THE TRAIL TO THE ROCK THAT GOES OVER

Behind them the little stone fort and the ferrymen's house, built in the 1870s, crouched patiently. They had seen many boats leave this shore, in the days when here was the only way, for hundreds of miles, to cross the river. We were in Glen Canyon, a party of Twentieth Century adventurers. Rock walls rose precipitously, two thousand feet above, and the water boiled around the boat, carrying bits of drift past us. Staring up at the homogeneous sandstone, carved by ages into a tapestry which imagination could paint with faces and figures, we marveled at the gigantic procession that passed in review. From that moment, until we again sighted Lee's Ferry, our company was enclosed by rock, shut in a world remote from all noise save the low voice of the river, and the motor. Surprisingly enough, the continual march of cliffs was anything but monotonous. Great caves arched in places, high on the cliffs, and now and then individual figures stood out, looking ready to drop off. So few canyons broke into the great one, and even those were so brief and narrow, that the general impression of unbroken walls was maintained.

From Mile Zero at the mouth of the Paria (Lee's Ferry) to Mile Forty, no hint of the outside world is had and with the grand feeling of isolation, the stupendous scale of the chasm, the world seems well lost.

Beyond Mile Forty and the Crossing of the Fathers (El Vado de los Padres) where the Utes have crossed for hundreds of years, first one side and then the other melts down to rounded domes and rises again. Behind the slow ridges lift plateaus, reminiscent of the formations in the Grand Canyon, a hundred miles downstream. "Mollie's Nipple," "Tower Rock," and "Gunsight," show the traveler where he is in relation to the rugged country lying over the canyon walls. The river has now broadened and the current is slower. Caves are nearer the waterline and many hints of prehistoric ruins suggest the large population which, hundreds of years ago, centered around the river.

"THE RIVER AND CLIFFS" BY HERB MCLAUGHLIN. Photographer used a 4x5 Anniversary Speed Graphic, hand held, Kodachrome film, 1/50th of a second at f8. The picture was taken from a boat in mid-stream. "One of the most interesting trips I have ever taken in Arizona," says Herb McLaughlin, "was the river trip from Lee's Ferry. The country is very tempting to the photographer because at every turn of the river there is a different view, each one more strange and beautiful than the last. The brown river, the tall red cliffs grotesquely shaped and the patterns of sunlight and shadow compose pictures for you."

At Mile Sixty-Eight is Aztec Canyon, from which the trail leads through more canyons to Rainbow Bridge! Still farther upstream is "Hole in the Rock," where an intrepid band of Mormons thought they could save time by crossing at that point. It took them months to chisel footholds and set pegs in the stone over which a "road" of logs could be laid. By taking their wagons apart and lowering them and the horses down, they finally reached the stream to ford it. The San Juan River enters the Colorado from its own deep canyon and beyond it, Glen ends at the entrance of the Fremont River, which Powell's party knew as the Dirty Devil.

Each of these new phases brought our party more than enough to occupy the pleasant hours of the day as we glided along. When our eyes grew tired of looking up at the giddy height of walls, there were many things to be seen along the shoreline and on the face of the river. Art had an answer for every question-even if only a shrug of the shoulders and quizzical twist of the lips, if we pushed him too far. No sign posts give names or distances and there is still much that is not known about the canyon. Complicated patterns of sand bars and alluvial slopes changed with each bend. We seemed time after time, to be shut in by a wall ahead, only to have the way open before us, revealing another and quite different vista. Talus slopes mounted high on the cliffs, without vegetation of any kind, where, countless years ago, rocks had thundered down. At the next turn, the ground might be more hospitable, so that grassy slopes spread to the water. Several of these showed a network of animal tracks which puzzled us until Art explained that these were Navajo sheep pastures! Hidden in some unnoticed canyon nearby were low spots in the outer walls. Over these Indians let sheep down in slings, leaving a small flock to wander all summer, watering at the river and untended by a shepherd, yet safe from predatory animals. Some sandbars had persisted long enough for thickets of willows and redbud, or even large black cottonwood trees, to grow. Big clumps of hedgehog cactus and prickly pear flourished in places. How brief their hold on life might be, we saw from time to time. The banks were continually eaten away by the hungry river, exposing roots below and finally toppling even the big trees into the water.

Most of our party was unaccustomed to any kind of river travel, let alone a desert stream which combines the rigours of the mountains with the arid quality of these southwestern lands. So we were fascinated to see how our helmsman, Earl Johnson, could read the face of the water. Just as changes in expression on a human countenance bestokens inner emotional states, so the river could be read to know what lay beneath. Boiling of miniature whirlpools indicated depth and swift waters. It was shallow under smooth stretches, always welcome to our boat which could gather speed in very shallow water. Even the varying shades of brown of the river pointed out covered sandbars. Sometimes the river-bed was on the move, thrown to the surface in thick sand waves, unpleasant for smaller craft but only an incident for the swift-moving Tseh.

