Grandparents' sad leavetaking
September 4, 2012

Wow, that was a really tough departure.  Three wonderful days with the kids made perfect by Sara’s excellent planning.  She and Trinity Grace spent some time with us this morning before leaving for work; it just about tore my heart out as they pulled up next to us on the road; Sara and me red-eyed and waving and Trinity pulling a sad face in the back seat.  We did our best to make some good memories, though.

Three joyful days . . .

I fulfilled my dream of taking the baby kayaking - she is fearless on the water - she also went paddleboating with Chris & Sara.  We colored, read books, drew pictures, went swimming, talked and played, fed baby goats, rode ponies, panned for “gold’, had an incredible one-hour family photo shoot at Unity Village, braided the doll's hair, ate Sara’s good grub and were treated to Kansas City barbecue at Jack Stack, had fun at bowling, shopped, picked out accent wall paint samples and slapped them up there to await final decision, visited with “Gomer”, stopped at a fire station so Trinity could drive the fire engine, pigged out on goldfish crackers and just generally did the Grandma & Grandpa thing - filled my heart with joy to have time with them.  The only disappointment was when the fishing pond where Chris was to teach Trinity the fine art of angling was closed.

Oh yes, about that stop in the historic schoolhouse where T and I sat in historic desks and wrote on historic slateboards . . . thanks to Sara for letting me know it was strictly against the historic schoolhouse rules for adults to sit in the historic desks . . . afterward.  Thank heaven I wasn't shamed in front of my granddaughter by the schoolmarm whacking my hands with a ruler!  I wondered why she was giving me the evil eye.








 





The baby is a lanky three-year-old who never stops talking, just like her mom at that age.
She misses nothing at all, takes in all that is said and done around her, analyzes it and uses what she learns.  Understanding that all grandparents are sure their babies are the most . . . well, everything good and desirable, I do not want to disillusion them; but really, folks, there’s no comparison.  Trinity Grace is adorable and with a personality that draws people to her everywhere she goes.

An unexpected and fun thing was to have brother Bob and niece Hailey join us for barbecue dinner.  So glad they made the drive over for that, and Hailey brought a much-appreciated doll for Trinity.

The hurricane made the last leg of the drive and our set-up in Lenexa pretty exhausting on top of the very long two-day drive, so we were dragging some but managed to keep up with the young’uns.  It rained all night and most of the next day, clearing up in the nick of time for our photo shoot.




























Unusual origin . . .

Our home here was at the Walnut Grove RV Park, which has an interesting story.  I wondered why it was stashed right in the midst of a residential area; turns out it was there before the houses.

The two-story office/residence was formerly a bar, we were told.  Behind it were cabins that rented by the hour (for folks who wanted to rest up before going home?).  In 1952, the current owner’s grandmother razed the cabins and a trailer park took their place; the RV park came about 20 years after that.

Dueling hummers, hot rod  . . .

We put up seed and nectar feeders by the Totee, then were not there enough to spot who came to dinner.  There was no doubt the next morning after I took them down that we had been discovered by hummingbirds, though.  While we chatted with Sara, they fought for the privilege of getting to the feeder that wasn’t even there any more.  I spotted black-chinned and ruby-throated.  The only other birds I’ve identified in this whole time were great blue herons while we kayaked.

Isaac gifted us with hot and muggy after all that rainfall, cooler temps are forecast for next weekend when we will be elsewhere - go figure.

A major classic car show transpired while we were here.  Although we did not attend, we were privileged to see an impressive immaculate hot rod as it was loaded up to leave our park.  It had been trailered all the way from New Jersey - a 1932 Ford coupe that its “dad” had built from parts 29 years ago.  He drove the hot rod nearly 200,000 miles before putting it out to pasture as a pull-behind.

Moving on, KC, history . . .

Now we are once again traveling, but a bit out of practice.  We nearly departed with one roof vent open and were stopped before we left the driveway by a helpful feller chasing us down to alert us about our antenna still being up.  Hopefully, we will soon have our routines remembered.  During our previous months-long wanders, everything came out and went in, got unpacked, and restowed, got cranked up or down as necessary without much thought.  We are anxious to embark on such again next year - they were great explores across this incredible country and introduced us to many fascinating cultures and people.

Skirting around downtown Kansas City this morning, I was interested to see the mix of very old and brand-new architecture, gothic church steeples once thought huge now dwarfed by futuristic structures.  I would love to spend substantial time here to “do” the history.  This city was once an important economic terminus and remains so today in very different ways from the old trail drives that brought vast herds of cattle from the Texas range to the railroads here.

Lenexa, where Sara & Ray now live, is a lovely town, nice parks and residential area, both historic and modern.  One structure struck me as we drove by, so I looked up its history - the Legler barn.  It was built in 1863 by Adam Legler - a large stone edifice constructed on the Santa Fe Trail.  It now houses the Lenexa Museum.  I have never seen a stone barn before; it is built with large limestone blocks, beautiful and obviously sturdy.  Imagine the changes that have swirled around it from the time of the Civil War and prairie schooners carrying settlers to western lands.

