The last of a Prescott clan

Someone very dear to me has departed from his life on this planet, not the first nor will it be the last; nevertheless, I feel compelled to write about him.

A native of Prescott, John Williams was always known in our younger days as Johnny Frank, to include his middle name.  That was to distinguish him from his nephew, Johnny Herbert, who is my first cousin.  The pair of them were named in honor of their respective father/grandfather, Johnie Louis Willliams, an early Prescott resident.

My life was interwoven with theirs; the memories comprise threads in the fabric of my existence.  Johnny Herbert and I are one month apart in age, thus spent many hours adventuring, running wild & unsupervised for much of the time - on horseback, in vehicles we were far too young to drive but did anyway, wandering wherever we cared to on foot, fishing in the creek at our grandparents’ farm in Oroville, California, with branch poles, bent pins & grasshoppers we caught in the field.  I could write a book about our doin’s, but that is not where I’m going now.

It’s his uncle who is the focus of my attention just now.  I did not know Johnny Williams well when we were young; he was just enough my senior that my shyness did not allow me to bridge the gap.  It’s just that he was always there in my consciousness.  

After the untimely death at age 25 of her husband, Thomas Herbert Miller, Johnny’s sister, Margaret (Williams), married my father’s brother, Lewis Kelley, and so our families were joined.  The elder Williams couple lived near us when I was growing up in rural west Phoenix, and many an evening was spent with them.  That was when families socialized on grassy lawns, favoring the out-of-doors under shady trees to the non-air-conditioned house interior.

During those times, Johnny was there - at the periphery of my existence - not that much older, but a nine-year age difference for a little girl is a daunting chasm, thus it was primarily in our adult years that he & I became friends, in addition to our family ties.

By then, Johnny was married to Patty, that dear person who claimed my father, Ira Kelley, a cowboy, as her best friend despite their disparate backgrounds and a generational age gap.  Many a wild back road jaunt in her pink Mary Kay Cadillac took the two of them laughing into unknown territory and becoming completely lost, while Johnny just shook his head at their antics.

In fact, Patty gave Johnny innumerable occasions to shake his head in disbelief at whatever jam she’d gotten herself into.

During those years, a kinship developed between Johnny and me.  Much of our camaraderie centered around extended family and all the various interactions.  Because of my propensity to discern connections between individuals, families & places, I researched a genealogy for John, and what a fascinating bunch of folks he descended from!  I will always cherish the time sitting side by side on the couch with him as he carefully listened to what I had discovered for him.

His paternal grandparents left their native Texas, and made their way to Prescott in a covered wagon.  Also Texans, Johnny’s parents came north to Prescott during the Great Depression, where his father worked for local lumber companies and built houses, including one at 1322 Paar, among others.  Johnny was born in Prescott, I believe at a house in Forbing Park.

Like his forebears, John was stalwart, strong, dependable and the hardest-working man I have ever known.  He was intelligent and well-read, a diesel mechanic, and a man unafraid to tackle huge projects.  Even among folks who knew and appreciated hard manual labor, Johnny was a standout.

Over his lifetime, Johnny played hard and he worked hard, undaunted about taking on projects that most would not.  Once when we visited, we got the full skinny on his restoration of a 1959 GMC pickup, which he showed with pride; another time, he took on the project of dismantling by hand a large doublewide mobile home.  As Patty remarked, “John enjoyed working more than most people enjoy playing”.

His generosity extended to anyone who needed a hand; he jumped right in to help in whatever way was needed, and at 87, his willingness and ability continued unabated.  Although the occasion never arose, I harbored no doubt that anything I asked of John, he would do his utmost to accomplish.

One of our most memorable interactions occurred when we allowed Dad to talk us into a camping trip that required a drive up Crown King Trail.  I emphasize the trail part because that indeed was the highest designation you could give to the route.  In the process, our spare tire was ripped from the pickup’s undercarriage on a road so brutal that we didn’t even notice.  John’s sideview mirror was destroyed along with a tire - that on a fully loaded nearly new pickup.  I think he shook his head at all of us catering to Dad getting us into that predicament.

The antics of the female contingent of that trip while the male contingent was working to replace tires so we could get home again let Johnny's disappointment show when he expressed surprise that I had not prepared a campfire dinner while they were away.  Instead, Patty & I with my daughter Sara had availed ourselves with a long leisurely back-country wander.  It was a bit like being chastised by my father; who knew that Johnny actually expected better of me!

