M A Y 2 0 0 7
John Wayne: The 'Duke' Cast a Long Shadow in Arizona
FRUITFUL FUN Kids of all ages dash for sweet treats during
the “Fruit Scramble” event at the 4th Annual Natoni Horse Race
on the Navajo Indian Reservation. See story, page 16. tom bean
FRONT COVER Navajo hoop dancer Tyrese Jensen, 7, competes in
the 16th Annual World Championship Hoop Dance Contest held at the
Heard Museum in downtown Phoenix. See story, page 32. jeff kida
BACK COVER A hiker amounts to a Tiny Tim on the window
"sill" of Los Gigantes Buttes Arch near the Lukachukai Mountains
on the Navajo Indian Reservation. See story, page 24. tom till
n To order a print of this photograph, see information on opposite page.
contents may 2007
Could Arizona be the next Napa Valley? Why
not? Grape-growing enthusiasts from around
the world have found our desert highlands to be
the perfect starting grounds for the big, beautiful
business of winemaking. See how and where with
our expanded Arizona Wine Country guide. Visit
arizonahighways.com and click on our May
HUMOR Remote-control technology
really pushes our writer’s buttons.
WEEKEND GETAWAY See how Verde
Valley winemakers bring in the green
with quality reds and whites.
EXPERIENCE ARIZONA Plan a trip
with our calendar of events.
Photographic Prints Available
n Prints of some photographs are available for
purchase, as designated in captions. To order, call toll-free
(866) 962-1191 or visit www.magazineprints.com.
2 DEAR EDITOR
3 ALL WHO WANDER
How about them toad suckers?
What do cowboys and photographers
have in common?
5 TAKING THE OFF-RAMP
Arizona oddities, attractions and pleasures.
42 ALONG THE WAY
The world according to Hube.
44 HIKE OF THE MONTH
Sugarloaf Mountain offers a Chiricahua
Monument high point.
46 BACK ROAD ADVENTURE
Route 12 reveals hidden treasures
on the Navajo Reservation.
NIGHTLIGHT Rising over the
Chiricahua Mountains, the May
moon reflects its glow on spring
growth at the Keeling-Schaefer
Vineyards in southeast Arizona.
See story, page 8.
don b. and ryan b. stevenson
FRONT COVER During a summer
of record-breaking rain, gnarled
scrub oaks stand their ground
amid a profusion of golden
summer poppies and pink velvet-pod
mimosas on Atascosa
Mountains' hillsides in southern
Arizona. See story, page 22.
BACK COVER At the eastern
edge of Keeling-Schaefer
Vineyards, dawn’s light bathes
nearly ripe grape clusters awaiting
harvest. See story, page 8.
don b. and ryan b. stevenson
8 No Place for Whiners
Arizona vintners earn new respect.
by kathleen walker
photographs by don b. and ryan b. stevenson
16 g u i d e Grape Expectations
in Southeast Arizona
by michael famigliet ti
18 John Wayne’s Arizona
The icon who made Arizona iconic loved its frontier feel.
by gregory mcnamee
2 2 p o r t f o l i o Tumacacori
Highlands’ Wild Eden
by douglas kreutz | photographs by jack dykinga
34 Rain Run
Hopi runners follow an ancient path in a
2,000-mile-long relay for rain.
by carrie m. miner | photographs by gary johnson
38 Grand Canyon Caverns
Deep underground, imaginations run amok.
by kimberly hosey | photographs by geoff gourley
For more letters, see arizonahighways.com (click o online n “Letters to the Editor”).
2 m a y 2 0 0 7
all who wander by Peter Aleshire, editor
Arizona Highways magazine has inspired an
independent weekly television series, hosted by
Phoenix TV news anchor Robin Sewell. For
channels and show times, log on to
arizonahighways.com; click on “DISCOVER
ARIZONA”; then click on the “Arizona Highways
goes to television!” link on the right-hand side.
highways on tv
Produced in the USA
MAY 2007 VOL. 83, NO. 5
Publisher WIN HOLDEN
Editor PETER ALESHIRE
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ARIZONA TRANSPORTATION BOARD
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How about Them Toad Suckers
Ain’t they clods?
Sittin’ there suckin’
Them green toady-frogs.
Suckin’ them hop-toads,
Suckin’ them chunkers,
Suckin’ them leapy-types,
Suckin’ them plunkers.
—“Them Toad Suckers” by Mason Williams
I was just sitting . . . and thinking . . . when the croak of true
love sounded among the bulrushes.
Roused from my reverie, I tried to home in on the bullfrog’s
call booming through the bulrushes in the languid lake
in Papago Park. Could it be a Colorado River toad? At this
moment, a great, slurping splash deflected my search for the
bullfrog, which immediately fell silent — likewise awaiting the
source of the din.
Turning, I watched a young fellow stagger along the
shoreline, moving with the delicacy of a drunken wildebeest.
He stumbled to a halt at the marshy shore of the lake, caked
with mud below the waist. He swayed and turned with
exaggerated care to examine me.
“Hey, dude,” he said, through an off-kilter smile.
“Hey,” I said, noting the small silver skull dangling around
his neck and his black T-shirt sporting two skeletons.
“Seen any toads?” he asked.
“Pardon?” I asked.
“Toads. You know. Like, big toads.”
I thought instantly of Mason Williams, that quintessential
’60s poet of inordinately silly verse. Unaccountably, a stanza
leapt to mind, two decades after I last read it:
Look at Them Toad Suckers,
Ain’t they snappy?
Suckin’ them bog-frogs
Sure makes ’em happy.
“Nope. No toads,” I answered.
“I thought I heard one here.”
“Oh, that,” I said, gesturing vaguely with my bird book.
“That was a bullfinch.”
“A bullfinch. Big one.”
He stared at me through narrowed eyes, trying to decide
whether I might be mocking him. The effort appeared painful,
so he abandoned the thought and returned to surveying the
I watched quietly, confident I’d encountered a recreational
toad sucker. No doubt, he sought a Colorado River toad, a marvel
of biology that can burrow some 2 feet into the mud after a
monsoon and spend years waiting out droughts. The toads shrivel
to a wilted memory of themselves, like mummified pharaohs.
The drumming of just enough rain at just the right time
summons them from their tombs. Struggling upward to emerge
into the rain-blessed world, they swell as their thirsty skin
absorbs the moisture. Crooning passionately, they rush to find
mates, then festoon every available pool of water with frog eggs.
The pollywogs hatch in record time and tear through the
miracle of metamorphosis from wiggler to frog in summer
pools that last mere days.
One other remarkable quality of the Colorado River toads has
lately attracted the attention of the counter-culture — the
chemistry of self-defense. These toads can grow to 7 inches,
which makes them nearly 2 pounds of toothless, shell-less,
croaking juiciness in a world oversupplied with raccoons,
coyotes, bobcats, dogs and other toothy critters. The toad’s
defensive system involves glands that produce bufotenine, a
squirt of which can cause paralysis and even death in animals.
This defense system has served the croakers well for millions
Turns out, this toad’s poison mimics a hallucinogen if dried,
crystallized and smoked with a pipe.
Of course, you can overdose and get very sick. Mercifully, no
known deaths attributable to toad-sucking have trickled into
medical literature — although some dogs have paid the ultimate
price for experimentation. Arizona forbids the collection of
toads without a fishing license, and outlaws the possession of
more than 10 even with a license.
I suspected my new acquaintance lacked the requisite license.
Then again, it appeared more likely that he would drown
himself than surprise a toad in his current condition.
He studied me blearily and added, “Holler if you see any.”
He managed a lopsided but heartfelt smile and blundered
back into the reeds.
I sat contentedly until the sound of his splashing faded. The
shadows lengthened, the rippled waters reflected the clouds
overhead and the light deepened into psychedelic hues. From
among the rushes came the haunting call of an unidentified
At just that moment, the bullfrog resumed his song.
How About Them
I’ve been reading Arizona Highways
since grade school in Tucson. I’ve just
turned 60 and find myself inspired and
fascinated by your wonderful metaphors,
adjectives, verbs and revelations of your
soul. February 2007’s “All Who Wander”
column, “Love on the Edge,” was easy:
“. . . three jumping bean kids . . .” Thanks
for turning Arizona Highways off the “fluff”
road and back into a magazine I treasure
—Sandra Cortner, Crested Butte, CO
Don’t Feed the Wildlife
The magazine is great, but the mention
of squirrel feeding in “All Who Wander”
(“Love on the Edge,” February ’07) was
disturbing. It is unlawful to feed, approach
or harass the wildlife in any national park.
The National Park Service puts notices
to this effect in all their Grand Canyon
visitor publications. Some people reading
this article may conclude that feeding
squirrels is okay since Arizona Highways
makes it sound pretty benign.
—Mary Gentry, Espanola, NM
Good point, poor role-modeling. Don’t feed the
squirrels, folks. —Peter Aleshire, Editor
A Hooping Hunk
In your most beautiful issue of February
2007, on page 32, I saw the hoop dancer
Dallas Arcand. He is the hunkiest, most
gorgeous-looking man I have ever seen!
Oh darn, I am 82 years old.
—Carla Allan, Surprise
Age, dear reader, is a state of mind — as you so aptly
Your article about the Apache Wars and
the battle in Bear Springs Canyon in the
Whetstone Mountains of southeastern
Arizona (“Blood Enemies,” February ’07)
was very interesting. I was surprised and
puzzled as to why you used a full-page
illustration of a scene that resembles
Monument Valley on the Navajo Indian
Reservation in northeastern Arizona.
—Janice Fancher, Tubac
Heck of a good point. Hollywood movies do that all
the time. Shame on us, and thanks for keeping us on
our toes. —Ed.
That Was a Great Letter
I want to add my feelings to those
expressed in Larry Weaver’s letter,
“Poetry — Ugh!” (“Dear Editor,” February
’07). I couldn’t agree more with Mr.
Weaver’s thoughts on your writing style.
In my opinion, it does not fit what Arizona
Highways magazine is all about, including
the style expectations of the readership.
Western magazine — Western style. No
flowery words or sentences required.
—Paul Premo, Scottsdale
Horn or Antler?
In the February 2007 piece, “Do Fence Me
In,” Dexter Oliver states pronghorns “shed
their strange, black-forked horns annually.”
Horns and antlers are different. That’s why
there are the two words. Horns — think
of cows and buffalo — are not shed.
Antlers — think elk and moose — are
shed. The pronghorn sheds his antlers,
not his horns. In actuality, the animal
is misnamed — technically it is not an
antelope — it’s a sheep. But that’s a whole
—Richard LaBree, Apple Valley, MN
On the point of horns (or antlers), Dexter didn’t have
the space to explain the whole messy business. You’re
right, antlers are made of bone and shed annually.
Horns are not shed and are made from keratin, the
same material as fingernails. The pronghorn sheath is
a bit of both, a keratin covering on a bony core that’s
shed annually. Moreover, the male pronghorn’s horn/
antler branches like an antler, while true horns never
I must comment on the piece “Love on the Edge” (“All
Who Wander,” February ’07) and the accompanying
photograph. What an incredibly beautiful sight to
behold, two people with love in their hearts and our
beloved Grand Canyon as their backdrop. That bird
flying by is the icing on the cake. The poetry of the
piece itself is deeply moving. Thanks so much for all
of it. Keep up the excellent work. I love it!
—Diana Minton, Arcata, CA
A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 3
DO NOT LICK
Colorado River toads can survive
100 times the dehydration it would
take to kill a human. g.c. kelley
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by Jeff Kida, photography editor, firstname.lastname@example.org viewfinder
A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 5
hoop it up
arizona oddities, attractions and pleasures
“i paint because I have something to say,”
asserts figurative artist Tina Mion.
Her visual narrative “The Last Harvey Girl” depicts the
passing of an era. Harvey girls served Santa Fe Railway
passengers at Harvey House hotels, such as Winslow’s
La Posada, recently restored by Mion and her husband,
Architect Mary Colter designed Southwest-themed
uniforms especially for La Posada’s Harvey girls. In a life-sized
portrait of the late Dorothy Hunt (right), and Ruby
McHood, two of the last Harvey girls from Winslow, Mion
captures their fragile essences offering to passersby one
last cup of tea and a cake with flickering candles.
An art school dropout, Mion realized her childhood
dream when her painting “Glory” was chosen for display
at the Smithsonian Institution’s National Portrait Gallery,
which reopened July 1, 2006. She’ll have her own room as
part of a seven-month, five-artist exhibit, “Portraiture Now,”
beginning May 25 and continuing until January 6, 2008.
