STATE ROUTE 93

Our interest in the new Kingman road was not to find the "shortest distance between two points." Traveling in a straight line is less fun than searching casual byways for unexploited scenic gems, and if they don't materialize, there is still the novelty, never to be recaptured after a first trip. Without anyone else's judgment to sway us, we thought to start out on a journey into the unknown with open minds. What we hadn't expected to find was the unbroken succession of dramatic stage sets, stacked on tiers of abruptly changing altitudes; surely among the most refreshing experiences that Arizona has kept up her scenic sleeve.

At the junction of State 71 and 93, three miles west of Congress, we turned the speedometer back to o; noted that the altimeter was a mild 2500 feet, the gas gage full and the engine purring contentedly. These are the accepted routine matters to be checked on before setting out on a junket into unfamiliar ground.

From either side of the road stretched a ground-cover of green velvet, bright enough in the midday sun to have been freshly painted. It was studded with great blotches of crimson blooms on the Beavertail Cactus. This colorful flower is not uncommon through the Southwestern deserts and is always eye-catching. But here the pads were enormous, furry and well-filled out, set in unusually frequent groups, each crowned with big blossoms. No sooner had we decided that one clump was the most spectacular we had ever seen than another flash of color in the periphery of vision would lead us on to a larger, gaudier one. Was this some new varietyOpuntia basilaris gigantea? Or was it, I wondered, looking beyond the startling floral display on its lush backdrop, just an illusion of the whole landscape? We had gone beyond the rim of the known world and found ourselves in a gargantuan landscape. The only limit to the view, in every direction, was that imposed by our own eyes, and the mountain ridges that gave it a finish were too far away to ever reach.

It was profoundly quiet. A startled jackrabbit made his escape from the nearby mesquite bush he'd been hiding in, and positively thundered away over the grass. A lonely pair of wings cast their shadow from far above, and there was the faint call of a song bird. There was nothing else to disturb the primeval silence of this desert garden, with its Creosote bushes, flecked with yellow blossoms, small Paloverde trees, each a golden cloud, to make a foil for the vivid Beavertails.

We were to notice, on the entire trip, these communities of plants. In places, if they'd been set out, so many acres to a variety, or been fenced in, they could hardly have been more noticeably arranged. Sometimes, they ran together, so that a new type was assembled in great numbers before we quite missed the kind that only minutes before paraded en masse. Prickly Pears suddenly gave way to Chollas: forests of them, spreading out with fiercely spined branches, into compact tree-like forms. Yuccas, with broad leaves and heavy blossoms, were scattered through this miniature forest. Then Joshua trees took over, closing in behind us and marching in battalions, for miles in every direction.

Just when the level ground began to erupt into hills, and low mountains to appear in the middle background, I had been too busy to notice until the Joshuas strode up slopes and postured against the skyline of ridges. We were in a world inhabited entirely by these fantastic lily trees of the desert; more of them within view of the road than I had supposed ever existed.

This was unexpected enough, having had no reason to suspect that we were adventuring in an area hiding one of the most extensive of all stands of the weird and wonderful Joshua tree. No sooner had we accepted the fact than a more startling one became evident. Only a few at first and then in increasing numbers, came Saguaros. If they had been Glacier lilies or Swamp Marigold, in this warm, dry landscape, we would have been no more puzzled. For the botanist tells us in no uncertain terms that you can tell whether you are in the Mohave or the Sonoran Desert by certain, so-called "indicator plants" which keep each strictly to its own bailiwick. According to the books the Mohave Desert occurs in Arizona only in the northwestern portion, and is indicated by the Joshua tree. Likewise, when wanting to be sure of being in the Sonoran Desert (belonging in Southern Arizona) you can rely on the Saguaro as a sure sign. But no rules, we began right then to suspect, hold in this land. We had only to look around us, at Joshuas and Saguaros practically rubbing shoulders, to know that we were in two places at once.

At 8.5 miles a side road taking off to the left for Alamo reminded us that even before Arizona was a name, the white man had been in this country spreading around us. In 1582 Antonio de Especjo traveled through. He dug silver ore with his hands and carried samples back to Mexico. Father Garces came in 1776 to visit the Apache, Piaute and Hualapai Indians, then making it their hunting grounds. Miners have known for a long time that its jumbled mountains held gold, silver, copper, manganese, tungsten, lead and zinc. Bagdad, in the northwestern corner of Yavapai County, is busy exploiting some of the state's richest copper deposits and Alamo and Signal, farther west in Mohave County, aren't ghost towns by any means, though there are those too, such as Rawhide and McCracken.

