May 8 through May 16, 2007
Spent the last few days holed up in the lobby of The Grand Canyon Hotel in Williams, working on this blog and other business.
On one tour around town I stopped to browse in a shop called Joys. There were small watercolors, both prints and originals on sale there. I met the owner a woman named Jean-Ellen. When I inquired if she would handle my watercolors she said she only dealt with Arizona artists.
Then the conversation got around to my book Get Up and Get Out! (Doesn't it always?) And Jean-Ellen asked me if I ever heard of the travelogue Blue Highways by William Least Heat Moon. Of course I had. Blue Highways is a classic of American road literature, up there with anything by Kerouac. I'd read it and two other Least Heat Moon books, River Horse and Prairie Earth. Jean-Ellen said she had known the author well and had adapted Prairie Earth as a stage play. I was thrilled at the connection.
I showed her my book. She read the back cover then skimmed inside with a smile on her face. She got what the book is all about. I asked if she took books on consignment. She bought four for cash up front. That was nice. Now I'm established in Williams, Arizona.
Later that day two men wandered into the lobby of the hotel. One was dressed in a business suit and held a microphone in his hand. The other was carrying a video camera.
There was a peacock on the video camera!
I buttonholed them. The reporter was Brandon Kline of an NBC affiliate in Phoenix. We exchanged cards. I was walking on air for the entire afternoon. When I returned to earth I reminded myself that nothing is real until the check clears and turned the whole connection over to the Universe and Holy Elvis in Vegas.
I bought a silly bear head hat in a shop and split for Flagstaff where I spent the next few days running around like a chicken without its head. (The bear head hat was substituted.) The college kids at NAU thought it was cool. Grownups gave me wide berth.
The publicity machine for the book is in play in Flagstaff. The work was exhausting.
Late that afternoon I made an impulsive dash for The Grand Canyon. On the way I almost ran off the pavement when I spotted two Pronghorn Antelope munching grass by the side of the road.
I arrived in Tusayan late in the afternoon, and, after establishing a campsite for two nights, rushed to the canyon rim for sunset photos.
The next morning I was up at four and on my way back into the park. The sunrise ritual was different than the sunset. There was a hushed tone among the gathering crowd. People spoke in whispers. I understood. They were in church.
I scored some shots of a herd of elk that drifted through the parking lot. The bulls were still in velvet buttons. Then I went for a hike.
Along the hike I grew drowsy and curled up on a wooden bench for a short nap. Passing tourists must have thought they were in L.A. I was hoping they would drop coins in my hat.
When I woke I went for a bone jarring ride on the shuttle to Hermit's Rest. Then I retired to camp with a splitting headache from thirst and heat exhaustion. A nap took care of my pain. I had to remind myself that I was at a high elevation and needed to hydrate myself often and slow down.
The following morning was glorious. I took my sweet time airing out the truck and cleaning my kitchen gear. For the first time in the six weeks since I had left L.A. I felt assured that my adventure would lead me on a better path in life.
I even took the time to rig up my Sun Shower for the first time. There are some kinks to work out, but it's great not be dependent on motels or crowded campground showers.
New birds on this trip: Pigmy Nuthatches, Mountain Chickadees.
Back in Williams I vegged out, worked on the computer, and got some neat photos of a steam engine with a pot bellied smoke stack.
And, oh yeah, any of you who has ever endured a three year old demanding to watch the same DVD over and over again, to and past the point of nausea, will identify with this: Thomas the Tank Train was visiting Williams in life size form. He was hauling Pullmans full of adoring fans up and down the Grand Canyon line.
I got pictures of this event. When I called my brother Jim, who has two Thomas fans at home, he ho-hummed. Thomas has been all over and Jim already took one of the girls to see him, and got plenty of pictures. Scooped again!
Mailed my posters to my signing venues. Picked up another dealer in Williams. Then I retired to camp where I was located in the middle of a vast meadow. Mountain Bluebirds, Western Meadowlarks, Lark Sparrows, and Western Kingbirds abound there. Wild iris's are coming up. A colony of cautious White Tailed Prairie dogs have pushed up their mounds through the grass.
After six weeks this blog is finally up to date. (For now.)
Now I can paint. And I'll have to. I'm running out of books and have to order more, yesterday!
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Have I stayed too long at the fair?
May 4, 2007
As always, the ride back goes faster, but my apprehensions about negotiating the one lane dirt track that brought me to Mad Cow were increased slightly by the fact that I was traveling on the outside lane with the drop on my blind side. Still, I was cockier, and moved at a faster pace.
