Today, Dianne and I joined six others on a Colorado Mountain Club loop hike up Flume Canyon in the McInnis National Conservation Area. The outing was led by one of our soon-to-be neighbors from the village.
Our route up was by the Inner Flume Trail, which follows the creek along the base of Flume Canyon. Dianne and I tried this route a few years ago, but we had to turn around when we found the trail blocked by a growth of poison ivy. The ivy hasn’t sprouted leaves yet this year, so we had no issues this time.
It’s quite pretty down in the bottom of Flume Canyon. At least I think it was pretty. I like to hike slowly and absorb the environment. Our CMC leader had us sprinting right along, so views and photos were limited. Dianne and I may head back down there next week with the big camera gear and just wallow in the scenery.
The trail up the inner canyon came to an abrupt end at the base of a huge pouroff. After an in-and-out water stop, we dropped back down the canyon a short distance and followed a trail up onto the rim.
From there, it was up and down over hill and dale as we followed the trail above the rim of Flume Canyon and back to the trailhead. The Garmin said I’d covered 5.77 miles and burned 798 calories on the three-hour hike.
To make sure we got those calories replaced ASAP, we all headed into town for pizza and beer at Hot Tomato.
Back when we hiked out of Reno, everyone stopped at some predetermined restaurant for food and brews before heading home. When we hiked with the CMC out of Denver, nobody ever wanted to stop after a hike or climb. I don’t know if it’s because Front Rangers are more stuffy or maybe they just wanted to get an early start battling the Gridlock City traffic. I hope the après-hike dining practice continues on future outings out here.
A week before we returned to Fruita, we were told that our scheduled closing date of April 22 might be delayed. It seems that gas meters are in short supply.
After setting up the trailer in our old spot at the Monument RV Resort, we drove over to take a look at the house. We were quite disappointed at what we found.
On the plus side, the siding is almost completed, the flooring and tile is mostly finished and the granite countertops, faucets, toilets, dishwasher and microwave have been installed. And that’s about it.
The rest of the appliances sit in the garage, presumably waiting for the gas to be hooked up. Until the appliances are moved out, the epoxy coating on the garage floor can’t be done.
The electrical hasn’t been completed, the HVAC hasn’t been piped in, the cabinets haven’t been completed and the patio fence waits to be erected.
The biggest disappointment is the granite countertops, an upgrade for which we paid a hefty upcharge. There’s a huge defect in the granite right in front of the kitchen sink. It’s gouged and looks as if it had been burned. It will have to be replaced.
We’ll talk to the builder on Monday about some of these issues and try to find out when a gas meter might be coming. Because of the delay, we’ll have to reschedule the movers, keep our storage units for yet another month ($560 per month) and continue renting a site at the RV park ($375 per week).
You would think that after spending 165 of the past 177 nights bunking in our trailer, all we would have to do to leave is simply hook up and go. It’s proving to be not so simple.
For example, we’ve got to remove all of our “winterizing” modifications. The skirting has to be taken off and pitched into the trash. The cover over the air conditioner needs to be removed. The heated water hose needs to be packed away in our storage unit.
The freshwater tank needs to be sanitized with bleach. The water heater anode needs to be replaced and water in the water lines needs to be blown out so the pipes don’t freeze up in transit.
Since we’re going to Arizona where it’s warm, we’ll need to ditch our cold weather clothing and pack up shorts, t-shirts and Tevas. We’ll need to stock up on beer, wine, food and toiletries to last until we get to the Phoenix area. Both propane tanks need to be topped up. Did I mention we’ll need to stock up on beer and wine?
We’ll be doing all that with great big smiles this weekend. After months stuck at an RV park, we’re finally going to go “camping” again.
Over the years, I’ve taken many well organized motor coach tours. This was not one of them.
It began in Casablanca, Morocco, where I had a day to spare. Considering alternatives for passing the time, I ended up choosing an all-day tour to Marrakech. It would not allow much opportunity for exploration, but at least I would get a taste of Morocco’s red city in the desert.
The trip departed in predawn darkness. Bleary-eyed and caffeine-deprived, I stumbled aboard the idling bus. Grabbing a pair of empty seats near the back, I curled feline-like into a dozing, semicomatose ball. I failed to notice that a speaker hung immediately overhead.
“Nice to meet you all,” an amplified voice boomed inches from my ear. “My name is Mohammed. I’m your guide.”