Transportation has always been the big problem;

In view of our path swinging westward and dipping into a really big gorge that disappeared among folding green ridges. At the bottom of our fall-1600 feet elevation and mile 46-was Burro Creek, with a 260-foot steel structure to take us over its wide wash. This span, we were told later, was an afterthought, put in after some work had been done on an approach demanding a far more pretentious one. Specifications indicate that it would have been second in height only to Arizona's highest-Navajo Bridge over the Marble Gorge of the Colorado River. We walked along the abandoned fill, starting where the present bridge approach comes out of the Burro Creek Trough. The stream makes several tight turns and, 450 feet above one of them, the span would have swung out with a most satisfying view of dark rock walls, green pools and swirling water below. One can't help hoping that someday the dream of a steel arch at that lovely spot will be realized.

More rocky terrain follows the highway and at mile 52 it takes another bridge in stride. Thrust over Kayser Springs Wash, the pleasing design is the same used for Queen and Pinto Creeks on U.S. 60, between Superior and Miami. On the right is a fascinating miniature gorge slashed from dark rock, just now a cavern of gold as the late sunlight pierced the shadows. Formed from very ancient volcanic rock, the walls had been eaten into grottos and shallow caves, irregularly shaped vases to hold Prickly Pear, Ocotillo and feathery Cholla plants. Slim sticks of Saguaros showed along the top and the while effect was quite unreal-intriguing. At mile 55 a sign marked the junction with a road off to the left: "Signal-15 miles."

With another of those sudden shifts of accent, by now fixed in our minds as a character of this Kingman Road, we began slipping down hill while each turn of the wheels brought more completely into view the Big Sandy River, ensconced in green fields, trees and a suggestion of ranch houses tucked comfortably among them. Something about the scene being thus unveiled gave us the feeling that perhaps the entire road had been building up to this climax; like a secret paradise hidden in a volcanic and desert world. The washes, dry or wet, already crossed, had each been a barrier, strategically placed to serve, fairy-tale-fashion, as a test of the adventurer's daring. The magic arts of the highway builder had already taken the danger from them, but that was so recent they had not yet lost the force of their intent. There should be, by all rights, something very special in the valley to justify careful guarding. The people of Big Sandy Valley would, no doubt, be amused at such fancy. But the spell of dragons, unleashed after every rainfall, has been broken and there is an unmistakable stir of coming change. Scattered ranches, housing about 250, form a loose community around the little center of Wikieup. Its store and gas pump, a small box of a post-office, tightly padlocked, is the nearest thing to a town on the whole road. Realignment has pushed even it a little off center and it is already planning to move. Ranches have had to build new approaches too, and the rosy promise of through traffic is stimulating more business establishments. The world is coming to Wikieup, named for the old-style shelter in which the last Piute was killed.

On the south side of the river, about three miles on a side road off 93, is Cofer Hot Springs. There were strident choruses in birds along the stream and the guardian voice of a peacock from some hidden ranch as we drove along. We stopped at a quiet little cemetery, set in a hollow of cactus and Saguaro-fringed hills. Only a few mesquite and creosote bushes gave a frugal landscaping to three fenced-in plots. Every letter of inscription had faded from the wooden markers, probably older than the marble slab dated 1895. Other mounds had lost all but their tilted footboards and would soon be flattened to the valley floor. The future can bring no changes here to this vale of the past. It may be a different story at the Hot Springs. Just now, several buildings stand vacant and except for the bubbling of the water, and distant sounds of ranch life that float to it across the valley, it is as quiet as the cemetery. The natural spring, channeled to a large standpipe, escapes partly through cracks and partly through a pipe. An open ditch diverts it toward a neat little bathhouse and beyond into open pools to drain toward the Big Sandy. Enough mineral to give a most pleasant flavor and comfortable bath temperature bring local residents who believe in its curative powers. Some unusual flowers, that will grow only in warm water, edged the pools and we found it a delightful spot for camping overnight. Running water, always on tap, shade trees and no traffic noises, were all in its favor, even if one overlooked a wild desert garden beyond, with mountain slopes only far enough away to keep the seclusion of the valley as a vaguely reassuring fact. As one more evidence of the variety along the Kingman Road, the Cofer Hot Springs may well have a lively future.

