My winter wanderings

[USExplorer]

http://www.rawstory.com/2015/05/qua...-bubbles-into-womans-blood-to-kill-pathogens/
http://kdminer.com/Main.asp?SectionID=1&SubSectionID=1&ArticleID=65780

The folks I'm staying with provided refuge to their beloved doctor friend Cody Stoneking last winter while cops issued a warrant for his arrest on a murder charge. They took him at his word and allowed him to move in with them, and thus were shocked and surprised when a SWAT team raided their home. Remarkably, they still view him as a good guy, and the filed charges as a simple misunderstanding or persecution by mainstream medicine.

How the story goes: "Doctors" advertised injection treatment to kill pathogens in blood. Patient paid and was brought to an apartment in Las Vegas for treatment. After second treatment, a patient died, ruled a homicide. "Doctors" pack up and hide in a motel room in Phoenix. Detectives track them down and detain them. They deny wrongdoing and are released. The "doctor" heads for the hills of Arizona. Independent witness comes forward, substantiating allegations by victim's family. Police issue arrest warrant, tipped off on location. House raided and suspect arrested.

I am now an employee of Vail Resorts, concessionaire in the Grand Tetons. Work starts on May 11th.

 

[Silver]

I am now an employee of Vail Resorts, concessionaire in the Grand Tetons. Work starts on May 11th.

Congrats ! May 11 th til ?

concessionaire work , selling food ?
  Where will U sleep ?

Glad you're OK.  Were you shaken up ?

 

[WriterMs]

Well, you are sure getting some insights into the various "real" cultures of America.

What are the seeds you are planting now? Must be for restoration work?

Silver -- in national parks or public campgrounds, a concessionaire is the company that runs services offered to the public like lodging, food, keeping campgrounds clean, etc.

 

[USExplorer]

I'll be working in the Colter Bay Village cabins, on the shores of Jackson Lake, as a "public areas attendant". 6800 feet elevation, should be cool in summer. Room and board is provided by my employer, 300 a month taken out of the paycheck. The position closes on October 5th. 

The seed planting was almost an afterthought. The main project the past two days has been cleaning up the graywater leach field. When I arrived, the graywater simply poured out of a pipe and collected in a foul muddy slough right beside the house. Now, it runs into a small rock-filled basin, with an overflow pipe leading to a second rock-filled basin near a small wash. The lower two-thirds of the second basin is filled with alluvial sand to filter the sludge out of the graywater as it makes its way down into the wash. The plan is to grow plants around the basins and in the "pond". The other graywater slough is more challenging,as there is no slope nearby. We will probably dig out of the slough, fill it with large rocks, and cover it with plastic and dirt.

Days are warm here, with very strong sun and a good breeze. As soon as the sun disappears, the temperature tanks, often approaching freezing in the morning. I wake up late and wait until the sun rises over the Cerbat Mountains to start work. 

1503: Looking across the Colorado river valley into California from my campsite. US-95 comes through Lobeck Pass down into the valley, to meet the blur of headlights moving down I-40 along the valley. The interstate is five miles away. 
1506: Lush Indian farmland in Fort Mohave I.R. contrasts with the dry desert valley and mountains beyond. Oatman is somewhere up there.
1507: Chloride, Arizona has retained its fragile hold on this dusty desert valley for nearly 150 years. 
1508: The Cerbat Mountains form Chloride's backdrop. A low ridge in the foreground obscures the town, but the C on the hill behind the town betrays its existence. The mountains are roaded, with several campgrounds on top.

