Arizona – Page 41 – On the road with Jim

Clay Hills Picture of the Week

July is soon ending, and I’ll be writing about a different mountain range and its backroads next month. In a way, I’m not ready to move on. The Aquarius Range has more that I’d like to explore, and it may be a while before I get a chance to come back. I could use an extra Sunday to squeeze in another story. Oh well—a promise is a promise.

So, this week, we’ll finish up at the beginning or end—depending on your direction of travel—of the Aquarius Range, its south end. Here, there’s no sharp boundary that identifies that we’ve arrived. The mountains just taper into low hills then gently deliver you into the Burro Creek Valley at Six-Mile Crossing.

Depending on the source the Clay Hills or Hell's Half Acre — Depending on your reference these are the Clay Hills or Hell’s Half Acre as viewed from the south end of the Aquarius Range near Burro Creek Crossing.

As you descend from the higher mountains into the valley, you’ll notice a cluster of small hills with buckskin-colored cliffs for which I found two names. On the valley floor, there are Bureau of Land Management (BLM) signs saying these Clay Hills were restoration protection. On my TOPO Maps, however, they’re called Hell’s Half Acre. It amuses me that when pioneers found land that wasn’t flat and plowable, they called it Hell’s This or Devil’s That. I once had a friend who was an Ohio farm boy who told me, “… the Grand Canyon is a wasteland. You can’t grow crops there.”

I took this week’s image after I poked around the Six-Mile crossing for a while. I looked for a pretty shot of the creek running under the Cottonwood trees. The water was slow, stagnant, and choked with algae. It resembled a cesspool, so I gave it a pass, although the shade was pleasant.

As I began driving up into the mountains, I stopped to capture the scene that I call Clay Hills. It was already late morning, and the pretty light was quickly disappearing. The glare of the harsh desert sun would soon replace the warm colors. The camera is pointed west in this perspective and highway US 93 crosses Burro Creek Canyon on the far side of the cliffs. The pointy mountain eight miles in the distance is Burro Peak, so the air was pretty clear considering the recent fires near Prescott. For a cherry topping, I threw in a young saguaro with fresh buds sprouting from its top like the hairdo kids wear these days.

~~Click here to see a larger version of Clay Hills on its Web Page~~. Be sure to come back next week when we set off for another adventure exploring more Arizona back roads.

Until next time — jw

Burro Cliffs Picture of the Week

In my effort to bring you photos from this month’s Aquarius Range Project, I returned to the crime scene last week and explored more of the Mohave County mountains. According to my trusty DeLorme Gazetteer, there are two roads—meeting my requirements—that cut through the Aquarius Mountains: the Trout Creek Road that I covered over the past couple of weeks and a second road called Burro Creek Crossing, which is nine miles south of Wikiup.

If you’ve ever driven to Vegas on US 93, you’re familiar with the twin bridges spanning a 400’ canyon at Burro Creek. It’s one of the few desert creeks that run all year. Its headwaters are at the foot of Mount Hope on the San Louis Baca Land Float No.5—the Spanish Land Grant I mentioned last week. From there, Burro Creek flows in a canyon between Goodwin Mesa and Bozarth Mesa, under the bridges, and eventually into the Big Sandy River and Lake Alamo. There are several places where the roads cross the creek; the campgrounds on Highway 93 and the Six-Mile crossing are two that I’ve made. Six-Mile is the ford you make on Burro Creek Crossing Road.

Burro Cliffs at dawn. — Burro Cliffs – Not far from Highway 93, Burro Cliffs rises from Box Canyon as you drive up Burro Creek Crossing Road.

Immediately after turning off Highway 93, Burro Creek Crossing begins to climb into the Aquarius Mountains. The first few miles run along the south wall of Box Canyon and past a small mountain-like structure called Burro Cliffs—the subject of this week’s photo. When I got there, the sun had barely cleared the horizon and bathed the hills in a warm yellow color. The light’s low angle pulls out the luscious curves in the mountain while the vertical walls of basalt show as dark fortresses along its flank rising from Box Canyon. I liked the backlit trees along the ridgeline in the foreground, so I included them for detail, contrast, and scale. Palo Verde and Mesquite appear as bushes, reaching 10-20 feet—well over a person’s head.

After I took this shot, I continued along the road to Burro Creek crossing, and guess what? I found it there. Burros! I saw about a dozen of them along the way. That’s the only wildlife I saw on this trip (besides the dead snake in the road that a roadrunner killed). The wild burros have become a systemic problem in Arizona. Spanish prospectors first abandoned them in 1690, and each subsequent generation of prospectors contributed to the situation by releasing them after their claims ran dry.

