Buried deep in
mountains filled with stories and nestled gently in a bowl of peaks set the
goal I’d dreamed of since I was twelve. Sitting in the bed of a rusted out
ancient Ford truck atop the piles of camping gear we crawled up the ever
narrowing and inclining mountain roads. This truck, despite its dubious
appearance, was the only vehicle in the caravan reliably capable of the final
ascent to the trailhead. The three old men were packed into the cab, while I
and my companions jumbled along not entirely uncomfortable in the overcast
revelation of these Sonoran desert mountains lingering on the outskirts of an
Arizona metropolis.
The last mile was a rocky tumble of an excuse
for a road laid on top of hairpin switchbacks. It was here that we all finally
grasped the tightest to the rusty patinaed sides of our transport. Up until now
we had chatted in variations from pleasant to animated sprinkled with jokes and
laughter and interjected pointing at the fascinating features passing by all
around. During this time what we really hoped for was stories from our resident
bard, Billy. This kid could spin a tale. Always innovative. Frequently
humorous. With a complexity beyond his years. So we poked and prodded and
begged and pleaded for something to fill the time. But he wasn’t our only
entertainment.
In the other
corner was Jason, the resident clown, who was, in fact, a professional clown
already at 13. He could juggle and do magic and had the dexterity of a
chimpanzee. He was even already taking clown classes at the university, which
we were all in awe of. As the elder statesman on this journey his words always
rose to the top of the conversation. He was thoughtful and kind and distracted
and entertaining all at once. The rest of the crew consisted of myself, Berg,
and Loren.
Berg’s real name
was Mike, but he was too big of a personality for a common name. Also, at
school, there were in the same grade at least four different Mikes at the time,
so nicknames were an easy solution. The legend was that Billy had come up with
the name by using the commonality between iceberg (his size) and hamburger (his
favorite food). Either way it just stuck.
Loren was the
traditionally talented one in the group. He could play piano. He could play
violin. He could sing. He was a pretty decent diver and swimmer. He was clean
and more fashionable than any of us cared to be at that age. He barely
tolerated camping but joined in as if he did. Years later this tedious practice
of sleeping outdoors would be abandoned by him, but for now he mostly
participated. He was also the most enthusiastic enjoyer of stories and jokes.
Always quick to a hearty laugh and engaged wholly in the stories told. An
excellent listener for sure.
Which leaves me.
I was the newcomer to the group. We moved around a lot, so I was used to
blending in quick to the group dynamic and learning the ways of my new-found
tribe quickly and anonymously. My contribution was to participate and be happy
and get involved. Not a false happy, but
I was easily entertained and genuinely enjoyed many of the activities I would
get involved in. I was not the best looking or the most talented or the
funniest, just somewhere in the middle. I was also an observer. I watched and
collected the experiences.
If you don’t know
the place, there is something unreal about the Superstition mountains in
Arizona. There are more stories per square mile associated with these mountains
than most and the name betrays a lot of the feelings around the whole place. These
are mountains that are allegedly filled with gold, but you better not look for
it or it will kill you. The Mogollon monster roams these mountains too, and it
will kill you. The weather can change from summer to a blizzard from one valley
to the next, and that could kill you. Oh, and the aliens, the ghosts, more
monsters, treasure hunters, bears, cougars, bobcats, rattlesnakes, scorpions,
steep cliffs, and flash floods are all ready to get you at any second. For all
of that it is a beautiful and wonderful natural wonder full of excitement. The
reason for our visit was one of the exciting things that is hidden here in the
Superstitions. Old Ed the mountain man that my dad worked with at the State
Land Department, was guiding us to the cliff dwellings at the bottom of Roger’s
Trough. A nice little four mile hike to see an amazing relic still just sitting
up in the cliff wall for anyone to explore. Of course, that was if you didn’t
die first.
We felt good about
our chances. Maybe because we were young and ignorant. Or maybe because we were
dumb and trusting and there were adults there. But most likely it was because
we were young, dumb, ignorant, and fairly certain we were invincible because of
all of the above. Thus we looked forward with eager anticipation to the
adventure ahead. We didn’t know the secrets contained in the mountains. We
weren’t aware of the numerous deaths that awaited. Old Ed had tried to warn us
of some, but then Berg’s dad went on about an 8 foot wall of water taking us
out and all seriousness was lost. Well, all seriousness was lost as soon as
Billy commented. Or rather, repeated Berg’s dad but in a sarcastic voice. It
didn’t help that Old Ed looked annoyed by his input, but he had to acquiesce
the point that flash floods did indeed happen, though irrelevant to where we
were headed.