Information: (928) 289-4366; www.tinamion.com.
4 m a y 2 0 0 7
a dust devil was dancing galleta grass high as I exited
Interstate 8 at Sentinel some 27 miles west of Gila Bend.
Watching nature’s own whirling dervish from the bottom
of the off-ramp made me think of the cyclical nature of
life — things I’d learned and forgotten and learned again.
After regaining my earthly bearings, I noticed the most
prominent features visible at this isolated freeway oasis
were a clay-colored gas station and a semi-sized cattle truck.
Comfortably seated inside the red cab was Pat Lauderdale,
someone I hadn’t thought of for more than 25 years. No reason
to. In 1981, I’d photographed him for an Arizona Highways
story about working cowboys. Normally, I shoot a story, put it
behind me and move on to the next project. But this one had
stuck with me — and now came rushing back as I got out of the
car and walked toward the semi.
That article had affected me — since it was my first major
magazine piece and my introduction to the cowboy life.
Growing up back East, I knew little of livestock, native grasses
or leather chaps. So documenting the CO Bar Ranch outside
Flagstaff launched me as a young photographer into visual
nirvana — rough men in Montana-peaked hats with massive
brims and cowboy boots with rowel spurs that made an
unmistakable “ching” with each stride. However, breaking
into that exclusive and rough-hewn men’s club proved to be
an entirely different story. Fortunately, Pat would step up and
occasionally grace us with an anecdote that offered a glimpse
into the real world of hard knocks, broken bones and lonely
times that lay behind the myth of the West.
Lauderdale was born into that world, a third-generation
cattleman earning his first paycheck at age 9 on the back of a
horse. Even then, he was told that the lifestyle wouldn’t last
and his cowboys days were numbered. It didn’t seem to matter;
he loved it and wasn’t about to change.
At 71, Pat is still a cowboy. Now at the R-TEX Ranch near
Gila Bend, his once jet-black moustache has turned frosty
white. Powerfully built, he’s still punching cows — the years
have been surprisingly good to him.
“I’ve been lucky. I’ve never wanted to do anything else and
fortunately never had to try. There’s plenty of work for a good
cowhand willing to look for it,” he explained.
As we revisited the old days, names, faces and experiences,
I was struck by the parallels between the cowboy life and the
lot of a freelance photographer. For one thing, if you throw a
cowboy into a swift river, he’ll just naturally float upstream.
Most photographers I know are just as stubbornly independent.
Of course, cowboys and photographers have different black-hatted
enemies. For cowboys, it’s the relentless development
that keeps gobbling up ranchland, subdividing the wide-open
spaces into disjointed Scrabble squares on a topo map.
For photographers, point-and-shoot digital cameras and
the gush of Internet images have flooded the marketplace
with mediocrity. This combination has all but killed the stock
photography trade that keeps many working photographers
in business, and effectively fences our once-verdant pastures.
All the smart people saw it coming. Back in the ’70s, people
told me that still photographers ought to be added to the
endangered species list. Get a real job, they said. But I had
the bug bad and refused to listen. No matter how many part-time
jobs I had to cobble together, I was going to, somehow,
someway make a go of photography. No doubt, if I’d taken all
that good advice, I’d be driving a newer truck today. But what
would have come of the inner creative drive — that need to tell
visual stories? Losing that would be like ranching through a 10-
year drought. Like Pat Lauderdale, I had to listen to my heart.
Oddly enough, despite all the technological and economic
changes of the past quarter century, Pat and I still ply our
respective trades much as we always have. We rise long before
sunup and work on past dusk. We share the joy and burden of
witnessing nature’s uncommon beauty, alternately cursing and
reveling as the storm breaks over us. We have each befriended
the solitude that accompanies our chosen lives, knowing that
sometimes you have to go it alone. We both hate fences.
Maybe we are both members of our particular “vanishing
breeds,” but what a great ride it’s been.
We do what we do, because really, our job is our hobby.
Cowboys and photographers
live a dream and pay a price
Find expert photography advice and information at arizonahighways.com
(click on “Photography”).
At 71, Pat Lauderdale shows no signs of giving up the cowboy life. He’s
looking forward to attending the cowboy reunion in Williams this July.
The Arizona Cowpuncher Association will dedicate this year’s rodeo to Pat,
who is a founding member.
Children’s Desert Tour
“bugs, holes in the ground, anything that moves,” says Susan Quillen of what her tiny
tourists like to see. She and her husband, Jack, lead children on tours of Tohono Chul Park in
northwest Tucson. The children set the itinerary. The parents follow along.
“If they’re really into lizards, we will go on a lizard hunt,” says Susan, who can also take
them off on a hunt for rocks, plants or birds. She carries a backpack filled with the kind
of paraphernalia guaranteed to please anyone under 3 feet tall — dead bugs, pieces
of cactus, magnifying glasses, magnets and some story books.
Dubbed the Family Ed-Venture, the tours within this urban desert park start at
2 p.m. on the second Sunday of every month and include a free desert-activity book
for each child. Paid admission to the park is required.
Information: (520) 742-6455.
Come On Down to the C.O.D. Ranch
in the late 1800s, Bill and Elna Huggett settled in the juniper-and-
mesquite woodlands north of Tucson along what is now the
Arizona Trail. In those first days, the Huggetts received a saddle that
was delivered with a C.O.D. stamp on a piece of leather — and the
C.O.D. Ranch was born. The Huggetts and their daughter, Wilma,
ran the ranch for more than 50 years, before moving operations
and letting the property run wild. In 1995, poet Stephen Malkin
purchased the ranch and spent the next five years restoring the old
Bordered by Coronado National Forest land, the old adobe
buildings have hosted everything from Western-style weddings
to Tohono O’odham youth camps. Chef Brent Warburton whips
up a rancher’s-style breakfast spread — a range of hearty favorites
including scrambled eggs, pancakes, sausage, bacon, fresh fruit,
yogurt and homemade granola. Malkin often stretches out on the
porch of the main house, chatting about the history of the ranch,
and if you’re lucky, you might even get the chance to hear him recite
a poem or two.
Information: toll-free, (800) 868-5617; www.codranch.com.
—Carrie M. Miner
1950s Navajo Nation
in 1950, young scientist-in-training
Jonathan Wittenberg decided to visit the Navajo
Nation, and lugged along his twin-lens reflex
camera. More than 50 years later, the images of
the summers of 1951 to 1953 have become a
book titled Navajo Nation 1950: Traditional Life
in Photographs, a celebration of history, culture,
fine art, photography and the rich heritage of
the Navajo people.
Others perhaps found his blend of cutting-edge
studies and fascination with Navajo
heritage incongruous, but Wittenberg found it
natural — literally. “By innate bent perhaps, I am
a naturalist,” Wittenberg declares in the book’s
introduction. The naturalist bent spurred him
to study biochemistry and biophysics, to learn
about marine life and microbiology — and to
learn traditional Navajo ways.
Wittenberg’s coffee-table volume, an
illustrated, intimate narrative of his time spent
with the Navajo people — the only non-native
to do so at the time — includes 100 black-and-white
photographs and captures traditions and
customs now fading away.
6 m a y 2 0 0 7 A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 7
THESE TWO PAGES, CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: MICHAEL TAFANI; G.C. KELLEY; JEFF KIDA; FRANK ZULLO; ISLANDNET
Jesse James in Tombstone
the pro-earp tombstone epitaph on April 24, 1882,
commented on the cowboy-outlaw element’s undue influence on
Tombstone’s civic life:
“The Honorable Jesse James, late of Missouri, is being made the
recipient of much gush and ‘sym,’ while his ‘murderers’ are being
severely condemned. Mr. James’s great mistake was in not settling
down in Cochise County while here last summer. He would probably
have received the appointment of deputy sheriff, and more than
likely would have been a member of the next Arizona Legislature
from San Simon. But we are all liable to make mistakes.”
—Leo W. Banks
Starry Starry Nights in Greer
flagstaff may be the world’s first international “dark sky” city, but at 8,300 feet
elevation, the little town of Greer can hold its own when it comes to celestial observation.
Combine the area’s elevation with its low light pollution and you have a stargazing mecca.
And if you add in high-tech equipment like a computerized telescope that pinpoints night-sky
objects, you can set your sights for dazzling beauty.
The Peaks Lodge in Greer offers area visitors and residents a chance to see the rings
of Saturn and the craters of the moon from the lodge’s “star deck.” A computerized,
high-power telescope (Celestron Starbright) lets Peaks owner Don Poyas choose which
stars or planets are the best for viewing depending on the time of year. Summertime is an
optimal season to gaze at M13, a globular star cluster 23,000 light years from Earth, or in
winter, view Saturn and its rings. If you happen to visit during a full moon, view its surface,
pockmarked with craters.
Information: (928) 735-9977; www.peaksaz.com.
arizona is truly a land of anomalies. The town of Gila Bend
isn’t in Gila County, it’s in Maricopa County. The town of Maricopa is
in Pinal County. The ghost town of Pinal is in Gila County. The town
of Pima isn’t in Pima County, it’s in Graham County. Fort Apache
isn’t in Apache County, it’s in Navajo County, and Navajo is located
in— now you’re gettin’ it— Apache County. If you’re not confused by
now, you just ain’t thinking clearly.
—Marshall Trimble, Arizona State Historian
No Place for Whiners
Southeastern Arizona vintners earn
B Y K ATHLEEN WA L K E R P H O T O G R A P H S B Y D O N B . A N D RYA N B . S T E V E N S O N
new respect but weather a vintage bad year
“GOOD LUCK” CABERNET Red, gravelly and well-drained Sonoita-area soil
southeast of Tucson provides ideal growing conditions for grapes, as long as
the weather and pests cooperate. Here, on an early October morning with
the Mustang Mountains to their northeast, workers harvest cabernet grapes
at Callaghan Vineyards’ Buena Suerte Vineyard near Elgin.
10 m a y 2 0 0 7 A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 11
2006. . .
A few yards away, Kent Callaghan sits on a bench.
He planted those vines on his 20 acres in Elgin, 55
miles southeast of Tucson. He harvested a few weeks
ago and has some time to wait before he knows the real
results. He can, however, speculate.
“Interesting,” he says of the possible end product.
For many people, “interesting” has a tinge of faint
praise at best, a striving to avoid the social bugaboo of
being negative. However, when Kent Callaghan says
“interesting,” people should, and do, listen. He and his
vines have made some fine wine.
The wines of The Callaghan Vineyards, a family
operation started in 1988, have earned 27 favorable
nods in 10 years from famed wine critic Robert M.
Parker Jr. His influence extends far beyond the wine-producing
borders of the United States, due to the
impact of his bimonthly consumer guide, The Wine
Advocate. Which means: They know about Callaghan
in France. The names of other Arizona wine growers may
not have reached such lofty heights, but they’re working
From the start of their fledgling industry, the dozen
or so Arizona growers had that proverbial hard row
to hoe. First of all, who believed it would be possible
to produce a wine that’s drinkable, much less notable,
in Arizona? Too much heat, too much desert, too little
Napa, Bordeaux or Tuscany. A crisp pinot gris from
the land of the saguaro? A silky merlot? Never.
Wrong, said Dr. Gordon Dutt who came to Arizona
in 1964 after learning about wine at the University of
California Davis. He was “flabbergasted” that no one
grew wine grapes in Arizona. A Ph.D. in soil physical
chemistry, Dutt believed it could be done and decided,
“I am going to put my money where my mouth is.”
His Sonoita Vineyards now cover 30 acres. A bottle
of his 1984 Private Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon car-ries
a price tag of $100. Thousands of people show up
every year for tours, tastings and annual events like the
Blessing of the Vines held in April. At the first blessing
in 1979, a double rainbow appeared over the ceremony.
From Dutt’s standpoint on a hill above his vines,
nature offered far more than a colorful portent of the
future. Southeastern Arizona had the climate, the
almost endless sunshine for photosynthesis and cool
nights to ensure good sugar content. The elevation also
allowed for relatively cool days, even with all that sun.
“Just like Burgundy,” Dutt says.
Callaghan likens his land to parts of Spain, Australia
and central California. From his vineyard, the gold-colored
grasslands roll to the horizon. Windmills and
The vines look tired. The gnarled limbs stretch out like prizefighters
reaching for the supporting shoulders of others after a tough fight.
They had one, these vines, the vintage year 2006.
VINEYARD BLESSING In a spring ceremony attended by
workers and wine enthusiasts at Dr. Gordon Dutt’s Sonoita
Vineyards, Father Gregory Adolf (left) and Pastor Stephen
Springer pronounce blessing on the about-to-bud vines.