 

[USExplorer]

I left Chloride this morning, drove back down US-93 past Santa Claus into the fringes of Golden Valley, then headed up and over the Coyote Pass into downtown Kingman. At the Route 66 visitor's center (elevation 3333.33 feet), I picked up a Nevada state highway map as well as maps of the Kingman area. Warm gusty winds blew sand across roads as I made my way to the White Cliffs Wagon Trail just outside of town. A tall cliff honeycombed with small holes guarded the entrance to the canyon traversed by the wagon trail. In a couple of parts, the repeated passing of heavy ore wagons wore two parallel grooves in the smooth rock surface, grooves that persist almost a hundred years later. I walk up the wash until the canyon walls turn to bouldery slopes, then climb up top. The wind is ferocious on the flat top. My SUV is parked almost at the base of the cliff, along with another hiker with a metal detector. Interstate 40 cuts through the rough canyons, making its way east. One canyon chops the town of Kingman into two pieces. The Hualapai Mountains in the distance are speckled with snow. To the north, a butte-studded plain rises into the Golden Valley plateau. 

Following my GPS, I turn onto an extremely rough, unwashed track paralleling I-40 between the two parts of Kingman. The name of the road is listed as Country Club Drive. Sure enough, after half a mile, the road abruptly turns to smooth pavement and high-end housing development. A sign on the other direction states "Road is Not Maintained". I make my way to the library to take shelter from the wind. The weather forecast predicts rain Sunday evening, turning to snow. By that time, I will be at a lower elevation, avoiding the snow. 

1510: Chillin' chickens. 
1512: Roy Purcell's murals, on a cliff a mile outside Chloride.
1513: US-93, heading south from Chloride. Hualapai Mtns in background, nearly 30 miles away.
1514: Rugged canyon country separating Kingman into two pieces, bridged by I-40 in this section.
1516: The white cliffs.

 

[USExplorer]

1517: One of the holes. They do not go anywhere. 
1518: Hundred plus year old wagon ruts in solid rock. 
1520: The passably flat top of the cliff. 
1521: Kingman from the top.
1522: The Hualapai Mountain range, from 12 miles away.

 

[USExplorer]

I leave the Kingman library and walk the bike trails beside the interstate highway. A deep concrete wash parallels the path behind a high chainlink fence. At one spot, the dirt under the fence is eroded away. I look both ways, slither under and drop into the wash. Trash scuttles down the empty trough. A small side pipe leads toward a school. As I walk past, I hear coughing echoing from the pipe. I dispatch a greeting and continue on. A branch of the wash travels through three long tunnels under the interstate highway embankment. One of the side tunnels is blocked by a tent flapping furiously in the draft. I set off down the middle one, the ceiling being exactly six foot high. Underfoot is more concrete and some gravel. The walls are covered in graffiti, though much of it is painted off. On the other side, there are no fences, and the wash provides easy access to the local library and Walmart. A big dirt field shows evidence of donuts. I stop at the Walmart to buy popcorn shrimp and wait in line for a long time to pay for it. 

Back down the tunnel, I take the wash down to Stockton Hill Road, where it turns into a large pipe covered in a steel grate. A cold breeze blows out of the pipe, and it is dark inside. However, the grate is hinged at the top, and I shove it forward a few inches and slip behind it. Wannabe gang graffiti dots the inside of the corrugated pipe. After a few turns, I am under the roadbed, and a dim circle of light from an overhead manhole flashes on and off as cars bump across it. No light from either forward or back. This is why I carry two flashlights everywhere I go. After a few hundred yards, I turn around and welcome back the sun and warmth. 

A sign advertises a free piano concert by Sam Rotman at the Kingman Presbyterian Church. Refreshments served. I park nearby and set out walking, but notice a guy holding several shopping bags struggling against the wind on a kid's bicycle. Jack is wearing a shirt advertising a beer company. By his appearance, life has treated him roughly; his car has been impounded, and he lives in a motel. At first I mistook him for being drunk, but his words were slurred due to a severe lack of teeth. He gladly accepted my offer, and I drove him to his motel on Old Route 66. Along the way, I tried to convince him to stop wasting 750 dollars a month on lodging, but he was tired of living on the street, and had a good job making a couple grand a month. He insisted on paying me back for the cost of the gas, but I told him to pay it forward when he gets the chance. 

I go back to the concert just in time. The audience is small, mostly retired people, but a few younger folks as well. Mr Rotman plays a selection of Rachmaninoff and Debussey. He is a clearly talented player, but I do not relate to the pieces he is playing. After the concert, I help to set up chairs and tables for the potluck dinner the next day, then walk out into the warm night.

