Making tracks that can be erased

Henry hears song in the cascade.

I hear snarl.

We are descending Cibecue Canyon, its preservation entrusted to the Apache people by their ancestors. Issues of trust are high on my list at the moment because I am hanging like a spider in space, still well above the river. I am, literally, at the end of my rope.

My guide had warned me the rope was short.

"You will be fine," he had coached. "Just let go."

And trust.

Cibecue (pronounced si-bi-CUE) Canyon, located 120 miles east of Phoenix, has to be one of the West's premier locations for canyoneering, an adventure sport where participants follow rivers downstream through gorges, often with the aid of ropes to rappel over areas too steep to climb.

Underground springs feed the Cibecue River, which gushes cool and pristine through gorges hundreds of feet below the cliff tops. The river never dries up until it leaves the canyon, and then in the hot Arizona heat, it evaporates. From roil to trickle to nothing at all in the space of a few miles, the Cibecue and its canyon are otherworldly and mystical.

Once a source of inspiration (and a hideout) for the warrior Geronimo, the canyon lies in the heart of the White Mountain Apache Reservation. You need an Apache permit to explore the canyon entrance and an Apache guide to go any farther.

This is why I found myself in the company of Greg Henry, 42, a canyoneering guide for whom the Cibecue whispers in song and prayer about the past, the future, and our responsibility to keep the connection vital.

We had met the night before at Chalo's, a Mexican restaurant in nearby Globe. Henry has strikingly boyish features, with obsidian eyes, a black mop-top haircut, and the short, powerful physique of someone who can ascend anything in first gear.

Over a plate of burritos I had peppered him with questions about the origins of Apache lore, his parents, Indian spirits, the role Hollywood has played in shaping perceptions of Apache warriors and men such as Cochise and Geronimo. He had answered hesitantly or deferred entirely.

Finally he had apologized.

"You ask about things that are special to the Apache culture. Some things are hard for my people to share until we can trust," Henry had said. "Please don't be offended. Learning to trust can take a lifetime."

It was obvious I would be learning more from Henry than he would be learning from me.

The next morning broke clear and hot, with temperatures promising to top 100 degrees by early afternoon. Our destination was Second Falls, 2 1/2 miles up the canyon over terrain that has no path. Basically we would be crisscrossing the river - when it was shoal enough - to work our way up a riverbank that was all thistle and thorn, prickle and poke.

"We are not the first into the canyon today," Henry said as he surveyed footprints in the sand. "Those tracks are made by people wearing canyoneering shoes."

Not far inside the canyon stands a 100-foot-tall pinnacle of stone with a rock balanced on the top. The Apache name for the tower is "Rock On Finger, Still Contemplating." A place name carries far greater meaning for Apaches than for Anglos, according to Keith Basso, author of the book "Wisdom Sits in Places." Apache names paint a picture; they offer local knowledge; and they reflect on ancestors and the generations to come. In short, names are how an Apache knows his country using observation and imagination. There might be 100 named structures along one mile of Cibecue.

Early on our ascent we passed a cactus. I pricked my left hand twice on the same plant. A minute or two later we passed an agave plant, a spiney, waist-high shrub that resembles a porcupine at full alert. Somehow I managed to prick my right arm on one of the spines; turning to look at my wound, I drove another spine into my gut.

The stab wasn't severe. My language was. Henry looked back, eyebrows raised.

"No problem here, just a prick or two," I explained as I tried to wipe away assorted splotches of blood. I wondered whether Henry had already named the area Place Where Anglo Battled Plant and Lost.

For the next 2 1/2 miles we picked and plodded our way up the gorge, occasionally roping up to climb small technical sections of cliff (actually Henry did most of the climbing, then hoisted me up like a bag he had left behind). He explained how to look for rattlesnakes, a method that he said is foolproof. I concluded it's far more efficient to just let the guide go first.

We saw black hawks, tree frogs, canyon wrens, and signs of gray fox as we waded between canyon walls that disappeared overhead yet were close enough to touch with both hands. And I learned that my guide was once a championship bull rider who has many mended broken bones. He also has a beautiful voice.

Sitting over lunch at the base of Second Falls, we had been watching others rappel down the cascade - the folks who had left the footprints earlier in the day - when Henry quietly broke into an Apache song.

It was a song, he later explained, about the beauty of such a place and the tears it brings. "They are tears of gratitude and sorrow for my ancestors," he said. He sang of sacrifice and thanks. I felt honored that he shared, and honored that he trusted.

I would not find myself at the end of that rope for another hour. But when I did, I concluded the least I owed him was a similar trust. He had warned that the rope was too short but that the drop would be safe. The fingers of my right hand, which had controlled my rappel and now held fast, did not agree. I forced them open.

WHUMPH!

The drop was less than 10 feet and ended with a cannonball into a deep blue, desert-warmed pool. Some tourists at the base of the falls exploded in applause. I tried to act nonchalant, but the name I had given the spot by the time I swam ashore was more honest.

"Place Where Anglo Learned to Trust and Let Go, Making Big Splash."

Now I could hear the waterfall's song.

David Arnold can be reached at northwester@comcast.net.