An Omen in the Ruins

The man, in breechcloth and woven shirt, turned his dark-skinned torso toward the east and squinted into the brightness where the morning sun was emerging beyond the distant ridge. To the south, in a pass between two desert peaks, he could barely see the three slow-moving dots that were his wife and daughters. He had sent his family ahead so he could linger for a while and be alone with his thoughts.

He wanted to view it all one last time without distraction. Let the images etch themselves in his mind so he could carry them with him always. At his back, he could sense some peculiar communal presence housed in the silent and deserted rooms of the stone dwelling

that had been his home for all 39 years of his life.

Looking out from a shaded area beneath the overhanging rock of the shallow cave, he let his gaze move slowly down the canyon to the broad, once fertile basin 900 feet below, and its meandering stripe of flowing river. On the far side of the valley were tiers of steep plum-colored cliffs and, far beyond, the high mountain country whence his ancestors had migrated many generations ago.

The small and sinewy man, his dark, shoulder-length hair blowing in the breeze, walked slowly along the front of the twostory multiroomed building of rock and adobe. Once many families had lived and worked here. Now all were gone. He could recall the days when he, as a child, had romped on the hills with other laughing children. In adulthood, he had become a weaver of cloth and a hunter. His wife made handsome pottery. She also ground corn and beans on a stone metate and har-vested fruit from the cacti that grew on the hillsides and in the washes.

When he was a young man, life had been good in the canyon above the wide valley. But over a period of years, problems accumulated. And it seemed that each difficulty was a harbinger of others yet to come. Actually, according to the elders, the changes had started long before. When he was a boy, there had been trees in the valley, just a few, here and there along the course of the river. But the old ones told ofa time when the entire valley had been filled with groves of shady trees. Now there were none, and in many places even grass did not grow. The irrigated fields that once produced corn and beans and cotton now stretched across the basin as brown eroded swatches producing nothing but wind-blown dust. The dwellings in the valley, and there were many, stood as silent and empty as the big cave house.

At a corner of the building, the man stopped and looked up at the wall. A tiny

AN OMEN IN THE RUINS

trace of a smile played at his lips. Many years ago, when he was young, his father and other men were repairing a section of wall at this spot. After they had completed the job, the boy climbed a large boulder next to the wall and pressed his hand firmly into the moist plaster. Now, he reached out and placed his adult palm against it, linking for a few final moments - his past and present. Then he pulled his hand away, ducked low, and entered the room through a narrow door. He went to a far corner beyond the fire pit and stood quietly, looking down at the floor. Looking to the place where the male child had been buried. His wife had borne six children in all. Three had died soon after birth; two were with them now. But only once had she brought forth a male child. It was important to have a male child, and this one had grown to talk and laugh with the other small ones. But abruptly he became weak and cried for several days, then died.They buried him in the room so his spirit could remain and return again when the woman gave birth. They wrapped him in a fine cotton blanket that had been woven by his father's hands, laid him on a mat of bear grass fashioned by his mother. They placed a pot of dried corn cakes beside the small body along with a bow and a number of arrows. The woman had produced no more children. Now, the man wondered if the spirit of the favored child would have to remain forever in the room alone. Perhaps. But there was nothing to be done about that possibility.

The man left the room and stepped back into the bright sunlight. He stooped and picked up a bag about the size of a large purse. In it were things he would take with him: cakes of dried mush, a small sack of beans, a fresh squash, a stone knife, and an ax head. Also, some medicinal and religious herbs. Tied in a bundle with a strap that went over his shoulders were a bow and arrows for killing small game. In his right hand, he carried a club made from the hard and heavy wood of a mesquite tree.

Most likely, he would not need the club, but one never knew. Times had changed. He would have preferred to move his family west along the river, but he dared not. Perhaps there were still a few people down there. Probably not, for he had been in the valley several times recently and had seen no signs of recent habitation. He believed that he and his family were the only ones remaining. Still, farther downstream, there might be others, a few lingering famished people who might kill them for their meager supplies and belongings. The thought of violence disturbed himand brought back stark remembrance of an episode that had occurred the winter past. In the darkness of a cold night that produced blowing rain, a group of men from the valley - his own people - had attacked the cave dwelling. There was much yelling and shouting, and the man had emerged from his room, club in hand. Suddenly, a figure lurched at him out of the darkness, a wild-eyed man with a fierce, hungry look. He struck out at the intruder, knocking him from the shelf of rock into some bushes below. The attackers had been turned back, and no lives were lost, but the memory of the event made the man scowl. The old way of life - the good way of life was gone. And now, it was time for him to go, too.

