text:
Unearthing Secrets
of Homol'ovi
Hidden Mysteries
of Woods Canyon
In Search of
Photographer Gary Ladd Peers Into Nature's Mirror
8 Intriguing Trips
to Arizona's
Favorite Ruins
Paying the price
for taking a stand.
A people photographer
with a rare knack.
Explore Arizona oddities,
attractions and pleasures.
Expert finds a surprise searching for a coral snake.
Ganado t o Window Rock
Follow a Navajo Indian route to a special place.
Tubac and Tumac ácor i
In the soft glow of luminarias, cultures
mingle at Christmastime.
Packard Trail meanders the land of Sinagua Indians.
Portfolio: Mirror Images
Finding the art in nature's symmetries.
Frontier Hero Soldier
An Army captain risks his career by defying
orders but prevents a massacre.
A Day With the Dead
Families celebrate departed loved ones
in a desert cemetery on Dia de los Muertos.
Exploring Woods Canyon
This Sedona-area wilderness hides its
natural treasures well. WRI T TEN AND
Vestiges of Homol'ovi
Archaeologists examine a Hopi Indian outpost.
Where to See Indian Ruins
Eight places to discover the Native past.
Arizona Highways magazine has inspired an independent weekly
television series, hosted by Phoenix TV news anchor Robin Sewell. The
half-hour program can be seen in several cities in English and Spanish.
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 television}
online arizonahighways.com
This month explore Arizona's cultural traditions from the past and
the present. Go to arizonahighways.com and click on "Ancient
Arizona Guide" for:
• Information about visiting Indian ruins statewide
• A list of Dia de los Muertos ("Day of the Dead") celebrations
PLUS, get our regular monthly online-only features:
HUMOR Gene Perret sweet-talks his wife for home improvements.
ONLINE EXTRA Journey through formidable Gila River Canyon.
WEEKEND GETAWAY Visit two charming western Arizona towns.
TRAVEL THROUGH TIME Arizona's biggest mining swindle.
EXPERIENCE ARIZONA Plan a trip using our statewide calendar.
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.
[front cover] Wupatki National
Monument. laurence parent
n To order a print of this photograph,
see information above right.
[back cover] Totem Pole and Yei
Bichei Rocks on the Navajo Indian
Reservation. tom till
n To order a print of this photograph,
see information above right.
Climbers hike out of Kaibito
Wash. bill hatcher
8-21 In Search of
Grand Canyon
National Park
a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S 3
by Peter Aleshire, editor {all who wander}
When i first heard the bad news about the
fo olishness of bureaucracies and the price
of passion, I was cast back immediately to
that storm-laden day in the lush tangle of Arivaca
Cienega. The memory surrounds me now, like the
tingle of ozone on the edge of the storm.
On that day, I was doing just what Buenos Aires
National Wildlife Refuge Manager Wayne Shifflett
and veteran elementary school
teacher Linda Metz had encouraged
me to do — wandering through the
leafless cottonwoods in the face of a
winter storm.
Shifflett had spent 19 years
assembling the land to protect the
marshy cienega and make it part of
the adjacent Buenos Aires refuge.
Passionately devoted to safeguarding
rare and endangered species, he
had played a role in re-establishing
endangered masked bobwhite
quail, razorback suckers, Gila
chub, Tarahumara frogs and Gila
In much the same way, Metz had
spent 29 years nurturing elementary
schoolchildren before she retired
and gambled on a bed and breakfast.
So when they both urged me to be
among the flutter of birds at dawn, I
was swayed. After all, they had each
made sacrifices for an animating
A tall, low-key, instinctively
soothing woman with a huge
heart three sizes too big, Metz had nurtured, coddled
and challenged kids in a low-income Phoenix
neighborhood. She relied on the help of her pet macaw,
Tyler, who sat in the back of the classroom and told
every passing kid "I love you." The kids lived for his
occasional release from the cage, each hoping he would
pick them as he strutted about the room. Metz recalled
one forlorn kid from a chaotic home who loved to wear
brightly colored pants. Initially the other kids shunned
him. But then Tyler took a liking to the boy's bright
pants and so consistently headed straight for his desk.
This transformed the kid's social status. Metz tells that
story lovingly now, sufficient recompense for the years
of low wages and bureaucratic frustration.
Wayne Shifflett understands this as well, for he
spent 38 years as a federal wildlife manager during
which time he nurtured the 118,000-acre Buenos Aires
refuge as tenderly as Metz ever cared for Tyler. Mostly
the reserve preserved a fragment of the grasslands that
covered much of southern Arizona before overgrazing
in the 1890s converted most of it to mesquite shrub.
Shifflett supervised the release of 22,000 captive-reared
masked bobwhite quail to sustain the current
population of about 300 birds. He has also protected
the struggling herd of pronghorn antelope, remarkable
animals that can sprint at 60 mph and burn oxygen
three times as fast as a human.
So when they both told me not to miss dawn in the
cienega, I took the advice seriously.
Initially, it seemed a wasted morning. In the first mile
of wandering, I glimpsed only a single green-tailed
towhee — plus some mysterious and bug-eyed creature
stirring beneath the vegetation-shrouded creek.
Then the storm hit, driving me to seek shelter.
Wet and cold after the rain passed, I was headed
back to the car when I detoured on impulse up a hill
overlooking a small pond. Just as I reached the top,
the sun broke through a ragged gap in the clouds.
Instantly, jeweled droplets glittered on every branch
and blade of grass. Three heart-stoppingly scarlet
Northern cardinals materialized in a tree. A flicker
berated me from the top of a cottonwood. A pair
of ruddy ducks spattered on the pond. A yellow-tinted
kingbird took up guard duty atop a nearby
cottonwood. A pair of pyrrhuloxia contended for
thick-billed dominance with the cardinals. Three sorts
of sparrows flittered and skittered. A melodic marsh
wren hopped among the reeds.
That warble of a memory came back recently when
I heard the distressing news that Shifflett had lost his
job and Metz had closed her bed and breakfast.
Alas, Shifflett retired in a swirl of controversy. Ever
passionate about saving wild things, he moved 400
Chiricahua leopard frog tadpoles from a too-small
backyard holding pond, where they'd get eaten by
other frogs, to a breeding pond on the refuge. But his
attempt to return the endangered frogs to the refuge
got caught in a Bermuda Triangle of bureaucracy. So
to save the frogs, he moved them without the proper
layers of approval. He helped a dying species, but it
cost him his job and a $3,500 fine.
But as I sit here pondering the cost of dreams
and passion, I realize that Shifflett and Metz both
understood that you must give your life without
hesitation to what you love — be it talking parrots, boys
in brightly colored pants, foppy quail or spotted frogs.
And sometimes you must pay the price for that
thing, those choices.
But even then you can comfort yourself knowing
that the sun must finally lance through the clouds.
Then you remember the good you have done as
you stand amid the glitter of the rain, the call of the
kingbird and the damp smell of the earth.
Loved Those Swimming Holes Give Yourself to What You Love and Hope for a Hole in the Clouds
I enjoyed the "Let's Go Swimmin' " story in June
2005, which transported me back to my youth
growing up in Coconino County. Although some of
the swimming holes are much more crowded than
they were when I was a kid, they are certainly worth
the trip nonetheless.
Annette Rivadeneyra, Surpr ise
One Man's Weed
Amid the profusion of colorful wildflowers ("The Color
of High Country") on page 26 of your July 2005 issue,
you have included toadflax, which is, oh dear, a weed!
Linaria dalmatica, an exotic or non-native plant, is
spreading like wildfire in the Coconino National Forest.
According to the Northern Arizona Weed Council (yes,
there is one) and botanist Laura Moser of the Coconino
National Forest, this weed deserves to be pulled out as
it competes with lupines, locos and the familiar red-orange
Indian paintbrushes for soil nutrients, space
and water.
Bobbie Bookhout, Tempe
Excellent point — non-native weeds beset many
areas, including the lower Sonoran Desert, where the
introduced grasses carry ground fires that devastate
our trademark saguaros, which have evolved no
defenses against fire. Still, sometimes it's hard to tell
the weeds from the wildflowers — or the financial
advisers from the scam artists, for that matter.
Digital's Not Ready for Prime Time
I was just reading "Viewfinder" (July '05)
about digital versus film photography. The film
photograph was so much clearer and the colors
much richer. I originally subscribed for the photos,
so please continue to keep the high-quality film
photographs. The landscape photos you've included
in the magazine since taking over as editor have
been outstanding.
Johanna Panico
Director of Photography Peter Ensenberger has been
deluged with digital debate mail, pretty evenly
split between filmophiles and digitheads. Please be
assured, we're still fanatics about the detail and
perspective of large-format film for scenics, but
we're exploring the opportunities to adapt to the
digital dawn.
A Broader Sense of Humor
I have been reading Arizona Highways magazine for
as long as I can remember. I can't imagine anyone
(John Roark's letter in "Dear Editor," June '05)
canceling his subscription because the humor page
has been eliminated. He states, "Any publication
without a humor section is of no value to me." But
there is humor throughout each issue. "This Month
in Arizona" and "Territorial Taxes" in "Taking the
Off-ramp" are two examples in the June issue. I
appreciate the blend of art, natural history, science,
anthropology, biography, history, travel and tall
tales you present.
Kather ine L. Strassburg, Grand Ledge, MI
I'm so happy you appreciate our modest efforts to
reflect the ongoing strangeness of life, even if we ran
out of space for our much-loved humor page. Perhaps
you could head off the Editor Lynching Party some
other beloved readers are organizing.
Hey Peter, You Nitwit!
Now we do not have a humor page, with which my
wife and I laughed ourselves silly. Of course, this
letter will never appear, as it seems you people do
not know what it is that has made Arizona Highways
so interesting. Please think about this. I feel it is
coming to the parting of the waves. Don't you want
to keep the customers you still have?
Anthony Morr is
Oh, dear. I'm sorry. Now I feel bad again.
Not a Complete Nitwit
I always read "All Who Wander" first because I
really enjoy your writing and wit. The magazine
has improved greatly in my opinion. There is more
continuity and more photographs. I particularly
like your layouts of full-page photos. Thank you
for making the reading experience enjoyable.
E. Daisley, Sedona
Oh. Wow. I feel better after all. Unless, you're saying
we should not run so many stories and just go with the
photographs. I mean, I love the stories.
Buenos Aires
National Wildlife
Refuge Manager
Wayne Shifflett
gambled his career
to save a frog in a
pond like this one.
{dear editor}
Publisher WIN HOLDEN
Editor PETER ALESHIRE
Senior Editor BETH DEVENY
Managing Editor RANDY SUMMERLIN
Research Editor LORI K. BAKER
Editorial Administrator CONNIE BOCH
Director of Photography PETER ENSENBERGER
Photography Editor RICHARD MAACK
Art Director BARBARA GLYNN DENNEY
Deputy Art Director BILLIE JO BISHOP
Art Assistant PAULY HELLER
Map Designer KEVIN KIBSEY
Arizona Highways Books
Editor BOB ALBANO
Production Director KIM ENSENBERGER
Promotions Art Director RONDA JOHNSON
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Director of Sales & Marketing KELLY MERO
Circulation Director HOLLY CARNAHAN
Finance Director BOB ALLEN
Fulfillment Director VALERIE J. BECKETT
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Title of Publication: Arizona Highways Publisher: Win Holden
Publication No.: ISSN 0004-1521 Editor: Peter Aleshire
Date of Filing: July 1, 2005 Managing Editor: Randy Summerlin;
address below
Frequency of issues: Monthly Complete mailing address
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published annually: Twelve 2039 W. Lewis Ave., Phoenix,
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July '04-June '05 June '05
Average no. Actual no.
copies each copies of
issue during single issue
preceding published nearest
12 months to filing date
A. Total number copies printed 280,582 265,011
B. Paid circulation
1. Outside-county, mail subscriptions 245,820 232,119
2. In-county subscriptions 0 0
3. Sales through dealers, carriers,
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C. Total paid circulation 258,661 243,719
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E. Free distribution outside the mail 1,451 813
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Arizona Oddities, Attractions & Pleasures {taking the off-ramp}
4 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S 5
{viewfinder} by Peter Ensenberger, director of photography
Sometimes if you want to make an
unforgettable image, you have to be willing to
look for interesting characters in dark places
— and maybe brave the karaoke.
At least, that's one insight that emerges from the
vivid work of photographer David Zickl, whose images
consistently grab me by the lapels and yank me into
a story.
Five of Zickl's storytelling images await you in this
issue. Beginning on page 34, his collection of haunting
black-and-white portraits
will draw you into our story
"A Day With the Dead."
