DEEP IN THE HEART OF SYCAMORE CANYON

There are only a few places on the Arizona map marked “Wilderness Area.” Sycamore Canyon, for good reason, is one of them. Sycamore, far off the beaten path, is relatively unknown compared to Grand Canyon, Oak Creek and Sabino. There are no roads there, no motels, no place to park your trailer or plug in your electric razor.

Sycamore Canyon lies thirty miles south of Williams, Arizona, slashed deep into the heart of the tall pine Mogollon Rim country. Sheer rock walls tower 2,000 feet above the canyon floor, eroded down through the soft sandstone by the receding waters of the Ice Age plus untold centuries of violent torrential floods.

There is a lookout point high on a bluff overlooking the north boundary of the canyon. It may be reached by driving south from Williams on twenty miles of paved road to the turn-off for Whitehorse Lake, then an additional ten miles on dirt and gravel through heavilywooded pine. From this height one may look down into

Sycamore as it winds, twists and turns into the purple grey distance.

Sycamore meanders south from the foot of the rim to a length of twenty miles. It fans out in spots to a width of six miles, fed by many lesser canyons emptying into Sycamore Basin from east and west. Heading south, the flora of the canyon changes from Ponderosa pine to cedar, juniper and scrub oak. Sycamore Creek lies along the canyon floor, a roaring giant during the spring thaws and summer rains, but a docile dry bed of bleached river boulders the remainder of the year. The creek bed is skirted by tall sycamores from which the canyon is named. The final four miles of Sycamore Creek is fed from springs pouring from the depths of the canyon walls. This clear stream flows year 'round, emptying into the Verde River north of Clarkdale.

To many of us who live in Sedona, at the entrance to Oak Creek Canyon, the name Sycamore Canyon has always been an enigma. What did Sycamore have that other canyons didn't have? We knew it was inaccessible and possessed a fabulous beauty, but perhaps its greatest magnetism was the legends we continually heard about its past; a past shrouded in romance and mystery; a past deeply immersed in Arizona history. We often heard about buried treasure and the "Lost Padre Mine," established by the Spanish Founders, then quickly abandoned. There was the legend of how Casner Mountain was named for old Mose Casner who made a fortune in cattle and horses; then hid his gold in brimming Dutch ovens which he buried, someplace, in the Canyon. There were stories about the marauding Apaches; how they ambushed and massacred General Crook's men at Battle Ridge, near Deadman's Pocket, named in memory of a prospector torn to shreds by a grizzly bear.

horses; then hid his gold in brimming Dutch ovens which he buried, someplace, in the Canyon. There were stories about the marauding Apaches; how they ambushed and massacred General Crook's men at Battle Ridge, near Deadman's Pocket, named in memory of a prospector torn to shreds by a grizzly bear.

Sycamore was noted as a hideout for gunmen and thieves the perfect outlaw rendezvous for horse-rustlers and men on the dodge from the relentless long fingers of justice.

In the broad boundaries of these canyon walls man has played out his wary game of hide-and-seek. He has shared this remote refuge with the wild animals of the Southwest-deer, elk, antelope, turkey and small game; all seeking food and shelter from the predatory mountain lion and bear. Sycamore has borne silent witness to a cross-section of life's drama but is now almost deserted by man, relegated to a grazing area for cattle and wildlife. Sycamore had fired our imaginations until it finally prodded us into action.

A group of us were sitting around the fire one evening at Lois and Nick Duncan's, talking about the legends of our neighboring canyon. Nick finally spoke up and said, "It's about time we all stopped talking about Sycamore and go see for ourselves. Let's get Zeke Taylor to take us in. He has enough horses and mules and I'll bet he'd be glad to do it."

Right then and there eight of us agreed to make the trip.

It was in the month of May, which meant there should be enough water to take care of the horses.

The next day I drove to Clarkdale to talk over the trip with Zeke and see if he would be interested. Luckily for us he was, so we agreed on a schedule and preparations were quickly under way for our long-awaited pilgrimage.

