In the White Mountains of Arizona (1972-74): Rivers and Other Reservation Scenes

The White Mountain Apache Reservation was large.  I remembered that it had at least a million acres, but upon doing some research to pin things down, I find that it comprises 2,627 square miles, or 1.6 million acres.  I think it was occupied by about 10,000 Tribal members when I was there, spread over six or eight or ten little communities.  

The scenery was magnificent.  Rivers, creeks, canyons, high desert, alpine forest and many lakes, ranging from about two to nine-hundred acres.  Hawley Lake at 8,000 feet elevation and 300 acres was one of the nearby ones I visited frequently; Sunrise Lake, 9300 feet and 900 acres, was harder to reach and near the Sunrise Ski Resort, a development project in progress.  The White River I saw daily, but there were other rivers throughout.  Mount Baldy (11,000+ feet?) was the highest point on the Reservation and I think was the location of the headwaters of the Salt and Little Colorado Rivers, but I would have to do some real research to speak authoritatively now on this.

I was told that the Reservation provided some of the best fishing in the entire Southwest U.S. and, indeed, in season, the tiny town of Pinetop was overrun with anglers whose trucks and trailers choked the few streets and quickly filled up the few motels.   No fishing for me; it was all sightseeing, hiking and photography.

See:  Related Posts

Port Costa Weekend (January 1973)

Port Costa is a tiny, quaint outpost near San Francisco. Before he moved there and started raising a family, Dave was a gov’t colleague in L.A.; was one of two (not counting myself) obsessed Bob Dylan devotees in our office; owned and was restoring a rare late 20s Chrysler; liked to discuss poetry, Sartre, Camus and existentialism over a beer or two; had an unrivaled deadpan sense of humor; always flew under the radar; and, as a charter member of the fan club, received a Christmas card every year from the Texas parents of the deceased Buddy Holly.

SIDEBAR: I know that I had resolved not to conflate personal memories of humans (at least those not known in common with my readers/viewers) with my display of previously-undiscovered photographs unless their presence in an image had visual merit on its own — but a handful of individuals in the past were so eccentric or remarkable to me that their inclusion starts to cross that line. This regrettable tendency — which I will attempt to curtail in the future — probably owes something to Joseph Mitchell, whose book (now being read aloud to Kim by myself), “Up In The Old Hotel”, serves up accounts of eccentrics and oddities that he encountered in the saloons and streets and elsewhere in New York City during the 1930s, 40s and 50s.