Email this article

Cibecue Creek

A guided trip through what the Apaches called the place where the sun does not shine reveals more than peace and quiet.

story and photos by Ron Dungan

It begins late in the day. The stream's braided riffles unravel and flow into a deep, dark, pool. Heads bobbing, legs kicking, we swim through it, shoulder our dripping packs and push forward. High walls close in, dark and polished by centuries of floodwater. More pools lie ahead, and we make our way downstream, swimming, wading, wobbling on boulders, slogging through gravel and mud in this land of rock and shadow until the canyon swallows us. The Apaches call this the place where the sun does not shine.

There was a time you could walk Cibecue Creek without a tribal guide. Experienced hikers and canyoneers recall those days fondly. But a few people abused the privilege. The tribe considered closing the canyon, but instead changed the regulations to allow guided trips. It is just as well. Most of are backpackers, walkers, scramblers. We have little experience with rope, our skill levels ranging from first timers to what climbing magazines call Gumby.

For most of the day, we have walked along the stream, stopping to relax, to drink from a salty spring or watch a black hawk that screamed from a tree. The day was sunny and warm, and we splashed through many crossings, following our guide, Gregg Henry. Just before the narrows, he set up a short rappel to help us get the feel of feeding rope and moving down rock. He told us to go down the wall slowly. The only reason to rappel quickly is to avoid gunfire, he said, and the Apache wars are over. Nobody will shoot. He came down last, coiled the rope and led us into the narrows.

We wade through waist-deep water, walk on rocks the size of bowling balls, swim across another pool, this one with a spring that makes the water cooler. There is no sun but there is light, there is no trail but there is a way. Our gear is sealed in dry bags, which allows the packs to float. Wet packs are heavy. Progress is slow. At last we hit solid ground, move forward to the cliffs ahead, and roll into camp at sunset.

Our camp rests on a rock ledge that overlooks a waterfall. A few dry bags have leaked. Clothes and sleeping bags are laid out to dry and those who have tents pitch them. We laugh, talk, light up camp stoves as darkness falls and headlamps come out. When we have eaten we talk and look up at the stars. The moon, two days shy of full, hits far canyon walls until a few clouds block it. We glance up at the clouds and wonder if rain will come. The waterfall roars.

Gregg points to the sky and says the Apaches believe that their spirit goes to the sky when the body dies. After a while, the spirit returns to the earth, and as it descends, it makes a noise. It makes this noise so the sky - yaa - knows where it is and can keep it safe. A song, for example, could be such a noise, and the Apaches have a song for this, he says.

Then he sings the song.

His voice cuts through the night, the words rising to the sky, yaa, words taking flight and lifting out of the canyon. We remain silent when he finishes, the clouds shifting, the waterfall pouring.

"That was cool,'' Tom says after a while. I cannot help but wonder, what song would my people make to the sky? I live in Phoenix, where pollution has turned the air brown. What song do you sing to a brown cloud? We crawl into our sleeping bags, the sky watching over us, the sound of the waterfall in our dreams.

The eastern Arizona high country was once almost all Apache lands, but Anglo conquest and the wave of settlement that followed has broken up this land into farms, towns, national forests, state trust lands and a few reservations. This has been hard on the land and its wildlife. The grizzly was driven from the region, the Merriam's elk pushed to extinction. The Mexican gray wolf and Apache trout were sent to remote corners of their range. Rivers have been dammed, grasslands overgrazed, stands of cottonwoods are gone.

A few wild things remain. You can see them along remote meadows and clear streams. The streams tumble downhill until they reach rivers and the rivers carve canyons in the high country, where fir trees grow tall and seasons turn. The canyons drop down to pi�on-juniper hills, where the mountain meets the desert and coyotes howl. Turkeys, rattlesnakes, elk or deer may cross your path. And black bears. Each spring they emerge from winter dens, bleary and hungry, eating grasses and searching for mates.

