HELLSGATE WILDERNESS: THE TOUGHEST 35 MILES IN ARIZONA

Hells Gate

Rigor and Beauty in Arizona's Wildest Canyon

Text and Photographs by Nick Berezenko

HELLSGATE

Fabled Tonto Creek bursts from springs beneath the sheer brow of the Mogollon Rim near Kohls Ranch in central Arizona. For 10 miles, it gambols through a summer playground of cool ponderosas and lush greenery. But at Bear Flat, it eludes the casual hiker and plunges into a primeval gorge called the Hellsgate Wilderness. Not until 25 miles later does it reemerge into flatness and civilization at Gisela.

Crumple a sheet of paper into a tight ball, then pull it apart. That's what the 37,440-acre Hellsgate Wilderness looks like. A jumble of knifelike ridges and V-shaped tributaries, all set at odds to each other, with no plan, no regularity. A cataclysmic landscape. No wonder then that in this 25 miles, the only route to cross the Wilderness is the old pioneer trail that plunges precipitously 1,600 feet into tiny Hellsgate Basin and up again. Once this was the shortest route for ranchers to drive their cattle between the cowboy towns of Payson and Young, but due to its abominable difficulty, it was soon abandoned. Today, as it is the only practicable way to access the interior, hikers intent on getting away from it all are the only ones who use it.

Hardier souls use the creek itself to penetrate the canyons mysteries.

PRESCOTT COLLEGE

Plunked down on the shores of Bear Flat, I worriedly glance at my watch. It's 10 A.M. already, and no one else seems eager - or is ready - to set off.

True, last night's "debriefing" lasted until midnight, and the kids all needed to sleep in, but, hey, we're dealing with really wild country here, brutal and unforgiving. It seems to me it might behoove them to get moving.

The nine "kids," ages 18 through 25, are Prescott College students. They've already spent a week traversing the Mogollon Rim and will spend two more penetrating Hellsgate, as part of the tiny Arizona college's wilderness orientation program for incoming freshmen. According to course director Tracey Taylor, the orientation's goal is to foster self-reliance by having the students confront challenges in a rigorous environment. Although two instructors accompany us, the kids are expected to be pretty much self-directed. They

take turns leading and reach decisions by consensus with only occasional gentle steering.

When we finally set off just before noon, I am astounded by the onerous weight and size of their packs. Not only the five men but the six women heft loads of 80-plus pounds, toting everything from textbooks, field guides, and journals to cooking stoves, propane cylinders, woks, binoculars, and cameras.

For the first leg of the trip, the seven miles to Hellsgate Basin, we trek overland. The instructors, who have scouted every alternative - including escape routes in case of emergency - have advised against going down the creek bed in this section.

We plan to bushwhack three 1,000-foot-high ridges and two intervening plummeting side canyons.

We reach the bottom of the first of these, Bull Tank Canyon, at three in the afternoon. It has been a grueling haul, and there's water here. I suspect this is the last water before the creek, so I'm certain we'll camp here.

Instead I hear the senior instructor, Joe Scanlon, softly rallying the exhausted students: "How about we at least make it up to the next ridge?"

Once we get there, the suggestion is made to drop down into Dry Canyon, where we are forced to continue because there's no water.

Up to the top of the Leo Canyon ridge we climb, lungs burning, shoul-ders popping, calf muscles quivering and tearing. The last molten rays of a golden sunset bathe us momentarily on top of the ridge, and we barrel down the last two miles in the progressing darkness, stopping briefly to watch a sow bear browsing with her cubs on the hillside of the opposing canyon.

It is pitch-black by the time we stumble across the stream and into our campsite at the confluence of Haigler and Tonto creeks. The kids immediately discard their packs and splash into the deep pool below camp. Totally spent, I am too tired to gather myself for a swim. Hearing the laughing voices, I marvel at the resiliency of youth.

Turning to Joe, I tell him, "You know, I never thought I could make it here today."

"Neither did they," he says. "And now they know something very important about themselves."

