Show Low & Apache National Forest May 7-9, 1999

    After returning from Hells Gate, I was tired and I desperately needed to find a pillow to drool on for a while.  Slow your roll, junior!   While I was reorganizing some gear so that I could get back on the road, I took a peek into the cooler which I'd kept cold during the last few days with a bag of ice.   It unfolded like a commercial.  My mouth was dusty and parched and sweat was beading up on my forehead.  There it was, sitting cold and lonely in the corner of the ice chest:  a beer.  I went at that thing like it was the last beverage on earth.  If you ever want to appreciate the little things, work real hard and deprive yourself of them for a short amount of time.  It can turn a mere bottle of beer into the Nectar of the Gods.
    Show Low lay about 70 miles east of Payson and I drove through the Sitgreaves National Forest to get there.  I promise that this will be the last time that I complain about the condition of the forest in my journal entries and in the future, I'll leave it for discussion in the Commentary section.  As you drive through and look at the forests from a distance, everything seems healthy and normal.  When you get a little closer or walk into the woods in this area, the forest immediately shows you a different face.  The land looks like it has just been raked over and abused.  Stumps are everywhere and in most places, the forest floor is bare and without new growth.  Everything is so obviously over-used and commercially abused.  If it will ever be repaired, I don't know.
    My night in Show Low was extremely uneventful.  I was just worthless-tired and all I could do was plow through some dinner and catch a half-an-hour of Sportscenter.  Giants are still in first place, baby!  When Barry gets back and Billy's foot heals up they are going to blast the Dodgers into permanent submission.
    While in the area of Show Low, I really wanted to find some serene alpine territory to camp for a couple of days.  I drove on Hwy 260 until I reached a popular recreation area just southwest of Springerville.  The elevation here is about 9,000 feet and it has only been within the last couple of weeks that the snow has retreated.  I drove around the forest roads below Mt. Baldy for a while until I stumbled across one the most beautiful meadows I've seen all trip.  There was no question that this was my place.  I put up my tent and spent two nights there.  Here's a shot of me enjoying a nice cup of joe in the morning.  I think someone replaced my regular coffee with Folgers crystals.  The weather was perfect except for a forceful mountain wind which starts as soon as the sun comes up and mysteriously disappears right when it sets.  My site lay in the Apache National Forest right by the origin of a pristine little stream called Rosey Creek.
    On my second day there, I woke up and made a nice day hike of about 8 miles or so down the stream and back.  I was specifically on a quest to see some elk.   Or a bear...from a distance.  I saw nothing but beautiful scenery and after reaching the road which lies at the bottom of Rosey Creek, I returned to my campsite.  I saw about 2,000 piles of elk droppings but not a freaking animal to be found.  I did discover that this entire area is popular for cross-country skiing in the winter and they have 3 or 4 designated trails that are marked with colored signs.  Open space use in our national forests is all-inclusive.  There are so many things you can do here.   Some people ski, some people hike and then, well, some people hunt.
    I learned about the hunting aspect as I sat back at camp nourishing myself on something half-palatable.  I looked up and out of the woods walks this dude with a rifle.  He waves at me and comes over to talk for a few minutes.  We exchanged pleasantries and I asked him what he was hunting.  "Turkey," he drawled and paced around looking into the woods.  I was wearing my red bandana and he noted that I ought not to wear that in the forest.  "Why not?" I asked.   Apparently a tom (turkey term) has bright red markings that makes them quite visible to hunters.  "More people get shot wearing red than any other color," he yukked.  I'm just thinking, "OK, Dale, isn't there a NASCAR race on that you should be watching or something?"   I'm really not to fired up to take two shots to my domepiece as I stroll around looking for elk.
    Needless to say, my bandana now lies in a dumpster in Springerville.   I got out of there, on a Monday morning and headed for safer ground.  Despite my ribbing, I am very supportive of regulated hunting.  A hunter has just as much reason as I to keep the forests and open spaces wild.  If the land is damaged, the hunting goes away.  Without Bambi around to pop a cap in, Clem gets ornery.
    And that's it.  I'm out of Arizona.  Even though it may seem like I bitched a lot about forest conditions, etc., (as a treehugger, I salute you with a shower of granola) I loved Arizona's open space.  I could have spent the next four months just tooling around this place.  The beauty has often brought me to tears.   Those tears are ones of joy