Tornado (or not)!
September 5, 2012

Well, it was not actually a tornado right here, rather a tornado warning - dang near as terrifying, in my Arizona-native estimation.  We were just settling into our evening when Pat, our campground’s owner, politely knocked on the door to give us the news.  Way too casually, Chris took the news without determining much in the way of “Will there be a siren to let us know when to head for cover?” or “Just exactly where is that shelter?”

I was not to be comforted until further information was obtained and even then, my nerves were shot.  Didn’t want to stay in, didn’t want to stay out in the wind, didn’t want to hear the creak/snap of those huge limbs breaking off the tree over the next trailer. 

We could see the storm front that was nearly upon us; lightning was continuous within it but rain didn’t get to us until much later, continued right on through the sleepless night, sleepless for me and Rowdy anyway.  The news told us that some areas got four to five inches of rain and large hail.  When Chris told me about the forecast hail, my plugged-up ears thought he said it was King Kong hail, but no, only ping pong ball size.

Neighbors came home in a panic because they had left their awning out and the strong wind wouldn’t allow it to straighten enough to retract.  We and another feller helped (I was important in this endeavor by holding his dog’s leash) and got it in without damage.  A person doesn’t want to wreck their awning; we know from expensive personal experience. 

This park is positively lovely; we definitely recommend it.  It has one feature that has to be unique among RV parks - a chapel.  The previous owners built it.  What a perfect place for quiet meditation while enjoying the view across the hills.

Not one of my earliest rising mornings after the ruckus from the previous night, but eventually, we hauled ourselves out for some sightseeing.  Chris voted for Galena to start us off and I preferred Dubuque, so Galena it was and a good choice; we spent so much time in and around Galena that Dubuque ended up with only a perfunctory drive-through late in the day.

Galena, I’m set free, U.S. Grant, Mississippi River . . .























A small town previously only glimpsed: it remains worth yet another longer visit than this day.  Its most famous person is Ulysses S. Grant; we toured the house that was given to him by town residents in appreciation for his service in the Civil War, and learned much about him and about the area.  The house remained in the Grant family until being donated as a historic site, so the contents are just as they were.  It was awesome to stand in the parlor where President Grant stood to shake hands with all the people lined up to congratulate him on his election to the U.S. presidency, a scene reflected in a period drawing onsite.

Galena is named for nearby lead mines; it was once an extremely large and important river port.  We were told that during the Civil War years, the Galena River silted up, causing the cessation of large water shipping.  Most impressive is how the historic quality has been retained, both in the bustling downtown and throughout other residential and commercial areas.  It is a most charming place and seems to be economically viable judging by the wide diversity of businesses booming.  I love that they have not succumbed to chain store construction - what few chains there are have accommodated themselves in historic structures.






















I felt liberated when I discovered a hiking trail atop the levee that protects the town from its river.  We had a nice brisk walk for a couple of miles and got a life bird in the process - a broad-winged hawk.

The levee and floodgates are necessary because of the Galena’s proximity to the Mississippi; its floodwaters back into this river and raise it to levels that would flood the town.

We had anticipated spending time on or around the Mississippi, a river that entices me strongly, but ran out of day.  There are quite a few places on it here that looked as if they would be fun kayaking, so perhaps that is a future need to return.  We previously kayaked on the big waterway and had a great time.  I would never have done it on my own, sounded way too intimidating, but Chris pushed and I followed.  Seems like the least I can do is to agree to some of his cockamamie schemes since he mostly agrees to mine.

The lure to tour the Belvedere Mansion was strong enough to pull us in.  A most impressive house up on the bluff and a bit of a pricey tour, the result was fairly disappointing.  Built in 1857, the structure itself is wonderful, but it seems to be a depository for the owners’ extensive eclectic collection of artwork, statuary, furniture and paraphernalia.  We were told some of its history, shown a few features of the mansion and informed about some of the pieces, but by and large, little was explained or known about the artwork and furnishings.  The Belvedere has been much remodeled, at one time being used as a restaurant, so its historic qualities are left to the imagination.

Caverns, pelicans . . .

There are a number of caverns that can be toured in this country, not too surprising because it is all limestone bedrock (thus the beautiful cliffs where rivers and creeks have cut through), but hours of operation are limited due to the season.  Back here, everything changes like clockwork after Labor Day - pools close immediately and tourist attractions curtail operations for the winter or reduce hours.

Not much of a birding trip this one, but we hit pay dirt in Galena.  A backwater lake between the two rivers was an open invitation to migrating waterfowl.  We were astounded to find thousands of American white pelicans floating as gigantic rafts.  Fascinating behavior; they moved as one huge bobbing barge toward a shoreline, seeming to herd fish ahead of them, as they mechanically and methodically ducked their heads under the water scooping up the catch, lifting their heads to swallow.

Gratitude to Jay’s Bird Barn in Prescott for our wonderful spotting scope that enabled us to identify other birds in the area - great blue heron, Canada goose, ring-billed gull, double-crested cormorant, mallards, great egret and black-crested night heron. 