THE LUGE

Ugh! We actually swam in that?" asks Jennie Whitmeyer, 23, as she gets a good look at last night's swimming hole.

This is mid-September, the tag end of the monsoon season, and Tonto Creek, which normally runs crystal clear, is foul with sediment. The pool that was so inviting in the dark glares chocolatebrown in the light of day.

As we plunge into the canyon, the opaqueness of the water presents a real problem. Because I alone am using a small inflatable boat, the others must drag and float their packs behind them as they batter their way across the pools. Not able to see the bottom, they're constantly banging against rocks and boulders.

Besides, though their gear (sealed in heavy-duty plastic bags) stays relatively dry, the packs themselves take on a lot of water. Each time they're forced to lift up their sodden backpacks, at least 10 pounds of water dribbles out the vents.

Turning to Joe, I tell him, 'You know, I never thought I could make it here today.' 'Neither did they,' he says. 'And now they know something very important about themselves.'

As I float by in my boat, I watch Jennie struggling to rise at the end of a pool. Already nursing a stress fracture on one foot, she valiantly tries to heave the pack up and flops backward like a bug. After a moment's rest, she tries it again, this time with teetering success. Wincing, she hobbles painfully through the next riffle, but there's still a smile on her face. And so we progress, fighting through innumerable rock-bound alleys, churning cascades, and pools.

In time we acquire the rhythm of the canyon, and canyon time is paradoxically both fast and slow. Although we move incessant-ly each day from dawn to dusk, it takes us three days to cover seven canyon miles.

Nearing the end of the third day, we come to a humdinger of a box. Backlit by the slanting sun, its rock is black as sin. And, as if imitating the volcanic ash flow that it came from, the smoothly polished rhyolite runs down the gorge in sculpted hummocks, in arrested waves of stone. Then to our delight we notice that down the middle of it, the whole creek funnels into a single, seemingly pressurized burst of pummeling water, as if it's being shot out from a fire hose. The 35-foot-long jet expires in a four-foot fall to a pool below.

Sending the packs on through before us (it's like placing them on the world's fastest conveyer belt zip, and they're gone), we take turns riding “the luge.” Some of us use our sleeping mats as sleds but soon discover that the rush of water is so frothy and buoyant that it lifts us up and over any rocks in our way. Over and over, we ride. Clambering back up the polished walls of the pool at the bottom takes considerable effort but seems worth it once we're airborne on the spume again. Lying panting, awaiting another turn, Anne Da Vega, 21, giggles exhaustedly. “Who would have thought this canyon to be so darn fun,” she wonders.

THE GREAT BOX

“What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare.” To my astonishment, it is the grandest box I have ever seen. Sheer walls of imperturbable stone flare up 600 feet or more for at least a half mile, creating a straight-shot alley, an indomitable fortress.

It's our eighth day out at mile 15.5 and we've reached the confluence of Tonto and Spring creeks. Here we lay over for four days, as the students go on their “solos.” This morning each of them was sequestered in a different part of the creek, not allowed to wander from his or her secluded area. For three days, they will be immersed in total solitude. Most of them also will fast, hoping that by cleansing their bodies they can achieve the transcendence of a vision quest. I spend the first day resting and repairing my gear. The second day, while the instructors watch over their charges from a distance, I hike up Spring Creek.

It seems strange to be alone again deep in the Wilderness. Time freezes, I'm free to think any thought at all, to dawdle and stare at anything I will: a cardinal flower's crimson flag waving in the air, a kingfisher's swooping flight to drink from a pool, a bug-eyed praying mantis rubbing its comical arms as if anticipating me for a meal. Minuscule reflections, but oh, so rich and rare.

And Spring Creek is beautiful. Its water crystal clear, its cliffs gargantuan, its myriad pools and waterfalls over-the-top wonderful. I feel a pang of loss that the kids aren't getting to see this.

