Two days
April 5, 2017
As winter lingered in the central Arizona mountains, we erased our commitments for a couple of consecutive weekdays and hied ourselves southward. Wickenburg was less the destination and more a resting spot for a low country foray.
The desert called with the promise of warm sunshiney days and the lure of new adventures. We had not gotten even as far as the foot of Yarnell Hill before our initial halt. There we stopped at the trail head to the new Arizona state park dedicated to our lost Granite Mountain Hotshots.
As always when we remember the tragedy of their deaths, we also think of their exceptional energy and dedication. If we decide in the future to hike the seven-mile trail to the fateful spot where they were trapped by flames, it will be with far more forethought. I am not certain, however, if I will ever want to undertake that pilgrimage; the energy around it seems daunting. We shall see.
Springtime! . . .
Not far down the road - still not even to the bottom of Yarnell Hill - our journey consisted of little more than fits and starts - we again found a place to pull off the road, that time to take in the golden awesomeness of the mountainside above us.
Brittle bush in full bloom covered the slope, transforming the usual rocky escarpment into a sight that demanded a stop to be in awe of the stunningness.
Appropriately enough, we were not the only folks to stop for the view. We met a nice family from Georgia with whom we exchanged photo-taking duties. That was shortly after the time of the Atlanta bridge-burning fiasco, and they were grateful to be away from at least a week of the traffic snarls created by that vandalism.
Flatlands . . .
As all journeys do, that one continued, and finally we descended to lower elevations. Wending our way along State Highway 71, which we have traveled many times, we noticed something that seemed unusual - off to our left in the distance, we saw a scarred area that we couldn't figure out, so we located a dirt road that would take us in that direction.
Wandering the route of the track, we were astounded to come upon a sizable tank: the water possibly covered a 40-acre patch of desert land and wound in and out of various inlets and outlets and sported a few islands.
The lake is not visible from the highway; I had to wonder how many times we had driven that route and never known about it. In fact, if it had not been for the cleared area beyond it, we would not have gone over that direction at all. The scar that captured our attention turned out to be what looks like another large tank in the making.
That desert oasis was alluring as a birding spot, so of course we hiked around it and looked for the avian population that would be drawn to such a place.
We spent a really enjoyable time exploring the lake's environs, amazed that such a wonderful oasis had been lurking out there unbeknownst to us. At the time we were there, there were few waterfowl in evidence. We delighted in following a single black-necked stilt that was accompanied by a lesser yellowlegs; the pair showed up at various parts of the pond as we moved around.
Other birds we spotted up to that point included turkey vulture, roadrunner, starling, house finch, raven, mockingbird, killdeer, American coot, cinnamon teal, kingfisher, mourning dove, Abert's towhee and violet green swallow.
So many times when we are out and about wandering, we run across memorials, and this was another of those cases. This one was centered on a corral post and contained an eclectic mix of paraphernalia that doubtless was meaningful to those who were remembering their lost one.
Robson's Mining World . . .
After whiling away a good bit of our day at the lake, we opted to visit Robson's just to see what we could see. The back story there is that we were very familiar with the site in day's past, but had not been there for quite a long time.
When Chris was running Elderhostel at Yavapai College, he used Robson's for one of his off-campus sites; groups lodged there for a week each, along with instructors in various fields, and we also have lodged there.
In the meantime, the inn has burned and the unique site's creator, Charles Robson, has passed away. The property is now in the hands of Western Destinations, acquired from Charles' wife, Jeri, who continues with the family business in Wickenburg - producing honey.
We knew the Robsons no longer owned the "town" and were unsure if we could gain entrance, but decided the time was right to check it out instead of the usual driving by and wondering.
The Nella-Meda Mine's workings occupied the site in the early 20th century as gold was extracted from beneath the land surface. With vision and energy of mind-boggling proportions, Charles & Jeri Robson stepped in to restore existing structures and construct additional buildings that are reminiscent of earlier times.