Perhaps in his 40s, Mohammed stood six feet tall, sported a bushy mustache and wore a blue sharkskin suit. Like a hyperactive child, he yacked nonstop for the entire four-hour drive to Marrakech. Although we mostly heard about his friends, siblings, home, education and pet dog, Mohammed did relate a bit about this North African homeland. We found out about meats in the local diet, received lessons on how to make couscous and learned that the average Moroccan consumes 80 pounds of sugar annually.
“That’s why our women are very fat,” the guide snickered.
Mohammed’s favorite subject was polygamy. Under Islamic law, he said that a man can have up to four wives. His neighbor, he boasted, has two spouses and 24 children. Twenty-three are boys.
“The daughter, of course, does all the work around the house.”
A passenger asked the guide how many wives he had. Mohammed stammered, then admitted he possessed but a single spouse.
“One wife is good,” the man rationalized. “Two wives is problem. Three wives, more problems. Four wives is war.”
While the guide bantered, I stared at the countryside flashing by. At first fields and farms lined both sides of the highway, but the cropland soon merged into desert. Unlike the dune-draped landscape depicted in “Lawrence of Arabia,” this part of the western Sahara looked more like Arizona with rolling hills, rock outcropping and barren mountains. Sheep and goats foraged among prickly pear cacti. The same spiny plants served as living fences around the isolated Berber home sites.
By midmorning, the salmon-pink buildings of Marrakech loomed into view. With its core dating back nearly a thousand years, the city presents a fascinating homogenization of old and new. Modern apartments stand near timeworn hovels, and Mercedes sedans share the pavement with donkey-drawn wagons. Passing columns of cars, carts and camels, we arrived at our first Marrakech attraction, the Ménara Gardens.
“I beg you to stay together in one group,” Mohammed pleaded. “If we lose somebody, it will take three days to get him back.”
The Ménara Gardens feature over 200 acres of olive orchards, flowers and shrubs, but we scarcely saw any of them. We came to view only the site’s 12th-century swimming pool.
“Quick. Out of the bus,” Mohammed prodded.
With the speed of a Florida recount, 38 passengers oozed from the coach. Marching armpit to armpit, we followed our leader toward a rectangular pond spacious enough to hold a quartet of football gridirons.
“Before the Moors invaded Spain,” Mohammed told us, “they needed to teach desert soldiers how to swim. So they built this big stone pool. Now I show you surprise.”
Our guide tossed bread into the opaque water. The chunks floated like marshmallows in a cup of chocolate.
“Watch!” Mohammed smiled.
“No. You watch.”
After a 90-second eternity, a foot-long carp surfaced. Like a junior version of jaws, it lunged at the drifting delicacy. Its piscine partners soon joined the fray. In one brief feeding frenzy, the morsel disappeared. The show was over.
“Everybody, back on the bus,” our drill sergeant ordered. “Hurry. We have other places to go.”
We continued to the Koutoubia Mosque. Also completed in the 12th century, this structure replaced an earlier mosque that occupied nearly the same spot. In an engineering snafu reminiscent of today, it turned out the original house of worship was misaligned with Mecca.
“Let’s go,” Mohammed commanded. “Five minutes to get beautiful picture.”
We dribbled out, dodged traffic and walked to where we could view the 220-foot-high minaret. When new, plaster and decoration covered the tower. Now weathered nude, its walls exposed pinkish sandstone underpinnings.
“Everybody get photo? Good. Now, back to the bus.”
Turning to leave, we ran straight into three men dressed in red sequined with polished brass cups. These were the famed water sellers of Marrakech. Historically, the vendors peddled precious liquid squirted from a bag. Now, they profit by posing for pictures. I removed my lens cap and reached for a few dollar bills.
“No time!” Mohammed shouted as he shooed them off.
The tour proceeded to the Bahia Palace built in the 1800s. Empty now, it was once home of the sultan’s vizier, or “prime minister” as Mohammed called him.We blitzed down passageways and through courtyards, gardens, pavilions and reception halls. Although now in need of restoration, the edifice with its carved and gilded Moorish ceilings, must have once looked more ornate than the Playboy Mansion.
Mohammed led us into the master quarters. With the fervor of the “National Enquirer,” he revealed how the former owner had four wives and dozens of concubines. Grinning, he explained how a bedroom band would play for each soiree, their backs discretely turned. It sounded like the legend of an Arab Hugh Hefner.
Our next stop was the Saadian Tombs, a necropolis dating back to 1557. Stone-covered graves lie in a quiet enclave shaded by trees, shrubs and rosemary hedges. Two pillared mausoleums extend beyond. In this, one of the most visited shrines in Marrakech, we spent 15 minutes.
“Now we go shopping!” Mohammed announced.
