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Trials and Mishaps While Tending Our Desert Landscape

With hubby gone for just a bit, I was left on my own to tend to the yard. That might not sound so difficult, but you'd be surprised. We live in Arizona, so there is no grass to mow--thank goodness for that.

The other day I tried to water the plants in the backyard with the sprinkler. After setting it all up, tweaking it so that it would continue rotating to get all of the plants on one side, watching it to make sure it did that, I went back in the house and set a timer so I would not forget to shut it off. I went out when it beeped only to find the thing shooting high and powerfully at the bedroom window and only one of the bushes, with no intention of moving from that spot anytime soon. I can only imagine that it did that to spite me as soon as I turned my back and went in the house. No matter, I was content with the newly cleaned window and vowed to take care of the rest of the plants another night.

I think that it was the next morning that I decided to tackle the plants in the front yard. In the front (and possibly in the back too, I really have no idea), we have an "automatic drip system" that was installed at what I can only imagine was some great investment of time and money (by the landlord, not us). My husband's very clear directions (which I even wrote down) were to simply plug in the "big grey cord" for a few days and then unplug it and repeat the cycle a few days later.

Now, this thing involves not only water, but electronics (always a good combination). It has  
multiple timers, a large dial, several switches and various buttons to push. Armed with my college education and no small amount of "What could be so hard about this?" I set out to make this thing work for me. After about 15 minutes crouched behind our bushes up against our kitchen window punching and dialing this thing (and occasionally swatting at what I was certain was either a scorpion or rattlesnake each time something brushed against me), I figured I was all set. Confident that the system would become fully operational at midnight that night just as I had programmed, I went inside, satisfied and already preparing my speech about how "It really wasn't that hard."

The next morning, I noticed that we had a few extra leaves on the driveway and sidewalk. A sign that I assumed meant the water had been flowing and they had floated over there. No matter, I vowed to tweak the system so it wouldn't run quite so long when it kicked on every other midnight as I had requested. Off to work I went.

When I came home, I heard water running and went back behind the bushes to check it out. I should mention at this point that I was still dressed for work, down to my cutest shoes--the ones that get a compliment every time I wear them. Sure enough, I stepped squarely in the puddle that is the telltale sign that the water is, indeed, flowing. Undaunted, I flipped open the hatch to the command center only to have no clue what to do, since it clearly wasn't midnight when this thing should be running. I punched, I dialed, and I decided that more was involved than I first determined, including codes that I expect require the CIA to crack. I unplugged the system.

Curiously, the water kept running. Anticipating that more crouching would be involved, and not wanting to ruin the cutest shoes ever, I turned the largest knob I could find to shut off the flow.

In my mind, shutting off both the power and the water would force the system to reset itself and I could go back to either Plan A (plug in and unplug every few days) or Plan B (reprogram the system so that it would be working for me). I was leaning toward Plan A.

In the meantime, I still had the back yard to deal with. Figuring that the bush in front of our bedroom window had gotten probably about a year's worth of rain the other night, I decided to focus on another area. The sprinkler in the back is attached to the hose and comes with one of those handly little spikes so you can stabilize it by pushing it into the ground near wherever you want to sprinkle. Here is where I should mention that the ground in Arizona more closely resembles concrete than the well tilled and aerated soil that must be in the backyard of whoever invented that little gadget. My placement involved lots of pushing, stepping on the thing and, ultimately, a large rock to hold it in place. Not wanting to be outwitted by a water system again, I stayed outside even longer to see that it would spray where I wanted it to. It did, but then it seemed to have re-gained it's own personality and the spray began chasing me. I'm not kidding.

I dodged to the right as it went left and it came after me, so I went back the other way and it followed. I headed for the spigot and turned that sucker off!!! I took the sprinkler head off and watered a few of the bushes with the fancy multi-head nozzle my husband bought. (By the way, whatever happened to just jamming your thumb on the end to make it spray however you like?)

A few days later, I figured I should turn the system in the front back on. I wasn't too worried, it is the desert after all, but I didn't want the plants to die on me. The only thing I could imagine would be worse than fighting with a watering system would be having to remove dead cacti and transplanting new ones. Completely certain that the system would have re-set itself and all I would need to do would be to plug it in, I headed back behind the bushes. My shoes weren't near as cute, but they weren't necessarily sensible either and I was still wearing what I had worn to church. I turned the large knob and began to hear the familiar sound. I plugged the system in. Then I decided that since I had no idea when it would actually water the plants, I should do it with the hose to start out with, so I turned that knob. That's when the explosion happened. My entire right side was drenched with some kind of back spray that forced it's way out near the spigot. That's when my neighbor pulled up in her driveway and asked how I was doing. I was not really in the mood to talk.

