Editor’s Note: The celebration of our 100th anniversary continues with another wonderful piece from another wonderful writer. This month, it’s Joyce Rockwood. At the time of her debut in 1939, Ms. Rockwood was the wife of photographer Josef Muench. That’s how she met our editor, but her place in our magazine’s history is based exclusively on her incredible talent as a writer. She could write about any subject, but Mother Nature was her sweet spot. “There is no experience quite like being alone in the open glades of ponderosa,” she writes in this feature from June 1954. “Deep-piled rugs of needle and cone, woven by the trees, lend a buoyancy to the feet, and aromatic fragrance of air invites deep breaths and perhaps a sudden sprint to see if one can run.” Like Robert Frost’s, her words could take a reader anywhere in the great outdoors. In April, Ms. Rockwood joined 14 others in the inaugural class of the Arizona Highways Hall of Fame.
Roll the Paiute word “Kaibab” over your tongue a few times to get the unique flavor of the Indian name for a very special place. Pronounced “KY-bab,” it’s short for “The Mountain-Lying-Down,” a lofty, imposing headland, jutting into the Northern Arizona sky, that wears as a living mantle one of the most splendid forests known to man. Just as you’ll find the title in no other region, so the rare beauties of this mountain, segment of the soaring Colorado Plateau, are repeated nowhere else.
There is no rocky, storm-swept summit, and all its elevations, from 5,000 to 9,000 feet above sea level, are under the green roof that stretches a generous 55 miles from north to south. You can drive your car the whole length, along sunny corridors, through airy cathedrals, bathed in the crystal-clear, heady air of the highlands. No king has ever been able to boast a park so expansive as these deer-hilled forest aisles, mellowed by hundreds of years of Arizona sunshine.
The world’s largest stand of virgin ponderosa pine, shoulder to shoulder with thick woodlands of Douglas-fir, spruce and aspen, wears garlands of flowers in spring, and summer weaves her gentle magic over them. Aspens flaunt their gold in autumn against the blur of conifers, and in winter the whole forest is wrapped in white, shutting out all but the hardiest visitors, while the mountain sleeps.
Though far inland, the pounding of waves can be heard here, as winds rush through the upper balconies of treetops in a sea of surging sound, while on the soft carpet underneath, many animals step cautiously. Big Kaibab deer, of spreading antlers and gleaming coat; rare white-tailed Kaibab squirrels, which live nowhere else; and mountain lion and bobcat are at home, and congregations of birds, singing paeans of praise, are part of its lilting charm.
For generations, the Paiutes had claimed the region as their fall hunting grounds, and it was they who guided the first white men over the confusing terrain, leading to perennial springs and pointing out the easiest route back down into the desert that girdles the cool heights.
From the Prismatic Plains to the north, U.S. Route 89A makes a gliding start, easing up over Le Fevre Ridge to bring the visitor deep within scented groves, forest arms around him, before he is aware of having climbed a mountain. Then it turns willfully away to the east and switchbacks down again in view of sunburnt House Rock Valley. Few see the western escarpment, a wilderness of cliff and gorge, but on the south the Kaibab is sliced off sheer in the world-famous climax of the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.
Because of this spectacular denouement, the forests are less well known than they deserve to be. Most people are in such a hurry to get there, they think of the Kaibab merely as a convenient approach and, leaving, view the tranquil stretching green as little more than a soothing relief from the tumult of color and form in the Canyon.
Those bared cliffs of the Colorado River’s immense chasm blare out one of the secrets of the Kaibab, showing dramatically the 800-foot layer of Kaibab limestone that caps the entire mountain. Laid down in ancient times, under the waters of a vast inland sea, the stone is built of bodies of marine creatures and acts as a sponge, so thirsty for melted snow and summer rains that no running streams are to be found on the great plateau.
If the unusual formation were not enough to set the headland apart from others, there are further countless sinks, where the limestone has dissolved out in seeping water and dropped to form basins for delightful miniature lakes, ensconced in emerald-green meadows, tucked away among the trees.
Indian legend, as usual, has a colorful explanation for the inconsistencies of this beloved mountain. Paiute children early learn that the Great Spirit built the Mountain-Lying-Down, planted it with vegetation and stocked it with deer for the very special benefit of the tribe. It was to be their hunting ground in the fall, when they would shoot the deer already fat for winter, play their games of chance, trade among themselves and then go back to their winter homes.
But because the Indians failed to appreciate all he had done for them, the Great Spirit became angered. He punished them with storms and cold and earthquakes. The high places were made low and the low places were made high, and many were killed when rocks fell on them.
