Frustration and Jubilation

Whiff!  I have missed again.  I cannot believe it.  My practice swing was so smooth that I felt quite professional, yeah, just like Annika Sorenstam.  Perched precariously on the tee I still see “Titelist” looking back at me.  How can a club the size of my driver miss a ball that is at least a half inch off the ground?  I am fiercely intent on whacking that little ball just like Annika does.  The dimples on the ball actually seem to enlarge as I focus all my attention on a proper swing.  My instructor has told me that my swing must be controlled and like a pendulum, but I feel more like a woodchopper as I gouge yet another chunk of turf from in front of the ball.  The ball arcs high in the air, I think I have a super hit…oh  another pond!  That is the third pond and the fourth ball that I have lost.  At the rate I am losing golf balls, I calculate that it would have been very wise for me to stay in the baseball league, for at $16.99 a dozen for balls, golf is getting to be an expensive proposition.

I select another ball, a Pink Lady this time (hot pink in colour) and will let my 3 iron have a go at it.  My shoulders ache from all the practice swings and whiffs, my toes are overcrowded in my new, vinyl shoes.  I’m hot, thirsty, tired and seriously questioning my sanity.  What am I doing under a blazing sun chasing balls when I could be home working in my garden?  Oh well, here goes nothing.  Whack!  The ball takes off, rises high in the air, soars and…..lands on the green.  I stare in amazement at that pink dot on the lush green circle of grass.  Exuberant, I grab my cart, forget my woes concerning my aches and pains and strut jauntily down the fairway.

At the 18^th green I have duffed my way to the top of the hill to finally land on the apron, that portion of slight longer grass that surrounds the green.  With my 7 iron I gently chip the way I’ve seen my instructor do it.  The ball rolls down the sloping green, turns slightly, hits the pin and plops in the hole.  That is the sweetest sound a golfer can hear.  I happily retrieve my ball from the cup.

The Road Less Travelled



Sunset Point

 Fred and I decided to continue the trip that we attempted last week on the motorcycle, the one on the unpaved road. Our destination was an old mining town in the Bradshaw Mountains called Crown King. Where the pavement ends, a sign reads 26 miles to Crown King while another sign states that these roads are not maintained. We found ourselves driving through the deep valley that we had spotted from Sunset Point the previous week. Clouds of dust trailed behind us as we drove slowly on a road of numerous curves, rises and scenic lookouts. We made many stops, for with every bend and on every steep mountaintop there was a beautiful vista to behold; another Kodak moment. I had to delay getting out of the truck to protect my camera from the billowing dust. We climbed higher, the temperature got noticeably cooler and on this side of the peaks we had an early sunset with deep shadows darkening the landscape below.

You can see the winding road below

Along with the cooler temperatures the terrain also changed from desert to alpine. Shrub was replaced with lush ponderosa pines and though the land was arid, little purple flowers emerged through the rocks. After about 2 hours we reached Crown King, a little settlement that consisted of a General Store,
a Chapel and a few lodges. Despite limited, as well as primitive access to Crown King, many beautiful cottages are scattered among the pines. At 6,000 feet this town attracts many people who engage in winter sports as well as being a cool retreat in the summer for those who want to escape from the cities in the sweltering desert.

Rather than return the way we came in, we continued on the unpaved road leading out of this tourist village and drove back into the sunlight on the west side of the mountain. Because this area is in the Prescott National Forest controlled burns left the forest beside us smoldering, thereby creating the most beautiful sunset. The road became considerably narrower and the ruts became deeper, slowing our speed down to 5 mph (sorry, but I am in the states). After lumbering along for about 30 minutes we realized that coming this way might not have been such a good plan but we reasoned that this road had to lead somewhere. I was getting concerned though because this time of year the sun sets early and it might not be fun to be driving along this mountain road in the dark. On and on we drove, around sharp curves and up and down steep hills that wound around the mountains. We came to the bottom of a rise and with a sinking heart I saw that the road ahead was flooded. I envisioned spending the night in the truck with one bottle of water each, no food and temperatures plunging into the low forties. Fred grabbed a big pole and tested the depth and checked to see if the bottom was mucky. It wasn’t. He put the pedal to the metal and drove through the water so fast that it looked like the parting of the Red Sea.

A few minutes later we could see in the distance two trucks coming toward us, the first vehicles we had seen since leaving Crown King. We barely had enough room to allow them by. Fred stopped the second truck to inquire how far the next town was. The guy replied, “about 33 miles” that I knew couldn’t possibly be. He must have meant Prescott because on my map Mayer looked to be the closer one. (both were much closer but only as the crow flies; the map did not indicate all the switchbacks we had to transverse) It was dark now and the truck headlights enhanced the contour of the road as well as the rocks. We bounced along for another hour muttering at times about the rough road and envisioned how great a coffee would taste now. We were just starting to wonder if we would ever find our way out when we finally saw a sign that said “Mayer” 10 miles. Of course at 5 mph that is still a lot of driving on this desolate road. We were excited to see a sign for a ranch for if there was a ranch then there must be civilization nearby. Well that ranch was many miles from Mayer as it turned out. We did take the time to stop, look up and saw the most amazing sight. Because there were no lights anywhere around us the stars were majestically suspended above us and it was so silent. The Milky Way was a bright glow across the black sky. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

We were relieved to finally see the yellow lights of houses in the distance and even though I had told Fred I would kiss the pavement when we finally came to it, I restrained myself.

