A Ride to Reavis Ranch

Some history and exploration

….continued from the chapter “Desert Luxuries”

After hitching the saddled buckskin, named “Nugget,” and lightly packed pinto to trees beside the trail, The Searcher climbed up to my camp for a visit. I started water for tea and soon we were chatting. Right from the start The Searcher asked for privacy. Devoted to searching the Superstitions for the gold of the “Lost Dutchman Mine,” he organized his expeditions from a staging point near Phoenix and spent nearly sixty days each year in the wilderness. Part of his preparation was a desert survival course provided by the Reavis Mountain School, conducted by Peter Bigfoot.

An Invitation from The Searcher

The Searcher described a place near Pine Creek, he called it “Circlestone,” a large, almost perfect circle of precisely fitted stone walls, on the slopes of Mound Mountain above the headwaters of Pine Creek. My sister, Diane, and I found Circlestone on backpack expeditions March and November 2006. WThe site exceeded our expectations, the walls appeared less built than patiently persuaded from the mountain itself.

Here is a panorama from March 2006, southwest from the forests of juniper and pinion on the slopes of Mound Mountain.. The southern tip of Reavis Valley is to the right, from there Arizona Trail lead to White Mountain in the distance. It was taken on a later trip, in November of 2006 when my sister, Diane, and I visited Circlestone.

Click any photograph for a larger image.

The Searcher also told of Elisha Marcus Reavis, who settled the Valley west of Pine Creek in 1874. At one point, a band of Apaches planned to kill Reavis, but were respectful of his reputation as a rifle shot. They were waiting him out across from the his dugout, when Reavis stripped naked and, with wild hair and a flaming red beard, charged their camp, knives in both hands. The Apaches rode off, wary of his insane behavior, and never bothered him again.

We talked about my prospects and plans when The Searcher offered to take me to the Reavis Valley the next day, on horseback. There is a large apple orchard there and, this being April, we’d be treated to masses of apple blossoms. The day after Reavis Ranch, I could pack out with him down the Arizona Trail, past the Reavis Mountain School, over Campaign Creek and drive back to the Lost Dutchman Park. I readily agreed.

To Reavis Ranch on Horseback

The following morning rose slowly from colorless darkness, accompanied by thin birdsong and the whitening glow of high clouds. When the Searcher arrived around 8 am he was leading the pinto, introduced as Colorado, equipped with a western saddle instead of a pack. As an absolute novice trail rider, I rode while The Searcher held Colorado’s lead rope. The reins were wrapped around the saddle horn, leaving me to hang on and enjoy the view and the swishing tail of Nugget, the buckskin.

The 2.5 mile trail to Reavis from Pine Creek is typical of the eastern Superstitions, minimally improved, dramatically uneven, littered with boulders polished smooth by decades of hooves, floodwater, and erosion. From Pine Creek there’s a climb of a 631 feet to a 5,278 foot elevation, where the trail meanders beneath a dramatic red cliff with a view of the pinyon/juniper forests on the slopes of Mound Mountain. As he picked our way, The Searcher pointed out the sights. “Circlestone is somewhere over there, a ring of stones overgrown with Alligator Juniper.” I could do little more than observe; photography was entirely out of the question. The trail twisted around the mountain like a dry stream remembering water.

A cliff along the trail to Reavis Ranch offered the ledges and shadowed cover preferred by cougars. In daylight it posed little danger to mounted riders, and attacks against horses were rare. In all our years in Arizona, neither of us had seen more than the tip of a tail slipping behind brush.

This had been a lush April after a wet winter, and small game was plentiful. Only a sick cat would have been desperate enough to stalk horses. The darker possibility—a cougar infected with rabies after encountering a diseased animal at a water source—was a thought neither of us lingered on for long.

Eventually, the path descended steeply to Reavis Creek, the valley floor and intersected with the Reavis Ranch trail. Heading south the Reavis Ranch trail passes the site of a long abandoned ranch. What remained of the adobe and stone ranch house stood on a level bench overlooking what had once been the corral and a broad open meadow.

Open field at near the juncture of the trail from Pine Creek with the Reavis Ranch trail.

Apple trees in bloom sween from the former site of the ranch house. There used to be a pond near this spot. With a little imagination, the trail from Pine Creek can be seen on the far ridge.

Reavis Ranch Trail, foreground, traverses the valley length north to south. The Arizona Trail from Pine Creek following below the red rock cliffs in the distance.

