Monday, April 14, 2014

Here, fishy, fishy

My good friends from near Phoenix, who I stayed with for a few days last year before coming to Petrified Forest for the first time, have parked their travel trailer near Payson, Arizona for the summer. Payson is at about 6900 feet and as hot as it was in the valley where they live, when I visited them in Payson on Saturday it was jacket weather. It's just what they're looking for to escape Phoenix summer heat.

We met in 1979 when my first child and their second were born and Judy and I shared a hospital room. I hadn't seen them since the early 1980s when I stayed with them last year, but they're the kind of friends who make it so easy to pick right up where we left off 30 years ago. Saturday was no different and it was a wonderful visit.

This location of theirs is new to them and when we went exploring we found a state fish hatchery. It was interesting, really.

That part of the state is so different from where I am. Tall, tall conifers, towering cliffs, and happy little streams mark the landscape.

We got to the hatchery about 25 minutes before it closed, just enough time to see all the raceways that hold the fish. Tonto Creek feeds the hatchery and lends its name to the operation. It's spring-fed, beginning about a quarter-mile higher up and ends 60 miles farther down at Roosevelt Lake. At its headwaters, the water temperature is ideal for raising trout.

The hatchery was built for the Arizona Game and Fish Department in the early 1930s by the Works Progress Administration on property leased from Tonto National Forest. The land was homesteaded in the late 1800s and was headquarters for one of the first ranches in the area.

Trout eggs are sent from various locations in the western states. They're hatched here and grown to fingerling (3") or catchable (9") size, then are stocked in waters throughout Arizona.

The visitor center was not staffed but it had some incredible mounted specimens of fish taken in Arizona waters. No pictures of them, but one I did take was of this backpack stocking can. So if I understand this, somebody tromped along streams with this thing full of fish and water strapped to his back. Would everything be dumped at one location, in which case the poor guy had to find his way back to wherever he got the load in the first place, fill it, and set out again? Or would he parcel it out, little by little? Neither option sounds like fun.

There were signs along the raceways, asking visitors not to put their hands or anything else in the water. If not for the signs I would have probably done so. These pictures miss the mark on the sleek, satin texture gliding through the water.

I'm not a fan of trout as a meal, but these were really beautiful creatures.

They were, of course, constantly on the move, but every once in a while one would go ballistic and zip zip zip through the tank. It reminded me of my cats when, out of the blue, they become insane and tear through the house like it's on fire. Then they're done.

Fish food was for sale for .25 but none of us had any change. We took a cue from a little girl who was picking up pieces of it, which looked suspiciously like cat kibble, from where it was scattered on the ground around the gumball-like dispenser. The resulting feeding frenzy - and now I understand where the phrase comes from - was almost vicious. That's a kibble floating on the surface at lower left.

When I felt I'd imposed myself on my friends long enough, I headed home. I'd caught a quick look at the view below when I was heading their way, but didn't have enough notice to turn in to the viewing spot. I kept an eye out on my way home and was rewarded by this. This is the Mogollon Rim. Go ahead, try to pronounce it. I figured it had a Spanish pronunciation: moe-go-YONE. Nope. I've since heard it said like muggy-oan or mug-you-own. 

This is what Wikipedia says about it: the Rim is an escarpment (I had to look that up: a steep slope or long cliff that occurs from faulting and resulting erosion and separates two relatively level areas of differing elevations) that defines the southwestern edge of the Colorado Plateau. It was formed by erosion and faulting, and dramatic canyons have been cut into it. Its name comes from Don Juan Ignacio Flores Mogollón, the Spanish Governor of New Mexico from 1712 to 1715. I stick by my pronunciation. I once heard someone pronounce it muh-gollen and suspect there are dozens of interpretations.

That's what the weather looked like on Saturday. On Sunday, the wind gusted to 50 mph. It's tiringly windy here in the spring and I'm ready for it to stop. I stayed in all day Sunday until I looked out my kitchen window and saw this wall of dust and sand over the Painted Desert. I went out long enough to shoot two pictures and went back inside.
 

It's amazing how quickly the dust settles once the wind stops. Today was cold but clear and I have my fingers crossed it will stay clear for tonight. I have designs on the eclipse that starts about 1:00 and need the clouds to stay away.

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Thought of the day:

I also think pronunciation of a foreign tongue could be better taught than by demanding from the pupil those internal acrobatic feats that are generally impossible and always useless. This is the sort of instruction one receives: 'Press your tonsils against the underside of your larynx. Then with the convex part of the septum curved upwards so as almost but not quite to touch the uvula try with the tip of your tongue to reach your thyroid. Take a deep breath and compress your glottis. Now without opening your lips say "Garoo".' And when you have done it they are not satisfied. 
- Jerome K. Jerome, Three Men on the Bummel 

(If you have not read Jerome's Three Men In a Boat, you should)