The largest stone span on Earth

ARIZONA HIGHWAYS CLASSIC Testifying, O Lord, as to RAINBOW BRIDGE

Arizona Highways has entertained its readers for nearly 60 years with a variety of writers and photographers. Quite a few were already established or went on to further success. Others simply vanished after one brief moment of glory. In this reprint from the July issue of 1940-first in a series of classic works of the magazine's past-we offer the talents of two gentlemen who were definitely in that first category, combining their author/photographer talents to document the ordeals of the difficult land passage to Rainbow Bridge. The article proved to be the most popular in the magazine's first 15 years of publication.

Irvin Shrewsbury Cobb (1876-1944), a noted New York humorist and columnist, wrote over 60 books. His best known works dealt with the people of his home state, Kentucky: Old Judge Priest, 1915; Speaking of Operations, 1916; and Red Likker, 1929. Barry Morris Goldwater is a living legend. Born in Arizona in 1909, he entered his family's mercantile business and dabbled in photography while seeing Arizona first-hand. He was elected to the U.S. Senate in 1953 and secured the Republican presidential nomination in 1964. The Senator has authored several books and remains an active Arizona Highways contributing editor.

Of all the natural wonders in North America, Rainbow Bridge was almost the latest to be discovered. It isn't because of the brief time lapse since then that fewer human eyes have looked upon it than upon any other of our national monuments or any of our national parks. It's because of the approach to it. To be historical about it, it was not until 1909 that a party under the distinguished archeological explorer, Professor Byron Cummings, accompanied by John Wetherill, famous pathfinder, and guided by a Paiute Indian, penetrated through a most inaccessible terrain to what the Navajos, who knew it for centuries before these inquisitive white folks came limping in, called Tsay-Na-Ah, meaning "Where the Rock Goes Across the Water." And how the rock does go across the water! From Bridge Canyon Creek it rears this rock, to a height of 309 feet, and it has a span of 278 feet, being forty feet thick at the top, and its arch could swing entirely over the Capitol at Washington. It is sheer cosmic poetry. Statistics, however sizable, just seem to curl up to insignificance when they start wriggling against a master achievement of the Divine Artificer-a creation so gorgeously symmetrical, so overwhelmingly mingly majestic in itself, and so starkly splendid in its setting that the

(ABOVE) The tortuous trail taken by Cobb and Goldwater traversed a rugged reach of slickrock from the end of a gravel road to Rainbow (shaded area). Tourists today go by motor launch from Wahweap (near Page, Arizona) across Lake Powell. (PREVIOUS PANEL, PAGES 40-41) Rainbow Bridge: "... this is not a mathematical proposition; this is not even geological or geographical. It is sheer cosmic poetry. Statistics, however sizable, just seem to curl up in insignificance...." Jerry Jacka photo The English language just lies down and begs for help when you try to describe it. I know this the very first sight of it repaid for every new-laid blister upon my own setting and that, I may state for the benefit of any interested blister-fancier, means right smart repayment. Through months of occasional forays into the back spaces of Hopiland and of Navajoland which surrounds it, we'd been promising ourselves that sometime soon we would gird our loins for the harder trek to Rainbow Bridge farther up than we'd yet been, and across the state line.route for him, Hubert Richardson, the trader at Cameron, laid out the short cut, the one we followed. It's no boulevard, you understand. Not dangerous either, but the car that makes the run must be part antelope and part rolly-coaster.

For us, the overture number proved worthy of the finished production. For two hours and for thirty-five miles, we rode in that machine which had a bounding chamois for its mother. Sometimes we scooted through thickets of nut-pine and juniper, but mostly we inched along a narrowed rocky spine which rears up a mile and better above sea level to separate Navajo Canyon from Paiute Canyon, both being formidable sisters to Grand Canyon. There were periods, as we traversed that crooked spinal column of the divide, when we could look down, this side, into the convoluted mysteries of Paiute and, that side, across a breathtaking void upon the even more daunting panorama of Navajo, which is an experience not exactly to be duplicated anywhere else, so far as I know.It was at the lodge perched well up on the front of Navajo Mountain that we arrived in the cool of a flawless evening, so finishing the first extended lap of the expedition.

