We’re officially old . . .

. . . and this is how I know it.  Whilst we were playing in the surf, holding hands and being a bit pummeled by waves breaking, a woman approached us with concern.  She cautioned us about the uneven sea bed and offered to assist us.  After we assured her that we were alright, we just looked at each with the understanding that . . . sure enough . . . we must be old. 

Despite that, what a really lovely time we had at Mission Beach, even in our dotage!  The beach is as the beach is always, and that knowing has sustained me through many difficult times.  When I stop to think about the waves lapping at the sand, the breakers crashing, the never-ending rhythmic movement, and know that it is all a part of the timelessness, I am soothed.

Over that are the people scuttling around - our activities frenetic in comparison to the Earth's strength.

I watch as we all observe our parts in the dance.  One beachgoer took the dance analogy to heart: for a verrry long time, she clapped her hands to a tune heard only by her, moving her hands and and arms to the soundless tune, occasionally even rising for a spell of sand dancing.

And there was the bubble lady . . .

 

. . . the metal detector . . .

the gulls guilty but unabashed at stealing bags of chips from under a towel . . .

 

. . . the parasailors . . .

 

. . . there were tents, umbrellas, shade screens, and shelters of every kind imaginable . . .

 

. . . and even the nefarious vendor of snacks.  I didn't photograph her lest I become involved in some kind of illegal beach doin's, but there was an air of crime movie shenanigans about it.  The woman dragged a partially broken-wheeled wagon through the sand, evidently offering the sale of items within via a small cardboard sign.

Now this a true story: I watched as she paused to take a phone call, at which point, she quickly got behind a group of people, lowered her sign and covered it and the wagon's contents with a towel, and changed her appearance!  It was exactly like in the movies!  She removed her hat, shook loose her hair bun and took off her outer garment - voila - a different person!  No idea what it meant, but it was amazing to watch.  I didn't take her photo to protect the possible innocent.

Fishing, of course . . .

The señor, too frugal (ahem) to purchase California fishing licenses, discovered a few localities that offer "free" fishing.  I was a bit cautious, especially when the purveyor of bait had never heard of such; however, in the end, I went along, hoping that we wouldn't end up in the hoosegow with our truck confiscated.

The chosen spot involved climbing jumbles of gigantic boulders, up one side and down the other, in order to offer frozen shrimp to the denizens of that stretch of salt water.  No broken bones nor sprains ensued, I am pleased to report; unfortunately, there was a dearth of fish interest in what we had to offer, but that did not prevent me from whiling away the time by filming the tiny crab congregation just below my perch, and being mesmerized by the musical water currents as they danced the vegetation just at its level.

 

What . . .

. . . in tarnation is that crazed fella doing out there!?  We figured out later that he was propelling himself across the water on a hydrofoil kind of contraption.  Seems it required him to get the forward speed going by pumping the board and paddling like a mad fiend, at which point, the board lifted out of the water and away he went, except that it did not continue unless he kept at his labors, so I'm not sure what was the point.

Being tide pool aficionados . . .

. . . we took advantage of low tide to peruse the pools at Point Loma.  It's all very subtle, but once a person slows down and looks carefully, it's quite fascinating to find the anemones, limpets, crabs, and other denizens that patiently await the return of ocean water to cover them.

 

Cabrillo National Monument . . .

. . . high on Point Loma features a statue representing Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, who was the first European to reach the west coast of what is now the United States.   That was in 1542.  His landing place is below that viewpoint, as it offers a vista toward San Diego's Coronado Island and the city beyond.

One of the features of Coronado is the home port of the U.S. Pacific Fleet, the largest Navy base on the West Coast.  This view from Point Loma is toward Coronado.

 

Crystal Pier . . .

. . . a unique lodging over the water was fun to check out, especially after friends had told us about staying there.  I don't know the history of how it came to be, but I'm intrigued with the concept: individual cabins lining both sides of the pier near its dryland connection.

As we pass the cabins, we see beach beyond and below.  On the further reaches are the usual pier fisherpeople hoping for a good catch.

I revel in the senses aroused near the ocean: water everywhere I look, the scent of salt air, perhaps most of all - the always-there roar of the surf.  

