Last of the Old Sheep-Drive Routes: The Heber-Reno Trail

Last of the Old Sheep-Drive Routes:

Down out of the green hills of history they come, Following paths through time remembered, Giving warmth and food to the children of the ages. The eternal partnership cycles with the seasons, The shepherds, the sheep, the dogs.

Sheep came to New Spain on the heels of the conquistadores-small, wiry Merino sheep, fine-wooled and hardy. Spanish colonists raised them on baciendas and ranchitos from Mexico City to the far outpost of Taos. Navajo warriors took them in raids in the Rio Grande Valley and made them the basis of a new way of life, a new culture. A century ago in Arizona Territory, men fought and died over sheep. From Williams to St. Johns, along the Little Colorado and Puerco rivers, in saloons and on the open range, northern Arizona was wounded by cattle-sheep wars. So intense was the conflict, men of rival factions hated the sight and smell of one another. When the Hashknife Outfit from Texas moved their longhorns onto a million acres of unfenced land along the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad in northern Arizona, the competition for rangeland intensified.

Quick-trigger men were hired by cattlemen to protect their water and territory. Line camps were set up along the Mogollon Rim to keep sheep from moving down into the choice grasslands of Tonto Basin. One band of sheep belonging to the Daggs brothers of Flagstaff sifted through the forests, crossed the "dead line" in 1887, and precipitated Arizona's bloodiest feud, the Pleasant Valley War. They are all dead now, the hate-filled men who shot and hanged each other. They are dust and duff of the forest, consumed by the forces of nature. Scrub oaks and manzanitas grow over unmarked graves. Few remember.

The Heber-Reno Trail

Today the sheep in diminished herds walk in peace, with light, sure steps. Their rights-of-way cross the Tonto and ApacheSitgreaves national forests. The longest and best known is the Heber-Reno Sheep Driveway. From Usery Pass northeast of Phoenix, it crosses desert and mountain to Heber, high on the Mogollon Rim. Once band followed band, week after week. Now only two bands use the trail, both of them belonging to Dwayne Dobson of Chandler. Dobson's sheep cover 225 miles each way, from winter lambing grounds in the Salt River Valley to the Sheep Springs Allotment in ApacheSitgreaves National Forest. Dobson's ewes are Rambouillet, a French breed known for the quality of their wool and meat. The rams are Suffolk, called blackface in the West. Because of their soft hooves, the rams are trucked to and from the mountains. The ewes and lambs walk. "In the 1930s, we used to trail about 65,000 head of sheep," said Byde Hancock, Dobson's sheep foreman for fourteeen years, when interviewed shortly before

The Heber-Reno Trail

(OPPOSITE PAGE) In a pastoral scene reminiscent of pioneer days, Aspon and Roberta Johnson play around the corrals at Sheep Camp while their older brothers "tag" (partially shear) the ewes. Forested knolls near Apache Sunrise Ski Resort on the Fort Apache Indian Reservation rise in the background.

(THIS PAGE) Border collies do the majority of the leg work in the pens, frequently confronting stubborn ewes. Dogs drive the sheep from the corrals up the chutes and into the shearing trailer where the wool is skillfully clipped around the eyes, udders, and tail-the process called tagging. The ewes are then released through batches in the back of the trailer to rejoin the flock.

in 1930. He was seventeen. He and herder San Juan Gonzales drove three pack mules and four saddle horses to the summer range to haul salt and supplies to the four sheep camps. It was Earl's job to oversee the camps, buy groceries and supplies in Springerville, and bring them to the camps in a truck.

April. One by one, the ranges loom ahead-Stewart Mountain, Sugar Loaf, the Mazatzals, the vast and formidable Sierra Ancha, and the Mogollon Rim.

On a detailed map, you can follow the traditional sheep trails, place name by place name: Sheep Mountain, Sheep Mesa, Ram Valley, Lambing Creek, Sheep Basin Mountain, Sheep Creek Point, Dipping Vat Spring, Los Burros, Sheep Springs, Sheep Cienega.

Pungent in the aftermath of rain, the scent of sheep lingers long on the mesquite and cactus of the desert range. The land smells like an open herb chest. Greasewood exudes its medicinal scent. Ocotillo unfolds tender red blossoms. The soft hands of clouds stroke the backs of distant mountains. From an elevation of 1200 feet in the Salt River Valley to 9400 feet on the summer allotment, the sheep climb in flocks of 2000, a day apart. The ewes and lambs are eager to travel north, toward the far scent of green grass, the promise of cool forest. Already desert days are hot, though moist from spring showers. Mesquite bushes grab at the arms and legs of herders like playful cats.

