Greg and I got on the road after an oil change that took too long, hitting the road a bit before noon. The drive was about two hours and was beautiful as we drove up and over hills and between mountain ranges. We stopped in Cottonwood, a town just southeast of Jerome, to play a round of disc golf. Greg was very good. I was very bad. Still, it was a lot of fun; we enjoyed the cool weather that reminded us of Michigan; and the clouds over the nearby mountain ranges made for scenic surroundings. We then stopped in Clarkdale at Concho’s mexican restaurant for some nachos and followed that up by crossing the street to the Hippie Emporium (I kid you not!), which featured everything from pipes, to incense, to a foot-massaging room, to a corner filled with old vinyl records. That was cool, but we were ready for Jerome, which sits a mile high up on a hill below Mingus Mountain.
Jerome, according to a website, is “America’s Most Vertical City” and the “Largest Ghost Town in America.” I wouldn’t be surprised if other towns lay claim to these titles, but Jerome is certainly in the conversation. Jerome is a historic copper town which peaked in population at 15,000 in the 1920s. Nowadays, it’s home to about 400 full-time residents, another few hundred part-year residents, and plenty of tourists. Its vertical, winding streets house dozens of art galleries, restaurants and houses such as the one owned by the Reeds, good friends of Greg and Sara whom we stayed with. Their three-level home sat above the lowest horizontal road in town, providing, from its front porch, a perfect view to the north of the red-rock canyons and Flagstaff’s higher peaks. I spent at least an hour on that porch throughout the weekend admiring the spectacle.
We spent Friday late afternoon at the house, hanging out with the crew — Jeff, his wife Kathy; their son Colin; Jeff’s parents Jim and Brenda, who originally bought the house 27 years earlier, they said; and Sazi (sp?), a friend of the family. Everyone was extremely nice and laid back. Their motto was, Serve yourself, Help yourself. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be going hungry in Jerome. Speaking of food, we went out to dinner at Grape’s restaurant Friday night, before returning to the house for more drinks and board games. It reminded me a bit of the Red House in New Hampshire except folks were a little bit more rowdy and there was a TV.
Saturday morning, it was time to get outside. Greg, Sara, Colin and I piled into Jeff’s white pickup truck and headed east on AZ-260, not sure of our destination. After more than half an hour of driving, Jeff pulled a U-turn and parked the truck in a patch of grass to the side of the road. A minute later, I was on my stomach, crawling below a fence. A minute later, we were hiking through a field of wild grass, dirt and stones — en route to a rocky ridge maybe 300 feet above us filled with holes in its protruding face. Jeff had told us they were Indian ruins, but it was difficult to get an idea of what exactly they looked like or their size from afar. As we climbed up the steep slope, we reached the ridge made up of sharp, jagged rock — I think a lot of it was sandstone — and were immediately awed. In front of us sat wide, expansive caves in which Indian tribes had lived hundreds of years ago. There was room in many of the caves for probably 10 people, although tall folk like Greg and I had to kneel over. Still, they were very impressive. We snapped some photos and then walked west along a ridge past more caves, through a three-foot crevice, and eventually up to a little mound of a summit where we found large man-made circles of rocks that we surmised were remnants of a civilization that used to make home in the area. We all agreed that it probably made sense as a place of residence because those who lived there had unobstructed sightlines into the lowlands around them. They could protect themselves.
We ate a snack and then made our way down from the ruins, careful on the loose scree before we returned to the fence. The temperature was maybe 50 degrees, but the sun shone down on us despite a sky littered with really neat clouds. The landscape was made even more beautiful by a colony of yellow and orange cottonwood trees on the other side of the highway framed by a mountain range in the distance.
Our hike in the books, we returned to Jerome, ate lunch and then gathered on the porch for some chilling time. As we were sitting and talking, admiring the view, the dark, nebulous crowds strengthened and — next thing I knew! — we were getting snowed on. Yes, snow! The day before, I had been in 80-degree Phoenix (after experiencing 90-degree heat in Tucson the day before that). Now, I was in a snowstorm just two hours away. How surreal! We bundled up in our best faux winter gear (for me, two fleeces and a raincoat; I did, also, have a hat and gloves) and walked around Jerome, stopping in a few art galleries (including one named “Raku,” the name of our childhood cat) and at one of the town’s handful of wineries for a glass while watching the storm.
After heading back to the house, Jeff was motivated to drive us boys to the top of Mingus Mountain (7,815 feet), the highest point above Jerome. We drove up the winding road, light snowfall still falling, until we reached the summit, where Jeff showed us a concrete launching pad for hang gliders. Earlier, he had told us about the most popular hang gliding spot in the U.S., where hundreds of thrill-seeking individuals gathered every year to sail off the ledge and travel for hundreds of miles over the diverse Arizona landscape. It’s incredible just to imagine.
It was cold — as in 21 degrees on top! We got back in the truck and drove back to the house for its warmth and a filling dinner. There were more drinks, pumpkin pie and games Saturday evening. It was a great way to end an incredible week of adventure and company. We rose at 5:30am Sunday morning, stepped into the frigid weather, and then into Greg’s Mercury Mountaineer for the drive to the airport.
What a week. What a state.
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