Wings On My Knapsack

The world of a child ends with the horizon. As he grows older his imagination sets its boundaries far off; but gradually time, abetted by physical limitations, shrinks it again to the horizon. For most of us, that much world is enough.

I wanted little more. I had marked in my mind a triangle which began at Lake Mead, went northeastward through Zion, Bryce, Labarynth and along the Colorado to Rio Dolores; then south over the Uncompahgre to the San Juan, Monument Valley and Canyon de Chelly; and from there westward through the Painted Desert, the Grand Canyon, and back to Lake Mead. Within this Eternal Triangle, I knew, was the most sublime, colorful and dramatically lonely land it was possible to find.

By car, a-horseback and afoot I explored it. I dragged my feet down the rocky slopes, bathed in the brackish river-drainings from a thousand peaks and canyons, and trudged out again, carrying the weight of the sun on my shoulders. But each year the stride became slower, the trail longer, the pack heavier. I began to realize that to explore the Grand Canyon alone would require several lifetimes. Maybe if I could live a thousand years I could see everything within the Triangle and be able to piece it all together. I thought of the Russian scientist who had discovered a way to make a man live a hundred and fifty years. That much would be a start. Then I made the trip by air.

The silver wings of the DC-3 glisten in the desert sun as we climb in, photographers, airline officials, publicity men; she roars down the runway, and before I can take a second breath the gray hills and Joshua forests are streaking under us and Lake Mead spreads out below, a wide splash of blue. And there is Boulder Dam, a white slug between black walls, pushing back the vast expanse of water while it quietly inhibits power and prosperity for farms and cities hundreds of miles away. The lake is streamed with wind-strewn bands of silver, with here and there a white sail, the long-feathered wake of a speed boat. A swift view of beaches, rippling surf, boat landings, launches and all the small craft that snuggle in the sunlit coves waiting for fishermen and sightseers to set them free.

We swerve northward, skim over Beaver Dam mountains and head for Zion Canyon, whose proud West Temple and dim. Bastions come visible on the horizon. Then above and beyond them the Pink Cliffs of the Markagunt appear like transparent strains on the periphery of the sky. From these Pink Cliffs the earth descends in a series of terraces, through Zion, the Vermillion Cliffs, the Crinoline Hills (Moencopi formation), across the Uinkaret and Kanab and Kaibab Plateaus, to the north rim of the Grand Canyon.

Incomprehensible as this scene may be, it puts us in a mood for Zion a lofty, exalted mood, wherein we feel like gods; remote, impersonal, omniscient, everlastingas we swoop down upon the mist-filled depths. West Temple flattens out and rushes upward at us, and the further walls of the canyon stream downward, their colors liquid, running together; then height melts into height, as bastion and promontory and tower drift by, one indistinguishable from another; while altogether the effect is of abysmal depths washed with the volatile colors of powerful and swiftly moving mass.

That has not passed as we plunge toward the rim of the earth and cross in succession canyons equally deep, and some more vividly painted; North Creek, La Verkin Creek, Dry Creek, all in the Kolob Plateau. And they are gone. We are over the Pink Cliffs, Blowhard Peak, the summit of the Markagunt. Pine forest, lake, glittering stream, wide meadows, groves of aspen; all drift toward us and away to the insatiable horizon. We cross the headwaters of the Sevier and sail over the Panusagunt Plateau to leap the rim and find ourselves above the conflagration of Bryce. The plane pulls round and comes low over the Silent City. The photographers crouch at the windows with lenses blazing and shutters clicking. For ten miles the bewildeering, whimsical sculptors' nightmare parades beside us-too fast for us to distinguish the individual forms like Walls of Windows, Queen Victoria, Great Cathedral and the myriad others, all luminous and tinted in every conceivable nuance of tone.

Before we can take a second look we have swung out over Kaiparowitz Plateau-the lonely land made famous by Dr. Herbert Gregory in his distinguished geologic studies. Now Bryce is but a dim pink brushmark in the distance, and Table Mountain is vanishing in the north. We swing northward, over Escalante and Boulder towns and look on the beginnings of the wildest region of canyons, ravines, in this whole bright wilderness of stone. Far to the southeast the round hump of Navajo Mountain crouches like a Sphynx on the other side of Glen Canyon, holding Rainbow Bridge invisible in its paws. And barely seen are the tips of Monument Valley's shafts above the farthest rim. But that is tomorrow's journey.

