Sky Trails of the Chiricahuas

BY WELDON F. HEALD PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR In our backyard are the Chiricahua Mountains. They rise like a massive wall against the western sky and enfold within their rugged flanks a hidden wilderness of plunging canyons, deep valleys, lofty ridges and swelling peaks reaching an altitude of nearly 10,000 feet. There are fantastic rocks among them too, glowing cliffs in rainbow hues, caves and natural bridges by the score. A trip from base to summit takes you out of the Sonoran desert to Hudsonian evergreen forests, and there is probably no area of equal size in the United States with a more varied and scrambled natural history than this incredible range just north of the Mexican border.

Named cheer-ee-cow-ah-"The Big Mountain"-by the Apache Indians and called simply the "Cheery Cows" by the pioneers, these backyard mountains of ours are one of a dozen or so ranges which rise from the broad, semi-arid valleys and high grassy plateaus of Arizona's southeastern corner. Although not the highest mountains in the region, they cover by far the largest area. Stretching north andsouth for forty miles and twenty miles across at the widest point, the Chiricahuas constitute a self-contained little world as different from the surrounding open, widespread land as Canada is from Mexico. It is an enchanted, unspoiled realm of sylvan gorges, cascading streams, flowery parks and miles of magnificent, high-perched forests of pine, fir, spruce and aspen.

south for forty miles and twenty miles across at the widest point, the Chiricahuas constitute a self-contained little world as different from the surrounding open, widespread land as Canada is from Mexico. It is an enchanted, unspoiled realm of sylvan gorges, cascading streams, flowery parks and miles of magnificent, high-perched forests of pine, fir, spruce and aspen.

Whenever time and opportunity offer, I take off with a light pack on my back exploring this amazing natural zoo, aviary, botanical gardens, and geological laboratory at our back door. So in numerous oneto three-day trips afoot, on trail and off, I have covered 300 to 400 miles among the canyons, skyline ridges and summits of the Chiricahuas. I have camped in deep woods and watched the setting sun gild the tops of pointed firs as hermit thrushes sang their evening song; built my fire atop a 9,500-foot peak in the full moonlight, with the twinkling lights of distant valley towns a mile below; startled families of deer peacefully browsing in sky-parlor meadows; and have been followedby troops of Mexican chickadees, Arizona juncos, and long-crested jays telling me the latest mountaintop news. And yet on none of these trips have I been more than a few hours' walk from home.

In fact, I have never known friendlier or more inviting mountains. There are some 200 to 300 miles of trail reaching every part of the range, and I have wandered along nearly all of them. The Chiricahuas are within a detached division of Coronado National Forest and the Forest Service maintains the trails to connect the five fire lookout stations on commanding peaks along the summit of the range. Main artery is the Chiricahua Ridge Trail which leaves the roadend at Rustler Park, 8,400 feet elevation, and winds southward for twenty miles among the broad, rounded tops of the mountains. This scenic, high-level route seldom drops below 9,000 feet and it traverses luxuriant, fern-spread forests, passes a succession of superb little mountain meadows, and crosses rocky crests with vast panoramas embracing thousands of square miles of valleys, mountains, mesas and plateaus.

Along the route are several Forest Service log cabins delightfully situated on the highest summits or in green wooded glades and, although I have my favorite camping spots too, stoves, cots, tables and chairs provide a wilderness luxury hard to forego.

However, I have found that I am only barely tolerated as a guest by the permanent owners of these cabins. Each is in complete possession of a family of white-footed wood mice whose feverish nocturnal activities continue fulltilt in spite of human intrusion. One night at Cima Guard Station a tinny rattle, far noisier and more insistent than routine mouse business, got me up to inspect. My flashlight revealed a tip-tilted ash tray hopping about the table. With a paternal, "Let that be a lesson to you," I went back to sleep, intending to release the diminutive prisoner in the morning. But during the night this Super Mouse finally pushed the tight-fitting top off the ash tray and escaped.

