Staying home, straying from home 
October 15, 2014

I have a yen to write a bit about our close-to-home journeys, the whirlwind of activities in which we have been since we returned from the last RV trip, and so I shall herewith share some highlights.

For some of these journeys, we didn't need to leave our hometown; they came to us.  The to-dos keep expanding; nevertheless, the done category is expanding also.  In addition to chores, chores, chores, we have mightily enjoyed friends, friends, friends.

We were honored that Chris was asked for the second year to play for the prestigious Wander the Wild event, a fundraiser for the Highlands Center for Natural History.  He provided the music and also one of the auction items: a guided hike to a historic site on the Verde River.  The $400 bid garnered for his offering was one small part of nearly $30,000 of donated auction items.  Pretty danged impressive support, I'd say.

Weather or not . . .

We had not been home long before we got another taste of how quickly dusty dry can turn to roiling wet.  The rains came, for the second time this summer in hurricane-reminiscent force.  I'm supposing that folks from wetter climes are not as awed by wet as am I; it would seem that I simply cannot tear myself away from the windows when comes a downpour, and that time was no different.

As a desert rat, the fascination never ends.  Watching out one window is never sufficient; I am compelled to wander from one to another, front to back, snapping photographs all the while to record the amazing sight of water falling from the sky in drenching buckets.  Even more boring for anyone stuck inside with me at those times - I have to continue talking about it, marvelling at how hard it's falling, how strong the wind.  The whole affair is incredible.

And then when it's over, the Arizona native is further compelled: must go driving around to view and exclaim about the residual effects: how many dry washes are flowing, how much water is pooled here and there, how high the creeks have risen and the water level in the lakes.

In the recent storm, Granite Creek once again lost all track of its usual course and went hog wild across the bottomland, filling Watson Lake to overflowing with help from myriad other watercourses.

The rain fell in prodigious enough quantities to once again erode gullies where once was landscaping.  We were fortunate not to have further damage at our house; however, that was not the case in so many places around town.  Montezuma and Gurley streets were transformed into raging torrents as were many other areas.

Despite it all, there have been many of our typical autumn days of perfection - sunny, balmy - the kind that demand a person be out and about to baskingly absorb October's sunshine, decidedly unique, just a little softer and kinder than the harsher rays of summer.

So, although the times I am glued to the windows exclaiming about rain are more dramatic, there is far more of the time being out and about with friends.

One of those was when Gail introduced me to "Sammy's hill" near Granite Mountain as we reveled in an after-work climb to take in the expansive views and to check out a petroglyph site.

Coloradans . . .

Another treat was when we were visited by new friends Tom & Karen.  Oddly enough, we met them whilst we all soaked in Pagosa's hot springs.  We enjoyed an instant connection and soon enough, they came calling at our invitation and we showed them a few of our local sights and sites, hiking near Granite Basin Lake and on the Peavine Trail alongside Watson Lake until the mosquitoes discovered us, checking out downtown and showing off the timeline in front of the Courthouse, activities rounded off with a wind-down evening at home.

Days past remembered . . .

Any who read this missive with any regularity know that I am not above claiming dang near anyone as shirt-tail kin with the slightest provocation.  Louella is one of those who is near and dear to my heart and whom I readily call cousin.  In other people's reality, she is first cousin to Margaret, who is my aunt by marriage, so you see, the connection is less defined by DNA and more by preference.

At any rate, our scheme was to gather with Louella and other kinfolk in Prescott to talk about and tour family haunts from the olden days.  She and Aunt Margaret grew up here as did my mother, so we love to hear the stories of those times when Prescott was a very different kind of place.

Cousins Donna & Rob joined Chris & me, Louella and our favorite local oral history interviewer, Sylvia, for a day wandering neighborhoods once residence to our long-ago relatives.  We placed flowers on Louella's grandparents' graves, Charles & Margaret (Brannen) Williams, and discussed how to get a stone placed on the unmarked grave of cousin Johnny's father, Thomas Miller - great grandson of Prescott pioneer Jacob Leroy Miller.  It doesn't seem right that his place is not noted.

