Tree pioneers of the Verde Valley

When I set out to write the Pegasus Quincy mystery series, I knew the first one, Death in Copper Townhad to take place in a mining town on the slopes of the Verde Valley. To make it realistic, I had to include the Ailanthus trees ubiquitous to that part of the Valley.

Apple trees in the old pioneer orchards make a surprise appearance in an upcoming Pegasus Quincy mystery, Silence in West Fork, to be published later this year.

Two trees on opposite ends of the Verde Valley bring together the spirit of the Verde Valley. One, the Ailantus altissima or Tree-of-heaven, populates the hilly streets of Jerome in the foothills of the Black Mountains to the south. The other, the humble apple tree, grows wild on the upper banks of Oak Creek Canyon to the north. Both have become a part of my life in Sedona.

First, the tree of heaven. If you travel up the mountain to Jerome in the spring, you’ll catch the “burned peanut butter” fragrance of golden blossoms. In the summer, the lacy green of the leaves frames the view across the Verde Valley like a Victorian lady’s parasol. Later in the fall, you’ll be surrounded by the crimson, sumac-like leaves drifting down to the worn limestone cobblestone streets of the old mining town.

The tree first became popular in eastern cities, because it was easy to grow and survived almost any kind of pollution. It became the title of Betty Smith’s book about family life in the tenements at the turn of the century, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

The air in the mining towns of the West was just as polluted. During the heydays of the copper mining, the smelter smog killed just about every living plant in Jerome. With the local pine and juniper decimated to shore up the mines, nothing remained to hold the soil and hillsides eroded. The town was endanger of slipping down into the Verde Valley below.

The “Tree of Heaven/Paradise Trees” that abound throughout the Upper Verde were part of a “re-greening” of the Verde Valley by Phelps Dodge when mining operations ceased in the 1950s.

ailanthus altimissa, tree of heavenEnter the ailanthus.  It is an alien tree, first arriving in America from China in the 1700s.  The tree is a survivor, thriving in the sulfur dioxide-infused soil of Jerome. It is also a selfish beastie, secreting a substance in its bark and leaves that, like the black walnut, inhibits growth of any other plants in the area. But the ailanthus likes the crumbling soil and arid conditions of Jerome, and it gives life-sheltering green to a town that was barren and dark after the mines left.

That being said, it’s not without drawbacks. According to Jeff Schalau, head of the master gardener’s program in the Verde Valley,  “Most people start out liking the tree of heaven. It grows with little water, tolerates alkaline soils, and it creates shade. Most trees of heaven begin to produce seed at about 10 years of age. Male or female flowers are usually produced on separate trees.

“So, the after the 10 year honeymoon period, seedlings begin to come up everywhere. In addition, if the tree is damaged or cut down, then it begins to sprout from the roots. The tree of heaven also produces allelopathic chemicals that preclude other plants from successfully growing nearby.”

The second, the apple tree also came from China, arriving in America in the 1600s. It hitched a ride with the pioneers to Sedona a hundred years ago.  Here it thrived on the banks of Oak Creek canyon in small orchards planted by early homesteaders. They would harvest the crops and trek wagon loads of apples up the steep canyon to Flagstaff to satisfy the hungry timberland workers living there.

Some years ago I helped my sister-in-law locate and map all of the old homesteads spread throughout the canyon. We found almost twenty old orchards, together with old trails once used by mountain lion and bear crossing the canyon.

The big predators are gone, but the trees remain. Many are on the outskirts of the tourist camp grounds: Manzanita, Pine Flats, Banjo Bill.  You’ll see the cracked cement footings of an old cabin, some renegade lilac bushes, and these old craggy trees. If you look sharp you’ll spot them, interspersed in pine and fir stands near the water or tucked in at the edge of a penstamen-filled meadow.

Some have reverted to native stock, producing small sour apples, but others are loaded with green fruit, already ripening with a dusting of red.  Come late September, they produce the best eating apples in the world, crisp and juicy, with a sweet snap as you bite into them.

Well almost the best. I think that distinction has to be the ones I stole from the neighbor’s orchard next door in the small South Dakota town where I grew up, a descendant of Scandinavian immigrants.

 

 

And in a way, these two trees, the apple and the ailanthus, are pioneers, too.  They came from the other side of the earth and have adapted to surroundings very different from their native soils in China.

They are a legacy that makes the Verde Valley a very special place for all of us.

Book Review: Ursula Le Guin, No Time to Spare

No Time to Spare: Thinking About What MattersNo Time to Spare: Thinking About What Matters by Ursula K. Le Guin
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Ms. Le Guin, who recently passed away, wrote this collection of essays published in 2017 when she was in her mid-80s. It is a wakeup call to older authors that the writing life lasts as long as the words can be put cogently upon paper!

Le Guin’s essays are sharp, funny, and filled with wisdom.

Being a cat person myself, I was delighted to hear of the adventures of her new cat, Pard. One of her essays begins, “Last Thursday night, Pard woke me up about 3 a.m. by bringing his real, live mouse toy onto the bed so I could play with it, too.”

Upon receiving a questionnaire from Harvard asking about her spare time, she replies, “I am free, but my time is not. My time is fully and vitally occupied with sleep, daydreaming, with doing business and writing friends and family on email, with reading, with writing poetry, with writing prose, with thinking, with forgetting, with embroidering, with cooking and eating a meal and cleaning up the kitchen…” she goes on listing activities, ending with, “lying down for an afternoon rest..with my own slightly crazy cat occupying the regions between my upper thighs and mid-calves, where he arranges himself and goes instantly and deeply to sleep. None of this is spare time. What is Harvard thinking of? I am going to be eighty-one next week. I have no time to spare.”

When asked about old age, Le Guin said her pet peeve are the ads portraying “typical” older people with airbrushed wrinkles skiing diamond slopes or running ultra-marathons. What about the rest of us? she questions.

An excellent read, as Le Guin gives an unsparingly honest reflection upon our lives and the times in which we live.

Free this week on Amazon Kindle: the newest Pegasus Quincy mystery!

Fire in Broken Water Every so often Amazon allows me to offer one of my books FREE on Kindle. This week, FIRE IN BROKEN WATER is it! If you’ve not read this third release in the Pegasus Quincy mystery series set in the Verde Valley, now is the time!

And if you like, leave a review for me, too? 🙂

In this mystery are several puzzles: Why does Partner Shepherd Malone have a vendetta against the driver of the red Porsche? Why is Peg sure that a man’s death in a horse barn fire is a murder? And what does a clan of gypsies have to do with it all?

Stay tuned as the water wars in this central Arizona valley explode!

The peace of rain

Schnebly Hill vistaIt was raining when I woke this morning. Not an electricity-charged toad-strangler, but a quiet rain, a thoughtful rain.

I considered not walking at all. I was cranky and stiff after a fitful night’s sleep. It had been a rough week and I still carried stress in my neck and shoulders.

But I grab an old fold-up umbrella and step into the morning damp anyway. The umbrella efficiently snaps open, but I discover two ribs have worn through ties at their tips, and the silk slides back up toward the apex of the crown.

No matter, I am off.

I look back at the house for a moment as I walk up the drive. The nandina bends against the storm, its branches first bowing to the weight of the rain and then springing upward as the wet drips away. Large drops from the eaves hit the porch rail and burst into dozens of droplets that fell to the ground below.

It is a day of novel movement and complex energy. A day of discovery.

I discover that my sight is muted, allowing hearing and touch to push to the fore. The turtle rain against the outside of the umbrella sounds a musical counterpoint, each note altered by the angle of the silk cover. I strive to capture the motif’s pattern as a larger drop hits like the final riff of an exuberant drummer.

Farther away, I hear the rain contacting each leaf of the trees I pass under. Hard. Then soft. Then brittle. Each drop echoes the texture of branch and leaf. A plane passes overhead, its roar muted to a growling rumble. As I stroll, I find that I am moving slower but seeing more. I start to center and my breathing deepens.

The rain blows into my face, softly misting my glasses, and I twirl the umbrella canopy on its aluminum shaft, trying to position the “short side” away from my face. My arms are getting damp, small drops clinging to the short hairs, then running down my forearm in larger streams. As I swing my arms, my fingertips encountered the rain concretely, each finger sharply pinged with rain.

Should I turn back? No, I decide. I can handle this. I won’t melt. I stiffen my back to the discomfort and trudged forward.

Patched asphalt on the road ahead becomes a series of black sightless mirrors that shatter in the wake of a car whooshing past. The car’s momentum scoops up mist from the road, creating a cloud entourage that scurries along underneath its carriage.

As I near one house two Springer spaniels rush to the screen porch in a howling frenzy. I’ve passed them many times before—maybe I have turned into a new creature under this umbrella?

In the mist, the color palette has shrunk to mostly grays and greens. Even the wildflowers—the red of penstamen and the wild white of daisies are dimmed by the rain, their energy cloistered. The sky lowers and the horizon shortens. As I notice more details, I find my mind slowing, calming. I consciously match the pace of the rain with my steps.

I find that I am in a much smaller world than yesterday. Yesterday was sunny, with winds and clear air and wide vistas. And that difference is fine. I seek shelter, here under the umbrella against the world’s hassles and demands. I can hide here.

The birds are hiding, too. The sparrows and finches are silent; the jays chatter in the tree branches, but don’t venture into the rain. Every so often a robin darts to the ground to snatch a grub, and then dives under the drier branches to eat it.

As I approach a small pond, our resident great blue heron takes flight. Usually I can pass quite close to him, but he, too, is spooked by this new shape of human-with-umbrella.

The algae on the water shivers under the onslaught of the rain, and I turn toward home.

The rain is collecting now on the trees overhead. Each leaf gathers rain differently: On a large deciduous trees, moisture runs along the center spine and collects as a drop at the tip of each leaf. Nearby, waxy Pampas grass spires allow each drop to poise unmoving in a mosaic of miniature puddles. In the field beyond, the smaller grasses bow before the rain’s influence like carefully combed hair.

As I near home, I realize that walking in the rain this morning has become a meditation, a gratefulness for gifts given. I stomp my feet as I enter the garage, and collapse the umbrella in a shower of drops.

I feel calmer, more centered.

It has been a good start for the morning’s work, this gathering of peace in the rain.

Book Review: Corrag by Susan Fletcher, a historical romance of Scotland

CorragCorrag by Susan Fletcher
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

One of the most lyrical stories about historical Scotland I’ve ever read!

It is told from the viewpoint of a Sassenach, an Englisher, who is said to be a witch because of her skill with herbs. She falls in love with Glencoe and with a Highland Laird’s son who lives there.

In her own words: “Rocks can have a thousand colours in them–grey, brown, purple-grey, dark-blue. They can have moss and lichen on their sides, and heather, and birch trees, and waterfalls, and marks where waterfalls have been…I put my hands upon a stone beneath the northern ridge, and felt it. It had an old warmth, and a wisdom. It was rough, like a tongue. And like all the skies I saw there, it was a blowing sky.”

Or, “As for her grey-eyed daughter it meant a home all handmade herself from stone and reeds and heather in a lost Highland valley that was guarded by two boulders, and where stolen cows were kept. Where she found a proper peace. Where the wind rocked the birches at night, and that was a good sound.”

But that peace is shattered when the Laird signs a peace treaty six days too late, and the Redcoats come calling. And then Corrag must choose.

I’m saving this one to read again. It is that beautiful…and that romantic!