Me 'n gnats

Whilst I would love to say that our day trip of late lingers with fondest memories, that would constitute a bald-faced lie.  The best I can conjure is that we had an enjoyable day; however, the resulting itching of an intensity best described as horrendous, dreadful and maddening persists still.

The culprits were tiny gnats, barely noticeable really, that struck with no warning and without so much as a how-do-you-do, at least at the moment.  They are sometimes called "no-see-ums", but they are never called "no-feel-ums".  They are so small, in fact, that I can discern my eye floaters more easily.

By the time I had settled in at home upon our late arrival, their dastardly atrocities became all too obvious.  Now, two days later, I can barely refrain from scratching my ankles raw . . . yes, my ankles, for that was their feast of choice.  Thank heaven the bites are relatively few; I doubt I could deal with any more; however, what they lack in quantity, they make up for in intensity.

I have dealt with those malicious creatures on previous occasions, always with highly unpleasant results, but this time, either I have developed even more of an allergic reaction to their bites . . . or they have developed a more advanced malevolent poison.  Perhaps there is some genetic predisposition to my reaction: I remember Dad's eyes swelling shut after the itty bitty bitey bugs attacked him.

The only saving grace is that the itching intensity waxes and wanes - always there, but occasionally less than more, the "more" being nigh on unbearable.  I'm perplexed about how they all wax at the same time, and I'm equally perplexed by how something so seemingly inconsequential can wreak so much havoc.

Okay, enough of my belly-aching (although I'm tempted to keep it up) . . . on to the better aspects of the day.  

Susan, Horseshoe Hill . . .

I had the idea that we could head north for a bit of a boondock, north because: 1. It's somewhere else other than here, 2. It would be a bit cooler, and 3. Friend Susan is spending the summer in Flagstaff, so it seemed a good opportunity to see her.

The señor formulated something of a plan for our day away.  His online perusings had elicited notice in something called Horseshoe Hill, an eroded volcano, of which, I might add, there are thousands in northern Arizona, but this one appeared to be of more than passing interest.

After picking up Susan, we were off and gone - on what else - dirt roads through the forest.  We disembarked for our walk to view/experience/otherwise commune with said hill.  That was our first mistake.  Our hike was less than picturesque, at least in the nearer vicinity: traversing an area that had been the subject of a prescribed burn, a recent one at that, left us trooping through an ash-covered landscape with little to recommend it.  Okay, the distant views of San Francisco Peaks' snow-dotted flanks was lovely.

And . . . that's where the gnats found us.  New blood was what they were after, and we provided it.

One could hope that the destination would make it all worthwhile; unfortunately, such was not the case.  The hill was much like many others - a large nondescript mound that we discovered later was easily visible from the road, if only we had driven a bit farther.

Lava caves . . .

We've previously explored a well-known lava tube in that country, but the señor had read about others that we intended to check out.  Best-laid plans and all that, the side roads off our already side road were all blocked by various hotshot crews present for training exercises as they monitored a nearby lightning-caused fire.

Regrouping, Red Mountain . . .

Thwarted again, we were not far distant from Red Mountain, a place we've visited before and one that Susan had not seen, so we headed off that way.  But not so fast - that side road off of our side road deteriorated to the point that we turned back in a rare fit of common sense, and found a more suitable approach.

By the time we reached the trailhead (of a 1.5 mile trail - pretty sure that measurement is way short of reality), the sun had attained its zenith and the air temperature had climbed commensurately, thus we were grateful for what shade we encountered along the way.

The company was fine, though, which always allows one to dismiss any slight unpleasantness, so the day's third try netted us the fun of exploring Red Mountain.  That extinct volcano's interior, unlike Horseshoe Hill's bland surface, provides a maze of sometimes-red/sometimes black hoodoos and rock whorls carved out by centuries of wind and rain.

The pines were heavy with sweet little baby cones.

 

I managed a quick fuzzy photo of a gopher at work digging his den right in the middle of the trail.  One shutter click was all it took for him to disappear, ceasing his labors until the intruders were away.

Old town . . .

As all good things do, our day wound down with the setting sun as we circumnavigated old town Flagstaff in a seemingly futile search for a parking place, a rarity on Saturday night.  After frustrating forays around blocks on one-way streets, some helpful locals guided us to not only a parking place, but even better, a free spot.

That allowed us the pleasure of a short walk through the historic district that was buzzing with activity: street musicians vied with planned performances as crowds listened and perused various booths while awaiting the open-air movie, "Wicked". . .

. . . which explains the costumed character that Susan conversed with.

She & I were quite intrigued by the handsome venerable structure we passed: the 1894 courthouse.

Friends & food  . . .

. . . a winning combination: our day culminated with a meal on the patio of a made-from-scratch pasta house in yet another historic building.  The photo was taken after a certain amount of wrestling the camera away as the señor attempted to shoot with it inches away from my face.  Bad enough as it is!