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Published: March 15th 2017
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Sunday morning, and the sun peaked-up right on time, over the sandstone hoodoo ridge on the other side of the Gila River, just another perfect day. After a leisurely breakfast, we both walked over to the little store a quarter mile or so from our camp. The store is owned and operated by a crotchety old fellow by the name of “Doc”. His wife and daughter work there too, and they seem very nice, but the old man is your classic sourpuss, angry at the world. The place is hung with banners and plastered with stickers proclaiming allegiance to our new Bullshitter-in-Chief – just imagine my surprise. Be that as it may, the old man does have wifi available to the public, so I will salute him for that. While I posted to my blog and checked my emails, Cathy looked around inside. She did find another wide-brimmed felt hat she liked, though even here, the price was out of her comfort zone.
After that we packed up the truck and drove the 4 miles up the road to the visitors center at the Gila Cliff Dwellings Monument. We bought a few goodies, and I asked about fishing
here abouts. As I feared, the reports weren't good. All three branches of the river (accessible within a few miles of our camp) were running very high and cloudy. Also, the Ranger admitted that the fish stocks here have not recovered well from the devastating fires of 2012. I asked about fishing in some of the smaller feeder streams, but she didn't know much about that. We had past one that I had been eyeballing on my map, called Little Creek, I asked, but no intel was available. I also inquired about the Black Canyon stream, which joins with the East Branch of the Gila just a couple miles to the east of here, again, no idea. Well, that was helpful – on to the cliff dwellings.
Back in the truck, we drove another mile to the parking lot for the site. Again, the OFP got us in freebees. This time I even told the young female ranger we had the “OFP”, and she knew exactly what we meant. She did check it against my drivers license, but, as our papers were in order, we were ushered in. The chief concern here, is that all foodstuffs are
kept out of the dwellings, as anything, even the sugar from a spilled Gatoraide could attract packrats. Those little critters will then tunnel into the structure (mostly rock with mud mortar) and cause all kinds of harm.
The path up to the site goes over the West Branch of the Gila, and I spent some time studying it. It was, as advertised, high, swift, and murky. There wasn't a lot of places there for fish to hold, but there were a few big rocks with eddies behind them, and as much as I could tell, there were no trout there. The path lead into a narrow slot canyon, dark with the shade from large trees. There was no sign of fire here, I'm sure the forest service had made a special effort to keep the 2012 fire from entering here. After a few hundred yards of crisscrossing the little stream at the bottom of the canyon, we began to zig-zag up the north wall. One more turn, and then we could see it, a series of beautifully made structures, fitted into some natural sandstone caves.
Built by a prehistoric native group, these buildings had
been used for hundreds of years, only to be abandoned around 800 years ago, for reasons unknown. Some of the rooms are believed to have been for storage of food, while most are thought to have been for habitation. At one time, they were all roofed over with wooden poles and mud daubing, but that is mostly gone. It is remarkable how well each space is shaped to conform to the natural rock -- there is an artfulness to be seen here. Makes you almost proud to be a human.
The guides did a great job of explaining what is known, and what is still mysterious about the residents of this wonderful place. It was remarkable to think of the generations of people, living, loving, suffering, and celebrating – right here. As we walked back down on the other side of the canyon, we saw an area that took the full force of the wildfire, a hillside where even the largest trees had been unable to survive. The firefighters must have put up some fight to stop it here and save the dwellings canyon, quite a tribute to those long-gone builders.
After that, we drove back to the camp for lunch, then I headed back with my fishing tackle to explore Little Creek Canyon. I had a wonderful hike in and out, but I saw no sign of any fish. I studied the water closely, and despite the fact that it LOOKED like great trout water, and that it was running very clear and cold, I could see no life at all in the stream. No daces, no sculpin, no larva, no shrimp, nothing except for a few skating bugs. The area had been heavily damaged by the fires, with all the big cottonwoods dead and rotting, and nothing looking green except for the shrub willows along the watercourse. It could be that the water chemistry was still affected from the burn. A shame, because otherwise, it was a lovely stream to fish – except for that one missing ingredient.
That's not to say I had a bad time though, the canyon was broad and open, and it was lined with beautifully shaped sandstone walls. There were shallow caves, and those wonderful “hoo-doo” columns. If this canyon was plunked down somewhere in New York State, folks would drive hundreds of miles to see it. Here, it's just another canyon; ho-hum. I didn't see many of animals, but I did see lots of javalina sign, with hoof prints and rooting holes. I also flushed a nice covey of quail – too bad Stormin' Steve was not here with Saddie (and a boom stick).
After that it was back to the trailer for a nice meal and another early-to-bed evening. No problem with street racing here, we're 100 yds from the main road, but no one seems to drive it at night, so it's quiet as a Trappist Monastery. Tomorrow, I would try to make my way into the Black Canyon, to see if there might be some fish there.
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