Tag: Yavapai County

Seal Mountain Picture of the Week

I wouldn’t have made a good prospector if I had lived during the Weaver Mountain mining boom. Since it is Father’s Day, a quote from my dad seems especially appropriate today. “You’re nothing but a lazy bastard, and you will never amount to anything.” Thanks, dad. I’ll cherish those words forever. He’s right, though. I don’t even like to water our flowers much less pick at a mountainside. In last week’s post, I was shocked to see in the photograph of my hand, a callous below my ring. Where did that come from—I haven’t touched a hand tool in decades.

If mining is off my list, what else did men do to earn wages back then? To find out, I continued my exploration of the Weaver Range east side by following the other side-roads near Placerita. This week I drove the Wagoner Road down to the Hassayampa River. I’ve never seen that area, and besides, I might get different scenes for my drone film. I struck pay dirt (sorry for the mining metaphor).

The Wagoner Road descends the east slope of the Weavers into a river valley where the Hassayampa flows above ground. As expected, where there’s surface water, there’s farming—or in this case ranching—big ranches. They’re stacked along the river one after another. They have well-maintained fences, impressive gates, and lots of black cattle (although I did see a herd that had Wagyu markings). The valley reminded me of north Scottsdale when it was mostly Arabian horse farms. It would be an ideal place to live except for grocery shopping. There are only two ways out, the 38-mile road back to Kirkland Junction or crossing over the Bradshaw Mountains on the Senator Highway (Wickenburg is only 20 miles distant in a private aircraft, which is possible given the size of these estates).

Seal Mountain - A remote mountain only seen in an obscure valley is the model that was used on the Arizona emblem.
Seal Mountain – A remote mountain only seen in an obscure valley is the model that was used on the Arizona emblem.

Since I was scouting new views of the Weaver peaks, I found a doozy. It’s the mountain that is in the background of this week’s featured image that I call Seal Mountain. Every Arizonian should know this mountain by heart because it was the model used for the Arizona State Seal. In 1912, who knew it existed? The only place you can see this peak is from the ranches in this remote valley. I’m impressed, however, that my local mountain range is represented on the Arizona seal.

The Arizona Seal - If you squint hard, you can see the similarity.
The Arizona Seal – If you squint hard, you can see the similarity. Personally, I would have chosen Four Peaks.

So, could I have been a rancher instead of working in a mine? MMM—maybe not. That kind of work still involves toiling with shovels, rakes, other hand tools, and even possibly riding a horse. Horses don’t like me. The last one that I road said, “Oof,” when I got on. Let’s take a closer look at that state seal—shouldn’t there be a programmer or a Web designer on it? Come to think of it, there isn’t even a real estate agent, and that’s the number one Arizona job.

You can see a larger version of Seal Mountain on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy it. Come back next week to see what else we found along the road to Placerita.

Until next time — jw

Placerita Hills Picture of the Week

While having this morning’s coffee, I sat on the front porch and watched the sunrise over the Weaver Mountains. That’s the best view from my house, but there are still homes and trees in the way, so I can only see their tops unless I walk down to the end of the street. Since the elevation here is 1500’ higher than the Phoenix basin, the mornings are still cool—even in June. Because my porch faces east, all of that pleasantness comes to an abrupt halt the second the sun clears the horizon. Then I’m forced to retreat to the back where I have a spectacular view of my neighbor’s shed.

When we moved here almost five years ago, I knew nothing about the Weaver Range other than their name. With time, I learned more about their secrets as I researched the subjects I photographed. I fear that by the time I run out of film, I’ll become a sort of grizzled old Gabby Hayes wandering the Wickenburg streets, wearing a torn cowboy hat, a mouth full of chaw, and spinning yarns about mountain ghosts, so the tourists will give me loose change.

The Weaver’s have been at the center of my attention for a couple of months now because they’re the subject of my third drone video that I’ll finish in a couple of weeks. For the video, I made a list of points to film, and I’ve grappled how to describe the range best. On the way to the Prescott Costco last week, I blurted to Anne, “They’re like a horseshoe wrapped around Peeples Valley.” She said, “Huh?” I probably should have started with some context. Then I came up with a better metaphor. They’re more like the palm of your left hand—not the Michigan one.

