Trek to the Land of the Blue-green Water

BY: Vicky Hay

Trek to the land of the blue-green waters Havasu Canyon

Theodore Wescogame urged his horse and a pack animal up a thousand feet of switchbacks to the top of Hualapai Canyon into driving snow. He was ahead of schedule and had to wait for the two women he was supposed to meet: photographer Christine Keith and me.

Fortunately, Chris and I, having no desire to linger over breakfast as the snow fell on the piñon forest around us, broke camp early that spring morning. The wind bit through our clothes, and, about the time we drove up to the visitors' parking lot at Hualapai Hilltop, the snowfall changed from dry Styrofoam-like pellets to large, soft, wet flakes.

Theodore, standing there beside his two horses, looked like a Himalayan Sherpa with only his strongly Asiatic features showing beneath layers of nylon, wool, and denim. Although he insisted he hadn't been waiting long, he took the opportunity to warm himself inside the pink block building by the corral when he saw we still had gear to pack.

Later, as he loaded our heavy backpacks onto a horse and tied a tarp over them, Theodore said he had been shuttling in and out of Supai, a village eight miles down canyon, since he was a boy. Now he was a man with three grown children.

"Would you rather do this in the snow or the heat?" asked Chris, who last visited Supai the previous July.

"Summer's better," he said. "It's not so cold."

He disappeared over the rim while we were pulling on more layers of clothes and wrapping ourselves into our rubberized rain gear.

It seemed an inauspicious start for this trip, an off-season hike from Hualapai Hilltop to the blue-green waters and travertine falls of Havasu Canyon, more than nine miles below the Coconino Plateau. We gazed over the edge and saw a silver haze of snow falling into the gorge. The gray overcast looked as though it could last all day.

"Chris, this is bad craziness," I said, as we started down.

The initial sharp drop, which starts with a series of about 25 steep switchbacks, lasts only about a mile and a half. "Steep" is the operative word. The snow changed slowly to sleet, then to rain. Then, amazingly, the alabaster sky began to clear. By the time we reached the bottom of the switchbacks, the sun was stampeding the clouds and showering light on a brilliant rain-washed panorama of red, buff, and blue buttes. No longer icy, the breeze invigorated perfect for this long hike. An arroyo filled with red boulders lay below a mahogany-colored slope, where sage-green clumps of brush stood in discreet, evenly spaced tufts. When we looked back at the fluted cliffs above us, we could not see the path. Unless you had walked the trail, you would not believe a person could possibly scale that towering, seemingly trackless wall.

From here on, the path descends gently across a long inner plateau. It passes through Hualapai Canyon to Havasu Canyon and then leads into the village of Supai, where the Havasupai Indians make their home.

These people, originally hunters and gatherers, who ranged all over the Coconino Plateau (Bright Angel Trail at the Grand Canyon is an old Havasupai route), began their contact with Anglo-Americans in the middle of the 19th century. Intrusions by miners after the 1863 discovery of gold in Prescott led to conflict, and, by 1900, the Havasupai were confined to a tiny reservation, most of their property usurped by ranchers or subsumed in national forests and parks. In the 1970s, they won a suit against the federal government for lands wrongfully taken, and later their reservation was enlarged by 185,000 acres. Today, about 400 to 500 tribal members live in Supai.

(PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 38 AND 39) Swimmers frolic in the plunge pool beneath Mooney Falls.We were strolling on what amounts to a highway. Several packtrains go back and forth between Supai and Hualapai Hilltop daily, carrying freight and mail. Everything the residents do not grow or make must be carried in on horseback or by helicopter, and as many as 20,000 tourists hike into Havasupai each year.

Chris and I ambled through the canyon. We were not alone: a dog, seeking companionship and handouts, had taken up with us at Hualapai Hilltop the night before. Vague of ancestry, he appeared to have sprung from German shepherd and coyote loins. He was good-natured and looked healthy even sported a current rabies tag. Ravens soared like large black hawks overhead or perched in the leafless trees, and once we saw a turkey vulture, scarlet head unmistakable, riding the cool eddies at the canyon's rim. Dog seemed to savor the landscape as much as we. He would trot to the edge of sheer precipices and gaze into the void, ears alert and head cocked. He accompanied us all the way to Supai, pausing with us each time we decided to rest or take in the convoluted sandstone walls.

