Roadside Rest

ROADSIDE REST Place-names: In Arizona They Are of a Different Ilk

Arizona's geography is defined by the most eccentric and evocative place-names in the world.

There. The brag is made. Dissent is invited from global landscapes where there are no towns named Bumble Bee, no mines titled Total Wreck, no forts christened Misery, no creeks termed Quien Sabe, no canyons called Wickytywiz, no municipal memories dubbed Copperopolis, no hills styled White Man's Nose.

The reason, it seems to me, that there are more curious and spirited designations in Arizona than, say, Iowa, is our abundance of eventful landforms and diverse peoples. Oh, Iowa has its Storm Lake and Red Oak and Mount Pleasant, a short list to compete with the energized dots on the map of Navajoland: a leaning peak named Roof Top Mountain on the Run, a sluggish stream named Water Without Ambition, and the boggy ford named Where the Mexican Wept.

Our Indian names are useful. Navajos caution that in their Naahtee Canyon: Toadstool Causes Blindness.

Mohaves promise that in the Harquahala Mountains: There Is Water up High. Hopis designate Awatobi Village: High Home of the Bow People. And be advised, the community of Bylas is known for: One Who Does All the Talking.

In the beginning, likely all significant places bore descriptive aboriginal monikers. But out of possessiveness or vanity or plain ignorance, European newcomers (mostly uncouth males) affixed fresh labels. Sometimes indelicate, often lyrical, generally accurate were the designations of the Spaniard, the Mexican, trapper, explorer, soldier, railroader, cowman, prospector, packer, and farmer.

An uninhibited catalog endures where pioneers tasted, listened, looked, and felt. Alum Gulch. Thunder River. Painted Desert. Vermilion Cliffs. Freeze Out Canyon. Dead Boy Point. Devil's Windpipe. Music Mountain. Tortilla Flat.

They freely put their own names onto things. Black Jack Canyon. Holy Joe Peak. Sandy Bob Canyon. Jim Sam Butte. Greasy Toms Creek. Eden and Enterprise were denoted by settlers seeking Utopia. Hope rose, briefly, at a road bypass. Two creeks lying side by side were named for lovers Benny and Rosey. Once a town named Plenty earned a post office for its hundreds of residents, but today Plenty is nothing. Surviving symbols speak of desperation and danger. Skeleton Canyon. Doubtful Pass. The Boneyard.

Mountain. Agate Bridge. Apache Leap. Newspaper Rock. Dragoon Pass. Halfway Bend. Cochise Stronghold. Whiskey Creek. Surprise Canyon. Devil's Kitchen. Copper Queen Mine. Sleeping Beauty Peak. And of course, a state embracing a Grand Canyon must mark its chart with Sockdolager Rapids and Bright Angel Trail.

Upset Rapid. Fools Hollow. Grief Hill. Mistake Peak. Fort Defiance. Skull Valley. Lousy Gulch. Bloody Basin. And of course Tombstone, the Town Too Tough to Die.

If cowboys had their way, they'd nickname every rock and cactus. And so modern Arizona hurries into the 21st century adorned with Chuck Box Lake, Jerked Beef Butte, Wild Bunch Pocket, Stray Horse Canyon, Horse Thief Basin, Rustler Park, Jackass Flat, and Poker Mountain.

Miners exercised their hardwon manic depression. Poverty Knoll. Cash on Delivery. Fools Gulch. Devil's Cash Box. Rich Hill. Gold Road. The Tip Top proved a tip top prospect, and The Lucky Cuss derived from public opinion regarding a man who hit a bonanza.

Then there occurs a symphony of nomenclature. Mystery Valley. Rainbow Plateau. Superstition Mountains. Midnight Mesa. Mount Baldy. Window Rock. Screwtail Hill. Phantom Ranch. Camelback At least two Arizona place-names endure without elaboration. A small prospering farming center off Interstate 10 about midway between Phoenix and Tucson puts "Eloy" on its town limits, but lost in history is its origin, although the word means "my God" in Syria. The way-stop made famous in the golden hit song Route 66 outlives a murky past. Getting their kicks, Americans on the move remembered Winona, but the reason today escapes us all.

Not so, Why. Peggy and Jim Kater long ago made their last journey across the Little Ajo Mountains, but not before they baptized their own corner of desert. At the junction of State Routes 85 and 86, their homestead simply went by the descriptive "The Y." Eventually The Y attracted a post office, and when the postmaster general formally requested a town name, Mrs. Kater submitted, "Why." Why not? she argued. And Why it is. Oh, maybe somewhere in Iowa an intersection is referred to as The Y. But I'll bet there is no signpost reading Where the Mexican Wept.