Next morning I was introduced to Coyote, a rectangular mule of oldfashioned architecture, having numerous gables and a chastely-severe southern exposure. Also he had a habit, as I soon found out, of halting on some eight-inch shelf and bunching all four of his feet together and then stretching his forward parts, where I precariously adhered, out over practically a bottomless abyss and, with a rapt expression on his fiddle-shaped face, stay there a spell the sight-seeing so-and-so!

Not ten minutes off the shaly ledge upon which the lodge sits and we realized that yesterday's ride on the backbone of the great declivity tipping out toward the desert levels had been merely the prelude to what today was bringing us. We skirted a nubbin of First Canyon, so-called, the trail wreathing through a fine pine growth, and turned a corner alongside which a gray pinnacle towered aloft like the Empire State Building and, involuntarily halted, held under spell by what revealed itself to our eyes. You have angled across a narrowed V at the head of First Canyon into Second Canyon and out again and are about to invade Third Canyon as a preliminary to traversing Cliff Canyon (I trust the reader is not getting confused) and thence through Redbud Pass to Bridge Canyon as I say, you've reached Second Canyon when all Fourteen years ago, with the aid of Navajos who scouted the most feasible of a sudden you come on Forbidding Canyon and perhaps an hour further you ride out of a pent-in side-draw which is a sort of hyphen connecting two infinitely larger gaps and are face to face with Wild Horse Mesa. At this range of vision Wild Horse Mesa looms like an unscalable back-fence enclosing the myriad of unearthly glories which spread across the intervening dip. Close by and beneath you are varied formations-funnels and spirals and carved monoliths and amongst and between these curious worm-like arroyos, all changing though to faint clumps and shallow furrows where they lose shape and vaguely merge together away off yonder close up under the farthermost panels of runneled sandstone. This noble barrier, in the blended shadows and its top palings in the clouds, is so-called because stray mustangs that have gone wilder than any deer are said to frequent it which is more than puny mankind has done although there are those who claim to have climbed to the crest, going up an exceedingly precipitous ramp on the farther side. Well, maybe? But until we develop sucker-disks on our feet and learn to cling to smooth outbulging surfaces like house-flies crawling on finger bowls, I'm reasonably sure none of our species will ever get down into Forbidding Canyon or, having got down there, ever get out again. So you see it also is appropriately named. Were it not that bandings of sunshine and cloud-play splash it with shifting pastel hues-dun, ecru, soft brown, blush-pink, dulled lavender-what lies cupped in there would be like a giant paint-bucket scraped clean. It's the sensational coloring that makes the pageantry. Otherwise, the desolation would be so complete, the utter wastefulness of it all so depressing that you could imagine anyone who for very long stared down into that dreary pit going sick at the stomach. Birds fly above it but it is reasonably certain no living creature, anyway no two-footed or four-footed creature, exists in it.

peculiar pattern and form an endless succession of great slick convex shapes, offering no footholds even to a mountain goat, separated from one another by longitudinal clefts, and preserving a remarkable uniformity in their drab gray surfacing and their design. The most massive of these globular segments was directly before me: Elephant's Head Rock, an enormous and most cunningly-chiseled phenomenon. Here, miraculously thrown up in bas-relief was the front of a tired old circus performer, her lean skull outlined as clean as a cameo, her tuskless jaws loosely agape, her trunk dangling, her venerable rheumy eyes bedded deep in the scored wrinkles of eternal age, and only the two ears less shrewdly etched than the rest. Why, of course those were her dismembered feet which I had passed yesterday, propped in the tawny sands near Red Lake; and that gross rotundity which today I had beheld in Forbidding Canyon would be the pachydermic posterior. There was no mistaking it. She certainly got herself widely distributed, that old lady.