I remember one of the times they visited us in Prescott when John wanted to find and point out with pride his brother Clifton Thomas Williams' name on the WWII memorial at Prescott’s Courthouse Square.  

Johnny was deeply appreciative when we took him to his uncle Robert Lee Williams' grave at a private cemetery near Walnut Grove.

Johnny was the last of a generation of pioneer Arizonans, Prescottonians who made a positive contribution to this region, and truthfully, he was as unique a man as can be imagined - a man whom I had somehow wanted to always have in my life.

Others can tell Johnny’s story more completely, as for me, I can say that he had a profound impact on my life, and I am saddened to lose him.  He was a man of great integrity, humor, wisdom and generosity, a man who made a mark in the world.  I am better for having known him.

A gem hidden in plain sight

 As we are wont to do, we motored along high- & by-ways out of the city, watching for whatever might strike our fancy.  In a country heavily populated with trading posts, a sign for the Nambé Trading Post caught my attention more than most, or was it just that the day was young when I spotted it?

We took the turn, enjoying the serenity of a tree-shaded narrow road winding past vine-covered fences.  A sign at a small opening to one side declared we had reached our destination, but unfortunately, we arrived on a day when the place was not open.

Disappointing; however, the good news was that we would be in the Santa Fe area long enough to return at a more opportune time, and return we did.

Arriving even before stated business hours, the proprietor, Jennifer Jesse Smith, a collected jewelry designer & silversmith, graciously invited us inside, where we were immediately enveloped in the atmosphere of quiet charm, of antiquity, of a sense of stepping back into a time when life's pace allowed for traditional customs, creativity and quality handwork to be passed from one generation to the next.

A 75-year-old enterprise, it had fallen on hard times until Jennifer's partnership with her mother, Cathy Smith, breathed life back into the historic destination.  Our host was forthcoming about all aspects of the endeavor, charming us with her soft-spoken grace as we perused the eclectic collection of native & western items, all beautifully displayed. 

Items on display and for sale included "Navajo weavings – antique and contemporary, pueblo pottery, Zuni katsinas, and old pawn jewelry, as well as fine jewelry, paintings & micaceous cookware by local artists working in traditional styles. Moccasins, craft supplies, antique Venetian seed beads and buckskin are available as well," we are informed by their website.

In 2019, the trading post was voted by Condé Nast Traveler as one of Santa Fe's top seven shopping experiences, quite an accolade in light of the huge number of galleries, shops, trading posts, museums and the like for which the city is known . . . and a top-awarded woman-owned business, as well.

But wait . . .

"Trading post" was what drew me . . . and we nearly missed the other part that far surpassed any notion I might have harbored about what "A museum of western film & costume" entailed, that being the second part of the place's name.  Didn't do a thing for me in the beginning, but conversation with Jennifer at last caught my attention.

We opted for the nominally-priced audio tour of the collection in a separate area of the store, and I was hooked immediately upon stepping through that door.

What lay beyond were multiple "stations" of displays from some of the more than 40 western movies and television series that Cathy, with her Lakota background, has consulted on, and created the costuming for - authentic and true to the historic realities, personalities and traditions portrayed in each film.

Each display was artfully curated with costumes, film props, original scripts and more.  The audio narrated by Cathy herself explained details of what we were seeing, how each aspect was created in keeping with the historic tradition, and the meaning behind the reality.

The museum's 15 selections are from iconic western films & television series "chosen for their authenticity and historical accuracy", including Dances with Wolves, Geronimo, Longmire, and Son of the Morning Star, for which Cathy was awarded an Emmy for Costume Design - the first and only time that Native American costumes have won an Academy Award.  The Emmy is on display there.

Native American costume authenticity, new to film making, is enabled by research of historic photos, drawings & descriptions.

Jennifer, who. works as stylist and more on the movies as well as Cathy, kindly allowed me to take a few photos to illustrate the types of displays the museum offers.  Learning the details about what we were seeing was fascinating!

I will not go on at more length despite my enthusiasm for the place, but I highly encourage exploration of their website: https://www.nambetradingpost.com/, and Cathy's website: https://www.cathyasmith.com/, and more importantly, do not miss a stop there when in the Santa Fe area.  It was a highlight of our visit! 

And who can resist . . .

