My favorite buttermilk bread

I often find myself with leftover buttermilk – I use it for various things like ranch dressing, biscuits, etc. but these recipes rarely use the whole carton (I have a hard time finding small containers of buttermilk!) and I hate letting anything go to waste because it sat too long, right? So I might make some breakfast flapjacks with it, or in this case… bread. Yay!

Buttermilk Bread

This bread recipe is a keeper – I found it on About.com, written (or posted) by Ms. Elizabeth Yetter. I didn’t change a thing* – and after making it a couple of times, I finally got a perfect loaf!  The bread turns out soft, moist, and makes great toast! I slice it thick and slather it with the appropriate accompaniments, such as cinnamon-sugar, orange marmalade… It's a bit fragile for sandwiches but you can do it.  Thanks, Ms. Yetter!

(*Except a little bit in process, combining a couple of what I think were unnecessary single steps and I added the wheat gluten).

A couple of bread dough lessons I have learned in general – don’t let it rise too long – and be careful of the temperatures. If it rises too long, the bread will collapse during baking. And... I get better results if the ingredients are room temp or warmer, but not too hot or you’ll kill your yeast critters. You want healthy yeast-beasts.

Ingredients (for one loaf, can be doubled for two):

¾ cup water
1½ TB butter
1⅛ tsp active dry yeast
1 heaping TB wheat gluten*
½ cup buttermilk
1 TB honey
1½ tsp sugar
1½ tsp salt
¼ tsp cider vinegar
3 cups bread flour

Method:

Set your ingredients out to come to room temp. Grease a standard size loaf pan with butter or shortening. When all is ready…

Melt the butter in the water and set aside to cool to about 105 to 110 degrees, but NO warmer. Once the water/butter is the right temperature, mix in the yeast and allow it to proof/dissolve. You should have some yeasty-looking bubbles after a few minutes.

Meanwhile, in a large mixing bowl, mix the gluten, buttermilk, honey, sugar, salt and vinegar.
Mix the water/butter/yeast into the buttermilk bowl. Once it is mixed well, add all but about ¾ cup of the flour and mix it up until the dough is formed well.

Turn this out onto a cookie sheet or a bread-working surface. You’ll knead this mixture about 7 to 8 minutes, working as much of that remaining ¾ cup flour into it as you can to get a smooth and elastic dough. (Before I start kneading, I fill the used mixing bowl with warm water to soak, and then when the kneading is done I clean and dry it, and oil it to use the same bowl for the rising process.) Turn the dough ball once or twice in the bowl to coat it with oil, then cover and let rise about 1 hour or a little more.

Roll the dough around in your hands to gently collapse it and shape it into a loaf. Place it into the prepared loaf pan and make one long slash down the top with a very sharp non-serrated knife. Lay a piece of Saran wrap loosely over it to cover, and let it rise about 45 more minutes or until about doubled. Mine rises slightly above the top of the pan when it is ready. For about the last 15 minutes of the 2nd rise time, preheat your oven to 375.

Bake the bread about 30 minutes and check the internal temperature to be 190 degrees or a little bit above. Brush the top with some melted butter. Turn the loaf immediately out onto a cooling rack. The cooler it gets, the easier the slicing…

Note on baking time: I placed the risen loaf into a cold oven and let the temp come to 375 with the bread already in there. My loaf was done at 30 minutes using this method.  If you preheat, I'd suggest checking it at about 24 or 25 minutes.  Once my bread reaches 190 degrees internal temp, I take it out. Your experience may vary, of course...

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

I am not Irish -- not at all I don't think.  I suppose there could be a little bit o'Irish blood in there somewhere.  But like all English with a conscience, and given my relation with the Irish through the Scot side of my family, I always celebrate the Irish holiday with the best of 'em, having a certain amount of brotherly feelin' for my lovely Irish brothers and sisters... and lovin' a hornpipe or a jig the way I do, as I sit here listening to the Chieftains...  it's the music, friend, it's the music.

So on this St. Patrick's Day, 2011, would that I were in Dublin or Glengarriff, I'll tip a wee dram o' whisky in your honor, and offer an Irish benediction...

May the sun shine warm upon your face
And the Lord's breeze soothe ye
May your path be smooth
your load light and easy

May there be no stones in your fields
May your bed be soft
your rest deeply peaceful
May love be your companion

And may ye be in heaven a half-hour
before the devil knows you’re dead

Éirinn go brách!

Love,
Uncle Bob Schaller Pruitt Stonebreaker McKinney

Where I got my good looks

Doyle and Lula Pruitt

Take a look at the photo. If I look like anyone, it is this guy. It's not an exact match, but it's pretty close. His name’s Doyle Ivan Pruitt, and he was my Grandpa. I only ever called one man Grandpa, and this is him! 

