ON THE ROAD

ON THE ROAD Paul Coze A French Boy Scout Official Turned Western Artist

It would probably be faster and easier to give a cursory account of what artist, writer and scouting-rodeo-cowboy-American Indian enthusiast Paul Coze didn't accomplish during his lifetime, and just assume he'd done everything else, rather than try to summarize his achievements. One thing is certain — Coze was not a lazy man.

Coze was born on July 29, 1903, in Beyrouth, Syria, now Lebanon. His father's family, named Coze de la Cressonniere, abandoned its title during the French Revolution and turned to medicine and engineering. Paul's mother was a Russian princess whose family ruled Yugoslavia for 300 years.

Coze began his education in Egypt, where he and his brother, Marcel, joined the Boy Scouts. World War I caught the family in France, and the Coze brothers formed the first Paris Troop of Catholic Boy Scouts, out of which grew the French association. Coze went on to serve as national commissioner of the French Boy Scouts, then assistant international commissioner, writing several handbooks and the annual agenda. He served as editor-in-chief of Scout de France, the Boy Scouts' monthly magazine, for seven years.

American Indians had always interested Coze, who learned English to research his book Moeurs et Histoire des Peaux-Rouges (Manners and History of the American Indian). Beginning in 1936, Coze spent summers in Arizona and New Mexico, living among the Indians on the reservations. Shortly thereafter he began writing and illustrating articles for Arizona Highways. His work reflected his experiences with the Indians, and shared details about their lifestyles, cultures, jewelry and social practices. Editor Raymond Carlson, thrilled with Coze's thoroughness and dedication, loved the subject matter. It wasn't surprising to see partial or even entire issues of the magazine devoted to Coze and his tales.

During one summer in Arizona, Coze, who had always been fascinated by rodeos, cowboys and tricks performed with a lasso, developed the roping game of cholla, played on horseback, something like polo but using a large, papier-maché object similar to a child's jack instead of a wooden ball. Coze explains the game in a 1955 article in Arizona Highways, describing how he and friends got together and played at the old roping arena at Camelback Inn.

Some of Coze's artwork hangs in Arizona today, including a huge three-part mural depicting the development of Phoenix in Terminal Two at Sky Harbor International Airport, and beautiful oil renditions of the 12 Stations of the Cross commissioned by St. Thomas Catholic Church in Phoenix.

Excerpted from the August 1941 issue Navajo Nicknames

Years ago when the Navajos were brought back from Ft. Sumner in 1868, each family was given a certain part of the land for their home. They were sometimes called by their family names, but more often by the location of their homes.

The man who lived where the water ran dark and deep between two tall cliffs was called "Blackwater." Another lived on "Whiskey Creek" and that became his name. One man's home was near a spring where the water comes through a round hole in a rocky wall, instead of seeping through a larger area. He was called "One-eyed Water." One-eyed Water's sons were evidently not very well thought of, judging by their names, which were: "Sleepy," "Slowman," "No Teeth," "Worthless" and "Little Soda Pop," who was raised on pop and coffee.

In those days, the children did not take their father's name. They belonged to their mother's clan. At birth each child was given a Navajo name. The boys were "Little Boy," "Big Boy," "Tall Boy," "Fat Boy," "Slim Boy," and so on, while the girls' names appertained to war Bah, Ha-bah, Dez-bah and many more of like nature. No one seems to know why they were named that way. They have ceased to have their original meaning and are just names like the English names of Tom, Dick and Harry.

Those Indian names for children are only used in the home by members of the family. By the time they reach maturity they usually have acquired a descriptive nickname that sticks through life unless some incident occurs that causes another to be adopted that seems more appropriate to the neighbors.

Sometimes they are given more or less dignified names that represent their calling such as "Tall Singer," "Little Medicine Man," "Big Silversmith," "Slim Gambler," "White Horse," "Black Cattle." Such men are the more respected men of a community because they have greater wealth.

Such names are not so common among the women, although they are occasionally applied.

Two women were fussing over a spring. As water was scarce, the so-called owner of the spring would not let her neighbor have any water, which made the neighbor angry, so she hid by the spring and when the other woman came for water, she threw her dog into the spring and ruined the water. She was called "Mrs. Dog in the Spring," and the other woman was "Mrs. Stingy With Water."

