SYCAMORE CANYON

Sycamore Canyon is not far from Clarkdale. My map was printed in 1905, before Clarkdale came into being so I'll just mark it on with my pen down here in the lower right hand corner between Jerome and Cottonwood and from there I'll trace the road into the canyon. As isolated as this canyon is we could climb up on the rim and see Clarkdale off in the distance. A good time would be in the early morning with the sun just coming up and the air cool and clear. We could look across the Verde Valley towards Mingus Mountain and see the white smoke flowing out of the smelter stacks in Clarkdale. We could also see the Verde Canyon zig-zagging across the land like a jagged gash of lightning. And if you'd look close you could see the winding road we came in on. Try to imagine that we are actually there.

Look back way down below just under the shadow cast by the rim we're on. You can see a dark line of tree tops peeping up out of Sycamore. You can't begin to appreciate what she's actually like in detail from way up here but in a moment we'll climb down and I'll properly introduce you to her. I hope then that you have the same fine respect for her that I have. I wanted you to look around from here first so you can get an idea of what the country beyond looks like that she penetrates back into. She must run back 25 miles or so through some wild and rugged country pretty nearly up to Williams. She changes character many times on the way, even runs out of water up there. But she is in her best dress right below us.

You should see the pretty little stream down there, all lined with sycamore and cottonwood trees. At some places it moves quite fast, dashing over rocks, but that's only because it's in a hurry to get to the cool deep holes to linger in the shade and idle along lazily, wandering along the tree roots with about as much awareness of the passing time as a ten-year-old traveling along such banks to school would have on a warm day in late Spring when the fish are jumping especially good.

CENTER PAGES-RIGHT"THE RIVER AND THE CLIFFS" was taken about two miles up from the mouth of Sycamore where the canyon walls start to close in on the stream. It was in caves in such walls as this where Indians of a bygone race made their homes. Crown Graphic 4x5, Ektar lens, 1/25, f11, Ektachrome.

LEFT "TREEFLECTIONS." It is only just that such graceful trees stand beside a mirror-like pool in the stream, that the passer-by might enjoy their beauty twice as much. This Ektachrome was taken about noon with a 4x5 Crown Graphic, Ektar lens, f16, 1/10.

Off down Sycamore Canyon the other way, you can see the creek winding along as it flows away from us. Just as it comes out of the trees there where the banks are flat and sandy is where it joins the Verde. You can see the Verde up to the right running back into the hills along the railroad tracks.

Near the far point of that field that the morning sun is creeping into right below us is an interest-ing old ranch house, just at the tip of a tree shadow. On my map it is called "Packard's Ranch." The hermits of Sycamore Canyon live there now, Dick and Jerry Let's go down, I'll show you the place.

Let's stop here a moment be-side the path and look the cabin over. That stout foundation and fireplace chimney is of native stone from the canyon walls. See how those heavy axe-hewn timbers of the second story are locked togeth-er at the corners. Way back when this place was built they had to keep warring Indians and renegade whites in mind. This canyon has seen many Indian fights and encampments. It was one of Geroni-mo's favorite hangouts and in later years was known as "Robbers Roost" when outlaw gangs made it their headquarters. Of course that corrugated roof is a later ad-dition. Say, there's Dick sittin' on the front porch now.

I don't think I know a couple of nicer guys than Dick and Jerry. Every time I come to Sycamore I look forward to a visit with those two good friends of mine as one of the highlights of the trip. And then there's always a batch of Dick's hot muffins to look forward to, right fresh out of that dutch oven over there on the stove And a jar of Jerry's home canned pears, from the orchard, sure goes good right handy to my place at the table. I always get a bang out of that dynamite carton breadbox. Sit down, there's a place for you right next to Jerry. We'll sample some first-rate cookin' and chat a bit before we start up the canyon.

If we had a little fishing gear along we could try our skill with the smallmouth bass that hide close to the banks . . . But wait, I have a better idea. I know of a swell hole for a nice refreshing swim. See, there it is now, just ahead where that log crosses. Plenty deep enough and quiet. Over to the left is a sandy beach for us to go in from. Aren't those interesting horizontal stripes on it recording the various water levels as the creek receded after high wa-ter from the melting snow this spring. We will have that pool all to ourselves except for perhaps a few beaver.

