Flagstaff: Queen of the North Country

BY: John Swagerty

FLAGSTAFF GATEWAY TO GRAND ADVENTURES

Text by John Swagerty In 1983, on a cool morning in early spring, Nancy Schultz said goodbye to Minnesota. At the time, she was about 10 miles east of Flagstaff, Arizona, standing on the north rim of Walnut Canyon. If not altogether rational, her decision to leave home was unequivocal. At Walnut Canyon, she had discovered the country of her imagination, the place where she knew she belonged. In the seven years since her discovery, it would have been an uncommon morning when Schultz could not be seen patrolling along the north rim of the canyon. Shortly after that first visit, she went back to

F L A G S T A F F

Minnesota, resigned her job with the Forest Service, returned to Arizona, and applied for a job with the National Park Service. She was hired by the park service and assigned to Walnut Canyon.

I met Schultz on a sparkling April morning during a spur-of-the-moment tour of the Flagstaff area. Following stops at two national monuments, Sunset Crater and Wupatki, and at the Museum of Northern Arizona the day before, I drove out to Walnut Canyon not long after sunrise and started down the trail that runs along a ridge to an island of Sinagua cliff dwellings, a few hundred yards off the north rim. Schultz, wearing the gray and green uniform of the park service, was heading up the trail as I was heading down. Her warm smile and cheerful greeting suggested she was amenable to conversation. Indeed she was. In her early 30s, I guessed, Schultz has the sturdy build, easy gait, and rosy complexion one would associate with her occupation. Articulate and informed when describing the natural history and anthropology of the canyon, she faltered a bit when explaining her reasons for leaving Minnesota and moving to Arizona. "It was just one of those things you know you have to do without knowing why," she said as we plopped down on one of the benches situated alongside the flights of steps winding down to the cliffdwellings trail. "It was a feeling. The first time I saw the canyon, I felt better, physically and emotionally, than I could ever remember feeling. I knew this was the place where I had to work." Walnut Canyon, she went on, "seems to change in small ways, perhaps everyone who comes here. Tourists switch to a different mode when they walk into the canyon. They lower their voices as if

They were in a library or a cathedral. And you never see any litter or graffiti in Walnut Canyon." It is a shame, Schultz said before she continued on up the trail, that the 2,249acre Walnut Canyon area, a national monument since 1915, and located only 7 1/2 miles east of Flagstaff and three miles south of Interstate 40, "isn't better known, that we're not better publicized. But then, there's something to be said for the tranquillity, isn't there? In winter I sometimes come out to the canyon on my days off and just walk around; I have the trail all to myself." On that spring morning, as I sat in bright sunlight up the trail from the cluster of Sinagua cliff dwellings and watched a couple of turkey vultures ride the thermal updrafts, everything Nancy Schultz said made perfect sense. What didn't make sense was that this was the first time I had ever been in Walnut Canyon. Driving along Interstate 40 over the years, I had passed the turnoff to the canyon countless times, but I had never been tempted to turn south. At the end of the road, I would probably have supposed, had I thought about it, was a rocky ravine with a few scrubby pines and some sort of an establishment that sold hot dogs and junk jewelry and had greasy towels dangling from jammed machines in the rest rooms. I had been soured on tourist stops in the Southwest by too many trips past billboards promoting pits of live rattlesnakes and the world's largest gopher. Visiting Walnut Canyon was not what I had in mind when I drove from Phoenix to Flagstaff a couple of days before. I had gone to Flagstaff to catch a train. I was in the canyon only because I had missed that train. One evening the prior month, while in Flagstaff visiting friends and staying in a motel just south of downtown, I heard trains go by. I cannot hear a train go by without wishing I were on it. The destination isn't important; a train is a destination unto itself. It had been 30 years since I had traveled by rail in this country, and I wasn't altogether certain that passenger service was available in Flagstaff. The next afternoon, I walked over to the depot to see what might be going where. The depot, with its vending machines, shiny tile floors, and contoured plastic chairs, had all the romance of a minit-lube. Except for a smiling Amtrak agent, the place was deserted. "We have a lot of passengers who ride the train just to be riding a train," the agent said. "If you're interested in a short ride, your best bet is to take the Southwest Chief to Albuquerque. Leave here in the early morning, arrive Albuquerque in the early afternoon, leave Albuquerque in the late afternoon, be back here that night."

Two weeks later, I went back to Flagstaff to ride the Southwest Chief. Morning light caught the tips of the San Francisco Peaks but had yet to spill over onto the city when I drove downtown. The streets were almost empty, but there were several dozen people milling about the station. I hadn't seen that many people waiting for a train since World War II.

"Sorry," said the same smiling Amtrak agent I met previously. "We're fully booked. Because of the Greyhound strike, everyone is taking the train. You need to make a reservation. We can get you on in a few days."

