THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS

Wasn't it Ponce de Leon who was hunting for the Fountain of Youth? If he had gone farther-in fact, clear to the White Mountains of Arizona, he might have found it. Not that anyone would be so bold as to offer you a money-back guarantee that-if you go to a particular spot there, deep in the green forest, shadowed by a certain snow peak and drink from a specific stream that glides over rocks and murmurs pleasantly as it flashes by flowered banks-the years would drop away and you would find yourself a slender youth again. But if you believe a person is as young as he feels, then rejuvination is in every breeze that plays through these Delectable Mountains and a vacation spent in its cool corridors along trout streams and by mirror-smooth lakes, is an investment in fresh vigor. Vistas of forest and meadow give a new perspective on our own affairs and those of the nerve-jangled world. Most people, however, demand more practical information when they make ready for that all important decision: "Where shall we spend our vacation this year?"

Facts, more than figures of speech are what they want. Since the White Mountains of Arizona are the largest and most important ones in the state, mother of highly useful rivers, a storagehouse for priceless timber, including as well a large Indian Reservation, a fabulous prehistoric treasure-chest, are the youngest state's favorite summer vacation spot, facts are easy to supply.

Set over on the eastern edge of the state, spilling into New Mexico, the White Mountains lie partway between U.S. Highways 60 and 70-easy to reach. Their breezy, shaded porticos were named by some early Spaniard, soldier or priest, who doubtless saw them in winter wraps. Coronado made his way through them in the 1500's and probably from man's advent in this part of the world, down to the last whisper of his occupancy of the globe, they'll be visited and enjoyed by people. I call them the Delectable Mountains and find it an effort to use statistics instead of my most evocative adjectives in describing their charms.You could fit the whole state of Delaware into the 2500 square miles of rising and falling land that stand above the sweeping plateaus of the Arizona northland. Much of the region is from 6000 to 9000 feet above sea level, climbing to a climax in Thomas Peak, "Old Baldy," at 11,500 feet. (Since no two sources agree on the exact figure, I refuse to take sides.) From the annually replenished stockpile of snow onOld Baldy begin a network of streams, growing literally by leaps and bounds as they hurry through the guardian forest. East forks and north forks, creeks, wallows and rivers, with a multiplicity of names and even more frisky trout, spell out two hundred miles of fishing streams and some twenty lakes for the sportsman. Converging at appointed meeting places under the eyes of pine, spruce or aspen, delayed by natural, man or beaver-made lakes, they become the Little Colorado and the Salt Rivers, with all the potential those names imply for rich range and farming lands and for cities far below. The Little Colorado, the Black and the White Rivers are names to conjure with, whatever your vacation aims in the White Mountains.

The WHITE MOUNTAINS of Arizona

Old Baldy begin a network of streams, growing literally by leaps and bounds as they hurry through the guardian forest. East forks and north forks, creeks, wallows and rivers, with a multiplicity of names and even more frisky trout, spell out two hundred miles of fishing streams and some twenty lakes for the sportsman. Converging at appointed meeting places under the eyes of pine, spruce or aspen, delayed by natural, man or beaver-made lakes, they become the Little Colorado and the Salt Rivers, with all the potential those names imply for rich range and farming lands and for cities far below. The Little Colorado, the Black and the White Rivers are names to conjure with, whatever your vacation aims in the White Mountains.

The woods, deep, lush and endless, spread into two national forests, Apache and Sitgreaves, and their Ponderosa Pines, each fitted with clustered stars of sparkling needles, are part of the long sweep of Western Yellow, extending from the eastern border of Nevada, southeast to New Mexico, in the world's largest forest of those singularly beautiful and useful conifers. They yield, by carefully controlled cutting, some forty million board feet of lumber a year, not to mention their value as setting for camps, shade for trout pools and protectors of wildlife.

Not all of the White Mountains, however, is either forest, stream, lake or mountain peak. Offsetting its wilderness and, in fact, making them accessible are a number of small towns. Large enough to welcome people and provide accommodations, food, supplies and friendliness are Alpine, Greer, Lakeside, Show Low, Springerville, McNary, Pinetop, Ft. Apache, Eagar, Whiteriver and Nutrioso. None new, each has a history and special place in our vacation paradise. In them people farm, raise cattle and fine horses, work in the lumbering industry and cater to an increasing number of visitors. The total permanent population, including Indians on their Reservation, is around 6,000. While the summer population is greater, the area is never crowded. Scattered between the towns are many lodges where you can watch the stars roll by to the accompaniment of whispering water, and forest camps. The vacationer thus has his choice of setting, where he can prepare his own meals and make a bed on pine boughs or put his feet every night under a white tablecloth and be assured of hot water at a moment's notice. But I believe that whatever kind of accommoda-

NOTES FOR PHOTOGRAPHERS

tions throughout the year. Summer, bowever, bringing great white clouds and pleasant weather conditions, make picture taking in the Whites unusually fruitful for the camera artist.