Another time at the lofty Fly Peak Lookout Cabin I was awakened by violent splashing. A mouse had fallen into the water pail and was swimming around frantically trying to find dry land. I poured him on the ground outside, but five minutes later he was back in the cabin trying to open a package of brown sugar. Besides these lively residents, raccoons, porcupines, skunks, deer and other callers drop by and keep a cabin guest from having any sense of loneliness, and both day and night one is impressed by the busy, teeming life which goes on in this high sky island above the Arizona desert.

But exuberant life is perhaps the keynote of the Chiricahuas. It is said that they are the second most varied botanical area in the United States, and they share with the Huachuca Mountains, to the west, unique fauna and flora found nowhere else on the continent. Here, black bears, white-tailed deer, and wild turkeys cross trails with Mexican lobo wolves, mule deer, peccaries or wild pigs, and weird tropical coati mundis. Even jaguars, ocelots and parrots occasionally stray north of the border, and you may be fortunate enough to see the brilliant plumage of the rare coppery-tailed trogon. Of the 650 nesting birds of the United States, 170 live within sight of the Chiricahuas, and the vegetation of Mexico, the Pacific Coast and the Rocky Mountains fraternize on their slopes. The same amazing diversity is evident among the insect and reptile population as well, so our backyard mountains are fast gaining fame among scientists and nature lovers.

But perhaps my favorite native Chiricahuan is the Merriam turkey. He is one of America's most interesting and romantic game birds, and played the stellar role a century and a quarter ago in Audubon's sumptuous volumes, "Birds of America." In summer the parks and sunny, south-facing pine woods are favorite haunts of wild turkeys, and I like to watch their family life unobserved as the hens feed, gossip and dust themselves, while the males strut importantly back and forth as if on parade. When winter snows come to the high country, the turkeys descend to the lower canyons and it is a strange sight on a moonlight night to see the black outlines of huge twenty to thirty pound birds roosting in the bare branches of sycamores, forty feet above the ground.

I do not subscribe to the generally accepted idea that animals possess keener senses than humans. It seems to me that quite the reverse is true. Over and over again I have spotted animals or birds and watched them go about their business while no miraculous built-in radar appeared to warn them that a human peeping Tom was in the vicinity. Members of the cat tribe are the exception. I have occasionally caught the fleeting, tawny flash of a retreating wildcat, but he always saw me first. Nor have I ever surprised a cougar in the Chiricahuas or even heard his legendary blood-curdling scream in the night, like "a tortured woman." Yet these mountains are still famed lion-hunting country and seven of the big cats were killed in our valley last year.

Chiricahua bears, too, are retiring and seldom seen. But wherever you go along the sky trails, you will find evidence that they are active members of the wilderness community. For two years I never caught sight of a bear, but this summer I was surprised to find a new kind of "bear sign." Along the crest nearly every trail marker had been torn down, broken in two, and thoroughly chewed on the edges. Then, on my last fall trip, I caught one of these ursine vandals in the act. Dropping into Junction Saddle one crisp October morning, I suddenly saw a bear not fifty feet in front of me. I stopped and my heart stopped at the same time, for it was one of the biggest bears I ever met. He must have weighed well over three hundred pounds. Serenely unaware of me, he stood upright on his hind legs against a large pine and was busily pulling at a trail sign with upstretched claws. He made a magnificent picture with the sun shining on his thick cinnamon coat. I coughed politely. The bear looked in my direction, but did not see me and returned his attention to the sign. However, the sound must have bothered him, because in a few seconds he dropped to the ground and started up the trail to investigate. This was a bit too much, even for an avowed nature enthusiast, so I shuffled my feet in the dry leaves. The bear stopped, gave me a startled look, then turned and broke into a clumsy gallop, giving loud pig-like grunts as he ran. Suddenly, two smaller bears that I hadn't seen before started shinnying up tree trunks, but the warning grunts of the big bear must have said, "Follow me," for they dropped to the ground as he raced by and followed him into the woods. In thirty seconds not a sound broke the peaceful stillness of Junction Saddleexcept for a pulsating throbbing in my ears that took some time to quiet down.