Of course, faithful readers
know that Zickl made a
big splash in his August
2001 Arizona Highways
debut with his powerful
environmental portraits
of the people of Big Sandy
Valley. He's now a regular
contributor, including
recent stories on Kingman
and Flagstaff. These days, I
have to restrain myself from
giving Zickl every people-story
photo assignment.
"I'm not a landscape
photographer," he says. "I'm
primarily a conceptual
environmental portrait
photographer, and I hope to
tell the stories of towns or places through their people.
Generally, I spend about two weeks working on an
Arizona Highways photo assignment spread out over a
couple of months. I like to do my research on the spot.
I'll find the local watering hole and introduce myself,
and describe what I'm doing. Then the locals steer me
to the memorable characters in their town. Other times,
I just bump into them."
Zickl can turn a simple portrait into art by paying
attention to the details of lighting and composition.
Moreover, he creates compelling scenarios around his
subjects by incorporating interesting environments
that reveal the essence of the person. Zickl's mastery
of putting people at ease in familiar surroundings
allows them to shed facades and inhibitions, exposing
themselves honestly to his camera.
"I enjoy the act of making photographs and
interacting with my subjects," says Zickl. "A glance,
a gesture, an emotion, an expression of someone
who has opened themselves up to me. The final
image is a constant reminder of that experience."
Zickl's portrait of Juanita Bastian served as the
opening spread for our September 2004 story about
Kingman, and provided one of Zickl's most memorable
He tells the tale: "My assistant, Dawn Kish, and I set
up to shoot the neon sign outside the Kingman Lounge
at dusk. Unfortunately, when the light came on, part of
it was burned out and it just said 'King.' Disappointed
and tired, we packed up and went inside for a beer. It
was karaoke night and Juanita was there to sing. Totally
awesome gal."
Zickl asked Juanita if he could make her portrait.
They agreed to meet the next day. "We picked her up at
her house, and she sang Patsy Cline songs to me as we
drove to the shoot in her old Lincoln," Zickl recalls.
No wonder Zickl loves his job. "I wasn't cut out for a
desk job," he admits. "My cousin, George L. Zickl III,
is a fashion photographer, and he introduced me to
photography when I was 19. I dropped out of the college
where I was studying business and enrolled at the
Southeast Center for Photographic Studies in Florida."
Later, he worked as an assistant for Annie Leibovitz,
Bruce Davidson and several photographers with
Magnum Photos. But Zickl credits National Geographic
photographer Michael O'Brien, whom he assisted for
many years, as his biggest influence.
These influential photographers stretched his
photographic style and helped him develop his approach
to his work. He prefers using his Hasselblad 2¼-inch-square
format camera, 80 mm lens and Fujichrome
Provia 100 film and rarely shoots digital. "Film is still
the ultimate storage medium," he explains.
Zickl approached the "A Day With the Dead"
assignment a bit differently.
"I knew I wanted to shoot it in black and white to bring
dark and dramatic mood to the portraits, so I bought
some 4x5 black-and-white Polaroid film and brought my
view camera in addition to my Hasselblad. It was raining
that day, so the turnout was nil and the dining aspect
turned out to be one hot dog vendor."
So Zickl ad-libbed.
"A group of girls from Tucson came to put on a fashion
show and to dance and role play in some small skits,"
says Zickl. "Most were dressed in black, so I worked
them into my scenes. A few family members showed
up to place flowers and reflect on their lost loved ones. I
photographed whoever was available."
Demonstrating his knack for building images even
from the scraps of a story, Zickl weaves loose threads
into harmonious compositions.
Renowned photographer Joel Meyerowitz observed:
"You fill up the frame with feelings, energy, discovery and risk,
and leave room enough for someone else to get in there."
In David Zickl's case, his photographs leave room
enough for all of us.
David Zickl's Camera Lenses Go to the Heart of People Stories
Peter Ensenberger can be reached at
Head for the
North Pole
with Williams'
Grand Canyon
Railway on the
Polar Express
— a one-hour,
evening train
trip complete
with hot
carols, story
time and a visit
from Santa. The
Polar Express
runs November
10-13, 17-20,
27-28, 30;
December 1-5,
7-12, 14-22; and
January 6-7.
The world-renowned
Heard Museum
spices things
up with the
Market held
November 12-
13. Included
are Hispanic
arts and crafts
and strolling
(602) 252-8848;
The Phoenix
Zoo gets in
the holiday
spirit during
featuring more
than 600,000
colorful light
displays each
evening from
6 to 10 p.m.
November 24-
January 8
Christmas Day.
(602) 273-
1341; www.
This holiday season, the
Arizona Mining and Mineral
Museum in Phoenix is
hosting a traditional Thanksgiving
and Christmas feast and everyone's
invited — but don't start salivating
just yet. Though it looks good
enough to eat, even the sharpest
teeth could not make a dent in
this mouthwatering meal. Why?
Because every bit
of it is rock solid.
In 1949, Arless
and Margaret
Nixon began
collecting rocks
and minerals
that look like
food. Eventually,
they had enough
"food" for a table
of six. The elegant
spread became a
popular attraction
at exhibits until
it found a permanent home at the
museum in the late 1990s, when
the culinary-esque collection was
purchased from the Phoenix-based
couple by the Arizona Mineral and
Mining Museum Foundation.
Certain "entrees" and "side
dishes" are displayed year-round at
the museum in the "Today's Special"
exhibit. However, the holidays
merit the full menu of fruits,
breads, potatoes, pies, roast birds
and beef, casseroles, cauliflower
and even coffee. The full exhibit
runs throughout November and
Information: Arizona Mining
and Mineral Museum, (602)
255-3795 ext 10; www.admmr.
Eat Hard(y) at This Feast — It'll Rock You to Your Bones
Discover tricks of the trade for photographing Clifton's historic buildings at
arizonahighways.com (Click on "Photography")
Kingman's karaoke
queen, Juanita
Bastian, led
photographer David
Zickl on one of his
most memorable
photo shoots.
Aboard the
Polar Express
{taking the off-ramp} Arizona Oddities, Attractions & Pleasures
6 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S 7
of the
Q Was Phoenix
always the
capital of Arizona?
yes. However,
while Arizona was
still a Territory, the
capital actually
roamed around.
Fort Whipple was
the first Territorial
capital. As it was
only meant to
be temporary,
the capital was
eventually moved
to Prescott. This
angered many
citizens of the faster
growing Tucson.
So after some
heated debate, the
capital was moved
there. Not to be
outdone, Prescott
and soon won
the honor back.
Suspecting the fight
would never end,
Gov. Conrad Zulick
made Phoenix
the official capital
in 1889.
The Original 'Desperate
A rizona's earliest "Desperate
Housewives" were pawns
of men with medieval
understanding of
female physiology
and behavior. The
Insane Asylum of
Arizona opened
January 1887 and
offered a diabolical
alternative for their
One notable
inmate was the wife
of William Augustus
Hancock, the powerful "Father
of Phoenix," who served as
Maricopa County surveyor,
postmaster, sheriff, assistant to
the U.S. attorney, and school
board president.
On January 14, 1886, Judge
Hancock, 49, engaged his law
partners to testify that Lilly, 31,
an "exceedingly amiable and
modest woman of more than
ordinary intelligence and
character . . . has shown
a marked condition of
insanity for the past few
"Said insanity
is likely to prove
permanent," court
doctors affirmed.
Lilly, a true Arizona
pioneer, survived until
April 27, 1943. The cause of
her multiple incarcerations
for "erratic conversation and
annoying people" could be
treated today with outpatient
therapy, a prescription . . . or,
possibly, a divorce.
The life of former U.S. Sen.
Barry Goldwater has been
immortalized in stone — and
lots of it. The highest peak in the
White Tank Mountains, at an
elevation of 4,083 feet, now takes
the name of this famous Arizona
politician and photographer. Barry
Goldwater Peak overlooks Luke
Air Force Base, where the World
War II vet flew sunny skies as
a pilot on U.S.-Mexico border
patrols. In addition to having
a high school, a boulevard, an
airport terminal and a bombing
range named in his honor, the
five-term U.S. senator and 1964
Republican presidential nominee
is now commemorated with this
historically significant geological
feature — a mountain.
Mountain Man
We're not sure whether
t o be flattered by one
s pace scientist's recent
comparison of Saturn's moon Titan
to our beloved Arizona.
The Huygens probe recently
descended through Titan's thick
orange haze of an atmosphere and
landed on a soft, grainy surface
apparently composed of some solid
hydrocarbons and chunks of water
ice. The temperature on Titan is
a balmy minus-290 degrees, so
methane rains like water from the
sky, erodes arroyos in the frozen
surface and forms lakes and pools
that apparently either evaporate or
soak into the slushy surface.
Dr. Martin Tomasko, a principal
investigator for the Titan project,
observed, "It's like Arizona where
the riverbeds are dry most of the
time. But after rain, you might have
open flowing liquids and pools.
These pools gradually dry out: the
liquid sinks down into the surface."
Well, gee, doc. Thanks a lot . . .
we think.
Don't suppose you've been to
Lake Powell lately or fished the
White River? We'd better send him
a copy of the Arizona Highways
August water recreation issue.
Not only that, Titan is covered
with frozen "pollutants" like
methane. In fact, the warmth
of Huygen's touchdown set off
little puffy spurts of vaporizing
Frankly — to quote the salsa
television commercial — that
sounds a lot more like NEEEW
YORK CITY to us.
Gee, Thanks for the Compliment
Getting a Feel for the Real Wild West
Rancher, wrangler and cowboy
extraordinaire Wayne
Richardson raises Texas
longhorn cattle, runs an old-fashioned
Western town and offers
a taste of the Old West at a rustic
retreat — all just minutes away
from the modern comforts of home.
Located east of Apache Junction,
the D-Spur Ranch leads adventurers
away from Phoenix's sprawling
suburbia and into the rough and
tumble world of the Wild West.
The historic working cattle ranch
borders the Superstition Wilderness
and offers guided horseback
excursions, hayrides, chuck wagon
cookouts, campouts and cattle
drives — all geared to transform city
slickers into working cowboys.
Information: (602) 810-7029 or
Down south in Yuma, you
can see spots any day of
the year — but they aren't
necessarily due to the heat. In
the cool, cavernous den of Lutes
Casino, some of the Southwest's
best domino players set bones,
knock tiles and tally pips
in the "oldest
continuing pool
hall and domino
parlor in the state."
Built in 1901 as
a store and turned
into a pool hall in
1920, Lutes Casino
has since become
a trendy tourist
stop. But Bob Lutes continues the
casino's tradition — reserving the
tables at the front of the eatery
and pool hall for the bone setters
ready for a dicey dominoes match
and the chance to see spots.
Information: (928) 782-2192.
Seeing Spots
You won't find Kermit the Frog,
T he Great Gonzo, Animal or
a ny other of the wacky
Muppets characters when Miss
Piggy takes center stage at the
Hidden Meadow Ranch. In this
case, the flamboyantly fabulous
Miss Piggy is the largest SnowCat
in the world, which gobbles up
the miles as she takes passengers
on winter excursions through
pristine snowscapes near Greer in
the White Mountains. Seating 24
passengers in warm comfort, this
princess of prima donnas rolls
with the rough and rocky terrain as
she heads out into the pines of the
Apache-Sitgreaves National Forests
in pursuit of scenic vistas, wildlife
sightings and the perfect picnic
lunch — proving, perhaps, that
"bigger is better" after all.
Tours are held December
through March, depending on snow
Information: (928) 333-1000;
Make Tracks With
a Class Act
Barry Goldwater in 1941
A few years ago,
the unobtrusive
Mountains took
their place on world
maps as the home
to the renowned
limestone Kartchner
Caverns. However,
the range earned
its name from a
more subtle rock
deposit in a ledge of
a hard, fine-grained
rock known as
novaculite, which
has been used to
sharpen tools for
Arizona's ancient ruins form ramparts of rock and riddle. Rugged walls, exposed
pit houses and hidden furrows lure the curious. In our search for the ancients,
we follow an adventurous writer into Woods Canyon and then a team of driven
archaeologists sifting through the dust of Homol'ovi, all assembling the shards
of a fatal mystery. Finally, we offer a trip-planning guide to some of the famous
ruins scattered across the state.
Fertile Ash
The volcanoes that built Mount
Humphreys have long affected
the people living in its shadow.
