Small Walls, Big Difference

Front yards covered with crushed rock.

The way developers of residential tracts work, they do some basic wholesale landscaping in the front yards so the streets and houses all look neat, nice and ready to move in. Each front yard gets a tree or two (mesquite, palo verde or shoestring acacia), some bushes (Mexican bird of paradise, cenizo, or trumpet flower), maybe a golden barrel cactus, and lots of hardy, flowery lantana plants, all planted on small mounds of topsoil because each site has been stripped of its native soil down to the hard caliche.

Each front yard is dotted with three or four large boulders, weighing probably one or two hundred pounds each. The boulders are jagged, easily fractured reddish rocks of a variety mined some place else because, like the ubiquitous crushed rock, they are very different from the local native rock, especially the pale granite Catalina rock that is common to the Tortolitas as well as the Santa Catalina Mountains.

An automatic irrigation system is installed so the plants do not wither, die, or look bad over the weeks or months it takes to sell the house. Plus, many buyers are not into gardening and without automatic sprinkling, some lots would end up with dead plantings. That ruins the ambience of the developer’s neighborhood.

One of the grand entrances to the “Saguaro Reserve” tracts being developed just north of our tract.

When the developers bulldoze native vegetation, roads and building sites for a new tract, they always begin with the entrance and a grand monument bearing the pretentiously magnificent name for the tract, often named after a native plant that was bulldozed to clear the lots; like, “Saguaro Reserve,” “Blue Agave” and “Blue Agave II.” The entrance is the first area that the developers landscape. It makes a nice, finished first impression while the tract itself looks like an open pit mine.

The grand entrances and the front yards of each finished tract house are uniformly covered with the same crushed rock. In addition to desert-color conformity and the need to discourage lawns, the crushed rock serves to cover and hide a considerable amount of construction waste: bits of roof tiles and perimeter wall concrete blocks, plastic sheeting, styrofoam, nails, caffeine drink cans, candy wrappers, cardboard, and layers of concrete left over from when they mixed it on the caliche.

Digging the trench for the larger wall requires a jackhammer
to break up the caliche and some place to pile the dirt.

In short, we live in a neighborhood where the front yards look alike and somewhat unnatural.

We inherited two mounds in our front yard that are a bit larger than what the developer dumped on other front yards. Looking out front at the mound outside my new office window, I would see the uniformly crushed rock everywhere, as well as three large, black plastic clean-out sanitary sewer drain caps. The front yard is also adorned with two storm drain outlets and a flat, rectangular metal cover with “Tuscon Water” written on it. To hide these embellishments, I covered the clean out caps and lined the house-facing sides of both mounds with native rock. Over the weeks we were moving in, I employed Agamemnon each day to bring a load of plants and rocks from our little acre on San Simeon. Now when I gaze out from my office window, I see my private view of native rock.

Shari’s very excellent stucco finish.

I tore out each lantana plant in the front yard (Shari is allergic to their pungent fragrance), and planted some small saguaros, barrel cacti, hedgehog cactus, pincushion cactus, a sotol (desert spoon), a Mexican fence post, and Mexican aloes to begin the process of making the front yard Tom-friendly.

Since March, out attention has been towards making the backyard livable. Now that the back is substantially completed, we have started work on redefining the two mounds where they face the street with low, cement block walls. Trenches have to be dug and it doesn’t take long before shovel meets caliche. Out comes my trusty electric jackhammer. Excavated dirt is neatly piled on double layered drop cloths until a level plane is carved out, pea gravel spread, and blocks placed.

Agamemnon’s load number four:
fifteen blocks, two 60 lb. bags of concrete mix,
and two tubes of Liquid Nails.

I can rough in the wall and stucco, but it takes Shari to smooth the cement finish so evenly that a stucco professional would be envious. Neighbors passing by on their walks stop to praise the work — in large part because of Shari’s finish.

Agamemnon has served valiantly hauling some eighty concrete blocks (2700 lbs), 28 concrete caps (some 225 lbs.), 360 lbs. of concrete mix, 120 lbs. of pea gravel, and 160 lbs. of stucco mix — six or seven trips; all in all some 3500 lbs. or over 1600 kg. Only one or two 80 lb. bags of stucco mix and a tube of Liquid Nails left to haul.

