By Rob Bettaso

There is a mountain range southwest of Pinetop that is well below the Mogollon Rim yet still boasts numerous peaks between 5000 and 7700 feet in elevation. Back in the mid-1990s, when I worked at Canyon Creek Hatchery, I occasionally had the pleasure of stocking trout into a few of the streams that flow out of these desert mountains and eventually run to the Salt River. On one occasion, I stayed at a cabin that was situated near one of the creeks in the area and I knew then, that the vastness of the country was too much to see in a lifetime, let alone in the few days I had to spend there. So, I vowed that someday I would return to that portion of the Tonto National Forest and give the area a closer look.

Recently, I finally had the chance to re-visit those wild lands and I did so with two good friends that I generally camp with at least once a year. For the past decade or so, Scott, Jeff, and I have taken an annual camping trip to a spot that either has an expansive view from a hidden vantage point along the Grand Canyon or Mogollon Rim or we have picked a spot that is nestled near a body of water that is not well known to the camping public.

As you have no doubt guessed by now, I’m not about to reveal the precise details of our secret camping spots, but I am happy to briefly describe our most recent 3-night excursion to one such locale; to this place down off the Rim but up above the Salt River. Let me call this place “Camp Paradiso,” and I will tell you that it is near a small stream that is barely large enough to support a small and wary trout population. Not far away, one can follow along rough four-wheel drive roads that ascend peaks overlooking the Salt River drainage including such important tributaries as Cherry, Pinal, and Salome creeks. If I was to tell you any more, well, “then I’d havta’ kill ya.”

I would be hard put to say what I fell in love with first at Camp Paradiso. Was it the crystal clear water that tumbled down the rocky channel making beautiful, gurgling music all along its route? Or was it the tangle of sturdy alder and Boxelder trees along the creek’s boulder-strewn banks? Maybe it was the steep slopes up and away from the creek that sustained enormous Doug Fir as well as various pine and juniper species. To be sure, it was all of these things and much more. It was the myriad colors and sounds and scents and textures of the rich and diverse riparian and upland habitats and the creatures that lived therein.

The first bird I spied as I exited my truck and stretched and unkinked my road-weary body was a bold and reckless Bridled Titmouse, who hopped down a ladder of pine limbs to greet me nearly face to face. I watched him cock his distinctive black, white, and gray head, but then, I was distracted by a faint, sibilant call from higher up in the same pine and soon noticed a small bark-dwelling bird known by the unflattering name of Brown Creeper. I reached back into my truck and grabbed my binos as the creeper charted a spiral path up the trunk and I watched as he used his long, decurved bill to probe the cracks and creases in the bark to find small bugs to eat. One bird sighting led to another and eventually I completed my avian inventory and thought to myself: “Ahhh, this will be home for the next few days, and, what a peaceful and relaxing home it will be!”

It didn’t take long to realize that Scott and Jeff must be off exploring somewhere, as only one of their two trucks was in camp. I noticed that they had been in camp long enough to set up their tents, tables, and camp chairs but also noticed that they had uncharacteristically not put up shade tarps. This was not surprising though, as the camp they had chosen was wonderfully shaded by a gallery of tall oaks and sinuous sycamores, still in their early autumn colors. Additionally, at our camp’s 5500-foot elevation, the temperatures were bound to be ideal and I doubted that we would drop into the 30s or rise above 65F during our entire visit. To top it off, while the breeze could be heard high in the trees, it wasn’t blowing as far down as the forest floor, so, to sum things up -- it looked like our camp was just about perfectly situated.

I unpacked my meager belongings and soon was off hiking up along the creek. It was slow going, as the rocks and thick streamside vegetation made progress difficult. Eventually, I decided to head back to camp and there I was greeted by my friends, who had returned and were making lunch. I unpacked some food from my cooler and soon we were all enjoying a light meal and some equally light conversation. We all agreed that we had truly found an ideal site and that the next few days would be spent re-conning the area so that we would have a decent feel for the lay-of-the-land, since, we all knew that we were going to add this area to our list of places that we would return to again and again.

And sure enough, over the course of the next few days, we hiked and drove along two different creeks and ascended two towering mountains, one of which had a fire lookout on its summit – a lookout that is well known to fans of Ed Abbey, since he had manned the station for a few seasons many decades ago. It was also interesting for me to look down from the two high points into the Salt River drainage, as I had done numerous white-water trips down the Salt back in the 1990s. Some of those trips I did professionally for the Game and Fish Department (monitoring the resident fish populations in the river and its tributaries) and other trips that I had done with friends simply for the joy of rafting and kayaking in remote country.

In fact, when I reflect back on the many years when I lived a fairly adventuresome and somewhat risky lifestyle, and I compare it to my relatively careful life today (now that I’m well into the final quarter of an average American male’s life expectancy), I can’t help but draw two major conclusions: 1) I’m glad I took some chances in my early life, and 2) while I need to be more cautious now (we just don’t rebound from injuries in our later years like we did earlier) it isn’t quite time to throw in the towel and resign myself to sticking to the old, familiar trails around town.

I will close this story by recounting a practice I’ve been learning ever since I retired in 2014 when I found myself with much more free time for solitary hiking in wild lands both near to home and far afield. Specifically, we know that as we enter later life, our bones can become more brittle and our balance less sure. Perhaps the best way to look at the balance aspect of this is to think of what it is like to cross a stream by stepping from one rock to another, or, by crossing the creek using a fallen log. Now, it’s easy for most of us to recall how effortless such a thing could be when we were young and/or in “our prime.” But, by the time we reached middle age, we became a bit less sure-footed and found ourselves much less confident when it came time to cross a swiftly moving waterway.

Having faced this reality on many occasions, I finally took things into my own hands and rented a DVD from the local library on the discipline known as Tai Chi. Now I can’t say that the DVD taught me much about the art and science of Tai Chi, but it did help me to force myself to work on balance and coordination. As a result, over the past few years, I have become much more adept at crossing streams using fallen logs or scattered rocks. I should also mention that I’ve never been comfortable hiking with “trekking poles,” as I like having my hands free so that I can quickly hoist my binos whenever needed.



I will also add that my level of confidence for making a log crossing is inversely proportional to the height of the log above the surface of the water; the greater the potential fall, the lower my confidence and therefore the less willing I am to take the risk. After all, as we age we all need to remember that “discretion is the better part 

of valor.”