Topping Out in Ladybug Land

Topping Outin the Land of the Ladybugs

by Peter Aleshire Photographs by David H. Smith OILING UP THE INTERMINABLE TRAIL, I quietly con-gratulated myself between grunts. Granted I was struggling to keep pace with Bruce Bilbrey, the veteran elk hunter and enthusiastic outdoorsman who'd offered to take me to the top of Pine Mountain in central Arizona. Further granted, I felt like I'd mistakenly stuffed a set of barbells into my 30-year-old pack for my return to the backpack adventures of my youth. But I had marched right along on the 5-mile incline from the trailhead. I'd stayed ahead of Ellen Bilbrey, Bruce's wife, who shares my love of out-of-the-way places. I'd even managed to outwalk photographer David Smith, a taller, stronger, younger man. True, he was carrying camera equipment, recovering from a broken rib and popping pain pills. But I have learned that it's best in life to seize what advantages you can muster.

Granted I was struggling to keep pace with Bruce Bilbrey, the veteran elk hunter and enthusiastic outdoorsman who'd offered to take me to the top of Pine Mountain in central Arizona. Further granted, I felt like I'd mistak-enly stuffed a set of barbells into my 30-year-old pack for my return to the backpack adventures of my youth. But I had marched right along on the 5-mile incline from the trailhead. I'd stayed ahead of Ellen Bilbrey, Bruce's wife, who shares my love of out-of-the-way places. I'd even managed to outwalk photographer David Smith, a taller, stronger, younger man. True, he was carrying camera equipment, recovering from a broken rib and popping pain pills. But I have learned that it's best in life to seize what advantages you can muster.

So I felt good.

Besides, it was gorgeous, albeit dangerously overcast. We had almost postponed the trip, but then decided the predicted we reached the top, a rounded, grassy flat space about 40 yards across and dominated by a single, lightning-scarred alligator juniper. We dropped our packs and staggered toward the edge. We could see the whole world-or at least the whole of central Arizona. We turned in a circle, gazing 100 miles in every direc-tion, from the Superstition Mountains to Flagstaff, from the White Mountains out beyond Prescott. The Verde River Valley wound around the base of the plateau.

What is it in us that loves the view to the horizon? I only know that the vista fascinated and soothed me, like the flicker-ing of a campfire or the sound of a stream.

Suddenly a great dark form swept into my field of view as a golden eagle flew past so close I could hear the wind rushing through her outspread feathered fingertips. A moment later, her mate glided past.

David came to the edge and peered out across the rugged terrain. "This doesn't look good," he said.

"What?" I asked.

high clouds were more likely to cut the heat than to spoil the light. We'd take our chances on getting caught in a storm. So we rose at dawn and drove an hour north of Phoenix on Interstate 17 to the Dugas Road turnoff and headed southeast down the 19-mile dirt road back to the trailhead guarding the entrance to the Pine Mountain Wilderness Area.

Throughout our three-hour plod toward the 5,998-foot peak, we passed from one ecosystem to another-desert scrub to piñon juniper, to cottonwood-sycamore, to chaparral, to oak, to ponderosa pine. Rising from the surrounding high-desert plateau, Pine Mountain is a biologic "sky island," offering a glimpse of varied habitats for the price of a hard day's hike.

The clouds had begun to pile up over the peak by the time "It's just thunder," I said. "Way up in the clouds."

Lightning flashed an instant later, followed immediately by a terrifying crack.

"We'd better get off the peak," said Ellen calmly.

We scrambled down the mountain, taking only a moment to cover our packs with tarps. Raindrops spattered in the dry dust. We had anticipated different water problems, since we knew of no springs within miles of the summit. We'd lugged about a gallon each and planned to refill 5 miles down the hill at Bishop Springs.

We slipped, stumbled and slid a few hundred yards off the peak into the oak and pine forest and hid under a bent-over pine. We started a small fire to drive off the unexpected chill, and watched the benediction of rain on the dry forest. Remarkably, the rain passed within a half-hour and we trudged back to the peak.