As a desert rat by birth, I prefer inland for my abode; but perhaps because of that, I am drawn to water, and most especially the ocean, thus achieving a sense of balance.  A way of being for those near the sea is completely unknown to me, and I love the sense of discovery when I venture there.

Along the way

It has been such a vanishingly long time since we have heeded the call of the great Pacific Ocean’s shorelines along the southern California coast, yet here we are: approaching the border that separates Arizona from that state to our west, at long last anticipating being in the surf this afternoon.

No matter that we have overpacked, forget that the bedroom window is still wide open after being ajar to invite in the cool night air.  We have six days carved out between Tuesday night music gigs at Augie’s Restaurant and we intend to spend them in the San Diego vicinity, primarily up to our necks in salt water or lounging on the sand.

Am I crazy anxious to be there - yes, most emphatically!  Does that stop me from calling a halt at various sites to satisfy my curiosity about what I spy out the window of the truck speeding along the highway - no!  Admittedly, I do allow a few things to pass in the rear-view mirror; however, by 10 a.m., we had already turned around a couple of times for photo ops.

One acreage speckled with moldering melons and accented by weeds grown beyond maturity piqued our interest enough for a shot stop, as if somehow, we would find the answer by standing at the edge of the field.

Alas, we could not discern the why of it, but clearly a farmer had planted the large plot with watermelons, installed miles of plastic mulch and drip line.  Come harvest time, however, the melons remained where they grew atop deteriorating plastic.  

The good news is that we never have to stand in line to see the things that grab my attention; no one else gives a rip, and for good reason.  Even stopping to be amazed at the jagged skyline of the Kofa Mountains, causes no backup, as we recall the time we climbed up in there to fulfill my long-term yen to see the unique native palm grove tucked up into one of its canyons.

Further back up the road, we pulled over briefly for a photo op at the entrance road to the former Robson’s Mining World, just because the iconic sign is sure to complete its submission to the elements before too long.

At this advanced age, many things dredge up memories from past occurrences, and that is one of those.  It was like this: along about 1990 or so, Charles Robson contacted the señor with the request that he expand his Elderhostel program to Robson's facility.  

One thing led to another, as things are wont to do, with the result that for about a decade, Yavapai College offered week-long active educational programs for senior adults interested in hiking, history and the natural world.

Sadly, the lodge at Robson’s burned; Charles passed away, and the site was for a spell relegated to day trips by the señor’s Edventures programs until it wasn’t,  Subsequent visits have revealed frightful conditions resulting in extensive damage to Charles’ once impressive multiiple-room museum of old west artifacts.

Thus I pass the time while my pard drives the six-hours-if-we-didn’t-keep-stopping journey to the ocean.  Can I sense the smell of ocean spray yet?  Not really, after all, we have only just passed Yuma’s vast agricultural fields (now dormant in the summer heat, but soon to be lushly verdant with their mild winter crops), crossed over the border marked by the Colorado River, remarked at the mountainous sand dunes, and entered the flat flat Imperial Valley.

But soon . . . the Pacific!

In conversation, it becomes clear that it has been nigh on to 30 years since we have ventured into those parts.  I am incredulous at the thought, as I always am when I realize the extreme passage of time that I might have categorized as "just the other day" or something similar.

Before the beach . . .

. . . we check into our living quarters that will be home for five days.  Perfectly adequate, squeaky clean . . . and approximately the size of a postage stamp, albeit the airmail type.  For those under the age of 100, I refer to the olden days, when, in order to have our letter delivered to its destination via an airplane, as opposed to ground, we bought a special "air mail" stamp, wrote the words "air mail" on the envelope, lest the post office not notice the special slightly larger stamp.  Granted, our ground delivery was a step above pony express, but air mail was something special. (I admit that when I scribe memories such as this, I wonder if I actually recall this, or did I read it in a history book.)

And then . . .

. . . I tested the waters - warm enough for swimming rather than the icy cold I remember from earlier-in-the-summer visits . . .

. . . and the señor agrees.

 

Fairly rough surf at Mission Beach on our first venture into the water; a rip current was present shortly afterward, and lifeguards were calling for folks to get out.  It will be interesting to use the next few days for exploration.

The day I . . .

. . . locked the keys in the truck began serenely enough at our Holbrook, Arizona, motel with a nice breakfast and coffee.  One night away to visit our son, Lewis, in nearby Joseph City: the three of us were off to McHood Reservoir, a lovely little lake that winds through a canyon of solid rock.