Continued from page 26 The next day, I turn my attention downstream and enter the box that starts at Tonto Creek’s first bend below our camp. To my astonishment, it is the grandest box I have ever seen. Sheer walls of imperturbable stone flare up 600 feet or more on each side and run down for at least a half mile, creating a straightshot alley, an indomitable fortress. As I pick my way in awe down through it, I notice the “great box” doesn’t intimidate, doesn’t crush me into insignificance. The box soars, as if reaching for the heavens, and I soar with it. This is like walking down the aisle of a Gothic cathedral, feeling the stone around me rise up into spirit.

DEL SHAY FALLS

The kids come off their solos and share with us their inspirations. We spend the day at rest, the starved youngsters gorging themselves on masatrigo, rice, and beans, and doing coursework in ecology. Joe Scanlon lectures on the life-zone concept. And then we are off with the instructors setting a blistering pace.

Trying to hold onto slick wet stone, we must worm our packs and ourselves down through a passage beneath the falls and then swim the 100-foot pool beyond.

The canyon hasn’t gotten any easier, but only two days remain before the bus picks us up in Gisela, and we have 10 canyon miles to go. We are in a dry land now, a land of cactus, brush, and thorn. Tonto Creek has fallen nearly 2,000 feet since we began, and somewhere near here soon, I expect we will encounter our first saguaro in what is the northernmost extension of the Sonoran Desert in this part of the state. When it comes, it does so with a bang. We’re struggling through another box of seamless rock, when out the portal at its end, we spy a panoramic wall of stone blocking our view. And on the wall, arrayed like candles on a Christmas tree, stand hundreds of the rigid cactus sentinels. For Anne Da Vega, who has never seen the desert before, the sight brings tears to her eyes. “I never dreamed it would be so fantastic,” she confides. The next day, we come to another revelation. The creek reenters granite. But unlike the freckled pink rock at the top, this granite is mostly whitish, almost blue. And, for whatever reason, it wore into the most languorous shapes: fluid monadnocks, rounded teeth, balanced balls and ovals. Walking through here is like being in a gallery of Henry Moore sculptures. Dead tired, late that afternoon we reach the effective end of the canyon.

Del Shay Falls, named for the Apache brigand who hid out near here, is a beautiful 10-foot fanlike spill over the canyon's last rocky plug. Getting down it proves as devious an exercise as the wily antics of the renegade chief who for years gave fits to the U.S. Cavalry pursuing him. Trying to hold onto slick wet stone, we must worm our packs and ourselves down through a passage beneath the falls and then swim the 100-foot pool beyond. It's a long, laborious process, and one by one we struggle through to the opposite shore.

As Jennie Whitmeyer emerges from the pool, she hears a voice behind her shouting desperately, the words muffled by the thundering roar of the waterfall. Jennie immediately swims back and helps Willow Steiner, 19, make it across the pool.

In the throes of hypothermia, Willow shivers uncontrollably. Arms enfold her, bodies hug her, in an effort to get her warm. But it's not until she eats a Powerbar that her body's furnace reignites, and she is able to continue. She makes it easily to the bus.

For the students, this trek has been a life-affirming experience, and more. When I visit them in Prescott a few weeks later, I see a new strength and confidence in them.

As for me, I will make many more trips into Hellsgate, ever grateful for its blessings.

WHEN YOU GO

Canyoneering the Hellsgate Wilderness is a dangerous proposition, to be attempted only by those experienced in rugged-country survival. The Wilderness is prime habitat for rattlesnakes, centipedes, kissing bugs, and scorpions. Flash floods can occur in the monsoon season. Also, the high alkalinity of the water at certain times of the year can produce severe cracking and rashes on exposed skin. On one of author Berezenko's subsequent trips, all members of the expedition suffered from this affliction, with several cases serious enough to require medical attention.

For information on hiking the Hellsgate and Smoky Hollow trails (again, recommended only for veteran hikers), contact the Tonto National Forest's Payson Ranger District at (520) 474-7900, or the Pleasant Valley Ranger District at (520) 462-4300.