How about a cool drink of this crystal clear spring wa-ter gushing out of the ground. Those tree roots always remind me of the claw-like fingers of a giant hand clutch-ing for the water. Let's open our lunch here and put some water cress in our sandwiches. It has a fresh tangy flavor. We'll have to be careful not to leave any papers around to spoil the spell of this wonderland for others. Dick, Jerry and I have buried cans and burned papers that we've found here more than once, simply because we respect this place too much to see it in that condition.Further up the canyon there are a number of old caves that were once the homes of Indians who lived in this part of the West. You can find such caves in most every canyon in Arizona where there is, or was, running water. Over there where that two hundred foot rock wall rises straight up out of the water you can see an Indian cave with its smoke blackened roof about five feet above the water level. Before you tell me what you think of Sycamore Canyon I'd like to have you see some of the larger old sycamores that earned the canyon its name.

This old fellow measures about seventeen feet in circumference. He's been here a long time and has seen a lot of history pass by. Say now, we've chatted a spell haven't we . . . but I get carried away when I start talking about canyons. So as we drift back to reality and our visions of Sycamore fade the lines will return to the map to take their place once more. Here you keep the map, maybe you'll need it to find your way back there some day. I'll never need it. Sycamore Canyon is written clearly in my heart.

Rim Country

If the wife of a photographer of wildlife knows more about lonely evenings than most wives do, she also knows more about the hard-to-get-to, far away and lovely places, because every now and then she gets to go along and watch some wily, wild thing have its picture taken. That first trip up into the Mogollon Rim country in search of elk to 'catch' on film was enough to make up for many solitary evenings at home.

The trip from our Valley to Payson was dusty, hot and hectic, even in late September, but from there the road wound like a red thread among the grey-green cedars, and brought us to Pine, a little drowsing community where a clear, mountain stream dawdles along its tree-arched main street. From here it was just a few crooks in the road to Strawberry Hill, and its twisting length lifted us to the fire control road known as the Rim Road, which was built and is kept up by the Forest Service.

Those stately lines from Evangeline, “This is the forest primeval,” could have been written about some of that Rim country, with its silent, shadowed tree aisles, its ferns and wildflowers lying along the roadside, damp from a transient mountain shower.

The road teased us with only infrequent and fleeting glimpses of the far-flung view off the Rim, and we were glad when it finally slid over close to the edge of the rocky cliff and let us stop and get out to fill our eyes with the sight.

As in every section of Arizona, the place names along this drive were intriguing to us. According to our travel-ing companion, that excellent bulletin, “Arizona Place Names,” published by the University of Arizona Press and written by pioneer Will C. Barnes, Mogollon (pronounced Muggy-own), was the name of a captain general of New Mexico, in 1712. It was somewhat disillusioning to learn that the literal translation of the word means, 'parasite, hanger-on' but somehow the word, just as a sound, still retains some of the thunder-like remoteness of that high, wildwooded plateau itself. Another name for the area is Tonto Rim. 'Tonto' as every Arizona school child knows, means 'fool.' The only possible application here is: if you have a chance to go up onto the Rim, and don't go, you are verily 'tonto.' We noticed many names of the kind you meet in every section where names given by the early settlers are still in use, unchanged by Chamber of Commerce or poetry lovers. These are usually factual and without any particular individuality, although they tell their own stories of the wildlife and vegetation of the young West: Buck Springs, Wildcat Springs, Bear Canyon, Turkey Creek, Beaver Canyon, Horse Lake, Quaken Aspen, Clover Springs, Willow Creek, Alder Lake. Sometimes these obvious names were varied by the use of the Spanish equivalent for a common name, as was Cienega Canyon. 'Cienega' is simply the Spanish word for 'spring,' and is fittingly formed by the two words 'cien': hundred, and 'agua': water. Sometimes a little more imagination was exercised on an obvious name, as in Horse Trap Canyon, which tells a story that needs no interpreter. Barbershop Ridge and Cracker Box Canyon; you can visualize the old timers who named them perhaps short on delicate feeling for nature's beauty, but long on a good sense of humor. There were the places named for people, many of whom have been dead and forgotten for many years now, the stories behind them all but obliterated: Dane Ridge, Kent Spring, Baker's Butte, Dick Hart Ridge. But the names that most catch the ear that listens for the fading echo of the real Old West are those with the thundering sound of cavalry and Indian drums in them: Battleground Ridge, and General's Springs for two, are reputed to have seen clashes between soldiers and the Apaches.