One man stole a saddle that had been left on a grave for the departed spirit to ride to his Nirvana. When the deed was discovered, he was forced to leave the reservation and was spoken of in whispers as "Haunted Saddle."

Blackwater's sons were named "Squeaky," "Puggy," "Crookneck," "Splitear" and "Sheeppelt," the latter because he had been caught stealing a pelt. A grandson was "Bad Eggs" because he took the eggs from under the trader's sitting hen. He knew that the eggs were supposed to be taboo, but he was curious to try them.

"Old Mud" had two children away at boarding school. They were named Ned Gilmore and Julia Marlow, while two boys at home were "Little Eyes" and "Arbuckle Coffee."

The traders all have nicknames; most of them are self-explanatory. Among them are: "Black Hat," "Tall Grouchy," "Gray Mustache," "Wide Belly," "Lameman," "Big Nose" and "Thirty Cents." The last named trader lived among very poor Indians who seldom had any money. All the business was done by trade and barter. Sometimes more opulent Indians stopped at his store, and one of them said the trader could not make change for 30 cents, hence the nickname.

The government employees have not escaped the sharp wit of the Navajo tongue. Many recent names applied to them are unprintable, but in the old days their wit was apt but good-natured. A brawny Swede was "Yellow Fat Boy," and there was "Red Hairy Neck," "Horseface," "Lazy Devil" and "Sleepy Jesus," so called because he was revived from drowning. The Indians said he was brought back to life like Jesus. When, as time goes on and as those now living die off, nicknames will be a thing of the past as the younger generation are taking English names for themselves and their children. One wonders how many generations will pass before some haughty Mrs. Waters will try to trace her proud lineage back to Mrs. Dog in the Spring.

BUFFALO POACHING

Buffalo poaching, a topic you don't hear about these days, was the subject of a letter to the editor in the June 1946 issue, as follows: Early in May, my wife and I left Marble Canyon Lodge to return to our home in Clearfield, Utah. On U.S. Route 89 about 3 miles south of the House Rock Valley Ranch, and along the highway, we found two pieces of a skin lying where someone had left it. Upon closer examination, it proved to be a buffalo skin, freshly removed from the carcass.

I climbed up on my car to look over the landscape, as I felt that somewhere close I would be able to see the animal from which the skin had been taken. Off to the north of the road about 100 yards, I found the carcass. It had been partly skinned out, but no meat had been taken from it.

I am sportsman enough to resent this kind of thing, and regardless of who may have done it, I would like to see them prosecuted.

W.A. (Bud) Lee Clearfield, UT

Editor Raymond Carlson responded:

Killing of the buffalo in House Rock Valley by meat butchers is about the lowest thing we can think of and we agree with Mr. Lee that whoever is guilty should be prosecuted. The Arizona Game Commission each year conducts a legalized hunt which holds the herd down and eliminates the aged buffalo. But to wantonly butcher these picturesque animals is unpardonable and violates all the rules of good sportsmanship.

Excerpted from the July 1953 issue Voice of the Southwest

The Southwest speaks in many ways, through wind, color, silence, mountains, remoteness, but musically it speaks through the strings of the guitar. It is the most popular instrument in the region. It accents admirably the informality that prevails in the Southwest. There is something just naturally relaxing in the soft rhythmic music it makes.

The guitar is such an accepted part of life in the Southwest that it seems it has always been here, but it hasn't. Like apple trees, Christianity and firearms, it came across the border from Mexico where it had been brought by the Spaniards. It has played its own particular and important part in the history and development of this part of the country, adding countless hours of pleasure and relaxation to the lives of pioneers, settlers and inhabitants right down to the present time. Going back a few years to the period when the West was a reasonable facsimile of the movie version, the guitar was the favorite instrument of every cowpoke west of Dodge City. It was almost as much a part of his equipment as the Bull Durham in his hip pocket. During their working days, when they had little time for tomfoolery, it was carried along in the chuck wagon, but at night around the campfire they strummed it while they sang, talked or just thought.

