Arizona Highways, January 1991

              (ABOVE) Convergent ladybugs
in the Pinal Mountains. Story
on page 12. RICK HEFFERNON
(LEFI) Centenarians gathered
in Tucson in the fall of 1987.
Story on page 16.
(FRONf COVER) Interior view of
Tonto National Monument in
central Arizona. Story on
page 38. JERRY SIEVE
(BACK COVER) A wind- and
water-fashioned slot canyon.
Portfolio begins on page 22.
MICHAEL FATALl
AR~HIGHWAYS • JANUARY 1991 VOLUME 67 NUMBER 1
4 PROFILE
Ansel Adams: Photographer
Text by Robert C. Dyer
Photographs by Ansel Adams
Although he was uninspired
by the Grand Canyon, he
earned an international
reputation for his great
Western landscapes.
12 NATURAL HISTORY
Killer Ladybugs
Text by Rick Heffernan
Those cute little orange · bugs
with the black spots are
really voracious beetles that
never met an aphid they
didn't like .
16 PIONEERS
Yesterday's Children
Text by Ron McCoy
Photographs by Fred Griffin
They came from an era when
steam and sweat were the
cJ:tief energy sources. They
are today's centenarians .
2 2 PORTFOLIO
Symphony in Sandstone
Text and photographs
by Michael Fatali
Slot canyons, those narrow
crevices carved by wind and
weather, are sometimes hard
to reach, but the reward for
those who do is an unrivaled
spectacle of color and texture.
28 HISTORY
The Kayenta Mail Run
Text by Francis Raymond Line
Illustrations by Bill Ahrendt
On the Navajo reservation in
the 1950s, the postman was
expected to provide passenger
bus service, get prescriptions
filled, run errands, and deliver
groceries to the most remote
outposts in the land.
3 2 FURNITURE DESIGN
Spanish-Colonial Furniture
Comes of Age.:_ Again!
Text by Dennis B . Farrell
Photographs by Sean Brady
A product of the 17th
century Southwest, this
furniture featured
beautifully ornamented
raised panels and more
despite the use of the most
primitive tools . Today,
modern artisans are
emulating and embellishing
the old styles.
38 TRAVEL
An Omen in the Ruins
Text by William Hafford
Photographs by jerry Sieve
What was life like in the
Southwest's distant past? What
caused the disappearance of
the ancient peoples? We find
clues and an ominous
prognostication among the
ruins at Tonto National
Monument.
48 HIKE
Our Hike of the Month:
Wind Cave Trail
Text by William Hafford
Photographs by jerry Sieve
Pass Mountain near Apache
Junction provides a moderate
2lh-mile hike amid lush
desert foliage. There are nine
other hiking trails in the area,
some easier, some tougher.
2 ALONG THE WAY NEW
Some people have a different
view of the roadrunner.
3 LETTERS
46 MILEPOSTS NEW
A potpourri of travel tips ,
events, humor, folklore, and
miscellany.
KAYENTA•
CANYON DE
.GRAND CHELLY•
CANYON
•R.AGSTAFF
TONTO NATIONAL
MONUMENT
PHOENlX* •APACHE
JUNCTION
Arizona Highways 1
_ _ _ ALONG THE WAY __ ~
o ne of t he thin!!' I <emem­ber
most clearly about my trip
throu gh Arizona is the ubiquity
of roadrunners - not the real
ones (I never saw one), but
the pins, pendants, earrings,
and other ornithological sou­venirs
that were for sale every­where
. Golden and silver,
some with jeweled eyes, they
were in escapable, more than
enou gh of them to make any
visitor or tou rist casually
ass ume that the roadrunner
must be the state bird of
Arizona. In fact, it's the state
bird of New Mexico; and its
Latin name is Geococcyx cali­fornianus.
All of which attests
to the roadrunn er's extreme
celerity - this bird gets
around!
In any case, I wasn't enam­ored
of a ll t his h igh-profile
promotion for the roadrunner,
which I knew strictly through
the classic Warner Brothers car­toons
in which it appears as
the bete noire of Wile E. Coy­ote.
I was a Coyote rooter.
The Roadrunner had always
seemed to me to be virtually
characterless
with a some­w
h at prig­gish
manner
and a loony
is a symbolic reflection of the
rea l-life bird's relationship to
the cuckoo.
But the Coyote struck me as
being a figure of heroic stature
- completely dedicated, inge­nious
(although plagued by
terrible luck), endlessly resil­ient,
and perseverant in spite
of continual defeat. He is obvi­ously
a tragic figure (note the
depths of angst in those sor­rowfu
l eyes!), ·but that perhaps
only exacerbates his appeal.
Wile E. Coyote to me is Sisy­phus,
the Texans at the Alamo,
and Cool Hand Luke all rolled
into one.
Wh at the Roadrunner car­toons
do is as natural to com­edy
as it is unnatural in real life
- they make the underdog
(bird, in this case) the winner
and t h e p reda tor the loser.
Cartoons are fu ll of images of
mice and birds outwitting cats,
ducks a n d rabbits foiling
human hunters, and so on.
This is akin to portraying jocks
and muscular behemoths in
general as strong and danger­ous
but essentially buffoons
who are easily defeated.
Apparently there is a strong
© 1988 Warner Bros. Inc. All Rights Reseroed
2 January 1991
cultural impulse to make fun
of the mighty. It 's what celebri­ty
"roasts" are all about.
Well, that's all right. Enter­tainment
and art need not imi­tate
life . They have carte
blanche to express themselves
in any manner - to be realis­tic
or unrealistic, fabulously
fancifu l, or astutely authentic.
The Roadrunner and the
Coyote are basicall y the. cre­ations
of animator Chuck
Jones, who also was instru­mental
in the creation of such
other classic cartoon characters
as Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck,
Porky Pig, Pepe Le Pew, et al.
Warner Brothers cartoons,
largely because of Jones, were
highly sophisticated, really
aimed at adults rather than
children. They embraced satire
and parody.
Ironically, Chuck Jones does
not have a star on Hollywood
Boulevard in Los Angeles but
Bugs Bunny does. That's like
giving a star to Charlie McCar­thy
instead of to Edgar Bergen.
Fortunately, in this case, Berg­en
got the star.
I remember the prodigious
impact t he early Roadrun­n
er cartoons had on
me. They were hilar-ious
and stun­ning
. The desert
background, for
example, whether
intended to be
Arizona, New
Mexico, or Cal­ifornia,
had a
slightly surreal
quality about
its starkness
and, as the car­toons
proliferated,
would become as un­forgettable
as the Monu­ment
Valley that John
Ford had made part of
the geographical iconog-raphy
of the American
Western . The cartoon's hy­perboli
c b u ttes, mesas, and
cliffs were reminiscent of a
surrealist dreamscape of sorts.
As for the titular hero of this
great cinematic series, the Road­runner,
I can't imagine anyone
admiring him at a ll , really.
The Roadrunner, in fact,
never truly defeats the Coyote.
The Coyote is always a vic­tim
of bad luck. He is fated
to be forever exploded by
his own dynamite, catapulted
from precipices and through
space, and crushed by rocks
because nothing ever works
right. And these spectacular
pratfall s are a lways executed
with really wonderfu l visual
panache. The Coyote is the
ultimate fall guy, victim of
gravity and velocity: one
remembers him eternally fall­ing
, falling, usually falling from
an overhead point of view,
receding into the distance and
becoming a tiny dot just
before he hits the desert floor
in an explosive puff of dust;
falling, also, in physica l install ­me
n ts - the body dropping
away with his face and ears
remaining in place, then the
head suddenly dropping, too,
the ears' pulled along in its
wake. Great visual gag!
In an interview in Film
Comment, Jones once said:
"The Coyote isn 't merely an
egotist; he's almost possessed;
he's a fanatic . And now I real­ize,
it was only in the earlier -
cartoons that I made much of
a point about the Coyote
wanting to eat the Roadrunner.
Later on, even that didn't seem
to matter anymore, and the
Coyote's motivation became
even more.generalized: all he
wanted to do was get him, or
something, because his dignity
was shot."
Of course, the Coyote never
does get him, and no doubt
never will.
Naturally I'm in the Coyote 's
corner. I realize that all of
those roadrunner pins I saw in
Arizona were generic and not
representative of Jones ' Road­runner;
still, I hope that by
now some Wile E. Coyote pins
are equa ll y available.
In the meantime, I'll contin­u
e to ponder the question:
what were roadrunners called
before there were roads?
-Larry Tritten
_____ LETTERS ___ _
ARIZON~
HIGHWAYS
JAN UAR Y 1991 VOL. 67 , NO. 1
Publisher-Hugh Harelson
Editor-Robert J. Early
Managing Editor-Richard G. Stahl
Art Director-C hristi ne Mitc hell
Picture Editor-P eter Ense nberger
Associate Editor-R ebecca Mong
Computer Graphics -Mary W. Vel gos
Research Assistant-J ill Elle n Welch
Business Director-Robert M. Steele
Production Director-Cindy Mackey
Marketing Director-Colleen Hornung
Creative Director-Gary Bennett
· Fulfillment Director-Lawrence E. Husband
Data Processing Manager- Richard Simp so n
Related Products
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Assoc iate Ed itor-Robert J. Farrell
As sociate Art Director- Lynne M. Hamilton
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Ar izona Transportation Board
Chairman: Andrew M. Federhar, Tucson ;
Members: Linda Brock-Nelson , Paradise Valley;
Larry Chavez, Phoenix; Donald D. Denton, Parker ;
Harold Gietz, Safford ; Verne D. Seidel, Jr.,
Flagstaff; James A. Soto, Nogales
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JOHN CLUM LOOK-ALIKE
You published (August 1990)
a photograph of a man you
contend is John Clum, publish­er
of the Tombstone Epitaph .
The photo is not John Clum
but, in fact, George Parsons.
Jeffrey D . Gallant
Fresno , CA
It is Parsons, the author of
a diary of Tombstone in the
1880s and a man who
looked very much like Clum.
Tbe photo, taken by Camillus
S. Fly, was misidentified by
historians as Clum for many
years.
TYPOGRAPHI CA L TIZ ZY
It is sad to see Arizona High­wa_
fl5 drop in typographic qual­ity
.... When hanging punctua­tion
was dropped, the right­hand
edge of your fully justi­fied
columns started weaving
down the page. I often use
your publication as an exam­ple
of the superior quality
hanging punctuation can bring
to the finished page . But no
more .... Ugly may be the cur­rent
fad, but you don't have to
follow.
Henry Schneiker
Tucson
As soon as I began to read
your May 1990 issue, I ob­served
a delightful change for
the better. No longer do hy­phens
, commas, and other
marks of punctuation hang out
in the right-hand margin. They
are retained within the type
column, where they belong.
Punctuation marks hanging in
the margin always bugged me.
Paul C. Clarke
Staten Island, NY
Those little comma specks
in the margins were
eliminated when we switched
to computerized page
composition, starting with the
May 1990 issue.
ENV IRONMENTAL ELITE
A sense of sadness fell over
me upon reading of the Sierra
Club 's campaign to close the
historic Mount Lemmon high­way
(July 1990). It becomes
more and more obvious that
the goal of this organization is
to lock all wild areas away
from everyone except the
environmental elite . Its "no
wheeled vehicle" policy is dis­criminatory
against the elderly
and the handicapped. I hope
the people of Arizona will see
through the club's "ecological"
smoke screen and keep the
Mount Lemmon area open for
everyone to enjoy, regardless
of their physical ability.
George S. Ly le
Canyon Country, CA
It 's only recently that
handicapped access to
wilderness areas bas even
been considered.
ANIMAL CR UELTY
I feel compelled to inquire
about the treatment of the
horses and cattle mentioned in
the "Los Charros" article (May
1990). We own two ranches
and I can assure you that rop­ing
a galloping 1,000-pound
horse by the legs is , for the
horse, an invitation to disaster.
Pulled muscles and torn liga­ments
would be the least of
possible injuries. As for "drop­ping"
a 500-pound steer by the
tail - the amount of torque
necessary to do this is so enor­mous
that sometimes the tail is
completely ripped off. Don't
tell me this doesn't hurt. If bull­fighting
is not allowed in this
country, I'm surprised some of
these events are . Perhaps
before you champion some­thing
, you should investigate
the whole picture.
Anita E. Doheny
Beverly Hills , CA
MIS LEADING T ERM
In the March 1990 issue, you
call indigenous Americans
"Native Americans. " This divi­sive
usage - an uppercase N
for Natives born of indigenous
Americans; a lowercase n for
natives born of other Ameri­cans
- enjoys a journalistic
currency of late . But it does
create a discriminatory system
comprising implicit upper­caste
and lower-caste Ameri­can
natives.
