The Cottonwoods

A majestic Fremont cottonwood greets the morning on the Salt River Reservation. A true Arizona native, it gains its size early in life and, with enough moisture, ripens quickly into a massive, beautiful shade tree. Roger Lyon, Jr.

The presence of cottonwood means water, and, in the desert, water is life. Since earliest times the eyes of the desert wanderer could not settle on a more hopeful sight than the shimmering yellow-green of cottonwood leaves.

"... the air is never so still that there is not motion of cottonwood leaves... the winds themselves were the paths of the Higher Powers, so they were constantly reminded of the mystic character of this tree."

A parade had occurred in Phoenix. Files of cottonwood bordered Washington Street, the main east and west thoroughfare, from Seventh Street to Seventh Avenue and looped around the city plaza. Historian James Barney wrote that "Monroe Street was lined on both sides with cottonwoods so large that the branches of the trees interlocked above the street, and a person could drive from Center Street to Seventh Avenue at noon, in the middle of the street, and be in the shade the entire distance." The fair, enamoring cottonwood shade made pleasant the summer afternoon.

Sundays in early Phoenix, during cooler months of the year, were days for promenading in the streets. Families paraded by, tipping their hats to neighbors, enjoying the sunshine and the dry air. Later in the day, they might watch races in the streets or go for a picnic beneath the cottonwoods Along the Salt River. Phoenicians held horse races on Sunday, right down the middle of Washington Street. Men placed their bets on cottonwood stumps, and boys pigeoned themselves into the boles of cottonwoods along the street for a higher perspective. Likewise they perched themselves for the foot races that followed. Those festive Phoenix Sunday afternoons saw many a rendezvous between tender-aged and tender-hearted lovers. Knife scratches in cottonwood bark bore them witness: "Raymond Loves Karen" and "Frank and Sue Ellen Forever." Just as the cedars of Lebanon touched the psalmist and the olive trees fascinated Italian poets, so the cottonwood inspired rhymers of Phoenix. If the odes had more muddled verve than measured verse, no one really cared. They had feeling. Phoenix architect V.O. Wallingford wrote what must be the classic cottonwood poem in the early 30s. It began: God bless the cottonwood trees, whose ranks Still spread their shade along the banks Of old canals, and country ways! God give them strength, and length of days!

Wallingford expressed his sensitivity to Nature's gifts with a flowing pen, saying that life around us should never be taken for granted, that it furnishes ample cause for celebration and wonder.

Craggy, haunted, bare, the limbs of winter-shorn cottonwoods still play the wind's mystical tunes. Slow torsion of its branches resonate softly, making a harmonic hum under the breath of the vagrant breeze.

"Every plant has its perfect work," wrote Mary Austin in Land of Little Rain. "Live long enough with an Indian, and he or the wild things will show you a use for everything that grows in these borders." The tools of the senses grow sharp among those who live closest to the land.

"The tree itself, standing untouched by the stream, signifies water, life, transcendence, God."

Indians have found many subtle, significant uses for cottonwood. They have used its boiled bark and sometimes its leaves to treat snakebite, dysentery, fever. In times of drought, the catkin of the male cottonwood provides nutrition, eaten raw or boiled in stew. The Navajo, the Hopi, and other groups would mix the cottonwood catkin with tallow and chilis to make a zingy chewing gum. Pimas and Papagos still use strips from slender cottonwood branches in basketmaking when the more durable willow grows scarce.

The symbolism connected with cottonwood is rich. Carvings created from cottonwood become Katcinas, prayer sticks, ceremonial implements. But the tree itself, standing untouched by the stream, signifies water, life, transcendence, God.