I don’t remember him much before 1966, not specifically anyway. We moved to Arizona before I was born and I saw him once or twice when I was too little to remember, but in 1966 we went to Indiana for a summer visit.  I was 13. I know I saw Grandpa in 1961, and in 1959, and 1957, but I have no memories of those visits, at least concerning him. I always knew what he looked like – I have that much memory at least.

I think that may be because he didn’t have much use for little kids. At least that is the way it seemed to me. He was a little gruff, and I think he probably just went about his business as if we weren’t there. He was still working in those days and he didn't have a lot of free time I don't think. I don’t know, maybe.

But in ’66, I was big enough that he could deal with me. I remember sitting on the front porch with him – there were chairs out there. The highway (Indiana 28) came right up the hill from town and out to the east – right past the house. So we’d watch for the cars and trucks as they roared up the hill, and we'd name them as they came by… there’s a Chevy, there’s a Ford… there probably weren’t any that we couldn’t name. It was a good game to see who could recognize and call them out first.

He worked on cars – and bought and sold them on the side when he could. He was also a farm-hand. My grandparents weren’t ever well-to-do; Grandpa worked and saved, and Grandma worked too. They grew a lot of their own food. My Grandpa grew the best tomatoes I’ve ever had – tomatoes that were bright, deep red, and yellow. He grew enough, at least some years, that he could sell them to passers-by out by the road. The way I remember those tomatoes, I’ll bet those folks felt like they’d really found something. I’d kill for one of my Grandpa’s tomatoes today. I grew great tomatoes on Ruthie’s mulch patch one year (1996); my Grandpa grew them every year.

Doyle Pruitt

He “let” me mow his lawn. Probably the first time was in 1966 – and each visit thereafter as long as I was a kid. Of course, he would supervise. But he’d fire up the lawnmower and keep an eye on things as I mowed that soft green Indiana grass. This must have been something like Tom Sawyer and that whitewashed fence – remember how he made the job sound so desirable that pretty soon all the boys in town wanted a piece of the action?  Well, that’s about how it was with my Grandpa’s lawn.

Later on, in 1968 or 1970, he gave me a lawn mower. We took the wheels off of it, and packed it into the trunk of the car for the long road-trip home, with newspapers to protect the other things packed around it from whatever grease was on it. Nothing was visible except the Briggs and Stratton motor, sticking up from its base into the trunk. We’d pull into a gas station – this was before gas stations were self-serve – when you stopped for gas, a clerk came over and pumped it for you and checked the oil, etc. I’d open the trunk and point at that 3 hp motor and ask them to fill it up and check the oil. Most of them had never seen a Toyota before so it was a good joke.

Dinnertime was another great time at Grandpa’s house. They’d have a little bit of everything set out – vegetables from the garden, some kind of a main dish, maybe some cream gravy and toast, country dishes, nothing extravagant. But I still remember it as being some of the best food I’ve ever eaten. Grandpa would sit there, giving Grandma a hard time about how she cooked the taters, or how she’d dropped something, anything where he could get something started. After supper, we’d watch TV. He’d always go to bed fairly early – maybe 9:00 or so. But I can remember watching Hee-Haw with my Grandpa -- and I still love that show.

I am a little introverted, and a little anti-social. Maybe more than a little. I do not like parties – or crowds – or even medium-sized groups of people. Not even when it is just family. You don’t have to look far to see where that came from; like they say, “the apple don’t fall too far from the tree.” There’s more than one of us in this family that inherited these traits. My Grandpa stayed home so much he didn’t even go out to eat, not that I ever saw. He never came to visit in Arizona. If you wanted to see him, you had to go where he was.

About once a year he’d take Grandma down to Brown County in the fall – he and Grandma were born there, grew up there and started their life together there and he loved it and so did she. When they got married, they rode to Nashville, Indiana in a wagon drawn by a mule, or a horse. They got married there at the courthouse -- which is still the Brown County Courthouse today as far as I know. That was probably about 1919.

I had the good fortune to go to Brown County with my Grandma in the mid-1980s, after Grandpa had died. I think it was probably the last time she was able to go. Both their families had lived in Brown County, Indiana since about 1815-1820, and had at one time owned land there. I've always felt that I was honored in going there with her -- I think it was a great day for all of us. We went to Spurgeon's Corner where Grandma grew up, visited the McKinney family cemetery there, and also drove past Beck's Grove where they lived when my Mom was little. Ruth was along on that trip as well. It was a special day, I think more so because we lived 1,750 miles away; we didn't grow up where she and Grandpa lived and so we don't have too many of those memories with them. The ones we do have are very special to us.