The little man's legs were strong from a lifetime of running and walking in the rugged hills. Before the sun achieved its zenith, he reached the pass between the two mountains, following the path his wife and daughters had taken to the south. At the crest, he stopped and looked back once more, then turned and went over the ridge. With his leaving, the fabric of a mystery became complete. When this last man went over the mountain to the south, his departure marked the time when a once flourishing culture, known as the Salado, became, for all practical purposes, extinct. For more than three centuries, this highly structured society of as many as 12,000 craftsmen, farmers, and traders occupied the broad

geographic area now known as Arizona's Tonto Basin. And then, sometime around A.D. 1400, they were gone, their disappearance one of the enduring mysteries of prehistoric Arizona.

On a bright spring morning in the last decade of the 20th century, I stand on a steep, rock-strewn canyon slope above the broad sweep of Tonto Basin. Behind me is the dark hollow of a shallow and naturally formed cave. I am looking at a section of wall that is part of a rock-and-mortar structure that once served as living quarters for generations of Salado Indian families.

My attention is focused on the print of a human hand pressed into the adobe plaster. The hand that made that print, I tell myself, once belonged to a living, breath-ing human being who worked, hoped, and aspired in this remote and Spartanly beautiful section of Arizona.

ing human being who worked, hoped, and aspired in this remote and Spartanly beautiful section of Arizona.

I assume that the owner of the hand was a male although the print is small. Who was he, I wonder. What was his life like? How did he feel and think when, all those centuries ago, he stood where I now stand?

I reach out and cover the print with my own hand. Perhaps I am hoping to receive some sensory impression across the gulf of time, something that would help me answer the questions. If so, the gesture is futile. No psychic messages are received. I try to clear my mind of modern thought and think as he might have thought. I would like to know how it felt to live here in that slow-moving era when there were no clocks or buzzers or appointments to segment the warm days. I sit on a large boulder and let the quiet enfold me. At the bottom of the canyon, I can see the Tonto National Monument Visitor Center, a few parked cars, a man and woman coming up the trail far below. In the distant valley, where the Salt River once ran unimpeded, there is a large body of water, the reservior created by Roosevelt Dam. Other than these few contemporary signs, I know that the land is much the same as it was when the maker of the handprint lived here. So. Why did he leave? Where did all the others go? How could an entire society virtually disappear? For nearly a century, About A.D. 1400, the Salado people abandoned their cliff-dwellings, archeologists theorize, because of environmental degradation and disease brought on by overcrowding. These rock and mortar ruins are all that remain.

Archaeologists have sifted through the ruins of Tonto National Monument looking for clues to that puzzle. Early on, it was believed that the Salado were terrorized by marauding Apaches. But later it was discovered that the first Apaches arrived in the Tonto Basin long after the Salado disappeared.

Tree-ring studies tell us that drought could have been a factor. But the Salado always had the running river, and they knew the techniques of irrigation and farming. Disease? Perhaps a fast-spreading epidemic killed many of them, contributing to their decline. If so, the archeologists would have found evidence of this. Maybe they made an orderly migration toward the southeast and intermingled with the Indians living in what is now New Mexico. The only evidence for that, however, is the fact that the distinctive Salado pottery has been discovered there. But, since the Salado were extremely active traders, this proves only that their craftsmanship moved not the entire community.

There is today a prevailing opinion, and possibly a lesson for modern man, that has emerged from all the years of digging and sifting in the Salados' long-abandoned structures. It starts with the fact that the Tonto Basin and the uplands on either side of the river comprised a place of mild climate, tillable soil, always-available water, and plentiful wild game. There were also abundant plants in great variety that provided fruit, seeds, and beans as well as materials for baskets, sandals, and other household items. Trees along the river - cottonwoods, sycamore, elders, and mesquite could be felled for building materials and fuel.

The Salado also knew how to farm. They built an extensive network of irrigation ditches and small canals. They raised cotton, corn, and beans. And they were a people who excelled as weavers and makers of pottery.

From my position in front of the lower ruins (there is another, larger complex of dwellings in a cave farther up the canyon), I see a profusion of flowers: orange, red, and lavender, all down the length of the canyon. Giant saguaros stretch their arms toward a sky of purest blue. A cool breeze courses its way along the hillside and, to the north, majestic mountains form the horizon.