As we are northeast bound, we see the pastures are greener than the countryside before Kansas City, but see many acres of corn fields that shriveled to brown nubbins before they could make their crop.  The drought has hit hard here.

Missouri come and gone . . .

By midday, we have traversed a corner of Missouri, one of my most ancestorey states, and bopped on into Iowa.  No sooner were we over the border than we saw an Amish horse-drawn buggy crossing over the freeway.

We are encountering pretty heavy cloud cover - is Isaac lurking up here?

I have spent little time in Iowa, but have always been quite taken with its hilly grasslands and corn fields, interesting landscape after the more level plains.  Drought damage is sadly evident through here, must be thousands of acres of crops lost.  It is a surprise to see some extensive vineyards here.  They are netted over the top to keep out the birds.  If we did that with our own grapes at home, we might get a few more than what the birds leave us now.

Decision made . . .

We have been up in the air about what we are doing for the next few days, although there is not much leeway.  We are to be in Woodruff, Wisconsin, on Thursday.  A decision has been made: we will drive on today to Keiler, Wisconsin, just beyond Dubuque, Iowa.  That will allow us to stay two nights and give us a day to cast around to see the sights.  On a previous even faster trip through, I loved the town of Dubuque and wanted to look around more.  Then, of course, there is the siren call of the Mississippi River and lots more to be explored - obviously more than a day’s worth.

This will bring us close to Prairie du Chien, the 1870s home of my friend Kathy’s ancestors, the Bouskas, whom I researched for her.  I think it is important to remember those who came before and to honor them for the hardships they endured in settling this land.  It is so easy to jump on a highway and zoom from place to place without thinking about the very real people, families who persevered in the face of circumstances we cannot begin to imagine.

And now I realize I am in the vicinity of another client's ancestral home - the Cravatzo clan near Ottumwa - I really want to go over there to do some on-site research since I am in the neighborhood but drat reality - we move along.

Off the Interstate, into the countryside, Amana Colonies . . .

Yahoo - we have finally split the sheets with the Interstate system and are proceeding north from Iowa City.  I cannot fault Iowa for its superb and plentiful rest stops, though; they all are even equipped with free wireless internet service.

As always, things to return for: I would like to drive through and peruse the Amana Colonies.  What little I have learned about them is a fascinating history.  From their start in 1751 in Germany, they were a religious commune that moved to New York and when overtaken by development, relocated to Iowa.  The seven colonies survived successfully as communal living for more than a century.  Improved transportation eventually made isolation impossible and they transformed gradually into a non-religious economic cooperative.

We’re getting a slightly better feel for the farming communities now that we are tooting down two-lane Iowa State Highway 1 that seems to be carrying an inordinate amount of traffic - possibly commuters or shoppers homeward bound from Iowa City.

The dry does not appear to have been as drastic here; some corn fields are heavy with ears readying for harvest, although the stalks have not attained the height expected, and most farmsteads are well-tended.  I really love Iowa’s hills that afford lovely distant vistas of fields and woodlots unlike much of the Midwest.

Small commercial gardens and sweet corn plots give hope of a fresh veggie dinner tomorrow.  I never tire of seeing these wonderful small towns; this road is taking us right through quaint residential areas and the historic downtowns.

Wisconsin . . .

Crossing the Mississippi River takes us from Iowa just into Wisconsin where we are happy to settle into our home for two nights: The Rustic Barn Campground scenically set atop a hill outside the small town of Kieler.  The sun set as a magnificent red ball over the fields below us.

Easterly we go
August 30, 2012

"On the road again" -  it’s a shame that I don’t know any words beyond those to the song of that title -- causes me to have them running through my head in a boringly continuous loop.  Ah well, despite the hectic past month and the blur of the previous week, we three are indeed in the Toyota Tundra Toter, Travel Trailer Totee following obediently, on Interstate 40 headed east.  Our travel for this trip takes us from lushly green Arizona to the drought-stricken heartland - what a reversal!

No worries because Lewis is tending to the home place for us and various friends are coming over to harvest pears, grapes and strawberries - our bounty left behind.

This is not to be one of those long wanders that consume months; we are ultimately to be at niece Suzie’s & Joe’s wedding in the northwoods of Wisconsin early in September.  Major bonus points: Mom & Dad will also be there from North Carolina and we get to spend three glorious days with Sara, Trinity, Ray & Dante in Kansas.  When we considered flying to the wedding, I could not bear the thought that another year would pass without seeing my babies, so surface travel won out despite associated financial drawbacks.

Rowdy read our minds several days before departure and was not happy about the situation.  Last thing before leaving was to load him up.  This is the way it works: approach him in a completely everyday way.  Despite the casual approach, he knows what’s up and curls into as tiny a ball as a 12-pound cat can manage.  In addition, he magically sinks and triples his weight in the belief that we will then either not see him lying on that chair or he will be entirely too heavy for us to pick up.  It never works but he never stops trying.