The Weaver Range - The geography of the Weaver Range can be summed up on one hand, but you have to use the correct one.
The Weaver Range – The geography of the Weaver Range can be summed up on the one hand, but you have to use the correct one.

Use your imagination. Peeples Valley is the depression in the center, and State Route 89 is your life-line ascending from your wrist up Yarnell Hill to the little town at the pass. The Weaver’s tallest peaks are along with the thumb, and where gated communities of summer homes are. The desert wall (the northern boundary of the Sonoran Desert) is along your wrist. The area under your little finger represents the lower eastern peaks—more like rolling hills. The Hassayampa River separates the Weavers from the Bradshaws. The area that we’re exploring this month is at the base of your little finger.

Placerita Hills - The east flank of the Weaver Range are hills than tall peaks.
Placerita Hills – The east flank of the Weaver Range are hills than tall peaks. On the distant horizon is Weaver Peak which is on the other side of Peeples Valley, and is the range’s tallest peak.

The east flank of the mountain range doesn’t have any soaring peaks, at least not when you drive in from Peeples Valley. The mountains are more like rolling hills, as seen in this week’s featured image that I call Placerita Hills. To get there, you have to drive up a long gradual incline. The hilltops have granite outcrops that are like miniature versions of eastern and southern peaks. In the photo, the dense vegetation is very evident and is a mixture of Manzanita, Scrub Oak, and some others that I’m not able to name. Unlike the desert floor, there’s no space to walk, and it’s easy to understand why cowboys wear chaps. The mule deer that we saw bounced over the brush instead of running through it. It’s incredible to me that the area’s ranchers can raise cattle here.

You can see a larger version of Placerita Hills on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy it. Come back next week to see what else we found along the road to Placerita.

Until next time — jw

Placerita Post Office Picture of the Week

It was lust for gold that lured men to the Weaver Mountains in southern Yavapai County. They heard stories of miners plucking nuggets from the ground and, in just a day, returning to camp a wealthy man. The fever for gold outweighed the risks of hostile Indians, treacherous mountains, poisonous snakes, and oppressing heat from the relentless sun.

Prospectors discovered several veins of the precious mineral with Rich Hill at their center. Pauline Weaver’s party started the rush when they accidentally found placer gold on the hill’s top. Boomtowns sprung up surrounding Rich Hill. The camps in Stanton, Octave, and Yarnell all had ore-bearing mines. There were so many claims on the hill; it’s a wonder that prospectors didn’t dig into each other’s tunnels. But it only took 20 years for the gold to dry up; as a result, when Anson Wilbur Callen arrived in the 1880s, he decided to prospect somewhere else.

If you flew a small airplane due east of Yarnell, you’d see a geographic anomaly. Instead of the regular distribution of peaks and hills in the Weaver Range, there’s a 2-3 mile gash between Antelope Peak and Rich Hill. From Yarnell, it runs northeast, and it looks like a score on the top of a loaf of bread. It’s very evident on a topo map or Google Maps.

There’s a natural divide in the gap’s center, and Antelope Creek drains south along the east flank of Rich Hill. Arrastre Creek flows in the divide’s north side (Arrastre is the Spanish word for a drag, as used for mining). Anson set up his camp where Arrastre Creek flows out of the canyon.

By accounts, Anson Callen was a big man and weathered beyond his age. Locals called him Old Grizzly at the age of 40. When he set up camp, his initial task was to create a reliable water source, so he dammed up the creek. As he dug a five-mile water ditch to his base, he uncovered two pieces of gold that earned him $550. There are more stories of finding large gold nuggets in the area—one of which was four pounds that the assay office valued at $900 ($107,792 in today’s market). Before Anson knew what had happened, the town of Placerita sprung up around his claim.

On Tuesday morning, I dragged my friend—Fred—out of bed, and at 5 a.m., we drove his Toyota FJ into the sunrise to find the ghost town of Placerita. As I’ve written, real ghost towns rarely have any remaining artifacts. Maybe there’s a pile of timber or a concrete slab, but never an intact building. My research showed that Placerita had a standing stone cabin, and I needed to photograph it.