Our guide marched us down side streets and into an alley that doubled as the local urinal. Through an unmarked door, we walked into a rug shop.
“Good buys here,” Mohammed hyped. “Go sit.”
My cohorts and I dutifully planted ourselves on benches. While women distributed cups of mint tea, a master salesman and his assistants tossed rugs across the floor. The brew was sweet and the designs exquisite, but I wanted to meet people. When Mohammed looked away, I escaped.
In a small square behind the shop, five boys played with string-thrown tops. Two younger girls watched from an apartment doorway. I held up my camera, seeking permission to take their photograph. The older girl smiled, then started preening her sister’s hair for the picture.
The boys soon came over. The older one, a lad of about 10, showed me his soccer cards and told me the names of the players. At least I think that’s what he was saying. I didn’t understand a word, but that didn’t deter our conversation. I let the kids look through the camera. They giggled, excitedly hogging the viewfinder.
The tour spent more time in the rug shop than at all previous sites combined. Clearly, Mohammed wanted his commission maximized. I rejoined the group after the last passenger finished negotiating her purchase. Only when we finally departed did one man discover that his wife was missing.
“Don’t worry. We go to lunch now,” the guide blithely announced. “I know how to handle this problem.”
The husband and Mohammed’s local assistant went to find the wayward woman. The rest of us headed for a tourist restaurant. Inside, a trio of bored musicians played while we devoured salad, bread, chicken and couscous.
A busty belly dancer followed dessert. Practically popping from her top, she swiveled and gyrated to Moroccan riffs. Nearly every male had a camera flashing or camcorder rolling.
After lunch, we visited Place Djemaa el-Fna, the city’s bewitching central square. The place buzzed with life. Local men and women, garbed in full-length robes called djellabas, sauntered by. Scarves covered women’s heads, and veils often hid their faces. Capping the men, I saw more fezzes than at a Shriners’ convention.
Snake charmers, monkey handlers, storytellers and scribes entertained on the cement. I watched one young man perform with cobras and a pit viper. He draped the reptiles over himself and kissed their fanged heads. The charmer hammed it up as I snapped gift photos for my snake-hating friends.
I wanted to wander farther and visit Marrakech’s famed souks, the city’s winding market alleyways crammed with merchants who boisterously hawk wares. But, Mohammed would not allow it. Twenty minutes after we arrived, the trail boss started herding us toward his motor coach corral.
“If we leave now, I can give you an extra half hour in a fine shop,” Mohammed offered. “Fixed price. No haggling.”
Reluctantly, I reboarded the bus. At least with Mohammed busy compounding commissions, I might still enjoy one final unguided encounter in the magic of Marrakech.
Years ago, my favorite motel chain was Motel 6. Besides Magic Finger beds, they had cheap rooms where a night’s stay came cheaply. Since then, my favorite motels still have numbers as part of their name. My preferred motels now are Four Seasons and Super 8 – Four Seasons when traveling on OPM (Other People’s Money) and Super 8 when paying with my own dimes.
Since we don’t have a Four Seasons in Fruita (and we’re not traveling on OPM), we opted to spend the night before our Great Arizona Escape Trip at the local Super 8. The idea was to have the truck gassed and the trailer ready to go with hoses detached, slide out in, beer in the fridge and plumbing blown out before our departure.
We got up early, enjoyed a fantastic Super 8 waffle, picked up coffee at Starbucks and hit the road by the crack of 9:00. By then, rush hour traffic had cleared, and we didn’t even have to wait for anyone in either of the two round-abouts separating us from the Interstate.
Nineteen miles later, we entered Utah, hightailed it to the Cisco cutoff and followed the former Grand River toward Moab. Clearing the town made famous in Jim Stiles book “Brave New West: Morphing Moab at the Speed of Greed” we headed south through Monticello and Blanding and on to Bluff.
There we made our obligatory stop at Twin Rocks Trading Post and Café for Navajo Tacos, which consists of chili, cheese,salad and salsa on top of a huge patty of Navajo fry bread. That was washed down with some good Utah brews, which now real beers and not that 3.2% near-beer they used to serve in the Beehive State.
We got to Monument Valley early in the afternoon. In spite of enthusiastic directions screamed by someone who I believe is Wrong Way Corrigan’s distant relative, I took the correct turn to Goulding’s campground.
After spending the winter in cold, cold Fruita, it was nice to walk around in a sweatshirt and watch as the sun bathed the nearby cliffs in warm afternoon light.
Since we had a large lunch and would be going on a thought-provoking tour the next day, we dined on a bag of Smart Food that evening.