The desire to stop to investigate each promising-looking ledge where prehistoric ruins might be, to explore the infrequent side canyons, or to examine gold-bearing gravel, was always at war with the urge to reach the foot of the Rainbow Trail. When the mouth of Aztec Canyon came into sight around a generous bend, we were pleased as Columbus must have been when he sighted the new world!

Through the small rapids that guard the entrance, the Tseh Na-ni-ah-go Atin swept, nosing into the bank as though coming into home port. There was ample space for a dozen camps on the low bar and above on a wide ledge where deserted campfire sites bore witness to earlier explorations. Afoot, we followed the trail into the canyon, crossing and recrossing its clear stream as we mounted. For the huge chasm of the Colorado, we had exchanged a narrower one, its steep walls rising to splendid heights, decorated by enormous arches, chiseled from the always red sandstone. Six miles of pleasantly lifting trail to our goal.

Three miles up, Bridge Canyon opened a mere slit on the left, to beckon us through more stone. Here the stream had carved a deep trough, scarcely a foot across, that meandered in its chiseled channel. Above, the walls seemed to bend together showing only a belt of blue, so that we felt as though we were in a tunnel, scoured clean of any kind of growth. It emerged into a precipitous gorge, with over-hanging ledges that sheltered bowers of vivid green ferns and delicate flowers. The trail led us up out of this paradise as it wound and climbed, and around one of the curves we suddenly came upon the great arch.

No matter how many times one sees the Rainbow Natural Bridge, that first glimpse is a breathless one. Its 309 feet of burnished red sandstone, with a span of 278 feet is immense enough, dwarfing the humans that behold it; the rainbow-shape perfect enough to merit the feeling. But some alchemy of nature, combining a setting in rocks that soar above the bridge's bulk; some special arrangement of earth and sky, make it more marvelous than can be accounted for by mere statistics. Everywhere in the surrounding country we had seen the half-formed arches, suggesting the climax that here reaches the ultimate in rock chiseling. Redbud and cactus, Yucca and sage, grow elsewhere in harmony with the scene, but here each plant has a share in the total effect. From each angle the arch stands out in different perspective, as though stage-sets had been moved to change the background. Looking from downstream the left hand abuttment stands alone, while the black hump of Navajo Mountain towers in the distance. Under the bridge, fifty feet deep, the narrow canyon bends and sways with a ribbon of clear water to be seen now and again. From upstream, as the canyon mounts, the arch loses nothing in size, but now it is supported on either side by rounded stanchions of sandstone reaching up beside it, and the chasm below is deeper and even more rugged.

The words of an old Navajo, visiting the Empire State building in New York City, came back to me as I stood before Rainbow Bridge.

"Everything here looks as though man made it. Out in my country, everything looks as though God made it."

Though shaped by the unthinking water and chiseled by the soulless wind, the bridge, as it stands with feet braced against the timeless rock of the earth, has a quality which I can only describe as spiritual.

Since 1909, when a Paiute Indian led Dr. Byron Cummings and John Wetherill with their party to the white man's first glimpse of Rainbow Bridge, only some 5,000 more have seen its poetry in rock! They came mostly over the fifteen-mile trail by foot or on mule back from Rainbow Lodge in Arizona. Some came down the river inOccasionally a small clear-water creek breaks through cliffs to join river. small boats from Utah. Now, I reflected with satisfaction, they could also come up the river through the wonders of Glen Canyon!

Upstream, another seventy miles of Glen Canyon stretches through Utah, ringing more changes on the patterns of the walls. We found Music Temple, with its memories, in a short side canyon. Powell's men named the great five-hundred-foot bowl that arches overhead to a ribbon of sky, because when they sang in the moss and fern decorated cavern, their voices were carried back to the slightest whisper. On the walls, three of the men, who were later to be killed by Indians, left their names.

Going back downstream, now with the current pushing the boat along, might be expected to be mere repetitions of the upstream voyage. But the master builder of the canyons has yet another surprise waiting. Seen from this direction, and always with the witchery of changing light as the day advances, each bend displays a new scene.