GRAPE POTENTIAL Immature flower clusters
hold promise of maturing into ripe grapes
within 95 to 125 days following pollination.
A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 13
cattle-holding pens bespeak the land’s ranching history.
“This is not a desert,” he says.
You don’t need to take a trip down State Route 83 to Sonoita
and Elgin to see that, although, it is certainly worth the trip.
Stretches of this road feel like a lush oil painting — rolling land,
soft and high, golden, too, and dotted with greenery.
Head east down the back roads toward the Chiricahua
Mountains where other vineyards have taken hold. At elevations
higher than 4,000 feet, the land has been receptive to the vines.
Rod Keeling and Jan Schaefer chose this area for their Keeling-
Schaefer Vineyards, founded in 2000.
Their first harvest in 2005 produced 9.5 tons of grapes from 18.5
acres, resulting in 400 cases of wine. Neither of them had been
involved in growing wine grapes before. In fact, they spent their
careers in offices, in nonprofit and government work. Purchasing
a vineyard came with their plans for a life after retirement.
Many may dream of the romance of owning a vineyard, those
chatty late afternoons on the patio sipping your own wine with
the scent of the Rhone Valley of France drifting on the breeze.
The reality takes place out back.
As Schaefer likes to say, “Good wine is made in the vineyard.”
Creating that vineyard from sandy red soil up takes time, hands-on
labor and know-how.
Dr. Michael Kilby spent his career as a specialist in horticul-ture
at the University of Arizona, and early on saw the potential
of wine grapes in Arizona. Today, he advises growers and those
who would like to join their ranks. “You’ve got to educate your-self,
and you’ve got to have money,” he says.
According to Kilby, the cost of preparing, planting and tending
the vines over a three-year period can run $20,000 an acre. That
does not include the cost of the land, nor have you yet harvested
as much as one skinny grape.
Keeling did have an edge over other first-timers, since his
family has farmed in Arizona for three generations. On the
other hand, Callaghan came to the industry armed with a
degree in philosophy — an edge of his own. Being philosophi-cal
can’t hurt when it comes to dealing with wine, especially
during the year that produced the wines of 2006. Forget seeing
a rainbow at the beginning of this season. These folks were too
busy looking for rain.
Down in Elgin, any winter with 6 to 8 inches of rain would
be fantastic, but they got less than 2. A dry winter can cause an
erratic budbreak. The buds come in weeks apart, and the subse-quent
grapes also ripen weeks apart, a harvesting nightmare.
As Charron Vineyards owner Leo Cox puts it, “A lethal com-bination.”
Hungry deer ate the leaves and left the grapes unprotected
from hammering hailstones.
Callaghan had his own hail problems, three times over the
summer, the latest on September 10.
“Horrible timing,” he says, “because everything is soft then.”
Summer 2006 brought the threat of something tiny but fero-cious,
the glassy-eyed sharpshooter.
“Insect Menaces State’s Vineyards,” warned headlines in
Tucson’s Arizona Daily Star. The bug could carry Pierce’s dis-ease,
a bacteria, from one plant to another, from one vine to
another. While the bugs did not seem to be having an imme-diate
impact, the need to study and control them called for
more money. To add insult to possible infestation, nature dealt
southern Arizona a relatively mild summer. Desert-dwellers
loved the balmy change, but not so the grape growers. The
grapes required sunny heat as part of the conditions impacting
the sugar content that would later become alcohol. They also
needed to ripen.
While the wine growers’ year would never reach the level of
the saga of Job, it certainly moved into an arena Noah would
have recognized. The much-awaited summer rains arrived late.
What they lacked in timeliness, they more than made up for in
muscle. In the Tucson area, floods hit as roads closed, homes
flooded and television cameras rolled.
The nearby Chiricahua Mountains got drenched by 11.5 inches
of rain, and bunchrot, a fungus, afflicted the Keeling-Schaeffer
syrah grapes. The streams flowed for weeks. Down in Elgin,
Callaghan had expected about 3 inches. He got 14, plus rot and
FROM THE START
OF THEIR FLEDGLING
INDUSTRY, THE DOZEN
OR SO ARIZONA GROWERS
HAD THAT PROVERBIAL
HARD ROW TO HOE.
ROOT, SHOOT, FRUIT Rod Keeling (left) of
Keeling-Schaefer Vineyards plants dormant
vine benchgrafts grafted into drought-resistant
rootstock chosen for its adaptability to southern
Arizona’s growing conditions.
VINEYARD UPS AND DOWNS
Taking the low road, while Keeling takes
the high, Jan Schaefer demonstrates
the down-and-dirty labor involved in
caring for their 18-acre vineyard.
12 m a y 2 0 0 7
14 m a y 2 0 0 7
infections. He lost his zinfandel harvest.
“I didn’t even pick it,” he says.
Waiting for the right moment to harvest meant
putting off the vineyard’s usual October harvest
until November. He brought in about one ton per
acre. He would have liked two. So it ended, the
vintage year of 2006. Yee haw. But wait a minute.
Farmers do. They wait and see. And, what they’ve
seen in southeastern Arizona doesn’t look all that
bad. In a year of cool weather when it should be
warm, dry when it should be wet, a deluge when
you want sun, wine growers still planted about
400 acres with an estimated production of more
than 20,000 cases of wine. While many of the resulting bottles
may not earn award-winning swirling, sniffing, sipping and spit-ting
distinction at tastings, some undoubtedly will.
The Keeling-Schaefer Vineyards have three wines to offer
willing palates: the Two Reds Grenache 2005, the Three Sisters
Syrah 2005 and the Rock Creek Rosé 2005. A successful 2006
harvest produced 29 barrels of syrah and Grenache, which are
resting in the cellar.
Callaghan says of his 2006 offerings, “They’re much more
European, earthy, meaty.” He seems particularly positive about
his new red, C2, a blend of mourvedre, syrah and petite sirah.
Of course, some first-timers had it rough, like those who
showed up at the Charron Vineyards near Bowie for help in
stemming and crushing the vineyard’s first harvest. They pro-duced
less than 30 gallons of juice.
“It could be the most expensive wine we ever drink,” owner
Leo Cox called out.
One can surmise the quality will not match the price, not yet.
Things do change in wine country.
In the past few years, some national magazines and newspapers
have given approving nods to southeastern Arizona vineyards.
The wines have earned ribbons and a place on some of the best
linen-covered tables, including the White House’s. A homegrown
pinot gris 2000 from the Dos Cabezas Wineworks made that trip
to Washington, D.C., in 2002. The vines that produced that wine
stand on land between the Chiricahuas and the Dragoons. You
can’t get more Arizona than that.
As for all those who still pooh-pooh the very idea of good
Arizona wine, Gordon Dutt has a few words.
“So opinionated that they can’t really taste,” he says.
The comment has the spicy nose of a good Arizona petit ver-dot,
the earthy sense of a fine Arizona cabernet sauvignon and
a bit of the long finish of an outstanding Arizona syrah.
Like the man said, “Interesting.”
DESTEMMING DE GRAPES After
picking, grapes get destemmed in a
crusher, which starts the juices flowing.
Then red-wine grapes go to a fermentation
tank, while white-wine grapes are pressed and
separated from their skins prior to fermentation.
SANDY RED SOIL UP
PURPLE MOUNDS OF MAJESTY A truckload of cabernet grapes fresh
from the vine awaits transport to Callaghan’s winery (above).
TASTE TESTS Keeling and Schaefer ’s nightly dinners include two trial
varieties (right) concocted in beakers and sipped with supper as the pair
seeks an ideal blend of qualities for the season’s offerings.
A REAL CORKER Just-filled bottles of Charron Vineyards’ signature white
merlot wait their turn as, one-by-one, they’re held in place for machine
corking (far right).
NOW WE WAIT On the first day of the grape harvest,
Rod Keeling (below, right) moves a 300-gallon vat of
crushed grapes into a 58-degree cooler where the contents
will soak for two days before yeast inoculation and about
10 days of fermentation prior to aging in casks.
Kathleen Walker of Tucson now adds fine wines to the long list of reasons
she loves the land of southeastern Arizona.
“Wildly surprised” best describes photographers Don B. and Ryan B.
Stevenson’s reactions upon sampling a variety of Arizona’s wines during
the six months they photographed for this story. The father-and-son
photography team is based in Tempe.
16 m a y 2 0 0 7
A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 17
NAME BRANDS While Lisa Callaghan
holds a goblet of her namesake Lisa’s
Selection, her husband, Kent’s, glass
contains Claire’s, a Rhone-style blend,
named for their younger daughter, that
was served at former Supreme Court
Justice Sandra Day O’Connor’s White
House retirement dinner.
PERSONAL TOUCH Individually filled
and corked during one labor-intensive 6
a.m. to 4 p.m. day by 81-year-old owner
Leo Cox and his friends, every bottle of
Charron Vineyards’ white merlot receives
a hand-applied label.
WINE TOUR OF SOUTHEASTERN ARIZONA BY MICHAEL FAMIGLIETTI
SONOITA VINEYARDS, ELGIN
Opened by Dr. Gordon Dutt more than
30 years ago, the Sonoita region’s first
commercial vineyard offers gourmet
cheese, six to eight wines and a souvenir
glass at its $3 tastings, as well as the
winery’s three annual festivals, including
the Blessing of the Vines that takes place
each April. Open daily 10 a.m. to 3 p.m.
CONTACT: (520) 455-5893;
GETTING THERE: From Tucson, take
Interstate 10 east to State Route 83. Drive
south on State 83 to State Route 82 and
turn left (east), driving for about 8 miles
to Upper Elgin Road. Beyond the town of
Elgin, continue on the same road, which
changes to Elgin-Canelo Road, where the
winery sits 3 miles south of Elgin.
CALLAGHAN VINEYARDS, ELGIN
As Arizona’s most well-known and
respected vineyard, Callaghan leads the
way with its wines aged in French oak
casks. Keep the glass from this vineyard’s
$3 tastings, which happen each weekend,
Friday through Sunday.
CONTACT: (520) 455-5322;
GETTING THERE: From Tucson, take
I-10 to 83 and turn right, driving 28 miles
to Elgin Road. Turn left (east) and drive 3
miles to the vineyard.
CHARRON VINEYARDS, SONOITA
This vineyard’s startling white merlot
seizes enthusiasts at its online store,
at weekend tastings and during its
three festivals, two on site and one in
Tempe at the Tempe Festival of the Arts.
The winery will custom-label limited
quantities of the wine upon request.
CONTACT: (520) 762-8585;
GETTING THERE: From Tucson, take
I-10 east to 83 and drive south for
approximately 6 miles to an unmarked,
unpaved road on the left-hand side
where you will see a group of mailboxes.
Turn onto that road and follow it for
about a half-mile, then make a right-hand
turn to the winery entrance.
THE VILLAGE OF ELGIN WINERY, ELGIN
For just a buck, customers can sample
up to four of the 15 wines offered at this
tasting room, where wine accessories,
T-shirts and postcards are sold in the
winery’s gift shop.
CONTACT: (520) 455-9309;
GETTING THERE: From Sonoita,
take Upper Elgin Road to the Village
Complex in downtown Elgin.
KEELING-SCHAEFER VINEYARDS, PEARCE
Leaving their boxy offices for the
romantic life on a vineyard, partners Rod
Keeling and Jan Schaefer ventured into
the business of wine growing in 2000.
The vineyard’s location at the foot of
the Chiricahua Mountains, combined
with hot days, cool nights and the sandy,
red soil help create a special Arizona
character to their Rhone-style wines.
Their Three Sisters Syrah 2005 will be
released in May. Tastings and tours by
CONTACT: (520) 824-2500;
GETTING THERE: From Tucson, take I-10
east for 67 miles to U.S Route 191 south.
Drive 28 miles to State Route 181 and
turn left onto State 181. Follow 181 as it
turns north to Rock Creek Road and turn
right. The vineyard sits a mile down the
Find our expanded wine-country guide
at arizonahighways.com (click on the May “Trip Planner”).
San Pedro River
SUL PHUR SPRINGS VALLE Y
SAN PEDRO VAL L E Y
Village of Elgin
18 m a y 2 0 0 7 A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 19
of southern Arizona. He cast a long shadow in other ways, too.
John Wayne was still a young man when he emerged as an
American legend, no less so now — a hundred years after his
birth on May 26, 1907, in Winterset, Iowa — than in his long
film heyday. The landscapes and history of Arizona contributed
much to both the man and the myth, and in Arizona he found
pleasure and inspiration.