Expecting by now that others might be able to empathize, I merely said I was fighting with our watering system. She seemed satisfied. And, since I did not come out from behind the bushes to engage in any friendly chatting, she went inside.

I scooted out from behind the bushes, armed myself with the hose and the second fancy nozzle, set it up to spray on a few of the plants, and went to the backyard to set up that sprinkler. I re-attached the hose nozzle to the demon-possessed sprinkler, worked hard to get it to mist and rotate as I wanted, and ultimately settled on letting it spray in one direction. Fine. I would just reposition it every 10 minutes or so. So I let it go and headed back to the front.

There, I finished up with the fancy nozzle, enjoying switching it from one setting to the next. (If you're not going to do that, why even bother having it, right?) Task completed, I headed back behind the bushes to shut off the water, which resulted in the exact same explosion as when I started and I was, once again, drenched on the right side (being Arizona, I had completely dried from the first episode even though not too much time had passed).

Enough! I went to the back yard, decided that I was not in the mood to jackhammer my way into the earth in another spot, and ended my watering for the evening.  

 Next week we'll see how I do with the hedge trimmers.

 

Color Blooms in the Desert

 

Ever since 1994 when I backpacked in New Mexico and Arizona for a three-week desert ecology class, I have wanted to see the desert in bloom. With so many other places calling to me to visit, I never made it.

Last year, we were here for spring, but this year is a different experience altogether. January brought record rains--almost as much as we got all last year. There was enough flooding for our families to call to say that they saw Cave Creek on the national news. Well, January showers brought April flowers.

Attacked by allergies, but determined not to be kept indoors, we set out the first weekend of April to see some wildflowers. While Jim had some particular shots in mind, I was on a mission to see how many different varieties of wildflower I could find. In less than 48 hours, I came up with 43.

There were Desert Globe Mallow and Purple Owl's Clover, Chia and Desert Chicory.

Favorites? I would have to say the Mexican Gold Poppy which look like delicate golden-orange little fairy skirts turned toward the sun and the Silvery Lupine that transformed entire hillsides from sparse desert to purple mountains majesty or something I would be more likely to find in Ireland.

At our first roadside stop, on the road out to Bartlett Lake, I collected 18 different types. I immediately set to identifying them, but before I could find more than five, we were stopping again to meet friends for a hike.

With more eyes peeled and more hands to pick, I came back with another dozen or so varieties. Desert Marigold, Rattlesnake Weed and Tidytips.

Later, as Jim sought out some other shots, I set up shop among the wildflowers in my low-to-the ground chair, my journal and my Field Guide to The Southwestern States (Audubon Society). Admittedly, the breadth of the topic and the compact size of the book naturally mean that is not the greatest reference resource and many in my collection did not appear in the book, but I was able to put names to quite a few.

I also learned that Scorpion-weed and Phacelia are poisonous, causing a reaction similar to poison ivy. I only hoped that I hadn't collected any. If I had, it would have given credence to Jim's warnings of, "Stop touching everything, you don't know what it will do to you." Fortunately, I came through unscathed, but I began to be more careful on my picking adventures.

We wrapped up the day at Horseshoe Dam, where the water was streaming through at record levels. Just the day before, the lake was just ¾ of an inch from full. I didn't gather any new flowers, but Jim was able to get some amazing pictures.

 
The following day we headed out on the road to Seven Springs through Tonto National Forest and made our way on Forest Road 24 to Bloody Basin, so named for the red rocks and soils. I gathered another dozen species, marveling at the variety. Our best find of the day, however, was a gila monster. He was crossing the road in front of us and at first appeared as if it was a short snake, or then, a rather long and fat lizard. My favorite part of the spotting was when Jim asked (as he was already out the door heading to take it's picture) "Is he poisonous?" My answer: "Yes!"

One of only two poisonous lizards in the world, we honestly thought this was one desert animal we might only see in the zoo as no one we knew had ever seen one. He didn't wait around to have his picture taken, but rather slithered under a branch to hide and protect himself.