Making this jaunt we started at 6400 feet above sea level, and when we got through we had dropped off nearly four thousand feet. At the upper extremity of Cliff Canyon was where we negotiated a considerable part of this dropping-off process, with a grade averaging almost thirty per cent and if afoot, you should tackle a grade any steeper than thirty per cent, you'd practically be leaning backwards. It would be a job, really, for the daring boys of Hook & Ladder Truck No. 7. Doing it mule-back though is the way to get the thrills. Here was where that confirmed student of landscape effects, namely, Coyote, had some of his biggest moments. But not his harassed rider. If your correspondent is expected to pay any compliments to the more slanted section of Bridge Canyon, would say that it's one of the best places in the world to lean up against.

We took the perilous plunge in one fell swoop, so to speak. Before we took off we didn't for the life of us see how we were going to slide down, and when we were down, we couldn't see how we were ever going to scale back up. We descended from the tall timber, through stunted and spiny desert growths, and on to the aspens and willows and cottonwoods of a betterwatered level. It was with almost a shock of surprise that eventually I discovered myself still aboard Coyote's walking beams and Coyote ambling along a gentled swale. A nice busy little creek was marching with us, and springs were gurgling from under the grassy banks. The noonday heat was baking fine resinous smells out of juniper and sage and sweet herbs and the Mormon tea bush. And along with whole patches of flaunting sago lilies and gay cactus blooms and other big pushy, gaudy things, (LEFT) Rainbow Lodge, perched on Navajo Mountain. "...We bedded upon clean sweet-smelling sheets, in snug cabins. First, though, we supped in a cozy main camp that fairly strutted its stuff-easy chairs and big open fireplaces and even an alcove where you could shower...."

(BELOW) Cliff Canyon...in Rainbow Country. "...at the upper extremity of Cliff Canyon was where we negotiated a considerable part of this dropping-off process, with a grade averaging almost 30 percent...." Original Barry Goldwater photos The shoulders of the slopes wore epaulettes of bright yellow stuff and many wide troughs of white sand were brocaded thick with such tender shy flowers as you'd expect to find in your grandmother's garden instead of here, flanked in by these bleak guardian masses. But oh, such a lonesome spot and, oh, how silent except when we ourselves broke the hush and then the echo barked like dogs. A mule shoe striking a pebble was like the clash of smitten cymbals. Call aloud and through the shattered quiet the sound boomeranged back to you, and pounded against your ear drums, a dozen times repeated. We saw no bobcat tracks nor tracks of the little dwarf rabbits in the moistened soil along the stream; and it's said that no one traveling by night in this enclosure ever yet heard a hunkered coyote confessing his sins to the unresponsive moon. Even the swift little lizards and the overgrown insects of the high desert were missing. Away off somewhere we did hear one cactus wren chirp to itself twice and then stop as though abashed; and a single strayed piñon jay called once, then he quit, too. And that was all. We detected ourselves talking in half-whispers. At its farther end Cliff Canyon appears to butt smack into an escarpment of solid mountain. You are right up against it almost before you see that from top to bottom, this seeming barricade is split by a rift hardly wider than the foot-trail which pierces it. This is the famous Redbud Pass. Verily, it's like the Crack of Doom made usable. There are places where your outstretched fingers brush both sides and, looking up out of the perpetual twilight of the bottom, the sky is seen only as a tiny blue strip. You have the feeling that any moment the crevice may close shut and flatten you like a mite caught between two book-ends. We had just entered this cleft when all of a sudden up came one of those impulsive thunder storms of the high country. It came with no warning and ended the same way but, while it prevailed, brought lashing of big fat rain drops and a lavish amount of lightning and contrarywise gusts that caromed off the cliffs and brutally whipped the cottonwoods and redbud bushes, and whistled shrilly past us for the right of way. Being inside by now we escaped the downpour but to us, buried in that dim alley, the wind, going by, was the wailing of a lost banshee. Overhead and straight up the bolts skittered and bounced off the craggy rim, and left behind a sulfurous taint. And the thunderclaps, though somewhat muffled, kept reverberating and growling and drumming until one of us, calling back or forward to the others, had to strain his voice to be heard

