Long days, longer nights

I've reached that point in the semester when everything is coming to a head. Whatever free time I have (not working during the day) is filled with walking the dogs in the foothills and/or studying. I get up at 5am and stay up until midnight. My only solace is gazing at the snow-topped mountains on a clear day. Meteorologists said this morning on the local news that most of Arizona is recovering from this recent rain and snow. We had been desperately needing this moisture.

I worked on some research last weekend and didn't hike. Saturday it rained anyway, but it's unusual for me to forsake a weekend. I'm itching for a hike this time, although once again we are due to get more rain late Saturday.

I came home earlier than usual today just to spend time with Kevin. I got home around 6:30pm and he was already in bed watching a DVD. We chatted for a while. He had both good news and bad news to convey. The good news is that his vacation time that he worked up to did not get cancelled when the new contractor took over. (If this is true, why was his vacation time bought back? Or was it?) That means we could take an extended vacation together this late summer before the semester and perhaps explore a place. Oregon? Montana? Alaska? Like me he is drawn to the Northwest. But if he wants to see Montana I'll gladly go back there again.

But the sad news is that his friend Gary was diagnosed with bone cancer yesterday. "He's got about 2-3 years to live" said Kevin, although those prognosises usually are shorter. He is 61 years old and retired last September. He had been feeling weak and his blood tests kept coming back undecipherable. It took Gary's doctors several months to figure out what was wrong with him.

"If he's got that little time left, he should travel somewhere before it's too late" I said. And that's how we started talking about Alaska: flying there and then renting an RV one of these summers. Alaska has always been Kevin's dream. If we had the time, I'd rather drive the AL-CAN highway; one of his relatives worked on its construction during WWII.

I'd also want to travel to Europe again, see Lithuania. I have been talking about that trip for a while myself.

Alex sent me a Facebook message today saying that she and Matt are working on wedding plans, but haven't decided on where: should it be somewhere in North Carolina; Orlando, FL; Las Vegas, NV; Nice, France. Vegas would be the closest for us, but I'd love to see NC again. I could do without Florida (although my high school reunion is slated for early August as I just learned today) although knowing me I'd be delighting in its semi-tropical flora.

A compliment from a friend

I heard from Mark yesterday via email, my old army pal who used to live in Lubbock but who now lives in far eastern Texas. He and I explored a few north Texas state parks when I lived in the Texas:

"...I ran across someone yesterday who is wanting to travel and see the world, a complex woman, reminded me immediately of you for you are knowledgeable about travel.

You are the best at scoping every drop of info so that a travel is not merely sightseeing but living out the history and seeing it as it was and is now. That is unique in my mind. I know few like you."

Kevin has told me similar compliments, saying he always enjoys the roastrips I plan. Although Yuma wasn't exactly the best road trip, it was a good insight into the area's history (what is left of it) and its natural environment.

I need to plan a road trip back to Texas, but getting to its eastern boundaries is a full day's drive.

Historic Yuma

The sun took a long time to rise above the mountains. A few egrets gathered in the reeds below for an unlucky fish or reptile, but other than this silent gathering, there was little of any loud morning feeding. We left our little site shortly after 7am to drive toward the Imperial Dam and then back into Yuma.

Kevin had an appetite for an IHOP breakfast. I went along with his plan. The place was crowded, it took us over 30 minutes to get our food, but we enjoyed our conversation. The coffee was quite good.

I wanted to walk around Historic Yuma before our five-hour drive across the Sonoran desert. He didn't mind. We had missed the historic part of Yuma that first day because we were rushed to see the old depot and prison. Trying to find the historic riverfront was hard enough!

There are only about eight blocks worth seeing in Yuma, and those are the blocks east of the depot and prison. Most of the old buildings had been destroyed in a 1916 flood, and what few are still standing are renovated. Only the Lee Hotel is the one true relic, but that building is crumbling and smells of mold.