W. F. Sheeley
Phoenix
RANCHE R'S RESCUE
In "Ca nyon Primeval" (June
1990), author Alan Weisman
stated that an undisclosed
rancher held the key to this
pristine area. Weisman thought
it unfair that such a beautiful
area was not accessible to the
public. The only reason the
area looked so beautiful and
unspoiled is because the
rancher has kept people away
from it. Thank you for your
article. It has restored my faith
in ranchers.
Monica Noon
Nogales, AZ
It is unsettling, however, to
think that the only way to
protect such natural treasures
is to keep them under lock
and key.
FROM THE VP
Thanks for the copy of
Arizona Highways with the
quail on the cover (June 1990).
I envy his good press.
Dan Quayle
Vice President
Washington, D.C.
Arizona Highways 3
N~~l DAM~
Photographer,
Environmentalist,
Humorist
Text by Robert C. Dyer
Photographs by Ansel Adams
~ uppose that Ansel Adams, as a 14-
year-old youth with his first Kodak #l
Box Brownie camera, had vacationed
with his family at the Grand Canyon
instead of at Yosemite. Might a lifelong
love affair with Arizona's magnificent
scenic wonder have arisen, similar to ·
that which drew Adams back to
Yosemite every year for the remainder
of his life? And, if so, might he have left
behind a major body of photographic
art devoted to what many believe is
the most challenging camera subject in
North America?
Adams did photograph the Grand
Canyon, of course. But his published
images are from various viewpoints on
the rim rather than from the depths
where true canyon lovers experience
their spiritual highs.
Nevertheless, the great camera artist
did have enough of a special relation­ship
with Arizona, and with Arizona
(ABOVE) Ansel Adams in his
later years. JIM ALINDER
(RIGHD This Adams photograph of a
spring evening in Monument Valley
appeared in Arizona Highways in
March 1946.
4 January 1991 Arizona Highways 5
Highways, that the state can claim a share
of his photographic legacy.
The connection is established for all
time in the University of Arizona's Center
for Creative Photography, which Adams
helped conceive and which is the reposi­tory
for his own archives.
But the link had been forged much ear­lier,
through the relationships between
Adams and Raymond Carlson, the great
editor of Arizona Highways, and between
Adams and his favorite Arizona locations
- among them Canyon de Chelly,
Monument Valley , Organ Pipe Cactus
National Monument, and Mission San
Xavier del Bae.
As for the Grand Canyon, an Adams in
his mid-20s wrote to his future wife follow­ing
a visit there: "It is a terrific thing, but
for some reason, I was not moved at all.
Mere vastness does not indicate beauty.
There is no sense of depth or distance; it
is immense, barren, and forlorn ."
Years later, he wrote a contrasting
appreciation of Arizona ' s Canyon de
Chelly, describing it as "an extraordinary
experience, made more intense by the
presence of its Navajo residents, who
demonstrate that man can live with nature
6 January 1991
and sometimes enhance it. ... Its stone is
largely solidified sand dunes , which
accounts for the beautiful flowing pat­terns
revealed on the eroded cliffs . The
floor of the canyon is almost entirely a
sandy riverbed that in times of rain
becomes of quicksand instability. In
autumn, the cottonwoods take on a
vibrant hue that blends with the warm
colors of the cliffs . Some of my best pho­tographs
have been made in and on the
rim of the canyon. . . . "
Adams was already a major figure in
photography when he made his Arizona
Highways debut in March, 1946 - the first
postwar issue assembled by Carlson -
with a double-page color view of Mon­ument
Valley . It is among Adams' entries in
the book Timeless Images from Arizona
Highways, published last fall , and was
cited by Arizona photographer Carlos
Elmer as an example of how Adams
worked. "One photographer told of shoot­ing
fifty 4x5s in a day at Monument
Valley," Elmer said. "Ansel Adams went to
Monument Valley and was there a day and
a half before he exposed his first sheet of
film. His was a classic."
The following month saw publication of
his color image of Walpi Village on the
Hopi Indian Reservation, and Carlson
wrote that "the work of Ansel Adams, one
of America's most distinguished photogra­phers,
will appear in these pages regularly
from now on."
A month later, Adams' dramatic Grand
Canyon skyscape was the magazine's front
cover, and he had a two-page spread on
Lake Mead inside. Curiously, for a photog­rapher
known primarily for his masterful
renditions in black and white - which he
preferred - Adams' first 10 or so contribu­tions
to Arizona Highways, spanning a lit­tle
more than two years, were all in color.
In late 1951, Adams move d to broaden
and deepen his relationship with the mag­azine
. With "literally thousands" of what
he considered his best negatives lying
unprinted, he and writer Nancy Newhall
proposed that Arizona Highways pur­chase
enough pictures and articles on var­ious
Southwestern subjects to finance a
series of books on the same subjects.
Some of the pictures would be "stoppers"
Adams promised.
"I have a far-flung reputation now which
I am anxious to cash in on in a thoroughly
dignified (and profitable) manner," he
-------,--------------------ANSEL ADAMS
wrote Carlson. Among portfolio subjects
proposed were sunrise on the desert ,
Jerome, -Tombstone, the Grand Canyon,
Sunset Crater, Monument Valley , and the
cottonwoods of Tucson.
Carlson leaped at the offer. "As editor of
the magazine," he wrote to Adams, "I have
never been as proud as when I have had
the opportunity, on rare occasions, to pre­sent
your work. . . . The name of Ansel
Adams in our magazine adds worth, char­acter,
and value to our publication .. .. "
In the end, six portfolios, really "photo­graphic
essays " with photography by
Adams and text by Newhall, materialized.
The first was on Canyon de Chelly in the
June 1952 issue, including two c olor views
and 10 black-and-whites, the first Adams
monochromes published in Arizona
Highways. In his editorial send-off, Carlson
p a id full tribute to both Adams and
Newhall, "whose husband is curator of the
George Eastman House at Rochester, N.Y. ,
and in her own right a re c_ognized author­ity
on photography .... "
(Beaumont Newhall had been first cura­tor
of photography at the Museum of
Modern Art in New York City after he,
Adams, and collector David McAlpin had
succeeded in organizing that department.
He preceded his wife in the pages of
Arizona Highways with an authoritative
article on early Western photography pub­lished
in May , 1946.)
Portfolios followed, on Sunset Crater in
July, 1952; Tumacacori in November, 1952;
Death Valley in October, 1953 ; Organ Pipe
Cactus National Monument in January,
1954; and Mission San Xavier del Bae in
April, 1954 .
When one of the world's most renowned
photographers comes calling , on assign­ment
from a prestigious magazine known
for artistic merit, most doors swing wide in
welcome. But not even the name of Ansel
Adams could guarantee a warm reception
at the historic San Xavier mission near
Tucson. Adams had made photographs
there previously. But this was to be some­thing
more, the forerunner of a book
which the photographer himself conceived
as "the definitive work on San Xavier." And
it may well be, even though Mission San
Xavier def Bae, published in 1954 by 5
Associa tes, is out of print.
To appreciate the Adams-Newhall con­quest
of San Xavier, remember that, even
seven years after his death, Adams may be
the most readily recognized, enthusiastical­ly
praised visual artist in America. He was
also an accomplished musician, a dynamic
environmentalist, a thoughtful and articu­late
essayist, a wildly witty writer of verse,
and, fortunately for his friends and admir­ers
, a prolific correspondent.
Newhall found the friars unreceptive
(ABOVE) Tbis view of Canyon de Chelly, originally published in black-and-white, was
included in Arizona Highways '.fir.s-t Adams portfolio, June 1952.
(OPPOSITE PAGE) Adams photographed Walpi Village on the Hopi Indian Reservation for
the magazine's April 1946 issue .
when she attempted to arrange interviews.
"Circumstances make it impossible for me
to advise you when to come ," wrote
Father Celestine Chinn. Describing the
pressure of his official duties , the
Franciscan underscored that he "wouldn't
give even the Pope a week of interviews ."
In fact, he wrote , he made a practice of
avoiding interviews and predicted the
Papago (now known as the Tohono
O'odham) Indians would be "sullenly hos­tile
to interviews and photographs."
In a masterfully soothing letter, Newhall
told Father Celestine that: "Without your
approval and the consent and cooperation
of the Papagos , we would not dream of
undertaking even so simple an interpreta­tion
as we envisage. " Promising a "sympa­thetic
and beautiful " rendition of the sub­ject,
she suggested that perhaps a day or
two might do, instead of a week. "Of
course, you cannot help but assume that
we are the usual hit-and-run nuisances
until we prove otherwise!" she wrote.
The actual visit must have mollified the
cleric, for in July , 1953, he wrote Adams that
the friars were looking forward to his next
visit, "which should inject a piquant dash of
variation to the monotony that invariably
develops about midsummer."
Arizona Highways 7
8 January 1991 Arizona Highways 9
10 January 1991
_______________________ ANSEL ADAMS
Adams, the irrepressible versifier,
announced his coming with these lines:
TO GOOD FRIENDS AT THE
BABBLING BAC
Cometh me, anticipating heat.
Prepare thyself - the beard
approaches -
Ektar-eyed, expecting stern
reproaches.
For who is man to dare to image
men?
Troubled is he with an emotional
wen.
The summer blast, the frail wisp
of the breeze
Excites my vision and desiccates
my cheese.
And when I come to see thee,
watch my gait -
For I am one who always hates
to wait
While Fahrenheit without excites
the erg within
I carry on with minimum of sin.
I shall arrive and greet thee with
great glee -
Parboiled and fried - I still shall
look like me!
The portfolio itself, which Carlson said
was probably the longest feature published
in Arizona Highways up to that time, was
a smash hit - in the magazine, in the
book that followed, and certainly in the
expectant eyes of those at the mission.
Playing off the musical metaphors that
Adams himself often used, Father Celestine
wrote to Adams and Newhall:
"Hearty congratulations for your sym­phonic
opus on Bae! What sheer delight
for the eye, what melody for the ear -
now soft and sweet with romance, now
mighty and resounding with epic gran­deur!
I confess dire poverty of speech to
convey my sentiments. Were I someone
else, I might feel the need of a Hollywood
director's dictionary of superlatives. I will
simply say I was deeply moved and thor­oughly
delighted."
As for Adams and Newhall personally:
"I jot down in my little golden book this
evaluation: the most Franciscan people I
have met outside the Order. Let that burst
a stay or rumple a girdle; don't let it pro­voke
indigestion."
In the San Xavier book, Adams included
a full page of suggestions to photogra­phers,
cautioning that: "Photographing San
Xavier del Bae can start as a half-hour
making snapshots and end as a lifetime
pursuit; photographers are warned!" San
Xavier, he wrote, "is a challenge to the skill
and imagination of any photographer. It is
a place of people, and yet people are not
essential in the images; it is a .place of sun,
"Mission San Xavier de! Bae," April 1954, an Adams photographic essay with text by
Nancy Newhall, included photographs of the mission's "Suffering Savior" (ABOVE),
Papago acolytes carrying an image of Saint Francis of Assisi (OPPOSITE PAGE), and the
mission exterior from the plaza at dawn (PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 8 AND 9).
yet sunlight is not its only light. The mis­sion
blazes at clear noon, is opalescent at
dusk, and pearl-gray in the thunderstorms.
Its poignant simplicity - the ornate inte­rior
notwithstanding - implies a humble
directness of concept and vision."
The Adams-Newhall collaboration cov­ered
seven books and the first volume of
a projected biographical series, cut short in
1974 when Nancy Newhall, rafting with
her husband on the Snake River in the
Grand Tetons of Wyoming, was fatally
injured by a falling tree.
Along with his youthful reaction to the
Grand Canyon, and his lov:e for Canyon de
Chelly, Adams expressed himself on cer­tain
other Arizona photographic locations.
Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, he
wrote to a friend in 1947, was "consider­ably
overrated to rriy mind," and talk of
making it a national park was "ridiculous."
Nevertheless, he photographed there often
and rated it higher than Saguaro National
Monument, which he declared "should be
given back to the Indians."
Time, critical acclaim, and public enthu­siasm
for Adams' work obviate any need
for appraisal at this point.
"The approach is, I am sure, under­stood,"
he wrote to Carlson when planning
the Arizona Highways portfolios. "I am not
'covering' subjects in a literal sense; rather
I am making personal interpretations in
terms of expressive photography."