The US Forest Service razed the building after it “burned to the ground” Thanksgiving 1991. I would not call what is left “a foundation,” it is a platform where the house stood. In the photograph, the surviving tiles still suggest the modest warmth of a lived-in home. I’ve seen old photographs of the structure with a large pond to the left of this view, a door and simple porch face east and the pond used to hold irrigation water. The leveled ruin possessed the melancholy geometry of abandoned human hope.

Turning from the ruin, another structure came into view. Built into the western slope above the valley floor was a hexagonal adobe foundation overlooking the remains of the ranch house across the trail.

My interpretation rests partly on the surrounding terrain. South of the structure runs the shallow trace of an excavated canal, suggesting that water from upper Reavis Creek—or one of its tributaries—was diverted into a catchment basin before being stored or directed toward irrigation.

Whatever its exact purpose, the site commands sweeping views of the central valley and is a beautiful place to watch evening settle over the orchard.

Turning from the ruin, another structure came into view. Built into the western slope above the valley floor was a hexagonal adobe foundation overlooking the remains of the ranch house across the trail.

The Searcher led me to a place a few hundred yards south, in a narrowing of the valley, where he let Colorado and Nugget roam free. The horses appreciated the level, open spaces and I enjoyed the Ponderosa pines on the west valley slope. We sat on the smooth trunks of fallen trees, 4 feet in diameter, near Reavis Creek.

Colorado took this opportunity to bolt, headed south. We took off after him into and through a thicket of locust trees where The Searcher cornered Colorado to regain control. “He was abused by a previous owner and can be difficult at times” was how The Searcher put it.

We were close to the end of Reavis Valley where Reavis Creek originates from the drainage of White Mountain, to the west.

We headed north here, back to the ranch house site, to the lush new grass of the apple orchard.

Nugget in Horse Heaven

Nugget grazed, tethered with plenty of slack, with the calm assurance of an animal that knew it had arrived in horse heaven. This photograph of the pair shows their personalities, Colorado edgy, Nugget content to feast while the grass is available. The orchard grass rolled in waves around their legs like green water beneath anchored boats.

Colorado on the alert while Nugget grazes, typical of their personalities.

Click me for the next post for photographs and more history of this Apple Orchard in the Superstition Wilderness.

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Copyright 2026 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills

Climbing Piestewa Peak: Multicultural Pilgrimage to a Phoenix Desert Dawn

In the cool predawn, strangers from every background climb a stone stairway above Phoenix, trading city lights for desert silence as sunrise spills gold across Piestewa Peak.

Arriving at 5 am there is a line of trucks and cars and Piestewa Peak parking almost full when I grab a spot in the predawn darkness. The desert air has that deep, merciful coolness it offers before sunrise, edged with the long-remembered scent of creosote. Car doors close with soft thuds, headlamps blink on, and a loose procession of strangers begins to funnel toward the trailhead like pilgrims, even now white and red headlamps sprinkle the upper slopes.

At first the climb exists only in a narrow cone of light, my lamp illuminates the scant gravel, uneven steps, and each scuff of boot or shoe sounds loud in the hush. Somewhere below, the city hums, but here the conversation is mostly breath and the occasional murmur of greeting as we fall into the rhythm of the climb.

My beam catches a young couple just ahead, their hands knotted together. They speak Spanish, laughing quietly as they miss a step and bump shoulders. Behind me an older man in a Veterans cap leans heavily on trekking poles, his companion—maybe daughter, maybe friend—matching her shorter stride to his with patient care. A group of women in bright leggings and braided hair moves past us in a burst of energy, their languages overlapping—English, maybe Vietnamese, something I cannot place—like the weaving of a rug. A man passes me, a drum on his back. Piestewa draws them all, before dawn, to this rib of stone in the center of the Phoenix basin.

As I stop to rest myself and turn off my headlamp, ahead the trail tilts steeper the steps fade to rock, irregular and unforgiving: a stairway carved from ancient volcanic bones. With my dark adaptation, surfaces reflect star and city light, leading the eye down the ridge toward the dark quilt of neighborhoods below. Later, captured in the photograph, those steps will twist away like a stone dragon’s spine, the city waking beyond in soft pastels. Now they are simply work for legs and lungs.

The desert plants materialize around us as shapes before they acquire color. Saguaros stand like sentinels along the slopes; their arms lifted in silhouette. Ocotillo rise as witchy bundles of sticks, each spine leafed out from October rains the leaves catching a little light. On a small plateau a family has paused; the father adjusts a tiny headlamp on his son, no more than six, who is insisting, with fierce determination, that he can carry his own water. “Almost there, campeón,” his father says, and the child straightens like a soldier.

