Blue Lupine

Penial springs and pointing out the easiest route back down into the desert that girdles the cool heights.

From the Prismatic Plains to the north, U.S. Highway 89 makes a gliding start, easing up over Le Fever Ridge to bring the visitor deep within scented groves, forest arms around him, before he is aware of having climbed a mountain. Then it turns willfully away to the east and switch-backs down again in view of sunburnt House Rock Valley. Few see the western escarpment, a wilderness of cliff and gorge, but on the south the Kaibab is sliced off sheer in the world-famous climax of the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.

Because of this spectacular denouement, the forests are less well known than they deserve to be. Most people are in such a hurry to get there, they think of the Kaibab merely as a convenient approach and, leaving, view the tranquil stretching green as little more than a soothing relief from the tumult of color and form in the canyon.

Those bared cliffs of the Colorado River's immense chasm blare out one of the secrets of the Kaibab, showing dramatically the 800-foot layer of Kaibab limestone which caps the entire mountain. Laid down in ancient times, under the waters of a vast inland sea, the stone is built of bodies of marine creatures and acts as a sponge, so thirsty for melted snow and summer rains, that no running streams are to be found on the great plateau.

If the unusual formation were not enough to set the headland apart from others, there are further, countless sinks, where the limestone has dissolved out in seeping water, and dropped to form basins for delightful miniature lakes, ensconced in emerald green meadows, tucked away among the trees.

Indian legend, as usual, has a colorful explanation for the inconsistencies of this beloved mountain. Paiute children early learn that the Great Spirit built the Mountain-Lying-Down, planted it with vegetation and stocked it with deer for the very special benefit of the tribe. It was to be their hunting ground in the fall, when they would shoot the deer, already fat for winter, play their games of chance, trade among themselves, and then go back to their winter homes.

But because the Indians failed to appreciate all he had done for them, the Great Spirit became angered. He punished them with storms and cold and with earthquakes. The high places were made low and the low places were made high and many were killed when rocks fell on them.

Still not appeased, their god cut off part of the mountain to keep his people from crossing over to the south, and let water run through the terrible gap (Pa-oh-weep, canyon of water), which we know as the Grand Canyon. If legends are still told among the Paiutes, now scattered on small reservations, perhaps they blame their god for having finally taken the Kaibab from them, giving it to the white man for his hunting ground.

In less than two hours you can rush through the whole mountain on a fine paved road, and many do just that, missing the secretive world of the forest primeval with its peace and tranquillity.

Along little side roads, beyond sound of cars, the Kaibab opens its heart, unlocking chapels lit by the candelabra of pines. There is no experience quite like being alone in the open glades of Ponderosa. Deep-piled rugs of needle and cone, woven by the trees, lend a buoyancy to the feet and aromatic fragrance of air invites deep breaths and perhaps a sudden sprint to see if one can run.

On every hand, brown trunks stand tall and straight as the masts of ships, soaring up to be lost in the dark ceiling, through which the blue sky can be more felt than seen. The feeling of spaciousness and order comes from the very nature of the pines themselves. Tolerating only their own kind and demanding room to lift great branches, the Ponderosa uses acid in its fallen needles to kill out all but its young, that stand gawky and limber in small bands. They resemble their parents chiefly in lovely rosettes of long needles, catching the light in a sunburst and scattering it like a glowing sparkler. Crowded nurseries gradually thin out, leaving just the strongest trees, with clean boles, self-pruned as shaded lower branches drop off. Free of under-brush and singularly inviting, these open parks are distinctive features of the Kaibab.

Dominant tree of the mountain, the Ponderosa is a bold explorer, often seeking out the most exposed and prominent posts to spend its five centuries, defiant of crippling storms and scarring lightning bolts. But in the rolling highlands, among its fellows, this is a tree of peace and dignity, reaching to more than one hundred feet and noble in a sheathing of golden plates, symbol of maturity.

At higher elevations, the forests become more dense, favoring Engelmann and Blue Spruce and Fir. Of a more conventional turn of mind, these conifers taper gracefully in Christmas Tree contours. They take particular delight in decorating long meadows, offering vistas quite in contrast to the pine woods, but altogether lovely. Again, the word park comes irresistibly to mind, as green swards sweep, wide and spacious, or bend coquettishly out of sight to lure visitors farther among their company. A sink may be the center of interest, reflecting a rolling pageant of clouds in its tinted bowl, or again, where grass has swallowed up the water, green waves lap against forest walls that rise in tiers from tiny trees, edging timidly into the open, to pyramids of taller forms, painted a dozen shades of green.

Cattle grazing is permitted only in the National National Forest, but the meadows know nothing of such arbitrary boundaries, playing host to the white faces that graze contentedly or to the shyer deer who take over these handsome dining rooms in early morning and at dusk, to add a last touch of perfection.

Everywhere on the mountain, Aspens bring an accent of white trunk and trembling draperies. Deep in the forest, scattered groups stand like fluttering, white-limbed ghosts, but they surround the meadows with an air of festivity, whether in a mist-green of spring foliage, full-toned summer tints, or the rollicking gold of early autumn. Even bare of leaves, their gray smoke, massed in hollows or on hill-sides, is exquisite.

This self-conscious tree seems always in a hurry to be gone, quivering with excitement, as ephemeral as a butterfly. Perhaps conscious that its visit is limited and it comes into the more confident forest to cover scars left by fire, the Aspen never settles down, and after a brief fifty years, yields the spot to pine, fir, or spruce, and you must look

COLOR PHOTOGRAPHS

The photographs on the opposite page and the center panels were taken by Josef Muench. They show views of the Kaibab Forest, north of the Grand Canyon. This vast wilderness invites the photographer and the vacationer to explore its mystery during the spring, summer and autumn months.