TREASURE OF THE SIERRA ANCHA

The Salado Indians found beauty - and tried to find defense from enemies - in the mist-shroud-ed cliff dwellings of Pueblo Canyon. | RICHARD EMBERY It's the fifth year of drought in Rim Coun-try. It's spring, and it's already getting hot. Longing for the cool respite of a green for-est, four of us decide on a trip to Pueblo Canyon, which sits in the southeast flank of the Sierra Ancha, a rugged mountain range about 100 miles northeast of Phoenix. The week before we head out, a soft rain begins. It continues on and off for the entire week, and by the time we're rolling down the highway, it's turned into a deluge. Because of flash-flooding, there's no way we'll be able to navigate the dirt roads that round the southern horn of the mountains. We decide to abort the trip.

When the weather eventually clears, it's the second week in April. The roads, although slippery in spots, are passable. It's only when we start ascending the high bank above Cherry Creek that they become problematic. The rains have brought down boulders that we have to clear out of the way, and at almost every side drainage, washouts have taken out huge chunks of the road. Our four-wheel-drives tip sideways as we hold our breath and gingerly drop our downhill tires into the holes. For a few nerve-wracking moments, we wonder whether we'll find ourselves rolling 600 feet down to the creek. But all three of our vehicles make it through, and we finally reach the small landing where the hike begins.

The staunch eastern face of the Sierra Ancha stands unfurled before us. Soaring immutably skyward, cliffs stacked on cliffs, cut and reticulated, first by the three major side canyons, and then by myriad smaller protrusions and seclusions. The lower slopes are covered with man-zanita. Higher up, it's stands of ponderosa pines. The side canyons are chock-full of deciduous growth, and as we'd hoped, they're green — umpteen shades of green, as vibrant as the greens of Ireland.

Armadas of puffy clouds scud across a sky of pristine azure blue. The weather is perfect as we hit the trail. We're three men and one woman, hauling heavy packs up a steep slope on a mission to find ruins that will tell us how people of another time lived, struggled and died.

We come by choice, but the Salado Indians who briefly inhabited these rough canyons seven centuries ago probably came out of necessity. For more than 200 years they lived on the other side of the mountain, where the dependable waters of the Salt River and Tonto Creek allowed them to practice irrigation agriculture and build a thriving community of about 10,000 people. According to information gleaned from recent excavations in Tonto Basin prior to the raising of Theodore Roosevelt Dam, archaeologists believe the Salado people, who were known for their exquisite painted pottery, formed a highly organized hierarchical society centered on platform mounds where the leaders lived. Then, in the late 1200s, things began to disintegrate.

The first mile of trail follows an old mining road straight up the ridge that separates Cold Springs Canyon and Pueblo Canyon. We'll walk 3 miles today and climb almost 2,000 feet, with most of the elevation gain on this initial spurt. As we begin climbing the hill, we're immediately greeted by wildflowers, something we haven't experienced much because of the drought. At first we see delicate desert onions peppering the scrub grass. Then the showy mariposa lily waves its white, purple and green flag for our attention. Starweed, bedstraw, yellow groundsels, red Penstemon barbatus (known as scarlet buglers), milkvetches and, towering above all, a head-high bull thistle, its lavender tufts as large as pompoms. Distracted by this unexpected bounty, we suddenly realize we've made the climb onto the high bench that marks the turn toward Pueblo Canyon.

Whether the reasons were environmental (the Great Drought of 1276-1300 may have been the start of it, or maybe the Salado people simply exceeded the capacity of the environment by overusing and depleting the soil, causing a fight over resources) or external (some evidence points to foreign invaders), the Tonto Basin erupted with violence in the late 1200s. Platform mound complexes were ransacked and destroyed. Trophy hands and feet were displayed on the walls of the conquered compounds by the victors. As a result, some of the Salados began moving up into the surrounding mountains, walling themselves off in hard-toreach cliff dwellings.

Our trek across the bench toward Pueblo Canyon, though mostly flat, turns perverse. The trail burrows through a sea of manzanita forest that towers over our heads and engulfs us. Our packs and clothes catch on the jagged, tough maroon branches. Frequently we're forced to get down on hands and knees to climb through. But the flower show continues. The manzanita is bedecked with tiny pearls of pink bells. Cliff fendlerbush wheels its white-crossed stars. Silktassel bush wears earrings of long-hanging drupes. And then, to top it all off, we catch a whiff of the most delightful of scents: ceanothus. Sweet, subtle, slightly almondy, the smell of the white-blossom shrub is the rapture of spring.

Some of the Salados moved to the hills around the Tonto Basin. Some sought refuge on this side of the mountain. Tree-ring dating of the timbers within the Sierra Ancha dwellings tells us that Cold Springs was occupied from 1278 through 1312 and Devils Chasm from 1310 to 1330. Both dwellings are small, highly defensible sites of about six rooms each. Pueblo, which was occupied from 1278 through 1324, had the largest aggregation of rooms in the area, with 60 to 75 rooms clustered in three groups along the base of a cliff.

A Salado structure (above) was constructed in the high, hard-to-reach niches of Pueblo Canyon's walls. Pottery shards and a corncob (right) are remnants of the canyon's ancient inhabitants whose mysterious departure is still not fully explained. Pictographs (below) tell stories that now can be only imagined. | JEFF SNYDER

“I only went out for a walk, and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.” We've reached the lip of the can yon and can now clearly make out the jumble of masonry build ings on the other side of the chasm, tucked into alcoves at the bottom of a bare 300-foot-high vertical rock wall. The vegetation-covered slope plunges another 300 feet down to the canyon below. There's no way to get up or down to them. Here's where we see the beauty of the Salado's plan to build here. The only way to reach the dwellings is to hike another half mile up into the canyon, then hike back along the base of the cliff. Because the slope below us is as sheer on this side, attackers could have been easily repelled at any of several critical spots along the trail.