Johnny Williams, my Aunt Margaret's father, built this house for his family possibly in the late 1930s.  He also built others in the Prescott area and later in Phoenix.  We knew him always as "Mr. Williams"; he was a master carpenter and builder.

The STORM . . .

In capital letters because  . . .  well, that particular storm will not be quickly forgotten by anyone who experienced it.  It approached in the most eerie kind of way, the sort of front that sends a chill down your spine at its ominousness.  It crept toward us in a most unreal manner - a solid seeming cloud bank along about sundown, came just so far and no more, hanging over us with a threatening countenance.  I am not the only person who fully expected a funnel cloud to drop out of it.  Its progression in the sunset kept me snapping pictures as it swirled and turned.  I share a few of them  here.

Cement plant & graveyards . . .

While Chris was off leading a Yavapai College trip to the Rock Art Ranch, I stuck closer to home and toured the Drake Cement plant with the Chino Valley Historical Society.  I had been concerned since the construction of the mammoth facility that it had obliterated the tiny historic Puntenney Cemetery.  As it turns out, the graveyard has been preserved; it now lies incongruously as a fenced weedy patch out of time surrounded by towering metal silos.  The name now used for it is Cedar Glade.

Our tour start was delayed as the powers-that-be searched out sufficient protective gear for our group.  In addition to hardhats (I got a sporty red jobbie), we were given and required to wear safety glasses and some very odd strap-on steel-toed doo-hickeys over our shoes; these were stylishly yellow.  The underside metal straps caused us to sound like a herd of horses clip-clopping along, reminding me of the classic and hilarious film, "Monty Python and the Holy Grail".

Jorge, our Peruvian engineer guide was adorable, which would have been quite enough, but very informative as well.  I can't say that I am now happy that a monstrous plant and its accompanying quarries and accouterments are now a blot on an otherwise scenic and historic landscape; however, I did find the workings to be fascinating, especially Harry, the robotic quality control mechanism.

Thanks to Kay Lauster for these photos; somehow, I was out there without my camera.

Inside the chain-link fence is what's left of the Cedar Glade/Puntenney Cemetery, fenced in amidst a modern-day production facility. Imagine the consternation if those long-departed souls who labored hard in the quarries could now see their final resting place.  I admit to being somewhat disoriented at visiting that current-day site; the last time I was there, the graveyard was a lonely quiet place of contemplation surrounded only by scattered piñon & juniper trees.

What a colorfully stylish bunch! I dub us red-headed yellow-footed history seekers.

Flats, ruins, bugling . . .

Thank heaven for a freed-up day amidst a pretty crazed October schedule!  A cherished day with not one notation on the calendar gave us the opportunity to get out of Dodge and away we went, my stated goal to see and hear elk.  If I have ever heard their fabled autumn bugling, it is not in my memory banks and I was loathe to allow one more waning season to pass ere I attained that objective.

But of course first things first: I called a stop in Chino Valley to determine if the bald eagles had returned to their nesting place after the summer away.  Clockwork-like, there they were perched wing to wing in the dead cottonwood tree near the nest they have utilized for who knows how many years.  I have to wonder how long before those brittle limbs give way beneath the weight of the massive nest.  Chris questions why those trees are dying at all - they obviously have their feet into soil well watered from the upstream spring, but the line of cottonwoods is clearly giving it up even when their neighbor willows are thriving.

Much to our surprise, our stop alerted a herd of deer bedded down in the brushy streambed at the base of the trees.  We had no idea they were there until they rose up to see who was disturbing them.

At least one of them didn't even bother to get up, just poked his antlered noggin above the log to peer back at us.

Thrilled to see those magnificent birds returned and to get a nice photo, we left them to continue our northerly journey, but will check back through the winter and spring, hopefully to see another pair of fledglings.

A previous short stop at Sunflower Flat Wildlife Area near White Horse Lake had piqued my interest, so we returned with an eye to a longer hike in the region.  Recent dousing rainfalls had insured that the marshland lake had open water, although the only waterfowl we saw at the site was a lone eared grebe.

