Arizona's wildest ride: the Apache Trail

My hands gripped the steer­ing wheel. My right foot rode the brake. I was eas­ing a four-wheel-drive rental down a steep, nar­row, curv­ing dirt road in the Ari­zona wil­der­ness, and I was be­gin­ning to won­der what I'd gotten my­self into.

On the pas­sen­ger side, a tow­er­ing crag­gy stone wall threat­ened to dent the car and make me re­gret that I had de­clined the rent­al com­pany's in­sur­ance cov­er­age. Still, I stayed as close to that wall as I dared. On the driv­er's side was a fate worse than a scrape: an ab­rupt plunge into a can­yon so deep I couldn't see the bot­tom.

At a bend in the tight road, a new chal­lenge loomed. A Ford F-150 was head­ed my way — and it was tow­ing a fat speed­boat. I pulled over where an ex­tra few feet of road was as good a turnout as I'd get, and pre­pared to eat his dust.

This par­tic­u­lar white-knuckle stretch of grad­ed grav­el, which drops 1,500 feet in three miles, is part of the Apache Trail. I drove that 120-mile ring road east of Phoe­nix one Jan­u­ar­y day with my un­cle and sis­ter. While the route twists, rises and falls, some­times pre­car­i­ous­ly, much of it is now paved and less nerve-racking.

The road fol­lows an age-old foot­path mapped out by In­di­ans and en­cir­cles the Su­per­sti­tion Mountains, known for spires of red-brown rock called hoodoos. It pass­es ghost towns re­popu­lated for tour­ists, Sa­gua­ro- stud­ded land­scapes and 700-year-old cliff dwell­ings. It also leads to the 1911 Roo­se­velt Dam, a struc­tur­al won­der that gave mod­ern Ari­zona its foot­hold by pro­vid­ing wa­ter and electricity for much of the central part of the state, in­clud­ing Phoe­nix. The dam spurred the de­vel­op­ment of the road in the first place; it was the route used to get con­struc­tion e­quip­ment to the site.

I was only a quar­ter of the way around it when I hit that sharp de­scent, but I al­read­y knew the road would de­liv­er the Ari­zona I'd come to ex­peri­ence, all in a day's drive — thril­ling, beau­ti­ful, his­tor­ic and wild.

We head­ed out from my un­cle's house in Sun City West in the morn­ing, and turned onto the A­pach­e Trail just when one of the first tour­ist stops along the way, the Goldfield Ghost Town, op­ened for busi­ness at 10 a.m.

The build­ings in Goldfield may be rep­li­cas — the ac­tu­al ghost town had little more than foun­da­tions and a few shacks be­fore it was re­built in the 1980s — but they look au­then­ti­cal­ly ram­shack­le, with rust­ed horse­shoes adorn­ing a wall and shov­els hang­ing in rows like an old-time art in­stal­la­tion. It is a pleas­ant place to wan­der and pop into shops sell­ing pot­ter­y, can­dy and the in­evi­table T-shirt.

My un­cle and sis­ter soaked up the soft sun along the town's dust­y lanes. I head­ed under­ground for a tour of the rep­li­ca gold mine and a les­son in old Ari­zona, when dreamers began populating the desert and chasing riches.

A hand­ful of oth­er early birds and I fol­lowed our guide down a set of stairs, then into an el­e­va­tor that shim­mied and shook. If it was a fake ride down­ward, I was con­vinced. When we stepped out the other side of the el­e­va­tor, we were in a claus­tro­pho­bic, dim­ly lit under­ground tun­nel, akin to those where min­ers engaged in the dan­ger­ous work of ex­tract­ing gold from sol­id rock.

"You were down here breath­ing sil­i­ca dust. If you got sil­i­co­sis, you might have six months to live. But that was OK — you were get­ting paid $3 a day," said our guide Cous­in Jack, a beard­ed and good-natured man who stayed in char­ac­ter as an 1890s min­er.