above that insane clamor. We could have asked for no more stirring curtain-raiser to the impending climax. After that-and those mad orchestral effects-the last act just had to be good which, verily, I say unto you, it was indeed, and then some. As miners might emerge from a mineworking, we issued forth, thrilled to our several marrows, and immediately were confronted by a descent, not so prolonged as the aforesaid one in Cliff Canyonmerely a matter of three hundred feet or so, but fabulously steep-in fact, as you might say, just straight up and down. A "horse-ladder" is what they call such things out here, with logs set in the earth and wedged down at either tip under boulders for the mules to brace their hoofs on. I said to myself that no mule born of a mare could climb down that preposterous staircase, but these mules made it without a bobble and what's more, on the return trip next day clambered back up. They make it often and always without mishap. When they die monuments should be erected in their memory. Going down, they practically stood on their heads and where the cross-rungs were far apart, coasted, each time to fetch up, just when Buck and I figured all was lost, with a hair-raising jolt against the next toe-hold. Along the slanting path through Bridge Canyon we followed the creek which, having tunneled out of some subterranean channel at Redbud Pass, now had grown to a widened clear stream, full of deep pools; and the trees were taller and bushier than anywhere else on the route, and so deep were the wild grasses that the trail was a half-hidden trace, and a shepherdless flock of Navajo sheep found the richest of pasturage as they browsed about, led by an old ewe. She had a copper bell at her throat-latch, and in that solitude the bell's jingling could be heard for half a mile before we saw her. It was late in the afternoon, and I was and yet more of the beauties of it, I bided there until twilight made everything blurred, then dazedly stumbled away in the dusk, tripping over boulders and splashing through brisk eddies. It was just before the last of the sunset that the glory became almost too glorious to be borne, as the final benedictory rays played over the horizon and struck upon the upper reaches of the great span, what a moment before had been rufous, like a pochard drake's head, now flamed scarlet, like a tanager's breast; and mauve turned to royal purple, and palish green was emerald and dead gray was all of a sudden opalescent and gleaming like so much live pearl. A steep mica bed on the parent cliff alongside picked up a slanted beam and became a cascade of diamonds; the broken canyon floor lit up like a friendly hearth of ruddy firebricks. And yonder through the crescent of the Bridge the heavens flared with flamings of crimson and with waves of blue and of tattered gold-God Almighty's housewarming.

trying to sort out and classify for future reference a thousand different impressions, when we came to where the path forked. Right in the crotch was thrust up a smallish pone-shaped butte, heavily corrugated. Beyond the wrinkled withers of this dumpy obstruction we could catch a tempting peep at the nearmost pediment of Rainbow Bridge, but Bill advised that first we get to camp and rub the cramps out of ourselves and then return and go past another little elbow in the gulch for a view of the thing in its entirety. So we turned right-wing and presently butted into a dead-end where the swoop of a future cave formed a half-moon above a sweet spring pouring out of the rock; with a brush arbor and a corral and a storehouse handy by, and two wall-tents with cots and mattresses in them and, crowning paradox for so untamed a vicinity, clean sheets for the beds and clean pillow-cases for the pillows.

It's forty minutes later and the daylight is starting to fade on the lower shorings of the encompassing cliffs and I, being dismounted, am noting that I hurt in a lot of places where I hadn't hurt before, when we hobble stiffly beyond that interposing jog to a proper vantage point facing into the west-and now, mister, hush up your mouth and please just lemme pause and contemplate!

But I do crave the reader's kind indulgence while briefly I draw in retrospect some sketchy notion of that amphitheatre where Rainbow Bridge is flung up, a perfect symphony in pink sandstone, to unfold like a scroll thwartwise of the canyon's structure which, by contrast, is streaked with less graphic tones-umber and amber and ochre and tarnished copper. But with no vain ornamentations to mar the surpassing grace of it, mind you; no superfluous curlicues to distract the fascinated eye from those altogether simple and most truly scaled lines.

