Travel

In the southern edge of the massive Colorado Plateau, not far from the geographic center of present-day Arizona, 600 million years of geologic upheaval have created one of North America's most breathtaking regions.

Encompassing the community of Sedona and the deep forested cleft of Oak Creek Canyon, red rock country is a land that bombards the eye with the beauty of immense, multihued sandstone buttes, zigzag canyons, soaring cliffs, and vast sweeps of greenery.

The beauty, the bounty, and the geographic hospitality of the region were a delight to the earliest arrivals. As far back as A.D. 700, Hohokam and Sinagua farmers tilled and irrigated the red soil. But shortly after the beginning of the 15th century, these prehistoric societies mysteriously vanished.

In the early 1800s, Apache and Yavapai occupied the region until they were swept onto reservations by the tide of westward migration. Then, in 1876, J.J. Thompson, a frontiersman hunting in red rock country, stumbled upon the wild, lush beauty of Oak Creek Canyon. He built a cabin and stayed. Others followed.

I arrived on a transient basis in 1935, up from Phoenix on a holiday trip with my parents and small sister. I remember certain moments of that first day with unaccountable precision. I was five years old, standing on a large rock while fishing at the edge of tumbling, spring-fed Oak Creek. "You've got a bite," my father called excitedly from across the creek. "Lift your pole!"

I did, and something yanked it back down. Suddenly a silvery form broke the surface of the pool and sent a shower of droplets into the late-afternoon light. Following my father's shouted suggestions, I worked the trout toward my rock. Dad sloshed across the creek and helped me land the 10-inch rainbow, my very first catch.

Holding my fish aloft, I raced up the path to the cabins at the old Call Of The Canyon Lodge, shouting "Momma, I caught my supper! I caught my supper!" Decades later, my father confessed he had placed one of his own newly caught trout on my hook while I wasn't looking. No matter. From that moment on, and all through my early growing-up years, Oak Creek Canyon and the country around it belonged to me.

Naturally, being a youngster of some benevolence, I shared the land, the cascading stream and its trout with others. And, being small, without funds, and unable to drive an automobile, I visited my colorful domain infrequently.

Nevertheless, before I was 10, I had fished every riffle and pool along the 18-mile course of upper Oak Creek. Rarely did I encounter another angler, and rarely did I fail to finish a day without catching my limit.

The region was rough, isolated country when I arrived, but it had been even rougher in earlier years. In the late 1920s, my father and several of his cronies had driven into the area on a fishing excursion. Afterward, they decided to drive north on the one-lane dirt road that followed a hairpin

Text by William Hafford

route from Oak Creek Canyon up the Mogollon Plateau and on to Flagstaff. The road, built decades before with only pick-and-shovel labor, proved so frightening one passenger refused to make the return trip and, by a circuitous route, took a train back to Phoenix.

Now, nearly 4 million people visit the Sedona area each year. The road that so terrified my dad's fishing companion has been overlayed by the asphalt of U.S. Route 89A, a memorable drive that ascends nearly 2,000 feet around sweeping switchback turns.

Modern Sedona, with a permanent population on the high side of 14,000, bustles less than 12 miles west of divided Interstate 17, and paved highways and streets network the community, connecting hotels, motels, hideaway resorts, golf courses, shops, art galleries, and gourmet restaurants. My early excursions were over mostly dirt roads, and Sedona, then a lonely grocery store and a few scattered buildings, was so undistinguished I have no recollection of the place.

One of my favorite fishing stretches on Oak Creek was just below the point where Midgley

SEDONA Photographs by Bob and Suzanne Clemenz

Bridge (now a popular overlook for visitors) spans precipitous Wilson Canyon. But I always fished the area with a wary eye on the forest around me. This was because my father had told me the story of unfortunate Richard Wilson.

On a summer day, before the turn of the century, settler Wilson was found dead beside Oak Creek, Sylvan hideaways (ABOVE) and open country (OPPOSITE PAGE) are as much a part of Sedona as its sculpted red sandstone rocks.