Grandpa was pretty tight with a dollar… maybe even with a penny. He worked as hard as he could and he saved money all his life when he could. They were never rich – but he left my Grandmother without anything to worry about, barring any unusual disasters. That’s saying something, given that he lived and worked through the Great Depression. Sometimes he wasn’t very nice about it, but I do not hold that against him. He was a hard case and the Pruitt’s and the McKinney’s were tough people; tough, poor people. In his times, in his place, people in similar circumstances did starve to death. He did everything he could to keep that from happening to his family, and the work ethic that he instilled in his children meant that, along with a certain amount of good luck, I never went hungry when I was growing up. 

One of the ways he made ends meet during Prohibition times was making bootleg liquor. I don’t know the whole story, but I know he still made wine occasionally when I was a kid – and he probably made beer. I don’t know how much – but I’ve heard that some rather prominent local people were customers of his.

He always wore an undershirt with no sleeves and denim coveralls when he was working around the house. I have a photo somewhere of me and him washing my Mom’s Toyota – a bright yellow 1968 Corona. Toyota was new in the United States at that time – most people east of New Mexico had never seen one or even heard of Toyota. When we pulled up in the driveway, he took one look at that loud, bright, shiny yellow car and said “why didn’t you get a yellow one?” It was vacation and I didn’t have “work clothes.” So he loaned me a t-shirt and some coveralls – we were about the same height but I was a skinny little kid. But there’s that photo with me and him and that yellow Toyota – out there with the hose and the bucket, Grandpa pointing out where the bugs were, and me scrubbing them off with good old-fashioned elbow grease. Lately, I’ve started wearing those same sleeveless t-shirts (what some call a "muscle" shirt). I’ve got one on right now. I don’t wear coveralls yet though.

One time, on one of our visits, Grandpa was sitting on the porch in the afternoon. Right inside the door of the house, he left a little .22 caliber rifle – maybe a single-shot carbine, I’m not sure. Grandpa loved martens, but hated starlings… He’d see a starling in the tree, reach in, grab the rifle, take a shot at it, and then put the rifle back inside the door, out of sight. The neighbors would hear the shot and call the Law. Pretty soon a patrol car would slowly cruise by. Grandpa would wave… they’d wave back… and they’d slowly cruise away. Pretty soon, Grandpa would see another starling… and he’d grab the rifle and take another shot...

I went to visit several times in the 1970s, and later in that decade I bought a tractor and started driving for North American Van Lines. I was back and forth through Indiana frequently and I always tried to make a stop at Attica when I could – it seems all highways lead through Indiana. So I saw quite a bit of him and Grandma for a time, the only time in my whole life when my grandparents were ever familiar to me, in an everyday sense.

He lived to be about 78 or 79 years old. In early 1981, he developed a cancer that was too strong to beat. He died that year, the day before Thanksgiving if I remember correctly and he was buried in the Riverside Cemetery in Attica. My Grandmother joined him there in 1991.

When I was very small, it was almost as if he didn’t exist, and Pampaw Mills, who loved kids, was first in my affections. But Ernie Mills died in 1965; he was my favorite but he was the first of my grandparents to go. After he died, and as I got older, I learned to appreciate Grandpa Pruitt's mischievous humor, his sense of responsibility, his hard work; he became my favorite, the only one I called Grandpa. He always made me feel like he liked me, that I was important to him. He never said the words – he never said much; but I knew, because I could sense it in the way he treated me. This plainly-evident affection, from a non-demonstrative, terribly taciturn and restrained old man, was absolutely enough.

I think he lives on in me – I can feel him in my attitudes, my beliefs, even in my quirks; some of those came from him too. I can see some of the same traits in my sisters and our cousins as well. Take a look at my photo and his… I am my Grandpa’s son.

Rodeo Pilot

Ace Manymotors

Back in my younger days, I was a pilot for a few local cowboys as they attempted week-end rodeo marathons. Normally, cowboys on the local rodeo circuit throw their gear in an old car or truck and drive to a rodeo somewhere or maybe two, on their weekend days “off.” Jim Liles and I worked together at Garrett-AiResearch (an aerospace manufacturing and service company). Jim was a long-time cowboy, as was his brother Joe. At the time, their events were limited to bareback bronc riding, although both had competed in many other events as well over the years. Both were in their 40s by then and they were slowing down some; both of them had broken nearly every bone it is possible to break at one time or other. So they did not ride bulls anymore.