After stopping to photograph the truck in front of a breathtaking panorama I noticed that the battery on my camera was running on empty. I removed it and put it in the charger, all the while muttering to myself that the best shot of the trip was probably right around the next hairpin bend.
And it was.
Just as I was approaching civilization I came upon three Mule Deer does standing in the middle of the road. Nuts, I thought. What a time to be out of juice in the camera.
The does stared stupidly at me, offering all sorts of photographic possibilities. I watched them for a few minutes then said, okay, girls, out of the way. I've got to get past.
I inched forward to avoid panic. The does moved up the hill. When I rounded the bend I saw that there were more than three of them out that morning. There were four, five, six, seven, sweet Elvis! eight, nine deer posing on the hill beside me. Several of them were yearlings. All were shedding thick winter coats in patches. The light was just right, the arrangement among the brush classic. It looked like a oil painting in a Sedona gallery. And all I could do was look down at my camera battery in the blinking charger beside me.
But I'm on this adventure for the long haul. There will be other opportunities.
Down in Kingman, as I wallowed in a big breakfast at Mr. G's, I noticed an affair gathering along the road and in the parking lot. It was the "Fun Run" a road tour of hot rods that would be on display in town that day. Great, just what the Book Fair needed, competition from Hot Wheels.
The participants were more than gracious about having their rides photographed. Why shouldn't they be? They're born show-offs.
I was right about the commotion, though. Route 66 was cordoned off for blocks for the entire day.
The book fair was held in a small park a few blocks up. The affair wasn't just about books. To attract a bigger crowd there were other events activities. Among them were the face painting booth.
I shouldn't have left my brushes in the car. I sold two books that day. Other authors didn't do much better, although I would have made gas money if my subject matter were fantasy novels or books with lots of pictures of cute, fuzzy kittens.
But all day long the line for the face painting booth stretched practically out of the park. And the balloon lady and the apron stenciling concession were also hot. I'm going to buy more paint and make writing a second career.
The event was fleshed out with other activities, square dancing among them. This gave us sour grapes authors the opportunity to make fun of something besides low sales. For there is nothing more ludicrous than a seventy something year old woman dressed up like a five year old, lace bloomers and all. The image it brought to mind was Bette Davis's scenery chewing portrayal of an aging child star in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?
I left before the belly dancers. That was a little much for me.
With day's profits I scored a single burner stove. No more smoked oatmeal. I also scored the last of the under $3 gas for the summer. I'm not going to complain about it anymore.
On the ride back to Williams I was treated to a spectacular meteorological event, cummulus clouds sailing across the sky like a great fleet on the way to a grand event, bases flattened by rising hot air and colored a deep violet. When the billowing white masses grew topheavy the bottoms dropped out and released veils of rain in all shades of violet and purple. Most of the moisture would never reach the ground in the dry Arizona air. But some drops plopped hopelessly on my windshield and evaporated before I could turn on the wipers.
As always, the ride back goes faster, but my apprehensions about negotiating the one lane dirt track that brought me to Mad Cow were increased slightly by the fact that I was traveling on the outside lane with the drop on my blind side. Still, I was cockier, and moved at a faster pace.
After stopping to photograph the truck in front of a breathtaking panorama I noticed that the battery on my camera was running on empty. I removed it and put it in the charger, all the while muttering to myself that the best shot of the trip was probably right around the next hairpin bend.
And it was.
Just as I was approaching civilization I came upon three Mule Deer does standing in the middle of the road. Nuts, I thought. What a time to be out of juice in the camera.
The does stared stupidly at me, offering all sorts of photographic possibilities. I watched them for a few minutes then said, okay, girls, out of the way. I've got to get past.
I inched forward to avoid panic. The does moved up the hill. When I rounded the bend I saw that there were more than three of them out that morning. There were four, five, six, seven, sweet Elvis! eight, nine deer posing on the hill beside me. Several of them were yearlings. All were shedding thick winter coats in patches. The light was just right, the arrangement among the brush classic. It looked like a oil painting in a Sedona gallery. And all I could do was look down at my camera battery in the blinking charger beside me.
But I'm on this adventure for the long haul. There will be other opportunities.
Down in Kingman, as I wallowed in a big breakfast at Mr. G's, I noticed an affair gathering along the road and in the parking lot. It was the "Fun Run" a road tour of hot rods that would be on display in town that day. Great, just what the Book Fair needed, competition from Hot Wheels.
