Tag Archives: plants

Poppies

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Three quick shots.

Today was a photography day. Not only did I finally get my POV.1 camera to produce some good and interesting aerial video, but I went out in the desert and photographed wildflowers and other desert things.

Here are three photos of poppies that I took today. I believe they’re California Poppies, although I’ve heard people refer to them as Mexican Gold Poppies. Whatever. They are so plentiful this year that I can actually see them from the air as I fly over the desert: yellow carpet on the south-facing hills around Wickenburg and Phoenix.

All of these shots were taken in the desert just east of Vulture Peak, south of Wickenburg.

I think this is my favorite photo from today’s shoot.

The blue flowers mixed in here are lupines. Absolutely gorgeous but there are far fewer of them than poppies.

This one just says it all: Welcome to an Arizona spring.

Hopi Tea

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A soothing beverage from the Rez.

My first visit to the Hopi reservation was about 6 years ago. I was traveling in my Jeep with two friends. Our main destination was the annual Navajo Nation Fair in Window Rock, AZ, but my friend Shorty wanted to drive through the Hopi Reservation and visit Old Orabi, which is the oldest continually occupied village in North America. Shorty wanted to mail a letter to a friend with the Old Orabi (or possibly Hotevilla) postmark.

The Book of the HopiThe Hopi tribe, unlike many other Native American tribes in the Southwest, is working hard to hold onto its culture and heritage and keep it from being commercialized by outsiders. This is probably why so few people know anything about the Hopi people. Their ceremonies are usually closed to the public — as are entire villages sometimes — and photography is not allowed. The reservation is completely surrounded by the Navajo Reservation in northeastern Arizona and only a few paved roads go through it. There aren’t many shops or restaurants and there are no casinos. The place isn’t very tourist-friendly because they don’t want tourists around. (This may be changing as the Hopi tribe realizes the importance of tourist dollars for the tribe’s economy. I just hope they don’t lose their identity in the process.) You can read more about the Hopi people on the Tribe’s Web site or in The Book of the Hopi by Frank Waters.

With all this in mind, we drove into the reservation and found Old Orabi. I don’t remember much about it. The Hopi tribe are pueblo indians and they built their homes on the edge of the three Hopi mesas: First, Second, and Third Mesa. I remember walking around one of the villages, past ancient stone homes, some of which were still occupied.

Eventually, we got to the post office, which I think was in Hotevilla. I remember this a bit better. It was a standard tiny-town post office with a bulletin board in the outer vestibule, where all the mailboxes were. Shorty spotted an “ad” for blue corn meal. We made a call from a pay phone and were soon on our way to a Hopi home.

It was a more modern home than the stone structures in the old villages. We were invited inside and I remember being surprised at how remarkably “normal” it was. (I don’t know what I was expecting.) We sat on a sofa while kittens played around us. The Hopi woman we’d met there had a big galvanized metal trash can that was absolutely filled with finely ground corn meal. She measured out quantities of the stuff with a round, flat pan not unlike a cake pan and stuffed it into a Blue Bird Flour bag. She told us how the cornmeal had been ground as part of a wedding ceremony. This was the leftover cornmeal from that celebration. When the bag was full, Shorty handed over some money and took the bag. (I wound up buying about half of the cornmeal from Shorty and still have some in stock.)

The conversation turned to dance shawls. A friend of the woman’s made them and had some for sale. Were we interested in seeing them? Shorty was. So we hopped into the Jeep and followed the woman to her friend’s house. The shawls were pretty — square or rectangular with really long fringe — but the colors were too bright and gaudy for my taste. Shorty bought one or two, possibly to be polite. And then we got on our way.

This whole experience really made the visit to the Hopi reservation special to me.

From there, we stopped at the Hopi Cultural Center for a bite to eat. Unlike my companions, I had a traditional Hopi dish that included lamb. This was before the vendors started setting up stalls outside, so after lunch we continued on our way.

As we were leaving Second Mesa, we passed a shop on the left called Tsakurshovi. (Don’t ask me to say that.) We stopped in. It was a small shop that caters primarily to the Hopi people, offering the materials they need to conduct their ceremonies. There were dozens of traditional-style Hopi kachinas — figures carved to represent Hopi religious and ceremonial people — furs, herbs, and more. The shop had two small rooms and a friendly young Hopi man behind the counter.