Two miles below Hualapai Hilltop, at a boulder into which someone has incised the message, "2 mile," the red rocks eaten away by wind and water look as if giant worms gnawed them. Here, a short walk below the piñon trees, grow agave, yucca, cactus, and desert brush as tidily as in a garden. We hid a gallon of water to use for the climb out.

We hiked through mahogany siltstones and down to the salmon and tan sandstones of the Supai Group, where multi-colored boulders red, pink, buff, white, and purple litter the washes. The trail follows a dry streambed, a place that promises monsoon-season floods. An occasional rugged cottonwood grows from the wash, and, in places, the rosy walls narrow so tightly that at high noon you could walk in shade.

The campground, two miles below Supai Village, was almost empty in this off-season.

We checked in at the Supai Tourist Enterprise and collected our gear, which Theodore had stacked at the gate. Then we chose a campsite near the fern-draped spring that supplies the camp's clear water.

As nightfall came on, the breeze rose to a stiff, cold wind. Setting up camp by flashlight was less than fun, especially after we broke a tent stay. But others seemed to be getting the worst of it: across the campground a male voice, shrill with frustration, kept shouting obscenities.

Dog followed us into camp. “Go home,” we told him firmly. To our surprise, he left, never to bother with us again.

Chilled through, we fired up our tiny camp stove no open fires are permitted in the canyon cooked a quick meal of instant fettucine spiked with canned tuna, and bedded down. Even though the hike had seemed less than arduous, I found myself suffering the insomnia that comes with being overtired that, and the fact it isn't easy in the dark to clear every rock and twig from the place you put your ground cloth.

WHEN YOU GO

Getting there: The trail to Supai begins at Hualapai Hilltop: turn north from State 66 about seven miles east of Peach Springs, Arizona. The 60-mile paved road has no services, and no water is available at the hilltop. Get gas before the turnoff, and be sure you have plenty of drinking water at least a gallon per person in hot weather, and two to three quarts in cool seasons.

Allow four to six hours to make the eight-mile hike into the village; if you camp, you walk another two miles to Havasu Campground. Although the trail is easy to follow, it is steep in places; you should be in reasonably good condition and wear hiking boots with tread. You can rent a saddle horse, if you prefer not to walk; this costs $70, round-trip to the village, or $90 to the campground. Hiring a packhorse to carry your gear will cost you the same. Helicopter fares run about $300 round trip; telephone (800) 528-2318 (outside Arizona) or (602) 638-2419.

We woke to a bright, clear morning and the tremolo of a canyon wren. Before long, we were on our way to investigate Havasu Falls.

The water in Havasu Creek trickles down through the porous limestone of the Coconino Plateau, collecting calcium and magnesium carbonates and other minerals.

Where to stay: The 24-unit lodge is clean and recently renovated; on-season rates (March 1-November 30) run from about $45 to about $66; off-season (December 1-February 28), about $30 to about $50. Write or telephone Havasupai Lodges, Supai, AZ 86435; (602) 448-2111.

Campgrounds near Havasu and Mooney falls supply safe spring water do not drink water from the creek! On-season rates are $12 per person per night; off-season, $8 nightly. For horse rental and other information, contact Havasupai Tourist Enterprise, Supai, AZ 86435; (602) 448-2121.

In season, these accommodations are very crowded. You must make reservations well in advance to hike, camp, or stay in the lodge. Travelers must check in at the Tribal Tourist Enterprise upon reaching Supai village. Those who have not made arrangements prior to hiking down may be instructed to turn around and hike back out.

These settle on the streambed, forming a porcelain-white bottom that, like the lining of a swimming pool, makes the water look blue or aqua. The mineral-laden liquid forms small basins through which the stream steps downhill.