Some authorities give the Spanish credit for inventing the guitar. Whether they did or not, it has been more widely used in Spain than in any other country unless, perhaps, in recent years Mexico has usurped that position. If it was invented somewhere else (no doubt the Russians claim it), at any rate it came to full flower in Spain. The Moors are credited with having introduced stringed instruments into Spain. The lute and several of its varieties were the most popular instruments of the Renaissance. The Spaniards developed a guitarlike instrument in the 16th century called the vihuela, which became the favorite of court circles and other aristocratic bodies. The great-grandfather of the guitar the cithara - dates back to 1700 B.C. and originated among the Semitic races in Egypt, Asia Minor, Assyria, Greece and the Roman Empire. From there it spread over Europe. While guitars and other stringed instruments were flourishing in the Old World, exploration and colonization were taking place in the New World. History shows that by 1100 Mexico had a very high type of civilization in many ways, but was surprisingly far behind in musical instruments. They had drums, flutes and trumpets but not one stringed instrument.

But with Spanish conquest came stringed instruments and in particular the guitar. Though the flutes and drums were older, the guitar quickly became the first love. It is the heart of popular music in all Latin American countries.

The guitar in modern Western music is just as important as it is in Spanish music. Though times have changed since the Old West days, there are still huge cattle ranches and there are still cowboys. They may ride jeeps rather than horses, and they may sit around the floor furnace in the evening instead of the campfire, but they still love the guitar and they still know how to play it.

People of any land mirror the characteristics of that land. The Southwest is vast, mysterious and usually friendly, but sometimes it can be harsh. It is colorful, exciting, romantic and, above all, changeable and moody. All this is mellowed a little by a graceful heritage from Spanish days. The music of the Southwest reflects these traits and aspects. The pace of life is a little less hurried here and when people have leisure they seek means of artistic expression. The guitar is a medium of utmost importance.From its birthplace in distant Asia, across two continents and through many centuries, this bit of wood, string and glue has reached the point where it is so much a part of the Southwest, the people and their ways that it is difficult to think of its ever having been at home anyplace else.

A WORD ABOUT THE WEATHER

Through the years, the pages of Arizona Highways were dotted with jokes and humorous anecdotes, like this one from the February 1944 issue: In my part of Arizona rain is a rarity, an emotional experience, an economical caviar, an esthetic rejuvenation. I love the old-timer in Yuma who said, a bit wistfully, “I've seen rain, but I've got a 15-year-old son and I'd like for him to see some, too.”

ON THE ROAD Jerry Jacka Climbing to Fame in Landscape Photography Sometimes Took Extreme Measures

Photographer Jerry Jacka, who for decades has been one of Arizona Highways' most important and prolific contributors, sometimes goes to great extremes to get us pictures.

Like the time in 1977 when he and Wes Holden, then managing editor of the magazine's book division, spent several days shooting at Canyon de Chelly on the Navajo Indian Reservation. Their Navajo guide told them about some well-preserved pictographs in a cave in one of the side canyons, but to get there they would have to scramble up a talus slope and then climb a sheer, but slightly sloping, canyon wall. No problem, they thought.

They set out in midafternoon on a chilly November day as black storm clouds began to darken the sky. Up the talus slope they went, coming eventually to the wall theyhad to climb. Toeholds had been dug into the rock walls, and every 8 or 10 feet small platforms about the size of desk chairs jutted out so they could regain their purchase. Each carried a backpack filled with cameras, a tripod and other equipment.

The climb proved to be exciting but uneventful, save for the fact it started to drizzle, and soon they arrived at the pictograph cave about 400 feet above the canyon floor. Because the cave had a huge overhang, the trio remained dry while Jerry took his pictures. Then the rain began to pour.

To return to the ground, each person would have to slither on his back until his body drooped over the cliffside, hanging there momentarily by his elbows while his heels felt around for the toeholds.

"I can't do that," Jerry announced. It wasn't that he feared heights. A long-ago ailment had damaged the nerves in his feet, and he couldn't feel anything with them especially obscure toeholds 400 feet up a cliff. The only good news was the cliff overhang would keep them dry as they descended the cliff; that is, if they found a way to descend.

The Navajo guide provided the solution. Wes would slither down to the first platform and lie back against the sloping wall. The gear would be lowered, and then it would be Jerry's turn.

