Summary: “There’s nowhere to eat in this town!”
In which the mooses take a quick trip into Mexico, make an exciting archaeological find near an azimuth mark disk, explore an old ranch in Alamo Canyon, and discover that Ajo truly does roll up the sidewalks (or would, if they had sidewalks) before 4:00pm on Sundays.
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…Looking E toward Route 85. |
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…Looking approximately W. |
“I hope you’re not counting on taking a luxurious shower!”
In which the mooses visit a church without being struck by lightning, search for a tri-station in a restricted area at the National Observatory without getting caught, travel the Ajo Mountain Drive without busting the oil pan or getting locked in, and consume Pizza Hut pizza and Budweiser without admitting it to anyone (well, until now).
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…An eyelevel view of the mark, and a peek at the wondrous scenery that lies beyond. |
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…Looking N from the culvert toward the 4-meter telescope. |
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…Looking SSW toward Kitt Peak. One of the telescopes can be seen at the top of the mountain. |
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…Looking approximately SE toward Route 85. |
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…Looking NE toward the Diablo Mountains. |
“Uh, Willcox isn’t a great place to eat. But … Salsa Fiesta is the best place to eat in Willcox!”
In which the mooses discover their own mountainous desert hideaway, wander among politically-incorrectly-named rock formations, survive a thunder- and hailstorm brought on by Zhanna’s Vortex Hat, find a surprise benchmark at an historic ranch house, and stuff themselves silly at Salsa Fiesta.
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…A view of the lovely Faraway Ranch, surrounded by mountains, in Chiricahua National Monument. |
<snort><grunt> “Hey I sound like the javelina!” “Yeah, you look like him, too!”
In which the mooses leave the moose cave early but manage to find neither wildlife nor the trails they planned to hike, spend many hours exploring and laughing while at the Desert Museum, and take the wimpy way into and out of Sabino Canyon.
I had been eager to spend at least a few very early mornings out in the desert, but most days it didn’t turn out that way. We were just so comfortable in bed, not to mention usually somewhat sleepy from our thrilling adventures of the previous day. But last night we vowed to drag ourselves out of bed by 4:00am, come hell or high water, and attempt to meet some of the wildlife at Tucson Mountain Park.
The trails matched nothing on our map, even though the map looked new and trustworthy. The trail we had thought we were following turned where it wasn’t supposed to and dumped us onto a road rather than making the loop with other trails, which we never found. We ended up following a wide, deep wash back out to the car, somewhat disappointed. We saw no javelinas, no coyotes, not even very many birds. At some points the ground was alive with harvester ants carrying ocotillo flowers several times their body size back to their nests in a fascinating display of strength and organization. Otherwise, though, the desert was, well, deserted.
After a simple and uninspiring breakfast at the South Forty, a real local hangout and greasy spoon in every sense of the term, we spent hours — many more than we had planned — at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum.
“The saguaros are our relatives.”
In which the mooses become acquainted with the majestic and comical saguaro, hike an easy trail to centuries-old Hohokam petroglyphs, and have a close call with their first thunderstorm in the desert while near the abandoned Gould Mine.
Today was probably the closest we’ve had to a “day of rest” on our entire trip. We began the day a little later than usual (but probably still earlier than most vacationers would), crossing the highway again for breakfast at the spot recommended by the hotel clerk — Country Folks at the Quality Inn. After filling up on a blueberry-topped Belgian waffle (mine, of course) and a bacon and egg burrito (for Rich, of course), we began our exploration of Saguaro National Park.
The visitor center is large and modern and well-stocked with books, maps and other goodies. We spent well over an hour among the shelves of printed material, eventually deciding on a few maps and pamphlets to add to our collection. The Gingerbread Javelinas also caught my eye! A filmed slideshow in a darkened theater room off to the side interested us, too. Through the words of the narrator, an O’odham native, we learned that the saguaros are the lifeblood of the O’odham people, and indeed are thought to represent our relatives who have passed before us, and who also came from, and returned to, the ground. Indeed, we are not the only ones who think the saguaros uncannily resemble humans!
We began with a slow, easy trip along the Bajada Loop Drive. There were opportunities to stop and wander among the saguaros, and I found them to be even more beautiful up close.
Exposed to the searing sun, we hiked the Signal Hill Trail (just a short walk of a few hundred yards, really, if that) and then climbed, winding around the hill, to view the Hohokam petroglyphs carved into the rocks on top. We narrowly avoided a horde of little bastards in some way connected with a school field trip, and we spent a quiet half-hour here photographing the carvings and the scenery beyond. Though the hill is low, it offers views in every direction of dense saguaro stands, as well as vistas toward Apache Peak and the Tucson Mountains.
Sufficiently warmed up, I was ready to begin the real hike! We took the King Canyon trail (or some combination of it and nearby trails, having somehow missed the correct trailhead coming off the parking lot). Another slightly uphill hike, this one took us to the Mamagah Picnic Area, where we rested in the shade of a small wooden picnic pavilion and snacked on cheese and peanut butter crackers, and a sadly melted Payday bar, and at least two quarts of Gatorade. To our distinct surprise, thunder began to rumble and roll in the sky and for the first time all week, thick clouds dulled the aqua blue sky above the Tucson Mountains to the east. Rich pointed them out, astonished, wondering if it really were possible that we were about to experience a rare Spring thunderstorm in the desert. All the times he’s been here, in distinctly wetter months, he has never even come close to experiencing a drop of rain. The sheets of rain that soon dropped from the clouds, still far in the distance, assured us we were to experience something special. “Ooh,” Rich pined, “It would be so awesome to see a flash flood down in the wash!”
Feeling only half-beat and confident we would miss the brunt of the storm (but wanting to stay high above the wash, still hoping for a chance of a flash flood), we were determined to see the Gould Mine. It had been one of my main goals since I spotted it on the map. I was aware that there’s no way to go inside, but I was fascinated by the thought of seeing a western copper mine, obviously very different from what we have in the East. The mine is just a short walk on a clear trail to the north, and though the opening is covered and fenced off, it’s still neat to imagine the activity that took place here just a few decades ago. As we were imagining, though, and playfully taking photos of the “Open Shaft” signs, I began to feel a breeze, and in it, flecks of wetness that dotted my arms and camera body. They evaporated as soon as they touched, and never grew heavier though the wind continued, but we were still thrilled that we’d come so close to an out-of-season storm such as this. The clouds stayed tucked behind the mountains, and as we circled down below the mine’s tailing pile the slight breeze was the only remnant of the storm. The flash flood never came, and back in the hot sun again we continued the loop back to the car.
Today’s wildlife totals were somewhat impressive, considering that all desert wildlife is still a novelty to me: we saw many doves, Gila woodpeckers, and a pair of roadrunners, and one cactus wren. A jackrabbit crossed our path just as we were approaching the parking area, at the end of our hike.
In spite of our sweatiness (which, to be fair, is much less permeating and enduring than in the sickeningly humid East), we drove directly to the famed El Charro, another of Rich’s “must eats.” The hour was early, probably before 5:00pm, but the scene was already festive and the place was drawing a crowd. While we waited to gain the attention of the preoccupied hostess, we had no choice but to overhear (because they were so loud) the conversation of some women also waiting for a table. Apparently the storm had caused a severe flash flood; but it had run east down the mountains, away from us. Streets were closed — a road we’d traveled that morning to get to the park, in fact. So close!
The delicious food and beer helped erase our disappointment, however, within minutes. We chose to sit outside in the courtyard, surrounded by color, lights, leaves. We began by sharing a chile verde quesadilla, which was fresh and tender and very cheesy. For an entree I had a combination plate: one each of a carne seca taco and a cheese enchilada, with the typical accompaniments, and Rich ordered the famous carne seca platter. Everything was delicious, everything went fabulously with beer, of course. We ate our dessert flan to the hilarious strains of familiar ABBA tunes sung in Spanish. This whole day was made just for us!
“Experience the impact … <spwoosh> … on your wallet!!!”
In which the mooses make the long drive from the Canyon to Tucson, encountering along the way several benchmarks, nice Indians, a disappointment, a pleasant surprise, and hamburgers.