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For eons Sedona's natural wonders (BOTTOM) have mesmerized all who came upon them. But new attractions have come along, including the annual Jazz on the Rocks during which festival-favorite Doug MacLeod (RIGHT) and other top performers entertain enthusiastic spectators, such as Hannah Chansky (BELOW). BOTH BY JEFF KIDA near the mouth of the canyon that now carries his name. His head, badly mangled, was partially immersed in the water. A grizzly had come out of the box canyon to attack and kill him. The water, it was said, ran red 20 yards downstream from the spot where he was found.

The grizzlies were gone by the time I discovered Oak Creek. Nevertheless, when fishing near Wilson Canyon, my boyish imagination often prophesied their imminent return. This usually occurred when strange sounds in the underbrush seemed to be moving in my direction.

The cougars that once roamed the area are gone, too. The elk have moved back into more remote country, and deer are infrequently seen here. But this country, especially Oak Creek Canyon, is rife with smaller mammals, reptiles, and feathered wildlife. More than 200 species of birds have been counted in the region.

Today, in addition to the chatter of the winged multitudes, Sedona has other sounds. The community is internationally known for its outdoor jazz festivals. (See Arizona Highways, Sept. '91) Yet, the softer symphony of the birds, accompanied by rustling leaves and babbling Oak Creek, played for my youthful pleasure long before the first performer's bus rolled into Sedona. Those natural melodies still resound if you hike into the quiet places, away from the highways and the ambient clang of progress.

By the time I finished junior high school, my parents were permitting me to go on camping trips in the land of red rock without them. In the summer of '44, my fishing pal Don McCleve and I removed a large underwater boulder from a sandstone chute at a place in Oak Creek. Then we went upstream about 30 yards to the head of the chute, seated ourselves in the confined water, and let the force of Oak Creek carry us downstream feetfirst.

Now hundreds of people each day race down a chute called Slide Rock, and I wonder if it is the very same place.

On most of my boyhood camping excursions, we set up our tent in Manzanita Campground. The facility, still in use and maintained by the Forest Service, is near the site of the region's first schoolhouse. The school is no longer standing, but early photographs show a structure no more commodious than a trapper's old mountain cabin. Today, a long stone's throw from the schoolhouse site and the campground where we laid our dusty bedrolls, there is a resort where you can rent

Getting there: From southern Arizona, the Sedona area is most quickly accessed by driving north on Interstate 17, then turning onto State Route 179. Visitors traveling the northern part of the state can take Interstate 17 south from Flagstaff to State 179, or take scenic U.S. 89A from Flagstaff directly to Sedona.

What to see: Red rock country offers seemingly limitless hiking opportunities, scenic drives in every direction, picnic sites along tumbling Oak Creek, camping, and trout fishing. There are commercial Jeep tours, horse stables, tennis courts, golf courses, and more than 30 art galleries and countless craft shops in Sedona, plus a full schedule of events sponsored by the local Arts and Cultural Commission.

Where to stay: Accommodations range from bed-and-breakfast spots to modern motels and luxury resorts. Especially in summer months, it is wise to make reservations in advance. There also are numerous Forest Service campgrounds in the area. Two of these accommodate trailers and RVs but have no hookups. There are several commercial RV parks in the Sedona area; all have hookups. For further information: To inquire about accommodations, activities, and other local information, contact Sedona-Oak Creek Canyon Chamber of Commerce, P.O. Box 478, Sedona, AZ 86336; phone: (602) 282-7722. For information on campgrounds, picnic areas, and hiking trails, contact the Forest Service, Sedona District Office, P.O. Box 300, Sedona, AZ 86336; phone: (602) 282-4119. For general information on the area and other attractions, contact the Arizona Office of Tourism, 100 W. Washington, Phoenix, AZ 85007; phone: (602) 542-8687.

But don't gasp. Sedona has prices for all. Forest Service campground sites go for a modest $8 a day. Local motel and bed-and-breakfast prices vary enough to fit almost any budget, and restaurant menus range from fast-food to French cuisine. If you are looking for true wilderness, though, this land has that, too. The West Fork of Oak Creek Canyon is a place so confined by soaring sandstone cliffs that it has never been penetrated by a road or its length traced by a trail. It is where native trout swim in crystal pools, where eagles still nest,

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where early Sinagua Indians left their sign in small, dark caves high on the canyon walls.

