Climb Every Mountain

I prefer not to climb mountains. But when I have a van that can climb the hill for me I’m as ready as the next man to seek the summit. 

I had a day to myself as Layne and Kathy were off to Sedona for the day. I had Rusty and GANNET2 and an open agenda; and around here there are more destinations than I can count. Mount Mingus beckoned. 

The mountain rises out of the desert floor and separates the cities of Cottonwood and Clarkdale from the larger agglomeration of Prescott. The road is unnaturally smooth as there is very little heavy truck traffic but it winds up in a series of tight bends and guardrails that put fear and dread into some drivers. 

Fortunately there are lots of pull outs and scenic overlooks which gives the driver of a tank lots of opportunities to let faster traffic (ie: everyone else) get ahead. I played hopscotch with three Audi drivers, one with German tag, as they pulled over to be car nerds no doubt and then I pulled over to let them by. They waved their thanks as opposed to the common-or-garden white knuckled weekend warriors playing tourist but I was glad to crawl at my own speed and enjoy the views. And Rusty didn’t get car sick, I think. 

Jerome was bulging with parked cars and sidewalks were overflowing with people doing the Duval walk, slow stepping, peering at everything in an effort to miss no detail of their Saturday off. 

We’re going to spend a day in Jerome later so I felt no need to stop and I stuck to my place in the slow moving line of cars. Clarkdale is 15 minutes below the town and Mingus Mountain recreation area is 20 minutes above Jerome so this area is tourist heaven. I liked it. 

The mountain is part of Prescott National Forest so fees are low, a five dollar day use charge on the honor system and facilities are limited. A few toilets, a trash dumpster and that’s it. 

In return you get camping fishing hiking and… hang gliding? 

There is a special permit area at the end of the gravel road which tops out at 7800 feet. Hang gliders get their own camp ground and a chance to commit spectacular suicide off the mountain face. 

I noticed the sign said this is an “intermediate” hang gliding spot. Speaking as someone who never got bigger than twenty feet off the ground in a hang glider I don’t think this is the sport for me. 

Or for Rusty. He had too much sense to go anywhere near the edge. 

The absence of hang gliders meant traffic was light at the turn around as cars came, disgorged a few people who mooched around and took in the view and then left. I mooched par excellence with my home at my disposal. Tea, snacks, Cliq chair and Kindle.

And trails to wander.

I could have gone a good deal further when Rusty decided to turn around and had Layne been with us he would have doubtless continued but when he’s with me alone his interest in long walks fades rapidly. I have no idea why. 

I am nothing if not adaptable so I settled in with his Laziness to enjoy some tea and quiet.

I was continuing to demolish Camus’ The Plague in the silence and the cool high altitude 73 degrees when it suddenly occurred to me it was time to take a nap. 

I was awoken to a low murmur of voices and the sound of Rusty snoring. A perfect summer afternoon. Until it rained. Rusty didn’t like being woken up by the sound of rattling rain which I rather enjoyed. He’s like most people inasmuch as the evidence that we were not going to be destroyed by the banging sound of raindrops was in front of his eyes but the noise of the rain still made him apprehensive despite my best reassurance. Fear predominates over actual experience.  

Then I went to open the toilet to dispose of my used tea and the slider handle came away at my tug. Oh dear, I said mildly. I used pliers to get it open and then my initative to replace the broken handle. I call this a cruising bodge: 

The high altitude pressure caused a vacuum to form inside the toilet and I guess it was time for the handle to register its displeasure that I forget to vent it.  A new toilet is on its way to Kathy’s delaying our departure for the Grand Canyon by a couple of days. Had this happened in Chiapas we’d have had to live with the bodge for a couple of months! 

I knew it was getting to be time to go home. So I stopped half way out at the lake. Also not Rusty’s favorite spot, weird dog, but I liked the look of it. 

I met an elderly and severely deaf fisherman who grumbled about the fishing -don’t they all?-and then admitted he had caught “a few.” We were standing there shouting at each other and it was a strangely companionable moment by the water. 

I think it was dinner time for a gang of vultures  having a committee meeting on the shore. Rusty was having none of this and backed away. 

I snagged my goal who sat patiently in the tree while I organized myself my dog and my camera to get the picture.  

Apparently they had found some rather toothsome Chinese food in Sedona and my presence at the dinner table was urgently requested and required. 

Fly away home little retiree. Fly away home. 

I love retirement. 

Parks And Rec

If you enjoy the outdoors the fearsomely named Dead Horse Ranch State Park can accommodate you.  I spent a morning there by myself as Layne was suffering a fever attack after her Covid booster shot (most unfairly I was fine) and Rusty was pleased to take advantage of expansive air conditioning instead of joining me on a photographic outing on a hot summer’s day. Smart dog. The park is on the Green River, and every outdoor thing around here has “Verde” in its name.