The movies first brought Wayne to Arizona at the dawn of
his career. As the story goes, the famed director Raoul Walsh
was looking for a male lead for the follow-up to his film In Old
Arizona (1930), billed as the “first outdoor sound feature.” On
the 20th Century Fox studio lot, the director caught sight of a
tall, slender young man named Marion Morrison working in
the prop warehouse and doing bit parts and stunt work. Walsh
recalled that he looked just right for the part. “To be a cowboy
star, you’ve got to be 6-foot-3 or over,” Walsh said. “You’ve got to
have no hips and a face that looks right under a sombrero.”
The description fit Morrison perfectly, and the former
University of Southern California football star got the lead in
Walsh’s movie The Big Trail. Walsh liked everything about the
young man but his name, which, he protested, “sounds like
a circuit preacher.” Walsh and studio head Winfield Sheehan
brainstormed, making lists of characters out of frontier history
until Walsh hit on Anthony Wayne, the Revolutionary War
commander. “Not Mad Anthony,” Walsh said in that eureka
moment. “Just John. John Wayne.”
Wayne soon found himself in the sand-dune country near
Yuma, then, as now, a favorite spot for filmmakers seeking an
authentic desert setting. He had done some early work on film
crews there, but now, while waiting to take his place before the
camera, he learned useful tricks such as knife-throwing. He
took naturally to riding a horse, leading Walsh to conclude that
he’d found a promising young star in Wayne.
The movie flopped, and Wayne spent the next few years play-ing
bit parts, including a boxer, an aviator, a railroad engineer,
even the manager of a department store. Someone finally cast
him as a cowboy, and he made 16 Westerns for Monogram
Pictures as Singin’ Sandy Saunders, the first singing cowboy in
film history. Unfortunately, he couldn’t carry a tune. He was
eventually replaced by a fellow named Gene Autry, who knew
his way around both a song and a horse.
It wasn’t until the end of the decade that Wayne earned a
John Wayne was a big man, 6-foot-4 and 225-plus pounds, big enough to fill
a film frame and big enough to stand tall without shrinking to insignificance
against the spires of Monument Valley, the red rocks of Sedona or the sky islands
THE ICON WHO MADE ARIZONA ICONIC LOVED ITS FRONTIER FEEL
THE DUKE The quintessential
Hollywood cowboy, John Wayne
made more than 80 Westerns,
many of them set or filmed in
© 1978 david sutton / mptv.net
20 m a y 2 0 0 7 A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 21
major role in a Western of any
quality, one filmed in south-eastern
Mountains, in Texas Canyon
between Willcox and Benson,
and — famously — in Monument
Valley. Based on the story of a per-ilous
passage between Lordsburg and
Tucson in the wildest of the Wild West days,
Stagecoach cemented Wayne’s reputation
as a strong but sensitive — and eminently
sensible — cowboy. The 1939 film, directed
by the tough-as-nails veteran filmmaker John
Ford, was nominated for an Academy Award (it
lost to Gone with the Wind); it would also be the first of
many collaborations between Ford and Wayne, many filmed
Ford’s interest in the history of the West helped make Wayne
the personification of the frontiersman. “I won’t be wronged. I
won’t be insulted. I won’t be laid a hand on,” he famously said,
speaking in character as gunfighter J.B. Books in Don Siegel’s
great film The Shootist (1976). “I don’t do these things to other
people. I require the same from them.” Those resonant words
are of a piece with the ones he spoke in Ford’s 1948 film Fort
Apache, playing a composite figure out of Arizona history, the
cavalry officer Capt. Kirby York. This first film in Ford’s “cavalry
trilogy” stars the haunting Monument Valley landscapes just as
much as any human actor.
In the end, Wayne made 84 Westerns, many of them set or
filmed in Arizona. (As for the rest of his films, he said, “I play
John Wayne in pretty much every film I do, and I’ve done pretty
well so far, haven’t I?”) The landscape, he said, was part of the
story, and the story was part of the folklore of America, a story
that bore retelling again and again, even when it sometimes
reflected badly on its protagonists.
Wayne loved acting in Westerns. “You don’t have too many
worries about what to wear in these things,” he said, tongue
in cheek. “You can wear a blue shirt, or, if you’re down in
Monument Valley, you can wear a yellow shirt.”
Monument Valley was John Ford’s trademark setting, but
before he filmed Stagecoach there it had provided the backdrop
to only one other film, George Seitz’s silent drama The Vanishing
American (1925). Ford found the place after Kayenta-based
rancher and trader John Wetherill heard Hollywood location
scouts were poking around Flagstaff. Wetherill reported this to
his friend Harry Goulding, who had a trading post on the other
end of Monument Valley. Goulding immediately assembled a
portfolio of photographs by Josef Muench, a frequent contribu-tor
to Arizona Highways, and took these images to Los Angeles.
There, he wangled an appointment with Ford and showed him
Muench’s images of Monument Valley. Ford was instantly smit-ten,
and so it was that he and John Wayne found themselves in
that most rugged and striking of settings. “I have been all over
the world,” Ford recalled, “but I consider this the most complete,
beautiful, and peaceful place on Earth.”
Other directors brought Wayne to other parts of Arizona. Rio
Bravo (1959), with Dean Martin and Ricky Nelson, El Dorado
(1967), co-starring Robert Mitchum, and Rio Lobo (1970), all
directed by the peerless Howard Hawks, were among the
many films that Wayne would make at the Old Tucson Studios.
Andrew V. McLaglen’s McLintock! (1963) found Wayne filming
on the outskirts of Nogales and Patagonia, while seg-ments
of Henry Hathaway’s ensemble film How the
West Was Won (1962) were shot in Tucson, Oatman,
Superior and the Tonto National Forest. And James
Edward Grant’s 1947 film Angel and the Badman
showed off Sedona to the advantage of both the movie
and the place.
Wayne’s Arizona films weren’t always
Westerns. He played, perhaps improbably,
a Roman centurion in George Stevens’ The
Greatest Story Ever Told (1965), shot in part around
Page as the newly formed Lake Powell filled with water.
Action sequences for the World War II drama Flying Tigers
(1942) were shot around Flagstaff, which also figures in Mervyn
LeRoy’s light comedy Without Reservations (1946), pairing
Wayne with Claudette Colbert.
Wayne’s films enabled him to explore every corner of the state
and prompted him to buy property in Arizona, including 4,000
acres at Stanfield, near Casa Grande, where he grew cotton and
built a feedlot to accommodate prize Hereford cattle.
From the late 1950s until his death in 1979, Wayne was a
familiar presence in western Pinal County, often entertaining
guests and locals alike at the Francisco Grande Hotel or at area
ranches. At about the same time, Wayne entered into a partner-ship
and bought the 26 Bar Ranch on the grassy high plains near
Eagar, a place also known for top-quality Herefords.
Wayne often stayed at Flagstaff’s Monte Vista Hotel, where
it’s said that he reported seeing ghosts on several occasions.
He spent much time in the company of another
Arizona legend, Barry Goldwater, whose 1964
presidential campaign he vigorously supported.
Goldwater returned the favor by nominat-ing
Wayne for a Congressional
Gold Medal after his death: The
medal reads simply, “John Wayne,
American,” wording suggested by his
frequent co-star Maureen O’Hara.
Wayne spent warm winter days riding in the
foothills of the Santa Catalina Mountains while staying at
Tucson’s Hacienda del Sol, a favorite Hollywood retreat in the
1940s. He vacationed at several ranches near Wickenburg and
the famed Rancho de la Osa just outside Sasabe, where Tom Mix
and Zane Grey also spent time. Reportedly, he even inscribed
his name on a wall of the Hannagan Meadow Lodge, high in
the White Mountains, before an elaborate hand-carved mantel
was installed over it. No one alive today, it seems, can say for
sure — and so far, no one has undertaken the hard work of dis-mounting
the piece to check.
“Whether Wayne is looking at the land that might make a
great ranch, or turning in the doorway to survey his true home,
the desert, every gesture was authentic and a prized disclosure,”
writes the noted film historian David Thomson. That’s exactly
right. John Wayne found a second home, close to his heart, in
Arizona. And though he has been gone for more than a quarter
of a century, it seems entirely reasonable to say that John Wayne,
larger than life itself, lives here still.
‘I won’t be wronged. I won’t be insulted.
I won’t be laid a hand on.’
— John Wayne in The Shootist
CAMERA, ACTION! Perennial Western sidekick Walter Brennan played “Stumpy,” alongside Wayne’s portrayal of
Sheriff John T. Chance in the film Rio Bravo, shot on location at Old Tucson Studios. eddie brandt’s saturday matinee
Wayne’s cavalry hat (below) worn in Rio Lobo. courtesy of john wayne birthplace museum
END OF THE LINES John Wayne portrays an aging gunfighter in the 1976
movie The Shootist, his last film, and one that some film buffs say mirrored
Wayne’s career and life. eddie brandt’s saturday matinee
A STAR IS BORN Shot against the backdrop of Monument Valley, the movie
Stagecoach made John Wayne a star as he played the Ringo Kid, opposite Claire
Trevor, who played an outcast prostitute named Dallas. Because the filming
location was on the Navajo Indian Reservation, director John Ford cast Navajo
Indians to play the parts of Apache Indians. eddie brandt’s saturday matinee
Wayne’s kerchief (left) worn in Big Jake. courtesy of edward mccain/pinnacle
peak tucson collection
Gregory McNamee, who lives in Tucson, writes about film and literature for
The Hollywood Reporter. He has been a John Wayne fan from his earliest
days and claims to have watched The Shootist more than a hundred times.
Check out John Wayne’s “Arizona Hangouts” guide at
arizonahighways.com (click on the May “Trip Planner”).
WHAT LIES BENEATH Lush landscapes of
ancestral blue oaks, flowering velvet-pod mimosa and
dense grass create a masterpiece along Ruby Road,
near Peña Blanca Lake. The area’s rich overgrowth
covers what is believed to be another magnum opus:
a wealth of gem, mineral and ore deposits.
n To order a print of this photograph, see inside front cover.
Tumacacori Highlands harbor a lush fragment of grassland
REVERSAL OF FORTUNE Commonly
referred to as water shamrocks or water clover, the
pretty four-leaf plants atop a pool in Peck Canyon
are actually invasive ferns native to Europe.
n To order a print of this photograph, see inside front cover.
A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 25
We’re perched on the rugged crown of a 71,000-acre
expanse of national forest terrain south of Tucson known
as the Tumacacori Highlands. From the 6,249-foot aerie
of the remote Atascosa Lookout to the sheer-walled splen-dor
of Hell’s Gate in Peck Canyon, it’s a landscape to
dazzle the eye, test the stamina and soothe the spirit.
People have noticed. The area’s mountains, canyons
and oak-studded grasslands are so beautiful, so ecologi-cally
diverse that a coalition of environmental groups has
proposed protecting the Tumacacori Highlands as a fed-erally
designated wilderness area. Organizations support-ing
the proposal include the Sky Island Alliance, Tucson
Audubon Society, National Wildlife Federation and two
dozen others. However, many ranchers, miners and off-highway
vehicle enthusiasts oppose the designation.
Jack and I — long familiar with the region, but seeking
a clearer sense of the place — are making a series of visits
to climb high into its mountains, drive its bumpy back
roads and backpack deep into its canyons.
This sunset moment at Atascosa Lookout offers the
grand overview. Price of admission: a steep 2.75-mile
hike to the summit from a trailhead on Ruby Road north-west
of Nogales. While Jack exhibits blatant symptoms of
what I call neurotica photographica — a condition in which
a photographer waxes rhapsodic about some impossibly
beautiful scene, and then frets himself silly about the zil-lion
things that could go wrong in trying to capture it on
film — I survey the vast kingdom below the catwalk.
Mountains: The surrounding Atascosa range is all
about standing-up stone — pinnacles, cliffs, bulging boul-ders
and tall towers. To the north are the Tumacacori
Mountains, namesake of the highlands and the nearby
Tumacacori National Historical Park. To the south rise
the Pajarito (Spanish for “Little Bird”) Mountains. Farther
out, beyond the proposed wilderness, lie Baboquivari, the
Santa Rita range, Sierra La Esmeralda across the border
in Sonora, Mexico, and the distant Catalinas shrugging
Canyons: Calabasas, Beehive, Bartolo and Pine, to name
a few. And another called Peck, where Jack and I will later
bed down on a backpacking trek.
