Descent into Crystal Canyon

TEXT BY DAVID E. BROWN PHOTOGRAPHS BY RICHARD D. FISHER Arizona's convulsive geology has spawned a multitude of sluicing streams and sculptured gorges, spectacular places that bring each person what he seeks from natureadventure, solitude, peace and quiet, challenge. One especially scenic chasm has been carved by the San Carlos River as it crosses the southernmost of Arizona's two Apache reservations 15 miles northeast of San Carlos, below the Natanes Plateau.

It is a perfect spot for canyoneering, a term that has come to mean more than simply exploring canyons. Canyoneering connotes adventure, long hikes, rough climbs, getting to out-of-the-way ravines and gorges and then back again.

So with the distant snowcapped summits of the Pinal Mountains blushing in the morning sun, photographer Rick Fisher and I begin our odyssey. To get to our canyon, we must trudge three miles across one of the state's innumerable "Black Mesas," this one a volcanic plain strewn with russet-colored malpais. Each tightly rigged backpack emits a comfortable squeak with every stride, and, at least for the time being, the weight of two days' provisions goes unnoticed.

We are not alone. Before long, we roust a covey of scaled quail, the scattering birds emitting ping-like calls to maintain contact with the flock. An occasional antelope track and many cow chips tell us the mesa hosts other inhabitants, too.

In less than an hour, we are at the mesa's edge. Before us looms the vista of a thousand-foot abyss, its bottom heliographing flashes of silver from a limeand ocher-bordered stream far below.

The gorge itself presents a decidedly hostile appearance. Before we can descend, we must negotiate a wall studded with basalt cliffs and make our way down a rubble-strewn 60-degree slope that would make a mountain sheep wince.

A mural of dancing stick figures and cryptic symbols pecked in the rock marks the remnant of an ancient route leading downward, a signpost of the long vanished Mogollon culture that called this formidable country home 800 years ago. Far below us, in a sandstone recess above the black diabase walls at the canyon's bottom, are the rock ruins of these mysterious cliff dwellers. The knowledge that whoever made these symbols passed this way long ago lends a ghostly presence to our descent, an ambience not unlike that of a pharaoh's tomb.

Two hours of arduous rock scrambling, and the bottom of the chasm is ours. It is early afternoon, but the sun already is passing beyond the other rim that hems in the slot of sky allotted to us. We work our way upstream to the day's objective: a 60foot waterfall whose roar muffles all attempts at conversation.

The water cascades in three tiers. Squeezed into a chute of mottled gray diabase, the gurgling San Carlos gathers itself, swirls, and drops 30 feet off a polished ledge into a shallow lava bowl. Only temporarily arrested, the pent-up water overflows through a narrow spout to spill 15 feet down onto a jumble of rock. Then it shoots off in a roostertail of spray before tumbling another 10 feet into a dark, deep plunge pool. Towering ledges and shadowy recesses give the pool a grotto effect. A single shaft of waning autumn light illuminates the dancing mist, enhancing an already eerie atmosphere. Surely, someText continued on page 37

(PREVIOUS PANEL, PAGES 34 AND 35) Twilight paints the rugged floor of a remote canyon where spring-fed creeks provide year-round water.

(LEFT) Plunging 60 feet into the depths of the canyon, the magnificent cascade that the canyoneers call Grotto Falls tumbles finally into a dark, deep pool.

(ABOVE) Sue Bigda and Michael Kelly examine Mogollon culture pictographs. Continued from page 33 Camp is under a rock ledge, my down bedroll comfortably ensconced on a mattress of sand. The canyon's temperature this waning September day is surprisingly cool, and a fire of driftwood provides comfort as well as heat for cooking. Sleep comes early, and my last waking thoughts are of the Mogollon people who preceded us. They would have camped in this very spot, and I can imagine their shadows still dancing in the firelight on the canyon walls. I wonder what enemy drove them to this inverted fortress and whether they planted corn on this bench along the river-bank. Was their nighttime talk only of crops, weather, and hunting, or did they also speak of the almost mystical attraction of the falls? Most likely, it was some of both, I think, as sleep takes hold. Next morning I am awakened by the descending trill of a canyon wren. This solitary bird, with its distinctive call and penchant for flitting from rock to rock, should be a totem for canyoneers. The sun is up, but its warmth has yet to reach us as we begin our day's hike. We plan to work our way downstream, each of us taking opposite sides of the river and traveling at our own pace. Rick tells me that we can go only another three-fourths of a mile or so before a second series of falls and pools impede further progress without a raft and rappelling gear.

The geology of the canyon is impressive. The tilted outcrop of jagged black basalt gives way abruptly to a smoother, marbled layer of red Supai siltstone, which in turn is soon succeeded by angular blocks of buff-colored sandstone. An infusion of powder-blue boulders appears, only to disappear again downstream. Lush riparian vegetation screens Rick from view; soon I have no idea whether he is just yards away or far ahead. At streamside an ancient cottonwood, its furrowed bark framed by mustard-colored foliage, begs to be photographed. Within minutes my feet are wet, but the effect is more refreshing than chilling, and, caught up in the photographing, I am soon wading through the rushes impervious to the water. From time to time, I glance up to the frowning rims, half expecting to see the silhouette of a watchful Apache. Reflexively I reach into my shirt pocket to make sure I have the permit that licenses me to be in Apache country. In 1881 the Apaches' most dogged adversary, Brig. Gen. George Crook, passed this way on a 26-hour trek from Black River to the confluence of the San Carlos and Gila rivers. Crook's aide, Capt. John Bourke, was not only a great admirer of his Apache foes but also took pleasure in describing the beauties of their "startling cañons, in whose depths flowed waters as swift and clear and cool as any that have ever rippled across the pages of poetry."

CRYSTAL CANYON

All too soon I reach the strawberry bluffs that mark the end of today's journey. Rick is perched above the falls, munching an apple and no doubt thinking of the time he traveled the entire length of the canyon, rappelling his way around the second group of waterfalls. Reluctantly we begin our return trek, taking time to savor each vista "one more time." Hiking the canyon is a sensuous experience. And the rocks, polished smooth by the moving water, are slippery, lending an element of treachery to the pleasure of conquest. Not once have we seen any evidence of other hikers. Finally we find ourselves back at the first falls. Rick wants to photograph the ever-changing waters in midday light. I set about climbing out. Having found the prehistoric way into the canyon, I decide to try a different route to the top. Deer trails head upward to what appears to be a recent collapse of a portion of the rim. They promise an easier route than the precipitous descent taken by Rick and me and the ancient ones. Halfway up, my suspicions are confirmed. A white-tailed buck lunges from the brush beneath a juniper tree, the bounding cotton of his uplifted tail flagging his escape route out of the canyon through a gap in the fallen boulders of the rimrock. After a hike of only 45 minutes, I am again on the windblown mesa. The exhilaration of topping out overcomes any fatigue from the climb. I can see Rick, a tiny figure far below, picking his way among the deer trails as he comes up on the saddle where I encountered the buck. His position is given away by the movement of his agave-stalk walking stick, which reflects the angling sun. Later, at the El Rey Café in Globe, where a Mexican meal caps every Apacheland excursion, I pose a question to Rick. "How is it," I ask, "that you do not mind sharing the glories of hidden canyons that you worked so hard to discover?" Rick takes a moment to consider his answer and then says: "If no one knows the wonder of these canyons, who will object when government or industry proposes to drown one with a dam or build a power line across it? People need to know the value of what they might be losing."