Nobody ever did it better. H
This collection of copyrighted Ansel Adams
photography bas been made available by the
Trustees of7be Ansel Adams Publishing Rights
Trust.
Prescott-based author Robert C. Dyer became
interested in the Ansel Adams-Arizona Highways
relationship while writing the text for Timeless ·
Images, a book published by Arizona Highways in
September, 1990.
Arizona Highways 11
12 January 1991
When aphids
are attacking
everything green
in your yard,
look to the sky
for help.
Mandibles
at the ready,
here come the
NATUR E
KILLERL DYB
W hy don't we begin with some
important facts about the conver­gent
ladybug. First of all, she is
not a bug. She's a beetle. Second,
she's not much of a lady. In the
heat of the day, she tends to bite with unla­dylike
ferocity. 1bird, the "convergent" part
of her name refers only to the two converg­ing
white dashes on her thorax, not her ten­dency
to gather in great teeming throngs.
But "converge" is what the ladybug does
best each summer when she and her fel­low
beetles (about half of whom are actu­ally
males) fly in from the heat-weary
desert and aggregate on some of Arizona's
most prominent peaks, where they seem
content to wile away their time in great
ladybug encampments, blanketing trees,
rocks, and soil in flowing swathes of
orange that can reach concentrations of
120 million ladybugs per acre.
For six years, I lived in the middle of just
such a prime ladybug encampment. It was
located directly beneath my lookout tower
in the Pinal Mountains of central Arizona.
The ladybug presence there was not
something to be ignored. At night a few of
the more adventurous "ladies" would crawl
in bed with me and tickle my legs. By
morning my shoes might be filled with
·them. And in the afternoons, well, that was
when the swarming ladybugs grew most
active. Launching into the air by the mil­lions,
they would so clog the atmosphere
(LEFD Legions of ladybugs gather
annually on Arizona '.s mountaintops
and enter their summer dormancy or
estivation stage. c. ALLAN MORGAN
by Rick Heff ernon
with their hovering bodies that simply
walking through them meant emerging
sprayed with specks of orange from head
to toe.
What could possibly govern such bizarre
behavior?
"Simple," says entomologist Dave
Langston. "It's the nature of the beast."
Langston chuckles as he says this. After
15 years as an entomology specialist for
the Cooperative Extension Service, he
knows that most insect life is anything but
simple, and the life of the convergent lady­bug
is no exception. It involves a curious
blend of epic migrations, long hiberna­tions,
and a singular harmony that can
only exist between two insect species -
one a predator and the other its prey. The
prey in this case is the tiny white aphid, a
well-known plant killer and the scourge of
farmers and gardeners everywhere. And
the predator? It is, of course, our lovable,
bumbling, polka-dot-dad ladybug.
As a hunter, she is ferocious, and, as an
ally to gardeners, she is irreplaceable. Her
story, according to Langston, begins and
ends in the fresh green fields of spring.
"Ladybeetles disseminate over the val­leys
in late February or early March,"
begins Langston, who prefers the purist
term ladybeetle to the more common lady­bug.
"That is when aphids are most preva­lent.
The ladybeetles come from the moun­tains,
find the aphids, and feed for a
couple of weeks."
Finding aphids is critical for the ladybug
because only a steady diet of them will
stimulate her reproductive system. Without
aphids, in other words, the convergent
Arizona Highways 13
14 January 1991
ladybug as a species would cease to exist.
"When the female ladybeetles have con­sumed
enough aphids," Langston contin­ues,
"they begin to lay eggs in small batch­es,
on trees, shrubs, weeds, wherever they
find high numbers of aphids. Afterward the
adult ladybeetles die."
Their sudden departure might seem pre­mature,
leaving our gardens at the mercy
of the remaining aphids. But this is not the
case, says Langston. Reinforcements are on
their way. Ladybug larvae will hatch in less
than a week.
"What most people don't realize," says
Langston, "is that ladybeetle larvae con­sume
more aphids than the adults. They
are like little dragons. Where an adult
might eat 200 aphids in its lifetime, a larva
will eat 600 aphids. So I tell people that the
real benefit from ladybeetles comes after
they lay their eggs. Unfortunately that is
exactly when a lot of people want to spray
for aphids. They don't realize that ladybee­tles
are still around because they don't rec­ognize
them as larvae."
The confusion is understandable; a lady­bug
larva looks nothing like the adult. She
is dark, wormlike, warty, and soft. But she
does share a common trait with her moth­er:
an enormous appetite.
To sate this appetite, each "little dragon"
methodically stalks her quarry up and
down the stems of green plants. When she
literally bumps into a feeding aphid, she
stops, pierces the victim's skin with her
sharp mandibles, and sucks it dry. Then
she moves on to her next victim.
In a matter of weeks, each hungry larva
has eaten enough aphids to grow to her
final larval stage. Then she stops feeding
for a few days and enters the pupal stage.
When she emerges, she is in her familiar
adult form: shiny, round, orange, and usu­ally
punctuated by 12 black spots. At this
point, she resumes her stalking behavior,
but here comes the hitch. Because most of
the aphids have been wiped out, food
now is in short supply. So she departs.
"Unlike most ladybeetles, the conver­gents
fly straight up," says Langston.
"Straight up into the air until they reach a
layer that is about 50° F. Then they either
fly or let the prevailing winds carry them
up to the mountains."
Inexplicably, the ladybugs seem to
return to the same mountains every year.
"Mingus, Four Peaks, the Mogollon Rim '
areas, Mount Lemmon, Mount Wrightson,
Mount Graham, Baboquivari . .. almost
every major peak in Arizona is just loaded
with them," says Langston.
But not every inch of every mountain is
chosen as a landing site. Why not?
"No one knows," says Dr. Mont Cazier,
entomology professor emeritus at Arizona
State University. But aphids, he says, are
_________________________ KILLER LADYBUGS
definitely not a factor because there are
insufficient aphids in the mountains to sup­port
a massive ladybug migration. Instead,
Cazier says, certain environmental condi­tions
may attract the ladybugs: specific
temperatures, humidity, or a suitable solar
exposure. On the other hand, he admits,
odors left from last year's ladybugs may
key the first arrivals into a particular area.
"Whatever it is," Cazier says, "as soon as
one ladybug lands on a peak, it draws oth­ers
to it like a beacon. That is their instinct,
to stick together."
In the mountains, the convergent lady­bug
takes on a new life-style. Here, short
on aphids, she turns to such alternative
fuels as pollen, which provides a rich,
readily available food source. But unlike
the aphid diet, pollen fails to stimulate
reproduction. Instead, it appears to trigger
sleep-inducing hormones.
"The ladybug's whole physiology
changes in the mountains," says Carl
Olson, an entomology taxonomist at the
University of Arizona. "Things inside their
bodies shut down. They enter a dormancy
period - estivation. It is like hibernation,
only it takes place during the summer."
When they are ready for estivation, lady­bugs
gather in astonishing masses. The
sheer weight of their bodies flattens the
bushes on which they sit. They cluster in
such numbers they can easily be scooped
up by the handful.
"Selling ladybugs used to be a scam,"
says Olson. "People collected them in the
mountains, brought them down, sold them
to gardeners, and then the ladybugs went
right back up again because they weren't
hungry. You see, the ladybugs' systems
have already turned off to feeding, turned
off to mating, turned off to any of that
stuff. All they want to do is get back up to
that mountain they came from."
So the ladybugs sleep, and they sleep
safely, their orange bodies and musty odor
warding off predators. But a combination
of prolonged heat and the onset of summer
rains can wake them from their slumbers
and send them flying aimlessly. It also
appears to make them irritable. When they
bump into a human, they will dig in and
take a tiny bite, but it is only a sharp pinch
that leaves no mark or itch.
As summer wanes and cold weather sets
in, the ladybug's aimless flights become
less frequent, for now she faces winter
hibernation. By November our beetle will
have found shelter with a few million of
her closest companions. There she tucks
her head snugly under the belly of her
neighbor and falls asleep.
At some point in February, a brief win­ter
thaw will signal the ladybugs to awak­en
and mate. This mating strategy, some
entomologists believe, may be the primary
(ABOVE) Tbeir instinct to cluster and the musty odor they emit help protect the beetles
from predator-s. c. ALLAN MORGAN
(OPPOSITE PAGE) Entomologists aren 't sure why, but ladybugs seem to return to the same
mountains every year, engulfing entire trees in the process. RICK HEFFERNON
reason why the convergent ladybug gath­ers
in such great concentrations in the
mountains. Finding herself conveniently
situated amidst millions of her kind, she
need waste little time searching for a suit­able
mate.
Later, when the ladybug discovers she is
hungry again, she leaves the mountaintop,
flies down to the fields of her birth, fills her
belly on aphids, and lays her eggs. From
those eggs will emerge progeny that will
continue the instinctive quest for aphids.
Even with this wholesale slaughter going
on each year, it may appear to many a
backyard gardner that ladybugs have little
effect on aphid populations.
But they do, responds Dave Langston.
"Aphids, you see, are like little Xerox
machines. They bear living young, all
females, all exact duplicates of themselves,
all with a tremendous reproductive capac­ity
and, most important, all with a tremen­dous
capacity to damage plants. Without
ladybugs and other natural predators to eat
aphids, they would have a devastating
impact on fruit crops and urban plantings.
If aphids ran wild in March, for example,
our yards would be decimated by April."
For just that reason, entomologists such
as Langston try to keep people from inad­vertently
wiping out our ladybug friends.
"For years we have been working to
educate both growers and gardeners not to
spray, spray, spray with pesticides," says
Langston. "We try to teach people to man­age
aphids instead. For one thing, we tell
them that there is a threshold level below
which you can have aphids without dam­age
to plants. And even if you pass that
threshold , it doesn't mean you should
automatically spray. First see if ladybeetles
are in the area. If not, find out if they are
on their way. If so, let them do their job.
Later, if you still need to spray for aphids,
you can do it after the ladybeetles and
their larvae are gone. We recommend a
mix of liquid detergent and water. Pesticide
use is only a last resort."
With a little bit of human care, says
Langston, our lovable convergent ladybug
will continue to protect our gardens each
spring, then fly away to the mountains
where she will drape the summer land­scape
in orange. n
Pine-based free-lance writer Rick Hejf ernon still
migrates each summer to the Signal Peak lookout
tower where he first met the convergent lady bug.
Arizona Highways 15
"THERE'S HARDLY
ANYTHING
YOU TOUCH TODAY
THAT WAS IN USE-IN
MY YOUNGER DAYS:"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~KATHERINE BRECKENRIDGE~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-
before at the Pioneers' Home in Prescott
while working as an oral historian for
Arizona State University's Department of
Archives and Manuscripts. John Langham
seemed embarrassed with the attention he
received that day two years ago on his
103rd birthday. Ola Canion, who has since
died, talked of her experience as an 18
year old walking beside her family's cov­ered
wagon, from Texas to the mines at
Bisbee in 1905. Long active in the
Daughters of the Confederacy - she
helped pave the way for erecting the orga­nization's
monument in Wesley Bolin Plaza
near the state capitol - Ola spoke of an
uncle killed while fighting for the gray at
the Battle of Picacho Pass in 1862, one of
Arizona's two Civil War engagements. She
had recently led the Governor's Cup walk
in Phoenix, wearing her mother's dress
and bonnet.
Who are they, these centenarians?
Four out of five are women. Nearly all
have been married. A quarter live indepen­dently.
Nearly all were - and some still
are - active in various endeavors, such as
assisting church and charitable groups,
teaching, or nursing. The overwhelming
majority grew up on farms, most in the
Midwest and South - this was a rural
nation until 1920 - though a few partic­ipated
in the great tidal wave of immigra­tion
that swept into the country around the
turn of the century. Hardly any drank or
smoked much in their younger days,
though one gentleman remembered wak­ing
up with a bad taste in his mouth one
morning in 1925 and deciding to kick his
three-pack-a-day cigarette and quart-a-day
bourbon habits.
The only centenarian qualification is a
birthdate in 1890 or earlier. In those 19th
Century days, Arizonans were just starting
to talk about whether the territory should
become a state. There were no electric
washing machines, no automobiles, air­planes,
televisions, radios, computers, fax
(PRECEEDING PANEL, PAGES 16 AND 17)
Centenarian Robert Cushman of Yuma.
18 January 1991
machines, or pocket calculators. Forget
electricity and atomic reactors; steam and
sweat were the chief energy sources .
"There's hardly anything you touch today
that was in use in my younger days,"
observes Katherine Breckenridge.