But apparently the Salado had a tragic flaw. Prevailing opinion says the flaw was a cavalier attitude toward the environment and its bounty. It was an attitude born, most likely, from ignorance or a general unconcern. When this attitude later combined with a continuing increase in population, severely overcrowding the valley, the stage was set for social and economic collapse.

For the Salado, wood was a critical resource. It was employed widely as a building material. But, most importantly, wood was the only fuel available to these prehistoric people. Over time, the thick groves of trees in the lowlands diminished. After the last of these were felled, trees in the upland canyons were taken down and accumulations of dried wood gathered. The population continued to go up; the supply of wood continued to go down. And finally, the wood was gone entirely, another factor in the community's decline.

Farming by the Salado, it is believed, led eventually to nutrient stripping, especially in the uplands. As the soil was drained of its nutrients, crop yields fell drastically. This, in turn, contributed to a greatly diminished supply of wild game. The land was now ripe for erosion, so much so that many of the Salados' mountain trails washed out.

Many believe that the continuing lack of fuel and food created an atmosphere of social unrest and personal stress that the temperament of these peaceful people began to change, and they commenced bickering and fighting among themselves. Cohesive groups moved up into the canyons and built the dwellings that remain in the sheltering caves of Tonto National Monument. These were buildings with heavy walls, natural protection, and access controlled by ladders that could be pulled up quickly.

Evidence indicates that political factions developed, but these, most likely, only intensified the strife. Under such stressful conditions, the artistic pursuits of the tribe the weaving of fine cloth and the making of pottery must have decreased markedly. If so, trading with other distant tribes would have fallen off.

AN OMEN IN THE RUINS

Disease, spread largely by overcrowding and poor sanitation, could have killed many of the Salado gradually. Poor diet perhaps even malnutrition and starvation claimed others. Internecine fighting may have taken more lives. And finally, with the land stripped, food scarce, and fuel supplies gone, people began to scatter, probably in all directions. And then, on a certain day unknown to history, the last man or last woman walked out of the basin. And, from that day forward, the Salado would be known only by what they left behind.

Rise from my resting place on the boulder. It is time to start back down the trail. But the handprint that has held my attention for the past few minutes still intrigues. Etched there, in reverse, the palm faces me, fingers spread. I realize for the first time that I am looking at a universal gesture that says, “Stop.”

WHEN YOU GO

Perhaps that is what the handprint is saying. Maybe it is saying, “Stop. Stop and listen to the shout of the silent message that lingers in these abandoned rooms. We bequeath to you our mistakes.” Travel Guide: For a detailed travel guide to Arizona, we recommend Travel Arizona, a newly revised Arizona Highways book that describes in detail with maps and pictures 16 oneto three-day trips, and also includes a variety of great hikes. Our Road Atlas, featuring maps of 27 cities, mileage charts and points of interest, also is very useful for travelers. Arizona: Land of Contrasts, a videotape by Bill Leverton, gives a storyteller's perspective of the state. For more information or to order, call toll-free 1 (800) 543-5432. In the Phoenix area, 258-1000.

Getting there: From Phoenix, drive east on U.S. Route 60-89 to Apache Junction. Here you have a choice. The Apache Trail (State Route 88) provides a magnificent scenic drive, but it winds through rugged country with 22 miles of unpaved mountain road. Or you can take U.S. 60 past Miami and then proceed north at the other end of State Route 88 to the monument. Either option requires about 2.5 hours of driving time from Phoenix.

What to see and do: Within the 1.5-square-mile area of the monument are well-preserved rock and masonry ruins. The Lower Ruin (19 rooms) and the Lower Ruin Annex (11 rooms) may be visited at any time. The Upper Ruin (40 rooms) is opened only for guided tours (call in advance for information). The Visitor Center and Museum offer a display of artifacts and a 12-minute slide program on the ruins and the early Salado people. Park rangers are available to answer questions and provide visitor assistance. Picnic facilities also are available.

Hours: Open 8:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. every day except Christmas.

Travel with the Friends of Arizona Highways

The Friends of Arizona Highways, our volunteer auxiliary, conducts a variety of tours to some of Arizona's most spectacular locales. Here is a partial schedule of trips you will want to take:

Photo Tours

These are threeto five-day workshops for advanced photo buffs offered in some of the most spectacular places in Arizona. Well-known photographers whose pictures have appeared in Arizona Highways will lead the trips and share their knowledge and skill. Photo Tours include: March 8-10: Follow Arizona Highways Picture Editor Peter Ensenberger and Jerry Sieve through Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument.