We watched two golden eagles swooping over the masses of birds and enjoyed talking with a friendly mother/daughter pair who came down to watch the show, too.  She said they always have this migratory stopover but the numbers have been increasing over the years.

Dickeyville grotto . . .

We happily got a little lost on our way home as we tried to find a grocery store and instead were forced by incredulity to stop at The Grotto and Shrines in Dickeyville.  Part of Holy Ghost Parish property, it definitely made the top 10 on my hit parade of things that make your mouth hang open in amazement.





















In a nutshell, it is a conglomeration of structures of mosaic mania.  Every building, individual shrine, fence post and cable, actually every single surface in sight is covered within and without by mostly small, tiny even, bits of hand-placed glass, tile, shell, fossil, pottery, porcelain, stalagmite, stalagmite, petrified wood, coral, rock, ore, crystal, coal, antiques and last but definitely not in the least category - the round balls that were used on stick shifts in cars of my vintage.

It is not only a religious shrine, but has patriotic and historic overtones: one major structure is a monument to Christopher Columbus, including a statute of the man and flanked by statues of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, all mounted of course on massive bases covered by “stuff” collected by Father Matthias Wernerus from around the world.

The priest constructed the complex in the 1920s as a dedication to “the unity of two great American ideals-love of God and love of country”.

For someone exhausted and wanting only supper, I could not tear myself away without perusing it all - bizarre and amazing.

















Finally, a stop at the local grocery, counter manned by mom & pop, the second of three generations of owners.  We enjoyed talking to the semiretired couple aged in their 70s.  At C’s request, they pointed us to some locally made Wisconsin bratwurst - very tasty after Chris grilled them while playing the keyboard to the appreciation of neighbors.

Destination northwoods
September 6, 2012

On the road and just passed the turnoff to Spring Green, the ancestral home of our Martin and Rosina Van Buren.  On a long-ago trip doing onsite research on our many Wisconsin ancestors, I read that Martin and Rosina’s house was still standing in Spring Green, so we zoomed quite a distance over there only to find the longtime owners had razed it and were living in a modular on the spot.  Devastating news (I refrained from strangling them), and at my request they mailed me a copy of a photograph they had of the original house.  We are passing near where our Buhlmans lived in the mid-1800s.  I wonder what they would think if they were suddenly plunked down in the same place but present day?

Several times we have been startled to see signs pointing to ski areas???  One presumes they are referring to cross-country skiing, there being no mountains in sight for hundreds of miles. . .

We have driven past at least thousands, well, maybe only hundreds, of interesting sights, lakes, rivers, trails, preserves, villages, museums, historic sites, Indian mounds, forests, and in Andy Griffith’s words; “I don’t know whut all” that would be fun to explore.  It is fascinating to just go and see what there is to see instead of planning a destination and possibly missing things along the way.

Serendipity, Hiawatha . . .

My shaggy husband had not the opportunity to get shaven and shorn (no, he’s not really getting shaven, it just sounds good together), so I have been the nag since we left home about finding a barber to do the deed lest he show up at the wedding in such bedraggled condition.  Not knowing how we would bring it about until we stopped for gas and lunch and my eagle eye spotted a walk-in haircutter place.  He has returned sans shaggy.

Not as far distant as we estimated, we arrive at the Hiawatha RV Resort in Woodruff.  Now that we are in Ice Age glacier country, conversation turns to peat bogs - the where, why and how, cranberries, blueberries, kettle moraines and such like.  Imagine those monstrous ice floes pushing over this country, plowing into the ground as they inched forward, and then slowly melting, retreating but leaving evidence of their presence.

Grandparents' sad leavetaking
September 4, 2012

Wow, that was a really tough departure.  Three wonderful days with the kids made perfect by Sara’s excellent planning.  She and Trinity Grace spent some time with us this morning before leaving for work; it just about tore my heart out as they pulled up next to us on the road; Sara and me red-eyed and waving and Trinity pulling a sad face in the back seat.  We did our best to make some good memories, though.

Three joyful days . . .

I fulfilled my dream of taking the baby kayaking - she is fearless on the water - she also went paddleboating with Chris & Sara.  We colored, read books, drew pictures, went swimming, talked and played, fed baby goats, rode ponies, panned for “gold’, had an incredible one-hour family photo shoot at Unity Village, braided the doll's hair, ate Sara’s good grub and were treated to Kansas City barbecue at Jack Stack, had fun at bowling, shopped, picked out accent wall paint samples and slapped them up there to await final decision, visited with “Gomer”, stopped at a fire station so Trinity could drive the fire engine, pigged out on goldfish crackers and just generally did the Grandma & Grandpa thing - filled my heart with joy to have time with them.  The only disappointment was when the fishing pond where Chris was to teach Trinity the fine art of angling was closed.

