AMERICAN FORESTRY'S ADVERTISERS 



117 



The traveler seeks the thing tinged 

 with age. Here then he has it for on 

 the walls of these dwellings are writ- 

 ings, showing that the inhabitants 

 were highly civilized. Traces of canals 

 for irrigation were to be found show- 

 ing how the people had fought the bat- 

 tle of life against the odds nature had 

 laid down for the game. These were 

 obliterated when modern man took up 

 the fight in the desert and built the 

 reservoir system now famous around 

 the world. 



The drop down the descent of the 

 winding trail brings the thrill akin to 

 days when the old swing started on its 

 downward swoop after you had swung 

 to the height of its reach. You remem- 

 ber the breath catching that came. 

 You get it here from your seat as you 

 lean back and the auto sweeps around 

 prehistoric cliffs over this canyon 

 spanning road, cliff-walled on one side 

 since time eternal and man-walled on 

 the other, that you might see nature's 

 handiwork in comfort. The motor 

 stops and you look and wonder how 

 the Little Men of ancient times man- 

 aged to get to those homes amid the 

 crags when it has taken the engineer- 

 ing genius of the twentieth century to 

 take you to their base surrounded 

 by the rocking-chair comforts of 

 your home. 



As against the prehistoric cliff 

 dwellings, the Roosevelt Dam stands 

 out in bold relief as a link between the 

 centuries now gone and a civilization 

 now dead. This big retaining wall is 

 1,125 feet long and 380 feet high. It 

 holds back a lake 25 square miles in 

 area. This pile is no less wonderful 

 than the cliff dwellings the traveler 

 has just passed and well may one 



THE MASSIVE TIME-SCARRED WALLS 



OF DEVIL'S CANYON , 



stand in awe as he sees pictured be- 

 fore him the achievements of the two 

 ages and the two civilizations. 



There is pause at the Dam for lunch. 

 Refreshed, one again motors toward 

 the land of Sunset over the second 

 half of the trail that leads to Phcenix 

 and the Southern Pacific's train for 

 Los Angeles and the rose country. 

 One vista after another greets the eye. 

 The well-made road now runs along 

 the side of the sky-scarred cliffs. 

 Through Fish Creek Canyon the motor 

 way is carved on the very face of 

 a cliff. 



Up, up, up, there is nothing but 

 rock, while in looking down one sees 

 nothing but the marvelously grotesque 



and twisted rocky masses. Next we 

 see old " Arrowhead," sentinel-like, 

 hammered from the solid rock so 

 runs the Redman's tale by Chief One- 

 Eye whose ill-shaped form, turned to 

 stone by the wrath of the gods, glares 

 at you farther up the trail. Passing 

 Old Woman's Shoe, Eagle Rock, 

 Whirlpool Rock and the Little Alps we 

 cross Black Canyon and come to 

 Superstition Mountain. 



In awe of this the Apache lived; 

 and, as sunset glows about it, the trav- 

 eler is quite ready to believe the 

 legend of how Chief White Feather 

 and his people were wiped out. White 

 Feather escaped the deluge by scaling 

 this mountain when the waters cov- 

 ered the earth. In prayer, with face 

 upturned to the lightning, the chief 

 held out the precious medicine stone 

 he had carried with him. A bolt 

 struck the stone and White Feather 

 and his followers became pinnacles 

 of rock. 



With this age-old legend still fresh 

 in your mind the motor glides into the 

 tree-fringed streets of Phoenix. You 

 step out of legend time and Indian lore 

 into civilization. The comfortable 

 Pullmans of the Sunset Limited are 

 waiting. This trip, a side one, which 

 can be made with convenience only 

 over the Southern Pacific Lines, costs 

 but $15 in addition to the through 

 fare, and can be made either way 

 from Phcenix or Globe, depending 

 upon which way you chance to be 

 going. By doing this you have dipped 

 into another world where in ages gone 

 another people sprang up in another 

 civilization, then went their way out 

 where the west begins. 



THE HOMES OF A PREHISTORIC RACE 



ROCKY PINNACLES IN FISH CREEK 

 CANYON 



THE WINDING ROAD BATHED IN 

 ARIZONA'S MATCHLESS COLORS 



