Environment

ARIZONA'S NEW WILDERNESS AREAS The Riparian Connection

Coming out is dicey. What had been, minutes before, a solid, well-worn track is transformed by a sudden, fierce downpour into red-clay slickslime.

Gummy with clay, my tires spin, and the back end of my pickup fishtails treacherously. When I speed up slightly to get over a low berm, the rear wheels skid hard right. Struggling for control, I muscle the steering wheel in the direction of the skid, get straight again, but only for a second before the vehicle swerves hard left. "Keep it moving, don't brake, steady on the gas pedal," so goes my interior monologue, afraid that if I stop I'll have no traction to get started again. "Darn," I mutter, in a rare moment of doubting my trusty 11-year-old pickup's ability. "Why didn't I trade for a four-wheel-drive?"

The Riparian Connection

I'm eight-miles-plus east of Redington on a primitive single-lane road leading into the Galiuro Mountains toward Redfield Canyon, one of Arizona's newly designated Wilderness areas. If I get stuck, I can walk out from here. But it would be well past nightfall by the time I get to Pomerene Road where, muddy and wet, I could maybe hitch a ride from one of the infrequent motorists to San Manuel, 20 miles north, or to Benson, 45 miles south, and maybe rouse a tow-truck driver in the middle of the night to drive back and haul me out. For a price, of course, which sets me to wondering about limits on the credit card in my wallet. And then there's the main cell of the thunderstorm boiling down the mountain slopes to the northeast. If I'm lucky, it'll hit after I've made it safely to the wellgraded gravel of Pomerene Road. If I'm unlucky? Well . . .

Earlier, driving to Redfield Canyon, my plan was to park near the boundary (no vehicles are allowed inside a Wilderness area), set up camp, and spend the next couple of days exploring the canyon, which debouches from the west flank of the Galiuro range and runs to the San Pedro River. Already, though, massive thunderclouds loom over the peaks directly in front of me, an ominous sign this early in the day. This had been a dry season so far with threatening cloud buildups each afternoon but little monsoon action. These anvil-shaped thunderheads are different. Lifted by enormously powerful convectional currents, they soar to more than eight miles where winds aloft smear their tops to resemble finely carded wool. A deceptively benign appearance. Dangerous storms brew inside these clouds, and I watch them roil higher, amassing power and violence. Mentally, I note road hazards that'll be worse when wet: ruts turned to gullies by rushing water, swales turned to boggy pools, and clays that'll sponge up enough moisture to turn into mucilage.

Of the 43 areas put under Wilderness protection by the Arizona Desert Wilderness Act of 1990, all but four are administered by the U.S. Bureau of Land Management. They range in size from the 126,760-acre Arrastra Mountain Wilderness, sprawling across parts of Mohave, Yavapai, and La Paz counties 70 miles southeast of Kingman, to the relatively tiny 2,065-acre Baboquivari Peak Wilderness 50 miles southwest of Tucson. The total of new Wilderness acres managed by BLM is slightly more than 1 million.

At 6,600 acres, Redfield Canyon is among the smaller Wilderness designations. But if what is protected as Wilderness is a measure of value, Redfield Canyon is among the most treasured. The reason is water. Redfield, along with a handful of other new Wilderness tracts, contains running water year-round. In most of what remains, nonriverine desert habitat dominates. And while desert Wilderness is properly valued for its own sake (See Arizona Highways, April '91), in terrain where average annual precipitation is less than 12 inches, the presence of running water is magical. In the strictest sense, dry canyon creeks and waterless desert arroyos also are riparian although water may not flow in them for several seasons, and when it does it's often for only a few hours or even minutes.

But so very important is the flow of ephemeral water to the plants and animals that live in these habitats that aridlands biologists have invented an oxymoronic name for them: xeroriparian, "dry river."

About 100 feet above the canyon floor, I begin to hear the faint rush of running water.

About nine miles east of Pomerene Road, the jeep road into Redfield Canyon turns sharply north. Here, fire rings dot a broad flat favored by hunters and campers. Another jeep road, too rough even to think about taking on with a two-wheeldrive, drops away sharply to the south, heading down into the canyon itself. I park my truck, lace on hiking boots, throw some lunch snacks and a couple of water bottles into my daypack, and check to see if my seldom-used rain poncho is still in its sack in the bottom of my pack. As I head down the road, the sun splits the overcast, my spirits soar. For the moment, at least, the thunderheads that bulged over the central massif of the Galiuro range seem to have drifted off to the south. I hear only the rumble of distant thunder. After a short distance, the jeep track becomes a foot trail that switches back across steep grassy ridges on the north side of the canyon. Five hundred feet below, I catch the quicksilver glint of water flowing beneath crowns of cottonwoods and among silvery boles of Arizona sycamores. On the opposite side of the canyon, sheer granite walls rise several hundred feet. About halfway down, the trail jumps a small side canyon where a brook fills a shallow pool before plunging downhill to the main drainage. Clouds have wandered back, and rain spatters the surface of the pool at the edge of a small bed of cattails. I stop for a look around. Saguaro cacti, a single young cottonwood, its pale leaves lightly brushing a tall columnar cactus, mesquite, sotol, prickly pear, deer grass, ocotillo, shindaggers, catclaw acacia - a disparate assemblage made possible by the presence of water all grow within 20 feet of the pool. Tendrils of canyon grape climb a damp wall below the pool and, beneath the grape, vivid patches of scarlet sage, a member of the mint family.