Oh yes, about that stop in the historic schoolhouse where T and I sat in historic desks and wrote on historic slateboards . . . thanks to Sara for letting me know it was strictly against the historic schoolhouse rules for adults to sit in the historic desks . . . afterward.  Thank heaven I wasn't shamed in front of my granddaughter by the schoolmarm whacking my hands with a ruler!  I wondered why she was giving me the evil eye.








 





The baby is a lanky three-year-old who never stops talking, just like her mom at that age.
She misses nothing at all, takes in all that is said and done around her, analyzes it and uses what she learns.  Understanding that all grandparents are sure their babies are the most . . . well, everything good and desirable, I do not want to disillusion them; but really, folks, there’s no comparison.  Trinity Grace is adorable and with a personality that draws people to her everywhere she goes.

An unexpected and fun thing was to have brother Bob and niece Hailey join us for barbecue dinner.  So glad they made the drive over for that, and Hailey brought a much-appreciated doll for Trinity.

The hurricane made the last leg of the drive and our set-up in Lenexa pretty exhausting on top of the very long two-day drive, so we were dragging some but managed to keep up with the young’uns.  It rained all night and most of the next day, clearing up in the nick of time for our photo shoot.




























Unusual origin . . .

Our home here was at the Walnut Grove RV Park, which has an interesting story.  I wondered why it was stashed right in the midst of a residential area; turns out it was there before the houses.

The two-story office/residence was formerly a bar, we were told.  Behind it were cabins that rented by the hour (for folks who wanted to rest up before going home?).  In 1952, the current owner’s grandmother razed the cabins and a trailer park took their place; the RV park came about 20 years after that.

Dueling hummers, hot rod  . . .

We put up seed and nectar feeders by the Totee, then were not there enough to spot who came to dinner.  There was no doubt the next morning after I took them down that we had been discovered by hummingbirds, though.  While we chatted with Sara, they fought for the privilege of getting to the feeder that wasn’t even there any more.  I spotted black-chinned and ruby-throated.  The only other birds I’ve identified in this whole time were great blue herons while we kayaked.

Isaac gifted us with hot and muggy after all that rainfall, cooler temps are forecast for next weekend when we will be elsewhere - go figure.

A major classic car show transpired while we were here.  Although we did not attend, we were privileged to see an impressive immaculate hot rod as it was loaded up to leave our park.  It had been trailered all the way from New Jersey - a 1932 Ford coupe that its “dad” had built from parts 29 years ago.  He drove the hot rod nearly 200,000 miles before putting it out to pasture as a pull-behind.

Moving on, KC, history . . .

Now we are once again traveling, but a bit out of practice.  We nearly departed with one roof vent open and were stopped before we left the driveway by a helpful feller chasing us down to alert us about our antenna still being up.  Hopefully, we will soon have our routines remembered.  During our previous months-long wanders, everything came out and went in, got unpacked, and restowed, got cranked up or down as necessary without much thought.  We are anxious to embark on such again next year - they were great explores across this incredible country and introduced us to many fascinating cultures and people.

Skirting around downtown Kansas City this morning, I was interested to see the mix of very old and brand-new architecture, gothic church steeples once thought huge now dwarfed by futuristic structures.  I would love to spend substantial time here to “do” the history.  This city was once an important economic terminus and remains so today in very different ways from the old trail drives that brought vast herds of cattle from the Texas range to the railroads here.

Lenexa, where Sara & Ray now live, is a lovely town, nice parks and residential area, both historic and modern.  One structure struck me as we drove by, so I looked up its history - the Legler barn.  It was built in 1863 by Adam Legler - a large stone edifice constructed on the Santa Fe Trail.  It now houses the Lenexa Museum.  I have never seen a stone barn before; it is built with large limestone blocks, beautiful and obviously sturdy.  Imagine the changes that have swirled around it from the time of the Civil War and prairie schooners carrying settlers to western lands.

As we are northeast bound, we see the pastures are greener than the countryside before Kansas City, but see many acres of corn fields that shriveled to brown nubbins before they could make their crop.  The drought has hit hard here.

Missouri come and gone . . .

By midday, we have traversed a corner of Missouri, one of my most ancestorey states, and bopped on into Iowa.  No sooner were we over the border than we saw an Amish horse-drawn buggy crossing over the freeway.

We are encountering pretty heavy cloud cover - is Isaac lurking up here?

I have spent little time in Iowa, but have always been quite taken with its hilly grasslands and corn fields, interesting landscape after the more level plains.  Drought damage is sadly evident through here, must be thousands of acres of crops lost.  It is a surprise to see some extensive vineyards here.  They are netted over the top to keep out the birds.  If we did that with our own grapes at home, we might get a few more than what the birds leave us now.

Decision made . . .

We have been up in the air about what we are doing for the next few days, although there is not much leeway.  We are to be in Woodruff, Wisconsin, on Thursday.  A decision has been made: we will drive on today to Keiler, Wisconsin, just beyond Dubuque, Iowa.  That will allow us to stay two nights and give us a day to cast around to see the sights.  On a previous even faster trip through, I loved the town of Dubuque and wanted to look around more.  Then, of course, there is the siren call of the Mississippi River and lots more to be explored - obviously more than a day’s worth.