I wake up the next morning in the K-mart next to the truck stop. The temperature is still in the 50s. I cook up some instant oatmeal in my driver's seat, then head up Hualapai Mountain Road in the early morning sun. Halfway to the mountains, I turn around and drive back to the same Presbyterian Church. After the service, some of the members strongly encouraged me to join them for a potluck birthday celebration lunch. Conversation was desultory, and I made as if to leave. They immediately noticed, and told me to continue waiting. We waited as every table except ours was called foward to the food service area. Finally, we stepped into the last of the line and filled our plates. I ate, he ate, she ate, they ate, we ate, I left.

I dropped off my waste oil at Walmart and hit I-40 out of town. Great clouds of dust marched across the plains as the crosswinds buffeted my Explorer. The snow-flecked Hualapai Mountains slowly receded into the distance as I turned south on Route 93, soon to be I-11. The road descended, and the desert turned green. Saguaro and creosote bushes reappeared. Wikieup gas stations charged $2.99/gallon of gas. Fortunately, my tank was full. I turned down Signal Road, a dirt road in good condition that worked its way down into the Big Sandy River, a trickle this time of year. I forded the river and found Big Sandy Ranch. The gate was locked. I turned back to the river and started reading a book. 20 minutes later, my farm host Rafael pulls up behind me, greets me, and leads me onto the property. Rafael is a young Hispanic guy from D.C. who owns this 640 acre ranch with a few business partners. Structures include a wood cabin, a greenhouse, and a couple travel trailers and sheds. I try one of Rafael's homebrewed beers, and find it very hoppy.

A storm threatens, and we hastily unload Rafael's pickup truck, then start a campfire in the back yard. Inside, Rafael sweeps up numerous mouse turds, left after only two days of abandonment. I shoot Rafael's 10-22 snake gun, his only working firearm. We talk guns, I recommend a Winchester lever action .30-30 for brush hunting and defense. I eat pizza and lettuce leaves for dinner. Hail pelts the ground briefly, transitioning to rain, which soon stops. Arizona weather is bipolar, Rafael mentions. He shows me a malfunctioning Remington 1100 shotgun. I find that the loading port is getting snagged in its travel, and show how it can be operated.

Internet access here is by satellite. 

1523: Interstate tunnels, home to one. The tent is the exact same make and model as mine, right down to the color pattern.
1525: Path to the heart of darkness. 
1530: Trapped, almost.
1531: A Hualapai Mountain Road vista. Why did I turn around again?
1532: Kingman sprawl, and the far less interesting mountains to the northeast.

 

[Tele]

I am fortunate to be travelling with you - your narrative skill 'makes it so'. Magic. This post above, specifically the initial paragraphs about the drains and the sub-culture (bad pun.com) prods me to de-lurk and applaud.
In 20+ years on the web I find it to be the best bit of travelogue I have read. Its elegantly expressed, quirky, transportative, gritty, original. Its easily the level you'd see in the old Nat Geo magazine articles... all thats missing is the glossy Steve McCurry style photospread.
Tops.

 

[USExplorer]

Thanks a lot for your support, Tele. Unfortunately I was tired when I wrote my last post, so the sentences are a little on the simple side. 

It rains all night. The next morning, we wake up early and set out to pick up a waterjet stinger. The non-profit loaning us the machine is based in the high desert plain town of Safford Arizona, 300 miles away. The river has not risen much, but the dirt road is extremely muddy, and the truck tires slip and slide. We turn south along the Joshua Forest Parkway, passing through groves of the strange trees. For a moment, they remind me of the scrubby pines of the North Carolina Sandhill region, but they are not pines, and the ground is more rock than sand, and there is too much bare space, and there are mountains in the background. 