Another imagination-exciter was the discovery of petrified seashells cockleshells, was our guess. Once when we stopped to look at an off-the-Rim vista framed in pines, we found that stretch of the road actually paved with these white shells, now turned to stone. That set our minds back to speculate about pre-historic floods, geological changes and the scientific belief that at one time a large part of Arizona and California was covered by the sea. Anyway, we kept a few shells as souvenirs of the trip, for the idea of finding seashells at 8,000 feet elevation, in Arizona, is a rather astonishing one.

ButI could be thankful for springs under us, and only hope they could withstand the beating. Day was just going by the time we jolted and rocked to the end of the trail, splashed across a small creek and over a beautiful meadowlike clearing, to pull up beside a real log cabin, with a wisp of blue smoke arising against the dusky background of dark, old pine trees. Gene, the mountain man who was expecting us, came out to greet us in the real Western way, "Get out and come on in. You're just in time." 'In time' meant we were invited to share his supper, and although we had come prepared to do our own cooking, outside, his invitation was welcome and his food was good.

After we had helped with the dishes, Gene showed us where we could bunk-in the feed barn. There were beds and we had our own bedrolls. It was pleasant to bed the boys down, then go back to the lamp-lit cabin and sit and talk with the mountaineer, listen to his tales of the woods and the animals in it, as he knew them.

“You want pictures? You set somewhere out of sight and watch that salt lick and waller, in the spring up yonder in the clearing,” he told Charles, “and you'll see elk. There's a bull and his harem coming down there almost every evening.” The next morning was as crisp as the pine needles under our feet, and the place was ours, since Gene had to go to Winslow, to be gone for several days.

“Just make yourselves at home. Cook in my cabin, get your water from the spring. Better keep the kids away from that pet deer-he's mean sometimes. If I don't see you again before you leave, hope you get some good pictures, Charlie.” So, the day was spent constructing a blind from which Charles hoped to shoot' the elk, and in getting acquainted with our surroundings, which included the inquistive tame deer (I say 'tame' advisedly) McArthur (aptly named).

Along about five o'clock, Charles took up his station in the blind. several hundred yards from the house, as the boys and I watched from the woodpile near the cabin.

What an enveloping quiet settled on the little vale! A sort of stillness that must be what the poets mean by the “witching hour.” The harsh, warning squawks of the bluejays, the chattering of the squirrels, the innumerable voices of the songbirds and the myriad, humming, creaking insect noises all were suspended for a few magic moments just before the light began to fade, as if to say, “Listen, here comes Night!” It was almost unbearably exciting to sit waiting for the elk to appear in the clearing-wild creatures that would melt away at the first suspicious sight or smell. It was the same kind of breathless thrill we used tofeel when we played hide-and-seek as children in the twilight.

Then, I saw dark shapes down the draw move quietly into the open. Their backsides were light, so I knew they must be elk, and I could hardly contain my elation. Was Charles getting his pictures? I hoped there was light enough. It was hard to quiet two action-itching city boys.

The spell was lifted a little by the sight of McArthur strolling past us and out toward Charles in the blind. Surely he wouldn't frighten the elk. No, he had stopped to browse, thank goodness. My relief was short-lived, for McArthur suddenly jerked up his head with something in his mouth that wasn't brush or grass - it was my husband's extension cord, going from the battery on his camera to lights which he had carefully placed out from his blind to light the pictures, if the animals should be in range! Another toss and these lights were pulled over an irate man emerging from his hideaway to threaten that deer with mayhem!

Then I learned, with amazement at the way my senses had fooled me, that the 'elk' had not been elk at all. but wild turkeys. In the fading light the distance had seemed farther than it was, and the dark shapes with light rumps had looked much like larger animals would if seen at a longer distance! Even Charles had seen the likeness, but I was still chagrined at having mistaken a turkey for that king of the Arizona woodlands, the elk!

Charles had taken a few still shots of the turkeys but since motion picture film was scarce and he still hoped to see elk, he had taken no movie sequences.

Another idyllic day was spent exploring the trails