As long as I was at the depot, I decided I might as well wait for the Southwest Chief. Perhaps a conductor or porter would let me on board for a few minutes to look around, to see if the train was fit for riding.

Seated next to me in a plastic chair was an elderly gentleman with thin gray hair, a scraggly beard, misty blue eyes, and the rumpled look of someone who had been away from home for a long time. He was a priest from Australia, a member of the Order of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, on his way to Chicago for a conference.

He had left home, Melbourne, about a month before and had spent most of that time traveling in this country. It was his first trip to the states, and he was thoroughly enjoying himself. "This is grand country," he said. "Reminds me of home, the people anyway open, friendly, never suspicious of strangers. But then we're all cousins, aren't we? Descendants of convicts, you know."

He asked me where I was going, and I told him I had intended to take the Southwest Chief to Albuquerque but that the train was fully booked. "I know," he said. "I tried to get a sleeper to Chicago; nothing open. I'm taking the train only because of the bus strike. I had a Greyhound ticket that would let me go anywhere in the country. But that's no good now, is it?

"Anyway, this is not a bad place to be stranded for a couple of days," he said, the Ohio State sweatshirt I was wearing leading him to conclude that I was not from the Flagstaff area. "While you're here, you might as well look around. I wouldn't mind spending some more time here myself. I may come back this way."

The priest's suggestion had merit. As many times as I had been to Flagstaff, I had never gone there to see the sights. I went to Flagstaff - usually in summer because I had relatives there and because of the cool nights and cold tap water. Driving north from Phoenix during the hot months of the year, I always felt optimistic when I rounded a curve just south of Munds Park and the San Francisco Peaks flashed across my windshield. Up the road were cool nights and, yes, cold tap water.

Now I had an entire free day before going back to Phoenix. While I was in

WHEN YOU GO

Getting there: A town of about 40,000 people in north-central Arizona, Flagstaff is located at the junction of Interstate routes 17 and 40, 135 miles north of Phoenix and 80 miles southeast of the Grand Canyon.

What to see: In addition to three national monuments, Walnut Canyon, Sunset Crater Volcano, and Wupatki, and the Museum of Northern Arizona, other sites of interest in the Flagstaff area include the Lowell Observatory (at which the planet Pluto was discovered), the Pioneer Historical Museum, Coconino Center for the Arts, Meteor Crater, and Oak Creek Canyon.

Where to stay: Lodging is abundant in Flagstaff, but during the summer months a motel room may be difficult to find; at that time of year, it is best to visit the area during the middle of the week. The historic Weatherford Hotel in downtown Flagstaff operates as a youth hostel and offers shared rooms to hostel members for about $8 per night. Motel rates range from about $20 at some of the older establishments near downtown to more than $100 at Little America on I-40 just east of Flagstaff; prices at most places drop considerably during the winter months. Flagstaff, I might as well see some more of the priest's "grand country."

FLAGSTAFF

The Southwest Chief arrived on sched-ule. After a quick tour of the passenger cars - far cleaner and more comfortable than I had expected - I collected at the depot brochures describing the area, found a map of Arizona in my car, and walked up San Francisco Street looking for a place to get a cup of coffee and plan my itinerary. I found it at the nostalgic 1920s-style Hotel Monte Vista, which offers a bit of charm along with food and lodging. Sunset Crater belonged somewhere on my list of things to see. A friend, a Northern Arizona University graduate stu-dent in geology whose special interest is volcanoes, becomes misty-eyed when he talks of Sunset Crater, as if it were the eighth wonder of the world.

As long as I was at Sunset Crater, I might as well continue on up the road to Wupatki National Monument. Back in town, I could stop for lunch at Charly's in the old Weatherford Hotel, then spend a couple of hours at the Lowell Observatory and the Museum of Northern Arizona. In late afternoon, I could drive out to Walnut Canyon to watch the sun set. Traveling north on U.S. 89, I reach the turnoff to Sunset Crater about 17 miles from downtown Flagstaff. It is two more miles to the National Park Service visitors center and, following the road that loops back to U.S. 89, 20 more miles to Wupatki National Monument.

Sunset Crater, so named by geologist/ explorer John Wesley Powell because of the deposit of cinders around the cone that supposedly has a reddish glow late in the afternoon on a clear day, may be, geologically, the eighth wonder of the world. The formation rises slowly some 1,000 feet above the surrounding meadow.

On that morning, a few clouds with dark centers and silver-blue edges were drifting by, and a cool wind was rippling the tall grass in the meadow, a sweeping, rolling steppe created by the eruptions that resulted in Sunset Crater. Those

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FLAGSTAFF

Volcanic upheavals began in A.D. 1064 and persisted for 200 years.

Following the paved road across the steppe between the crater and the ruins at Wupatki and with no one in sight, I almost felt as if I had taken a wrong turn, that I was traveling in a place where I didn't belong, that sooner or later someone would pop up along the road and ask: "Where in tarnation do you think you're going?"