Ruins in the Woods - From the roadside, we could see the remains of one of the town buildings, but we couldn't see an easy way to get to it.
Ruins in the Woods – From the roadside, we could see the remains of one of the town buildings, but we couldn’t see an easy way to get to it.

When we got to the area, we drove by a shed with a collapsed roof, but the brush was so thick that we couldn’t find a path to it. Instead, Fred drove down to the creek crossing and parked in an apparent campsite. We intended to hike up the creek, find the buildings, and photograph the ruins. Indeed, they were built along the banks. We soon discovered that walking in a dry creek bed wasn’t the best thing a couple of septuagenarians should do—especially a pair that has a hard time walking on carpets. We struggled for what seemed like a couple of miles, occasionally falling on the rocks and swatting at attacking insects.

Placerita Post Office - The 30 townspeople were served by this Post Office from 1896 to 1910, when the gold ran out.
Placerita Post Office – The 30 townspeople were served by this Post Office from 1896 to 1910 when the gold ran out.

Finally, we gave up and started back to the truck, but instead of the creek, we found a cattle track that had boot prints. We followed it to a clearing where—you guessed it—we found the collapsed building. We spent some time shooting photographs from different angles, including this week’s featured image called Placerita Post Office. About half the walls were standing, but the timbers were full of termites, and that finally caused the roof to collapse.

We never found the stone cabin—or at least we thought we hadn’t—but after I got home and did some further research, I found a photo caption that said, “It has been reported that the roof has collapsed since this picture was taken.” We did reach our goal; it’s just ten years too late. I also found out that the stone building that we shot was the town’s Post Office—built in 1896 and closed in 1910. As a federal building, it was built more durable than the rickety shacks that the miners cobbled together. It makes sense that it outlasted the rest of the town.

You can see a larger version of the Placerita Post Office on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy it. Come back next week to see the work I’ve shot along the road to Placerita.

Until next time — jw

Cholla and Brittlebush Picture of the Week

Cholla and Brittlebush

It’s the end of April, and last week we went from, “let’s open up the windows and let some warmth in,” to “Oh my Gawd—turn on the air conditioner.” I don’t recall a year when the temperature gained thirty degrees in a week. I’m not ready for summer; I haven’t even put my sweaters away.

Spring began with an excellent opening act here in southern Yavapai County. In case you didn’t get out, a colorful ribbon of wildflowers lined the roads for weeks. They’re now drying in the heat and will soon turn to the thick golden straw that catches fire if you look at it cross-eyed. As happens every year, the public service announcements are already predicting 2020 to be the worst fire season ever.

Even with the temperatures over 100, spring isn’t over. The second act is about to begin. That’s when the palo verde trees take center stage and sprout bright yellow blossoms. Beneath their canopy, creosote bushes put out dark green leaves punctuated with tiny dots of yellow flowers. While they’re full, they look like a proper shrubbery that any gardener would be proud to have in their garden. But don’t go planting one in your back yard. I’m sarcastic; they’re a weed.

I’m glad that we snuck out for an afternoon and got some desert colors for you—like this week’s featured photo. On the hike that I described in last week’s post, I dawdled along the way back to the truck and shot some flowers near the path. The best of the bunch was this one that I call Cholla and Brittlebush. I find that both of these subjects are hard to capture. Mature cholla is pretty when the light is behind the needles, but as they grow, the stalks are bare and unattractive. Brittlebush flowers grow like a dome covering the plant, but the yellow washes out in bright sunlight.

Cholla and Brittlebush - A young cholla and brittlebush growing under a palo verde tree near Wickenburg, Arizona.
Cholla and Brittlebush – A young cholla and brittlebush growing under a palo verde tree near Wickenburg, Arizona.

None of that happens in this week’s image. I found them growing under a palo verde tree. The cholla is a young plant, so it hasn’t had time to drop its lower branches. The backlight shows off the sharp needles, and the cactus shades the flowers. The flowers at the bottom are more rooted in color, while the sunlight washes out those at the top. There’s even a gap where the olive-colored brittlebush leaves show. The photo may not be a still life worthy of Irving Penn, but I think it explains why April is the best time to experience the Sonoran Desert.