It was just past 10am as we walked along the shops. Most were still closed, but life was coming to some of the smaller food shops. I chatted briefly with the owner of a hot dog stand inside a narrow shop court. the exterior of his shop was colorfully designed, to resemble a Mexican court yard. He is a semi-professional (self-taught) photographer, Karate black belt and gourmet cook who's waiting for his big break. We talked about cameras, lenses and techniques. His wife and business partner also does some photography.

Kevin had walked on down Main Street so I followed him. He had wandered down two blocks but I could recognize him by his profile. He was walking toward the historic Lee Hotel, the one original building still standing in Yuma. It wasn't much of a building: cracks permeated the foundation and there were water stains in the ceiling. The lobby smelled of mold and stale cigarettes. The hotel guests looked like they were subsidized to stay there, but that didn't stop either of us from getting into a conversation with one of the guests who was sitting outside under the front canopy and smoking a Marlboro cigarette.

"This place is haunted" said the older, blonde woman. "I see all kinds of ghosts here" she went on. I was curious to find out who she was "seeing."

"Oh, there's Clark Gable at the front desk. He's dressed in tails and very tipsy, as if he went to a wedding" Others whom she has seen in the hotel are Marilyn Monroe and John Wayne.

The night before a strange couple were in her bed having sex. "I went outside until they were done." Now that is weird. But despite her psychic claims she seemed rather normal.

"Are you sensitive?" she asked me. She wanted to "read" my energy, and told me about the various energies the body parts radiate. I was already lost there, but let her read me. I was curious what she would say about me, a women she didn't know.

"You are very spiritual yet doubtful of a god, overly analytical, and headstrong in your opinions. You remain headstrong even if proven wrong." Oh uh. I thought she got me there.

She wasn't quite so accurate with Kevin. "You are easy to read" she said, but didn't give any details.

We both joined her inside the Lee Hotel. It wasn't as well kept as I expected an historic place to be. Framed yellowed newspaper articles from the Chicago Herald Tribune were hanging from the walls, articles depicting D-Day, the Lindbergh crossing and Armistice Day. Kevin seemed interested in her stories, but I left the hotel to photograph more outdoor scenes. Kevin quickly followed me. The woman was interesting but she was starting to resemble a fast-speed sales pitch. I'm surprised she didn't ask for money for reading our vibes (which I gladly would have given her) but I started to sense that she was working in cahoots with the hotel owner. There were other sites to see besides this dingy hotel.

Stores were starting to open as we walked back to the van. The hot dog shop was full of customers and other window shoppers were strolling down the sidewalk. What once was rather lifeless and quiet was now buzzing with energy.

There isn't much to Yuma. Most of the town is agricultural/industrial with a heavy Mexican accent. The streets are littered, its people grubby and distrusting. We only saw a tinge of this once important river town. If there's anything of note to our visit, it's the drastic change that has taken place to the trickling river and the riparian habitat once dependent on its water. What we didn't see was the violence along the border once the sun goes down.

Palm Canyon and the Colorado River

This was a fun day all over the Lower Colorado River Valley.

After a hearty breakfast at our hotel we were off for the 50-mile drive north on Highway 95 toward Palm Canyon in the Kofa National Wildlife Refuge. Kofa is an old contraction of "King of Arizona" Mines, as this range of dry rhyolite peaks was once inundated with mines. The old jeep trails still take climbers to remote sites, but most are hard to get to and require 4x4 vehicles. Saguaros, Teddy bear Chollas, ocotillos, creosote and palo verdes line the desert floor here.

The drive on Highway 95 was an adventure in itself. Lined with slow-moving RVs and elderly men driving ritzy sedans, I had to watch traffic in both directions. For every Senior driving a slow RV there was an elderly man in a hurry. I was glad to make it to the trail head by 10:30am just to get off the road.

Three vehicles were already at the trail head, but the trail itself was not crowded. The turn-off for the high-growing palms was a mere half-mile into this narrow and high canyon, and most people didn't venture further into these peaks. Three people were resting at the turn-off. I wanted to go up into the palms, and then Kevin started talking to the three. Their accents sounded familiar. It turned out they were from Maine, which always results in Kevin asking more questions:

"Where in Maine?"