 

Fishing gear at the ready, we were encouraged by the large trout feeding on the surface.  Our shadeless posts on stone perches quickly became uncomfortable; I decided I would change my clothing for better coverage, and it was all downhill from there.

I exchanged my wardrobe at the truck, dropped my discarded tank top onto the keys that were lying on the seat and, even with a hesitation about maybe leaving the truck unlocked because we were nearby, flicked the fateful switch, blithely unaware of my mistake until the señor requested his keys.  

Fool-proof way to put a damper on activities, but there was better news: we were not at the end of a 15-mile unnamed dirt track in the middle of nowhere.  A phone call later, and we were rescued by a fine gentleman from the not-very-far-away town, who encouraged me immensely with his cheery repeats: “No problem!”  Easy for him to say, we were replenishing his wallet by my momentary brain-dead maneuver.

 

Historical irrigating . . .

. . . brought early pioneers to that seemingly barren wind-swept country when they diverted water from the Little Colorado River to grow crops needed to feed themselves and their livestock.  That enterprise was indeed daunting in 1876 - incredible that they rebuilt numerous times when the structure washed away in floods.

 

With wills many of us can scarcely imagine, they constructed one diversion dam after another each time storms washed one out.  After a good bit of research assisted by Chris, Lewis tracked down the dam's site and was anxious to share it with us.

We saw where the dam diverted river water to a large ditch engineered to deliver irrigation as needed near their settlement. . .

 . . . and shortly after our visit, a storm brought the river to life, a scene that Lewis captured well to show how water is diverted into the ditch while the main stream flows by.

Here he’s checking out a mechanism that opens the gate to allow water into the ditch. . .

. . . and here they are . . . not really sure what they are doing.

 Trailblazers . . .

In the larger scheme of things, much of Arizona, and the Southwest in general, remained unexplored long after most of the continent.  Eventually explorers and pioneers in northern Arizona managed to find their way through harsh countryside, seeking viable passages and places to put down roots.

A plaque and bas relief I spotted in Winslow commemorated some of those route-finding & road-building ventures beginning in 1853. . .

. . . while other sites recall the region's history, in this case, the 1876 establishment of Joseph City, originally called Allen's Camp for Capt. William C. Allen, who led the small band of Mormon pioneers.  It is the only remaining town of four originally settled by LDS members in that area; the others were Obed, Brigham City & Sunset.

Serendipities . . .

As we were dining at a local Mexican eatery in Holbrook, Lewis mentioned that across the street was a mural that tourists visited for photos.

We stopped by to see what the attraction was: the historic Route 66 was mapped on the building’s side, and photos were the name of the game.

 

It was there we saw a young couple with their youngster, and I offered to shoot a photo of the three of them.  Realizing from their accents that they were foreign, I inquired about their origin: they were from Poland.  We chatted a bit and went on our way.

Later, we were relaxing poolside at our motel where a young boy was splashing happily with his mask and snorkel.  What a shock when we stood up to leave, walked around a corner and saw the same couple who were staying at “our” motel.

That serendipity loudly called for a follow-up; we sat and happily got acquainted with Marek, Karolina and their sweet son, whose name translates to Blaize (I think), the Polish version is lost to me.

How fun to meet that lovely family and to be able to stay in touch.  They told us all about this trip (their second time in the U.S.) and their plans for touring the Southwest.  They had already been to several Arizona sites, and Karolina was in love with our great state; she extolled at length about Arizona’s beauty and variety, clearly very astute.

Out ’n about . . .

Lewis appears to take after us with his love of gardening, as do both of his siblings.  His peppers and tomatoes are thriving alongside his cute yard/patio.

It’s not unusual to see dust devils in the Southwest desert, but these may have been the granddaddies of them all.

Water, in so many forms, and fire

The vapor caves . . .

Ah, the Yampah Vapor Caves!  It is one of those things that pretty much has to be experienced to be understood.

I mean, how many people jump at the chance to spend 90 minutes sweating like they’ve never sweated before in a dimly-lit cave with an air temperature of about 112 degrees enveloped by the natural geothermal vapors from 125 degree mineral water that is trickling, dripping, running through the grotto where you’re lounging on a marble bench?