Scarcely had we begun our traverse of the area when we heard elk bugling in the trees across the valley: a sound like no other, the call of those beautiful beasts during their fall rut.  In this case, it continued throughout our five-or-so-mile walk through the forest as we got closer and closer to that particular herd.  The call is a several-notes song, beautiful, hauntingly unique, and in that case, sometimes concluding with guttural grunts.

As we gained the far side of the grassland, we got close enough to spy the huge animals mostly obscured by dense stands of ponderosa pines.  There, too, we spooked up a few deer during our walk.

After a short sit-down lunch on a bed of pine needles while enjoying the views across the grassy meadow to handsome mountains ringing the area, we reluctantly left behind those awesome animals.

Birds we saw in that area included western bluebird, Townsend's solitaire, chipping sparrow, yellow-rumped warbler, northern flicker, dark-eyed junco, black-capped chickadee, acorn woodpecker and Steller's jay. I had hoped to have our repaired spotting scope for this return trip; alas, it was not ready for us to pick up.

 

When we ascended a rocky escarpment around a mesa's edge, we saw Gambel's oak trees festooned with their fall foliage.

 

Autumn-hued aspen splash their color on the mountainside.

These contraptions have been installed at various place in the fenceline that surrounds the wildlife management area, I presume to allow game to pass back and forth without harm, but then I have to wonder: "Why fence it at all?", followed by "Why does wildlife need to be managed"?

Evidently, this is a sturdier version of the above-pictured chingadera.  It was certainly easier for me to climb over.

Another stop let us enjoy a short walk by JD Dam with some fine fall scenes, but very few birds, unlike the last time we were there.  The reason for the dearth of avian creatures was fairly obvious - we saw a hunter and his dog leaving as we arrived and had heard the shotgunning from afar.

Among those that had not been shot or scared off were American coot, ruddy duck, pied-billed grebe and red-winged blackbird.  The blackbirds had abandoned their typical haunts in the reeds, perhaps because of high water, and were perched all over a leafless tree, like so many tweeting and whistling Christmas tree ornaments.

 

Heading southward, ostensibly to Tule Canyon and a cliff dwelling that Chris has gotten a glimpse of as he led a recent Yavapai College trip, I noted a sign for "Ruin Tank", requiring a change of plans.  It there is a Ruin Tank, my thinking was, then there must be a ruin, obviously something that must be checked out.

Not having a clue where or which direction a ruin might be lurking from said tank, Chris took the obvious step of looking at the map.  Sure enough, it denoted a Ruin Mountain, somewhere obscurely off in a westerly direction, so we wandered that way until we barely glimpsed through the tree tops a rock-topped peak that appeared to be our objective.

When we gained the base of the mountain, it appeared steep and intimidating, but upward we climbed through the dense brush and rocky footing.  That country is volcanic in origin, so even cross-country hiking requires care in watching where you set your feet lest the rocks hidden in the grass turn your ankle.

Parts of the walls of the prehistoric structure perched precariously atop the summit have tumbled downward, creating a very unstable rubble slope that was difficult to climb without causing it to avalanche down the mountain and us with it.  Once we climbed over the remains of the top wall, we were safely ensconced on a bedrock-floored room, one of several.  Even without the knowledge of my archaeologist partner, I discerned that the structure had been more a fortification than a dwelling.  With 360-degree distant vistas, the place was completely secure from invaders.

Okay, I made it this far, now how to get over that wall?

This gives an idea of how high we are above the tall trees far below.  No idea what Chris is scowling about . . .

 

The sky was ablaze as we headed home from yet another phenomenal day exploring our incredible world.

 

Yep, they've definitely had a goodly amount of rain up Williams way.

Feeding my fungus fetish

 

One of many accidental photos I keep taking with the new camera; the shutter button is very close to the on/off switch.  I'll get if figured out one of these days.

Seen around town - I love this helpful carefully prepared, if somewhat ungrammatical sign . . .

Colorado rocks 
Sept. 23, 2014

Untethered . . .