I used to identify our house by clicking the remote garage door opener. The house with the garage door opening was ours. Now guests can identify our house by the small, architectural walls in the front yard. Nice.

After seven days of work.

Agamemnon in Vegas

Agamemnon at Gila Bend, the turn-off
from I-8 for the Peenix bypass to I-10,
with one of the two jet fighters
that stand guard at its municipal airport.

Agamemnon Jetson's greatest achievement to date, his longest excursion (leaving aside being dragged behind a U-Haul truck; see Haulin' U-Haul, or, the Laughlin Ride) and his greatest payload (if we ignore hauling paving bricks; see 500 Bricks & 600 lbs. of Sand) is three nights in Vegas.

The adventure began innocuously enough. My sister Irene was flying from Seattle to Las Vegas on Monday bringing our two cousins from Hungary, Laci and Judit whom I had never met before, in order to drive them to the Grand Canyon on Tuesday. They would return to Seattle on Wednesday.

I was invited to meet them somewhere along the way.

On the Vulture Mine Road, outside of
Wickenburg,  Shari's and my favorite shortcut.
Monday's monsoon washed it out,
so I had to drive through
Peenix on the drive back.

Innocuous until one looks at a map. I decided against any attempt to rendezvous at the Grand Canyon. I decided against flying to Vegas — tickets are too expensive, flying is a hassle, and it's only about seven hours driving time, which I love.  Irene was renting a car for the ten-hour return drive between Vegas and the Canyon, so all I had to take was myself. It was a job for the nimble Agamemnon.

The distances added up, but neither my sister nor I had factored in the budget, subcompact car she had rented (rated less comfortable than Agamemnon) or that she was its only insured driver.  I insisted upon taking Agamemnon to the Grand Canyon.

Four grown adults in a tiny car flying at Arizona freeway speeds (75 m.p.h. limit) on a day with predictions of 90% chance of rain. Cool.

Joshua Scenic Drive, AZ, on US 93
between Wickenburg and Wikieup.
Wikieup marks one edge of
the saguaro's habitat.

Our hotel in Vegas.

You know the joke, "How do you fit four elephants into a VW beetle? Two in the front and two in the back." It wasn't that bad at all, but Smoke Ganesha, our trusty Ford Explorer, would have been more comfortable and quieter.

Three nights in Vegas, some 1,450 miles (over 2,300 km.), and a total of about twenty-four hours on the road, burning gas at the ridiculously cheap rate of over 40 m.p.g., Agamemnon served us well. I patted its dashboard repeatedly in appreciation.

The heavy monsoon rains that caused so much flooding in Peenix and Tucson (see Monsoon Stories from Monday) also fell in Vegas. The weather was moving west, so the rain was scheduled to hit the Grand Canyon on Tuesday, the one day my sister and cousins had to make the ten-hour drive.

US 93 lookout over the Colorado River.

Hoover Dam.

We set out from Vegas at six in the morning. It had stopped raining, so my sister and I decided to stop at the nearby Hoover Dam. My thought was to let our cousins take pictures of something. My fear was that the Canyon would be socked in so badly that the only clouds would be visible. (That would have made one heck of a story, like standing on a beach watching underwater submarine racing.)

We saw the dam and Lake Mead at its lowest level since the dam was completed. A little farther along the way, we even saw the Colorado River from US 93 as it winds through the Mojave Desert from Vegas to Kingman.

Agamemnon at the Grand Canyon Visitors Center.

The weather held out until we turned north from I-40 towards the Park entrance to the south rim. We were headed towards some very dark, menacing clouds. Sure enough, it started raining just as we pulled up at the entrance.

We sheltered in the Visitors Center until the rain eased up a bit. My sister and cousins were more prepared than I. They had brought hooded jackets and an umbrella. (Well, they had flown down from Seattle.) I encouraged them to walk through the drizzle to the nearby look-out and see what could be seen.

Five or ten minutes later, the rain eased up even more and I ventured out myself. The Canyon was staggeringly beautiful.

The pleasure that Laci and Judit got from witnessing some of the world's most stunning and famous scenery made it all worth while. Actually, making connection with family from my mother's side, walking the Vegas strip together, and chatting for a day and a half in Hungarian all made my adventure wonderful. The miles just flew by.

Judit and Laci at Yaki Point.