Several miles north of Wikieup, we stopped to have a look at the "Natural Corrals." Cliffs of soft white clay have eroded here into embayments, following an irregular contour for perhaps a míle. In harder material there would be sculptured pediments and chiseled figures. The outlines are there, but the lines are blurred, as though by a careless or unskilled artisan, working in materials too subtle for his touch. At some time, cattlemen have used the alcoves for corrals for a few of the wire fences struggle to hold their position, and in several places the remnants of low rock and dirt walls were set up to trap a little rainwater in the deeper bays. Long ago, the white walls may have gleamed in the light of Indian campfires or rung with war chants, in the days when the western tribes still hoped to keep their freedom and their hunting grounds.

The hills that shut in the long Valley of the Big Sandy to the west are the southern slopes of the Hualpai Mountains. Little roads lead up into them, showing off undulating miles of cattle range and searching out deserted mine diggings. We pursued one for fifteen lifting miles to the ruins of the Cedar Mine Mill. Herefords and Brahmans moved reluctantly away from a tank overflowing with cool spring water to let us have the shade of two grand old cottonwoods while we inspected it. It was a tangle of disintegrating brick walls, rusting metal retorts and rotting timbers, but still a remarkable monument to the industry that had erected it. How had all of this bulky, heavy equipment been dragged to this remote canyon site? Yet here it was, and in numberless other quite as difficult spots, machinery and big timbers rot away in the mouths of shafts once worked. Probably no one knows how much minerals have been taken, laboriously but with dogged determination, in the days when a man could make his pile by his own efforts, or in small partnerships. They are worth visiting, these little ghost mines of the Hualpais. Back on 93, we were soon at the end of the realigned part of the highway. The old road took over, slightly narrower, but good, winding pleasantly in deference to the terrain. Its characteristic kinks are soon to be ironed out and levels changed. Culverts are ready and a bridge or so just wait for dirt fills and roadbed to catch up.

determination, in the days when a man could make his pile by his own efforts, or in small partnerships. They are worth visiting, these little ghost mines of the Hualpais. Back on 93, we were soon at the end of the realigned part of the highway. The old road took over, slightly narrower, but good, winding pleasantly in deference to the terrain. Its characteristic kinks are soon to be ironed out and levels changed. Culverts are ready and a bridge or so just wait for dirt fills and roadbed to catch up.

Cane Spring, enjoying the same prominence on the map as Wikieup, is a private ranch and so is Round Valley at the northern reach of the Big Sandy Valley.

By now, we had begun to grasp the broad outlines of the country we had come to explore, and to appreciate its complexities. Convenient categories and ordinary classifications wouldn't fit here. Only the most general of descriptions could be applied to its fluidly changing landscape. One could safely say that there were deserts and mountains, low river valleys and high plateau land, which we had yet to see. From the east, the Santa Maria Mountains send runoffs into the Santa Maria River and Burro Creek, while almost at right angles, the Big Sandy comes down from the north off the Colorado Plateau to join them and form the Bill Williams, one of Arizona's important tributaries to the Colorado River. On the northwest, the ragged peaks of the Hualapais look down on the Big Sandy for most of its southern journey.

But neither mountains nor streams can seem to agree on any fixed plan of direction, confusing, not just the human visitor, trying to sort out endless shifts in elevation, but the very plants and animals that usually know to such a nicety their proper sphere of action.

Some of the results of playing fast and loose with geography are quite surprising. You can expect to lift your eyes from an admiring scrutiny of brilliant cactus flowers to see a white crown of snow on a peak above pine-clad slopes. If you stop your car, as we did, to let a big Rocky Mountain mule deer stampede through Ocotillos to disappear behind a Juniper, it's anybody's guess who'll be more startled, he at finding such a strange monster in his private wilderness, or you at seeing him clear down in the desert.

Except for sporadic mining and more extensive cattle ranging, and the lovely Valley of the Big Sandy, that is a place all to itself, the area has been left alone. Like a peculiar personality, schizophrenic (if you like), shunned by all but a few understanding souls, the natural beauty of the region had to wait until some of its character traits could be straightened out. The Kingman Road is a kind of mentor that will make friends for the whole area.

By mile 73 we had definitely left the valley and were climbing through the everlasting hills, now less rugged and individualistic under the stabilizing influence of the sturdy Hualpai heights. Miles and miles of open cattle range stretched on around us. Only now and then did a road from a far-off ranch or some forgotten mine come out to meet us. Tall Chollas amused themselves by consorting with Junipers to make an unconventional foreground for the mountain tops. Patches of snow caught the sun among the uppermost peaks, where the Hualapai's summit rises over 8000 feet. This pleasant, well integrated landscape, not monotonous, will naturally command less attention than the amusing antics of the portion farther south.

Before we realized it, we had reached mile 90 and the junction with a road to Hackberry (on U.S. 66). Ninety-three made a right angle turn to the west and headed straight into the Hualapais. At about 4000 feet, we had passed only mining roads, with recent handlettered signs indicating their current activity. To the right the ground swooped away, showing us a great open valley. We could see the Grand Wash Cliffs striding off toward the Grand Canyon, the richly mineralized Cerbat Mountains behind Kingman, and vast stretches of land laid out on a huge relief map.

Instead of gaining more altitude in the mountains, we skirted them, gliding down until first the Air Base and then the town of Kingman were revealed.

The suspicion grew to a certainty as we reached the outskirts that the Kingman Road was fixing a surprise ending, such as O. Henry was so fond of employing in his short stories, holding us in suspense until U.S. 66 was already in sight, before letting us head into the heart of the mountains and Hualapai Mountain Park. The turnoff was at mile 114, and, if long in coming, made short work of getting up from just over 3000 feet to better than 6000. It is 14 miles to the entrance of the Mohave County preserve, 2560 acres of pine-forested and rocky slopes that are climaxed in Hualapai Peak at 8266 feet.

With a register showing visitors from places as widely scattered as Canada, Puerto Rico and every one of the forty-eight states, Hualpai is something more than an ordinary county park. An island retreat, lapped on every side by a desert, it looks from under eyelashes of tall cool pines at the country all around. Even in winter, some of the fourteen well equipped housekeeping cabins are available at a charmingly modest rate. In its picnic and camping grounds among the odor of woods, a nearby mountain stream and complete vacation atmosphere, patrons can be aloof as they like from the everyday world. Summer houses are crowding into choice spots on the eastern slope of the mountains around little Pine Lake, and rustic-style Pine Lake Lodge offers accommodations and meals. The views are magnificent from various lookout points and along the trail to the peak. The forward-looking visitor in hopes of having a cabin, either in the park or at the Lodge, would do well to make reservations well ahead of the regular seasonfrom April to December. To us, concerned with adventuring on a new road, it was one last surprise that figuratively, as well as literally, topped off the whole trip.

As we looked back, we found, even in a brief passing, that the new Kingman Road has many facets. We will long remember the changes rung on altitudes with a range of almost five thousand feet; the remarkable desert, quite possibly without equal anywhere else; the gracious Valley of the Big Sandy; unexpected canyons; the melting pot of plant species; hot springs and mining camps, and like a feather in its capa mountain eyrie. Yes, many things to talk aboutbut more fun to see. Particularly when the splashy blossoms of the Beavertail glow against the green of spring, the Paloverde is a golden cloud, and Yuccas light their tall white tapers from Congress to U.S. 66, to make the Kingman Road a challenging adventure.

Yours sincerely REMEMBERING YESTERDAY:

Many times in the past I have been tempted to write and tell you how much our family has enjoyed ARIZONA HIGHWAYS but for some reason or other did not do so. The August issue on Navajoland and the story on Emry Kopta brought back such a flood of memories that I felt I must.

I was employed by A. & B. Schuster Company of Holbrook, on which you also ran a story, selling to the trading posts and servicing our own branches, one of which was at Na-ah-tee Canyon. Tom Pavatea was one of my good friends and customers, and it was during one of my trips to Polacca that Tom introduced me to Emry Kopta, who very kindly offered to let me use his room for the night. However, as it was my custom to sleep out, I refused and put my sleeping bag in Tom's warehouse in back of the store. Mr. Kopta showed me his work, which I admired greatly, and came over that evening to eat with me and the Mexican boy who was with me, as well as several Hopi lads, who always showed up to share our evening meal and listen quietly to our conversation.

The next trip I did not see Mr. Kopta but talked to Tom so much about his work that Tom gave me two heads, one of Sieup-he-la in black and one of Ha-va-si, who at that time, Tom told me, was Sieup-he-la's wife. Many years have passed and most of the Indian treasure that we accumulated has passed into other hands, but the kind, wise face of "Old Sieup," as we called him, and the patient, understanding head of Ha-va-si still are the central objects in our living room.

C. R. Kelly Monterey, California We envy Mr. Kelly his early experiences in Hopiland and we also envy him his two Kopta beads.

DOWN MEMORY LANE IN ENGLAND:

For some years now an old and kind friend in Hollywood, California, has been sending us her copy of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS, and each month, from this secluded English valley, we look forward with anticipation to its arrival.

It is difficult to put its effect, on one who spent a part of his early life in the Southwest, into words. The Spirit and memory fly back almost half a century into the freer days of youth and, through the media of colour photography and exact reproductions, one can sometimes almost literally smell the reek of a sweaty horse and hear the creak of leather or the tinkle of a bit once more while the backgrounds of land, trees and water, each contribute their scents to the initiate, and the red dust cakes on one's face.

Other pictures have brought back vividly the aroma of boiling coffee on a chill morning in the fall-the now half forgotten art of rolling a Bull Durham cigarette-the peculiar rumble of hooves on a cattle drive, or the tired, stiff feeling when walking to a bunkhouse at the end of a long day.

Modernization and machinery have come to Arizona as to everywhere else, but the eternal Spirit of the land, and its traditions, live again through your magazine and its very wonderful photographs. There are not words. One can only say "Thank You" and leave it at that.

Greveille le Poer Trench Somerset, England

CHRISTMAS GREETINGS:

A. J. Randall St. Louis, Mo.

BACK COVER

"GROWING ROSES IN ARIZONA" BY HERB MCLAUGHLIN. 8x10 Ansco camera; Ektachrome; f.16 at 1/10 sec.; Ektar lens; July 4, 1957; bright, sunny day. Scene shows part of Arizona Rose Company's rose farm in Deer Valley, north of Phoenix off the Black Canyon Highway. This company farms 100 acres of roses and has 2,200,000 bushes under cultivation. Long growing season, controlled irrigation, good soil and loving care by dedicated rose growers are the factors transforming Arizona into one of the nation's leading rose growing centers. 15,000,000 rose bushes will be produced in Arizona this year. With other nationally known growers moving in, it is predicted that within six years Arizona rose growers will harvest around 40,000,000 plants. The photographer is a member of Arizona Photographic Associates, a Phoenix photography firm.

MOUNTAINS

Reason it out if you feel you must: Mountains are only chunks of crust Heaved from the depths in primal stress, Owning no power to curse or bless; Yet something about God's patterned gift Of timbered mountains gives a lift Unto the soul who sees in them Nature's holy diadem.

Unto the peaks so near God's skies, I shall ever lift mine eyes!

S. OMAR BARKER

MIRAGE

I am an old man of the desert. My eyes have grown dim with searching The far horizons for signs Of buried Spanish treasure. I followed, followed, followed, But only found mirages.

GRACE BARKER WILSON

THE CHUCCAWALLA

Where does the Chuccawalla live, you say? Out on the desert, not far away. His colors are bright orange and lizzard grey, Could anyone fancy a suit more gay?

MRS. MARGARET PLEASANT

DRIFTING SANDS

Only The wind has sighed Across these golden dunes And marked them with its imprint, clear But brief.

VESTA NICKERSON

THE TRILL

We saw two humming-birds ascending, Same; A red, a silver thread merge Into flame. We heard a spiraling hum Beat, beat In double modulance, Repeat; Two hummings in resilient Trill, 'Till feathered clinging rose Beyond all sound . . .

So still We stand, upon the ground.

CHERRY MCKAY

GHOST TOWN

The adobe huts of this old ghost town Lean drunkenly against the sky; Their tired feet no longer braced Against cruel winds that crucify; Their empty eyes stare vacantly Where gaping doorways swallow sand. The unlistening-street with its derelict huts Lies cradled in Time's great leveling hand.

