A gift and a quest
The gift . . .
"Some days are diamonds; some days are stones", so sang John Denver. I like to keep my focus on the gems and let the others pass on by. A not-long-ago hike down Gap Creek culminating at the Verde River was one of the diamonds, a day to be tucked into the memory banks close up to the front where it can be accessed over and over again.
It was one of those journeys that was ostensibly to one place but ended up at another altogether. Seven miles of gravel road, twisting and turning, dropping into canyons and climbing back out delivered us to pretty much the end of the line: Gap Creek. Just beyond is a private ranch dwelling; a couple of resident cayuses greeted us almost before we could disembark.
One mare was not to be deterred from inspecting my person for the treats she was certain I had secreted. The place is a boating take-out, and I am guessing that she is often rewarded with snacks from folks coming off the river.
Speaking of rewards, we won the autumn beauty lottery on that jaunt. We had once before enjoyed that particular saunter under very different circumstances. I had managed a tib/fib fracture ankle dislocation; after surgery, Gap Creek was my very first non-trail walk. On this ramble, the way was light with golden sycamore and cottonwood leaves. The ground was carpeted with them, and the creek's surface was covered.
Sections of our journey were along an old ranch road . . .
. . . with slow going even when we weren't balancing our way across the creek, only because we were surrounded with such beauty that we couldn't possibly hurry.
As we neared the river, we turned away from the creek and were reminded by signage of the Verde's important designation as a "wild and scenic river". Its importance cannot be understated: it would be as tragic to destroy the Verde River as it would be to "develop" Prescott's unique Granite Dells, yet both of them are in dire danger.
The landscape at the river opens up from the more constricted views along Gap Creek. There, too, autumn hues were so prevalent that the very air seemed golden. We were in awe of the stupendous beauty everywhere we looked, even more incredible that it was our very own private paradise.
Previously, we had not explored much up and down the river because it was at high flood stage, eliminating shoreline access. Having left behind that temporary ankle disability and with the water level down, we were able to do more exploring this time. In the process, we found that the large lovely pool at which we arrived was only the small sibling of a breathtakingly beautiful body of water just upstream. Its depth is unknown, but sure to be discerned during a summer sojourn at that spot - what a pristine and perfect swimming hole!
We had carried our fishing gear along with us and did a bit of angling, mostly unsuccessfully. That was surprising because I am certain that those large pools are teeming with fish. Our total take for the day was one largemouth bass.
As we retraced our steps to return, we were enveloped in the lowering light of dusk so unlike the noonday brilliance, but with its own comforting embrace.
From the apex of our drive, we admired the shadows playing across Towel Mountain . . .
. . . the Mazatzals . . .
. . . San Francisco Peaks and Oak Creek Canyon.
As if our senses were not already sated and more, the Universe gifted us with yet another sight to bring joy: the full moon rising at just the exact moment for us to stop and immerse ourselves in the experience.
The quest . . .
Every once in a while, there comes along something of such interest that it cannot be ignored, despite whatever other urgencies are clamoring for attention. Actually, that seems to happen to me quite a bit more than every once in a while, perhaps it comes from finding so many things to be of interest; nevertheless, this week one of those items popped up and would not let us alone until we acted on it.
After all, who could possibly resist the siren call of an 1864-inscribed rock? Not us, anyway, although we did defer the quest for a few days in an attempt to be responsible adult humans taking care of business.
And we were off . . . but as with all quests (at least in our case), this 'n that must be checked out along the way. No farther than Skull Valley, we were off on a couple of side roads, none of which took me into the hills along the valley's western boundary where I want to explore, but as always, we enjoyed the serenity of those fields flanked by ancient cottonwoods, and saw lots of deer thereabouts.
Not to be overly precise about our location, our route took us on a dirt road that we had previously driven, but that seemed to have sprung some things of interest since then. Not sure how we didn't notice them before (or could it be a memory thing?). Our countryside is surely as wither-dry and dusty-brown as I've ever seen it after our rain-less summer; perhaps that is why a roadside spring stood out in contrast.
In the bed of an otherwise sun-baked stream, we found a sizable pool of water, fed by a spring that slowly oozed out from a muddy bank. We surmised that the abandoned equipment had been installed to pump water from the spring into a large pipe that went under the road to the railroad on the opposite side.
Just beyond the spring were extensive cleared and previously irrigated fields that had no doubt also utilized the precious water. An entire sprinkler system had been left to deteriorate among the weeds.
And should you desire to have your very own five-acre weed lot, there is availability.
Even more surprising were the remains of pistachio groves the like of which I have never seen before. The trees that were in bottomlands look to be in pretty good shape . . .
. . . but many (millions?) of others are desiccated stubs barely clinging to life, but still managing to produce some nuts, albeit little better than shriveled shells.
Venturing onto a bulldozer-flattened hilltop out on that plain, we put together two and two to surmise that someone (a land baron who was to realize his life's dream?) had planted and installed underground irrigation systems, then planted miles! & miles! of pistachio trees.
The headquarters of that mind-bogglingly extensive plantation-gone-belly-up was atop the hill where they had even landscaped with eucalyptus trees.
Our hilltop vantage point gave a super view of Date Creek's canyon - now firmly in my radar as a place to explore.
Further on, we crossed a fork of Date Creek, which was flowing but is fouled from cattle trampling its bed.
The rock . . .
Side trips complete, we arrived at the place where we thought the 1864-inscribed rock was to be found, and were daunted by the search in front of us. If (and it's a pretty big "if") we had found the correct location based on somewhat vague directions, we still did not know where on those two lava-bouldered prominences to search.
Thus ensued substantial time during which we separately stumbled and climbed over and around those rough inclines.