Eventually, we reach Wickenberg, a plain town set among small hills. The sky is cloudy, and it is drizzling. After a brief stop, we continue on and turn onto the Carefree Highway, immortalized in a song by Gordon Lightfoot. Hundreds of mature saguaro cacti dot the desert plains. Then, the Phoenix sprawl begins. I-17 to the 101, miles and miles of neat brown houses and new expressways. Back on surface streets in Mesa, a town as un-unique as any. Route 60 climbs up in elevation through Gold Canyon, and the snow starts falling. The highway climbs up the Queen Creek canyon with water trickling in the bottom and scraggly pines clinging to the sides. Top-of-the-World, a tiny settlement, sits atop the 4600-foot divide, shrouded in snow. Signs express the local residents' displeasure with the highway bringing noise and traffic to their quiet community. Down on the other side, we enter Miami, a mining town as unlike its Florida namesake as is possible. The town looks hard-up, tin-walled shacks clinging to the rough hills. We  pass over Bloody Tanks Wash, drive through Globe, and enter the Apache reservation on Route 70. More shacks, a casino, some farmland, a wide desert valley with the spectacular Pinaleno mountains to the south. We parallel the mountains until we enter the town of Safford. The temperature is in the 40's, and the wind is ferocious. Eventually we find the organizaiyotn headquarters and sign the agreements and leave with the equipment in the back. I order chicken fried steak at a Mexican restaurant, and get a fully dried-out roll, nasty canned veggies, gravy made with sour milk, and very tasty steak and potatoes. 

On the way back, a tractor trailer skidded off the road and through a guardrail on the Miami side of the Superstition Mountain Pass, but fortunately he did not roll down the canyon. A road crew works late into the night, drilling holes into a cliff that will be blown up the next morning to make way for an extra lane. The temperature rises fifteen degrees as we drop down into the Sun valley, thousands of orange lights glittering on the horizon. Route 60 turns into an expressway and joins I-10, paralleling the route I took when I initially entered Phoenix. Traffic is moderate as we make our way around Phoenix and up the 303. 

Several police and an ambulance block the road near a bar in downtown Wickenburg. We take a detour, stock up on groceries, and continue home on the dark empty highway. It is 11:00 by the time we get back, and midnight by the time we unload the groceries. Mice are a big problem in the cabin kitchen, crapping all over the counter, so I set a few traps. A few minutes later, one goes bang, and a mouse twitches on the counter.

The next morning, two traps have had their bait stolen by mice. We set out to plant some willow and cottonwood shoots with the stinger, but the nozzle keeps getting clogged, and the probe encounters many rocks. Now we have to dismantle the entire setup, place it back in the truck, and drive it all the way back to Safford.

Good thing I like driving.

I tried to hunt a jackrabbit on the property with my 12 gauge. One impudently stayed well out of range of my #7.5 shot, hopping a few steps every time I shot at it. After I shot all three of my shells, it leisurely hopped away.

No pictures of the trip this time. I will try to bring my camera tomorrow. There are slot canyons and hot springs near the property as well, I will try to check them out sometime in the next few days.

 

[highdesertranger]

very cool, well done. highdesertranger

 

[USExplorer]

I made the same cross-state trip yesterday, and brought my camera along.

1534: The Hualapai Mountains from Route 93 just south of Kingman.
1535: Green desert hills near the ranch and the Big Sandy River.
1536: A saguaro stands guard over the road.
1537: A vicious thunderstorm moves in over the ranch.
Three days later...
1540: A Joshua tree along the Joshua Forest Parkway.

 

[USExplorer]

1542: The Superstition Mountain range overlooks the fringes of Phoenix's suburban sprawl
1545: From the top of the US-60 arch bridge over Queen Creek Canyon. 
1546: The approach to Queen Creek tunnel. 
1547: The rugged canyon continues on the other side.
1549: A little snow remains in a rocky ravine.