For years I walked the national forests of eastern Arizona, exploring places taken from various Western Apache bands. I slept under stars, walked in the pines, rambled the desert hills. Over time my travels took me to the reservations. Time passed, my path crossing rez borders and bear tracks, my mind bent on remote ground. Two decades have passed since I began wandering these lands. There is good country out there, remote land where you can find waterfalls, solitude, or trout with big shoulders.

After years of travel I came to realize that reservation lands were different from the lands surrounding them. At first I thought they were different because they offered more solitude. Apaches charge a fee to hunt, fish, or walk on their lands. Many people don't know all the rules or don't want to pay, so they stick to familiar ground. After a while I realized that although the solitude was nice, there was more to this than peace and quiet. The reservations are different because Apaches take care of their land. Some say the Apache word for land and mind - ni - are the same.

It started in the 1940s, with efforts to help save the Apache trout. The tribe closed off some mountain streams and when biologists got around to saving the fish years later they still had pure DNA to work with. In the 1980s it took the Arizona Game and Fish Department to court in a dispute over wildlife management revenue. Now the tribe's elk herd is so impressive that it charges sportsman about $16,000 a tag for the fall hunt. It operates its own timber company with an eye toward growing trees, not profits.

The tribe looks with amusement at our efforts to manage land. First, we drive a species to the brink of extinction. Then a flurry of paperwork ensues, the federal government steps in and we scramble to save the species before it's too late. The Apaches believe that all species should thrive, not just survive, and that saving an animal from extinction is not much to brag about. It has a had a rocky relationship with the United States Fish and Wildlife Service at times, but the tribe now works closely with the agency to help save the wolf, the eagle, spotted owl.

In the morning we pack our gear and Gregg sets the rope. One by one, we start down a sheer wall of red rock. I focus on the brake hand and start to bounce gently down the cliff, feeling good about the dance, but soon it is more about the music than the dance. I hear the roar of water beside me, see white spray to the left, the rock now jagged and wet with a bit of moss. At last my travels have taken me to the end of the line. I let go and plunge into cool water.

One by one we drop into the pool and swim across. Packs are lowered. Gregg rappels down last. He has tied a special knot for this, the last descent. He pulls on the rope a few times and it comes free. He coils it and leads us deeper into the canyon, through waist-deep water. I bring up the rear, following hand prints on smooth boulders where the others have balanced themselves. They look like pueblo rock art, these hand prints, like pictographs you see in the canyons of southern Utah. I follow them downstream, the sound of water around me, my companions just around the bend.

The canyon widens. Again a black hawk cries, this one soaring and showing the white stripe on his tail. A mockingbird yammers somewhere in the trees. We pass a rock fall and make our way through it. Gregg and Eddie move ahead. When we reach them, Gregg is having lunch and Eddie tells us what to do. First, we toss our packs over a ledge, then jump in after them. We could probably walk around the near side of the ledge, but it is hot, a good day for a swim.

When he's done eating, Gregg sets up the next descent, a zip line down the waterfall. We climb into our harnesses and slide down the rope. When we are all down safely we huddle around Gregg, like a football team of five, gathered around coach. We now stand in front of a narrow chute. He talks above the waterfall. We must wade, swim, then stem down this chute, hands on one wall, feet on the other, spider walking down until it is time to put a foot on each side, tuck and drop into the stream. The work goes slowly. We shoulder packs and move on.

There is one last rappel. A waterfall marks the boundary where non tribal members must turn around if they hike up from the Salt River. Henry sets the rope short, so that we fall into the pool, the rope bouncing back as we let go. We lower packs, shoulder them and walk until we come to the Salt River, where rafters begin to celebrate the end of another season. The sun is falling, and again shadows grow long. For most of the day, we have focused on water, rope, and sky. There have been thrills, but we are not thrill seekers and this is not about a ride. It is about the quiet moments in between. It is about the canyon. There is just enough time to look around, to breathe deeply, feel the wind and the sun and allow the water to seep into our skin, the soul of this land into our bones. It is about the land, in a place where land still matters. Our minds are at peace, and we walk away knowing we have been to one of the most beautiful places in the world.

Ron Dungan is a Phoenix, Ariz.-based writer who spends his nonwork time fly-fishing, backpacking or bird hunt.