When we booked our campsite, we were given the opportunity to book a Monument Valley tour at a slightly discounted price. To maximize the amount we’d save, we booked the most expensive tour available – an eight-hour, all-day drive through both Monument Valley and neighboring Mystery Valley.
At 9:00 a.m. in the morning, we met our driver at the campground office.
“How many do you have on this tour?” I asked.
“Two,” our Navajo guide, Art Nelson, replied. “Just you two.”
Our private tour began with an inside visit of an unoccupied Navajo hogan, this one built to educate us tourists. We learned how they were built with stripped juniper logs and found out there’s a difference between female hogans and male hogans. Dianne was happy to learn there are no transgender hogans.
From there, we drove around the backcountry on trails that would hardly qualify to be called roads anywhere else in the country. Our van, Art assured us, was all-wheel drive.
We spent the morning in Mystery Valley, which lies south of Monument Valley. We visited natural arches, gazed at Anasazi ruins and admired pictograph and petroglyph panels of rock art. Our driver was gracious about stopping frequently and giving us time to waste digits photographing landscapes in the cloudless, midday lighting.
After a box lunch devoured in the wild and a stop at the Navajo-owned View Hotel gift shop (Dianne spent less than $50 there buying things for our new house), we started down the famous 17-mile loop road.
Partway along, we turned off on a, tour-groups-only, two-track trail into the Monument Valley backcountry. There we observed more arches, more ruins and more rock art along with sites where scenes from John Wayne movies were filmed.
Returning to the 17-mile loop, we made a few final stops before returning to the campground. We said goodbye to our tour guide with a couple of $20 bills and headed up to the trailer for well-deserved brews. After showers and a change of clothes (“You’re not going to wear those Levi’s are you?” my wife informed me. “They’re GROSS!”) we headed up to the Goulding’s resort restaurant for dinner.
Last time we visited Petrified Forest National Park, one of the rangers asked if we wanted to hike trailless routes in the backcountry. We answered to the affirmative and she let us borrow a Xerox-copied booklet of off-the-beaten-path hikes. We chose the First Forest hike and had a delightful time getting away from the hoards. We planned on doing more of these back-of-beyond hikes on this visit.
Checking in at the Visitor Center, we discovered that since Covid, they no longer hand out the booklets. Instead, pages covering individual hikes were available from the information desk rangers. I wanted to do a hike in the Painted Desert portion of the park, so we got packets covering the seven-mile Wilderness Loop hike and the four-mile Onyx Bridge hike.
The original plan was to do the Wilderness Loop hike, but with the wind kicking up, we opted to do the shorter Onyx Bridge hike. We drove out to the trailhead at the old Painted Desert Inn and set off down the trail at the crack of 10:30 a.m. in the morning.
The route drops 300 feet off the rim, passes by some old bridge abutments built in the 1920s, then cuts across the desert flats toward a distant butte. There’s no trail, only the occasional footprints to follow. We had the place virtually to ourselves. The only other hikers we saw on our way in were an elderly man in a yellow shirt way out ahead of us and a pair of backpackers who passed us on their way back up to the trailhead. The descriptions in the handouts were vague enough to keep us on our toes, and although we went a bit farther than the indicated distance, we had no trouble finding our objective.
Onyx Bridge is a twenty-foot long petrified tree trunk lying across a dry wash bed. A large assortment of petrified logs lay nearby. We found a semi-sheltered spot out of the wind to eat our lunch. From here, it was a two-mile slog back straight into an ever-increasing wind. It was miserable.
Back at our RV site in Holbrook, we had a decision to make. The wind howled with gusts of 45 miles per hour. The slideout topper (a short awning over the top of the slideout) on a neighbor’s trailer had ripped apart. Our slideout topper was whipping back and forth, threatening to become airborne. Figuring a night in a motel was cheaper than replacing the slideout awning, we considered pulling the slideout in and spending the night at the nearest Super 8.
Fortunately, with evening approaching the wind began to die down and we nixed the motel idea. With similar winds predicted for the following day, we decided to try finding an alternative place to camp. With a little effort, we landed a spot at the Zane Grey RV Village down in Camp Verde, a small, central Arizona town in the Verde Valley not far from Sedona. We would catch some rain, the RV park attendant said, but winds weren’t bad down there. Setting the alarm for an early departure, we hoped to get out of town before the winds kicked up again.