One of the most exciting, and one of the most saddening, aspects of a “whirlwind tour” such as this is moving to the next location after just getting a feel for the present one. I wake up thrilled each day by the adventures that are to come, but I still wonder what we are leaving behind, what else we might be able to discover if we stayed for just one more day. We will return, so I add these questions and desires to a mental list and prepare to leave the spectacular Canyon.
Five months now, since we began planning our trip in January, Rich had promised we’d eat “at least once” at El Tovar. I had a feeling this really meant “at least twice,” so I wasn’t surprised that the old hotel was our destination again this morning. Out early on this cool and quiet morning, we arrived just in time to see a scattering of mule deer grazing on the lawn between the hotel and the rim. Breakfast time for all! Plenty of guests were cautiously milling about, too, on the porch and the sidewalk — quiet for once, perhaps having waited days like we had to catch a glimpse of the long-eared creatures. Nikolea was again absent (I’m sure she wouldn’t deign to get up so early) and we were seated promptly and politely. I dug eagerly into my pancake trio (one each of buttermilk, buckwheat and blue corn pancakes) served with honey-pine nut butter and prickly pear syrup, while Rich gave a distinct thumbs-up to his huge Southwestern burrito and breakfast potatoes. Served with coffee for Rich and Earl Grey tea for me, this was a meal fit for royal mooses about to embark on a long journey!
Thus fortified and fulfilled and full of the beauty of the Canyon, we reluctantly packed up the last of our things, checked out and, after a quick fortification stop at the Post Office and General Store, headed to the East Rim drive and away from Grand Canyon Village. Our first stop wasn’t even going to be a stop. Many times benchmarks that look interesting at home are less than thrilling once we arrive at the spot; oftentimes they may well be interesting, but the other activities of the day may overshadow the desire for a benchmark hunt, or simply push it away. In this case, I was fully prepared to drive on by GQ0194 (T 482), but Rich drove tantalizingly slow past the coordinates anyway, and I couldn’t resist a peek into the woods. Well, what do you know, there’s the witness sign! I hopped out and found the mark easily, along with a bonus mark belonging to a local surveyor just a few yards away. Just a few yards from the road and an old service station, these marks are located in a pretty wood filled with pinyon pines, red rocky soil and with a small woods road running by the sandstone outcrop that holds the NGS disk.
Traveling further along the East Rim Drive, we stopped at nearly every overlook for, well, our long last looks over the Canyon. I was reminded of our experience at the overlooks along Skyline Drive in Shenandoah, when car after car veered off the highway, slowed down a little to drive through the pull-off, and went right back onto the highway. We didn’t have much time to spare either, but at least we got out of the car in order to have a view of something other than the wall and the sky above the other rim of the canyon.
Just beyond the Grand View overlook, it was time for one last Grand Canyon benchmark attempt. I had some hope that we’d find GRAND VIEW, a USGS mark placed in the 1903 survey near the old Grand View Hotel on the canyon rim. We knew in advance that the hotel itself is long gone, but we had no reason to be certain the mark, set in sandstone at the canyon’s edge, would also be gone. We did not even need to use the hotel for a reference, since our coordinates should have taken us directly to the mark. Feeling ambitious and intrigued by whatever we might find, we parked in a wooded pull-off and headed along an old doubletrack road toward the site of the old hotel. What a surprise this area was, with the pines that lined the trail, dry pine needles and other debris underfoot, and the grassy meadow we stepped into as we neared the coordinates. The beige horned lizard we discovered just a few hundred feet from the head of the trail was the only hint that we weren’t in an Eastern forest. (Well, I suppose the enormous canyon at the far side of the grassy opening was another clue.)
The hotel obviously had stood in the grassy area, but nothing remains of it now. At the time of the survey, only the Bright Angel Hotel and Cameron’s Hotel offered accommodations in addition to the Grand View, so it’s possible that the survey party stayed here while on their assignment. Unfortunately, though, no spirit voices whispered to us today. We could not find the mark. Our coordinates should be exact, reception is excellent in this open area, and our data took us directly to a limestone ledge that looked like a perfect setting for such a mark. But try as we might, even clearing off as much debris and vegetation as possible, we found no mark nor any sign that one had ever been set there. I searched other nearby ledges, unsuccessfully, just in case we were off somehow (I made Rich a little nervous, I’m afraid, as I poked around on the edge!). The mark either remains hidden from our view, or lost to man or the elements probably decades ago — but without evidence to determine which or when. My favorite aspect of benchmark hunting is the discovery of new places such as this. The real prize here was the view that probably very few of the Canyon’s hordes of visitors have ever seen, at least during the better part of the last century. Had we wine, cheese and bread, and the whole day ahead of us, I would have loved to share a picnic lunch here with Rich, just sitting on the rim and watching the colors change with the sun.
After completing our peaceful sylvan hike back to the car, we continued on our journey toward Desert View. Like Hermit’s Rest, the Desert View watchtower was designed by Mary Colter out of native stone chosen to allow the tower to harmonize with its environment. Its shape calls to mind the old Anasazi watchtowers, but its single purpose has always been to serve as a gift shop. The area was mobbed with tourists, but we nevertheless had a chance to make our way to the overlook railing for one last peek, and we took a quick spin around the gift shop as well. The tower interior is mightily impressive, lined with small staircases and circular balconies leading to an observation area near the top of the tower, but we’ll leave that trek for our next trip. Rich and I were feeling dehydrated already, so we sucked down a lemonade we purchased at the concession, and continued on.
Route 64 passes through the western corner of the Navajo reservation. Thrilled to finally visit the haunts of Jim Chee and Joe Leaphorn from the Tony Hillerman novels I loved as a child, I paid careful attention. The desert scenery truly looks raw, unspoiled, untouched, really, until you look along the sides of the roads and see the trash and forgotten debris and layer upon layer of broken green and amber bottle glass. Sad.
Rich had described to me the proliferation of roadside stands selling everything from pottery and jewelry to beef jerky, so I wasn’t surprised to see them nor to see the hand-painted billboard announcements. My favorite had to be the one that promised “Nice Indians Ahead!” … as though we were back in the days of the Wild West and had reason to suspect that most Indians would, in fact, not be nice. We loved that sign, and the laugh was well-deserved!
We did not stop at any of the stands, but attempted twice to pull off the highway at the Little Colorado River overlooks. The first overlook was blocked off to vehicles and would have required more of a hike than we wanted. We had better luck at the second overlook, which I believe was the Little Colorado River Tribal Park. We paid $2.00 to access the Navajo Parks and Recreation land, and then browsed through the tables and tents of traditional craft items on our way to the river overlook, where we saw … a dry canyon. There was no sign of the Little Colorado save a single tan muddy spot far below. I believe Rich commented that it was the first time he’d seen the river dry.
Construction encouraged us to bypass Wupatki (Polish Indians?!), which had interested me mostly because of the name, and Sunset Crater. Both are accessed from a single loop road off Route 89, one way in and out. Thirty-four hot miles of dirt and dust and crawling along due to construction didn’t appeal to either of us, so we reluctantly continued on. We hadn’t been able to decide if we should visit these two monuments or continue east to Meteor Crater; at least the construction made the decision easier for us. I’ll have to see the Polish Indians next time, but we did get a view of Sunset Crater from the highway just a short time later.
Traffic in Flagstaff was heavy and mostly standing still. Another construction project slowed our progress from the back of the jam to the I-40 interchange, but once we got to I-40 we were sailing smoothly and swiftly east. I-40 is a major highway, covering the country nearly coast to coast from North Carolina to California. The section east of Flagstaff is high and flat and windy, and filled with tractor trailers (which, unlike in the East, mainly stuck to the speed limits). Once we passed the exit for Walnut Canyon National Monument, just past Flagstaff, there wasn’t much to see other than typical (but beautiful) high desert scenery and bursts of tumbleweed, flying up at us like flocks of birds alighting from nowhere, and then bouncing away like bunnies.
Thirty-some miles past Flagstaff we reached the Meteor Crater exit. They may have their own highway exit, but we still had about six miles to go. Driving here was interesting, passing “watch for animals” signs along the roadsides, and rattling over cattle guards once or twice a mile. “Come get your picture taken with the girl in the flatbed Ford,” enthused a radio announcer from Winslow. Ah, so we had found the corny local station meant for tourists. This one looped the same three over-animated ads over and over again, one of which was an attempt to lure us to Meteor Crater. As we flew along the road, I couldn’t help but wonder what we’d gotten ourselves into. “Experience the impact … at Meteor Crater!” we heard, complete with a loud <spwoosh>, which ostensibly is the sound of a meteorite swooping down to make its impression on Earth. Yes, over and over again. We laughed and made the sound ourselves, over and over again, like third graders. But just how corny would this place be?!
