WINTER LACE

The brook flows quietly between the mounds of snow that muffle every sound. A million feather crystals blanket everything in frozen whiteness. One snowflake on another, a million feather crystals, as light as angels' kisses, fall to weave this mantle that glorifies and softens every line.

OPPOSITE PAGE

TOP-“WINTER-HIGH PLATEAU” BY FORREST ALEXAN-DER. This winter scene was taken from near the watchtower at Desert View on the South Rim of Grand Canyon looking across a mist-covered desert, with Cedar Mountain poking its head above the fog to greet the rising sun.

BOTTOM-“SNOW FENCE” BY JOSEF MUENCH. Scene: near Show Low in the White Mountains of Arizona.

One snowflake is a fairy jewel and in a million all are different, every one a new creation. Endlessly they fall from heaven in a pattern of creative newness. Cast from a molecule of water, always the very same ingredient, mother nature makes design an everlasting freshness. And yet with every variation there is pattern.

You will never find a four-leafed snowflake. Always it is the six pointed star, six or three and the multiple of three. And why three? Because the molecule of water is composed of three parts, two of hydrogen and one of oxygen. Three parts to build with, the snowflake has endless variety in arrangement of triangles. An artist could spend hours together in the design of a single snowflake, for its sex-tuples can run to sixty times six. No jewel is so complex in design, no gold or silver work so intricate. To form a sapphire crystal may take a million years but the magic of a snowflake is created in the split atom of a second.

A moderate temperature in the sky brings the wet snow with big soft flakes that float silently down to overlap and weave a downy fluff that crunches underfoot. On a colder night a dry powdery snow is formed of tiny pellet ice crystals and each will roll and slide independently of the others. This is favored by the lovers of the ski slopes, especially if a few inches of powder lie atop a smooth hard snow pack.

While the quietly falling snow is better for embroidery and lace work, the winter wind finds another way of expression with exquisite snow sculpture. Only the blowing wind can build a snow figure on the windward side of a fir tree. And look to the leeward side of rocks and trees for the sculptured carvings of symphonies in snow. No mere sculptor has achieved such rhythm of flowing lines, the flutes and folds that suggest and yet surpass the soft drapery of velvet.

In the snow brightness of moonlight it is enchanting to see the tracery of shadow painting that lies under the bare branches of trees. In the soft colors of blue and gray are the shadow patterns that compliment the beaded whiteness of the snow. Deeper in the evergreens are the accents of stronger blue and black. Above in the clear sky is another form of crystal lace. There is a glowing circle around the moon, perhaps a double halo. Moisture particles in the rarefied coldness at the top of our atmosphere have become tiny ice crystals, just large enough to refract a ray of light and form a halo around a silver moon.

If the night is cold enough and there is moisture in the air the frost will be very busy at work etching lace designs on every window pane. By morning these will show relief designs of ferns and palms and filagree, much like the fossil patterns of prehistoric forests. Window etchings are fugitive and. fanciful, crusted with diamonds, spangled with stardust; they are like a dream world and fade as quickly.

After a day of cold winter rain the temperature may drop quickly and in the morning every twig and branch is covered with a crystal coat of ice. Nature now has taken up the art of glass making with free-flowing bobs and scallops. The bare branched trees are hung with crystal drops like huge candelabra. The bending twigs are jeweled with frozen raindrops and every clinging vine has become a sparkling lavalier of ice. Perhaps nothing is more beautiful than a tree dipped in shining crystal standing out against the blueness of a of a winter sky.

Snow born of cold is yet a blessing. Whatever it may mean to poet or photographer it is something more to the keepers of the forest. In the mountain country the rangers climb the high altitudes on snowshoes to take the measure of the snow. A snowfall is a bank deposit, a frozen asset soon unfrozen and drawn against when needed.

Near mountain tops the winter snow melts slowly, day by day trickles form and creep along the rock where flowers grow beside the snowbank. A gurgling rill winds down the slope through green shooting grass, becomes a brook in the center of the high meadow and with a bubbling trill it tumbles over miniature falls and around the roots of sheltering pines. At the head of a canyon it assumes a creek, glides down rapids into quiet pools, spreads out over a shallow strand, reforms and rushes down the canyon singing. The streams converge and the creeks become a river that flows toward the valley of growing things. It may be captured now in a lake, a dam or an aqueduct, it may go to the city or to the distant sea. No matter where it travels in its useful life cycle, it will be back again in the winter. The air absorbs it in fleecy blankets of moisture, the sun beckons and it rises skyward to start a long journey. Over the mountain rendezvous it meets a colder current and settles lower. Magic goes to work compounding atoms of air and water, changing temperature, adding movement.