Jerry would lie on his back and scoot off the edge while holding on with his elbows. The Navajo guide also would keep a good grip on Jerry's coat. Then Wes would place Jerry's feet either in the toeholds or upon his shoulders and scrunch down until Jerry could get his feet onto the platform. Then the process would be repeated to get to the next platform. And so they came down the mountain like caterpillars, stretching out, then scrunching up.

"We did that until we got down," Wes said. "It wasn't a problem at all."

Jerry remembers the incident, along with other harrowing tales, as well. "I got down that cliff, gear and all," he said. "And I took some of the best pictures I've ever taken of the cliff dwellings at Canyon de Chelly on that trip, likely because of the soft lighting that resulted from the cloud cover.

"Nothing like the time that I was doing some aerial shots in southern Arizona and our flight plan got mixed up, though. We landed and found ourselves surrounded by some polite, but very suspicious, federal officials who wanted to know what we were up to. Turns out they had us confused with contraband carriers."

"It all worked out in the end."

From the unpublished archives of Arizona Highways When a Rim Is Not a Rim

BY FORMER ARIZONA CONGRESSMAN JOHN R. MURDOCK I REMEMBER ONE TIME in the 1920s I was coming down Strawberry Hill, which is one of the 7-mile-long, winding hill roads coming down over the Mogollon Rim. I saw something moving away below and, on close inspection, it turned out to be a car. He was coming up the hill. When I got near enough I could see it was a Model T Ford with a Texas license plate. A single driver, a young man evidently new in the state. He was having engine trouble, heating up. He had not yet learned that you sometimes have to take a Model T Ford and back up on the worst hills.

As I came alongside of him, he was cooling the engine. I thought I'd have a little fun so I said, “And now what do you think of the Mogollon Rim?” He was puzzled and said, “Well, I use them right along, but they are awfully hard to get the tire off of.” Of course, if he had been reading Arizona Highways magazine he would have known at once that the Mogollon Rim does not refer to the rim of an automobile wheel.

LIFE ON THE FRONTIER THE DAYS OF ARIZONA CAMELS

Excerpted from the September 1939 issue Few people know that in 1857, six years before Arizona even became a Territory, camels were brought into the desert country by the U.S. Army to solve a very serious transportation problem. The camels did well and were praised highly, but roads and stages finally made them unnecessary.

The camels were turned out on the desert to shift for themselves, and their peculiar smell and shape stampeded the cattle and mule-freight teams. This so infuriated the muleskinners and cowboys that they shot the unfortunate camels on sight.

LITTLE TOLERANCE FOR SHEEP ON THE OPEN RANGE

Excerpted from the June 1942 issue John T. Jones, the first Hash Knife foreman, being a cattleman to the core, felt that the sheep menace was the greatest range problem at the moment. He sent to Texas for John Paine, a gunfighter of the first water with a natural antipathy towards sheep and sheepmen, for the express purpose of driving the infringing sheep off of Hash Knife range.

Theoretically at least, open range conditions existed in the Territory of Arizona at the time, that is, the range was free and open to anyone who cared to graze it, their brand being their title to ownership to any critters wearing it. But through certain grants and nebulous leases and patents, and the impressive fact that Hash Knife cattle were predominant, ranges within certain far-flung boundaries were considered to belong to the Hash Knife. And other folks were invited to stay off.

Paine's methods were simple and direct. He'd ride up to a sheep camp and say “Git!” Then next morning he'd ride back with a couple of Hash Knife Assistants to see if the herder had got. If not, they'd charge the sheep and get them to running. Most of the country was gashed by steep canyons and deep cut-bank washes. It would be only a matter of time before the stampeding sheep would tumble pell-mell over one or the other.

Should the herder resist this procedure and be so indiscreet as to reach for his rifle, six-shooters blazed, and - well, what sheep weren't killed by falling or being run over were left to the mercies of coyotes, wolves and mountain lions without a herder. -Lawrence Cardwell

ANOTHER RANCH WIFE CHORE

Excerpted from the February 1944 issue Mrs. Henry Stevens, a rancher's wife, had hung no rags out to dry. Yet from her kitchen window she saw a strip of calico on a shrub. Without hesitation, she put down the batch of biscuit dough she was kneading, and reached for her loaded shotgun.