A comfortable looking beach, with firewood scattered on it, and the unanimous desire of the voyageurs to stop, called for night camp. Once the boat is securely tied to a large boulder or convenient tree, activity begins. Some want to fish, while others gather wood and build a fire. Within a few minutes, the most motley crew, which may include a banker and photographer, teacher and contractor and assorted housewives, are functioning like a team. Catfish obligingly swallow the worm and hook and come flashing up out of the water, ready for cleaning and browning in the pan. Whatever goes into the meal seems to blend into a memorable feast, eaten on the sand while the light fades from the walls and the river takes on a somber night voice, preparing to lull you to sleep in your bed roll. Stars come out brilliantly and we had the moon on the water to add the perfect touch, when the last ember of our campfire had died down.

Morning was peeping over the edges of our canyon cradle almost as soon, it seemed, as we had fallen asleep and the brilliant light on the river made it a golden path we wanted to follow.

Where the river leaves Utah to enter Arizona, is the Incinerary Urn. Its heroic-sized bowl of sandstone, balanced delicately on a pedestal, juts out into the river, making the outer canyon wall for Warm Creek, at Mile Thirty.

Fantastic cliffs follow the vagrant river.

Navajo Creek, five miles downstream, must be watched or the narrow entrance, making a last minute right-angle turn to join the Colorado, can be missed. Deep in this canyon is a Navajo farm where corn and melons ripen in the summer heat reflected from the sandstone.

We swept past the large cave at Mile Twenty, named for the prospector, Galloway, who spent a winter in its shelter. Now it makes an excellent camp spot for less permanent visitors.

Only a mile below, Waweep Creek is ushered into the big stream with Sentinel Rock to watch its debut. The more than three hundred foot monument with its carved height is one of the most impressive formations to be seen in Glen Canyon and was mentioned with wonder by Dellenbaugh in his account of Powell's second river trip. Oldtimers tell of an ancient cave-dwelling back in the side canyon. Government plans for a possible new dam are marked at several sites with white flags at the rim of the cliffs and again close to the water. At Mile Fifteen a tunnel has been bored and equipment stands waiting, very much out of place among the wildness of the scenery.

We spotted more campsites where we would have liked to have lingered and inviting pools where perhaps the catfish would be still larger than those we had caught.

Always, someone was marveling at a particularly fine piece of sculpturing or at the superb lighting effects as shadows defined the walls. Sunset brought out the latent colors in the cliffs and made blue the red surface of the moving water. With every mile the calmness of our tunneled path seemed to increase until it seeped into our very pores!

Finally, the great sand dune that is visible from Lee's Ferry, rose in our path and one more sweeping curve brought us to the end of Glen Canyon. The stone buildings were still waiting and the trees along the shore moved in the wind above the red sands. Behind us was our canyon adventure, lost in the mysterious turnings of the river, as the Tseh Na-ni-a-go Atin shouldered through the current and stopped in quiet water beside the shore.

A new chapter had been written in Colorado River history. Now people could go with assurance, upstream through Glen, to the Trail to the Rock That Goes Over!

Arizonas Larruping Lassies

Continued from page twenty-nine Coached by Walt Ruth, an all-around Arizona athlete considered tops as a third-sacker in both softball and base. ball before he turned to football and softball coaching, the Maids are managed by Louise Curtis, their secondbaseman and pitcher. She was Arizona's first crack girl pitcher, starting with the Ramblers back in 1933, and she twice has been accorded All-America recognition in the sport.

Besides Mrs. Curtis the Maids have another ex-Rambler in Shortstop Mildred Dixon, and two ex-Queens in Betty Giertz, third base, and Flossie Ballard, first sacker. Both Miss Dixon and Miss Ballard won All-American rating two years.

The Maids' first season was highlighted by their elimina nation of Washington, D. C., Atlanta, Ga., and Chicago before they lost to Toronto, 5-4, and Oklahoma City, 3-2, in the national tournament quarter-finals.

They made a month-long exhibition tour in the spring of 1948 through the farthest reaches of the U. S. and into Canada, their games including appearances in Okla homa City, St. Louis, Kokomo, Ind., Toronto, Rochester, Buffalo, Cleveland and Fort Thomas, Ky.

The Maids joined the Queens in a benefit game at Tucson to help rehabilitate a five-year-old girl hurt critically in a train-truck accident. Benefit games for worthy causes are a long suit to Manager Walker and his Queens. They tangled with the Jax at Phoenix to furnish scholarship awards for deserving students at Arizona State College at Tempe, and this summer have battled men's teams at Douglas, Coolidge, Ajo and other Arizona cities for Rotary, Lions, and Kiwanis Clubs' special projects, such as under privileged children funds. The Queens get bare expenses for such trips.

Like other top teams the Queens do all their traveling on a seven-week junket by automobile. They play a game, hop into a couple of station wagons, drive all night, sleep most of the day and play again the next night. In a seven-weeks tour they'll hit the high spots from Texas to New Orleans to Cleveland to Toronto, Canada.

