beautifully.  Coincidentally, one of his students had recently moved to Prescott.  Maybe I will encounter him around town.