Boom! The roar of it shook the dwelling, and out there an Apache Indian leaped upward then fell and died.

That was in the wilderness of northern Arizona, 26 miles from Prescott, in the yesteryear when self-reliance was not a lost art. And from Mrs. Stevens' story comes all the precedent that you and I need for personal grandeur.

Her shot was a signal for nearly 50 Indians to attack. They had crept up to surround the dwelling. Only she and her children and one elderly man were on the place. She kicked the back door shut, turned to her babies. “Go right along with your playing,” she ordered calmly. “Play there on the living room floor.” The elderly man took the front of the house, she the rear. With their guns they fought valiantly. Creep to a window - Bang! And reload. Open the door a crack - Bang! And do it again. For six hours they stood off the siege. And then a group of passing cowboys heard the shooting, rode over and drove the Indians away.

When it was all ended, the cowboy foreman spoke.

“Well now,” said he, “this here is something! Where at is Mr. Stevens, yore husband, ma'am?” “He is in town on business,” the lady said.

“Then I'll ride in with the news, ma'am. Only you better just take and write down what you want to say to him, and I'll deliver it direct.” Mrs. Stevens agreed. She wrote and that night her husband received it from the faithful cowboy's hand. And what had she told him? What lamentation, what cry of helplessness, what piteous plea had come from this poor woman in a frontier home? Her note read: Dear Henry: The Apaches come. I am almost out of buckshot. Please send me some more. Your loving wife. - Oren Arnold

THERE'S NO TRAFFIC SIGNAL IN THIS LUSH MOUNTAIN RETREAT OF PINES, MEADOWS, LODGES AND FISHING SPOTS, BUT YOU'LL WANT Glorious GREER TO STOP AND STAY AWHILE

I'VE GOT MY FLY-FISHING ROD IN HAND AND I'M READY TO TRY AGAIN. BUT I'M NOT SURE I'LL EVER GET THIS RIGHT.

On my first cast I hooked the west end of my britches, and after the second, it took 10 minutes to unravel the line from my neck. Can you can get detention in flyfishing school?

My teacher, Bob Pollock, pretends not to notice my skills. He's prowling the banks of the trout pond behind The Greer Lodge in the White Mountains. He calls this beautiful spot his "office." Eight students hang on his every word.

"If you don't make a strong backcast, your goose is cooked," says the easygoing former Nebraskan, a real estate salesman who threw away his necktie to become a full professor of fly fishing.

"You need more gunpowder in that backcast," he says.

Gunpowder? But I might lose an eye. As I fiddle with a mile of fishing line, it hits me. I've been in this pristine place four days now, and in that time I've had the nagging notion that something's missing. I haven't been able to put my finger on what it is, until now: In four days I haven't heard the ring of a cell phone.At first, I think this is an abnormal thought to have amid the lushness of a summer morning, pine trees swishing in the breeze, trout leaping from the water in front of me. Then I realize this is the intouch age, a time when it's declasse to be out of the loop.

Except in Greer. It has 129 year-round residents 325 in summer - no traffic light, no movie theater and nothing remotely resembling a mall. Downtown is a clearing in the forest. The community mascot might as well be the donkey that keeps an eye on things from behind the wire fence bordering Main Street.

Greer isn't the middle of nowhere. It's past that. It's a one-donkey town.

"We have three claims to fame," says real estate agent Peter Pegnam, who relocated from Tucson after a long career as a newspaper reporter.

"The Little Colorado River runs through here; we have the second-highest elevation post office in Arizona; and Main Street is a dead end. A lot of people have lived in the state for years, but never made the turn off State Route 260. Finally they do and say, 'Hey, what's this?' "

Well, this is a bit of an enigma. Forget the donkey for a minute. Greer also boasts several quality restaurants, a number of good bed and breakfasts including the elegant Red Setter Inn and Cottage, named one of the three best in the country - and other charming retreats. The Molly Butler Lodge, for instance, opened in 1910 and is promoted as one of the oldest continuously operating lodges in Arizona.

The town's surprising cosmopolitan streak is wide enough to attract theologians, lawyers and retired deans as residents. Two years ago, it drew sculptor James Muir and his wife, Linda Jo, from Sedona.