The participants were more than gracious about having their rides photographed. Why shouldn't they be? They're born show-offs.
I was right about the commotion, though. Route 66 was cordoned off for blocks for the entire day.
The book fair was held in a small park a few blocks up. The affair wasn't just about books. To attract a bigger crowd there were other events activities. Among them were the face painting booth.
I shouldn't have left my brushes in the car. I sold two books that day. Other authors didn't do much better, although I would have made gas money if my subject matter were fantasy novels or books with lots of pictures of cute, fuzzy kittens.
But all day long the line for the face painting booth stretched practically out of the park. And the balloon lady and the apron stenciling concession were also hot. I'm going to buy more paint and make writing a second career.
The event was fleshed out with other activities, square dancing among them. This gave us sour grapes authors the opportunity to make fun of something besides low sales. For there is nothing more ludicrous than a seventy something year old woman dressed up like a five year old, lace bloomers and all. The image it brought to mind was Bette Davis's scenery chewing portrayal of an aging child star in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?
I left before the belly dancers. That was a little much for me.
With day's profits I scored a single burner stove. No more smoked oatmeal. I also scored the last of the under $3 gas for the summer. I'm not going to complain about it anymore.
On the ride back to Williams I was treated to a spectacular meteorological event, cummulus clouds sailing across the sky like a great fleet on the way to a grand event, bases flattened by rising hot air and colored a deep violet. When the billowing white masses grew topheavy the bottoms dropped out and released veils of rain in all shades of violet and purple. Most of the moisture would never reach the ground in the dry Arizona air. But some drops plopped hopelessly on my windshield and evaporated before I could turn on the wipers.
Hairy curves
May 3, 2007
Haven't blogged for the last few days because I spent most of my time in a coffee soaked stupor at a local java joint trying to catch up with the last few weeks notes. There are going to be more gaps in this journal whenever I spend a few days actually working.
Anyhoo, today I saddled up and headed back to Kingman for a book fair that I've been invited to. It's late and I've got to scramble for a campsite up on Hualapai Mountain. There's a nifty county campsite that I stayed at twenty years ago. I hope their prices are in line with my budget.
Got to Kingman late in the afternoon and decided to score a campsite before it got dark. On the way up to Hualapai Mountain I spied the regional BLM office and turned on two tires into the parking lot. It turns out they have some cheapo sites up on the mountain, the nearest being Wild Cow Campground just a few miles past Hualapai Mountain county park.
I asked about the conditions of the road, which appeared primitive on the map. Is it washboard, I asked, and do I need a four wheel drive? A gent standing at the counter next to me shrugged off my apprehension and said an ordinary car with four fairly round tires could negotiate the road.
On the way up I stopped at the county park anyway, just to see if they could thrill me with their low camping fees. It was $14 a night. Not bad. But the $5 a night fee, less 50% for my old geezer pass at Wild Cow won the toss.
At the end of anything that resembled pavement I began the climb to Wild Cow (which I have since renamed Mad Cow because of my impulsive decision to reside there that night.) The road is only one lane, the woman at the BLM office had said, ominously. So, for the next five miles I would have to worry about passing a super wide Hummer on a return trip and having to scramble for a turnout, of which there were sorrowfully few. As I passed the last weekend cottage on a hairpin switchback I commended my soul to the Universe and Holy Elvis in Vegas.
The road was primitive, antediluvian in fact. I think it was graded the week after Og invented the wheel. There were no ruts that required a high clearance vehicle, but there were plenty of class IV rocks to negotiate. And the drop from the shoulder was abysmal. I nursed waking nightmares of lying upside down at the bottom of a canyon somewhere, with a severe nosebleed, while forest service helicopters hovered futilely overhead.
And it was getting dark. But the thought of having to shell out $14 in good gas money made me press on, albeit fearfully. Signs along the way reminded me that this was a forest fire emergency escape route. If a conflagration should flare up there would be a conga line of four wheel drive rigs blaring their horns behind me.
Finally I reached Mad Cow and breathlessly lay claim to the first campsite in the area, good 'ol #1. The facilities were close enough to be approached in camp moccasins, although I did have to violate one of my own rules by using a privy in which all of the flies were dead.
By the way, there were fourteen other campsites in the area. They were gloriously empty. I had the whole place to myself.
After registering and parting with a whopping $2.50 American (which made the harrowing ascent worth the trip) I got out my binoculars. Over the next three hours or so I was treated to some of the best birding in Arizona. Up and down the dry creek bed flycatchers were jockeying for territory, nuthatches were working tree bark, and Townsend's Warblers were passing through on their way north.