This will bring us close to Prairie du Chien, the 1870s home of my friend Kathy’s ancestors, the Bouskas, whom I researched for her.  I think it is important to remember those who came before and to honor them for the hardships they endured in settling this land.  It is so easy to jump on a highway and zoom from place to place without thinking about the very real people, families who persevered in the face of circumstances we cannot begin to imagine.

And now I realize I am in the vicinity of another client's ancestral home - the Cravatzo clan near Ottumwa - I really want to go over there to do some on-site research since I am in the neighborhood but drat reality - we move along.

Off the Interstate, into the countryside, Amana Colonies . . .

Yahoo - we have finally split the sheets with the Interstate system and are proceeding north from Iowa City.  I cannot fault Iowa for its superb and plentiful rest stops, though; they all are even equipped with free wireless internet service.

As always, things to return for: I would like to drive through and peruse the Amana Colonies.  What little I have learned about them is a fascinating history.  From their start in 1751 in Germany, they were a religious commune that moved to New York and when overtaken by development, relocated to Iowa.  The seven colonies survived successfully as communal living for more than a century.  Improved transportation eventually made isolation impossible and they transformed gradually into a non-religious economic cooperative.

We’re getting a slightly better feel for the farming communities now that we are tooting down two-lane Iowa State Highway 1 that seems to be carrying an inordinate amount of traffic - possibly commuters or shoppers homeward bound from Iowa City.

The dry does not appear to have been as drastic here; some corn fields are heavy with ears readying for harvest, although the stalks have not attained the height expected, and most farmsteads are well-tended.  I really love Iowa’s hills that afford lovely distant vistas of fields and woodlots unlike much of the Midwest.

Small commercial gardens and sweet corn plots give hope of a fresh veggie dinner tomorrow.  I never tire of seeing these wonderful small towns; this road is taking us right through quaint residential areas and the historic downtowns.

Wisconsin . . .

Crossing the Mississippi River takes us from Iowa just into Wisconsin where we are happy to settle into our home for two nights: The Rustic Barn Campground scenically set atop a hill outside the small town of Kieler.  The sun set as a magnificent red ball over the fields below us.

Easterly we go
August 30, 2012

"On the road again" -  it’s a shame that I don’t know any words beyond those to the song of that title -- causes me to have them running through my head in a boringly continuous loop.  Ah well, despite the hectic past month and the blur of the previous week, we three are indeed in the Toyota Tundra Toter, Travel Trailer Totee following obediently, on Interstate 40 headed east.  Our travel for this trip takes us from lushly green Arizona to the drought-stricken heartland - what a reversal!

No worries because Lewis is tending to the home place for us and various friends are coming over to harvest pears, grapes and strawberries - our bounty left behind.

This is not to be one of those long wanders that consume months; we are ultimately to be at niece Suzie’s & Joe’s wedding in the northwoods of Wisconsin early in September.  Major bonus points: Mom & Dad will also be there from North Carolina and we get to spend three glorious days with Sara, Trinity, Ray & Dante in Kansas.  When we considered flying to the wedding, I could not bear the thought that another year would pass without seeing my babies, so surface travel won out despite associated financial drawbacks.

Rowdy read our minds several days before departure and was not happy about the situation.  Last thing before leaving was to load him up.  This is the way it works: approach him in a completely everyday way.  Despite the casual approach, he knows what’s up and curls into as tiny a ball as a 12-pound cat can manage.  In addition, he magically sinks and triples his weight in the belief that we will then either not see him lying on that chair or he will be entirely too heavy for us to pick up.  It never works but he never stops trying.

Then comes the dreaded harness that sports his cute little heart-shaped name & phone number tag for just in case.  He probably dislikes it so much because he knows it is really a dog harness, there being no cat contraptions made for felines of his large stature.

Once the deed is done, he is fine, wandering the truck cab from his back seat carrier to occasionally peer out the windshield or recline regally on the seat.  He also is fond of my lap any time I pick up the computer to type.

Coconino Forest country . . .

The countryside sights are blindingly spectacular as only monsoons in northern Arizona can create - thick pine forest carpeted by knee-high green grass, every meadow, playa and open area solid with yellow & purple flowers, dark blue peaks and mountains all around and all topped by high clear blue Arizona skies. 























I cannot help myself when I begin snapping pictures of roadside glories without even stopping.  It's really kind of embarrassing to take pictures through the window but I so want to share this beauty. 

Hooray for cell phones: we already have calls from various friends about this, that and the next thing - even a possible musical collaboration for Chris accompanying a vocalist.  And of course, Sara has texted a number of times; seems to feel a need to urge us onward, as if we needed that.