They wanted a place that was undiscovered, serene and simple. They also wanted to add to the cultural mix.

So they opened the Greer Art Emporium, which carries some of Muir's sculptures, oils with a Western theme by respected painters Buck McCain from Eagar and Scottsdale's Bill Shaddix and other items, from handwoven Zapotec MexicanIndian rugs to glider rocking chairs made of pine.

Just to make sure the Emporium had the right feel, the Muirs installed a pot-bellied stove for locals to gather around and a "liar's bench" on the porch. But the couple's biggest thrill is watching the faces of visitors when they discover fine paintings and bronzes in an 8,500-foot-high dot-onthe-map mountain hamlet.

"If you sit in the lounge of The Greer Lodge, this great, rustic log building, and talk to the residents, you'll find out they're incredibly accomplished people," Muir says. "We've had something like four books published by Greer writers the past few years. To me, this is shades of Ernest Hemingway in the White Mountains."

Or shades of Arizona 50 years ago. Easy-going, hardworking, warm.

"I know almost everyone in town by name, and I know their kids' names and their dogs," says postmaster Marsha Bowers. "We help each other out, and the connections you make with people are strong."

It likely will stay that way, despite fears the town might become the next semi-chic, high-country getaway, along the lines of Vail or Jackson Hole. Pegnam says private land is so scarce that large-scale growth is impossible.

"We're seeing a few more trophy cabins being built," he says, "but this is still basically a small log-cabin retreat for people from Phoenix and Tucson."

Not only do the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forests surrounding Greer keep development at bay, they offer limitless opportunities for fishing, backpacking, hiking, mountain biking and simply getting lost for a few days.

To get a sense of the country, I hooked up with rancher Wink Crigler and her childhood chum Sam Udall, a cowboy and retired teacher. Both grew up in the White Mountains and know every draw, pasture and drainage by heart.

We began in Greer at the junction of Main Street and Forest Service Road 87

GREER

(OPPOSITE PAGE) The Black River winds through fields of cinquefoil near the Thompson cabin. (LEFT) A retired teacher, cowboy Sam Udall, brother of Mo and Stewart Udall, grew up in the White Mountains and knows every draw, pasture and drainage. (BELOW) Wink Crigler and her dog, Ivan, warmly greet visitors to her working cattle and guest ranch near Greer.

and traveled south on a dirt road to Sheep Crossing, where long-ago herders brought their stock to summer pasture.

Today, the road remains the primary access to the popular Mount Baldy Wilderness. Trail 94 is a challenging 14-mile trek to a final elevation of 11,200 feet. Hikers can only get within about a quarter-mile of Baldy Peak, the second-highest point on the mountain. Baldy Peak, sacred to White Mountain Apache Indians, is on a closed portion of the White Mountain Apache Reservation and off-limits to everyone but tribal members.

The countryside around the Crossing is marked by broad, sloping meadows, sparkling creeks and ponderosa pines, all of it a vibrant green after an unusually heavy summer monsoon.

I found a ridgeside seat on a fallen pine not far above the Little Colorado. The air was filled with the thrilling sound of surging water and Wink shouting from a riverside willow thicket. “Look at these bluebells and the coneflowers,” she called as she inspected a patch of colorful wild blooms.

Wink's grandparents and parents were ranchers who worked this land from the ground up and Wink, herself, is a bit of a historian. From stories told by kin and her own research, she knows about every character who passed through here over the decades.

One was J.E. Thompson, a rich businessman and avid hunter, who, beginning in about 1912, made the Greer area his own outdoor playground.

He hired Wink's granddad, John Butler (as in Molly Butler Lodge), to build several three-sided lean-tos at strategic spots in the wilderness to make sure he and his friends were comfortable on their hunting forays. But to give their stays a measure of luxury, Thompson ordered Butler to hang Persian rugs on the walls just before the guests arrived. After the guests left, the rugs were rolled back up and stored.

“My dad told me that when he was entertaining at his lodge in Greer, he arranged to have his dancing bears shipped up,” says Crigler, who owns the X Diamond, a working cattle and guest ranch 5 miles northeast of Greer.

