...For Trout Fishing...

Not in the southwest where the entire flow may come in 3 months with not a drop in the remaining 9 months. When irrigation is under consideration, the difference is of great moment.

Without all this information, so painstakingly gathered, the water allocation decided upon by the Colorado River Compact could hardly be figured. Allotments are based on a mean annual run-off of the entire river of 16 million acre feet (enough water to cover 16 million acres of level ground to the depth of 1 foot). Seven and a half millon acre feet were allotted to the upper basin states and a similar amount to the lower, with the right of the latter to increase their use by another million. California agreed to use not more than 4,400,000 of the amount allotted and one half of the surplus waters above the 712 million. Nevada gets 300,000, Arizona 2,800,000 and Arizona may use one half of the surplus water unapportioned and in addition shall have the benefit of the Gila River and its tributaries.

But the river is still capricious. In 1946 it is figured that only 6 million acre feet of water will have come down into Lake Mead where it is stored. Perhaps next year it may be twenty million.

In gaging stations the water is measured in cubic feet, or the amount flowing past a point during one second and is called "second feet." (It sounds odd when talking about a river but perhaps it was reasoned, since it was running-you might as well give it feet to run upon). The normal flow for the river is about 16,000 second feet. But it may drop down as low as two to four feet. In 1941 it was 122,000 second feet at high water. The greatest recorded flow was 240,000 second feet, but it is generally accepted that on July 7, 1884, it was about 300,000 second feet. Measurements have been made from the elevation of the crotch in a peach tree, some distance back from the bank of the river. Jerry Johnson rescued a rabbit from the tree after the waters had receded some.

Within the memory of man, the river has frozen over only 3 times. The Indians tell of crossing with their sheep on the ice at the Crossing of the Fathers (35 miles upstream) in 1886. In 1878 it is recorded that a Mr. A. W. Irvine crossed the river with a wagon and 1200 pounds of load. More recently, in 1925, Jim Klohr took pictures of his family on the ice at Lees Ferry.

The gaging station is credited with producing a wealth of exJim Klohr operates cable car over the Colorado. Measurements of the river flow at this station are important factor in water distribution. Normal flow is 16,000 second feet. Highest recorded flow is 240,000. So are the Vermilion Cliffs that flame into grandeur with the setting of the sun. Going into "town" keeps them in touch with the world but breeds no desire to remain. They smile when someone asks if they are not lonely. The world beats its own pathway to such spots as this, without the necessity of going into its bustle. And the men who buckle down to jobs like this, no matter how they try to refute it, build a guarding bulwark against some of the ills of the world. The speed and distractions of business are not there. They have a chance to gage the size of their own tasks against the universe and if they find it small can also accept with equanimity their relation with the whole.

perimental data, contributed freely to the development of stream-gaging equipment and has sheltered many Survey investigations and exhibitions. Its reports go out regularly, making singularly incomprehensible and dull reading to the uninformed, but bearing great import for the future. The engineers, a long line of them, have gone calmly to their work, scarcely counting as risks the everyday dangers involved. To swing on a fragile-looking cable, 30 feet above the most dangerous stream in America is routine. Half mile jaunts down the south bank, in every sort of weather, but mostly bad, and up the often flooded Paria or the sandy Moenkopi and Grand Falls are part of the job. The last two are stopping points on the 130 mile junket into "town" (Flagstaff) which is done for mail and supplies several times a month. On the return the car usually has to be left on the far side of the Paria, since only the stoutest care to pull the modern automobile out of the sand or risk leaving it marooned in a rising stream bed. The extremes of weather must be borne calmly and one's scale of creature comforts and amusements simplified.

To the engineer and his assistant, when he has one, the river is not just so many second feet of water going through the chang-ing seasons, measured solely for the purpose of allotting acre feet to distant states. They may not even give a thought to the world of water-users they serve. The Lee's Ferry history is still of moment to them, for they have heard much of it first hand from the Johnsons and they know the Indian family that still lives there and the family that recently converted the John D. Lee farm into a guest ranch. The progress of the Survey, as the United States Geological Survey is known in private, and the long line of men who have carried out the work, is very real to them.

So are the Vermilion Cliffs that flame into grandeur with the setting of the sun. Going into "town" keeps them in touch with the world but breeds no desire to remain. They smile when someone asks if they are not lonely. The world beats its own pathway to such spots as this, without the necessity of going into its bustle. And the men who buckle down to jobs like this, no matter how they try to refute it, build a guarding bulwark against some of the ills of the world. The speed and distractions of busi-ness are not there. They have a chance to gage the size of their own tasks against the universe and if they find it small can also accept with equanimity their relation with the whole.

Beautiful country. U. S. Highway 89 follows the cliff walls for many miles. Country is noted for sweeping distance.

To take the White Mountains, that wild, high, beautiful country in eastern Arizona. It's high-high enough that you find spruce and "quaken asps" or "quakies", as the mountain westerners call the aspen. It's high enough that you'll find it enliveningly crisp and cool after the sweltering heat of summer days in the city. It's between six and nine thousand feet, and green and primitive as only those altitudes can make it.

It is up there you will find the finest trout fishing in the state -on the head waters of White River, Black River and the Little Colorado. These are all real trout streams. They head on the slopes of Mount Baldy, which is over eleven thousand feet high. There are other creeks too. Roll the Western flavor of their names around in your mouth: Bear Wallow, Reservation Creek, Centerfire, Deer Creek, Coyote Creek, and Nutrioso this last, according to a beaver expert, was given this town because that country's streams were, in early times, alive with beaver, called somewhat inaccurately by some, "nutria".

Not far from those other creeks are these, on the Apache Indian Reservation: Freezeout Creek, Paddy, Little Bonita, Big Bonita and Pacheto.