No matter how many photographs you have seen, your first view of Havasu Falls Join a future Friends of Arizona Highways hiking photo tour to this spectacular corner of Arizona. For information, call the Friends' Travel Desk, (602) 271-5904. surprises. Approaching from Supai, the path is dusty and dry. Your only warning is a rushing sound that echoes off the high redwall cliff flanking the trail. As you drop farther into the canyon, you come upon the tall cataract from the top it jumps into full view. A great spray of water pours over fans of travertine limestone - the same stuff that collects on the river bottom, only turned red-brown by exposure to air and crashes to a startling blue-green plunge pool far below.

Havasu Canyon

Chris and I made our way through a labyrinth of prickly pear approaching the waterfall. “Man!” I said as we looked back toward the radiant red cliff. “Can you imagine what this place looks like when all those cacti are in bloom? A whole field of yellow blossoms or maybe even magenta.” “I wonder when that happens?” asked Chris.

“Prickly pear flowers in May.”

“We'll have to come back here then.”

We climbed down the steep incline to the plunge pool, and, while Chris enjoyed the cottonwood-shaded beach, I went to explore the grottos near the falls. Maidenhair ferns, moss, and tufts of grass grow in the constantly drenched soil. Formations like stalactites decorate tiny caves in the cliffside as mist-deposited travertine builds like candle wax on a Chianti bottle, and in one chamber an underground stream forms its own waterfall.

I made my way to the head of the falls, where I found another cactus maze and a sign that reads “Jumping from this point is prohibited. Violators will be fined $500.00.” You would have to be very drunk or very crazy to jump off this cliff. The creek seems to pause and eddy in its amber basins as if it too were wary of the 100-foot drop. The scent of river water and creosote bush saturates the air, and an elusive rainbow glimmers in the mist, scarcely sustaining the weight of a long stare.

After lunch we headed for Mooney Falls, about a mile downstream. At the top of a trail carved by turn-of-the-century prospectors stands another sign: Descent of them to tell us.

They're not kidding. In places the trail is a single footstep wide; nothing separates you from the void but air. Chris, a younger and more athletic woman than I, strolled down this mountain-goat path as though it were a boulevard in San Francisco. “You can do it,” she urged. “It's not very hard.” “I go up a lot easier than I go down,” I whined, trying not to look over the side.

“Just put one foot here,” she instructed, indicating a nine-inch-wide ledge. That was easy. The problem was passing the other foot between the altogether-too-solid wall and the first foot without levering my body off into space. Eventually I made it.

The trail descends the south side of the canyon, giving you a panoramic view. Then it passes through some limestone caves, after which you lower yourself, using one hand to cling to a chain that leads down a set of slippery rocks.

“Once you're down there,” Chris said, “you can hike the neatest side-canyon. Or you can go six miles down to the Colorado River.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You want to climb down this chain?” she asked.

“Why don't we just sit here on this balcony between the two caves and enjoy the view,” I suggested.

Mooney Falls is a study in motion. A wide crescent of travertine spans the canyon, and, in the center, the river spills 200 feet past frozen cascades of rock. Water explodes outward from the descending column. Twisting plumes fly in the wind. The torrent hits the pool below with terrifying force, creating a fountain of spray.

“I bet we're the only people here,” said Chris. We had met no one between Havasu and Mooney, and, as we looked onto the pool and sandy beach and down the chasm that headed for the Colorado River, we could not see a living soul. “In the summer, this place is wall-to-wall Coney Island,” she continued. “It would be difficult to set up a camera and a tripod from this vantage point because you'd be blocking the way for so many hikers.” Precious solitude. I felt completely relaxed. Havasu Canyon is not exactly a wilderness, although it's more like one in the winter when few tourists visit. There's a town here, with telephones and satellite dishes, and the campgrounds can accommodate more people than I care to rub elbows with. But, at this moment, I gave silent thanks for those who preserved this spot from the depredations of 19th-century miners seeking to extract gold, silver, lead, and vanadium from the travertine and sandstone walls, and from the schemes of engineers who once proposed a dam on this creek.

That evening, as we savored our coffee, something small and scrabbly came out of the dark, right up to our table. We heard it scratching at our supply bag, which we had left on the picnic-table bench."Hey! It's a raccoon," yelped Chris. "Get outta here!"

I caught it in my flashlight beam, and it froze. "It's not a raccoon. What do you think it is?"

