Into the future . . . and the past
Jan. 2, 2012

Rowdy politely admires Christmas dinner and in case you wondered - no, he's not spoiled in the slightest.

A change in the calendar greets us and with it come introspection, intentions and partying.  In our case, there was precious little partying, okay - none - but still I greet a new year as an auspicious occurrence.  There is no particular reason to think January 1 will bear any variation from the last day of December, but it remains a marker for me, as many others, to strive for improvement in my habits and in my relationships.

I view each passing day in the same way, but with less drama perhaps.  A new calendar year invites questions: have I progressed toward stated goals?  Am I being of service?  Have I turned less toward judgement of myself and other people and more to being the best I can be?  Some I can answer in the affirmative, but always, more effort to be put forth.

As we evaluate progress and look with optimism to what is to come, it seems a good time to honor the ancestors and all those who have come before us, thus a perfect time to revisit the resting place of my great grandmother and those close to her.

We have been before to her homes in Littlefield and have visited her grave previously; now we will take advantage of the relative proximity to do so once again.

Driving in this northward direction, the landscape changes some - we find ourselves surrounded by oil wells to a lesser extent to see them replaced by more agriculture, primarily cotton but also crops of alfalfa and milo in addition to horse ranches.

One approximate quarter-mile stretch is marked along its length by signs showing the names of the thoroughbred race horses that have been bred there.





Tank anyone?

Startled might be too weak a description of my reaction as we come upon Sam’s Surplus, an emporium of military leftovers, but not the usual Jerry cans and ammo boxes.  Sam has one way or the other procured for sale such items as missiles, tanks, helicopters and Jeeps, nothing really for which I am in the market but worth a photo stop.





We pass through LaMesa, a good sized town that evidences prosperity and then Levelland, also bustling and sporting freshly-fallen snow.  I am surprised at the changes in temperature and precipitation across flat plains that display no other particular demarcations.

Cranes!

Sitting in the leisure seat, I had time to gaze across the countryside and wonder at a distant very large flock of birds, curious of course about what they were.  Although Chris is mostly amenable to my flights of fancy to turn off our course, cease forward motion for a look-see or some other detour from destination, he declined to attempt this chase, so we were left to wonder.

Not for long, though: soon we saw other gyrating columns undulating far upward, some veering off into formations and generally filling the sky.  As soon as we stopped, we knew for sure we had encountered thousands of sandhill cranes - their unceasing murmurings sounding for all the world like purring.

How exciting to chance on these beautiful graceful birds!  I tried getting pics of them in flight but without any great success, and the only ones we were close enough to photograph on the ground numbered in the hundreds, not thousands (remember: these pictures can be enlarged by clicking on them).


Honoring ancestors . . .

A most favored subject for me: finding ancestors, mine or someone else’s - it matters not.

I have long intended to put into writing how some of our discoveries have occurred, even saw it on a “to-do” list not long ago and renewed that resolution in my mind; now is the time to take action.  I begin with one aspect of our search for Kelleys, my name of birth.

On a date in 1991, we determined to utilize Christmas vacation for our first trip to the hill country of Texas, birthplace and/or home of our ancestral Kelley, Winans, Owen and Taylor families.  Dad and his parents were born near Barksdale, a burg that earns that description.  We loaded up Dad, two of our children and all incumbent luggage, taxing the springs of Maxi, the minivan.

Not now to go into the many great stories and connections that resulted from that sojourn, I will write only about what transpired after a stop on the way back to Arizona.  My great grandfather, Frank Kelley, and his father, James Kelley, are buried in Barksdale, but we knew from research that Frank’s wife, Julia Travis (Winans) Kelley was interred in Littlefield, Texas, and we wanted to locate her grave.

Time constraints of work and school dictated that we drive straight through to home at the end of our exciting and busy vacation with a late-day stop at the burying ground in Littlefield.  We were surprised by the large size of the cemetery and could see that we might not have enough daylight to locate her resting place.  There were five of us, though, so we deployed in a military-like fashion, each person jogging up and down his assigned rows.  We had just about despaired of success when someone called out they had found her near the back.

We all gathered and placed flowers on her grave and for the other kin buried next to her.  On one side was her son, Archie Kelley, my grandfather’s only sibling, who died at age 45. 

On the other side are her sister, Dovie (Winans) Harper and a brother, Doc Winans.



 


Time allotted was short and we were shortly off for the all-night drive home.  Afterward, I wrote a letter to the editor of the Littlefield newspaper (as a newly-retired newspaper publisher/editor, it seemed a natural).  This was early in our genealogy research days when we had little information about the family and were anxious to gather all we could.