I hurried on to Wupatki. After a leisurely and interesting tour of the ruins, once a three-story pueblo with more than 100 rooms, a ball court, and amphitheater - all of which had been abandoned by the Sinagua about 700 years ago - I returned to Flagstaff, had lunch at Charly's, then drove out to the Museum of Northern Arizona. In terms of keeping to my schedule, stopping at the museum was not a good idea.

The Museum of Northern Arizona is three miles northwest of Flagstaff on U.S. 180. On my way to the Grand Canyon, I had been by it a few times but had never paid much attention to the place, which is set-back off the road a bit and shaded by tall pines. Inside, I had presumed were dusty saddles, branding irons, miners' paraphernalia, and photographs of old trains and early Flagstaff settlers, all presided over by a crusty old gentleman who regarded tourists as busybodies.

In fact, the museum is an extraordinarily ambitious enterprise, dedicated to the preservation and exhibition of the natural and cultural history of the Colorado Plateau, a region that fully embraces northern Arizona, the Four Corners area, the Grand Canyon, Monument Valley, and Bryce and Zion national parks.

Harold S. Colton, a zoology professor from the University of Pennsylvania, founded the museum in 1928. Colton and his wife, Mary-Russell Ferrell Colton, an artist, spent their summers traveling about the Flagstaff area before relocating there in 1926. Disturbed by the number of artifacts being shipped out of the region by scientists involved in archeological excavations of prehistoric ruins, the Coltons joined with several Flagstaff residents in an effort to stem this outflow of links to the past by creating the museum.

Spread over 300 acres, the facility has on the west side of U.S. 180 a 19,448-squarefoot exhibits building that contains galleries in archeology, ethnology, geology, and fine arts. The exhibits building, which features eight rotating displays each year, also has an outdoor courtyard with a life-zone exhibit and a nature trail. On the other side of the road is the 44,304-square-foot Colton Research Center, which houses one million anthropology artifacts, 50,000 biology specimens, and 27,500 geology examples. The museum is staffed by 44 full-time and 15 part-time employees.

When I asked the receptionist at the exhibits building if I could speak to someone involved in the administration of the facility, she sent me across the highway to the research center. "Ask for Janet Dean," she said.

Dean, an enthusiastic young woman

FLAGSTAFF TRAVEL WITH THE FRIENDS OF ARIZONA HIGHWAYS

who has been the public relations manager at the museum for the last 3 1/2 years, seemed pleased to have a visitor. She interrupted what she was doing to show me around the research center, a rare treat since the center is only open to visitors one day a year.

"We don't get as many visitors as we would like, about 80,000 a year, at the exhibits building," she said during our tour. "Not enough people know about us. Anyone truly interested in the Flagstaff area and the Colorado Plateau should stop here. The museum provides a wonderful foundation for anyone traveling through this region."

The library at the research center, Dean pointed out, contains 50,000 scientific volumes, collections of historic photographs, manuscripts, and field notes. The most valuable resource in the library, Dean said, is Dorothy House, the librarian.

House is a tall, thin woman whose scholarly appearance is deceiving. She is a veteran river-rafter and serves as a guide on museum-sponsored trips down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon.

I had intended to spend no more than an hour at the museum. I wanted to walk the Rio de Flag trail on the museum grounds that afternoon, and then head out to Walnut Canyon while there was still daylight. But House was so interesting that I soon found myself in a conversational rapids; there was no turning back.

House has worked at the research center for 17 years. There is not a lot of turnover in the library. In 60 years, there have been just two librarians. The first was Katharine Bartlett, who came there in 1930.

The museum and research center, House said, "is a world apart, the creation of a small group of very dedicated people who gave it character and personality. We may not be that well-known in the Flagstaff area, but in certain circles, we are recognized all over the world."

A scholar from Holland had spent a few days at the center not long before, researching the Hopi, House said. "The Hopi have a kind of magic for scholars. They have retained much of their tradition, and their ceremonial structure is largely intact."

From upstate New York, House, like Nancy Schultz at Walnut Canyon, discovered in northern Arizona the place where she belonged.

Behind schedule, I crossed the road and started down the Rio de Flag trail. Beginning in front of the museum, the trail follows the canyon rim for a short distance, then drops to the canyon floor, and winds for a half-mile or so through a cluster of aspen and past canyon grape, wax currant, taperleaf, Rocky Mountain iris, prickly pear cactus, poison ivy, and poison hemlock.

Twilight was adrift in the pines when I reached the end of the trail. Walnut Canyon would have to wait a day.

The next morning, I drove out to the canyon. I was the first customer of the day at the visitors center. I also thought I was the first hiker of the day to head down the trail leading to the Sinagua cliff dwellings. But as I was going down, I met Nancy Schultz coming up.

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