 

[USExplorer]

1553: The pine-covered Pinal Mountain hills, between Superior and Miami
1555: Another view of the same mountains, from Top-of-the-World. These mountains are within the Tonto National Forest.
1559: Santa Teresa Mountains. Mount Turnbull (8282 feet), the highest point, is inside the San Carlos Apache Reservation. 
1562: The Pinaleno Mountains (part of the Coronado National Forest) form a spectacular backdrop to a humble riverside home. 
1563: Mount Graham is the highest peak in the Pinaleno Mountains, with an elevation of 10,720 feet. Note the shelf-like plateaus on the base of the range. Picture was taken twelve straight-line miles away from Mount Graham.

 

[USExplorer]

For those of you who are interested in the goings-on at the ranch:

We spent all day yesterday returning the waterjet planter. We then spent all morning chasing down an auger to plant the cottonwood trees. After driving 275 miles, we finally got a rented auger home. When we take it out into the wash, we find that it can drill to a maximum depth of 4 feet, barely enough for a cottonwood shoot. An extension is available but it is not practical to use. Regardless, we plant 25 cottonwoods over the large, brushy riparian area, then call it a day, chasing some trespassing cows on the way out and gathering mesquite wood for a campfire. For dinner, I use my extraordinary culinary skills to cook Gordon's fish sticks. Later, on a sudden inspiration, I decide to test the reaction of my shotgun primers to heat. I drop a dozen in the campfire and take cover against flying brass caps. After a few seconds, a series of pops scatter ashes in a ten foot radius.

 

[Silver]

 driving 275 miles, we finally got a rented auger home.

( thats a lot of miles ! Company car ? )

shotgun primers to heat. I drop a dozen in the campfire and take cover against flying brass caps.
After a few seconds, a series of pops scatter ashes in a ten foot radius.

( this isnt my preferred method of entertainment . .)

 

[USExplorer]

@silver: over 275 miles for the rented auger, in addition to the 1200 miles of driving for the waterjet planter. My host is getting a grant from the federal government to do this work so expenses are not an issue. 

We planted over 400 willow trees in the riparian area yesterday. The planter used was a section of very thick custom made one inch steel pipe, with a taper on the bottom and a right angle handle on top. The hammering flattened out the top and broke off the handle, but the tool was still usable. It looks like a four foot long nail now, and pulling it out of the ground is a PITA when it is 42 inches down.

After work, I took the quad for a cruise around the ranch, peppering a couple of trespassing cows with #7.5 from 100 yards. Later on, I spotted a jackrabbit crossing my path, and he took a load of #7.5 at 20 yards and did the dance of death. When he twitched his last, I strapped him onto the quad, drove him back up to the cabin, and tried my hand at butchering a rabbit. Turns out it's not that much different from a chicken. I threw the meat in a crock pot with some pasta sauce and threw the entrails and fur on the campfire, where they emitted a foul perfume all evening. The next morning, the rabbit was tender, although the sauce had boiled down quiet a bit. Very lean meat. Yes, I ate rabbit for breakfast. For dinner that day, I consumed an Old Chub Scotch ale, Breyers vanilla ice cream, five clementines, and some Cream of Wheat. Just an example of my strange diet. 

Today, I visited a very small, relaxed church in Wikieup attended by several local characters and winter visitors, refugees from Yuma and Phoenix and Maine. By noon, the temperature was approaching 80, and the sun was fierce through a deep blue sky. I decide to take the day off, and spend the first part of the afternoon soaking up the sun and rereading a battered copy of "Cold Mountain" I got for free from a library. (The book is great; the movie is rather generic. The book is also set in my adopted home state, and I have crossed paths unknowingly with the fictional protagonist several times.)

By 3:00, I decided to take a hike near the Kaiser Warm Springs Canyon. Kaiser Springs Wash is a branch of Burro Creek, which is a branch of the Big Sandy River, which is a branch of the Bill Williams River, which is a branch of the Colorado River. All of these watercourses are semi-permanent, a rare attribute in the Sonoran Desert. An access road leads from Route 93 down to Kaiser Springs Wash, and a jeep trail leads to within a few hundred yards of the Warm Springs, downstream of the highway bridge.