In the letter, I briefly explained that I was descended from Julia and was anxious to obtain any information possible about the family.  I was overjoyed to receive three phone calls in response to my query.  Two were from sisters, Janice & Janine:  They remembered Julia from their childhood.  Not only that, they had her Bible!  Piecing together their story and those from cousins later, we found that when Julia died in hospital in Big Spring, some folks went into her house and helped themselves to her belongings before her brother, Frank Winans III, could get there from his home in Big Spring.  Frank looked after her in her later years.

I’m still shocked at the thought but know nothing of the circumstances although I have trouble imagining what circumstance could excuse that behavior.  At any rate, the sisters’ father somehow salvaged Julia’s Bible and displayed it in the front case of his store for many years, waiting for a Kelley kin to come by and retrieve it.  Upon his death, the sisters continued to save the Bible and were most happy to send it to me right away.  Imagine that!  This family saved that Bible for more than 30 years to return it to its family!

Since then, we have become good friends with them and another sister and have visited back & forth in Texas and Colorado.  They are dear people whom we cherish and whom I intend to visit again during this time in Texas.

The other call was from a woman who was a bit older and whose father had pastored the church that Julia and her mother, Martha (Mattie) Ellen (Owen) Winans had attended.

These three people most graciously shared their remembrances of our family, relating things that we could never have known otherwise.  It seems that Mattie was known as Granny Winans.  Because of her toothlessness, she had the appearance of nose and chin nearly touching.  Another inadequacy - hearing loss - was compensated for when the church provided a rocking chair up front for her.

The friend who shared these memories, Omega, was in her teens when she sat up with Julia during the night that Mattie died in Littlefield.  Mattie, my great, great grandmother, was buried beside her husband Frank Winans in Barksdale.  Omega remembered them loading the coffin onto the train to take her there.

Julia and her seven younger siblings were close, often sharing living quarters and employment.  We learned that Doc suffered from Parkinson’s disease and that he also lived and died in that same house; his room was at the northwest corner. 

Dovie, too, died in Littlefield, but I am not sure which house they were at then.  It was just about the time that Julia moved closer to the middle of town.  Their previous house included acreage on which she and Dovie grew vegetables and grapes commercially. 

Later, Julia babysat for neighbors to earn extra money.  We have visited both houses, shown where they are by our Littlefield friends.  The current visit was no exception.  One of the houses was abandoned even the first time we went there, but its condition and that of the outbuildings was relatively good, so much so that we can recognize it in old photos.  This time, though, we see that it will not be standing much longer.  All but the barn and part of the cistern are flattened and the roof of the house has deteriorated to the point that it will not last much longer.

Evidently, Julia also gardened and had a grape arbor, less extensive, at the house in town.  Most of that has given way to an addition on the house, which is still occupied.  My older brother tells me he visited Julia there with our Grandpa Kelley and that her eyesight was very bad; when she first spotted his tow-head, she thought he was bald.  I am sad that I did not get to know her or even that she existed although I was ten years old when she died.

This time and each visit, we remember her and the others by putting flowers on their graves and by trimming the trees that threaten to overtake the family plot.

Out ‘n about 
Dec. 31, 2012

I will write a bit about some of our runnings here & there whilst the señor winterizes our sleeping quarters.  With the exception of running out of propane one night, we have been relatively comfortable heat-wise, but we just purchased a sheet of styrofoam that he is fitting into the window and hatch of our sleeping quarters.  All that stands between us and winter in those spots are single-pane glass in the window and a thin plastic cover on the hatch.  Clearly, the Totee is not designed for cold-weather usage, which we knew, and decided that we could do enough to make up for its deficiencies to get through a West Texas winter.  That winter blanket I purchased as soon as I got here has helped immensely, too.

I judge these two weeks since my arrival as decidedly atypical because of work stoppages due to holidays.  Chris did not work on Christmas eve or day nor is he doing so for the new year holiday, allowing us time to do a bit of wandering.

Water or not, birds, poisonous gas . . .

Driving away from the highway and the city, we found ourselves on dirt roads that accessed cotton fields, some harvested and some that appeared to have made a crop but lacked enough height because of the drought to be harvested.  Those have been disked in, but from a distance, the unharvested cotton makes them resemble a body of water.

And speaking of water, we had in mind to search out that commodity thinking to do some bird watching.  The majority of time we found any, access was denied by oil lease holders.  The oil fields are dangerous in many ways and the owners do all they can to insure that casual snoopers like us do not fall afoul of the hazards.

