LETTERS & E-MAIL

A Freshly Minted Editor Must Trust the Rope and the Song

FELT A MINGLING of envy and fear as I watched Apache Indian guide Gregg Henry hook me to a climbing rope that led off a cliff and down into a sluicing corkscrew of a waterfall deep in sacred Cibecue Canyon. I envied his fit to this place. And I feared my own falling short.

I think that all my life, I'd been honing the envy. As a cub reporter, I wrote about the song of the Chemeheuvi Indians, who lived in the hard, harsh heart of the Mojave Desert. A boy came of age only when he memorized the song of his clan, which took years to learn and days to sing. The songs contained a verbal map of the clan's claimed territory, with references to every water hole, seasonal bloom and haunt of the bighorn sheep. Anyone passing through that clan's territory would hire a guide who knew the song and so could find the hidden water. I longed to learn such a song.

But alas, I was the son of an itinerant city manager, and I had myself become a rootless reporter. I had moved and moved from place to place, nearly forgetting my own longing for a song. Some 18 years ago, I settled in Phoenix. I spent six years at The Arizona Republic, but when that string ran out, I decided to stay put. Fortunately, Arizona Highways Editor Bob Early found the waif of my career on his doorstep and wrapped me in a blue baby blanket of wonderful assignments. Bob remains perhaps the youngest, bravest, funniest, most decent man I've ever known. His only weakness is an abiding affection for foundling writers.

Bankrolled by Bob and the kindly readers of Arizona Highways, I wandered the state-agog and agape.

I also taught writing at Arizona State University's West Campus and wrote some history books about the Apache Indians. Like the Chemeheuvi, the Apaches remain intimately connected to the land. They attach stories containing apt life lessons to place names, so that in learning the names of each place in their world, children also learn right behavior. The Apaches say that wisdom sits in places and so a person must sit quietly in those places to let that wisdom seep in. I loved that idea, for I have found also that wisdom It sits in places. I have felt it while paddling through the reflected sky in a slot canyon of Lake Powell, hiking through a monsoon in the Chiricahua Mountains, glimpsing a trogon in the thickets of the Huachucas, pausing before the plunge into the Crystal Rapids of the Colorado River, standing on the spot in the Peloncillo Mountains where Geronimo surrendered, making eye contact with a deer in fresh snow on the Grand Canyon's rim and wriggling into a limestone cavern that glistened with fleshy curtains of stone.

Now I realize that these places and the people who took me there each taught me another verse of that yearned-for song of belonging, each verse learned by heart.

But suddenly, Bob Early, my great teacher, decided to do other things. Perhaps at 68 his brand-new master's degree in theology was burning a hole in the pocket of his mind. Bob agreed to write a fond farewell to the readers he has served so loyally these past 15 years (see page 56).

Through some oversight, Highways Publisher Win Holden hired me to fill Bob's oversized shoes. So I am come suddenly of age, entrusted with the proud 80-year legacy of this magazine. I am transformed from apprentice to singer. Fortunately, people like Senior Editor Beth Deveny, Director of Photography Pete Ensenberger and Win have promised to leave the snatches of the verses I have not yet learned piled up in my inbox. I am in good hands, for they have put up with me these many years already, with the tolerant affection one normally reserves for cheerful, three-legged dogs.

So I have no need of envy evermore, for I now know my song.

Still, I have a little fear.

I don't want to mess up the words, lose the rhythm. But when I quail, I think of Gregg Henry on the Cibecue cliff edge. I had never rappelled, but Gregg insisted I clip onto the rope and walk down the cliff right into the waterfall. Peering over the edge, I decided it was Gregg's elaborate, deadpan revenge for the whole Apache Wars thing. But sometimes, you just trust the rope and the moment and the one who taught you the song.

So I turned my back to the abyss, committed my weight to the rope and walked backward over the cliff. I slipped. I banged. I slid. I stood. I hit the water, trembled, twisted, bashed, gulped, hollered and gasped. But I emerged alive and brimming with joy on the far side.

So now I am again leaning back, just as Bob taught me -trusting that Beth and Pete and Win have hold of the rope. I am not sure of my footing-for I'm half blinded by the rainbow in the water's spray and dare not look down. But I am ready to sing the song of my clan.