Tragically, there was substantial damage to the contents of the buildings during the span of time from Charles' death and caretakers stepping in to keep outside elements from destroying the antiquities within.
As if an actual historic settlement, the buildings and rooms are furnished with various themes; the general store is fitted almost exclusively with dry goods taken from Dick Wick Hall's old store in the historic town of Salome.
There is a print shop, a hair salon and so much more - even a cafe, where we have eaten in the past and where we hoped to lunch this visit; however, it is not operating just now. Luckily, we had some vittles along with us, so we did not go hungry.
The place is a marvel - thousands upon thousands of antiquities and oddities, such as an entire basket of death masks . . .
and a coin-operated player piano.
. . . even Wickenburg's fire engine number 1.
 |
 |
| Hair permanent anyone? |
 |
| The shop, with various equipment powered via belts and pulleys, was fascinating, reminiscent of long-ago pal and blacksmith Doug Loney's place in Kirkland. |
Back country . . .
As fascinating as the quasi-settlement is, we were further lured by the opportunity to hike out into the magnificent country that is Robson's Mining World's environment. In the past, we hiked up into a picturesque canyon where there is a permanent spring and prehistoric rock art, up and over the pass and down the far side. This trip was different - we stopped short of the water hole, primarily because our footwear was not sufficient to complete the rugged rocky terrain. I was disappointed, although the thought of inviting injury was enough to keep me in check.
 |
| That's the canyon we were headed toward . . . |
 |
| During our upward scramble . . . |
 |
| These creepy-crawlies were in great abundance, gnawing their way through many a leaf. |
As we approached the no-longer-a-burg of Wickenburg, we halted at a concrete and rock monument that memorializes an 1871 event known as the Wickenburg massacre. It is a familiar sight to me, having been there on prior occasions. Indeed, we ferreted out old family photos of my grandmother, Grace (Rhodimer) Catron Smith and her second husband, Eugene Smith, at the same spot.
The structure is on the main highway, not at the location of the murders, which occurred about eight miles from Wickenburg along what was then the stage road from Prescott to Wickenburg and then on to Culling’s Well, Ehrenburg and San Bernardino, California.
Five passengers on a stage coach and the driver were killed at the site. Additionally, a man and a woman were injured by gunfire, but escaped, although the female, Mollie Sheppard, later succumbed to complications from her injuries. The only survivor was William Kruger.
The circumstances surrounding the incident seem to be shrouded in some amount of obscurity. Either the perpetrators were apprehended and dealt with or they were not. Either they were native Americans or they were not. Either they were Mohave or Yavapai or not. Either the victims were buried at the site or not or reinterred more than once or not. Their identities seem to be known, but further details are retained in local oral history, whether correct or not.
 |
| My grandmother, ever the lady - I may have inherited some characteristics from her (I sincerely hope so!); however, gentility was not one of them. |
Touristing . . .
Our short visit to the low country involved doing some tourist stops in and amongst some hiking and exploring.
As we searched for the so-called jail tree right in town, we foolishly followed the signs that led us in a circular route ending back where we began, but on the bright side, we got a bit more exercise, and in the end, managed to find the jail tree anyway.
Evidently, we are to believe that for 27 years, the good folks of Wickenburg could not manage to construct a hoosegow in which to imprison the bad folks among them. I have to take that with the proverbial grain of salt.
 |
| Chris at the jail tree. Thankfully, he was free to leave unlike those in the past who were said to be chained to it. |
 |
| During our roundabout search for the jail tree, we were treated to the sight of this hummingbird breakfasting at ocotillo blossoms. |
The man for whom the town was named wore many hats, it seems. Johannes Henricus Wickenburg, later known as Henry Wickenburg, was a Prussian coal miner who emigrated in 1847. After following the hordes in the California gold rush, he later came to Arizona Territory in what became Yavapai County with the Pauline Weaver party in 1862.