Most people find them fuzzy and cute, but the mules don’t have a natural predator. They aggressively defend their young and will gang up to chase off a big cat. They can survive by eating anything and everything. Unlike deer, antelope, and bighorn that eat grass shoots, the donkeys pull the plant right out of the ground; roots and all—try that on your lawn. They kill trees by stripping off the bark and branches as food. According to BLM, Arizona has four times the amount of burros that the land can support. I think Shrek should have clubbed Donkey in the first reel and we would all live happily ever after.

~~You can see a larger version of Burro Cliffs on its Web Page by clicking here~~. Be sure to come back next week when we set off for another adventure exploring more Arizona back roads.

Until next time — jw

Mohan Range: A Lost Horizon in Arizona’s Bermuda Triangle Picture of the Week

Have you ever looked at an Arizona road map and noticed the big empty swaths—entire regions with no towns, no intersections, no welcome signs? A third of the state looks uninhabited. That’s not cartographic laziness—it’s the truth. Some places were never meant for people. Look at a land-ownership map and you’ll understand why. Much of the terrain south of I-8 is military proving ground (because what better use is there for a desert than dropping bombs?). To the north, you’ve got the Grand Canyon and vast stretches of tribal land. And over in the west—well, welcome to the Bermuda Triangle of Arizona.

Three roads trace its edges: U.S. 93 on the west, I-40 to the north, and Arizona 89 on the east. Unlike the Sahara-style sandscapes you might expect, this isn’t a wasteland. The land rolls between 3,000 and 10,000 feet in elevation, a mix of grasslands and mountains. It gets summer monsoons—thunderheads stack up there most afternoons. It looks like it should be dotted with towns.

But it’s not.

This month, I decided to poke around this odd no-man’s-land. I set my sights on the Aquarius Mountains, taking Upper Trout Creek Road—a little loop that climbs over a saddle and drops down the far side before ending at a quiet religious retreat. There’s a parking area where I stopped, took in the view, and turned around. That’s where I captured this month’s image: Mohan Range.

Mohan Range-Very few know or have visited the Mohan Mountains in Arizona. — Named by the scouts of General Crook, the Mohan Range whispers of forgotten trails and undisturbed land—where silence stretches further than the road.

The Mountains You’ve Never Heard Of

I hadn’t either. You don’t see the Mohan Range from U.S. 93—it’s tucked behind the Aquarius Mountains. But it’s real. Mohan Peak stands at a respectable 7,500 feet, putting it in Arizona’s top 100 summits. From Interstate 40 or some spots in Prescott, it’s visible—if you know where to look.

Naturally, I came home and Googled it. I expected to find a line or two. Instead, I struck gold.

One of the first search hits was from the Peakbaggers website. These folks climb the top 100 mountains in each state—for fun. (No, I don’t understand them either.) But their post was solid: detailed, well-written, and packed with photos. That page led me to something even better—a beautifully photographed article by Kathy McCraine about the O RO Ranch.

A Quarter Million Acres of Off-Limits

So why aren’t there any towns in this triangle? Because nearly all of it—over 250,000 acres—is the O RO Ranch. It’s private, and it’s vast. This is cowboy country, in the old sense of the word. The eastern part of the ranch stems from an original Spanish land grant—the Baca Grant, which the U.S. government actually honored. Later, the Mohan Ranch to the west was folded in, and the two became one: Arizona’s oldest and largest cattle operation.

According to McCraine, life here hasn’t changed much. Cowboys still ride the range on horseback and sleep in teepees. There’s no town, no road system, and definitely no Starbucks. And they don’t want company.

I loved one line she wrote:
“Cowboy wannabes need not apply.”

Take the hint. If you’re driving through, heed the signs. This is not a place for sightseeing unless you’ve got an invite, a saddle, and some serious grit.

The Road Less Photographed

~~You can see a larger version of Mohan Range on its web page here~~. And as always, we hope you’ll come back next month for another installment of Arizona’s overlooked corners and dusty crossroads. There’s something special about these places—where history lingers, maps go blank, and the silence stretches for miles.

Until then, keep your spirits high and your humor dry.
—jw

Aquarius Boulders Picture of the Week - Wikiup, Arizona

Long before Arizona was a state, it belonged to another country—Mexico. In retaliation to the Alamo massacre, the U.S. declared war on our southern neighbor and took away half of their land. When Mexico surrendered, we tossed fifteen million dollars (the same amount as the Louisiana Purchase) on the bed and said, “The money’s for the room, babe.” Our newest land acquisition was called New Mexico Territory, but—because it was so vast—we split it into several states. Arizona was the last to make the team.

To see what their money got, cigar-chomping Washington politicians handed some change to a young lieutenant—Amiel Weeks Whipple—then told him, “Here, kid. Grab a couple of guys, a tape measure, and measure the backyard.” This expedition was Lt. Whipple’s first across our state. He started in San Diego and headed east, surveying land along the new border. His second journey was in the other direction, and this time, he was to lay out a railroad route along the 35^th Parallel—Interstate 40.