The huge Visitor Center should have been our first clue that this wasn’t going to be anything like the national parks and monuments we had been enjoying. “Fifteen dollars???” I couldn’t believe the admission price was so high! While there is a museum in the visitor center, which I’ve since heard is quite nice, we did not have time for that. We simply wanted to take a walk up to the rim, peek at the crater and enjoy the views. We were approached by a woman who looked like an advertisement for Texas (blonde hair, cowgirl style clothes, drawl) and Rich asked if there was any chance we could pay a reduced rate for a five minute look at the crater. “No sir,’ she said, and went on to describe the wonders contained in the museum, and that regardless, the only admission to the crater is now via a group tour. Disappointed, we thanked her anyway and returned to the car. Again on Meteor Crater road, we laughed as we made the meteor sound, but this time we amended the ad to the more accurate “Experience the impact … <spwoosh> … on your wallet!!!”
Walnut Canyon was our consolation prize, and it is a real gem to behold. I’m so glad we stopped to investigate. Walnut Creek carved the canyon some 600 feet deep through this densely forested land, exposing the famous Kaibab limestone. As is typical, some layers of the stone are softer than others, and small caves were scoured out from these soft layers by wind and water, caves which later served as dwellings for local Indians. (Tuzigoot was a contemporary Sinagua settlement, but utterly different in both style and function.) The creek as it meandered cut a U into the canyon, creating an “island” of forested rock which now hosts the aptly named Island Trail. Hiking this trail is the only way to see the cliff dwellings up close, and we were urged by the ranger to try it, because we looked so young and fit. Time was short, though, as the monument closes at 5:00pm and it was already past 4:00. When Rich heard the number of steps involved (in the hundreds), he consulted with his knees and got a firm “Not now! Are you nuts?!” in response.
The overlook just past the visitor center offers a view of the island, the cliff dwellings in the distance, and — oh, look, a benchmark! Neither of us had ever heard of an “archaeological datum,” but we assumed it had to do with a survey of the cliff dwellings or other archaeological ruins in the area. These simple disks, ignored by many, really are the keys to understanding each new place we visit on a deeper level than most people will experience. There’s something fascinating about knowing that the spot where I’m standing was chosen, deliberately, and marked, with care, for a specific purpose that is intimately tied to the history and function of the place. No matter how much the world around it has changed, find a benchmark in its described location and you’re virtually certain that you’re looking at exactly the same ledge, boulder, wall or building that the surveyors setting the monument did, however many decades ago.
Rich understands how these marks add a point of focus and color to each site where we discover them (planned or not), and he was more than happy to help me with the photos. Afterward, still in the mood for a hike but still not up to the Island Trail, we decided to hike the short, level Rim Trail, quickly, before closing. The Rim Trail was high and hot, and I felt sunburn spreading across my shoulders as we walked. I love desert plants, so the small signs along the way were very interesting, and we were able to make a 0.7 mile hike last much longer than it typically does. After reaching the final rim overlook, the trail heads away from the rim into a ponderosa forest, where we discovered a pithouse and pueblo.
Walnut Canyon is well-kept national monument, historically and biologically fascinating, and beautifully peaceful. I could have played all day just among the ruins in the small patch of pine forest! It’s on my short list to explore in much more depth the next time we visit.
Reluctantly we headed back to the car, which was more like an oven at this point. We are convinced that it still cooled off much more quickly than a car sitting in Eastern heat and humidity, however. Hours of driving were ahead of us, and it was my turn at the wheel. Supper that night was hamburgers at a Fuddrucker’s in Phoenix (tasty and fresher than what we get at home, but nothing terribly out of the ordinary). For some reason, the North Black Canyon location was a real bitch to access off Route 17, but we figured it out and were soon rewarded with burgers, fries, toppings ranging from salsa to fresh green onions, and a vanilla milkshake.
We pulled into the parking lot of the America’s Best Value Inn (hmm? We shall see.) in Tucson just before 9:00pm, with enough energy left to do little more than run across South Park Avenue to look for beer and Gatorade at the combination Catalina Mart/McDonalds. Thoroughly wiped out after our thrilling adventures that crossed many hours and many miles, we slept and dreamed and I, at least, know I dreamed of all our adventures from the cool Canyon to the hot cities of the south, and the perfect partner who shares this all with me.
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…Eyelevel view of mark on outcrop, with witness post in the background. |
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…Looking SW along the woods road. |
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…Looking SE toward the "island." |
“You lazy bastard!”
In which the mooses set out upon the Bright Angel trail, and discover more pleasures
and treasures than the majority of Canyon hikers probably ever do, even though they
only make it to the 3-Mile Resthouse.
Perhaps our memories were quite short and forgiving , or had been wiped clean from the heat and optimism of our trip the day before beneath the Rim. In any case, for some reason we made the same breakfast choice as the day before: the Maswik Cafeteria. I must have had some recollection of the previous day’s meal, however, as I consciously decided ahead of time to stick with prewrapped (either by nature or by General Mills) fare. The bananas and apples were unappealing, however, and a container of Yoplait was about $2.00, so I ended up with an apple danish, which was actually quite good. Not too much cinnamon. I don’t like an overabundance of cinnamon. Rich, having a shorter or more forgiving memory than I, ended up with a modified version of the Mule Rider’s Breakfast, which came to be known as Mule Poop Tenders for some reason I either can’t recall or am not willing to divulge. It consisted simply of scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, and bacon fried crisp. I believe we drank apple juice and coffee again.
The day’s first order of business was to obtain a vortex hat — the sun is just too relentless on these open trails to hike without one! I had noticed some in the Bright Angel gift shop the night before, and by morning I had decided that they were appropriate enough. On our way to Bright Angel Trail we stopped again at the gift shop, picked out the perfect size, and turned to the counter to pay. After a few solid minutes, a young-middle-aged Navajo woman sauntered out from a back room to our left. She made her way to the counter, which was U-shaped, with one register in front of us and one on the section of the counter opposite. She approached us, took the hat, and turned around. I watched her diddling about while removing the tag, and then nothing happened. She may have announced the price at some point. Rich waved his credit card, which he’d had ready all the while, and the woman ignored us. Finally, she ordered us to come all the way around to the other side of the counter, when all she had to do was turn to use the register right before us! Rich commented on this, and her only response was a drawled, indignant “You’re a lot younger than I am!” Well, hardly, and that’s not the point anyway. Sighing, we both eventually walked all the way around to the other register, and Rich, fuming now, tossed his card at her with a loud-enough “You lazy bastard!!!” She laughed. “I’m serious,” he warned. “Ever since Xanterra took over, these places SUCK! Bring back Fred Harvey.” She just laughed and laughed. I was laughing at her, and at Rich’s reaction (bare, honest, priceless) and at the experience as a whole. But he’s right; bring back Fred Harvey and his philosophy and his high standards. Service is pathetic anywhere anymore. You can stand in the store waving your money in your hand and you’ll still wait till they’re good and ready to “help” you.
This most awesome, most colorful day culminated, as it must have, in dinner at El Tovar. It may be worth mentioning that the inner workings of the reservation system here are still a mystery to us. The night before I had called to reserve our place. Asked for a name, I followed the modern convention of giving just a first name. This also helps to avoid the problems associated with either of our last names, which always must be spelled out. “Rich,” I told the girl. “And a first initial?” UGH! “Well, just use J,” I told her, not wanting to backtrack and explain why I’d given a first name the first time. So now we were under the name of “J. Rich,” some fictional traveler whose name, I was sure to remind Rich over and over, was the one we’d quote when we showed up at El Tovar.
Today the gatekeeper was a cheerful young girl with no yellow eyeglasses anywhere in sight. Stepping up to the hostess’s podium, Rich confidently announced that we had a reservation for 7:15 for J. Rich. “Hmm …” the girl pored over the list, pen in hand. Fortunately, I could see the list too, and nearly panicked when I saw no J. Rich in our timeslot. But, wait, there was an “R. Galas” there! We explained that was us, and were taken immediately to our table. To this day I haven’t figured out how they determined the right name and initial to use (or why they even bothered). I knew there was something spooky about that place. Or maybe it has to do with the special powers of the yellow eyeglasses.