Nearby Sunset Crater's explosion in
approximately a.d. 1064 spread ash
that improved growing conditions
and led to a population boom
and the construction of Lomaki
Ruins. The ash and cinders covered
800 square miles and created a
water-retaining mulch, enabling
the Sinagua people to grow crops
like cotton, which mimicked this
early winter dusting of snow.
robert g. mcdonald
n To order a print of this photograph, see page 1.
in search
of the
Secluded wilderness near Sedona keeps ancient treasures close to its heart
The hidden
Te x t a nd pho t og r aph s b y L A R R Y L I N DA H L
World of
Fatal Bloom
A Parry's agave comes of age, and that's no small task. It takes
the average Parry's 25 years to bloom, after which it drops
seeds to plant the next generation and then, sadly, dies. Give
this breezy Supai Sandstone grotto in Woods Canyon a few
years and it will be crawling with little Parry's agaves.
n To order a print of this photograph, see page, 1.
Holding Hands
This Sinaguan stick-and-brush shelter keeps its
secrets. Pictographs of humans holding hands
in a nearby alcove generate more questions.
pools mirroring flood-sculpted sandstone hold schools of fish
skittering below dragonflies, raptors and colorful songbirds.
Douglas firs, bigtooth maples, boxelders and ponderosa pines
hide signs of elk and ancient Indians. This is Woods Canyon—
not far from Sedona, yet secretly tucked out of sight.
On a recent trip to this hidden world, I sensed a deep connection
guiding me to places sheltering animal tracks and bones,
In a world below
the Colorado Plateau,
pictographs and centuries-old
Indian ruins.
Near its beginning, the canyon slides under
Interstate 17 about 22 miles south of Flagstaff. It
appears again southeast of Sedona, along State
Route 179, as Dry Beaver Creek. The 15 miles in
between hide a geologic jewel. Like most trea-sures,
the bounty remains well-guarded. Those
who want to know this canyon must work at it
by constantly hopping boulders and crossing
several deep, cold pools.
At 6,522 feet above sea level, Woods Canyon
begins its journey eastward through basalt.
Melted by the heat 20 to 60 miles underground,
the basalt oozed to the surface perhaps 10 mil-lion
years ago. Water pulled by gravity found
a path into the stone and began cutting this
canyon through layers of time.
Alvin Derouen, an electrical engineer, and
I set out to explore its depths in early June, as
sego lilies and Rocky Mountain irises bloomed
near the canyon rim and wild roses sparkled
pink in the streambed. A rare black hawk sailed
only 20 feet overhead, a migrant that nests in
the canyon and hunts frogs, snakes and fish
along the stream.
About a mile into the hike, a side canyon
from the south foretells reaching a large dry
waterfall. In another quarter mile, scoured
basalt gets progressively steeper until the last
15 feet dump nothing but air into an ominously
dark pool. Lock-tight handholds and cautious
footwork took us down over the black water to
a ledge traversing to the side.
The first big obstacle behind us, we continued
hopping from one boulder to the next — some
shifting with a metallic clink. The connect-the-dots
route crawled over and around lyrical mazes
of wild Arizona grapes, which offer sweet rewards
to orioles and other birds in late summer.
After a long toil between walls of dark basalt,
the first light-colored Coconino Sandstone
appeared. A cave held vanilla-colored drift-wood
lodged 20 feet overhead, fresh from this
year's spring flood. Farther along, eons of flood-water
had carved a deep hallway. Sheer cliffs
rose up on both sides, straight to the sky.
Then the space filled with the purling song
of a male canyon wren.
I soon stumbled across the secret meeting
place of six female canyon wrens. Flinching
their perky little tails, they twitched and spun
after each of his cascading solos.
This was what I sought — not a footrace
through the canyon but a relationship with it
— an intimacy with subtle details, a knowing
rendered from real wonder.
Beyond the narrows, we found a spot just
big enough for a slender tent. We dropped our
packs, loaded with supplies for seven days.
The next morning, a hummingbird hovered
only inches away as I captured memories in
Coconino Sandstone
Water, nature's solvent, pools in a 150-foot Coconino
Sandstone canyon it helped create. In 1910, N.H. Darton
dubbed these formations Coconino Sandstone on one of
the first geologic maps detailing the distribution of rocks.
This wa s what I sought —
not a footr ace through the c anyon
but a r el ationship with it . . .
Tasty Feet
The "eyespots" on this well-adapted common buckeye
butterfly don't scare off the photographer the way they do
potential predators. Feet first, this buckeye samples a seep-fed
water pool in Woods Canyon. Many butterflies taste
with their feet, then drink nectar through their tongues.
my notebook. Echoing birds called and sang.
Silent butterflies danced lightly through the
landscape. A boldly patterned buckeye butterfly
drew mineral-rich moisture up from damp sand,
wings clasped as if in prayer before it fluttered
away gracefully, making an art of every pre-cious
moment. Their lives last only 10 days.
All around us, nature's law asserted itself.
Here, a spider sipped the innards of an expired
butterfly. There, a lifeless Steller's jay fledgling
lay face down, the canyon breeze still animat-ing
its downy gray feathers.
The tiny death scenes haunted me, perhaps
because the canyon held dangers even for us.
The next narrows held a wall-to-wall pool of
frigid water. We had anticipated its long, dark
chill for months.
At first we had planned to cross on air mat-tresses.
We even practiced. We towed our heavy
packs — floating inside inflated garbage bags —
while paddling backward with the line tied to
one ankle. At the last minute, I had heard men-tion
of a "trail boat." After a few phone calls we
found one. It weighed 5 pounds, and surpris-ingly
cost only $20. It seemed a small miracle.
Rock-hopping again, we followed the canyon
west, until it bent due south, where suddenly
the boulders dropped out of sight into the infa-mous
"pool of liquid ice." We nervously studied
the portal to the other side. It was half a football
field long.
Without a word, Alvin dumped out a bag of
U-bolts, wing nuts and a hatch cover he had cut
in half at home. He went to work assembling
paddles he had designed for the hiking pole
handles. Then he unpacked several hundred
feet of nylon cord. Meanwhile, I unpacked and
unrolled the boat and huffed and puffed it into
a miniature raft.
Getting two medium-sized hikers and their
backpacks across the pool on a raft rated for just
over 300 pounds still posed a challenge. But we
untangled the cord, tied one end to the boat and
prepared to load my pack, climb in and launch.
Alvin would await the second shift.
Dipping the makeshift paddle into the water,
I entered the long-anticipated realm of hidden
risks as I felt the narrow and dark space tighten.
Then, near the middle, it began to magically
Wedges of sunlight ricocheting off walls
bounced onto the water, then back up the
wavy sandstone. Musical light wiggled and
gyrated. The cool chamber clearly echoed
each sound. I could have remained spell-bound
far longer, but I paddled onward.
Beaching the raft on the distant shore, I
unloaded. Alvin reeled in the empty raft
back across the pool.
We celebrated our escape, but 100 yards
later encountered another cold, dark pool.
The raft proved handy again. We waded
into chest-deep water, letting the boat float
our gear. Numb and shivering, we climbed
out, now more fully understanding what
we'd avoided earlier.
This new section cut through fossilized
sand dunes, creating a tapestry of cross-bedded
sandstone and twisted old pines as
lyrical as an Oriental landscape painting.
Elegant calligraphy rendered patterns of
line showing the shifting sand's various
angles of repose — 270 million-year-old
winds preserved in stone.
After weathering a brief but violent after-noon
thunderstorm, we continued into the
chile-powder red sandstone heart of the
The next morning I felt a mysterious con-nection
guiding me into secret places that
had sheltered animals and ancient peoples.
On a bed of leaves lay an old skull that once
held the living spirit of a gray fox.
Later in the day, I shared with Alvin my
discovery of a place that had housed the
living spirit of a human family — a cave
holding a primitive dwelling made with
woven sticks and brush. Grinding stones
lay on the powdery cave floor. A nearby
alcove was covered with pictographs, a row
of human figures all holding hands.
Cooking dinner under the quarter moon,
we talked about the caves. What might the
glyphs be trying to say? A small, translu-cent
creature flew about our camp, ghostly
and mysterious.
After breakfast, we entered the Supai
having descended 1,200 feet
since the beginning of the canyon. The
300 million-
year-old formation's alternat-ing
red coastal sandstone, mudstone, pale
limestone and conglomerate give it a strik-ing
Slots and sluiceways sinuously directed
water from one gigantic seep-fed pool to
the next. Babbling murmurs energized
the air. Ancient Indians must have known
secret passages from the plateau above to
these treasures.
In an elevated alcove, a pristine Sinagua
Indian ruin nestled beneath the over-hang
of a streamside cliff. A boulder with
petroglyphs — a snake and human-shaped
figures — guarded the 13th-century door.
Lying amid tangled vegetation, an elk ant-ler
hinted at how the ancient people sus-tained
A painted redstart hovered, then nabbed
an insect. Three California sister butterflies
skipped along. Tadpoles filled underwater
classrooms. A swift skimmed the water,
leaving a ribbon-thin wake. The canyon
had captured my soul. Before going to bed,
I swam in water reflecting the moon. We
stayed two more days.
We hiked two-thirds of the canyon on
the very last day. It dropped another 1,000
feet, the boulders got smaller, the air grew
hotter. The pace improved after we exited
the rocky channel, a cairn marking the 5-
mile Woods Canyon Trail above.
The final hour connected us to the Hot
Loop Trail. Climbing out of the canyon
and cresting a flank of Horse Mesa, we
were greeted by Courthouse Rock. We
had hiked the north-to-south length of
Munds Mountain Wilderness. Finally, a
prearranged shuttle completed the journey
at Jacks Canyon Trailhead — the spirit of
wilderness from the heart of the canyon
still embracing my soul.
Larry Lindahl of Sedona enjoys hiking and exploring the
secret wilderness places hidden in the backcountry.
Sinaguan Style
A Sinaguan cliff dwelling leaves its
mark on the canyon. The architectural
style seen nestled here resembles
the larger dwellings at sites like
Palatki. Pictographs of animals
and humans probably represented
important incidents and events.
Supai Splendor
Pools flanked by flood-sculpted Supai Sandstone
reflect the midafternoon light. Named after the
village of Supai on percolating Cataract Creek,
Supai Sandstone is difficult to date because it
rarely holds fossils.
14 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m
a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S 17
Shif ting
from the dust
secr ets
By C R A IG C H I L DS Pho t og r aph s b y G EORG E S TO C K I NG
A wanderer and a brace of archaeologists find
Don't Take the Shards
Potsherds collected by a visitor
pepper the walls at Homol'ovi
State Park. Homol'ovi is unusual
because the Hopi Indian tribe
pushed for its establishment
in a rare cooperative effort
with archaeologists. This
collaboration has prevented
destructive looting and created
a centerpiece for the study of
Hopi history.
unexpected resonance in ruins of an ancient pueblo
with red dirt, loose clothing snapping. The workers swept and dug to
get the dirt out from around ancient stone walls and chambers, sand
swirling in their faces, coating every space that they cleared. It seemed
like an impossible task, but somehow, this ancient pueblo slowly rose
from the earth, exposed inch by inch into the daylight by trowels and
We were working on a low hill in the desert. Not far away, hidden by
mobs of tamarisk trees, flowed the meager stream of the Little Colorado
River. The ancestral Hopi Indian pueblos set along here, near the town
of Winslow, are known as Homol'ovi, a word that roughly means "a
place that is mounded up" or "a place of the little hills." We were taking
The wind raced over us,
streaming our bodies
Guardian of the Ruins
The sun rises over ruins to which
the Hopis remain intimately
connected. Many people travel to
the park to honor their ancestry
through religious ceremonies
and stories. The legend of the
guardian of Homol'ovi says that
a pregnant woman, unable
to travel during the last Hopi
migration, stayed behind and
gave birth to twin fawns. She
became known as Tíikuywúuti,
the mother of all game animals
and the guardian of the ruins.
18 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S 19
the mound apart, revealing a tapestry of buildings
about 700 years old.
The wind never stopped. In the moments it back-drafted,
I could hear tinkering sounds of tools and
voices mumbling from subterranean rooms. Then it
was all covered by sudden booms and snaps, tarps
whipping at the sky.
I put down the chisel I'd been using to clear debris
from a neatly stacked and mortared masonry wall. I
got up, pulled my gloves off and reached under my
sunglasses to scrape sand from around my eyes.
Surrounding me was a village of diggers, graduate
students, undergrads, avocational archaeologists
and scholars. I came by invitation, a traveler stop-ping
in to help with the work. Heads bobbed up
and down from the trenches, shovels thrust into
the ground, wheelbarrows filled, hauled over to the
screening area where great bellows of dust escaped
into the sky.
The people here were tunneling into a world
invisible to everyday eyes. They revealed artifacts
and rooms, calling up stories from this silent earth
and piecing together a history encased by centuries
of wind. My own knowledge of this landscape is broad. I have
walked for years across the desert Southwest, learning the subtle-ties
of its canyons and the shifting colors of earth between plateaus.
