THE GRAND FALLS

FOR years I had heard of the Grand Falls. These falls, so the story went, were higher than Niagara Falls. Being a newcomer to the state of Arizona I was rather skeptical at the first few hearings and thought it just another "tall yarn" for the tenderfoot. But after living here for several years and exploring various parts of the state, I realized that, although descriptions might sound highly improbable, almost anything is possible in this land of inconsistency.

One night several of us who like to explore beyond the end of the beaten path were looking over a tourist guide map given away by one of the oil companies and we found Grand Falls indicated way off in "no man's land." The map looked a little hazy in spots, but being accustomed to roaming in this part of Arizona, we decided to take a chance and set the following Sunday for the trip.

We left Williams about nine in the morning and headed east on U. S. "66". The highway between Williams and Flagstaff traverses a mountainous country and the road dips, turns and twists through a beautiful pine forest with marvelous vistas opening up at unexpected places. For about seventeen miles the road gains in altitude until it reaches the summit, where a sign on the right says 7404 feet elevation. Topping this crest brings a most magnificent view of San Francsico Peaks, especially in the early spring when the white crown of winter is still held in place by the prongs of an extinct volcano. Although the calendar said April, the month we set for our jaunt, only a few places on the sunny slopes of this 13,000 foot peak dared to suggest that summer was coming.

We drove until the speedometer said 13.8 miles east of the city limits of Flagstaff. Here on the left hand side of the road we came to a sign which said "Leupp." We turned off onto a dirt road and with the decided change of scenery felt as if we had entered a different world, one that took all and gave nothing back. In a few miles our premonitions were realized for we came across a few dilapidated, unpainted farm houses surrounded by freshly plowed fields that looked as if they would begrudge even weeds an existence, let alone a crop. But despite the niggardliness of the immediate country there was beauty in the very rawness of the distant scene. Off to the west soared the mighty San Francisco Peaks inspiring from any view. In front of them rose Sunset Crater a single, tall, conical, black, barren peak with a tiara of brilliant red. Many rugged ridges of varying height and amount of vegetation lay between us and Sunset. At our feet was the cinder ash which Sunset let loose to the prevailing southwest winds in its last eruption in 876 A. D. Much of this ash and cinder is not visible for it is very fertile and wherever it gets any moisture vegetation quickly starts and covers it.

After leaving this entrancing spot of desolation we followed the meandering road over a thickly wooded pine hill and then dropped down into the cedar country. Crossing a cattle guard we read a sign on one of the posts which said, "Boundary Line Coconino National Forest." We were now in the Navajo reservation, a land of mystery and color. The cedars became more stunted giving away to a coarse grass that covered a rolling plain which spread out before us.

Rising abruptly from this plain are numerous conical hills resembling huge ant hills. All have a dent or hole in them as if the gods of the sky had used them for targets when playing a game with meteorites. This is the Cinder Hill country and each and every "ant hill" was at one time a spouting volcano. Those that are really old and quite sizeable belched forth clouds of smoke, cinders and molten lava over a period of years. The smaller ones were just spitfires which from time to time added their bit to the pyrotechnic display.

Off to the left is an extra large cone called Miriam Crater which probably was the most active of the group. Sometime in the Pleistocene age, about 20,000 or more years ago, it went on a rampage and boiled over furiously sending down a stream of black lava almost thirty miles long, the longest river of its kind in the San Francisco Peaks volcano area that has been traced from its source to its probable end. This hot molten River of Black arched up its back as it burned everything before it until finally it met the Little Colorado river where the cooling waters solidified the mass plugging up the river channel causing it to take a new course, and hence Grand Falls. Here the lava turned and flowed on down the left bank of the river for about fifteen miles where it formed a series of rapids called Black Falls.

All through this country, roads turn both right and left most of them ending up at some Navajo's hogan, but we kept to the main traveled road and about 13.4 miles from the main highway we found another sign which said Grand Falls to the left, Leupp to the right.

Here the road goes down a grassy draw a draw which is a wasteland with a charm and beauty of its own, with a silence so intense that it hurts. Such a land might the patriarchs of old have retired to when they desired to commune with their God.

Far off to the right is a part of the Painted Desert, the land of turquoise skies that guards the isolated Hopis on their three high mesas. A little closer in is an outcropping of red sandstone covered and uncovered during the countless ages by the controversy of the elements. To the left the River of Black flows on and on paralleling this carefree road which meanders at will over this vast country. Overhead the intense blueness of the sky is broken by listless clouds taking their noon siesta. Not a sound or sight of living creature mars the scene only the regular breathing of our "choogy," so called by the Navajo, desecrates this land of peace.

Making a sharp turn we found ourselves astraddle the River of Black while full before us was another marvelous view of the San Francisco Peaks for these peaks, like a guardian angel, are always watchful of the wayfarer.

The sun was now directly overhead and shining brightly on the Peaks bringing out the dark green of the pines and firs in strong contrast to the purity of the snow. Here and there great patches of grey violet gave evidence of aspen groves. Below the dark blue-green of the higher altitude the yellower green of the cedars caught the sunlight which in turn gave way to the desert country with its countless deeply eroded ravines cutting through the many colored rocks which make up the Painted Desert. All about us in the grey volcanic ash were clumps of bright lavender desert lupines smiling cheerfully to those who gave heed.

Murmurs of rushing water came to our ears and we realized that we were on the "plug" and hastened on to see what had happened in the far distant past. The roar grew louder but all that we could see was a deep narrow gorge, for the Little Colorado like its brother, the big Colorado, is a veritable glutton and eats its channel deep. We drove as close to the edge as we dared and then got out and walked to the rim and peered over. Here tumbling over a series of small benches and leaping frantically over the last two high drops was the (Turn to Page 29)