At the time I knew them, they were riding in Turquoise-circuit rodeos around the southwest USA. Talking flying with me one day, Jim got the idea that if he could get me to fly him to rodeos, he could maybe hit more than one or two, which would increase his chances of winning somewhere and would make the endeavor more worthwhile. I was game, so Jim and Joe, and usually one other cowboy friend (Norm Bennett, for one) would head out with me on a given weekend and we would plan on hitting three rodeos.

I don’t think we ever managed to get to all three, it just never worked out that way. The plan was that if one of them would win, that guy would pay for the plane. If none won, they'd split the plane's costs and my expenses. I was time-building and considered that my "pay." I was getting flying time for ¼ the normal cost -- a bargain for me.  Getting to watch a lot of rodeo was a bonus as well – I’ve always loved the sport – it’s in my blood.

On one such trip, we got to the Show Low rodeo on Saturday afternoon and the Bloomington, NM “Angel Peak Stampede” that evening. We planned to hit the rodeo at Zuni-Black Rock, NM the next afternoon, before flying home with the winnings. We’d arrive at the airport and Jim would have pre-arranged with someone to pick us up. In Show Low, the cowboys competed and I waited in the stands, anxiously watching the cloudy skies, with fears we’d get socked-in by afternoon thunderstorms and miss our chances in Bloomfield. I don’t remember much about Show Low that day – whether they won or lost – but we did get back to the airport and off to Bloomfield in time.

In Bloomfield, our ride from the airport was the famous bull-fighter Jess Franks. Jess and his wife picked us up at the airport in Farmington in a big boat of a Cadillac convertible, a 1975 Eldorado I think, and along for the ride was his show-partner chimpanzee. I had a full beard and I doubt that chimp had ever seen anyone quite as hairy as me. He watched me suspiciously from the front seat for a few moments, but soon worked his way inch by inch into the back seat where I was sitting -- and into my lap. He had both hands in my beard, stroking it and peering deeply into my eyes. He thought he and I were of like species, I think. I was HIS kind of person and he was VERY interested in me. I liked him too; it was a special moment…

At the Angel Peak Stampede, I had to sit in the stands with the attending crowd, as there were no separate stands for the performers or their families as there sometimes is. Jim, Joe and Norm were all on the other side of the arena, competing in their events. But they wanted to make sure I was accommodated properly – after all, I was their pilot and that made me somewhat of a VIP in their minds. Just about every time there was a break in the action, one of them would trot across the arena and yell up at me where I was sitting in the stands – “Hey Bob! Need anything? You OK? How about a coke or a hot dog?” I was sitting there, in my jeans and sneakers, a t-shirt, baseball hat, and a Brigham Young-style full beard. People were looking at me like “who is this guy?” I looked like the kind of character these cowboys might beat the hell out of down at the bar after the show if they were feeling a bit mean. And these guys were treating me like maybe I owned the arena or the rodeo stock.

After the show, we hit a couple of local nightclubs for a few drinks where the guys tried their luck with the local senoritas, without much luck. So we all head back to the motel. There, I discover that this is definitely a low-budget operation… ONE room, two beds, four or five cowboys and one airplane driver. So that night I shared a bed with one or two cowboys. It was an interesting night. At least they didn’t wear their spurs in bed.

The next day’s flight to Zuni-Black Rock wasn’t possible, probably because of weather. Low-level flying in the inter-mountain west isn’t always advisable on summer afternoons – the mountain-sides and canyons around here are littered with the remains of flying machines who ignored that truth, not only because of stormy mountain weather but also hot, thin high-altitude air isn’t conducive to adequate engine power or good, strong lift. 

I never knowingly let “get-there-itis” get in the way of a safe arrival for me and my passengers. I was overly-careful in that regard, perhaps, but I am still alive. Many are not and I can name some of them, they were friends. Mistakes in aviation are inherently unforgiving and often fatal. The ground is hard. When I made mistakes, I was always lucky enough to survive them. There were more than a couple and that leads to a certain amount of humility in any person who can think.

On another trip, the guys had me take them to Monticello, Utah and the later plan was Albuquerque, for one. We left Phoenix for Monticello and along the way over-flew the Mount Elden fire at Flagstaff. Today, the bare slopes of that mountain are evidence of that fire’s destructive effects some 35 years ago. Before that day, it had been a pine-forest clad mountain.