To my surprise there is an isolated population of Abert's squirrels there.
The most spectacular sighting of the evening was a flash of red from the branches of an oak. There was black and white among this bird's plumage, but it wasn't a Rose Breasted Grosbeak. A sudden shimmering dance revealed it to be a Painted Redstart, another first for my Arizona list.
Darkness descended. Isolated campsites usually elicit fears of serial killers. But the thought of the Arizona Chainsaw Killer trying to negotiate that road in the dark dispelled my concerns and I turned into a pumpkin before my candle snuffed out.
Haven't blogged for the last few days because I spent most of my time in a coffee soaked stupor at a local java joint trying to catch up with the last few weeks notes. There are going to be more gaps in this journal whenever I spend a few days actually working.
Anyhoo, today I saddled up and headed back to Kingman for a book fair that I've been invited to. It's late and I've got to scramble for a campsite up on Hualapai Mountain. There's a nifty county campsite that I stayed at twenty years ago. I hope their prices are in line with my budget.
Got to Kingman late in the afternoon and decided to score a campsite before it got dark. On the way up to Hualapai Mountain I spied the regional BLM office and turned on two tires into the parking lot. It turns out they have some cheapo sites up on the mountain, the nearest being Wild Cow Campground just a few miles past Hualapai Mountain county park.
I asked about the conditions of the road, which appeared primitive on the map. Is it washboard, I asked, and do I need a four wheel drive? A gent standing at the counter next to me shrugged off my apprehension and said an ordinary car with four fairly round tires could negotiate the road.
On the way up I stopped at the county park anyway, just to see if they could thrill me with their low camping fees. It was $14 a night. Not bad. But the $5 a night fee, less 50% for my old geezer pass at Wild Cow won the toss.
At the end of anything that resembled pavement I began the climb to Wild Cow (which I have since renamed Mad Cow because of my impulsive decision to reside there that night.) The road is only one lane, the woman at the BLM office had said, ominously. So, for the next five miles I would have to worry about passing a super wide Hummer on a return trip and having to scramble for a turnout, of which there were sorrowfully few. As I passed the last weekend cottage on a hairpin switchback I commended my soul to the Universe and Holy Elvis in Vegas.
The road was primitive, antediluvian in fact. I think it was graded the week after Og invented the wheel. There were no ruts that required a high clearance vehicle, but there were plenty of class IV rocks to negotiate. And the drop from the shoulder was abysmal. I nursed waking nightmares of lying upside down at the bottom of a canyon somewhere, with a severe nosebleed, while forest service helicopters hovered futilely overhead.
And it was getting dark. But the thought of having to shell out $14 in good gas money made me press on, albeit fearfully. Signs along the way reminded me that this was a forest fire emergency escape route. If a conflagration should flare up there would be a conga line of four wheel drive rigs blaring their horns behind me.
Finally I reached Mad Cow and breathlessly lay claim to the first campsite in the area, good 'ol #1. The facilities were close enough to be approached in camp moccasins, although I did have to violate one of my own rules by using a privy in which all of the flies were dead.
By the way, there were fourteen other campsites in the area. They were gloriously empty. I had the whole place to myself.
After registering and parting with a whopping $2.50 American (which made the harrowing ascent worth the trip) I got out my binoculars. Over the next three hours or so I was treated to some of the best birding in Arizona. Up and down the dry creek bed flycatchers were jockeying for territory, nuthatches were working tree bark, and Townsend's Warblers were passing through on their way north.
To my surprise there is an isolated population of Abert's squirrels there.
The most spectacular sighting of the evening was a flash of red from the branches of an oak. There was black and white among this bird's plumage, but it wasn't a Rose Breasted Grosbeak. A sudden shimmering dance revealed it to be a Painted Redstart, another first for my Arizona list.
Darkness descended. Isolated campsites usually elicit fears of serial killers. But the thought of the Arizona Chainsaw Killer trying to negotiate that road in the dark dispelled my concerns and I turned into a pumpkin before my candle snuffed out.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Under the Cottonwoods
April 29, 2007
Blog 'til you puke. I consumed another gallon of coffee and ate a truckload of bagels before I knocked off and went over to Red Rock State Park on the edge of town. They've got an interpretive shelter there and several biosystems to explore. It was hot. I chose the cool shade of the cottonwoods hovering over the creek.
Some people like mountains. They've just gotta climb every one they see. Me? I like canyons and creek beds, even if they're dry. Why? Because that's where wildlife congregate and travel.
