Aztec Peak Adventure

Searching for the Mountain People

The loose rocks slipped underfoot, forcing us to scramble upward, slide intermittently to hands and knees, and claw through the branches of the scraggly pines. I paused to catch my breath, gazing up at the red rock that forms the sheer sides of Workman Creek Canyon, the headwaters of which spill from the forested heights of Aztec Peak.

Photographer Fred Griffin resumed his climb just above me, knocking loose a chunk of rock that bounded past me and down the steep slope into the darkness of the canyon below. We could hear the distant murmur of Workman Falls, where a stream spills over a 200-foot rock wall to be smeared to mist in its tumble to the rocks below.

Griffin and I had resolved to explore this rugged wilderness with the help of Kevin Barnard, who mans the lonely fire watch tower atop Aztec Peak. While waiting for him at the gate across the washed-out road to the peak, we'd strayed up this side canyon in search of a rumored cliff dwelling. "We're just about there," offered Griffin by way of encouragement. Grunting, I lurched forward.

After another 20 yards, I encountered a grassy slope. Looking up, I glimpsed the top of a stone wall constructed of carefully fitted flagstone mortared with mud. Eager now, we scurried up the last flower-dabbed slope to the ancient cliff dwelling snug beneath an eroded overhang. Protected by the cliff above from centuries of snow and wind and rain, the long roofless line of the grand ruins stood curiously out of time. They'd been built between A.D. 1275 and A.D. 1320 by the Anchas, a subgroup of the Mogollon culture.

People first started living in these remote canyons about 5,000 years ago, but they didn't begin building these great fortresslike dwellings until the 1200s, perhaps in response to invasion or social strife. They claimed a rugged, mostly forested domain that bridged the gap between the temple-building Anasazi to the north and the irrigation-based culture of the Hohokam and Salado to the south. They left their dwellings scattered across the Sierra Anchas, with their dark, brooding canyons, slopes of shivering aspen, and dark mountaintop forests of giant Douglas fir and brick-barked ponderosa.

Several centuries after the Mogollon left, the Apaches laid claim to these mountains and harassed the American settlers. The Army chased bands of elusive Apaches back and forth across these ranges, usually losing them in the tangled canyons and thick forests. Cowboys, ranchers, miners, and travelers repeatedly fell victim to attacks, spawning a grim history of massacre and torture.

Mountain People

Those early settlers stumbled across these haunting cliff dwellings, structures so impressive the settlers assumed they must have been left by the fabled Aztecs. That's why they named the peak for that warlike people, whose Mexican empire was conquered in the 1500s by Hernando Cortes. I stared at the intricately jointed rock walls, breathless with exertion and with awe. The short, narrow doorways looked sightlessly out across the canyon.

The Anchas roamed these canyons, planting crops on river terraces, nurturing the yuccas whose hearts they savored, and hunting deer and elk and a host of other animals through the thick forests. They fashioned distinctive pottery and contributed soapstone (for carving) and hematite (for making colorful pigments) to trading networks that connected the coast of California, the mountains of New Mexico, and the cliff dwellings of Colorado.

Sometime in the 1400s, the Anchas abandoned their cliff dwellings, as did the Salado farming around the Salt River in the Tonto Basin, the Hohokam tending miles of irrigation canals at the site of presentday Phoenix, and the Anasazi, who built round temples with entrances to the spirit world on the high plateau of Mesa Verde. These peoples left only tantalizing clues to solve the puzzle of the abandonment. Archaeologists found evidence of widespread drought, but not perfectly timed to explain the collapse. They discovered scattered evidence of warfare, including the bodies of people who died by violence, some mass burials, and the general shift to more defensible dwellings.

But the current leading theory revolves around overpopulation because the crash came shortly after populations peaked. The evidence seems especially strong in the Hohokam heartland, where there is evidence of recurrent famine. The demise of the densely populated core areas could have sent disruptive ripples through sparsely settled outlying areas like the Sierra Anchas. I stood near the abandoned rooms as the The sun rose higher above the canyon rim, absorbed by a sense of mystery and loss of the people who lived here in these mountains so long ago.

The Sierra Anchas remain one of Arizona's largely undiscovered treasures, jagged mountains that soar from the saguaro-studded deserts to form a biologic "sky island." Embedded in the 2.8-mil-lion-acre Tonto National Forest, the Sierra Anchas rise from an altitude of 1,300 feet along the tempestuous Salt River to the 7,748-foot summit of Aztec Peak. This sin-gle mountain embraces desert, chaparral, grassland, woodland, and pine forest.

Thousands of people flock to Roosevelt Lake at its foot each weekend, fleeing the freeways of Phoenix or the dusty mine tail-ings of nearby Globe. But relatively few seek the winding dirt switchbacks of State Route 288 and the even more obscure me-anders of the Cherry Creek and Workman Creek roads.

