Arizona legends, views abound at Four Peaks

Strange stories abound about the Four Peaks wilderness area northeast of Scottsdale.

A lost gold mine that was guarded for years by the Apache Indians awaits rediscovery on a rocky shelf south of the peaks. Another mine high in the crags produces amethyst that rivals even Siberian stone in quality and depth. Mustang mules, descended from stock whose prospecting owners had died in the Arizona wilderness decades ago are still spotted occasionally by hunters.

And Jacob Waltz, Arizona’s infamous “Lost Dutchman,” wandered through this rugged country to give the slip to any would-be followers who sought his legendary gold mine in the Superstition Mountains.

Four Peaks has held a special allure for me since I arrived in Phoenix in 2000. It offers spectacularly sweeping views of the Roosevelt Lake basin and Sierra Ancha Wilderness beyond, so pack a lunch and a camera.

The drive starts on State Route 87 east of Fountain Hills (the “Beeline Highway”) and heads north Forest Road 143, which is just past the Saguaro Lake turnoff. I followed FR 143 for two or three miles before being forced to admit that my Toyota Echo wasn’t really suited for anything called “Forest Road.” As it started to bear east toward the peaks I turned and headed back to Phoenix, itching to return in a few weeks in my Nissan Xterra.

For the first few miles, FR 143 winds through boulder-y low-desert terrain; saguaro and ocotillo cactuses abound. The road steadily climbs as it winds north and east. Cholla and brittlebush are replaced by manzanita and eventually ponderosa pine near the ridgeline. The road ends at the ridgeline and forks into Pigeon Springs Road. Pick any direction for the views, which become truly spectacular.

No longer obscured by the looming mass of Four Peaks, the wilderness landscape opens up in all directions. Roosevelt Lake sprawls blue and lazy across the basin floor a vertical mile below. Beyond the valley, the Sierra Anchas rise though haze. Further still the country melds into the sky, the horizon lost in the bellies of distant thunderheads.

As I started down I realized how hungry I was. I parked at a wide pulloff on the south side of the road and carried my cooler about a hundred yards into the chaparral. I settled down to enjoy my lunch on a grassy area on the hillside. As I ate I watched storm clouds, roll toward me across the huge valley, their shadows darkening the hills beyond the lake.

I felt pin prick above my right ankle. I’d been sitting cross-legged in the grass, lazily eating my sandwich and snapping pictures, and I hadn’t glanced toward my feet in probably 15 minutes. They were now covered in a mass of swarming ants. I leapt up, swatting and brushing at my shoe tops, camera bouncing off my chest, hopping madly away from the mound I’d unwittingly sat on.

Ants 1, me zero. Now the storm’s leading edge was moving out over the lake just a few miles away. Great. Though I was still in bright sunshine, I knew the storm shadow and rain bands were probably no more than twenty minutes out. And I resumed the drive a little more quickly than before.

I drove faster and reached just a few minutes before the rain arrived. Across the swampy flood plain at the lake’s northern end, the branches of partially submerged sycamores and cottonwoods began to sway as the front moved in.

My final pictures of the day were of the last rays of sunlight slanting across the unlikely marshland.

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>>Email the editor at aklaw@zoniereport.com.