. . . waterfalls?  Not I, and so our return to the Nambé region also allowed us to go to the appropriately named lake and waterfalls.  A tribal-owned recreation area, we agreeably paid our admission fee and set off on the first of two trails to the waterfalls.

An overlook (that should have been my first clue) trail allowed us to see the top two of three cascades descending steeply over the cliff, but not before we ascended a continuous steep climb.  Foremost in my mind was how the necessary descent was going to hurt my greatly-stressed leg muscles.  To my great relief, sufficient time had passed to allow the pain to subside.

The stream's downward drop is interrupted by a couple of perched pools on mossy boulders wedged in the crevice where they fell.

 The climb took us to distant views and wonderful scenery.

  

After we navigated our downward trek with thunder-rumbling threatening skies overhead, we set off on the cooler hike to the lower fall of the Rio Nambé.  "You will get wet," we were advised by the ranger.  Somehow, that meant there would be some creek crossing on rocks and maybe some refreshing spray from proximity to the waterfall, in my mind.

The reality was that the bulk of the way was wading upstream in the midst of the river's varying depths shortly after leaving behind the treed banks where the river is leveled out.

 

The water's cool temperature was indeed refreshing as we made our way upstream between house-size boulders in the canyon's depths.

 

Approaching the lower fall, it was interesting to see water flowing out of holes in the canyon walls.

The lowest waterfall is far less dramatic, but the only one accessible as it empties into an inviting pool.

A high mountain hike . . .

. . . was our goal for another day when we drove up into the Santa Fe Mountains, part of the Sangre de Cristo range.

We set off far up the mountain at over 10,000 feet.  Evidently, we had become somewhat acclimated to higher elevations since we were at Red River, because the exertions did not rob us of breath as it did then.

The dense mixed forest was beautiful, and seemed very healthy in some areas, but other sections were filled with dead trees.

The trail is a cross-country ski route once the winter sets in.

Storms wandered across the distant landscape, escalating into a whing-ding of a rain in Santa Fe that night.

 

One more lunch at Chimayo . . .

. . . as we bid adios to the spicy New Mexican cuisine and the charming atmosphere there.

 

Friends, food & art . . .

We were fortunate to have another visit with Allison & Walt before we departed for home, and happily, the time included excellent fare at the Argentinian restaurant just across the way from their studio/home.  The hours fly by while we're in conversation with them who seem more like forever friends than newly-found folks.

As we left, I had a lovely painting done by Allison tucked safely under my arm - an exquisite addition to our home.  It evokes a peaceful sense of walking down that quiet shaded street - sigh!

Lewis & home . . .

Santa Fe gifted us with a rainbow on our final evening there.

A lunch stop in Joseph City to see Lewis was so brief that I even forgot to snap a pic, but good to have a bit of time with him.

And always, the relief is palpable at arriving home with the familiarity of our surroundings - friends & neighbors nearby - and our gardens welcoming us back, well, except for that one huge tomato plant that had blown over in a storm.  With quite a bit of finagling, we righted it and we were rewarded with a very nice harvest for the day.

And those gardens!  What joy I feel as we enjoy our meals on the back patio marveling at the colors and beauty of it all.

Puye/Bandelier 2, Chris & Rita 0

Okay, they got the best of us (mostly me, though I am loathe to admit it), but things are looking up now.  There was something about climbing down off the Puye Cliffs that disagreed with my leg muscles to a degree that had me moaning longer that it should have.  My pard experienced a bit of discomfort, but professed little more than that.

But before I have us climbing down, perhaps I will write a bit about being up there.  We had never heard of the Puye Cliffs, but when I saw a roadside sign for a turnoff to it and did a bit of research, we determined to investigate.

The site is tribal-owned, Santa Clara Pueblo to be exact, whose members are descendants of the 1500 or so of those who inhabited the Puye Cliff site from the 900s to 1580 A.D.  It is the largest prehistoric settlement on the Pajarito Plateau, with extensive ruins both on the mesa top and along the cliff face.

One original structure still stands among a vast partially excavated warren of room walls.

The site is accessible only via tours guided by Santa Clara peoples; Ernest led our small group of five, and had many tales that had been passed down from the elders.  The easy part was achieving the mesa top by van, and exploring the extensive ruins while enjoying the distant vistas.

Younger tribe members remud the exposed ruins to maintain them, we were told.  Excavations were done in the early 1900s, then ceased inexplicably and never resumed, leaving much of the area as nature reclaimed it after the peoples departed.

