Rogers Canyon Ruins

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finished snooping around the house at dusk and took a seat on the edge of the stone front porch overlooking a wooded canyon. Lounging there with my feet dangling into space, I fancied I might have been invited to stay for a roasted venison dinner, if only I had arrived a bit earlier. Seven hundred years earlier. The house I visited, a remarkably well-preserved cliff dwelling, was tucked away like a secret in a remote nook of the Superstition Mountains east of Phoenix. The Salado Indians called this place home around A.D. 1300. This ruin rates as the grand centerpiece but by no means the only attraction of a leisurely 4.2-mile (one way) backpack trip into Rogers Canyon. The lush streamside scenery, sheer rock walls, abundant wildlife, moderate weather and well-maintained trail would make the canyon a worthy destination even if it sheltered not the slightest archaeological tidbit mountain ranges. We found ourselves glad to be traveling in a four-wheel-drive vehicle as we chugged in low gears up the final 3.9 miles of the road to the trailhead. Rogers Canyon lies in the 160,000-acre Superstition Wilderness within the Tonto National Forest.

Like Grand Canyon trekking, hiking Rogers Canyon involves downhill "coasting" on the way in, then paying your dues with an uphill walk on the way out. Happily, the hike to the cliff dwellings, at an elevation of 3,800 feet, follows mostly easy-angled trails and

SALADO THE PRIME ANCIENT ADDRESS IN ROGERS CANYON OFFERED SPLENDID FRONT-PORCH VIEWS DRİVE

we spotted two horseback riders dismounted near the trail and went over to share their patch of oak shade.

"You've just got to get down there and see those cliff dwellings," one of the riders advised. "They're so well-preserved, it's like the people who lived there must have left just recently."

There must have been one amazingly agile squirrel - or some other ingenious, felonious critter - living near our campsite.

Spurred by this glowing review of sights to come, James and I hightailed it - as much as anyone can with an overnight load on his back-down the Reavis Ranch Trail to its intersection with the Rogers Canyon Trail. There, we took the left fork and con'Where's that big purple bag I hung up in that big oak?' I inquired.

tinued following the Rogers Canyon Trail a couple of miles and hundreds of years into the past.

A linear forest of enormous sycamore, ash, walnut and assorted varieties of oak trees, as well as canyon-bottom shrubs. This classic riparian, or streamside, habitat provides a shady haven for birds and other wildlife, and something like heaven for backpackers running low on sunscreen.

Hikers who've roamed the sere desert reaches of the Superstitions, such as the prickly, rocky terrain of Peralta Canyon and soaring Weavers Needle southwest of the area we were trekking, might find it hard to believe they're in the same range when they descend into the heart of Rogers Canyon. The sheltering canyon walls and nurturing creek have fostered a narrow, James, experiencing a sort of riparian rapture, suggested that we stop for a dip in one of several inviting pools near the trail. But I couldn't wait to check out the prehistoric pad at "1385 Salado Drive," or whatever the address might have been, and I talked him into saving the soak for our return trek.

20 MARCH 2001 Relying on maps and guidebooks, we began to watch for the cliff dwellings where the trail angled left from northwest to west as it skirted a band of steep cliffs. We found them easily, just across the trickling creek from the trail and roughly a hundred feet above the canyon bottom in a natural alcove in the rock.

The Salado settlement, ensconced under a rock overhang that shelters it from the elements, consists of some partially eroded structures and one magnificently preserved room with its walls intact and much of its twig-and-mud roof in nearly mint condition.

The place seems more of an outpost than a long-lost city like Mesa Verde in Colorado or Chaco Canyon in New Mexico. But what it lacks in size and grandeur, it possesses in intimacy and seclusion.

We had the site to ourselves. Because the area sees relatively few visitors (compared with more accessible spots), personal safety and protecting the fragile ruin from damage are extremely important. James and I, with plenty of experience in scrambling on rocks, ascended easily to the cliff dwellings, but anyone uncomfortable with such maneuvers can enjoy the magnificent sight of the ruin from below. Like other conscientious visitors, we refrained from climbing on the walls or removing anything from the site. It was a simple matter of visiting respectfully as if the Salado were still at home.

James and I took a preliminary tour of the dwellings in the afternoon. We planned to return around sunset after setting up camp downcanyon and taking a side hike to Angel Basin, about a quarter-mile from the ruin.

We were good little campers, too. Not only did we pick a sandy site where we wouldn't harm vegetation, we also took care to stash our food and toilet items in nylon bags and suspend them from tree limbs high above the ground to avoid attracting rodents or other animals.

We enjoyed our afternoon reconnaissance of Angel Basin and points beyond. We spotted deer. We spotted hummingbirds. We checked out a side canyon. We took photographs. We took notes. And then we stopped by our camp before returning to the ruin for some end-of-the-day contemplation.

There must have been one amazingly agile squirrel or some other ingenious, felonious critter living near our campsite.

"Where's that big purple bag I hung up in that big oak?" I inquired of James.

"I have no clue," he responded. "But I see the other bag over there on the ground."

The second bag lay on the ground near the tree. It had been partially looted of its store of food. I picked up the remains, and then we spent a half-hour scouring the area for the large purple bag the one that contained most of James' food, all of our coffee, my toothbrush, toothpaste and sunscreen.

Gone.

Something my money is on a representative of the squirrel family apparently zipped up the trunk of the big oak, scampered out to the very end of a limb, somehow managed to loosen the cords suspending the two bags and dropped them to the ground.

We never found the large bag. Evidently, we interrupted the raid before the little buck-toothed bandit could get away with the smaller bag. Later in the evening, we would share the remaining rations for a most modest repast. My oral hygiene would suffer for the rest of the trip.

But even a growling stomach and a yen for rodent revenge couldn't spoil the experience of spending sunset and twilight on the ancients' front porch.

James busied himself with matters photographic while I took another look around the ruin and then settled down on the ledge out front to savor the end of the day, just as I imagined the Salado home folks might have done all those years ago.

The sound of croaking frogs drifted up from pools in the tranquil creek. Fading light bled the last color out of rock walls across the canyon. A breeze whispered through the ruin.

Archaeologists aren't sure why the Salado abandoned this place. It might have been drought. It might have been famine. It might have been war. But I was pretty sure of one thing: It wasn't because they didn't like the view from their front porch. AH