The state is connecting the parks and open spaces with a cross state trail through the Verde Valley which I first saw north of Benson as we took off to Cascabel. Here in Clarkdale the river is the source of outdoor recreation and trees and in Dead Horse State Park there are some big cottonwoods. 

Apparently a Minnesota family came to the area and wanted to buy a ranch. After they checked out a few they settled on the one with “the dead horse” on it. When they gave the ranch to the state the Ireys family insisted the state stick with the name they gave their gift. Don’t be fooled, it’s a great park. You ride a bicycle, take your dog on the trails with you, ride horses…

…or mountain bikes on the trails. There’s fishing in the pond and a kids playground and RV and tent campsites as well as day use areas and a free RV dump station at the entrance, on your way out. I walked the river a little to check out the cottonwoods and the water which looked abundant in this desert.

Then I looked for the Lime Kiln Trail, which did not make itself immediately apparent. Shades of Mexico I thought to myself remembering the totally lack of signage which is the preferred style of Mexican enterprise.  I located a sign “to” the trail and blundered through the creosote and sage bushes on a subsidiary trail. Finally I found the correct intersection.

I stayed home with Layne until she was settled and able to ride out the side effects of the booster so by the time I was on this trail it was about 10:30 and the morning was heating up.

It’s started raining around here these past couple of days, an annual event over dramatized by Arizonans as “monsoon season.” I’ve seen monsoon rains in India where the term originated and I’m sure it will rain jus5 as hard here. Much like it has recently in the Keys. But it’s not rainy season - it’s (drum roll) monsoon season. The real monsoon comes on a wind from the Indian Ocean but around here the rain comes over the mountains with much clatter, dumps and disappears. 

The net result of all this meteorological drama is much cooler temperatures and Gannet2 was showing 81 degrees on arrival at the park. It got hotter and I was sweating as I climbed the switchback trails. 

Layne has found a new water bottle in her Amazon travels which keeps water cold for a long time but which, rather brilliantly you can drink from without upending the bottle. I get nagged about drinking more water so she got an iron flask for me and I am going to be good about drinking more water even when I’m not baking on a shade-free Arizona trail. Apparently thirst isn’t as apparent as you get older so you are supposed to drink more even if you don’t feel like it.  This getting old thing is getting to be a real bore.

I met the creator of the bicycle track when I heard a clanking noise coming down the trail.  He reminded me of me thirty years ago all bearded and standing on the pedals of his very modern bike. We exchanged greetings and he was gone.  I almost had time to catch a blurry picture of his front wheel. Other than that cheery meet and greet I was alone. I hope Rusty missed me as much as I did him.

At some point about an hour in it became apparent the scenery wasn’t going to change, the lime kilns were not making themselves known to come and there wasn’t going to be any shade. Later I figured out I turned around just before the Jumper Trail, an odd name for a path skirting many canyons and their abysses, but I was ready for lunch back at Gannet2.

I came back to the correct trail head in a parking lot around the corner from where I’d left my life support system and I got to study the trail map a bit. The entrance to Lime Kiln Trail is at the fishing pond at the head of the park in case you ever find yourself here, and you really should because it’s lovely. 

I had oatmeal (cooked) and forgot the life giving chia seeds so I’m glad Layne wasn’t there to witness my failure.  Part B of the day involved a visit to some ruins just around the corner and through the town of Cottonwood.

Tuzigoot National Monument reminded me a bit of the pyramid at Tzin Tzun Tzan at Lake Pátzcuaro in Mexico even though this Pueblo is much smaller, apparently accommodating about 225 people at its height in the 12th century.

For ten dollars you get to walk the ruins at your leisure after you check out the pottery and the historic photos of the original dig in the 1930s.  

The park people use current Hopi thinking here to try to unravel the past, identifying art and customs possibly through Hopi eyes in this place.  The Texas state parks did the same at their Pueblo ruins we visited last year. 

Apparently the residents of this place traded along the Verde Valley and used rocks for coins. Oddly enough they mined different colored stones here and traded them.  Of course when the United States showed up mining was on everyone’s mind.  So being a miner has been the way of life here for a very long time.

You are allowed to climb the tower and walk the roof even though it’s important not to touch the walls as they are delicate. Early archeologists used cement to build the ruins back but modern thought is to use the same materials as the original builders so mud mortar takes maintenance and is much more delicate than might appear.

I enjoyed my time here.

I got home and Layne was still feeling like crap.

Rusty was glad to see me then curled up in the cold.

I quite like central Arizona.