April 17-19: Frank Zullo, the West's premier photographer of the night sky, leads a workshop into the Superstition Mountains.

May 2-5: Explore the unforgettable beauty of Aravaipa Canyon Wilderness Area on an 11-mile trek with Christine Keith.

Shutterbug Safaris

These are one-day photo excursions for the casual snapshooter. Photographers lead tours from Phoenix or Tucson to destina-tions within a 125-mile radius of each metropolitan area. Safari members will have the opportunity to photograph such scenic locations as the Apache Trail, San Xavier Mission, and the Catalina Mountains. Individualized excursions can be planned for special interest groups. For complete information on Photo Tours or Shutterbug Safaris, or to make reservations, telephone the Friends of Arizona Highways Travel Desk, (602) 271-5904.

Scenic Tours

Twoand three-day tours, sponsored in association with the Arizona Automobile Association, are scheduled regularly to the Grand Canyon and Lake Powell. For additional information or to make reservations, telephone the AAA at (602) 274-5805 in Phoenix, or telephone 1 (800) 352-5382 statewide.

Longer scenic tours visit the state's most historic cities and towns, significant prehistoric sites, museums, gardens, and nature preserves. For reservations on these longer scenic tours call the Friends' Travel Desk at (602) 271-5382. A scenic tour highlight will be: May: Ray Manley, a senior Arizona Highways photographer, will lead a fourday exploration of northern Arizona's exciting Indian country.

Travel with the Friends of Arizona Highways

MILEPOSTS FROM TITANS TO TOMBSTONE

Jerry LaBarre of the Sierra Vista Chamber of Commerce gave us a lot of behind-the-scenes help when we published a story on Fort Huachuca (August 1989). Now he has a few favorite day tours from the little town nestled at the foot of the Huachuca Mountains. Just five miles away, he says, is the Apache Pointe Ranch, where you can see buffalo, longhorns, and humming-birds, and enjoy a Western restaurant. The Coronado National Monument, high in the Coronado National Forest, is 20 miles south via State Route 92. Tombstone is 16 miles away, on Charleston Road. You will pass the ghost town of Charleston and seven working gold mines on the way. And a bird-watcher's paradise, Ramsey Canyon, is just five miles down the road (telephone (602) 378-2785 for reservations). Nature lovers also enjoy the 54,189-acre San Pedro Riparian Conservation Area, six miles from town. Organized tours from Tucson will take you to San Xavier Mission, the Titan Missile Museum, Tombstone, Bisbee, and Tumacácori National Historical Park, as well as Patagonia's Museum of the Horse and the grasslands where Oklahoma! was filmed, and host you overnight at one of Sierra Vista's hotels. For reservations, telephone or write to the Sierra Vista Chamber of Commerce, 77 Calle Portal, Suite 140, Sierra Vista, AZ 85635; (602) 458-6940.

TRAVEL GUIDE GETS AN UPDATE

Our popular guidebook, Travel Arizona, has been revised completely for its sixth edition. It details 16 oneto three-day state tours and is available for $9.95 through your bookstore or through Arizona Highways, 2039 W. Lewis Ave., Phoenix, AZ 85009; telephone (602) 258-6641 or 1 (800) 543-5432.

TURQUOISE POWER

Although turquoise jewelry has enjoyed an enormous growth in popularity of late, collecting turquoise is not a modern phenomenon. Arizona's Yavapai Indians have treasured the colorful mineral since ancient times, not only for its beauty but also because it was thought turquoise had special powers. The Yavapais believed it had a particular influence on animals. If a deer hunter carried a large piece of turquoise into the field, the mineral would cause his quarry to tire quickly. As a result, turquoise was never worn when riding horseback.

OLD WEST DEJA VU

During the latter part of the 19th century, energetic Arizonans worked tirelessly to assure the rest of the country that the territory was no longer a lawless frontier overrun with desperados and highwaymen. It seems that about the time everyone got to believing Arizona was ready for statehood, some galoot would go and spoil things. Like the time back in 1888 when Jim Brazelton held up the Tucson-Florence stage. He didn't get away with much cash, and it might have been quickly forgotten had there not been a newspaperman on board. John Clum, founder of the Tombstone Epitaph, was an eyewitness and wrote a colorful account of the event. Naturally, the story made the newspapers back East and attracted a lot of attention locally. The following week, the stage made the same run. This time it was filled with curious tourists who wanted to see where the famous robbery occurred. It was a joyous group of boisterous thrill seekers on the stage that day. When they neared the site where the stage was robbed, the passengers grew anxious. "Show us where the desperado appeared," one demanded. The driver pulled up the horses and pointed out toward a large bush. "It was right over there. He hid behind that bush," the driver declared. And, with a look of startled surprise, added, "And by golly, there he is again." This time Brazelton's victims were wealthy tourists, and the haul was considerable. The media loved it, and Arizona's lawless reputation remained intact.