At Monticello’s rodeo, Jim was hanging around socializing with friends and other competitors after their riding for the day was done. I was sitting in the stands worrying about the lowering, darkening skies. So Joe went down to the announcer’s stand and had Jim paged – we didn’t know exactly where he’d run off to. The rodeo announcer blares out to the whole arena that “Jim Liles, your pilot is looking for you and if you want to make Albuquerque, the time to fly is now.” Jim got hoo-rahed for that one – most cowboys get to the rodeo by driving all night in old rattletrap pick-ups and these guys had a pilot (and an airplane)?

We didn’t make it of course. As soon as I checked on the weather along the route to Albuquerque, it was obvious we couldn’t make the trip that afternoon or evening. So we got a cheap motel room, had supper and then holed up with a bottle of cheap bourbon. Next morning, our only possibility was to head south for Phoenix – Albuquerque was still out of the question. So we loaded up the little airplane and took off for home.

We didn’t get fifty miles. Just after passing over Blanding, while headed toward the “light,” I decided the path ahead was no-go. Whipping that little Grumman around to return to Blanding, I discovered (to my horror) that the storm front was about to engulf us from behind as well, like two big pincers. I hadn't been looking back that way; and that storm was about to give us all a big “hug.” I got that aircraft safely on the ground at Blanding about 30 seconds or so before that storm and its winds hit the field. That was one aviation experience that taught me what real-world no-go weather for a light plane looks like.

We tied the aircraft down snug and safe, borrowed the airport manager’s car and went to town for breakfast while we waited for the storm to pass. That probably took about an hour – just long enough for us to eat. When we got back to the airport the sky to the south looked pretty good. So we took off, and flew down across Monument Valley and Lake Powell; we were surrounded by fluffy white cumulus clouds all the way to Flagstaff. The air was smooth as glass (which is really unusual around fluffy cumulus clouds) and I banked that little four-seater back and forth around and among those clouds in a serene dance as we flew south through some of the most spectacular scenery in the country. It was one of the prettiest, most glorious flights I ever experienced, and in the fabled calm after a storm.



The lovely Grumman AA5B Tiger

Ravens are people too, but do not call them "Crow"

 

Ophiacus J. Raven

I had a conversation with a raven. He was very smart and I think he wanted me to feed him. It's a pretty safe bet, I think. But I am not that easy.

I much enjoyed my time with him and came away with a more thorough understanding of ravens. These birds are gregarious without reservation. Not one raven I have ever greeted failed to respond and this one was no different. There are other birds that are friendly, but none so much as the raven. So we talked for a while, him and me, the other day.  

I guessed that he was an extremely smart raven and would make a likely spokesbird for the group. I noted that his head seemed to be larger even, in general, than that of other ravens I have seen. I mean, I didn't measure it or anything as insulting as that. But he did have a very strong brow and a high forehead, as well as good beak structure and fine tail feathers. He was very sleek. 

Ravens are very proud. They are proud to be ravens and they are proud that they are not other ravens. Each raven considers himself to be the best of the breed, this is certain. Most of them are right. This is a thing they have in common with many humans, I think.

Most ravens are proud to live where they live and to eat the things they eat. Usually you see them around the places we humans feel are the best too -- like national parks, for instance. You cannot find a prouder, more discerning bird, notwithstanding those derelicts you see hanging around road-kill. But the reality is, there are humans who dumpster-dive as well, so we should not indict the entire species for the actions of a few. 

Ophiacus J. Raven opined that while some folks believe crows and ravens are closely related, ravens know this is a lie. Raven is to crow, Ophiacus said, like champion-purebred dog is to flea-bitten Heinz-57 mutt. There's just no comparison, no similarity. They are, he said, demonstrated sneak thieves and liars. Most crows, if not all of them, he said, are really just black-sheep jay-birds, with blood-lines of dubious origin. Ophiacus is suspicious of crows and believes that crows have a certain quantity of cowbird blood in them and, as he said, likely a bit of bluejay as well.  

Did you know that ravens can hop on both feet to one side or the other? They do this when the ground is hotter than they like it to be, or maybe in other cases, colder... They also do this hopping side-step when other ravens are covetous of their treasures, whatever those things might be. On one particular occasion, one raven had a rather fine strawberry and a different raven wanted it. Actually, I think several other ravens wanted the berry and so there was much hopping and quite a lot of feather ruffling as well - and large quantities of vocalization. Ravens also hop when they are startled and often resort to cussing. Loud, insistent cussing. This, too, often involves other ravens.   

One day, someone left a local raven community a nice puddle of ice water on the pavement, dumped from a soft drink cup. This was considered by them a fortuitous thing and they spent several minutes attending to it, turning their beaks sideways with their heads next to the ground and near to touching it, so they could more effectively enjoy the refreshment.