Except for the prodigality of coloring in which it is bathed there is a planned economy in every detail of the magnificent conception. And down below and beneath that splendid arching sweep, the little brawling creek hustles along, now riffling over its pygmy rapids and now boring between yellowish shores that are polkadotted with circular splotches of bright verdure. And on under and beyond the arch, the sun goes down in a welter of unutterably brilliant cloud-wrack that is all crumpled and strewn like torn remnants of silk across the sky. So in a kind of trance, a thraldom of happy catalepsy, while the inadequate tongue had frozen but the soul was quickened and the brain alert to absorb more Additional Reading: To the Foot of Rainbow Bridge, by Clyde M. Kluckhohn, 1927, reprinted by Rio Grande Press, Glorieta, New Mexico, 1980. Rainbow Bridge-Monument Valley Expedition 1933-1938, by Ralph Leon Beals, University of California Press, Berkeley, California, 1945. Rainbow Bridge Discovery, by Cummings Publication Council, Tucson, Arizona, 1959.

YOURS SINCERELY

Just a few words to thank you and your staff for the most beautiful holiday copy ever of Arizona Highways.

We almost didn't renew our subscription because of the beautiful girl picture on the front of the November issue. Much better, Arizona scenery; the December issue was beautiful.

How often have I felt like writing to you when we received yet another Highways magazine with breathtakingly beautiful photographs...vivid colors...humor and love for the land...serenity.... You see, some of us don't have the nerve to travel about; some of us don't have the means, and some of us are in poor health and simply can't. So, whatever you do, please don't stop bringing us beauty into the home.

But this all is not the main reason I am writing you today. The reason is 19-yearold Michelle Harlow on the front cover of your November issue with her infectious smile. We have a small table in the living room where we keep the newest books or magazines to be picked up and read at leisure. Well, whenever I come around the corner past that table I catch myself grinning right back at her. Thanks for this daybrightener and cheerer-upper.

I also would like to thank our son for renewing the subscription again for us; a gift like this gives a lot of pleasure.

Informed that Linda Avey's drawings were featured in your December, 1983, issue of Arizona Highways-I immediately ran out and purchased it.

I have always been an admirer of Linda's, as can be evidenced by the many, many prints in my home and the two originals she has done for me. I am by no stretch of the imagination a collector of art, but Linda's work seems to appeal to everyone of all ages.

Thank you for showcasing her talents, and for exposing her to the recognition she so truly deserves.

Contrary to the Danish lady in your August 1983 issue, I am fortunate enough to be able to speak your language.

We lived 12 years in that beautiful state of yours from 1958 to 1970. Recently our youngest son returned from a year at Glendale High as an exchange student. From him we received new strong and positive feelings about beautiful Arizona. I would furthermore like to take this opportunity to thank his Arizona parents for the subscription of Arizona Highways.

When we open that magazine it's just like being home again.

P.S. We are rooting for the Sun Devils again this year. Hope they are going to go through without stumbling.

Everything in this magazine is of high quality, even the envelope, which protects this valuable magazine from transport damage.My wife, myself, and our son have been traveling around America by car a lot, and I must say that Arizona is our favorite state. Your January issue gave us fine tour tips. We chose the Apache Trail Tour, which we all enjoyed very, very much. We hope to be back in Arizona next year, and we thank you once again for your beautiful publication.

Arizonans through and through, my husband and I weren't prepared for one aspect of culture shock as we moved to Belgium: four years deprived of Mexican food-unthinkable!

Mind you, Belgium is noted for its fine food. But once in a while we'd trade a giant portion of the "best fries in the world" for one soft, warm little bean burro.

We do what we can. Friends and relatives tuck little jars of salsa and packets of taco mix in their suitcases when they come to visit. Recently, American dinner guests offered from their private cache a rather untraditional hostess gift-a can of jalapeño pepper-flavored bean dip. When we can't stand it any longer, we frequent the supermarket in Brussels that has the "American" shelf-imported food-and raid it of its meager supply of brickhard taco shells and two-dollar cans of refried beans.