About 100 feet above the canyon floor, I begin to hear the faint rush of running water. A slight mist hangs over the treetops. Now I can make out ash, alder, willow, hackberry, walnut, and Arizona cypress. Up the canyon and down, the walls ring with the song of canyon wrens, loudly broadcasting their territorial claims. On the way in, I'd seen red-tailed and Swainson's hawks, ravens, a kestrel, and had heard the soft call of a phainopepla, the silky flycatcher. Almost at the bottom now, I'm startled by a loud thunderclap directly overhead, followed by rolling thunder. Gentle rain begins. I stand in shadow looking out on the creek in full sun. Here the rain is a soft mist; out in the sun it pours. The contrast pleases me, and I clamber down the last several feet of the bank and start hiking up the canyon with both sun and rain falling on my shoulders. The interval between thunderclaps shortens, and I look around for caves or overhanging ledges to crawl into or under if a real storm hits. I'd seen only a few cloud-to-cloud lightning bolts, but I won't take any chances with lightning. Or rain (RIGHT) Edged by saguaros and other desert vegetation, Brown's Canyon Creek is a haven for wildlife. (FOLLOWING PANEL, PAGES 14 AND 15) Upper Burro Creek flows through the Upper Burro Creek Wilderness. Many creeks, mountains, springs, bills, canyons, and flats in the state got their names from the wild burros turned loose by prospectors who gave up and moved on.

Continued from page 12 either. Flash flooding is a danger in mountain canyons. Tons of wall-to-wall rain, dumped at higher elevations, can roar down on the unsuspecting in a twinkling. The trail crisscrosses the canyon. The creek flows brightly. Not far upstream in the first of several pools I come upon, schools of small fish dart about. I cannot identify them, but I know the Gila chub, an endangered fish, lives in these waters. A species of long-nosed bat and the common black hawk are two other threatened or endangered species that survive in Redfield Canyon. Another surprise awaits around the next bend. In a place where water is trapped in a backwash, 12-foot cattails grow in a small marsh with duckweed spreading across its surface. In the spongy sand, I find raccoon paw prints. Hunting for frogs maybe? Glancing up to check the storm's progress, I see the sky above the canyon has turned black. Reluctantly, I decide to turn around. Then, right there, not six feet away, in dark leaf litter among jumbled twigs and branches jammed against the root structure of a mesquite tree, I catch sight of a dark snake, coiled. So perfectly camouflaged I had to be looking directly at it to see it, it's an Arizona black rattlesnake. Somewhat unusual at this elevation, it's the first I've ever seen. As I inch forward for a closer look, the snake unwinds and glides in one fluid motion into its den beneath the root jam. Before I can make it back to the trail up to the rim, the storm overtakes me. Hard rain pelts the leaves of the riparian canopy. Now the interval between thunderclaps and lightning flashes is less than 30 seconds.

Hiking the exposed ridges back to the rim would be foolishly risky, so I crawl inside a shallow cave beneath a ledge jutting from the canyon wall and wait for the storm to pass.

Temporary shelters for humans, caves are almost always permanent homes for others. This one is no exception. Way at the back is a small hole surrounded by sticks and a few cactus spines. Enlarged somewhat by its pack-rat lodgers, the hollow in the rock is barely big enough to squat in if I tuck my heels under me.

An hour and a half later, I'm back in my truck sweating out the clayslick. But by maintaining a constant speed in low gear I make it over the slippery parts and onto a rocky stretch.

Relieved, I greet axle-busting boulders as old friends. Rock dodging is at least a more conventional form of backcountry driving. From here on out it'll be a bumpier but less adrenalin-charged ride. M Moreover Author's Note: In addition to Redfield Canyon, at least eight of the 39 new Wilderness sites managed by BLM feature streams that may flow year-round. They include the 19,410-acre Aravaipa Canyon Wilderness; People's Canyon in the Arrastra Mountains; Fishhooks, Sam, Steer Springs, and Dutch Pasture canyons in the 10,500-acre Fishhooks Wilderness; several miles of riparian habitat in the 11,840-acre Hassayampa River Canyon Wilderness; a portion of the Gila River that slices through parts of three canyons in the 8,760-acre Needle's Eye Wilderness; more than five miles of the Bill Williams' River gorge in the 38,470-acre Rawhide Mountains Wilderness; 13 miles of stream, pools, and waterfalls in the 27,440-acre Upper Burro Creek Wilderness; and a perennial stream with numerous side canyons in the 5,800-acre White Canyon Wilderness.

His Tom Dollar lives in Tucson, but bis fascination with Arizona is statewide.

Jerry Sieve is a longtime member of The Wilderness Society and The Nature Conservancy.

WHEN YOU GO

Access to Wilderness areas is limited by rights of private landowners, restrictions of Indian tribes, limitations imposed by the administration of State Trust Lands, and limits on use required to protect natural and cultural resources. For information on access and other use restrictions for all BLM Wilderness areas in Arizona, contact the U.S. Bureau of Land Management, Arizona State Office, in Phoenix. Telephone: (602) 640-5547. Backcountry travel is always difficult and potentially hazardous, especially in riparian zones where flash flooding is likely. Always prepare by obtaining USGS topographical maps and information on weather and road conditions. Map information may be obtained from BLM. Traveling alone in Wilderness areas is not recommended. Always let someone know your destination, when you are going, and when you expect to return. Carry extra food, plenty of water, and emergency equipment.

I greet axle-busting boulders as old friends. Rock dodging is a more conventional form of backcountry driving.