And softball can be a rough game. Dottie Wilkinson of the Ramblers suffered a fractured leg last season in a home-plate collision.

Merle Keagle of the Queens was on the shelf until July 1 this season because she fractured an ankle in a game last year. It didn't mend properly and more surgery was required.

Injured fingers, spike cuts and leg muscle ailments are commonplace.

So intent are the girls in their play that team-mates occasionally collide, and sometimes one or the other is car ried from the field unconscious. With bare legs it's kind of hard on the skin to slide into the bases. Some girl soft ballers leap for the base instead of sliding. But not the Queens and Ramblers, as action pictures by sports pho tographers graphically show.

These two women's teams Phoenix is sending after new world championships are studded with stars.

Mention the Ramblers, and the names of Dottie Wil kinson and Amy Peralta inevitably bob up. They began this season their 13th year as battery mates, and the pep pery little Wilkinson is managing the Ramblers.

Now regarded as one of the greatest feminine catchers in the business, Miss Wilkinson carries a .340 lifetime batting average and is a Gibraltar on defense. She has been an All-American six times and has participated in 13 national tournaments. She started as a second base man and at one time or another has played every position, but since 1936 has been used principally as a catcher. She's also an expert in bowling, basketball and tennis.

One of softball's leading pitchers nearly a decade, the 28-year-old Amy Peralta has won over 550 games while losing about 165. She has pitched ten or a dozen of the no-hit, no-run variety and 50 or more one-hitters.

Though the Jax proved a stumbling block for the Ramblers in national competition through most of the war years, Miss Peralta kept right on chalking up pitching marks. She won 56 games and lost only 11 in 1941, amassed 54 wins against 10 defeats in 1947 and pitched 55 of the Ramblers' 85 victories in 1948. At last year's Portland tourney she allowed only 12 hits in six games.

Yet Coach Hoffman maintains she is “a much better outfielder and hitter.” She won the world's feminine bat ting championship at the 1945 Cleveland nationals with .577 in seven tournament games, and was one of the Ramblers' top hitters last year, belting the ball over .300. She compiled a respectable 275 average in her first 80 trips to the plate this season, and that included a home run, three triples and two doubles among her 22 hits.

And to hear the Ramblers tell it, there's no doubt about who is the best centerfielder in the game. She's Virginia Dobson, a grammar school teacher when she isn't playing softball. She clouted 17 home runs in 1948. And in a game where pitching is recognized as a big factor, Virginia compiled a .345 average in her first 79 times at bat this year. That included two homers, three triples and three doubles among 28 hits.

All-Americans Margie Law and Jessie Glasscock joined the Ramblers in 1937. Miss Law believes a sure way to become a good outfielder is to learn to run, run, run, and to have an arm that can thread a needle at 200 feet. Jessie says a shortstop should be a combination third baseman, second baseman and outfielder, learning the fine points of each position. When she came to the Ramblers as a 15-year-old, Jessie was the youngest softballer ever to gain a regular berth with the champ Ramblers.

For the A-1 Queens brown-eyed Carolyn Morris, 23, a former model for the House of Tiffany in Chicago, and Charlotte Armstrong, 24 and a native Phoenician, seem set on establishing new pitching records. Carolyn won 19 of her first 25 starts and Charlotte annexed 17 of her first 21 games. Both were 1947-48 All-Americans.

Carolyn first joined the Queens in 1941. The Rockford, Ill., Peaches acquired her in 1944 and the next year she pitched that team to the world professional softball championship, winning seven straight games in the titular series. She returned to the Queens in 1947. Carolyn, also an expert golfer, relies in softball principally on a fast ball and has an excellent change of pace.

Miss Armstrong features a trick pitch and a mystifying change-up, but has eight different deceptive deliveries. She took a two-year leave from the Queens to play in 1945 with South Bend, Ind., and in 1946 with the Chicago Cardinals in the Midwestern League. On one occasion she annexed two extra-inning games for South Bend the same day, hurling 32 consecutive scoreless innings and yielding but five hits. The same year Pathe News filmed a picture of her trick deliveries. While with Chicago before returning to the Queens in 1947 she was selected on the all-league team.

Catcher and captain of the Queens is Lois Williams, 20, a Tempe college coed majoring in physical education. She started with the team as a 14-year-old, twice has been named All-American, and at last year's championship tournament was voted Miss Softball of 1948. An allaround athlete, she also has won swimming, diving and tennis honors.