From the Crossing, we picked up Forest Service Road 113 between the Lee Valley and Colter reservoirs and followed it to FR 116 South. After an easy drive — or as cowboy Sam calls it, “a short lope and a cigarette” — we stopped at the junction of Burro Creek, Thompson Creek and the west fork of the Black River.

It began to rain as we reached the rail fence alongside the road and the lonesome log cabin in the meadow behind it. Time for another story, this one from Sam about Wink's dad, Vinson Butler: As a cowboy, he spent weeks at a time alone in this country. Once in the 1930s,

GREER

After running out of tobacco, he picked up a set of tracks and followed them, figuring they might lead to a smoke. When he came to a camp in a clearing, a man named Ben Black stepped in front of him with a gun.

With the wildlife supply depleted and the Apaches in need of food, the government had stocked the landscape with wild pigs, and Black was making an illegal living butchering them and selling the meat. Posses hunted him, but he was a slick customer.

(BELOW) Burro Creek, another of several Greer-area waterways, runs through a meadow of grasses and orange-blooming owlclaw. (OPPOSITE PAGE) Fir and spruce tree-lined Big Lake rates highly among trout fishermen.

"Looks like you caught a man," said Black, thinking Butler was the law.

"I'm not here for that," Butler said. "I just want a cigarette."

In an account of the adventure told late in life, Wink's dad said he got his smoke and that night shared Black's bedroll, even though it was marked by fire holes. The day before, to stay warm in the forest, Black had put campfire rocks on his blankets and they'd caught fire.

Butler spent a nervous night sleeping beside an outlaw, and the next morning he got up and rode off. Black was never arrested.

We found our way back to FR 113 and looped around Big Lake and Crescent Lake, two of the most popular in the state for catching brown and rainbow trout. The view from the east side of Crescent was especially pretty.

Under the clouds, the water had a silver-gray sheen, broken only by the splatter of big raindrops and the lengthening shadows of the trees, black and mysterious at the lake's opposite edge. The picture was completed by a fisherman standing in waist-deep water making a few last casts before darkness.

"You know, I've been around this land all my life, and I guess I'm spoiled," said Udall. "I don't want to share it with the fast-talkers and the exploiters. I want to share it with people who appreciate the work my granddaddy and Wink's granddaddy did; people who love the pristine beauty and understand that these trails are closing in, because they are."

We followed 113 around the lakes and back to 87. But before driving into Greer, we detoured onto Forest Service Road 112, which skirts the White Mountain Reservoir as it loops around Boardshack Knoll. The road is lightly traveled and a good bet for spotting wildlife. Visitors should bring cameras to capture on film the deer, elk and wild turkeys that often roam here.Back in Greer, the rain had stopped, but big clouds still hung over smoking chimneys. Residents were gathering on cabin porches and stoking barbecues set up on beds of pine needles. As I drove back to State Route 260, I noticed signs for Benny and Rosey creeks, and I was reminded of another story told around Greer.

Seems that in the 1880s a young trapper named Benjamin Howell, who camped at a spring on the way into town, lost his heart to Rosalind Thompson, a rancher's daughter.

Even though she was in love with Fred Hoffman, a smooth-talking, gambling cowboy, she reluctantly succumbed to Benjamin's wishes and agreed to marry him.

Feeling a happiness he'd never known, Benjamin saddled his horse and galloped toward Springerville to get a marriage license. But by the time he got back, Rosalind had eloped with Hoffman.

Rosalind's father liked Benjamin a great deal, and was so saddened by his daughter's decision that he sought to memorialize it by naming the two small trickles flowing into the south end of his ranch. He called them Benny and Rosey creeks.

Now everyone driving over the bridge into Greer encounters the names of these two ill-fated lovers, and how cool is that? A town so old-fashioned it has its own drive-by love story.

WHEN YOU GO

Location: 240 miles east of Phoenix.

Getting There: Drive 10 miles west of Eagar on State Route 260 and turn left, or south, onto State Route 373. Greer is 8 miles south of the intersection of the two highways.

Phone Numbers: Area codes are 520 unless noted; 888 series numbers are toll-free.

Zip Code: All Greer zip codes are 85927.

