North of Prescott, AZ. We were camping in the headwaters of the Verde River, at the base of the Mogollon Rim, the southwestern edge of the Colorado Plateau. The dogs and I took off on a mountain bike ride to Hell Canyon, right from the travel trailer's door. How can you resist a place-name like that?
We were on a flat stretch of overgrazed ground. You don't really see much of that on western public lands anymore, thanks to the environmental lobby. There! For once, I've given them a well-earned compliment.
The dogs loved running on the flat dirt roads on the way to Hell Canyon. We finally arrived at the canyon, at the point of a large railroad bridge and a highway bridge built back in the Depression. Both were picturesque.
The dogs loved running on the flat dirt roads on the way to Hell Canyon. We finally arrived at the canyon, at the point of a large railroad bridge and a highway bridge built back in the Depression. Both were picturesque.
Looking at these tracks over Hell Canyon brought an image to mind: the boys playing chicken with a train in Rob Reiner's wonderful movie, "Stand by Me." Since I had missed that experience as a lad, I felt a perverse desire to bolt across this bridge, especially with a post-9/11-era sign telling me that I shouldn't.
Perhaps an adult should feel ashamed of such a puerile urge. But the alternative would have been to experience this as a mere tourist; not a great option, since Hell Canyon really isn't spectacular enough for a postcard. Actually this is my favorite kind of place: attractive, but subdued; neglected and overlooked.
I just stood there, looking at it, and soaking up the forlorn lonesomeness that such places usually have, when I actually heard a train whistle in the distance! This caused a sudden panic for me about getting to the canyon-bottom in time for a photo of the train crossing the old bridge. Finally I got down there. The river was dry of course but, as is usually the case in the Southwest, the effects of water were everywhere. The rocks were so rounded by erosion down on the bottom, and some of the water-carved sculptures were amusing:
Even dried mud showed the effect of water and sun. The red sandstone mud had tensile-cracked, exfoliated, and curled up:
Although I kept hearing the train whistle I couldn't really tell whether the train was approaching or receding from the bridge. All sorts of odd creaking sounds could be heard overhead; does that mean it's already too late? I started running to a better camera position. Hurry up! Then the whistle blew again--was that the official railroad policy as the train finally approached the bridge?
What if I twisted my ankle running over these troublesome rounded rocks? Would I have the guts to ignore the pain and to hobble to the best camera position in time to see the train...
...it wasn't Hell Canyon anymore. As the train whistle got louder and louder, a wounded and frantic William Holden was limping, desperately trying to get to the detonator box to blow up the "Bridge over the River Kwai," before the train got to it.
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