The pumping machinery itself is dangerous to be around.  Even the ones that appear not to be operating start pumping spontaneously when the pressure builds to a sufficient level.  And then there is the di-hydrogen sulfide, H2S, gas that is present in many fields.

When Chris’ employment takes the crew into a functioning oil field, they always carry detectors.  He explains that H2S is not harmful in small quantities, but is fatal at certain levels.

We checked out Boggy Lake, Red Lake and Roberts Lake.  The only one we could get to was dry as the proverbial bone.  The others had no access that was not posted and/or locked.  We did find a draw with water that we can return to when we have time to hike in.  Even with the scope, we were too distant to identify the birds, although surprisingly, there were gulls at the shoreline.  One wonders just why those gulls have chosen the West Texas plains on which to reside.

Not many folks have chosen to remain on the farms in these parts, hence lonely buildings that once housed families now stand desolate awaiting their inevitable deterioration.

Notrees, murals, soreheads, Big Spring . . .

Our wandering took us through towns interesting or not.  I thought Notrees was aptly named: seems they tried for a moniker that the post office vetoed as being similar to a place that tagged it first and requested something that reflected the area’s appearance.  After claiming Notrees as their official title, the few residents got right to work planting.

Stanton’s soreheads got my attention as did this great mural.  I had to photograph it in sections to do it any justice at all. 

As we neared Big Spring, we saw the escarpment that looms over the town, visible for a great distance across the surrounding tabletop flatness.  We have been there previously, even have kin there as well as in Midland and dear friends in Littlefield, none of whom we have contacted, but surely will now that we are settling in.

Big Spring takes advantage of its unique position at the elevated land mass by plunking a park up there.  It allows some awesome views and I am also awed by the road to the top that would easily allow a vehicle to dive over the edge.  I surmise that has occurred at times.




Sadly, we are anal enough to even be intrigued by the fossils in the WPA-constructed limestone block restrooms, one in the shape of a heart.

The vast majority of the settlements in this region seem not to be benefiting in the slightest from the oil boom.  Even Odessa, our neighbor city, consists of depressed, deteriorating neighborhoods and a mostly boarded-up business section.

Midland alone is exploding with primarily industrial and business construction everywhere.  Residential development does not seem to be growing apace; however, I’m not sure I have a good overall feel for it.  The industrial growth has nearly filled in the entire 20 or so miles between Midland and Odessa, leaving their boundaries questionable.

Chris is employed . . .

I haven’t talked about Chris’ job and am getting many questions regarding it.  The first week he was here, he worked through a temp agency installing computers in a hospital.  For a spell, it was thought that might lead to more permanent work, but for various reasons, it did not.

It took him just one more week to find a permanent job and one that we think is just about perfectly suited for him and he for it.  It remains to be seen if the salary and overtime will suffice for our purposes; at this point, we are feeling extremely grateful for his position.

He is working for a long-established engineering & surveying company, family owned and operated.  It suits nicely for a number of reasons.  First, the owners and fellow employees are to a man (and woman) easy to get along with, helpful and just good folks.  Second, he is in a position to learn all kinds of interesting things about the surveying profession and the oil industry, so it is very interesting to him.  And third, he will likely be able to earn some kind of survey certification that might be useful elsewhere.

After only a week on the job, we both were welcomed to the company Christmas party/dinner at a Mexican food restaurant.  Despite my penchant for timidity in such circumstances, I was not only put at ease, I had a fascinating long conversation with the owner of the firm, with whom I have much in common.

A-Nony-Mous, 60,000 people
Dec. 28, 2012

Just when I think I have things planned and settled and all is comfortable and known, then sometimes it isn’t.  And for us just now, it isn’t, which is okay but different.  Now I am feeling pretty anonymous, very unusual after living in the same town for 35 years and scarcely being able to go anywhere in the region without seeing multiple people I know and experience places that are familiar - kind of a warm snuggy feeling. 

I am told there approximately 60,000 additional people, transient workers (60,002 if you count Chris and me) in this area, utilizing an infrastructure developed for 60,000 fewer people.  Doesn’t take much imagination to conjure the congested conditions on roads, in stores and pretty much everywhere.  We are in the Permian Basin (I’ll let you look it up; it’s the underlying geologic structure), thus many business names incorporate “Permian”, “Basin”, “Midland”, “Odessa” or “Midessa”.

