HIS MAJESTY-THE SAGUARO

SUNSHINE and silence. Every where tiny heat waves wiggle like millions of glass caterpillars hurrying absurdly. Far off purple mountains are altars against the blue horizon. It is the desert, the realm of His Majesty, the Saguaro. With dignity he dominates and for his benign service is he exaltedbut try to describe him to a stranger! You only get tangled in a tangle of words. The Giant Cactus (Cereus giganteus or Carnegiea gigantea) is a flowering tree forty to sixty feet high, covered with leaves that cannot flutter. Sometimes it is a single green column, a little like an up-ended cucumber pared down at the base to suggest a fierce exclamation point. Sometimes it has half a hundred branches of equal size and shape, fruited, ridged and spined exactly alike. An average specimen will weigh six to eight tons when thirsty, and drink two tons of rain water on a binge. But why bother? The stranger won't believe his ears. Show him a good photograph, or better still, present him to His Majesty face to face. Remember he is found no where else on earth except in the lower Sonoran zone of North America, that long, graceful curve of desert starting in northern Old Mexico and extending over southwestern Arizona into the foothills north of Phoenix. A varied assortment of Cereus cousins grow in South America and elsewhere, but Arizona's own state flower, the true Saguaro, has shaped its character through eons of evolution to fit this land alone and has never wandered from its home. Even its name is unique, with no ancient root and very little history. The early Spanish soldiers, riding north out of Mexico in search of the seven cities of gold, passed through Papagueria and heard the Papago Indians calling this giant cactus "friend" in syllables which sounded like sa-war-ra, or, in Spanish spelling, saguaro. So this they called it, this master of abundant life in the midst of desert conditions. Of course, the most pressing problem of the Saguaro has always been finding and conserving moisture and it has perfected some amazing economies in its solution. Instead of squandering its substance on a solid trunk like an ordinary tree, it compromised by developing a cylinder of slender, wooden poles knit together at its constricted base and joined again at the top of the column. These poles are more resilient than solid wood, take less plant food and water and leave more room for the pulp which is extremely important, as this pulp is from ninety-five to ninetyeight per cent water and is the storage reservoir on which the life of the Saguaro depends. Ridges and furrows run along the lines of these poles from base to top of every column and in drought draw together like the bellows of an accordion, His Majesty, the Saguaro, is the sovereign supreme of the desert. The blistering sun holds no terror for him, and he flourishes on the smallest amount of water. Nature equipped him well. cutting down the surface exposed to evaporation. In times of plenty they expand and give room for the storage of water. Neither could this budget-balancing wizard support thousands of wasteful little leaves, with two surfaces always offering moisture to the air, yet no tree can breathe without leaves. This puzzle must have taxed even Mother Nature as she helped work out the brand new arleaves and spreading them in a smooth, pale green rind exactly to fit all the ridges and grooves of the Sagaro's stately body. All the elements of the true leaf are there, with one surface pasted down and the other evenly covered with a coating of gray wax which ruffs up in a thick fuzz in hard droughts, and cuts evaporation to its least possible minimum. Over all the Saguaro wears an adjustable veil formed by the interlacing of the thick clusters of spines growing in aureoles along the ridges of its flutes. When the pulp is full of water, the ridges are spread wide apart, the cactus looks fat and the spines do not touch. But when the drought comes and the tree is fighting for its life, they draw together and by mingling their tips form enough aircooled shade to cut off as much as twentyfive per cent of the direct burn of the desert sun. These spines are stickers in the high est sense of the word. Hard, resinous wood, awl-shaped, set in furry pads in a definite pattern, they stick on their job throughout the long life of the Saguaro. Those near the base turn black with age as the centuries pass, while the new, young ones at the tip crown the tall Saguaro with a silvery cap. The roots of the Saguaro are shallowly placed and widely extended and have incredible cleverness in drawing the minutest particle of moisture from the loose, detrital soil. When the hard, black seed has traveled by chance of flood or wind or drifting sand about the desert until its shell is worn thin, and has found some suitable depression with just the right amount of warmth and protection, it concentrates for a long time on its work underground. The end of the second year may find, if all goes well, only a little gray fuzz one-fourth of an inch above the ground. Growth is exceedingly slow. At forty years of age the plant is approximately thirty-six inches tall. After this it may reach a maximum growth of four inches in a single year. It is practically immune to all plant diseases and has the ability to heal scars made in its body by coating them with a strong, woody surface which defies decay indefinitely. How old is the oldest Saguaro is anybody's guessing game. Smart guessers avoid being too definite. Dean Thornber in his book "The Fantastic Clan" says "There are Saguaro out on the Great American Desert that were old when the thirteen colonies became a nation in Morning breaks upon the desert like the muffled roll of drums, While the land lies hushed and breathless, reverent as the new day comes, Then the first long rays of sunlight crown the hills with molten gold, And the desert stirs and wakens as the mists of morn unfold,

