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AMERICAN FORESTRY'S ADVERTISERS 



THE GIGANTIC ROOSEVELT DAM WHICH HAS BROUGHT WATER TO THOUSANDS OF DESERT ACRES 



THE LURE OF APACHE LAND 



By RUSSELL T. EDWARDS 



." 'Neath that inverted bowl we call 

 the sky," as Omar sang at the wall of 

 a Persian garden, there is no finer 

 work of the Master Artist in all the 

 world than the colored glories of 

 Apache Land a land full of the mys- 

 tery of the Redman's lore that has 

 come down through the ages to a coun- 

 try that then was old when the Span- 

 iard Coronado passed that way. The 

 cry of the fierce Apache long has been 

 stilled. Instead, the purr of the motor 

 attunes softly with the colorings that 

 were born of a god-like wrath when 

 Morning Green (the Creator) cursed 

 the land with desert wastes and swore 

 nothing there should bloom again. 

 He left the wonder-colorings to taunt 

 the savage who had rebelled and to 

 be forever a sign that the gods were 

 superior to men. 



And so it seems 



The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, 

 Moves on; nor all thy Piety nor Wit 



Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, 



Nor all thy tears wash out a Word of it. 



But old Omar, despite his wine-vis- 

 ioned prophecies, dreamed not the 

 power of man, for there on the Apache 

 Trail today that handiwork of man, 

 the Roosevelt Dam, makes the gdd- 

 cursed desert bloom and stands sec- 

 ond only in the wonder spots of the 

 handiwork of Nature herself, as if 

 mocking the grim pinnacles the gods 

 had left as a warning. This stage for 

 an age-old pageant is always set. True, 

 the actors of another time have gone, 

 but the crags and cliffs that once 



echoed Geronimo's call to battle and to 

 tortures such as the witches never 

 fashioned still are there along the 

 Apache Trail. 



This trail to wonderland leads out of 

 Globe, Arizona. You leave the Pull- 

 mans of the Southern Pacific Railroad, 

 the smoking obelisks, the copper 

 smelters, and step into luxurious 

 motors that are waiting to take you to 

 this new mirage-veiled country where 

 your picture dreams will all come true. 

 For seventeen miles you see an ever- 

 changing panorama from your soft 

 cushioned seat. The wonderful Arizona 

 .sky is above you, while all about are 

 crags, rocks and mighty drops of 

 nature's cliff-made curtains which 



ONE OF THE LAST MEMBERS OF A 

 VANISHING RACE 



seem to forever conceal the mystery 

 of an ancient play. 



To the northeast the Apache 

 Mountains round the vast amphi- 

 theatre in which once the gods did sit 

 in judgment on the passing show. 

 You are climbing the great divide 

 which separates the Tonto and the 

 Salt River Basins, climbing until a 

 mile above the sea, and then suddenly 

 the reason all bursts in upon you, 

 for far across the purple and golden 

 coloring of an Arizona sun you get 

 your first view of Roosevelt Lake, 

 that pearl-like sea penned in by man 

 and mountain. 



There what a lesson in forestry 

 that lake quenching a thirst that for 

 centuries has cursed the land. Beyond 

 are rainbow-colored hills that have 

 been penciled with crimson, gold and 

 azure by a merciless sun that seemed, 

 day by day through all the centuries, 

 to have laughed piteously at what the 

 gods destroyed. In the descent are 

 seen the cragged homes of the Cliff 

 Dwellers whose civilization had tot- 

 tered before Cleopatra lured Antony 

 to his doom. That the Cliff Dwellers 

 lived a community life seems certain 

 from an examination of their dwell- 

 ings. Did they solve this the ques- 

 tion that now puzzles the wisest sociol- 

 ogists in this civilization? Does civ- 

 ilization, like history, repeat itself? 

 Perhaps the delver into antiquity, in 

 these ruins that antedate the Roman 

 Empire, can find the answer to the 

 world-old question that Omar sought 

 to answer. 



