Traversing Separate Worlds on Mount Lemmon

PEAK TOPPING on the Mount Lemmon Highway

An Excerpt from Arizona Highways' latest book: Tucson to Tombstone: A Guide to Southeastern Arizona I'll never forget a midwinter drive, soon after I arrived in Tucson, up the Mount Lemmon Highway, north of town to the summit Lof the Santa Catalinas. It encapsulates for me the experience of living in southeast Arizona's basin and range terrain.

I'd read extensively about the natural history of Arizona and was prepared, I thought, for what I would see. Still, what I recall most was my utter astonishment at the changing scene as I climbed from the desert basin, elevation about 2,800 feet, up to Mount Lemmon's 9,157-foot summit.

Picture a sunny day in January, shirt-sleeve weather at the base of the mountain with only a few lambs-wool clouds pinned against a deep blue sky. For the first few miles, the scenery does not change — saguaro cactus, prickly pear, ocotillo, cholla, paloverde. Then, as the road switchbacks up the mountain's lower portions, abundant grasses and the first few yuccas appear. By the time I reach Molino Basin, elevation 4,500 feet, most of the desert plants have disappeared. Oaks and mesquite dot the grassy terrain, and cottonwoods and willows grow on the margins of dry creek beds. I climb on. Suddenly the sun dodges out of sight, dark clouds boil across a deep canyon beside the road, and raindrops spatter my windshield. Through rain-streaked glass, I see manzanita bushes and the scrub-oak woodlands begin to give way to juniper and piñon.

At the Bear Canyon picnic ground, the first sparlike trunks of ponderosa and Chihuahua pine loom beside the highway. In the canyon bottom, Arizona sycamore, ash, cypress, and black walnut trees grow beside running water. A few wet snowflakes kiss the windshield. Old snow lies in deeper hollows in the woods. A roadside sign warns of ice on the pavement, and another sign reads SnowPlow Ahead.

By the time I reach Windy Point, elevation 6,600 feet, tire chains are necessary. After installing them, I walk across the road to a viewpoint where, on clear days, the Tucson valley is visible. Today snow swirls into dark canyons.

Slowed to a crawl now, downshifted to my lowest gear, I inch up the mountain. I creep across a narrow hogback ridge that drops off so steeply on both sides my palms sweat. I'm losing heart, thinking of turning back. Then, amazingly, the clouds part, and I break into open sunshine.

I've passed through a high-altitude snow squall and come out the other side. The pine woods all around are full of sparkling snow. It's tall timber all the way now. Nearing the mountaintop village of Summerhaven, 26 miles up, I turn right and climb toward Ski Valley, the southernmost commercial ski slope in the United States. The bare trunks of quaking aspens resemble immense spear shafts hurled into snowdrifts upslope from the road. A final turn and I spot a chair lift trundling toward the ski runs. A few skiers schuss downslope. I walk out into the crisp mountain air. The temperature hovers at freezing, yet I'm comfortable in a heavy sweater.

Back at Summerhaven, I watch red-cheeked desert dwellers frolic in new snow. Gradually the chill seeps into my bones, so I duck into a cafe for some hot cider before heading down the mountain. On the trip, I had the uncanny feeling that I was not only climbing a mountain but also entering a new country every few miles with different weather and species of plants and animals. One of the books I had read described the experience as like driving from Mexico to Canada in a single afternoon.

I also learned that with every 1,000 feet of elevation gained, the temperature drops about 3.5° F., which is roughly equivalent to moving 300 miles closer to the Arctic Circle. Thus, in driving nearly 7,000 feet up Mount Lemmon, I had simulated in one hour the experience of traveling some 2,000 miles north of Tucson.

Higher means not only cooler, but also wetter, especially above 9,000 feet where annual precipitation exceeds 35 inches. The weather is an invisible barrier that stops plants dependent on cool, wet microclimates from migrating down, and desert-adapted plants from moving up. Likewise, animals dependent on specific plants for food and shelter are more or less sequestered in the environmental niches of those plants. Abert's squirrels, for example, remain above 7,000 feet where pinecones are plentiful.

On my drive, I had climbed out of the Lower Sonoran Life Zone into the Upper Sonoran region as I drove beyond saguaro cacti into grassy oak woodlands. Farther on, between 6,500 and 8,000 feet, I moved through a Transition Zone where ponderosa pines grow. Nearing the top, above 8,000 feet, I entered the Canadian Life Zone with its aspens, Douglas fir, and boreal weather. Higher still, in the Hudsonian Life Zone, grow corkbark and white fir forests typical of northern Canada. There are not many places one can encounter so much variety in so little time.

Editor's Note: Arizona Highways' newest travel book, Tucson to Tombstone: A Guide to Southeastern Arizona, by Tom Dollar, takes you to this fascinating region's most interesting communities, major attractions, and recreational activities with travel information, enlightening first-person impressions, and full-color photography. The 8 ¼" by 10 %", 96-page softcover sells for $14.95 plus shipping and handling and will be available after September 22, 1995. To order, call toll-free (800) 543-5432. In the Phoenix area or outside the U.S., call (602) 258-1000.