OPPOSITE PAGE

"LITTLE COLORADO IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS" BY RAY MANLEY. 5x7 Linhof camera; Daylight Anscochrome; f. 22 at 1/25th sec.; 8½" Schneider Symar lens; July 1, 1957; sunny bright day; ASA400. Photograph was taken approximately two miles north of Greer, Arizona, from one of the dams (earth filled) storing water on the Little Colorado River. The photographer says: "Care must be used when taking a meter reading in timber country where light contrasts are extreme dark trees, bright sky and reflective water. Usually an ASA 400 (Arizona's consistent light) should be recognized as a standard to work from." The village of Greer, on the headwaters of the Little Colorado, is a busy vacation and camping center in the summer, and a rendezvous for hunters in autumn. Greer was named after a pioneer family which settled there as ranchers in 1880.

FOLLOWING PAGES

"TONTO LAKE NEAR MAVERICK" BY EARL E. PETROFF. 4x5 Graphic View camera; Ektachrome, daylight type; f. 32 at 1/4th sec.; 100mm Wide-field Ektar lens; the last week in September, 1957; bright sunny day, near high noon; meter reading of 250 on Norwood Meter; ASA film speed of 12. This is beautiful Tonto Lake located high up in the White Mountains and only a very short drive from Maverick, Arizona. This cool and inviting lake is managed by the Apache Tribe since it is located on the Reservation. It can be reached from the Fort Apache or Big Lake road. Tonto Lake is a popular trout fishing lake. There is also an abundance of wild life in the vicinity. Lake was named for nearby Tonto Creek. "Tonto" in Spanish means "fool" or "stupid." It is a common Arizona place name.

"WHITE MOUNTAIN COUNTRY CLUB" BY JERRY McLAIN. 4x5 Speed Graphic camera; Anscochrome, f. 20 at 1/25th sec.; Kodak Ektar f. 4.7 127mm lens; July 5, 1957; bright sun, warm day. This is a panorama of the 9th green at the White Mountain Golf Club, five miles north of McNary and two miles from Pinetop on the McNary-Show Low highway. One of the most beautiful golf courses in the Southwest is this White Mountain layout carved out of a ponderosa pine and oak forest and said to be the only links in the country situated on forest service (Sitgreaves) land. It is considered an experimental project among the national forests. The par-35, nine-hole course meanders between thickets of oak and pine, and though snow comes in the 7,200-foot altitude during winter months, avid divot-diggers in the White Mountains play until the snow begins to fall and resume play as soon as it melts. Rustic summer cabins of almost 300 Arizona families from the warmer and lower desert areas dot the forested landscape bordering the fairways. The White Mountain course has beautiful grass greens and even its fairways are planted entirely in grass.

"GREER RESERVOIR-NEAR GREER" BY WAYNE DAVIS. 4x5 Graphic View camera; Ektachrome; f. 22 at 4th sec.; 135mm Kodak Ektar lens; August 25, 1957; late morning. This small reservoir is on the Little Colorado near Greer.

CENTER PANEL "WHITE WATERS OF THE BIG BONITO" BY BOB PAYNE.

4x5 Busch Press camera; Ektachrome; f. 8 at 1/50th sec.; 127mm Kodak Ektar lens; June 20, 1957; bright overhead sun; Seconic meter reading 2.8; ASA 12. Photograph taken from the Fort Apache-Maverick road about two miles from Big Bonito Creek bridge. The photographer says: "This scene had great photographic appeal to me because of the profuse growths of rose locust (Robinia neomexicana) or New Mexico locust in full bloom along the banks of the clear, cold stream. A large fallen pine tree across the creek allowed me to set up the camera near mid-stream." Bonito Creek is one of the many small tributaries of the White River. "Bonito," in Spanish, means "pretty."

"SUMMER RANGE-WHITE MOUNTAINS" BY CHUCK ABBOTT.

5x7 Deardorff View camera; Ektachrome; f. 11 at 1/25th sec.; Bausch & Lomb lens; late August about 11:00 A.M.; bright sun; Weston light value 200. Photograph taken near Pat Knoll Spring on the Suncrest Ranch in the White Mountains. These mountains provide summer range for some of the finest Hereford cattle in the world. When cold weather comes, these prize heads are moved to ranches in lower elevations.