First (and only) two stops were related to this dad-ratted camera.  For most of the time i’ve owned it, the battery compartment latch has been broken.  Blame me, I busted it while climbing in boulders with it hanging around my neck, the result being that because it is spring loaded, it must be held closed with ample applications of strong packing tape.  All well and good until the tape stretches or the batteries have to be replaced.  Then it’s peel sticky stuff off, do what needs to be done and reapply tape while holding the thing closed.  Only problem was the batteries went kaput and the spares and tape were in the trailer.  One of these days, Alice, a new camera!

Thank goodness I will have to stop this demented stream of consciousness drivel that has been unleashed with my departure from home; the highway is getting very rough which will cause me to accidentally highlight and delete (possibly a good thing?).  So as we see the uneven ridges of Meteor Crater up here on this treeless plain now that we’ve left the forest behind, I bow to necessity and sign off.

Fast food, New Mexico . . .

In our rush to get on the road this morning, we skipped breakfast.  By the time we stopped for gas at St. Joseph, the rumblings were in full swing.  Not wanting to take the time to fix a bite in our home away from home, we opted for bacon, egg & cheese muffins at Subway.  This is not news in most circles, but I am pretty sure we were the only two humans in the United States who had never eaten a fast-food breakfast - ever.  That did the trick and we are again on our way for our long day of driving: Amarillo by 9:30ish (argh!).

I love the sights and landscape through this area of New Mexico.  There is so much diversity; I love thinking about how it all came to be.  The high plains are ringed and interrupted by mountains ranges and peaks, ochre- and dun-cliffed mesas.  And then there are the miles of monstrous jumbled lava flow.  Huge black jaggedly broken rock stretching over the grasslands ending in gigantic fingers like huge hands reaching for the distant mountains.  I can nearly visualize the molten rock running out red/black hot, building up and collapsing, folding back on itself.

We got into a bit of rain from an isolated storm but later moved into clearer skies with scattered thunderheads in the distance.  Today we “lose” two hours as we first move into the oddness of Daylight Savings Time (we love that Arizona does not succumb to that absurdity) and then cross into the next time zone.

This is is our longest drive day, trying to more than split the distance to Lenexa, where we will hang with the kids for Labor Day weekend.

First night out syndrome, Texas panhandle . . .

Well then, if we needed a reminder that the years are catching up with us, this is it.  A whopping 13 hours on the road kinda did us in; today will be long but a bit under that.  We dislike driving after dark only because we miss seeing the countryside, and last night was quite a long time after a brilliant red sunset. 

We excuse our late 9 a.m. departure by rationalizing that it is 7 a.m. “our” time, a true statement.  I call it the time zone two-step, hopefully a dissemble we can leave behind by tomorrow.  It is nice, though, when we will head back home to “gain” those lost hours.

Of course we knew mapwise we had come to the plains of West Texas, but getting here in the dark and having our first glimpse of the reality was shocking this morning.  To look out across the miles and see the sky and the land meet in one endless straight line without a mountain to soften the confluence is just odd for us.

Our after-hours arrival at the Overnite RV Park in Amarillo was flawless; however, my night of repose was not.  Rowdy (and I as a consequence) suffered from “first-night-out syndrome”.  Seems that feline instincts require incessant prowling and guarding.  Each new scent or sound necessitates informing Mom in whatever way is needed to be sure she gets the message.  Although accustomed to this process, I was less than receptive to it after such a tiring journey that was on top of a wearying week and month.  Not to worry, though, he can sleep all day if he chooses.  I suppose I could too except for the guilt I would feel to leave exhausted Chris to drive while I snooze.

This is agricultural country, mostly mono-cropping of grain and hay, much of it already harvested, leaving a level sea of cut-off brown stalks.  Here and there we see lush fields of heavy-headed milo, stands of field corn planted so thickly that a person could squeeze between them only with difficulty.  Other crops we have trouble identifying - possibly soybeans. 

In our normal mode of travel, we would find a place to pull over so we could wander over to inspect the fields more closely, but not today with a minimum of ten hours on the road facing us.

It is beyond bizarre to have traversed all of New Mexico with nary a sight-see nor a back road wander, not a hike, no explores whatsover.  In the past, we have enjoyed many adventures in the Land of Enchantment and anticipate many more, just not right now.

It’s interesting here to see vast fields planted to match the circular pivot irrigation systems and then a dryland crop (wheat most likely) growing in the unirrigated corners missed by the sprinklers.

There are many abandoned farm houses; I surmise they were family homes no longer needed as large-scale agriculture overtakes the family farm.  It makes me a little sad to see these places that once nurtured families, but are no longer useful. 

I’m singing the blues about the many missed photo opps.  I could have prowled around in the ghost of Cuervo, New Mexico, snapping pictures for a long time.  Here are great missed shots of abandoned rusting grain elevators and perilously leaning farm houses given over to trees and vines, occasionally even entire farmsteads.

This Interstate travel serves only to cause me curiosity about what the towns are really about.  A person gets such a skewed concept by driving this way.

Interesting that there is a long-unused railroad bed following our route.  Its path is mostly just slightly elevated above the plains level, but as we come into country that is convolutedly cut by canyons of the Canadian River tributaries, it occasionally enters its own road cut.