Then comes the dreaded harness that sports his cute little heart-shaped name & phone number tag for just in case.  He probably dislikes it so much because he knows it is really a dog harness, there being no cat contraptions made for felines of his large stature.

Once the deed is done, he is fine, wandering the truck cab from his back seat carrier to occasionally peer out the windshield or recline regally on the seat.  He also is fond of my lap any time I pick up the computer to type.

Coconino Forest country . . .

The countryside sights are blindingly spectacular as only monsoons in northern Arizona can create - thick pine forest carpeted by knee-high green grass, every meadow, playa and open area solid with yellow & purple flowers, dark blue peaks and mountains all around and all topped by high clear blue Arizona skies. 























I cannot help myself when I begin snapping pictures of roadside glories without even stopping.  It's really kind of embarrassing to take pictures through the window but I so want to share this beauty. 

Hooray for cell phones: we already have calls from various friends about this, that and the next thing - even a possible musical collaboration for Chris accompanying a vocalist.  And of course, Sara has texted a number of times; seems to feel a need to urge us onward, as if we needed that.

First (and only) two stops were related to this dad-ratted camera.  For most of the time i’ve owned it, the battery compartment latch has been broken.  Blame me, I busted it while climbing in boulders with it hanging around my neck, the result being that because it is spring loaded, it must be held closed with ample applications of strong packing tape.  All well and good until the tape stretches or the batteries have to be replaced.  Then it’s peel sticky stuff off, do what needs to be done and reapply tape while holding the thing closed.  Only problem was the batteries went kaput and the spares and tape were in the trailer.  One of these days, Alice, a new camera!

Thank goodness I will have to stop this demented stream of consciousness drivel that has been unleashed with my departure from home; the highway is getting very rough which will cause me to accidentally highlight and delete (possibly a good thing?).  So as we see the uneven ridges of Meteor Crater up here on this treeless plain now that we’ve left the forest behind, I bow to necessity and sign off.

Fast food, New Mexico . . .

In our rush to get on the road this morning, we skipped breakfast.  By the time we stopped for gas at St. Joseph, the rumblings were in full swing.  Not wanting to take the time to fix a bite in our home away from home, we opted for bacon, egg & cheese muffins at Subway.  This is not news in most circles, but I am pretty sure we were the only two humans in the United States who had never eaten a fast-food breakfast - ever.  That did the trick and we are again on our way for our long day of driving: Amarillo by 9:30ish (argh!).

I love the sights and landscape through this area of New Mexico.  There is so much diversity; I love thinking about how it all came to be.  The high plains are ringed and interrupted by mountains ranges and peaks, ochre- and dun-cliffed mesas.  And then there are the miles of monstrous jumbled lava flow.  Huge black jaggedly broken rock stretching over the grasslands ending in gigantic fingers like huge hands reaching for the distant mountains.  I can nearly visualize the molten rock running out red/black hot, building up and collapsing, folding back on itself.

We got into a bit of rain from an isolated storm but later moved into clearer skies with scattered thunderheads in the distance.  Today we “lose” two hours as we first move into the oddness of Daylight Savings Time (we love that Arizona does not succumb to that absurdity) and then cross into the next time zone.

This is is our longest drive day, trying to more than split the distance to Lenexa, where we will hang with the kids for Labor Day weekend.

First night out syndrome, Texas panhandle . . .

Well then, if we needed a reminder that the years are catching up with us, this is it.  A whopping 13 hours on the road kinda did us in; today will be long but a bit under that.  We dislike driving after dark only because we miss seeing the countryside, and last night was quite a long time after a brilliant red sunset. 

We excuse our late 9 a.m. departure by rationalizing that it is 7 a.m. “our” time, a true statement.  I call it the time zone two-step, hopefully a dissemble we can leave behind by tomorrow.  It is nice, though, when we will head back home to “gain” those lost hours.

Of course we knew mapwise we had come to the plains of West Texas, but getting here in the dark and having our first glimpse of the reality was shocking this morning.  To look out across the miles and see the sky and the land meet in one endless straight line without a mountain to soften the confluence is just odd for us.

Our after-hours arrival at the Overnite RV Park in Amarillo was flawless; however, my night of repose was not.  Rowdy (and I as a consequence) suffered from “first-night-out syndrome”.  Seems that feline instincts require incessant prowling and guarding.  Each new scent or sound necessitates informing Mom in whatever way is needed to be sure she gets the message.  Although accustomed to this process, I was less than receptive to it after such a tiring journey that was on top of a wearying week and month.  Not to worry, though, he can sleep all day if he chooses.  I suppose I could too except for the guilt I would feel to leave exhausted Chris to drive while I snooze.

This is agricultural country, mostly mono-cropping of grain and hay, much of it already harvested, leaving a level sea of cut-off brown stalks.  Here and there we see lush fields of heavy-headed milo, stands of field corn planted so thickly that a person could squeeze between them only with difficulty.  Other crops we have trouble identifying - possibly soybeans. 

In our normal mode of travel, we would find a place to pull over so we could wander over to inspect the fields more closely, but not today with a minimum of ten hours on the road facing us.