Melvin Randolph Gilmore, an early ethnologist, wrote of cottonwood in an Indian religion: the air is never so still that there is not motion of cottonwood leaves. Even in still summer afternoons, and at night when all else was still, they could ever hear the rustling of cottonwood leaves by the passage of little vagrant currents of air. And the winds themselves were the paths of the Higher Powers, so they were constantly reminded of the mystic character of this tree. One sees many types of trails beneath the cottonwood, as many animals pass by it to drink of the water that assuredly lies near. All that live in the desert must eventually come down to drink. In the golden glow of early evening, a quail dips to drink of a chill stream, straightens to check for rattlesnakes, dips to drink again, and again checks for danger. Beneath the cottonwoods, there are tracks of fox, deer, and coyote. And, by the stream, dove, raven, and killdeer drink and cavort. A lizard rests on the gullied bark of a cottonwood trunk scanning the rough path upward, and beetles proceed purposefully toward the entrance to a dead branch. From nearby comes the sound of a woodpecker insistently drilling a cottonwood in search of a few morsels. Nature has woven many niches through the landscape where the cottonwoods grow and filled it with a measure of mystery and awe. One rarely sees a tiny cottonwood. Given abundant moisture, they gain their size early and within a few years ripen into abundant shade trees. Fully mature cottonwoods with their deeply furrowed bark and broad-spreading branches appear patriarchal, they are the deans of the stream dwellers, the gray-barked talismans of country lanes.

In winter, a cottonwood shorn of its leaves appears craggy and haunted, a bare, contorted skeleton with hundreds of thousands of skeletal fingers. Barren of its choral leaves, the cottonwood still plays the wind's mystical tune. Slow torsion of branches in the wind, air pockets expanding and contracting in porous wood resonate softly, a harmonic hum under the breath of the wind. Last year's leaves pile in deep, grey rugs around the trees.

Warming in spring, the cottonwood conducts deep drafts of snowmelt and spring rain to all its lengths. Its branches sprout sleeves of lime green, composed of multitudinous tiny leaf clusters, which quickly soften the starkness of a winter cottonwood landscape. Catkins form on male cottonwoods and produce attractive but shortlived flowers which soon drop off. The female sprouts round green capsules that grow to egg size then split, releasing seeds with cotton-like fibers to the wind.

Each branch becomes a wind chime by late spring. Long, flat petioles allow the leaves to roll with every breath of wind. Gentle summer breezes through cottonwood foliage produce soft rustlings like the faint shaking of distant tambourines. They seem to whisper secrets in an undiscernable tongue.

Chills of autumn slow the flow of life through cottonwood veins, and the whispering of summer turns brit tle, staccato in the frost. The great green domes turn mottled and gold and utter the plaintive commentary of the season, until a chillier wind blast snaps leaf from branch.

tle, staccato in the frost. The great green domes turn mottled and gold and utter the plaintive commentary of the season, until a chillier wind blast snaps leaf from branch.

Along the banks of streams, by old canals and country ways, cottonwoods know their proper relation to the earth and man. There they can cast their shade and satisfy their prodigious thirst in peace. It is only from the margins of Phoenix streets and canal banks that they have gone. The city has no niche for cottonwood.

Above all the comings and goings of early Phoenix they grew, but in the end they stood in the way of an implacable enemy, progress. They imbibed too much water from uncertain flows, made too many noses itch and too many eyes water, and messed the streets with too many autumn leaves and wind-blown branches. Growth brought more complex needs, more awesome tools. Street-widening and suburb-building turned shady cottonwood lanes into broad urban avenues with no toe-hold for a cottonwood. Phoenix came to require more urbane adornments than the whispering cottonwood, and skyscrapers rose to cast their shadows where the shady groves once stood. But they have only retreated a few paces from the hasty pulse of city life. You may still find them, gorgeous, hallowed and plenty, along the old canals and country ways.

Yours Sincerely

Comments and questions from around the state, the nation, and the world.

Dear Editor, I am one of those rare creatures, a native Arizonan! I was born and raised in Tucson, but have lived the past 15 years in God's country-northern Arizona... (However) we are presently living in Taif, Saudi Arabia, and if receiving Arizona Highways was an event every month in the states, no need to describe what it is here!... We share it with friends here in Saudi Arabia and I always love to watch people who have never seen the magazine look at it for the first time. They won't put it down for at least 30 minutes. Thank you for bringing home close to us in such a lovely fashion and though we are 18,000 miles away, we can feel ourselves on top of the Mogollon Rim anytime we choose with our magic carpet-Arizona High-ways.