It was another night for BEAST. There’s nothing like protein and saturated fat to replenish after a long hike! Carbs, too, of course, but they came from the Fat Tire Ale, which we ordered for the second night in a row. We began by sharing black bean soup and shrimp cocktail, a lovely arrangement of six huge sea critters around the rim of a goblet filled with avocado and tri-color corn chips. Our waitress was a bit too eager and far too perky (though knowledgeable, I have to allow that), but I was mostly able to ignore her and the noise of the other diners, and focus on Rich and my own musings. There’s a lot of history here within these dark paneled and tapestried walls, and probably many ghosts, of a sort. The trophy heads of moose, deer and elk would have witnessed many generations’ passions, could they see.
There are no trophy cattle heads on the walls that I know of, but their flanks were on our plates. I ordered the strip steak, which came with a pepper jack cheese gratin. Rich chose the beef filet with liver pate and rosemary red potatoes, but we cut in halves and shared, as always. Everything was delicious, the beef cooked to a perfect medium-rare. The waitress’s enthusiastic descriptions didn’t change the fact that we were just too stuffed for dessert. Beer is usually the best dessert, anyway!
Plenty tired, and now too stuffed to walk, we were very glad we had decided to drive to dinner. We attempted an early-to-bed night, anticipating the long day’s drive ahead of us … and the many adventures it would inevitably involve!
Summary: “How are these people hiking without any water?!” “This shuttle system really sucks.” “This is supposed to be the easy warm-up hike!”
In which the mooses head below the South Rim and beat themselves up on their “easy warm-up hike,” finally find one of the Boston Museum benchmarks, and discover the healing properties of Fat Tire Ale.
This Sunday morning dawned as clear and bright as all the others, but we weren’t as early to rise as usual. We lay in bed feeling great satisfaction in our stillness. Perhaps it was the warm feeling of anticipation, the assurance that no matter what happened that day it would be a fabulous adventure, and that this all awaited us just a few minutes’ walk away.
But near the midpoint of that several minutes’ walk was the Maswik Cafeteria. And that’s where we paused briefly to refuel once we finally dragged ourselves out of bed and prepared for the day’s adventure. “Cafeteria” accurately captures the atmosphere and quality of food in this place. All extravagance is sent northward to El Tovar (or perhaps southward to the nearest McDonald’s). Kidding aside, all the victuals were edible, and they were reasonably nutritious and filling enough to get us through at least the early part of our trek. We shared a bare-bones breakfast burrito, a patty of peppery country fried steak, and potatoes, and drank down plenty of apple juice and coffee.
This morning, the bus with the “Hermit’s Rest” sign was, in truth, going to Hermit’s Rest. (Imagine that.) It was packed, rickety, and raucously loud. It banged us around, up and down in our seats, as it picked and bounced its way north and then west on the West Rim Drive, which is obviously in need of repair. Our own vehicle would have been much more comfortable, in addition to being much more convenient, but I digress.
We passed by the overlooks of legend: Maricopa Point, Hopi Point. Mohave Point, and all those unnamed ledges interspersed between. I’ve studied the maps in such detail that they feel like old friends to me, even though Hopi is the only one I’ve encountered face to face so far.
Hermit’s Rest is on my list to explore in greater depth next time. First, I know I missed out on at least one survey mark here. I’m not sure what I was thinking at the time, but for some reason I was unaware of it. Being GPS-less that morning (for the sake of traveling light) probably didn’t help — and no, contrary to some people’s long-held suspicions, I do not have every benchmark location, designation and PID (where applicable) committed to memory. :)
In addition, I would like to explore the building at Hermit’s Rest more thoroughly. Designed by architect Mary E. J. Colter in 1914, the structure is designed so that the exterior nearly resembles a natural rock formation, and therefore it blends smoothly into its surroundings. It’s rustic in its appearance both inside and out. We barely breezed through the stone structure on our way to the trailhead, checking out its typical gift-shop and snack bar wares with little more than a passing glance, eager to get below the rim. It’s impossible to miss the most prominent feature — the arched stone fireplace set in a high domed alcove, with high windows opposite that allow for abundant sunshine midday. Adding some personal, colorful touches are an antique brass tea kettle and other kitchen implements, Navajo rugs, and rustic chairs and tables.
And so we began our first hike down into the Canyon, en route to Dripping Spring or as far in that direction as our feet and our energy would take us. We began strong, hiking through a small forest of familiar juniper. Descending steeply almost immediately, the uneven and rocky trail took us through the famous Kaibab Limestone layer via a series of switchbacks. Many sections of the upper trail have been filled in with blocky cobbles, which give the trail a unique, almost paved look, but can be tricky to traverse. It’s probably still easier than heaving heavy legs and stiff knees over the large loose rocks we encountered on the first part of the trail.
With very little shade and the day having already heated up into the 90s, Rich and I hiked as slowly as good balance would allow. We enjoyed the relative peace and silence of this trail. We stole every possible opportunity to cool down in the shade, talking and laughing together, marveling at the red and white stone of Eremita Mesa, the lush greenery all around, and again the lack of water carried by any of our fellow trail-walkers. I could stand for an hour at every turn, matching our progress and what lies ahead to the map, estimating the sizes of objects far more distant than I can imagine (those “little bushes” are really full-grown trees, “just amazing,” Rich said with a smile!), wondering which hidden corners of this canyon still lie untouched by a single human being.
At the base of a steep and slick descent between the junction of the Waldron Trail leading south and the northward turn of the Hermit Trail toward Santa Maria Spring, we crouched on some rocks beneath the only tree for a mile. Rich confessed that his knees were bothering him so much he would prefer if we could head back to the rim. I was perfectly agreeable; I never want to see him in pain! “It’s bittersweet,” he told me. He loved being there with me, but I could tell he was disappointed with the condition of his knees. With anyone else I would have felt some regret, but with Rich, it’s different. Just being able to share this adventure with him is a privilege and an honor, and infinitely interesting no matter what we do. I’ve surprised even myself because I’ve never had a desire to maintain this sort of patience with anyone else I’ve known, never got so much out of contributing to anyone else’s life and well-being, and wasn’t faking for a second when I said that I didn’t mind turning back. I like this.
Standard practice in the Canyon is to allow twice as long for the ascent as for the descent. But in our case, it’s not just the heat that saps us, nor really the cardio workout of uphill hiking. The downhills are the killer, especially for Rich and his ailing knees. Downhill tromping even bothers my knees, which occasionally cause me discomfort even though there’s nothing officially wrong with them. So, needless to say, our return hike to the rim took less than half as long as our hike down into Hermit Canyon. We found plenty of shade-breaks from the scorching sun, and returned to Hermit’s Rest in relative ease and comfort. A picnic table awaited us at the top, between the restrooms and Hermit’s Rest building, and we collapsed there for a five-minute break. The Hermit had whipped us almost as badly as Boynton Canyon, but I was more than satisfied. I didn’t want to see Dripping Spring without Rich by my side. We’ll reach it together next time.
The time we’d saved by ascending much faster than we’d expected could now be put to good use: searching for a survey mark! I was desperate to find at least one of the Boston Museum survey marks to add the color of personal experience to my “Resurvey of the Heart of the Grand Canyon” report. So far, our casual searches had been busts. We decided to give HOPI a try, and exited that damned rickety shuttle bus at Hopi Point to have a look around. The mark was right at our feet, on a prominent outcrop , near a monument to Colonel Claude Birdseye. It was also surrounded by sightseers. As soon as I started to photograph the mark, at least two other people barged in and took their own photos, I’m sure “just in case” it was something important. Well, it is, but not to them. Sheep.