The river runs west to east a ways north of us; these canyons carry runoff to its bed, adding interest to the landscape in the process.  I’m trying not to spend much time noticing the points of interest that would typically be stops for us, but it is not easy.  Who wouldn’t want to know what is Square House Museum and of course I would love to explore and hike McClellan Creek National Grasslands.  So many reasons to return in a more leisurely way. 

OK City, Chisholm Trail, Great-grandfather George Taylor . . .

Whew, we’re mostly through Oklahoma City; it makes me a nervous wreck to drive with the trailer in that kind of crazed traffic.  Never mind that I'm not even driving; I just haven’t mastered the art of closing my eyes and waiting for the all-clear.

Somewhere in this metropolis or near it are dear friends, Paula, Loren & Quinton; I send them love as we speed past.

And what in the world is that humongous sky scraper in the downtown?  It appears to be twice as tall as the next highest building.

Along the way, we saw a sign about the Washita Battlefield, will have to look up that history.  We are seeing the dire effects of drought in the Midwest, rivers gone completely or nearly dry, brown where previously there was lush green.

There was a highway notification of the place where the Chisholm Trail crossed on its way northward.  I would love to take the time to determine if there are remnants of it to be seen.  My great grandfather, George Washington Taylor, and two of his brothers, Daniel Meredith and Louis Dixon, were drovers in the second trip up that storied trail.  I have an account that Louis wrote about the trip - what an incredible journey that was!

Another Oklahoma connection: My grandmother Pearl (Taylor) Kelley’s sister Nadine married Eli Marshall Jones and they settled in Kiowa, Oklahoma, south of where we are, to run a cotton gin, or so the story goes.  In 1930, I found him listed in the census as a “cotton weigher”, seemingly short of running the gin.  So go family stories  My research has not turned up much about them and where they ended up.  Perhaps if I spent more time on my own research and less on other people’s, I would be able to turn over that stone.

This trip is more about making family history than our usual researching it, but obviously, it doesn’t stop me from remembering the ancestors feats and even defeats and honoring them.

Sara told us we could expect rain from Isaac on this leg of the drive; sure enough, the easter we go, the cloudier it gets.  Not too threatening yet.

So far, our bird list is quite a bit less than impressive, but what can you say about zooming across the country at 60 miles per hour and setting foot only on concrete.  Don’t laugh: I’ve identified grackles (in parking lots of course), rock doves, turkey vultures and ravens.  A blur as we zipped by, I have spied hordes of shore birds wading in what’s left of water in river beds, but my yearning to stop was not satisfied.

Best business name: Happy Tails Kennel (I expect smart remarks to result from this).

Kansas' Flint Hills, hurricane Isaac . . .

We and hurricane Isaac have arrived in the beautiful Flint Hills of Kansas simultaneously.  Issac is bringing some much-needed moisture, although if I had had my ‘druthers, I would have chosen a divergence of approach times.  We hope rain doesn’t disrupt our scheduled photo shoot at Unity Village tomorrow evening.

We have crossed so many pretty rivers.  Although some have been bereft of water, others, like the Cimarron and the Neosho, seem to be running pretty much full steam.  I would like to fish the Cimarron for sure.

One last stop - gas & restrooms - and we are on the home stretch, about two hours to the Walnut Grove RV Park, our home for four nights.  At the travel center, there was a small well-kept park, a memorial to a man named Al Larsen, who evidently drowned in 2003 while saving many motorists trapped in the Jacob Creek flood.  I will see if I can find more information about that.

We turned off I-40 at Oklahoma City, driving north on I-35, one section of which is the Kansas Turnpike.  That translates to $; the ticket we were issued at the beginning of it said it was going to cost us $18 when we departed the road at Emporia; however, the nice toll booth lady asked for only $12 and that apologetically.  Nothing like getting a deal to take the sting out.

While stopped for gas, I shoot one pic that shows the edge of Isaac catching up with us.























A rainbow appears prematurely in promise of the end even as it is beginning.

It doesn't take long before that gathering-cloud glimpse turns into full-blown headwind and drenching rain.  It is startling how quickly it overtakes us.

The remainder of the drive is in darkness with difficult visibility, especially when we are in town trying to find the Walnut Grove RV Park in the midst of a residential area.  After I become convinced we have passed it by or taken the wrong road, we are there; we finally spot it through the streaming glare on the windshield.

Isaac makes for an interesting set-up during which the trailer becomes soaked inside and out, but we are here.  Too late to see the kids tonight, but time to rest at least.  A couple of leaks have gotten dampness onto the bed; we are entirely too tired to give it a thought.  That last hour of driving was grueling.

What is it about hurricanes whose names begin with "I" and us?  Last visit to Kansas was at Fort Scott where hurricane Ike darn near washed us away.  It made for a memorable time and even a fun one: we joined the garden tour via Fort Scott's trolley, got to know a whole passel of great folks, viewed some wonderful gardens (at least the parts that weren't under water) and enjoyed a great deal of finely prepared victuals.