While prospecting hither and yon, Wickenburg located, claimed and worked what came to be known as the Vulture Mine, the most productive gold mine in Arizona history. That discovery led to the encampment known as Vulture City and also to the establishment of the town of Wickenburg at the site of its developer's ranch.
We stopped by to view Henry Wickenburg's 1903 house at the end of a short residential street and photographed it as the final sun rays of the day illuminated it.
Despite the richness of his find, Wickenburg never received the monies he was owed from the sale of the Vulture. Penniless at the age of 86, he took his own life.
A pathetic pioneer cemetery . . .
Adhering to our self-proclaimed tourist status, we followed more signage (not in a circle this time) to the Wickenburg pioneer cemetery. Hoping that this section's subtitle does not hurt any feelings, but really, we were expecting something a bit more . . . ah, picturesque . . . quaint . . . respectful . . . something . . . anything other than what we found.
The site is very small - perhaps about a half dozen graves - situated on top of a knoll surrounded by residences, and basically consists of concrete tombs that resemble nothing more than very large bathtubs or very odd small rectangular unattractive swimming pools.
While we were hanging around town, we ferreted out a few more sites of interest, including a tin man and his burro off for a prospect in the hills . . .
. . . and a metal Gila monster, the kind that is safe to touch . . .
 |
| With apologies for the poorly lighted photograph, I have to throw this one into the mix, primarily because of Chris' comment about it. He thinks the sculptor was commissioned to portray a centaur. So, as the surmise goes, the sculptor looked up the definition of centaur, discovered it is half man, half horse and this was the result. |
In years past, I had thought to take a much-touted tour of the Vulture Mine and its environs. Unfortunately, I waited too long; the site is no longer open to the public, although the word is that it will be once again in the future.
We loitered for a time at the mine property's entrance gate, and later took some photos of its abandoned buildings from a distant perspective as we hiked out through the desert. I'm a little annoyed with myself for not touring the Vulture when I had the opportunity - a case of not paying attention to what's nearby and familiar.
The desert beckoned . . .
. . . and we answered the call with a hike commencing where a sand wash crossed a dirt track that we took to get off the pavement.
Our trek took us down the dry waterway where the only wildlife in sight was a very still cottontail rabbit, and then cross country up top with great views of Vulture Peak (presumably the landmark for which the mine was named) and desert flowers.
 |
| A most important discovery: ripe grass seed, prevalent after a wet winter season, is very sticky on suede shoes and socks (I threw the socks away). |
 |
| Clearly, we were not the first to pass that way. This appears to be a condensed milk can, a common find near 19th century settlements. This one had most likely been washed down in a flood from an upstream mine or camp. |
 |
| I wish I had placed something next to these cactus blossoms to indicate their huge size. I spotted them when we were leaving Henry Wickenburg's abode. They were so perfectly beautiful that Chris thought they weren't real. The homeowner came out while I was admiring them and said they were not open when she passed there a very short while before. Night-blooming cereus often open for only one night in the year. |
 |
| Heading back up the mountain homeward after our short sojourn brought even more awesome views of golden hilllsides. |
Getting our kicks
April 20, 2017
A preferred day trip might be a short drive with a long stay at a destination, but other times, the getting-there portion becomes the focus. Either way, a whole bunch can happen in a day's time, such as a recent jaunt on Route 66.
The erstwhile ghost town, Oatman, and Topock Marsh were two stated destinations for our day off and away.
No big surprise - we found much of interest along the way. We sailed right on by Ed's Camp, a wayside cluttered with paraphernalia but seemingly uninhabited, and called a halt a bit further on at the Cool Springs store, unfortunately also not open for business on that day, but clearly worth a gander.
The vintage fuel station, mercantile and cabins were built in the 1920s and served well for many years, finally succumbing to age as well as having primary traffic rerouted to the Interstate highway system. Its antiquity allure and the beauty of its setting, however, precipitated a complete restoration in the early part of this century.
