Cherry Creek Lodge: Young, Arizona
It would be quite hard for certain people to believe they were in Arizona if you dropped them off here. We are driving through pine forests with deep canyons and valleys appearing here and there on either side of our road. Most people think all of Arizona is a vast, dry desert. Some even think we still ride horses around and stop for tumbleweeds to blow across the dirt road while we adjust our cowboy hats and stirrups. This scenery would be quite a surprise. I roll my window down and am surprised by the cool air that comes rushing into the car. My sister and I smile at each other, welcoming the break from the exhausting heat of the city. The dirt road we’re on is anything but well groomed. It’s surprisingly fun bumping along with the windows down, scanning the trees for wildlife and laughing with my family. It’s been awhile since the four of us did something like this together.
The bumpy dirt road seems to go on for a long time and just as I’m starting to think we made a wrong turn too many miles ago, it turns paved again. “Welcome to Young!” my dad laughs as we start passing buildings. I suppose you could call them houses. Some of the buildings are halfway fallen over, with a new one build right beside it. Cars and odd assortments of appliances are in front yards, couches on the porches. There are quite a few people sitting out, enjoying a glass of iced tea or a smoke. This is an interesting place. “This is where The Antlers used to be!” my mom exclaims. All I see is a dirt lot, charred and most empty except for a few pieces of caution tape. “Yeah, I heard at the trap club that it burned down” my dad replies as we slow down to get a better look. My dad explains that the “Antlers” was the hot spot in town. It was the local bar, the karaoke club, the nice restaurant, the hang-out… It sounds like it had a lot of character. Now the only restaurant in town is called “Alice’s”, and I’m told it’s not the sort of place you would recommend to a guest.
It takes all of five minutes to drive from one end of “town” to the other. In lieu of a grocery store is a gas station with one pump and a small convenience store that closes at 7pm. The nearest grocery is two hours away. I’m thankful that wherever we’re staying this weekend includes meals.
We hit another dirt road. This one is much rougher than the first; this is turning into a long trip. And making notes about a strange little town in the middle of nowhere is making me a bit carsick. Hopefully we’re almost there.
Twenty minutes later – now it really feels like the middle of nowhere – we finally pass a sign that says “Trap Club” with an arrow to the right, and “Cherry Creek Ranch” with an arrow to the left. We fork left and head into a canyon of juniper trees, a few pines here and there, and dry creek beds under our tires every so often. We’ve gone a few hundred yards when I spot something out of the corner of my eye. “Dad! Stop! Um, there’s… a deer! No, wait…” as I’m half shouting and half mumbling I know it’s much too big to be a deer. My dad spins around in his seat and peers through the trees. It’s an elk! That seems much more exciting than a deer, although this large graceful creature with long eyelashes isn’t much excitement at the moment. She stares at us as we stare at her. It’s kind of a funny exchange. Suddenly, as if to prove my thought process wrong, a deer comes bounding out of the trees and crosses the road right in front of our car. Everyone jumps a little and stares after him, trying to count the newly growing antlers on his head. My eyes focus further down the road and I see two more deer jumping across in front of us! Now four more, six… they keep coming until we’ve seen about a dozen little deer hop from one side of the trees to the other until they’re out of sight. We’re all a little more awake now!
We start our journey again; this time everyone’s eyes are on the trees, hoping for more wildlife, when we find that we’re at the entrance to the ranch. There are two signs nailed to a tree. They read “Do Not Enter” and “Cherry Creek Lodge” with an arrow pointing into the gate. We laugh at the placement of these contradicting statements, and hope we’re entering the right gate. Just inside is a strategically tipped wheelbarrow, spilling over with flowers, and a big sign that says “Welcome to Cherry Creek Lodge at Titlin’ H Ranch”. It looks like we’ve arrived.
Everyone “oos” and “ahs” as we pull up to a beautiful wooden lodge at the top of the small hill we climb. I didn’t know what to expect, but this is much more beautiful and well, high class than I imagined. There’s a small lake across from the lodge, reflecting the colors of the beginnings of the sunset. A line of horses follow each other around the edge of the water, heading home for the night. We start piling out of the car and grabbing our bags when a fluffy medium-sized dog, whose tail is missing, appears out of nowhere, licking our hands, stepping on our feet, and giving us a very friendly welcome. As we’re laughing and wiping the dirty paw prints from our pants, a stocky man in tight Wrangler jeans and an authentic cowboy hat rounds the corner with another fluffy tailless dog in tow. “Hey folks! You must be the Sawreys!” With a big warm grin he stretches out his hand and asks each of our names. He picks up a few of our bags and heads up the big stairs that lead to the wraparound porch overlooking the lake.
As we head in the double doors, my eyes sweep around at the beautiful birch wood covering the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. There are luxurious leather couches and armchairs paired with rich wood tables, all strategically surrounding a large stone fireplace. Most of the walls are glass doors overlooking the lake and the woods beyond it. As I’m trying to take in the magic of this place, Mike – the man who met us at the car – stops in the middle of the room, turns slowly back to face us, and says, “Welcome… to Cherry Creek Lodge.” My sister and I catch each other’s eyes and stifled a giggle. It is a very nice place, but that was a bit cheesy coming from a man wearing Wranglers and a cowboy hat.
The rooms are nicer than in a classy hotel. The décor is beautiful yet rustic, everything is neat and clean, and there is a cowboy hat filled with goodies on each of our pillows. A metal water canteen attached to a carabineer, a small LED light with a compass on the strap, and a bag of trail mix stamped with the Cherry Creek logo is ready and waiting for us to use for the weekend.