We continued on our way, all the while adding to my collection, bringing home more than a few dozen flowers and photos of a few more that were just too large or sparse to pick.

 
All Photos © Jim David

An Olypmic Congratulations

Anticipating the start of this year's Winter Olympic Games, I was glad to learn that Michigan native and two-time Olympic medalist in doubles luge, Mark Grimmette, was selected to carry the USA flag in the opening ceremonies.  You may never have heard of him, since Luge is not the most popular sport there is, but, strangely, I have met him.

Eleven years ago, some friends and I decided to try out the sport ourselves at one of the few luge tracks in the country--Muskegon Winter Sports Complex in Muskegon, Michigan (a great experience with it's own story). While there, we learned that a local Olympic athlete had helped build the track and also learned to luge there. I didn't remember a name at the time, but that athlete was Mark Grimmette. The following video is of our time at the luge track in Muskegon.  If you want to watch it, you'll have to brave the bumpy camera work. :)
 

Eight years later, while living in New York, Susan (girlfriend at the time), a few other friends, and I traveled to Thunder Ridge Ski Area, north of New York City, to participate in the Verizon Luge Challenge.  The event didn't take place on an actual track, like that in Muskegon, but instead used plastic sleds and a makeshift track down one of the hills. After several practice runs, we had our chance to race against the clock and place for first, second or third place within our respective age groups.  Susan was doing the best of us all with impressive times. In the end, however, we came up short of any prize, but had a great time nonetheless.  

After the event, we had the chance to interact with some of the past Olympic athletes. Conversing with one of them, I excitedly began to talk about my previous "luge experience" at the Muskegon luge track and relayed the story about the local Olympic athlete who had helped build it, when I heard him interject "Oh yea, that was me".  It caught all of us by surprise, but it was a pleasure to finally meet the Olympic athlete that I had heard about.  He was very humble, but kind enough to show us his silver medal after we inquired, which he pulled out of his coat pocket.  We wish him, and all the rest of our USA team, the best for the upcoming games!

Photo: Susan, Mark Grimmette, Anna Peters and Jim at the Verizon Luge Challenge in 2007.

Fall Highlights

We now know that absolutely nothing can compare with fall back East, but we tried our hardest to find some semblance of the season we love most.

We tried the Mogollon Rim, we tried Mary's Lake, we tried Flagstaff (which, to its credit, had some beautiful aspen stands, and likely more fall features that we have not yet gotten to explore).

In the end, we finally found what we were looking for when we did the West Fork hike in Oak Creek Canyon outside Sedona.

After seeing only yellows (aspen, cottonwood, sycamore) everywhere else, we finally found a mix that includes the beautiful reds that maples bring to the bouquet. Up until this point, we had been disappointed by Forest Service reports about different areas being "at peak." While they weren't technically wrong, it's not difficult to have full color when there are only 10 deciduous trees.

The West Fork hike leaves from a lot about 1/2-way up the canyon from Midgely Bridge. There is an $8 entrance fee (this section is managed by a concessionaire and is not included in National Forest entrance passes). The hike weaves back and forth across Oak Creek and hikers pick their way across on stones. We're not sure how it would be in the spring with greater volumes of water. We expect you would have wet shoes (and pants).

The trail is very popular and pretty accessible. We even saw someone with a cane making their way quite far. (I personally wouldn't recommend that if it were my loved one.) Kids can do it easily with help at the creek crossings.
 
We thoroughly enjoyed the true fall experience of crisp cool air, leaves crunching under our feet and blowing down from the branches above, and the smell of campfire smoke filling the air later in the day.

For Phoenicians missing the back East experience, here are some of our other favorite fall picks.

Best colors: Sedona, West Fork hike in Oak Creek Canyon.

Best apple cider: Sedona--farm stand approx 2 miles north of Midgley Bridge. West side of the road. The stuff at the grocery store doesn't even compare.

Best pumpkin patch: while we didn't experience it for ourselves, we saw a nice pumpkin farm off of 69. Take 17 north to 69 and head toward Prescott. Farm is at least 10-15 miles from on the north side of the road.

Best pumpkins for pie: We bought ours from the stand run in the United Methodist Church lot in Sedona. Good price ($1 for a small pumpkin).

