Ah Wilderness

Beyond the stucco gateways of modern civilization there remains a virtually undiscovered wonderland, a land every bit as primeval to modern man as it once was to Arizona's aboriginal people.

These isolated tracts of wilderness - both official Wildernesses and wild places are genuine holy grounds to be left as they were when the land truly was molded by the forces of nature.

Arizona has the most diverse spectrum of wild lands in North America, from lower Sonoran desert to alpine tundra. All totaled there are 16 National Park Service, Bureau of Land Management, and U.S. Forest Service Wilderness and primitive areas which comprise some millions of acres. Not enough for some, too much for others. And they range from the depths of the Paria Canyon Primitive Area to the supernal heights of the Mt. Baldy Wilderness to the more austere Organ Pipe Wilderness.

For most, these natural museums remain out on the periphery of our daily consciousness until we are beckoned to explore not to conquer or subdue Mother Nature on her terms

by John Annerino

"... all is well, safely rest... God is nigh." Day's end in the Mazatzal Wilderness. Kathleen Norris Cook To a frail city boy fresh off the 50s streets of Chicago, the cinnamon-red humps of Phoenix' Papago Buttes marked the edge of civilization: a stark no-man's land to be avoided at all costs. If diamond-eyed rattlesnakes didn't drag me into their steamy subterranean dens, herds of saber-tusked javelinas would munch on my spindly legs at their leisure. For an errant 12 year old this ghastly reverie of Papago Butte's nether world became a dare - visible as it was from my family's cinder block redoubt. And to tread that desert vastness and return alive soon became an obsession no less enticing than "Spin & Marty's" haunted house adventures.

Equipped with little more than a giant can of Franco American spaghetti, my mother's wool comforter, and two G.I. canteens, I struck out along the berm of McDowell Road toward this great Back of the Beyond. How long would it be, I wondered, before I'd be forced to defend myself from these lower Sonoran gorgons with my dad's pruning shears? I would find out just as soon as I crossed 56th Street.

Almost five hours later, I reached a cave high up on the south side of Papago Buttes. Not only was I still unscathed, but I discovered that other less sinister creatures inhabited this desert wilderness. I had seen a flight of Mearn's quail, heard the cooing of mourning dove, and watched both jackrabbits and roadrunners race through the creosote and paloverde. To top it all off, I saw my first wiley coyote. A startling contrast to the life I had known in the Chicago-Bridgeport Primitive Area.

But I was lucky, I knew, because in the distance I could clearly see the dreaded Superstition Mountains. It was an area, I was told, where rattlers really were as thick as a man's forearm, where marauding desert pigs would just as soon eat you as run around you, and where pistol-toting prospectors were just itchin' to boil up another kettle of pilgrim stew.

I'm not sure how many times I made that overnight expedition to Papago Buttes before I got up enough nerve to visit the legendary Superstitions, but each time I did I was able to stand back from myself in an unenlightened sort of way and glimpse a part of myself that remained hidden in civilization. I had stumbled upon nature's mirror, and in subsequent years it became the continu-ing thread which linked one wilderness experience to the next, whether the pretext of my visits was climbing, hik-ing, or teaching others what I'd often learned the hard way. And that was reason enough.

On a scale of 1 to 10 Horn Creek Rapid on the Colorado River is a 7 to 9, depending on the water level. Though most Grand Canyon boat-men don't consider it to be as unforgiv-ing as Crystal or Lava Falls, Horn is not to be trifled with. You don't defeat it in an 18-foot Avon raft anymore than an exhausted climber vanquishes a mountain summit. You read the water and blend with its ebb and flow in order to slip through unscathed.

Fifty-six-year-old Ann Douthett realized that even before she saw the slick tongue of water pouring through a narrow slot between the two "horns." The San Clemente librarian and mother of one could hear the roar of Horn Creek Rapid almost a half-mile up-stream. When she did, a wave of adren-alin she hadn't felt in years surged through her. She took in a deep breath, gripped her paddle with both hands, and listened intently as her captain Jimbo Buickerood called out the com-mands to his five crew members: "Right stop. Forward . . . hard forward!" (On most Colorado River trips, con-trol of the boats is left entirely up to experienced boatmen. But one company, Arizona Raft Adventures, offers trips where the passengers, guided by vet-eran boatmen, do all the paddle work.) After a week of paddling down the Colorado River with four other Arizona Raft Adventures paddle boats, the com-mands were now second nature to Ann. She had paddled through House Rock, Hance, Sockdolager, and a gauntlet of other rapids, and she not only trusted Jimbo's keen judgement but had a growing confidence in her own abilities.

"I was apprehensive at first about com-ing on a paddle trip because I'd never done any paddling before and because I thought my age would go against me. But my husband Jim and I thought we were strong enough, so we said what the heck. Besides, what are you going to do all day on a raft if you don't paddle?"

Ann wouldn't know for sure just how much confidence she'd gained in the last week until the first diagonal wave slapped her and two other paddlers out of the boat. The last thing she rememHorn Creek Rapid on the Colorado River was the scene of a near-disaster turned high adventure for 56-year-old California librarian Ann Douthett, left. Her recent paddle trip on a 18-foot Avon raft was a wilderness experience she'll never forget.

