Hope Valley

I know precisely where I want to spend eternity, not in a crypt in some cold, dank mausoleum or in a fancy urn on the mantle or even six-feet underground.  I want my ashes spread under a grove of aspens on a gentle slope overlooking Hope Valley, located on the Carson Pass (Highway 88) about thirty minutes from Lake Tahoe.  Note: The second picture shows the aspen grove.

    I have always considered a mountain meadow to be one of the most beautiful sights in the entire natural world.  Hope Valley is not technically a meadow, it’s more accurate to refer to it as a subalpine valley, but nevertheless I prefer to call it a meadow, so there.  It may be not as majestic as that famous valley east of Fresno, but Hope has all the natural ingredients I love; the glorious aspens, a rich grassy bottom, a meandering stream, and snow capped mountains all around.  What could be better?

    A bit of history...In 1844 none other than those two famous adventurers, John C. Fremont and Kit Carson made the first winter crossing of the Sierra Nevada mountain range.  It appears they must have slogged their way through Hope Valley attempting to find a pass across the Sierra, which wound up being just a little south of the route Highway 88 takes today.  On top of that, the intrepid Norwegian skier, Snowshoe Thompson, traversed Hope Valley in 1856 as he delivered mail to the other side of the Sierra.

    In the spring and early summer Hope Valley is all green and lush and the mountains still have snow on them.  Long about October, the aspens do their thing.  They’re ablaze in yellow, orange and even red, while the meadow turns a tawny color.  In the winter all is covered in a blanket of snow.

    I was there this past October and as you can see in the first picture there is still a thin layer of snow on what must be north-facing slopes.  I ambled out into the meadow, visited the stream, saw a beaver’s dam and soon a sublime peacefulness enveloped me.  I walked over to the aspens and sat amongst them on one of the many boulders.  Up above the ridge a half moon set.  It all felt so marvelously comfortable, so perfect.  And you know what, for me it just doesn’t get much better than that.

Jerome, Arizona

Jerome, Arizona located southwest of Sedona was once a rich mining town where miners carved, dynamited and carted away millions of tons of earth from the surrounding mountains. Mainly it was copper that they were after. The first miners attracted to the area came there during prehistoric times and they were after colored stones. Later on the Spanish searched for gold, but only found copper and they moved on. It wasn’t until 1876 that the first mining claims were filed. Then Jerome quickly went from a tent city to a prosperous company town. It was built on the side a mountain they called Cleopatra. Jerome became a wild, wide-open town, notorious for its prostitution, gambling and vice. It was Jerome’s mixture of ethnic groups, American, Mexican, Croatian, Irish, Spanish, Italian and Chinese, that added a rich flavor to the excitement of its early days. The New York Sun called it “the wickedest town in the West.”
    Jerome was the talk of the Arizona Territory. It made millionaires out of promoters and investors. At first burro pack trains and freight wagons pulled by mules and horses carried supplies in and the copper out. Later, steam engines and trucks replaced them. Fires swept through the boomtown, destroying large sections, but always Jerome was rebuilt. Sometime in the early 1950s, all the mines closed after producing well over a billion dollars in copper, gold, silver, and zinc. The town went from a peek population of 15,000 to a mere 50 people.

    As we drove around, I noticed that many of the buildings cling desperately to Cleopatra Hill and a few of them have actually slid off their foundations. You would too if you were sitting on the 30-degree slope. Gravity and aging is a constant companion in this “village on the move,” (pun intended).
    In 1967 Jerome was designated a Historic District, and a National Historic Landmark in 1976. Today the funky little village is alive, attracting a steady flow of tourists. It’s a place where one can buy works of art and pottery in the more than thirty galleries and working studios and where two travelers from Capitola had a nice lunch, while clinging to a 30-degree slope.