My second time at the vapor caves - if I lived nearby, I would utilize it weekly.  I emerged feeling as if I had sweated out every toxin that ever considered being in my body, and my skin was silky smooth - a really rejuvenating experience!

Back to Iron Mountain . . .

. . . and its delightful small mineral water pools of varying temperatures, where we enjoyed conversations with several folks.  

One couple, especially, was delightful to talk with - fascinating to hear of people’s lives and families.  They were from Dallas/Fort Worth, in Colorado to attend a country music festival in which their grandson is playing fiddle and lead guitar.  It was fun to hear their adventures when their son has invited them to events that he works as a photo journalist, the most notable being a rattlesnake festival.

Still more water . . .

. . .  in yet another form:  Diane joined us for a boondock culminating at Rifle Falls State Park.  With no idea what to expect, we thoroughly enjoyed our drive up into the mountains through lush farm and ranch land, and were bowled over after our short hike to the falls!

Wow!  What an overwhelming sight as three cascades roared over the cliff, water running in a delightful clear stream through the profuse creekside vegetation.  Delightful refreshing spray cooled us as we neared the falls, with voices lost in the roar of the water’s force.

An absurd number of photos and videos later . . .

 

 

 

. . . we opted to climb the trail to the top of the cliff for a view, as the signage invited.  My mind went to distant views from the heights, but the reality was the sight of the water roaring over the edge of the cliff - very heady indeed, especially when we walked onto platforms jutting out over the abyss.

Our exertions required an ice cream treat, or so we unanimously decided, an indulgence we located back in the small town of Rifle.

Thus ended a lovely reunion and adventure, made a bit harrowing by witnessing three wildfires starting in three days, the last that brought smoke and devastation not far from our lodging, relieving us of any reluctance to depart.

Minerals, mountains & megillahs

What a renewal of spirit this trip is being!  The time spent with our friend Diane is encouraging me to evaluate how I spend this later part of my life.  I can’t say that anything earthshaking is occurring, but the relationship with daring women who live their lives boldly on their own terms is rejuvenating.  Over my lifetime, I have had the privilege to associate with many women who have stepped far beyond a life of routine, with accomplishments that deserve to be written.

Society may see each of them as just another elderly woman, but within their hearts lie memories of daring lives, and I am grateful to know them - many over the years who have lived typical lives and been dealt hard blows in their day-to-day existence, still continuing on their way, and others who have chosen a different path stepping out to create, sometimes re-create themselves in ways that many can’t imagine.

Why not, their hearts tell them, and they listen.  Make no mistake: they are all around us, and it behooves us to heed their stories.

Megillah . . .

. . . Here we go - end of first day, I loaded my photos onto the computer and was dismayed to find that my camera has grit in it, with each tiny bit of dust expanded into dots, blurry lines and glips, ruining the photos.  First off, I naively thought I could avoid that happening by not changing camera lenses thus opening it up to dust pollution; however, it has become painfully obvious that the often dusty conditions that seem to be our favorite environment allow particles to invade the camera.

The photos were ruined for any other use, but I did manage to clean them up enough to utilize in the blog, a tedious and unsatisfying task - very discouraged as I anticipated the same for the remainder of the trip, and the loss of a batch of Colorado pictures.

 
Then . . . a brainstorm from the señor!  The same thing had occurred on a previous long trip; that time, he had found a computer program that cleared out the glips & blips.  Yay!  Revisiting that, we expected the second day pics to be cleared up after a run-through of the miraculous, though time-consuming program.  Alas, our hopes were dashed when it was unsuccessful.  To say I was discouraged would be an understatement of the nth degree.

What went wrong?  After much gnashing of teeth, he thought he had the answer; however, by that time, we were busy going to one of the most beautiful places on Earth, and we could not test the theory until the following morning.

As I was writing, the señor was working the program, and the third day photos were saved - great relief!  I figuratively held my breath until it was done.

Minerals . . .

So now for the minerals, mineral water, that is.  How I love a good hot springs soak, and for this journey, Iron Mountain provided just that.  The facility has expanded since last we enjoyed it, in the process retaining its serene sense of rejuvenation and relaxation.