While I have studied this horizontal plane, archaeologists have
delved into the vertical planes, digging down through time. It is
good that we sometimes get together. We share stories. I profess to
them what it is like to cross the country, and they tell me what lies
concealed beneath my feet. I draw my routes across maps, explain-ing
variations in summer rain patterns and the changing grit of
geological formations, while they sit with me into the night telling
of buried irrigation farms and caches of pots.
Curious, I rose and walked down into rooms electric with
discovery. In Room 248, the digging was quick and precise. They
were fairly certain this was a kiva, a rectangular room of ceremony.
The man in charge stood at the top, several feet above the clean-sided
pits. He said that if they didn't find a ventilator shaft, a deflector
stone, a bench — anything characteristic of a kiva — he was going
to become very frustrated. The diggers laughed, but it was swift,
nervous laughter. They wanted to find the treasures to reveal the
history of this room. So much hope was here, so much expectation
of discovery. A kiva would
reveal settlement patterns
within the pueblo, how
people had organized
their lives in a time when,
instead of convenience
stores and tract homes,
there were baskets and complexes of masonry dwellings.
Beyond this churning hub of activity, two women worked on
hands and knees in a satellite excavation. I was curious about the
work over there, so day after day I kept returning to them, to sit
at the edge of the rubble-filled room they were excavating, asking
questions as they dug through tusks of fallen timbers.
These were the most dedicated archaeologists at the site, as far as
I could tell. Their faces were streaked in sweat and dust. They were
finding nothing in this room, at least very little material remains
of the culture, yet they dug with flawless care, recording every
quarter inch in the logbooks and dusting out crevices with fine-hair
brushes. One woman was from Pennsylvania, the other from
Zacatecas, Mexico. They had both worked together unearthing
temples in Guatemala.
Coming down to sit, I asked how this is different from excava-tions
in Central America. The Mexican woman reared back onto
her knees, saying, "It took a while to learn the soil here."
The Pennsylvanian added, "It's harder to find household items
in the jungle. Down there we're just looking at the lives of kings.
Temples and sacred chambers, that sort of thing.
"The Southwest is very different," she continued. "So much is
preserved here. We can actually see the lives of the common people,
which to me is far more interesting than the lives of kings."
They showed me what they had found so far from the rubble
of two stories worth of collapsed walls. The items were small and
personal: a beautifully fluted arrowhead and a bit of bone carved
into a gaming piece. Elsewhere, diggers had uncovered elegant
ceramic vessels. Yet somehow, these diminutive pieces from this
outlying chamber seemed vastly important as I turned them in my
hand. The Mexican woman figured that these few artifacts had
been stuck in between the ceiling beams long ago, private things
tucked away for luck. When the rooms caved
in, the objects fell loose.
As we talked, I told them where they were
in a geography they were not especially famil-iar
with. I explained that beyond the ochre
horizon to the south lay the brimming for-ests
of the Mogollon Rim. To the north was a
long desert of clay hills reaching toward the
far mesas of the Hopi. Homol'ovi was basi-cally
an outpost, a distant reach of the Hopi
mesas. The people who once lived here relied
on a few water sources — Chevelon Creek and
the Little Colorado — but generally, this is a
dustbowl with few springs or water holes. I
had encountered meager archaeological sites
while traveling around here in the past on
foot, some rock art up a canyon, a scatter of
pottery around a few small mounds, but noth-ing
the size of this pueblo. We talked back and
forth through the wind, sharing bits of infor-mation,
building a story of this place. When
just the right combinations of data had been
exchanged, I walked back toward the center
of the pueblo where I had been working.
Different teams of archaeologists had been
coming here over the years, digging trenches,
clearing away the walls of plazas. They had
mapped a few hundred rooms in a beehive
of nested squares. In the 14th century A.D.,
these pueblos were pivotal in long-distance
trade networks. Deep red vessels out of the
Kayenta region of far northern Arizona
arrived here, followed by saffron-colored
pots from the Hopi mesas and richly colored
White Mountain Redwares from the high
country to the south and east. Carved shells
came from the Sea of Cortes. Copper bells
and macaws with phosphorescent feathers
came up from Mexico.
Of course, there was no Mexico, no
Phoenix, no Arizona in those days. The
Southwest was a landscape threaded by the
civilization of Hohokam and the ancestors
of the Hopis, Zunis, Tewas and others. This
pueblo was one among hundreds or thou-sands
scattered across what is now New
Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Arizona, Chihuahua
and Sonora. This had probably been a dusty
masonry village set on the far horizon of its
time. Each room would have been different,
some ripe-smelling from generations of kitchens and winter fires,
others freshly built and smelling of mortar and clean blankets.
Some were smoke-blackened, and some faced southwest into the
wind that carried sand in through the doors. Dogs barked, old men
did their chores and children played. People lived almost on top
of each other, sharing their lives and hoarding the secrets of clan
memories. Driftwood collected from the river was used in con-struction
because few trees grew here. Corn and cotton grew in the
fields. For more than a hundred years, this was a busy place.
Floods probably closed it down in the late 14th century, dev-astating
the fields season after season until people gave up and
moved on, retreating to the Hopi mesas. These
are the things I could not know from my own
travels. When I come upon mounds such as this
one where burrowing animals have kicked up
shards of pottery, I only see what lies on the sur-face.
I recognize patterns where shadscale and
sage grow along the edges of buried walls, but I
do not know what the hidden walls mean. I have
to come to the archaeologists to find out what is
down there.
I was walking through the trenched rooms
of the pueblo, gripping my hat brim against the
wind, when I saw several people bustling around
a newly cleared room. Its floor was made from
carefully set flagstones, the rock surface polished
into gentle waves that struck the excavators as
almost having been carved by hand.
I had seen this before, though. I asked them if
the pueblo had been made mostly from Moenkopi
formation rocks. They said yes, and I explained
what I knew of the Moenkopi formation, how it
is made of fossilized beaches of stream bottoms
that often have ripples like this. The patterns in
these "ripple stones" had not been human-made.
They were a much more ancient geological fea-ture,
probably chosen by ancient masons for their
beauty and carried some distance the way people
today import tiles for their kitchens.
They did not believe me right away. They were
good scientists. They needed proof. They waited
for the archaeologist in charge of the dig to come
over and see for himself, a man named Charles
Adams. He came by and crouched with us at the
edge of this freshly exposed room, its floor hand-somely
"Ripple stone," Adams said.
The excavators nodded and wrote details down
in their logs. This was the art of archaeology,
piecing together the strange details to construct
a story. My knowledge had come from countless
miles, theirs from innumerable brushstrokes.
Between us, we imagined this mound in the des-ert,
this Homol'ovi.
HOMOL'OVI FACTS by Casey Lynch
■ One of the largest ruins in the
Southwest, Homol'ovi includes
nearly 2,000 rooms in one pueblo
alone. There are four pueblos
over 4,000 windswept acres.
Discover the intrigue and history
of Homol'ovi Ruins State Park, the
gateway to the Hopi culture.
■ Homol'ovi means "Place of the
Little Hills."
■ At its peak, an estimated 5,000
people called the pueblos home.
■ Farmers thrived in times of
severe drought, tilling the
fertile flood plain.
■ Homol'ovi was one of the
last stopping places of the Hopis
on the ancient Palatkwapi Trail,
which ran from Montezuma
Castle to the Hopi mesas.
■ An old clan tale blames mosquitoes
for the desertion of the ruins.
■ Another clan speculates the
answer for the abandonment is in the
stars — "fire in the sky" to be exact.
On rare nights, the aurora borealis
has been glimpsed from Homol'ovi
and, along with falling stars, may
have been a sign to move on.
■ The Hopis don't consider
the site abandoned; it is still
used for ceremonies.
Pieces of the Mystery
An archaeologist (top
left) carefully looks for
artifacts after sifting
the dirt removed from
an 800-year-old kiva.
Archaeologists (above)
painstakingly record
the exact position of
an artifact. Volunteers
(left) learn how to
identify pottery and
artifacts prior to working
on the excavation.
Faded petroglyphs at Homol'ovi
Craig Childs of Colorado has been working at
archaeological sites throughout the Four Corners region
and is currently finishing a book about ancient migrations
in the Southwest.
George Stocking of Phoenix found it stimulating to be
around so many people, including volunteers, with so much
passion for archaeology that they worked as though they'd do
it for nothing.
z w
Walnut Canyon
Montezuma Castle
Investigate other Arizona Indian ruins at arizonahighways.com (Click on "Ancient Arizona Guide")
1 Canyon de
Chelly National
SHEER 1,000-FOOT sandstone
cliffs dwarf well-preserved
ancestral Puebloan ruins in
possibly the only national
monument that still has a
thriving community living in
it. Visit the White House Ruins
under the towering canyon walls
or scout the South Rim drive to
the split 800-foot butte called
Spider Rock. Navajo legends
say that Spider Woman dwells
on the high cliffs and teaches
people how to weave. Others
claim she boils bad children
and eats them. Supposedly,
the bones of her victims have
bleached the white streaks
that drizzle down the face of
the rock. Archaeologists aren't
sure why the pueblo builders
abandoned the canyon shortly
before the Navajos arrived. Some
have linked the abandonment
to a regional drought that
might have prompted failure
of crops in the canyon that
depended on summer rains.
Directions: From Flagstaff, take
Interstate 40 east to Chambers
and U.S. Route 191 north. The
visitors center is on Indian Route
7, about 3 miles east of Chinle.
Visiting Ruins: A good road
accesses the canyon and allows
a view of Spider Rock. A steep
trail leads to White House Ruins.
Visitors must hire a Navajo guide
to enter the canyon elsewhere.
Information: (928) 674-5500;
2 Casa Grande
Ruins National
THE HOHOKAM ("those who
came before") built the most
extensive cities in Arizona. The
most imposing remnant of
that once extensive, irrigation-based
civilization is the restored
four-story Casa Grande ("Big
House") Ruins, the nation's
first archaeological preserve.
Archaeologists believe that
window slits and niches in the
ruins served as an astronomical
observatory, which helped mark
the onset of crucial seasons by
the positions of the sun and
moon. The Hohokam built
hundreds of miles of irrigation
canals and large cities, but
abandoned the region in the
15th century. Archaeologists
blame drought, overpopulation
and perhaps outside pressure.
Directions: From Phoenix, take
Interstate 10 southeast for 40
miles and exit at State Route
387. Head east on State 387
approximately 7 miles to State
Route 87. Turn right on State
87 and continue for 7 miles
to the intersection of 87 and
State Route 287. Turn right and
go .25 mile to the entrance.
Visiting Ruins: Visit the
small visitors center for an
overview and information
about the Hohokam, then
tour the single block of ruins,
protected from the elements
by a pagodalike roof.
Information: (520) 723-3172;
or www.nps.gov/cagr.
White House Ruins, Canyon de Chelly
3 Keet Seel and
Betatakin Ruins
in Navajo
THE 17-MILE round-trip hike
to the stunning cliffside ruins
of Keet Seel ("broken pottery")
discourages the crowds and
makes this one of the most
impressive and evocative ruins
in the state. Visitors who get a
permit and pay the toll of the
hike can climb the white-knuckle
ladder and meander through the
Keet Seel ruins. The largest cliff
dwelling in Arizona, Keet Seel
was discovered serendipitously
by an amateur archaeologist
tracking a renegade mule.
A less strenuous 5-mile hike
protects nearby Betatakin
("ledge house"), nestled in an
alcove beneath a 450-foot-high
cliff. Archaeologists speculate
that a drought caused springs
to dry up when water tables
dropped and prompted the
abandonment of both sites. The
inhabitants may have moved
south to perhaps become the
Hopi people. These two sites in
the Navajo National Monument
can be reached only on foot;
visitation is limited, so call ahead.
Directions: From U.S.
Route 160 in far northern
Arizona, take State Route
564 north 9 miles to park.
Visiting Ruins: Make a
reservation, since visitation is
strictly limited. These ruins offer
perhaps the most pristine and
haunting sites in the state.
Information: (928) 672-2700;
5 Tonto
WANT TO get up close and
personal with the secrets of 14th
century Salado Indian culture?
Check out the well-preserved
19-room Lower Ruin in a cave
overlooking Roosevelt Lake. The
Salado gradually left during
the 14th century. Archaeologists
believe the desertion could have
been prompted by climactic
changes. At the visitors center
museum, ogle artifacts and
see why the Salado Indians
are known as exceptional
craftsmen who produced
exquisite polychrome pottery
and intricately woven textiles.
