Climbing Camelback Mountain

AMELBACK

In paintings and photos that Phoenix and Camelback Mountain sometimes merge in people's minds.

Eye surgeon Charles Volle, of Bismark, North Dakota, saw the mountain and had to climb it. “The first time I tried this,” he said laughing, “I wore cowboy boots. They didn’t work very well.” This time he wore lightweight sport shoes for traction over the granulated gravel that lubricates the mountain’s trails.

Two main trails lead up Camelback. Echo Canyon Trail begins from a Phoenix park near McDonald Drive and Tatum Boulevard. At 1.2 miles, it’s the shorter but also the steeper of the two, yet still the more popular because it offers better parking, a shelter and toilets. From the trailhead, you pass through the shadow of the “Praying Monk,” a towering formation with a silhouette almost as famous as that of the mountain, and a tricky technical climb pioneered by Driggs in 1951.

The well-worn trail tilts sharply up from there with handrails for help over the steepest parts. No matter what shape you're in, Echo Canyon Trail will start your heart drumming.

Cholla Trail begins at the northeast end near the camel's "tail," in Paradise Valley, which restricts parking to only 30 spaces on Invergordon Road, about three blocks from the trailhead at the end of Cholla Lane.

Cholla, the mountain's first trail, established by a resort around 1912, remains my favorite. About 1.5 miles long, it curves gently around the sunny southern side following a well-defined track to a saddle some refer to as "Artist's Point." From there, the trail goes into the rocks and ascends the granite "spine" of the camel along a 300foot cliff, to the summit. Cholla requires more caution because of loose gravel and a narrow trail with steep slopes on each side.

Blood trickled down the face of Cindy Schwab, a professional fund-raiser from Scottsdale, after she slipped and went down with a crack that broke her nose and opened a gash in her forehead that later required 20 stitches to close. She tumbled four times in the rocks before stopping short of the edge.

"I was lucky," she said. "I climb the mountain two or three times a week. That wasn't a place where I would've thought I would have a problem. I've seen others fall, and I've fallen myself before, but never like that." With a bandanna compress across her forehead, she limped off Camelback, vowing to return.

The steep, slippery Camelback trails bring hikers down every year, some hurt so badly they must be carried off on litters. In 1999, the Phoenix Fire Department dispatched 17technical rescue units to the mountain, about average for recent years.

Deputy Fire Chief Robert Kahn said winter months are always busiest, especially right after New Year's. "A lot of people make a resolution to stay in shape, and many fall and hurt themselves," he explained.

Arizona rock-climbers often learn the ropes on Camelback. On weekends you can see people dangling precariously from ledges around the camel's "head" or from a steel belaying ring on "The Cube," a 60-foot-high square sandstone boulder that climbers use for practice near the Echo Canyon trailhead. For the more experienced, a cliff dubbed "Suicide Direct" lies near the Ceremonial Grotto.

Phoenix computer technician Rick D. McDonald tied onto "The Cube" for his first rappel. He confessed a fear of heights as he and an instructor shuffled closer to the edge.

"It's okay as long as I feel secure," he said.

"I'm going to deal with the height." Then over the edge he went, afterward conceding, "That wasn't so bad."

"Camelback has been a real important part of my life," Driggs told me. "I learned rock-climbing on Camelback. Then I was involved in the movement to set it aside as a public park."

I knew part of the story. In the 1960s bulldozers were climbing Camelback. A developer proposed a restaurant on the summit served by a cable car. Senator Barry M. Goldwater returned from defeat in the 1964 presidential election to lead a successful crusade by garden clubs, schoolchildren and high-powered businesspeople like Driggs and Phil Richards to preserve Camelback above the 1,800-foot elevation.

Then, in 1970, when Driggs was a bank CEO, a businessman asked him for a loan to develop privately owned Echo Canyon. Driggs went to his brother John, then the mayor of Phoenix, and with some armbending, the city quickly acquired 80 scenic acres for public access and parking. "It was an opportunity and we wanted to take advantage of it," said Driggs.

In the 1980s, Driggs became involved in the politics that reopened the Cholla Trail after it was closed to protect the privacy of wealthy homeowners.

On a February morning that seemed colder because the Echo Canyon trailhead remains in shadows all day, Driggs and I met in the parking lot for another climb. Lean, muscular regulars were already strung along the trail.

"Today we'll climb 'Camel's Head,'" Driggs announced. Echo Canyon Trail splits in a wash below the trailhead shelter. We turned toward the flagstone steps, entered the Ceremonial Grotto, passed a dense chaparral thicket then followed a trace up, guided by faint concentric-circle markers.

The trace led us over steep sandstone to the "Camel's Head," where wind sent Driggs' hat soaring. Above the "Praying Monk," a big hawk on the hunt spiraled in the breeze.

"We've just climbed one of the loveliest urban trails in America, and we didn't meet another person on the trail," Driggs said happily. "It took us through most of the desert ecological zones found in Arizona, right in the middle of a city."

On the way back down, we discussed how Camelback had almost been lost to development. Citizen activism saved it so that others could experience it. The trails test their stamina, and its quiet, wild places recharge their spirits. AlH ADDITIONAL READING: Gary Driggs' book, Camelback, Sacred Mountain of Phoenix, 1998, $45, published by the Arizona Historical Foundation and Arizona State University, is sold at the Arizona Highways bookstore, 2039 W. Lewis Ave., Phoenix, AZ 85009; toll-free (800) 543-5432. In the Phoenix area or from outside the United States, call (602) 712-2000.

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