A Year at Four Peaks

FOUR PEAKS FOUR PEAKS FEBRUARY SNOWBIRDS

Looming to 7,657 feet, the four peaks lift their craggy heads into the chilly atmosphere and haughtily look down onto the desert plain. Four or five times each winter, sometimes more, snow falls on Four Peaks. Then you see a steady stream of vehicles bearing license plates from Minnesota and Illinois heading out along the Beeline and Bush highways. The "snowbirds," Arizona's seasonal residents, are going to see the snow. I remember hearing that, curiously, one of the last works Gauguin painted in his Tahiti paradise was of an imagined snow scene in France. Basking in sunshine, our transplanted Midwesterners rejoice at the very thing they come here to get away from.

MARCH POPPY PARADE

When the winter rains are good -that is, soft and plentiful-in late February or early March (spring comes early to the desert), the arid lowlands surrounding the peaks explode into a carnival of colors. Carpets of Mexican goldpoppies cover the usually dry arroyos. Indigo wands of lupine sway supremely above the poppies. Pink owl-clover, mustard-yellow bladderpod, violet desert hyacinth and orange globemallow complement the show. Again the snowbirds come-and this time the locals, too. Cars are parked haphazardly along the highway. Artists paint, photographers shoot and others just stroll through fields of living, rippling color.

APRIL SPINES AND ROSES

Let's face it, cacti are the oddballs of the plant world. Who does not find them strange or funny-looking or unbelievable? First of all, they come in all sorts of weird shapes and contortions. Look at the droopy loops of the chainfruit cholla on Three-Bar Ridge or the Mickey Mouse ears of the prickly pears along The Rolls. Are these not alien, demented plants?

And then there are the spines. They all have them. Sometimes barbarically long, like those of the cane-stick cholla, or myriad, like those of the hedgehog cactus, they imply a primitive, pugnacious attitude. "Don't mess with me," they say, "'cause I'm an evolutionary freak." But there comes a moment, at about the time when the "normal" flowers go to seed, that the cacti around Four Peaks bloom like roses. Huge floral displays of yellow, orange and magenta crown the thorny limbs and pads with petals of incredible translucence and luster. It's as if they're saying, "See, we too can produce conventional beauty. We too are kith and kin."

FOUR PEAKS MAY SAGUARO FOOTHILLS

There is a road-a 30-mile dirt track, Forest Service Road 143that takes you up and over the mountains. Along the way, the cactus plain gives way to saguaro foothills, the saguaro foothills to oak scrub and chaparral, the chaparral to lofty ponderosa pines. It used to be a quiet, bucolic drive, doable with a Buick. Not anymore.

On any given weekendwhether it be summer, winter, spring or fall-you can expect to meet on the now-cratered road a steady stream of SUVs, vans, pickup trucks, dune buggies, campers, grandpa and grandma and the kids on quadrunners, samurai-clad dirt bikers, convoys of commercial-tourhumvees, bowhunters in camo and target-shooters with seemingly endless rounds of ammunition. There's no getting away from it: The Four Peaks foothills have turned into Phoenix's playground.

One day as I wait a half-hour to cross the road with my dog, holding on to her because the din and racket of the vehicles zipping by scares her, I shake my head and think, Encased in armor, soundproofed in helmets and mesmerized by their mechanical toys, they cannot know what they have lost. The pungent smell of warming granite, the crunch of rocky pebbles beneath their feet, the soft buzz of carpenter bees swarming around moon-drunk saguaro blossoms.

JUNE AT THE SUMMIT

"Quartzite teeth set in granite gums" is how my geologically minded friend Scott Parrish describes them. It's the particular hardness of the quartzite that makes the "teeth" of the four summits into the imposing fangs they present.

The northernmost of the four, Browns Peak, stands the highest at 7,657 feet. As alarmingly pointy as it is, you might think that only rockclimbers, armed with tons ofgear, can achieve its summit. You might be surprised to learn that as long as you're fit, used to bushwhacking through rough country and don't have vertigo, you can do it as a day hike.

Thanks to FR 143, you can drive to the 5,680-foot-high divide and the Lone Pine trailhead. From there, a steady 1,180-foot ascent in 2 miles along a well-made trail takes you to Browns Saddle. The final trailless 797 feet to the top heads practically straight up. Most people take the direct route, a vertical chute with precipitous dropoffs. After one dizzying descent down it, I prefer a more circuitous approach, bushwhacking around to the east and scrambling up a steep soil-covered slope to a rocky ridge that safely and easily delivers me to the apex.

The payoff is what you'd expect. You're on top of the world.