We found the mountaintop alive with ladybugs, an orange coating on bushes, sticks and rocks. Millions of ladybugs winter beneath the snow on certain peaks, emerging in spring to mate before taking flight for the valleys below, where they dine on aphids to the delight of farmers and plant-lovers. They're

Skeletal Supplicants

Dead trees frame the 100-mile view south across the Verde River Valley all the way to Horseshoe Reservoir. Lightning strikes on the exposed summit take a toll on the gnarled pines, oaks and junipers, but the dead snags are actually crucial habitat for insects and birds.

programmed to seek high points, perhaps so their mass will generate enough extra heat to get them through the winter. The mass of orange-red and black also discourages predators, warned by the coloration that ladybugs taste terrible. After the ladybugs disperse to the valleys below, their offspring begin an epic journey back up the mountain. The grandchildren or great-grandchildren of the ladybugs that flew from the peak return one or two years later to complete the great cycle. The gathering of ladybugs makes Pine Mountain a magical place, as though you could pick the lock of some great secret by shifting your gaze from the harlequin-headed bugs to the soul-stirring sweep of the horizon and back again.

Hikers' comments left in an ammo can bolted to a rock out-crop at the top testified to the wonder of the place.

"Sitting on a warm boulder with this vastness and this breeze. I am still. How rich the journey," wrote Timberley.

"Great to be alive," wrote Kendra. "Good grief, all those lady-bugs."

"I hope heaven is this good, because I could do this for all eternity," wrote Bruce.

We wandered, marveling, across the tiny mountaintop for hours. As darkness gathered, lights came on far out across the great sweep of mountains. Prescott blazed, Payson glittered, Cordes Junction glimmered and far to the south, Phoenix glowed. As the storm cleared, the dusty river of the Milky Way took shape overhead.

We woke at dawn as David scrambled to snatch the only good light of the trip for photography. Bruce, Ellen and I huddled with the map, planning the day's hike. We had nearly exhausted our water supply, but knew we could refill at Bishop Springs. We could camp at the springs and hike out the next day.

I repacked to add some camera gear, although the previous day's hike had produced a couple of protoblisters and a whole constellation of muscles I'd long taken for granted. No matter, you're as young as you think, I told myself.

The first 5 miles slipped past, despite the downhill strain on my blisters and an ankle I'd sprained two months earlier. Twice, the treacherous ankle turned to dump me on my knees.

The scenery offered solace as we hiked along a ridge through already recovering burns. The burned snags house a wide variety of birds, which in turn help keep forest-munching insects under control. The fires also open up clearings, which inspire a flourish of grass that sustains bears, elk and deer. We also found tracks and other signs of mountain lions and bears, also plentiful in this rich wilderness.

We gulped our way down to our last canteen by lunch, just shy of Bishop Springs. We snacked atop a rocky outcrop overlooking Bishop Creek, dubiously eyeing the steep, trailless, 800-foot scramble down to where the stream lay concealed at the canyon bottom. So we pulled the straws off our juice cartons and lay on our stomachs to sip rainwater out of the hollows of the rock.

But I didn't actually start to worry until we got to Bishop Springs and found it dry.

We pondered our options, as I shifted back and forth from one blistered foot to the other.

We could hike down to Bishop Creek, in hopes of finding water. I faintly favored this option, but Bruce regarded me dubiously. He'd been the soul of discretion all day, overlooking my falls, stumbles and slackening pace."

We might get down there," he said, turning to study the dropoff into the canyon. "But then we've got to get back out."

"And suppose there isn't any water?" said David, who also had developed blisters and exhausted the power of ibuprofen against broken ribs.

"Maybe we should just head out today," I said, with a show of reluctance.

"That sounds prudent," observed Bruce. "Besides, I left a cooler of drinks in the car." The drinks proved decisive. So we turned and limped back toward the 5-mile distant car, lurching finally through a spattering of raindrops. We dropped our malignant packs, unlaced our overheated boots and guzzled the blissful brew. Also I vowed to burn my pack as soon as I got home. Yet, two days later, my bruises had faded and I couldn't stop picturing the ladybugs, the view from the top and the splayed fingertips of a golden eagle. Al