Still not appeased, their god cut off part of the mountain to keep his people from crossing over to the south, and let water run through the terrible gap (Pa-oh-weep, canyon of water), which we know as the Grand Canyon. If legends are still told among the Paiutes, now scattered on small reservations, perhaps they blame their god for having finally taken the Kaibab from them, giving it to the white man for his hunting ground.
In less than two hours, you can rush through the whole mountain on a fine paved road, and many do just that, missing the secretive world of the forest primeval with its peace and tranquility.
Along little side roads, beyond sound of cars, the Kaibab opens its heart, unlocking chapels lit by the candelabra of pines. There is no experience quite like being alone in the open glades of ponderosa. Deep-piled rugs of needle and cone, woven by the trees, lend a buoyancy to the feet, and aromatic fragrance of air invites deep breaths and perhaps a sudden sprint to see if one can run.
On every hand, brown trunks stand tall and straight as the masts of ships, soaring up to be lost in the dark ceiling, through which the blue sky can be more felt than seen. The feeling of spaciousness and order comes from the very nature of the pines themselves. Tolerating only their own kind and demanding room to lift great branches, the ponderosa uses acid in its fallen needles to kill out all but its young, which stand gawky and limber in small bands. They resemble their parents chiefly in lovely rosettes of long needles, catching the light in a sunburst and scattering it like a glowing sparkler. Crowded nurseries gradually thin out, leaving just the strongest trees, with clean boles, self-pruned as shaded lower branches drop off. Free of underbrush and singularly inviting, these open parks are distinctive features of the Kaibab.
Dominant tree of the mountain, the ponderosa is a bold explorer, often seeking out the most exposed and prominent posts to spend its five centuries, defiant of crippling storms and scarring lightning bolts. But in the rolling highlands, among its fellows, this is a tree of peace and dignity, reaching to more than 100 feet and noble in a sheathing of golden plates, symbol of maturity.
At higher elevations, the forests become more dense, favoring Engelmann and blue spruce and fir. Of a more conventional turn of mind, these conifers taper gracefully in Christmas tree contours. They take particular delight in decorating long meadows, offering vistas quite in contrast to the pine woods, but altogether lovely. Again, the word “park” comes irresistibly to mind, as green swards sweep, wide and spacious, or bend coquettishly out of sight to lure visitors farther among their company. A sink may be the center of interest, reflecting a rolling pageant of clouds in its tinted bowl, or again, where grass has swallowed up the water, green waves lap against forest walls that rise in tiers from tiny trees, edging timidly into the open, to pyramids of taller forms, painted a dozen shades of green.
Cattle grazing is permitted only in the national forest, but the meadows know nothing of such arbitrary boundaries, playing host to the white faces that graze contentedly or to the shier deer who take over these handsome dining rooms in early morning and at dusk to add a last touch of perfection.
Everywhere on the mountain, aspens bring an accent of white trunk and trembling draperies. Deep in the forest, scattered groups stand like fluttering, white-limbed ghosts, but they surround the meadows with an air of festivity, whether in a mist-green of spring foliage, full-toned summer tints or the rollicking gold of early autumn. Even bare of leaves, their gray smoke, massed in hollows or on hillsides, is exquisite.
This self-conscious tree seems always in a hurry to be gone, quivering with excitement, as ephemeral as a butterfly. Perhaps conscious that its visit is limited and it comes into the more confident forest to cover scars left by fire, the aspen never settles down and, after a brief 50 years, yields the spot to pine, fir or spruce, and you must look elsewhere for the elfin spirit in green and white. In places, they achieve a more solid footing, taking over areas and growing into mature groves impressive in individual tree and extent. Dark pigmenting on the trunks lends added character to the thickening boles, and the reflected light, singing among them, is distilled sunshine, filtered and purified.
Along the swaying road that leads to Point Imperial and Cape Royal, within the park, they nestle in deep swales, filling hollows with shimmering green. Around their glistening trunks, spring sends up a delicate covering of bracken, knee deep and responsive to any capricious little breeze.
Aspens seem to consider, as well, that no meadow or sink is properly decorated without at least a few of their number and take care to group trunks in artistic white lines to offset the trim cones of conifers. Each “lake,” if it holds any drop of precious fluid, is named and put on the forest map. Titles such as Lambs Lake, Crane Lake, Three Lakes and others don’t necessarily guarantee enough to water a horse but can claim a unique setting, often with old corral, drooping fences and perhaps a tumbled-down cabin to give it the romantic touch. At some, like historic Jacob Lake, the scent of the woods gathers in the clearing, heated to burning incense and light at deserted altars of another day. It is easy to believe that ghosts of Indians or early pioneers can be heard fluttering through the dark-mantled trees that mass in the background.