A charter member of the Queens is Eleanor Anderson, who quit the game two years to bear children and then came back to win All-American honors in 1947. Now 27 and a shortstop, she is one of the fastest runners in girls' softball, and in 1939 was Arizona AAU sprint champion.

Hogging early-season batting laurels for the Queens was Dodie Nelson, stellar centerfielder voted the most valuable player in the 1948 NSC tournament. She had rolled up a .410 batting average and was pacing her clubin most hits, runs, stolen bases, home runs and total bases. Now 25, she launched her career at 15 with the Bank of America team in Los Angeles. She came to the Queens in 1948 after starring with the Santa Monica Ramblers the previous year.

Promising younger members of the Queens include Lois Sauer, 19, a Tempe college student who was a reserve the past two seasons, and 16-year-old Wanda Fields, who started in the lower brackets as an 11-year-old with a Phoenix minor league aggregation.

Probably the Queen's most colorful player is Merle Keagle, the Blond Bombshell of women's softball, who does everything well, even to the extent of baiting umpires. She can play either the infield or outfield, and hit 22 home runs and batted .367 in 1947, then was batting over .300 last year when she was injured. A native Phoenician, the 23-year-old started with the Queens in 1940, played three years and went to the All-American Pro League in 1944. She took a year's leave when her son was born, then returned to the pro circuit to become its No. 1 outfielder in 1946. Back with the Queens in 1947, she won NSC All-American honors. Lusty-lunged, five foot three and a 145-pounder, she never is silent while on the field and is ever ready to take issue with an ump's decision.The Queens also have pretty Sue Brooks, former photographer's model who started with the Santa Monica Ramblers in 1945; Helene Machado, 23, a power slugger from Los Angeles who started softball at 13, has ridden in rodeos and horse shows, and plays tennis, basketball and golf; Dorothy Myers, who started with Tulsa, Okla., in 1945 and came to the Queens from Oklahoma City after winning All-American honors in 1948, and Margie Yetman, 1947 All-American and an acquisition last winter from Oklahoma City. Now 27, she's been playing softball since she was 13, and in tennis was twice Missouri Valley women's champ, once the Arkansas Valley titlist and four times Oklahoma state champion.

With the big tournament of the National Softball Congress opening September 9 in Phoenix, it would seem no trick to determine just which is the tops among the Phoenix girls, as well as their ranking with teams over the rest of the nation.

That might have been the case a few years ago, but in 1947 an explosion in the softball world was touched off in Phoenix which still is reverberating around the nation. It was organization of the National Softball Congress to buck the old, established Amateur Softball Association of America.

Manager Walker of the Queens pioneered the NSC, and its big selling point was its offer to return half of its tournament gate receipts as expenses for the competing teams.

The gentle tinkle of silver was heard as far away as Chicago, New Orleans, in Canada and in New York state's great and growing brigade of softball players. Team managers, dissatisfied with what they considered a pennypinching ASA policy when it came to tournament expenses rallied to the NSC cause, and the new organization has enjoyed a meteoric rise in national softball esteem.

But while the Queens went into the new National Softball Congress to become its outstanding feminine team and to be subsequently joined by the Phoenix Maids and New Orleans Jax, Manager Ford Hoffman and his Phoenix

Ramblers chose to remain with the Amateur Softball Association.

So when the Queens play host next month to feminine teams throughout the nation in the world's championship tournament they won in 1947 and which the Jax won last year, the Ramblers will be traveling to their own world's title tourney sponsored by the rival ASA.

Even then it would seem that if the Ramblers win their version of the world championship and the Queens annex theirs, Phoenix fans could determine in a post-season series of their own just which team is tops. But so bitter has been the behind-the-scenes fight between the two organizations that when the Queens won the NSC championship in 1947 and the Ramblers, ASA champs, requested permission to play the Queens in a cancer fund benefit series, the ASA replied: "Ramblers are world champs and should rest on their laurels for the balance of the season. Arizona should appreciate the international recognition received. Don't by any means play NSC champs or title will be revoked and given to Toronto."

Just how serious was the ASA about the matter was evidenced by the fact that earlier the New Orleans Jax won their third straight ASA national tournament at Cleveland by defeating the Phoenix Ramblers. Then they booked a post-tournament series with the Phoenix Queens. The ASA promptly declared the Jax professionals, and forfeited their championship to the Ramblers. The Jax just as promptly transferred their allegiance to the NSC.

So the Queens and Ramblers spent the 1947 season resentfully eyeing one another from a distance because the ASA and NSC weren't on speaking terms. But by the following season a way for them to resume their rivalry was discovered in organization of a Girls Major League, a "closed" city loop limited to the Ramblers, Queens and Maids, backed by the city recreation department, and with neither national softball organization having jurisdiction.

