Breathe The Pure Air, And Watch The Solemn March Of The Stars.
Have you ever noticed how delicious the most ordinary food is, when cooked
and eaten in the open air, after a day of reasonable exertion?
Climbing,
riding, and walking expand the lungs, and this means the absorption of
immeasurably more oxygen. Weak stomachs, fickle appetites, dyspeptic
symptoms, insomnia, blue devils and a score of the ills that human flesh is
heir to, disappear before the floods of sunshine and oxygen that bathe the
body, inside and out, of the man or woman who gladly accepts the outdoor
life, even though only for a short time, in this Canyon region.
These philosophizings are aroused by the smell of bacon frying over the
camp-fire, or the crack of a fine, mealy Arizona potato, roasting in the
ashes, or a whiff from the coffee-pot, just about to topple over on the
burning sticks. The fire is made of driftwood washed down possibly from
some storm-swept region where a Mormon dwells with his numerous family; or,
mayhap, from a forest where the elk of Wyoming still roam.
How real life in this Canyon now begins to be. It is opening up its secrets
to us as we thus come into it. We are learning to love it, therefore it
shows its heart to us. It no longer is a "thing" to be looked at; it is a
real something, an individuality to love, to listen to, to question, to
honor.
On the Tonto Trail. We are now ready to go over the old Tonto Trail the
trail made centuries ago by mountain sheep, small bands of which are still
to be found in the remoter corners of the Canyon - then followed by the
Indians, whose moccasined feet made less impression upon it than did the
hoofs of the sheep. And in the two or three decades just passed, a few
white men trod it. Perhaps Powell, or some of his men, or Stanton, walked
where we now walk, or ride, and surely some of those early mining
prospectors of the Canyon - Ashurst, McClure, Marshall, Hance, Boucher,
Berry, Brashear, - once went this way.
In and out of the recesses of the much carved walls, up and down the wavy
ridges of the plateaus, sometimes descending into deep side gorges, we
ride, our guide leading the way to the Grand View Trail, and our pack-mules
and burros following, while we occupy the rear of the procession. We stop
for noon lunch in one of the side canyons where is a spring of clear water.
We take off the packs from the animals, and let them nibble away at the
rich grama and gallinas grasses that flourish here after the summer rains.
Comfortable and contented after our meal, we lie on our backs under the
shelter of a juniper or a friendly cottonwood, or in the shade of an
immense block fallen from some cracked wall above. Already we are becoming
familiar with the strata, and can call each one by name. The red wall
limestone, we find, is known to the guides and miners as the "blue lime,"
owing to the fact that its capping stratum, where exposed, has a light blue
color.
Cottonwood Creek and Horseshoe Mesa. In due time we reach Cottonwood Creek,
which flows down to the left (west) of Grand View Point. Here the plateau
opens out, but we leave it in order to follow the creek, on the Berry Trail
down to the river. Perhaps we spend the night here, and in the morning
ascend to the mesa on to the Tonto, then up the well-engineered trail to
Grand View Cave (see description in chapter on Grand View Trail). Sending
the pack animals on from here, we wait until some one descends from the
near-by Horseshoe Mesa, where the camp of the Canyon Copper Company is
located, with candles ready to conduct us through the wonders of this
natural excavation in the red-wall limestone. This occupies the whole of
our afternoon, so that when we reach the mesa, we are ready to partake of
the substantial and cheery fare of the Camp, and then unroll our blankets,
lie down, listen to the chat of the miners and guide, hear them recount
some of their thrilling and exciting experiences, enjoy their singing of
old-time melodies, with a peculiar western flavor to them, and then roll
over to dreamless sleep.
Copper Mines. Half a day can be well spent on the morrow in the mines, and
one is surprised to find here over half a mile of tunnels and shafts, with
workings on seven levels, and ore so rich that under usual conditions it
pays to mine, sort, pack on mules three miles or a little more to the rim,
place in wagons, haul some fifteen or twenty miles to Apex, load on railway
cars and ship - paying full freight, of course - about six hundred and eighty
miles to El Paso, Texas, where it is "milled," and the copper, silver and
gold extracted. These various processes are expensive. It costs to buy
grain in Flagstaff, or Phoenix, and pay freight on it to Apex, and then
haul it to the head of the trail, and thence to the stables on the plateau
near the mine. Hay, too, has to come just as far. Every pound of the
provisions used by the men has to be hauled in similar fashion over
railroad, wagon road and canyon trail. Every pick, shovel, piece of iron or
woodwork, every pound of powder, dynamite and fuse, every box of candles
has to pay toll in like fashion, before it can be used in the mine. So we
are not surprised to learn that the ore is rich, the first thousand tons
mined going as high as thirty percent in copper, with several ounces of
silver to the ton, and small but appreciable and valuable traces of gold.
(At the time of this writing, the mines are temporarily shut down.)
To the Old Hance Trail.
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