I have discovered that I am able to venture out into an unknown city in crazed traffic with unfamiliar driving situations and continue to function as a fully competent adult.  Admittedly, it is odd zooming along looking for things I need having no idea where they may be whilst dodging this way and that and keeping a close eye on who is changing lanes, pulling out in front of me and slowing down.  Today, I found a car wash (I even remember it is north of Wadley on Big Springs), a drug store, a dollar store (in a bad part of town - kinda nervous making), a water dispensary, got back to the downtown library where I obtained a library card and checked out a book) and back to the HEB, easily the most frenetic grocery I’ve ever entered.

The young men at the car wash could not remove my radio antenna nor could I so we went ahead with crossed fingers.  Expected scenario tonight: Chris comes home, says “Oh good, you washed the car” (it was the dirtiest car in town after three dust storms laid a thick layer of white caliche on it and a light sprinkle set it like cement and the birds that I was - past tense - feeding deposited their droppings all over it) and I say, “Yes, that’s the good news.”  I suspect I will not be listening to the radio in the car anytime soon.

Now the HEB: One lines up for a parking space, lines up to get inside, lines up to pay and lines up to get out the door.  It is huge and wonderful.  Stupendous garden shop, bakery, cheese shop, produce section, dairy: fresh baked bread of all kinds, tortillas being made before your very eyes, samples to make you not miss Costco and more stuff than I’ve ever seen in a grocery - very fun, just don’t try it in a hurry.

Water dispensary is to save some bucks that we’ve been spending on bottled water.  On C’s first morning here, he noticed an oil slick on his coffee and was quickly converted to bottled water.

Brrrrr . . .

Time out to whine - temp this a.m. is 28 degrees and we have not heat nor hot water because we ran out of propane last night.  Chris: “I was just so happy you were here I forgot to check it”.  Oh well, any excuse in a storm.  We do have an electric radiator for backup so there are no icicles hanging off my nose but it’s damn shivery in here as we await the office opening at 9.

Local attractions . . .

I check the Midland RV Park website and see a tab marked “local attractions”.  Anticipatorily, I click it to discover what awaits me in the discovery world: Blank.  Yes, a big white page with nothing.  I check again; perhaps the internet wasn’t loading correctly.  Yup, still blank.

Not only are there no local attractions, it’s a billion miles to anywhere. 

No matter, we figure out something and take a jaunt off to see what we can see.  Mostly what we see out of town is more oil wells and vast seas of mesquite-covered plains. 

Monahans Sand Hills State Park, private property, birds, Roy . . .

For a break, we find a mono-scenery within the larger mono-scenery: the Monohans sand hills.  We have been here only briefly previously, so determine to explore at more length.  The opportunity to walk somewhere is overwhelming for me.  I am so accustomed to turning my nose any direction at home and setting off cross-country on an explore.  That is not possible in this great state; virtually every square inch is private and posted or private and posted.  The rare exceptions are seashore (none of that anywhere around Midland, aptly named) and State parks a la Monahans.


Back to the desert within a desert: We spot quite a surprising number of birds while we’re driving in, so set off afoot with binoculars, spotting scope and bird book - freed of sitting in the trailer or sitting in the car.  The place fascinates and provides excellent exercise both: walking up and down sand dunes is quite the workout.  Who would guess there would be so much wildlife in these Sahara-like surroundings but an abundance of critter prints proves it so.




The sport of choice at the sand dunes is disking.  The day was too chilly for me to try it, but the younger set was having quite a time sliding downhill and trudging back to the top to do it again.

We manage to identify a few birds while there: Brewer’s blackbird, kestrel, northern mocking bird, western wood peewee, chipping sparrow, spotted towhee, white-crowned sparrow, raven, western scrub jay, house sparrow and a amazingly: a life bird, the sage thrasher.

An avian aside: at “home”, we had house sparrows, house finches, white-winged doves, a cardinal and a million common and great-tailed grackles.  I say had because I have removed the feeder due to the overwhelming numbers of feathered friends and their messes.

Once when Texas cousin Art was visiting in Arizona, I mentioned how much I enjoyed the grackles at my house, especially when they came to devour the hordes of cicadas, and he opined strongly the opposite.  Okay, now I get it: they are legion here and they are large, raucous, messy pests that gather by the thousands.

Venturing on, we check out various abandoned buildings (a particular fascination of mine) and old neighborhoods in Monahans, Pyote and Wink. 























I love Monahans' street signs with a metal galloping horse scene atop each one.








Chris was fascinated by the Pyote Town Hall, about the size of my bedroom and office.  I followed the signs to their museum but it was no more or at least not right now.


