The ASA made this possible by taking this new 1949 view: "The game of softball is too universally played and too popular, so, therefore, professional players may play with or against amateur players without affecting the status of the amateurs. This is possible through authorized closed league competition which the ASA recognizes and provides for those who are not amateurs."

But the Ramblers still can't tangle with the Jax, and when the big tournaments roll around each September, the Ramblers and Queens go their separate ways.

Of course, division of gate receipts hasn't been the only point on which the NSC and ASA differed. The ASA considers itself strictly amateur and recognized by the AAU and Olympic Association as the governing body of softball nationally. It points the finger of professionalism at the NSC.

The new organization, boasting that in its two years of operation it has "completely revolutionized the softball industry," insists it, too, is strictly amateur. It maintains it differs from the ASA only in that it gives feminine players the same right as the men to quit professional ranks and return to its teams.

Of its more liberal division of tournament gate receipts, which the ASA has charged constitutes "cash prizes," the NSC replies: "By specifying that home-town teams are not to participate in the gate receipts in any way, and that no team sponsor is to be awarded an amount to exceed his actual expenses for travel, meals and lodging, we are now fully protecting the amateur status of each individual player, and at the same time making it possible for teams from all over the world to participate in our annual championship."

The NSC travel fund is set up to guarantee some expense money to all visiting teams, regardless of whether they finish first or last, though the farther a team advances in the national tournament, the greater becomes its share. The ASA claims it seeks to defray expenses of champion teams to the next tournament up the chain, as well as to give some travel funds to all competing teams, but does not "pay" the teams a thing.

Actually the two groups seem to an observer to be pretty close together in ideology, yet they consider themselves miles apart.

But if nothing else, the squabble between the rival organizations over what they will do for their top teams has focused attention on softball as big business.

The NSC returned $31,338.41 to team sponsors in the men's and women's world championship tournaments in its first two years of operation. And this amount, given to sponsors for team travel allowance and expenses incurred during tournament play, does not include travel allowances amounting to thousands of dollars returned for participation in numerous state and regional tournaments.

The 1948 women's NSC tournament at Phoenix grossed $17,993.70, of which $8,996.84 was returned to sponsors of the 14 teams battling for the crown. The winning Jax left Phoenix with the title and $2,417.88.

The NSC men's tournament in Oklahoma City drew a gross gate, less federal taxes, of $4,153.39, of which $2,077.10 was pro-rated, according to travel distance, to 12 team entries.

Even more successful were the 1947 NSC tournaments, both held in Phoenix. They returned $20,265.47 to sponsors, the women's team drawing $11,565.62 and the men $8,698.85.

Which brings up the question of just how profitable is this big-time softball to its feminine stars.

Ask the fan who sits in the grandstand night after night, and he'll guess that the top girl pitchers and hitters collect $2,000 to $3,000 per season, perhaps more.

Ask Coach Hoffman about the Ramblers, and he'll tell you he's not interested in splitting receipts among his players; that the girls never have gotten such a cut. He insists team expenses and guarantees to visiting clubs eat up any profits. But he will name one of his players who has been offered $5,000 per year to join a girls professional team in the East.

Ask Manager Walker of the Queens, and he scoffs at the idea salaries are paid and says the girls are entitled only to expenses. But "expenses", 'tis said, can cover a multitude of things, especially when it comes to rigging out the stylish Queens.

Of course, ball playing generally still is a sideline with them. They have other jobs, ranging from business careers to taking care of a home. Marriage usually ends a girl's sports career, but not in the case of the Phoenix softballers. Some have children at home who accompany Dad to the games. The girls do their training and ball playing during off hours.

Sports writers claim big-town softball is strictly semi-pro, which is perfectly all right with softball fans in general. They say players on virtually every name "bigtown" team are paid for their services not in jobs, but by cash, and that only the "small-town" teams and the industrial groups are amateur.

And the record shows that in 1948 the Queens played before 279,000 fans in their 153 games. That kind of attendance not only would do credit to a Class AA baseball team, but such a "gate" would seem to indicate some girls are not playing just for their health, the exercise, or love of the game.

Like the fellow who asked for work when he wanted a position, the girls who pitch softballs soon discover there's a lot of work connected with it, especially if they're with the Queens or Ramblers.

Miss Armstrong and Miss Morris are the hard workers for the Queens. Just how much work they do you can judge for yourself. The Queens played more than 150 games last season, with only those two pitchers for service, which means they were busier than the proverbial onearmed paperhanger with the hives.