You can see a larger version of Cholla and Brittlebush on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy it. Next week, I’ll begin a new chapter on our back road travel adventures. I’m keeping our destination a secret so the authorities won’t stop us when we sneak out under cover of darkness. Come back next week to see what we found—if we successfully evade the quarantine police.

Until next time — jw

Box Canyon Spring Picture of the Week

I woke this morning with the lyrics of a thirty-nine-year-old song running through my head:

Just like the white-winged dove
Sings a song
Sounds like she’s singing
Who who who
Just like the white-winged dove
Sings a song
Sounds like she’s singing
Oh baby oh said oh
Edge of Seventeen—Stevie Nicks

When I opened my eyes, I knew why. Perched on the trellis outside of our bedroom window was an African Dove trying to entice some lady dove—any lady dove—to have sex with him in our bedroom. I know it’s true because his caterwauling went on for a while before he flew right into the window, leaving a dust print of his body on the glass. “Oh crap, I just cleaned that,” I griped. Anne replied, “Zzzzzznxxx,” so I got up.

I miss the mourning doves. They were the ones you most saw in Arizona. Around the turn of the millennia, these invasive replacements started showing up and pushed out our natives. They’re slightly bigger with a black collar on their neck. I admired the colors of the native doves so much that I tried to match the blue-brown taupe hues on my office walls. These foreigners are just Army-Jacket brown. Their songs aren’t right either. The mourning doves song (ooo-ahh, oo, oo, oo) had a profound sadness to it, whereas the outsider seems rushed. And what’s with their Kamikaze dive-bombing scream? They sound like Ninja Stukas attacking every female passing through his territory. It’s no wonder that the women fly off so quickly. It’s like men slapping their car sides and yelling, “Hey babe, wanna’ ride?” (Not that I know anything about that, but it never worked for me either.)

I know that my criticisms are the literary equivalent of running out on the porch and yelling, “Get off my lawn,” to no one in particular. Maybe I’ve reached a new milestone, and I’ve become Old Uncle Jim, who starts every sentence with, “Back in my day …” I doubt it. I think it’s just spring, and like everybody else, I want to get out and enjoy the world without feeling guilty. I hate spring fever this year.

Box Canyon Spring - Spring arrives at the Hassayampa Box Canyon area bringing warm days and colorful flowers.
Box Canyon Spring – Spring arrives at the Hassayampa Box Canyon area bringing warm days and colorful flowers.

Speaking of spring, how about this week’s picture? I call it Box Canyon Spring. I took this down at the Hassayampa River Box Canyon area. That’s where the river, which generally runs beneath its sandy bottom, has cut a path through a gorge. On our outing this month, I noticed this scene on our way out and stopped on our return because the light was better. I also had to hike a mile down a convenient old mine road to get a better composition—and you thought there was no exercise in photography. Anne stayed in the car while I enjoyed the colors and sounds of the late afternoon. On my return—as I got close to the truck—Anne yelled out the window, “Hey babe, you wanna ride?”

You can see a larger version of Box Canyon Spring on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy it. Come back next week when we continue with our illicit trip to Wickenburg’s Scenic Loop.

Until next time — jw

Hassayampa Clover Picture of the Week

The signs of spring are everywhere here in the Sonoran Desert. Blue lupine, orange mallow, and yellow brittlebush carpet the roadsides. In another couple of weeks, our desert trees will renew their green foliage, and yellow flowers cover the palo verde trees. When the air is still, I can catch a whiff of the neighbor’s citrus trees, which is catnip for me. We’ve had weekly low fronts move through, keeping the temperatures fresh and the mountains wet. However, in between the cloudy days, the air is warm and bright, so it’s time to throw open the doors and windows and let in the allergens.