Best pumpkin pie: Our house! We're proud to say that our first one from scratch was a success and very yummy!

Top Photo: Susan admiring the red maple on the West Fork trail in Oak Creek Canyon.  Second Photo: Oak Creek.  Bottom Photo: Our pumkin pie mixed in with an arrangement Susan made.  Photos copyright Jim David

Alpine Arizona

Time seems to stand still for us in Arizona.  We hear about the changing seasons in the news, but other than swings in temperature, little change can be observed in our own backyard.  The reality is setting in that a season has become a destination rather than a time of year.

For several months we've been wanting to hike the highest point in Arizona and reach the alpine tundra that exists within this desert region.  With winter approaching, our time to do so seemed to be slipping away -- or so I read.  Checking the forecast for Mt. Humphrey in Flagstaff, I was surprised to find that the first snow of the year was expected Sunday, October 4. The preceding Saturday looked like an opportune time to go, so by 5 a.m. we were heading up to Flagstaff to make the  hike.

Arriving at the trailhead, we found the temperature in the low 30s.  The high was expected to climb into the 60s, but with our ascent, we would experience little change as the summit would only reach the 40s. (Packing for the hike, we carefully considered our necessary clothing/supplies and went digging for gloves that we hadn't seen since we moved here.) 

Large ponderosa pine stretched high above and lined the trail as we made our way.  Expansive lava flows eventually appeared beyond the trees and crossed the trail as we climbed the ancient volcano. Sharing the trail with us were many hikers from all age groups--easily over 100 during the day.  We even encountered a party who had made their ascent at 1 a.m. and were now making their way back down. 

The 4.5 miles to the summit climbed approximately 3,300 feet.  We were told to expect the effects of high altitude and the strain of the steep hike.  I read that 3 to 4.5 hours were needed to reach the top, although I later came to believe that the 3 hour estimate was more applicable to a mountain goat than the average hiker. The trail became steeper as it progressed up the mountain and we found ourselves shedding layers (I was down to one).  A group of hikers, that we kept leap frogging, had an altimeter and gave us the latest reading each time we crossed paths.  Approaching steeper switchbacks and climbing over larger rocks, I began to feel a bit nauseous (we were now over 11,000 feet).  My heart was beating heavy with the exertion and the stops I needed to take became more frequent.  All this took me by surprise. If I hadn't seen other hikers struggling, I would have seriously wondered what was wrong with me.  I've been to heights like this before (skiing), but I've never had to hike to reach them.  As my nausea became worse, I decided to tell Susan, who was faring much better with the altitude. (The thought of turning back was contrary to all my will and desire, but my body didn't seem to be on the same page.) We soon reached the saddle, a beautiful place that overlooks the inner basin of the volcanic mountain.  For many, this was their destination.  From here, the summit was almost visible (more than a mile away). Unfortunately, there were three false peaks before it that would also have to be climbed.  We took time to rest and refuel and then decide if we would go on. 

After some evaluation, we decided to tackle the first false peak and call it a day. However, we were encouraged by another couple, one of whom was also fighting some nausea.  He had hiked the trail several times and convinced us to attempt the summit with our slow approach and frequent stops.  Each false peak became our goal--it was too discouraging to think otherwise.  Approaching 12,000 feet and nearing the third false peak, I glanced over to find Susan standing motionless on the trail--the nausea and dizziness had hit her.  Susan now expressed her doubts about making it.  After a lengthy rest, we decided we just had to give it a try. 

The wind had been blowing quite hard above the tree line, but everyone we passed told us to prepare for stronger winds and the cold on the final stretch.  We came across the wife of the couple who had encouraged us earlier. He had fallen sick and found protection from the wind behind a rock. We formed a trio for our approach to the summit and were glad to have her along.  Susan went ahead as I took some photos.  When I arrived, she was already holding the summit banner and proudly pointing to where it said 12,633 feet.  Needless to say, we were elated!  The winds were indeed strong (I would guess in excess of 60 mph), but they didn't keep us from standing on the highest point in Arizona.   