Today I walked across a wooden bridge and was startled by a Mule Deer doe, browsing on willows by the water. She was semi tame and allowed me to approach within fifty feet or so where I got a good head shot. Any closer and she moved off.
Further upstream I snapped a whole mallard family, Papa, Mama, and one fuzzy chick. I wondered were the other chicks were. Coyote maybe?
Back at the shelter I watched Lesser Goldfinches, Black Chinned and Anna's Hummingbirds, and House Finches at the feeder. There was even a Cardinal in the crowd. Arizona seems to be the western extent of its range. Although I understand they're starting to move into Southern California.
The party was broken up when a Cooper's Hawk swooped through, scattering the guests in every direction.
Thunderclouds moved in. Big ploppy drops stained the red dust. I retreated to the campsite and snapped thunderheads building up. All The while I worried about lightning. I've seen lots of trees scarred by it here in Arizona. And some toppled altogether.
Sunset was grand. So was a night's rest.
Blog 'til you puke. I consumed another gallon of coffee and ate a truckload of bagels before I knocked off and went over to Red Rock State Park on the edge of town. They've got an interpretive shelter there and several biosystems to explore. It was hot. I chose the cool shade of the cottonwoods hovering over the creek.
Some people like mountains. They've just gotta climb every one they see. Me? I like canyons and creek beds, even if they're dry. Why? Because that's where wildlife congregate and travel.
Today I walked across a wooden bridge and was startled by a Mule Deer doe, browsing on willows by the water. She was semi tame and allowed me to approach within fifty feet or so where I got a good head shot. Any closer and she moved off.
Further upstream I snapped a whole mallard family, Papa, Mama, and one fuzzy chick. I wondered were the other chicks were. Coyote maybe?
Back at the shelter I watched Lesser Goldfinches, Black Chinned and Anna's Hummingbirds, and House Finches at the feeder. There was even a Cardinal in the crowd. Arizona seems to be the western extent of its range. Although I understand they're starting to move into Southern California.
The party was broken up when a Cooper's Hawk swooped through, scattering the guests in every direction.
Thunderclouds moved in. Big ploppy drops stained the red dust. I retreated to the campsite and snapped thunderheads building up. All The while I worried about lightning. I've seen lots of trees scarred by it here in Arizona. And some toppled altogether.
Sunset was grand. So was a night's rest.
Up the Creek
April 28 2007
Spent every morning of the next few days playing catch up with this blog at coffee shops in Sedona, transcribing longhand notes from a spiral pad.
Invariably, by mid-day I would decided that all work and no play make Jack a caffeine addict.
This afternoon I packed it in and set off up Oak Creek Canyon, an area Of Sedona I had barreled through a week or so before.
I stopped at a metal bridge and placed my Golden Age Pass on the dashboard. Before I set off down the canyon I was waylaid by two sweet young things from Flagstaff who wanted their photo snapped together with their camera. I obliged and had them pose against the bluffs.
Lower Oak Creek is as dry as a bag of peanut shells these days. I was able to hike right in the creek bed. I used my imagination to visualize watercolor paintings as if water were actually flowing over the bare red rocks.
Back at the truck I was once again asked to photograph some tourists with their own camera. I considered setting up a concession there.
Further up the road I pulled over in a safe place and, laden with camera equipment and my binoculars, clambered down to the creek bed.
Here there was water. Not exactly a cataract, but it was lively and clear. I captured the buttery yellow blossoms of monkey flowers growing along the banks and between the stones. Red rock reflections in still pools were captivating.
On the way back to the truck I chased a Checker Spot butterfly until it landed on a small blue flower, shuddered and froze. When I blew it up in Photo Shop I could see why it stopped moving. It had been snared in the grasp of a flower spider whose coloration matched the hue of its lair.
I stopped and saw my friend Joel in Sedona. He had more insider information on back road travel.
That evening I watched a couple of cottontails duke it out in the brush by the campsite. Fuzzy little bunnies can kick butt too!
Spent every morning of the next few days playing catch up with this blog at coffee shops in Sedona, transcribing longhand notes from a spiral pad.
Invariably, by mid-day I would decided that all work and no play make Jack a caffeine addict.
This afternoon I packed it in and set off up Oak Creek Canyon, an area Of Sedona I had barreled through a week or so before.
I stopped at a metal bridge and placed my Golden Age Pass on the dashboard. Before I set off down the canyon I was waylaid by two sweet young things from Flagstaff who wanted their photo snapped together with their camera. I obliged and had them pose against the bluffs.
