Motorhome News from North America 2

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Motorhome News from North America 2.
More of Arizona plus Utah! 25th January - 3rd February 2006

‘Hi! How are you folks doin’ today?’

There’s an Indian ‘Dream Catcher’ on the wall beside our bed, watching over our fortune. The spider’s web in the circle catches the bad dreams. Only good dreams work their way through a small hole in the centre and they evaporate to the Great Spirit with the morning sun. It’s there as a backup in case all else fails!
Right now, we can’t believe our luck. ‘Pinch me - and I shall know it’s real.’ That’s the wonder around every corner of Arizona - and it’s all ours for the taking.
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Arizona is a desert wasteland, harsh and dramatic, with unimaginable extremes in climate and geology. Over a third of it belongs to the Native Americans, the Navajo, Hopi and Apache. And it has many riches: coal, copper, gold, silver - and tourism. We’re here as tourists, searching out the National Parks, the walking, and the birds in late January.

The town of Willcox to the east of Tucson came to our notice early in our search for wildlife areas in Arizona. It is rather like Tombstone - without the tourists and commercialism; set in a grid of single storey wooden buildings with a true ‘Western’ flavour. “A real town,” was the way Janice put it. Its main attraction for us was the presence of many hundreds of sand-hill cranes at this time of year, cause for an annual festival called ‘Wings over Willcox’ promoted by the Chamber of Commerce. We missed it by a week, which was unfortunate, and hunt as we might the cranes eluded us. Despite that, our efforts were rewarded with some good ‘birding’ around the lakes.

Chiricahua National Monument lies at the end of a valley thirty miles to the east, a hidden sky-island rising above the grassy plains. It's not a monument as one might imagine, but a vast park of geological wonder. Our hike down from its Massai Point at 6,870ft was one of the most spectacular we have ever experienced. Huge rock sentinels line the mile-wide canyon, a thousand pinnacles in every direction reaching for the sky, each a giant ‘Old man of Hoy’, the vista fading in and out through shifting cloud and the hazy sun following an overnight thunderstorm. Rain had turned to hail at the top and it was still there on the ground at the start of our walk' crisp and icy underfoot. By mid-morning the sun had fought its way through, sparkling on the distant grassy plateau way out to the west and leading our rocky path through this heavenly island of trees. Yuccas share the valley floor with oak, sycamore and juniper, and stately Douglas firs top the pecking order above cypress and pine towards the peaks. Chiricahua Apaches once led a nomadic life in these hills, led by Cochise and Geronimo, names you will recognise, until their surrender in the 1880’s when they were settled on reservations in Oklahoma and New Mexico. The scars of North American Indian oppression will live on forever.

New license plates for our Winnebago should arrive at Nick’s home in Mesa, Phoenix, quite soon and we’re working our way northwards whilst waiting, to circle anticlockwise through Monument Valley, Las Vegas and Grand Canyon before heading south again into Phoenix. The road climbs high into the hills all the way to the north and it’s still January of course, so we have to expect some very cold nights.
After two days in Chiricahua we moved on to Roper Lake State Park south of Safford; a haven for birds, desert hikers and the likes of the two of us. There we met Don and Ruth, a retired couple from New York State, with ‘full timing’ experience to make your mouth water. They have been living aboard their catamaran for eight years and recently added a motorhome, to see the bits of North America that boats don’t reach. It’s rare for us to meet people with such common spirit and interests, (they’re birders too) and we enjoyed their company enormously. Compared to them, we’re mere beginners! There’s a chance we’ll meet up again in Georgian Bay on Lake Huron in July, when they’ll be back on the water.

At Safford, we saw the first real signs of agriculture; cotton, pinto beans, grain and fruit, and just a handful of cattle - hardly enough to make a beef stew for the family. The climate varies immensely between each mountain range and with it the characteristics of the landscape. After climbing for some miles we dropped down into a broad valley, an endless flat plain sprawling between the ever-present mountains, thousands of acres irrigated by massive wheeled sprayers creating round-cornered fields for corn and grazing. The only vehicles on the road were all big pick-ups, driven by big men with big Stetsons. The cattle are all in the corrals this time of year, we’re told.