The hike down was definitely easier.  My nausea had subsided, but now we were tired. The trek to the summit had taken us over seven hours. We stopped at the saddle once again for another bite to eat.  The mountain was quiet as we knew of only two remaining hikers behind us. The sun was low on the horizon and we expected to lose light, but we weren't concerned.  The trail was well defined and we had our flashlight with us--well, we THOUGHT we did!  While taking a picture of the sunset, Susan said to me in a low drawn out voice "Jim, I can't find the flashlight."  We began to pick up the pace and do a light jog with the remaining light we had, but my nausea soon made it's evil return with the extra exertion.  As darkness approached and we considered our options, we saw a light coming down the mountain--an answer to prayer. Nick (from Belgium), was kind enough to move at a slower pace and light our way. 

When we arrived to our car, 12.5 hours had passed since the start of our climb.  We may not have set any climbing records, but we made it to the summit despite the difficulty, and that's something we remain proud of.  We found each other (and others) to be helpful encourager's at the moments we each needed it.

Top Photo: Hiker on Mt. Humphreys Trail. Second Photo:  Looking out over the saddle area and a view of Mt. Agassiz. Third Photo: Trail above tree line.  Fourth Photo: The summit of Mt. Humphrey.  (photos copyright Jim David)

A Superior Paddle

Over Labor Day weekend, Susan and I traveled north to Michigan for a visit with my parents and a chance to escape the arid desert heat for a week.  My sister-in-law once told us that she never thought "lush" would be a word she would use to describe the natural surroundings of Cleveland, but after visiting us in Phoenix for a week, the word fit well.  I had the same thought as I looked out over the Michigan landscape, with so many lakes and trees, before our touchdown.  Funny how spending time in the desert can make you see things in a new light. 

During our visit, we took two days to explore the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and kayak Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore--something we've been wanting to do for several years.  While we would have preferred to use our own kayaks, air travel obviously made that a bit difficult.  Instead we found a good outfitter in Northern Waters to show us the beautiful Lake Superior shoreline.  We couldn't have asked for better weather.  At times the lake was almost motionless and the clear pristine waters and colorful reflections rivaled water we've seen in the Caribbean.  Sometimes expectations for trips are built up so high that the reality can't possibly deliver.  Not so here.  As we glided over the crystal water and hugged the sandstone cliffs, it was even more magical than we had hoped.  Several times, I wanted to just dip my water jug into the lake and take a drink.  At times like this, I marvel at God's creation.

We spent several hours on the water, and with calm conditions, had the chance to explore small caves and paddle under cliffs.  Waterfalls that normally flow over the cliffs were dry due to the summer, but plenty of water was dripping out of the rock to create the effect of a trickling waterfall as we paddled beneath it.  The water flowing out of the sandstone aids the mineral seepage that creates colorful lines on the face of the cliffs.  The National Park Service explains which minerals produce each color--red and orange are copper, green and blue are iron, black is manganese, and white is lime.  The fallen tree against the cliff (see photo below) demonstrates the dramatic effect of the colors.

Lake Superior is also known for it's abundance of shipwrecks. Before we left, we were able to glide over the remains of a ship called George (a wooden schooner that wrecked in 1893) and see it's hull below us.

Before our return to central Michigan, we enjoyed several relaxing hikes to some of the many waterfalls that exist in the U.P., including the large upper Tahquamenon Falls near Paradise, Michigan.  How nice it was to be surrounded by water again. We were hoping to see a bit more fall color in the area, but only a few trees were beginning to turn.  Our visit with family was even better and, as always, we wish we could have stayed longer. 

Top Photo: Susan and other members of our group. Second Photo: Castle Rock. Third Photo: Susan entering a cave under Castle Rock. Fourth Photo: Mineral deposits flowing down the cliff and across the fallen tree. Photos copyright Jim David 2009

Empty Nest

We have some friends whose youngest son left for college last week, leaving them with an empty nest. Little did we know that our life would parallel theirs. Well, with a few differences, the primary one being that the nest is literal, not figurative.

 

In early August, Jim discovered a nest in our backyard with two bright white, tablespoon-sized eggs being tenderly cared for by the mother mourning dove. When the mother was off getting food or doing whatever she needed to do, we could see them and would wonder about the chicks to come.

 

 

The nest is in a bush just outside our bedroom window, so it was easy to check on things even when the mom was there. In fact, each morning when I would wake up, Jim was already at the window with the shade raised taking a peek. Soon I was getting regular updates.

 

The birds hatched on August 11. It was amazing to see how fast they grew and to watch their progress. I did this somewhat casually, with some interest, but no real investment. Jim, however, took their growth and impending flight much more personally.