As long as Dwayne Dobson, Earl's son, can remember, he has been surrounded by sheep. As a boy, it was his job to take care of the leppies, the orphan lambs, feeding them from a bottle four and sometimes five times a day.

Dwayne started going up the trail with his father when he was eight, taking supplies to the men and picking up lame sheep in a truck. Later that would become his sole responsibility. Earl's other two sons, Dennis and Vinson, also became involved in the business from time to time as they grew up.

Today, Dwayne buys and sells feeder lambs, runs cattle, and farms. "I don't have to be in the sheep business to make a living anymore," he said. "It's more of a tradition than anything."

May. No one knows the mountains of

The Heber-Reno Trail

(CLOCKWISE, FROM LEFT) Campero Jesús Montoya and four cargo-laden burros lead the band down a mountain road near Willow Springs on their way to summer grazing in the White Mountains. Lino Castillo and Abundio Hernandez enjoy the simple, vigorous life of the sheepherder, a life that permits them to rest only at day's end. Weapons are kept at hand to protect the sheep from wilderness predators. Close, trusting relationships with their well-trained dogs make the herders' job a bit easier.

(OPPOSITE PAGE) In early October, winding single file down Stewart Mountain to the Salt River, the sheep end their highcountry trek and begin the last leg of the return journey to the green fields of Chandler.

Arizona better than herders. They know the land as a lover knows the face of his betrothed. They know its moods, its heartbeat, its sweet scent.

Most herders today are Mexican or Spanish. They work on three-year sheep-herder agreements obtained through the Immigration and Naturalization Service and call themselves pastores or borre-gueros, depending on their origins. The man who sets up camp is the campero. For forty-eight days each spring and fifty days each fall, herders are on the trail with the sheep. A two-week supply of food is packed on burros, replenished at designated stops by a caporal in a pickup truck.

Alberto Holguín, Dobson's mayordomo, or foreman, was originally from Chihuahua, Mexico. He has worked for the Dobsons for more than twenty-five years. He understands English but seldom uses it. In sheep camp, there is no need. "Los perros no entienden inglés, "the dogs don't understand English, he says. Dogs, burros, horses, sheep-they are all friends. They know the trail and all the watering places. They need no map.

Carey Dobson, Dwayne's son, was eighteen when he decided he would have to go up the trail himself if he wanted to take over the sheep business someday. His partners on the trail were Jesús Montoya, a former cowboy from Durango, Mexico, and Abundio Hernandez, nicknamed "Oaxaca," a Mayan Indian from Oaxaca, Mexico.

Carey was campero. He rode the horse, packed the burros, set up camp, and cooked. The first day, Jesús taught him how to throw diamond hitches and load the burros. "We had fresh burros," Carey said. "The first day, they threw off their packs. One of them ran off a mountain.

The Heber-Reno Trail

"We had to start the sheep early in the morning; so all we had for breakfast was coffee and cookies."

The toughest part of the job for Carey was learning the country. "I was still learning a little Spanish and didn't understand everything they told me," he said. "I didn't always know where the stops were, but the burros would go right to camp and stop."

The higher they climbed, the more predators they had to watch for. "On the desert, it was just coyotes. In the pines, we had coyotes, bears, and lions. We woke up one night near Young and saw a black bear running through camp. But the sheep dogs scared him back into the timber before he got a lamb."

That was 1982. Today, Carey, a young husband and father of two, is in charge of his father's sheep outfit. "I always did love working with sheep," he smiled. "And I've always loved the country. I guess that's why I adapted to this life so fast."

August. In moonwashed mountain meadows, the ewes sleep on folded legs, their lambs beside them. A scout from a troop of coyotes patrols the edge of the meadow. The sheep dog, Lobo, growls.

La mañanita, the little morning, wakes happy as a child ready to play. The fiesta of August is here. Tender grass, piquant herbs, bright banquets of wildflowers. The sheep nibble away. The herders begin to gather them with the help of their dogs. They move them toward the corrals at Sheep Springs.

The Ken Johnson family of Manti, Utah, have come with trailers and portable shearing sheds to "tag" the ewes, shearing only the wool around the tail, udders, and eyes.

Pink-cheeked as wild roses, the Johnsons' little girls climb the fence to watch the flocks in the big corral. Like their mothers, they wear homemade pinafores and ruffled calico dresses. Their long blonde hair is primly braided.

The boys are stout and sunburned, good hands with the sheep. They help the herders push the ewes into the crowding pen, then up the chute into the shearing shed. The noise of the generator drowns out the bleating of sheep as the ewes are grabbed, one by one, and tagged. The shearers handle about 200 sheep per man per day. They have to be fast, but careful not to nick the sheep or cripple them.

