Sharp-eyed Hunting Spider

BLUE RIVER GETAWAY

I hold my breath, not wanting to break the spell. Just across the narrow Blue River, a bull elk, his neck arched with a heavy rack of antlers, steps daintily through the high grass. A floating mat of yellow flowers has turned the Blue River gold, and as the elk reaches for a bite of flowers, he catches sight of me and trots off. "Ahhhh," I exhale. Just what I came to find: wind in the pines, beautiful scenes, no traffic noise-Mother Nature's perfect prescription for stress relief. When the back of my neck feels like a bunch of Boy Scout knots, I know it's time to head down to the Blue for the cure. Called simply "The Blue" by locals, the Blue Range Primitive Area along the Arizona-New Mexico border is both a location and a state of mind. A perfect place to beat cityitis.I am here for the cure along with my sister, Eileen, and her husband, Bob Myers. We planned to meet up with photographer Bernadette Heath and her grandson, Mark Downey, at the Blue Crossing Campground. My neighbor, Jerry Fails, would be along later with horses, his version of stress relief.

The 173,762-acre Blue primitive area, one of the least-known regions in the state, lies at the eastern end of the massive Mogollon Rim. With elevations ranging from 4,500 to 9,100 feet, rugged terrain and distance from major cities keep this area sparsely populated.

I don't need four-wheel drive and a pack mule to get down on the Blue; a passenger car can travel the gravel road in good weather. But the road splashes right through Blue River, so a high-clearance vehicle is necessary during wet seasons. A nice loop trip starts at Alpine, goes south on U.S. Route 191 (the Coronado Trail), turns east on Forest Service Road 567 (Red Hill Road), drops down to cross the Blue River and intersect with Forest Service Road 281, winds back up north on FR 281 to intersect with U.S. Route 180 and turns back west to Alpine, a distance of about 48 miles.

Just getting to the Blue soothes me. We pass through thick groves of ponderosa pine, spruce and fir trees, and I start to relax. This area remains so isolated that endangered Mexican gray wolves have been reintroduced here. I'd love to see a wolf, but I know my chances are slim to none. I'll probably not see a bear or a mountain lion, either, but both species roam the Blue along with deer, coyotes, elk and, in the lower areas, bighorn sheep.

On the way down we can't resist stopping in a grove of old pine trees. The mature pine trees have a malt-shop smell, either chocolate, vanilla, butterscotch or strawberry, and Eileen and I are both tree sniffers, a habit that drives our husbands crazy. We poke our noses deep into the yellow-brown bark of an old ponderosa pine and pronounce it "vanilla."

On the horizon, rain clouds gather. It's too early in the summer for monsoon storms, but everyone wants "prayer rain," an unexpected storm that comes in answer to a cattleman's prayer.

Steep and winding with narrow one-lane bridges, FR 567 isn't a fast road, but we aren't in a hurry. Rounding a curve, we see miles of open country, ridge after ridge of mountains lacking any sign of civilization.

The trees change to juniper and piñon, and earth turns from dark brown to deep red, the source of the Red Hill road name. Rock formations stand eroded into odd-shaped statues; one reminds me of Abraham Lincoln's profile. Steadily dropping in elevation, we reach Blue Crossing Campground, finding Heath and 7-year-old Mark already there.

Mark is anxious to show us around. When I spot the elk and the yellow flowers, I know this trip is just what I need to unwind. Summer temperatures hover above