Wink was interesting, to say the least.

It houses a Roy Orbison museum, it being that singer’s boyhood home, a facility open only by appointment; one surmises that may not be often. 












Also in Wink was this scene that still has us scratching our heads - bundles of some kind of paper stacked at the top of a building whence they are about to topple out onto the sidewalk because the facade is missing.  I’d give a quarter to anyone who could explain this to me.

Not to be left behind . . .
Dec. 18, 2012

“So here we are in the Tijuana jail.  Can’t find no one to go our bail.”

No, we are not really in jail - Tijuana or anywhere; I just have song titles popping up as they suit the situation, so actually, here we are in Midland, Texas.  Elvis’ “It’’s now or never” also comes to mind: start this installment of the blog or admit that it’s too late to do so.

Yes, I have joined Chris, the previous blog post being my sole attempt to journal our separation.  We had not made solid plans beyond Chris going to Texas and getting a job.  Would I remain at home?  Would he be able to travel back & forth or would I?  Would he even find suitable employment?

The answer is that he obtained a good job and as soon as he conveyed that information on Friday, I began preparations to leave on Tuesday, a wholly inadequate length of time for said preparations.

A house sitter engaged; Christmas packages prepared and shipped; fallen-leaf-strewn premises raked; pantry, refrigerator and freezers cleaned out; arrangements made for commitments to which I was uncommitting; a zillion other things attended to as stress levels rose to volcanic levels (many apologies to those who experienced the resulting Mount St. Helens-like explosions) - Tuesday morning and Rowdy and I were on our way, Ruby loaded to the gills.

Never one to appreciate cities or city traffic, we nevertheless rolled on through Phoenix and Tucson with ease, arriving in Benson just in time for a scrumptious lunch prepared by my sister-in-law, Pat, and a nice-but-too-short visit with her and my brother, Frank, at their winter RV haven.

I shot their portrait with Bubba by their Arizona Christmas tree, exchanged gifts and came away with a heart rock that Frank found on one of his forays into the southern Arizona desert so beloved by me and others of my Kelley kin.

Arizona behind us, we arrived at our night’s lodging in Deming, New Mexico, in good time, able to kick back and breathe after the intensity of the previous weeks and especially those last few days.  Rowdy took his role of guard of all things Wuehrmann very seriously.  Besides prowling the room’s circuit throughout the night, he made sure to peer out front the better to see danger as it approached.

Wind & dust . . .

Ai yi yi!  Beginning our second day of driving in strong wind but with a beauteous sunrise (one disadvantage to traveling alone is the inability to shoot photos and make notes along the way, thus blessedly shortening the resultant blog), the rosy clouded prairie viewed through the windshield reveals distant plumes of dust kicking across the landscape.

I swallow panic and assure myself I will be able to find a safe pullout if necessary.

Two cities traversed yesterday, two more coming right up: Las Cruces and El Paso, scary enough to this spoiled country girl but in gale-force (not sure what that is exactly but it felt that way to me) winds and legendary dust storms, I find my hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel as I hurtle at 75 miles per hour in rush hour city traffic allllllll the way through El Paso cheek by jowl with big rigs.

Finally free of the metropolitan area, I remain at alert as the wind whips across the highway.  Even in these conditions, I can appreciate that my fellow travelers are courteous and law-abiding.  Texas law requires travel in the right lane with the left lane only for passing and that is being obeyed to the letter, making for orderly proceedings.

The end in sight, Toyah, Rattlesnake Bomber Base . . .

Holy moley, there is not much out here in the vastness of the West Texas plains, but then we knew that - it still makes an impression, though, every time I encounter it. 

After I turn northward toward Midland, I see the sad but begging-to-be-photographed remains of the ghost town, Toyah, bringing back memories of a previous trip along this route; however, I cannot interrupt my pell-mell forward motion to wander anywhere camera in hand.

After much more featureless time seeing the pavement disappear beneath the car's hood,  I am relieved to see a roadside rest area that appears to have facilities (or faculties, as Dad W. would say).  This calls for sorely needed leg stretching, use of those “faculties” and munching on my lunch which is not nearly as nice as yesterday’s, consisting sparsely of cherry tomatoes and Clementines.

Inside the hangar-like building, I encounter a zealous Texas State employee who gives me an unsolicited personal introduction to why this rest area is constructed to resemble airport structures and what the structure within it represents plus quite a bit more of his newly acquired knowledge.