These are all trout streams offering you leaping Rainbows, brilliantly-colored Browns, flashing Brooks.

But the most wonderful part of trout fishing in the White Mountains is the rumors you hear when you meet and talk with other fishermen about a creek over on the other side of the mountain: "No one gets over there, much. We took a little road, turned off at the big spruce, parked and dropped into the canyon, and there it was. The best fishin' water I ever . . . Always over the mountain.

If you prefer lake fishing, there are: Big Lake, Crescent Lake, Luna Lake, Tunnel Reservoir and River Reservoir. There are others, too, just like the nebulous, nameless streams you hear of, but the directions on how to get to them will be vague. That's because they are extra-good fishing spots and successful anglers keep that information to themselves.

Even fishermen, who, according to state law, can only fish from 4 A.M. to 10 P.M., need accommodations, and for these, there are many small towns in the White Mountains, as well as private and public camp grounds, and numberless perfect camping sites that are yours for only the driving of a tent stake and the building of a fire. If you'd rather "rough it" in comparable comfort, you'll center your operations from Springerville and Eagar, on Highways 60, 260 and 666, where you just drive off the hill into Little Round Valley and there they are. Although you can't expect a Biltmore, there are in this community cafes, hotel and auto court accommodations that keep the body happy, while, for the eye: It's a picture much like a Grant Wood gone Western, or a calendar painting of a small settlement nesting in a valley, the town centered in a patchwork of small farms. Many farm buildings are old, weatherbeaten and gray, leaning to one side a little. A few chickens will be scratching out in a freshly-plowed field. Over on the other side of the field, away from the house, a pheasant cock in all his festive coloring, will be standing guard over his drab, inconspicuous mate.

Down the street of this town some kids will be playing ball, flying kites, or maybe ganged up taking turns riding on a long-suffering old plow horse.

There's the country store, where you can buy anything from a little medicine to a piece of furniture. In front you can see a spring wagon with a team of horses, alongside will be a shiny, powerful car, sleek and polished. In back of the store, some cow-boys will be lolling in the sun, taking it easy and swapping stories of the range, discussing the market price of cattle, or maybe guying each other about the city gal that was at the dance last night. At rein's length will be one or two of the horses, standing idly by with polished saddles waiting for the riders.

Off in the distance on one side or the other, depending on whichway you come into town, up on the slope, are the very white, newly-painted buildings of a successful raiser of purebred cattle. You can tell he is that, because his fences are painted, his fields are green and his white-faced Herefords are fat.

Far off are the gently-rolling hills of the range, yellowish green, with range grasses, and dotted here and there with dark junipers.

Way beyond you can see the dark strip of the forest of spruce, pine, with splashes of light green slashed with slim white aspen. You have to sit long and patiently regarding this picture to see in it the sleek, fat, molded forms of wild turkeys, glinting with bronze and iridescent lights as they graze from the edge of the forest, but they're there.

South of Eagar, on the Nutrioso Road you will find the village of Nutrioso a quaint, smaller edition of Springerville and Eagar.

Now down the road, still going south, is Alpine. The one thing that takes precedent in my memories here is the little cafe just across the road from the church. It adjoins a store. My host took me in for fried chicken. It wasn't already cooked or partly cooked, waiting to be warmed up for customers. Now we put in our orders and were told it would be twenty minutes. We sat there, and as each minute went by, the odor of frying chicken became more excruciating. Finally when we felt we couldn't stand it one more minute, our friendly proprietor-cook brought it in on a platter, heaped, "White Mountain" style-goldy-brown crust, white and sweet inside. Yes, you eat well in those parts.

There are cabins and rooming facilities in Alpine, for the tourist, summer vacationer and the fisherman. And for the latter, nearby are many streams and lakes.

Still farther to the south along the road and just over the line in Greenlee County is Beaverhead Lodge, near the headwaters of the Campbell Blue. It sits comfortably in the fork of the road; one fork, the famous Coronado Trail goes south to Clifton, and the other follows Beaver Creek to where it runs into the East Fork of the Black, and then you go north, back up on the mountain.

Before we leave Beaverhead Lodge at the forks, on this word-propelled trip through the White Mountain Country, let me tell you a little about Jess Burk and his wife, who run this very rustic inn hovered by nearby hills.

The night we stopped there fresh bread-light rolls were in the oven. Borne on the mountain breeze, the aroma of fresh-baked bread met us like a hearty handshake as we stepped out of the car. The low-ceilinged living room is filled with antiques and hunting trophies, and the adjoining dining room was filled with provoking odors that stimulated our gastric juices to almost a riot. From where we stood you could see into the pleasant kitchen with the old-fashioned range. It was covered with kettles, pans and pots whose lids were steaming and sputtering with juices and gravies. Good eatin' in the process of preparation.

Jess Burke, himself, came in through the kitchen door from outside, carrying cream that had just been separated from the milk. "Howdy, folks," he drawled, "I'm Jess. I'm mighty glad you dropped in. Kin we do anythin' for you?"

We told him we were just passing through.

"Well, set down a minute. You don't want to get into too big a hurry. Let's visit a little b'fore you go on."

After meeting him and hearing Jess talk, I could readily believe the story told about him. This is said to have happened sometime during the war, at the height of the butter shortage. Some visitors, renting one of the cabins at Beaverhead, had brought their ration of butter along with them. One of Jess's hounds, from his famous pack of bear and lion dogs, had slipped his collar and gone on a foraging expedition. He had padded into the visitors' cabin and eaten the pound of precious butter. Mrs. Burke was quite distressed about it, and that evening when the lord of Beaverhead Lodge and master of the hounds came home, she said, "Jess, that old