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…View N, with the entire outcropping visible and a nice view over the canyon. I wish the railing wasn’t there! |
Tonight’s dinner came from the Bright Angel Restaurant, an even further cry from El Tovar. The food was light and tasty, though, and served in a bright and relaxed environment, just what we needed. We shared the lettuce wrap appetizer: peppery pistachio chicken wrapped in green leaf lettuce and topped with a citrus sour cream. It was refreshing and spicy; I’d love to make this at home! Rich, again in the mood for BEAST, ordered the Harvey House Steak, with the tasty but unimaginative accompaniments of potato, vegetables, and roll. Wanting something light, I chose Harvey’s Spinach Salad with the spicy Serrano Grape dressing. My two pounds of spinach arrived topped with grape tomatoes, egg, bacon and parmesan, mushrooms and sunflower seeds. So much for light! The salad was very fresh, though, and the sweet and spicy dressing was a delicious surprise. Any leftover pains or aches we might have felt were vanquished by the pints of Fat Tire Ale we drank down. We returned to our room well-fed, somewhat beat-up, and thrilled about our adventure and what the next day might bring. We reveled in the peace and quiet and the understanding we can share without having to speak a word.
“<sigh>Just show them to the Arizona Room, will you.”
In which the mooses explore a Sinagua plaza, sightsee their way north to the Grand Canyon, and are turned away from El Tovar by a brusque hostess with yellow eyeglasses and an attitude.
I awoke with the same excitement I’d felt both of the previous days, but this time some sorrow was mixed in. We were leaving Sedona already, just as we’d begun to grasp its odd rhythms and to make our list of trails and formations to explore. But this was a whirlwind tour, and we had many days of whirling left in us!
It’s not easy to find breakfast places near the Desert Quail, or perhaps we just weren’t looking carefully enough. In the middle of the Route 179 construction zone I spotted the word “Breakfast” on a building in a southwestern-style marketplace. I couldn’t make out anything more about the place until we pulled up in front. Hmm. The Village Griddle, with a cute griddle-shaped sign above the door and not much else to speak of decorating the neat, light beige exterior. Tourist trap? Evidently not, judging by the local-yokel types inside. Our meal of a burrito Martinez (stuffed with veggies!) and a Spanish omelette would give us just the energy we needed for our long, meandering sightseeing journey north to the Canyon.
Surprised that he didn’t mind going so far out of our way, I was nevertheless thrilled that Rich wanted to return to Tuzigoot. In our typical fashion, we spent most of an hour in the gift shop/interpretive center, reading all the exhibits in detail and browsing through the local history books. Rich bought a fascinating volume on the geology of Sedona, and I probably should have picked up the short history of the Verde Valley Railroads.
The ruins are piled above, crowning a hilltop. It’s just a short walk from the visitor’s center to reach them, along a concrete sidewalk that I’m pretty sure isn’t authentic. Actually, the majority of the pueblo rooms have been reinforced, but the original mortar still exists beneath the concrete, we’re told. The Sinagua, who lived here for about three hundred years and vanished around six hundred years ago, expanded their village by continually adding on new rooms to the existing structure. Now what remains of most walls are only a few feet high. The highest dwelling in the complex, however, is complete and we wandered through it, wide-eyed, on our way to the lookout platform on top.
What a view! I think our jealousy came through when we spoke with the ranger manning the lookout. What a fantasy it must be to stand in the sunshine and the breeze, with a view of many miles over the Verde Valley in all directions! He didn’t sound so enthralled, especially considering Summer days when the best relief the shade offers is 100°F, but we argued that it beats weeks on end of below-freezing temperatures. The ranger pointed out the lush freshwater marshland to the east, which provided game and vegetation vital to the Sinagua, and which was acquired by the National Monument just over a year ago. To the north, in the distance, projected the Mogollon Rim. We could see the creepy buildings of Jerome in the Black Hills to the south, the village of Clarkdale to the west, and their letters “J” and “C” on their respective hillsides. On the floodplain to the west was evidence of recent work by Phelps Dodge to cover the acres of mine tailings and slurry and all their associated toxicity. We felt like the King and the Queen atop our little watchtower, and probably could have stayed here for hours or days if we’d been able to take it over completely for ourselves.
As it was, plenty more adventures awaited us before nightfall, so we climbed back down through the old Sinaguan living room and emerged a level lower into the sunshine. We strolled among the remaining ruins, playful as usual, on our way out.
After restocking at Walgreen’s, we began our trip north in earnest. Our first stop, along Route 89A barely out of Sedona, was Midgley Bridge. We sailed into the last open spot in the lot and headed on foot beneath the bridge, dodging tourist hordes as we tripped (just a little) down the stone steps. The view down Oak Creek Canyon was an exercise in piecing together the geology we had learned from the Sedona rocks book. In the canyon hundreds of feet below, teenagers swam and sunbathed on the smooth slabs lining Oak Creek.
Lacking enough time to hike Mount Wilson from the bridge (though putting it on the list for next time), we continued north on Route 89A. I had hoped to stop for a little excursion into Slide Rock State Park, but the crowds already packing in and the fact that it would have cost us $8.00 just for a half-hour or so turned us off. I’m still intrigued by the park’s namesake “slide rock,” and Rich has never explored this area in depth, either. Again, on the list for next time!
After Slide Rock, Route 89A again became a winding mountain road, tracing the rim of Oak Creek Canyon until we came to another overlook point that Rich knew: Oak Creek Vista. It featured, according to the sign at the pull-off, a Native American arts and crafts fair. This could be interesting! Small tables covered with pots, carvings, and beaded jewelry spanned the distance between the parking area and the overlook to the south. We showed interest in a palm-sized black pot with a fine-lined red hummingbird design. “You can pick it up … if you like … ” drawled the Navajo woman behind the table, sounding exactly (we both later agreed) like Marilyn Whirlwind from Northern Exposure. “I made it myself …”
At the overlook, we spotted two unexpected but very familiar items — two survey mark disks just a few feet apart! Only the third day of our trip, and we had already found more “surprise” marks than marks we had known about and planned for ahead of time. The canyon was cut deep by Oak Creek, now hundreds of feet below, and the sides of the canyon are heavily forested. The view extends all the way back to the red rock country near Sedona. Except for the outer lookout platform area, the rest of the overlook is shaded by ponderosa pine and dotted with picnic tables, giving it a feeling very much like any state park in a mountainous region, even perhaps in the East. It’s a vast change from the high desert environment just a few hundred feet below. This is another example of the different climate zones created by changes in elevation.
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…Looking N, away from the overlook and toward the wooded area. The survey mark disk is hard to spot due to the harsh lighting. |
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…View S; both 3002-10 and OAK (on corner of rock wall) visible. |
Back on Route 89A, we headed north to Flagstaff, then northwest on US Route 180 to Route 64, which would take us directly to the Canyon. The San Francisco Peaks were a beacon to us from many points, and we eventually stopped to take a photo capturing the snow on the very summit. “That’s what Winter should be,” Rich reminded me. “A place you can go to for the day, have your fun in the snow, and then come home to heat and sun.”
My anticipation was growing by the minute, as signs for Grand Canyon National Park became more numerous, and as the remaining mileage decreased. Red Butte, a high cymbal-shaped formation rose out of nowhere as we approached, and just kept getting bigger and bigger. It’s the most prominent feature in this part of the Coconino Plateau, and as we realized what it was, we had to laugh. We had considered taking “a little hike” to the top in search of a 105-year-old USGS triangulation station. And this was supposed to be a rest day! We drove right on past, Rich both smiling and smirking, an expression that said, “Not on your life … what were we thinking?!” On another trip, when we have more time, Red Butte will indeed be a priority destination. But it was a rest day for us, we were headed to the Grand Canyon with hopes of having at least some time to explore there before dinner and bed, and the hour was already late.
Just over an hour past Flagstaff, we entered the park via the South Entrance and immediately parked near one of the South Rim overlooks. What can I say about my first view of the Canyon that hasn’t been said before? It’s more immense than your wildest dreams would ever allow you to envision, but it’s also so much more intricate. The colors were dulled by the harsh afternoon light and a slight haze in the air, so I was able to focus on the shapes. Layers of temples, buttes, both smooth and jagged, forested and bare, stretched out before us for so many miles. There were pastel greens, blues, light red (light red, not pink), the muted colors of an underdyed easter egg or a child’s toy faded by sunlight and age. Closer to us were the red rock layers, sharply cut rust and crimson narrow strata beneath smoothly sloping areas polka-dotted with pine green; brilliant beiges and were beneath our feet at the overlooks and were echoed here and there down in the Canyon itself. The river is the least impressive feature of a view from this rim. It’s down there, and a peek from certain overlooks will afford you a glance at its smooth green ribbon, but from here it doesn’t seem alive.