We learn­ed the facts down be­low: The mine pro­duced 50,000 ounc­es of gold. Jackham­mers were intro­duced in late 1800s. Min­ers had no aboveground bath­room breaks, though they could sit on a toi­let (with wheels, so the early porta-potty could roll out of the mines); we saw the rust­ed re­mains. But the most mem­o­ra­ble mo­ment came in an in­stant, when Cous­in Jack turned off the light switch to dem­on­strate why min­ers wore head­lamps pow­ered by can­dles. There was ut­ter black­ness.

When we pulled into Tor­til­la Flat, an old stagecoach stop on the A­pach­e Trail, peo­ple milled about on the wood­en walk­way out­side the Su­per­sti­tion Sa­loon, so I braced for a long wait. No need. I dropped my uncle and sister at the door, and they were al­read­y seat­ed by the time I parked the car, passed a fake Wild West shootout spec­ta­cle com­plete with cancan girls, and found my way to the res­tau­rant.

In­side, pat­rons sat on worn leather horse sad­dles at the bar. Dol­lar bills co­vered the walls. "There's about $300,000 sta­pled up here," our wait­er told us, with no fur­ther ex­pla­na­tion, af­ter I tucked into the booth.

The place is known for "kill­er chil­i," but I opt­ed for chick­en en­chi­la­das. They were not ex­cel­lent or killer, but they were not as bad as you might ex­pect of a place that is po­si­tioned per­fect­ly for a noon stop along the A­pach­e Trail, with no com­pe­ti­tion in sight. If we want­ed ex­cel­lence, well, at least we had my aunt's choc­o­late chip cook­ies in the car.

As the car splashed over a trick­le of a creek just be­yond Tor­til­la Flat, the tour­ist traps seemed to wash away. The pave­ment end­ed and the road slow­ly curved and climbed.

For 40 twist­ing miles, little lined the road but desert-scapes, and the car's win­dows framed views of Ari­zona's stark beau­ty. Buttes jut­ted into pure blue skies. Cliffs striped with yel­low, red and brown rock rose above the hill­sides. Sa­gua­ro cac­tus, some 200 years old, dot­ted the scene, lord­ing over an arid world that could kill oth­er spe­cies who aren't as well pre­pared — hu­mans, for in­stance.

When the dam was be­ing built in the early 1900s — most­ly by I­tal­ian stone ma­sons and A­pach­e In­di­an laborers — gran­ite forged from the moun­tain­side be­came build­ing blocks. Although a 1989 up­grade co­vered that work with concrete, the 360-foot struc­ture is still im­pres­sive in its e­nor­mi­ty. At the over­look, we were as high as the top of the dam it­self — so high that a group of sight­seers de­bated wheth­er the flash­es of wa­ter we saw far be­low in the reservoir were the prod­uct of jump­ing fish or bath­ing ducks. Ducks, was the consensus.

Back at the car, I took out the rudi­men­tary map I had print­ed off the Internet.

It was 3 p.m., so I broke the news to my pas­sen­gers gen­tly.

"Looks like we're halfway done," I said, and was met with looks of con­cern and be­muse­ment. There was noth­ing to do but car­ry on.

But soon af­ter turn­ing out of the park­ing lot, we hit pave­ment. An­oth­er mile or so, and we were on a high­way, where we hap­pi­ly zipped along un­til we came to our last stop of the day.

A cave's round­ed open­ing framed the straight stone walls, as though it were a shadowbox. The room had been built 700 years ago by far­mers known as the Sa­la­do peo­ple. It was striking to peer into their home, see their fingerprints left behind in the adobe and a ceiling still blackened from their cooking fires.

Archaeologists know relatively little about the group, except that they lived there year-round, farmed irrigated fields and traded with people from far away (seashells and macaw feathers were among their possessions). Clearly, they had adapted to the harsh environment — even without the benefits of Roosevelt Dam.

As we headed back to the car, dusk was setting in. Our long, wild ride — on highways and dirt roads, from hydroelectric dams to ancient dwellings — was over, and I was glad it ended at a place that celebrates the oldest of old Arizona.

Ker­ri Westenberg • 612-673-4282