High-lonesome: Miles upon miles of rolling grassland —
cut here with arroyos, dotted there with oaks, trimmed
in spring and wet summers with wildflowers practically
shouting out hues of blue and yellow.
At home in this wild Eden are white-tailed deer, black
bears, mountain lions, javelinas, coyotes and winged
wildlife ranging from canyon wrens and ravens to red-tailed
hawks and peregrine falcons. Add to that fauna list
a would-be newcomer — rare, endangered jaguars that
may have visited, or moved into the area from Mexico.
It’s all quite splendid. But the day grows late.
“Jack!” I yell to the tortured perfectionist who’s trying
for one last dusk shot from a spot below the lookout. “We
should start down! It’s gonna be dark soon.”
“Yeah, I just want to get this before we go!” he bellows
back, clearly less bothered than I am by our lack of over-night
In the fast-fading light, I poke around inside the look-out,
a 14-by-14-foot structure that has been restored since
its last days as an active fire post in the 1970s and is now
open to the public.
Two metal bunks with no bedding. A wood-burning
stove. Three chairs. A table. A deck of cards. Candles. A
pot. A pan. A sign-in book for visitors. And two ragged
documents: One is a clipping of a newspaper story I
wrote earlier in the year about restoration work on the
lookout. The other is a photocopy of journal entries by
the lookout’s most famous fire-watcher: the late author
Red embers of sunset smolder, then flare, on the western horizon as I peer down
thousands of feet from a narrow catwalk outside an old fire-watch cabin
called the Atascosa Lookout. ❦ “Babo lighting up!” hollers photographer
Jack Dykinga, hunching over a tripod and focusing his lens on the distant
stone spire of Baboquivari Peak glowing in the last rays of the day.
B Y D O U G L A S K R E U T Z ❦ P H O T O G R A P H S B Y J A C K D Y K I N G A
(Text continued on page 30)
South-facing sheer cliffs of
volcanic rock in the Atascosa
Mountains keep solid watch
over the grass-gilded and oak-studded
shown here in late fall.
n To order a print of this
photograph, see inside front cover.
THE HILLS ARE ALIVE Verdant arms of
ocotillos and cheerful pink blossoms of velvet-pod
mimosas push through the thick Atascosa Mountains
grassland in the Coronado National Forest after
unprecedented summer showers.
n To order a print of this photograph, see inside front cover.
POP ART Unleashed
by record rainfall, topping
300 percent of normal in
some areas, a rare profusion
of summer poppies (left)
springs forth from the
Congress is currently
considering a proposal to
designate the highlands as a
Author Douglas Kreutz (right)
surveys the surrounding
mountain ranges from the
historic Atascosa fire lookout.
Built in the early 1930s, the
sparsley furnished 14-by-14-
foot cabin is undergoing
gradual restoration by the
Forest Service and volunteers.
30 m a y 2 0 0 7 A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 31
Abbey, known for Desert Solitaire, The
Monkey Wrench Gang and numerous other books, manned the
lookout for some of the 1968 fire season.
Several of his journal entries are preserved in a book called
Confessions of a Barbarian: Selections from the Journals of Edward
Abbey, 1951-1989. A sampling:
May 22, 1968 — Atascosa Lookout,
Coronado National Forest, Arizona
A golden eagle floated by under the kitchen window this
morning as I poured myself a cup of coffee. Hot, dry, windy
This lookout is merely a flimsy old frame shack perched
like an eagle’s nest on a pinnacle of rock. . . . Built in the
1930s by the CCC, of course. Held together by paint and wire
and nuts and bolts. Shudders in the wind.
June 5, 1968 — Atascosa
A great grimy sunset glowers on the west. Plains of gold,
veils of dust, wind-whipped clouds. The big aching tooth of
Baboquivari far and high on the skyline.
July 5, 1968 — Atascosa
Woke up this morning on an island in the sky, surrounded
by clouds. Wild swirling banks of vapor, flowing and passing
to reveal brief glimpses of rocky crags, dripping trees, the
golden grassy hillsides far below.
Desperately seeking a little shot of fame by association, I come
down from the lookout, stroll over to Jack and proudly announce
that Edward Abbey and I both have our work on exhibit on this
“We should get moving. It’s almost dark,” Jack replies, shoulder-ing
his camera pack and starting down the now-moonlit trail.
Fortunately for those who might want a taste of Tumacacori
Highlands’ splendor without braving the backcountry, the un-paved
but well-maintained Ruby Road provides a vivid sampling.
During another trip on an unseasonably cool monsoon day in
August, Jack and I rumble into a wildflower paradise on Ruby
Road, which starts as paved State Route 289, heading west from
Interstate 19 about 57 miles south of Tucson, then becomes
unpaved Forest Service Road 39 that runs northwest past the
closed ghost town of Ruby toward Arivaca.
Just a few miles into the drive, we’re raving about the explo-sion
of new green growth in the surrounding oak woodlands,
transformed by torrential monsoons into something more out of
the emerald mountains of Japan than the arid outback of Arizona.
Then we round a bend and hit a mother lode of yellow — bright
yellow caltrops, sometimes known as summer poppies, draping
a blanket of color across a hillside. Around the next bend wait
unfurled acres of wildflowers.
By now, Jack is fairly sputtering superlatives: “Incredible!”
“Unbelievable!” “Once-in-a-lifetime sight!”
I know what this means. The truck will stop suddenly. The tri-pod
will come out. The camera will come out. Precious boxes of
film will come out. It will all be so beautiful. But so many things
could go wrong. A gust of wind could ruffle the flowers. Rain
could fall. The clouds might not be right. In short: a full-blown
episode of neurotica photographica.
As Jack worries over a green glade of gnarly oaks, I jot these
words in my notebook: “Be sure to bring a camera if you drive
the highlands in the season of wildflowers. Your problem will
not be what to shoot — but when to stop shooting.”
A dot on the map says “Hell’s Gate.” Of course we wish to go
there. We can only hope the rugged hike to Peck Canyon will
not prove quite as daunting as the steep rocks and ice-plastered
volcanoes we have climbed together in the past.
Relying on maps, signs and a special “sixth sense” that is
wrong roughly 50 percent of the time, we somehow find our way
to the starting point of the trek at an abandoned rancher’s camp
known as Corral Nuevo, thanks to a rugged four-wheel-drive
vehicle to navigate the rough road leading from Ruby Road.
Near the dilapidated remains of an old windmill that har-kens
back to another era of ranching, we saddle ourselves with
backpacks and slip into Peck Canyon.
Turns out we’re not exactly Lewis and Clark. In the first mile
of the canyon, we see signs of others who didn’t just pop in for a
night with flyweight camping gear and freeze-dried vittles — but
who actually made a living here. Indian grinding holes mark
streamside rocks, and segments of pipe left by ranchers build-ing
water projects rust in the canyon bottom. Makeshift trails
suggest that border crossers also travel this terrain.
After an initial stretch of easy walking in a broad, sandy, dry
watercourse, we find the canyon narrows dramatically and
winds through a deep-cut chasm choked with enormous boul-ders.
Heeding advice to skirt a narrow section that would force
us to swim pools of water 2 miles in, we climb steeply out of
the canyon and creep carefully along a narrow passage above a
“Good place to pay attention,” Jack observes on a steep,
unstable scramble back to the canyon bottom.
Once there, Jack goes to work photographing a lovely clear
pool upon which delicate water shamrock plants float. When he
begins to worry aloud about all the things that could go wrong
with the shot, I suddenly find the need to explore farther down-canyon
on my own — worrying the whole way about all the
things that could go wrong with my notebook.
Later, we hike to Hell’s Gate, a spot less ominous than its
name, where rock walls on either side of the canyon create a gate-like
effect. We search for a flat campsite in this boulder-strewn
(Text continued from page 25)
BORN TO BE WILD
Seen from the rocky summit of
the Atascosa Mountains, hues of
sunset kiss the scenic, solitary
expanse of the Sonoran Desert
and distant Baboquivari Peak (left).
The proposed Tumacacori
Highlands Wilderness includes
Peck Canyon (right), a riparian
corridor. As in the remote
canyons of the sky islands, a
perennial stream sustains a
diverse ecosystem of plants and
wildlife, complete with leafy ash
trees, that otherwise would not
survive in the desert.
Douglas Kreutz, an avid hiker and traveler, is a staff writer at the Arizona Daily Star in
Tucson. He and photographer Jack Dykinga learned an important lesson while working
on this story: If you go to a place with the word “Highlands” in its name, you’re in for
some serious uphill walking.
In 30 years of tramping around the Arizona backcountry, Tucson-based photographer
Jack Dykinga has never seen such intensely emerald-colored grasslands punctuated by
splashes of pinks and yellows from mimosas and summer poppies.
A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 33
Location: Approximately 55 miles southwest
Getting There: The most direct and scenic
access is on State Route 289, also known as
Ruby Road. From Tucson, drive 55 miles south
on Interstate 19 past Green Valley and Rio
Rico to State 289 at Exit 12. Follow paved 289
west toward Peña Blanca Lake for about 9 miles to
its intersection with unpaved Forest Service Road 39. To
reach the trailhead for a hike to the Atascosa Lookout, continue
west on FR 39 about 5 miles. The trailhead is on the right side
of the road, 14.5 miles from the Interstate 19 exit, with parking
on the left side of the road. To reach the Corral Nuevo trailhead
into Hell’s Gate, continue northwest on 39 for 6.4 miles past
the Atascosa Lookout trailhead and watch for a 2.5-mile-long
side road on the right marked “Hell’s Gate.” A high-clearance
four-wheel-drive vehicle can cover the rough road leading to
unsigned Corral Nuevo.
Travel Advisory: Side roads off FR 39 range in condition from
pretty rough to nearly impassable. Obey all closure signs. On
side roads, use a four-wheel-drive vehicle in good condition and
a second vehicle if possible.
Warning: Federal officials have posted warnings concerning
illegal immigration and smuggling in the area.
Additional Information: Nogales Ranger District, Coronado
National Forest, (520) 281-2296. The Friends of the Tumacacori
landscape. Fortunately, years of backcountry travel have made us mini-malists.
We pull out bivouac sacks — little waterproof envelopes for our
sleeping bags used in lieu of a tent. I set up a tiny gas stove on a rock and
boil water to reconstitute our wonderfully light and perfectly tasteless
The last light of day leaks quickly out of the canyon and is replaced
immediately by cold air plunging uninvited from above. We sit up jawing
about the beauty of this place, the wild feel of it, although it’s not more
than 10 miles or so, as the crow flies, from Interstate 19.
Tomorrow we’ll explore some more and discover new Tumacacori
Highlands treasures. But now, before bidding each other goodnight and
bedding down in our snug bivouac sacks, Jack and I can’t help but won-der:
Will Congress act soon on the proposal to protect this grand land-scape
as federal wilderness? Should it? Well, we’re not legislators. We’re
not land-use experts. But we have wandered a lot of wilderness. We know
it when we’re in it. And tonight we are.
34 m a y 2 0 0 7 A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 35
s the sky slowly lightened and the morning
stars heralded the dawn, a lone figure steadily
loped across the face of a windswept mesa
in the heart of the Hopi Indian homeland.
Fleet of foot and strong of spirit, the 74-year-old
elder paced himself along timeworn trails as he readied
himself for a spiritual pursuit shared with other Hopi tribal
Several years of drought had withered the Southwest,
including the Hopi Indian Reservation. Tribal elder Bob Mack
and other Hopi runners were training for a prayer run — a rig-orous
14-day adventure beginning in the early morning hours
of March 2 at the Hopi village of Moenkopi and continuing
south to Mexico City in time to join the 4th World Water
Forum. The runners traveled more than 2,000 miles in quar-ter-
mile relays, quietly carrying commingled water sent from
as far as Mount Fuji in Japan and the Lake of Galilee near
Jerusalem while praying for peace every step of the way.
“Running is sacred, a moving prayer,” says Ruben Saufkie
Sr., a member of the Hopi Water Clan and organizer of the
2006 Hopi run. “As [a runner’s] feet hit the ground, the Earth
vibrates and carries the message to all corners of the world.”
Although the participants worked as a team to carry the
sacred message, most of their training was completed individ-ually.
G. Aaron Mockta, 27, has been running all of his life.
“It’s part of doing your duty,” Mockta says. “The Earth is
alive. [Running] gives you the strength and ability to carry
Mack also started running at an early age, but unlike some
of the other participants, this wasn’t the first time he ran for
rain. For decades, the sprightly septuagenarian has sprinted
in spiritual ceremonies including the rain-evoking Snake-
Antelope Ceremony. The route retraced the footsteps of his
forefathers along a thousand-year-old path rooted in Hopi
history and culture.