I park under the high, white, curving double bridge, and climb down to the wash, which is dry and sandy at this point. I set off upstream. The walls rapidly grow steeper, and the wash enters a slot canyon. The temperature at the bottom of the canyon feels over 10 degrees cooler than the surroundings, taking into account the lack of sun. Errant gusts of wind push warm, dry air down the canyon. A power line crossing overhead belies the proximity of civilization, although the nearest grocery store is 60 miles away. The space between the canyon walls is over ten feet, and the rocks themselves are a dull, dirty conglomerate. However, the canyon walls are 300 feet high in places. 

I walk back through the sand and continue on down toward the spring, startling a pair of wild burros. They start, but curiosity overcomes fear, and they stand and stare at me. The canyon walls become steeper, and a Jeep trail joins the innumerable tracks of burros and humans in the wash. Eventually, after dropping down 150 feet through giant rocks, the wash flattens out again, and I pass a lean-to that I later learn belongs to a skinny dipping club. A pit in the sand is filled with cool water, the first water so far. A little farther on, I am surprised to see a neat natural rock-rimmed bathtub, clean 95 degree water pouring out of a spout in the rock, filling the tub, and overflowing over the rocks, forming  a trickle in the wash. Not much farther, the wash joins Burro Creek. On a beautiful warm winter day, I have the entire spring and canyon complex to myself. Due to the lateness of the hour, I decide to head back instead of enjoying a bath. 

Back at the ranch, my host has been working, harvesting willow shoots from off the property and preparing them for planting. I help him prepare them, then make a handle for a five pound sledgehammer head. 

Several days earlier
1564: The setting sun turns the cliffs fiery red. The town of Superior might be lacking on the aesthetic side, but moments like this compensate for such shortcomings.
1567: US-93 bridge over the least rugged part of the Kaiser Springs Canyon.
1569: The shadowed, foreboding entrance to the Kaiser Springs Canyon.
1571: The inside of the slot canyon, sandy floor and sheer rock cliffs. 
1572: Torrential rushing water during the monsoon season erodes cracks into holes, creating arches over time.

 

[USExplorer]

1574: Turn your head, a portrait shot of the slot canyon.
1576: This wild ass was about 50 yards from me.
1578: Natural or manmade? Shallow cavern with flat bottom, in base of canyon wall.
1579: The rugged nature of this part of Arizona canyon country.
1581: The warm spring pool, a favorite local nudist hangout.

 

[USExplorer]

County name/state     1                  2              3         4           5            6       7 
Middlesex County, NJ 58.6% white 2621/sqmi $26535 N/A        85 Jul 20 Jan 100 feet Perennial
Somerset County, NJ  70.1% white 1071/sqmi $37970 11 miles 84 Jul 18 Jan 120 feet Perennial
Chatham County, NC  76.0% white 93/sqmi    $29991 17/12 miles 89 Jul 29 Jan 450 feet Winter
Liberty County, FL      71.9% white 9/sqmi     $19568 90 miles     91 Jul 55 Jan 26 feet Winter
Dallas County, AL       36.1% white 44/sqmi    $16419 16 miles    90 Jul 32 Jan 200 feet Spring
Buncombe County, NC 86.3% white 341/sqmi $22962 5 miles      84 Jul 25 Jan 2400 feet Spring
Henderson County, NC 83.3% white 268/sqmi $23994 0 miles      86 Jul 28 Jan 2300 feet Spring
Wayne County, MI       49.1% white 3215/sqmi $21479 15 miles   83 Jul 19 Jan 600 feet Spring
Trumbull County, OH    90.0% white 352/sqmi $20272 15 miles    85 Jul 18 Jan 900 feet Spring
Coos County, NH         97.0% white 18/sqmi   $21805 23 miles     75 Jul 4 Jan 1800 feet Summer+Fall
Lake County, FL          76.0% white 318/sqmi $21463 9 miles        92 Jul 39 Jan 100 feet Fall
La Paz County, AZ       60.0% white 4/sqmi     $17674 37 miles     108 Jul 40 Jan 900 feet Winter
Mohave County, AZ     77.0% white 15/sqmi   $21303 25/70 miles 90/101 Jul 26/40 Jan 4100/1500 feet Winter

1: Percent who look like me. Some are inaccurate: Detroit MI (part of Wayne County) is 8% white.
2: Population density.
3: Per capita income
4: Distance from home site to the nearest Walmart.
5: July average high temp
6: January average low temp
7: Elevation of home site

Separate values represent different home sites in the same county.