It is beyond bizarre to have traversed all of New Mexico with nary a sight-see nor a back road wander, not a hike, no explores whatsover.  In the past, we have enjoyed many adventures in the Land of Enchantment and anticipate many more, just not right now.

It’s interesting here to see vast fields planted to match the circular pivot irrigation systems and then a dryland crop (wheat most likely) growing in the unirrigated corners missed by the sprinklers.

There are many abandoned farm houses; I surmise they were family homes no longer needed as large-scale agriculture overtakes the family farm.  It makes me a little sad to see these places that once nurtured families, but are no longer useful. 

I’m singing the blues about the many missed photo opps.  I could have prowled around in the ghost of Cuervo, New Mexico, snapping pictures for a long time.  Here are great missed shots of abandoned rusting grain elevators and perilously leaning farm houses given over to trees and vines, occasionally even entire farmsteads.

This Interstate travel serves only to cause me curiosity about what the towns are really about.  A person gets such a skewed concept by driving this way.

Interesting that there is a long-unused railroad bed following our route.  Its path is mostly just slightly elevated above the plains level, but as we come into country that is convolutedly cut by canyons of the Canadian River tributaries, it occasionally enters its own road cut.

The river runs west to east a ways north of us; these canyons carry runoff to its bed, adding interest to the landscape in the process.  I’m trying not to spend much time noticing the points of interest that would typically be stops for us, but it is not easy.  Who wouldn’t want to know what is Square House Museum and of course I would love to explore and hike McClellan Creek National Grasslands.  So many reasons to return in a more leisurely way. 

OK City, Chisholm Trail, Great-grandfather George Taylor . . .

Whew, we’re mostly through Oklahoma City; it makes me a nervous wreck to drive with the trailer in that kind of crazed traffic.  Never mind that I'm not even driving; I just haven’t mastered the art of closing my eyes and waiting for the all-clear.

Somewhere in this metropolis or near it are dear friends, Paula, Loren & Quinton; I send them love as we speed past.

And what in the world is that humongous sky scraper in the downtown?  It appears to be twice as tall as the next highest building.

Along the way, we saw a sign about the Washita Battlefield, will have to look up that history.  We are seeing the dire effects of drought in the Midwest, rivers gone completely or nearly dry, brown where previously there was lush green.

There was a highway notification of the place where the Chisholm Trail crossed on its way northward.  I would love to take the time to determine if there are remnants of it to be seen.  My great grandfather, George Washington Taylor, and two of his brothers, Daniel Meredith and Louis Dixon, were drovers in the second trip up that storied trail.  I have an account that Louis wrote about the trip - what an incredible journey that was!

Another Oklahoma connection: My grandmother Pearl (Taylor) Kelley’s sister Nadine married Eli Marshall Jones and they settled in Kiowa, Oklahoma, south of where we are, to run a cotton gin, or so the story goes.  In 1930, I found him listed in the census as a “cotton weigher”, seemingly short of running the gin.  So go family stories  My research has not turned up much about them and where they ended up.  Perhaps if I spent more time on my own research and less on other people’s, I would be able to turn over that stone.

This trip is more about making family history than our usual researching it, but obviously, it doesn’t stop me from remembering the ancestors feats and even defeats and honoring them.

Sara told us we could expect rain from Isaac on this leg of the drive; sure enough, the easter we go, the cloudier it gets.  Not too threatening yet.

So far, our bird list is quite a bit less than impressive, but what can you say about zooming across the country at 60 miles per hour and setting foot only on concrete.  Don’t laugh: I’ve identified grackles (in parking lots of course), rock doves, turkey vultures and ravens.  A blur as we zipped by, I have spied hordes of shore birds wading in what’s left of water in river beds, but my yearning to stop was not satisfied.

Best business name: Happy Tails Kennel (I expect smart remarks to result from this).

Kansas' Flint Hills, hurricane Isaac . . .

We and hurricane Isaac have arrived in the beautiful Flint Hills of Kansas simultaneously.  Issac is bringing some much-needed moisture, although if I had had my ‘druthers, I would have chosen a divergence of approach times.  We hope rain doesn’t disrupt our scheduled photo shoot at Unity Village tomorrow evening.

We have crossed so many pretty rivers.  Although some have been bereft of water, others, like the Cimarron and the Neosho, seem to be running pretty much full steam.  I would like to fish the Cimarron for sure.

One last stop - gas & restrooms - and we are on the home stretch, about two hours to the Walnut Grove RV Park, our home for four nights.  At the travel center, there was a small well-kept park, a memorial to a man named Al Larsen, who evidently drowned in 2003 while saving many motorists trapped in the Jacob Creek flood.  I will see if I can find more information about that.

We turned off I-40 at Oklahoma City, driving north on I-35, one section of which is the Kansas Turnpike.  That translates to $; the ticket we were issued at the beginning of it said it was going to cost us $18 when we departed the road at Emporia; however, the nice toll booth lady asked for only $12 and that apologetically.  Nothing like getting a deal to take the sting out.