On our way back from the Canyon, we decided to gas up and have something to eat at Williams. ("Vilmos", said Laci, citing the Hungarian equivalent name.) As if God was reminding us how specially She had treated us, it rained heavily the entire time we were in Williams. I had images of having to drive petite Agamemnon carrying four adults past the dense spray and splash of huge trucks hydroplaning at freeway speeds. But by the time Irene paid the restaurant tab and we got back onto I-40, the rain had stopped and the road was already dry.

We arrived back in Vegas after nightfall to see the full moon rising. At five the next morning, I set out to return to Tucson, arriving at twelve-thirty. Agamemnon and I are good buddies.

"Agamemnon in Vegas." You may ask, "What about Las Vegas itself?" That's another story.

Agamemnon at Coolidge Dam

Once the Gila and Salt Rivers flowed pretty much year-round, making the Phoenix valley a rich agricultural region for Hohokam and O'odham peoples. When the Anglos laid out Phoenix's water lines, they used the existing canals dug by the ancients. But today, thanks to irrigation and municipal diversions and wells, plus climate change, these rivers sacred to the old peoples are mostly dry.

The Coolidge Dam was built in 1935 on the Gila River, just before it flows north into a canyon, then west into the Phoenix basis where it is joined by the Salt River.

It must have been quite attractive in its heyday, with art deco ornamentation. Now it's quite run down, as if abandoned.

There's a campground that looks like it used to be popular destination. It's run down with only a handful of campers, a dinghy or two with bass fishermen, and picnic shelters by the boat launch that you would not want to use (the tables or the launch), unless you are a vulture.  There were several hanging around.

Agamemnon on Big Sacred Mountain

The paved road that starts from near Safford, below 4,000 ft., and ends up over 9,000 feet in the Pinaleños

We Anglos tended to name geographical things after ourselves. We used George Washington's name, for example, for cities, counties and states.  McKinley got an Alaskan mountain (thankfully now known as Denali). We also tend to name our housing subdivisions after the trees that were removed to grade and "improve" the sites.

The Spanish named a lot of geography after saints. There is something charming about the names Santa Rita Mountains and San Pedro River. The San Pedro runs south to north. Parallel to the east is Aravaipa Creek and its valley. Again to its east, also running south to north in this part, is the Gila River. The San Pedro and the Aravaipa end up flowing into the Gila which then cuts through some quite hilly terrain (the occasion for Coolridge Dam), then flows into the Peenix basin. The Gila, by this time a dry river bed most of the time, flows west and ends up in the Colorado River, or what's left of it in Baja Arizona. It's in the upper valley of the Gila that the town of Safford (named, of course, after an Arizona territorial governor) is located in some pretty rich farm country.

Looming some six thousand feet above Safford are the Pinaleño Mountains, the highest lift of any mountains in the state. Its peak, Mount Graham (10,720 ft.) is named after an army officer who helped map the area. The Apache name is Dzil Nchaa Si An, which means Big Sacred Mountain. There is something simple and reverent about native names. They didn't need maps so they didn't worship cartographers.  Or astronomers.

Agamemnon in the Pinaleños, looking back towards
Safford and the Gila River valley. 

The Pinaleño Mountains are not in an Indian reservation, which rendered the Apache nation helpless in its fight to keep the Max Planck Institute and the Vatican from constructing telescope observatories on its peak. Big Sacred Mountain is, well, holy to the Apache. Mountains are where ordinary people, with reverence, can get empowered from higher beings. But the Apache didn't build churches for their sacred ceremonies, so they had no evidence to convince the astronomers' friends or the Parks Department ("Land of Many Uses").

A paved road takes you from the Gila River valley, below four thousand feet, up the Pinaleña Mountains to well over nine thousand feet. Twenty-one miles and seemingly endless hairpin switchbacks take you from Sonoran desert to junipers, then pine, then dense fir forests, even Douglas Fir. This is a very special sky island with some five different eco-sytems in its varying elevations.

I am pleased to report that Agamemon and I enjoyed the climb thoroughly. Especially getting to Ladybug Peak where all of a sudden, after yet another hairpin curve, the road comes out the other side of the ridge and you get stunning views of the other side, the Aravaipa valley, and even the Santa Catalina Mountains.