Once they had their fill in this manner, they began to flap it up onto themselves in an impromptu bath. As each one would finish his particular and individual devotions, there would be much hopping (and flapping) and another would take his place. They continued this ritual until there was so little water left that none of them could get any use of it at all, either to drink or to bathe. Several of them began to cuss; I deduced these were birds to which little water was bequeathed.

This cussing caused the others to look away as if disgusted and in some cases, disinterested even. That is not to say that cussing is not a habit uncommon to ravens; no, the breed is definitely prone to colorful language. But they do not encourage it amongst each other when in polite company. 


A Raven on the brink

Later, I saw a different raven perched in the top of a short tree on branches that could not support his weight. He was clinging to it in the face of a near-hurricane wind which was blowing up and out of the Grand Canyon, as such winds often do. The wind would blow the branch this way then that, but the bird hung on as if it was his destiny to cling right there on that very limber little branch as it swayed to and fro in the wind, there on the edge of a five-thousand foot cliff.

Ever so often, he'd look my way to make sure I was watching him. He wanted me to know that he knew what he was doing. He seemed extremely pleased with himself and he was not cussing at all. He was simply a bird who knew how to hold on. He was single-minded about it and you could not say that he was not determined. In fact, I believe his reputation is such that he is widely noted among ravens as being the most determined one of all.   

I do not know what it was about that particular position that enchanted him so -- no other raven seemed to want it, or any other bird. But perhaps it was the magnificent view; I myself stayed at that same spot for quite some time, just looking around. 

My Ugly Truck

Otto the Road Truck on the road to the Grand Canyon

I am the owner of a 2002 Dodge Ram pick-up. It’s big and it’s ugly. It gets atrociously poor gasoline mileage. The paint is crazing and will probably peel off of it soon. It’s on its 4th set of tires, its 2nd battery and 2nd set of brakes. I have put over 160,000 miles on it in nine years.

I have never been very enthusiastic about this truck, even though I did name him (Otto). I have never felt much loyalty for Dodge, or Chrysler. I haven’t had much respect for the products of these companies, at least since the 1970s.

Here are some of my complaints (but don’t jump to conclusions, this may not be headed where you think). The “accessory” stuff is just flat cheap. In the first three or four years, it required a new steering wheel (flaws in the leather covering), three new radios (and the last one isn’t right either), new sun visors (and one of the new ones is crap too), and several minor wiring problems (resulting in shorts and melt-downs).

The dashboard has completely disintegrated and is covered with a dash mat so I don’t have to spend $1000 to replace it. The heater control box is likewise disintegrating and has required several jury-rig repairs in the last two years, with more to come (it's probably made from the same plastic crap the dashboard was). There’s more, I’m sure, but I simply cannot remember at the moment. It’s had one major repair – the radiator and the heater core had to be replaced a while back. So I’ve spent a lot of time hating on this cheap Chrysler junk product.

My last vehicle was a pretty little white 4WD Ford Ranger and not one thing like that EVER failed on it. It ran about 100,000 miles before it had its first repair. I always thought it was an excellent vehicle. But then at about the 100K mark, the air conditioning compressor blew up, the entire cooling system (and later the heater) had to be re-done including the radiator; the transmission went completely (and it was a manual), the brakes had to be completely rebuilt (not just pads) and the 4WD wasn’t working either when I traded it (an electrical problem). This was all high-dollar stuff. I don't know what I was thinking when I traded it -- it was mechanically new. I should have kept driving it after putting all that money into repairs -- and it would have been easy because it still LOOKED like new.

All that is true, but you know, this cheap-ass Dodge has never stranded me? I guess I had to have it towed once when the radiator sprang a leak. Everything else has been normal wear and tear and consumables. All the problems have been mostly cosmetic stuff, except for that radiator. Now that’s irritating, but at 160,000+ miles, the engine is still smooth and strong, the transmission is seemingly fine and I still pretty much trust the vehicle not to leave me on foot anywhere, knock on wood; I mean, that’s bound to happen sooner or later, right?

I heard somewhere that Dodge builds a 500,000 mile engine and drive train, but a 50,000 mile body. This is apparently true. In terms of reliable transportation, I have never had any other vehicle that comes close to the reliability of this one; no Toyota, no VW, no Mazda; no nothing. It’s still ugly though.

Apparently, the American craftsmen building Dodge trucks can build a vehicle that rivals at least the mechanical quality of anything the world-wide automotive industry has ever produced. Now, if they could just put a radio in it that would last more than six months...


P. S.  I traded this truck in March 2011 for a Chevrolet Malibu.  I like the Malibu, but I miss my truck…

Skull Valley, Bagdad and the Yolo Ranch: an Arizona back-country road trip adventure...