It now welcomes business as a tourist attraction quasi-museum, offering beverages and snacks for the back road traveler.
There's a whole lot of country out there; I loved the expansiveness of the view from the Cool Springs establishment, especially of Thimble Mountain with its yellow flowered skirt arrayed majestically.
So. . . we think . . . if there's a Cool Springs station, mustn't there be a cool spring somewhere thereabouts? Just a short jaunt down the road we go and voila - we spotted the greenery that hints at water. A dirt track off the pavement led us to an arroyo crossed by a metal bridge, but not the kind of bridge that we felt comfortable tip-toeing Ruby across, so with the Four Runner left behind, we wandered back in time as we explored another rare and magical desert oasis.
The necessity of water for survival means that every natural source has been utilized many times through the ages - the remains of camps and settlements of various peoples are to be found nearby, and Cool Spring was no exception. We did some wandering to see what artifacts and ruins were to be seen, enjoying the beauty of the spot with its abundant flowers and foliage and towering cottonwood trees.
Just up and away from the spring water, the landscape reverts back to its arid aspect: in this case, though, abundant winter and spring rains brought the desert to flowering brilliance.
 |
| This cactus was on the cusp of an amazing show of floral intensity. |
Sitgreaves Pass, Gold Road, the old folks . . .
Climbing up and over the Black Mountains beyond Cool Springs, we topped out at 3,550 feet at Sitgreaves Pass. A piece of cake for Ruby to accomplish it, not near so much when 66 was the route to take westward with early motor vehicles.
In early days, the steep climb was sometimes taken in reverse gear - something about the oil pump running dry at the other angle - when I read about that, this is what I got: "blah, blah, oil pump, blah blah", so I'll leave it to the reader to do his own research.
It does put me in mind of a family story, though, one I may have mentioned previously, but oh well, my blog, my stories.
It went something like this: when the Texas folks were coming out to visit my grandparents and other kin who had relocated to southern Yavapai County from the Texas hill country, it was quite the adventure.
Many an incline was tackled by putting the car into reverse and backing up the slope. I always thought it was because that gear was stronger than the forward ones, but then "blah, blah, oil pump, blah, blah". Perhaps someone will explain this further to me and perhaps I will retain the explanation . . .
Anyway, the part of the story I liked best was about great grandmother Caroline (Ferguson) Taylor screeching in terror for most of the way over mountains. I'm thinking a good time was had by all . . . or not.
The area is literally littered with the detritus of those who passed this way before. Everywhere are stone foundations, crumbling concrete stairs to nowhere, remains of ore mills and mine shafts - not surprising: high grade gold was taken out of the region on and off from the 1860s into the 1990s.
And then there's Oatman . . .
Burro haven that it is, the old mining camp has rejuvenated itself into quite the tourist attraction, a situation that I have to say I find disappointing. First off, the place is packed with people who don't seem to understand that standing in the middle of a road makes it difficult to drive through.
And because they're standing in the middle of the road in large groups feeding hay pellets to large groups of burros, things become pretty congested. Burros are one of my all-time favorite beasts; however, I far prefer country burros to town burros. The more "urban" variety is fun to pet (I love those ears!), but has become rather too demanding and arrogant in its dependence.
In the end, I'm thinking that Oatman has morphed into a place suitable to take a first-time visitor to the West and less a destination for natives.
We did find some surprising interest in a small room upstairs via a spiral staircase in an old building - a motorcycle "museum", a somewhat overstated name. While large crowds milled around outside attempting to entice donkeys to eat more and more pellets despite the fact that they were wholly sated, and discarded hay bits were strewn everywhere, we climbed up to the dusty neglected attic room where we were astounded at the unique motor conveyances stored up there . . . and just how did anyone manage to get the machines up that spiral staircase???