About those
secrets in the Superstitions. I learned later there are myriad tales told of
these mountains and probably twice as many realities. For example, my father
showed me that the topographic maps that you can get of the Superstitions
publicly are in fact inaccurate. They are intentionally inaccurate because
there are many natural wonders that they are trying to preserve. Like a really
fantastic waterfall that is hidden deep in the hills. That was just the one he
would show me, but he left me maps when he passed that can’t be obtained by the
general public. Maps with many secrets.
Another friend
told me there is more gold stored in the
Superstitions than in Fort Knox. Oh, and aliens are real and the evidence is
also stored there, wherever there is. All these secrets are the kind you don’t
try and prove. Those who do and who get obsessed are those that disappear. I
understand this feeling. The way these mountains are is intoxicating. There is
always the feeling that bigfoot might wander in and join your campfire, but in
a cool way. He would just wander in and ask if he could hang with you for a few
and by the way he has a bag of apples and some deer meat to contribute if that
would help.
Bigfoot didn’t
show up this time. Maybe he had a better offer. Or maybe he and Old Ed weren’t
on speaking terms, though I’m pretty sure they knew each other. Whatever the
reason, we had a good evening once we arrived at the trailhead and woke to an
overcast sky that would fade in and out of a drizzle for the whole day. Pretty
good hiking weather. Keep cool but not drenched and no hot Arizona sun beating
down on you.
The hike was
basically a walk straight down the river bed. Easy to know where to go, but
sometimes not so easy to hike. Of course that was after the first two miles.
The first two miles were a traditional trail along the riverbed that led to the
junction of two distinctly different choices. It would be years before I took
the other path, a four mile journey up the adjoining canyon to the old Reavis
Ranch. Old Ed told us of apple orchards growing wild for acres and acres up in
the hills. No one to attend and yet they grew and grew. The tale came with a
warning that deer would eat the fallen apples that would ferment and then they
would stumble around. It was at these times the bears would come and get
themselves an easily caught, pre-marinated feast. Not a good place for casual
observers. We instead stayed straight for the shorter two mile trek to the
cliff dwellings.
Though we seemed
to be entirely alone and unthreatened in our journey, there was an air about
the place that made for a more quiet journey than was usual for our crew. Maybe
it was the gentle drizzle that made things even more quiet naturally, but the
whole canyon was hushed. Any loud sounds created a muffled echo that seemed
unwelcome. Soon enough we were to the bottom of the canyon, and just around the
last turn the dwellings came into view.
It is hard to
describe how unexpected it is to wander through a wilderness and then suddenly arrive
in someone’s front yard. There was a more managed air about this widening in
the canyon. A sense of design that was almost imperceptible. Just some slight
adjustments for convenience, but still something had been manipulated here once
upon a time. As we stood still for a second and took in the view, we were soon
able to focus in on the dwellings that were affixed into an indent of the cliff
wall about 75 feet up the face. A perfect location to stay out of flooding and
see if anyone was approaching.
We wandered all
over those dwellings for an hour and then sat on the cliff at their doorstep
and had lunch. It was then that I saw something interesting. A peek of sun came
out and lightened the valley before us just a little. The stream ran here a
little wider than it did further up the valley and it sort of meandered into different
pools, all of them murky and dark as is expected in mountain streams. All that
is except one. One pool was not like the others and it was this that showed
more than a passive involvement of the previous residents. One little pool was
almost perfectly round and the water in it was a clear blue, like a small
swimming pool. It was the same water as everywhere else, but this had been
worked into a pool with intent. I am not sure what struck me most about seeing
that perfect little pool, but it was not insignificant. It was the type of
thing that makes for a perfect day.
Soon after the
adults were ready to go, and all of us boys had to abandon the paradise we were
in and head back to out former reality. For me the seed was planted. A hook was
placed. An allure exists in my soul that is tied to the Superstitions. I want
to be in them and be surrounded by their wonder. I have tried to do so for
years. It is not a perfect relationship. Each adventure seems to take a little
for all that it gives, but never enough to make me abandon my love of this
wilderness. It is not a relationship I will test. I will not seek to extract
her secrets that she won’t give, but I will ask for any she is willing to
share. I will cherish any she is willing to impart.
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