One day in August, a twinge of frost on the shoulder of morning tells sheep and herders it is time to start south. Horses are shod; burros are packed. The mountain meadow is in full flower-white daisies, blue cornflowers, yellow hyacinths, goldenrod, sunflowers. It seems a shame to leave this place.

Pregnant now, the ewes walk a little slower than they did in spring. Overhead, mother clouds gather little ones around them; gradually, whole families and clans of clouds assemble in a solid front. A summer storm begins its daily migration from high mountain rookeries. As it builds, the storm groans and grumbles.and wash up. On coals of oak, they warm over the noon meal-lamb, frijoles, tortillas, onions, tomatoes, and blistering jalapeño chilis.

The Heber-Reno Trail

Later, around a dying fire, they talk over the day's drive, then spread their sheepskins on the dry ground under tree branches and crawl into bedrolls. The storm has cleared the way for stars.

Fingers of smoke from a small cookfire stroke the smooth face of morning. Above the eastern ridges, the last star is swallowed by light. To the north juts the dark bulwark of the Mogollon Rim. The sheep are resting in the folds of Pleasant Valley. A band of coyotes whoops and hollers down Pine Creek.

The smell of coffee fills the air. Tortillas brown over coals. The sheep have risen with the sun and spread out over the smiling hills to graze. They will rest here for two days. Belly deep in grama grass, they eat their fill. Nagging jays whir through the pines. High in the branches of scarred oaks along the creek, ravens wait for scatterings of crumbs.

A mother lion and her two cubs watch the sheep leave Pleasant Valley. For four days they stalk them, until they are deep into the Sierra Ancha Mountains. The lioness is teaching her cubs to hunt. On an old burn where the feed is tall, half the herd gets up to graze by the light of a full moon. Smelling the lions behind them, they stray far from the trail. When the herders reach the crossing at Tonto Creek, they are 1200 head short.

Sean Thayer, Dobson's farm foreman in Chandler, helps the herders and Ginés go back into the mountains and look for the lost sheep. Over the next five days, they find all but thirty-five head, scattered in small bunches. The weary herders have lost valuable time.

September. It is raining hard and creeks are flooding. The herders stick to the high ridges. At Sugar Loaf Mountain, Sycamore Creek is a torrent. They are stranded. Ginés nearly drowns trying to carry grain to the hungry sheep.

After three days, Ginés, Alberto Holguín, and Dwayne decide to swim the sheep across the creek in spite of the danger. They pull the struggling ewes through the current. Then others follow, swimming frantically, emerging on the other bank coughing and spitting water. They all make it.

The campero starts a fire, and the herders begin the business of drying out. There is one more mountain and one more river. The work-and the dangerare still far from over.

Because of flooding, the exhausted sheep have to climb Stewart Mountain. Then at the Blue Point Bridge, the sheep balk and refuse to be driven over the roaring water, and some jump over the rocks and are carried away. Ginés saves two ewes with the help of his shepherd's crook.

Thin, worn, and bone weary, the sheep and their herders arrive at Chandler at last. It is the middle of October. Some of the ewes lost lambs along the way. Others were killed by lions or drowned. But once more the flocks are home-and the eternal cycle begins again.

Quietly they pass over the land, leaving tracks from the time of Abraham. Few will know if they have come or gone. But those who have heard the song of bells and gentle bleats, smelled the scent of lanolin on the clear edge of morning, felt the beat of newborn life and the touch of downy wool, will not forget.

Joan Baeza has lived and ranched in Navajo County for thirty-five years and has recounted her experiences in Ranch Wife, written under the name of Jo Jeffers. She is currently a staff writer for White Mountain Publishing and teaches creative writing at Northland Pioneer College.

New Book about an Old Trail

"Life at its simplest, harshest, and yet strangely its most gloriously beautiful." Thus the writer of the foreword describes the experience recounted in a book just published about Arizona's historic HeberReno Trail. Sheep, Stars, and Solitude, by Francis Raymond Line, tells of the challenges, exhausting effort, and rewards of herding 2000 sheep more than 200

Selected Reading

Alone on the Mountain: Sheepherding in the American West, by Patti Sherlock. Doubleday and Co. Inc., Garden City, New York, 1979.

America's Sheep Trails: History and Personalities, by Edward Norris Wentworth. Iowa State College Press, Ames, 1948.

This Was Sheep Ranching: Yesterday and Today, by Virginia Paul. Superior, Seattle, Washington, 1978.