Travel

On the Road to El Dorado

A fabulously wild and little-known land of tall timber and black bear awaits at the sky-high terminus of the Coronado Trail It has been a long time since I split wood for a fire out of necessity. I'm a city guy with a mainly ornamental fireplace in my den fed for a few romantic evenings each winter with logs from the neighborhood market.

We are not in the city tonight. Photographer Edward McCain and I are at Hannagan Meadow Lodge in one of the most isolated and least insulated cabins in Arizona.

The elevation here is 9,092 feet, and even now, halfway into April, the temperature will tumble into the mid-20s before morning. Our heat will be everything we can coax out of the wood-burning stove before bedtime, plus whatever residual glow arises from the jug of Beaujolais we fetched from the Alpine general store 22 miles to the north.

I'm not complaining. I like renewing my acquaintance with an ax. I like its directness and simplicity. I like the authoritative feeling in my hands that follows a perfect slash through an upright ponderosa log. I even like the soreness in my shoulders that soon develops, because it is the product of honest work.

"We go through 125 to 150 cords of wood every year," lodge owner Linda Thiel had told me. "Eventually we plan to change the cabins over to gas, but when we mention this, a lot of our repeat customers tell us, 'Oh, no, don't do that."

By morning, our feelings on the gas issue are mixed. I'm willing enough to split more wood and stoke the fire. On the other hand, we can't drink water from the canteen I left on the counter overnight: it's frozen.

Nobody ever intended luxury along the Coronado Trail, however, and it will be a mournful day if some multi-star resort outfit ever locks its ambitions on this scenic highway snaking through the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest. This is no place for golf and nouvelle Southwestern cuisine. Much of this is wilderness - land in which you can walk 50 yards from the road and feel so immaculately divorced from civilization that you could be the planet's last human inhabitant.

It is land where you can still stumble across canyons that aren't on any map. It is land that still belongs, for the most part, to its pre-Columbian claimants: black bear, mountain lions, elk, raccoon, wild turkeys. There is no highway in Arizona from which you are more likely to spot bear cubs cavorting or elk grazing at the edge of the adjoining forest.

There is likewise no highway in Arizona on which you may feel so thoroughly abandoned if your fuel injection decides to take early retirement. Driving south out of Alpine (population 600), you see a sign that warns: "NEXT SERVICES 90 MILES." Another: "RT. 666 NOT MAINTAINED NIGHTS, WEEKENDS, OR DURING STORMS." Linda Thiel says it's not as bad as it sounds. "In nine years here, we've only been completely snowed in once - but that was for four days."

Theoretically, this scenic drive originated with the perambulation of Francisco Vazquez de Coronado in 1540. Coronado's route through Arizona on his way to the rumored riches of Cibola has fallen into vigorous dispute, but back when the highway was being planned, everyone reasonably assumed that the clues provided by Pedro de Castañeda, the expedition's exhaustive chronicler, were correct. Castañeda appeared to indicate that the explorers plodded north beside the San Pedro River, straggled along arroyos to the Gila, crossed it, and then turned northeast - which would have staged them for a route through pre-sent-day Apache-Sitgreaves. Modern historians, however, dispute the exact path through Arizona. "It's not by any means settled, and may never be settled," says anthro-pologist James Officer, author of Hispanic Arizona. The one thing agreed upon is that Coronado's party did not pave the way for U.S. Route 666; the land is too rugged, the forest too dense. Former Secretary of the Interior Stewart Udall, an Arizona native who has researched the Coronado Trail as thor-oughly as anyone, places the route some 40 miles west, in the gentler topography of the Natanes Plateau (See Arizona Highways, April '84).

On the Road to El Dorado

Surveying for the highway began in 1916, and the last mile of pavement was applied in 1962. It was an unusual project from the outset, in that two Arizona counties Greenlee and Apache - split the original $1 million cost with the U.S. government. The reason for building it was not terribly different from the motive behind Coronado's expedition. The 16thcentury explorer intended to plunder the New World's purported cities of gold. The 20th-century road builders had their sights trained on Apache-Sitgreaves' bio-logical riches: timber and game. In 1926, the year of the highway's dedication, Greenlee County's news-service director wrote that the forest constituted "the largest uncut timber area in the United States and one of the last big-game regions remaining in America . [It] until now was accessible only to those using saddle horses and pack animals, and only the hardiest of outdoor men ventured into this wild and little known region."

A reported 5,000 people chugged up to Hannagan Meadow for the dedication on June 19 and 20 that year. Festivities included a minirodeo, an all-night Apache Devil Dance, and many speeches by assorted politicians and bureaucrats. To underscore the new accessibility of "one of the last big-game regions in America," the free picnic featured barbecued bear.

Never since, fortunately, has this serene alpine meadow endured such a commotion. Today, says the Arizona Department of Transportation, just 245 cars ply U.S. 666 on an average day. I'm suspicious of that figure; the last count was taken in October during hunting season. This morning, on the 73-mile drive from Clifton to Hannagan Meadow, we saw exactly three cars.

If you're coming from Phoenix or Tucson, the modern-day Coronado Trail begins in Clifton, an old coppermining town just below the national forest.

