Toroweap . . . A Night With the Gods

"If you stand on the edge of that earth wound and stare down into it there will be a feeling that your world is falling apart, that its solidity is no more, that all previous conceptions of space and mass have been erased."

In these blitzkrieg days when there are men at large who strut the earth like microbes on an ostrich egg boasting they laid it themselves, it might not hurt anybody to have a look at Toroweap. A swaying glimpse into this canyon, which can swallow up the roar of a mighty river as if it were a lover's whisper, will remind one that there are things which endure, that the work of making majesty and beauty will go on for centuries after man has ceased shooting and shouting.

This is not a tour, detour, diversion or side trip. This is an experience as unforgettable as birth, death or marriage. Once you leave the slick asphalt of Arizona's Highway 89 at Fredonia and head for Mt. Trumbull on the Tuweap road you have put practically everything of modern civilization behind you, except what few comforts you can take along.

You can go via the pleasantly passable Bullrush road, or you can follow the Vermilion Cliffs, taking Pipe Springs in your stride, to Short Creek where you get sight of the brilliant cathedral cliffs of Tumurru, then turn south toward Mt. Trumbull. Either way, your road becomes something of a double cattle trail as you approach Tuweap Valley.

You will find it both pleasant and judicious to stop at Walter Kent's ranch, the nearest habitation, to the rim of the Toroweap. You will enjoy the quiet cool of this little Kent oasis, and you will marvel at the determination of a woman who has surrounded herself with a garden of honeysuckle, roses, pansy-beds and violets in a valley where every drop of water, except for "This Colorado . . . is a savage, beige-colored puma that glides quietly along the canyons for miles, suddenly to lash out as here at Lava Falls; to lash out suddenly in bounding anger and beat against the bases of its mile-high walls, as if stricken with madness in realization of its captivity."

occasional rains, must be hauled from the distant Trumbull. The KentsBud and Mattie to you and me are the only people I know who are thoroughly at home either on the trail leading down to the river or on the brink of the awful Toroweap. Bud can stand on the very edge of a rock extending out over 3500 feet of sheer drop and look down into that dizzying canyon with the equanimity of a mountain sheep, while perhaps you, and undoubtedly I, teeter at the sight of him. Let me warn you not to see this Toroweap alone, unless you are one of those people we see in the newsreels who dance about on steel girders at the top of fresh skyscrapers. I stood on that brink alone, the evening of my descent into the gorge and I tell you it is an experience no one should want. It does something to you. It pulls the corners of your eyes down tight, it draws your lips into a straight line, it dries your throat and puts a grip of steel on your insides. It was cloudy that afternoon. Clouds that had more of dust from the mesas than moisture in them hung motionless over the gloomy abutments barely (Turn to Page 26) "A swaying glimpse into this canyon... will remind one that there are things which endure, that the work of making majesty and beauty will go on for centuries after man has ceased shooting and shouting."

By Jonreed Lauritzen

"This is not a tour, detour, diversion or side trip. Once you leave the slick asphalt at Fredonia and head for Mt. Trumbull on the Tuweap road you have put practically everything of modern civilization behind you, except what few comforts you can take along."