There are plenty of arroyos (dry washes) in the Little Pueblo, but bein' az we're at the foot of the mountains, they are usually soggy and full of plants. They just don't make for the peerless walking of the arroyos of lower Arizona. Forgive me for feeling a little nostalgia for them; during my traveling years I'd be in Arizona at this time of year.
My dogs and I hardly ever walked real hiking trails in the uplands there, since the rocks were too sharp for dog paws. A woman in the campground here sewed up a boot out of cloth for her dog. She was amazed how short the boot's life was. But even leather doesn't stand a chance. I spent a couple years trying different brands and materials before finding Neo-Paws.
Contrast the prickliness of an Arizona razor-rock hike with the pleasure of an arroyo. Cactus and mesquite grow on the banks, but not in the middle of the "stream." As if that wasn't relief enough, the rocks and gravel are mercifully rounded. They look like they belong on a wave-lapped shoreline of a lake or ocean. How could an occasional flash flood have rounded them so? If the walker -- why do I resist the term, hiker?-- has no particular interest in geology or rocks, arroyos might inspire him to develop one, especially if he sees the wild pleasure of his dog running down an arroyo.
When Coffee Girl was new to the family she seemed like a huge beast to me; I was used to a 14 pound miniature poodle, and she weighed 40 pounds. We were in the upper end of the Verde River of central Arizona one fine morning in November and were walking in a dry tributary. She was definitely wearing her puppy face that day, so I unsnapped her and let her rip. I've always wanted to see a flash flood in the southwest, but never have. But in a way I did experience a flash flood while watching Coffee Girl tear down that arroyo. Why didn't she trip over the football-sized rocks?
There was a den for a large animal dug into the bottom of a vertical sidewall of this dry wash's bank. I was afraid to get up close for a good photo. There were some imposing claw marks outside the den. What kind of beast lived there?
Diluvial evidence was everywhere, but of course, not a drop to drink. The speed of erosion -- and thus the shortness of life -- are most evident in the plants, large rocks, or red dirt that are ever so close to falling into the "drink."
There was a den for a large animal dug into the bottom of a vertical sidewall of this dry wash's bank. I was afraid to get up close for a good photo. There were some imposing claw marks outside the den. What kind of beast lived there?
Diluvial evidence was everywhere, but of course, not a drop to drink. The speed of erosion -- and thus the shortness of life -- are most evident in the plants, large rocks, or red dirt that are ever so close to falling into the "drink."
A couple weeks later we were boondocking outside Wickenburg, one of the few Arizona towns that I like. It's proud of being the horse capitol of Arizona. All this horsey business makes for lots of informal hiking trails in the desert. There are many faint horse trails that cut across dry washes and over the spiny ridges that separate them. The ridges and dry washes fit together in a complementary, inter-digitated fashion. These trails, faint as they are, make for smooth walking. There is a special moment when you realize that you have almost lost the trail. And then it comes back briefly, only to dissipate for good a moment later, like thoughts and memories flitting in and out of a half-seniorish mind.
It's strange how I have a special place in my heart for the small, unpostcardish arroyos of Wickenburg AZ. Sometimes the coarse sand is unnaturally flat and hard packed, as if rolled by a machine. The dry wash can be as narrow as a sidewalk in town. Geologically I believe this is caused by water eroding the ground down to a flat, erosion-resistant layer. Walking these little arroyos we were in perfect comfort. But it was unnerving to be in such a dangerously narrow safety zone. Just outside these little arroyos were ghastly teddy bear cholla, which the little poodle remembers from his battle last year.
It's strange how I have a special place in my heart for the small, unpostcardish arroyos of Wickenburg AZ. Sometimes the coarse sand is unnaturally flat and hard packed, as if rolled by a machine. The dry wash can be as narrow as a sidewalk in town. Geologically I believe this is caused by water eroding the ground down to a flat, erosion-resistant layer. Walking these little arroyos we were in perfect comfort. But it was unnerving to be in such a dangerously narrow safety zone. Just outside these little arroyos were ghastly teddy bear cholla, which the little poodle remembers from his battle last year.
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