EMILY CAREY ALLEMAN

IMPARTIAL

Because they know No creeds or bars, They shine for allThe matchless stars.

E. J. RITTER, JR.

When a census taker came to the old Cross S outfit, Dick Smith, one of the punchers, didn't know where he was born; it was either Texas or New Mexico, the family was constantly on the move. "Jes' put down 'wagon'," said Dick by way of helping the census taker with his tally. "That's where Ma tol' me it happened."

Dick was a good cowboy. We rode through one roundup together. After the work he drifted and I never saw him again. In his mid-twenties, Dick had already made the big ride; he had punched cows in Canada, and broke horses in Old Mexico. Montana, Wyoming and Oregon had known his pony tracks. Affable, with a quick smile, the little blue-eyed waddie was easy to be around.

Occasionally we were on day herd together; that I was forever sketching, making drawings interested the little cowboy. On this particular day I'd made a rough sketch of his pony. Dick liked it and asked me would I make a "pitture" of the little place where he had lived as a boy. "You'll have to describe it," I said; "mebbe it won't come off even then, but at least we'll give it a try."

"Well, it was jes' across the Arizona line in New Mexico. An' it wasn't much but a shack, but after livin' in the wagon it shore looked big to me. Ma liked it too at first. She'd say how good it was not to be forever rasslin' the dutch oven and pots in an' out of a wagon; then again she'd say somehow it didn't seem jes' right a-stayin' so long in one place."

I sketched the little description. "There was a door He pointed with a finger. "I come through the roof.."

a little windmill on this en m'self. There was a bob-w sketched the fence with a fir an' beyond the flat she bro chops does right here at the The drawing finished, "Only one more thing-mal cockeyed." Dick slung his he much of a carpenter. But th Ma always had a good things always growed for he on the big flat much fer Pa I reckon. He done good with was we only had a few head too; so was brother Will. A He'd pick up a colt, make a g then peddle him to the big by. He broke horses at tin tract; broke 'em out at ter that's how we got beans. Pa an' he learned brother Will Dick studied the draw whittle-de-dig, that windmi times when the wind blow the time. I'd hear it sometim

he Prodigal

House, following Dick's de-, an' the winder was here.' 'Here's where the stovepipe An' would ya mind puttin' d? Made it an' put it up wire fence right here,' he nger. 'There was a big flat, oke off jes' like the shortlower ranch.' "Anything else?" I asked. e the winder a little more ead and laughed, "Pa wasn't mat's it, an' that's the place garden below the house, r. But things never growed -, he jes' wasn't no farmer, the cattle, though; trouble . He was good with horses, And Pa was a good trader. good cow horse out of him, outfit that we was nestin' nes fer that outfit on condollars a head; I reckon could put a rein on a pony, an' me."

ing. "That little bitty ol' ll, how she would hum at ed-an' it blowed most of les at night when I was half asleep. Ma liked to hear it too." Dick laughed again, "Pa made me grease it regular, but he was only joshin'. 'Richard,' he'd say, 'now that all the livestock has watered out an' the tank is full you'd better put on the govener.

"Wish brother Will could see the pitture. He was four years older'n me. We both left home when I was goin' on fourteen, but he was four years ahead of me. Even Ma said there was nothin' for us there. An' believe it or not I met up with brother Will in Wyoming after several years. Fancy, meetin' up with him like that an' not knowin' where he was. We rode through one work together an' he was doin' good. He was runnin' a good sized bunch of cattle fer a feller on the shares. We talked a lot about the folks, the wagon days an' the little place. Fact is, we talked so much that after I left Will I went back to see the folks. Kinda lonesome, I guess."They'd pulled up stakes an' gone an' been gone fer quite a spell. The fence was down an' the little house was about to fall apart. But that little ol' whittle-de-dig, that windmill I'd put up as a kid, it was still a-goin' strong.

"I inquired around. The folks had sold the cattle to the big outfit an' that outfit had changed hands. The new foreman I talked with was ridin' an ol' pony Pa had broke, knowed him at first glance. No, they never left no word, I never learned where they went-none of the folks in our family was any hand to write."