Zeke was born in the Verde Valley and had made many trips into Sycamore. His parents had operated a livery stable in Flagstaff before the turn of the century. When the snow started to fly on the San Francisco Peaks, they drove their horses down the narrow trail from the Mogollon Rim into Sycamore. They spent the three winters of 1896-99 in a snug Indian cave and kept close watch on their horses. They subsequently built a small log cabin and spent many more winters in the warm protected pockets of the Canyon where there was ample feed and water.

Obviously Zeke was the man to pack us in. He had enough trail horses and a couple of sturdy mules named Suzie and Gadget. Zeke agreed there would likely be sufficient water to take care of the stock. The timing seemed perfect. The next day we loaded his jeep with ten bales of hay and hauled it from Clarkdale thirty miles to a point just north of Perkinsville; then headed east and drove into the Canyon. The jeep blazed it's own trail, up and down gullies, through terrain which nothing but a four-wheeled drive vehicle could negotiate. Finally We reached Sycamore Tank. It was brimming with water which made it a perfect spot for our base camp. The alfalfa was quickly unloaded and tied up in the trees out of reach of game and cattle. We made it back to Clarkdale late that night. Next day we saddled up two stout horses at the Packard Ranch, which marks the southern entrance to Sycamore. Suzie and Gadget were loaded with four milk cans filled with fresh water for our drinking and cooking. We headed back to Sycamore Tank, but this time, straight up the Canyon instead of the 'roundabout Perkinsville route. A second trip was made into the camp site that day to haul Dutch ovens, cooking pans and sleeping bags for the entire outfit. The camping gear was carefully stowed under a big cedar, then covered by a water-proof tarp brought along for the purpose. The final chore was to patch-up a nearby corral to hold the horses at night.

The following day everything was ready for our departure. All hands appeared on schedule at the Packard Ranch which is reached by driving north from Clarkdale over fifteen miles of dirt road. The necessary shopping for provisions was accomplished in Cottonwood that morning; enough to furnish a mouth-watering diet from thick frozen T-bone steaks to the more lowly hamburger. Old prospectors and pre-historic Indians might well have sneered.

Then came the task of cautiously loading the mules with our resplendent larder of precious groceries. Load-ing a couple of mules is a delicate job, even for an old hand like Zeke. First he tightly secured the pack-saddles, then fastened canvas bags full of provisions on alternate sides of this most beguiling and stubborn of all hybrids. These almost-human animals know exactly, to a pound, when they have all the weight they want to carry. Pile on a little too much and they drop to their knees and patiently wait until the load is lightened. Mules belong to a union all their own.

Our meeting place, the Packard Ranch, is leased from Phelps Dodge by Nick Perkins who for many years has had a permit to "run" cattle in Sycamore. Sometime back, Nick turned over the supervision of the ranch to two extraordinary bachelors know as Dick and Jerry. This unusual pair love nature and solitude. They are getting their fill of both. They take care of the ranch house, mend fences if absolutely necessary, greet the curious and extend an open-handed hospitality to their many friends. Years ago, two rare vintage Chevies were acquired. The more fortunate one is used for transportation. Its counterpart stands graciously on jacks, ready to shed spare parts whenever needed.

Jerry lays claim to a background of particular interest. He can recall his English great-grandmother-known to the family as "Grandma Grot." This special grandmother was directly related to the Baldwin brothers who were first cousins of no less a personage than Queen Victoria, who undoubtedly never heard of Sycamore Canyon. But all this background hasn't turned Jerry's head the slightest bit and he's just one of the boys.

Dick and Jerry helped us saddle-up after Zeke loaded the mules; then bid us "good-bye and good luck" as our little group started our climb up out of the canyon along the Packard Trail to the plateau above. Our first day's objective was camp headquarters located on a broad mesa overlooking Sycamore. The trail was rough and narrow for the first few miles as we proceeded in single file. Then it opened up into broad rambling country, giving us our first glimpse of the terrain on either side of the canyon-broad, peaceful and brilliantly green under foot from the spring rains.