HOW WE SEE THE INDIANS

A new book on the Anglo-European vision of American Indians combines a fascinating text with beautifully reproduced artwork. In Native Americans: Five Centuries of Changing Images (Harry N. Abrams, Publishers, 1989), Patricia Trenton and Patrick Houlihan, an art historian and an anthropologist, respectively, juxtapose European visual images of the original Americans with artifacts. The result is a portrayal of the relationship between Anglos and Native Americans and the way we have changed over the centuries.

A BEAR TALE

Few people get a chance to attend their own funeral — alive that is. But Isadore Christopher claimed he did. If this story is true, he is likely the only person in Arizona history who was a witness to his own funeral. It all happened in the 1880s up on the Mogollon Rim, where Christopher had a small ranch along the creek named for him. While riding one day, he came upon a large bear. He shot the critter then hauled the carcass back to the ranch and dumped it in a log shanty. Later that day, he rode out to gather some cattle, and while he was away, a war party of Apaches decided to pay a call. Finding nobody at home, they set fire to Christopher's humble abode. A troop of cavalry arrived at the ranch a few minutes afterthe Apaches vamoosed. The soldiers inspected the smoldering ruins and found some cooked remains. They naturally figured it was Christopher and decided he needed a proper burial. A grave was dug hastily, and funeral services were begun. During the ceremony, Christopher rode in, quickly sized up the situation, and informed the solemn party they were holding a funeral for a bear.

CHAMBER MUSIC GOES MODERN

This season, the Phoenix Chamber Music Society institutes “New Directions,” an innovative series of contemporary music programs at the Scottsdale Center for the Arts. The first brings the famous Kronos Quartet (RIGHT) to the Valley on January 11. The Schoenberg Quartet will visit the Valley March 22. In addition, the society will continue to present its annual season of fine chamber music. For more information, telephone (602) 266-3524.

WHO READS WHAT

What books on Arizona do Sandra Day O'Connor, Rose Mofford, Scott Momaday, Bruce and Hattie Babbitt, and David Muench list as favorites? Mesa Community College librarians Marcia Melton and Jeanette Daane asked authors, professors, government leaders, photographers, writers, and clergy members to recommend the best books on Arizona. The result is a booklist of more than 160 titles, with comments. To obtain a copy free of charge, write to Marcia Melton or Jeanette Daane at Mesa Community College, 1833 W. Southern Avenue, Mesa, AZ 85202.

TOMBSTONE'S “TACK”

Betty Ridge, one of our correspondents in Tombstone, takes exception to a remark by Joe Stocker in his story on Arizona's “ghost” towns (June 1990). In passing, he described the little burg as “tacky” prior to its various restoration projects. “Tombstone began as a raw, rough community of tents, lean-tos, and pioneers,” she says. “There have been times of abandoned buildings and small populace, but in the worst of those days, it was never 'tacky.' It was a community bound together by hard times, populated by the people who started the town and their descendants. Perhaps it was economically depressed, but then so was much of the country.” Betty is a 51-year resident of Tombstone. Her mother and children were born and reared there.

SHORTCUTS

The fourth annual Dixieland Jazz Festival takes place January 18-20 at the Ramada London Bridge Resort - telephone (602) 855-0888 for details....On January 1, 1909, Barry M. Goldwater was born.

Check out Prescottonian Melissa Ruffner's window on frontier life-styles in her Arizona Territorial Cookbook, published by Primrose Press, 815 Bertrand Avenue, Prescott, AZ 86303; telephone (602) 445-4567....Dave Schmitt, active in the Arizona Department of Transportation's Adopt-a-Highway effort, says more than 75 organizations nearly doubled the number of miles of “adopted” roads last year. For information on how you and your group can help care for Arizona's highways, telephone (602) 255-8281 or 255-7386.

Contributors: Marshall Trimble, Vicky Hay, and Jim Schreier. Cartoons by Jack Graham.