NF21

I left Phoenix about 10 AM on Sunday morning, for a back-country jaunt in Yavapai County, Arizona. My initial purpose was to reconnoiter possible spots to get some train photos on the “pea-vine” branch of the BNSF railroad between Ash Fork and Phoenix. I didn’t do much reconnoitering after all – so I will go back for that on another trip. I did see a little of the track in the vicinity of Kirkland and Skull Valley so that will be a starting place for further investigation. What I did end up doing was a drive through some remote reaches of Yavapai County, between Bagdad and the Chino Valley area, seeing some Arizona back country that I had never seen before. There are no roads for 100 miles except forest and ranch roads – barely more than tracks.

I stopped for breakfast at Byler's Amish Cafe in Black Canyon City. I've eaten at Byler's many times before, but had never had breakfast there. I wasn't entirely satisfied -- I think the mark of a good breakfast place is the ability to cook an egg to order. They didn't get mine right. I like my eggs over-medium, which means nothin' runnin' but the yolk; mine came with whites not completely cooked. I wasn't happy about that but I ate them anyway -- Byler's serves lots of good food at a fair price so you don't go hungry. I had mine with a biscuit and gravy (half-order) and hash browns O'Brien. The highlight of my meal was the toast -- home-made white, buttered liberally and slathered with Byler's own blackberry jam. It was like dessert. Next time I go I will simply lecture the server for about five minutes on the proper way to serve an over-medium egg... problem solved (and hope she doesn't spit on my food...).

Driving on through Prescott, I stopped to top off the tank, kick the tires, fill the water bottle and get a Coke, then headed out toward Skull Valley in search of train tracks. I have vague memories from my childhood about visiting that area with my family on a picnic -- probably before Tina was born or maybe while she was still a baby. Mom thinks Ruthie was about 8 or 9 at the time, which makes me about 4. That makes sense since the memory is sketchy. I had always wondered where we had gone on that trip, but I always thought it might have been Skull Valley. I think I saw that place today -- looking downhill on a road that ran out across a wide valley to the mountains beyond. It looked just like the place in my childhood memory.

I looped down through Kirkland, through Yava and up to Bagdad, Arizona. This is cattle country, big time. It is high desert with wide open sky and far horizons. To this point and as far as Bagdad, the roads were all paved. Just before reaching Bagdad, I crossed the Santa Maria River which had a small amount of water in it. I stopped in Bagdad which was the last possibility for lunch on this route. I got a corndog at the Bashas' Deli and an apple -- and headed on to infinity on forest road NF21. Bagdad is already a remote, inaccessible town; nobody much goes there unless they have business there. But beyond Bagdad, a person can feel positively alone in the world. For the next several hours, I saw only a few cows and maybe four other people. 

A little ways out of town, I arrived at a water crossing -- on Boulder Creek, somewhere near Blue Mountain. It was a delightful spot and the road splashed through the creek. The creek was wide enough right there to be called a pool, or pond, but not quite a lake. There were a couple of groups camping nearby. The road was generally following the side of a mountain, with expansive views off to the south mostly, across the drainage and to the mountains and horizon away in the distance.

Coming to the junction of NF21 and NF702, my GPS told me to follow NF702. I don't know why, but this direction didn't seem trustworthy to me. NF21 climbed away to the left, while NF702 descended down a valley to the right. I still do not know which would have been the better route, but apparently both would have taken me to the same place eventually. I first took 702, drove about 100 yards or so and changed my mind. I backed all the way back out to the fork, and took 21 up and to the left. I almost as quickly regretted the choice -- the road got rough as a cob, rocky and narrow. There was no place to turn around, not one. So I was committed.

The road climbed up away from Boulder Creek onto Bozarth Mesa, and several miles afterward I came past some ranch buildings, and passed through several gates. Arizona back country etiquette requires a person passing through to carefully close these gates behind you, so some poor cowboy doesn't have to chase his cows halfway back to town (and so ranchers do not become inclined to put padlocks on said gates, preventing any later wanderers from passing through). The cowboy has enough to do just to keep the fences intact. I stopped once or twice to moo at some cows. They looked at me thoughtfully but none mooed back. I was disheartened about this. Sometimes you can have a moo conversation with more communicative cows and this is its own reward. I live for those.