Chris jumped out a deer, our 13th of the day, from where it had bedded down for its midday rest, and of course I snapped photos during my wandering search . . .
. . . and finally after throwing in the proverbial towel, Chris took a gander way up toward the ridge top, and there it was in large letters: "J G Sheldon 1864. There is another word above his name that I can't quite make out. Sadly, unknowns who have also found the site have been taking potshots, partially destroying part of the date inscription.
The rock is much larger than I realized from the photo my friend had taken (thank you, Carol!) - at least five feet across - and far heavier than could be maneuvered out of its spot way up there. That may be the only reason it is still there. This photo puts it into context a bit more; it is the large boulder in the center.
We saw two other nearby inscriptions - a large S S and a smaller MB that may be of a later vintage, judging by its appearance.
Back to the Sheldon rock: I think we can safely assumme that it was chiseled there by James G. Sheldon, a member of the party led by Joseph Reddeford Walker, a group of men who came into the territory to mine for gold in the Bradshaw Mountains in May of 1863 near present-day Prescott. I wonder if the S S was placed there by Solomon Shoup, who was in the same party with Sheldon.
The rock may be alongside the old road that connected Prescott to the Colorado River ferries at La Paz.
James Sheldon was a major player in those early years when Prescott was forming. He constructed a substantial cabin at his ranch and mining claim on Granite Creek. A quote from the Arizona Miner cited in "Founding a Wilderness Capital" by Pauline Henson tells that "Fort Whipple is to be removed to a point where it will afford them (the area's inhabitants) better protection. The site chosen is upon Granite Creek, twenty miles south of this place (its original location in Chino Valley at Del Rio), and a mile north of Sheldon's Granite Ranch". That description seems to place Sheldon's ranch somewhere around present-day Granite Creek Park, in the vicinity of the old railroad depot.
Sheldon was in partnership early in 1864 with Van C. Smith and John Forbes, with land near to the new townsite. The road along its north boundary was named for Sheldon, "whose generous hospitality was mentioned by Judge Allyn", according to Henson.
More from Judge Allyn: ". . . Sheldon has a large roomy cabin, with a grand, large fireplace, one table, two rough beds, and some seats; a large, strong corral of logs set on end with a huge gate immediately adjoining the cabin door so that if the Indians try to run off the stock they have to come right in front of the cabin. Saddles, bridles, rifles, pistols, and venison were hung all over the walls, inside and out; there was no window, the door and chimney letting in enough daylight."
Allyn continued with much description about his evening there, and the group of men: "tall stalwart, symmetrical men, roughly dressed with intelligent, handsome faces". Evidently, there was enthusiastic conversation when they sought news from the newly arrived Allyn, as coffee brewed and venison fried in the fireplace. Tin plates & cups were placed on the table along with "huge" piles of bread & venison. There not being sufficient capacity at the table for all present, turns were taken with dishes washed in between until all were sated.
"At bedtime everyone makes his own bed, either on the floor or on the ground outside . . ."
Sheldon is listed in the 1866 Arizona Territorial census as a resident of "old Fort Whipple". I am a little unsure just what that designation means.
Also from Henson's volume: "Another pioneer gone. From Hon. Wm. H. Hardy, who arrived in town from Hardyville, via the Prescott and Mohave Wagon road, Monday evening last, we learn the sad news of the murder by Indians at a point a short distance beyond Camp Willow Grove, of James Sheldon, an old pioneer, and a man who was beloved by all who knew him, and who is there in the Territory that did not know 'Jim' Sheldon?"
"The particulars, as gathered from Mr. Hardy, are, that Sheldon and A.J. Moore, former sheriff of this county, who with R. W. Groom, Wm. Cole, Wm. Reed, Frank Cosgrove and others, left Prescott recently for White Pine, stopped behind their comrades at Camp Willow Grove, on the afternoon of the 14th inst., the day upon which Sheldon was killed, to converse with some old acquaintances met with at the post. Towards evening, Sheldon mounted his animal, and started for Camp, and a short time after dark Moore did the same. At a certain point on the road, Mr. Moore's horse shied and leaped out of the road, thereby arousing the suspicions of his rider, who made haste to reach Camp, where he soon arrived and was informed that Sheldon had not come up. Moore then related the circumstances that occurred to him on the road, and some of the men went back next morning, found Sheldon and his horse lying close together, dead, on the side of the road. The savages had stripped the flesh from the frame of the horse, packed it off, and covered the head of the murdered man with entrails. Sheldon, we think, was a native of Maine, and had resided in the Territory since '61. He was one of the first white men that ever set foot on the town-site of Prescott." That was taken from the Arizona Miner, May 29, 1869.
Camp Willow Grove was at the site of the current-day Willows Ranch, which was run by our old friends, Mike & Karen Landis, back in the day. It is located about 80 miles east of Kingman; Interstate 40 runs through it. Road construction was altered to avoid disturbing the camp's site, which has been excavated.
I found an 1860 listing in Maine for a James G. Sheldon who fits his description. At that time, he had a wife and two young children. I have found no mention of his burial, but I would assume he was interred at Camp Willow Grove.
The snake . . .
It doesn't really merit its own subhead, but I didn't want the Sheldon article to run over into this. And speaking of running over, the señor did not spot this big boy stretched out sunning in the road, so we barely missed him.
It was a touch on the cool side for said snake to have ventured out; consequently, he was moving mighty slow. It made its way finally to the nearest shelter, which I crawled into with him to get a closeup showing his beautiful markings, pretty sure he had recently molted, to judge by his bright colors. He was a slim four feet or so in length - a bull snake, so I am told by you-know-who.