We skim along the east side of the high Aquarious, staring down into the painted canyons of Wayne Wonderland, then over the long wave of Capitol Reefs, to follow the Fremont River through the sheer aperture where it goes out to join the Dirty Devil. Now the far-flung San Rafael Swell, going out to a dim line of cliffs in the north; and below us the little town of Hanksville, lost and alone in its velvet counterpane of ash-blue hills.

On our right the Henry Mountains hold their solitary course on a turbulent sea of canyons, while clouds fling golden rain about their summits. The canyons below us have begun to deepen, become more numerous and sheer. The pilot brings the plane low to circle over Labyrinth and the junction of the Green and Colorado Rivers.There in the tortuous, twisted, orange-red canyon the mountain streams from Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, join

Man's conquest of the mighty Colorado, seen from the air, is a drama in water, engineering skill and big country. Above is Boulder Dam and expansive Lake Mead; right, top, is Parker and Lake Havasu; right, below, construction site of Davis Dam; below, Imperial Dam near Yuma. The country is so big even the river is lost in it. The wild torrent, because of man, has become a faithful servant of the people. It has a mighty big job to do.

The distance and bigness and color that is Arizona is best seen from the air. Mighty rough country with its mountains and canyons and sharp, bristling cliffs. Mighty pretty, too, with its white fleecy clouds, with its browns, pinks, dark greens and the hazyblue-purple of the horizon. Big and spread-out country it is, but it is country with a varied personality so when you fly over it a blink of the eye may make you miss something of interest. Got to be wide-eyed to take in the drama and color passing below.

blue-purple of the horizon. Big and spread-out country it is, but it is country with a varied personality so when you fly over it a blink of the eye may make you miss something of interest. Got to be wide-eyed to take in the drama and color passing below.

An Arizona Airways ship at Sky Harbor, ready for a flight to northern Arizona.

American Airlines sets down a DC-6 at Tucson in regularly scheduled flights.

In the frontier days folks used to hang around the stage stops to see the stage roll in, bringing the travelers from Santa Fe and places east. Then came the train and it still is fun to watch the trains roar to a stop at the stations. Now come planes, flashes of silver in the blue sky winging in from every place, it seems, setting down on the airports and bringing with them folks from near and distant places. There is the roar of engines, becoming a little louder as the plane circles the port; then the landing; then doors swing open and neighbors step out. New York or Paris or Cairo or Shanghai are just a few hours away now, just over the hill. Not such a big world.

T. W. A., pioneer in air transportation, is one of airlines serving Arizona area.

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for the long ordeal through the sublime solitudes of Northern Arizona. The rivers seem innocent enough now, wending their way quietly through serpentine bends; unaware of the struggle ahead. For a moment we gaze on their shining surfaces, edged with green of meadow and willow and cottonwood where the ledges do not rise too abruptly from the water; and we wish we were there, going the silent, meditative way toward the inner lands of mystery and loneliness. But there is hardly time for a wish. The plane roars up and away from Labarynth and Cataract, to follow the Colorado eastward, by Deadhorse Point, beyond the scooped out orange-red valley of Moab, to where the river has washed into the red pedestals of the La Sal mountains, and creeks have hollowed them further into vermillion ampitheatres separated by narrow collonades. This is the Picture Gallery country, and out of it comes the little river of sorrows-Rio Dolores after meandering through the Uncompahgre. Down this avenue to cross the Colorado came the early Spaniards, going north and west in search of gold and lost cities and plunder. South along the same trail went trappers, mountain men, to trade their furs in Taos and Santa Fe for wine and “Taos Lightning” and a few fandangos with the senoritas.

Second day of our trip we nose toward the sunrise where it glimmers on the phantom ridges of the Sawatch. The myriad frozen lakes and mist-hung meadows of Grand Mesa sweep below us, and that great area has vanished and we follow Black Canyon of the Gunnison; a wierd, deep trough containing a furious little river. Now the Cochetopa Mountains, then the antic white pyramids of the San Miguels move under, ghostly figures half seen through the intermittent clouds. We glide out of the wintry realm and come down across the Uncompahgre, toward the southern La Sals and summer. Over the goosenecks of the San Juan we glimpse below a gentle river threading its way through endless loops and turns in gruesome brown walls. Ahead of us is the fantastic, Arabian Nights country of the Navajo and Arizona.