Yes, I was bored.

 

[USExplorer]

To plant the willows, we used a small sledgehammer to hammer a planting bar 3 feet down into the ground, after which the bar was withdrawn and the willow was planted. In this practice, we experienced Murphy's Law. First, the handle fell off the sledge, not a problem as we made another one. Second, the repeated hammering on top of the welded planting bar handle broke the weld and the handle fell off. Now withdrawing the bar was far more difficult. After nearly 600 willow holes the tapered bottom half of the bar broke off in the ground. We scrapped the planter and used a cut-off shale bar sharpened on one end and flat on the other. Soon after, the ATV tire blew out, then the spare had a clogged valve. Another spare that did not match the original tire in either width or diameter was used. The new hammer then fell off the sledge, and we used an inferior hammer instead. We will take the next couple of days off and hope that Murphy will lose interest in us. 

Today, we drove into Prescott on a supply run. The state highway leads through rough, barren country, its many sharp turns lacking guardrails, rock walls jutting nearly into the roadway. A succession of cattle grates, then small towns barely worth of the title: Hillside, Yava, Kirkland, Skull Valley. A sign warns drivers to be on the lookout for Skull Valley kids. The vegetation changes as we climb, the saguaros and creosote bushes disappear, replaced by prickly pear thickets and bunchgrass plains. Nearing a mile up, the palo verde trees are replaced by scraggly cedars and pines, and we cross the boundary to the Prescott National Forest. Snow appears on north-facing slopes. The road crests out at six thousand feet and begins descending through a pine forest, all the scrub left behind. The fierce sun and unseasonably warm weather has melted the snow in all non-shaded areas. The names change here: Highland Park, Wildwood Estates, Forbing Park, the flowery replacing the morbid. We enter Prescott on a four lane boulevard. The downtown area of this small but mile-high city is alive with an eclectic assortment of characters. An old Jeep Cherokee with one door missing sits at a light beside a brand new Audi SUV. Two hippies sell jewelry on the courthouse square, while one tramp takes a mid-morning nap under the warm sun. Snow is piled on the north sides of buildings and the corners of parking lots, melting rapidly; a bank thermometers reads 66 degrees. We eat at the Raven Cafe with grad students and city contractors, then I take a walk down the greenway trail alongside Granite Creek, a very eastern-looking stream, with wooded grassy banks and a pebbly bottom. I greet a rough-looking gray-bearded guy sitting on a bench, and he snaps back angrily in the manner of the mentally ill. Soon after, I hear angry words, and the guy is standing on a disused railroad trestle over the creek, shouting curses and judgment down on passing cars like an Old Testament prophet. 

Whiskey Row is a street lined with historic saloons. Signs mention the fact that this city was once the territorial capital of Arizona. I forgo further examination and head to the grocery store, where gutter punks relax near the storefront and casually chat with shoppers. 10 gallons of drinking water costs three dollars. Prescott is a mountain town, surrounded by hundreds of miles of national forest trails, but the mountains are not particularly visible from the city. I decide that other places are more conducive to alternative living and leave the city behind. 

USA: A color-coded map of my travels so far.
1582: The Kaiser warm spring pool. Doesn't it look inviting?
1583: One of numerous caves and clefts in the Burro Creek area.
1584: Back to civilization, my truck parked on top of the bluffs.
1585: The front yard of the ranch cabin I'm staying at.

 

[USExplorer]

1586: Suddenly forest, just out of Prescott along AZ-10. 
1587: A sight I still have a hard time associating with Arizona.
1588: Downtown Prescott.
1589: Granite Creek, running through downtown Prescott along the greenway trail.