A month is a whole lot of togetherness, hence, a day apart is a many-splendored thing.  One particular day during our week-long sojourn in Pagosa Springs accommodated Chris’ wish to hike above treeline, and my inclination not to have anything to do with that high-elevation trek.  I had a lovely around-town day and a rare opportunity to have a nice long phone chat with my niece who phoned at the exact right time, and Chris  . . . well, who knows what floats his boat, but he did bring back some fabby photos (no, it wasn’t easy allowing him to take “my” camera, but I did it).

Of course I had to transport him far up the mountain to the trailhead so I could keep the truck.  It worked out - I got the hang of the new truck and he got the hang of the new camera with some dramatic shots of the spectacular Rocky Mountains high.

That's me heading for lower elevations on 13 miles of mountain road after dropping off crazed hiker husband.

Riverside, merganser . . .

We were again at Pagosa Riverside RV park, our favorite of several in the area, and have enjoyed watching the many moods of the San Juan.  A long night and morning of rain created quite the muddy torrent ripping through where shortly before there had been a moderate clear flow over a rocky riverbed.

 

 

Before the flood, we watched a common merganser making its leisurely way upstream, walking over rocks where the depth was not sufficient to swim.  Later, when we were a few miles downstream, we saw a (the same?) merganser being swept down the river, seemingly without a care in the world as he bobbed this way and that with the current.

Chris studies a map in preparation for the next day's hike while Rowdy holds down the rug.

Bowhunters, hiking, forests . . . .

The places we hiked near here varied a lot in elevation, orientation and thus vegetation.  Some spots higher up near Wolf Creek Pass above Treasure Falls were perilously dry; extended drought and bark beetle infestation have combined to destroy extensive regions of forest.

As one local gentleman said to us: “It’s not a questions of if these forests will burn; it’s only a matter of when”.  A sad and completely true statement.

Lunchtime view

This may be a very old logging road, now flower-filled.

 Despite the loss of millions of majestic trees, the understory in that area was thriving; indeed, we were astounded to discover wild strawberries still blooming and producing so late in the season, in addition to gooseberries, raspberries and mint.

A digression . . .

At the mere mention of gooseberries and wild strawberries, I am immediately transported in memory to my early teenage years in the incredible forested mountains of northern California.  Those never-to-be-forgotten summer days were a result of Dad and Uncle Lewis teaming up to contract with the Forest Service to divest wide swaths of the forest of gooseberries, a scourge for white pines as the second required host of blister rust, which kills the trees.

Various of the Kelley offspring joined the men at their high-altitude camps:  amazing weeks of camping in those pristine environs were filled with the things that all children should experience.  It was the strawberries that set me off, however.  How could I forget wandering unattended with my sister through magical meadows carpeted with strawberries.  On hands and knees, we would feast our way through the Eden-like bounty, savoring each tiny morsel.

 

Back to the Colorado Rockies . . .

Although the double-whammy devastation of drought and beetle is apparent for hundreds of square miles, some regions seem to have fared better and to be more healthy.

The hidey hole under this rock is surely a bear's den or lion's lair.  I requested that Chris investigate more closely, but he declined.  To scale it, that's an impressively-sized tree trunk leaning against it. 

 

I am ever amazed at the endless types of fungi that exist, all of them fascinating to me.  Which reminds me: did you hear about the mushroom that walked into a bar?  The bartender refused to serve him.  "Why not?" he asked, "I'm a fun-guy".

 

Marmot, swans . . .

I was over the moon when we observed a marmot start at our approach and then hunker down flat to the ground as if that would camouflage him, and well it might have if we had not seen the movement that preceded his defensive stance.

We were high above him; because his head was obscured by brush, I couldn't get a good photo.  When we returned to that area at the end of our hike, I wondered if there was some slight chance to spot him again, however unlikely that seemed.  We scored - there he was; for whatever his reason might be, he scurried quickly to the exact place he had hidden before, but this time, he kept his head in the open watching us watching him.