Perhaps that's why wildlife is so abundant here. Black bears haunt the forests, elk bugle in the meadows, deer wander among the trees, and mountain lions lay claim to almost every square mile.

The range of habitats also supports a be-wildering variety of birds, including eight species of hummingbirds and 21 species of raptors, such as peregrine falcons, bald eagles, and 12 kinds of owls, encompass-ing several listed as endangered. The thick forests in which pines, oaks, and aspens mingle resound with the debates of song-birds including such gaudy tropical migrants as the summer tanager, the painted redstart, the northern oriole, the northern cardinal, and the indigo bunting.

Gazing on that ancient vacated cliff dwelling, I couldn't shake a certain unease. The empty rooms echoed with silence, leaving me to imagine the cries of children, the rasping of corn-grinding stones, and the rhythmic tones of forgotten chants. What had happened to the lords of the mountain? What prayers did they say at sunset? Where had they gone? Who had they become? What dreams did they nurture, looking out across the treetops?

The faint sound of Kevin Barnard's dirt bike on the road below interrupted my speculations. He halted and looked up the slope toward where Griffin stood on the terrace before the cliff dwelling. Barnard had worked the tower atop Aztec Peak for the past three seasons, sitting in a swivel chair and scanning a panoramic view that seemingly embraced about a quarter of the state.

He had finagled his way into a minimum-wage summer job clearing trails in the Tonto National Forest and supported himself in the off-season with various pursuits, including serving as caretaker at a base camp for fire fighters. After a few seasons, he landed the job as fire watcher, manning the same tower that had once

Mountain People

sustained Southwestern writer Edward Abbey. Now Barnard watches for fires, hikes every hidden canyon on his days off, and scribbles science fiction every night.

Griffin and I slid, skittered, and staggered down the avalanche of loose stones, which must have made this cliff dwelling unassailable half a millennium ago, to link up with Barnard at the base of the hill. He had promised to show us some of his favorite places on the flanks of Aztec Peak.

Then followed one of those perfect days when even sore feet and aching muscles seem a blessing. Driving up to the tower, we passed through leafy forests carpeted with waving ferns, grassy meadows hedged by quaking aspens, and rocky outcroppings from which you could glimpse the edge of forever. We parked beneath the tower, shouldered day packs, and struck out cross-country, guided only by Barnard's detailed and affectionate memorization of every ridge, dandelion-choked abandoned road, and sun-dappled meadow.

We plunged down pine-needle-slick slopes like reckless skiers, threaded our way through groves of white-trunked aspens, and struggled through brush to the bottoms of stream-graced canyons. We paused at one spot to explore a great gloomy cave, damp with the water seeping out of the grainy sandstone walls. Brilliantly colored birds flitted through the treetops, tuftedeared squirrels chattered and scattered at our approach, and we noted unmistakable bear scat four different times.

Just where the pine trees begin to give way to oaks and chaparral, we came at last to sheer-walled, tree-filled, hummingbirdhaunted Reynolds Canyon. The narrow stream-cut gorge threw a series of cliffs in the path of the determined waterway that ran down off the forested highlands, creating a spectacular series of waterfalls. We savored our lunch near one falls, lulled by the music of the water. Then we tiptoed to the top of the next cascade, marveling at the way the water swirled through the rocktubes then rushed out into the brilliant air. The droplets hung suspended for a moment, then plunged down into the black depths of the canyon with a splatter.

Unfortunately we then faced the 2,000foot climb back to the fire tower. The hike back became something of a test of endurance as I pushed to keep pace with my younger companions. The light lengthened, the shadows deepened, and I found myself with more time than I needed to brood about the onset of middle age. Barnard cheerfully led the way through the maze of trees, moving without a trace of trail or hint of hesitation.

We arrived at the fire tower just before sunset. Barnard clanged up the metal steps to his eyrie: a single square room with a bed, a round spotting dial used to pinpoint the location of fires, a rudimentary kitchen, and his captain's chair. Griffin wandered off to set up his camera, and I loitered around the trees just below the summit, savoring the end of the journey, the breeze among the pine needles, and the darting of the swifts out over the valley. Then I labored up the metal stairs. The view overwhelmed me, offering a spectacular scene in every direction. Staggered by the sense of distance and the reddening of the sky to the west, I stood at the railing while Barnard identified every bump and knob on the great sweep of the horizon.

"Don't you feel like you're in a dream?" he asked, hypnotized by the view.

I realized then that he was right. My mind wheeled on the updrafts like a redtailed hawk, like a fast-moving cloud, like a dream just before waking.

Studying Barnard's profile as the last glory of the day faded and the vault of the night filled with stars, I decided that Aztec Peak is forever, and "the people of the mountain" hadn't vanished after all. They merely mouth different prayers, lounging against the railing of the world, savoring the benediction of sunset.