Looking west from the Pinaleño Mountains, near Ladybug Peak:  the Aravaipa valley, 
beyond that the San Pedro valley, and beyond that the Santa Cruz valley where Tucson is located.
But you can't see Tucson from here. That may be Baboquivari in the middle of the horizon.

On a hot Memorial Day weekend (we are already in three-digit highs), the air was clean and brisk at the higher elevations. Gorgeous, invigorating and inspiring.

Agamemnon on Redington Road

Agamemnon on Redington Road

Our little Honda Fit, Agamemnon Jetson, is named after its ancient color (bronze -- get it?) and its futuristic shape. In Tucson, it stands out a bit, but so do Smart Cars and motor scooters. Lots of pickup trucks, muscle cars, and SUV's in Tucson, and in the wealthy Foothills, lots of Mercedes and two-seater vanity cars.

Tucson from Redington Road

A car like Agamemnon might pass in Tucson (we won't even mention Peenix) metro area, but in the rest of Arizona, it's an oddity. This is a cowboys and Indians frontier state where the Sonoran Desert and dirt roads breed pickup trucks and other vehicles with big wheels, big engines and high clearances driven by guys wearing big hats.

Looking south, past agave bloom to Rincon Mountains

Redington Road is an extension of Tanque Verde Road, sort of. Tanque Verde may have been a dirt road in its past, but now it's mostly a four to six lane upscale urban retail sprawl heading east. Recently widened to accommodate the growing suburban population, Tanque Verde ultimately resumes a conventional, two-lane status and turns into Redington Road. This is an area of very nice houses surrounded by lots of acres. Continuing east and gaining elevation, we arrive at the boundary of the Coronado National Forest where the asphalt ends. From city to country estate to desert all in the space of a mile or two.

The first six miles of dirt road take you to the pass itself, merely a high point somewhere between the Santa Catalina Mountains and the Rincon Mountains. Another twenty-two miles of dirt road takes you to Redington.

San Pedro valley from Redington Road, Galiuro Mountains in the distance

Local members of Redington Chamber of Commerce

Redington is marked on most road maps as if it were a town with a gas station, mayor, and a chamber of commerce. In fact, it's only a concept in name, a farm-ranch accessible only by dirt roads. Once the home of a post office, one of its founders was lynched in Florence on suspicion of being involved with a stagecoach robbery near the ranch.

I think the map makers did not want to leave an empty space in the middle of the San Pedro valley, so they seized upon the idea of Redington.

Agamemnon and I got past mile 18, about two-thirds of the way to the Redington metropolis, over a reasonably good gravel and dirt road, rarely going over 20 m.p.h. for fear of hitting something with the bottom of the car. The stunning view of the San Pedro valley and the Galiuro Mountains in the distance can only be hinted in a photo. Add the agave blooming this time of year, and you have a very Sonoran experience.

It was Memorial Day weekend, but very few vehicles, and almost all of them pickups.  Most of the holiday weekend activity was in the three informal shooting ranges. These areas are designated by the broken glass, cans, and other garbage that carpet the ground and brush.

As Tucson News reported last November, the EPA is investigating these three sites of Merkin macho. "The area is littered with lead shells and bullet ridden trash that people have used for target practice. . . . According to the complaint filed with the EPA, soil samples collected from various sites at Redington pass show extreme soil lead levels. . .. There were several signs warning people not to dump waste and to pick up their shell casings . . ..  Almost all of the signs we drove past were riddled with bullet holes."

Agamemnon and I kept moving as we heard the rat-tat-tat of pistols and the bursts of a machine gun. I kid you not. This may be the real Merka of Sarah Palin, and Jesse Kelly would call these contaminated garbage dumps "freedom," but I have to admit I don't like guns or garbage.

East of the pass is a ranch. One has to admire the fortitude of living here. Some distance away, by the side of the dirt road, is a sweet sight. Some kind person took the trouble to build a brace for a barrel cactus growing among rocks. For me, that ranch and cactus brace are parts of the real America.

Agamemnon and I got back to town safely; no incident. I'm awfully proud of the little guy trekking over rugged Sonoran hills in the company of 4x4 trucks and off-road vehicles. Not only can this tough little beast handle the dirt roads, it is air-conditioned, has an iPod connector, plays MP3 disks, and gets damned good mileage. It looks cute, too.