Getting a free saguaro is

WINNING A CACTUS LOTTERY

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. Free saguaro cactuses. All you had to do was harvest 'em and take 'em home. And if that didn't sell you on the deal, you could think of your efforts as a benevolent rescue mission: as the New Waddell Dam created a bigger Lake Pleasant, hundreds of cactuses would drown. That is, unless they were rescued by people like you and as many of your friends as you could talk into getting up at dawn and working all day under hazardous conditions.

The saguaro cactus is a protected plant in Arizona. You don't just buy one or dig one up and lug it home. You arrange with the proper agencies to adopt one. These plants come with tags and papers and a lot of obligations.

The Great Cactus Adventure began in the summer and fall of 1991. And it's still going on at my house. My husband won't let it die. According to him, we're lucky we weren't (a) bitten by a rattlesnake, (b) impaled on a falling saguaro arm, (c) decapitated by an overzealous cactus missionary with a pickax, (d) sued by any and all of the cactus missionaries that I coerced into helping us by telling them a pack of halftruths and outright lies. Now, some five years later, he claims we are not out of the woods yet on (d) because the statute of limitations on stuff like this goes on forever.

The cactus harvest started out as a lottery. And you know how we all love lotteries. I entered, on a lark, and I won. I was ecstatic. I hadn't won anything since the fourth grade when I drew an Easter egg on the back of a spelling test and submitted it to the local egg company for judging by home economists. My drawing was deemed the best, and I won a dozen eggs as a result. The family still talks about it.

So winning a shot at a free saguaro cactus (and ocotillos, hedgehogs, prickly pear, and assorted others as well) was more excitement than I could handle. Until the reality of the situation set in. We went downtown to pick up our permits from the appropriate government agency. But before we could have the permits, we had to attend a little class on how to harvest and transplant the cactus. This sounded like work. Hard work. But I was a winner, and that's all that counted. I'd deal with the details later.

It was those details that complicated the effort. I started trying to recruit helpers. I got replies ranging from "I think I have to wash my hair that day" to "Find another sucker, honey."

Like the Little Red Hen, I considered just doing it myself. And daring anybody to try to bask in the glory of my beautifully transplanted saguaro. But I had a little problem. Like a nine-pound baby growing in my belly and due to make his debut within the month. So I did what any self-respecting woman in this situation would do: I went for the sympathy vote.

That didn't work, either. When I tried it, I got lectured about how foolish the whole deal was. Certainly there were plenty ofnonpregnant people with very strong friends who own the proper equipment for such an adventure who would love to use my permits. And on and on.

At that point, I decided to take the low road. Trickery and chicanery have worked throughout the centuries for others with less noble pursuits than rescuing cactuses from drowning. Why couldn't they work for me? And, I'm proud to report, they did.

We had houseguests coming in from West Virginia. They had never been to Arizona, and they looked forward to the trip. They envisioned spending restful days around the pool with a little golf in the afternoons for physical activity. Little did they know what I had in mind.

I broke the news about the cactus harvest a bit at a time. We were going for a day trip to Lake Pleasant. Fine, fine, they said. Sounds pretty. And we need to get up kind of early. Fine, fine. We like early. Like maybe around 4 A.M.? That's 1 A.M. for us. Well, yes, but think of it as a great opportunity to see the sun rise. They were my guests, sleeping at my house, and eating my food. Totally dependent on me. They got up at 4 A.M., 1 A.M. for them. And they were nice about it.

My husband, at this point, was convinced the only way to put "this whole episode," as he had taken to calling the cactus harvest, behind him was to cooperate. So he had coerced a guy who owed him big time to come and help. And, it turned out, the guy knew what he was doing. Heeven had a cactus sling made from 2X4 lumber and garden hose in the back of his pickup truck when he showed up.

We took three vehicles to the cactus harvest area on the western edge of Lake Pleas-ant. Within a half hour, all three vehicles were disabled. One was stuck in sand, one had a flat tire thanks to a cactus thorn in the sidewall, and the third was hopelessly locked in first gear for some unknown reason. The rangers were nice but busy doing ranger stuff and of the mindset that we got ourselves into this problem, and we could probably get ourselves out. That's when the stranded cactus harvesters trotted out the pregnant lady. Then we had all the help we needed. Need a ride to the office? Hop in. Need a little water? How about a soft drink? Lunch? This was getting better and better. I sat in air-conditioned comfort while my husband and West Virginia houseguests hiked into the desert to harvest me the most perfect little saguaro.

By the time I was finished visiting with the nice rangers, hearing them tell tales of crazy cactus harvesters and enjoying a little snack or two, the work was done. It was time to drive back to Phoenix and decide where the saguaro would be happiest in my yard. Little Red Hen? Nope. Just call me Tom Sawyer.

Trudy Thompson Rice

Arizona Highways 23