DOWN WHERE THE GRASSES GROW

The natural tendency in Arizona is to look up. Exploring the wonderland that surrounds us, we find our eyes drawn to the hills, the mountains, the mesas. Those who prefer to lie back and bask in the sun find the changing skies a continual fascination. We make a ritual of watching the sun set and get up early to see it rise again.

Even those fantastic desert plants, the agaves, the yuccas, the saguaros, keep us happily craning our necks. However, there's also something to be said for looking down. Rockhounds, of course, rarely look anywhere else. Those of us who blissfully potter around in the hills looking for "desert driftwood" or Indian pottery shards, probably notice what's going on underfoot to a greater extent than the average tourist.

But who ever looks at the grasses? They are literally everywhere. Lining the roadsides, edging the washes, masking the stony slope of a hill, stretching across the desert flats, is a vast Lilliput jungle of bleached, blond, paper-leaved grasses. Silky lawns glisten in the sunlight, delicate seedheads trace an airy pattern against the sky, slender stems nod and beckon in the breeze. "Oh, dead grass," you say. Let us rather say "cured" or call it "standing hay." Incidentally, this answers one of the first questions of every newcomer: "What do all those cows find to eat?" It's true that along the Santa Cruz the grass is no longer belly-high to a horse and they haven't cut hay in the Altar Valley for a great many years. But under normal conditions, Arizona supports approximately 375,000 head of grazing cattle. (The other sixty percent of the cattle population will be found corralled in the feedlots.) So stop and take a closer look. In some random clump of grass you may find a composition more artistic than the dried "arrangement" in some florist's shop. Handsome and sturdy, strikingly angular, or delicate and lacy, the designs are myriad, the combinations countless. (Three thundred sixty-nine species have been identified in the State.) Your fingers may itch to sketch the structure of a single stalk. You may feel challenged to capture its fairy grace on film. Most commonly encountered of all forms of vegetation, the grasses as a rule, go unhonored and unsung.

Accustomed to their presence, we dismiss them as though they weren't there. But suppose they really weren't there! Try, if you will, to imagine a world from which the grasses have suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. A barren, dusty, dismal world. Á landscape eroded like the face of the moon. A world, in fact, of the dead. Probably livestock and ungulate wild life would be the first to starve. But corn, wheat, oats, all the cereals are seeds of grasses. And without feed for livestock, cereal for human consumption, and sod to hold the soil in place, how long could mankind survive?

In Arizona, probably no one is more aware of their value than the rancher. To him, good grass means well-conditioned livestock and on livestock depends his livelihood. (And nine percent of the State's economy.) He notes a heavy stand of Grama with satisfaction. He knows that Vine Mesquite provides only fair forage but is excellent for controlling soil erosion. In irrigated son grass which is a valuable feed under normal conditions but which can turn killer overnight after a sudden frost or a summer drought.

We find these facts of interest but not necessary to our enjoyment. By their beauty alone, the grasses win our admiration. After the summer rains, we of Tucson sometimes drive down Patagonia way to view the rolling hills fresh-clad in shimmering green. But this verdancy is in the nature of a spectacle and a fleeting thing.

Actually, most of the grasses are at their best when mature and, under normal conditions in Southern Arizona, persist in this state through the fall and winter months.

So whether you travel the rolling range, follow the winding roads through Arizona's nearly twelve million acres of National Forest, or explore the cactus-studded desert floor, look down for a change.Watch the roadside grasses bending quietly in the breeze. Note their delicate back-lighted beauty as you're driving against the early morning sun. Observe their gilded brilliance late on a winter afternoon. Look down and see what you've been missing.