I had forgotten how large they are: a pretty animal with a wide bushy tail, they can weigh upwards of ten pounds.  I feel a special kinship with them, and really appreciated seeing this one.

We were happy to see that the tundra swan pair remains at their post on the golf course lake.  In previous years, we were earlier in the season and found them with young, but no sight of babies this year.  Do they hatch offspring every season only to have the young leave the area?  I expect I will not know the answer to that.

Lakes or not . . .

Buckles and Harris, two supposed trout lakes we trekked to made us glad we had foregone carrying fishing gear.  They were low and silted in to the point of being in danger of disappearing, although the resultant marshy valleys were picturesque below the surrounding forested slopes.  Canada geese and mallards appeared to be perfectly contented with conditions.  Around the very reedy weedy perimeter, the water was fairly aboil with minnows.

 

The geese were lounging along the shoreline, but took to the water when our approach was deemed too near.

The word about bow hunting season in progress must have been transmitted to the local elk population; we saw only one; however, deer were not as shy.  Of the hunters we spoke to, none had bagged their game, not even the feller with a bear tag.  They had seen bear in the area around the lakes, though.  I am glad we did not, but never fear, I was ready with my trusty pepper spray.  I continue to hope that I never find out if that would deter a bear from hurting me or if it would just generally piss it off.

Flocks of turkeys turned up in several places, but we saw only one blue grouse.  It froze in place when we encountered it at the roadside and did not twitch so much as an eyelid until I disembarked and approached it.  Even then, it did not flush, but just quietly moved into grassy cover where it was almost indiscernible even though I knew just where it was hidden.

 

Other birds we got in the Pagosa area that were new for the trip were: lesser goldfinch, red-naped sapsucker, Wilson's warbler, red-winged blackbird, white-breasted nuthatch, Steller's jay, bronzed cowbird, canvasback, dark-eyed junco, graylag goose, brown-headed cowbird, gray jay, mountain chickadee, three-toed woodpecker, peregrine falcon and American dipper for a grand total of 77 species.

The springs, people . . .

Afternoons/evenings were reserved for soaking in the hot mineral springs pools overlooking the San Juan River, an activity that is difficult to leave behind.  I love the faintly sulfuric odor that wafts up from the springs and randomly around Pagosa, and I am crazy about lolling around in the warm water, leaving the so-called lobster pot at 112 degrees to those more inclined to cook themselves.

Submerging one’s body into the varying heat pools relaxes all tension and invites socialization with other bathers, although closed eyes and/or turning one’s back to gaze at the river are effective signals when a person wants to forgo conversation.

 

We enjoy getting to know those around us who have also come for rejuvenation.  People like Roger and Grace, Navajos originally from Window Rock, now residents of Shiprock, are pleasant and interesting.  Roger is a retired Methodist minister who officiated at the memorial for one of the last Navajo code talkers.

We hit it off right away with Tom & Karen from Broomfield, Colorado, and expect to get together when they come to Arizona.  Another couple we enjoyed turned out to be neighbors, staying two spaces down from us, and had been enjoying Chris’ keyboard music of an evening.

Folks from all over the world hear about the mineral waters of Pagosa with supposedly healing qualities.  The town’s claim is to the deepest geothermal springs in the world; I am still wondering how one goes about measuring the depth of the springs.

Chris got an A+ in relaxation class, and continues to do advanced study.

Midland . . .

One group of six Texas fellers told us they come to Pagosa every summer for a getaway.  The kicker of conversation with them was that they were from (shudder!) Midland.  For anyone who thinks I may have overstated the negative aspects of that west Texas metropolis, those gentlemen confirmed every bit of it and then some.

One of them had the perspective of longevity: he had resided there since 1973.  In his opinion (and others I’ve spoken with), the place at 100,000 population, its stable pre-boom population, was a good place to live.

Now, however, at probably twice that size, he had nothing but denigrating remarks about his hometown, and the fellers with him were more than happy to chime in with a long list of Midland ills - empty unstocked shelves in stores, traffic backed up for miles and miles, trash strewn everywhere, and on an on.

The right place at the right time, balloon crews . . .

