TRAILING HACKSAW TOM

ON THE TRAIL OF HACKSAW TOM IN THE SUPERSTITION MOUNTAINS

FISH CREEK GURGLED AT MY FEET AS I CRANED MY NECK TO LOOK UP AT THE BOULDER WHERE NEARLY A CENTURY AGO HACKSAW TOM LEVIED HIS HIGHWAYMAN'S TOLL ON EXASPERATED TEAMSTERS AND AGGRAVATED TRAVELERS. ON EACH SIDE, THE SHEERrock walls reared upward for nearly a thousand feet, remnants of a 30-million-year-old cataclysm that covered thousands of square miles in a rush of lava and ash. Fish Creek had worried its way relentlessly through the grudging stone in the millennia since, cutting a gash into the heart of the fabled Superstition Mountains, east of Phoenix. The flanks of this precipitous canyon and the plateau above supported a bristling thorned assemblage of cactus, mesquite, and catclaw. But the stream-tumbled, boulder-strewn canyon bottom harbored a startling array of cottonwoods, sycamores, gnarled oaks, lush vines, and swaying flowers.

And once upon a time, it also sheltered a mysterious nonviolent highwayman dubbed Hacksaw Tom.

He was the troll under the bridge of the Apache Trail, repeatedly brandishing his sawed-off shotgun atop this boulder at the bottom of one of the most hair-raising grades in Arizona. For nearly a decade, he regularly ambushed stages and wagons heading toward the site of Roosevelt Dam. He never fired a shot, never injured anyone, and rarely netted more than $40. He chose his ambush site carefully, making his demands at the bottom of a steep descent into the spectacular canyon punctuated with hairpin turns. The teamsters had all they could do to control their skittish horses so they had virtually no chance of whipping their teams past Hacksaw's position.Once he'd halted a wagon, Hacksaw moved politely along the lined-up passengers, extracting valuables and exchanging pleasantries with some of the regulars. Then he hoisted his bag of loot, bid farewell, and scampered on up the canyon on foot disappearing almost immediately among the rugged rocks and trees. Few bothered to pursue him in the canyon he seemed to know so well. No posse could reach the site in less than five or six hours, by which time Hacksaw had vanished.

Naturally enough, local law enforcement took a dim view of Hacksaw's fundraising schemes. Repeatedly, deputies hid in the coach or waited behind boulders. But Hacksaw never stepped into these traps, leading some to suspect he had inside information.

No one ever confirmed his identity, although he was thought to be the same fellow who used a hacksaw to escape from the Silver King jail shortly before establishing his thriving practice in Fish Creek Canyon. Some speculated he was a cowboy who worked one of the struggling Superstition ranches; others that he lived in Superior or Silver King and hiked across the mountains to commit his robberies. Surviving accounts agree on his description: 5 feet 8 inches, blond-haired, blue-eyed, and weighing about 160.

It was believed he fled some seven miles up Fish Creek to a hideout in Lost Dutch Canyon, a rugged tributary gorge. No one has ever found his camp or his stash, however.

I came across the tale of Hacksaw Tom in Superstition Mountain, by James Swanson and Tom Kollenborn, an absorbing account of the rich legends and strange characters that swirl around this wilderness of twisted rock. Most of those tales concern Jacob Waltz, a miner who for decades supposedly protected the secret of a rich gold mine somewhere in the Superstitions. Some authorities believe that either Waltz stole his gold from other mines or that other nearby mining operations long ago discovered the site of the Dutchman's lost mine. But the search for the gold spawned several murders and mysterious deaths and inspired generations of true believers to scour the canyons and study the legends for clues to the lost treasure.

However, I've been more intrigued by the strange tale of Hacksaw Tom. Maybe it's because Tom's physical description so closely matched my own. Maybe it's because the gleaming pool of water beneath the Fish Creek bridge had always drawn me on my trips up the Apache Trail to Apache Lake. Or maybe it is something wild and unpredictable about a mystery man who could elude capture, or even definition, for so long. He marked the edge of civilization, somewhere just up the canyon.So I resolved to retrace his steps, find Lost Dutch Canyon, and perhaps his hidden camp. I talked photographer Gary Johnson into coming along. Gary's a longtime desert rat who'd somehow managed not to explore Fish Creek Canyon.Besides, our little quest offered a perfect excuse to hike up one of the most unexpected streams in Arizona, a lush, well-watered refuge in the midst of one of

SUPERSTITION MOUNTAINS

(PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 4 AND 5) Sunset warms chain fruit cholla and saguaro cactuses, while in the distance, the south face of the Superstition Mountains rises abruptly from the desert floor. (LEFT) Golden light reflected from sheer granite walls colors Fish Creek as it winds its way through the masses of fallen boulders at the bottom of its namesake canyon. BOTH BY GEORGE STOCKING the harshest, most contorted wildernesses in the Southwest. We clambered down to the creek bed with many a slip and a scramble. Almost immediately, we fell under the spell of the place. Fish Creek had chewed its way through the relatively young volcanic rock to ancient bedrock, billion-year-old granite boulders sculpted by heedless centuries of sand-laced water. The smoothed multihued boulders formed an awesome rock garden of undulating sensuous shapes and created a meandering succession of check dams and deep pools. We advanced slowly up the canyon, exclaiming with each new bend, each new sequence of pools, each new tableau of small waterfalls and leafy trees. We noted the lack of thick streamside vegetation. Only the twisted roots of the sycamores and cottonwoods seemed able to hold to this stony soil perhaps because of the previous years flooding in many of these canyons. Roots as twisted as witches' fingers grasped pebbles, stones, and soil. This combination of rocks, roots, and water produced a shaded world of grottoes, pools, and sandy islands pervaded by

SUPERSTITION MOUNTAINS

(PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 8 AND 9) Rocky crags, precipitous canyons, and impenetrable chasms mark the interior of the rugged Superstition Wilderness.

the hypnotic murmur of the water. The stream burbled into alcoves cut into the rocks, reverberating and echoing like a singer in a sound studio.