Lower Oak Creek is as dry as a bag of peanut shells these days. I was able to hike right in the creek bed. I used my imagination to visualize watercolor paintings as if water were actually flowing over the bare red rocks.
Back at the truck I was once again asked to photograph some tourists with their own camera. I considered setting up a concession there.
Further up the road I pulled over in a safe place and, laden with camera equipment and my binoculars, clambered down to the creek bed.
Here there was water. Not exactly a cataract, but it was lively and clear. I captured the buttery yellow blossoms of monkey flowers growing along the banks and between the stones. Red rock reflections in still pools were captivating.
On the way back to the truck I chased a Checker Spot butterfly until it landed on a small blue flower, shuddered and froze. When I blew it up in Photo Shop I could see why it stopped moving. It had been snared in the grasp of a flower spider whose coloration matched the hue of its lair.
I stopped and saw my friend Joel in Sedona. He had more insider information on back road travel.
That evening I watched a couple of cottontails duke it out in the brush by the campsite. Fuzzy little bunnies can kick butt too!
My Blog Runneth Over
April 27, 2007
Lynx Lake camp area was still sleeping when I rolled out of the truck. I was going to return to Sedona today. One more turn around the lake, with the binoculars, was in order.
Five minutes into the walk I flushed a coyote. He tore up a ridge like a tawny blur. Unlike a lot of scrawny critters, this one was magnificent, his ruff and tail were full. Before he disappeared he gave me a look mixed with fear and annoyance.
At the lake blue herons were skittish. Three of them took wing before I was in within a hundred yards of them. There must be a rookery around there. And there must be a resident Osprey.
I could have stayed there for the entire alloted time, but I had work to do. The blog was weeks behind. Prescott library had Wi-Fi connection and I had to take advantage of it. My laptop can't pick up the Sedona Library's signal. Coffee shops are expensive. Even though they offer free internet connection, I feel obligated to drink gallons of coffee to pay for the service.
Another fire fiasco was out of the question. I had breakfast at The Raven in Prescott. Granola and fresh fruit. The presentation of the food was excellent.
Then I buggered over to the library and blogged for hours.
I had one eye on the clock at the bottom of the screen. A more relaxed and casual tour of Jerome was on my mind.
So, I folded my tent and climbed over Mingus Mountain. On the way I saw a road sign signifying Pronghorn Antelope crossing, and drove through piles of rocks on 89 that resembled the jumbled landscape of Joshua Tree National park.
The real reason for the stop at Jerome was a slice of home made pie that I missed the first time around. But I got there too late. The English Cafe had just closed for the afternoon. Stomach growling, I toured the galleries and shops, all the while keeping a weather eye out for venues for Get Up and Get Out!
No other restaurant or cafe featured home made pie. My eyes bulged with hunger.
Down the hill in Cottonwood I found another shuttered cafe in the historical district. After a chat with the proprietor of a rock shop I went back to Georgie's where I had breakfast a few days before. No luck there. I was out of cash and they didn't take plastic.
Finally, I settled for meatballs and spaghetti at a Pizza Hut. It was either that or get out and gnaw the tires off the truck. But the salad was surprisingly refreshing, so I stopped grousing and enjoyed the meal.
There was still two weeks backlog of blogging to cover. I would drink much coffee for the next few days, and eat many bagels.
Lynx Lake camp area was still sleeping when I rolled out of the truck. I was going to return to Sedona today. One more turn around the lake, with the binoculars, was in order.
Five minutes into the walk I flushed a coyote. He tore up a ridge like a tawny blur. Unlike a lot of scrawny critters, this one was magnificent, his ruff and tail were full. Before he disappeared he gave me a look mixed with fear and annoyance.
At the lake blue herons were skittish. Three of them took wing before I was in within a hundred yards of them. There must be a rookery around there. And there must be a resident Osprey.
I could have stayed there for the entire alloted time, but I had work to do. The blog was weeks behind. Prescott library had Wi-Fi connection and I had to take advantage of it. My laptop can't pick up the Sedona Library's signal. Coffee shops are expensive. Even though they offer free internet connection, I feel obligated to drink gallons of coffee to pay for the service.
Another fire fiasco was out of the question. I had breakfast at The Raven in Prescott. Granola and fresh fruit. The presentation of the food was excellent.
Then I buggered over to the library and blogged for hours.
I had one eye on the clock at the bottom of the screen. A more relaxed and casual tour of Jerome was on my mind.