…Zhanna’s first view of the canyon! |
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…Sitting and waiting for sunset. Notice the Plateau Point Trail (which we did not get to hike this time) in the background. |
Unfortunately, the atmosphere was hardly conducive to quiet contemplation. A late-Spring Saturday afternoon is not a good time to expect relaxation at the South Rim, unless your idea of kicking back involves indiscreet, preoccupied New Yorkers commenting loudly on everything but the natural wonder before them; skipping and screaming Midwestern kids freshly popped out of their minivan; and half of Tokyo. We could only hope that when we stepped below the rim on the following days, the cast of characters would change.
After our slow stroll along the rim, we worked our way through the crowds to spend some time at the new Visitor Center before heading to our room. We bought two more benchmark replicas to add to our collection: a PHANTOM pin and HOPI zipper-pull. And then we were on to Maswik Lodge and our small but clean room in building 6, practically at the far edge of the village. At least it would be peaceful here!
Having dinner at El Tovar at least once during our stay was a priority, and as soon as Rich and I cleaned up and headed back to the Rim, we tried our luck for that evening. Waiting in line, I was already feeling skeptical of the hostess. The severely chopped ash blonde hair and yellow-lensed eyeglasses gave her at once an intimidating and pompous appearance. She made friendly comments to those in line ahead of us, but we were greeted with a stony stare. “We are all booked for tonight,” she said sharply. “Tomorrow, too.” She turned to a man standing next to her and with a snotty sigh, ordered “Jeeves, show them to the Arizona Room, will you.” Perhaps she didn’t say “Jeeves,” but the attitude was certainly that of a haughty socialite raising an eyebrow to her butler, who wasn’t getting rid of the riffraff with proper expedience. Well! To the Arizona Room it would be, then, perhaps … after a walk on the rim. Blessed with intelligence the hostess obviously had not sensed, we located the Arizona Room all on our own. It looked good enough to try.
A cool wind was blowing and in it, some small flies that neither of us could identify. I needed my wind shell as we wandered along the rim. Japanese tourists were fewer as the day grew darker and cooler, allowing for a more peaceful exploration of some of the overlooks we had bypassed earlier. Without someone shoving into us by the second, we could at least imagine a sense of solitude among the swarms. Saturday is far from the best day to visit the South Rim.
For the unfamiliar, it is now forbidden to drive to many points along the South Rim between March 1 and November 30. You know, the only times of year anyone would really wants to visit the Canyon. This creates the unfortunate need for shuttle buses and the scheduling and human-logistical nightmares that they always entail. Park Service endeavors are usually well implemented, though, and without any other options we decided we’d give the bus a whirl and go to Hermit’s Rest for sunset. Perhaps there we would find some solitude.
It was 6:40pm. The sign at the bus stop said “Last bus to Hermit’s Rest for sunset: 7:15pm.” The sign on the bus, when it arrived a few minutes later, said “Hermit’s Rest.” The bus driver said, as soon as we alighted, “Anyone going to Hermit’s Rest? Well, you’re not,” as Rich raised his hand. Figure it out! We haven’t. Contrary to all published information, the buses apparently do not run the entire route until one hour after sunset.
The shuttle was loud and crammed and rickety, and it was a real relief to our ears and backs when we were dumped off at Hopi Point. We walked west until we reached an area far from the densest crowd, and then stretched out on the cool rock, our feet just hanging over the edge. I felt tingly from the height, especially when I looked to the distance, but safe leaning against Rich. Clouds came in to cover my first Grand Canyon sunset, and the reds and oranges were hardly more spectacular than I see at home. I didn’t get to see the shifting colors of the canyon in slanted light. But I have more than those who take their snapshot of the sunset, check it off the list and run on to the next obligatory vacation task. The most colorful memory of my experience was to be in Rich’s arms that evening, in relative quiet, beneath a small pine whose fallen needles poked into my hands as I propped myself up, our toes together just slightly dipping into the world of danger and adventure before and beneath us, where our feet would take us tomorrow.
There was a long wait at the Arizona Room by the time we returned for supper. With our square “beeper” (that reminded me of some kind of handheld electronic game from the 80s) we were free to roam outside — or at least onto the adjoining patio — until our table was ready. We each ordered a pint of Mirror Pond Pale Ale, took them outside, and sat close together in the darkness and wind, trying to keep warm. The ale helped.
Our meal began with a smoked chicken and bean quesadilla, topped with lime sour cream. Rich, in the mood for BEAST, ordered the strip steak. I couldn’t decide between the baby back ribs with prickly pear sauce and the chili-crusted salmon with melon salsa. Despite my attraction to cacti, I couldn’t resist the lure of the melon salsa and spicy fish, so I chose the salmon. Most likely to Rich’s surprise, I managed not to knock over my martini tonight.
Each day is more like a dream, a good dream, than the last.
“Are we horribly out of shape? What’s going on here?!”
In which the combination of sunshine, heat and altitude catches up with the mooses, who, soaked and panting, find themselves easily passed on their way to the Boynton Canyon Vortex by old, chubby folks out for a simple stroll.
After a wonderful night’s sleep at the Desert Quail, Rich and I hit the road relatively early. Our intention was to find the Oaxaca Restaurant and indulge in some breakfast before our big vortex hike. Since yesterday afternoon, we’d had our eye on the Eggs Oaxaca mentioned in the brochure. Who could turn down a shredded beef omelet with green chili sauce and cheese? I sure couldn’t, its questionable authenticity aside.
Unexpectedly Rich pulled off Route 179 into a small parking area just in front of one of the large red rock formations I’d noticed on our way into Oak Creek. Without requiring too much imagination, this formation takes the shape of a bell; good thing it’s the one called “Bell Rock.” Behind it (to the east) is the grand formation known as Courthouse Butte, with its columns and crevices. Too quick a glance at the map on the trailhead kiosk gave us the confidence to poke around on the trail encircling the rocks before breakfast. Why not? How far could it be? The hour was early, the air was still cool and the sun was low.
The cool air and shade lasted long enough for Rich to snap a few shots of me climbing around the base of Bell Rock and posing with the prickly pears. Once we were again out in the open, on the dusty rust-colored trail, I started to worry about having left the sunscreen in the car.
…Zhanna is ready for a "short hike" around Bell Rock. |
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…Zhanna finds a cool seat among the prickly pears. |
“We’re gonna sizzle like sausages,” Rich had said over and over again on our way into the Phoenix airport, with a grin each time. Well, we were sizzling like sausages. But this was such a lovely area, we couldn’t force ourselves to turn back! I was fascinated by the changing colors of the rocks, which appeared to shift by the minute as both we and the sun altered angles. Lizards skittered across the trail inches in front of my feet, pausing only long enough to make sure I’d noticed them, and then dipping back into the shade before I could take a photo. After just a few hours in their country I had fallen in love with cacti, and as we walked and chatted quietly I searched for any sign of their colorful blooms. Jackrabbits out for a morning munch caught our eye, but this one turned to leap away as soon as I got close enough to attempt a snapshot.
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…At least we can still see his ears and his white tail! |
…I loved the bright fuchsia flowers of this hedgehog cacticus. |
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The human animals were out early too, of course. A group of hikers passed us, and mentioned having hiked in the Grand Canyon the week before. Eventually, just as we had decided to try the entire loop around Courthouse Butte, a mountain biker came up the trail toward us. We both watched in envy, and Rich quickly asked how many miles were left. “You’re not even halfway!” the biker told us. He described an alternate route back to the parking area using the nearby Big Park Path, but being so unfamiliar with the area, we decided to simply retrace our steps. We have already vowed to rent mountain bikes next visit, and complete this loop as well as other trails in the area!
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…Rich looks very relaxed and at home here in the desert. |
Oaxaca Restaurant was our scene for breakfast (well, brunch) that day. After some confusion we finally located the restaurant right in the middle of the most touristy section of town. (We deftly avoided the Cowboy Club and the Pink Jeep Tours nearby, I’m sure much to the chagrin of Rachael Ray’s followers.) A glass of pineapple juice, drunk down in a flash, accompanied my Eggs Oaxaca, as planned. Rich enjoyed his spicy Huevos Rancheros, and helped me a little with my eggs. The place was comfortable and nearly deserted, service was fair, and the view was incomparable! Large arched picture windows gave us a nearly unadulterated view of some of the most inspiring formations, which glowed crimson in that particular lighting. While we ate, Rich even spotted a Pink Jeep bouncing its way along among the boulders.