A highway sign had earlier pointed the way to something called the Rattlesnake Bomber Base Museum.  These edifices are designed to summon the ghost of that once-burgeoning United States Army Air Force base now succumbed to the Texas plains.  Interestingly, the Enola Gay, the B-29 that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan, was among the thousands of aircraft mothballed there after World War II.  The building’s interior contains an accurately sized superstructure replica of that infamous plane with period photographs and information.

The Rattlesnake moniker attested to the thousands of venomous reptiles disturbed from their winter hibernation dens during the training base’s construction.  Officially, it was the Pyote Air Force Base.

Destination achieved . . .

Along about the height of the wind-borne grit storm, we arrived at the Midland RV Park and our semi-safe haven from more dust-laden air than I’ve ever seen, which is saying a lot for someone born and raised in the Valley of the Sun, renowned for its periodic miles-high walls of dust.

This was not as dramatic as those awesome displays, but suffice it to say that a person could open their eyes only the merest slits or suffer serious complications.  What an introduction!  I valiantly (if I do say so myself none too modestly) unpacked Ruby, managed not to let any doors crash open in the dusticane and at last was settled inside the rockin’ & rollin’ little snuggery to await the señor's arrival home from work.

In preparation for our arrival, Chris went all out with festive Christmas decorations.

Rowdy was hopeful about packing himself to head back home.

My first sunrise at my new home - and dust-free!

Texas or bust
December 4, 2012

I’ve thought for a few days that I would journal the most recent adventure, but it has been easy to defer taking action.  Reasons for that inactivity abound.  Primary among them is that it is not exactly my adventure.  Chris is the one who is away from home, so the journey is mine only in a vicarious way.

I easily discern that it will be beneficial for me in an emotional sense to spend time writing about this episode in our lives, but then I wonder if I should actually post it as a blog.  If so, it will necessarily be without photographs, at least at this juncture, because I am home, camera in hand (well, okay, more like at hand), so for those who consume my travel blogs primarily via pictures, boredom may set in.

For now, I will call this my journal, helpful for me to ease the thoughts swirling in circles, and mayhaps it will be a blog posting, too, albeit more personal than most.

Chris departed these premises last Saturday morning.  What a shocking sight - I stood in the living room watching him drive away in the Toyota Tundra Toter, as we refer to our pickup, pulling our Totee travel trailer.  We waved at each other as he passed the window and I watched until he reached the corner and I could no longer see him.

That departure was the culmination of several months of discussing, planning and researching whether we ought to pursue the possibility of his obtaining employment associated with the oil field boom towns of Midland and Odessa, Texas.

Hoping to allay financial setbacks, our scheme was for him to work there over the winter at wages more lucrative than what is available in our locality.  The alternative seemed to be a whole new full-time career here to get to the same fiscal freedom, but the long-term sense of that was not at all to our liking.  More money, shorter time period: why not give it a try.

Well, now I know why not.  After 33 years together, it is feeling decidedly awful not to be together.

Amarillo be damned - he made it to El Paso the first night and I wanted nothing in the world more at that moment than for him to turn around and come home; the feeling was fairly mutual as we talked on the phone that night.  In the light of the next morning, we agreed that after all we had done to get to that point, it would be absurd not to pursue the goal as best we could.

We knew from contacts that a 64-year-old retired college administrator/archaeologist/geologist/teacher was not going to be among the more common applicants in the oil field industry, but Chris’ physical labor pursuits convinced us he has what it takes.  Convincing someone else, however, is an entirely different matter.

All of which brings me to now - Wednesday - because of the boom town nature of Midland/Odessa,  housing is not only at a premium, there is no room in the inn, any of them, thus the advantage of the Totee.  A semi-advantage only; there is no room in the the RV parks, either.  His departure was put back and put back and put back as we waited for his place on a waiting list to advance.

In fact, I became so accustomed to his departure being deferred that it was shocking when an opening was announced.  Last-minute packing, reminders, reassurances and arrangements and he was on his way.

Once we surmounted the El Paso doubts, he rolled into his destination mid-day Sunday.  His descriptions of the changes to the city are astounding.  Miles and miles of industrial and oil-related businesses have popped up like mushrooms in the rainy season during the past two years.  Of course all that increased industry demands additional businesses to serve additional workers and workers' families.

Shades of 19th century gold rushes!  Those stories that shimmer as if they were legends are suddenly made real.  It has happened in Midland before and likely will occur again after this one busts, but for now, it has changed us as those of long ago transformed other families - to their advantage or not.