So, I folded my tent and climbed over Mingus Mountain. On the way I saw a road sign signifying Pronghorn Antelope crossing, and drove through piles of rocks on 89 that resembled the jumbled landscape of Joshua Tree National park.
The real reason for the stop at Jerome was a slice of home made pie that I missed the first time around. But I got there too late. The English Cafe had just closed for the afternoon. Stomach growling, I toured the galleries and shops, all the while keeping a weather eye out for venues for Get Up and Get Out!
No other restaurant or cafe featured home made pie. My eyes bulged with hunger.
Down the hill in Cottonwood I found another shuttered cafe in the historical district. After a chat with the proprietor of a rock shop I went back to Georgie's where I had breakfast a few days before. No luck there. I was out of cash and they didn't take plastic.
Finally, I settled for meatballs and spaghetti at a Pizza Hut. It was either that or get out and gnaw the tires off the truck. But the salad was surprisingly refreshing, so I stopped grousing and enjoyed the meal.
There was still two weeks backlog of blogging to cover. I would drink much coffee for the next few days, and eat many bagels.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Smoked Oatmeal or, I Should Have Gone to Denny's
April 26, 2007
After viewing the lake the evening before, I determined to stay another night and enjoy a full day of bird watching. When I finished breakfast I would re-register. But the rest of the morning turned into a comedy of errors.
My stove, which had been getting cranky, finally gummed up and couldn't produce enough heat to warm a pair of mittens. The day before the ranger at the field office had said, you can gather firewood there. Now I would have to. And I would actually have to cook with it!
I thought it would be a simple affair, but as I searched I realized, all that was available was bark or entire felled trees. I thought about my ax back in the truck. It's a Junior Woodchuck model, with a rubber head. Why, oh why did I leave the chainsaw in the garage back in LA!
To top it off, my first chore of the morning had been to purge the shell of a week's worth of newspaper and tourist brochures, material I would need to start a blaze. Ordinarily dumpsters at campsites are filled to overflowing with bear bait, and you can retrieve all sorts of stuff without hanging over the edge with your tushie in the air. Not so here. I believe they collect the trash every hour on the hour. So my paper was at the bottom of an empty bin.
I tore a couple of pages from a sketch book and ignited them under some bark. The bark was damp. All it produced was steam. So I tried again with twigs, but when the paper was consumed the twigs collapsed and smothered the flames.
I had to get the fire up off the ground to increase air circulation. There were rocks piled at the edge of the campsite. I filched a few, half expecting the camp host to shimmer out of nowhere and lecture me about rearranging "natural land forms" a capital offense on federal lands.
The twigs went up in a split second but snuffed out before I could fill my little one quart saucepan with water.
While all this transpired, birds hopped about within camera range, as tame as Golden Retrievers.
Famished, I ventured further afield for wood. Possibly into the next National Forest. All the while I was thinking, it's been a dry year, the entire west is engulfed in flames, and I can't even rub two chipmunks together to start a fire.
The fire I did get going was more of a smolder, alerting every fire tower in Northern Arizona of another natural disaster in the making. My oatmeal had a slightly Mesquite flavor, or was it Ponderosa?
Bummer. I had been gloating to friends of how the stove would cut my food costs to $35 a week. Now I would be eating $6 croissants at Starbucks.
With lumpy oatmeal grumbling in my stomach I had to register for another night's stay. For exercise I decided to walk to the register kiosk and bird watch on the way there and back. But every time I set off on the loop road I forgot another thing: My pen, my golden age pass, my binoculars, my camera, all because I was fuming because I'd be beefing Starbuck's quarterly returns by 50% until I got the stove fixed.
And every time I set off on the loops I got lost, and it would take me ten minutes to find my way back to the truck.
Finally, after registering, I cut a beeline across the loops and collapsed by my picnic table.
The only good thing about this fiasco was that I could milk it for at least a half dozen comic stories. As they say, if you're going to laugh later, laugh now. So I had a chuckle, took notes, and spent the rest of the day happily birding.
As I said, birding is phenomenal in Arizona. I scared up Bridled Titmice, Dark Eyed Juncos, White Breasted Nuthatches, Western Flycatchers, Western Bluebirds, and Lesser Goldfinches.
But none of this was as exciting as what I encountered on an evening walk by the lake.
There was a little Pied Billed Grebe cruising among a bunch of tame mallards and domestic ducks that someone had liberated in this wild environment. But the Grebe was way too alert and was a speck on my camera lens.