While stopped for gas, I shoot one pic that shows the edge of Isaac catching up with us.























A rainbow appears prematurely in promise of the end even as it is beginning.

It doesn't take long before that gathering-cloud glimpse turns into full-blown headwind and drenching rain.  It is startling how quickly it overtakes us.

The remainder of the drive is in darkness with difficult visibility, especially when we are in town trying to find the Walnut Grove RV Park in the midst of a residential area.  After I become convinced we have passed it by or taken the wrong road, we are there; we finally spot it through the streaming glare on the windshield.

Isaac makes for an interesting set-up during which the trailer becomes soaked inside and out, but we are here.  Too late to see the kids tonight, but time to rest at least.  A couple of leaks have gotten dampness onto the bed; we are entirely too tired to give it a thought.  That last hour of driving was grueling.

What is it about hurricanes whose names begin with "I" and us?  Last visit to Kansas was at Fort Scott where hurricane Ike darn near washed us away.  It made for a memorable time and even a fun one: we joined the garden tour via Fort Scott's trolley, got to know a whole passel of great folks, viewed some wonderful gardens (at least the parts that weren't under water) and enjoyed a great deal of finely prepared victuals.

Even so, we have vowed to avoid this state during any future "I" hurricanes.

Santa Marias

July 28, 2012

Another day of free-wheelin’ four-wheelin’: we point our noses northwestward on Camp Wood Road.  My stated destination is Apache Creek, a spot much farther upstream (or is it upcreek?) on that drainage than we were last time out.  A return is in order because the previous time we visited the area, I was the only one of our small group who hiked up the beautiful slick rock waterway, and felt an obligation to return shortly to my fellow journeyers, forfeiting the urge to answer the stream’s invitation to adventure.

Hitt Wash, Las Vegas Ranch . . .
Our first stop is in the bottom of Hitt Wash for a look around and to snap a photo.  The wide flat valley offers little in the way of obstructions, thus the water has wandered aimlessly, creating a sandy-bottomed dry wash filled abundantly with black walnut trees for miles.











Not long afterward, we see a sign that explains the isolated house or two we have noted along the way.  The Las Vegas Ranch, sadly, is being subdivided.





Hiking, owl, lightning . . .
As we drive farther up into the foothills of the Santa Maria Range, I am soon ready for a hike although we are nowhere near my stated destination.  A convenient place to pull out brings us to an area evidently now closed to vehicular traffic.  A sign explains that various entities have joined together to manage it as a riparian restoration.  Partnering agencies are the Cross U Ranch, Santa Maria Mountains Group, U.S. Forest Service, Game & Fish Department and the Prescott Habitat Partnership Committee.  I have never heard of some of these, but I silently thank them as we head off for a walk along another dry wash.

This drainage winds much more than Hitt Wash because when it carries flood water, it must cascade down around boulders, rock outcrops and the convolutions of the mountainside.  As seems to be becoming common for us, we startle a great horned owl from its daytime roost and it silently glides to a place where disturbance by hikers is less likely.

I get Chris to climb into a tree so my photo will demonstrate the large size (of the tree, not Chris). 

I am intrigued by this place and ready to hike for miles uphill in the wash, thinking our return trip can be along its western bank, an inviting grassy meadow.

That plan is soon thwarted by a looming storm front.  As the thunder begins to rumble, I commence to head back whence I came.  It turns out that we walked quite a bit farther than I realized.  Even at a fast clip, sometimes jogging, it takes far longer to return to the safety of the car than I would prefer.

Our return route is up on the flat, all the better for speed, and we follow a faded-by-time two-track. 





We are not struck by lightning, much to my delight and reach the car just as the first raindrops fall.  I manage to cease my stampede a couple of times to take quick photos of things that catch my eye.




I remember Dad talking about the Santa Maria Range being their destination for summering their herds of Angora goats.  A job for the young men, they trailed the animals on foot from the ranches around Yarnell all the way up here, a distance I can't even imagine walking, and a huge gain in elevation, to boot.  This was in the 1930s, shortly after my grandparents, Zack & Pearl Kelley, had migrated here from the Hill Country of Texas, bringing their two sons, Ira & Lewis.

Cabin Springs . . .
This particular monsoon event will likely pass on, so we utilize the rainy time to drive on farther into the mountains, stopping a place identified as Cabin Springs.  Sounds intriguing and it is a lovely place - I judge by the name it is an old homestead; however, we can find no sign of habitation.  Wandering through and around various fences, we find a beautiful spring and tall trees festooned with streamers of grapevines.

 Lots of grass and vegetation, even large mushrooms wearing caps.  Not really, I place Chris’ cap on one to demonstrate its gargantuanness. 






I admire the fence work that was employed to build corrals; inexplicably, I am endlessly fascinated with  various fence-construction techniques, each one as unique as its builder.

We climb up above the spring expecting to find signs of prehistoric inhabitants, but nothing is in evidence.  There is a Cabin Springs Trail through here; the brush is so thick in these parts that I think we might welcome some rare trail use to facilitate further exploration and hiking.  Today we venture on in Ruby, but both of these stops were much too abbreviated; a return is in the near future.