Near the Yolo Ranch

This area was now high enough to start to be pretty in a non-desert sort of way. There was scrubby forest and trees, and the terrain was rocky and dramatic. After driving for a while, I came to the Yolo Ranch. This is a magnificent western ranch, currently for sale by the way (apparently), for a measly $14 million USD. It is about 110,000 acres of Arizona grazing land and will support, reportedly, about 1500 cattle. This is a John Wayne kind of place. The setting is beautiful, among Ponderosa pines and grassy meadows. It has its own airstrip. There are no modern amenities, save for a smidgeon of electrical power provided by on-site generators. There was no one around, although it did not look abandoned. 

This is where I got lost. The area sports a wide collection of meandering, maze-like forest roads. The GPS is telling me to go down a road that is clearly blocked by a locked gate. So I look at the maps (an Arizona Gazetteer). This is the first time I have ever been in a place where the Gazetteer maps are not to close enough scale to be of any use. I know where I am, but I cannot figure out how to get out of here. Hitting the detour function on the GPS, it simply tells me to circle around and takes me right back to the locked gate... This is where I got a little disconcerted, maybe even discouraged.

Plan B was to pick the widest, smoothest road I could see, and take that away from the area until I get far enough away that the GPS will refresh itself and choose another route. So I drive down this road and 4 or 5 miles away I reset the GPS. This works! It is still not optimum - I found out later that had I stayed on that wide, smooth road (which turned out to be the continuation of NF21), I would have gotten out where I wanted to be and it would have saved me about twenty miles.

So, lesson one, nothing beats a good fine-detail topo map!

I followed NF21 for several miles, maybe ten, and then took NF95 north about eleven miles to CR125. This little-bit-better road took me to Williamson Valley Road and that led me back south to Prescott. This sounds easy, but it wasn't quick. NF95 isn't much more than a trail (although none of these are necessarily 4WD roads). That eleven miles was definitely iffy -- there had been downed timber on the road and some mud.

The snow had melted off long enough ago that the mud wasn't too deep, and a firewood cutter had tracked this road literally minutes before I did, cutting the timber that had fallen on the road and removing it. I suspect if it hadn't been for him, I'd have had further problems since I had no saw with me to do it myself. When I asked the backwoodsman if I could get out in the direction I was going, his first question was "how much time do you have?" At that point I was just happy to hear I was going to make it out alive!

Williamson Valley Road

By this time, it was getting dark. I was driving down Williamson Valley Road in the golden-pink glow of an Arizona sunset. It was almost surreal, unearthly, the afterglow softly enveloping the terrain from seemingly everywhere. I almost stopped to set up for a time exposure photo, it was so beautiful. Instead, it will be one of those moments that only a memory can encompass. I do not believe a photo would have done it justice, anyway. The road wasn't bad either -- nice smooth graded dirt, no washboard whatsoever and therefore absolutely pleasurable to drive!

I regained the blacktop north of Prescott (after about 100 miles of dirt), bypassed the city using Pioneer Parkway, SR89A and Fain Road and stopped at Leff-T's Steakhouse for dinner (at Dewey, AZ). This is a place I have passed by for years without ever stopping -- it just doesn't look like much. What was I thinking! I ordered a rib-eye steak, soup and a salad. The soup was a delicious beef-vegetable; the salad was assorted mixed greens and vegetables with honey mustard dressing. The steak was thin (their smaller rib-eye). I am a steak-cooker of some skill and I know how difficult it is to get a thin steak cooked to order. Leff-T's got it right. The dinner bread was a deep brown-bread soft roll served with both butter and apple butter. The service was excellent and I can't think of a single thing they could have done better.

Leff-T's Steakhouse

[2013 update: I've made several return visits to Leff-T's since that first one and every time it's the same old story -- just excellent!]

After dinner, I headed down SR69 to Cordes Junction and home on I-17. I took my sweet time and enjoyed the drive. I was back in the driveway with pictures and my story by 9:20 pm. After 11 hours and 345 miles, all I am missing is a list of good vantage points for train photos. That was the point of the whole trip, but hey, who's keeping track, right? I had f-u-n.


This is not a trip for a leisurely Sunday drive. It is back country, rugged, and primitive. Once past Bagdad, there are no services of any kind. Anyone undertaking such a route (anywhere in the west, actually) must be completely self-sufficient to be safe and remain situationally aware. A visitor to the Arizona backwoods should carry and know how to use survival gear -- if you have problems you may not see another person for days - or longer. You should always leave information about your route and your schedule with someone reliable who will follow-up if you don't emerge at the other end. That said, this is magnificent country that I doubt even 1/2 of 1% of Arizona residents or visitors have ever seen. It was worth every dirt-road mile.

And I want to buy that ranch... someone loan me 14 million.

Reminder: clicking on the photos gets you a larger version so you can see for yourself just how pretty this Arizona country is!