Then I spotted another diving bird further out on the lake. I glassed it with my binoculars and my heart started to pound. A Horned Grebe, my first. And it was cruising the bank in my direction, golden feathers splayed on its head and red eyes glowing like coals.
I squatted on my haunches and followed the Grebe's bubbles as it dove for chub and aquatic insects. Every time it submerged I moved further up the bank. And every time it bobbed to the surface with water beads running down its feathers I cranked away four or five shots. I couldn't believe my luck.
But after having dined on smoked oatmeal (and knowing I would eat cold beans for supper) I deserved all the good fortune that came my way.
After viewing the lake the evening before, I determined to stay another night and enjoy a full day of bird watching. When I finished breakfast I would re-register. But the rest of the morning turned into a comedy of errors.
My stove, which had been getting cranky, finally gummed up and couldn't produce enough heat to warm a pair of mittens. The day before the ranger at the field office had said, you can gather firewood there. Now I would have to. And I would actually have to cook with it!
I thought it would be a simple affair, but as I searched I realized, all that was available was bark or entire felled trees. I thought about my ax back in the truck. It's a Junior Woodchuck model, with a rubber head. Why, oh why did I leave the chainsaw in the garage back in LA!
To top it off, my first chore of the morning had been to purge the shell of a week's worth of newspaper and tourist brochures, material I would need to start a blaze. Ordinarily dumpsters at campsites are filled to overflowing with bear bait, and you can retrieve all sorts of stuff without hanging over the edge with your tushie in the air. Not so here. I believe they collect the trash every hour on the hour. So my paper was at the bottom of an empty bin.
I tore a couple of pages from a sketch book and ignited them under some bark. The bark was damp. All it produced was steam. So I tried again with twigs, but when the paper was consumed the twigs collapsed and smothered the flames.
I had to get the fire up off the ground to increase air circulation. There were rocks piled at the edge of the campsite. I filched a few, half expecting the camp host to shimmer out of nowhere and lecture me about rearranging "natural land forms" a capital offense on federal lands.
The twigs went up in a split second but snuffed out before I could fill my little one quart saucepan with water.
While all this transpired, birds hopped about within camera range, as tame as Golden Retrievers.
Famished, I ventured further afield for wood. Possibly into the next National Forest. All the while I was thinking, it's been a dry year, the entire west is engulfed in flames, and I can't even rub two chipmunks together to start a fire.
The fire I did get going was more of a smolder, alerting every fire tower in Northern Arizona of another natural disaster in the making. My oatmeal had a slightly Mesquite flavor, or was it Ponderosa?
Bummer. I had been gloating to friends of how the stove would cut my food costs to $35 a week. Now I would be eating $6 croissants at Starbucks.
With lumpy oatmeal grumbling in my stomach I had to register for another night's stay. For exercise I decided to walk to the register kiosk and bird watch on the way there and back. But every time I set off on the loop road I forgot another thing: My pen, my golden age pass, my binoculars, my camera, all because I was fuming because I'd be beefing Starbuck's quarterly returns by 50% until I got the stove fixed.
And every time I set off on the loops I got lost, and it would take me ten minutes to find my way back to the truck.
Finally, after registering, I cut a beeline across the loops and collapsed by my picnic table.
The only good thing about this fiasco was that I could milk it for at least a half dozen comic stories. As they say, if you're going to laugh later, laugh now. So I had a chuckle, took notes, and spent the rest of the day happily birding.
As I said, birding is phenomenal in Arizona. I scared up Bridled Titmice, Dark Eyed Juncos, White Breasted Nuthatches, Western Flycatchers, Western Bluebirds, and Lesser Goldfinches.
But none of this was as exciting as what I encountered on an evening walk by the lake.
There was a little Pied Billed Grebe cruising among a bunch of tame mallards and domestic ducks that someone had liberated in this wild environment. But the Grebe was way too alert and was a speck on my camera lens.
Then I spotted another diving bird further out on the lake. I glassed it with my binoculars and my heart started to pound. A Horned Grebe, my first. And it was cruising the bank in my direction, golden feathers splayed on its head and red eyes glowing like coals.
I squatted on my haunches and followed the Grebe's bubbles as it dove for chub and aquatic insects. Every time it submerged I moved further up the bank. And every time it bobbed to the surface with water beads running down its feathers I cranked away four or five shots. I couldn't believe my luck.
But after having dined on smoked oatmeal (and knowing I would eat cold beans for supper) I deserved all the good fortune that came my way.
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