Fox Ranch Valley

The old man rumbles along in the high desert, heading back to Chocolate Falls. Water is flowing this time, although not as abundantly as he would have liked. He spots tiny moving dots below of people playing, and searches for the trail downward.

Its a warm spring day, and so he moves with extra caution as he hikes downward in case a snake may be on the trail sunning itself. The volcanic rock is also a tad slippery. He can hear the roar of the waterfall hitting the stone.

Across the river he goes. Standing at the base of the waterfall, the spray cools him down.

After a spell he makes his way back up and out of the canyon and into the mountains. The lakes of Flagstaff are primed for fishing, and so he drags his tackle box, beer, and camp chair down to the waters edge and casts his pole, the first time this season.

Not even a nibble today, but it does not matter to him. He has not felt this good for years. Packing up his fishing pole, the man heads on over to Fox Ranch Valley, a little suburb of Flagstaff.

The cabin is remote, yet only a couple of miles from the road. Time to break out the mountain bike and ride.

He finds a trail, and is surprised with how well his legs are doing as he climbs the mountain and traverses the trail. Looking around, he notices Blair Witch type drawings on the pine trees around him.

Did I stumble onto a sacred Native Indian dwelling?”

Back at the cabin, he sits on the wooden deck, knocking back more beers and vegetables while watching the clouds circle around Mount Humphrey.

Peaceful surroundings should never be taken for granted.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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