Turns out, this shop is owned by the Days — Janice and Joe. Janice is Hopi, Joe is not Native American. And it was mentioned in a recent story on NPR, which interviewed Joe’s son, Jonathan. Jonathan grew up spending his summers on the Reservation and the rest of the year in Boston with his mother. He now lives in Flagstaff where he runs a shop that I suspect is very similar to his father’s.

Traditional Hopi Kachinas: A New Generation of CarversI don’t remember why I bought the hopi tea. Perhaps Shorty bought some. Perhaps I asked the guy behind the counter what the bundles of sticks in a Ziplok bag were all about. In any case, I bought a bag of three bundles of sticks for $4.

I also bought a copy of Jonathan Day’s book, Traditional Hopi Kachinas: A New Generation of Carvers, which I had autographed on the spot by the guy behind the counter, Wallace Hyeoma, who happened to be one of the featured artists (page 47). (A year later, I would return to the shop and buy several traditional style Kachinas, one of which was carved by Wallace’s uncle.)

We continued on our way, leaving the Hopi Reservation. Our next stop was at the Hubbell Trading Post, where I wound up buying a Navajo rug. But that’s another story.

Much later, when I returned home, I found the bundles of sticks in my luggage. I boiled some water, broke off a few sticks and leaves, and dropped them in. In minutes, I had a hot cup of some of the most soothing tea I’d ever tasted. Clean, fresh, and simply delicious. No need for sugar or milk or lemon. This tea, like green or jasmine tea, is perfect straight. Now I commonly drink it on cold, lazy afternoons, when I feel a cold coming on, or when I’m feeling blue. To me, it’s like a comfort food beverage.

Those three bundles of sticks lasted a long time. A few years ago, I was back on the Hopi reservation and bought more. But today, waking up with a head cold, I decided to forego my usual morning coffee in favor of the clean flavor of Hopi tea. As I brewed up a cup, I realized two things: (1) the long story of how I’d discovered Hopi tea might be interesting to at least a few blog readers and (2) I was running low again.

I did some research for this blog entry. I discovered that Hopi tea is from a plant commonly known as greenthread and scientifically known as Thelesperma filifolium. You can see some photos of it as a plant and stick bundles, learn how to brew it, and read about its medicinal values on the New Mexico State University’s Medicinal plant Web site. I learned that it grows in abundance in the Navajo, Hopi, and Zuni reservations of the Four Corners area. I also found an online source for purchasing Hopi tea online, High Desert Farmers. High Desert is a small scale grower which sells Hopi tea as traditional bundles (they call it “bulk”), loose, and as tea bags. Since the bundles weren’t available, I bought bags and loose. It cost me $14.50 (including shipping), but saved me a 200+ mile trip to the Hopi reservation.

If you like plain, soothing hot teas like green tea, you’ll probably like Hopi tea. If you ever see some in your travels, I recommend it. And I hope you story of first acquisition is as memorable to you as mine is to me.

Perkinsville

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The ranch at the end of the line.

In February, Mike’s mom came out to Arizona to spend a week with us. She’s in her 80s now and although she’s still pretty mobile, there are limits to the things you can do with her. Among our activities was a ride of the Verde Canyon Railroad.

The railroad is a tourist attraction through-and-through. They ask you to get there an hour early — that’s so you’re stuck in a corner of Clarkdale where the only restaurants and shops are their snack bar and gift shop. Our “first class” tickets entitled us to snacks on board, but we worried that it wouldn’t be enough for the 4-hour ride. So we spent another $30 on burgers, hotdogs, chips, and soda like everyone who was waiting.

But the train ride itself is thoroughly enjoyable, especially if you like to simply relax and watch the scenery go by. The narrow gauge railroad winds along the southwest side of the Verde River, one of the few Arizona rivers that runs year-round. From the train cars — including the outdoor observation cars which are extremely pleasant — you can see a variety of wildlife. We saw bald eagles and glimpsed two different herds of javelina. On a previous trip, I remember seeing deer. There’s a recorded narration, some hokey music, and some extremely knowledgeable “conductors.” Our guy in the open car had brought along photos and the Plants of Arizona book to identify plants. And unlike the folks at the Grand Canyon Railroad, these people aren’t squeezing you for tips throughout the ride.