Directions: From U.S. Route
60 west of Globe, turn left
(northwest) onto State Route
188; drive 30 miles to Tonto
National Monument entrance.
Visiting Ruins: Easy access,
but still only lightly visited.
Information: (928) 467-2241;
6 Tuzigoot
MORE THAN 200 people
formerly lived in this hilltop
pueblo overlooking the Verde
River. The people of Tuzigoot
("crooked water") irrigated
beans, squash and corn from
the Verde River and also relied
on a year-round spring that
still gushes today. Nonetheless,
they abandoned the 110-room
complex in the early 1400s. They
may have overtaxed the wild
food resources that cushioned
drought and crop failure or may
have conflicted with newcomers
like the Yavapai. Now, the ruins
overlook a spring-fed marsh
that also offers prime birding.
Directions: From Interstate17,
75 miles north of Phoenix, turn
left onto State Route 260 and go
west 15 miles to Cottonwood. Go
north on State Route 89A and,
5 miles outside of Cottonwood,
take the signed Tuzigoot exit.
Visiting Ruins: Get oriented
at the small visitors center
with its displays, then tour the
hilltop ruin. Nature lovers can
wander down to the marsh.
Information: (928) 634-5564;
7 Walnut Canyon
THE ISLAND Trail down into
Walnut Canyon passes by the
remains of 20 dwellings built into
overhangs of the 600-foot Kaibab
limestone cliffs. The diminutive
doorways and dark interiors
give a feel for a cliff dweller's
home. The handprints of
the makers still show in the
mud plaster of the walls. The
structures were built soon
after the series of volcanic
explosions that built nearby
Sunset Crater, perhaps because
the rain of ash created a natural
mulch, enriching the soil. The
punishing terrain and hints of war
might explain why inhabitants
vacated these premises.
Directions: Take Interstate 40
about 3 miles east from Flagstaff.
At Exit 204, turn right and drive
3 miles south to the canyon rim.
Warning: Tight turnaround
for towed vehicles; 40 feet
maximum length advisory.
Visiting Ruins: The small
visitors center provides a
good overview. The hike
down to the ruins is steep.
Information: (928) 526-3367;
8 Wupatki
DRIVEN BY the molten bellowing
of Sunset Crater Volcano in the
11th century, scattered Sinagua
farmers went cosmopolitan and
settled in pueblo villages, including
the sprawling and windswept
100-room, three-story Wupatki
("something long that was cut
short"). The volcanic ash actually
lengthened the growing season,
leading to a population boom.
However, within 400 years the
region emptied out. Some blame
the wind and gambling. Specifically,
the region's often-fierce winds
blew away the insulating ash
mulch. Meanwhile, perhaps
emerging social challenges like
gambling, new religions and
economic shifts contributed to the
collapse. The complex includes a
restored ball court and an adjacent
blowhole, one of the most unusual
features of Wupatki. On hot days,
the blowhole funnels a steady
stream of cool air with enough
force to vertically suspend a hat
in midair, causing it to dance
on the damp, earthy gusts.
Directions: Take U.S. Route
89 north for 12 miles from
Flagstaff. Turn right at the
sign for Sunset Crater Volcano-
Wupatki national monuments.
Drive 21 miles to visitors center.
Information: (928) 679-2365;
4 Montezuma
Castle National
MISNAMED FOR Aztec
emperor Montezuma, the
imposing five-story, 20-room
structure is one of the most-visited
ruins in the state. Perched
on a limestone ledge 90 feet
above a creek, the dwellings were
actually built by the Sinagua. For
some reason, the Sinagua gave
up villages along the creek to
move into this almost inaccessible,
fortresslike cliff dwelling. But
they held on there for a relatively
short time before abandoning
the area entirely. Be sure to
also visit Montezuma Well, a
collapsed limestone cavern with
a unique ecosystem involving
ducks, leeches and turtles. The
Sinagua built structures in the
cavern and irrigated their crops
with spring water so mineral-laden
that it effectively lined their
canals. They're still visible today.
Directions: From Interstate 17
some 80 miles north of Phoenix,
take Exit 289 and follow signs.
Information: (928) 567-3322;
www.nps.gov/moca. Tuzigoot
Lower Ruin,
Tonto National
Keet Seel
Tour of Ancient
Arizona Holds
Clues to Missing
Persons Case
do you have the gri t to comb
through one of the largest missing persons
cases in archaeological history?
What really happened
more than 500 years ago to
prompt Indian tribes across the
Southwest to abruptly abandon
enormous cliff dwellings and
pueblos? Was it drought? Or
disease? Did they go the way
of the Mayans, or the buffalo?
In a culture where every bean,
root and branch had a song, why has the story
all but vanished?
Archaeologists, who are no longer satisfied
with pawning off the mystery
as a mass Indian Houdini
act or the greatest alien
abduction ever, continue
to search for answers,
and now you can
join the hunt.
Chase down the
clues for yourself
with this guide to the ancient Indian
ruins of Arizona and sleuth out the
surreptitious sights of one of the
Southwest's most elusive secrets.
than 500
years ago
g u ide to Ancient Arizona
22 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S 23
written and photographed by Gary Ladd Nature's Mirror FOREST ALCOVE
"Linked with the reflections from a tranquil pool, the mirror presentation
doubly emphasizes the sinuous willow tree trunks. The photograph on the
left has been flipped on the right-hand page to create this mirror image.
This image was made in a secluded alcove near Lake Powell." — Gary Ladd
24 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S 25
es, it's in my job description. As a landscape
photographer, I search out pleasing designs of
natural origin: curves, concentric circles, parallel
and diverging lines, patterns and broken patterns.
I look for regularities in structure that may gently coax
photography toward art.
Mirror images occur naturally in reflections, echoing
top to bottom, attracting us with their world of the real
and its inverted twin. They may also be discovered
somewhat less naturally by way of darkroom or computer
magic, this time echoing side to side, left to right. In an
accommodating scene, features materialize that were
nearly imperceptible in the singular view.
When reality and imitation are partnered, the ordinary
retreats and the extraordinary comes forth. Often the
perception is of more detail and structure. Sweeping
lines fly toward the horizon, curving lines attract one
another and parallel lines multiply. The face of nature
appears especially fresh and vigorous.
And just as with the human face, there's an extra depth
of beauty if the countenance is balanced. I hold a great
fondness for symmetries — symmetries of line and shape,
color and shading — on the face of the Earth's rock, water,
life and sky.
An eye for symmetry is not included in my job description,
but it's hardwired into my photographer's mind.
In this portfolio, the original images are on the left-hand
side and flopped to the right to reveal surprising patterns.
ESCALANTE TRIBUTARY (left)
"Simplicity is a common (and often
elusive) goal in landscape photography.
Because the natural world is
jammed with objects, a part of the
photographer's job is to eliminate
the extraneous while emphasizing
those elements that reinforce one
another. Desert varnish patterns and
a broad color palette strengthen
this image of an Escalante Canyon
alcove of Lake Powell." — G.L.
FERRUGINOUS WATER (below)
"A streamlet has sculpted the sandy
bed of Lake Powell's West Canyon
while bacterial action has deposited
a sheen of iron on the surface of the
water. The combination of ripple marks
and color (the result of light wave
interference) give this scene simple but
strong elements that are intensified
by mirror image treatment." — G.L.
... just as with the human face,
there's an extra depth of beauty
if the countenance is balanced.
26 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S 27
"Geometry is destiny in landscape
photography; thus, I'm forever looking
for patterns and broken patterns in
the landscape. The mirror presentation
emphasizes the patterns as with this image
of seeps streaming down the face of Navajo
Sandstone near Glen Canyon Dam." — G.L.
28 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S 29
"Patterns have always held appeal for photographers. The designs drawn by the wind seem to offer every conceivable type of pleasing line: curving,
diverging, parallel, undulating and concentric. The curving ripples of Lake Powell's Face Canyon form a necklace when joined as mirror images." — G.L.
n a sultry August night in 1869, in the
heart of Apache territory, Capt. John Barry, 1st
Cavalry, disregarded a direct order from his com-manding
officer. In doing so, he averted a national
scandal and saved lives, but he also faced the threat
of a court-martial.
Yet, no one today remembers Barry's name. In truth, we should
celebrate this Irish-born soldier's courage, for it represented man
at his most compassionate on a merciless frontier.
Barry's story begins with the discovery of gold in Apacheria.
Word of the supposed find, known as Doc Thorne's gold, in 1869
By Leo W. Banks
Illustration by René Milot O
on the Frontier
Capt. John Barry's
his career
but prevented a
m a s s a c r e
defiance of orders
32 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S 33
old, born in Cork, Ireland, a shoemaker in
civilian life, ignore his training and dis-obey
a commander in the field?
Surely, the blue-eyed, 5-foot-7-inch sol-dier
never imagined himself in such a posi-tion.
He enlisted in the Second Dragoons in
Boston in May 1857, mustered out after five
years, then in 1863 re-enlisted as a second
lieutenant at the height of the Civil War. In
a battle near Bethel Church, Maryland, he
was shot in the leg. The bullet also killed his
horse, which fell on him, causing further
injuries. The following year he was brevet-ted
to captain after demonstrating gallantry
at the Battle of Todd's Tavern, Virginia.
But those were situations a stout immi-grant
could handle. He was prepared to die
before an enemy's rifle. Killing women and
children was an entirely different matter.
Barry summoned his officers to hear
their opinions. Every one opposed making
the fight. He also consulted George Cooler,
who vouched for Miguel.
At a similar meeting at about 2 a.m.,
Cooley told Franklin, "Capt. Barry's orders
were to secure you, then to kill every Indian
in this camp, regardless of age or sex."
Franklin was outraged. "Even the fiends
in hell would feel themselves disgraced by
such an act," he wrote.
Franklin also berated Cooley and Dodd
for bringing the soldiers to the camp. But
Cooley explained that he and Dodd were
prisoners, and that Green had only let
them depart camp on the promise that they
not escape. Cooley added that the massa-cre
was to have taken place that night, but
was postponed for fear the Indians would
escape. Desperately the two men tried
to devise a strategy to avert the disaster.
Franklin wanted to warn the Indians so
they could slip quietly away. But Cooley
argued that such a move would guaran-tee
that he and Dodd would be shot in the
Finally, they agreed that Cooley and
Dodd would return to the soldiers' camp
and prevail upon Barry not to attack. The
two men departed at 3 a.m. and returned
an hour later with good news. Barry had
decided to disregard the colonel's order.
He also asked that the Coyoteros gather at
sunup to powwow.
In Franklin's version, Barry stood before
the Indians on the morning of August 2
and told them that he'd been ordered to
kill them all. A gasp passed through the
crowd. The women drew their arms tight
to themselves and their children. When
the disruption subsided, Barry explained
that he'd decided, "as a matter of humanity,"
to ignore the command.
Miguel then repeated a request that the
soldiers take his people to a reservation
and protect them. Barry told the chief to
proceed to Camp McDowell and make his
plea to the district commander. He then
wrote a letter supporting Miguel.
Upon his return to the White River,
Barry explained that if he had followed his
orders, "they would've been guilty of cold-blooded
murder." In the versions told by
Cooley and Franklin, which largely jibe
with military records in other respects,
Green was so furious at the insubordina-tion
that he relieved Barry of his command
and began readying court-martial papers.
But Barry's military records show no
evidence of court-martial. So if Green did
file papers, they never made it into the
captain's permanent file.
However, Green clearly later changed his
mind regarding Miguel and other White
Mountain bands. Convinced they were
peaceful, he advocated the formation of a
reservation. The adjutant general approved
the request in 1870 and established Camp
Ord, later called Camp Apache, under
Colonel Green's command.
But Barry's time in the Army he loved
was ending. His Civil War wound had
caused such debilitating rheumatism that
he requested a discharge. Mustered out in
1871, he died nine years later at the age of 44,
a forgotten soldier racked by disease. Yet to a
small band of mountain Apaches in Arizona,
he was a hero without firing a shot.
Additional Reading: Leo W. Banks' Rattlesnake
Blues: Dispatches from a Snakebit
Territory relates true accounts of news,
yarns and utter lies about the Arizona
Territory. Published in the Arizona Highways
Wild West Collection, the softcover
book ($7.95 plus shipping and handling)
can be ordered at arizonahighways.com or
by calling toll-free (800) 543-5432.
reached guide and scout Corydon Eliphalet
Cooley at Fort Wingate, in northwestern
New Mexico.
With letters from prospectors and crudely
drawn maps, Cooley believed that a fortune
lay within his grasp. To find the treasure,
he enlisted adventurer Henry Wood Dodd,
and a New York-born printer named Albert
Banta, also known as Charles Franklin.