I hiked the West Fork to its headwaters for the first time at the age of 15. I sloshed upstream against the current, bearing a pack and fly rod, walking ankle deep, knee deep, often hip deep in the limpid water, sometimes edging along the red cliffs to avoid deeper pools.

I stayed with the stream because, beyond its banks, there was only the shimmering green of tangled underbrush or cliffs that rose a thousand feet and more. The Forest Service has estimated that, in those earlier years, fewer than a dozen people a year hiked the West Fork to its source.

Today there is the suggestion of a path at the mouth of West Fork Canyon, and tourists frequently explore the first mile or two.

But, if you seek solitude, continue on. About five miles in, you will come to the place where a horse cannot pass, a spot where the vertical rock walls close in on the canyon and are scarcely more than 10 feet apart. The half-choked stream forms a pool nearly 15 feet deep. To go beyond this point, one must edge along the face of the cliff. Beyond is a land primeval.

The Sedona area also boasts one of the nation's most spectacular dirt-road drives. It's called Schnebly Hill Road, named for a frontier family who homesteaded nearby. (See Arizona Highways, March '87) The town of Sedona is named for Sedona Schnebly, who invoked her Eastern father's wrath by coming west at the turn of the cenCentury to marry settler Carl Schnebly. Schnebly Hill Road was completed in 1904 as a shortcut for driving cattle from high-country summer grazing to lower winter pastures. Today, this hand-hewn, spaghetti-loop road is slightly improved; yet, it retains a butterfly-producing, 12-mile, up-up stretch that prompts many auto passengers to instinctively lean inward, away from the sheer drops along the eastern wall of the canyon. In the late '40s, when I was a college student, I held summer jobs with an Arizona Highway Department survey crew that was laying out the route for Interstate 17. Each Monday, in predawn darkness, we drove up Schnebly Hill to our tent camp. Then each Friday evening, we would drive down, homeward bound for the weekend.

After numerous trips, our driver boasted that he could negotiate Schnebly Hill with his eyes closed. One Monday morning, we whipped around a dark hairpin turn and hit a newly fallen, basketball-size boulder that catapulted the station wagon into an embankment at the very edge of a 500-foot precipice. Not only did the driver cease his boasting, but, shaken by the experience, he turned the driving chores over to another crew member.

Some people decry the rapid influx of permanent residents and the continuing construction in the Sedona area. But, in some instances, the work of man has enhanced its appeal. One such endeavor is the Chapel of the Holy Cross, completed by sculptress Marguerite Staude in 1956.

This inspiring edifice, built on a jutting sandstone promontory south of town, maintains such architectural integrity that it seems to have grown from the rock.

Another of Sedona's man-made enhancements is Tlaquepaque, a sprawling village of art galleries, restaurants, and gift shops that fastidiously duplicates Mexican architecture of the colonial period. (See Arizona Highways, May '81) Its developers insisted that the ancient and towering sycamores on the property remain intact, and, today, under an immense dome of greenery, shoppers stroll to the music of wandering mariachis and happily part with their "pesos" in galleries that feature some of the best in Western and Native American art.

Sedona also displays innovation in its cultural and artistic events. Outstanding is the annual Sedona Hopi Show (Hopi-Tu Tsootsvolla), held in late spring. This unique art-dance festival features a select list of the Southwest's finest Hopi artists and craftsmen, and displays an enviable array of jewelry, paintings, pottery, kachina dolls, and baskets.

In addition, a Hopi dance troupe stages rare public performances of the Eagle, Corn, and other ceremonial dances. Only recently have these centuries-old dances been presented away from the Hopi mesa-top villages where cameras are not permitted. The Hopi, in a departure from tradition, have extended permission for spectators to take photographs during the Sedona performances.

The local business community contends that growth has made Sedona and its surroundings more appealing to visitors. Others feel that the region should have been turned into a national park, its special beauty preserved noncommercially.

What do I think? My mind is locked on the distant past, my memory vault filled with the adventures of boyhood. I remember the tiny light of a campfire in the closet of overpowering canyon darkness. Fresh-caught trout sizzling in a skillet. A slice of moon above the lonely cliffs. A night bird calling from its hidden perch. I am biased. I remain silent.