Throughout the centuries, Hopi runners have played pivotal
roles — carrying water for crops, relaying messages of mutiny,
sprinting for spiritual ceremonies, chasing Olympic dreams
and pounding pavement in an
effort to preserve the world’s
Inhabiting centuries-old vil-lages
situated on three mesas,
the 7,000 tribal members strug-gle
to balance the traditions of
their religiously ordered life-style
with fast-paced intrusions
from the modern world.
Old Oraibi, one of the 12
Hopi villages, dates back to
a.d. 1150 — making it the oldest continuously inhabited vil-lage
in the United States. The Hopis trace their ancestry back
even farther, to a time when the clans followed migratory
routes that legend claims stretched to the far corners of the
Americas. The stories recount how the clans finally rejoined
on the mesas of the Hopi homeland — an arid plateau at the
“center of the universe.”
Satellite imagery has revealed those ancient runners’ trails,
By Carrie M. Miner w Photographs by Gary Johnson
follow an ancient path
in a 2,000-mile-long
relay for rain Rain
POUNDING THE ROAD Dale Jackson runs along
the road between the Hopi village of Moenkopi
and Dilkon, on the Navajo Indian Reservation,
during a 100-mile training relay. Shadows form in
the red rock badlands (right) on the Hopi Indian
36 m a y 2 0 0 7 A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 37
the gods, the Hopis pray on their feet — sprinting through the
seasons and running for rain. The Cloud spirits are believed
to rejoice in this display of fleetness, gathering together to
watch and reward the swift sprinter with much-needed rain.
In effect, the runner becomes the prayer.
Even though men traditionally run in ceremonies, several
Hopi women participated in the ritual run to Mexico City.
Like most Hopi children, 44-year-old Vivian Jones began
running foot races as a child. With three children of her own,
Jones decided to participate in the Mexico run.
“We ran for the whole nation and all living things that need
water,” says Jones. “At the beginning, I could feel the heavi-ness
of the burden, but the closer we got, the lighter that
It came as no surprise to the runners that rain began to fall
as the group approached the U.S.-Mexico border. And when
they made a gift of the water they had carried for 2,000 miles,
a bald eagle appeared and circled the congregation before
winging off into the distance. Loud cries filled the square
as the runners rejoiced, hoping the eagle would deliver their
prayers for rain.
Coincidently, or not, a spate of storms in March finally
lifted the second-driest winter in history.
“The eagle delivered our prayers and [the gods] heard our
message,” says 23-year-old Ned Zeena. Solemn in his spiritu-ality,
Zeena recalls a time when he was lost in the matrix of
modernity, enduring hardship and loss in Phoenix. But like
many of his people, including Bob Mack and Louis Tewanima,
Zeena returned to the Hopi homeland, where the dry, austere
landscape binds his people to their sacred center.
Today, the Hopis no longer have to run to relay messages
from one village to the other, but they still run with the clouds,
race with the wind and sprint for the spirits, each step like a
raindrop in the dust.
stretching across the Four Corners region in the United States
and deep into Mexico and beyond. Just as long-distance run-ners
once carried messages along the Inca Highway from
northern Ecuador to southern Chile, the Puebloan Indians
in the American Southwest relayed messages between their
remote communities. Runners carried word of the Pueblo
Revolt of 1680, and Hopi runners figured prominently in the
united attack against Spanish occupation. By using bundles
of knotted yucca cords to count down the days, the people
of more than 70 Puebloan villages scattered across 300 miles
launched a precisely timed uprising that for a time expelled
Centuries later, the American government hired Hopi run-ners
to carry messages. In 1903, George Wharton James docu-mented
this willingness to employ stalwart Hopi runners.
“For a dollar,” he wrote, “I have several times engaged a
young man to take a message from Oraibi to Keams Canyon,
a distance of 72 miles, and he has run on foot the entire
distance, delivered his message, and brought me an answer
within 36 hours.”
Another fleet-footed messenger, Charles Talawepi of Old
Oraibi, reportedly ran a message to Flagstaff at the behest
of Walter Runke Sr., the Indian agent at Tuba City. Talawepi
covered 150 miles in less than 24 hours, earning a $20 silver
piece for his efforts.
Louis Tewanima ran with the 1908 U.S. Olympic track team
and placed ninth in the marathon. In 1912, he earned Olympic
silver for his swiftness in the 10,000-meter race.
In his younger years, the hardy Hopi youth would run
barefoot from his village to Winslow and back — a 120-mile
trip — so he could watch the trains rumble through the
busy railroad town. Sent to the Carlisle Indian School in
Pennsylvania as part of the U.S. government’s mandatory school
program, Tewanima rose to Olympic fame under the school’s
athletic program headed by Glenn Scobie “Pop” Warner.
Eventually, like many of his people, Tewanima returned to
his homeland, slipping quietly back into the Hopi way of life
as a farmer and a priest, running for rain just as the Cloud
people have done for thousands of years.
Long-distance runs play a key role in vital Hopi ceremoni-als
intended to sustain life-giving rains. Living in a desert,
the Hopi people perfected the agricultural technique of dry
farming. A handful of natural springs scattered throughout
the Hopi Reservation’s 1.5 million acres offer the only year-round
sources of water. With 10 inches of rainfall annually,
Hopi farmers rely on unique planting techniques to block
winds and retain the moisture needed to grow their special-ized
crops of corn, beans, melons and squash.
This intimate relationship with the land keeps the Hopis
fine-tuned to the environment and the fragile equilibrium
between life and death. To the Hopis, water is life. Like the
Katsinam, spirit guides that relay messages from the people to
To the Hopis, water is life.
After researching this story, Carrie M. Miner decided to take her own
running pursuits outdoors, hoping to find a little spiritual insight along the
way. She lives in North Pole, Alaska.
Photographer Gary Johnson of Surprise marks his 20th
year as a contributor to Arizona Highways.
Location: Second Mesa, Hopi Indian Reservation
Getting There: From Flagstaff, drive east on Interstate
40 for 56 miles, past Winslow to State Route 87. Turn left
(north) onto State 87 and drive approximately 60 miles to Second Mesa.
Attractions: The Hopi Museum and Cultural Center is located on
Second Mesa. The museum provides information about purchasing
arts and crafts from Hopi artisans as well as information about tours
and activities on the reservation.
Travel Advisory: The best time to visit the Hopi mesas is during
summer and fall. Please be respectful of the Hopi culture;
recordings of any kind — photography, video and audio recording
and sketching — are prohibited on the Hopi Reservation.
Additional Information: (928) 734-0230 or (928) 734-9549;
BROTHERS ON THE TRAIL Brothers Ned and John Zeena run through
Lower Moenkopi on the Hopi Reservation just west of the Hopi mesas.
UPWARD IS THE GOAL Tribal Elder Bob Mack, 72, (above, in gray shirt) runs with companions
up the rocky trail at the Hopi First Mesa village of Walpi. Established in 1690, the traditional
Hopi village (above, right) sits at 5,000 feet above sea level atop a rocky mesa.
38 m a y 2 0 0 7 A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 39
n 1927 Walter Peck, a woodcut-ter
for the Santa Fe Railroad on
his way to a poker game, stum-bled
over a giant funnel-shaped
hole, widened by heavy rain, in
a sparsely vegetated expanse in
northwest Arizona. Sensing there
was something special about this
cleft in the earth, Walter returned
the following morning after the poker game, with
a couple of buddies, ropes and lanterns.
Perhaps Walter was a persuasive friend. Maybe
he was owed a poker debt. Maybe he just engaged
in the 1920s version of double-dog daring. But
the end result was the same: A cowboy found a
rope around his waist as Walter and company
lowered him into a formerly unknown system
Armed only with the glow from a coal-oil lan-tern,
the slightly built cowhand was let down
150 feet until he hollered up that his feet had hit
ground. He glimpsed human remains and a saddle.
But what really caught his eye were sparkles from
the rocks. He collected samples, surfaced and told
Walter of the twinkle as his lantern light shone
on diamonds and veins of what must be gold.
Somewhere between the account and Walter’s
hopes, even silver figured in.
Walter promptly requested an assay, but
couldn’t contain himself and bought the land
before the report came in. Turns out, the poor
guy could be the poster child for buyer’s remorse.
The “diamonds” were selenite crystals — glassy,
crystallized gypsum rocks, easily scratched with a
fingernail. The veins of “gold,” their color distorted
by lantern light, turned out to be bands of lime
deposits colored by rusty iron oxide. There was
no silver. The most valuable mineral in the caverns
was a poor grade of tin. His bejeweled vault was
a big, dry hole.
Some 80 years later, on a brisk October morn-ing,
my 4-year-old son and I wait to see Walter’s
treasure trove. Although it never yielded the gold-silver-
diamond combo he envisioned, it burgeoned
into an attraction off Historic Route 66.
Outside the Grand Canyon Caverns Restaurant,
my son spies chickens darting about next door.
He asks me what they’re eating. “Grains,” I say,
taking his hand to embark on our 45-minute tour.
We make our way to the elevator to the caverns,
carrying our purchases from the curio shop — ad-mission
tokens, poker chips in honor of old Walter
and a toy miner’s helmet. Suddenly my son’s hand
clutches mine in a death-grip.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “The tour’s going to be fun.”
“I know,” he replies, clearly contemplating some-
B Y K IMB E R L Y H O S E Y
P H O T O G R A P H S B Y G E O F F G O U R L E Y
210 feet underground,
imaginations run amok
at Grand Canyon Caverns
ROOMY REFRIGERATOR Immersed in the red glow of
artificial light, Jerry Keeler and Susan Hamilton head toward the
Chapel of Ages, one of the giant underground spaces in Grand
Canyon Caverns that stored enough food and water to support
2,000 people for two weeks during the Cuban Missile Crisis.
40 m a y 2 0 0 7 A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 41
thing troubling. “But why do those chickens eat brains?”
I decide maybe this is a place for misunderstandings. Luckily,
troubling chicken-feed ideas are easily and quickly set right.
Walter decided if he couldn’t mine treasure from the ground,
he’d mine it from pockets. So for 25 cents a pop, he handed folks
a lantern, and he and his brother, Miles, lowered them much like
the first visitor, descending on a rope winch into the caverns.
Today’s tour guides, who walk guests through lit walkways and
whose tales are a little less tall than old Walter’s, refer to those
days as the time of “dope on a rope” tours.
Our jovial tour guide, Jerry Keeler, makes easy conversation
as the elevator descends 210 feet — 21 stories — into the largest
dry cavern in the United States.
Grand Canyon Caverns doesn’t put on an impressive façade
above ground. But tucked beneath saffron grasses is one of the
remaining attractions of a once-great swath of Americana.
John Steinbeck, in The Grapes of Wrath, wrote, “66 is the path
of a people in flight, refugees from dust and shrinking ownership,
from the desert’s slow northward invasion, from the twisting
winds that howl . . . 66 is the mother road, the road of flight.”
Historic Route 66 no longer serves as a true mother road. And
comfortably out of the dustbowl era, my son and I love the des-ert
— howling winds included. But I felt a tinge of Steinbeckian
escapism as I left Interstate 40, the route whose construction
spelled the end of America’s romance with 66, to sample a road-side
attraction and work on slowing down.
So it is with a deliberate attitude of leisurely veneration that
I follow Keeler, already reciting from his repertoire of cavern-themed
puns (we start our tour with “rock solid” information),
into the Grand Canyon Caverns beneath the Route 66 roadside.
One of the early draws for tourists and the press alike, Keeler
says, was the human remains. Before you could say “yellow
journalism,” papers blared headlines about preserved Stone
Age men, found in their ancient den in Arizona’s high desert.
The saddle found with the “cavemen” was conveniently forgot-ten.
Soon, local Hualapai Indians spoke up to explain that in
1917, two of their tribe had died of influenza while out gather-ing
wood. Unable to bury them in the then-frozen
ground, survivors in the party low-ered
their tribesmen into a hole in an area
considered sacred, with a saddle to assist in
their final ride across the Great Divide.