When the gracious stands of trees, of many species and varieties, have been mentioned, its sinks marveled at and the meadows touched upon, there is still much more to be said of the great green world of the Kaibab. Anyone who knows the forest has his favorite haunts, deserving, he feels, of special mention, yet far too many to dwell upon at length.
Jolly Sink can hardly be ignored, where bawling cattle gather around several small pools in a natural corral appropriate for a movie set in some cattle-rustling tale of Zane Grey’s. Even more to my liking is the smaller paradise called Billy’s Sink, entered through a limestone gateway and walled in by naked cliffs and slopes of aspen. At the proper time, there are flowers on the grass floor, lupines and Indian paintbrush, but never any standing water.
Favorite with anyone who has made the 17-mile pilgrimage from the main park road to Point Sublime is Kanabownits Canyon. All the magic of the forest is here: open stretches of musical pines, closed ranks of fir and spruce, and miles of aspen interspersed with clearings shaped to the rolling ground and dedicated to deer. The road finally catches up with Kanabownits Creek, chortling softly to itself as it sparkles a little way above ground and then happily loses itself in a meadow full of dandelion and columbine.
Another mile up and out, onto the very brink of the North Rim, breaks into vastly different terrain. The forest gives way to dense chaparral of scrub oak and locust, and the piñon pine takes over at the crest, towering over cliffrose, sage and a ground covering of prickly pear and tiny hedgehog cactus. Here, the sun is blinding and hot, the desert rock garden prickly but brilliant in flower, and the 150-mile panorama — east, west and south, truly one of the sublime views on the continent — is one more facet of the amazing Kaibab.
Another view of vast proportions opens at the end of a forest drive toward the east. Its destination, North Canyon, is a study in tree conquest over even rugged, deep-cut walls. When the visitor can tear his eyes from its velvet gorge, punctuated by rock outcroppings, a desert world stretches to infinity. Thousands of feet below, House Rock Valley is an open expanse, cut by the slender, shadowy serpentine of the Marble Gorge of the Colorado River. North Canyon, South Canyon and lesser fingers from the Kaibab probe with diminishing strength its sun-swept surface, and the tiny brown dots that seem to dance before the vision are cattle or some of the 200 head of bison that graze on its grass. Still on beyond, the Echo Cliffs stand in a jagged line, and 150 miles from the lookout is the black hump of Navajo Mountain, far out on the skyline. Toward the north rises the escarpment of the Vermilion Cliffs, and depending upon the clearness of the day, you can see above them one, two or three, or even more, ascending steps of mighty plateaus that are crowned ultimately by the Pink Cliffs of Bryce Canyon.
From these almost too splendid exposés of naked rock and vulnerable earth, the shelter of the trees is welcome, comforting, more to be lived with. There is security, if fewer grand vistas, down lovely Castle Canyon, for example. The woods whisper companionably around you, and pleasing glimpses of stone battlements are framed in green along the way, as the road picks its meandering and leisurely course toward Big Springs. There a charmingly homey sight is enlivened by water pouring straight out of a hill wall and dropping to make its way through a meadow and provide amply for several small snug houses, attendant upon a nearby lookout tower.
There are gratifyingly few people on the Kaibab. Here and there are the summer quarters for fireguard or other servants of the forest’s and park’s needs, all official and quite restrained. The little settlement at Jacob Lake, where U.S. 89A makes a junction with the park approach road and then hurries off the mountain again, retires modestly under the great ponderosas and with Kaibab Lodge, at V.T. Park, offers the only tourist lodgings outside of the park. The flood of summer visitors bound for the North Rim keep, foolishly, I think, to the main paved road, and fall brings its influx of hunters. The latter take over those parts of the forest where game is most likely to be found, many getting the fine Kaibab bucks, especially prized as trophies, and some merely getting … lost. In that season, the mountain’s only attraction to the tourist is the flamboyant color of the aspens, riotous enough along the safe paved road. But spring and summer find the cool depths, the glorious spread of wild woodland quiet and going about its own nicely timed business.
It is still the forest primeval, a place to find oneself away from the distractions of modern life. Even the Paiute is gone, and the only sounds are the wind, the birds, the snap of a branch under the foot of some wild thing. Seasons pass lightly over this ancient forest of the Kaibab, carved in Olympic grandeur from the glowering desert and smiled upon, surely, by the gods who planted it for anyone, whether man or the four-footed creatures who revel in its solitude.