Once prosperous, Clifton today gasps for breath, fighting to avoid becoming a ghost town. Between 1980 and 1990, its population tumbled 33 percent from 4,245 to 2,840. An early '80s depression in the price of copper, a 1983 miners' strike, and a disastrous flood the same year all conspired to drive residents and commerce away. Chase Creek, the old downtown main drag, is all but deserted today.

There is potential left in Clifton, however. Some fine historic architecture dating from the last breath of the Victorian era remains: Greek Revival, Italianate, even a Romanesque ruin. As in many other Southwestern mining towns,Clifton's turn-of-the-century buildings spoke for its optimism and ambition, and overlaid the rough place with the veneer of sophistication.

Mark Fooks, town manager, is working to rekindle that optimism today. Within a few months, he tells us, the 1912 Southern Pacific Depot will reopen as a community center, and a two-year flood-control project will protect most of Clifton from future rampages. Chase Creek is now a state-recognized historic district, and when it's restored and repopulated with businesses, Fooks says it will be a tourist attraction. "We're beginning to see progress," he says.

There's a different sort of architectural statement beside Route 666 five miles north of town: a hillside cemetery where the graves, dating from 1900 to the 1930s, are marked with handmade wrought-iron and lead-pipe frames, works of folk art. One, a baby's grave, is enclosed by a cagelike structure resembling a crib. Another is blessed with a cross of plumbing pipe. This isn't a pretty cemetery; it's a steep site choked with cholla and prickly pear, and the weather is warm enough that it qualifies as prime rattler habitat. I find it strangely moving, a silent monument to the harshness of those early miners' lives. Until 1937, Clifton copper all came out of underground mines, and it was indescribably filthy, backbreaking, dangerous work.

A mile farther north is the spectacle that illustrates present-day state-of-the-art copper mining: the Morenci Mine, second largest open pit in the world. Reactions of passersby range from awe at the astounding scale of the operation to revulsion at the Earth's indelible scarring. For anyone curious about statistics, Phelps Dodge offers a recorded "mine talk" at the overlook into the pit.

It's 12 miles from Clifton to the edge of the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest, and it's around this point that Route 666 itself offers a chastening little talk to the

The unmarked Eagle Creek Road takes us to a postcard valley of wheat-colored wild grass and isolation so dеер that the eight working ranches here have no phones and only weekly mail delivery.

Relax driver. “Listen, bub,” says a small but distinct voice that suddenly clicks on inside your head. “You can either gape at the scenery or try some serious driving. Keep on doing both, and you and this road are gonna part ways, radically.” From here to Hannagan Meadow, U.S. 666 resembles nothing so much as a 60mile-long corkscrew mashed into the Earth and paved. Its hairpin turns are as tight as Scrooge's Christmas budget; the 15and 20-mile-per-hour warnings are, for once, realistic.

For anyone who loves driving, and does it well, though, Route 666 can be a delight. Several automotive magazines have cited it as one of the best seriousdrivers' roads in America.

“It's the most challenging road I know in Arizona,” says automobile and motorcycle columnist Dan Sorenson of Tucson. “The scenery is so beautiful that it's a constant distraction. So many of those hairpin turns are in box canyons that in cold weather there'll be black ice where you don't expect it. And in the fall, those aspen leaves on the road are slicker than a baby's behind. That's a real surprise; it'll sure snap you to attention.” I've tried U.S. Route 666 both ways: seriously and quickly, casually and dawdling. On this trip, we're being pokey, which yields dividends besides not getting grim-reaped. All along Route 666, unpaved roads branch to each side, most of them serving either ranches or logging trucks. All of them offer adventure.

The unmarked Eagle Creek Road, off to the left about 20 miles north of Clifton, takes us to a postcard valley of wheat-colored wild grass, bosques of lime-green cottonwoods crowding the occasional creeks, horses grazing lazily on the hillsides and isolation so deep that the eight working ranches here have no telephones and only weekly mail delivery. Most of the few dozen people who live here like it this way. In the one-room Eagle Creek School, teacher Jim Hazzard and a few students and parents enthusiastically describe life removed from the rest of the world.

"We don't have a drug problem here; we don't have the Crips and the Bloods," Hazzard says. "Or gangs, either," chimes in a student. "See?" Hazzard says, grinning. "They don't even know what Crips and Bloods are. Living here is a lot like stepping back in time 75 years." (See Arizona Highways, March '91) Robin Cannon, a rancher and mother, says that what the kids don't know about city life is more than compensated by their awareness of Nature. "I was driving with my 10-year-old son when he saw some cans by the roadside. He said, 'We have to go back and pick them up they don't go away."

Farther up the highway, another anonymous gravel road takes us east into the Blue Primitive Area. Its artery is the Blue River, a pristine ribbon at most 10 feet wide, which nurtures an astounding array of wildlife. We haven't gone far before a miniherd of seven mule deer bounds across the road in front of us.

In a few miles of slow driving, we also spot wild turkeys, elk, and javelina. When we stop at a canyon bottom where the river unfolds into a marsh, we spook a great blue heron. It stretches its wings a good five feet, splashes a couple of steps through the water, and launches into the sky, a ceremony of power and grace unmatched by any other creature I have seen in Arizona.