The centenarians, like the population at
large, are''a diverse lot. And each is unique,
a thread in the intriguing weave done on
history's loom.
Because Dilena Beal was a sickly child,
her family moved from Silverton, Colo­rado,
to Chicago. Today, Dilena, who is
103 years old, lives in the rambling adobe
home her husband built in Tucson in 1928.
"I suffered from a chronic cough," she
explains. "My doctor said I needed a drier
climate, so in 1928 my husband, our three
adopted children, and I started driving
south. The farther we went, the better I
felt. When I finally breathed Arizona's
warm air, I knew this was the right place
for me. Tucson was a very neighborly
place. If I met a person on the street and
smiled, they always smiled back."
Lizzie Davis, born in Arkansas, was two
when she rode in a covered wagon to
Texas in 1890. "That's the way people
moved around then ," she says. Lizzie,
whose grandfather was shot by bush­whackers
in Arkansas during the Civil War,
moved to Yuma three years ago and still
pieces quilts. The nail of the index finger
on her left hand is worn away at the edge
from constant contact with sewing needles.
The stitching on her quilts is fine, like
machine work. "My mother taught me
about quilting when I was six," Lizzie says
with a Texas twang. "I guess you kind of
get the hang of it after 94 years."
World War I veteran William Van
Hooser, who is 102 years old, spent part of
his life as a tobacco farmer in Kentucky
and has been married since 1917. Asked
for the secret to his longevity, Van (as he's
known to friends) smiles. "I jest kept
gain'." His greatest accomplishment?
"Stayin' out of jail." Three years ago, Van's
sister-in-law sold his ladder. "He was
always climbing up to repair the roof or
- prune the grapefruit tree," she explains. "I
thought when he turned 99 that was
enough." Van still mows the lawn outside
his home near Yuma, though, and joins
pals for games of pool. "Life's a dance,"
Van says philosophically, take it one step
at a time and keep listening for the music."
Hedvig Johansson Peterson undertook
the oftentimes dangerous Atlantic voyage,
leaving her native Sweden at the age of 13
in 1902. "I did it to get an education and
make my life a little better," she says with
a slight accent. Like many immigrants,
Hedvig went where she had relatives, in
her case, Lindsborg, Kansas, still a Scandi­navian
haven on the plains. In 1929, the
year the Great Depression began, a doctor
advised Hedvig's husband to move to
Arizona's dry climate for health reasons.
The couple homesteaded 640 acres in the
Tortolita Mountains near Marana, living in
a surplus military barrack that had three
canvas walls. That sort of grit came in
handy a year ago. Suspecting a stockbro­ker
of taking advantage of her failing eye­sight,
Hedvig demanded a hearing before
an arbitration panel of the National
Association of Securities Dealers and won
damages of $1.25 million.
Robert Cushman, 104, lives near Yuma.
Before joining General John]. Pershing's
American Expeditionary Forces in Europe,
he was posted near the Mexican border at
Fort Clark, Texas. "The Mexican Revolution
was going on, and I was with the Eleventh
Cavalry," Cushman says. "Revolutionaries
brought up cattle they'd stolen in Mexico
and sold them to the Army for beef. While
the Army was busy buying beef, the revo­lutionaries
stole Army horses to sell in
Mexico."
Anne Rush moved to Tucson from
Kankakee, Illinois, in 1931, driving a Buick
and stopping at tourist courts, the forerun­ners
of today's motels. "When I came here,
I thought I'd arrived at the end of the
world. But when I look back on it, Tucson
was really a charming town with its hitch­ing
posts, dirt streets, board sidewalks,
wooden canopies overhead to protect
shoppers from the summer sun, and dusty
prospectors leading burros in from Oracle
on weekends for supplies."
One thing for sure about centenarians:
their numbers are growing fast.
"The Census Bureau estimates there are
25,000 centenarians in America today, 10
times as many as 30 years ago," says Jo
Ann Pedrick, executive director of the
Governor's Advisory Council on Aging, the
agency charged with keeping abreast of
age-related issues. State law requires that
the majority of the 15 members appointed
to the council be at least 60 years old.
"Age slows people down, so many cen­tenarians
don't get around much and seem
virtually invisible," says Robin Klaehn, a
registered nurse whose Tucson-based con­sulting
firm advises agencies how to
improve the delivery of home health care.
"As a result, younger people seldom come
into contact with them. Fortunately, that's
starting to change."
Indeed it is. Lynn Peters Adler, chairper­son
of the Council on Aging's Centenarian
Committee, deserves credit for putting the
spotlight on Arizona's centenarians. In
Arizona Highways 19
"You'VEGOT
TO RESPECT
THE DESERT. AITER ALL,
"LIFE'S A DANCE. THE SNAKES AND
TAKE IT ONE STEP GILA MONSTERS
AT A TIME WERE HERE FIRST.
AND KEEP LISTENING MAYBE I'M JUST
FOR THE MUSIC:" A BORN DESERT RAT:"
_____________________ WILLIAMVANHOOSER ______________________________________________________ BILLYEARLEY
20 January 1991
1985 she began devoting much of her time
to them. Adler's lobbying resulted in the
proclamation of an Arizona Centenarian
Week in 1987, followed by a Salute to
Arizona Centenarians at the state capitol.
Since that time, centenarian-oriented activ­ities
on the local level have blossomed
throughout Arizona.
"Centenarians teach us that it's possible
to be active and productive for many,
many years," says Jo Ann Pedrick of the
governor's council. "In Arizona today there
are 564,000 people 65 or older. In 10 years
there'll be 844,000. You don't stop living
somewhere around 65. By the year 2000,
we'll have some 200,000 centenarians in
the U.S. So when you're 60, you may have
a third of your life ahead of you. You can
be involved in your community, in person­al
growth. Once, people said life began at
40. Tomorrow, who knows, maybe it'll
begin at 70."
"Having taken each year as it came,"
says Ullena Beal, "the buildup was so
gradual that I don't realize I'm a hundred
years old." Her words bring to mind a
story Congressman Morris Udall told
Katherine Breckenridge on her hundredth
birthday. An elderly gentleman was asked
on the centenary of his birth how he
attained such an advanced age.
"Oh," he answered, "I never drank
liquor or smoked. I always went to bed
early, worked hard, and ate properly."
"But look," the questioner said, "I had
an uncle who did just what you're talking
about, and he died when he was 60."
"Well," the centenarian replied, "I guess
he just didn't do it long enough."
That breezy, commonsensical approach
characterizes Billy Earley. Billy was born in
New York in 1888, grew up in Ohio, and
lived in Missouri until 1929, when she
drove her DeSoto to Tucson. "My first
night in Arizona," she remembers, "I didn't
go to sleep until I'd learned the names of
all the counties and county seats."
After exploring Arizona, Billy settled on
Florence, where she still resides. "I liked
the people," she recalls. "Florence was a
colorful place, with its wooden sidewalks,
dirt streets, and hitching posts."
A history buff intensely interested in her
surroundings, Billy plunged into studying
Arizona's saga. She became a charter
member of the Pinal County Historical
Society, received the Sharlot Hall Award
for contributions to Arizona historical stud­ies,
led the drive in 1987 to place a histor­ical
marker on Poston Butte, where
Charles D. Poston, "The Father of Arizona,"
is buried (see Arizona Highways, August
1988), and pushed for repair of the marker
at the spot near Florence where her friend,
Western film actor Tom Mix, was killed in
an automobile crash in 1940. Billy is also
a cook of some renown, whose 100-year­old
oatmeal cookie recipe appears in the
Arizona Highways Heritage Cookbook.
"Arizona's been pretty successful in pre­serving
its heritage," says Billy. "We're pay­ing
more attention to historic buildings and
the land than we did years ago. You've got
to respect the desert. After all, the snakes
and Gila monsters were here first. Maybe
I'm just a born desert rat.
"I still don't have a drier. The solar sys­tem's
good enough for me," Billy notes
with pride. "I even have all my own teeth,
though a lot of them are retreads. Same
stuff they use to glue tiles on the outside of
the space shuttle, I think."
Billy pauses to consider the question of
age, then adds: "Getting old is in your own
thinking. I want to be useful. Any time I
can do something of value, that's fine. But
just to sit here in a rocking chair in the
glory of being 102 yeqrs old? That doesn't
appeal to me at all. I want to do what I
can to help other people. That's my reli­gion;
that's what I practice."
Billy says she'd like to go to Washing­ton,
D.C., and visit the Vietnam Memorial.
Or catch an opera at Kennedy Center.
And, oh yes, there is one other item. "If
NASA would let me, I'd go to the moon
tomorrow." ~
Ron McCoy, an award-winning author who
holds graduate degrees in both history and
anthropology, wrote "Tbree Artists of the New West"
in thejuly 1989Arizona Highways.
Phoenix photographer Fred Griffin is at work on
a scenic portfolio of Arizona's aspen forests for
Arizona Highways.
Arizona Highways 21
I rm~ onr
Ill
tone
A
SLOT
CANYON
PORTFOLIO
BY
MICHAEL
FATALI
n the autumn of 1986,
my wife Cynthia and I
were hiking a sandy wash
near Page when we
happened upon a huge
sandstone cliff face broken
by a dark, narrow slit.
Feeling adventurous, I
gathered my camera gear,
and we squeezed through
the rock aperture. Once
inside we were engulfed
by darkness and silence.
We had not brought a
flashlight; so we inched
our way along carefully,
hoping the floor of the
passage would not
suddenly give way or spill
us into a bottomless pit.
Text continued on page 27
Co ntinued from page 22
Time slowed to a
standstill as our path
wound on into the heart of
the cliff wall . Then,
gradually, the darkness
gave way to filtered light,
dimly illuminating the
marvelously tapestried
walls surrounding us. We
knew at once what we
had found: a slot canyon,
a wind- and water­fashioned
sanctum of
swirling shapes and
dancing colors, a chimera,
blending and changing
around us. Delicate shades
of color intermingled,
creating form , substance ,
and texture. Rough , jagged
edges of rock blended
effortlessly with soft
flowing curves in a
veritable symphony in
sandstone .
My camera forgotten, we
wandered through the
halls gasping at the sensual
wonders that met our eyes.
As we walked, light
gradually increased, the
colors of the walls shifting
from deep purple to warm
red to tan. Then before us,
the canyon's mouth
appeared, opening into
another sandy wash.
At the exit, we rested
briefly , regaining a sense
of reality as our eyes
adjusted to the outside
light once again.
It was this marvelous
experience that later drove
us to seek out other slot
canyons, to photograph
the exotic rock forms and
colors that had been
shaped by wind and water,
and to wonder at Nature's
craftsmanship in these
halls of stone. ~
Mu ch of the work oj jine art
photograph e r Mi c hael Fatali is in
co1porate and private coll ections in
Arizona . Yo u can see more of his
a11ist 1y in a photog raphic exhibit on
display through janua1y at
Creeks ide Ga lleries in Sedona.
28 January 1991
On the Navajo reservarion in the 1950s,
the postman was expected to provide passenger bus service,
get prescriprions filled, run errands, and deliver groceries.
It was all part of the job on . . .
The Kayenta Mail Run
L Text by Francis Raymond Line
ee Bradley, a Navajo Indian, was inconspicuous in
the crowd of nearly a hundred Westerners who waited
some 35 years ago outside the post office and trading
post at Kayenta, Arizona, 20 miles south of the Utah line.
Inconspicuous too was a sign in small print, with its
incorrectly spelled word:
United States Post Office - Fourth Class
This is the remotests post office in these United States.
Most of those in the crowd - mainly traders, Indians,
missionaries, and uranium workers - had come to pick
up their mail, which Lee Bradley and his son Frank had
just brought in by truck over 150 miles of cruel roads
from Flagstaff.
It was a significant trip because Lee Bradley was clos­ing
out his career. After 25 years trucking mail to that
exceedingly remote U.S. post office, he was turning the
task over to his son. I was fortunate to be able to accom­pany
him on that farewell journey.
By 9:30 A.M. that day in the mid-1950s,
the Bradleys' truck was loaded at
the Flagstaff post office dock. The
•Illustrations by Bill Ahrendt
large sacks of mail were piled high atop cases of milk,
cartons of bread, and crates of canned goods with which
the Bradleys already had partly filled the truck. Because
their conveyance provided the only public transportation
to the Kayenta area, we also had several Navajo passen­gers,
who crawled in on top of the load to take reclining
positions on the mail sacks.
With his father and me in the front seat beside him,
Frank Bradley wheeled his cumbersome vehicle out onto
U.S. Route 66 heading east. Six miles from town, U.S. 89
cut off to the north, with some 50 miles of good highway
heading toward Cameron. For this portion, the Bradleys
served simply as rural mail carriers.