 

When the chicks were getting bigger and had less room in their nest, Jim saved the one that was about to fall out. He monitored their growth as if he were personally responsible for their survival in the world. I heard about their feathers coming in, them getting their sight, how much more of the nest they were taking up, and more.

 

One evening, when they were about five days old, we watched them together and saw that a new layer of feathers was coming in. As we walked inside, Jim said, “I’ll have to put that in a log.”

 

“You have a bird log?” I asked, surprised.

 

“Well, no. But maybe I’ll make one.”

 

 

Although that still does not exist, what he has done is chronicle their days with the camera, including some cool time lapse shots.  I refer to it as BirdCam. 

Not actually knowing much at all about mourning doves before all of this, we learned bits and pieces from the internet. One important fact we couldn’t readily nail down was when they would be able to fly and therefore when we might expect to see the last of our little friends.

 

Jim dreaded that day, saying things like, "I'll bet they won't even remember me or appreciate me saving one of them," speaking like the parent of an ungrateful teenager.

 

As we got set for a weekend in San Diego, we were sure they would take off before we returned. They were very active in the nest and were stretching their wings a lot. When we came back, they were still there, but it was only two days later that they made their move. Even so, they still couldn’t go too far. After leaving the nest, they would hang out during the day under the shade of the Desert Petunia bush in the corner of our yard, moving at dusk to the branches of the Honey Mesquite tree, thereby avoiding winged predators like hawks who are active during daylight hours and four-legged ones like coyotes in the evening.

 

They have now been out of the nest for 11 days, growing stronger and bolder with each passing day. Jim has scattered bird seed (of course, the kind that mourning doves like) and regularly cleans the little makeshift birdbath we put out there, saying, “I need to give them a reason to stay.”

 

Although they are no longer always in our yard, we still see them and, at least until they get a little bit bigger, Jim can recognize them. It’s a wonder we can distinguish anything with what I like to call Birdapalooza back there. There must have been at least 35 birds feasting and bathing when I went out to water the plants. I think I’ll call the Audubon Society and tell them they can bring kids groups over. Jim would give a good tour and they could check out the shots from BirdCam. 

If you'd like to see more photos, click here.

Highs and Lows of Arizona

We're beginning to recognize the discipline needed to maintain regular blog entries, but for our few faithful readers out there (hopefully growing in number), we stand committed to the task.  Thank you for your support!Over the last few weekends, we've enjoyed the highs and lows of Arizona, from the heights of the White Mountains to the underground trail of a volcanic lava tube. In both places we experienced temperatures that dipped into the 30's.  Ahhhh, sweet relief to the 110+ around Phoenix. 

We had been to the White Mountains once before, but this time we ventured further into the region and camped on the Fort Apache Indian Reservation. Traveling with a friend, we explored the area by taking a small hike, casting our lines in a lake for some trout, driving the roads seeking signs of wildlife, and taking a ride to the top of Mount Baldy on a ski lift.  Our mini hike led us to the top of McKays Peak where we found a firetower that offered beautiful panoramic views.  Two forest fires were visible from the mountain and being monitored by a ranger in the tower.  At first, the tower seemed to be off limits to the public, but then a group of Native Americans came by and some in the party quickly ascended it.  Invited to go up next, we waited for the group to descend when we heard someone yell, "Hey, come down and let the white people go."  A funny and unexpected observation.  The view from the tower provided a better vantage point above the trees and we enjoyed a talk with a the ranger from the Apache tribe. 

The fishing wasn't as productive as we would have liked--a few bites here and there and only one fish in the frying pan.  Susan was the lucky angler who landed a rainbow trout.  At dusk, we jumped in the truck to look for elk, and it payed off when, about 2 miles from our campground, we encountered a female elk on the side of the road with three calves.  Looking across the road, a large herd could also be seen in the distance. The next morning, we finished our road trip with a ride to the top of Mount Baldy via a ski lift that operates in the summer for scenic views and mountain bikers.  From the top we could see the surrounding Arizona landscape and into New Mexico.