Verde Valley vacay
October 20-24, 2012

The ups and downs of life - I am pondering it all: the challenges, the joys, the hardships, the work and play of it all.  So much of it is self-imposed; sometimes it seems as if we set a hard road for ourselves and other times, the bumps in the road just jump up and grab us.

At this moment, though, I am grateful for this special day, one day of four that we are spending in the Verde Valley as a mini-much-appreciated get-away.  The summer has been one filled with sad anticipation and grieving for a loved friend and all the confusion and mixed feelings that go with that - feeling sorry for my own loss and feeling guilty for that selfishness.

That aside now as it is mine to sort out, knowing that each of us has our own path to follow and with gratitude for those whose paths converge with mine.

Public speaking - argh! . . .

We have with difficulty carved out four days that we can be here in the travel trailer doing exactly as we choose at any given moment.  For reasons unfathomable to me now, I agreed to do a one-hour presentation at the Northern Arizona Genealogical Society’s annual workshop on Saturday morning.  Not comfortable as a public speaker but having unbounded enthusiasm for family history, I thought I could pull it off.  In reality, not so much.

The request was for me to speak on doing genealogy research on locality, which is a great favorite pastime for us.  I was nervous, but not overmuch; however, my chosen material was more than could be accommodated in the allotted time, causing me to leave out things I wanted to include and to rush through others.  Generally, it was just not a very good presentation; hopefully, I will refrain from such in the future.

Hummingbirds, Verde River, neighbors . . .

At any rate, it was my last big non-regular commitment for a spell and I am thrilled it is behind me and that I now sit on a bluff above the Verde River, temps in the 80s, a soft breeze cooling us and Anna’s hummingbirds sipping our offered nectar.

Our neighbors, Bob & Donna, just came home and are over for a visit and to enjoy hearing Chris play the keyboard.  They are full-time RVers in a beautiful 35-foot class A motorhome, originally from Ohio (actually, Bob & Donna are from Ohio; I have no idea whence came their RV).

Early morning bird walk, Sunday relaxing . . .

Early this morning, we enjoyed a great walk down along the river to explore this stretch of waterway.  Much of the bank is inaccessible because of cattails and other vegetation, at least for getting to the water for fishing.  We did find a few spots that would lend themselves to angling, so we will give them a try later maybe.

While wandering, we spotted a life bird, a Vesper’s sparrow, in addition to white-crowned sparrows, Abert’s towhee and Say’s phoebe, plus three American coots that were dining enthusiastically on something in the floating aquatic plants.

Our roost for this trip is the Thousand Trails park, a membership group that rents spaces to non-members such as us.  It’s our first time to stay here, but surely will not be the last; after all, it is only an hour from home, warmer than home and right on the river - as fine a combination as can be imagined sans warm-water ocean beach.

We availed ourselves of a generous reasonably priced breakfast served at the park’s clubhouse and were off for another foray further upstream on the Verde.  Here we found better fishing access and will return to drop a line or two.

The cliffs in this area are pocked with caves, grottoes and overhangs, the soil consisting of white limestone. 

Two birds added to the trip list: northern harrier and belted kingfisher.

Friends, pickleball, Big Tex . . .

A lazy Sunday afternoon culminated in a welcome visit from Barb and Bud who ventured over the mountain to join us in conversation, jacuzzi and food.   The swimming pool and spa here are very nice; however, the pool’s water temperature was a bit too brisk for us in the cooling late afternoon. 

It was my sad task to inform the Bs about the demise of Big Tex, which news shocked them severely.  Big Tex is that iconic 40-foot tall figure who greets revelers at the Texas state fair every fall with a booming drawled “Howdy folks!” or that did so until last Friday when the tall Texan was mysteriously burned up (or should I say burned down - I’m never quite sure).  The promise is that the greeter extraordinaire will be restored for next year’s festivities at which time I hope to finally attend that granddaddy of all fairs.

Whilst basking in the warmer climes of the spa, I learned some about pickleball, which appears to be a marriage of tennis, ping pong and badminton.  Another Rita (what a thought!) educated me about the game’s particulars; it sounds like a sport I would enjoy and hopefully will get to try while I’m here.

The Verde, bobcats, snoozing raccoon, Alcantara

Monday morning, as we are bushwhacking our way upstream on the Verde, we find lots of riverbank access, at least for those who are willing to work their way through head-high grass, reeds and thick brush with the occasional catclaw thrown in for good measure.  And then there’s the footing: not so good, lots of river rubble hidden under thick Johnson grass mats.






