The Sunset Crater mailbox marked the junction of the
road leading four miles into that national monument.
Wupatki National Monument took another large batch of
mail. Soon, at the Blevens service station, a woman ran
out to meet us. "Did you bring that medicine? I thought
you'd never come."
Along with the mail, Frank Bradley handed over a
drugstore bottle he had purchased in Flagstaff. "Keeps
Arizona Highways 29
me busy in Flag, just running errands for
people," he explained. "Auto parts. Radio
repairs. The Navajo women even trust me
to pick out their cloth and colored thread
for them."
Dropping rapidly in elevation, the road
left the pines, and, in less than an hour, we
entered the Navajo Indian Reservation,
through which the rest of the mail route
extended, except for touching a corner of
the Hopi reservation. We pulled into
Cameron later that morning.
Off to the left, a road led west toward
the entrance to Grand Canyon National
Park. We headed north, bumped across a
suspension bridge spanning the Little
Colorado River, and then struck off to the
northeast on a wicked trail of dirt and ruts
and rocks that wound its way to Tuba City.
Ten large mail sacks, as well as various
boxes and bundles, were unloaded at the
Tuba Trading Post. Several of our Indian
passengers disembarked, but many others
got on, quickly adjusting to the crowded
quarters within the vehicle.
Tuba City was an outpost. Beyond it, as
our vehicle jolted northeastward over a dirt
road that resembled a washboard, we
entered isolation. "From here," Lee told
me, "I've sometimes gone clear to Kayenta
without seeing a car."
Barren landscape undulated in the sun­light
as far as the eye could see.
"Looks flat, doesn't it?" Frank mused.
"But you ought to try taking the census in
that country. The canyons would slow you
down quick."
I learned that Frank and his father and
uncle had done the census tabulation of
1950 for much of the northwestern stretch
of the Navajo reservation. They had started
as interpreters for white census takers, but,
before the job was finished, each was do­ing
a section of the reservation on his own.
Lee Bradley had covered one of the
wildest sections - the area extending
north to Lees Ferry and the Utah line.
Hogans, the circular log and adobe
dwellings of the Navajos, nestled every few
miles through most of the land. The
dwellings were not grouped; almost every
one stood alone, sometimes requiring
hours of searching by the census taker.
"I just struck out over the landscape in a
four-wheel-drive truck," Lee Bradley told
me, "and depended on the Indians for
overnight shelter. But Washington didn't
plan the count out here for the right time
of year. It was spring. The Navajos were
on the move from their winter hogans out
to their summer shelters and corn patches.
Sometimes I'd search half a day for a
hogan I had heard about, only to find the
occupants had moved to their summer
quarters."
30 January 1991
"So you just had to give that family up?"
I asked, jumping to a natural conclusion.
"No," continued Lee. "Families drive
their herds with them when they move.
They leave tracks. I traced them down."
By now I began to understand why the
white men who had started the census job
in this area turned it over to the Bradleys.
The requirements included not only a
knowledge of the Navajo language and an
ability to hike over some of the roughest
land in America but also great skill in track­ing.
The knack of following the half-obliter­ated
marks of a sheep herd across sand
dunes and through canyons for a dozen
miles or more probably hadn't been includ­ed
in the regular civil service exams for cen­sus
takers.
Our mail truck swung into Tonaiea,
which consisted of a single trading post
and a windmill.
"Half-hour stop," announced Frank, and
we piled out. By now 14 Indians crouched
or lay atop the mail sacks as passengers,
and they too alighted. Seven of them,
including a young mother in brightly col­ored
skirts with her baby bound tightly to
its cradleboard, lived somewhere in this
area, and they struck off across the red­baked
landscape toward home.
This Tonalea Trading Post in some
respects resembled the general store of
small villages all across early-day America.
The smell of leather came strong to my
senses. Suspended from the low ceiling
were new brown leather horse collars,
straps, and black leather bridles, as well as
desert water bags, lanterns, and oilcans.
Kerosene lamps were displayed on the
shelves along with groceries, canned
goods, and bolts of brilliantly colored fab­rics
- the material for Navajo women's
clothing. The post was filled with Indians
who had come to get their mail.
Leaving Tonalea, the road to Kayenta in
spots became as rough as a logging trail.
His memories stirred by the rough road,
Lee Bradley reminisced about the hazards
he and his son had encountered during
their years carrying the Kayenta mail.
On an occasion when rocks and ruts
resulted in a broken rear axle, Lee had
strapped the first-class pouches to his back
and walked with them eight miles into the
next station at Cow Springs.
and they helped push it out of the drifts.
But when winter conditions worsened, Lee
hired 35 of his fellow Indians to shovel a
way through.
There is nothing for miles to stop the
sweep of the wind. The drifts closed for­mation
behind the truck and, on the next
trip, the road was gone again from sight.
Lee borrowed a Navajo pony and deliv­ered
as much of the first-class mail as he
could by horseback. That year, he lost
money on his mail contract.
Heavy winter snows are spasmodic, but
summer downpours and flash floods are
the rule rather than the exception. In 1930,
when Lee Bradley started the mail run,
there were no bridges of any kind. The
road dipped into every wash and ravine.
Cloudbursts would often erase complete
sections of the so-called highway.
In 1936 a single mail run from Tuba City
to Kayenta required eight days. It was a
case of getting stuck and getting out, slid­ing
off the road and getting on again, mir­ing
in one wash after another. Indians
came from nearby hogans with their buck­boards
to help pull the truck out of mires.
At night, Bradley would walk to hogans
for food and sleep, then return to his truck
the next day to start fighting it
through once more. In one
wash, a flash flood immersed
cab, truck body, and motor in
roaring muddy water and
sand. That trip finally ended
- the worst in 25 years of
Bradley contracts - but the
truck was useless. Lee Bradley
had to sell it. He also lost money
that year.
As the father was telling me
these things, and we were jog­gling
pleasantly on toward the
approach to Marsh Pass, we
suddenly heard a tremendous
barking of dogs. Frank brought
his vehicle to a jerky stop.
"They belong to Sleepy," he
explained. "This is his stop."
Sleepy had gotten into the truck at
Tuba City. He was a Navajo hermit, a
widower. He lived with his dogs in a
hogan quite close to the road.
Weighed down with packages, Sleepy
climbed out of the truck into a violent
roaring of love-crazed canines.
They knocked the packages
from his arms and overpowered
him. But Sleepy's face was
alight with
In the early 1930s, unusually severe
snows came, turning the wilderness into
an impassable desert of white. Drifts piled
high, and the road, where a car or so a
day was a novelty, was deserted complete­ly.
But the mail had to go through. By
good fortune, there were Navajo passen- __;:;;.;,.-~..-·-:- , : -,.,.,,,..
gers aboard the first time the ~ :::..-:.~ j-~~··
snow bogged the ~~:.· -~ ..,,- -.
truck down, ,_.,,.r ·~e · ' ~
smiles. The dogs loved him and, amid their
leapings and caresses, he walked away with
his bundles, beaming.
It was nearly 4:00 P.M. when we bumped
down from Marsh Pass into Kayenta, past
the knoll containing the graves of the
Wetherills. They were traders who had pio­neered
this land and opened the overland
treks to Rainbow Natural Bridge.
"Didn't Theodore Roosevelt make the
trip in there once?" I asked.
"Yes," Lee Bradley replied. "I was the
camp cook for his party. The president
liked my cooking."
Kayenta was not much. About 20 hous­es,
half a dozen trailers, and several Indian
hogans were sprinkled about a mission
and government school on the winding
road leading into uranium country,
Monument Valley, and the northern
extremes of the Navajo reservation. The
truck wheeled through the powdery dust
of the town's single main street and pulled
up to the Warren Trading Post.
Frank Bradley and his father waved to
their friends. Only about 20 families lived
in Kayenta proper, yet several dozen peo­ple
clustered about the post awaiting the
truck. This was Monday. Mondays and
Fridays were mail days in Kayenta.
Harry Goulding, pioneer trader from up
by the Utah line, 20 miles north, was there.
And so was his wife, Mike. Harry and Mike
were the "king and queen" of Monument
Valley. A missionary had bumped down
across the alkaline wastes from Oljeto, just
over the Utah line, and a trader had come
in on the jeep road from Dinnehotso, 25
miles northeast, to take back mail and sup­plies
for the families there. As befits close
neighbors who dwell only 50 driving miles
apart, Harry Goulding and the Dinnehotso
trader were gossiping amiably at the center
of a loose knot of listeners made up of
workers from Uranium Mine Number Two,
Marvin Walter from the mission clinic in
Monument Valley, and a few others.
As the Bradleys and several volunteers
began unloading the mail, I thought of the
inscription I had once seen on the main
post office in New York: "Neither snow,
nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays
these couriers from the swift completion of
their appointed rounds."
For 25 years, this Navajo father and son
team had adapted that big-city slogan to
one of the most remote post offices in the
United States. n
Married 62 years, Francis Raymond and Helen
E. Line have celebrated most of their recent
wedding anniversaries by making the hike down
to the Colorado River at the bottom of the Grand
Canyon. Together they have authored Grand
Canyon Love Story, Adventure Unlimited, and
Super Seniors, p ublished by Wide Horizons Press.
Arizona Highways 31
Spanish·
Colonial
Furniture
Comes
of
e,
. ' run.
Text
by Dennis B. Farrell
Photographs
by Sean Brady
S outhwestem­style
furniture, enjoying
another resurgence in
popularity, had its origin
in New Mexico (of which
Arizona once was a part)
in the 17th century. These
Spanish- or Mexican­Colonial
pieces were not
the finished products of
the modern craftsmen of
Santa Fe , Tucson, or
Phoenix. The work was
rough and basic, all of
it made by hand with
only the most
primitive tools.
But even with limited
implements the
craftsmen of old
produced raised
panels that were
ornamented
beautifully, mortise­and-
tenon and
dovetail joints, and
other carved and
sawed embellishments.
During that early
period, the art of
furniture making was
(PREVIOUS PANEL, PAGES 32
AND 33) Inspired perhaps
by an ancient Roman
aqueduct is this detail
from the 17th century
Spanish Pie de Puente,
the elaborately caroed
base for the writing desk
(BELOW), on display at
Tbe Heard Museum in
Phoenix. Tbe desk is
actually a chest with a
variety of small drawers.
restricted to certain families who had a
comer on trade secrets, though theoretical­ly
the carpintero trade, as all other crafts,
was open to all, according to Lonn Taylor,
assistant director of the Smithsonian's
National Museum of American History and
coauthor of New Mexican Furniture, 1600-
1940. An important work on
"vernacular" furniture of the
Southwest, his book is both an au­thoritative
and visually pleasing
history of furniture making from
the time of the Spanish con­quistadors
to those harsh times
just before the outbreak of World War II.
In an interview, Taylor talked of furni­ture
made by local artisans for local use.
"They weren't mass-produced; they
weren't made for a national market," said
Taylor. "They weren't designed by profes­sional
designers, although . . . they were
designed. And they were intentionally
designed. They conformed to local design
committees."
One set of rules promulgated by a
design committee, for example, established
the dimensions of small chests as follows:
height and depth are to be equal, and the
width must be twice that measure­ment
plus one-tenth of a vara. (One
vara is roughly an English yard.)
There also were set rules for lay­ing
out ornamentation, such as flo­ral
designs on the panels of chests.
The craftsmen of colonial New
Mexico evidently learned their trade
well because their decorative
designs are regarded highly by
today's collectors.
Chests, many of military origin,
were the most popular items of fur­niture
because they provided a per­sonal
space for storing things. They
were joined with dovetails and had
divisions and secret compartments
as well. Front and side panels often
were carved with such heraldic
designs as lions, pomegranates, and
rosettes.
The next most
common items, said
Taylor, were chairs,
which had wide slats,
skirts and stretchers,
and were not all that comfort­able
to sit on. Benches were
also common.
Generally, however, furniture
of any kind was scarce. A glimpse at the
wills of many well-to-do Spanish colonists
shows that they had large land holdings,
great herds of sheep and cattle, huge hous­es,
but few chairs, tables, or chests.
Spanish-Colonial woodworkers also
made turned balusters and closed cabinets
called armarios, "armoires," which often
were carved elaborately. The fact that
craftsmen produced turned balusters indi­cates
they used spring-pole lathes, as did
woodworkers in Europe at thanime.