Posed on a fallen branch, its catlike face staring into the glare, the lithe creature had a bushy black-and-white banded tail. It was, we realized, a ringtail. "That light's hypnotizing him," said Chris. "Turn it off." As soon as we did, the animal disappeared into the night.

Chris hoped it would come back perhaps she could photograph it so we tried to lure it by placing our food bag in a conspicuously raidable spot. But the ringtail never returned.

On the way out the next morning, we stopped at the café in Supai for a breakfast burro (bacon, eggs, and hash browns wrapped in a tortilla) and some coffee. The walls are decorated with photos and posters, many urging people to good works or community action. We watched some preschool children playing in the town square and chatted with then-Tribal Chairman Wayne Sinyella, who gave us permission to photograph the reservation.

It was after 1:30 before we started the long hike out past the Wigleeva, the two rock pillars standing guard over the Indians and their crops.

Walking up a dry wash, we came to a narrow red canyon, its striated walls arched into shady coves. Chris went into a photographer's frenzy, and I stretched out on a flat rock while she set up the cumbersome four-by-five camera.

The undercut ledges looked as though they must have been laid down as mud which then, after eons, hardened. The Southwest's cinnamon rocks often have a fluid quality: they either look like they were once liquid themselves, or they bear The flowing lines of the wind and water that carve them. The afternoon sun sent an ecclesiastical glow through a black-washed notch, illuminating a swarm of gnats. Dancing specks of life, backlit, scintillated in the air.

Much, much later we reached two-mile rock, where we retrieved our stash of water, and ate. A gibbous moon hung over a bank of cliffs which, golden in the setting sun, rose above a layer of red shale. Then it was time to start up. Really up.

Climbing, we did the rest-step: step, lock knee, rest the other leg as it swings forward, step. Chris calls it a mountaineering technique. I call it the rest-trudge.

Night had fallen when we got to the switchbacks, but the moon was so bright it cast our shadows on the trail and washed the canyon in silver light. The climb seemed easy, thanks to the cool weather and our having carried plenty of water and perhaps to the rest-trudge.

We arrived in Phoenix about 1:30 A.M. Even at that hour, the freeway was crowded. A pickup shot past us traveling maybe 75 miles an hour. Sirens screamed: a firetruck and ambulance charged through a red light.

Havasu. It waits.

Travel Guides: 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 recommends 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 story-tellers' perspective of the state. To order these guides, call toll-free 1 (800) 543-5432. In the Phoenix area, telephone 258-1000.

Vicky Hay is a former associate editor of Arizona Highways, where she developed an interest in hiking. Her most recent book is The Essential Feature: Writing for Magazines and Newspapers, published by Columbia University Press. Arizona Republic photographer Christine Keith is a Leica Medal of Excellence winner whose work encompasses both photojournalism and landscape photography. See the following for information about an Aravaipa Canyon bike with Chris.

TRAVEL WITH THE FRIENDS OF ARIZONA HIGHWAYS

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

Photo Tours

These are threeto five-day workshops for advanced amateur 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: April 17-19: Frank Zullo, the West's pre-mier photographer of the night sky, leads a group into the Superstition Mountains to capture the heavens above the desert.

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

July 26-28: Visit the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest with Dale Schicketanz.

Shutterbug Safaris

These are one-day photo excursions for the casual snapshooter. Photographers lead tours from Phoenix or Tucson to destina-

Scenic Tours

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 Moun-tains. Individualized excursions can be planned for special interest groups.

Longer scenic tours visit the state's most historic cities and towns, significant prehistoric sites, museums, gardens, and nature preserves. A scenic tour highlight will be: May 6-10: Ray Manley, a senior Arizona Highways photographer, will lead a four-day tour to northern Arizona's Indian country, including overnight stays at Gouldings in Monument Valley and at Thunderbird Lodge in Canyon de Chelly.

For information and reservations on Photo Tours, Shutterbug Safaris, and longer Scenic Tours, telephone the Friends of Arizona Highways Travel Desk (602) 271For scenic tours in conjunction with AAA, telephone (602) 274-5805 in Phoenix, or 1 (800) 352-5382 statewide.