A logging road to the west delivers us to Beaver Creek and a miniature canyon 50 or 60 feet deep, lush with enormous blue spruce. There are no trails, no campsites, no sign anyone has ever come here before. I pick my way along the creek for a couple of miles until I stumble across the remains of a freshly killed elk. Visions of black bear, undoubtedly well fed but also unpredictable and brimming with curiosity, perk in my nerve endings.

"We see lots of them," says Linda Thiel at Hannagan Meadow. "But they've never been aggressive. They're really lazy animals. They don't want to kill anything to eat; they just want to find it."

We hit tiny Alpine briefly for supplies. Its population, we hear, swells to maybe 2,500 during the summer. Broker David Noble, who grew up here in the 1930s, says there is no exurban surge on the horizon. "I don't see any rapid change coming for 20 to 30 years until Show Low, Pinetop, and Payson all fill up. We're still just a peaceful, sleepy little community."

On the Road to El Dorado

Not as peaceful as Hannagan Meadow, of course, where we're spending a third frosty night. The meadow was named for one Robert Hannagan (or Hannegan the spelling is sometimes disputed), a prospector and rancher who homesteaded around here in the 1890s. He ran up the considerable debt of $1,200 to a pair of brothers, then tried to disappear. The brothers, as the story goes, chained Hannagan to a tree and sent word to his son in New Mexico that he would be released if, and when, they got their money back. The son mailed payment. While waiting, Hannagan surely had a few bear thoughts himself.

The lodge has been here since 1924, and, along with a small general store, remains the only commercial development in the 90 miles between Morenci and Alpine. “The biggest advantage of living here is it's so remote,” Linda Thiel says. “The biggest disadvantage of living here is it's so remote. We get one TV station out

WHEN YOU GO

Getting there: The Coronado Trail leads from Clifton to Springerville, a distance of 123 miles. At legal speeds in prime weather it takes about four hours. To reach Clifton from Tucson, take Interstate 10 east 93 miles, exit north on U.S. Route 666 and continue 34 miles north to Safford, then 44 miles northeast to Clifton.

From Phoenix, travel east on State Route 360, to U.S. 60, through Superior and Globe Follow U.S. 70 to Safford, then eastward to Duncan and north on State 75 to Clifton. Although this is a rather long route, it wends through some of the most historic and beautiful parts of cental Arizona.

Accommodations: Clifton, Alpine, and Springerville all have motels. Hannagan Meadow Lodge is open year-round, but from November through April the dining room is closed Mondays through Wednesdays. In winter, the lodge tellingly suggests that guests “bring an electric blanket for your extra comfort.” Two cabins, however, now have gas heat. (P.O. Box 335, Alpine, AZ 85920; (602) 339-4370.) What else to see and do: There is no more productive place in Arizona for wildlife photography. Fishing is available roughly May through October in about 15 creeks, rivers, and reservoirs in Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest. More than 20 camping and trailer sites are open through the same months. For maps and information, contact the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest District Office, P.O. Box 469, Alpine, AZ 85920; (602) 339-4384.

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I walk a hundred yards from the meadow into the dense conifer forest. There is no sight or sound of anything my sorry species has done to muck up this planet.

of Tucson, and sometimes it's good enough to watch. We have a VCR, but it's 44 miles to rent a tape. We've had five children grow up here, and all of them said, 'I'm leaving the day I graduate.' But now they all want to come back." I understand. I felt ready for a trace more civilization after that first night in the cabin, but, after a few days on the state's loneliest highway, I crave to return, too. I walk a hundred yards from the meadow into the dense conifer forest. There is no sight or sound of anything my sorry species has done to muck up this planet. There is the constant rustle of a breeze in the tree canopies, the musical signatures of a dozen different birds, the creaking of swaying aspens, sounding exactly like old cabinet doors slowly opening 50 feet over my head. I have copies of several old stories Whether you are a point-and-shoot photographer, a serious amateur, or just someone who wants to experience Arizona in a unique way, the Friends of Arizona Highways auxiliary has a trip for you. Excursions include twoto six-day Photo Tours, led by our contributing photographers and technical representatives (from Kodak or Nikon), and twoto five-day Scenic Tours of the state's most spectacular locales with premier photographer Ray Manley.

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written about this trail for Arizona Highways in the '20s and '30s, and I am aware that meditative moments such as this moved some of my predecessors to write some of the purplest rhapsodies ever to appear in the magazine e.g., "On clear moonlight nights the phantoms of the Spanish Conquistadores ride again over the road they picked through Arizona ." Fortunately I have no such visions. I will simply sit here in the forest until dusk, and look forward to going back to the cabin to split more armloads of logs. Good work, honest work.

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Canyon de Chelly/Monument Valley; October 26-30: See ancient cliff dwellings at Canyon de Chelly, accompanied by a Navajo guide, and experience the awesome geologic wonders of Monument Valley. For information and to make reservations, telephone the Friends of Arizona Highways Travel Desk, (602) 271-5904.