Long straight roads lead straight as a Navajo arrow up through the hills to the Clifton Morenci mines, a whole mining community with the last sign of real shops we were to see for many days. Huge yellow trucks and hard hats rule the road at Morenci, where 18% of the world’s copper is produced - 125,000 tons every day. The Phelps Dodge open-cast mine is three miles rim to rim, carving up the mountain for more than 10 miles in multicoloured layers, deep into the ground - a sight not seen since Rio Tinto in Spain back in 2004. A sign by the roadside on US191 spelled out a warning in big letters. ‘ No services for 90miles,’ so we went to see Frank at the filling station. Frank was waiting for someone to talk to, which is always fine by me, as you will have guessed.
“You goin’ over the mountain?” he said, through his fluffy grey moustache.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I replied, not really knowing what he was hinting at. The road was shown as a scenic route on the map and it looked flat. His mention of mountains reminded me that I had read something about skiing in the area.
“Is there any snow?” I enquired, trying to sound a bit knowledgeable.
“No. There’s been no snow this year,” he replied with a friendly smile.

The road climbed north out of town for 20 miles; tough driving through sharp hairpins and S bends offering fleeting glimpses of far off mountains, rolling in purple waves to the horizon. And, yes, you guessed it - the snow showed up on cue at around 8,000ft a few miles further on. Recent snow had turned to packed ice on the road on stretches between the trees, demanding second gear and a heavy right foot to keep momentum and traction going up, and then tobogganing down at 15mph in the middle of the road, foot off the pedal and struggling to keep a straight course. You know you’re having a hard time when you’re gaining speed downhill with your foot off the pedal, the steering wheel isn’t working any more and there’s a funny squeaking noise coming from your rear end. Janice’s knuckles turned white as she hung desperately to her seat. The 90 miles to Alpine took four hours and in all that time we passed just a handful of vehicles coming the other way - all 4X4s. There are no houses or buildings of any sort, making the journey more memorable - and frightening - but rewarding in retrospect. I’ll murder Frank if I ever get that way again!

The thought of January in England has little appeal to us at the moment. Arizona is experiencing a particularly dry winter this year: the nights are cold but the sun shines bright all day and daytime temperatures hit the early 50’s as we stretch our way north. Night skies provide stunning starlight displays here at altitude, (we have been above 5,000ft for more than a week now) and the early morning sunlight sparkles like shattered crystal on the desert floor. The air is so clear, it was possible to see the San Francisco Peaks 120 miles away from one lookout in the Petrified Forest, an eighteen mile drive through 220m year-old petrified trees,so frightened they’ve turned to stone, out to the Painted Desert beyond Route 66 (now Interstate 40).

Canyon de Chelly (pronounced ‘shay’) provided our first deep canyon view in Arizona, a great writhing scar carved 1000ft deep into red rock with a narrow sweep of tilled land following the riverbed. Thin fresh air, post-card blue skies and the joy of silence broken only by the ‘craw, craw’ of a soaring raven, made this a welcome stop. This is Navajo Reservation country with small settlements of wooden and aluminium houses set back from the road and big Ford pick-ups in the yard. The Navajo people have their own hospitals here; healthcare is provided free and it is well used alongside traditional medicine. They have their own education system and police-force too, but the pace of change and integration is slow indeed. There are many fine artisans amongst these people, silversmiths, rug and basket makers, and jewellers working with prized turquoise, but unemployment runs at 80% we’re told and the question remains whether they should, or should choose to, adopt western ways and standards, even after some 230 years of American/European domination. The more I see, the more I learn - the less I understand their future direction.