Born again in the heavens are new and fresh patterns of crystal-purified, glorified, immaculate. Winter lace in the making-weaving, spinning fairy stars, floating earthward-down, down to the mountains-dancing before the wind, the miracle of snowflakes comes again to the forest, a blessed everlasting event.

Twenty-four Hours of Magic

Village, then, one by one, crossing the river the Shalako became tiny little dots of colors outstanding on the background of the large Indian crowd. They made a row facing us, or rather, should I say facing the river, for we didn't count. In front of them was a row of prayer sticks and then at each side perpendicular to it were holes. We could then see the gods starting a little quadrille, filling some of those holes with prayer sticks. Then they left. The Shalako, some sitting, some standing, started to clap their beaks; suddenly, one of the Shalako started to run, the feet of the man carrying the effigy were so completely out of proportion that his large steps appeared to be like a quick hesitating walk. His long black floating hair contrasted with his birdlike appearance; we could expect him to fly off. He turned around when he came to the hole, dropped prayer sticks and ran back. By the middle of the large field he crossed another Shalako going the opposite way. One after the other they covered the field running and turning, dropping prayer sticks after prayer sticks, filling all those holes endlessly; then they went back into their lines and stopped and sat. Apparently the Wa'le took over and started to race again. "I wonder if they ever fall," I said. "It would be a bad omen," explained someone. "A few years ago that happened, and in a few minutes the Indians and whites rushed out of the plaza for the two Sal'imobiya will run, whipping everyone for punishment." About 1:30 p.m., now having run and having been chased and not having fallen, the Shalako in single file walkback toward White Rock where they come from. Then young men will race after them to get good luck in hunting. If they catch up with one of the gods they will yell to him, "I have killed a deer," and he will lay his ten-foot prey on the ground, his head facing east. This I have been told about, I have read about, but I have never seen. This part and many rituals that follow, white peopledo not see. I know that there is a feast somewhere behind the mountains where priests in lines throw prayer sticks into the moveable beaks of the gods. The Navajos can see it, the Pueblos and the Hopis can see it, but we cannot. For the few days that will follow there will be more dances in the same houses. Kivas will present groups of dances, Koyemshi will come out and joke, more time will be spent, more effort to bring benedictions over the house, the household, blessing for the crops, blessing for fertility and more children. The Zuñi have faith. They believe. They do not know doubt. Through repetition, perseverance, they build their own happiness; their peace, they enrobe in beauty. The Zuñi are "primitives," we say. But as they dance for hours and spit for rain, they also pray for the whole world and for their new houses on solid ground, including our new houses; and because of that I could say, if it was only for that, with happiness and no restraint, with respect and without prejudice, I was proud to obey the orders of the Zuñi men when they asked me to take off my hat at the passage of the Shalako gods.

IF YOU GO TO THE SHALAKO

The village of two thousand Zuñis in the northwest section of New Mexico has retained its traditions more than other Indian pueblos -with the exception, perhaps, of some of the Arizona Hopi villages. The Shalako is the most famous of their dances. This ceremony is held each winter. Because of the cold weather, the state of the road, and the distance from town (Gallup, N.M.), only a few white people witness the "public" night, a beautiful climax of the blessing of new homes by the giant masks.

In this account the writer wishes to express his respect to the "Zuñi way" and, therefore, has not described any religious matter thathas not been published somewhere in previous papers. He also has not represented sacred scenes not already published at some time. He even went further; he deliberately changed a small detail in the sketches of the sacred figures so as to not offend the Zuñi people by taking "power away" in representing them, because they believe that if incomplete or imperfect, the drawing would not really "be" the gods. This slight transposition keeps enough of the true feeling in them. All described facts were studied on the spot and censored by some qualified members of the village.

WILDLIFE PICTURES:

Have just received my September number of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS and am delighted to find that my favorite magazine and favorite nature photographer, Lewis Wayne Walker, have finally gotten together. Of course, practically all of your color pictures are superb, but heretofore, I feel that your bird and animal pictures have not been on a par with the scenic ones. Now that is changed, for Mr. Walker's pictures are on a par with any of them. In fact, I feel that the cover picture of the four does is the most outstandingly beautiful picture I have ever seen in ARIZONA HIGHWAYS.

The account with the pictures makes fascinating reading, too, and I feel that I must spend a night or two in that desert museum wildlife blind.