The men enlisted as a guide a one-eyed
Coyotero Apache chief named Miguel, who
happened to be at Fort Wingate for a peace
conference. On July 10, the party departed
New Mexico for Miguel's village on Carrizo
Creek and their nearly disastrous encoun-ter
with Captain Barry.
In a detailed account of the expedition
published in the Weekly Arizonan, Cooley
said the gold hunters camped on the creek
for several days, prospecting and feasting
on sweet ears of corn from the lush valley.
Then Miguel gathered 40 of his people and
pushed west toward Cibecue Creek, prom-ising
that it ran with gold.
But when the prospecting party neared
the boundary of Coyotero territory at Cibecue,
they encountered a startling sight — a
naked brave, probably from one of the San
Carlos or Southern Tonto bands, painted
white and carrying a breech-loading
He warned them they would die if they
continued. Moments later, the lone Indian's
band rode up and repeated the message.
Cooley wrote that as the Indians sur-rounded
the gold hunters, speaking in
excited voices, Miguel cautioned the white
men to stand still and hold their fire.
"We thought our time had come," wrote
Cooley in his letter, published September 4,
1869. "This excitement lasted about half an
hour, when the short-haired scalpers drove
off on condition that we would go back on
our trail, which we did on a double quick."
In his own account written years later,
Franklin said that the day after arriving at
Miguel's village, they received word from
an Indian runner of a military operation to
the south. The soldiers, including Captain
Barry's Company L from Camp Goodwin,
had destroyed a rancheria and burned
cornfields. The runner's bullet-shattered
arm proved his story.
Other runners came in on successive
days to inform the gold-hunters of the move-ment
of the 140 soldiers from Goodwin and
Camp Grant. By July 30, the Carrizo village
knew the troopers were headed their way,
but did not know why. Cooley decided to
ride out to meet the soldiers, accompanied
to the military camp on the White River by
Dodd, Miguel and three warriors. Franklin
remained with the Coyoteros.
But Cooley did not then realize that Col.
John Green, Barry's commanding officer,
had already ordered Cooley's execution.
Green's troops had captured several Indian
women near San Carlos, and from them
learned that three Anglos camped on the
Carrizo were trading powder and lead with
the Indians. Arming hostiles was a capital
offense, and Green ordered his men to kill
the traders and wipe out the Indians.
Luckily for Cooley, Green's chief scout,
George Cooler, spotted the riders approach-ing
just as the soldiers in camp rushed for
their arms. Cooler recognized Corydon
Cooley, a friend with whom he'd served
in the New Mexico Volunteers. To save
Cooley, Cooler ran between the two groups
with arms held high.
"Colonel Green reprimanded me severely
for interfering with his orders to kill the
traders," wrote Cooler, in a paper presented
to the Arizona Society of Pioneers in 1894.
Corydon Cooley recounted what hap-pened
next: "He [Green] was very justly
surprised to find two white men with these
Indians . . . and inquired what the devil
brought us here in the country, among
the Indians, where he had four companies
and expected to fight every minute. We
recounted to him all the particulars.
"Still, if it had not been that I recognized
George Cooler, who, upon making myself
known to him, told the colonel who I
was, I think Dodd and I would have been
furnished government transportation to
[camps] Goodwin or Grant" — meaning an
undertaker's wagon.
Although Miguel carried papers from
military commanders authorizing his mis-sion,
Green placed the Coyotero chief under
arrest. Cooley said that he and Dodd asked
for the same treatment, so the Indians
would not think themselves betrayed.
In his letter in the Tucson Arizonan,
Cooley described making his way the fol-lowing
morning to the river for a drink
and hearing the bark of his sentry shout-ing,
Wrote Cooley, "You better believe me, I
halted instantly."
Believing Miguel's band to be marauders,
Green hadn't budged on his order "to exter-minate
the whole village if possible," and
Barry was told to carry it out. With Cooley
and Dodd riding alongside, the captain
made for the Carrizo the next morning.
What he found there must've shocked
him down to his Army-issue socks.
As the troops neared the rancheria, the
women and children came out to greet
them, carrying baskets of corn, squash,
pumpkins and, in Cooler's description, "all
the corn fodder our animals could eat."
Miguel's wife rushed up to Barry with her
hand extended saying, "Bueno soldado!"
The greeting transformed the attitude of
the soldiers. "I could see the difference it
made in them," Cooley wrote. "All were on
the fight a few hours before, but now were
sitting or stretched out full length upon
the ground. . . . Each had eaten his fill of
roasting ears, and now seemed at peace
with all mankind."
The soldiers camped a hundred yards
from the Apaches. Now Captain Barry
faced the longest night of decision he'd
ever known. Could he annihilate a camp
of peaceful Indians who'd treated him so
kindly? Could this simple man, 33 years
. . .when the prospecting party neared the boundary of
Coyotero territory at Cibecue, they encountered a startling
sight — a naked brave. . .painted white and carrying
a breech-loading rifle. He warned them they would die. He was prepared to die before
an enemy's rifle. Killing women and
children was an entirely different matter.
Leo W. Banks of Tucson considers John Barry, his
Irish countryman, a hero for his actions in the summer
of 1869.
René Milot of New York regards Captain Barry's
decision as a lesson for contemporary life.
he November sky was a blanket of steel wool threat-ening
to scrape even more dust from a landscape
already scoured by wind, sun and rain. With
the exception of two workers setting up a canvas
ramada, we were alone. This was not good. There were
supposed to be others here. Many others.
But photographer David Zickl surveyed the old
gravestones and the rocks and the leaden sky and pro-claimed,
with notable enthusiasm, "Great day for being
in a cemetery." And he unloaded his equipment with no
concern about this lack of companionship.
As Zickl selected a spot under a huge tree and set up
his tripods and cameras, I fretted and worried about the
shortage of people. Not a good day at all.
Then Pat Ybarra arrived. His family had donated this
land for the Tubac Cemetery (above) and now helps orga-nize
this Dia de los Muertos ("Day of the Dead") event
that brings people here to honor the dead by praying and
cleaning up the graves and pathways that encircle them.
Alma Ortega and her son Roman towed their hot dog
stand from Amado and willingly parted with a chili dog
and large bottle of soda for a mere $3. But wind and rain
have a way of reducing the desire for hot dogs and cold
soda. Alma said she didn't know if they'd come back.
I walked along the dusty paths between the graves,
read the inscriptions and wondered about the people
A day with
The Dead
by Sam Lowe photographs by David Zick l
The legend of La Llorona has been part of Hispanic culture
since the days of the conquistadores. The Weeping Woman, La
Llorona, is said to have drowned her children, died of grief and
today wanders the Earth weeping and searching for her dead
children. At Tubac Cemetery, Edna Duarte portrays La Llorona in
celebration of Dia de los Muertos. Duarte, 15, moved to Tucson
from Mexico two years ago. She believes that the tradition of
celebrating the dead and welcoming their souls back to this
life remains an important part of Hispanic culture, especially in
Mexico. It's a happy celebration, she says, with music, dancing,
prayer and food. "In Mexico, we take pan de muerto ('bread
of the dead') to the graves and spend the whole day at the
cemetery having a picnic." For Hispanics, the tradition ensures
that the dead know that they are remembered.
buried here. What hardships had they
endured? Why had they settled in such a
rocky, arid place?
The old cemetery could perhaps trace its
history all the way back to the time when
Spaniards established a presidio here in the
1600s. The land came into the possession of
the Ybarra family before the turn of the last
century, and remained theirs until 1955,
when Emilia and Teodoro Ybarra donated
it to Santa Cruz County for $1.
In 1997, the Ybarra family and others
formed a nonprofit corporation to care
for the cemetery and preserve its sacred
grounds and the cultural heritage.
It's a humble place, graced by its simplic-ity.
Rather than large statues or pillars or
columns, rocks cover most of the gravesites.
Because the cemetery sits on an ancient riv-erbed,
rocks are plentiful and easy to incor-porate
into the design.
Many of the graves are unmarked; crosses
denote others. Markers made of wood barely
withstand the never-ending assaults of sun,
wind and rain, but concrete and iron crosses
survive. The cross that stands guard over the
grave of Antonio Santa M. Leon, a former
corporal in the U.S. Marine Corps, has black
slate rectangles embedded in it. The cross
on Ramon Borboa's grave is made of steel
pipe, and the cross on Maria E. Alvarez's
grave is accompanied by a plastic chicken,
multicolored confetti and candles.
On this day, Joe and Helen Solares tended
to the plot where his mother and their daugh-ter
are buried. They had placed new tiles
and decomposed granite on the graves only
a week before, and now Joe Solares flicked a
piece of dirt off his handiwork, fully aware
that it would be back the next day.
Their daughter Mary Ellen said she once
took a photograph of what appeared to be a
child's face in some shrubs on the edge of the
graveyard. She volunteered to show it to me,
then disappeared and returned a few min-utes
later with the original photo and several
blowups. There was something that looked
like a child's face on all of them. It could have
been leaves. Or shadows. Or a reflection.
Or maybe it was a child's face.
And there was music. Not the mariachi
bands I had envisioned, but Manny
Contreras and his son, Guillermo, who came
up from Carmen to set up turntables and
speakers. They sorted through a seemingly
endless supply of compact discs to select
songs that fit the occasion — all upbeat.
The workers set up chairs under the
open-sided tent, and the people began fil-tering
in. They brought rakes and shovels
to reshape the rocky earth and plastic flow-ers
to replace the ones they left here last
year. They tidied up the graves as best they
could, using rocks, pebbles and dirt.
The chairs under the tent were soon filled
because the gray skies had turned even
darker, and the wind was asserting its power
over both the living and the dead gath-ered
here. Among the arrivals was Father
Alexander Mills, more commonly known
as Father Alex. He serves parishes in Tubac,
Amado and Arivaca, and he comes to this
event every year to celebrate Mass and pray
for the souls of everyone, deceased or not.
But shortly before the Mass was scheduled
"We have a baby there," says Helen Solares. She and
her husband, Joe, bring flowers to decorate Esther's
grave, who was only a month old when she died in
1963. But rather than regarding this as a sorrowful,
solemn occasion, the couple sees the holiday as an
opportunity to welcome back and celebrate departed
loved ones. Both Joe and Helen were born in Tubac,
and she grew up visiting the cemetery. "My family,
the Ybarras, donated the land, and ever since I can
remember, we all came on Dia de los Muertos." Folks
in Tubac honor the dead by cleaning and placing
flowers or coronas (wreaths) on the graves. Marigolds
are called the "flowers of the dead," as their scent is
said to attract souls and draw them back to Earth.
36 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m
Can hot dogs lure the dead? The Ortegas celebrate their
departed family members buried at Tubac with one of the
family's favorite foods. Alma Ortega doesn't know if the
dead like hot dogs, but her son Roman does. On Dia de
los Muertos, as the veil thins between this world and the
afterlife, food symbolizes offrendas, or "offerings," for the
dead to visit their living relatives. Alma's parents passed
down this tradition, and she carries on the custom of dining
with the dead. Back home, she sells hot dogs from her
street cart in nearby Amado. Asked if Roman ever tires of her
wares, she answers, "Never. He eats hot dogs every day."
to begin, Father Alex looked at the sky and the wind and rain,
then apologized and told the faithful he'd have to cancel the
ceremony. The wind was too strong, he said. It might blow the
communion hosts off the fold-up table serving as an altar. He
offered a special blessing, then he retrieved his chalice and the
glass jar that held the holy water and left.
As if angered by the priest's departure, the wind grew even
stronger. It threatened to rip the tent from its moorings, and the
rain slashed through the open sides and drenched those seek-ing
refuge. One tent flap came loose and had to be refastened by
volunteers in the driving rain. Then the elements calmed and
the celebration resumed.
Lydia D'Amico had driven down from Tucson with a couple of
vans, one loaded with young girls, the other with clothing. The
girls were students at D'Amico's Blue and White Fashion Kidz Art/
Modeling School. Despite their tender ages, they were troopers,
prancing down the makeshift runway like veterans, hands on hips
that thrust forward with every step in the classic style of models.
Sucette de la Rosa, a tiny cherub, stole the show by perfectly
emulating the sensuous hip-grinding gait of a slinky grown-up
model. Later, Rosella Ballestreros and Cora Rodrigues put on
black veils and black outfits and strode through the crowd while
the recorded strains of "La Llorona" (The Weeping Woman)
provided background music.
"It's such a terribly sad story," D'Amico said. "It tells of a
woman who lost her children in a river and now she walks along
the bank, looking for them."