We make a wide scoop eatward to come in over the bright cliffs and towers of Carriso, Redrock, Los Gigantes, Round Rock, Lukachukai. No wonder the sad-eyed Spaniards roamed these mesas looking for the Seven Cities of Cibola! Everywhere gala colors and bizarre earth shapes stand like ruins of oriental cities. The Spaniards took no gold with them, unless it was that which glittered in the chiaroscuro of memory as they recalled the enchantment of the Dine land. Far eastward is a vague shape we identify as the huge prow of Shiprock, then we are in over the Chuskas and peering into the cryptic regions of the ancient Navajo refuge; Canyon de Chelly, Canyon del Muerto, Monument and Bat Canyons deep avenues between sheer, smooth walls of buff and pink sandstone, floors of silver water edged with cornfields, fringed with willows. Here is not only home for a richly endowed and haughty people, but temple, shrine, sanctuary, where the impressive beauty of the setting is matched by the colorful and imaginative traditions of the Dine. The people have yielded their lustrous culture but slowly before the march of two-gun movies, dime store talismans and the magic of the soapopera. In vision and substance the life of the Navajo is still exotic and strong savored of mystery and sensuous delight. It will be a sad day when it finally succumbs to the modern pressures of the commonplace. Like a brightly colored page out of some ancient book, the Tseghi (de Chelly) fades from sight, and we soar away from Beautiful Valley, across by Lohali to where the Hopi villages cluster like mud-gray wasp nests on the succeeding peninsulas of ledge. Polacca, Walpi, Toreva, Mishongnovi, Shongopovi, Oraibi, Hotevila-swiftly we try to identify the clusters on the melancholy cliffs that reach out into colorless desolation. From this height the fragile bastions do not appear impregnable; but the Hopis made them so, when it was necessary to defend themselves and their quiet culture of basket weaving and pottery making and corn-growing against the bolder, predatory tribes.

Northward we speed again, over Black Mesa, to have a closer look at Monument Valley. It is a curious panorama of brooding monoliths standing each alone upon the plain, or marching out Indian file from the jutting red-brown walls. It is all there in one bold sweep of prairie, talus, tower; but I miss the sense of loftiness in the individual forms. Low as we may come, the jagged point of Agathla, for one, seems no more than a dark, discolored tooth protruding from the earth's cheek; while I remember that from a point near it on the ground it towered up with a fierce, impressive majesty. Now as we zoom in, spreading thunderous echoes among the buttes, we have none of the reverence for them that we would feel if we hovered in their shadows. As does the little Navajo girl, a midge of color on her pony as she rides after the sheep scattered and barely visible to us on the plain. She could give meanings to the standing rocks if she would tell what she has heard in the chants and legends of her people. But the girl fades into the plain as we soar upward. Out of this pillared sanctuary, we leap over Skeleton Mesa, Piute Canyon and head for Navajo Mountain.

South and west of Navajo Mountain the country breaks into a tossing crystalized torrent of golden-orange stone on which there seems to be no vegetation except a tiny juniper clinging here and there in a crevice. Everywhere bare, polished sandstone, in riffles, waves, columns, mounds, shafts, pyramids a turbulent and shining field of solidified violence, cut through in the direction of the Colorado and Glen Canyon by narrow ravines. We swing wide around the mountain, which is another holy place of Navajo legend-Mountain Around Which They Moved, Mountain of Monster Slayer and Child Born of Water, Brothers of Turquoise Girl, Daughter of the Sun, who lives in the House Made of Rainbow.

The shadows of our wings shiver and dart over the bright forms and leap from gorge to gorge as we circle the mountain west and north, the spirit region where the Dine will not go. Finally, as we turn about once more and come low we discover the thing we want most to see, Rainbow Bridge. As near as we can come to it, the giant, graceful span looks no bigger than a trinket lost in a heap of golden refuse.

The Colorado is beneath us, moseying through Glen Canyon. We try to discover Music Temple, Tapestry Wall and the other, nameless, buttes and promontories that mark the long trail of the river through these quiet solitudes. We try to see El Vado de los Padres, and the old Ute Ford, places known only to few explorers, but landmark melts into landmark and one can only guess at locations.

The river sinks deeper into her canyon as the surrounding country rises, till it comes to the muddy little Paria, which originates northwestward in Bryce Canyon. Here where the Paria empties out of its painted canyon, the Colorado emerges from the brilliant escarpment of the Vermillion Cliffs. This colorful ledge, about fifteen hundred feet high, goes west, a hundred miles, to end at Short Creek and the Tumurru. Here we see only the eastern segment of it, which, with the Kaibab Plateau on the west, encloses Houserock Valley-the valley of the famous Arizona State buffalo herd. Where the Paria and the Colorado join is Lee's Ferry, historic Mormon hideout and river crossing established by the Mormon scout, Jacob Hamblin, and built up by John D. Lee. Eight miles below this abandoned crossing is the Navajo Bridge, lately the the highest known, connecting at last the two worlds the Colorado had torn asunder. Below us now, it looks like a tiny filigree of metal spun between the eight hundred foot walls of Marble Canyon.