While we ate, Rich also mentioned that we should be able to buy a Red Rock Pass (required for parking at Red Rock Wilderness areas) at the Forest Service visitor center across the street. And so began our expedition into Boynton Canyon!
The hike to the Boynton Canyon Vortex was hike #1 in our “50 Hikes in Arizona” volume, and though we had no intention of knocking them off the list one at at time, it seemed a fitting first trek for this vacation. Described as a well-maintained path with some shade, only five miles round trip, and culminating in a steep rock scramble and spectacular views back over the canyon from the vortex point, we knew this trail would be enchanting, if rather easy.
Perhaps we should have scaled back the hubris. While the trail and canyon were indeed magically beautiful, we were suffering by mile two. Adding insult to our injuries (well, our cramps and lead-legs and pounding hearts) were the elderly hikers, out for a simple morning stroll, fully decked out in long pants and long sleeves, carrying perhaps one 12-oz bottle of water for every pair. They lapped us. They were not the only ones. Chubby girls with, again, barely a bottle of water between them, chatting as they practically skipped along. Men in jeans and denim jackets (I nearly fainted just looking at them) passed by with heads dry.
Putting aside our lack of conditioning, both Rich and I were fascinated by the hike. I love the slow pace we’ve begun to take on most of our hikes, even when we’re not frying in the sun. We love to wonder—and eventually learn—about the geology of each new area we visit, and Sedona was paradise for us in this respect, too. We stopped often to comment on the spires, the columns, and the sheer vertical sculpted layers of red sandstone frosted with pale grey limestone guarding the path. Though the shade didn’t often occur when and where we needed it, we enjoyed each break from the sun as much as we enjoyed the sunshine itself. I even had a chance to scribble a bit in my notebook, squatting under a pine, while Rich took a bathroom break. Salmon, tangerine, rust … the colors of sunset, baked into stone, surrounded us at noontime.
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…There must be a vortex around here somewhere! |
…Zhanna is in awe of the crimson cliffs. |
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To our disappointment, though we felt a serious lack of energy and hydration, despite the liters of water and Gatorade we’d gulped down, before we reached the rock scramble. We sat on one of two level boulders in a darkened grove along a forested stretch of the trail. We rested. And we sat and sighed and sweated and drank some more, and watched the desert dwellers wander on by with ease. Neither of us willing to suffer heat-related illnesses as we had in the past, we decided we’d had enough of a warm up for our first day and, with great reluctance, turned back. Five days’ puking didn’t sound like fun to me, and having Rich’s knees ruined our first day out was also a unwelcome outcome.
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…Rich pauses along the trail to take in all the colorful beauty. |
Our return along the open, sandy section didn’t seem as scorching as on our first pass. As before, we skirted the “Enchantment Resort” and noted its outbuildings’ meager attempt to blend in with the redness and asymmetry of the surrounding rock. We also noticed that we were “on camera” and had better not try any funny stuff, such as attempting to scale the barbed wire and sneak onto the resort. Don’t worry, I’d much rather be on the trail.
The day was still young, so we took a quick drive to see the Chapel of the Holy Cross, a fifty year old, 200 foot tall structure set right in between two massive red rock formations. It gives the impression of having grown right out of the rocks. Designed by a student of Frank Lloyd Wright, I’m sure the interior is unique and interesting as well. The place looked like an anthill crawling with visitors when we arrived, though, so we only viewed the church from the outside. How fortunate, also, that I spotted a survey disk in a small clearing below the chapel! Rich pulled onto the shoulder and waited in the car while I examined the mark and took some photos. This lowly survey disk surely has some of the best imaginable surroundings!
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…This must be one of the most scenic benchmark locations I’ve seen! These rock formations are just begging to be explored, if only with my eyes. |
For supper we had planned on El Rincon, the only establishment in the neat arts and crafts village of Tlaquepaque that remains open past 5:00pm. Though we had only a two-minute wait to be seated, the place was bustling within the half-hour. We sat outside on the patio with an umbrella spread wide over us. The scene had the pleasant atmosphere of a neighborhood barbeque, with plenty of eavesdroppable conversation to pique the curiosity, but which was easy enough to tune in and out at will. There was a young professional boasting about his clients to an older man and a young mother, who was nodding while clearly distracted by her fussing little girl. There was a transvestite in Lycra and silver, with manly hands, commenting once in a while to the made-up, bored-looking blonde next to her. They left their doggie-bag on the table. Our food was traditional Mexican-style, and delicious. I love the crunch of fried corn tortillas, so chicken flautas and beef and bean tostadas are some of my favorites. Rich ordered a beef burrito, and found a combination of some of our favorite ingredients in a shrimp and green chili enchilada, which we shared. I experienced that familiar warmth in my belly from the food, beer, and our conversation. I couldn’t possibly be in a better place, at a better time, with a better partner.
Though Tlaquepaque was shut down for the night, nevertheless we wandered along its stone balconies and courtyards, past the wire burro, beneath the giant sycamores (“your sycamores,” Rich would say to me every time we saw them in future days). We then retired to our moose-cave-away-from-home and after some quiet time together reading over maps and guidebooks, turned off the lights.
Next visit, for sure, we will rent mountain bikes and ride the entire loop around Bell Rock and Courthouse Butte! It’s all Rich has talked about. I’m certain that we had trouble in Boynton Canyon only because, at the time, I lacked a Vortex Hat (which shall be defined later). With that deficiency now accounted for, we will return and will reach the ever-sacred vortex next time. But though we had to leave our goals unreached, I have no sense of failure. I never considered it. Every outing with Rich is a success, a learning experience that satisfies to some degree while inspiring me to see and learn more. My senses are constantly challenged and indulged. He sees beauty and interest, as I do, in the details of the intimate and the vast. He can sit in one place for hours and just look.
“Oh, I thought that was a real lizard!!!”
In which the mooses arrive in their sunshine paradise, take the long way to Sedona, gawk at the “famous” Haunted Hamburger in Jerome, and eat rattlesnake.
“Did you get any sleep? Or were you too excited?!” were Rich’s first words to me, via e-mail, this morning. Of course I was excited as a little brat on Christmas morning. I hadn’t traveled farther than Montreal in thirteen years, and it was time to get the hell out of the East for once. I’ve been dying to see the southwest since I started reading Tony Hillerman’s novels in the late ’80s. I needed sunshine and dry air, badly. And I needed to experience this with Rich.
After all the past week’s fuss and worry, our excitement in the airport security line was limited to Rich and I both thinking at the same time “hey, the guy in front of us looks just like Maurice Minnifield [from Northern Exposure]!”. We took off our shoes and were herded through the metal detector. No bells or whistles. No flashing lights. No one felt the need to strip search either of us, and apparently they found nothing sinister about our GPSr, camera gear, or benchmark datasheets.
Both flights went well, too, and both were early. Our flight attendant Paula was not a bitch as we had first guessed, but was actually rather entertaining and seemed to respect the intelligence of the passengers. We had an unremarkable lunch at the Nathan’s concession at Atlanta (chicken fingers: decent; fries: flaccid). Our airline snack-packs (featuring Pasteurized Process Cheese Spread, Havarti-type Flavor) were far superior. Adventure in the skies was not what we were aiming for, so again, we were pleased that the flights were uneventful save the repeated crashing of the — how dare I say it — Linux-based entertainment system.
Our bags must have been the last to fall onto the carousel at Phoenix. At least they arrived, in one piece and were still sealed. My first step outside into sunshine and 104° was heavenly … and … palm trees! Somehow I don’t think they’re a native species, but they sure were pretty.
After a small hoodwink at the rental car counter, we chose our Nissan Altima and drove off. The fly on the windshield would tell you there was a little more to it than that. Yes, we two computer-geek-engineer-types needed about ten minutes to figure out how to work the trunk, the parking brake, and the push-button ignition. And we still never figured out a good system for dealing with that damned proximity key!