Marching into the shade of the canyon, we're struck by how lush and verdant the vegetation has become. If we thought we were in cool green before, here's an even cooler green.

We're moving through a dense forest of Douglas firs, canyon live oaks, New Mexico raspberries, Gambel oaks, honeysuckle, bracken ferns, lip ferns, Oregon grapes, corn lilies, hemlock and thickets of bigtooth maples. The thick tangle seems a mix of tropical jungle and riparian canopy, but, because we're at an elevation of 5,500 feet, it feels like alpine. The flowers now are high-country species: mountain violets, pennycress, white geraniums and fat-leaved phaceliaa delicate plant with tiny purple-blue blooms that scroll against the green of its large leaves.

We see occasional seeps and springs on the walls, bedecked with archipelagos of moss, and fields of miner's lettuce inviting us to crunch on its mustardy leaves. At one side drainage, we're amazed by a grove of round-leaved trees covered in magnificent red blooms. The trees look like red bud, but in Arizona, they're only found above the Grand Canyon. Later we learn that the trees are an exotic

Canadian redbud, probably brought in by the miners who worked a nearby uranium mine in the 1950s.

As we near the head of the canyon, we hear a low, shimmering roar that can only mean falling water. But before we can get to it, there's a tricky traverse in front of us. It's the dreaded mudslide that we've been warned about. Although the opposite side is only 100 feet away, the canyon is deep, and a fall into it would mean a broken neck. Numerous seeps issuing just above the trail have turned it into a slope of mud. Gingerly, slowly, carefully maintaining the balance of our packs and holding on to exposed tree roots, we manage to cross the slippery slope.

What greets us is a giant, gossamer waterfall. Towering at least 100 feet, it spills down from a rocknest above our heads. Not a thunder of water, but a 4-foot-wide frothy straight thread, almost ephemeral, almost evanescent. There's no way to get to the other side of the canyon without crossing beneath the water. It's a wonderful experience. We each stop in its soft spray and can't help looking up into it.

We pop out into the sun again, walking the last half-mile on the northern side of the canyon. On the 2 to 4 feet of flat ground at the juncture of cliff and slope, the flower parade continues with sun-loving species: the nodding heads of periwinkle-blue desert hyacinth, the brilliant red splash of Indian paintbrush, the yellow racemes of western wallflower and the pink stemless primrose, their rounded mounds of pristine petals looking as if they'd been arranged by a florist.

mounds of pristine petals looking as if they'd been arranged by a florist.

We come to a small structure blocking the trail. For the delphinium growing around it, we designate the ruins the Larkspur House. Minutes later, we stumble into a giant alcove that shelters the main compound. Ochre walls of plastered mud and stone stand silent in the hollowness. Ten? Twenty? Thirty-five rooms in here? Hard to tell. Many of the second-story walls have fallen, and now lie in blocks at the base of the ruin. Exposed roof beams of ponderosa trunks span empty gaps and are charred black from fire. Some of the walls look beautifully intact, meticulously chinked with small spalls of flat rock. Others seem crudely built and mortared, as if they'd been hasty add-ons.

The arching alcove has a great feel to it. A sense of beauty and refuge. A sense of home. Drips of water fall from the ceiling, making a syncopated clinking and drumming among the isolated globemallow and col umbine growing in their spray below. For this, we name it Music Temple.

We'll camp nearby, being careful not to disturb the ruins, and tonight we'll watch the stars wheel across the top of the opposite canyon wall as they have for centuries. Tomorrow, we'll spend an indolent day exploring the second and third sets of ruins farther along the wall. Then we'll sit, read, photograph, sketch and wonder.

In the process, we'll intersect with another dimension, another time. Feel the bustle of activity that went on here. Hear the garrulous talk of women grinding corn, the laughter of children.

Sounds of men chipping and flaking arrowheads out of stone.

For 50 years they lived here, and then they were gone. As a culture, they disappeared entirely. Vanished into the mists of history.

Some believe the modern-day Pima Indians are their descendants, and the Pimas themselves agree: "Our old manner of life was ended by three bands of foreigners from the east, who destroyed our pueblos, devastated our fields and killed or enslaved many of our people."

My hunch is the same. First the Salado people were harassed, attacked and driven out of the Tonto Basin. Then they sought refuge in these nearly inaccessible cliff dwellings on this side of the Sierra Ancha. But even here the enemy got them. They thought they were safe, but they were wrong.

As we walk out of the canyon on the third day, I stop just past the waterfall. Looking back, I try to imagine the last Salado leaving Pueblo. In my mind, he's either the sole survivor of the final battle or the last to flee an anticipated attack. What would he have felt as he stood in this same place? Ours has been a beautiful walk, and we're reluctant to leave. For him, the loss would have been much more extreme. This place was his home.

As I watch a drift of water twist in the wind, a line from W.H. Auden comes to mind: "Whose white waterfall could bless travelers in their last distress."

Go in peace, Salado. Go in peace.

DIRECTIONS: Pueblo Canyon is located in the Sierra Ancha Wilderness Area northeast of Phoenix. For specific directions to the site, contact the Tonto National Forest.

TRAVEL ADVISORY: A four-wheel-drive, high-clearance vehicle is required. Archaeological sites are protected by law and must not be touched or disturbed in any way.

INFORMATION: Tonto National Forest, Pleasant Valley Ranger District, 928 462-4300 or www.fs.fed.us/r3/tonto