The story of short-sightedness: The Arizona Hotel, surely a gem in 1915 with its 45 rooms, survived Oatman's big fire in 1921 only to be demolished in the 1950s in order to reduce the property tax - argh!
Topock Marsh, law breakers . . .
Took long enough, but finally we arrived at Topock to commence fishing, a favored activity that we've done precious little of in the past year. By then, the day was waning, so we took the easy way and joined three anglers who were half fishing and half lolling around on a fishing dock.
Turned out they were as nice as could be and we had a great time getting to know each other. They were two brothers of an advanced age (mine to be exact, except it seems more advanced on other people) and the teenage grandson of one.
Chris managed to catch a bass that we thought was of a respectable size. Normally, we would catch & release, but since those nice fellers were there, we offered it to them to add to their stringer.
Adding to the afternoon's entertainment was a Vietnamese couple who showed up to fish in earnest nearby. After a bit, all hell broke loose over at their quarter when the gentleman hooked a very large fish that he would never land without a net, an accoutrement he did not possess. His wife to the rescue - while he worked and worked on getting his fish in without breaking a line, she ran around in circles shrieking for someone to bring a net.
Our new friends quickly produced the needed equipment and then we all gathered around to watch the show, eagerly offering plenty of unwanted advice on how to land the monster, which eventually was captured with much fanfare and showing off. It was obvious that the couple fully intended to utilize their prize - a catfish of four or five pounds - for sustenance.
All well and good we all think as things settle back into quiet conversation and contemplation, that is right up until the dreaded game warden showed up on our pier. As he was talking to the folks who had landed the biggie, the young man in our bunch was surreptitiously sent to their truck with a beer can secreted at his side away from the ranger.
Other than that transgression that we had no idea actually was a transgression, all was still well and good. Silly us! Turns out every one of us was in violation of some rule or another. Well, actually Ms. Pollyanna (that's me) was the only one of the seven anglers not bound for some fine or confiscation.
Chris was in trouble because his bass did not quite measure up to the necessary standard, a standard of great importance, according to Mr. Game Warden, and one which he assured us we should be aware of, but which we were not because we normally do not keep the fish. Jes tryin' to be friendly, Chris assured the man, by sharing with our new friends.
And speaking of our new friends: they were in trouble because the grandson did not have a fishing license and because the consumption of one measly alcoholic beverage had been witnessed with binoculars before any of us knew the law was in the area, and they were in possession of an undersized bass - ours.
Then there was the couple with the catfish - certainly we knew it couldn't be undersize, but alas: they were Nevadans whose licenses had expired the previous day. That was the final day of their vacation before they headed home to renew their licenses.
Much, much lecturing and scaring the toot out of all concerned about the penalties, fines and confiscation of vehicles that were possible to be levied ensued. In the end, the Vietnamese folks had to return their fish to the water (substantial gnashing of teeth) accompanied by a lecture about how fortunate they were it was still alive to do so; the three fellers did the same with Chris' bass and we received the same lecture with the added bonus of hearing about how magnanimous the ranger was, and truthfully, we were never sure if the threesome skated or not. Their lecture continued seriously up at their pickup while we made our getaway, lest John Law change his mind about letting us go.
I did stop briefly to ask him about the alcohol prohibition; sure enough, there was a warning sign up by the entrance. Evidently, the others had seen it, thus the attempted surreptitious discarding of the dastardly beer can, but we had not.
 |
| Not necessarily touting an alcoholic beverage, but I have to agree: "Yes, it is "Lucky when you live in Arizona". |
. . . back at the ranch, we had a nice day at our Watson Lake just five minutes from home. In betwixt fishing and wandering, I was charmed by the sight of an artist who had set up to paint the beauty of granite boulders and water.
The painting materialized as if by magic: a truly wonderful representation of the scene before us. We enjoyed a pleasant chat with the artist, Beth Winfield, and her husband, who were visiting our area in their RV. Her website showcases her fine art: http://bethwinfield.com/.
What an awesome place we live in!