KILLARNEY, ON

The long, winding road that leads to Killarney reminds me of the road to Tofino on the west side of Vancouver Island.  Killarney is a postcard pretty port where sailors from mostly Michigan, Ohio and Ontario dock their boats, some for one night and others for many more.  One American I talked to stays in his slip for three months every summer.  Watercrafts range from aluminum fishing boats to sleek, million dollar Carvers gleaming in the sunlight.  There are a few restaurants, all with outdoor patios where the menus feature fresh fish.  There is one grocery store where boaters can restock their supplies as well as refill their gas tanks.  An old, white hotel with a large verandah is the focal point of this little hamlet and we wandered inside to check out the lobby.

After enquiring about hiking trails on George Island the harbourmaster pointed to a nearby dock.  “Just ask for Tinkerbell” he said and it wasn’t until I walked away that I got it.  The young lad that drove the pontoon ferry looked at our city white sneakers and said, “they won’t be white for long” and proceeded to enlighten us about the rugged trail across the island, a 7.5 kilometer hike. 

A few minutes into the well-marked trail and I saw what he meant.  The trail followed along the edge of a marsh and only a few days previous this part of Ontario had been deluged with rain.  Two giant beaver lodges could be seen in the center of a large pond but all was quiet.  Sometimes while hiking we’ll hear the harsh slap of a beaver’s tail on the surface of the water warning the others of danger.  The trail now became rocky and the markers were now painted on the rocks.  After about forty-five minutes of brisk walking we were rewarded with a beautiful vista high above Georgian Bay.  The breezes felt wonderfully refreshing on our overheated faces.  To the west we could see a hazy Manitoulin Island on the horizon.  The downward sloping path leading west was a little easier to navigate and shadier as well.  On the floor of the forest we spotted different types of fungus that weren’t familiar to us.  One type was very small and crimson and another one large and yellow.  We emerged at the southwest of the island on a rock-strewn beach.  Many of the rocks were perfectly round and smooth, resembling ostrich eggs, the result of eons of pounding surf.  As we clambered over high rocks the La Cloche Mountains could be seen to the north.  I had spotted them peeking through the evergreen trees on the road to Killarney but they weren’t nearly as close as I had expected them to be.

The La Cloche Mountains are composed of ancient white quartzite and once stood taller than the Rocky Mountains.  They are still among the tallest peaks in Ontario.

Many lagoons looked so inviting for splashing barefoot in the water.  The water was so clear that it was difficult to perceive depth.  A frigid, though refreshing dunk in Georgian Bay was what we did spontaneously, and we felt energized once more.

Some abandoned tar vats nearby was the only sign that people had ever been on these rocks.  We had been informed that fishermen used to tar their nets here to protect them from rot and there were still trails of old tar that had dribbled onto the rocks so many years ago.  The scenery was so amazing that I had to remind myself that this was Ontario and not the west coast.



My favourite cactus




Our back yard in Black Canyon City, AZ

We lived full time in our RV for five years and had the pleasure of living in Arizona for five months during the winter of 2006/07.

JEROME, AZ

The Red Rocks of Sedona provide a backdrop from this vantage point along Hwy 89A

Don and Michelle came to visit us for a few days.  They had flown to Las Vegas for the KOA convention and had done some sightseeing at the Grand Canyon before heading down to Black Canyon City.  A local character we had met by the pool had advised us to travel to Jerome, an old mining town in the mountains and to take the Canadian Highway.  At my look of puzzlement he explained.  “Take highway 89A,” he said laughingly.  So there we were on 89A that winds its way up Mingus Mountain in a series of dizzying switchbacks that was both thrilling and a bit unerving.  Near the summit one stretch of this twolane road had no guardrail to keep our vehicle from plummeting into the deep canyon if it strayed onto the narrow shoulder just a bit.  I sympathized with Don for as we oooohed and ahhhhed he had to concentrate on staying in his lane as he negotiated these sharp switchbacks.  I saw so many photographic opportunities but there was no room for vehicles to pull over.  A lookout on the backside of the mountain afforded us a fantastic view across the canyon at the red rock that Sedona is noted for.  We found ourselves climbing again and after rounding a bend, suddenly the historic mining town of Jerome materialized.  Jerome hugs the side of the mountain and is a tourist mecca of coffee shops, saloons and art galleries.  There are 3 levels of streets that switchback down this side of the mountain before continuing into the town of Clarkdale.