I-17 out of Phoenix was an indoctrination by fire: six lanes of heavy, close-following 75mph traffic, unfamiliar exits, and typical ignorant driving shenanigans. At least Rich was driving. All I wanted to do was look at the scenery! North of the city, though, it all calmed down. I was able to watch as the mighty saguaro stands began to blend in with more lowly vegetation as we continued north, and then were absent altogether. We began climbing via several winding, soaring passes, the road now two lanes each way and the tractor-trailers, for the most part, staying to the right. We left I-17 at Cordes Junction and followed AZ 69 to the Prescott Safeway, where we filled the car with supplies; namely, what we thought were many, many liters of water and Gatorade.
I couldn’t wait to see Mingus Mountain. The charm of the name aside, Rich had promised an awesome winding, switchbacking narrow mountain road with stellar scenery in all directions. All we had to do was locate AZ 89A, which has now apparently been rerouted at its junction with AZ 89 just north of Prescott. Rich panicked when he saw the newly paved, widened road that stretched on as far as we could see. “What happened to the road? I can’t believe this,” he kept muttering. After several miles, the new route joined the old, and all was well. From the level expanse of the Prescott Valley the road climbs over the forested mountain, surprises at every curve. Near the summit, a brief search for a missing benchmark yielded nothing but an opportunity to stretch our legs. But the real treasures were still ahead. Rounding more curves, at innumerable overlooks (of which very few, unfortunately, had room for parking) views of the Verde Valley, the famous red sandstone rocks, and the San Francisco Peaks spread before us. It felt like we’d nearly descended the entire mountain by the time we found an overlook with parking. But several surprises awaited us here: we could see not only the green valley, red rocks in the distance, and gray mine tailings on the hillside, but also a plump lizard ready to welcome me to the desert, propped up on the wall, looking at us!
Or, he would have been looking at us, had he real eyes instead of painted rubber ones. Well, it was a good gag, and both Rich and I fell for it. And the lizard, of course, featured prominently in our photos at that overlook.
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…The lizard seems friendly enough. |
…While looking out over the valley, Rich daydreams of the wonders to come! |
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…Zhanna is thrilled to be here! The sunshine, blue skies and gorgeous views are the best I’ve ever experienced. |
The lizard set the stage for the comedy that was to follow in Jerome. Nothing particularly hilarious happened here; I just found the town itself to be bizarre, creepy and intriguing — but I wouldn’t want to explore it myself at night, or even late in the afternoon when long shadows fall on those streets. The town is built right into the side of the mountain, streets basically atop one another in levels. There’s a colorful new-artsy feeling to the town that barely overrides the ghostly whisperings of its former life as a rough-and-tumble copper mining town. We both remarked simultaneously that it reminded us of Jim Thorpe, PA, but creepier.
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…Following in the footsteps of Rachael Ray? God, I hope not. Notice the beautiful scenery in the background. We’re headed that way! |
One easy benchmark awaited us just off 89A (which is barely a lane as it passes through Jerome) and directly across from the Haunted Hamburger. A Jerome fixture brought to light by our favorite Food Network host and yours, Rachael Ray, the Haunted Hamburger supposedly serves great hamburgers. I only had my photo taken in front of the sign, so I can’t vouch for the food. I could easily believe, though, that it’s haunted!
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…The disk is set in top of the third step from ground level. The steps are located between the Puffin Stuff Pipe Shop/Adult Boutique and the Flywheel Gallery/Salon. Jerome Tattoo is right next door, so you could make a really exciting afternoon out of it! |
I had prepared some additional Jerome benchmark-hunting data, but we decided to pass them by in favor of exploring Tuzigoot National Monument, a Sinaguan pueblo ruin near Clarkdale, further along Route 89A toward Sedona. But we were too late! The monument had closed for the day about thirty minutes before. I was disappointed, but it was certainly possible that the wind might blow us that way another day, at an earlier hour.
The drive into Sedona was more shockingly beautiful than I had ever expected, even given the many rave reviews I’d heard from Rich over the years. And forget television, that did nothing to prepare me. All around us rose monoliths, spires, buttes, cathedrals of the famous red sandstone, mixing with pastel desert green and beneath a solid sheet of blue.
All this natural beauty certainly needs something weird to balance it out, or it would be too perfect. It’s no surprise that Sedona has far more than its share of palm- and aura-reading specialists, psychic healers on every corner, and new age centers offering vortex tours. We were set to take our own vortex tour the very next day, so I wasn’t concerned about bypassing these charlatans.
We made our way through the dusty construction area on Route 179 and eventually found the Desert Quail. It’s just a motel, but very clean and pleasant and even charming (as evidenced by the Gambel’s Quail family motif on the exterior wall near the lobby). Our hunger overrode our strong desire to lie down at that instant and take a nap. I don’t remember which one of us had to drag the other off the bed, but it was for the best.
The receptionist had recommended Maria’s. “Authentic?” we’d asked. “Oh, yes,” she assured us, “home-made, Grandma’s cooking, make-you-sick authentic Mexican.” She kind of indicated, and I kind of showed that I understood, that the part about making us sick was a joke. It was right up the road, which was another selling point as it was already well past 6:00pm and we’d traveled enough for one day.
An hour or so later after tossing our bags on the spare bed and taking a quick look through the maps and local menu offerings (we can never resist), we sank into a booth at Maria’s. Inside this dark, warm, cozy, homey Mexican restaurant nearly adjacent to the Desert Quail I felt immediately at home, and suddenly even hungrier than I’d thought. I barely noticed the coming and going of several other patrons while we ate and talked. The meal was a combination of old favorites, new tastes, beer in abundance, Rich’s warm and wide and affectionate smile, conversation on many levels — all the things I’ve come to expect from our relationship and all the adventures we share together. The pitcher of Dos Equis (plenty of limes) and the requisite chips and salsa came out first, followed by our rattlesnake appetizer. (I had to try it!) The meat was cut into strips and was perfectly seasoned, just slightly salty and spicy, and accompanied by a sour cream dressing. Rich’s carne asada burrito and my shredded beef taco and cheese enchilada (all tender and again, perfectly seasoned), and more beer, took us through the next hour or so, until we finally realized that the place was closing for the night and that it was past our bedtime, regardless.
I remember stretching out that night in bed and relishing the delicious feeling of ten days of freedom ahead of us, countless miles of highways and back roads, and something to look forward to at every stop. Sleep was deep and fulfilling. And comfortable though we were, rising early the next morning was easy. The sun was shining brightly long before 6:00am, and there was so much to see and touch and discover that I didn’t know where to start, but knew we should start soon.
For the first time all year, this weekend decent weather and days off coincided. Rich and I decided to take full advantage of this extraordinary event by spending most of Friday and Saturday outdoors. Today, Saturday, had already been chosen for a local ride, to be followed by a simple lunch and then my mother’s choral concert in the evening. Having heard that a significant length (up to ten miles) of the nearby D & H Rail-Trail had been improved for walking and riding, we decided it was worth exploring.
We parked near the tank in Simpson and began pedaling northeast along the O & W Rail-Trail. After a bit more than a mile, we hopped down to the D & H via a very short connector trail and continued heading north, passing fishermen and the occasional fellow biker, as well as old stone abutments and other evidence of the long-departed railroad. We passed the site of the old Forest City Railroad Station, now commemorated by a brightly painted sign, and traveled another mile or so of pretty but unremarkable trail before Rich wanted to stop for a short break. I continued on ahead, and when he caught up to me I started to tell him about the gaging station I could see across the river. He stopped me and said “Didn’t you notice the benchmark on the bridge?!” Obviously, I hadn’t. We continued on to Union Dale, then turned around and stopped to document the benchmark on our return trip.
The disk is in good condition, on the northwest end of the north abutment as described. Some yellow paint still clings to the concrete around the mark, making it easily visible. I had very little trouble reaching the mark, simply by climbing through the bridge railing and right out onto the top of the abutment. From here I could also see two numbers on the bridge, at least one of which matches the bridge number given in the benchmark description, as we discovered later.
The remainder of our day was spent trying the Bison and Triple Prime Burgers at Ruby Tuesday’s, napping, and listening to Beethoven’s 9th Symphony (while envisioning mooses playing hide-and-seek). Summer is nearly upon us, and it feels great!
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…The old numbers, which can be seen behind the white painted numbers, indicate that this was Bridge 30. |