I have a terrible case of spring-fever, hay-fever, and a toothache, none of which I can do anything about right now. Each spring, Queen Anne and I usually jump into the car for a weekend road trip. This year—like all of you—we’re stuck at home binge-watching The Tiger King (we finished Netflix). I’ve spent the weekend napping all day, and my sinuses are acting up. I know that the pollens are causing it because this happens every year, and I’m not running a fever. I’m so paranoid because of the pandemic, it makes me question if I’ve caught the virus, and I have panic attacks until Anne slaps my face and yells, “Get over it.” I think she gets into it because she’s whacked me hard and often enough that I need to visit my dentist about a loose tooth—but the government has closed the border.

Hassayampa Clover - Purple Owl's Clover carpet the desert floor near the Hassayampa River Box Canyon.
Hassayampa Clover – Purple Owl’s Clover carpets the desert floor near the Hassayampa River Box Canyon.

After I calm down, I retreat into my office and work on the pictures I shot for you, like this week’s image called Hassayampa Clover. It’s one of the photos that I captured on our clandestine outing last week. It’s another view of purple owl’s clover, but in this case, I’ve included the surroundings near the Hassayampa River (which loosely translates into the upside-down river).

The bare hackberry and mesquite among the purple carpet are a giveaway that its early springtime. As the days warm, all of the plants sprout and obscure the landscape. You really can’t see the desert through the brush. The desert stays pretty like that until summer when they’ll drop their leaves again to survive the heat.

Doesn’t the scene make you want to kick off your shoes and skip through the clover? You’d be sorry. The ground is full of sharp rocks, cactus needles, cow pies, ants, scorpions, and the snakes are active already. You’re better off to enjoy the view from your computer screen and let me do all of the dangerous work.

You can see a larger version of Hassayampa Clover on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy it. Come back next week when we continue with our illicit trip to Wickenburg’s Scenic Loop.

Until next time — jw

Purple Owl’s Clover Picture of the Week

I’m amazed at how much things have changed in a month, and how current events are forcing me to find new ways to provide new content for you. Last month was Anne’s knee surgery, where I needed to stay close to home and care for her. Now that she’s on the mend, I thought I’d be able to go on one of my road trips and gather new subject matter, but that’s not happening. With the pandemic looming over us, our Governor has ordered us to “Stay At Home” unless it’s for essential services. His list of critical activities includes playing golf—as a form of exercise.

Those of you that know me well know that I’m not a rebel. I’m no James Dean, and I usually follow the rules. In other words, I’m a coward. I’ve spent the last week anxiously trying to figure a way to get new photographs for you. Should I go on my planned trip? Should I cancel my blog this month? My stomach was in knots, and I wasn’t sleeping well. I was only getting two naps a day instead of my usual three.

I spent the beginning of the week perusing the Governor’s proclamation, and I came up with an answer. Instead of taking a trip out of town, I’d pick an empty road in Wickenburg. That way, if the Gendarmes stopped us, I could say that we’d gotten lost on the way to the golf course, and we were only exercising.

The road we picked is called The Scenic Loop—seriously, that’s its name. It starts at US 93 north of town and goes past the Hassayampa River Box Canyon before it winds up at the Boyd Ranch. We had no problem keeping a safe distance from other people because we were alone. In the two hours we photographed, I got enough material to keep me locked in my office until June.

Another big difference is the contrast between March’s pictures and those I have for April. Last month was about winter and old gnarly cottonwood trees. This month’s series is about spring, color, and new growth. April is always the prettiest time to be in the Sonoran Desert.

Purple Owl's Clover - In the years when the winter is wet, the desert gets painted with wildflowers in spring.
Purple Owl’s Clover – In the years when the winter is wet, the desert gets painted with wildflowers in spring.

This week’s featured image is an example of what I mean. Usually, the desert floor between cacti is bare gravel, but not this week. It’s full of grass and wildflowers, and in this case, a patch of Purple Owl’s Clover. I don’t think it’s related to the tiny white flowers that get into your lawn; they just look the same. Patches such as these appear on flats where there’s Goldilocks water (just right).

You can see a larger version of Purple Owl’s Clover on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy it. Come back next week when we continue with our illicit trip along Wickenburg’s Scenic Loop.

Until next time — jw