We seldom plan our trips around special events, rather locales or people are the driving (sorry) factor, but we have several times lucked into activities that we knew nothing about beforehand.  Once in Pagosa, we arrived at just the right time for the ranch rodeo and county fair - an absolute joy to attend both.

This particular weekend in Pagosa was one of those serendipitous times - a hot air balloon festival.  About 30 balloons launched early on both Saturday and Sunday mornings; we arose before dawn on Saturday so as not to miss a thing.  It was great fun to wander through the preparation fields watching as each crew went about their task in their own way until all the balloons were bobbing up and down in the sunrise.

The pilots were daring as they sank their ships down into the narrow San Juan gulch or set down in the piney neighborhoods, allowing passengers to disembark and to pick up others for a ride.

 

The sights and colors were a feast for the camera and our eyes.

Lots of folks in our RV park were there to crew for the balloon pilots.  Two of those, Dave and Betty, were parked near us in their cute little Tab trailer that I had to photograph.  Ingeniously done, the back of their minuscule camper opened upward to reveal a clever galley set-up.

Home away from home . . .

The new trailer is so comfortable; relative to our 25-footer, it is a veritable palace of plushness with storage galore.  Both of us are able to work in the kitchen at the same time - I’ve known real houses that did not allow that.  Granted that the larger size does require a bit more attention on the road and in finding places to get off the road, but Chris is dealing with that just fine.

We really like the electric awning because it allows us to have it out easily without tie-downs and then to bring it in when we are leaving or when the wind kicks up.  We learned our lesson about leaving it out when we are away: we did that at Blue Lake years ago while we were off on a hike and came home to an expensive-to-replace torn up awning.

Some of the trailer's other jim-dandy features are space to move, sufficient hot water to take an actual shower, a shower that does not require crouching in order to get under the stream, a full-length bed, a real closet and bedroom drawers, across-the-board upgrades and did I mention space.

Thermostatically controlled & vented air conditioning is fabulous for Rowdy’s comfort when we are away for the day, which is almost always.

We thought the fireplace option was way over the top, but we have changed our minds.  In addition to vented cooling, the heater is also vented, which means it is actually effective in the bedroom.  We couldn’t use the heater in the old Totee: it was so loud that it woke me up whenever it came on and the resulting piddly heat never made it to the back anyway, so we carted around a radiator for heat, which took up more of the precious little space in there.

Heater montster . . . .

That heater is good news/bad news.  I have mentioned the upside; however, an elderly blind cat does not mesh well with floor vents.  When the heater is on and Rowdy ventures out for a foray around the place, warm air whooshing up out of the floor scares the pea waddin' out of him, and that is where the fireplace comes in.  Warms things right up (a necessity in a September Pagosa) and allows Rowdy the run of the house without the heater monster getting him.

Plentiful produce . . .

Probably because of the balloon festival, the farmer's market was extended to our weekend there, so we availed ourselves of the mostly autumnal offerings.  Next to it is the perennial produce stand that we have come to depend on for Olathe sweet corn and Colorado peaches among other things.

Kneeldown bread . . .

On occasion, I have to wonder where I have been all my life - as we crossed the Navajo Reservation on the way home, Chris noticed signs advertising kneeldown bread, something neither of us had ever heard of, so I took advantage of my uptown communication equipment - inverter, mifi and computer - to determine just what this new thing could be.  It was a bit chagrining to discover that it is an ancient traditional Navajo staple, similar to green corn tamales.  Perhaps every other Arizonan is familiar with it; I can’t fathom why it has escaped our notice heretofore.

A downtown Pagosa Springs mural

Our RV neighbor devised these clever solar light holders.

The Pagosa area has many beautiful historic homesteads scattered in the back country.

This pic from the farm adjoining our RV park is for my children - good memories of our Goat Hill Farm!

If there were a cartoon thought balloon over Rowdy's head, it would say this: "I am 18 years old, blind and feeble - the hell with staying on the rug, I am heading for the tall timber if I want to, and I want to, so there!"

Fire in the sky