As a reward for that work, the scenes are wondrous.  I never tire of exploring and photographing the many moods of the Verde.  Unlike some watercourses, its temperament is chameleonesque, changing from wide and  slow-moving when the canyon opens up to swift falling rapids where it gouges through steep cliff faces.  It can be grassy-banked shaded by willows and cottonwoods or rushing through towering crumbling limestone faces.





We were having so much fun yesterday that we continued to explore up the river despite having no lunch munchies along.  That hunger-fest convinced me to write the Wuehrmann constitution.  This is it: Whereas we never know how far we will hike, explore, swim, kayak or drive and whereas we do not want to turn back from a boondock because we are hungry or thirsty, we will never again set foot outside without food and water.
In the end, we continued on for a long time and even longer distance with rumbling bellies because it was just too choice to turn back solely because of hunger.

The most exciting part of the day was even before we reached the canyon bottom.  As I looked across the canyon that we were winding downward through, I spotted movement, called a halt and was amazed to see two bobcats working their way up the opposite cliff.  They stopped briefly a couple of times to look over their shoulders at us and then on top disappeared into the brush.  We managed to snap one quick picture as the second one topped out.  I was thrilled to see them!

Wildlife bookended our day: Shortly before we climbed out of the riverbed, I glanced up into a tall willow tree and saw a bizarre sight about 30 feet up in the branches.  We soon realized it was a raccoon sound asleep, resting on what seemed to be too few branches for his bulk.  Trying out various angles for pictures, I never saw more than a whole lot of fur from one side and part of an eye patch and one round ear sticking up from the other side.

The fishing was . . . well, the fishing wasn’t, but we were in our element just the same.




Although we never spotted a beaver dam, there was extensive evidence of the critters’ presence, both past and present.  We saw and had to climb over many trees downed by them and even a “drag-way” where they had pulled their prizes over a long distance to the water.  Some of the willows they had chewed through were surprisingly sizable.






Home from the canyon, showered and made decent and we were off to Alcantara, the nearby winery, where we had a great time with Vince.  I liked all of the five wines I tasted (after the third, my meager discernment abilities deteriorated even further) and was impressed with the facility, the menu, Vince, and Charlie Brown, the rescued Chesapeake Bay retriever that scared my socks off with his big bark when I walked up to the door.  Good thing I was wearing only sandals on my feet: no socks to lose.

After all that wildlife, we spent some evening imbibement hours with Bob & Donna, who are not nearly as wild and who filled us in on full-time RVing adventures and their travel blog.


 




























Javelina, anniversary, Su Casa . . .

This morning, we were again off to the river, an area that we saw on a previous trip and wanted to explore.  Once again, the fish were either not at home or not hungry, but what a pretty stretch of waterway.  We added red-wing blackbird and red-shafted northern flicker to the trip list.  As we approached, I got a good look at a large turtle sunning on a raft of reeds.  He was too shy to have his portrait done, so slipped quietly into the water.

This section of the Verde required no bushwhacking a’tall, just lots of precarious slipping and sliding on scary dirt trails and leaping over crumbled away sections of cliff.  One place was bad enough that I took the trouble to scramble above and around it.  I heard it collapse later when a feller who came by after us jumped across and barely managed not to go with it.

Sadly, after I tried to use the timer for a photo of the two of us to commemorate our 33rd wedding anniversary, I lost the handy little squiggly tripod that niece Suzie gave me, and I never did get the picture, at least not with both of us.  In the ten seconds allotted by the timer, I managed to skid down the slope toward the water but not far enough.  The resulting anniversary picture was of Chris scowling up as he watched me attempt the impossible. 

We consoled ourselves by going out for lunch at Su Casa in Clarkdale - a fine meal indeed - a definite return is in order.

This being the only time we could get away, Chris had to take a break from fun and go over the mountain this evening to teach a class at Yavapai, but then he enjoys that, too.  Maybe not the most convenient, but it has been a nice change of scenery for us, and it gave me some down time to do pretty much nothing at all.

Wednesday morning gave us the opportunity to explore more of the jungle-like riverbed below the RV park.  We spooked up two javelina that leaped away from us in a manner more befitting deer than piggies (yes, I know full well they are not pigs, just didn’t want to use the same word twice in one sentence).  This anti-human behavior is very different from the collared peccaries (ditto previous remark) that wander the back yards and gardens of Prescott and lie down to suckle their young on Phyllis’ front porch.

Back home and unpacked by 2 p.m. - we are excited to think about future quick and easy departures from the quasi-civilization of home to the back country of the Verde Valley, brimming with adventures-for-the-taking.