We had two choices to get from mesa top to cliff dwelling level: we could be smart enough to have the van pick us up, or we could take the route utilized by those folks who came before.  Of course we opted to climb down . . .

. . . perhaps not our most astute choice, as my leg muscles attest still after several days.  I'm fairly certain that Ernest was less than truthful when he said the oldest person who had taken that route was 97 years of age.  The photo below, taken from the top, does nothing really to convey what it was like slip-sliding down that rock face following the chutes & steps chipped & smoothed in antiquity by people whose only route it was to egress the mesa top.  It was nominally scary for me to undertake, but not the first thing I have done that made me doubt my sanity.  And it did not really hurt much at the time.  After our perusal of the cliff-side site, my legs commenced their protest as I descended the 30-foot ladder that delivered us to a more level land; however, a van (helicopter maybe?) rescue was no longer available, thus began the damage.

The extensive site once included multiple levels of dwellings built out from the cliff face.  Horizontal row after row of holes remain that once held roof beams for additional rooms.

Ernest & I had a little fun as he pretended to be ready to catch Chris lest he fall from the ladder.

Not surprisingly, the señor had a few tales to share with Ernest during and after our tour.

Interesting that the Puye Cliffs visitor center and exhibit hall was constructed and utilized as a Harvey House, the only one in the nation located on an Indian reservation.

New trip birds in that area were Say's phoebe & western kingbird.

Hopeful rehabilitation at Ojo Caliente . . .

I came, I saw, I mudded . . .

. . . alas, neither that nor the relaxing mineral hot springs relieved the pain in my legs.  In fact, I had a heck of a time accessing the pools via their few downward steps.

An earlier stop at a fruit stand allowed us to obtain fabulous tree-ripened peaches and other delectables.  The señor enjoyed his more than one would suppose based on this photo.

At the springs, we added barn swallow to the trip list, although I'm certain we saw them previously in the journey.

Hiking the canyon at Bandelier . . .

. . . was a good stretch for my Puye-impaired leg muscles, although it was touch 'n go with all the downward steps and slopes, which surely enough are present right after the upward steps and slopes.  There was plenty of both, but it was worth the discomfort to see the multiple prehistoric sites all along the canyon's sides and valley bottom.

There were similarities between the ruins at Bandelier and Puye, all a bit different than any of the other ruins we've seen around the Southwest.  The soft volcanic tufa cliff surfaces have weathered into bizarre shapes, some that give the appearance of melting candle wax . . .

 

. . . and some were reminiscent of ancient Easter Island carved figures.

As the trail climbed, we had a great overview of the lower village.

A few caves and alcoves bore the remains of ancient petroglyphs; not many of those remain on the more weather-exposed surfaces.

Two young women were revisiting the site they had enjoyed at age 10.  They wanted their photo taken, and of course offered to reciprocate.

This kiva had been closed to entry due to vandalism in the past.  How very sad that anyone would damage such a place!

This rock art has been preserved behind a clear covering.

The canyon is quite beautiful and peaceful (and a long walk, but I think I've mentioned sore muscles previously).

The prize at the end is the Alcove House, situated high up on the sheer cliff in, rather obviously, an alcove.  Access is not for the faint of heart, nor is it for those who have hurt themselves descending from other cliff dwellings.

In my case, the spirit was rarin' to go, the legs not so much, so the señor abandoned me to my fate and set off and up.  The climb is 140 vertical feet via ladders and steps, not too bad an accomplisment for someone with two newish knee replacements.  

As for me, I used the time to proceed further along the trail into the Bandelier Wilderness Area . . .

. . . which gained enough elevation to allow me to view the kiva within the alcove at a distance.

Meanwhile, Chris had completed his climb and recorded the site within via cell photos . . .

. . . as I recorded his descent (yes, he is in the photo).

New birds identified at Bandelier were canyon wren and a very bold spotted towhee that hoped for a share of our lunch as we enjoyed a break along the trail.

Our journey out to Bandelier was of necessity via park service bus, a rickety rackety half-hour trip.  The return trip became very enjoyable when I spent the entire time in conversation with a fellow grandmother who lives in nearby Los Alamos, and was hosting her out-of-town families for Bandelier.  We had lots in common, including an overriding interest in family history.  I expect to hear from her after we hit it off so well.