Holbrook sits in a high, flat, treeless plain at 5,082 feet above sea level. Camp Verde, our escape destination, sits in a semi-forested valley 3,147 feet above sea level. Between the two lies the Arizona high country where desert dwellers like my grandmother head to escape the summer heat. Here, we experienced wet roads and fresh snow. I wondered what passing motorists thought when they saw two adults with Colorado license plates standing beside the highway shooting pictures of snow.
Leaving our RV park site in Holbrook at 8:00 a.m. was both good and bad. On the positive side, we did manage to escape the gusting winds scheduled to hit later in the day. On the negative side, we arrived in Camp Verde two hours before we could check into our campsite at the Zane Grey RV Village. The attendant was adamant that because of low-hanging tree branches, nobody was allowed to park their rigs without a staff member directing them, and that doesn’t happen until after 1:00.
With time to kill, we went into town intending to do one of two things. We would either have a two-hour lunch somewhere or we would go tour Fort Verde State Historical Park. The park won out.
The historical park preserves the remains of Fort Verde, a military post built back in Arizona’s territorial days. Several of the original buildings still survive, and the park features a small museum with artifacts and displays covering the days when soldiers fought Indians. On this cool, wet, early season day, we had the place virtually to ourselves.
Departing the park, the lunch option hit. Using Google, Dianne found the only Mexican restaurant in town, where we sat down and enjoyed chips, salsa, margaritas and burritos. Then it was off to the RV park where with the help of the parking attendant, we cleared by mere inches the leaning trunk of the Arizona sycamore tree guarding our site.
I’m not a lover of RV parks, but this is one of the better ones I’ve stayed in. Split-rail fences separate the sites and we’ve got vegetation around us offering a small degree of privacy. Our site is relatively level, and with a tree flush against our dinette window, we can’t see our port-side neighbor. Best of all, the wind isn’t blowing.
On our one full day here in the Verde Valley, we went on a hike. Our goal was a six-mile hike into a place called Blodgett Basin. Somehow, we missed the trailhead and ended up parked at the trailhead for West Clear Creek. I remember this as being a popular hiking destination from back when I lived in Arizona, so it was a good alternative.
The first part of the hike was across the flats at a wide spot in the lower canyon. A mile from the cars, we passed a stone cabin near the site of the Bull Run Ranch. The cabin had two front doors. In the old days when the Mormons sported more than one wife, their homes would have multiple front doors – one for each wife. Smaller than our trailer, this cabin would have been a bit cozy for a ménage à trois, but at least each wife would have had her own front door.
We followed the trail up the canyon. The creek was high with snowmelt runoff. When we got to the trail’s first creek crossing, we turned around. Our planned six-mile hike ended up being a three-mile stroll.
Returning to Camp Verde, we stopped and bought a few groceries. On our way to camp, we stopped at the Rio Claro winery for a tasting. It only cost us a bit over $50 for a five-pour tasting and a bottle of Cabernet Franc.
Back in camp, we enjoyed a lunch of wine (cheap boxed wine, not the good stuff we just bought), cheese and crackers followed by hot showers in the trailer. Tomorrow, we actually go camping for the first time since our trip to Santa Fe. This place is nice, but parking in an RV resort with LED lights wrapping the trees just isn’t “camping.”
After a lazy morning, we hitched up the trailer and headed down the interstate toward Phoenix. Winding our way through endless city traffic, we escaped into McDowell Mountain Regional Park.
We arrived at 12:40 p.m. in the afternoon. Check-in time for campsites is 1:00 p.m. and the gate keeper was adamant that absolutely no one could check into their sites before that exact time. We killed our 20 minutes of wait time at the park’s visitor center where we got a map and suggestions for hikes.
After six nights of bunking in RV parks, it was great to once again be camping with our nearest neighbor dozens of yards away. From our site, we’ve got a great view of Four Peaks, a mountain with a quartet of conical summits across the valley, and Weaver’s Needle, a volcanic monolith in the Superstition Mountains long associated with the Lost Dutchman’s gold mine.
After setting up the trailer and devouring a hot dog downed with beer, we set off on our first hike. This was a three-mile nature walk on the park’s North Trail. We had a brochure explaining what we were seeing at 26 stops along the route. I grew up in the desert and have returned on many trips, so none of this was new to me, but the descriptions in the handout served as a pleasant reminder of the desert’s beauty.
Everyone, I suppose, has their favorite topography. There are three types of landforms that illuminate my soul – rugged mountains, slickrock canyons and the Sonoran Desert.
We’ve got rugged mountains and slickrock canyons near our new home on the Western Slope of Colorado. It felt great now to be camping and hiking in the third of my beloved landforms out here in the Arizona desert.