Archeology

The Man Who Loves Ruins.

As the sky: the looter is after treasure for today's market, the archeologist is after information about the past.

And yet clouds persist in the public imagination. After all, which one was Indiana Jones?

The truth is that archeology in its early days was impure. Adolph Bandelier and Richard Wetherill, archeologists of the last century, stooped to collecting artifacts. And almost any archeologist you talk to today will tell of getting started as a child picking up arrow points or potshards. But none, as a professional, would keep a private collection of artifacts.

Perhaps it has something to do with the difference between two archetypes in our history: Francisco Vasquez de Coronado and Father Eusebio Francisco Kino. They crossed into Arizona some 40 miles and 150 years apart, but their intentions were light years separate. Conquest and gold versus communion and souls.

They say Kino rode 70 miles a day on a mule establishing his network of missions. Michel and Walker, with loot-seeking Coronados in close pursuit, spend half their time on the road in mulelike rental cars, stringing a chain of archeological preserves.

We came across no looters on our journey, but at the University of Arizona we did meet the legendary Dr. Emil Haury, dean of American archeologists, excavator of Snaketown (southeast of Phoenix near Casa Grande), and pioneer of tree-ring dating.

Asked why he cares about what went on so long ago and why we should care, Haury replied, "Knowledge of the past gives us points of comparison. We're proud of what our civilization has accomplished in the last few hundred years. But we forget all the cultures that have ascended the plateau ahead of us and fallen off.

"The enigma is always the same: why was Pueblo Bonito in New Mexico abandoned? Why Mesa Verde in Colorado? The closer we get to an answer, the further we can place ourselves from a similar fate."

If Michel and Walker have their way, the Archaeological Conservancy will continue to protect "the incredible wealth of information" buried at such ancient sites, waiting for the day when technology catches up with curiosity.

Author's Note: For further information on the Archaeological Conservancy's efforts to preserve America's unwritten past, contact the organization at 415 Orchard Drive, Santa Fe, NM 87501; (505) 982-3278.

SUGARLOAF MOUNTAIN is the biggest thing in Cornville, a giant shepherd watching over this small Verde Valley community. The salmon-colored butte in turn is visible from every yard and porch in town.

"To see Sugarloaf is to know you're in Cornville," said resident Kathleen Dusek.

So, back in the spring of 1990, Cornville hardly had to crane a neck to see something ugly happening on Sugarloaf: a jagged road cut clawing its way up the landmark's steep northern slope. Robert Cristall, a Sedona developer, had bought the mountain and leased the Sinagua ruins on top to a professional pothunter.

A backhoe soon began tearing at the buried chambers of one of the last major undisturbed Tuzigoot sites in northern Arizona. Ancient bones lay scattered on the new road.

"We hate to see exploitation trampling on eternity," said Hopi Chairman Vernon Masayesva, whose people trace ancestral ties to the area. "The spirits of the living were disturbed as well," he added.

And how. Within days, several hundred deeply disturbed area residents closed ranks around the Sugarloaf ruins, waving protest placards and hunkering down for a candlelight vigil. Their activities focused the attention of the media on the plight of this settlement dating from A.D. 1300.

The new law might have come too late to save Sugarloaf, however, were it not for one man's change of heart.

"When I came here, I had no idea what the significance of these ruins was," said Robert Cristall. Archeologists and community outrage let him know. "When the universe calls, you've got to listen up and learn," he said.

Cristall called a moratorium on the digging. And he called the Archaeological Conservancy.

Almost a year to the day after the first angry protests, a very different scene unfolded at the Cornville Mercantile. To the strains of the Cornville Philharmonic Symphony's washtub base and jug, valley residents joined by Robert and Margaret Cristall and representatives from neighboring Native American tribes - gathered to celebrate a purchase-option agreement that would transfer 18 prehistory-laden acres to the Archaeological Conservancy at below market price. "We see this as a closing of the circle, a healing of aggrieved spirits. We celebrate the finding of a happy solution as we reconsecrate this site for future generations," said the conservancy's Jim Walker.

Then the Cornville Fire Department led a procession of marchers, puppies, and kids to the base of Sugarloaf.

But, having stayed the hand of imminent destruction, the friends of Sugarloaf faced another challenge: they had to raise $110,000 (which included the cost of fencing and perpetual stewardship) to help the conservancy meet its spring 1992 purchase-option deadline.

But, having stayed the hand of imminent destruction, the friends of Sugarloaf faced another challenge: they had to raise $110,000 (which included the cost of fencing and perpetual stewardship) to help the conservancy meet its spring 1992 purchase-option deadline.

In December, 1991, assisted by a $49,568 grant from the Arizona Heritage Fund, the conservancy purchased the 18 acres. The future of Sugarloaf and its Sinagua past was secured.