the Vermillion Cliffs. This colorful ledge, about fifteen hundred feet high, goes west, a hundred miles, to end at Short Creek and the Tumurru. Here we see only the eastern segment of it, which, with the Kaibab Plateau on the west, encloses Houserock Valley-the valley of the famous Arizona State buffalo herd. Where the Paria and the Colorado join is Lee's Ferry, historic Mormon hideout and river crossing established by the Mormon scout, Jacob Hamblin, and built up by John D. Lee. Eight miles below this abandoned crossing is the Navajo Bridge, lately the the highest known, connecting at last the two worlds the Colorado had torn asunder. Below us now, it looks like a tiny filigree of metal spun between the eight hundred foot walls of Marble Canyon.

A sweep across the broken mesas now, with Kaibab our horizon on the west, the Painted Desert, Echo Cliffs and the towering San Francisco Peaks to the south. We brace ourselves mentally, for we are about to enter the Canyon of Canyons. As we approach the great abyss, the pilot shoves the plane into a climb to escape dangerous downdrafts and we leap across the first high brink and over Nankoweap Creek, Kwagunt, Malgosa, Awatobi, and Chuar; and below is the dramatic entrance of the lonely Little Colorado. Drouth in the Navajo lands has dried up the usually muddy torrent until now it gleams out of the depths a tiny ribbon of turquoise playing into the puma-colored Colorado. Turquoise; I swear it and appropriate enough for a stream that comes from the Painted Deserts and the land of the sons of Turquoise Girl, daughter of the Sun.

The great bastions rise, pale on pale; talus, cliff, talus, might above endless might, color shimmering above color out of the granite-gray mist of the lower depths. Identify the towers; Juno Temple, Jupiter Temple, Venus Temple, Apollo Temple, Vishnu, Krishna Shrine, Rama Shrine, Sheba, Solomon Temples. Then Clear Creek and Bright Angel and more classic tags; Ottoman Amptheatre, Brahma Temple, Deva Temple, Zoroaster's Temple, and Buddha Manu, Isis, Osiris, Shiva. Great gods of Navajo and Paiute -Yei and Shinob-give us some good American names, some thunderous names to go with this holiest grandeur of all the earth; Shinumo I would keep. And perhaps the Dragon. And Muav, Tahuta, Chikapanagi, Matkatamiba, Sinyala, Havasu-because they have sounds that moan like the river, and have no meaning to most of us. But I would take all that Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Oriental drivel and wash it way in a storm of native sounds. We swing from rim to rim of the twelve-mile break, as though we were hung on a giant pendulum. The very ease with which we look into the untrodden solitudes takes away much of the terrible hold of the canyon, a force real and palpable when one stands on the brink.

PAGE TWENTY-FIVE OF ARIZONA HIGHWAYS FOR MAY, 1947 After all these years of trudging heavy burdened along the steep slopes, sweating, dragging up through crumbled ledges, surmounting rim on rim, gazing up to further summits as distant as immortality; here is triumph! Wings on my knapsack! No anchor of weariness, no load of hunger, silence, loneliness; no staring blankly at the walls until they begin to move and stream upward, bending, undulating, stretching in an amorphous film from no beginning to no end. We are as free as the clouds. Yet in this triumph here is something lost. When one stood alone, far out on a solitary rim, suspended between infinity below and infinity above, one discerned in the clear stillness the face and figure of the universe in its enternal beauty. Now the rims and swelling heights go by like hurried phantoms, leaving no memory, no fear, no mad, exalted joy. They are but images passing on a screen.Swiftly they move back, the buttes, to shield the amphitheatres and fade into distance. One by one: Crystal Creek, Modred Abyss, Shinumo Ampitheatre, Hakatai, Walthenberg, Blacktail Canyons. Powell Plateau drifts by like a huge black cloud in a frenzied storm. We swing northward along the Great Thumb. Then the lonely abysmal, unvisited canyons: Specter, Bedrock, Galloway, Stone -already filling with the afternoon shadow of the Great Thumb Mesa. And now, Thunder River, the last, most forbidding and fearfully enchanting of all the mighty canyons, hewn out of the breast of the Kaibab. But here again our speed, our aloofness, take away the fearsome majesty of the place. There is but a glimpse of Thunder Creek pouring out of the high ledges and roaring down to meet Tapeats.

We have only time to note the blue-white of the frothing little river where it gnaws through its inner gorge, tearing at the very vitals of the earth. A passenger