After we put our bags away, Mike shows us around the kitchen and the bar, noting the countless African animal heads and skins on the walls, and leaves us to enjoy the evening. We head out to the porch and settle into the big lounge chairs to watch the stars peep out at us as it gets darker. We enjoy the stillness in the air, the absence of traffic noise or city lights. Bullfrogs from across the lake bellow out at each other and we laugh at the surprise of the abrupt and incredibly loud echo of their voices. Eventually we each get tired enough to head inside and crawl into the comfortable beds that have been turned down for us.
In the morning I wake up to bright sunshine streaming through our open windows. I stumble out to the kitchen and the smell of bacon reaches me as I come through the doorway. No one else is around, so I put together a plate of eggs and bacon and pour myself a large glass of orange juice. It looks fresh squeezed. I head outside and join my mom and sister at a table in the bright sun. My dad has already headed to the Trap Shooting Club to compete with Young’s finest shooters. I wonder what kind of crowd that will draw. As we finish up our breakfast, a young man comes stomping up the stairs, his shoes making a sharp click on the wood as he strides toward us. His dark hair flips out from under a brown suede cowboy hat, a feather tucked into the leather band wrapped around it; his scruffy facial hair makes it hard to tell his age, but the brightness in his deep brown eyes give me the impression that he is younger than he looks.
“Hi there, I’m J.R.!” he says brightly as he shakes each of our hands. “I hear you’re interested in riding some horses today? Well as soon as you’re done, meet me down by the barn and we’ll get you saddled up.” He grins and heads back toward the stairs, the click of his boots following after him. My sister and I exchange a glance with raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders, not sure what to make of him. We take our plates inside and get ready to head out. Our mom walks down to the barn with us to see the horses, even though she won’t be riding today. When we get there, a little brown dog comes shyly out of the barn to greet us; he’s much calmer than that shaggy one from yesterday. We learn that his name is Cowboy, and he’ll be coming along with us today, too.
After we get acquainted with our horses, we climb on up while J.R. and a young boy whose name we haven’t learned tighten straps and fiddle with the horses bridals, adjusting things I know nothing about. Eventually they swing up onto their horses and let us know that we’re waiting for Mike to join us. When everyone is ready, we head toward the woods.
We lazily walk along a trail, J.R. and Mike pointing things out along the way, turning backward in their saddles to tell us stories. In the 1880’s there was a bloody feud between two families right here in this canyon. They call it the Pleasant Valley Wars because so many people were killed. There are many different versions to the story; even J.R. and Mike have slightly different adaptations. The basis of the story is that the Tewksburys and the Grahams both lived in the valley as cattle ranchers. They were friends, and they were also both cattle thieves. One of the ranchers they both stole from came to the Grahams and made them an offer. If they stopped stealing cattle, they could be hired to watch over them instead and be pardoned for their previous crimes so long as they turned in other known cattle thieves. They accepted this offer, and the Tewksburys were turned in. This began the war, and the rest of the story is a bit subjective, although it is a known fact that many people were killed, and that right here on our trail was a grave of two victims to the wars. We had no idea there was so much history here.
The rest of our ride is very leisurely, listening to J.R. tell Mike about the cattle he’s been herding, the mountain lion tracks he’s found, bears he’s seen in the area. As we get to talking we find out that J.R. is 21 years old. He lives right there on the ranch and takes care of Mike’s cows and land. We ride along without talking much, and he starts to sing some old Johnny Cash songs to himself between tobacco spits. This man is a real cowboy.
We learn more about the land, which pieces are owned by Mike and his wife, what other wild animals live here, more “war stories”. Every once in awhile, Cowboy takes off running after a deer and howls like he’s the most lonesome creature in the woods. J.R. mutters “damn dog” under his breath, and says “Usually I have to shoot into the air to get him to come back, once he’s found a deer. Of course when I need him to help me find the cows is when he always runs off.” He laughs a hearty laugh and we go on without Cowboy. I guess he’ll find his way home.
When we get back to the lodge hours later I’m surprised that I can walk. We’re sore and dirty and scraped up from the trees, not to mention hot and sunburned. We slowly make our way up the stairs and slump into chairs on the porch. Lunch is sandwiches and iced tea, and we spend the rest of the afternoon reading and lounging, waiting for my dad to get back. Once he does, we find out that he did pretty well in the tournament; he even won nine dollars! We laugh, because it costs more than that to even enter the competition.
The four of us go for a walk around the lake, searching for bullfrogs. We don’t find any, but we do see lots of fish, and a duck. My dad points out depressions in the shallow water with fish hovering over them. These are where the fish lay their eggs and watch over them until they hatch. My dad’s the kind of person who seems to know everything.
The sun is making its way down the sky already by the time we drag our tired feet back inside to wash up. Burgers and hot dogs are sizzling on the grill and we discover that there’s a whole back patio here, with tall tables and a fire pit. My cute mom put together a bag of s’mores ingredients and stuck it in the car at the last minute, so she’s excited to see that we can have a fire. It’s cooled down enough to want one; it feels wonderful to pull on a hoodie sweatshirt and snuggle up next to my sister after dinner. All of the staff leave the lodge for the night; it’s just the four of us with our marshmallow roasting sticks and a full moon. What a wonderful end to a surprisingly great weekend. As much as I don’t want to leave so soon, I’m excited to get back to Phoenix and share this hidden gem. This is the kind of place that shouldn’t be kept secret.
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