"SHEEP GRAZING-WHITE MOUNTAINS" BY CHUCK ABBOTT.

5x7 Eastman View camera; Kodachrome; f. 11 at 1/25th sec.; Ektar lens; July about 10:00 A.M.; bright sun: Weston light value of 200. Many sheep spend their summers in the White Mountains and their winters in the Salt River Valley. Many sheepherders have covered wagons which they move from place to place. The herder shown here had four pack mules (no wagon). The country through which his sheep forage was probably too rough for a wagon. In the background in this photograph is Big Lake.

"WHERE DIAMOND CREEK JOINS THE WHITE" BY BOB PAYNE.

4x5 Busch Press camera; Ektachrome; f. 9 at 1/50th sec.; 127mm Kodak Ektar lens; August 31, 1957; 1:30 P.M.; bright sunlight, few fluffy clouds; Seconic meter reading 2.8x; ASA 12. Photograph taken at confluence of White River and Big Diamond Creek, about six miles north of the village of White River. The photographer says: "The rugged beauty of the basalt cliffs and the placid stream with the man engrossed in his fishing seemed to me to suggest a mood of tranquility and solitude, far from the busy world of tension and hurry."

OPPOSITE PAGE "UPPER WHITE RIVER IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS" BY MARTIN LITTON.

4x5 B&J Press camera; Ektachrome; f. 12 at 1/10th sec. Busch Glyptar 135mm lens; 4:30 P.M., late September; clear side lighting; Meter reading 200 on Weston Model 715. Photograph taken on North Fork of White River near junetion with Big Diamond Creek off State Highway 73 about five miles north of Whiteriver, Arizona. In the higher reaches of the White Mountains the White River divided itself into the North and East Forks. tions he decides upon, he will find a special flavor, mixed with the fragrant scent of the forest, making food more appetizing and sleep more restful and the days full of fun. Call it mountain hospitality, if you will.

There are two more kinds of facts the questing vacationer wants to hear about before he ventures into "new" country. What are the roads like and what about the climate?

Paved highways lead to the "gateways," Springerville (by U.S. 60, 260 and 666) and Show Low (by U.S. 60 and State 77 and 173). State 73, within the area, goes to McNary, Eagar, and Whiteriver on pavement. South of Alpine U.S. 666 is a second grade improved road and other routes through the forests are good, even to many lumber tracks, maintained by the lumber interests. Roads then, are no problem or worry.

You can count on snow leaving most of the White Mountains early in May, so the region is fresh and beautiful, accessible for your pleasure until well into November when winter comes on. Temperatures don't rise over a well-ventilated 80 to 85 degrees during the summer, tapering off to winter's nip when the wilderness is snowbound. Then, if you care for it, there is a ski run on Springer Mountain, a mile east of State 173 between Lakeside and Pinetop. Expect no chair lift but miles of lovely terrain through open woods country for as far as your muscles or inclination may take you. Rainfall follows the regular Southwestern pattern with the variations predictable in mountain country. Summer rain in July and August and more in the lower reaches with snow above, in December and January, as the usual thing. A nicely balanced climate where evenings are always cool and a warm day freshened by a breeze or always reachable shade. A climate that fits the sched-ule of spring and summer flowers, the early wild iris and great swathes of gold in late summer as sunflowers or Arrowroot spread over the meadows. The winter puts fine pelts on the deer, elk and bear, as well as the beaver, everlastingly busy at unofficial conservation jobs, storing water along every stream for deeper trout pools and to hold Buttercups in wet meadows. An invigorating, spicy climate that brings out the gold of the aspens and scrub oak and even sugar maple, when fall waves its banners to announce the coming winter.

I think the most romantic approach to the White Mountains is over the Coronado Trail, north along U.S. 666. The hundred plus mile "trail" ascends over three thousand feet in altitude and three centuries of history and varies its offerings from copper mining to wilderness, from clock-punching to vacation.

Coming west through New Mexico on U.S. 70 and 80, the traveler may take the former northwest to Duncan, on Arizona State 75, up to Clifton and Morenci where narrow streets, a large open copper pit, hot springs and picturesque canyon setting may well delay you. This is equally true if you have come east on U.S. 70 through the cattle center of Safford to strike northeast on U.S. 666 to those intriguing towns.

Our road works its way determinedly up and up, through a colorful canyon to scale the Mogollon Rim, here reaching its eastern limits of a two-hundred mile scarp, the definitive boundary of the Colorado Plateau. From the Rim (Zane Grey's Tonto Rim) are vast views and here the forests begin. You are technically in the Blue Range, but the nice distinction seems not to matter to wild turkey, deer, elk, mountain lion or trout. Hannagan Meadows with its sheets of blue gentian in July and August and stands of Douglas and White Fir, Spruce and Western Yellow are part of the "treatment" which begins to work on the visitor. Up this same route, Francisco Vasquez de Coronado led his party, as we believe, in 1540. Just what portion of it those redoubtable travelers took, we cannot be sure, nor does it greatly matter. It was a remarkable journey, of more importance than the party could know, being the first exploration-we might say the opening-of Northern Mexico, Arizona and part of New Mexico and even beyond into the Great Plains. The Seven Cities of Cibola which they sought are as legendary now as then, but those who came in their wake have found more than ancient cities paved with gold.

As we take the green trail they followed, we can guess something of what this world of light and shadow must have meant to eyes wearied by long desert travel and feet bruised by hundreds of miles of rocky terrain. Every stream they crossed or lingered by was full of beavers-whose descendants were destined for beaver hats in the old world. The animals almost disappeared and have been "reincarnated" by the Arizona Game and Fish Commission to perform small miracles of dam building in the woodlands. Wild turkey were abundant, too, and probably as shy then as now. Good husbandry is increas-ing their numbers so that perhaps 10,000 of the irri-descent-feathered creatures go in bands of forty more or less, disappearing against the foliage at the wink of an eyelash. The present population of 7000 deer and 600 elk, 300 bear in the region may have appeared not in any such statistical terms but but only as ample resources for the Spaniards' always ready guns. No doubt the mountain lion, coyote, bobcat, skunk and squirrel and porcupine filled out a picture of teeming wildlife.

At Alpine, U.S. 666 acquires pavement and joins U.S. 260 (only 15 miles from the New Mexico border). You are deep now, in the Whites, in a lovely valley and among friendly folk. The elevation is 8005 feet with that delightful combination of civilization near enough at hand and hunting, fishing, good food and lodging or forest roads to tempt every taste.

A thousand feet lower is Springerville, long known as a gateway to pleasure. July 4th is the annual date for the rodeo, but almost any Sunday you may see matched Quarter Horse races, for beside being a trading center for the area, Springerville prides itself on its fine horseflesh, hotels, ranches, lodges and motels.

If you have come west over U.S. 60, perhaps from Socorro, New Mexico, or over U.S. 66 from Gallup (this Main Street of America is about fifty miles to the north by several main routes) it will be your introduction to the Delectable Mountains.

Eagar is nearby in this Round Valley, the Little Colorado swishing by and the whole atmosphere still redolent with its past. Early-day desperados made outlaw history in the Valley and lush meadows. Tucked in the highlands were natural hiding places for stolen cattle and men pursued by the law.

Show Low, the western gateway, also offers each year a 4th of July celebration complete with rodeo and barbecue, as well as a summer-long complement of accommodations and starting point for forays into fishing waters or the autumn hunt. It is reached from Springerville and Eagar through the mountains by way of the lumbering town of McNary on State 73 and 173, and from the north or southwest on U.S. 60.

But whether you choose Greer (8500 ft.) or Lakeside (7050), Pinetop (7000) or Nutrioso-or one of the resorts we have already mentioned you are in prime vacation land. Big, Crescent, Rainbow, Basin Lake and many reservoirs only begin to tap the number that lie like turquoise chunks on a necklace of streams.

The fisherman finds himself, as elsewhere in Arizona, with the whole year (weather conditions permitting) to practise his skill on trout. He must have, of course, a license-sometimes two since the Apache Tribal Council recognizes only its own issuance. Surely the proscribed hours, from daylight to evening should be long enough for the most dedicated sportsman. Fishing etiquette is casual here and you will not lose face, whether you prefer worms to wet or dry fly. Take the word of a well known authority on fishing in the state, Charles Niehaus, on the tackle required. He suggests a light split bamboo with fly castline and six to seven foot leader, tapering to four, three or two pound test. German, eastern and brook trout, prodigally supplied from fish hatcheries are said to rise nobly to such lures.