The festivities were supposed to last until sunset, but by 3
even the heartiest figured they'd had enough wind and rain.
They loaded their rakes, shovels and paint cans into their vehi-cles
and drove away. The workmen took down the tent; Alma
Ortega packed up her hot dogs and headed back to Amado. The
Solares family went back for a final check of their relatives' rest-ing
places. Manny Contreras removed the black plastic wrap
from his speakers, packed them up and left.
David Zickl said he'd taken some great photos, and I spent
time with Alex Lowe Megariz, whose great-great-grandfather,
Wilhelm Lowe, counts among those buried here. We wondered
whether we might be relatives — since we shared a name and
both had ancestors from Europe. We couldn't decide.
But we agreed on one thing: It was, after all, a great day to be
in a cemetery.
Editor's Note: Dia de los Muertos ("Day of the Dead") is
a Mexican tradition that celebrates departed loved ones. It is
believed that the spirits of the dead visit their families on October
31 and leave on November 2. In Mexico and many areas of the
United States, people visit gravesites to decorate them with flow-ers,
candles and other tokens of affection, and to eat the favorite
foods of their loved ones.
Sam Lowe of Phoenix didn't experience the festivities he expected at the Tubac
Cemetery, but he did find peace, quiet and, perhaps, a distant relative.
David Zickl of Fountain Hills enjoys telling stories through his portraiture. This story
challenged him to get beneath the surface of the Dia de los Muertos to discover the
people participating in the event.
For a list of Dia de los Muertos celebrations statewide, go to
arizonahighways.com (Click on "Ancient Arizona Guide")
Alex Megariz enjoys some solitude under a tree his mother
planted years ago at the family burial site in Tubac Cemetery.
It's a popular spot in the cemetery because, says Megariz,
"Everybody wants to come and rest under that tree — both the
living and the dead." Megariz grew up in Tubac, where some
of the family graves in the cemetery date to the 1860s. Each
year, he and his uncles spend Dia de los Muertos sprucing up
the graves of their ancestors. They place colorful flowers on the
graves and leave toys or gifts for the young ones buried there.
His uncles have told him they want to be buried under the same
tree, and he suspects that one day he'll be buried there, too, but
adds, "I'm not in any hurry."
{along the way} by Mark A. Wolfson | photograph by Marty Cordano
40 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m
Suddenly, a flash of bright color on the
street. Red, yellow and black. The average
person might not have noticed, but I'm a
reptile lover. So I slammed on the brakes, the
yearning for a coral snake tingling in my brain.
I'd lived in Tucson for 16 years, but had yet
to see an Arizona coral snake in the wild. So I
jumped out and ran back to where I found a 16-
inch snake lying in the road.
But my coral snake hopes quickly sank, for it
was clearly black and white, not red and yellow.
Not only was it drab, it looked downright dead.
My 8-year-old son, 5-year-old daughter
and ageless wife joined me in peering at the
lifeless snake.
"Is it a coral snake, Daddy?" asked my son, who
wholeheartedly shares my passion for snakes.
"No, I think it's just a California kingsnake," I
said, straining my eyes in the dim moonlight. To
demonstrate my obvious wisdom and confidence,
I flicked the snake with the back of my left hand
to see if it was still alive.
Alive it was.
The instant I flicked the snake, it had the
audacity to open its mouth and strike the back of
my hand.
No big deal; just a kingsnake.
Suddenly, the snake emitted four sharp pops.
Very cool: cloacal popping.
One problem: Kingsnakes don't cloacal pop;
coral snakes do.
My 16-year wait was over; I had indeed
encountered a coral snake.
Putting this interesting behavioral display
aside, anxiety suddenly overcame me: I had
just been bitten by a venomous coral snake.
I dashed back to the car for my snake hook and
bag, and captured the snake without incident.
Examined under the halogen headlights, black
and white turned back to red, black and yellow.
An Arizona coral snake is a truly beautiful animal
to behold, making other local snakes dull by
As we drove home, I examined the back of
my hand. I could not find definite fang marks,
but noted a hint of a teeny red dot in the area
of the strike. I remembered hearing that the
Arizona coral snake is so small that it can only
bite a human in the web space between fingers
or similar areas. Did the twinge of pain come
from my squeezing and poking or from a dose
of venom?
Twenty minutes later, I noted fasciculations
(muscle twitches) at the site of the strike — a
possible sign of neurotoxic venoms. Clearly, I had
been envenomated, at least slightly.
Now comes the really embarrassing part of the
story. I'm a doctor who specializes in snakebites. I
know a lot about rattlesnakes, but next to nothing
about Arizona coral snake envenomation. My
frantic review of the books I had on hand revealed
nothing useful — nor did my Google search. My
call to the Arizona Poison and Drug Information
Center confirmed that they knew less than I did.
The center advised a trip to the emergency
room, but I knew no one had ever died from
an Arizona coral snakebite. Besides, there is no
antivenin. Moreover, I felt fine and the twitch
was subsiding. On the other hand, neurological
symptoms from exotic coral snakebites can
take up to 48 hours to peak. However, I knew it
would take many months for the giggling to die
down if Doctor Snake himself showed up in the
emergency room with an imagined snakebite.
As it turned out, I developed no further
symptoms. Later, the head of the Arizona
Poison and Drug Information Center told
me she'd heard of three other Arizona coral
snake envenomations, none of which caused
serious symptoms. The Venomous Reptiles of
Latin America reports four cases of Arizona
coral snake envenomation, which caused pain,
sensory changes, incoordination of the bitten
extremity, nausea and drowsiness.
But all I suffered was the twitch.
Mind you, the larger Eastern coral snake can
kill people. So rush straight to the emergency
room if bitten by an Eastern coral snake,
rattlesnake, copperhead or cottonmouth.
And in the meantime, remember: In the dark,
all snakes are gray.
Even Experts Can Feel the Painful Pinprick of Hindsight's Wisdom
The Arizona coral snake, or Sonoran
coral snake, ranges from central
Arizona and southwestern New
Mexico, south into northern Mexico.
The characteristic coloration
of the Arizona coral snake sends
a warning signal to potential
predators. Because its major prey,
the Western blindsnake, is truly
blind, the colors do not hinder
its hunt. On average, coral snakes
are pencil thin and about 15
inches long.
An old rhyme goes: "Red on
yellow, kill a fellow. Red on black,
friend of Jack."
Arizona coral snakes spend
most of their time underground
and when molested will frequently
strike, play dead or make a popping
sound. The snake must chew to
inject venom.
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n weariness i set out seeking the Dzil
Dah Si 'ání (Fluted Rock), where the antelope
woman dwells.
In confusion I set out seeking
Tségháhoodzání (Window Rock), where the
abundant rains fall.
In hope I set out seeking the sky and
the rough rocks and the dark cloud and the
last light.
I ventured onto the back roads of the Navajo
Indian Reservation, guided by my map and a
handheld Global Positioning System receiver,
so the watchful satellites could keep me from
getting lost in myth and legend.
On a brisk, cloud-scudded, drought-haunted
spring day, I set out from the
historic Hubbell Trading Post
in Ganado to find fabled Fluted
Rock, where starving people
go to pray. Eventually, I hoped
to find my way through a great
drought to Window Rock, where
the medicine men pray for rain.
Perhaps I might even glimpse the
house made of dawn, and "she
rain" and dark mist, and so ease
the frenetic, freeway flurry of my
life. Providing, of course, I didn't
get lost on the welter of unlabeled
reservation dirt roads.
The journey started at the
trading post on State Route 264,
which runs through the heart of
the Navajo and Hopi reservations.
John Lorenzo Hubbell lived there
from 1876 until his death in 1930,
buying, selling and befriending.
Now, the old women with baskets
and blankets they have made still
come to sell and buy, mingling
with the scattering of tourists and
Just east on State 264, I turned
north at the sign directing me to
Ganado Lake, looking forward
to the bemusement of navigating
along the usually unmarked
reservation backroads. I'll spare
you the tormented twistings and
turnings of the often-confusing
roads here, in hopes that the
detailed directions in the route
finder (see page 45) will suffice.
The well-graded dirt and
gravel road led quickly past
the incongruous Ganado Lake,
To Find Fluted Rock Fills, You Must First Be Lost in Beauty
{back road adventure} by Peter Aleshire | photographs by George Stocking
through the undulating, piñon pine-speckled
landscape on through a succession of
unmarked, head-scratcher junctions leading
me deeper into the reservation back country.
Fortunately, at my moment of maximum
confusion at yet another unmarked junction,
a Navajo couple in a black Trans Am drove
up. Sensing my confusion, a beautiful Navajo
girl with a sweet smile and a musical Navajo
accent got out and directed me toward Fluted
Rock and then onto the road to Window Rock,
complete with a count of upcoming cattle
guards. She wished me well, climbed back
into her low-slung car and trundled away in a
puff of dust.
Finally, I came to the unmistakable
prominence of Fluted Rock, looming above a
forest of oaks, piñons and ponderosas.
The light volcanic rock seemed squeezed
up from the earth, a fluted stone fortress. The
formation is a diatreme — welded together bits of
deep mantle, shallow crust and sandstone, spit
out in an eruption then fused in the caldron of
a fuming volcanic vent. The 8,304-foot summit
offers a sweeping view of the surrounding
Verses from the "Blessing Chant" say that
long ago Little Boy ('Ashkii Chilí) and his
grandmother lived in a hole in the Fluted Rock.
The old woman (Asdzání Na'ashjé'ii) always
carried a basket and lived on deer meat. When
meat was scarce, she turned into an antelope and
went into a hole in Fluted Rock. She lives there
still, so that people who are starving go to the
west end of that formation to pray for food. Dzil
Tusyan Butte ("Mountain That Sits Up High")
is also mentioned in the Rounded Man Red
Antway Myth as the home of the Bear People.
So I drove up a rough road on the backside
of the formation to a gate that bars access to the
a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m
Oh you who dwell
In the house made of the dawn,
In the house made of the evening twilight,
In the house made of the dark cloud,
In the house made of the he-rain,
In the house made of the dark mist,
In the house made of the she-rain,
In the house made of pollen,
In the house made of grasshoppers,
Where the dark mist curtains the doorway,
The path to which is on the rainbow.
— Prayer from the "Ceremony of the Night Chant,"
from Navaho Legends,
translated by Washington Matthews
a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S 43
The unblinking eye of Window Rock gazes upon
the Navajo Nation's Veterans Memorial and
flagpoles that periodically display the colors of
the U.S. Navy, Marines, Army and Air Force.
Red rock cliffs south of
Window Rock reflect the
glow of the setting sun.
44 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m
{ b a c k r o a d a d v e n t u r e}
Named by trader Lorenzo Hubbell
for his peace-loving Navajo friend
Ganado Mucho, Ganado Lake
mirrors storm clouds at sunset.
lookout tower, then scrambled up the fused rock
to the top. From there I watched the sun and
the clouds cooperate to cast shadows across the
earth. I felt light as thistle down in the house
made of wind, rejuvenated and soothed by the
view and the light. In the Navajo origin legend,
the sun journeys to the west, singing:
In my thoughts I approach,
The Sun God Approaches,
Earth's end he approaches,
Changing Woman's Hearth approaches,
In old age walking
The beautiful trail.
I sat a long while. I did not see Asdzání
Na'ashjé'ii, with her white ghost face or her
basket of deer meat. But I did see the sun in old
age walking the Beautiful Trail low down in the
west, in the hope of dawn.
Reluctantly, I returned to my Jeep and
drove on, through the little
settlement of Sawmill
then on south through miles
of undulating forest to the
pavement at Fort Defiance,
just north of Window Rock.
The day ended at Window
Rock Tribal Park, with the
immense and unmistakable
hole worn in the fine-grained
Cow Springs Member of
Entrada Sandstone, made
of desert sands when the
dinosaurs were in their glory.
The ruins of a 13th-century
ancient Puebloan dwelling
stood, fenced off, directly
below the window. The
names of the numerous
Navajos who have died
fighting for the United
States have been papered
to boards to one side of the
contemplative park.
Here, medicine men go
with baskets and bottles to
obtain the water they can
use in the Waterway Ceremony, which seeks the
blessing of rain. The reservation had been suffering
through a four-year drought, which had withered
springs, blighted forests and dried stock tanks. So
I sat a long while in the house made of evening
twilight, watching a hopeful landscape of clouds
framed in the window of sandstone — thinking
about rain, antelope and all those silent Navajo
names on the list of war dead.
When the last light had faded from the sky, I
got a hotel room. That night in the darkness, I
woke to the soft sound of rain — the house made
of she rain — a blessing on a thirsty world.
In beauty (happily) I recover.