PerkinsvilleThe ride ends at Perkinsville, where the canyon opens up to a broader valley. There’s a ranch there and the train stops literally in front of the ranch house. The place appeared occupied — there were horses and cattle there — but there wasn’t a person in sight. The conductor guy told us the story. Years and years ago, when the railroad was built, the land at the ranch was needed as a station to take on water and fuel for the steam engines. The railroad had offered the land owners a lump sum or a royalty for the use of the land. The Perkins family had taken the lump sum, giving up their control of the right of way. Today, under new ownership, the tour train had control of the land. The people who live in the house make themselves scarce when the train stops there on every run.

Verde Canyon EngineWhy does the train stop at all? Well, this is the place the engines are moved from the front of the train to the back for the return ride. There’s a siding there and while we’re waiting, enjoying the scenery and feeling kind of bad for the people who have to deal with 130 tourists a day looking into their windows, the engineer takes the two engines and moves them. The task takes about 20 minutes and they sell ice cream sandwiches to us while we wait. Then we’re on our way back to Clarkdale at a slightly faster speed, leaving Perkinsville behind.

Do I recommend the Verde Canyon Railroad? Sure. Why not? Just get a good lunch in Cottonwood or Clarkdale before getting to the station. Don’t pay extra for the first class seating. And spend the entire journey on one of the outdoor cars where you can really see what’s around you.

Back to the Desert

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Day 13 brings me to the mountainous desert around Salt Lake.

Despite my less than perfect accommodations, I slept reasonably well. I think it’s because of the sound of flowing water that came in through the door to the back deck. I’d left the door open a few inches, trusting the lock on the screen door to keep out any hotel guests who might be wandering around on the deck. I was in the end room, so the chance of someone walking by my door on their way to another room was remote.

I showered. It was the first motel shower I’d encountered in a long time that couldn’t keep a steady water temperature. Every time one of my neighbors flushed the toilet, I’d come close to getting scalded. The third time this happened, I shut the water off and called it quits.

I packed up the car, checked out, and headed south on 89. I had a Doubleshot to meet my caffeine needs. (My friend Lorna, who has been reading these entries faithfully from her home in Maine, e-mailed me to ask what a Doubleshot is. In case you don’t know, here’s the scoop. A Doubleshot is a canned Starbucks coffee drink. It’s an easy way to get a caffeine fix when I’m on the road. I usually buy a couple of them when I’m in a supermarket and keep them in my cooler. When I can’t find decent coffee elsewhere, I drink a doubleshot. I don’t really like them — they’re too sweet for my taste — but they’re easy.)The road began by following the Snake River through a canyon. When it reached the town of Alpine, WY, the Snake River curved to the northwest while I headed south. Alpine was a nice little town with a lot of tasteful new construction and small businesses. The town was very quiet — it wasn’t even 8 AM yet. I almost passed a drive-up coffee stand. When I spotted it, I hit my brakes hard and pulled in for a latte.

The building was tall and it was quite a reach up to the woman inside it. My Clarkston reused coffee grinds experience had left me a little leery of coffee stands, but I had nothing to worry about here. The woman, who was very friendly, made me an excellent large triple latte. I asked her whether she owned the booth and she told me she didn’t. In fact, it was her last day at work. She was moving back to Spokane, WA. The woman who owned the booth was doing okay, but it was hard to do well in the town because of its heavy Mormon population. I later discovered that Mormons don’t drink coffee. I guess a coffee shop in a Mormon town would be like opening up a pork store in New York’s Lower East Side.

From Alpine, I headed due south on 89, which lies on the east side of the Wyoming/Idaho border. I was in farmland again, but at an elevation well over 5,000 feet. Wheat and alfalfa seemed to be the big crops. One alfalfa field had just been cut — probably the previous day — and the smell of the fresh alfalfa was rich and sweet.