Even so, we have vowed to avoid this state during any future "I" hurricanes.

Santa Marias

July 28, 2012

Another day of free-wheelin’ four-wheelin’: we point our noses northwestward on Camp Wood Road.  My stated destination is Apache Creek, a spot much farther upstream (or is it upcreek?) on that drainage than we were last time out.  A return is in order because the previous time we visited the area, I was the only one of our small group who hiked up the beautiful slick rock waterway, and felt an obligation to return shortly to my fellow journeyers, forfeiting the urge to answer the stream’s invitation to adventure.

Hitt Wash, Las Vegas Ranch . . .
Our first stop is in the bottom of Hitt Wash for a look around and to snap a photo.  The wide flat valley offers little in the way of obstructions, thus the water has wandered aimlessly, creating a sandy-bottomed dry wash filled abundantly with black walnut trees for miles.











Not long afterward, we see a sign that explains the isolated house or two we have noted along the way.  The Las Vegas Ranch, sadly, is being subdivided.





Hiking, owl, lightning . . .
As we drive farther up into the foothills of the Santa Maria Range, I am soon ready for a hike although we are nowhere near my stated destination.  A convenient place to pull out brings us to an area evidently now closed to vehicular traffic.  A sign explains that various entities have joined together to manage it as a riparian restoration.  Partnering agencies are the Cross U Ranch, Santa Maria Mountains Group, U.S. Forest Service, Game & Fish Department and the Prescott Habitat Partnership Committee.  I have never heard of some of these, but I silently thank them as we head off for a walk along another dry wash.

This drainage winds much more than Hitt Wash because when it carries flood water, it must cascade down around boulders, rock outcrops and the convolutions of the mountainside.  As seems to be becoming common for us, we startle a great horned owl from its daytime roost and it silently glides to a place where disturbance by hikers is less likely.

I get Chris to climb into a tree so my photo will demonstrate the large size (of the tree, not Chris). 

I am intrigued by this place and ready to hike for miles uphill in the wash, thinking our return trip can be along its western bank, an inviting grassy meadow.

That plan is soon thwarted by a looming storm front.  As the thunder begins to rumble, I commence to head back whence I came.  It turns out that we walked quite a bit farther than I realized.  Even at a fast clip, sometimes jogging, it takes far longer to return to the safety of the car than I would prefer.

Our return route is up on the flat, all the better for speed, and we follow a faded-by-time two-track. 





We are not struck by lightning, much to my delight and reach the car just as the first raindrops fall.  I manage to cease my stampede a couple of times to take quick photos of things that catch my eye.




I remember Dad talking about the Santa Maria Range being their destination for summering their herds of Angora goats.  A job for the young men, they trailed the animals on foot from the ranches around Yarnell all the way up here, a distance I can't even imagine walking, and a huge gain in elevation, to boot.  This was in the 1930s, shortly after my grandparents, Zack & Pearl Kelley, had migrated here from the Hill Country of Texas, bringing their two sons, Ira & Lewis.

Cabin Springs . . .
This particular monsoon event will likely pass on, so we utilize the rainy time to drive on farther into the mountains, stopping a place identified as Cabin Springs.  Sounds intriguing and it is a lovely place - I judge by the name it is an old homestead; however, we can find no sign of habitation.  Wandering through and around various fences, we find a beautiful spring and tall trees festooned with streamers of grapevines.

 Lots of grass and vegetation, even large mushrooms wearing caps.  Not really, I place Chris’ cap on one to demonstrate its gargantuanness. 






I admire the fence work that was employed to build corrals; inexplicably, I am endlessly fascinated with  various fence-construction techniques, each one as unique as its builder.

We climb up above the spring expecting to find signs of prehistoric inhabitants, but nothing is in evidence.  There is a Cabin Springs Trail through here; the brush is so thick in these parts that I think we might welcome some rare trail use to facilitate further exploration and hiking.  Today we venture on in Ruby, but both of these stops were much too abbreviated; a return is in the near future.


We spot a ponderosa that appears to have been struck by lightning, not particularly unusual, but this one survived the hit and bears an impressive slash scar from the encounter.








Apache Creek (or not) . . .
Once more headed to Apache Creek we are when we come to a fork in the road.  And as in the oft-quoted quip about taking the fork, my pard decides we will veer from our course, taking this route that should (I use the term advisedly) come out on Fair Oaks Road.  We are soon warned by signage that we are on a “limited use road”, not the first time and undoubtedly not the last.  I file a mental reminder that I have yet to return to the slick rock area of Apache Creek; put it on the list.

The track takes little time to convince me that its use is limited to those with limited judgment.  I recall when we were contemplating our purchase of our stalwart Four Runner, named Ruby for her color, quite a number of years ago.  Chris really wanted to get a vehicle with a standard transmission.  That was one of the times when I firmly planted my foot and vetoed his macho desire to pretend his SUV is a sports car.

