At the cabin . . .

. . . in Greer, Arizona, in the stunning White Mountains, our dreams are punctuated by the bugling of numerous elk.  We are by the Little Colorado River as its several forks meander across the meadows that interrupt vast miles of forests, healthy forests populated by spruce, fir & pines.  Large groves of aspens reveal themselves with their leaves contrasting from their needled fellows, at this juncture not yet yellowing with the season.

I made certain that we would have a front porch for that age-old and much revered pastime - sitting.

 

Not that we had an abundance of leisure for viewing the world from that lovely swing, but it was perfect for greeting each of our four days there, and for winding down after exploring the surrounding countryside.

It was the perfect perch to observe the birds in surrounding trees; there we identified yellow-rumped warbler, black-chinned hummingbird, Stellar's jay, Brewer's blackbird, northern flicker, chipping sparrow and a barn swallow feeding babies in a nest under the cabin's eaves.

Curiosity about those majestic creatures whose calls reverberated through our nights was sufficient to get me off the porch and out to see whence they originated.  Our first elk sighting was of does peering around as they emerged from their nightly beds secreted among the brushy covers on the banks of the Little Colorado River just across a dirt track from us.

Startled by my appearance at that early morning hour, that herd proceeded to the nearest pavement where they could block traffic, appropriately near the street sign that heralded their crossing.

Across that pavement, but unfortunately shooting into the rising sun, we saw a second herd rising in much the same way from their chosen respite, and gathering in the adjoining meadow, seemingly as directed by the bull in charge.  There is an aura about a full-grown male elk that leaves no question about his authority.

 

 

 A nip was in the breeze, but the sun’s rays at those high elevations gently warm the skin.  In fact, we noted the sun’s intensity especially when we were out walking.  Abandoned railroad beds wind here and there across the landscape.  We walked one of them that was especially inviting with its impressive pedestrian bridge spanning a watery depression.

 

 

Its route took us across one of the numerous picturesque meadows that proliferate throughout the White Mountains, and into a timbered stand.  

Along the way, we found a beautiful feather, but remain clueless as to its origin.

 

Although we were not actively birding, we did identify some we spotted along the way, including yellow-headed blackbird, mountain bluebird, western bluebird, American crow, mourning dove, golden eagle, kestrel, Say's phoebe, raven, Brewer's sparrow, lark sparrow, turkey vulture, Bewick's wren and northern harrier,

We spent perhaps more time than advisable out in the open there, given the threatening storm clouds that gather so quickly in that high country, but it was just too enjoyable to leave.

Not to worry, though: the scenery was stunning at every juncture, whether grasslands, rocky canyons, lakes, or any of the numerous meanders of the Little Colorado ("little" being the operative word here).  I’ve never seen a river with so many forks, one for each of the cardinal directions.  And each of them, when not rushing over a steep rocky route, is brush-choked with marshy environs created by the many beaver dams that slow the water’s advance, creating strings of small hidden ponds separated by wandering streams.

We fished here & there: and caught brook and brown trout, beautifully speckled fish that we returned whence they came.

In addition to the many beaver-built impediments to the Little Colorado's advance, man has constructed a number of dams along the river's course.  The resulting lakes are lovely in their own right; however, I can't help but wonder how different would be the countryside if it were left to find its own way downward.

 

Mount Baldy, rising in the distance here, is held sacred by the region's native people.

 

On and around the numerous waters, we added to the bird list with ruddy duck, Canada goose, pied-billed grebe, great blue heron, belted kingfisher and northern pintail.  It was quite a surprise at Crescent Lake to find that the hundreds of waterfowl dotting its surface were almost solely American coots.

Such a short journey, scarcely enough time to experience a modicum of that incredible area, but we were grateful for the brief taste.  That delectable high country serves up a smorgasbord of far-reaching views of mighty mountains across grass-greened meadow, jagged rocky canyons, and soft wandering water streams often secreted within vegetation-rich bottomlands.  The intrigue of waiting to discover what we would find over the next rise, around the approaching curve in the trail, or along the winding waterway lured me on; alas, our visit was short, but left us anxious for a return.

Our relative late-in-the-season arrival translated to having much of the outback to ourselves.  We encountered only a few other casual visitors at the most accessible vantage points.  One couple on horseback were working to get the bay horse past its fear of walking through the stream.  It was pretty insistent that jumping it was the best course of action until the more experienced rider convinced his mount that fording the stream was an okay thing to do.

 

 

We had more encounters with wildlife than with people.  This doe was not overly spooky; she spent some time looking back at me to see if I was looking back at her.

 

 

I called a sudden halt for the señor to back up for a look at a bighorn herd that was taking its morning break on both sides of the road right-of-way fence, completely unperturbed by our sudden screeching halt.  Well, maybe it wasn't exactly screeching, but is was fairly abrupt.  Never let it be said that I pass up an opportunity to see what I want to see.