This is the last of the four trip home blogs. If you start with this one, you're working backwards. If you like them in order, start with "Vibrating".
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On a clear-enough day, as you clear the slight rise in I-40 heading west near Winslow, AZ, you can begin to see Mount Humphreys separate itself from the horizon. It is also known as the San Francisco Peaks (no relation to California's city). The Navajo, or Dine as they prefer, refer to it as Doko'oosliid, or Abalone Shell Mountain. It is one of their four sacred mountains, the Mountain of the West. A volcano, it is generally considered dormant, having last erupted by blowing its top off about a thousand years ago. The highest natural point in Arizona, it commands the view in an area with little competition for the honor. The sight of it tells the traveler they are nearing Flagstaff. The Snow Bowl at the top - or should I say in the top - provides winter recreation like skiing well after snow is gone elsewhere, in those parts where it even falls at all.
We have made a practice of looking for it from Winslow to its east, or during our northbound descent into Verde Valley. So heading home after our summer break from the heat, we were somewhat reassured to see the shadow on the horizon as we cleared Winslow. Or so we thought. As we got closer, some clouds surrounded the area, and a split in one of them led Steve to comment it almost looked like the mountain was hiding behind it instead of where we'd been looking.
I safely pulled enough attention from the road to study the area he pointed out and finally decided he was correct! The shadow we'd been approaching should have been getting taller and more imposing, but stayed low on the horizon. Eventually we clearly saw the high slope of the north edge of the real mountain. Obviously, we concluded, the mountain was creating its own rain from pushing its cloud higher.
Logic demanded another evaluation of that assessment as we closed in. The clouds over the top were scattered, wispy, not rain-bearing clouds. But they - whatever they were - were closing back over the mountain. We were closer and they should have been getting thinner, the mountain more visible. Instead it slowly disappeared. Completely.
By Walnut Canyon there was a thin smokiness over everything. Trees were paler, as if standing in a light fog. In Arizona? It thickened as we closed in, and we concluded we were driving through smoke. Somewhere there was a fire, and it must be sizeable because the area its smoke covered was. In a few more miles we started smelling it and our eyes burned. We reached for the cough drops, and I started wondering if we were going to be detoured. If we stayed on the freeway, I was fine. A detour? That could be a problem, especially an unexpected one and poorly marked.
We made it to I-17, heading south. The thickest smoke was still to our west, so any possible detours would be further down the road. Our main road hazard was going to be road construction, not the construction itself but the idiots who sped up instead of slowing down just so they could get ahead of one or two more cars. The lower speed limit observed by vehicles in front of them was going to be the same, so I fail to understand the risk for a couple seconds "reward." Meanwhile there were breaks in the tall Ponderosa pines allowing us to see between them to the source of the fire, for fire it definitely was. We passed closely enough to see billows of thick white with brownish thick centers, competing with each other for space to rise and spread, almost reminiscent of slow motion popcorn on a huge scale.
Looking in the rear view mirrors gave us more of an idea of where smoke was heading, still reconfirming the peak was occluded. We resolved, once home, to research what was burning, and possibly why. TV news brought the information while we were unpacking. They've named it the Cecil fire, started by lightning. It's burning in Ponderosa pines and is currently being managed, aka allowed to burn, up to a certain size. It mainly will clear out excess fuel as if it were a controlled burn. When expected winds pick up later, it will be time to work on putting it out. Or that's the plan, anyway.
What I found oddest about it was, despite all the smoke we saw and its location, they announced most of the smoke was heading downhill, the opposite direction, into Oak Creek Canyon.
Don't breathe down there, all you tourists!
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