Thank you for giving us such a beautiful magazine, and especially for this wonderful series of pictures by Lewis Wayne Walker.

Frank F. Gander Escondido, California

VISIT WITH THE APACHES:

I am expressing thanks from the Explorer Post 28, of San Bernardino, California for the wonderful time we had in the beautiful White Mountains of Arizona.

Thirteen boys and I left the 12th of July for White River, Arizona. Here we helped to lay the foundations for a building on Cedar Creek. Also we helped to put in a water well. This is part of the brotherhood mission our post has adopted. We are grateful to Miss Dorothy Aishman of the Assembly of God Mission for making this Christian mission possible.

Finding inspiration from your recent issue on Apache cowboys and the wonderful cattle country of this reservation, we made plans to camp with the Apache cowboys. We did enjoy this-the explorers riding with them, and eating, seeing just how the Apache cattleman lives.

We are grateful to you for in our preparations we went through our collection of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS to find research and information for our Explorer mission to Arizona.

tions we went through our collection of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS to find research and information for our Explorer mission to Arizona.

Reverend Mel Harrel First Assembly of God San Bernardino, California

DREAM HOUSES IN ARIZONA:

It was a great pleasure to read of your lowcost housing in a recent issue of your magazine. That is just the information I have been looking for. One of these days you'll find me and my family in one of your Arizona dream houses.

S. J. Yerrles Pittsburgh, Penna.

Your article on low cost subdivision housing in Arizona was just what I have been looking for in planning a move in the future to your state. As I compare values I can get much more for my money in Arizona than I can get here. I figure a 3-bedroom house in your state is so much cheaper than in this area that I can afford to move to Arizona and loaf for a few months, enjoy the scenery, and still be money ahead in the move. Arizona, here I come.

Wilbur J. Concarron Youngstown, Ohio

SKY HARBOR:

I believe I know most of the fine airports of America. I have never been to Phoenix but your description of Sky Harbor in your October issue convinces me I have missed one of the most charming air stops in the country . . .

H. L. Smythe Bar Harbor, Maine

AUTUMN SIGNS

September sings an autumn song With a hurdy-gurdy tune, Across the quiet mesa Drifts a copper harvest moon.

Crickets play their violins Within adobe walls, And from the palo verde A lonely coyote calls.

Winds of the canyon echo The song a cowboy sings, These are the autumn signs September always brings!

SNOW FLAKES

I touched A flake from heaven, Marveled at its patterned Fragile crispness; and caught a glimpse Of God.

SUNSET

A bard Would dip his pen Into the chalice of The melting western sky and make A song. But I Before the glow The spreading red and gold Of days slow merging into night Stand mute.

MINSTRELSY

Wraith-wind dissonance Plagues these muted strings; And strettas through them ever, Wailing in-between.

Years pluck lamentingly At these strata-ed strings, Though their fretting never Be heard nor seen.

Yet your minstrelsy, Lingering on these strings, Plays one fullest chord aloudWith sweeping wings.

EXEMPT

I am glad no flame from the sunset's gold Can be touched by man, be owned or sold; Nor one square clipped from azure sky By men, to offer for bid or buy.

I am glad no measure of twilight's gray Can be gathered and stored for the noon of day, And glad the stars can but remain Beyond the scope of man's domain.

I rejoice that the whir of birds' swift wings And bird songs are unhandled things, That the soft moonlight and new pink dawn Are exempt from man's touch and his pawn.

OPPOSITE PAGE

"ALONG THE ARAVAIPA" BY CHUCK ABBOTT. This is Aravaipa Creek, literally a stream without beginning or end. It heads near Fort Grant at the foot of the Graham Mountains and ends where it joins the San Pedro near Mammoth. Usually no water is on the surface or visible at either place; only along the center stretch for about twenty-five miles is the stream free-flowing the year around-in itself remarkable for a desert-country stream. This photograph was taken about twelve miles upstream from the San Pedro early on a May morning. Camera data: Deardorff 5x7 view, Ektachrome film, Goerz Dagor lens, exposure: 1/25 at f.8.

BACK COVER

"BLUE PALO VERDE" BY ESTHER HENDERSON. This sandy wash near Florence shows clearly the favorite habitat of the blue palo verde tree. Here, one tree is in full bloom while the one adjacent has already passed its peak and has begun to fade. Camera data: 5x7 Deardorff view, Ektachrome film, Goerz Dagor lens, 1/10 at f.18.