We spot a ponderosa that appears to have been struck by lightning, not particularly unusual, but this one survived the hit and bears an impressive slash scar from the encounter.








Apache Creek (or not) . . .
Once more headed to Apache Creek we are when we come to a fork in the road.  And as in the oft-quoted quip about taking the fork, my pard decides we will veer from our course, taking this route that should (I use the term advisedly) come out on Fair Oaks Road.  We are soon warned by signage that we are on a “limited use road”, not the first time and undoubtedly not the last.  I file a mental reminder that I have yet to return to the slick rock area of Apache Creek; put it on the list.

The track takes little time to convince me that its use is limited to those with limited judgment.  I recall when we were contemplating our purchase of our stalwart Four Runner, named Ruby for her color, quite a number of years ago.  Chris really wanted to get a vehicle with a standard transmission.  That was one of the times when I firmly planted my foot and vetoed his macho desire to pretend his SUV is a sports car.

The reason this comes to mind just now is because of the way he loves to shift into four-wheel-drive and low gear to navigate the crazed places we sometimes traverse.  And this one is getting more crazed by the minute.  I hang on, but opine aloud that if the road gets any worse, we might want to turn back.

Despite the jarring, we enjoy the countryside; all is thickly forested and the gigantic quartz outcrops that jut out above the granite and volcanic bedrock are awesome.

Other interesting formations we see include BT Butte, a close cousin of Prescott’s Thumb Butte, and Smith Mesa up ahead. 






















We startle one deer that had been peacefully drinking at a small spring.  Something to the side catches my eye, so I get Chris to back up for a better look.  It is another deer, this one standing at full alert.  Huge ears turned full toward us, a large section of one is missing.  I quickly snap a couple of pictures, assuming it will turn and leap into the brush.  As the animal continues to stare directly at us with nary a blink or a move, I begin to wonder if this is an actual deer or some sort of installed target.  No matter, I disembark on the off chance that it will allow me to get a better picture.  After about a half-dozen more shots, the thing has still not so much as twitched, so I begin to wave my arms vigorously as if I am bringing a helicopter in to land on a wave-tossed aircraft carrier: still nothing.  This things has nerves of steel, I think.  Eventually, the sport wanes and I climb back into the car, slamming the door behind me.  That was what it took; that deer turned and leaped simultaneously and was gone in a flash.  I have a feeling, though, that one will not last past hunting season.

About this time, I wonder out loud about my previous suggestion that we turn back if the road gets any rougher because rougher it is definitely getting.  My traveling companion chooses not to hear this comment as we continue on our way.

We had thought our route was taking us west around Smith Mesa, but as time goes on, we wonder why we can no longer spot that huge prominence through the trees.  Finally, it becomes clear; our road is actually winding its way, and us with it, to the top of the flat-topped mountain instead of skirting around it.  The road steepens as we climb and becomes much rockier; clearly the steepness has caused it to be severely eroded, exposing large rocks and creating deep cuts in the roadway, such as it is.























I am creating quite a squawk now as I am bounced from pillar to post nonstop until we make a hairpin turn that reveals not the end of life as we know it, but the end of travel on this road.  It has eroded away to nothing but flood-carved gullies strewn with boulders.

Chris is dismayed and I am, well, perturbed, to put it mildly.  After all, we are probably no more than a half-mile from Fair Oaks Road, but have 11 miles of rough road behind us.  I make quite a few relatively loud observations about the situation, all of which C accepts pretty well, considering that they are all malignings of his listening skills or lack thereof.

Oh well, the hour is growing late and we do not want to drive that 11 miles in the dark, so we gird our loins and reverse direction.  Truthfully, it was an interesting drive going that-a-way and it is also interesting going this-a-way.  With snouts pointed otherwise, we see all new things and enjoy ourselves (in between times when I again mention Chris’ shortcomings).  In spite of it all or because of it, I am now determined to top out at Smith Mesa; perhaps we can try it from Fair Oaks Road on another day.

Meadow, lion . . .
One spot demands a stop; through a break in the trees, I have seen something I must explore and besides, we need another good hike to stretch our legs.  As we venture down into a gully and back up, we find a large sun-drenched meadow, Indian artifacts, pretty rock outcrops and a wonderful spring, far bigger than the many we have noted along this route.

This place has an enchanting energy to it.  I am drawn to be here for more time, but oh! that road.  We walk around the meadow, climb the outcrops and work our way down the arroyo that houses the spring.  I arrive at the bottom first and warn Chris about the quicksandy surface.  He quickly demonstrates his selective hearing by walking into it.


I ask for a photo as I play the "My tree is bigger than your tree" game.  Suffice it to say there are some very impressive specimens in the area.