The Navajo Nation covers some 27,000 square miles across Arizona, Utah and New Mexico. Most still speak Navajo in addition to English. We were to remain as guests in their country for several days.
One poignant reminder of the brutal past here in Arizona is the sight of a ledge called ‘Massacre Rock,’ at Canyon de Chelly where115 Indians were slaughtered by Spanish troops in 1805. I feel for these people. Ruth gave me a copy of Dee Brown’s, ‘Bury my heart at Wounded Knee’, an Indian history of the American west from the native perspective. I’m looking forward to getting my nose into that.

There are many enigmatic Anasazi (‘ancient ones’ in Navajo) village ruins set in steep canyon walls in the area, dating back to the 12th century. Many are some 500ft from the valley floor, seemingly inaccessible, often remnants of whole villages deserted as resources ran out. It is interesting to compare this period here with the advanced culture (if I may call it that) of Europe, of religion, of kings and queens, of wars and great buildings, cathedrals and palaces, all recorded in detail by scholars and monks.

I’m sure you have a picture of Monument Valley in your mind. It’s the stuff of cowboy films from start to finish. Some of Marion Michael Morrison’s 73 cowboy movies were shot in Monument Valley, set amongst the great red rock cathedrals; mesas and buttes, rising majestically like gigantic statues from the plains. The Park campsite was available on a first-come, first-served basis. As we were the only ones there on the night, we picked a spot overlooking the plain and watched the sun set behind the ‘monuments’ casting long shadows on the grey-greens of juniper and sage. That’s motorhoming at its best. How else could you rent a room with a view like that for $5 a night? Marion Morrison is perhaps better known by his stage name by the way - John Wayne. But you already knew that, didn’t you?

Temptation got the better of us the following morning and we set off before dawn to watch the sun rise from a little lower down where we joined a couple of professional photographers awaiting the same event. Though low cloud shrouded the best colours, it was well worth the effort to see the kaleidoscope of red, gold and yellow as the sun flooded the valley. It is difficult to describe the enormity of these structures or the sheer extent of the vast landscapes, but our hike across the plain after a well-deserved breakfast of bacon and eggs was truly stunning. The long shadows and contrasting light on red sandstone peaks, the spectacle of greys and greens of Arizona desert plants against the yellows and browns of the sandy dunes and the stark green of the stunted juniper make this a truly wondrous place. If you have but one lifetime, don’t miss it.

Chiricahua, Petrified Forest, Painted Desert, Canyon de Chelly, Monument Valley - surely there can’t be any more, can there? Oh! Yes there can!

Bryce Canyon, Utah, is 150 miles to the northwest and we had planned to give it a miss because of snow in the mountains. News that the road was clear came from an English couple in the information centre at Lake Powell however, and once again our route was changed. 150 miles is only three hours driving on these empty roads and shortly after lunch we were overlooking Bryce’s snow dusted ‘hoodoos’; unreal pinnacles of red sandstone, reaching out across the canyon floor thousands of feet below us like an army of stalagmites marching into battle towards the Grand Canyon, 120 miles to the south. The roads were clear as promised, right up to the peak at 9,115 ft where virgin snow covered the forest floor and fleeting sunshine broke the grey clouds, but it was not long before flurries swept across the mountain, obscuring our view. Back at the campsite some 2,000 ft lower, the temperature dropped to minus 8C overnight and a light dusting of white covered the roads. By 9am the sun was back, showering diamonds on the crisp snow, crunchy and icy underfoot, as we walked breathlessly along the canyon rim, spellbound by the spectacle, cameras clicking madly.

There are few other tourists about. Campsites are virtually empty and staff in the superb Visitor Centres are twiddling their thumbs. Fuel prices are blamed for the falling tourist numbers, but I’d give my eye-teeth for juice at 40p a litre, wouldn’t you?

We’ll be in Zion National Park, Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon in a day or two, so expect a few more ‘Wows!’ in our next newsletter.

Having just discovered Wi-Fi, this is our first message on the system. Once we get the hang of it, our pictures might end up in the right places!

In the meantime, ‘You have a good day, now.’

David and Janice - The grey-haired nomads


Quote of the week: “I’ve never seen anything like this before.” - so many times!

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Photos

The Clifton Morenci Mines
125,000 tons of copper each and every day