We hear tell of a new Mexican restaurant (the only one) in Brussels. However, from all reports, it's mediocre at best. Joe Jordan, where are you? (And how's your French?) Last year in July I have visited your beautiful state which made a great impression on me.

As a geography teacher I always say to my colleagues: before you die you have to see the Grand Canyon.

BOOKSHELF

Rarely do we review periodicals, but we must make an exception for Plateau, published quarterly by the Publications Department of the Museum of Northern Arizona, Route 4, Box 720, Flagstaff, AZ 85001. Volume 53, Number 4 (1982), $4.00, entitled "The Basket Weavers: Artisans of the Southwest," contains four articles by authorities on basketry: the technology of wicker, plaiting, and coil by Laura Graves Allen; function and symbolism, including use and design names and motifs, by Robert Breunig; a summary of a century of basketmaking among Arizona's Havasupai Indians; and Clara Lee Tanner's survey of Western Apache styles, designs, and patterns in basketry. Color and black-and-white photos of new and old baskets and references accompany these informative articles. "Navajo Painting" by Katherin Chase is the subject of Volume 54, Number 1 (1982), $4.00. Complete with color photographs of paintings by various Navajo artists, this essay includes brief biographies of earlier traditional and contemporary painters, prefaced by an introduction and concluded by a selected bibliography. Edwin H. Colbert, distinguished paleontologist and museum curator, presents a very readable monograph, "Dinosaurs of the Colorado Plateau," in Volume 54, Numbers 2 and 3 (1983), $5.00. He discusses the geological background and early paleontological activities and provides a comprehensive study of the gigantic reptiles that inhabited the Colorado Plateau. Black-and-white and color photos, illustrations, and charts, plus a selected bibliography, greatly aid the reader. All three of these authoritative, colorful issues are a valuable addition to anyone's Southwestern library.

TRAVEL ARIZONA. By Joseph Stocker. Arizona Highways Books, 2039 West Lewis Avenue, Phoenix, AZ 85009. 1983. 128 pages. $12.95, hardcover; $7.95, softcover.

Arizona Highways' latest all-color book, Travel Arizona, does exactly what it sets out to do: travels Arizona. Into this readable and artfully photographed-guide to the Grand Canyon State, the author has poured a lifetime of experience seeing and writing about the grand places and the magnificent natural endowments of the state. In 128 pages replete with color maps you can escape with a variety pack of 16 splendid automobile tours to the most exciting, dramatic, and historic places in Arizona: from Lake Powell and the Grand Canyon to Hopi Country and the Land of the Navajos, from Zane Grey's Tonto Rim to the Apache Trail, from the modern metropolitan cities of Phoenix, Scottsdale, and Tucson to Mission San Xavier del Bac, Tombstone, and the Chiricahua Mountains, all rich in romantic history. Travel Arizona answers the need for a knowledgeable and intelligently constructed guide to the state, for newcomers and natives alike. -Reviewed by Judson Farquar maps you can escape with a variety pack of 16 splendid automobile tours to the most exciting, dramatic, and historic places in Arizona: from Lake Powell and the Grand Canyon to Hopi Country and the Land of the Navajos, from Zane Grey's Tonto Rim to the Apache Trail, from the modern metropolitan cities of Phoenix, Scottsdale, and Tucson to Mission San Xavier del Bac, Tombstone, and the Chiricahua Mountains, all rich in romantic history. Travel Arizona answers the need for a knowledgeable and intelligently constructed guide to the state, for newcomers and natives alike. -Reviewed by Judson Farquar LEGACY OF THE WEST. By David C. Hunt, with a contribution by Marsha V. Gallagher. University of Nebraska Press, 901 North 17th Street, Lincoln, NE 68588. 1982. 157 pages. $34.50, hardcover; $18.95, softcover. The Joslyn Art Museum in Omaha, Nebraska, celebrated its 50th anniversary with a catalog representing many of its major Western artists and their work.