In 1692, when the Spaniards returned to '
northern New Mexico to retake the area
following the 1680 Pueblo Indian revolt,
rules governing membership in the carpin­tero
guild were liberalized. As a result,
many skilled Indian craftsmen emerged,
producing such items as carved altar
pieces for churches.
In some communities, where iron
tools were not available, craftsmen
_____________________ Spanish-Colonial Furniture
used implements of stone. What iron tools
there were in the 17th and 18th centuries
included axes, adzes, chisels, augurs, saws,
and planes. Even so, historians report find­ing
at least one craftsman using stone tools
until well into the 19th century.
Native ponderosa pine was used in the
furniture of Spanish New Mexico. It is a
soft wood that works well with
hand tools. It continues to be
used for most modern South­western
furniture, although
some companies prefer harder woods,
such as oak, walnut, and mesquite. During
the colonial period, the pine trees were
felled with axes, dragged out of the forest
by oxen, and cut into lumber in pit-sawing
operations.
It was not until the early 19th century,
when the Santa Fe Trail was opened to
commerce, that the furniture picture began
to change. The trail was connected to St.
Louis through which flowed a tide of man­ufactured
goods from England and New
England. In the holds of the hundreds of
freight wagons that arrived at Sante Fe
were chests of drawers, bookcases,
lounges, washstands, and writing desks.
The Santa Fe Trail spurred development
of the first sawmill in the territory as more
and better tools became available. This, in
tum, paved the way for new items of local
furniture, such as the trastero, a ventilated
cupboard with legs that are at least 14
inches long.
While New
(LEFf) Contemporary
works by Arizona
craftsmen include these
mesquite doors in the
Mission style of the 1700s
by Tucson artisan Robert
Whatley of Territorial
Trends. Desk seen on the
left is a Mexican
Chippendale style of the
early 19th century by
Lupe-Ryan. Tbe chair, at
right in photo, is in the
Santa Fe style,
also by Lupe-Ryan.
(BELOW) This library desk,
created in Old Spain,
also is on display at the
Heard Museum. It was
commissioned by Mrs.
Heard in the early
years of this century.
Arizona Highways 35
(BELOW) A ponderosa pine
armoire, fashioned by Mike
Besler of Universal
Concepts-Phoenix, serves as
a contemporary
entertainment center.
Mexico was enjoying its first taste of civi­lization,
the territory to the west, now
Arizona, remained unsettled, although
there were small population centers at
Tucson and Tubae. There were carpenters
and one or two cabinetmakers in those
early days, but the wealthier
inhabitants preferred the more ornate fur­niture
that arrived by freight wagon from
the East.
During the period 1870 to 1910, Anglo
influences were blended with Hispanic
designs to produce attractive furniture:
chests of drawers , couches, and wash­stands.
In the 1930s, the Works Progress
Administration sponsored programs
to teach Southwestern furniture
making, resulting in a surge of
popularity.
Today Southwestern-style
furniture, also called Mexican­or
Spanish-Colonial, or Santa
Fe style, once again has attract­ed
the buying public. This
resurgence was bolstered by a
1989 article featuring the work
of several Santa Fe craftsmen
in Fine Woodworking maga­zine.
The article gave the
Southwestern style credibility
alongside traditional American
and European designs.
Two of the most popular
items appearing in furniture
galleries in Tucson, Phoenix,
and Scottsdale are trasteros and
armoires designed for housing
entertainment centers: televi­sion
sets, videocassette record­ers,
and stereo equipment.
Close behind are dining sets,
followed by sofa and pottery
tables.
Craftsmen in both Tucson
and Phoenix produce a sizable
amount of this Southwestern
retail furniture , as well as
made-to-order pieces, most in
their own distinctive designs,
yet adhering to those simple,
clean lines that have made the
furniture attractive.
Generally speaking, these
modern-day woodworkers are
using ponderosa pine for their
products, as did the early New
Mexico carpinteros. But Tuc­son
custom builders Stephen
Paul, Brian Kelly, and Clint
Trafton favor mesquite, a hard­wood
native to the desert
regions of the Southwest. In
Phoe nix , custom craftsmen
like Michael Besler favor pon­derosa
pine.
Besler's styles closely follow
the designs of the early New
Mexico furniture makers. His
armoires and trasteros are
made with the traditional
through tenons. He abrades
the wood to "age" it, returning to the
20th century for durable modern finishes.
---------------------Spanish-Colonial Furniture
As in any industry, some "trendy influ­ences"
have surfaced that Sali Katz, author
of Hispanic Furniture, warns buyers
against. The Tucsonan said some pieces
are being painted in "really garish colors,
such as pink and purple." These, she con­tended,
will not endure. Katz, who holds
a master's degree in interior design and
has been an art teacher for a number of
years, believes Southwestern furniture will
become accent pieces. "We should selec­tively
become eclectic and choose what
pleases us," she suggested.
Another source of Southwestern furni­ture
today is Old Mexico. Generally, the
pieces found there are somewhat heavier
than the American product and much
more ornate.
One Phoenix manufacturer, Francesca
Duran, for a time shipped lumber to Mexi­co
to have furniture built there. Later she
began producing furniture at a central
Phoenix shop where she employs three
craftsmen.
In another operation that suggests ship­ping
coals to Newcastle, Ken and Linda
Smalley, operators of Contents, export
Southwestern-style furniture made of
mesquite to Santa Fe,, among other places.
The Smalleys sponsor local craftsmen and
feature their work in their north Tucson
furniture store.
Tamara Scott-Anderson, interior designer
on the Contents staff, said Tucson crafts­men
often produce pieces that are a "com­bination
of Desert and Danish styles.
People come out to Arizona looking for
cleaner lines," she said.
Tucson's contributions to the South­western
style, said Robert Whatley, owner
of Territorial Designs in that city, are big­ger
panels in armoires and plainer orna­mentation.
One of Whatley's suppliers is
Walt Butler, who traces his lineage back
to a line of ship's carpenters. He creates
custom doors and other fine carpentry
works and has built a particularly hand­some
armoire for Whatley's store in a
style that strongly suggests a French
Provincial influence.
As for the future: "I think Southwestern
has always been around," Whatley com­mented.
"It's a trend right now, which in
the next 10 years will begin to dwindle
again. But it will always be a furniture item
that people will want."
Sali Katz's parting thought points up the
feelings of many of the skilled
craftsmen who enjoy creat­ing
furniture in the
old/ new Southwestern
style: "A lot of folk furni­ture
is gimmicky and
trendy," said Katz, "but the
quality pieces such as tras­teros,
armoires, and dining
sets will some day be con­sidered
art. . . . " n
Writer Dennis B. Farrell, a
retired newspaper reporter,
works wood as a hobby.
Sean Brady does a ~ariety of
corporate, commercial, and
advertising photography in his
Phoenix studio. His editorial
clients include Sunset and
Stern magazines.
(LEFT) Detail of cabinet
doors with a Southwestern
look by Mike Besler of
Phoenix. Many of Besler 's
pieces, which follow early
New Mexican designs,
feature aged or
distressed surfaces.
(BELOW) Mesquite dining
chair with a leather seat
and back is a contemporary
creation by Clint Trafton,
available through Tucson 's
Totally Southwest.
Arizona Highways 37
that had been his home for all 39 years of
his life.
Looking out from a shaded area beneath
the overhanging rock of the shallow cave,
he let his gaze move slowly down the
canyon to the broad, once fertile basin 900
feet below, and its meandering stripe of
flowing river. On the far side of the valley
were tiers of steep plum-colored cliffs and,
far beyond, the high mountain country
whence his ancestors had migrated many
generations ago.
40 January 1991
The small and sinewy man, his dark,
shoulder-length hair blowing in the breeze,
walked slowly along the front of the two­story
multiroomed building of rock and
adobe. Once many families had lived and
worked here. Now all were gone. He
could recall the days when he, as a child,
had romped on the hills with other laugh­ing
children. In adulthood, he had become
a weaver of cloth and a hunter. His wife
made handsome pottery. She also ground­com
and beans on a stone metateand har-vested
fruit from the cacti that grew on the
hillsides and in the washes.
When he was a young man, life had
been good in the canyon above the wide
valley. But over a period of years, prob­lems
accumulated. And it seemed that each
difficulty was a harbinger of others yet to
come. Actually, according to the elders, the
changes had started long before. When he
was a boy, there had been trees in the val­ley,
just a few, here and there along the
course of the river. But the old ones told of
---------------------------AN OMEN IN THE RUINS
a time when the entire valley had been
filled with groves of shady trees. Now
there were none, and in many places even
grass did not grow. The irrigated fields that
once produced com and beans and cotton
now stretched across the basin as brown
eroded swatches producing nothing but
wind-blown dust. The dwellings in the val­ley,
and there were many, stood as silent
and empty as the big cave house.
At a corner of the building, the man
stopped and looked up at the wall. A tiny
trace of a smile played at his lips. Many
years ago, when he was young, his father
and other men were repairing a section of
wall at this spot. After they had completed
the job, the boy climbed a large boulder
next to the wall and pressed his hand firm­ly
into the moist plaster. Now, he reached
out and placed his adult palm against it,
linking - for a few final moments - his
past and present. Then he pulled his hand
away, ducked low, and entered the room
through a narrow door.
He went to a far corner beyond the fire
pit and stood quietly, looking down at the
floor. Looking to the place where the male
child had been buried. His wife had borne
six children in all. Three had died soon
after birth; two were with them now. But
only once had she brought forth a male
child. It was important to have a male
child, and this one had grown to talk and
laugh with the other small ones. But
abruptly he became weak and cried for
several days, then died.
They buried him in the room so his spir­it
could remain and return again when the
woman gave birth. They wrapped him in
a fine cotton blanket that had been woven
by his father's hands, laid him on a mat of
bear grass fashioned by his mother. They
placed a pot of dried corn cakes beside
the small body along with a bow and a
number of arrows.
The woman had produced no more
children. Now, the man wondered if the
spirit of the favored child would have to
remain forever in the room alone. Perhaps.
But there was nothing to be done about
that possibility.
The man left the room and stepped
back into the bright sunlight. He stooped
and picked up a bag about the size of a
large purse. In it were things he would
take with him: cakes of dried mush, a
small sack of beans, a fresh squash, a stone
knife, and an ax head. Also, some medic­inal
and religious herbs. Tied in a bundle
with a strap that went over his shoulders
were a bow and arrows for killing small
game. In his right hand, he carried a club
made from the hard and heavy wood of a
mesquite tree.
Most likely, he would not need the club,
but one never knew. Times had changed.
He would have preferred to move his fam­ily
west along the river, but he dared not.
Perhaps there were still a few people
down there. Probably not, for he had been
in the valley several times recently and had
seen no signs of recent habitation. He
believed that he and his family were the
only ones remaining. Still, farther down­stream,
there might be others, a few linger­ing
famished people who might kill them
for their meager supplies and belongings.
The thought of violence disturbed him
and brought back stark remembrance of
an episode that had occurred the winter
past. In the darkness of a cold night that
produced blowing rain, a group of men
from the valley - his own people - had
attacked the cave dwelling. There was
much yelling and shouting, and the man
had emerged from his room, club in hand.
Suddenly, a figure lurched at him out of
the darkness, a wild-eyed man with a
fierce, hungry look. He struck out at the
intruder, knocking him from the shelf of
rock into some bushes below. The attack­ers
had been turned back, and no lives
were lost, but the memory of the event
made the man scowl. The old way of life
- the good way of life - was gone. And
now, it was time for him to go, too.
The little man's legs were strong from a
lifetime of running and walking in the
rugged hills. Before the sun achieved its
zenith, he reached the pass between the
two mountains, following the path his wife
and daughters had taken to the south. At
the crest, he stopped and looked back
once more, then turned and went over the
ridge. With his leaving, the fabric of a mys­tery
became complete.
When this last man went over the
mountain to the south, his departure
marked the time when a once flourishing
culture, known as the Salado, became, for
all practical purposes, extinct. For more
than three centuries, this highly structured
society of as many as 12,000 craftsmen,
farmers, and traders occupied the broad
CLEFT) Tbe Tonto National Monument
near Roosevelt. Lake preserves prehistoric
cliff-dwellings. PATRICK FISCHER
(BELOW) An ancient hand print in the
adobe and a shadow link the present
with the distant past.
(FOLLOWING PANEL, PAGES 42 and 43) Seen
from the monument's lower ruin, the
Sierra Anchas reflect the light of the
setting sun.
Arizona Highways 41
geographic area now known as Arizona's
Tonto Basin. And then, sometime around
A.D. 1400, they were gone, their disap­pearance
one of the enduring mysteries of
prehistoric Arizona .