Desert Sunrise... By BARBARA BAXTER

Morning breaks upon the desert like the muffled roll of drums, While the land lies hushed and breathless, reverent as the new day comes, Then the first long rays of sunlight crown the hills with molten gold, And the desert stirs and wakens as the mists of morn unfold, There's a vastness and a glory of religious pageantry, When it seems the very mountains kneel in humble majesty; When the thorny-ribbed saguaro lift their gaunt arms to the sky, And the flame-tipped ocotillo fling their glowing torches high.

Then you hear the awful silence all its myriad voices raise, Till it seems to swell a chorus in triumphant hymns of praise. Now the sun in fiery splendor bursts in glory o'er the plain, With a rocket flare of color heralding it's day again.

1776. Proud and dignified and stately they stand out there in the great alone, silent sentinels of a long gone past, still hardy in the towering strength of their great age, with yesterday gone forever and looking to the day that is yet to come.

With the century-slow pulse of the desert all processes of life and death are retarded. Who can say how many centuries it takes to bring a Saguaro to full maturity, how long it may stand in the fullness of its strength and how long its vitality may take to gradually recede until death itself is accomplished?

We only know that through the centuries the same magnificient plant, disregarding drought and all lesser discouragements, meets every June with a superb coronet of cream-white blossoms around the tips of each of its columns. These blossoms are almost as delicate and exquisite as those of the Saguaro's timid little cousin, the Night Blooming Cereus. They appear singly, bloom in the night and remain open less than one full day, are shaped like an ice cream cone and are about that size. The cone has a rough, green rind, delicately attached to the areole at its pointed end. Out of its wide top spread waxy, fluted petals in a flattened surface four to five inches in diameter, around a golden center of stamens, which reach the incredible number of three thousand to the single blossom.

A desert lover who lives in the sunshine and beauty beyond old Camelback Mountain told me of the greatest thrill of her life and my heart has been visited by a ghost of envy ever since. In the soft June dawn she entered His Majesty's court and on a low, twisted limb found a bloom she could take in her hands and reverently examine. Under the circle of petals and the golden core of stamens she found free water in the green cone, enough to last out the life of the bloom's short span of beauty. In the dawns and days that followed she learned that when the flower opens in the night or early morning the cone is full of water; by four o'clock, when the bloom closes, the water has disappeared. Is there another plant on earth which presents its flowers in a vase of water to keep its loveliness fresh?

Toward the end of June the Saguaro fruit appears, a sort of pear about the size and shape of a large, flattened duck egg. But the story of the fruit must wait. Much more also waits to be told of the Saguaro's life story, the strange nature of its pulp, the part the birds play, the wine cups of the Papago Indians and their harvest ceremonials, the legends of the origin of the Saguaro and the generous gifts it has made to the desert dwellers through the long centuries of its isolation.

His majesty, the Saguaro, is worthy of a book of records and recognition; a few feeble articles can only introduce you at court. Your own interest and insight may then bring you to a fuller realization of the wonder of his noble nature.