But there’s plenty of truth to fascinate in
these caverns, born in a geologic era when there was just one
continent and none of the animals we know today. Using water
in one hand and earthquakes in the other, Nature began to
sculpt the subterranean chasm of interconnected vaults, start-ing
345 million years ago. The buried limestone layers were
cracked by earthquakes and uplift. Underground rivers “dug”
chambers beneath the ground. In later, drier times, water per-colated
through limestone and decked the underground halls
with flowstone, stalactites, stalagmites, helictites and other cave
These wonders went largely unseen until dope-on-a-rope
days eventually gave way to a series of ladders descending to a
wooden bridge, constructed during the 1930s by the Civilian
Conservation Corps. Bridge tours cost 50 cents and you had
to bring your own light, but visitors could explore the caverns,
albeit at an energy cost akin to walking down and back up the
stairs of a 15-story building. Finally in the 1960s, an elevator
shaft was blasted, taking two years and 90 cases of dynamite.
A modern elevator was installed, which we now exit into the
caverns’ first huge room, the Chapel of Ages.
The room has served as an actual chapel a handful of times,
the first being to join in matrimony Kim Heal, a curio-shop
worker, and Bill Moulis. Heal’s veil, which affixed to the wall
when she threw it in 1977, still hangs today. It’s preserved by the
constant cool, dry, bacteria-free environment. The caverns are
a continuous 56 degrees year-round, with humidity steady at 6
percent. Bacteria don’t survive longer than 72 hours.
“The only bacteria are what we’ve brought along,” Keeler says.
“This may be the cleanest air you’ll ever breathe.”
The Chapel of Ages measures 130 yards long, big enough to
accommodate a football field. The other huge room, the Halls of
Gold (which contain no actual gold, but show what cruel tricks
lights can play on the iron oxide above), could enclose two fields
in its 210 yards. The room’s great acoustics bounce around an
irresistable echo. Keeler witnessed it firsthand, he says, when
Prescott’s Tri-City College Prep High School performed a con-cert
there, even inviting him to croon a few tunes.
The halls hold another oddity: Stacked in the center are sur-vival
rations placed there during the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis,
though you’d subsist on stale water, technicolor blobs Keeler
identifies as “candy” and food that reportedly has “kept nicely”
in the caverns for 45 years. He points out an additional peculiar-ity:
The provisions can nurture 2,000 people for two weeks, but
only three woefully small toilet paper rolls top off the stash.
Other rooms provide less-expansive vistas, but reward with
views of fantasylike crystal formations — the cheap-but-pretty
selenite that poor Walter took for diamonds. In the Crystal
Room, an abundance of the deposits grow in whimsical shapes
and glow like moonlight as they reflect strategically placed
lights. Thick coats of “cave snow,” slushy-looking crystals, adorn
walls. The Snowball Palace showcases round, white deposits.
Overhead, they’re almost snow-white. Below, the “snowballs”
have become cracked and yellowed, owing to an earlier era of
tours when visitors were encouraged to touch the formations.
Skin oils and disruptions from grab-happy guests were destroy-ing
the formation. Oils traveled upward contaminating a swath
of wall. Touching, we’re reminded gently but not infrequently,
is now prohibited.
“It took 6 million years to form,” Keeler tells us. “And in 40
years we ruined much of it.”
About halfway through the tour, Keeler informs us we’re about
to meet a mummy. My son, whose only experience with mum-mies
comes when the word is directly preceeded by “The Curse
of” in Halloween commercials, seems dubious. But this mummy
isn’t going anywhere. It’s the cave-air-preserved remains of an
unfortunate bobcat, found in 1950. He fell into the caverns a
century earlier, breaking his hip. Another unfortunate resident,
a giant ground sloth nicknamed “Gertie,” was found where she
died, trying to claw her way free through a small air hole. Extinct
for at least 11,000 years, she was 15 feet long and weighed a ton.
Keeler spotlights the place of Gertie’s last hurrah, where several
scratches crisscross the rock. Her remains were gathered by the
University of Arizona in Tucson, but the caverns display a replica
of her that now stands below the scratches, thick tongue out, on
hind legs with a fat tail spread out for balance.
Near the end of the tour, Keeler tells us to wait while he shows
us something. “You might want to hold on to him,” he says, indi-cating
my son. A few seconds later, it becomes clear why.
“Early visitors didn’t have these easy and safe walkways with
all these lights,” he begins. With that, he flicks a switch, and
every light in the chamber blinks off. Inky black velvet seems
to tighten around our faces. This isn’t merely dark; it’s complete
absence of light.
“Wiggle your fingers in front of your face,” Keeler says. We
do. Nothing. After 3 seconds or so, our eyes give up adjust-ing.
We’re told that after 45 minutes we’d begin to experi-ence
vertigo and “become totally disoriented and helpless.”
Fortunately, vertigo and helplessness — undoubtedly deemed
unprofitable — are not included in the tour. After teasing us
with a lit lantern, then dark, then a match, then dark again,
Keeler flips the lights back on.
My son rejoices in the caverns as they’re once again illumi-nated,
and talks conspiratorially with Keeler as the guide points
out kid-friendly markings in the cave: a giant handprint, the
“Giant’s Keyhole,” a cleft rock that he terms the “Giant’s Butt.” I
hear about the latter for a few hours on the ride home.
I decide my son’s got the right idea, as Keeler turns to me and
discusses non-butt-themed cave topics. In the Mystery Room an
airshaft leads to the Grand Canyon. It was discovered in 1958
when red smoke pumped into a caverns hole drifted out of the
Canyon near Havasu Falls — 40 miles away — a few weeks later.
Lower levels of the cavern have been detected by seismic test-ing,
descending as deep as 1,500 feet, including an underground
lake. Keeler continues until we exit the elevator, clearly far from
running out of material. Yep, I’ll be back. No double-dog daring
‘ The only bacteria are what we’ve
brought along,’ Keeler says. ‘This may
be the cleanest air you’ll ever breathe.’
Location: 96 miles west of Flagstaff.
Getting There: From Flagstaff, take Interstate 40 west
toward Seligman. Take Exit 123 and turn right
(northwest) onto Historic Route 66. Take Route 66
for about 25 miles to Grand Canyon Caverns.
Hours: Tours run daily except Christmas Day. Hours
are 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., October through February,
and 9 a.m. to 6 p.m., March through September.
Fees: Adults, $12.95; children, $9.95 for a 45-minute tour.
Information: (928) 422-3223; www.gccaverns.com.
DOWNWARD BOUND A late-afternoon dinosaur
shadow “threatens” the Grand Canyon Caverns
Restaurant & Gift Shop (above) where the elevator
descends 210 feet to 3 million-year-old fossils.
DEEP SLEEP Kaelen and Kalei Lucas-Marinelli
(right) grin from a traditional teepee situated near the
caverns that serve as a tomb for two Hualapai Indian
brothers who died nearby in 1917 and were entombed
in the well-concealed natural entrance when frozen
ground made a traditional burial impossible.
GIANT GERTIE Once named Dinosaur Caverns after the
discovery of prehistoric sloth remains, the Grand Canyon Caverns
are home to “Gertie,” a replica (right) of the giant sloth whose
claw marks can still be seen on the cavern walls. Keeler and
Hamilton meet Gertie’s gargantuan figure face to face.
Kimberly Hosey of Mesa remains enthralled by the caverns. Her son,
who still swears he saw riches down there, also can’t wait to go back.
Geoff Gourley is a freelance photographer living in Flagstaff.
He loves anything that has to do with the Grand Canyon.
42 m a y 2 0 0 7
they arrive each year with all the predictability of
migratory birds. Colorful, sleek with their travels, they fly like
the wind. However, this human flock never gets but a few feet
off the ground. They are forever tied to the Earth by gravity
and two skinny wheels.
They come to Tucson by the thousands to take part in
El Tour de Tucson, the 109-mile bicycle race held every
November. And Tucson welcomes them. Tucson likes
bicyclists — it’s been named as one of most bicyclist-friendly
cities in the nation. However, there are times when some
Tucsonans question that hospitality, especially on the day of
I’ve been there, 10 car lengths from an intersection, waiting
for the seemingly endless stream of riders to pass. One needs
a soothing mantra at times like that — a few quiet words to
replace the yells you feel like throwing at the officers of the
law who are intent on holding back all who would travel by
car. Maybe something like: Bicycling is a good clean sport.
Ommmmmm. Bicyclists are good, clean folk. Ommmmmm. Bicycle
races are. . . . You get the meditative drift.
Recently, I have found a new mantra, one that involves
Hubert “Hube” — as in tube — Yates. Now, there’s a name for
the record books. He, too, rode a bike.
On May 1, 1921, Hube, 17 years old, joined together with 15
other Arizonans in one of those odd events Arizonans have a
tendency to create. Something to do with the sun, I suppose.
At 5 a.m. they waited in downtown Tucson for the pistol
shot that would start the longest bicycle race in their piece of
Arizona history. They would ride from Tucson to Phoenix,
approximately 140 miles.
I suppose all Lance Armstrong wannabes would agree
that the length of the race had a worthy ring to it. But, given
relatively good roads and a minimal number of homicidal
automobile drivers, nothing a pro couldn’t handle.
Whoa, pedal pushers. Did I say anything about a road? No,
no road for Hube and the boys. The best they got for all but a
few miles was a washboard gravel path. Decades later an old
Arizona hand described the path as “so rough it was littered
with nuts and bolts that had shaken off the cars.” The racers
could also opt to ride in wagon-trail ruts or go for the 4-inch-deep
The challenge of the nonroads was matched by the
weather. The day dawned hot — as
might be expected at the beginning
of summer in southern Arizona. The
temperatures would be in the 90s all the
way to Phoenix. And these riders didn’t
have any cute holders for their water
bottles or cunning little pockets for their
They did have one very big canteen.
Working under the theory that canteens
wrapped in material stay relatively cool, Hube wrapped himself
accordingly, in layers of clothes. “I dressed for the North Pole,”
Hube wrote 50 years later about his attire and his race.
There he went, the human canteen riding like the wind
across the Sonoran Desert. Okay, maybe more like a good
stiff breeze, but the man moved. Even with a stop for lunch in
Florence, Hube made it to downtown Phoenix in 8 hours, 50
minutes and 45 seconds. The riders placing second and third
were more than an hour behind. And the others? Nobody else
showed up at the finish line. As Hube recalled, a few went,
frankly, bug nuts.
“Some of them lost their minds,” he wrote. “Someone had to
go get them and take them to the hospital.”
Must have been the sun.
Hube, who died in 1980, went on to a good, full life, a few more
races, work as a cowboy, a dude wrangler. He raised a family and
is remembered by his son, also Hube, as a loving father.
“He was a strong man,” he says of his dad. Ah, yes.
In telling this story, I take a risk. Somebody, one of those
brightly decaled riders up there in my intersection, protected
by men and women in uniform, may decide to go for Hube’s
record. They may, the whole flock of them, try to cross the
desert in Hube’s tracks.
I say this: Go for it, pedal pushers, but my money will be
on Hube. As for my new mantra, I give it to you with my hope
that your heart and your drumming fingers may be stilled in
whatever line you sit, at whatever intersection you wait. It goes
Hube, Hube, Hube Yates
Hurrah . . . Hurrah . . . Hurrah . . .
Legendary Cyclist Eschewed Hubris
HONORING HUBE In a 1921 Tucson-to-Phoenix bike race, cyclist
Hube Yates finished the ride (without the benefit of paved roads)
in 8 hours, 50 minutes and 45 seconds. He crossed the finish line in
downtown Phoenix more than an hour before the second-place
rider. courtesy of the yates family
along the way
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by Kathleen Walker
44 m a y 2 0 0 7 A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 45
hike of the month
the rising sun illuminates
with brilliant morning rays
Sugarloaf Mountain in the
heart of Chiricahua National
Monument, some 35 miles
southeast of Willcox. The
peak juts from the landscape,
at 7,310 feet, the highest point
in the monument. A trail,
built by Franklin D.
Civilian Conservation Corps,
spirals upward to the
Sugarloaf Mountain summit,
where a lonely stone firehouse
stands. The structure doesn’t
require a tall lookout tower,
because no trees interrupt the
From the parking lot,
empty except for our car, the
trail begins modestly on its
way to climbing 479 feet in
a little less than a mile. After
70 years, the laborious work
by CCC picks, shovels and
dynamite remains evident. An
early stone arch over the trail
displays the craftsmanship
of the workers nicknamed
the “tree army,” participants
in a national effort that
employed some 3.4 million
desperate men. The higher
we climb through the diverse
flora, ranging from Arizona
white oak trees to fruiting
Schott’s yuccas, the more we
appreciate the difficult work
done by the Corps.
The views from the trail
grow increasingly beautiful
toward the summit. The
odd-looking formations of
the Chiricahua Mountains
showcase geologic time, with
spires melded and shaped by
ice and erosion over a period
of 27 million years.
