Topic 100: The Passing of the Country Road

Carol:

Over the River and Through the Woods—Arizona Style

Read the daily Prescott newspaper for the latest news in Egypt and you’ll be disappointed. But, if you want to know what’s up at the Prescott Public Library or where the next controlled burn is, the Daily Courier is your best source.  One of my favorite columns is the Sunday segment  called “Days Past,” and a special treat in 2011 has been reading author/historian Stan Brown’s series “A Day Trip to Seligman on the Williamson Valley Road.“
 

When we moved to Prescott in 1983, our home was rural enough that all the mailboxes were lined along Williamson Valley Road nailed to fence posts. Our address was just our name, “Camp Wood Route,” Prescott 86301.  Williamson Valley Road itself was a quiet, two-lane paved road, and the easiest way to direct folks to our house was to look for the 5-mile marker and then turn left towards Granite Mountain onto the dirt.  

One of our first adventures was to find Camp Wood. So, we packed a picnic basket and our 18-month old daughter in our little white Mazda GLC (which my husband tells me stands for “Great Little Car”) and  headed north on Williamson Valley Road.   We had never been past the 5-mile marker, so we were surprised by how quickly the houses disappeared as we went further into ranch country with its expansive views of Little Granite Mountain on the Left.

The road to Camp Wood

About 15 miles out, the paving ended and we almost turned around.  That “Great Little Car” was not an off-road vehicle and we were not off-road people, having migrated from the wilds of Southern California.  The gravel road was dusty and noisy, but a mile later a sign directed us to turn left at Country Road 68, leading west 14 miles to Camp Wood. By now, we were hot and hungry but determined to find the perfect camp spot on our little Sunday adventure, not really considering that 14 miles on gravel was not going to be achieved in an hour in our GLC.
 

When we forged the creek, I got nervous. When we hit the ruts and boulders, I got really nervous. When we arrived at Camp Wood, I got frustrated. There were buildings, undoubtedly historically significant buildings, but where were the pristine restroom, the picnic tables, the California-style amenities I had come to expect? We walked around to stretch our legs, got back in the car and re-traced our route to the Route, looking now only for an open flat spot beside the road to stretch out our blanket for the long-delayed picnic. In ranch country, we soon found a turn-out, unpacked our lunch and settled the blanket on a flat area with the fewest rocks, stickers and cow patties. Not so easy, not so rustic, not so appetizing. Megan slept the rest of the way home, thank goodness.
 
The changes in Williamson Valley Road since 1983 have marked the growth—and the growing pains—of the Valley. The roadside mailboxes multiplied, the historic “Camp Wood Route” became “Highway Contract 30,” then HC 29, then the mailboxes were torn down when we got actual addresses. The horse pastures and ranches turned into developed communities with names like Crossroads, Talking Horse, and Inscription Canyon.  Water problems, growth problems, political controversies have all become new chapters in the history of Williamson Valley.
 

I have never been back to Camp Wood. Despite the changes to Williamson Valley Road, the gravel trip along County Road 68 probably hasn’t changed in 28 years. Mr. Brown’s series in the Courier has me excited to take the trip again, but I’m waiting until Mr. Brown’s third installment comes out in next Sunday’s Courier.  The trip may take me all day now that I know the history of our no longer country road. I’ll take the truck, pack a lunch, and if I can’t talk my baby girl into coming along, there is always…. Milo.

Sources:
Brown, Stan. “A Day Trip to Seligman on the Williamson Valley Road.” The Daily Courier. 
Part I
Part 2
 Photograph:
Adventure Rider website (posting by “Sixer", 23 Mar 2009)

Megan:

The first car I got in England was side-swiped by a hit and run driver and from that point on it sort of drove sideways down the road. I didn’t notice it while driving, but I got a lot of concerned comments from people who had seen me around town. I didn’t notice any real problems until I got up to around 80 miles per hour and then the car would pull strongly to the left. I mentioned this to a coworker and he responded, “Considering the maximum speed limit is 60, that should never be a problem for you.” And then we all laughed. Speed limits in the UK are generally considered to be hints or suggestions.  Everyone speeds. The main reason to have a GPS navigator is because it also lets you know when a speed camera is coming up. 

In England, the national speed limit is 60 MPH (unless you are on a motorway or dual carriageway, and then it is 70). Through towns and busy areas, signs will post slower speeds, but once you’re out in the countryside you will usually see the following sign:

That means “national speed limits apply.”  The UK is full of winding single-lane country roads lined on both sides with hedgerows and sheep, occasional pullouts and hidden driveways. These roads are older than our country, originally carved out by horses and buggies. Visibility for more than 20 feet is rare, but an experienced driver will merrily accelerate to the maximum or beyond.  Whenever I was a passenger, driving along these roads terrified me.

In the Fens, where I lived, these country lanes often paralleled the canals and dykes that had been dug to drain the marshland. Some of these canals, although only 15 or 20 feet wide, were 50 or 60 feet deep.  This added to the stress of the speeding, because if you suddenly had to swerve off the road to avoid oncoming traffic, you had a 50% chance of going into the water. A lot of people died that way, yet the speed limits still are rarely reduced.

When I asked, a friend explained to me that the speed limits were dependent on the traffic, which is why it was slower going through a town on a four lane road, then winding through the farms and woods where fewer people were likely to be. Pedestrians usually had their own paths (also carved through the hedgerows), so were not often on the road either. “It’s a matter of probability,” my friend told me. “It is very unlikely that another car will be coming around that bend.”

Although I mastered speeding on the main roads, I was never able to even approach the national limit on those back roads with any confidence. Once on a longer drive, after the GPS had been silent for awhile, my passenger turned to me and said, “Look what you’ve done. You’re going so slow, the TomTom got bored and fell asleep.”