Photos left to right: John Annerino Robb Elliot Jim Douthett Background photo by Josef Muench

Climbing 10,416-foot Navajo Mountain was an exciting Wilderness/Challenge adventure for 14-year-old Navajo Ambrose Tolashomai, right, and seven of his school chums. The trek was designed to bring the youths more closely in touch with ancestral values.

Top photos by John Annerino, bottom photo by Josef Muench

Ah Wilderness continued from page 6

Remembered was Jimbo yelling, “Wa-hoo . . . we're doing great!” And then she realized she was underneath the boat unable to breath, her limp body getting “Maytag-ed” in the frothing maelstrom. “I didn't feel panicked, only that I had to get out from beneath the boat.” As she continued struggling for air, she used both hands to paw her way along the bottom of the boat, popping up on the downstream side of it just in time to see herself headed toward a big rock in heavy water. “I remembered how Jimbo had briefed us. I put my feet in front of me and pushed away from the boat so I wouldn't be squashed between the two. As I did, I hit the rock with my feet, and the next thing I knew I was being dragged into the boat.” Though many people might consider “swimming” Horn Creek Rapid the most adventuresome aspect of a Grand Canyon river trip, it only highlighted Ann's own experience. “The entire trip was an adventure, like traveling in a foreign country. The side canyons, especially, were a revelation to me. To see waterfalls and glens hidden amongst dry rocks and canyons was something I'd never seen before. And looking at the stars and canyon rim at night made me feel as though I were in touch with the omnipotent. But learning that a group of people from different walks of life could come together and accomplish the challenging task of river running, I think, was the real adventure.” "The love of Mother Earth brings with it a sense of peace and harmony between man and earth and all living things.'"

To traditional Navajos 10,416-foot-high Navajo Mountain is Naatsin'aan, Head of the Earth. It is a lone mountain, and it mushrooms up out of a labyrinth of deep canyons that flute down from its precipitous slopes. To eight Tuba High School students, an ascent of this sacred mountain would be the culmination of a 10-day Wilderness/Challenge course designed to bring them back in touch with their ancestral values. But to 14-year-old Ambrose Talashomai, the journey would be as difficult as anything he'd ever done before.

After seven days of trekking around Navajo Mountain, this stalwart group of young Navajos was ready for what Wilderness/Challenge Director Craig Spillman called “their peak objective.” Led by two instructors, they left their water hole in Surprise Valley at dawn of the eighth day and started up the mountain's seldom-climbed north flank. Had it merely been a steep hike or scramble, the 6000 vertical feet they had to climb wouldn't have been too difficult hardened as they were by the elements and the challenge of living close to the land. But during the ascent, they were forced to find a non-technical route through almost 2000 feet of Wingate and Navajo sandstone. By twilight, things were beginning to get “interesting” for both the group and their instructors. They were running low on water and had yet to reach the rim of the imposing rock band. Though they could see a way to easier ground, nightfall swept upon them before they topped out. They quickly took stock of their situation and bivouacked on a series of airy sandstone platforms. If they got a predawn start and all went as planned, the two quarts of water each of them had remaining, might get them to War God Spring on the south side of the mountain's main summit.

But they weren't an hour out of camp the following morning before Ambrose dropped in his tracks. “I'd rather die than go on,' ,” he muttered, his over-weight body collapsing on the steep forest floor. No matter how the group tried to encourage Ambrose, he would not could not go another step. With the temperature rushing toward the 90s, the group decided there was only one thing to do if they were to survive. Bury Ambrose where he lay.

They took off their heavy packs and, with aching muscles, began piling branches, ponderosa bark, and pine cones atop their fallen companion until he was covered head to toe. Then they waited until first a hand, then a foot, and finally his chapped lips began moving. “Alright, alright . . . I don't want to be dead anymore.” moving. “Alright, alright . . . I don't want to be dead anymore.” But it was only a ruse on Ambrose's part. He no sooner trudged another 10 yards, then ordered death for himself once more. And again the group buried their friend, the heat growing more oppressive as the minutes dragged by. Then they waited until his hands, feet, and lips began moving again. “Alright, alright, I'll go. Help me up. I don't want to be dead anymore.”

“You promise.”

“I promise. Help me up.” The death scene this young man performed on Navajo Mountain that trying day was to rival anything the character Mortimer ever did in Tom Jones' and Harvey Schmidt's musical comedy, The Fantastiks. Because between his first burial and the summit, Ambrose died, was buried, and summoned back to life a total of five times.

But his was not the slapstick death prattle of Mortimer's “Die again, Mortimer. Die again.” It was a drama of emotion, exhaustion, and self-discovery.

When Ambrose struggled those final steps toward the cool rivulet of water trickling out of War God Spring, his little band of troupers sang out, “Yea, Ambrose! . . . you did it . . . yea, Ambrose!” And tears of joy streaked down his windburned cheeks.