The trail grows steeper
with every turn, and resting
spots, like one featuring a
stone table and two chairs
right out of “The Flintstones,”
provide welcome reprieves
for our burning calf muscles.
The elevation gain forces a
change in the plant life, from
the 6-foot hallways of blood-barked
manzanita to stunted
Mexican piñon pines closer
to the summit. As we climb,
we see a few of the wide array
of birds that has made the
Chiricahua Mountains a top
destination for bird-watching.
A Strickland’s woodpecker,
also known as an Arizona
woodpecker, gently taps an
oak; a hermit thrush forages in
reeds; and a titmouse protests
our passing with a trill.
The summit’s 360-degree
view — accented by a turkey
vulture soaring effortlessly
below us and white-throated
swifts darting about in fighter-pilot
flourishes — reveals
Cochise Head to the east,
the San Simon Valley to the
southeast, and Echo Canyon
to the south. The bizarre
fused-ash hoodoos and pillars
of the canyon form the heart
of the national monument,
including the thousand-ton
Big Balanced Rock.
The Dragoon Mountains,
including Cochise Stronghold,
lie to the west beyond Sulphur
Springs Valley, and to the
north, the dog-eared Dos
Cabezas Mountains watch
over Apache Pass. Just beyond,
the metallic glimmer of
Willcox sparkles in the sun.
Absorbing these sights,
I envision a Chokonen
Chiricahua Apache scout
looking south for a platoon
of Mexican dragoons, north
to the pass for a vulnerable
stagecoach with a precious load
of ammunition or southeast
for some hapless pioneers. I
imagine the CCC laborers
pushing on to reach the
summit to take in the views.
National Monument remains
unmatched for travelers with
a distaste for crowds. With
the quiet day and expansive
views, Sugarloaf Mountain
Trail offers a beauty equal to
more mobbed treasures like
Utah’s Bryce Canyon and
Zion national parks.
Length: 2 miles round-trip.
Elevation Gain: 479 feet.
Payoff: Spectacular 360-degree view of Sulphur Springs Valley, Big
Balanced Rock (with binoculars), Cochise Stronghold, Cochise Head,
Dos Cabezas Mountains.
Getting There: From Phoenix or Tucson, take Interstate 10 to Willcox;
turn south on State Route 186 to State Route 181 and continue south
into Chiricahua National Monument.
Additional Information: www.nps.gov/chir.
by Brian Minnick photographs by Steve Bruno
UPWARD BOUND As the Sugarloaf
Mountain Trail nears the 7,310-foot
summit (above), hikers get an early
morning glimpse of Echo and
Rhyolite canyons in the Chiricahua
National Monument. Called the
“Land of Standing Up Rocks” by the
Apache Indians, the monument
covers close to 12,000 acres.
PEAK EXPERIENCE The lookout
atop Sugarloaf Mountain (below)
features a distant view of Cochise
Head as well as sweeping vistas
of Chiricahua National Monument.
The monument, which remains 87
percent wilderness, is home to 71
species of mammals, 46 species of
reptiles and 171 species of birds.
HEADING IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION
Cochise Head (right) named for the
famed Chiricahua Apache chief,
serves as a prominent landmark from
the lower section of the Sugarloaf
Offers Chiricahua Monument High Point
C H I R I CA H UA MT S.
Dos Cabezas Mts.
Historic Site Cochise
SA N S I MO N VAL L EY
S U LPHUR S PRINGS VAL LEY
Before you go on this hike, visit arizonahighways.com for other things
to do and places to see in this area. You’ll also find more hikes in our archive.
A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S . C O M 47
back road adventure
the navajo nation
encompasses an astounding
assortment of scenery, much
of it showcased along the 100
miles of pavement of Indian
Route 12, known as Diné
Tah (“among the people”)
Scenic Road. Sometimes
snaking across the Arizona-
New Mexico border, the road
climbs from coral-colored
cliffs to high pine forests then
plunges to red rock buttes
and flat-topped mesas.
Leaving Interstate 40 at
Exit 357 about 70 miles east
of Holbrook, I head north
on Indian 12, traveling
between undulating pink
cliffs and fragrant piñon
pine forests. At Milepost 15,
red sandstone, twisted and
curved, testifies to powerful
forces deep in the earth.
Twenty-four miles later,
at the junction of 12 and
State Route 264, I turn left
for a detour to St. Michaels
Museum and Historic Site,
nestled among green grass
and beautiful old cottonwood
and willow trees. The spot’s
Spanish name, La Cienega
Amarilla, means “swamp of
wild sunflowers,” but Navajos
call it Chi’hootso or “green
The magnificent sandstone
church stands nearby,
and the original mission
now serves as a museum
of local and religious
artifacts. Built in 1894 as a
trading post, the building
was purchased in 1898 by
Mother Katharine Drexel,
with an inheritance from her
wealthy Philadelphia family.
Franciscan brothers staffed
the new church and, with
the help of trader Charles
Day’s two sons, learned the
difficult Navajo language.
In 1910, they published the
first Navajo ethnographic
dictionary, and operated a
mission school for reservation
children. Mother Katharine
Drexel was canonized as a
saint in 2000.
Returning to the junction,
I continue east on 12 to
Window Rock, capital of the
Navajo Nation. With several
places to explore, I first visit
the small Navajo Nation
Zoological and Botanical
Park. Started in 1976 to house
an orphaned bear, the zoo is
surrounded by an unusual
rock formation known as The
Haystacks. Next door, the
Museum, Library and Visitors
Center displays artifacts,
treaties, paintings, jewelry
and much more. No indoor
photography is allowed. The
nearby Navajo Arts and Crafts
Enterprise sells quality Indian
jewelry and crafts. Authentic
Navajo rugs come with
photographs of the weaver.
Back on the road, I follow
12 northward. Glancing to the
right at the first stoplight, I
spot the sandstone “window”
that inspired the name
Window Rock. This is one of
only four spots where Navajo
medicine men collect water
for their Waterway Ceremony.
Four miles farther, the
Navajo Veterans Cemetery,
with flags flying above each
veteran’s grave, emphasizes
the number of Navajos who
have served in the military.
My father, Leo Webb, 90,
brought his truck along this
route in the 1940s. With
high “sideboards” on the
truck bed, he stopped at
each trading post, picking
up draftees and volunteers
and transporting them to the
military base at Inyokern,
California. During World War
II, Navajo Code Talkers used
a Navajo language code never
deciphered by the Japanese.
Another mile brings a
stoplight and junction with
Indian Route 7. Not well
marked, 12 turns right (east)
to Crystal, New Mexico,
following beautiful red
cliffs accented with deep
green piñon pines. A thin
red monolith at Milepost
37 shows the power of
weathering and erosion.
The route meanders into
New Mexico and near an old
sawmill location, home to
Annie Wauneka, daughter of
first Tribal Chairman Chee
Dodge. The first woman on
the Navajo Tribal Council,
she received the Presidential
Medal of Freedom in 1964 for
her fight against tuberculosis,
a scourge of the Navajo people.
Farther down the road,
Red Lake and its variety of
aquatic birds appears on the
left. Red cliffs are interrupted
briefly by a green hill between
Mileposts 44 and 45. This is
Green Knobs, an area sacred to
the Navajo people. The green
hue comes from peridotite.
Though not a valuable
gem, peridotite is made up
of small grains of olivine
brought up from the Earth’s
mantle through geologic
forces, offering more proof
of the region’s powerful past.
Following 12, I notice herds
of cattle and sheep feeding
on some of the best grazing
lands on the reservation, as
they have since the days my
grandfather, Frank Dowdle,
worked here as a tribal range
rider in the 1930s.
Sagebrush, a member of
the sunflower family, spreads
over the valley. The smell
of sagebrush after a rain is
a fragrance that defines the
West. Burned by Navajos to
purify surroundings, the plant
is said to cure headaches.
Near Milepost 56, basalt
columns top Sonsela Buttes.
This “columnar jointing”
WHAT’S IN A NAME Whether you
call it La Cienega Amarilla, Chi’hootso
or simply St. Michaels, this 1894
always answers with peaceful and
WINDOW TO THE WORLD
Worn into fine-grained Dakota
sandstone laid down before the
dinosaurs died out, Window Rock
overlooks the Navajo Nation’s
government offices and a memorial
to tribal members who have died
while serving in the military.
46 m a y 2 0 0 7
by Janet Webb Farnsworth photographs by George Stocking
Indian Route 12 Reveals Hidden Treasures on the Navajo Reservation
occurs when lava cools into
The road climbs steadily
through a pygmy forest of
piñon and juniper trees,
stunted by the poor soil. Still
sold in local stores, piñon
nuts have sustained Navajos
Indian 12 wanders back
into Arizona before reaching
Wheatfields Lake at 7,000
feet elevation, where oaks,
golden in the fall, mingle with
ponderosa pines. The volcanic
formation on the right side
at Milepost 72 is Tsaile Butte
(pronounced say-lee), another
At Milepost 74, a loop drive
leads to Tsaile Lake and Diné
College where the Ned Hatathli
Museum and Gallery contains
artifacts of Navajo history.
At Tsaile Trading Post,
Indian Route 64 leads to
Canyon de Chelly, but I
faithfully follow 12 farther
north. I’ve been shadowing
the Chuska Mountain Range,
but gradually melding with
red cliffs, it becomes the
Lukachukai (“slender reeds”)
Mountains. Indian Route 13
comes in from the right at
Milepost 83, but I stay on 12.
Stripes of purple, green
and blue at the Lukachukais’
base make up the Chinle
Formation, responsible for
Arizona’s famous Painted
Desert. To the left, Round
Rock Mesa shows its
distinctive west window
while two classic buttes, Los
Gigantes, tower on the right.
Near Milepost 98, 12 ends,
abruptly joining U.S. Route
191. Just beyond the junction
and under the water tower lies
the turn-off to Round Rock
Trading Post. Established
in 1887, this classic trading
post has a room made of
sandstone with log beams. A
herd of sheep wanders around
outside, and inside, turquoise
bracelets share a display case
with videos. In the center,
stacks of Blue Bird flour sacks
hold the preferred flour for
Reminded of frybread,
I head south on U.S. 191
to Chinle for a meal and a
hotel room. I’m hungry after
spending all day exploring
100 of the most beautiful
miles in Navajoland.
BACKUP PLAN Constructed as a
means of controlling floods, the
approximately 270-acre Tsaile Lake,
located near Diné College, also
hosts a steady flow of swimmers,
campers and fishing folk.
Note: Mileages are approximate.
> From Flagstaff, drive east on Interstate 40 156 miles to Indian Route
12 at Lupton, Exit 357. Turn north on Indian 12 and follow it for 26 miles
to the junction with State Route 264 at St. Michaels. Turn left (west) to
visit St. Michaels Museum and Historic Site. Once back on 264, head
east for 2 miles back to 12.
> Turn left (north) onto 12 and drive approximately 5 miles, past
Window Rock, to the junction with Indian Route 7. The roads are not
well-marked here, but stay on 12 (to the right) continuing east to the
junction with New Mexico Route 134.
> At the junction, follow 12 to the left and drive 51 miles, past Tsaile, to
Round Rock and U.S. Route 191.
> Turn left (south) onto U.S. 191 and drive 29 miles to Indian Route 7
that leads to Chinle.
> Turn left (east) and drive a mile to Chinle.
Even the most preoccupied
passers-by cannot overlook the
sacred and cultural significance of
Navajoland’s towering red rock
formations, like these along Indian
Route 12, north of Window Rock.
back road adventure
Vehicle Requirement: Roads are
accessible by passenger car.
Warning: Back-road travel can
be hazardous. The elevation
along this route is approximately
8,000 feet. In the winter months,
the roads may be closed due to
ice and snow. Be aware of the
weather and road conditions.
Carry plenty of water. Don’t
travel alone, and let someone at
home know where you’re going
and when you plan to return.
CANYON DE CHELLY
To Flagstaff Lupton
C H U S K A MT S .
St. Michaels Museum
and Historic Site
NAVAJO INDIAN RESERVATION
48 m a y 2 0 0 7
editor’s note: If you plan to fish,
hike, camp or travel on unmarked
roads, you’ll need to purchase a
permit from Navajo Nation Parks
and Recreation Department in
Window Rock, (928) 871-6647;
For more things to do along Navajo Route 12, visit arizonahighways.com
(click on “While You’re There” for the online bonus), and visit the Arizona
Office of Tourism’s Scenic Roads Web site, www.arizonascenicroads.com.
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