But some animals and birds are natural show-offs and enjoy performing before a human audience. This is particularly true of the ubiquitous long-crested jay and the hummingbirds. Six species of the latter have been observed in the Chiricahuas and at least nine more come here to breed. I have a special grandstand seat for hummingbird shows on a dizzy point above a jutting cliff at the crest of the range. Usually when I arrive not a performer is in sight, but soon the air is filled with fifteen to twenty darting hummingbirds. They whizz around the cliff, chase each other, swoop by my head like miniature rocket planes, and drop in whistling, vertical dives, seventy-five to a hundred feet. There must be thousands of hummingbirds in the Chiricahuas and one day last June I saw several hundred of them swarm over the wild iris in Rustler Park with the sound of wing beats resembling the drone of a distant bomber. Wherever there are hummingbirds, there are wild flowers, and our backyard mountains each summer spread out an unsurpassed nectar banquet. Sunny slopes are brilliant with golden helenium, violet verbena, blue lupine, and crimson woundwort; meadows bloom with iris, composites, and blue larkspur six to seven feet high; while shady woods and moist stream banks are brightened by columbine, cardinal flowers, Indian paintbrush, silene, pentstemon, mertensia, and scores of other varieties. Fourteen species of ferns have been found and brakes of almost tropical lushness grow in the shade of white-boled aspens and cover the slopes under the pines with a rich green carpet. Each season has its own special attractions, but by far the most spectacular time is midsummer. Nowhere, with the exception of Colorado, have I seen such grand, crashing, sky-filling storms as break over the mountains during July and August. To me, southeastern Arizona's afternoon and evening summer thunderstorms are one of Nature's top sights, unrivalled for the combined drama of ever-changing form, color, motion and vital, unleashed power. But amid blinding flashes of lightning and the almost continuous deafening roar of thunder, these storms can be somewhat too awe-inspiring for comfort on lofty summits and skyline ridges. Fire towers and cabins are all carefully grounded and the lookouts ride out these terrifying celestial bombing raids in their insulated havens, while hissing sparks shoot along their telephone lines, metal hums and crackles, and the lookouts' hair literally stands on end.

Throughout the mountains are evidences of the annual bombardment from the skies. Hundreds of trees are struck each summer and fused rocks along the ridges show where thunderbolts have melted solid stone. As everywhere, lightning here plays freakish pranks and no two strikes are identical. Ponderosa pines and Douglas firs are the favorite victims, while white firs and Engelmann spruce are seldom touched. The tops of pines are usually blasted off and a deep-straight groove gouged down the trunk to the ground, but the bark of Douglas firs is ripped off in a spiral furrow, a foot or two wide, often circling the tree five or six times. I ran across one huge Douglas fir, 150 feet high and eight feet in diameter, which had been struck twice, and one spiral groove, bright and new, alternated with an older grey furrow in a startling barber-pole effect. But the twice-wounded veteran lived on. During a storm last August I saw a capricious bolt split just below the summit of Fly Peak and simultaneously strike three majestic Arizona pines along the trail. It left similar furrows in each tree, all facing the same direction, as if meticulously measured with a precision instrument. Some trees, however, when struck seem to explode, throwing bark and chunks of torn wood a hundred feet in all directions. And so, although I find these violent storms one of the most fascinating features of the Chiricahuas, I prefer to do my on-the-spot investigating after they have passed!

But whatever time it may be that I take the Sky Trails -through the quiet white woods of winter, among the flaming red maples and gold-dressed aspens in the fall, the flower-brightened meadows of summer, or in fresh spring green-I can always feel the peace and satisfaction that is best found in Nature's undisturbed places.

What more can you ask of backdoor mountains?