I think I was in Afton when I saw the car wash and pulled in. I’d managed to call Megg on my cell phone and arrange to go to her house in North Salt Lake City that afternoon. My car was dirty and I didn’t want to make a bad impression. So I washed it for the third time on my trip. This time, it was the dirtiest it had been so far. The bug situation in Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming is bad and the front of the car was pretty much plastered with dead bugs of all shapes, sizes, and colors. It took six minutes worth of car wash time to get it all off. I dried it with my rags and dusted off the dashboard. Much better.

I crossed into Idaho at Geneva Summit, which was 6,938 feet. That put me into a long valley with a succession of towns: Montpelier, Ovid, Paris, St. Charles, Fish Haven, and Garden City. Every town I drove through was remarkably quiet — nothing seemed to be open. Except the church, of course. All the church parking lots were full and I saw more than a few well-dressed people out on the streets, walking to or from church. Things changed a bit when I got near Bear Lake. Lots of people were out and about at the lake, in boats and in public access areas. There was a lot of housing on the lake side of the road with plenty of Private and No Beach Access signs to keep people out.

Bear Lake

Somewhere between Fish Haven and Garden City, I passed into Utah, the ninth state I’d visited on my trip. At Garden City, I got on route 30 and followed that around the south end of the lake. I climbed a hill and immediately realized that I had slipped into high desert terrain. The vegetation on both sides of the road consisted of tall grass, sage, and a variety of other desert plants. I was getting closer to home, leaving the water wonderland I’d enjoyed since entering Oregon more than a week before. I felt disappointed and did not look forward to what I’d drive through ahead: dry desert, hot sun, empty riverbeds. I realized that I’d fallen out of love with the desert.

I turned right on route 16 with a bunch of other cars, heading southbound. More farmland, but not much more. I passed the bunch of cars, tired of breathing their exhaust. Later, I turned right again onto route 39, heading west. The road climbed and climbed and climbed. I kept checking my GPS for elevation information and the number kept going up. I was certain that when I reached the top of the mountains, there would be a lookout where I could see Salt Lake. I crossed over the Monte Cristo Summit, at 9000 feet, and started down. There was no lookout. The road dropped into a canyon with a small stream on either side. It twisted and turned as it descended. I passed two pickup trucks and some kind of Volkswagen — a Jetta, maybe? — blew past me.

I spotted a restaurant on the left and made a harrowing turn into a parking space. I needed a bathroom and lunch, in that order. I asked for them in reverse order. It would be a 20 minute wait to eat outside on the patio, which looked like a good place to eat. I got directions to the ladies room and while I was doing my business, decided I didn’t feel like waiting. Instead, I’d find a shady spot in a park and eat some of the food in my cooler. So I left and continued on my way.

Trouble was, there was no shady spot in a park. All I passed were campgrounds, and since it was Sunday at midday, all of the campgrounds were full. So I kept driving.

The road dumped me down in Ogden. I got on a main avenue that was also labeled route 89 and headed south toward Salt Lake. I wasn’t in a hurry. I was supposed to meet Megg at around four and it was only 1:30. That meant I had time to kill.

I should have killed time up in Ogden, because when I got closer to North Salt Lake, all of the shops and businesses were closed again. It would not be a good place to kill time. I drove all the way down to the city, then came all the way back up to Bountiful, where I found a Barnes and Noble that was open. I killed over an hour in there, buying books for myself (as if I needed them) and for Megg’s son, Cooper. Then I hopped over to the Taco Bell for a bite to eat. Then I drove around some more. It was around four and I was in a Smith’s parking lot, after buying two pies for Megg and her family, when I finally connected with Megg. I was five minutes from her house. She gave me directions and I made my way over there.

Megg is one of my editors. She works with me on my Quicken Official Guide books, which I’ve been revising faithfully since the Quicken 99 edition back in 1998. Megg hasn’t been stuck with me that long. She inherited me from my first editor on that book, Joanne, about five years ago.

Megg has a lovely and very large house on a hill overlooking the North Salt Lake area. Excellent views, plenty of space. And a very comfy guest room. I met her son and her husband. I then proceeded to join her for a very relaxing afternoon and evening.