BACK ROAD ADVENTURE

back road adventure Drive through the Superstition Mountains to Lush Country, and Maybe See a Ghost

Elisha Reavis died with his boots on, nearly in his own backyard. Unfortunately, by the time his body was found, deep in this remote country, Elisha's boots were in better shape than he was. Born, 1827; died, 1896; cause of death unknown. An unshorn and seldom-bathed hermit, Reavis raised vegetables in the highest reaches of the forbidding Superstition Mountains.

I'm camped out for the night at the Rogers Trough trailhead, alone with a black Labrador pup, less than a three-mile hike from where the old recluse lies buried in an unmarked grave. His crude headstone disappeared years ago. Wind off the mountain howls through my campfire, tree limbs creak, and I try not to think about a baleful hermit spirit edging closer to get me. The dog snuggles restlessly against my sleeping bag.

The trailhead is almost the halfway point in a nearly 30mile drive through the Tonto National Forest that began in scrubby desert lowlands but in a distance of 12 miles climbed more than 2,700 feet into rich clusters of juniper, hackberry, and blackjack oak.

After crossing Queen Creek, I had headed north through Hewitt Canyon on a passable dirt road (Forest Service Road 172) that promenaded between enormous groves of paloverde trees, each luxuriant with the yellow blossoms of a summer fueled by a wet spring.

In the first few miles, massive pillars of rock seemed determined to outdo each other. Hunky Roblas Butte, towering 800 feet above the road, blocked out the early morning sunlight. A gentle unnamed stream fed by late snowmelt cruised sweetly through giant cottonwoods in Roblas Canyon at the base of the butte, reflecting tendrils of golden dawn. I'll cross this little creek and a dozen more without names before the end of my journey.

Hewitt Ridge comes into view off to my left even before Roblas Butte loses its ability to intimidate. Hewitt is bigger, higher, and meaner. Its columns of tawny rocks bursting up through ridgelines conjure visions of the armored spines spi of dinosaurs or the rusted superstructures of behemoth ships.

A windmill, perhaps man's feeble answer to the towering stone giants, pokes its whirling headgear above patches of holly when I'm 7.4 miles north of Queen Creek. Boxy wooden corrals take up space nearby, and in the road ahead, white-faced cows nervously nudge their stiff-legged babies away from my truck. Most of the little side canyons that funnel into Hewitt Canyon are dry now, but their silver-gray rocks are worn smooth. In spring, this place must be a playground for hurtling water.

At 9.3 miles from Queen Creek, I reach an important junction. It's time to bear right off FR 172 onto FR 172A, and in the next 3.6 miles, elevation piles up in a hurry. The southernmost crags of Four Peaks pop into view when I gain a north-facing vista, and the western reaches of the Superstitions miles away near Apache Junction purple the horizon as I climb toward the 6,000-foot mass of Iron Mountain. I wonder if it grumbles at my intrusion. In wet weather, this would be four-wheel-drive country. Even in the dry season, a high-clearance vehicle is necessary. At its junction with FR 650, FR 172A turns left (north) for .3 of a mile to Rogers Trough Trailhead, just outside the Superstition Wilderness, where my four-footed buddy and I spend the night fretting about