Back Road Adventure

The Apache call it Dzil Ligai, home of the wind and home of the mountain gods. At 11,500 feet, it is one of Arizona's tallest peaks, and on its highest, storm-whipped ridges are small stone altars and scatterings of beads, pottery, and other items placed there as offerings to the deities.

Most of this sacred mountain lies within the White Mountain Apache's reservation (Fort Apache), and, by law, only tribal members are permitted on its barren summit.

Dzil Ligai means "Mountain of White," appropriate since its winter cloak is snow, often more than 20 feet deep. On maps, the peak is designated Mount Baldy, also fitting, since nothing grows on its bleak uppermost crags. However, below the timberline, Baldy's flanks are summer-dressed in variegated greens.

By whatever name, the majestic mountain always has been, for me, a place of special significance.

Long ago, it was the center of my boyhood universe because surrounding it for thousands of square miles are the forested canyons and high-country meadows of the White Mountains where I fished, camped, and hiked.

Then, grown and supposedly educated, I left my native Arizona. For 30 years, I rode elevators, wearing a dark suit and carrying a briefcase. And then, one day, a small voice whispered, "move back to Arizona." And, I did.

Now, in the soft dawn of a June morning, I will, in a ceremony of reacquaintance, circle the great mountain on a 110-mile backroad journey.

I pull away from the motel at Hon Dah on the reservation and head east on State Route 260 toward its intersection with State 373, just 28 miles away. Deep forests and the sacred mountain lie to the south.

Just before the turnoff, I come upon four pronghorn grazing off the highway in an open glade. When I pull to a stop, their heads come up, and they watch with quiet curiosity, then whirl and dart away.

About 3.7 miles south on State 373, in the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest, I turn right onto Forest Service Route 87 (also designated Apache County 1122) and start a dirt-road trek through an ever-thickening forest.

TIPS FOR TRAVELERS

Back-road travel can be hazardous if you are not prepared for the unexpected. Whether traveling in the desert or in the high country be sure you and your vehicle are in top shape and your gear includes - at minimum - the following: appropriate clothing and footwear, food and water, medication, a first-aid kit, sunglasses, water-purification tablets, a shovel, maps (road and topographic), a compass, survival gear, tools, spare tire and parts, and a tow chain.

Last, don't travel alone, and let someone at home know where you're going and when you plan to return.

Moving along a steep slope, I look down on the small community of Greer, population 200, in a valley far below. When I was a kid, we often spent summer holidays at Butler's Lodge, Arizona's oldest mountain resort, built in 1910. Today, with more tourists, the Greer area boasts nearly a dozen lodging establishments.

I drive slowly. The washboard road and my senses demand it. Up, up, above 9,000 feet through stands of leaf-quaking aspens and highmountain meadows. Baldy, now southwest and less than 10 miles distant, reveals canyons still deep in snow. Dark clouds slide across its higher ridges, but sunlight bathes the slopes.

DEEP FORESTS AND A SACRED MOUNTAIN CREATE A DRAMATIC JOURNEY CIRCLING OLD MOUNT BALDY

A turnoff leads north to the Apache's popular Sunrise ski resort, but I continue south on FR 87, crossing the west fork of the Little Colorado at Sheep Crossing, then the east fork near Phelps Cabin.

I continue on south toward Crescent Lake and Big Lake. As a kid, I pulled many a large rainbow from their ice-water depths. The proprietor at Big Lake's dockside store shows me Polaroids of recent catches: fiveand six-pound beauties held by smiling fishermen. He tells me he has a boat available if I'd like to go out. "Another time," I reply. This is a nostalgia trip, not a fishing trip.

In the full light of midmorning, I return north on FR 87, then turn south on FR 116 and reenter the Apache reservation. Visitors are welcome in Indian country, but permits are required to fish or camp. For the circuitous 60plus miles to Hawley Lake through tribal land, a highclearance vehicle is recommended, but a passenger car can make it.

After 9.7 miles, I head west on FR 20 to Reservation Lake, another boyhood haunt. Today, as back then, this cold, 280-acre lake offers excellent fishing. Farther on, I pass Hurricane and Drift Fence lakes and take a bumpy side road out to Pacheta Lake where I accept a cup of coffee from a camper. His is the only tent on the shore. He shows me an ice chest containing handsome brown and rainbow trout.

Beyond Pacheta Lake, I switch to FR 55, and shortly come to Butterfly Cienega. While I'm consuming lunch, a cow elk and its spindle-legged calf emerge from a thicket and pass less than 100 yards from where I am sitting on a fallen log.

FR 55 crosses Little Bonito and Big Bonito creeks. I fished both of them years ago. As soon as I turn north on FR 30, I cross the east fork of White River. Fished there, too.

Text by William Hafford

Above the summit of Mount Baldy, now northeast, the Mountain gods are flinging lightning bolts. Lavendar flowers cover the forest floor, and wild pigeons swoop through the canyons. I have seen only one car since leaving Pacheta Lake. I pass the turnoff to Christmas Tree Lake. Fished there. Cross Diamond Creek. Fished there. It's raining hard by the time I arrive at Hawley Lake in midafternoon. Never fished Hawley. The lake, at the end of a paved road from the north, wasn't created until 1957. My circle around Baldy is almost complete, only seven more miles to State 260 where I started.

At the lakeside store, I purchase a ready-made, refrigerated sandwich. I sit on the covered porch and eat it. Watch Baldy's rain spatter the lake. I'm thinking of items at the back of a walk-in closet in Phoenix. Those dark suits left over from my era of self-importance.

When I return, I'll give them to charity. Someday you never know a concrete truck could run me down, and wellmeaning relatives might try to bury me in a set of those distasteful threads. The mountain air, I believe, has given me clarity of thought.