In our quest for finding a restroom we spotted a crudely painted sign that read “Ghost Town This Way”.  Our vehicle jostled along a gravel road for about a mile past more such signs.  We saw that we were in the location of another old mining town, although this one did not look prosperous.  For a small admission charge we wandered among old relics of the automotive industry.  We saw cars and trucks from every decade beginning in 1914, all covered in layers of dust.  A steam operated saw was being utilized by two old cronies to mill logs.  Up on a hill stood a house that was formerly a bordello when this mining town was thriving.  We wandered into an old mine shaft and one of the nine people who live here told us that this mine missed the mother lode by a few hundred yards while the one in Jerome a mile down the mountain hit the lucky vein.  Chickens roamed freely and a burro named Pedro Gonzales entertained us for a while by kissing his owner on the cheek; he also grabbed a rope with his teeth, shaking his head up and down to make the attached bell ring.  He did this when he wanted food and he did it often.

We anticipate a repeat trip but this time it will be on our motorcycle.

THE MONGOLLAN RIM, AZ

On Saturday we headed north on Hwy 17 and in the Verde Valley turned east towards the Mongollon Rim area, the land that author Zane Grey loved so much that it became the background for some of the fictional westerns that he was famous for.  He lived in many locales but built a hunting lodge at the base of the rim near Payson.  As I love evergreen trees and rocky landscapes I understood his love for this area where nature abounds and civilization is sparse.

The temperature when we left Black Canyon City was 23 degrees C and as we drove east, steadily climbing to the top of the Rim, we watched the thermometer drop degree by degree to a cool 10 degrees C.   Cactuses that grow at 2,000 feet elevation were replaced with pine trees as far as the eye could see, dark green against a sapphire sky.  As we turned a corner we spotted many people tobogganing down a melting hill of snow.  Quite a contrast within a 60 minute drive!

The winding road led to the bottom of a valley and the temperature rose once again.  We passed through small hamlets called Strawberry and Pine and stopped at the Tonto Natural Bridge, the world’s largest travertine bridge that arches over Pine Creek’s clear waters.  Travertine is calcium carbonate deposited by underground springs and the bridge was a sight to behold.  It is 150 feet wide, 183 feet high and 400 feet long.  We viewed it from many vantage points, and hiked a rugged trail that led to the bottom of the gorge.  Above our heads we could see interesting rock formations and stalacites formed over millions of years.  The Park Ranger warned people not to walk under the bridge in the event that a stalacite breaks off causing harm to anyone beneath.  Water seeping through the vegetation on this natural bridge cascaded to the rocks below creating a colourful rainbow in the sunlight.  We hiked from one end of the gorge to the other, clambering over rocks and giant boulders that rested in the bottom of the creek.  A catwalk built into the side of the gorge led to a waterfall that spilled gently onto lush, green ferns below. 

On Sunday we took a 7 kilometer hike in the Cave Creek Preserve, only 40 ks southeast of the campground.  (I say only because in Arizona, due to the mountain ranges and wilderness, much driving is usually required in order to visit various points of interest).  The first leg of this trail went straight up a mountain and we wondered if the entire trail would be so strenuous.  Fred has asthma and doesn’t handle climbing well but as it turns out the rest of the trail was mostly hilly but rugged as it curved around the base of the mountains in a loop back to the parking lot.  The trail is for hikers, mountain bikers (though I can’t imagine riding a bike on this terrain) and horses.  Every so often a few bales of hay could be seen alongside the trail.  Since nearby ranches offer horseback rides along the trail we assumed it was the ranchers that had dropped off the bales.  The hike took 2 ½ hours and we were grateful that the sky was mostly cloudy as temps were about 23 C without the searing sun. 

CHARLESTON, S.C.

Walking through the narrow streets of south Charleston reminds one of Europe.  Rows of houses, some leaning slightly resemble some of the houses in Amsterdam.   First floor windows are shuttered to keep the annual horde of tourists from peeking into drawing room windows.  What would appear to be the front of the house from the street is often actually the side.  The houses are frequently fenced in and gated with the front of the house facing a courtyard with opulent gardens under massive shade trees.  Pansies line the walks and lush ferns hang from verandahs.  Many houses have verandahs on the second as well as the third floor that extend the entire length of the house.

This part of South Carolina is called low country and when approaching Charleston by car you realize why.  Like concrete ribbons suspended in the sky several highways snake their way across acres of marshland that surrounds the old city of Charleston.  In the center of town is Marion Square where farmers sell their produce twice a week.  Nearby is the information center where travelers can pick up brochures regarding accommodations, maps, locating points of interest.  If walking is your pleasure you can purchase a booklet that points out various routes to view the marvelous homes of old Charleston or you can strike out on your own.  Stroll along King St. where stores such as Saks Fifth Avenue are located as well as various restaurants.  Market St. features an interesting array of shops selling clothing, giftware and souvenirs.  Follow Church St. south to see the oldest church in Charleston and continue on to Battery Park where old cannons line the perimeter of the park.  Here the Ashley River converges with the Copper River and one quickly realizes that this location was a great vantage point for a settlement during pre-Civil War days.  Look across the water to Fort Sumter, a man-made island where the first shot was fired that began the Civil War.

Part of the charm of Charleston is the horse-drawn carriages that can be seen rolling through the streets with guides extolling the architecture and history of the city to interested tourists.  If following horses isn’t your pleasure mini-tour buses with guides can be reserved as well.  Whether you appreciate history or architecture Charleston is a wonderful city to enjoy.