If they weren't solidly as well as beautifully formed, they probably would break under the strain of so much pitching, particularly against tough opposition they face all the time. Like the Ramblers, the Queens are the target of every girls' softball team they bump into. Sports writers long have admitted both the Queens and Ramblers are capable of knocking the sox off many a man's aggregation. But they're always in the same position as any champion; everyone wants to whip them.

No story on Phoenix softball would be complete with-out a salute to Art Funk, the Phoenix jeweler who him-self is an ex-softball player and who built the first park in 1934. It had proved inadequate by the end of World War II, and the new $100,000 Phoenix Softball Park was constructed. Funk has sponsored several men's teams which have competed in national tournaments and is the man largely responsible for the present modern playing facilities.

out a salute to Art Funk, the Phoenix jeweler who himself is an ex-softball player and who built the first park in 1934. It had proved inadequate by the end of World War II, and the new $100,000 Phoenix Softball Park was constructed. Funk has sponsored several men's teams which have competed in national tournaments and is the man largely responsible for the present modern playing facilities.

Phoenix Softball Park provides built-to-order facilities for the game. Generally it is considered one of the best layouts of its kind in the nation, for it was constructed with softball needs in mind. With seating arranged to give all spectators a clear view of action on the field, the park is capable of handling crowds of 5,000 to 7,000.

Special dressing rooms and dugouts were designed especially for the park with tunnels from dugouts to dressing rooms. Trained groundskeepers put the field in shape for championship play, and keep it in the best possible condition throughout the long Phoenix playing season.

A topnotch job of sponsoring the feminine world championships at Phoenix the past two years has been accomplished by the Thunderbirds, special events committee of the Phoenix Chamber of Commerce.

Of course, Phoenix also boasts some fine men's softball teams. Its Farm Fresh Markets won the 1947 NSC national championship and its top male aggregation last year, Clark Smith's Autos, won the NSC regional tourney and went all the way to the finals of the nationals at Oklahoma City before being beaten by the Taft, Calif., Merchants.

But its the gals who are packing 'em in.

TOO MUCH LIGHT:

The colored photograph by Thomas Donahoe in June issue, your inside back cover, has some of the best color values I have seen in any picture in your publication. It bears out my contention that Ansco film gives better and truer color strength than either Ektachrome or Kodakchrome. I believe your camera data with Mr. Donahoe's photograph is incorrect, however. One-half second with a diaphragm opening of f4.5 would completely burn out the film. It seems to me the opening should be about nine stops different.

R. Z. Stepenson Kansas City, Mo.

COMMENT FROM IRELAND:

May I tender to you the hearty congratulations of one who is very closely associ ated with printing and publishing in this country for more than a quarter century. The artistic taste and dramatic power of the superb colour printing in each issue of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS achieves a standard that almost leaves me breathless.

I wonder if your readers realise what a treat they get in each issue. Certainly so far as I am concerned I have no wish to see, nor do I believe I ever would come across a publication that is produced with a higher editorial ideal in everything that strives to achieve the object for which your publication was founded.

The colour reproductions have the merit not only of reflecting nature in its true and many varied moods but of inspiring the reader with a love of nature and opening up new vistas that in real life might pass unnoticed.

The skill of the printer does justice to the work of the process engraver and the artistic eye of the photographer but all these would fail in their purpose if the dramatic presenta tion through grouping and selection had not been exercised in the high degree of editorial judgment. ARIZONA HIGHWAYS is truly a trail blazer that makes history in the world of graphic arts.

J. Flynn Model Housekeeping Dublin, Ireland

NAMES AND PLACES:

I would like to see ARIZONA HIGHWAYS devote some space in the future to the pronunciation of important places, towns and peonunciation of important places, towns and peonunciation of important places, towns and peonunciation of important places, towns and peonunciation of important places, towns and peonunciation of important places, towns and people. Although I have been through Arizona several times, I am still in the dark concerning the pronunciation of Kaibab, Moenkopi, Cochise, Tuzigoot and others. For instance, is Kaibab pronounced Ki-bob, Kay-bob, Kay-bab, Kaybabe, or perhaps some other way? I'm sure many other readers are just as mystified as myself, and would appreciate a guide to the correct pronunciation of these and other difficult names.

"AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW" BY JOSEPII MUENCH. This

photograph was taken with a 4x5 Speed Graphic on Daylight Kodachrome, 1/5th second at 120. Of this picture Photographer Muench says: "Seven times now I have hiked in to see Rainbow Bridge, always before over the trail from Rainbow Lodge, but this time I took the short trek up from the Colorado through the narrow red canyons that lift to its magnificent arch. Everytime I make the last curve in the trail and clear the last wall that hides it the Rainbow comes as a thrill. No other natural rock shape has for me the same sense of vitality, with its feet braced on either side above a small canyon, and more sandstone soaring above it. Last August, while another young fellow and myself were traveling from the Arches National Monument in Utah to Grand Canyon, we had to stop in Mexican Hat for gas. A rather plump Indian woman came up and asked if we were going to Kayenta, and could she ride along. The back seat of the car was loaded with sleeping bags, groceries, cameras, etc., but we thought we could squeeze three in the front seat for just 22 miles. As we were talking, two boys of about 10 years of age wandered up, and it turned out they were the woman's sons, so we settled them in the back seat on top of the sleeping bags. No sooner had we done this, than two full grown Indian men appeared. Somehow we made the 22 miles to Kayenta with ourselves, the woman, her children and baggage on the inside of the car, and the two men on the running-boards. They had to leave their bed behind a large cumbersome affair resembling a life raft-but we could have taken that also if we'd had any rope. I have heard and read that that road has never been graded, but to end the argument once and for all, I can truthfully say that a power grader passed us on the road between Kayenta and Tonalea. Or was it a mirage? Unfortunately, we had used up most of our film at Arches, so we were unable to get many pictures of Monument Valley. ARIZONA HIGHWAYS has more than made up for what I missed. so until I return again, as I undoubtedly will, I will look forward to receiving my ARIZONA HIGHWAYS regularly.

Daniel Cillis Bend, Oregon

ART ROOM IN ENGLAND:

You will be delighted to know that one of the Arizona Highway Magazines has gone to a famous school, The Blue Coat School, Christ's Hospital, Horsham. Sussex. My grandson, Anthony is there and it was one that I thought would be of great interest to Anthony's Master. It was very educational and lovely. The pictures might be put up in "The Art Room". Mrs. M. C. Hurst Croydon, England

THE WARRIOR

The summer heat lies heavy. Through atmosphere drawn tight Comes a far-off pounding Preparation for the fight, And then I feel his sweat drops And know that I am right. Vulcan forges thunderbolts To thrust into the night!

WESTWARD WHOA!

The post-war cowboy, With fanciful craze, Has pensioned his horse, Green pastures to graze; Moreover would doubtless Barter him cheapThat Martian cowpoke Aspiries to a Jeep!

RECORDINGS

My memories record on disks of thought. Joy-bought, these spinning disks of careful hoard Are stored for winter's bitterness and glooms, Peach blooms cascade adown our valley aisle, High pile red-petaled garlands for new Spring, High fling perfume upon her cloudy hair; And, where the ploughman scars the canyon floor, Still more but earthy smells anoint the feet Of fleeting Spring. I play again the trill And thrill of April singing long ago, And know: I hoard these disks of memories.

RATTLESNAKE AT THE WALPI SNAKE DANCE

Child of gray desert dunes and saffron sun How can a whip of eagle feathers bind You motionless, who fight for life and breath? Brother to all things savage, friend to none, How can it hold you powerless and blind And render impotent your sting of death?

MOON MOTIVE

The white Yucca flowers tremble. . . . as the full moon floats by . . . sprinkling them with silver sequins.

SHOWER

There is the hint of laughter In the rain, and in the flash of lightning, And even in the thunder's crash of sound: Perhaps the sky now chuckles To the ground, in merriment at those who Stand around: a ludicrous predicament, A little showery incident.

BACK COVER

"THE MIGHTY COLORADO" BY HERB MCLAUGHLIN. 4x5 Anniversary Speed Graphic Camera, Kodachrome, 1/50th second at f7. "This was one of those late evening pictures," says Photographer McLaughlin, "and the shadows were long and making the red rocks that bank certain sections of the Colorado look like they are afire. This picture was taken about 12 miles above the Utah-Arizona line at our last night's camp during a three-day trip from Marble Canyon to Rainbow Bridge and return. The camp on the east bank was one of those very picturesque sections of the Colorado and I felt that it showed more so than many other spots we had come across the years it had taken the Colorado to wear down the sandstone of Utah, because it must have been a couple of million years ago anyway when the water was even with the top of the pulpit that rises to the left of the picture. This picture was taken during one of Art Greene's experimental runs and at that time we were using a flat bottom boat with a very large outboard motor. Vern Baker, Roman Hubbell, Art Greene and myself were on the trip. We had started for Rainbow Bridge and had gotten within a few miles of the side canyon which leads to the bridge, when we broke one of those parts on an outboard motor which very seldom breaks. Not having a spare along, the motor was useless and we had to drift back down the river. A four-day stretch of merely drifting down the river is a wonderful experience, and it makes you learn to really appreciate the mighty Colorado."