HUMOR

along the way TRAPPED by Rare Desert TORNADOES

by JEB J. ROSEBROOK IT CAME AS A SURPRISE, BOTH RARE AND ominous. A light monsoon rain, echoing with thunder, splintered by lightning, fell upon a windless, silent desert off State Route 79 between Florence and Florence Junction. Then, driving with my son, Stuart, I glanced to the west. Perhaps 5 miles away, a tornado was forming. It funneled down from a low gray sky, exploding dust into a sudden furious assault of wind and lightning strikes. We wondered if it was coming our way.

July 6, 1999. Arizona had suffered through the third-driest winter of the 20th century. "My father always said, 'Look to the south,'" William Clemans Jr. had told us earlier, when we visited him in Florence. He referred hopefully to Arizona's summer monsoon season, which could serve as a rancher's lifeline from drought. By 3 o'clock, the rain had come -from the south, as predicted.

Just north of the first tornado, a second one formed from a single massive storm cloud, flashing razorlike lightning strikes from its center.

Stuart turned on the radio. A Phoenix station confirmed what we saw, warning of a tornado sighting in the area of Florence Junction, "moving west at 20 miles an hour." West, away from us, we noted with relief.

In awe of the power of nature, we watched the tornadoes move slowly with violent black spirals hovering over the desert. To the northeast, in the distance where Picketpost Mountain rises 4,000 feet above the desert, the sky had turned black except for one brief luminous ribbon of light. Then I no longer saw the light, nor the mountain. In all directions the sky darkened. The clouds hung low. We realized we were the only ones traveling north. Traffic heading the opposite direction hurried by us. Should we turn around? we wondered. In an instant, wind and rain slammed into our car. We passed a big rig pulled over. Should we do the same? Stuart and I looked west. I saw only sheets of rain. The tornadoes had disappeared. We were quickly locked in the storm, our windshield wipers useless against the sheets of wind-driven rain. Barely able to see the silhouettes of the road signs, we made out that we were approaching the junction of State 79 and U.S. Route 60. We crossed U.S. 60 in a torrent of water, making our way, like several big rigs now ahead of To the northeast, in the distance where Picketpost Mountain rises 4,000 feet above the desert, the sky had turned black except for one brief luminous ribbon of light. Then I no longer saw the light, nor the mountain. In all directions the sky darkened. The clouds hung low. We realized we were the only ones traveling north. Traffic heading the opposite direction hurried by us. Should we turn around? we wondered. In an instant, wind and rain slammed into our car. We passed a big rig pulled over. Should we do the same? Stuart and I looked west. I saw only sheets of rain. The tornadoes had disappeared. We were quickly locked in the storm, our windshield wipers useless against the sheets of wind-driven rain. Barely able to see the silhouettes of the road signs, we made out that we were approaching the junction of State 79 and U.S. Route 60. We crossed U.S. 60 in a torrent of water, making our way, like several big rigs now ahead of "Mind if I join you?" a Native American man asked. He sat with us as we ate hot dogs and soup. A trucker on his way west from Superior, the powerfully built man wore a single braid down his back. His large hands cradled a soft drink. He'd heard about the tornado but hadn't seen it. He and Stuart reminisced about a now-closed highway tunnel. Then talk shifted to the copper mines closing in Morenci: "The old boy who owns this place has three of these, one down there. I don't know what he'll do with that one." The rain lessened, and the sound of thunder faded along with the storm. Time is money to a trucker. "Nice talking to you," he said. "How you doing?" he asked another trucker on the way out. "Working," was the reply. "Only way to get a new truck is to keep working."

The rain lessened, and the sound of thunder faded along with the storm. Time is money to a trucker. "Nice talking to you," he said. "How you doing?" he asked another trucker on the way out. "Working," was the reply. "Only way to get a new truck is to keep working."

After paying for his drink and some candy, the man abruptly turned to the mother and daughters and the women behind the counter, asking one or all: "Will you marry me?"

Getting no reply, and chuckling over his own question, he disappeared outside.

We were the last to leave. Outside, the pure, clean smell of the desert after a rain greeted us. The radio news reported that the storm, still headed west, now pushed before it a wall of dust rising thousands of feet into the air with visibility near zero in some places.

This was early July. Severe thunderstorms with winds up to 50 and 90 mph would roll across much of Arizona through the end of September. Stuart and I had seen our tornadoes. Others would see theirs. On September 14, one would be seen near Jerome. Four more funnel clouds would be spotted across Chino Valley near Prescott.

"Look to the south," Clemans' father had said. During Arizona's strange last summer of the century, that advice was revised to "look in every direction -a tornado just might land there." AH

back adventure road Explore ALPINE MEADOWS and an OLD CATTLE RANCH on an ALL-DAY DRIVE South of Flagstaff

HAPPY JACK ISN'T MUCH, JUST A NAME borrowed from a Montana lumber camp that appears on an Arizona map in type larger than the place deserves. Except for some Forest Service buildings and a few houses, there's nothing there and almost no reason to stop. Yet people in the know travel there anyway-or at least pass through the placenot for what Happy Jack is, but for its location in pine-covered public land above 6,000 feet in elevation that offers year-round camping, hiking and sightseeing.

Two back road routes to Happy Jack share a common starting point: the Stoneman Lake Road turnoff from Interstate 17, about 42 miles south of Flagstaff or about 100 miles north of Phoenix.

Stoneman Lake Road also leads to a historic cattle ranch now held in public trust, two mountaintop fire lookouts and a choice of pleasant campsites nearly free of biting bugs.

Take the family sedan for a day's spin on the all-weather route. It's easy to follow: Just stay to well-traveled tracks to avoid becoming confused by the Forest Service's sometimes mystifying roadnumbering system.

Get off Interstate 17 at Exit 306. Follow Stoneman Lake Road, Forest Service Road 213, east for 6.7 miles through juniper stands to where the pavement ends in gravel at a T-intersection. From FR 213, turn right onto Forest Service Road 229, heading toward the Apache Maid Mountain lookout, and you'll soon enter a pine forest. The other direction stays FR 213, the continuation of Stoneman Lake Road.

Follow FR 229 for 3.7 miles and watch for a road sign marking Forest Service Road