The weekend before, we took a day trip north of Flagstaff to hike through an old lava tube that we had heard about when visiting Sunset Crater (see post in June).  Technically, we were up in the higher elevations of the state, but we consider a trip underground to qualify in the "low" category. To our surprise, we found a whole parking lot full of people (more than 50 cars) even though access was gained through dirt forest roads and was miles away from the nearest paved street. Standing outside the cave, the cool air escaping from below was an inviting natural air conditioner. We read that the temperature of the cave remained around 40 degrees, with a few areas into the 30's. Anticipating the cold, we put on our fleece jackets before the descent, which felt a bit odd in the sunny 80-degree temperatures outside. 

The length of the trail was about 3/4 of a mile underground through total darkness.  Recommendations were to carry three sources of light. We heard one story of a couple who crawled out on their hands and knees using a bic lighter because their flashlight had died.  At the outset, we quickly realized that one of our own flashlights was filled with dead batteries. (I guess that's why three light sources are suggested.) Thankfully we did bring other flashlights and a lantern, whose brigher light we used see the makeup and details of the cave.  The cooled lava made for interesting formations on the floor and the color on some of the walls and rocks was very dramatic.  We walked through a lava tube in Hawaii, but this one was much wider and taller in general (although there were a few spots with a very low ceiling).  Naturally, I spent some time taking photos, and I occasionally heard the shriek of someone looking in the direction of my flash--oops.  At some parts of the hike, we had to climb over fallen rock (this was especially true at the opening of the cave where the collapse that allowed entrance into the tube occurred). About half-way through, Susan noticed a boy following us.  We soon learned that his flashlight was dead and he was using our light to make it to the end, so we welcomed him along for the trek.  The trail seemed long, but the tubular structure eventually came to a strange and abrupt end where a group of people gathered to take photos.  Exiting the cave, the hike felt a bit surreal as the bright sunlight and warmer temperatures greeted us at the surface.  Of course, as with any cool experience, we're ready to do it again. 

Top Photo: Hawley Lake in the Fort Apache Indian Reservation. Second Photo: Susan with a rainbow trout. Third Photo: A view from inside the lava tube. Fourth Photo: Susan and Jim at the end of the lava tube.

The Kayaks in the Dell

It had been too long since our kayaks were in the water, so we loaded them up and set out for our first Arizona paddle.  It's not difficult to find beautiful scenery in Arizona, so we tried to think of a place that was more on the bizarre side (although that's not usually hard either).  The Granite Dells on Watson Lake in Prescott seemed to fit the bill.  (Prescott is quickly becoming a favorite place of ours to escape the heat. The drive is a short hour and a half into the mountains and the temperature is usually 15 degrees or more cooler than our home.)  The lake is full of large, round, weathered granite rocks surrounded by water from a dammed up creek.  We unloaded the boats, but stopped short of launching them due to a quickly developing storm and a thundering bolt of lightening that hit some rocks across the lake.  Normally, I might be a bit disappointed, but a storm in Arizona, or a chance to feel rain for that matter, is an exciting and welcome event.  (The monsoon season is upon us, but we still haven't had a serious storm pass over our home in Cave Creek.  We have seen some from a distance.)With no end in sight, we decided to leave and make another go at it the next day.  Arriving on Sunday, the weather was more cooperative, though we could see storm formation beginning again. The lake was calm and provided for a great paddle as we maneuvered between boulders and coasted alongside the stony shoreline.  However, with the absence of wind, we started to feel the HOT sun beating down on us.  (We're learning that while we can escape the heat, we can't escape the intensity of the Arizona sun.)  Ready for lunch, we scouted numerous granite islands for shade, but to no avail, so we positioned our boats in a quiet cove and picked a resting spot on top of the rocks. Within a few minutes I was using a beach towel to cover myself from the rays of the sun. Yes, that's also hot, but it's like choosing between a sauna and a frying pan!  Unable to sit any longer, I grabbed my fishing pole and looked around for some places to cast when I noticed that something was wrong--one of our kayaks was missing.  As I changed my viewpoint, I soon found it--adrift in the lake.  Susan was skeptical of the news, but soon realized I wasn't kidding when I made my way toward the boats (or should I say boat).  She also managed to snap a photo of the event (see below).  How our boat got out there, I'll never know.  With the boat retrieved, we finished our lunch and continued to explore much of the lake, taking in the surrounding landscape.  On more than one occasion, we encountered a Bald Eagle and a Great Blue Heron.  They let us get surprising close. Toward the end of our paddle, some rain began to fall--a perfect ending to a fun day.