The site overlooking the Colorado River is lovely despite the highways and railroads on the opposite shore.  The varied landscaping and peaceful music enhance the sense of well-being.  And best of all, they’re running a half-price special, which means we will return in a couple of days.

Mountains . . .

. . . That single word does not begin to convey what the remainder of the day held for us.  Had we only known what was to come, we would have allotted the entire day for it.  Indeed, a month-long sojourn on the heights we attained would better serve what we found far up in the Flat Tops.

Our driver (yes, we acquiesced to whatever he had cooked up for the afternoon) informed us we were headed for something called Deep Lake.  Sure, why not - it’s the Rocky Mountains, how could you go wrong, after all.

As we departed from the depths of the river canyon and began our ascent, we discovered just what could possibly be an issue.  The dirt road began climbing and then it began climbing more and climbing more as it clung precariously to the steep mountainside, a narrow ledge carved out of the nearly vertical cliffs, winding and switching back on itself over and over.

When the rough road caused the truck to scitter, that unprotected edge with nothing for a thousand feet below looked alarmingly close.  It went on and on for long enough that I finally asked the question: “How much farther is it?”.  When he said we were about a third of the way there, it took a good deal of restraint to refrain from violence.  I mean we couldn’t even abort the upward climb; there was literally no place to pull over or turn around because of the narrow washboard road.  When we encountered a lone vehicle coming the other direction, he pulled up with two wheels perched on the vertical cliff in order for us to pass.

And all the while, I was thinking that eventually, we had to come back down that way.  

The drive may have been harrowing, but the reward was beyond incredible!  As we topped out, our relief was palpable.  We disembarked and were nearly knocked over by wind blowing easily 40+ mph.  No matter, we were happy to be on terra horizontal instead of terra vertical, and the views were just stupendous!

Deep Creek was 2,300 feet below us at the bottom of an incredible craggy canyon.  I shot a video of the site with great trepidation; I was seriously afraid the wind would snatch the phone right out of my hands.

No photo could begin to convey the sense of that abyss, but of course, I made the attempt.

Three wind-blown individuals:

Astounding to look out from that high vantage at mountain range after mountain range . . .

. . . but most delightful of all was a gorgeous marmot sunning himself on the rocks at cliff’s edge, mostly unconcerned with our presence.

We had seen large snowbanks along the way and on surrounding mountains; my pard decided that he needed to make his way to one below us, and found the endeavor to be a bit more than anticipated.

We were at approximately 10,000 feet from sea level, with distances very deceiving given the gargantuan scale of our surroundings.  He did, indeed, make his way down there - the slope was far steeper and longer than he had thought, especially when he had to climb back up - but he came, he tasted, and he conquered, kind of.  Thoughtlessly though, he didn't leave the truck keys with us, so if he had slipped, Diane & I would have been there for the duration.

Look closely: he's down there risking his life for a taste of that particular snow.

Along the way, we had distracted ourselves with questions about a historic silver-mining town that had, incredibly, perched somewhere up on those Flat Tops, abandoned since 1890.  We remain incredulous at the knowledge that so-named Carbonate had once been the seat of Garfield County!  The remote location and absurd access caused the town to be short-lived; how anyone managed to build that road with hand-work and horse-drawn equipment is a mystery to me, and a testament to will power.

Once we knew about the ghost town, we were on a quest to find its location.  Spoiler alert:  we didn’t find it, and in the interest of not driving down that road in the dark, we eventually abandoned the quest, but not before being gape-mouthed at the incredible beauty of the locale.

Our drives and hikes up there brought us to one incredible view after another, with lakes and streams and lush growth everywhere.  The wind continued unabated, so photos of the plethora of wonderful wildflowers were difficult to impossible, but of course, it didn’t stop me from trying.

The views speak for themselves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A view of a different kind . . .

Yet another delightful occurrence in our day was the surprise when we drove around a bend and encountered a fairly large herd of sheep being tended by a horseman and his three dogs.  We have often seen lone shepherds with their herds in the mountains for summer pasture.  

We enjoyed watching as the shepherd tightened up his herd . . .

. . . and rode away for a noon-day break.  The three dogs accompanied him, as did a second horse, which I assumed to be the foal of his mount.  I thought perhaps he would stop for a visit with us, but he acknowledged me with a wave as I photographed and was on his way.

A better day in better company could not be imagined.