The reason this comes to mind just now is because of the way he loves to shift into four-wheel-drive and low gear to navigate the crazed places we sometimes traverse.  And this one is getting more crazed by the minute.  I hang on, but opine aloud that if the road gets any worse, we might want to turn back.

Despite the jarring, we enjoy the countryside; all is thickly forested and the gigantic quartz outcrops that jut out above the granite and volcanic bedrock are awesome.

Other interesting formations we see include BT Butte, a close cousin of Prescott’s Thumb Butte, and Smith Mesa up ahead. 






















We startle one deer that had been peacefully drinking at a small spring.  Something to the side catches my eye, so I get Chris to back up for a better look.  It is another deer, this one standing at full alert.  Huge ears turned full toward us, a large section of one is missing.  I quickly snap a couple of pictures, assuming it will turn and leap into the brush.  As the animal continues to stare directly at us with nary a blink or a move, I begin to wonder if this is an actual deer or some sort of installed target.  No matter, I disembark on the off chance that it will allow me to get a better picture.  After about a half-dozen more shots, the thing has still not so much as twitched, so I begin to wave my arms vigorously as if I am bringing a helicopter in to land on a wave-tossed aircraft carrier: still nothing.  This things has nerves of steel, I think.  Eventually, the sport wanes and I climb back into the car, slamming the door behind me.  That was what it took; that deer turned and leaped simultaneously and was gone in a flash.  I have a feeling, though, that one will not last past hunting season.

About this time, I wonder out loud about my previous suggestion that we turn back if the road gets any rougher because rougher it is definitely getting.  My traveling companion chooses not to hear this comment as we continue on our way.

We had thought our route was taking us west around Smith Mesa, but as time goes on, we wonder why we can no longer spot that huge prominence through the trees.  Finally, it becomes clear; our road is actually winding its way, and us with it, to the top of the flat-topped mountain instead of skirting around it.  The road steepens as we climb and becomes much rockier; clearly the steepness has caused it to be severely eroded, exposing large rocks and creating deep cuts in the roadway, such as it is.























I am creating quite a squawk now as I am bounced from pillar to post nonstop until we make a hairpin turn that reveals not the end of life as we know it, but the end of travel on this road.  It has eroded away to nothing but flood-carved gullies strewn with boulders.

Chris is dismayed and I am, well, perturbed, to put it mildly.  After all, we are probably no more than a half-mile from Fair Oaks Road, but have 11 miles of rough road behind us.  I make quite a few relatively loud observations about the situation, all of which C accepts pretty well, considering that they are all malignings of his listening skills or lack thereof.

Oh well, the hour is growing late and we do not want to drive that 11 miles in the dark, so we gird our loins and reverse direction.  Truthfully, it was an interesting drive going that-a-way and it is also interesting going this-a-way.  With snouts pointed otherwise, we see all new things and enjoy ourselves (in between times when I again mention Chris’ shortcomings).  In spite of it all or because of it, I am now determined to top out at Smith Mesa; perhaps we can try it from Fair Oaks Road on another day.

Meadow, lion . . .
One spot demands a stop; through a break in the trees, I have seen something I must explore and besides, we need another good hike to stretch our legs.  As we venture down into a gully and back up, we find a large sun-drenched meadow, Indian artifacts, pretty rock outcrops and a wonderful spring, far bigger than the many we have noted along this route.

This place has an enchanting energy to it.  I am drawn to be here for more time, but oh! that road.  We walk around the meadow, climb the outcrops and work our way down the arroyo that houses the spring.  I arrive at the bottom first and warn Chris about the quicksandy surface.  He quickly demonstrates his selective hearing by walking into it.


I ask for a photo as I play the "My tree is bigger than your tree" game.  Suffice it to say there are some very impressive specimens in the area.

There is lots of fresh water flowing, abundant lush tall grass and a muddy place that clearly shows fresh lion tracks.  This is an exciting find, one that causes me to peer closely at the thick foliage above us.  Although I would be excited to see a lion, my preference is that it not be lurking on one of those branches over my head.  Several other preferences come to mind about now, such as that it not be stalking me, but we do not see the cat that stopped for a drink before our arrival (or perhaps it was here lapping even as we walked in to the area).





 Vistas, spider, rainbow . . .
Reluctantly, we depart and make our way back to Camp Wood Road.  This approximates a super highway compared to where we’ve been, and we enjoy the distant open vistas.

Suddenly, Chris realizes we have just passed a tarantula in the road so I insist I must get a picture of it.  He backs up using the “things are larger than they appear” mirror, but even so, clearly sees the T-rex-rantula from a distance.  I get out and explain that I want a picture.  With a bit of urging, the spider poses for its portrait.  The creature is obviously crossing the road to get to the other side.

As monsoon activity continues around the area, we are driving directly toward a gorgeous rainbow in a rain squall.  We stop several times for pictures, each one more vivid than the last until at last I am satisfied, a day fully lived.