APACHE JUNCTION, Ariz. -- According to legend, in the mid-1700s, Jesuit missionaries led 240 gold-laden mules across southern Arizona, disappearing into mountains whose southwestern escarpment towers like the ramparts of a massive fortress over the desert floor. When the procession returned, the beasts bore no burden. Many believe the priests stashed their priceless cargo somewhere among the bluffs, basins and cactus-clad canyons we call the Superstition Mountains.
For over a century, sun-crazed dreamers trod these hills, trying to unravel riddles of missing mines and buried bounty. Today, the fortune seekers have been replaced by recreational hikers. Superb scenery, good trails and a convenient location, 40 miles east of Phoenix, make the Superstition Wilderness Area a splendid place for a stroll.The area's most popular entrance, the Peralta Trailhead, attracts up to 400 people daily from preschoolers to octogenarians. Many, like me, make the easy 2 1/4-mile walk to Fremont Saddle for its close-up view of the Superstitions' most impressive landmark, Weavers Needle.
Uniformed, clipboard-carrying volunteers welcome visitors at the trailhead, and I am greeted by Jennifer Elliott, a recent college graduate from Toronto. While her family winters in the Great White North, Jennifer basks in the Arizona sunshine, records statistical data and pleads with hikers to pack out their trash. "Arizona's nice, but I miss trees and water," she wistfully admits.
Jennifer sends me up the dry bed of Peralta Canyon, named for a wealthy Mexican who supposedly worked mines somewhere in the Superstitions. On his final trip in 1848, Peralta's 400 men and 200 pack mules returned through another narrow canyon on the northwest side of the mountains. Ambushing Apaches pounced on the group, massacred the men, barbecued their mules and ditched the gold.
Nobody knows if Peralta ever traveled through the dark, V-shaped valley that now bears his name, but if he didn't, he missed a beautiful walk through Sonoran Desert at its finest. A wide trail slices through terrain teeming with shrubs, trees and cacti. Wildflowers splash color and fill the air with the cloying sweetness. The distant wailful cries of mourning doves and the descending notes of canyon wrens puncture the tepid morning's stillness. Smooth boulders, shaded by shrub oaks and sugar sumacs, invite the weary to rest. Burdened by thirty-five pounds of photographic equipment, I shamelessly take advantage.
Dozens of fellow hikers share the trail. Perched on the back of one man's daypack is Nifia, a sore-footed little dog. She has it easier than some of us. One woman looks at my camera equipment and tells her companion, "See what I told you? People aren't in their right minds out here."
Enormous stone pinnacles, looking like Easter Island effigies, rise from dark slopes to the west. Pima Indian mythology says these were disobedient men turned to stone. Wishing to avoid a similar fate, I follow Jennifer's instructions and don't shortcut the switchbacks.
At Fremont Saddle, the 1,500-foot high, rubble-skirted spire of Weavers Needle pokes into view. To some, this towering plug of igneous rock resembles a giant sombrero. Others envision certain anatomical parts of a stallion. But, to me, the monolith looks like the hand of God giving a huge thumbs-up signal to those of us who reach the saddle.
In the late 1950s, the shadow of Weavers Needle was home to Celeste Jones, a black woman who claimed to have once sung with the Metropolitan Opera. She gallivanted through the desert dressed in gaudy Bermuda shorts, floppy hat, tacky sunglasses and cheap sneakers, and she usually sported both a revolver and sawed-off .30-06 rifle. Celeste passionately believed that somewhere, deep within the needle, a treasure of Jesuit gold lay hidden. Guardians visible only to her protected the horde, and to secure their blessing, she often sang euphonic chants.
As I ponder what music Celeste's invisible friends listened to now, a Colonel Sanders look-alike slowly reaches the pass. After several years of aborted attempts to ascend Fremont Saddle, the rotund gentleman finally triumphed and is justly proud. My camera equipment seems less burdensome as we walk down together.
The next day, I drive to the First Water Trailhead north of Apache Junction. Checking in with the wilderness volunteer is like deja vu -- Jennifer's twin sister, Jeanine, works this entrance. We chat, she suggests a 12-mile loop hike, and I start down the Dutchman's Trail.
The "Dutchman," Jacob Waltz, was a German immigrant who spent his life prospecting. Stories say that in the 1870s, he and his partner entered a Mexican village where Jake rescued a man knifed in a poker fight. The victim, a Peralta relative, rewarded the pair with an expedition to the family's holdings in the Superstitions. On their return, Peralta sold them the mine. Waltz assumed sole ownership when one day he discovered his partner's dead body skewered Apache-style over a campfire.
In his final years, the self-proclaimed owner of the world's richest mine raised chickens at his adobe hovel along the Salt River south of Phoenix. In February 1891, the river overflowed and Jake took refuge in a tree. He was rescued several chilly days later, contracted pneumonia and died in October while under the care of Julia Thomas, a young divorcee.
Prior to cashing in, the Dutchman revealed his mine's location to Julia. Believing it would be easy to find, she liquidated her confectionery shop and fruitlessly scoured the Superstitions for gold. Disillusioned, Julia gave up the search and established a profitable business selling maps to the mine she couldn't find.
The Dutchman's Trail follows Julia's route up First Water Creek. For 2 1/2 miles, I play hiker's leapfrog with a family from Scottsdale -- I stop and they pass, then they stop and I pass. At Parker Pass, we all enjoy a distant view of Weavers Needle, which from this angle resembles a raptor with wings flexed for takeoff.
After the family heads back, I continue down to an open area carpeted with flowers and yellow-blossoming prickly pear cactuses. I soon turn north to follow the Boulder Canyon Trail downstream. A trickle of water provides a refreshing change from the dry desert, butterflies flutter among tall purple-flowered thistles and globe mallows add dollops of orange.
A few months earlier, a hiker missed a nearby trail junction and became lost near here. When searchers approached late at night, she signaled them with the only light she had -- her camera's flash unit. The rescue became known as the "Find of the Frantic Flasher. "
Preferring to use my camera for other endeavors, I turn up the Second Water Trail, ascend a narrow draw and, at the edge of Garden Valley, enjoy a rooftop view of the wilderness. Somewhere out there, Jesuit treasure, Peralta gold and the Lost Dutchman Mine may lie hidden. Although no one has unearthed any of these riches, they perhaps have discovered something even more valuable -- a magnificent place to search.
I trudge the final miles back to the car and promptly claim two of the three rewards of a long hike's conclusion quaffing an icy beverage and releasing feet from the tyranny of hiking boots. The third, a long hot shower , will come soon.
Dan Leeth lives in Colorado.