There is lots of fresh water flowing, abundant lush tall grass and a muddy place that clearly shows fresh lion tracks.  This is an exciting find, one that causes me to peer closely at the thick foliage above us.  Although I would be excited to see a lion, my preference is that it not be lurking on one of those branches over my head.  Several other preferences come to mind about now, such as that it not be stalking me, but we do not see the cat that stopped for a drink before our arrival (or perhaps it was here lapping even as we walked in to the area).





 Vistas, spider, rainbow . . .
Reluctantly, we depart and make our way back to Camp Wood Road.  This approximates a super highway compared to where we’ve been, and we enjoy the distant open vistas.

Suddenly, Chris realizes we have just passed a tarantula in the road so I insist I must get a picture of it.  He backs up using the “things are larger than they appear” mirror, but even so, clearly sees the T-rex-rantula from a distance.  I get out and explain that I want a picture.  With a bit of urging, the spider poses for its portrait.  The creature is obviously crossing the road to get to the other side.

As monsoon activity continues around the area, we are driving directly toward a gorgeous rainbow in a rain squall.  We stop several times for pictures, each one more vivid than the last until at last I am satisfied, a day fully lived.

66, left brain/right brain

July 21, 2012

No need to look up the date this day: it is my 66th birthday and began with loving greetings via phone calls, snail mailed greeting cards, electronic greeting cards and facebook messages.  This particular age sends me a message.  I intend to emulate Route 66 and traverse the country.  No idea now how that will transpire, just holding it as my intention.

Left brain is nagging at me to stay home today and get some much-needed yard work done.  Right brain argues forcefully: “It’s your birthday - forget those obligations; get out there and enjoy the day”.  Left brain counters that Chris and I have both been working all week, so chores have fallen behind and must be caught up in case someone (a buyer) comes calling to tour the house.  And besides, L.B. continues, the peach trees are loaded with fruit that needs to be picked and processed.  And there’s that one tree that has broken under the weight of the peaches: do something about that.

R.B. scores the victory, though, insisting that when someone wants to buy the house, those few things will not deter them.  Fun and joy always trump drudgery; well, maybe not always, but they oughtta.  I’m even pretending that we are on an RV trip and bringing along my computer, hence this stream of consciousness drivel that is issuing forth from my fingertips as we drive.

Being responsible adults, we did complete our morning chores, Chris even mowed the lawns that have flourished since the beginning of monsoon rains.  The day is overshadowed by the tragedy in Aurora, seems even more reason to embrace life while honoring those who lives were taken so suddenly.

Rain was forecast for today, my reason for cancelling a planned open house, but now appears not to be imminent.  At any rate, these 360-degree decisions could be made by throwing a dart at a map.  Chris and Ruby have turned us to the northwest, taking Williamson Valley Road to somewhere.

Windmill, garden, Simmons . . .

Photo ops occurred right away with a wood-towered windmill and then a beautifully-constructed raised-bed garden.



To keep out the critters, these folks have fenced utilizing rock corner posts and built up beds with decorative block.  Nary a weed to be seen - my kind of garden, but then I tend toward the obsessive about that.  Passers-by used to ask me how I kept the weeds out of my gardens.  The Santa Claus method, I told them - hoe, hoe, hoe.  Seems that many are looking for a more magical way, such as chemicals, but I figured if I were going to grow my own food, it would be silly to poison it and myself in the process.  I can buy the poisoned kind of groceries at the supermarket.

All of which has nothing to do with day trippin’, but that’s what happens when I am riding in a car with a computer on my lap. 

Okay, here’s a short stop at the site of Simmons, an erstwhile settlement on this back road between Seligman and Prescott.  The place is named for the man who homesteaded here in 1864 and established a stage station on this historic route between the then-mining town of Prescott and the Hardyville and Ehrenberg toll roads leading to the Colorado River. There is little to see at the site, at least from the road (and one is admonished not to enter the property): a cottonwood grove, fields under cultivation and one house tucked back into the trees.


Limb casts . . .
Before chronicling this day, I hearken back to a previous post when I wrote about interesting rock specimens I picked up.  Chris opined that they didn’t fit into the volcanic area in which we were hiking. 

Friend Betty picked up the identification challenge because of her family's lifelong interest in gemology/rockhounding.  She consulted her brother; following is his surmise given without the advantage of seeing the actual rock.  It sounds logical to me.  He says “the picture looks like it could be what is called a ‘limb cast’.  It is true that petrification will not occur after a volcano, as your friend says, and there are also crystals or agate involved. All agate is crypto crystalline, which will not occur during petrifaction, so your specimen is not petrified."

He continues, "A limb cast forms when a tree limb has fallen and becomes covered with mud. If, over time, the mud hardens and a volcano takes place, it can either burn out the center of the limb, or if it has already rotted out, there is a hole there. In either case, there is going to be a hole there.  Solutions involving and caused by volcanic activity fill the hole, and if silica gets in there, it will form agate or crystals.  The limb doesn't have a chance to petrify, but it looks like petrified wood and can even appear to be because it is so hardened. I have seen a lot of these various types of things over my lifetime and many are exceptionally beautiful.  There is a type of opal found in Nevada called Virgin Valley opal that has been formed in much this way. Exceptionally beautiful stuff - looks like the opal is right in the center of the wood.”

