Cliffhanger

Big tread leads to adventure in Pleasant Valley

I confess I can’t just take a trip. There has to be high jinks, characters, wonder and at least one “what the hell was I thinking?!” The road through Pleasant Valley wasn’t an exception.

After a greasy breakfast in Payson, I decided to head east on the 260, in search of the Young-Globe “hi-way.” Tall Ponderosa pines swayed in a cold morning breeze that crashed into the steep rise of the Mogollon Rim as I set off. I rattled my way south over the washboards of a wide dirt road through the trees, dust swirling up behind me.

The road wound for 20 miles until becoming civilized with asphalt. Five miles outside of Young, I spotted a sign for Haigler Creek and couldn’t resist the side trip along Chamberlain Trail (NF 200). It was a perfect opportunity to get my feet wet in Pleasant Valley, so to speak.

The land opens up into a wide expanse of velvety grass specked with juniper – heaven for grazing. Basques immigrants discovered this area 160 years ago, running sheep through this 2-mile-wide corridor between the Salt River Valley and summer grazing lands in the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest.

Despite its name, Pleasant Valley’s first tourist attraction is a grave, one mile into Chamberlain Trail. A Navajo herder has rested there since 1887, the first man killed in the Pleasant Valley War. Its violence would span a decade, wiping out almost every member of two feuding families: the Tewksburys and the Grahams.

Haigler Creek itself was peaceful. Small rainbow trout wriggled for cover as I tossed my shoes aside and dipped my feet in icy water to relax. After an hour, my stomach told me it was time to see what the town of Young had in the way of amenities.

 

I passed ranches with despair-embracing names like Poco Dinero and Flat Broke Ranch. The first welcome sign was Alice’s Restaurant and Cantina perched on a hilltop.

Cresting the slope, I parked and went inside to chow down a bland burger, surrounded by NASCAR posters. I washed down the meal with tea on a patio, beside a horseshoe pit. There I saw my first view of the entire valley. Old barns, crumbling corrals and the scattered homesteads spanned a century of sparce development in the valley. I got the sense this was a forgotten place of elegant simplicity.

The place to rub elbows in Young is Antler Bar and Café. Though built in 1946, it feels like a bygone saloon. I found my way up its rustic steps to sip a drink, surrounded by dozens of stag horns from long-departed elk. Slowly the crowd drifted in, making me part of the group within minutes.

Brett, a jovial round-faced man, warned me I was sitting at Perry’s seat. Mark and his wife were congratulated as new grandparents of a 4 1/2-pound baby. Old Joe growled through a white beard that he was looking to sell a ‘66 Ford Bronco. When someone showed interest, he cautioned, “It’s one of them personality rigs. Gotta take low gears slow.” Jimmy, across the way, was still on the wagon… until he decided to drink something harder than iced water. Meanwhile, the potential ’66 Bronco buyer kept blowing his money on shots of whiskey for Bob, who used them to warm a rough throat.

I settled in for conversation and a decent burger and beers five and six. Later, I had enough wisdom to push down the seats of my SUV and bed down for the night. The next day was a different story.

 

Waking up, I continued down the road to Globe. Several miles later, I came across the entrance to Cherry Creek Road (FR203) – an unrefined trail clawing its way down out of the pines into the high desert, within view of Roosevelt Lake.

The road appeared to be a pleasant drive through the pines until it presumably reconnected to Forest Route 188 further along. But I found myself on a steep descent into one of the more astounding Arizona landscapes I’ve seen – the Sierra Ancha Wilderness.

The road fords several small streams that feed lush vegetation as they flow into valleys below. The way becomes rockier as evergreens fade into high desert. Here, various hikes bring into view forgotten cliff dwellings from centuries past. At 15 miles in, the road becomes impassable to all but the most experienced off-road enthusiasts.

Let me clarify: I’m not the most experienced off-road enthusiast. And yet, I kept going, driving my SUV down an ATV-wide road. In one switchback, gravel shot out from under my wheels as I slid toward the road’s edge.

I yanked back my parking brake. I gulped down my racing heart, thinking, “How do they solve this in the movies?”

A roar echoed through the hills as I put every little horse in my engine to work, backing up to solid ground. Returning to the safety of FR 188, I headed home. Eventually the pines faded away and the road’s final glory was unveiled along a paved stretch overlooking Roosevelt Lake.

As I drove, I muttered, “What the hell was I thinking!?”