Sunset Crater Volcano

UNSET CRATER

A PORTFOLIO BY DAVID W. LAZAROFF I SHINE MY FLASHLIGHT on my watch 5:20 Α.Μ. then swing my tripod over my shoulder and start off into the darkness. Ahead of me, the Little Dipper hangs by its handle from the North Star, and all around is utter silence, broken only by the crunch of my boots across the nine-centuries-old cinders.

I pass the landmarks I've memorized: a ruined cinder cone to my left a patch of twisted aspens off to my right a pile of jagged basalt. The darkened forms are almost unrecognizable, and the barren landscape, strange even by day, seems unearthly by starlight.

When I reach my chosen spot, the slender moon has just risen above the black rim of Sunset Crater volcano. I set up quickly and focus the moon's bright arc on the ground glass. The sky is lightening now, and almost imperceptibly washed with magenta, but I know the film will see hues there beneath the threshold of my vision. I count off a four-second exposure. And by the time I've packed up, the first rays of the sun are warming the San Francisco Peaks.

UNSET CRATER

FLANNEL MULLEIN and ponderosa pine needles are juxtaposed on wet cinders after a rain. (LEFT) White plant skeletons starkly punctuate a bed of red cinders.

UNSET CRATER A PORTFOLIO A PINECONE

(FOLLOWING PANEL, PAGES 28 AND 29) Shrubs and small trees ascend a cinder-covered slope, as the San Francisco Peaks define the horizon.

(RIGHT) Ponderosa pines relieve the starkness of a cinder-covered lava flow.

TERMINAL VELOCITY Stopping 18-wheel Runaways on Downhill Highways

We all know what they say about curiosity: it killed the cat. In this particular case, curiosity only scared the daylights out of me, and in a circuitous fashion introduced me to Paul Jordan, Arizona's test driver of runaway trucks.

Jordan is a totally different type of guy, at least he's different from me. I have a distinct fear of falling from high places; fear of being out of control; fear of dangerously high speeds; fear of mutilation; and, most decidedly, fear of leaving planet Earth before my appointed hour. Apparently, none of this stuff bothers Jordan.

At any rate, my involvement with Jordan starts with an idea I get while driving down the face of Echo Cliffs in north-central Arizona. I'm returning to Phoenix from Lake Powell. About 20 miles south of Page, U.S. Route 89 slips through a deep red-rock cut, whips around a gooseneck curve, and starts a hairpin downhill dive toward the plateau country below.

The view is spectacular and the road comfortably wide. But all that stands between me and a 1,000-foot drop is a metal guardrail. The sensation of being precariously perched is intensified by the incredible sweep of the countryside below. Down there the highway appears as a meandering thread.

I negotiate another curve, and then there's the sign: Runaway Truck Ramp, 2 Miles. I've seen signs like that for years on some of Arizona's most threatening downhill inclines. But today the sign raises a question: what would it be like racing out of control down a steep looping mountain incline with tons of cargo behind you and 18 screaming wheels beneath your rig?

I decide to find out. My vehicle is a four-wheel-drive with a sleeping bag and toothbrush for cargo. But, what the heck. I slip the gear into neutral and take my foot off the brake pedal.

At once the pull of gravity grips me. As I round the first curve, the muscles in my arms flex. My heart starts a fast climb toward my throat. Suddenly I'm out of the curve and into a straight stretch, but about 300 yards away, the asphalt disappears around another curve. I'm picking up speed.

The argument between my foot and my brain is over fast. Foot leaps to the pedal and starts a rhythmic tippy-tap. The speedometer needle falls, and I slide the gearshift back into drive. That was not a good idea.

The argument between my foot and my brain is over fast. Foot leaps to the pedal and starts a rhythmic tippy-tap. The speedometer needle falls, and I slide the gearshift back into drive. That was not a good idea. I glance off the edge of the cliff. Far below and just off the highway is the runaway truck ramp. It looks like an airplane carrier deck in a sea of sand and sagebrush. The original question proliferates. How fast are the out-of-control trucks forced to use them? And how safe is it to drive 40 brakeless tons of cargo into that deep bed of gravel?

A few days later, I'm talking to Dennis M. Duffy, an associate professor of civil engineering at Arizona State University. For nearly two years, he and his partner, John P. Zaniewski, also an associate professor of civil engineering at ASU, have been conducting studies on runaway ramps for the Arizona Department of Transportation. Their job is to assess the effectiveness of ramp construction and to provide recommendations for future designs. During their tests, they employ a special device that uses radar waves to measure truck velocity and rate of slowing.

"The whole idea behind the truck ramps," Duffy tells me, "is to provide the driver with a way to ease his truck to a gradual stop while keeping the load safely constrained. The design consists of an entry ramp, then an arrester bed of deep gravel usually about 1,200 feet longand an access apron alongside the bed so a large towing vehicle can get close enough to pull the truck out."

"What causes runaway trucks?" I inquire. "Brake failure," says Duffy. "Generally, the driver misjudges the incline and doesn't