On a bright spring morning in the last
decade of the 20th century, I stand on a
steep, rock-strewn canyon slope above the
broad sweep of Tonto Basin . Behind me is
42 January 1991
the dark hollow of a shallow and naturally
formed cave. I am looking at a section of
wall that is part of a rock-and-mortar struc­ture
that once served as living quarters for
generations of Salado Indian families.
My attention is focused on the print of a
human hand pressed into the adobe plas­ter.
The hand that made that print, I tell
myself, once belonged to a living, breath-ing
human being who worked, hoped,
and aspired in this remote and Spartanly
beautiful section of Arizona.
I assume that the owner of the hand
was a male although the print is small.
Who was he, I wonder. What was his life
like? How did he feel and think when, all
those centuries ago , he stood where I
now stand'
I reach out and cover the print with my
own hand. Perhaps I am hoping to receive
some sensory impression across the gulf of
time, something that would help me
answer the questions. If so, the gesture is
futile . No psychic messages are received.
I try to clear my mind of modern
thought and think as he might have
thought. I would like to know how it felt
to live here in that slow-moving era when
there were no clocks or buzzers or
appointments to segment the warm days.
I sit on a large boulder and let the quiet
enfold me . At the bottom of the canyon, I
can see the Tonto National Monument
Visitor Center, a few parked cars, a man
and woman coming up the trail far below.
In the distant valley, where the Salt River
once ran unimpeded, there is a large body
of water, the reservior created by Roosevelt
Dam. Other than these few contemporary
signs, I know that the land is much the
same as it was when the maker of the
handprint lived here.
So. Why did he leave? Where did all the
others go? How could an entire society vir­tually
disappear? For nearly a century,
Arizona Highways 43
About A.D. 1400, the Salado people abandoned their cliff-dwellings, archeologists
theorize, because of environmental degradation and disease brought on by
overcrowding. Tbese rock and mortar ruins are all that remain.
archeologists have sifted through the ruins
of Tonto National Monument looking for
clues to that puzzle. Early on, it was
believed that the Salado were terrorized by
marauding Apaches. But later it was dis­covered
that the first Apaches arrived in
the Tonto Basin long after the Salado dis­appeared.
Tree-ring studies tell us that drought
could have been a factor. But the Salado
always had the running river, and they
knew the techniques of irrigation and
farming. Disease? Perhaps a fast-spreading
epidemic killed many of them, contributing
to their decline. If so, the archeologists
would have found evidence of this. Maybe
they made an orderly migration toward the
southeast and intermingled with the
44 January 1991
Indians living in what is now New Mexico.
The only evidence for that, however, is the
fact that the distinctive Salado pottery has
been discovered there. But, since the
Salado were extremely active traders, this
proves only that their craftsmanship moved
- not the entire community.
There is today a prevailing opinion, and
possibly a lesson for modem man, that has
emerged from all the years of digging and
sifting in the Salados' long-abandoned
structures. It starts with the fact that the
Tonto Basin and the uplands on either side
of the river comprised a place of mild cli­mate,
tillable soil, always-available water,
and plentiful wild game. There were also
abundant plants in great variety that pro­vided
fruit, seeds, and beans as well as
materials for baskets, sandals, and other
household items. Trees along the river -
cottonwoods , sycamore, elders, and
mesquite - could be felled for building
materials and fuel.
The Salado also knew how to farm.
They built an extensive network of irriga­tion
ditches and small canals. They raised
cotton, corn, and beans. And they were a
people who excelled as weavers and mak­ers
of pottery.
From my position in front of the lower
ruins (there is another, larger complex of
dwellings in a cave farther up the canyon),
I see a profusion of flowers: orange, red,
and lavender, all down the length of the
canyon. Giant saguaros stretch their arms
toward a sky of purest blue. A cool breeze
courses its way along the hillside and, to
the north, majestic mountains form the
horizon.
But apparently the Salado had a tragic
flaw. Prevailing opinion says the flaw was
a cavalier attitude toward the environment
and its bounty. It was an attitude born,
most likely, from ignorance or a general un­concern.
When this attitude later combined
with a continuing increase in population,
severely overcrowding the valley, the stage
was set for social and economic collapse.
For the Salado, wood was a critical
resource. It was employed widely as a
building material. But, most importantly,
wood was the only fuel available to these
prehistoric people. Over time, the thick
groves of trees in the lowlands diminished.
After the last of these were felled, trees in
the upland canyons were taken down and
accumulations of dried wood gathered.
The population continued to go up; the
supply of wood continued to go down.
And finally, the wood was gone entirely,
another factor in the community's decline.
Farming by the Salado, it is believed, led
eventually to nutrient stripping, especially
in the uplands. As the soil was drained of
its nutrients, crop yields fell drastically.
This, in turn, contributed to a greatly
diminished supply of wild game. The land
was now ripe for erosion, so much so that
many of the Salados' mountain trails
washed out.
Many believe that the continuing lack of
fuel and food created an atmosphere of
social unrest and personal stress - that
the temperament of these peaceful people
began to change, and they commenced
bickering and fighting among themselves.
Cohesive groups moved up into the
canyons and built the dwellings that
remain in the sheltering caves of Tonto
National Monument. These were buildings
with heavy walls, natural protection, and
access controlled by ladders that could be
pulled up quickly.
Evidence indicates that political factions
____________________________ AN OMEN IN THE RUINS
developed, but these, most likely, only
intensified the strife. Under such stressful
conditions, the artistic pursuits of the tribe
- the weaving of fine cloth and the mak­ing
of pottery - must have decreased
markedly. If so, trading with other distant
tribes would have fallen off.
Disease, spread largely by overcrowding
and poor sanitation, could have killed
many of the Salado gradually. Poor diet -
perhaps even malnutrition and starvation
- claimed others. Internecine fighting may
have taken more lives. And finally, with
the land stripped, food scarce, and fuel
supplies gone, people began to scatter,
probably in all directions. And then, on ·a
certain day unknown to history, the last
man - or last woman - walked out of
the basin. And, from that day forward, the
Salado would be known only by what
they left behind.
I rise from my resting place on the boul­der.
It is time to start back down the trail.
But the handprint that has held my atten­tion
for the past few minutes still intrigues.
Etched there, in reverse, the palm faces
me, fingers spread. I realize for the first
WHEN You Go
time that I am looking at a universal ges­ture
that says, "Stop."
Perhaps that is what the handprint is
saying. Maybe it is saying, "Stop. Stop and
listen to the shout of the silent message
that lingers in these abandoned rooms. We
bequeath to you our mistakes." ~
Travel Guide: For a detailed travel guide to
Arizona, we recommend Travel Arizona, a
newly revised Arizona Highways book that
describes in detail with maps and pictures
16 one- to three-day trips, and also includes
a variety of great hikes. Our Road Atlas,
featuring maps of 27 cities, mileage charts
and points of interest, also is very useful for
travelers. Arizona: Land of Contrasts, a
videotape by Bill Leverton, gives a story­teller's
perspective of the state. For more
information or to order, call toll-free 1 (800)
543-5432. In the Phoenix area, 258-1000.
Author William Hafford, who has traveled
widely in Arizona, also wrote about the Wind
Cave Trail hike on page 48. Photographer j erry
Sieve's latest book, Ohio, Images of Nature, was
released last September.
Saguaro fruit,
Yaqui string
beans, corn,
and Mayo
Kamosquash
were Indian
crops at Tonto
National
Monument
700years ago.
Getting there: From Phoenix, drive east on U.S. Route 60-89 to Apache Junction.
Here you have a choice. The Apache Trail (State Route 88) provides a magnificent
scenic drive, but it winds through rugged country with 22 miles of unpaved
mountain road. Or you can take U.S. 60 past Miami and then proceed north at
the other end of State Route 88 to the monument. Either option requires about
2.5 hours of driving time from Phoenix.
What to see and do: Within the 1.5-square-mile
area of the monument are well-preserved rock and
masonry ruins. The Lower Ruin (19 rooms) and the
Lower Ruin Annex (11 rooms) may be visited at
any time. The Upper Ruin ( 40 rooms) is opened
only for guided tours (call in advance for informa-
. tion). The Visitor Center and Museum offer a dis­play
of artifacts and a 12-minute slide program on
the ruins and the early Salado people. Park rangers
are available to answer questions and provide vis­itor
assistance. Picnic facilities also are available.
Hours: Open 8:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. every day
except Christmas.
TONTO NATIONAL
MONUMENT
PHOENIX* • • • MIAMI
APACHE
)UNCTION
Travel with the Friends of Arizona Highways
The Friends of Arizona Highways, our
volunteer auxiliary, conducts a variety of
tours to some of Arizona's most spectacular
locales. Here is a partial schedule of trips
you will want to take:
Photo Tours
These are three- to five-day workshops
for advanced photo buffs offered in some
of the most spectacular places in Arizona.
Well-known photographers whose pictures
have appeared in Arizona Highways will
lead the trips and share their knowledge
and skill. Photo Tours include:
March 8-10: Follow Arizona Highways
Picture Editor Peter Ensenberger and Jerry
Sieve through Organ Pipe Cactus National
Monument.
April 17-19: Frank Zullo, the West's pre­mier
photographer of the night sky, leads a
workshop into the Superstition Mountains.
May 2-5: Explore the unforgettable beauty
of Aravaipa Canyon Wilderness Area on an
11-mile trek with Christine Keith.
Shutterbug Safaris
These are one-day photo excursions for
the casual snapshooter. Photographers lead
tours from Phoenix or Tucson to destina­tions
within a 125-mile radius of each
metropolitan area. Safari members will
have the opportunity to photograph such
scenic locations as the Apache Trail, San
Xavier Mission, and the Catalina Moun­tains.
Individualized excursions can be
planned for special interest groups.
For complete information on Photo
Tours or Shutterbug Safaris, or to make res­ervations,
telephone the Friends of Arizo­na
Highways Travel Desk, (602) 271-5904.
Scenic Tours
Two- and three-day tours, sponsored in
association with the Arizona Automobile
Association, are scheduled regularly to the
Grand Canyon and Lake Powell. For addi­tional
information or to make reservations,
telephone the AAA at (602) 274-5805 in
Phoenix, or telephone 1 (800) 352-5382
statewide.
Longer scenic tours visit the state's most
historic cities and towns, significant prehis­toric
sites, museums, gardens, and nature
preserves. For reservations on these longer
scenic tours call the Friends' Travel Desk
at (602) 271-5382. A scenic tour highlight
will be:
May: Ray Manley, a senior Arizona
Highways photographer, will lead a four­da
y exploration of northern Arizona's
exciting Indian country.
Travel with the Friends of Arizona Highways
Arizona Highways 45
____ MILEPOSTS ___ _
FROM TITANS TO TOMBSTONE
J eny LaBarre of the Sierra
Vista Chamber of
Commerce gave us a lot of
behind-the-scenes help when
we published a story on Fort
Huachuca (August 1989) .
Now he has a few favorite
day tours from the little town
nestled at the foot of the
Huachuca Mountains. Just
five miles away, he says, is
the Apache Pointe Ranch,
where you can see buffalo ,
longhorns, and humming­birds
, and enjoy a Western
restaurant. The Coronado
National Monument, high in
the Coronado National
Forest , is 20 miles south via
State Route 92 . Tombstone is
16 miles away, on Charleston
Road. You will pass the ghost
town of Charleston and seven
working gold mines on the
way. And a bird-watcher's
TRAVEL GUIDE GETS AN UPDATE
0 ur popular guidebook,
Travel Arizona, has been
revised completely for its
sixth edition. It details 16
one- to three-day state tours
and is available for $9.95
through your bookstore or
through Arizona Highways,
2039 W. Lewis Ave. , Phoenix,
AZ 85009; telephone (602)
258-6641 or 1 (800) 543-5432.
46 January 1991
EDITED BY )ILL ELLEN WELCH
paradise, Ramsey Canyon, is
just five miles down the road
(telephone (602) 378-2785 for
reservations). Nature lovers
also enjoy the 54 ,189-acre
San Pedro Riparian
Conservation Area , six miles
from town.
Organized tours from
Tucson will take you to San
Xavier Mission, the Tit:;m
Missile Museum, Tombstone,
Bisbee, and Tumacacori
National Historical Park, as
well as Patagonia 's Museum
of the Horse and the
grasslands where Oklahoma/
was filmed , and host you
overnight at one of Sierra
Vista's hotels. For reservations ,
telephone or write to the
Sierra Vista Chamber of
Commerce, 77 Calle Portal,
Suite 140, Sierrn Vista , AZ
85635; (602) 458-6940 .•
TURQUOISE POWER
A !though turquois e jewelry
has enjoyed an enormous
growth in popularity of late,
collecting turquoise is not a
modern phenomenon.