JULY SOLDIERS AND BEARS

Scott Parrish and I strap on backpacks and hike out along the Soldier Camp Trail. We're in real Wilderness now, the 60,740 acres that's federally designated and protected. An area so rough that in the Indian skirmishes of the 1860s, Apaches used its craggy fastnesses for their hideouts. The troopers from Fort McDowell followed, blazing this trail. It's also a place of rattlesnakes, scorpions, black widow spiders, centipedes and bears. In fact, one guidebook tells us, Four Peaks holds one of the highest concentrations of black bears in the state.

The afternoon of the second day, we hoof it up an unnamed spur trail. After a 2,000-foot climb through head-high brambles of manzanita, we reach the Amethyst Mine at sunset. Nestled at the base of the southernmost peak, the private mine-sporadically operated to this day-still produces world-class gemstones.

We watch the amethyst sunsetseeing the colors go from pink to pale lilac to ruby-violet to deep purple. Then, far below, the lights of metropolitan Phoenix begin to wink on. Soon there's such a host of them it seems like the city is crawling toward the mountains.

AUGUST THE PAINTED CLIFFS

Considering how close it is to such a large population center, it's surprising how little use the actual Wilderness gets. The 40-mile network of 11 major trails seems practically deserted. Which is just how Scotty and I like it. We have heard that the area directly south of the peaks-a region of volcanic tuffs and ash flows called the Painted Cliffs-is something special. So, after a gear-grinding, roller-coaster drive along the 6 miles of Cane Spring Road ("Four-wheel-drive required, but travel is not recommended for any type of vehicle," the Forest Service warns), we hike a sweltering 5 miles along the lower Alder Creek Trail. Doffing our packs at Adams Camp, we walk out to a cliff edge above Long Canyon. And there it is. The true mythical kingdom of Four Peaks. A scene so fanciful, so colorful and so perfect in its execution, it's as if some master artist painted it for the delight and pleasure of our human eyes. It's like one of those romantic paintings by early explorers of the West, in which deer gambol in a fantasy garden-approximation of Eden.

All of us yearn for an epiphany, when we see the world fresh and young and new. When we feel the harmony of nature not only out there, but within us.

This was such a moment.

FOUR PEAKS SEPTEMBER PARTY COVE

It's not on any map. It's only a state of mind. But Party Cove is real, and technically lies within the boundaries of the Four Peaks Wilderness. Set in the western reaches of Apache Lake, the slot in the rock opens onto a delightful little beach surrounded by the Painted Cliffs. Here, on any major weekend from Memorial Day through Labor Day, a Spring Break-type revelry rules. The boats are packed so closely that you can walk across themwhich many do, since gregariousness is, after all, the whole point of this saturnalia of youth. Bikinied (sometimes not so bikinied) bodies jump from neighboring cliffs. Very few venture farther than the beach. In the off-season, three of us more "mature" types take a boat to Party Cove. We hike up the creek that spills into the cove. Actually, if we continued farther, we'd hit an 8-mile "death-march" trail that would take us on up to the peaks. But today we're feeling lazy and we stop where the creek is boxed in by an enchanting little grotto. Listening to the skein of a waterfall tinkling into a pool below, hearing its soulful grace note, we remember wistfully our own salad days of sun and summer.

OCTOBER CONSTRUCTIONS

Perched on a high knob below the eastern side of the peaks, I sit on a man-made rock wall and run my fingers over the cold, rough stones. The hands that laid these walls did so nearly eight centuries ago. The eyes that looked out onto this same view saw something vastly different than I do now. Far below, the long ribbon of Roosevelt Lake - our own construction-is what dominates the Tonto Basin and Salt River Valley today. But I see, drowned within itswaters, scenes of villagers tending rows of corn alongside a riparian canopy of green. I see potters glazing bowls of exquisite design. There was a reason why the Salado Indians, who built a high culture here a millennium ago, fled to these fortifications on the hillsand then left altogether. But, so far, that reason remains pretty much a mystery, open to interpretation. Civilizations rise, civilizations fall. And all that's left are remnants of their constructions.

NOVEMBER THE ARIZONA TRAIL

In 1985 Dale Shewalter, a fifthgrade teacher from Flagstaff, did a south-to-north trek across Arizona. He so enjoyed what he calls his “state walk” that he decided to organize an official trail. Now nearing completion, part of the 750-mile Arizona Trail runs through Four Peaks, appropriating several of its existing trails.