Thanks much, Betty and brother! 

Surprise! . . .
Okay, back on the road.  While stopped at Simmons, I want to pull out my binoculars, so ask Chris where he put them when he stowed our gear in the car.  “Right behind my seat under my backpack,” he says, so I reach back there, groping around until I feel them.  Imagine my surprise when I extract a brand-new pair of binocs - my birthday gift.  My surprise is even more profound when I discover that I am holding my first-ever “good” binoculars as opposed to the cheapies that tend to be disposables after using them for several years of frustration at their deficiencies.

Chris purchased this pair at Jay’s Bird Barn in Prescott, our favorite-ever emporium for all things wild-bird-related, and they are whing-dingers - lifetime guarantee!  The difference when I use them is astounding; I am thrilled.  Thanks to Eric, proprietor of Jay’s, for great advice.  I am inspired to do a Vanna White display.

Our drive continues northward through ranch country that is posted “no trespassing”.  Nothing makes me want to explore a place more than someone telling me I cannot, ergo, I whine piteously until we are past that very large, incredibly enticing slice of Arizona.  When at last we are beyond the property on which I am not (legally) allowed, we try out a couple of side roads until we find just the right one, a la Goldilocks and the Three Bears, except that our reward is a great hike, not a bowl of porridge.

Our path takes us upward to elevations that afford wonderful distant views of mountains and gorgeous Arizona monsoon skies.  We see off to Black Mesa, the northern boundary of Big Chino Valley, with Bill Williams Mountain beyond,















Granite Mountain in another direction (don’t ask which; I have lost my bearings), Picacho Peak (it means Peak Peak and yes, I know there is another of the same moniker in southern Arizona),










and Juniper Mountain with its alluring wilderness area.  Already I drool to explore each and every one of these places.











As we work our way up through the brush and just enough catclaw to slow us down (wait-a-minute vine according to Dad, and aptly so), we spook up two magnificent elk.  Surprisingly, they stop to look back as I holler to Chris who hasn’t seen them yet, and I am able to snap a couple of photos before they disappear over the ridge.

It is not too long before thunder sounds in the distance (well, not really distant enough) and I seek the safety of the much-too-far-away vehicle.  Chris is leading, but oh so slowly.  My lightning fear spurs me to go into overdrive and I find our way off that mountain lickety-split.  So what if I am torn up from hurried carelessness in the catclaw - at least I am not struck by lightning.

I was not always this paranoid about lightning; it was that long-ago monsoony day when a lightning bolt shot out of the ceiling ten feet away from me.  That was plenty close enough.  I choose not to make a better acquaintance.

My stampede slows somewhat once we get to lower ground, just a rapid steady pace until Ruby comes into sight. 

As we motor more northward, we outrun the storm front, so stop at the Walnut Creek bridge to peruse the water below, what little there is.  Just upstream is a high metal dam that has been there long enough for it to have completely filled in with soil behind.  The result is an extensive wetlands riparian area that extends far upstream, a completely overgrown area that would allow some fine birding opportunities.


As we pass the home place of the K4 Ranch, a pasture inhabited only by a few bulls offers a bucolic scene.  Suddenly, the story changes abruptly as the field erupts into a melee: one bull attacks another, then continues to paw up dirt in anger, and continues and continues while his pasture mates seem quite unimpressed and go back to grazing.  I wonder what burr he got under his blanket.  





 




We have met not another soul anywhere along our route, so it is with great surprise that we encounter a couple stopped for a look-see at the bridge.  The great surprise part is not that they are there, but that they are friends from Prescott.  What are the chances?  Anyway, we pause for a chat before proceeding on yet another side road that takes us across Apache Creek just above its confluence with Walnut Creek.

I have declared this will be a shorter-than-usual jaunt.  We are both tired from our schedule and I wish not to arrive home completely collapsed.  We pull out creekside for a bite to eat and I immediately spot an exceedingly strange blob on a nearby tree.  Closer inspection does not explain what it is (hopefully, a helpful reader will know), but I pick and prod at it for a spell.  It’s about six feet in circumference just over my head in a walnut tree.  It appears to be composed of bits and pieces of juniper growth but walnut leaves are growing out of it.  Even Chris, that inveterate story-teller, can’t think of an explanation.

As he peruses it from the other side, he urgently calls me over there.  He has spotted a snake in residence.  As it turns out, while I was poking and prodding and plucking and photographing, I was nearly touching the snake and had even gotten it into one of my shots without realizing it.

Not sure what kind of snake: it is docile (obviously, since I was disturbing its habitat with great abandon and it never struck at me), slender and very long.  We are never able to see its entire length, but the part that is visible is easily three or four feet.

We have stopped but the storm has not, so has caught up to us.  As the rain begins to splatter, we set our sights for home, enjoying quite a deluge as we go.  Ruby is completely trashed from our dash along the dirt road turned quickly to sloppy mud and we are exhausted after all, but it’s a good exhaustion - a happy birthday for me.