In beauty my interior becomes cool.
In beauty my eyes retain their power.
In beauty my head becomes cool.
In beauty I hear again.
In beauty I walk.
Impervious to pain, I walk.
Feeling light within, I walk.
With lively feelings, I walk.
In beauty abundant dark clouds I desire.
In beauty abundant dark mists I desire.
In beauty abundant passing showers I desire.
Requirements: High
clearance preferred.
Warning: Back
road travel can be
hazardous. Be aware
of weather and
road conditions. Carry plenty of
water. Don't travel alone, and let
someone know where you're going
and when you plan to return.
Additional Information:
Navajo Parks and Recreation
Department, (928) 871-6647, www.
navajonationparks.org; Quality
Inn Window Rock (formerly Navajo
Nation Inn), (928) 871-4108, www.
qualityinnwindowrock.com; Hubbell
Trading Post, (928) 755-3475, www.
"Guide to Indian Country" maps
are available through the Western
National Parks Association store,
(520) 622-1999, www.wnpa.org.
route finder
Surrounded by
handcrafted baskets,
artwork and
memorabilia, a mounted
elk head dominates a
wall at the trading post.
A hay loader gently rusts in retirement
behind the Hubbell Trading Post.
— Prayer from the "Ceremony of the Night Chant,"
from Navaho Legends, translated by Washington Matthews
> Begin at Hubbell Trading
Post in Ganado on State Route
264. Go east about 1.75 miles to
Ganado Lake sign.
> Turn north at lake sign onto
unmarked Indian Route 27. Go
northeast about 14 miles to
unmarked junction with Indian
Route 26 (35°51.64' N;
109°24.71' W. Elevation: 7,054
> Bear right (northeast) onto
unmarked Route 26. Go 9 miles
to unmarked Indian Route 7.
> Bear right (south) onto
unmarked Route 7. Go about
1.5 miles to Fluted Rock
(35º52.94' N; 109º14.80' W.
Elevation 7,965 feet.)
> Continue on Route 7
for about 2.4 miles to
unmarked junction with
Indian Route 9010.
> Continue northeast
on Route 7. Go about 2.7
miles to Sawmill.
> Continue southeast
and then south on Route
7. Go about 15 miles south
to Fort Defiance and the
intersection with Indian
Route 12.
> Continue south on
Route 12. Go about 5
miles to Window Rock and
State 264.
Fluted Rock
Ganado Lake Fort Defiance
Window Rock
To Chinle
To I-40
Hubbell Trading
Post 264
a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S 45
Note: Reservation roads are often unmarked or inconsistently marked.
Mileages, GPS coordinates and elevations are approximate.
Location: Approximately 45
miles south of Tucson.
Getting There: From Tucson drive
south on Interstate 10 to Interstate
19, then south on I-19 to Exit 34, for
Tubac, or Exit 29 for Tumacácori.
Events: Tubac Presidio State Historic Park's
Luminaria Nights shows the park in the traditional light
of luminarias and features seasonal music, December
2-3, dusk-10 p.m.; 35th Annual Fiesta de Tumacácori
features traditional food, arts and crafts and folkloric
music and dancing, December 3-4, 10 a.m.-5 p.m.
Additional Information: Tumacácori National
Historical Park, (520) 398-2341, www.nps.gov/tuma.
Tubac Presidio State Historic Park, (520) 398-2252,
Christmas doesn't necessarily mean
snow and icicles. In Arizona, it might
herald squealing children swatting wildly
at a swinging piñata full of candy, families eating
tamales and posole, or carolers strolling around
an adobe mission lit by flickering luminarias.
The old Spanish settlements of Tumacácori
and Tubac, just north of the U.S.-Mexico border
south of Tucson, blend their multicultural
heritage — Spanish, American and Native
American — into memorable celebrations.
Tumacácori National Historical Park welcomes
the season with La Fiesta de Tumacácori during
the day. Nighttime at nearby Tubac Presidio State
Historic Park reveals streets basking in the light
of luminarias (candles glowing softly through
small paper bags.)
In 1691, Jesuit missionaries first encountered
the O'odham Indians of Tumacácori and
established a mission. Today, Tumacácori ushers
in Christmas with an annual fiesta so lively I
can hear Mexican music before I even enter the
fiesta gate.
Inside, booths surrounding an open area sell
everything from fresh fruit to hand-braided reatas
(ropes) along with a variety of craft items perfect
for Christmas presents. Signs in both Spanish
and English hawk traditional foods like carne
asada, posole and fry bread, the food's spicy
aroma whetting my appetite. In the center of the
grounds, musicians sing and strum guitars, then
women in brilliantly colored long dresses ride
their horses through intricate maneuvers to the
crowd's applause.
Vibrant colors vie for attention — oranges
pyramided below dangling bunches of red chile
ristras, pottery vases filled with turquoise and
yellow paper flowers, ornately painted Mexican
platters and intricately woven baskets. The crowd
varies as widely as the booths with children, nuns
and tourists among the several thousand visitors
attending the two-day festival.
Still a child at heart, I'm immediately drawn
to the Kid's Corner to watch a puppet show,
make a clay Christmas ornament and then
stand breathlessly as Dennis Jex's rosy boa snake
encircles my arm. Luna, a great-horned owl from
Tucson's Animal Rehabilitation Center, warily
keeps his one good eye on U.S. Fish & Wildlife
Service's loveable 7-foot-tall blue-goose mascot
being trailed by giggling children.
A $10 donation to the Friends of Santa Cruz
River earns me a bright yellow plastic duck to
enter in the Dirty Duck Race. My lucky ducky
bobs down the stream just speedily enough to
win me a pair of sunshine-yellow duck bedroom
The fiesta closes at 5 p.m. and I head 4 miles
north on Interstate19 to Tubac Presidio State
Historic Park, where the Christmas celebration
proves slower-paced and more elegant.
Established in 1752 as a Spanish fort, Tubac
evolved into an artists' colony with distinctive
shops and cozy restaurants.
Visitors meander streets lit by glowing
luminarias, and Christmas music wafts from
open shop doors. I stop to visit Santa and his two
46 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m
Christmas Cultures Mingle in the Glow of Luminarias at Tubac
{destination} by Janet Webb Farnsworth | photographs by David H. Smith
[above] Not exactly flying over
the rooftops, but an unusual
sight in Tubac nonetheless,
Mary Lou and Gene Patterson
with their reindeer and cart
head toward the Luminaria
Nights Christmas Festival.
[right] Santa awaits Christmas
aboard a parked chuckwagon.
live reindeer, then head to the 1885 schoolhouse
for an old-fashioned Christmas program.
The apple-cinnamon smell of hot apple cider
lures me into the schoolroom where antique
desks are pushed back to make room for the
crowd. A punishment list, printed neatly on the
blackboard, warns that students caught playing
cards will receive 10 lashings. Wearing long
fingernails earns two lashings.
Despite the blackboard's dire warnings, it's
easy to catch the Christmas spirit singing along
with the Osteo Chordosis Barber Shop Quartet
or enjoying Bill and Cathie Gaston's poems and
songs. Between performances, Bill, regal in his
black shyster's suit, hawks deeds to counterfeit
Arizona gold mines without much success.
Finally, a lady takes pity and buys two deeds
for $1.
Back outside, shops lure me in with plates
of homemade cookies. My diet takes a beating,
but at least the beating isn't administered by a
schoolmaster with a whip. My sack of Christmas
gifts bulges with a Navajo folk art chicken, a book
for my granddaughter and a Mexican tinware-framed
mirror for a friend.
The weather is perfect, cold enough for a
sweater, but warm enough we don't need hat or
mittens. Soft light from luminarias drifts upwards
to mingle with starlight floating down. People are
friendly, slowly strolling the streets without the
usual hurry-scurry of Christmas shopping. Gentle
laughter floats out open shop doors, and I notice
I'm not the only one munching cookies.
All in all, I've had a great time boosting my
Christmas spirit while finishing my shopping. I'm
full of posole and cookies, have some fuzzy ducky
slippers to wear on Christmas morning, and I
didn't encounter even one icicle.
a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m A R I Z O N A H I G H W A Y S 47
Incandescent luminarias and a
light-bedecked saguaro cactus
beckon passersby to walk
through a Tubac shop's open door.
Verde Valley Trail Skirts the Edge of a Crumbling Mystery
{hike of the month} by Tom Kuhn | photographs by Richard K. Webb
48 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 a r i z o n a h i g h w a y s . c o m
Sunrise strikes the cobbled
sandstone walls of the
Sycamore Cliff Dwelling.
In the distance, Sedona's
red rocks rise on the
edge of the Sycamore
Canyon Wilderness.
For more than a millennium, the 5-mile
Packard Trail has meandered through
sycamores, junipers and hillsides to deliver
travelers near the doorstep of a Sinagua Indian
The eight to 10-hour round-trip day hike
starts 11 miles northwest of Tuzigoot
National Monument, an ancient
hilltop pueblo overlooking the Verde
River where the Sinagua people grew
corn, beans and squash between the
8th and 15th centuries.
Packard Trail begins at a fork with
the Parson Spring Trail downhill
from a parking circle at the end
of Forest Service Road 131 in the
Prescott National Forest with a
strenuous, 2.5-mile, 1,100-foot
elevation gain as it climbs out of
leafy, spring-fed Sycamore Creek at
3,600 feet elevation. The trail climbs
through a grassy hillside to the
juniper plateau at the 4,880-foot top
of Packard Mesa.
Packard Trail leaves the Sycamore
Wilderness Area and merges with
Forest Service Trail 63, a main hike
and horse route, that leads north
back into the wilderness area. Along
Trail 63, about a quarter mile north
of the Packard Trail junction, stands
Sycamore Tank, where junipers yield
to an open park crisscrossed with
cattle trails.
The ruin, a three-room cliff dwelling, is
near the wilderness pass-through gate. Follow
the road uphill to the right and watch for a
trace that goes up and over the ridge of a low
hill. Constructed of layered orange-colored
sandstone, the centuries-old ruin retains
much of its original mud-packed roof, thanks
to the protection of a gray basalt overhang.
A second, small sandstone wall — possibly
the remains of a food and water storage
cache — stands under a lip of red sandstone.
Listed on the National Register of Historic
Places as the Sycamore Cliff Dwelling, the site
receives protection from tough federal laws
and from the Forest Service archaeologists
and volunteers who stabilized it in 1990.
About 9 miles from the 63 trailhead near an
old ranch camp called Taylor Cabin, a large cave
with a natural chimney may also have sheltered
the Sinagua traveling between the Mogollon Rim
high country and Tuzigoot.
The cave, the trail and the ruin lead finally to
the great mystery of why the Sinagua abandoned
these dry-mortared and handcrafted dwellings in
the 1400s, just as the populous, irrigation-based
cities emptied out, from the Hohokam in Phoenix
to the Puebloans in Colorado. Hopi traditions and
archaeological evidence suggest
many people left these Verde
Valley and Sedona-area ruins
and migrated to the present-day
Hopi mesas. No one knows what
caused this regional collapse,
but experts have variously
blamed drought, invasion,
overpopulation and even religious strife.
So it's an alluring mystery to ponder sitting in
the sun staring at the Sycamore Cliff Dwelling
stones the Sinagua fitted so carefully that they
have remained intact as long as a medieval
I sit on a rock as the sun peeks inside the ruin
and marvel that these unmortared stones could
stand so long. It's a mystery nearly as compelling
as the disappearance of the Sinagua themselves.
Location: About 50 miles southwest of Flagstaff.
Getting There: From Flagstaff, drive southwest on State Route 89A
about 44 miles to Cottonwood. From Cottonwood, take Main Street
northwest toward Clarkdale, following the signs to Tuzigoot National
Monument. Turn right on Tuzigoot Road, cross the Verde River and take an
immediate left on Sycamore Canyon Road (Forest Service Road 131). Follow
the road approximately 10 miles to the vehicle turnaround and trailhead.
Travel Advisory: Carry a compass, trail map and topographical map. Hikers must carry
3 to 4 quarts of water, as water along the route is not safe to drink. Archaeological
sites are protected under the law. Do not disturb the ruin. Call in advance for trail
conditions and closures. September through May are the best months for this hike.
Additional Information: Prescott National Forest, Chino Valley Ranger
District, (928) 777-2200; www.fs.fed.us/r3/prescott/about/chino.shtml.
After crossing Sycamore
Creek, shown here lined
with cottonwood trees
in showy fall display,
the Packard Trail gains
more than 1,000 feet as it
ascends to Packard Mesa.
n To order a print of this
photograph, see page 1.
To I-17
Natl. Mon.
To Flagstaff
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.
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