Vivian Shaffery Taif, Saudi Arabia Dear Editor, I would like to thank you for sending me the February 1982 edition of the Audubon Society Birdwatcher's Handbook. Unfortunately, I was supposed to receive Arizona Highways. Photographs of birds can be very beautiful, but I find drawings of birds to be very boring. Perhaps you could have had a photograph of a specific bird and a picture of Arizona where it is likely to be found. Your February issue was in a word, lousy. But one flop in the past 10 years is not a bad average.

Dear Editor, Thank you for the beautiful February, 1982 issue by Larry Toschik about shorebirds. We had been hoping for a long time that you would devote an entire issue to his work. The art is wonderful and ideally lifelike, and the text brings back the sound of birdwings and the magic of the great outdoors.... Your magazine is superior to ordinary birdbooks since it combines the elements of art and appreciation.

Dear Editor, A cold dreary, winter's day hangs over southern Illinois. Twenty inches of snow, mercury in the teens and a cold northwest wind give the feeling of "ten below." Arrives the mail and a hoped for issue of Arizona Highways. A sneak preview and my wife sets the issue aside for an evening family parley. After dinner and dishes the family congregates about the new arrival. A comment about "birds" sparks curiosity. Does Arizona Highways really have the nerve? Water Children and a masterpiece collection of shorebirds in cameo! What's left for an encore? Larry Toschik has indulged in a feathered fancy of extraordinary inspiration and beauty. Our family's brought together in a spirit of avian imaginings. But we're whisked away in time and space to Arizona and Nature's more congenial seasons. Our four year old mimics every fascinating syllable: "whim-brel", "sand-piper", "god-wit", and "knot." He senses the poetry in both form and phrase. Bravo Arizona Highways. You've defeated our TV's electronic mesmerization. You've let us share with each other and the fascinating world around us.

Dear Editor, This is my first love letter to an editor. Yesterday I awakened to a navy blue fog which quickly changed to a black, steely rain, then to a bitter cold icy sleet. Then my blessed slipping, sliding, half-frozen mailman brought the magazine. (Mailmen in this area should be enshrined as heroes.) The lovely cactus with cupfuls of pure sunshine and lovely color-shaded buds stopped me in my tracks! Even the Highways title is printed in sunshine. With a cup of hot cocoa I sat down and read every line and devoured the pictures.... Didn't think last month's shorebirds could be improved upon, but I must say that if (heaven forbid) all the rest of the issues this year fall short, these last two are well worth the subscription price.

Helen Brydon Slippery Rock, PA Dear Editor, I want to commend you on one of your best issues ever. The January, 1982, issue was terrific (Resort Dream Merchants of the Desert, the Dons Club Superstition Trek, the Fiesta Bowl and Fun in the Sun)! It was so nice to see what beautiful resorts we have in our own backyard. My husband and I are looking forward to spending a weekend at one of them... Maybe if we looked at our state and community differently we would appreciate it more.

Harriet Borkan-Moses Tucson, AZ Dear Editor, One wonders how she (Mother Nature) managed to paint so much beauty on the canvas called Arizona. I cannot fully express the feelings I have for Arizona, but you express them for many of us in your magnificent book, Arizona: Land of Color. This edition is one of my prized possessions, for it represents a compilation of Arizona's beauty in a way I like to describe it to others. Arizona is not merely a state, but a dream... Arizona represents what life is all about. She attracts people of varied backgrounds and life-styles and unites them...compels them to stare at her beauty and swallow hard, and think, and dream, and helps each person to take that first step up the mountain... Thank you for making a 2000-mile stretch only a page away. Dana Scott Slaughter Wyoming, MI Dear Editor, ... I have just received the March issue, and it is so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes! Your magazine is always wonderful, but the ones with flowers and mountain and desert scenery have the effect of making me want to pack up and leave now. Jean Holzman Milford, MI Dear Editor, I have been an avid reader of Arizona Highways for over five years and I had to tell you how much I appreciated your March, 1982, issue. For those of us suffering through a typically nasty Midwestern winter, those bright splashes of color were as welcome as the message they convey: winter cannot last forever-spring must eventually replace it.... Keep that awesome photography coming, as well as those equally impressive articles. Together, they have brightened many a dark winter day. James Stimpert Kent, OH Dear Editor, At this moment I'm looking out the window at two feet of snow, and the mail man just delivered Arizona Highways magazine. Guess what I'm thinking.... Your magazine is a dream come true.