BACK ROAD ADVENTURE

Moonlike MOUNTAINTOPS and LAKE VIEWS Punctuate the Harsh Lands Between KINGMAN and the BLACK MOUNTAINS

EVER WONDER WHAT IT WOULD BE LIKE to stand on a mountaintop on the moon? Or enjoy a picnic on Arizona's very own "Fantasy Island" in the desert? Did I mention the sand pyramids that form part of the island's scenic backdrop? It's all north of Kingman on U.S. Route 93 to Cottonwood Road. But don't expect nature to give a hearty welcome. The forces will, in fact, work hard to keep you away, to batter you with a punishing wind and shock you with a landscape so dry and achingly barren you can't believe it accommodates a lake. Don't wish for hiking trails or picnic benches, either. But if the yip of coyote pups over the next rise gives you a thrill, by all means, go there. Take a left onto Cottonwood Road, 26 miles north of Kingman. The dusty straightaway runs 9 miles through a yucca and creosote flat before climbing into the foothills of the Black Mountains. The graded road can handle passenger cars traveling at up to 50 mph, but it becomes trickier beyond the range's crest, where it commences to paperclip down the west side of the steep slope. The road is passable without a high-clearance vehicle or a four-wheel drive, but rainy-day drivers should beware. Photographer Edward McCain and I reach the peak after 10 miles. We can cross the cattle guard and take an immediate right to a perch that looks down to Lake Mohave on the Colorado River. Or we can follow a jeep trail that begins just before the cattle guard and ride it south through the Blacks to additional overlooks. We try the perch on the right first, but too many have been there before us, leaving their litter and shotgun shells behind. So we turn onto the jeep trail, a twisting, pitted, 4-wheeldrive-required kind of road. Those willing to WARNING: Back road travel can be hazardous if you are not prepared for the unexpected. Whether traveling in the desert or in the high country, be aware of weather and road conditions, and make sure you and your vehicle are in top shape. Carry plenty of water. Don't travel alone, and let someone at home know where you're going and when you plan to return. Odometer readings in the story may vary by vehicle. ADDITIONAL INFORMATION: Lake Mead National Recreation Area, (702) 293-8906.

brave an uphill hike can enjoy it just as welland perhaps reach the overlooks as quickly as a vehicle.

The first view, which comes after a mile and a half, impresses us. After an inch-by-inch crawl over the desert-seemingly lifeless except for a smattering of cedar trees-we see the horizon open to a long view down to Lake Mohave.strength it threatens to carry us away.

McCain and I gasp simultaneously at the sight. When he has his breath again, he shouldders his camera out of the sport utility. But the wind howls over the mountains with such I hoof the last few steps to the edge and stand in awe. Just beyond my feet, the ground makes a dramatic plunge into a pastel canyon guarded by volcanic monsters-black-rock peaks and swells that seem to emerge from some netherworld.

Beyond the canyon lies the tender purple of desert flatlands. They're cut by a spider's web of dull-white dirt roads that zigzag toward the lake, which shimmers like a turquoise jewel under the winter sun. With the wind furiously snapping my pant legs, it occurs to me that if I were on the moon, the view would be exactly this, except for the water.

The jeep trail continues south along the ridge, offering additional overlooks. To the north, it becomes a ribbon of dirt that seems to soar into the sky, ending at a mountaintop. McCain and I drive up as high as we dare and get out of the SUV. But it's a place of no return. Beyond the range there's nothing but sky, and behind us, past U.S. 93, stands the jagged line of the Cerbat Mountains, somewhat obscured by the fine dust layering the valley. We get the SUV turned around on that narrow slope and proceed back to the cattle guard on Cottonwood Road, then down the west slope of the mountains. By now it's early afternoon, a weekday, and we haven't seen another soul. The emptiness fits the scenery, which has reverted back to jackrabbit desert.

After about 8 miles, we close in on Lake Mohave, part of Lake Mead National Recreation Area. We parallel the lake for about a mile before choosing one of the dirt roads that run to the shore.

McCain drives to the lip of a 60-foot-high cliff. Then he's so frozen by the view, it takes another five minutes to step out of the car. "This really is incredible," he says.

"I don't think I've seen anything like it in Arizona," I say in agreement. Its incongruity makes it so noteworthy.

Twenty minutes earlier we stood at the summit of the Blacks, a desolate no-man's land, and we'd just crossed a desert so dry it practically snaps when you look at it. Now we're standing on a sheer, badly eroded cliff looking down at a rock-strewn beach. The wind roils the water like crazy, decorating it with whitecaps.

The cliff descends along a north-bound foot trail that measures no more than four hik-ing boots across, steep on both sides. At the bottom, in a cove protected by the cliffs, sits a perfect circle of sand surrounded by water, except for the patch of land that makes it accessible.

"It's 'Fantasy Island," I say. "Remember that television show?" Lunch in hand, I walk down the slope into what looks like a travel-guide photograph from Tahiti.

What could be more out of place than a man picnicking on a sunbathed island in the middle of a volcanic desert? The scene is made more surreal by the tall sand pyramids that dominate the horizon behind the island. Across the water, on the California side of the lake, big houseboats sit in secluded Cottonwood Cove. I recommend binoculars to fully enjoy this spot, as well as the overlooks on the Black Mountains.

Toward nightfall, we drive back to a spur off Cottonwood Road. The left fork leads to a narrow spit jutting into the lake. The south side of this little land mass is hammered by noisy 3-foot waves-waves high enough to surfthat send water spilling through standing trees and brush. At the spit, a good fishing spot, we find evidence of civilization-a most welcome government-issue rest room.

The beach seems the perfect spot to end the day watching the sun slide behind the mountains across the water. The racket of the waves partially covers up the sunset song of the coyote pups playing behind us. But driving back through the desert, we pull over and listen to the symphony of wild yipping that always sends a tingle along my spine. It's not the first tingle I've felt in this spectacular and unwelcoming land. AlH