French Joe Canyon

I attended a poetry group last evening where we read and received comments.  They’re an attentive group, listeners, and their reactions gave no offense.

I followed Wyatt Earp today into the Whetstone Mountains, where after deciding he could not rely on civil justice, took matters into his own hands and hunted down the outlaws in these remote and rugged mountains.  The above picture is not from the poetry meeting, but from a mile of private land I had to cross getting to what is now the Forest Service boundary and French Joe Canyon.  It has nothing to do with the poetry group.

Today, the literature of Coronado National Forest calls the Whetstone Mountains “One of the least accessible areas in our jurisdiction.  The dirt roads have not been maintained in years, and the trails have all but disappeared.”

I started toward the mountains on the shortest road by map, but soon found that my Toyota Tacoma was no match for it.  This road is for jeeps or macho pickups.  So I parked and walked toward the mouth of French Joe Canyon.

The road petered out, and a trail was still traceable for awhile, but soon I was simply going up the canyon, climbing over boulders and trying to avoid sharp agave and yucca spears.

A spring feeds the residents here, so the cactus had to go, leaving cottonwoods, Arizona live oaks, and various green shrubs in a small enclave within a cactus land.

Mesquite, you unlovely tree

nothing about you inspires poems

just when we want you lovely most

when times are dry like now

you drop your leaves as if to die

What about you can we find to love?

.

Three voices singing

Chain fruit cholla