Every few steps, Gary stopped to frame some arrangement of leaf and water and light. He staggered from pool to pool, brandishing his light meter, planting his tripod, and adjusting his F-stop.

So we dawdled on up the canyon, while the day slipped away.

Pulling out my topo map, I concluded we'd never reach Lost Dutch Canyon and get out before dark if we continued at our slow pace. We conferred briefly and decid-ed that I would hurry forward while Gary lingered over the photos.

So I headed up the canyon, jumping from boulder to boulder with gathering speed, wondering which of these rocks served as stepping-stones for Hacksaw Tom, fleeing beyond the powers of the posse to follow. I fell into a certain rhythm, my entire concentration focused on the next rock. Hours slipped past, miles fell away. I left any trace of human beings, internal combustion engines, and electric lights far behind lost in distance and in time.

But curiously enough, I never quite felt alone. Once, to detour around a narrow gorge that would have required a swim across a deep pool, I climbed out of the streambed. The ascent took me near a cave at the base of a sheer cliff. Inside the cave, I found shards of pottery no doubt left by the pueblo-building, pottery-making, corngrowing Salado Indians who wintered in these stark canyons and summered at higher elevations. The Salado left scattered ruins and potsherds throughout the Superstitions, but they abandoned the area in the 1400s. In the back of the cave lay a rusted can. It seemed very old; the metal was much thicker than an ordinary can today. I sat awhile in the mouth of the cave to catch my breath, and imagined Hacksaw sitting there watching his back trail for signs of pursuit. I wondered what demons or dreams drove him up the canyon — and always back down to where the wagons passed. I noted with surprise that the sun had already begun to approach the rim of the cliff towering overhead. I hurried on up the canyon, afraid now I'd never find Lost Dutch Canyon and get back out before dark. Around a few more bends, I came upon the gaping mouth of a side canyon. I pulled out my topo map and eventually convinced myself I'd found Hacksaw's hideout. Eagerly I hurried up the side canyon. It proved even more rugged, brush choked, and rocky than Fish Creek. I struggled for half a mile, then scrambled up the slope hoping to gain an overview from higher up. The scene proved wild and desolate. You could hide a small army in this canyon. The sun sighed toward the horizon, and I realized I'd have no time to search for whatever scraps of himself Hacksaw left behind. No one knows what became of Hacksaw. One day the robberies simply stopped. Suddenly conscious of my fatigue, I turned and picked my way back down into Fish Creek. Hoping to move faster, I started wading through the pools, pushing straight down the creek bed whenever possible. This approach brought me to a tight spot I'd missed on the way in. I stood on a huge boulder in a place where the canyon narrowed to perhaps 40 feet. The trunk of a flood-tossed cottonwood was stuck downstream in the chasm's throat, perhaps 20 feet above the surface of the deep pool that formed in the narrows. I hesitated, my progress blocked by the gap between my boulder and the next one. I might be able to jump it, but missing my hold would mean a 20-foot drop into the rock-ribbed pool beneath. On the other hand, some long-ago flood had also jammed a tree trunk into the crack between the two rocks. I could slide down onto the logjam, then climb up the boulder on the other side. I hesitated a long while. The image of Hacksaw lightly jumping the gap finally decided me. I eased down the rock but found myself gaining speed much more rapidly than I'd expected. Suddenly committed, I concentrated on controlling my descent so that I'd land on the log. It worked, but I hit with such force that the entire logjam shifted. I froze, splayed against the rock, afraid that any motion would send the whole mess tumbling into the water. I crouched there a long time, trying to master the runaway beating of my heart, berating myself for my recklessness, and realizing how far I'd hiked from any help. At length I summoned enough courage to test my full weight on the log. It shifted slightly then settled into a firm position. I examined the footing on the rock on the other side, which had looked so easily climbable before I'd committed myself to this perch. Close up it proved disconcertingly smooth, the once inviting handholds mere dimples in flood-contoured granite. I sat a few more minutes on my pile of driftwood, gathering my nerve for an assault on the smooth rock face. For the first time all day, I felt well and truly alone — as Hacksaw must have felt hiding in his secret places, gazing down into the canyon, guarding the approaches against all the posses and deputies and Wells Fargo agents the world could muster against him. Then I charged the rock, scrambled up the smooth slope, and somehow clawed my way to the top. I stood there, knee throbbing where I'd bashed it, fingers rubbed raw on the stone, drunk with the sound of the water, the feel of the breeze, and the cry of the first few frogs clearing their croaks for a night of lovesick crooning. I picked my way back through the gathering dark, stumbling with fatigue but brimming with the sounds of the canyon and the benediction of the waters. I never did find Hacksaw's stash. But I believe I know his secret.

Editor's Note: For information about hiking and other recreational opportunities in the Superstition Mountains, contact Lost Dutchman State Park at (602) 982-4485 or the Tonto National Forest's Mesa Ranger District at (602) 379-6446.