The major portion traverses the 10-mile Four Peaks Trail, which runs along the “gumline” of the peaks on the Roosevelt side. Since this area was burned in the Lone Fire of 1996 (the largest fire in thehistory of the Tonto National Forest), the views are grand, but the vegetation is stark and charred. Much more pleasant, the newly constructed Vineyard Mountain portion leads down to Roosevelt Dam. Here, pristine stands of saguaros, teddy bear chollas and ocotillos frame terrific views of Apache and Roosevelt lakes.

The cool of fall and winter is an ideal time to hike any of the Four Peaks trails, but one must always be prepared for the possibility of snowstorms at the higher elevations.

DECEMBER A PLACE FOR ALL SEASONS

Someone once wrote, "What is life but foolish desires and imperfect choices?" Well, Four Peaks is full of foolish desires. Some love the notion of desert snow in winter. Others go to see the paloverde trees become "golden clouds" in spring; some the "stars" of fairy duster shrubs twinkling in the wind. Others enjoy the refreshing waters of the lakes in summer. More adventurous types relish the effort it takes to get to the highest view, or to feel the thrill of confronting wild animals and thorns in primal wilderness in fall. Four Peaks has it all. A place for all seasons... and all reasons.

Meet 'Ms. Prescott' Pioneer descendant Melissa Ruffner knows her history TEXT BY NORM TESSMAN

THE LADY WHO MIGHT have stepped out of a vintage photograph crosses Prescott's Montezuma Street. The long fitted dress and ostrich-plumed hat she wears contrast with the shorts and baseball caps of the crowd hurrying along behind her. Turning, she points a lace-gloved finger back toward the Hotel St. Michael. Then, with the ease of a practiced storyteller, Melissa Ruffner begins her tour.

"Before the fire of 1900, Dennis Burke and Michael Hickey claimed their Hotel Burke was 'Prescott's only fireproof hotel,'" she says. "After its ashes were hauled away, the partners rebuilt it in stone and brick. In 1907, when Burke sold out to Hickey, they discussed a new name for the renovated hotel. Reasoning that many first-class Eastern houses were the 'Saint something or other,' they christened it the Hotel St. Michael-some said, wryly, for Hickey's saintly behavior. But the gargoylelike faces around the building's third floor lampooned Prescott's city fathers of the period."

As an Arizona historian, I know the sto-ries Melissa Ruffner tells. But I have never heard them told better or to a more appreciative audience. This is Melissa's talent, making historical Prescott truly come alive. Her gift may stem from having been born in a Victorian house on Mount Vernon Street into a family steeped in history.

Melissa grew up hearing how Civil War Gen. Lewis Ruffner and his wife, Viola, gave shelter to educator and black-rights leader Booker T. Washington. Her family never forgot that, in 1876, great-great Uncle Morris Andrew Ruffner staked the first copper claim on the Verde River side of Mingus Mountain. Regrettably, after he hand-dug a 45-foot-deep shaft, Morris sold out to a group including Eugene Jerome, for whom the town of Jerome was named. And they all remembered Uncle George Ruffner, four times Yavapai County sheriff, hon-oree in the Cowboy Hall of Fame and owner of Prescott's Plaza Stables. In 1903, he won a mortuary from undertaker Frank Nevins in a faro game. George asked his younger brother, Lester, to run it-some said to avoid a conflict of interest since the sheriff conducted legal hangings.

Lester "Budge" Ruffner, Melissa's dad, carried on his father's mortuary business, published four books on Arizona history and worked as Arizona Highways' book editor. Her mother, Elisabeth, remains the undisputed grande dame of Yavapai County's historical preservation movement. In 1972, Elisabeth led the fledgling Yavapai Heritage Foundation in saving the magnificent 1875 William Coles Bashford House from the bulldozer.

Logically, Melissa decided to capitalize on her knowledge and love of local history and in 1981 launched Prescott Historical Tours. Since then, she has told her town's stories to enthralled customers from every state and most foreign countries. Melissa found that historical clothing gave credibility to her storyteller's persona. Over the years, her costumes have become fancier. She thinks the popularity of performance arts and storytelling encourages such tours. And as newcomers pour into Prescott, which grew 60 percent between 1990 and 1999, Melissa's tales provide them a sense of place. Her insights help to explain what Arizona Territory's first capital was all about.

On her walks, Melissa carries props like her grandmother's wedding ring, which has a candle engraved inside. She relates how her grandfather courted his future wife, Mary Ward, the Territory's first public-school music teacher. Her chaperoning landlady made the young couple sit outside her open door, and burned a candle between them. Melissa tells one of her favorite stories as she points to the Capt. William O'Neill Rough Rider Memorial on the north side of the imposing Yavapai County Courthouse. "In 1898, brave 'Buckey' O'Neill resigned as Prescott's mayor to captain Troop A of