A chronicle of our camping activities would perhaps not distinguish our trip from any other. Of course we will always remember the smell of burning cedar, cowboy coffee and those wonderful slabs of thick countrycured bacon that tasted so good with the flap-jacks and maple syrup. We will remember the close ties of warm friendship as well as the many humorous incidents and the satisfying feeling of bedding down on the ground under clear Arizona skies. But yet, in spite of everything there was also a subtle difference which stemmed from an air of profound stillness and expectancy. A compelling sensation as if Apache warriors, in full regalia, lurked behind every rock and cranny. We wouldn't have been surprised to have seen a heavily-armed possee of determined law-abiding citizens ride hell-for-leather into the canyon, hot on the trail of horse rustlers returning from a raid on innocent homesteaders. One could almost hear the clear staccato volleys of gunfire reverberating against the high surrounding walls.

Our trip into Sycamore was over in the short space of four days, but somehow it was a segment of our lives apart from the rest. We lived in an encircling panorama of beauty changing with each turn in the trail, revealing new colorful statuesque forms of red sandstone carved by centuries of wind and rain. The forms and shapes were reminiscent of Monument Valley, on a somewhat smaller scale, but considerably more intimate and sheltered.

One day we rode north from our base camp past Cow Flat into the Lookout Ridge area, then along a narrow trail along the edge of the creek and finally along the creek bottom, up into a tight box canyon where the Perkins bulls were pastured for the winter. Temporary camp was pitched on the dry sun-warmed sand of the creek bed. One side was bordered by solid rock, cut deep and jagged. Swallows had built their clay nests in crags under the ledges of the rock. It was fun to watch them swirl in and out of their precariously perched dwellings. Up creek aways, were several deep holes filled with enough precious water to dangle our toes and water the horses. Quantities of driftwood were lying about and it wasn't long before the campfire was blazing. That night its quiet crackle lulled us to sleep as we bedded-down close together on the sand, relaxed in the snug warmth of our blankets.

A tiny rock house is located a short distance from the water holes. It is used by the Perkins family on periodic overnight visits when they ride into the Canyon to check on their live stock. Appropriately it is named "Taylor Cabin," in memory of Zeke's folks who spent so many winters in Sycamore seeking shelter and comfort for their horses. The interior of the cabin is cool and functional. It utilizes the Canyon wall for its own rear wall. Even the chimney doesn't stand erect, as you might expect, but reclines gently against the wall of the canyon on which it rests.

Another interesting day was spent exploring Indian ruins, almost hidden from view under the edge of the Canyon wall. The easiest access was to come down from above, holding on to shrubs and rocks. The ruins were doubtless from the Pueblo III period, placed at 1200 A.D. That was the beginning of the multi-room masonary pueblos indicated by the construction of the walls made from the soft sandstone hauled up from near the canyon floor. The Indians had set heavy logs across the top of the walls, using them as a base for the thatched roof covered by a solid foot of clay. Several of us found arrowheads and bits of broken pottery, charred black by Indian fires; piles of corncobs and even pieces broken from metates-used for grinding the corn.

Best of all we could look out from our towering vantage point and survey a vast area of magnificence and beauty. For here, stretching into the distance, was Sycamore Canyon, a "Wilderness Area," clearly entitled to the name. Here was calm serenity, rare and sweet. Here was a glimpse into a way of life known to those who lived many years ago, both Indian and white. Their struggle for survival was just as great as it is todayperhaps more so. Living in Sycamore in those days may have had its drawbacks, but to us this "Wilderness Area" was a complete world all its own into which we could escape if even for a brief moment. It was an experience we will not soon forget. Our plans call for an annual trip into Sycamore. There is lots more to see and many more places to explore. In fact one could spend a month in the confines of this Canyon and find something new and exciting every day. We found out why Sycamore was different. We have a return trip to look forward to and it won't come too soon for any of us.

Yours sincerely

THE COLORADO: ... Your June issue, which was devoted to the Colorado River, was most interesting to me. The issue dramatizes one of America's greatest achievements-reclamation. In studying the watershed map, I did not find the site of proposed Bridge Canyon Dam. Wouldn't a dam in the Canyon ruin the scenic beauty of Grand Canyon?

