Arizona is burning (again), but not here.
The other day, one of my editors asked me, in an e-mail message, whether there was smoke where I was. She lives in Salt Lake City, UT and smoke from fires all the way down near St. George was coming up her way. At the time, I reported that Howard Mesa was smoke free.
But yesterday morning, when I opened the camper door to let Jack out, I smelled smoke — enough of it to throw my shoes on and walk over to the shed, which has a view out to the west. I scanned the horizon, looking for the fire I smelled. But there was nothing definitive in any direction. (I have a good nose for smoke. When we lived in Bayside, NY, I once woke up in the middle of the night, smelling smoke. It turned out that a church 13 blocks away had burned to the ground during the night.)
I didn’t see or smell smoke all day yesterday. But in the evening, as the sun was setting, I saw the smoke on the northwestern horizon. Probably the fire out in the St. George area about 120 miles away. This morning, the smoke from Arizona’s big fire — the second biggest in its history — had drifted north, past the San Francisco Peaks, shrouding the eastern horizon. I almost missed the sunrise. The sun fought to be seen through the thick smoke, appearing as an orange globe poking out through the top of the thickest of it. There was little light from the sun at first. Then, when it broke clear of the cloud layer, I could feel its bright warmth. The smoke cloud faded back to a blue-gray blanket on the horizon.
As I type this, the Cave Creek Complex fire has burned 140,000 acres of Arizona desert. I’m not sure exactly where it’s burning, but descriptions of its progress has me worried about one of our favorite fly-in destinations, the landing strip at Red Creek on the Verde River. The Sonoran desert out there is beautiful, almost pristine because of its remoteness. The landing strip, although rough for airplanes, is fine for helicopters. There’s a picnic table there and a bunch of donated equipment, including lawn chairs, water bottles, and emergency equipment. There’s also a trail down to the river, that runs past an old bunkhouse. At the river, tall trees offer cool shade. A secluded paradise, a secret on the Verde River.
When the fire is finally out and the temporary flight restrictions removed, I’ll fly down there and see what’s left of the area.
I landed on my gravel helipad near the trailer and shut down. Then I proceeded to do chores. Unlocking the camper, turning on the power and refrigerator, tuning in the stereo (presets get lost when you shut power), hooking up the water, setting up the pump, opening the gate, putting out the carpet. I was just staking down the awning when I heard Mike’s truck pull in. He unloaded the horses and other critters and I made him lunch. Then we put away all the things he’d brought: Alex’s big cage from the coffee shop, the cabinets I’d bought for the shed, and the tools I’d need to work over the summer.
Mike spent the afternoon hooking up the camper to our septic system. It was a good thing he did, because the camper had been used for three short trips without being dumped and it was beginning to get stinky. I took care of things inside — putting away groceries, making the bed, cleaning things up. Two hot showers later, we had dinner at the picnic table outside the camper, with our horses and the San Francisco Peaks to admire while we ate. Cherokee decided to stand on the other side of the bird cage while we ate dinner. His head was about 2 feet from Alex. Alex was very quiet while Cherokee was there. Then Cherokee decided to sample the corn cob litter I’m using at the bottom of Alex’s cage. I think he likes it. We had to scold him and chase him off. Jake came over and watched us eat our corn. I think he was begging. It was very weird having the horses so close to us — less than five feet away — while we ate. I’m not sure how much I like it. Meanwhile, Alex has already learned to imitate the squeaky screen door. He makes the sound every time we open the door. I’m waiting for him to learn how to call Cherokee.
Back on the mesa, we relaxed for a while before doing our final chore for the day: surrounding the helicopter’s landing area with a “fence.” We had some plastic fence posts designed to hold electric tape. We’d bought the whole system — complete with solar fence charger — as an option for when we went camping with the boys. But we’d since used the fence charger and some of the tape to surround the chicken coop and keep our neighbors dogs and coyotes out. We had these posts and plenty of tape left, so we used them to make a perimeter around the helicopter. The idea is to keep the horses out of the landing zone when the engine is running. Our horses respect fences, so we knew it would keep them out. We just weren’t sure how well the posts and tape would hold up to rotor wash.
I flew over Larry Fox’s place with the idea of offering him a ride, but didn’t see his truck outside. I think his wife was working in the garden. So I just kept going, up to our place on top of the mesa. I was there in less than 4 minutes. It would take Mike and Dave and the soon-to-be cabin considerably longer. I landed on the far edge of the gravel helipad we’d made the previous season and shut down. Then I made some trips to and from the helicopter to unload the supplies we’d brought: primer, paint, paint rollers, curtain rods, wood patch, etc. I opened the trailer and immediately smelled something nasty. A quick glance in the fridge gave me the bad news: I’d forgotten to take home that leftover prime rib from dinner the weekend before. Oops. It had become a science project. I brought it outside and went back into open some windows. Then I turned on the stereo and brought out a book with the idea of reading.
After a while, I heard the sound of a laboring engine. The sound seemed to be coming from the direction of the road up the mesa. I remembered how the road grader had been parked partially in the road and wondered whether they were having trouble getting around it. But there was nothing I could do so I just waited. Then I saw it: the building! It was moving past the big metal tank about a half-mile from our place. It was about a three quarters of a mile drive from that point. Then I saw it again, further along the road. Then at the “four corners” intersection. Then it was coming up the road!They turned the corner into our driveway without falling into the ditch at the end of our culvert. Then they squeezed through the gate — I guess it was a 16-foot wide gate after all. Then they were on their way up the driveway to our living area at the top.
They joined me to watch Mike, David, and David’s Spanish-speaking helper as they positioned the trailer over the spot where the building was supposed to go. It was a nice spot — the same spot I’d parked the trailer the summer before — with views out to the west and easy access to the fire pit we’d built the first year we came to Howard Mesa. Then they tilted the bed of the trailer and started to move the truck forward, gently sliding the building down. A short while later, the building was sitting on top of the cinderblocks we’d bought to keep if off the ground.
Of course, the building still needed to be leveled. And it was about 11:30 AM, a full 30 minutes after the time we’d promised to start our trip to Chandler. David promised to level it and close the gate behind him when he left. Matt and Elizabeth left. Mike and I locked up the trailer, hopped in Zero-Mike-Lima, started up, warmed up, and took off. Mike got this great picture of the site as we were leaving. We’ll be moving the trailer closer to the soon-to-be cabin next time we bring Mike’s truck up there. It’ll probably go perpendicular to the building, facing south, so they can both access the same septic system pipe and water line. The idea is to live in the trailer while fixing up the building to add amenities like a tiny bathroom, kitchen area, and solar powered electricity. (Howard Mesa is “off the grid.”) By the end of the season, the soon-to-be cabin should be a cabin and the trailer won’t be necessary. At that point, we’ll probably sell it or exchange it for a smaller pull trailer that trades horse space for living space. I’m thinking of a 18-foot model with a slide out or pop-out bed.