Hunt, curator of Western Art at the Center for Western Studies at the Joslyn, presents a factual historical synopsis of art on the early American frontier and of the marvelous heritage the artists have bequeathed us. Following are concise biographies of the artists included and catalog entry data for each artist's work. For a sampling of the museum's varied American Indian artifacts, Gallagher, curator of Material Culture, has prepared entry data and commentaries. Throughout the volume are reproductions in color and black and white of many of the Anglo and Native American artists mentioned. This handsome catalog is not so much a survey of holdings as it is a manifestation of the Joslyn's commitment to Western American art.

VELVET WATERS, CANYON WALLS: A LAKE POWELL ADVENTURE. By Colin Warren. Northland Press, P. O. Box N, Flagstaff, AZ 86002. 1983. 66 pages. $9.95, softcover.

Born amid controversy that still lingers, A NATURALIST'S SAN JUAN RIVER GUIDE. By Stewart Aitchison and others. Pruett Publishing Co., 2928 Pearl Street, Boulder, CO 88301. 1983. 57 pages. $10.95, softcover-waterproof edition. There is much more to this manual than the usual river runner's detailed topographic maps and mileage calculations.

Quotations from explorers and river runners, small black-and-white photos of some of the terrain and those who have traversed it, timely data on river trips, a thorough discussion of geology by Peter Winn, an overview of the area's prehistory and history, an illustrated summary of regional flora and fauna, and an extensive suggested reading list make this a multidimensional guidebook. The hefty price is occasioned by the waterproofed pages (they feel like rubber). You can enjoy your whitewater and the handbook at the same time; each enhances the other.

Lake Powell, a creation of Arizona's Glen Canyon Dam, has a personality and a beauty all its own. Colin Warren and his dog embarked in a well-provisioned canoe on an odyssey of more than 1000 miles along Lake Powell's Arizona-Utah coastline. In the narration of his experiences he blends intimate knowledge with great sensitivity. Photographs taken along the way convey as no words really can the dynamic interplay of water, sun, clouds, and magnificent geologic formations that creates some of this nation's most breathtaking scenery. For an up-close and personal view of this man-made jewel, don't miss this full-color publication. Born amid controversy that still lingers,Arizona's Custom Knifemakers in the July issue. Not so much as tools or weapons, custom knifemakers create works of art in metal, ivory, inlay, sculpture, and scrimshaw. Arizona's guild of master knifemakers boasts of some of the nation's best.

Look for these compelling and informative features in forthcoming issues of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS MAGAZINE...

What the Future Holds for You. On the occasion of the centennial of Arizona State University, in the March issue campus futurists will forecast changes in your life and your world.

The Epic of Coronado. Eighty years before Plymouth Rock, intrepid Spaniards entered what is now Arizona and explored as far as today's Kansas. For the April issue, former Secretary of the Interior Stewart L. Udall leads a team of writers, photographers, and artists in interpreting this astounding journey.

A Texan Looks at Arizona in June. We invite a good ol' boy from the Big Thicket of eastern Texas to peruse the Grand Canyon State. He finds everywhere-more Texans!

Under the Tonto Rim. Of all the places in the West that Zane Grey could choose, the Mogollon Rim Country of Central Arizona was his favorite. In his own mountain cabin he wrote novels which continue as best-sellers long after his death. In August we take you on a travel tour and intellectual trip through the land that Zane Grey loved best.

These, and 50 other major features will come to you in 1984 through the pages of America's premier travel journal, ARIZONA HIGHWAYS MAGAZINE.

(INSIDE BACK COVER) The rugged Upper Navajo Canyon country provided pioneer hardship for early trekkers on the trail to Rainbow Bridge. David Muench photo (BACK COVER) Hohokam pottery from La Ciudad. The 40-acre archeological site, buried beneath modern Phoenix, proves a treasure-trove of information and artifacts. (See pages 2-13.) Jeff Kida photo Subscribe, renew, or extend your subscription today. Our one-year subscription rate is only $15 or two years for $25. (Foreign rates $18 per year.)