Down to the Cornfield

WHITE MOUNTAIN APACHE RESERVATION Down to the Cornfield

He turned west off U.S. Route 60 and wound his way down through the little community of Carrizo. Slowly, he drove past sleeping dogs, a white church and an old woman wearing a traditional camp dress. The pavement ended abruptly and with it, I later realized, my old life. The Chevy bounced along the dusty road, until I quietly asked, "Where are we going?" I tried to make my voice demure in spite of the jolt that sent my head cracking into the passenger side window.

"Down to the cornfield," he said with a sly smile. Little did I know it was a phrase I would hear for the next 29 years. It was our second date, and I was attempting to show him I could be rugged and tough, yet feminine and delicate a difficult combination.

He eased the truck off the canyon road and headed straight for Carrizo Creek. Back then, the creek ran pure and deep. The Rodeo-Chediski Fire had not yet caused the devastation that would one day clog it with debris. He splashed the truck into the water yelling "Woohoo," kicking his feet and throwing his "free arm" like a true Carrizo cowboy.

The truck hit a few large rocks, and I was certain my kidney had come loose. He slammed on the brakes and stopped in the middle of the running creek.

"Get out!" I looked at him with indignant eyes and mouth agape. "Put your feet in the water. Cool off."

Wanting to impress, I jumped into the water and let it run around my calves. It was the purest sensation I had ever experienced: a cool, rushing creek on a hot, dusty day. He dipped his bandanna in the water and tied it around his head.

"Here!" He held out his hand and yanked me back into the cab. "Hold on!" he shouted as he shot the truck forward at an incredible speed. Up an embankment . . . around a curve . . . out on top.

In one swift motion, he cut the engine, swung his door wide and jumped out. Making a sweeping gesture with his arm he proclaimed, "This is my ranch. My grandfather gave it to me."

I stood next to him beneath two massive cottonwood trees looking at the fenced cornfield. The swaying trees, cicadas clicking overhead and a welcoming shade stirred something in me. I was instantly and forever in love with this man and his Carrizo Canyon cornfield.

We walked the perimeter of the field while he talked about the creek and the land. He described the small ruin site at the western end of the field and warned me not to pick up anything because of the Apache belief that people must not touch "dead things." He pointed to markings on the ground and declared that a bear and a coyote had come through recently. Seeing the nervousness on my face, he explained, "Don't be afraid of the black bears that roam this canyon; I am bear clan and they are my brothers."

We returned to the truck where he pulled the tailgate down with a thud. We sat on the tailgate and swung our legs like little kids. We took turns gulping water from a gallon jug while the Oreo cookies we ate left black rings of satisfaction around our lips.

I began to quiet the thoughts running through my head, and allowed the sounds of the canyon to take their place. The steep canyon walls echoed the sound of horses and cows tramping along the creek. Red-tailed hawks floated overhead searching for a sunbathing jackrabbit. Grasshoppers trilled their song in the heat of the day. A sense of stepping out of time began to embrace me. There were no car or airplane noises. No intrusions from television or radio. No deadlines or assign-ments. No stress. Just the beauty of living in the moment.

I did go back. I married the amazing Mr. Michael Lacapa, and later our children also fell under the cornfield spell. The kids knew it would be a great day when Dad hollered, "Jump in the truck, we're going to the corn-field."

They stood up in the back and looked over the cab. Thoughts of softball games, food, cowpie wars, monsoon rains, fireworks and swimming kept them in eager anticipation. This unpretentious cornfield was far better than anything Norman Rockwell could create. It was a place where time did not exist and worries had no place to reside.

I still go back. The Apaches believe life is like a hoop, a neverending circle. It's true, for that is where my love for a person and place began, and it is there where the journey ends. With the scattering of his ashes under the cottonwoods, I drink in the peace that surrounds this place.

I listen to the wind in the canyon and hear his voice, "Shi goshk an dasjaa," (the story ends here), down at the cornfield.

Kathy Lacapa has lived in the White Mountains of eastern Arizona most of her life. She co-authored with her late husband, Michael, Less Than Half . . . More Than Whole and wrote Curriculum Vocabulary for children with special needs. Her heart and mind are forever captivated by the springs, mountains, trees, creeks and people that form this wondrous portion of Arizona.

Our children also fell under the cornfield spell. The kids knew it would be a great day when Dad hollered, 'Jump into the truck, we're going to the cornfield.'

CHIRICAHUA MOUNTAINS Monumental Memories

"The combination of broad vistas and intimate alcoves tucked beneath rock pinnacles has always drawn me to Chiricahua National Monument. Some of my earliest memories date to the years my father worked there as a ranger. Long after he had transferred to other parks, our family regularly returned to the Chiricahua Mountains. My father passed away a few years ago, but it wouldn't surprise me if his spirit visits there still, along with the spirits of the Apache Indians who came before."

laurence parent

A resident of Wimberley, Texas, Laurence Parent visits Arizona frequently to photograph and visit family. In addition to his magazine, calendar and advertising photography, his work has appeared in 30 books.

POINT IMPERIAL Rimside Seat

"During one pounding summer thunderstorm on the Grand Canyon's North Rim, the lightning flashes prompted the few other visitors to flee. I waited among the ponderosa pines to share this view of a rainbow arching over Mount Hayden. Standing on the Rim with a camera on a tripod during a lightning storm is a bit crazy, but for me it's an annual spiritual event that brings me back to Point Imperial to witness one of Arizona's most remote and breathtaking views during summer's dramatic storms."

As a large-format landscape photographer, Paul Gill of Phoenix loves witnessing Nature's raw power and capturing the emotional significance of special moments that lie on the edge of chaos. Photographing in stormy conditions provides that raw power and leads him to capture very dramatic images.

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KOFA MOUNTAINS Drawn to the Light

"For me, the Kofa Mountains are all about the light, about the way the sun's rays slice around boulders and between buttes, caressing cholla and ocotillo. Because this range sits on top of high bajadas, it receives light so pure and clear it takes my breath away. I seem incapable of driving past these mountains without stopping in to behold another sunrise and sunset. Whenever I am near, the Kofas command my presence."

george stocking

George Stocking of Phoenix is a freelance landscape photographer, specializing in the western United States, Canada and Mexico. He and his wife, Mary, recently returned from a long journey through New Zealand, expanding his photographic coverage into the Southern Hemisphere.