I mention Lt. Whipple because, when I research how an Arizona location got its name, it is often cited in Arizona Place Names—that’s the reference I usually use. As he worked his way across the territory, surveying, mapping, and fighting Apaches, Whipple didn’t have the luxury of stopping someone to ask, “Excuse me, but what do you call those mountains?” Not many people lived here, and many who did were cranky. After all, air conditioning hadn’t been invented yet. Instead, if a place needed a name, he’d make something up that seemed to fit.

That’s precisely how the Aquarius Mountains got their name. Whipple, who found abundant water sources in the range, named them after the mythological water bearer. If you’ve driven to Kingman, you’ve passed by the Aquarius Range. They are on the east side of U.S. Highway 93 from Wikiup north to almost Interstate 40. The highest peak is Snow Mountain, with an elevation of 5880′, so it sometimes has snow. Several dirt roads go up into the range, which will be the routes we’ll scout for exciting photographs. We will be spending the month of July photographing along the Aquarius’s back roads.

The first road I’ve always wanted to follow has perplexed me since I drove U.S. 93—Upper Trout Creek Road. Give me a break; this is the Upper Sonoran Desert (the transition zone); how can a creek be cold enough to support trout? It doesn’t, or at least not this particular Trout Creek. This one is a tributary of the Big Sandy River. As soon as the road crosses the Big Sandy, it’s called something else according to Archie’s navigation system (but not on the Gazetteer). I drove the road to the ridge, where I was treated to a beautiful vista to the east.

This week’s image is from Granite Flat, halfway up the mountainside. When I stopped, the sun was going down behind the Hualapai Range (on the west side of Highway 93), and its rays cast a warm glow on the rocks, peaks, and low clouds hovering in the sky. I call this shot Aquarius Boulders. It’s a scene looking north with Hwy 93 in the valley to the left and the Aquarius peaks to the right.

~~You can see a larger version of Aquarius Boulders on its Web Page by clicking here~~. Be sure to return next week when we set off for another adventure exploring Arizona’s back roads.

Until next time — jw

Mine Tailings Picture of the Week

With this posting, we’ve completed this month’s photo excursion of Castle Hot Springs Road. The detour north of State Route 74 started with almost prairie-like flat desert adjacent to the Wickenburg range. Then the road ascended into the Buckhorn Range with a magnificent view of the Bradshaw’s. Next, our back road dropped down to Castle Creek through the Hieroglyphic Mountains past the hot springs resort. Finally, we returned to asphalt at Lake Pleasant where we saw vast groves of saguaros growing on the mountain slopes (I put that in my mental filing cabinet for a future outing).

There was one scene along the way that wasn’t quite ripe enough to shoot when I first drove by it, so I wanted to backtrack and see if it improved with the warm afternoon sun. It did, and it is this week’s featured image which I call Mine Tailings.

Mine Tailings - Tailings comprised of red soil caught my eye because of the color and erosion pattern. — Mine Tailings – Tailings comprised of red soil caught my eye because of the color and erosion pattern.

I don’t know if there are an inordinate number of mines in Yavapai County, but it seems like they’re everywhere. A few hearty souls—that either suffer from unrelenting gold fever or have nothing better to do—still work the claims, but most of the mines are abandoned. When the ore runs dry, the prospectors move on in search of the next elusive bonanza. Because there’s no economic incentive to restore the claim, abandoned mines are left unposted and are often dangerous. Just this year, rescuers have pulled a couple of people trapped in mine shafts. It’s a growing Arizona problem.

One of the tells of an old mine is the tailings. As prospectors tunnel into a mountainside, they have to remove the diggings and pile them somewhere. In massive operations, fleets of trucks build hundred-foot-tall dikes, like the one that used to line Highway 60 in Miami, Arizona. But with smaller claims of one or two men, they will fill a wheelbarrow and walk it outside and dump it over the edge, building a tailings dump; the deeper the mine, the bigger the tailings.

The thing that makes the tailings in this week’s photo interesting to me is that they’re red, and the late afternoon sun exaggerates that color. The red against the blue sky vibrates my eyeballs. There’s more that we can learn from the image, like how old it is. The erosion patterns are deep from many seasons of heavy rain, and its fan pattern is reminiscent of what you see in the Painted Desert. In both cases, water easily cut through soft soil. Finally, dirt and rock that comes out of a shaft is well below the topsoil level, so it’s not rich in nutrients. Here, the desert Mesquite has begun to colonize the hillside, so the soil contains some organic material already.

You can see a larger version of Mine Tailings on its Web Page by clicking here. Be sure to come back next week when we set off for another adventure exploring Arizona’s back roads.

Until next time — jw