"Kennebunkport."

"That's Bush Country!" I replied, just to add my two bucks worth to the conversation.

"But we are originally from Massachusetts."

"Where in Massachusetts?" (Here we go again)

"Woburn"

"Woburn?!?! Do you know..."

What a small world this is, as the one seated woman turned out to be the old neighbor of Kevin's former mother-in-law in Woburn back in the mid 1970s. They sat there and talked about relatives and old neighborhood people going that far back. I took this opportunity to climb up to the palms for some photos.

And what a climb that was! It was perhaps no longer than a half-mile. This this was steep, unstable and slippery terrain up a narrow slot. The majority of the palms have been buried by a massive boulder slide, and only 20 of the alleged 100 are visible. Many more barely are sticking out of the rocks. According to the Kofa literature, these palms are remnants of when these mountains were cooler and wetter.

I climbed up this canyon with my Canon dangling around my neck and my smaller camera in my hand. Neither allowed me sturdy hold. I only made it half-way up the palms, as the larger boulders required me to have better gear and a spotter to make further climbing safer. I rested on one large boulder and took in the views. If I were to get injured here, it would have been a pain for search and recovery teams to get me out of this tight canyon. I was boxed in.

I took a different slot down. This trail was less steep but just as unstable. Kevin said he could hear me coming from all the rocks that were sliding down with me. The narrow and steep canyon walls made every sound echo more than usual.

I could feel my shins from the work-out. When I rejoined the group the conversation hadn't changed any. After a bit more talking about this part of Arizona, we departed and drove back toward Yuma, but first we made a few more stops along the highway. Kevin wanted to get something sweet at the Stone Cabin, a small white house with two small eating areas attached to it that sold hamburgers, ice cream and drinks. The Stone Cabin was an oasis for the hungry traveler. Locally famous date shakes were also sold here. I asked to try one, having heard of this special, and as quite surprised at how naturally sweet the treat was. I saved my appetite for lunch, though, and that was later at an Applebee's. We still had the Imperial Wildlife Refuge to check out, but here the attendant couldn't guarantee any more viewings of spectacular birds. We hadn't seen much wildlife up to this point, not even lizards in the desert.

We didn't even spot any bighorn sheep that allegedly live along the higher peaks near the water. All we saw were fishing tourists and birders and standard waterfowl such as coots and cormorants, a few egrets and herons and an isolated Cooper's Hawk every now and then. Perhaps all the motorized boats scared off the wildlife? We didn't stay here for long, and opted instead to drive back into town for a late lunch. It was Valentine's Day afterall. Kevin treated to Applebee's.

The franchise we were at was a quiet one, with an eclectic clientele (meaning not all of them were blue-haired retirees). Three TVs around the bar showed either collegiate basketball or the Daytona 500. With the Winter Olympics I was hoping to catch some speed skating or downhill skiing, but instead I just stared at the screen without much notice of any scoreboard.

Northern Yuma's streets were starting to look familiar as we drove back toward the river for a night out along the water. We drove back to Mittry Lake, just like the tourist lady yesterday recommended, and got the last decent spot of the lake: an open vista view. Here is where we pulled over to listen to the waterbirds, experience a quiet sunset, and bunker down for the night. We were comfy outside our sleeping bags until 2am. Even though we were right off the road, there was very little traffic over night.

Yuma Territorial Prison and Depot

"Are you ready to go or are you going to be on the internet all day?" Kevin asked me at 5:20am. We had agreed to leave at 6am, so I had time to look up the address for the recycling center in North Tucson.

We left a few minutes before 6am, and for the first time in over a year, we took off for a long weekend without the dogs in tow. This was going to be our first road trip since we spent New Year's Eve at Lake Havasu over 13 months ago.

I didn't feel guilty leaving the dogs home alone. Sadie had been giving us both restless nights lately, whining at 3am to go outside and pee, and now whining at 4am for breakfast. With access to the back yard, plenty of food and water, they were set. No intruder would get past Sara without losing an arm.

I was behind the wheel. My late night up watching the Opening Ceremony of the Vancouver Olympics tired me, but I drove the van until we made it to Gila Bend and across the barren desert of southwestern Arizona. Here the mountains, which top out at 3-4000 feet, don't show much life at a distant. This is the true desert.

Kevin took over until we got to Yuma, and just outside of town at 11am I took over again to maneuver into town. Kevin does not like driving in cities.

And what a town! What started its Anglo roots as a depot town in the 1850s to supply the frontier army towns along the Colorado River has now become an agricultural town of Mexican day workers, lettuce fields and RV sites as far as the eye can see. It was like being in south Texas again, except the weather in Yuma is more pleasant. To quote my Benchmark Gazetteer, Yuma is the hottest and driest city in the country." Federal land hugs the outskirts of Yuma, and the only way the town can grow is eastward along the interstate. We started entering the city limits ten miles from the river.

We were in town to experience its "River Crossing Day," an annual event in which both the depot and territorial prison are free of charge. Park at the town's depot and you can take the free shuttle to the prison. It was a pleasant afternoon reading the historical stuff, but what we didn't care for were the large chatty groups of retirees. Just like in south Texas, these people take over a room, a building and conversation and talk about the most private of details with anyone within hearing range. They are like teenagers without the annoying cell phones.

The shuttle bus was small and carried only 15 people, and when a group of nine retirees boarded with us, we soon had to hear all the stories about each other's pregnant pug, grandchildren or the distant cousin of some long-lost relative. Kevin was eager to get off the shuttle bus when we landed at the prison at 2pm.

And here we had more groups of retirees. There was not one angle I could find that didn't have a white-haired elderly person walking right into the shot. I soon gave up and just photographed whoever walked into the frame. It wasn't a very large prison, but this area was Arizona's first military post and the old adobe blocks to the prison were made right on the premise with prison labor after the Civil War. It is located on a bluff overlooking the northern flat desert of California. This prison stayed open until a newer prison opened in 1909 in Florence, AZ.

People in the Yuma prison were murderers, train robbers, rapists, even a few Mormon polygamists, Mexican miners and Indian laborers served time in these dark cells. A few women also found themselves here, usually because they had accompanied male accomplices during a murder or robbery.

It turned out to be a hot day. My hiking boots were too hot for my feet. Yet I wanted to walk back to the depot rather than wait for the shuttle to take us back to the Depot. After sternly letting Kevin know we were better off walking back than waiting on the shuttle in the hot sun with retirees gathering around us, he walked ahead of me in a pout. He had told me earlier he had wanted to walk back from the prison. That's how I managed to walk behind him along the Colorado River, taking photos of the reeds and river walk. For a river the Colorado here looks sickly, and isn't much wider than I've seen the Rio Grande south of McAllen. The many irrigation canals through the farm fields and the dams upriver have drained the river of much of its water. It's hard to imagine the river in the days of Martha Summerhayes of the 1870s when water traffic was one of the biggest economies here. Steamboats carried military supplies up this river; today those same boats would have a hard time getting out of the river's sludge.

We made it back to the depot in 22 minutes. It was a pretty walk on the paved trail along the river. More construction appears to extend this trail another mile south along the river, but we stopped at the depot. This was the nicest spot in Yuma that still resembled a natural state. Several people found remote spots along the banks for quiet fishing and relaxation.

Outside of the small historic area between the depot and the prison along Madison Avenue, though, there isn't much to urban Yuma besides hotels, restaurants and chain stores. Yuma makes its living off the farms and the winter snowbirds who rent RV spaces along the river. A lot of cars bore California plates. We had hit Yuma during its prime tourist season.

By 3pm buses carrying Mexican farm workers were on their way to the boarding rooms somewhere. (According to Gabriel Thompson, author of "Working in the Shadows," 12 million heads of lettuce are harvested each day around Yuma. Each worker cuts around 3000 heads a day.)

I was ready to car-camp along the river near a patch of river the tour guide at the depot recommended. This spot north of town allegedly is prime birding land. But instead Kevin suggested a hotel for tonight and a camp-out tomorrow and that is what we did. We had a nice meal at the family owned Chretin restaurant off 16th Street and then went upstairs to our hotel room. It was still in the 70s at 6pm, and a young family was outside enjoying the heated outdoor pool. I should have brought my water shorts!

Tomorrow we are going to explore a few wildlife viewing ranges along the river, and hike the short but steep trail to Palm Canyon, the only area in all of Arizona with native palm trees. Ironically the only native palm tree in Arizona is the California fan palm.

More later. For now, these notes will do. I'll download the pics when we're back home Monday.
http://www.yumasun.com/news/women-56329-prison-yuma.html
http://www.yumasun.com/news/escape-56350-prisoners-prison.html

Reina's ashes

The VCA vet clinic in Sierra Vista FINALLY called me to let me know Reina's ashes are ready for pick-up. I was on my way to the canyon for a quick walk with the dogs when the vet assistant called; I was over there an hour later with 20 minutes to go before closing.

It took over 4.5 months to get Reina back. Initially I was told by the VCA clerk that Reina's ashes would be ready for pick-up "anywhere from one to three weeks." At the five-week mark I went over there to ask what was taking so long. It's not like the crematorium in Douglas is overtasked with incinerating bodies from Mexico. (Or is it?) When I asked about the delay the excuse I got was "They wanted to make sure they spelled your name right!" Oh come on! The name should have been typed in by the veterinian office.

"We tried contacting you a few times" said the clerk, "but all we got was your voice mail that wasn't set up yet." When I checked my phone later I did see a number from VCA from 8 December. There were no other calls from them.

But all is good now. I have Reina back. Finally. Her death still bothers me and I still miss her.

"I'm tired of being called a terrorist!"

Thus said a young 7th grader as he walked into the classroom I had this afternoon. He was a gifted child, and quite a handsome and polite young man. His name was Hassan and he had the prettiest deep eyes and thick eye lashes I've seen on anyone.

I asked him what made him say that as he walked in. "There's this kid who's always teasing me because I'm an Iraqi" he said.

"You should complain about him. I know if I had seen him tease you I would have sent him to the front office with a referral. I have zero tolerance toward any people who tease, harass or bully others simply because they aren't like them."

I then shared with the class my own experiences in Highland, IN; a child of a German mother 15 years after World War II ended, in a neighborhood dominated by Protestant Anglos or Catholic eastern Europeans. Most of my classmates in elementary school had fathers who worked in the local steel mills around southern Lake Michigan. Many of the last names were Croatian, Serbian, Czech, Polish, or Greek.

"I was called a Nazi Girl and I didn't even know what a Nazi was!" I said. Hassan seemed to understand. We had formed a silent understanding.

The rest of the period went uneventfully. The students were busy researching for their National History Day projects, projects that only gifted students have the privilege of working on. I later talked to Hassan some more: his parents fled Iraq before Desert Storm and were refugees in Syria.

"How ironic. My own mother was also a war refugee. I was born in Chicagoland."

Hassan was born in this country and speaks American English like all his other classmates. If you looked at him without knowing his name, you may even think he was Hispanic, as so many other children here are. That is the ironic part.

"You just wait, Hassan, you'll get your As and a college scholarship and will be all the better off than the rest of them!" He smiled back in agreement, as he pulled out his iPod and called his parents. The final school bell rang out, the kids ran toward the buses or their waiting parents, and Hassan sprinted out into the wet winter day.

I hope I see him again. He was a breath of fresh air.

(Edit: The next day I was back at the school and Hassan proudly told me that the kid who was harassing him finally got suspended and now wants to be his friend.

"I don't think I want to be his friend" said Hassan.
"I wouldn't want to be his friend, either!" I reassured him.)