R. S. Holmes Providence, R. I.

FLYING THE COLORADO: ... Maurice Koonce came up with some grand photography in your June HIGHWAYS. I have never seen a finer presentation of the Colorado River. And I was glad to see a couple of air views of the Colorado in our state. You have to admit we have some mighty pretty country to talk about.

OLD BOOKS: ... In the "Yours Sincerely" column, May issue, Mr. A. A. Tarleton asks where out-ofprint books can be acquired. May I suggest "International Bookfinders," Box 3003, Beverly Hills, Calif. I have used their services and they have always located the books I've wanted-even those long out of print. They have also a special catalog on Western books titled "Western Americana" with sections on each state.

... I notice in the May issue of your magazine a letter from Mr. A. A. Tarleton, Tulsa, Okla., asking where he could obtain some out-of-print books. You might be interested to know that from time to time I have gotten out-of-print books from O'Malley's Book Store, 377 Fourth Ave., New York 16, N. Y. I have found them very cooperative in their dealings with me.

OPPOSITE PAGE

"EROSION IN COLOR" BY CARL JUNGHANS. The eroded, extravagantly colored Painted Desert of Arizona is one of Earth's most brilliant and dynamic landscapes. This photograph shows how wind, rain and changing climatic conditions can sculpture on a vast scale the color soaked land that is so much a part of the high, vast panoramic plateau region of Northern Arizona.

BACK COVER

"IN THE HEART OF PETRIFIED FOREST" BY JERRY MCLAIN. 4x5 Speed Graphic camera; Kodachrome; f.22 at 1/5th sec., July, bright sunshine in midafternoon. This jumble of logs in Arizona's Petrified Forest is mute evidence of the fury of ancient seas and the inexorable might of erosion, time and the elements. Scientists believe these giant trees were uprooted by cataclysmic earth upheavals and were washed a distance hundreds of miles to where they now rest in majestic, stony silence.

HOME

The sound of the sea Is lovely to me With the rolling and falling and furious calling My home is the fathomless sea. The strength of the earth By tears and by mirth With flat plains and peaked hills and bright water, loud rills My home is the good stable earth. The vastness of sky A loud exhumed sigh With white clouds and blue space and storms winds in mad race My home is the infinite sky.

ANNE HARMON From El Burro, student publication of Texas Western College

POEM

The sunset reels away like a broken seagull skidding the sky on fantastic wings, a split cry of the forever homeless evolving into ever-fainter echoes.

MARGOT FRASER From El Burro, student publication of Texas Western College

SONNET FOR SHELLEY

On Hearing the Southwest Wind Forgive an unknown pen that dares to make A comment, Master Shelley, on your form; And tender your attention for the sake Of one who lights a candle in the storm. I know that all your poems (save one ode) Were written down for other eyes than mine That all your epipsyches speak a code That mocks my senses more from line to line. I know that all your ghostly maidens are Rare beings I could never understand; That every shining dome and brother star Though dark for me, for you is near at hand. But how could two who differ to the end Have such an understanding of the wind?

SAMUEL G. PENDERGRAST From El Burro, student publication of Texas Western College

GHOST TOWN

Breathe gently, wind! Do not assail These weathered walls time-browned and frail. Speak softly, wind, for silence owns These grass-grown streets and tumbled stones. Let only whispers be your talk Where none but fragile phantoms walk!

S. OMAR BARKER

DESERT MIRAGE

The hot red fingers of the sun Spread a blue sea upon the sand And there appeared tall ships and sails Where silent waves laved sandy shores And in a twinkling all was gone. The sun had closed its magic doors.

MURIEL EAMES POPE

HOME SONG

Sing me a song of summer days:Butterflies' lazy carefree ways... Young green earth and blue sky over Fields of new-mown hay and clover. Pattering lisp of little leaves... Bluebirds nesting beneath the eaves Like water singing on the shore. And friends to cherish evermore.

ZELMA BENNETT