The quiet night turned into a calm morning. Again we were up at sunrise and left our little site at 6:47am to resume our drive down the mountain. Turkey hunters were camped about a mile west of our site, and we could hear the birds.
A lone ranger drove the opposite direction but simply waved. Had he stopped us he could have fined us for being on an expired permit. Our goal now was to get back into town and leave the rez.
Had we been in our SUV the drive would have been scenic, as the red-rocked mountains gave way to more desert terrain as we lost elevation. Pines gave way to agave, prickly pear and thornbrush. The road also became more passable.
The abandoned town of Sawmill was on our right, a small collection of sun-burned wooden shacks leaning into the sky. There was no other sign of life.
We made it to San Carlos by 9am, but there was little life there either. Now we could leave and head back home via Highway 77 south of Globe. A stop at the Apache Casino gas station for coffee was our one stop before we drove into the Mescal Mountains. This was another scenic drive. It was through these mountains that "Kearny's Army of the West" rode through with Kit Carson as the guide on the way to California in 1846, according to a historical marker at a vista rest stop. The Coolidge Dam now stands where they rode in the canyon valley.
I was looking forward to seeing the Old Camp Grant Place, but when we arrived at the spot south of Dudleyville we were welcomed with a "PRIVATE PROPERTY" sign and an Arizona Game and Fish Marker on a newly-stranded wire fence. The Arapaica Creek here barely trickled, but we could see groves of sycamores around downed trees in the creek bed. So this is where the Union Army, along with Tohono O'odham and Mexicans killed over 120 Apaches (mostly women and children) who were encamped here, supposedly under the safety of the US Army. There is no history marker here, perhaps so as to best forget this tragic moment in US History that at the time enraged Americans back East, even President Grant (who was persuaded by western mine owners to release some reservation land back to the Whites for mining purposes over the years he was in office).
A faint trail from the fence led to the creekbed, but after a short walk on private propery I returned to the van where Kevin and the dogs were waiting. I just don't like walking on private property. My goal to see the actual site, now long overgrown with new growth, failed.
Two horses behind a corral watched us. Perhaps they feared the dogs who were looking back at them. We didn't stay long, as we resumed our drive on Highway 77, then River Road at Mammoth, were somewhere at 85 miles north of home I got a blow-out in my rear left tire. If it hadn't been for Kevin's skill at changing tires I would have struggled with that jack for an hour. But we made it home in time, 2pm, before the winds began to pick up and wind adviseries were announced for northern and eastern Arizona.
We both were a bit disappointed in our weekend. Sure, it was nice to see new places but I didn't fulfill all that I wanted to do. Feeling like intruders on an Indian reservation, I somehow lacked the usual openness to approach people and ask questions. My anthropology instructor was right when she said Native Americans do not open up easily to White People. After all the battles we fought with the Natives, and then breaking every treaty we made with them, I can't blame them for their caution toward us.
I will not give up hope. Perhaps my usual strategy has to be revamped. I want to go back up there, perhaps alone so that I don't annoy Kevin with my photography. But perhaps it was my camera that was the barrier in the first place?
http://www.desertusa.com/mag98/april/stories/campgrant1.html
A lone ranger drove the opposite direction but simply waved. Had he stopped us he could have fined us for being on an expired permit. Our goal now was to get back into town and leave the rez.
Had we been in our SUV the drive would have been scenic, as the red-rocked mountains gave way to more desert terrain as we lost elevation. Pines gave way to agave, prickly pear and thornbrush. The road also became more passable.
The abandoned town of Sawmill was on our right, a small collection of sun-burned wooden shacks leaning into the sky. There was no other sign of life.
We made it to San Carlos by 9am, but there was little life there either. Now we could leave and head back home via Highway 77 south of Globe. A stop at the Apache Casino gas station for coffee was our one stop before we drove into the Mescal Mountains. This was another scenic drive. It was through these mountains that "Kearny's Army of the West" rode through with Kit Carson as the guide on the way to California in 1846, according to a historical marker at a vista rest stop. The Coolidge Dam now stands where they rode in the canyon valley.
I was looking forward to seeing the Old Camp Grant Place, but when we arrived at the spot south of Dudleyville we were welcomed with a "PRIVATE PROPERTY" sign and an Arizona Game and Fish Marker on a newly-stranded wire fence. The Arapaica Creek here barely trickled, but we could see groves of sycamores around downed trees in the creek bed. So this is where the Union Army, along with Tohono O'odham and Mexicans killed over 120 Apaches (mostly women and children) who were encamped here, supposedly under the safety of the US Army. There is no history marker here, perhaps so as to best forget this tragic moment in US History that at the time enraged Americans back East, even President Grant (who was persuaded by western mine owners to release some reservation land back to the Whites for mining purposes over the years he was in office).
A faint trail from the fence led to the creekbed, but after a short walk on private propery I returned to the van where Kevin and the dogs were waiting. I just don't like walking on private property. My goal to see the actual site, now long overgrown with new growth, failed.
Two horses behind a corral watched us. Perhaps they feared the dogs who were looking back at them. We didn't stay long, as we resumed our drive on Highway 77, then River Road at Mammoth, were somewhere at 85 miles north of home I got a blow-out in my rear left tire. If it hadn't been for Kevin's skill at changing tires I would have struggled with that jack for an hour. But we made it home in time, 2pm, before the winds began to pick up and wind adviseries were announced for northern and eastern Arizona.
We both were a bit disappointed in our weekend. Sure, it was nice to see new places but I didn't fulfill all that I wanted to do. Feeling like intruders on an Indian reservation, I somehow lacked the usual openness to approach people and ask questions. My anthropology instructor was right when she said Native Americans do not open up easily to White People. After all the battles we fought with the Natives, and then breaking every treaty we made with them, I can't blame them for their caution toward us.
I will not give up hope. Perhaps my usual strategy has to be revamped. I want to go back up there, perhaps alone so that I don't annoy Kevin with my photography. But perhaps it was my camera that was the barrier in the first place?
http://www.desertusa.com/mag98/april/stories/campgrant1.html
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