Lodging: The Greer Lodge, (888) 475-6343 or 735-7216, has eight rooms; two-night minimum stay on weekends; three nights on holidays. Cabins contain two to four bedrooms. The lodge offers private fishing and fly-fishing school, volleyball, horseshoes, ice skating and skiing, depending on the season.

The Peaks at Greer, (800) 556-9997 or 735-7777, offers deluxe rooms, suites and cabins, some with fireplaces and lofts. Cabins have two bedrooms, fireplaces and full kitchens with a two-night minimum reservation on cabins.

Molly Butler Lodge, 735-7226, offers 11 rooms for rent, with minimum two-night stays on weekends and three-night stays on holidays.

The Aspens Cabins, 735-7232, have six two-bedroom cabins with fully equipped kitchens that rent for two nights minimum.

The Snowy Mountain Inn, (888) SNOWY71 or 735-7576, has four bed-and-breakfast rooms in the main lodge, and rents resort cabins for two to six people. Private homes on the property also can be rented for four to 12 people.

The Red Setter Inn and Cottage, (888) 99GREER or 735-7441, named one of the top three bed and breakfasts in the country by Real Money magazine, houses six rooms with fireplaces, four with Jacuzzi tubs. Two-night minimum stay at the 12-room inn required on weekends; three nights minimum on holidays.

Money magazine, houses six rooms with fireplaces, four with Jacuzzi tubs. Two-night minimum stay at the 12-room inn required on weekends; three nights minimum on holidays.

Cattle Kate's Lodge, 735-7744, has nine rooms, six with gas fireplaces, with no minimum stay.

Wink Crigler's X Diamond & MLY Ranch, Springerville, 85938, 333-2286, has private fishing, horseback riding and a spa offering European facials, body wraps and scrubs and massages. Four two-bedroom cabins and one three-bedroom cabin each with a fireplace. No minimum stay.

Restaurants:

The Snowy Mountain Inn, 735-7576, offers shrimp scampi and chicken Oscar, as well as kangaroo and New Zealand red venison prepared by an Australian chef. Open Fridays, Saturdays and holidays for dinner only. Reservations suggested.

La Ventana Restaurant at the Peaks, 735-7777, features several beef dishes, chicken and shrimp, with apricot chicken and Southwestern New York Strip its most popular entrees. Open Friday and Saturday nights.

Cattle Kate's restaurant, 735-7744, serves ribs, steak, pasta, chicken, pork and fish dishes, all with a high-end twist. The theme is Western; table napkins are red bandannas folded into birds of paradise. Open for dinner Tuesday through Sunday.

Amberon's Restaurant at the Greer Lodge, 735-7216, serves a catch-of-the-day, usually halibut or salmon, and offers jalapeño lamb chops, pork medallions, trout amandine and stuffed trout. Open daily from 7 A.M.

Attractions:

Greer Art Emporium, 103 Main St., 735-7212; Crigler's Little House Museum at the X Diamond Ranch, a collection of local historical artifacts and antique musical instruments, Box 791, Springerville, AZ 85938, 333-2286; Bob's Fly Fishing, Box 282, 735-7293; Butterfly Lodge Museum, County Road 1126, 4.5 miles south of State Route 260, open Friday through Sunday, Memorial Day to Labor Day, 735-7514.

Events:

Greer Days, June 3, a small-town-style celebration including a pancake breakfast at the Greer Mountain Resort, 7 to 11 A.M.; the Greer Walkabout, a 10K race in which participants walk, not run, 7 A.M.; a parade along Main Street, 11 A.M., features grand marshals pulled in turn-of-the-century surreys. Other events include a chili cookoff, a talent show held on the deck of the Molly Butler Lodge, a Mexican lunch at the Greer Mountain Resort, a horseshoe tournament and an evening dance with live music in a barn adjacent to The Greer Lodge. Information: The Greer Lodge, (888) 475-6343; Molly Butler Lodge, 735-7226.

Travel Advisory:

The Forest Service provides handouts, including maps of hiking and biking trails, horseback riding and birding sites, as well as information on fishing at the numerous lakes and streams in the area. Apache-Sitgreaves National Forests, Springerville Ranger District, U.S. Forest Service, Box 760, Springerville, AZ 85938; 333-4372.

Additional Information: