......| VIEW
FROM THE PILLION PRESCOTT VIA
YARNELL HILL
 It was a brilliant, sunny, warm Sunday morning here in
Phoenix, with expected high temperatures in the low 80’s.
It was a perfect day for a ride and I got busy washing Vixen.
When I was nearly through with the last piece of chrome Master came
outside with coffee in hand to see what was going on. As Vixen
sat there gleaming in the morning sun, Master expressed his
appreciation for my efforts and remarking what a glorious day for a
trip to Prescott (correctly pronounced as "press-kit").I whipped up some breakfast before we began our journey, taking time for some leisurely coffee and conversation, and a quick look at the paper before leathering up for the ride. I was very excited to see Prescott, hearing so much about the old western town and the scenery going up the mountains. An added bonus was the fact that we didn’t have to ride all the way across town in order to get to the right highway. We only needed to hop on I-17 going North for about 10 miles and then we could get off to a highway and travel the rest of the trip off the freeway. Anyone who knows the Arizona freeways can relate to what I just said. The adjectives that come to mind are ‘frantic’, ‘crazy’, ‘frustrating’, ‘justifiable homicide’….er…ummmmm…..well disregard that last one, they can’t prove anything! About 10am we were rolling out of town, feeling the sun on our backs and the promise of a great adventure ahead. There wasn’t much traffic and by the time we got a few miles up the Carefree Highway you could count the cars on one hand. It was truly amazing having the sun on our backs, the wind in our faces, well at least on our face shields. We had elected to wear helmets because of the length of our trip. We made a gradual climb past saguaros and sand, winding around the hills as they climbed past highway markers indicating various clubs and organizations that volunteered their time to keep the trash off the landscape. I remember one sign in particular that really gave me a sense of pride. It was ’Women of the Wild West’. I think I related to that sign in particular, finding myself with this wonderful, handsome adventurer in this beautiful and varied landscape of Arizona. My life has been one big adventure for the past four years and this is really the affirmation of my search for a better life, perched here on the back of Vixen with the love of my life. We had been riding for about an hour when we came into the outskirts of Wickenburg, needing to fill Vixen’s thirst for petro, and our need to stretch our legs and take a little break. We watched several small groups of motorcycles pass by on the highway while we had a smoke and a stretch, and soon a party of three baggers pulled in to where we were standing. One of them was towing a small motorcycle trailer with an odd transparent top, which it turns out was the riding place for their buff-colored Labrador retriever!  After chatting for
a few minutes with the other riders we mounted Vixen and off we headed
toward the small village of Congress and on towards Yarnel Hill, which
wound quite precariously through the Weaver Mountains.
Yarnel Hill is a long switchback road which climbed, at times, very
quickly, then hairpinned back onto itself back up the mountain, over
and over, up higher and higher. I found myself swallowing a lot
to pop my ears, and each time the roar of Vixen’s heart would be more
intense, making you feel like the engine was inside your body instead
of under you. It was a delicious feeling only interrupted by the
downshift into the hairpin curves to climb even higher. (No guard
rails were visible to my eyes).The saguaros gave way to small trees, then higher still until the pine trees were filling either side of the road. We then descended into and across Peeples Valley and began climbing again up into the Bradshaw Mountains. It was so green up here it was hard to remember you lived in a ‘desert’. I think that’s what I love most about Arizona…..the variety of scenery from sand dunes to pine trees and everything in between.  Yarnel Hill went
from long straightaways and tight hairpin turns, into this sharply
curving road which closely resembled strands of spaghetti which had
been tossed down to earth and becoming pavement. When they say
‘20 mph’ they really mean it! At one point we even scraped the
footboard on the pavement! It startled us both but it was, at the
same time, exhilarating. Master moved us through those twists and
turns like a dream.Soon the trees were so thick you couldn’t see through them, and before long the twisty road put us right into the heart of Prescott and Whiskey Row. Master cruised down the boulevard looking for a likely place to park Vixen so we could explore this old west town and quench our thirst in a likely saloon. We dismounted in front of The Birdcage Saloon, but before going inside Master took me down the sidewalk fronting Whiskey Row. If you haven’t guessed yet, it is named for the multitude of saloons down this particular street. They haven’t really been restored, like a Hollywood set, its just they have been in continuous use and have been well cared for, so they are very authentic. After a short look-see down the street we went back to the Birdcage and ordered a beer for Master and a bloody mary for me. Much to our chagrin we discovered quickly that there was a ‘no smoking’ ordinance in Prescott which prevented smoking in all the bars on Whiskey Row. This really pissed me off, having come from California where we are looked upon as lepers, sometimes I feel like a junkie trying to find a private place to get a fix. Because of this, we only stayed for one drink and went outside to feed our nicotine addiction. The most extraordinary thing happened then…..an old man came right up to us and started talking about his life, asked us if we could guess how old he was. Apparently he had been a boxing promoter in the 30’s, up in Colorado and Utah, dodging the law because he didn’t have a ‘bond’ to organize fights. Staying one step ahead of the law, he regaled us with tales of getting into the ring with rattlesnakes wrapped around his belly, holding the head out towards the ladies in the front seats, scattering them 50 ways to Sunday, according to the storyteller. I would have disputed his wild story but he pulled out a laminated card from his inside pocket to reveal an old newspaper clipping with a picture of himself, boxing robe, snakes and all! Turns out he finally got thrown in the penitentiary for a few months until he ‘changed his ways’. Apparently he had ‘seen the light’ (thank god he spared us a born again story) found the love of his life and married his wife of 60+ years. During that time he had apparently been a crane operator in Orange County and had been a crane operator that helped build Disneyland! I ask you, where else could you have such an experience other than an old western town. He wished us well and meandered on up the street…I wonder if he was real or if he was one of the ghosts of this town….we’ll never know! Master took me to the Palace for lunch, one of the most ornate and beautiful saloons in town. This 100 year-old saloon had an amazing 25 foot backbar that had to be 15-20 feet high with a long beautiful mirror running the length, backbar lights on either end, a beautiful dark shiny wood. There was a piano player banging out honky tonk and some tourists at the bar. We took a table and ordered burgers for lunch. Service was so-so but the ambiance was fantastic.  After lunch we
wandered across the street to the town square. It was a beautiful
park with the centerpiece being City Hall, very stately with big white
columns. In the north end of the park was a gazebo and a
beautiful bronze statue of Bucky O’Neil. Bucky was a big hero of
the Spanish-American war and rode with Teddy Roosevelt. He was
also the Mayor of Prescott for some years. We took pictures of
these amazing structures, statues and grounds and then Master took me
over to the historical walk in front of the building. There in the concrete was a timeline of Prescott from 1500’s to present day. It was in the shape of a big horseshoe, with the outer left side having the date or year and across from the date was the event. The events varied from big fires, elections, opening of the first school, rodeos, everything that made up the historical significance of Prescott. The history is still living in the architecture, the landscape, and the events they hold to commemorate the history…from rodeos to folk art festivals. Something is always going on in Prescott. We played tourist for another little while, picking up a Grand Canyon Harley T-shirt for Master, and in another little shop I found a great T-shirt that had a picture of a skinny scraggily cat in a gunslinger outfit facing off a chicken in a similar outfit, apparently choosing each other off in the street, the cat declared “CHICKEN!” and, of course, the chicken declaring right back “PUSSY!”. I found it quite funny so with our booty in tow, off we headed for the trip back home. I don’t write much about the return trips because they are always kinda sad for me. We have two dogs at home and its important to get back before 6pm so we can let them outside for a much needed potty break, so we usually take the path of least resistance home, which usually means the freeway. It’s usually pretty uneventful, and we are both reluctant to go back to the frantic pace of the ‘real world’. The only saving grace is I get a two hour hug back home with Master, and that in itself, is a real gift. |