Arizona's Yavapai Indians
have treasured the colorful
mineral since ancient times ,
not only for its beauty but
also because it was thought
turquoise had special powers.
The Yavapais believed it
had a particular influence on
animals. If a deer hunter
carried a large piece of
ffi turquoise into the field , the
~ mineral would cause his quarry
~ to tire quickly. As a result,
<{
m
a:
w tu
Cl.
turquoise was never worn
y.rhen riding horseback. •
Ow WEST DEJA Vu
During the latter part of the
19th century, energetic
Arizonans worked tirelessly
to assure the rest of the
country that the territory was
no longer a lawless frontier
overrun with desperados and
highwaymen. It seems that
about the time everyone got
to believing Arizona was
ready for statehood, some
galoot would go and spoil
things. Like the time back in
1888 when Jim Brazelton
held up the Tucson-Florence
stage . He didn't get away
with much cash, and it might
have been quickly forgotten
had there not been a
How WE SEE THE INDIANS
Anew book on the Anglo­European
vision of
American Indians combines a
fascinating text with
beautifully reproduced
artwork. In Native Americans:
Five Centuries of Changing
Images (Hany N. Abrams,
Publishers, 1989), Patricia
Trenton and Patrick Houlihan,
an art historian and an
anthropologist, respectively,
juxtapose European visual
images of the original
Americans with artifacts . The
result is a portrayal of the
relationship between Anglos
and Native Americans and the
way we have changed over
the, centuries. •
newspaperman on board.
John Clum, founder of the
Tombstone Epitaph, was an
eyewitness and wrote a
colorful account of the event.
Naturally, the story made the
newspapers back East and
attracted a lot of attention
locally .
The following week, the
stage made the same run.
This time it was filled with
curious tourists who wanted
to see where the famous
robbery occurred. It was a
joyous group of bois terous
thrill seekers on the stage that
day. When they neared the
site where the stage was
robbed, the passengers grew
anxious . "Show us where the
desperado appeared," one
demanded.
The driver pulled up the
horses and pointed out
toward a large bush. "It was
right over there. He hid
behind that bush,'' the driver
declared. And, with a look of
startled surprise, added, "And
by golly, there he is again."
This time Brazelton's
victims were wealthy tourists,
and the haul was
considerable. The media
loved it, and Arizona's lawless
reputation remained intact. •
A BEAR TALE
F ew people get a chance to
attend their own funeral -
alive that is. But Isadore
Christopher claimed he did . If
this story is true, he is likely
the only person in Arizona
history who was a witness to
his own funeral.
It all happened in the
1880s up on the Mogollon
Rim, where Christopher had
a small ranch along the creek
named for him. While riding
one day,_ he came upon a
large bear. He shot the critter
then hauled the carcass back
to the ranch and dumped it
in a log shanty.
Later that day, he rode out
to gather some cattle, and
while he was away, a war
party of Apaches decided to
pay a call. Finding nobody at
home, they set fire to
Christopher's humble abode.
A troop of cavalry arrived at
the ranch a few minutes after
CHAMBER Music GoEs MODERN
T his season, the Phoenix
Chamber Music Society
institutes "New Directions,''
an innovative series of
contemporary music
programs at the Scottsdale
Center for the Arts . The first
brings the famous Kronos
Quartet (RIGHn to the Valley
on January 11 . The
Schoenberg Quartet will visit
the Valley March 22. In
addition, the society will
continue to present its annual
season of fine chamber
music. For more information,
telephone (602) 266-3524. •
the Apaches vamoosed. The
soldiers inspected the
smoldering ruins and found
some cooked remains. They
naturally figured it was
Christopher and decided he
needed a proper burial. A
grave was dug hastily, and
funeral services were begun.
During the ceremony,
Christopher rode in, quickly
sized up the situation, and
informed the solemn party
they were holding a funeral
for a bear. •
WHO READS WHAT
W hat books on Arizona
do Sandra Day
O'Connor, Rose Mofford,
Scott Momaday, Bruce and
Hattie Babbitt, and David
Muench list as favorites? Mesa
Community College librarians
Marcia Melton and Jeanette
Daane asked authors, profes­sors
, government leaders,
photographers, writers, and
clergy members to recom­mend
the best books on
Arizona. The result is a book­list
of more than 160 titles, with
comments. To obtain a copy
free of charge, write to Marcia
Melton or Jeanette Daane at
Mesa Community College,
1833 W. Southern Avenue,
Mesa, AZ 85202. •
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~
TOMBSTONE'S "TACK"
Betty Ridge, one of our
correspondents in
Tombstone, takes exception
to a remark by Joe Stocker in
his story on Arizona's "ghost"
towns Qune 1990). In passing,
he described the little burg as
"tacky" prior to its various
restoration projects.
"Tombstone began as a
raw, rough community of
tents , lean-tos, and pioneers,''
she says . "There have been
times of abandoned buildings
SHORTCUTS
T he fourth annual
Dixieland Jazz Festival
takes place January 18-20 at
the Ramada London Bridge
Resort - telephone (602)
855-0888 for details .. . . On
January 1, 1909, Bany M.
Goldwater was born . .. .
and small populace, but in
the worst of those days, it
was never 'tacky.' It was a
community bound together
by hard times, populated by
the people who started the
town and their descendants.
Perhaps it was economically
depressed, but then so was
much of the country."
Betty is a 51-year resident
of Tombstone. Her mother
and children were born and
reared there. •
Check out Prescottonian
Melissa Ruffner 's window on
frontier life-styles in her
Arizona Territorial Cookbook,
published by Primrose Press,
815 Bertrand Avenue,
Prescott, AZ 86303; telephone
(602) 445-4567 .... Dave
~ Schmitt, active in the Arizona
~ Department of Transportation's
~ Adopt-a-Highway effort, says
~ more than 75 organizations
er: nearly doubled the number
I
o of miles of "adopted" roads
last year. For information on
how you and your group can
help care for Arizona's
highways, telephone (602)
255-8281 or 255-7386. •
Contributors: Marshall Trimble,
Vicky Hay, and Jim Schreier.
Cartoons by jack Graham .
U.S. Postal Service
STATEMENT OF OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT, AND CIRCULATION
Title of Publication: Arizona Highways
Publication No.: ISSN 0004-1521
Date of filing: September 28, 1990
Frequency of issues : Monthly
Number of issues published annually: Twelve
Annual subscription price: $16 .00 U.S. & possessions;
$19.25 elsewhere
EXTENT AND NATURE OF CIRCULATION
Publisher: Hugh Harelson
Editor: Robert J. Early
Managing editor : Richard G. Stahl; addresses below
Location of magazine, Including business office :
2039 West Lewis Ave ., Phoenix, (Maricopa) PJ. 85009
Owner: State of Arizona
Ave111g1 no . Actual no .
copies 11dl copies 1lngl1
lnue during lnue published
preceding 12 n11mt to
months llllng date
A. Total number copies printed ......................................... ..... .................. .............. 495,989 471 ,916
B. Paid circulation :
1. Sales through dealers and carriers , street vendors, and counter sales ...... 79 ,093 66,715
2. Mail subscriptions.. ............................... .. ............. ......... .... ........................ 350,071 342, 185
C. Total paid circulation .................... ........ .... ................. .. ....................................... 429 ,164 408,900
D. Free distribution by mail, carriers, or other means, samples,
complimentary, and other free copies............. .... .. .................................. ...... ..... 2,474 2,369
E. Total distribution ........................... ....... .... ........... .. ......... ......................... ........... 431 ,638 411,269
F. Copies not distributed :
1. Office use, left over, unaccounted, spoiled after printing .......... ...... ..... ...... 23,646 25,814
2. Returns from news agents ... ................................ ........ ............. .... ........ ..... 40 ,705 34,833
G. Total ..................... .................. ........ ........................ , .................. .. .......... ............. 495,989 471 ,916
I certify that the statements made by me are correct and complete . Hugh Hare/S(Jn, Publisher
Arizona Highways 47
___ HIKE OF THE MONTH __ _
WIND CA V E T R A I L I N T H E U S E R Y MOUNTAIN ARE A
E TEXT BY WILLIAM HAFFORD I PHOTOGRAPH S BY )ERRY SIEVE
very time I head east from the Wind Cave Trail, " he says.
Phoenix toward Apache June- "The recreation area 's got 10
tion on U.S . Route 60-89, I hiking trails in all. "
wonder about that distinctive "How did those strange cliffs
mountain just northwest of the get up there?" I ask.
Superstitions . The one with the "Volcanic tuff, spewed out
stratified band of ocher-colored by the Superstitions eons ago
cliffs that runs , like some and fused together by heat. "
gigantic scar, just below its I' m glad for the answer.
highest ridges. What made it From now on, when I drive
that way? I always wonder. toward Apache Junction, I
Today, for no particular rea- won 't have to wonder. I pay
son, the question is: is it the dollar entry fee and follow
climbable? the map to a parking area on
Hmm. My errand is one of Wind Cave Drive.
no particular urgency. I ' m Already I'm a fan of Usery
wearing shorts and running Mountain Recreation Area . The
s hoes . I have a plastic water place is beautifully tended, and
bottle in the trunk. Suddenly the foothills of Pass Mountain
the car, apparently with a mind are lush with desert foliage.
of its own, turns north. It's I study the map. There are,
early afternoon of a balmy indeed, 10 hiking trails, rang-winter
day, and there 's not a ing from one under a half-mile
cloud in the sky. Who am I to to a nearly seven-mile trek that
argue with the car? circles the mountain. One
I help the vehicle along with route is a botanical hike with
a little visual navigation . When plant identification. But there
we are precisely west of the also are overnight camp-mountain,
I see a sign: Usery grounds, an archery range,
Mountain Recreation Area. fresh water, flush toilets, picnic
Smart car. areas with shade-providing
At the gatehouse I inquire, ramadas. Even a horse staging
"What's the name of that area and equestrian paths.
mountain?" The Wind Cave Trail is a
"Pass Mountain, " the atten- 1.3-mile (one way) moderately
dant replies. strenuous hike that rises about
"Can I hike it? " 1,000 vertical feet. The trail is
He thrusts a park map well maintained and safe with
through my car window. "Take rest areas along the route.
USERY MOUN TAIN
R ECREA TI ON AREA
Entrance
McDOWELL RD.
- Wind Cave Trail
- Pass Mountai n Trail
During the last leg of the
hike, the path angles along the
base of the cliffs : sheer, ragged ,
and unsealable. The soft for­mations
would be unsafe even
for professionals. The Wind
Cave , carved by thousands of
years of erosion , provides a
cool, shaded resting spot at the
end of the trail. Also , an
impressive view that extends a
hundred miles or more to the
west and south.
The next Saturday, I return
and take the Pass Mountain
Trail. This is the longest one,
circling the mountain a t its
(f)
0
(;J
-' w
base. I complete
the 6 .9 miles in
a little less than
2.5 hours by al­ternate
ly jog­ging
100 paces
and walking 100
paces , stopping
once to snack
on a sandwich
and a few times
just to rest and
enjoy the great
scenery. If you
intend to walk
the distance at a
leisurely pace,
allow at least
; four hours.
(ABOVE) A cool day, a
pleasant hike, and delightful
surroundings motivated this
hiker to take time out to
absorb it all.
( RIGHT) Scenic views such as
this one abound on the Wind
Cave Trail.
rules you should never violate
when hiking in Arizona: don't
go into the desert without
water; don't go into remote
areas without telling someone
where you have gone. ~
When You Go: To get to Usery
Mountain Recreation Area, take
U.S . Route 60-89 (Apache Boul­evard)
east to Ellsworth Road
and turn north. At McKellips
Road, Ellsworth becomes Usery
Pass Road . Continue north to
the park entrance. For more
information, call (602) 834-3669.
11: Another thing.
~--~~----------------------------' ~ There ar e two
Hiking Guide: For a detailed
guide to hiking in Arizona, we
recommend Outdoors in Ari­zona:
A Guide to Hiking and
Backpacking, a collection of 48
great hikes through desert,
mountain, and canyon environ­ments,
including easy-to-get-to
trails in the urban areas. For
more information or to order
call toll-free 1 (800) 543-5432 . In
the Phoenix area , 258-1000.
48 January 1991