Whiteriver, south from McNary on State 73, is the agency, trading center and hub of the Fort Apache Reservation. It is worthy of a visit to get a new perspective on this vigorous tribe. The name that once struck terror into the hearts of the non-Indian now stands for fine cattle, good conservation practises in grazing and forest lands. It is something to know that these Indians, from whom we took some of Nature's loveliest forest andhunting and fishing country, receive something for every tree cut and for every fish or animal now hunted on their property. Having adapted the hard way to their conquerors, the Apaches are definitely not among the “vanishing” peoples. You'll enjoy an Indian rodeo, believe me. On their reservation is Kinishba, “The Brown House of Long Ago.” To us, the word White Mountains, means not alone a green paradise but this prehistoric ruin so deftly resurrected by the wonderful “Dean of the Southwest,” Dr. Byron Cummings. It was about 13 years ago that we spent a breathtaking week there with him, just a few miles from Whiteriver, being initiated into life of nine centuries ago.

Lumbering is a big business in the White Mountains.

Already then an octogenarian, the Dean had a rare insight into the past and a feeling for those early days which brought them vividly to life for others. He took us into the great open courtyard, around which he and his helpers had raised the walls to one, two and three stories and showed us how they had themselves been built on earlier pueblo walls. We saw rooms of the museum filled with the beautiful pottery (some of the finest yet found) with designs of parrot, the "She-Rain," the "He-Rain" and lightning. Broken by earth falling into the deserted rooms, these have been painstakingly and so very cleverly put back together. I believe Dr. Cummings and his workers could have patched "Humpty Dumpty" himself.

Starting on this monumental work when he was 70, after a full life of study, excavation and teaching, Dr. Cummings accomplished the feat on the Apache Reservation with slender financial resources and not too many helpers-students of archeology and Indian labor. He proved that Kinishba, lived in for about 300 years (which is just about as long as from today to the landing of the Pilgrims) was a vigorous community from 1050 to 1350. He found little to suggest warfare and much to point up the peaceful arts-in pottery, weaving, shells and their stone houses. The pueblo and museum are now under Indian Service care. To visit here is a vacation in itself, a release fromtime and our own so complicated civilization, a return to the simple farmer, hunting for food and the artist who created lovely things to look upon and use in daily life. Every member of the family will find something of interest here, and as part of their holiday, children may get a glimpse into a different world and spend some hours in "school" without even realizing they are getting lessons in history.

Another kind of information, which grownups as well will appreciate having, may be gleaned at McNary. Aside from the delights of the area, hinging on quivering aspen along forest paths, this is a great lumber center. The mill with its ponds into which loads of logs are splashed, the whirring blades of noisy saws represent some of the most modern standards of harvesting the "green gold" of America. Maverick, sixty seven miles away is the "point of procurement," a stiffly technical name for a leafy forest. To reach the trees ready for felling, about fifty miles of roads are built and maintained every year. Perhaps one of the youngsters can figure in his head how long it would take the Southwest Lumber Company to lay a leafy route clear to the Atlantic Coast. (Not a bad idea when I recall stretches of monotonous sun-heated miles that must be crossed to reach this mountain center from the East.) Fortunately for us, these truck-trails open the forest to the vacationer, leading far into untouched glades, canyons and mountain heights. For here individual trees are marked, only those of maturity, whose removal will benefit young growth as well as industry when taken. Unwanted branches and the refuse of cutting are cleaned out, respecting the woods and not destroying the so important ground cover, seedlings and natural beauty.

The Apache Railroad, essentially a logging operation, also provides excursion rides from Maverick to McNary, and might be included in your activities.

You will learn along the route and at the mill in McNary a great deal about one of our basic industries, imparted in terms the children can grasp and with the odor of freshly cut wood to make it unforgettable.

A planned program might be arranged for a summer (or spring, fall or even winter) visit to the White Mountains of Arizona, with specific hours in which to see this and do that. This would seem to me, to do injustice to the very features which make visiting there so valuable. There should be a minimum of regimentation, where the eminently worthwhile experience of watching a beaver work, a turkey hen instructing her young or even the play of light on a wayside pond might delay you for an hour or two. At the portals of the mountains watches should be checked (I offer this as a suggestion to perhaps Showlow and Springerville) to be reclaimed only when the freedom of the mountains is relinquished and the car turned toward home.

Every road, whether paved or improved, is an invitation to adventure, to peace, to air laced with forest fragrance.

Your adventure will be the more memorable if you study the map with an eye to getting there and then let dips of the terrain, the shape and color of flowers, the glint of sunlight on a briefly revealed trout order the way of your going. All 800,000 acres of peaks and valleys, spreads of lengthy meadow, every little town and nestled lodge wait your coming.

And remember-if you don't look too hard--you may even find the Fountain of Youth in the Delectable Mountains.