The dark begins to soften at the edges. Over the eastern horizon a thin band of orange appears, a delicate seam between night and day. In one direction, the city stretches out in a glittering net of streetlights, the squares of parking lots and subdivisions catching the last of the darkness. In the other, the mountains are still black cutouts, their profiles sharp as paper against a gradually brightening sky. One of my images will hold that moment: the jagged ridge of Piestewa in shadow, the valley below already spangled with light, a single towering saguaro rooted at the cliff’s edge like a punctuation mark.

November 2025 while visiting Pam’s family in Phoenix

Higher up, the trail narrows and the rock turns rougher. We fall into single file, strangers linked by a line of effort. A runner comes flying down, feet barely touching stone, breath steady and controlled. “On your left,” he calls, and we part for him like water. A woman with a hijab tucked neatly under her ball cap leans against the retaining wall, stretching a calf muscle, her friend counting in accented English: “Ten more seconds, you can do it.” Near one bend a hiker pauses to press a hand against the rock face, whispering a quiet prayer in a language I do not recognize. It is a small, intimate moment, gone almost before I register it.

The last push to the saddle is steep, the steps uneven, the sky now a cascade of colors—copper, rose, faint lavender melting into a high dome of blue. The silhouettes of distant ranges sharpen: the Estrellas?, the Superstitions?, low ridges whose names I do not know. On the horizon, the first thin line of sun breaks free, setting fire to the edges of clouds. In another photograph, framed by dark rock and desert trees, that sunrise becomes a golden portal at the end of a shadowed corridor of stone.

We reach a broad ledge just shy of the summit as the light finally spills over us. People are already gathered there: a trio of college students taking selfies, a pair of retirees sharing thermos coffee, a solitary man sitting cross-legged with eyes closed, face open to the warmth. The city below is suddenly transformed. The carpet of lights dims, replaced by the clear geometry of streets and rooftops, golf courses and parking lots, all laid out like a model at our feet. The mountains that hem the basin—once anonymous shapes—now reveal their ridges and ravines in sharp relief.

For a few minutes conversation dies away. Everyone seems to feel the same thing: that fragile instant when the sun clears the horizon and the desert shifts from silver-blue to gold. The rocks around us, sharp and broken in the photographs, glow honey-colored. Saguaros catch light on their spines, each thorn a tiny ember. Even the dusty air seems to shimmer.

Down below, a new wave of hikers starts up the trail, latecomers walking into full daylight. We, the predawn climbers, share a small, quiet complicity. We have seen the city from the backside of night, watched the day arrive from a perch of jagged stone. Piestewa Peak has turned us, for an hour or two, into a single, breathing organism: many hearts, one climb, all of us stitched together by the steep path and the slow unveiling of the sun.

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A Serene Walk in Glendalough: Nature and History Unite

Find here a serene visit to Glendalough, highlighting the ancient beauty of its landscape, monastic history, and the deep sense of peace felt among the gravestones.

We arrived in Glendalough on a bright spring morning, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of grass and distant water. Even before stepping out of the car, I sensed something ancient in the air, as though the centuries themselves lay waiting among the stones. The peaks of the Wicklow Mountains rose around me, their slopes draped in verdant forests that whispered of forgotten tales. In the distance, shimmering like a secret, the Upper Lake beckoned under the watchful hush of rugged hillsides. I took a deep breath and started my wander.

One of the lakes for which the valley is named, above the headstones in the mid-distance

Walking through the monastic settlement, I felt enveloped by a hush both reverential and oddly comforting. The path led me to a cluster of gravestones leaning gently askew, each marked by Celtic crosses standing guard over the memory of those buried below. One cross, carved from sturdy stone, immediately drew my attention with its intricate knotwork etched deep into the surface. The front of it bore swirling designs reminiscent of interwoven vines—symbols of eternity, continuity, and faith. I found myself imagining centuries of pilgrims, each pausing here, hands gently resting on the weathered carvings, offering up their prayers and hopes.

Memorial from a mother to her 6 year old son and husband

A bit farther on, I came upon a small grouping of headstones bowed in silent unity. Ferns and moss carpeted the ground in bright greens, creating a natural tapestry that wove together life and memory. The slightly overgrown grass softened the entire landscape, allowing each stone to stand quietly yet firmly in the earth. From behind these markers, I caught my first glimpse of the shimmering lake, framed perfectly by the slopes of the valley. The water’s surface reflected the sky’s azure brilliance and accentuated the gentle hush that fell upon the graveyard like a comforting quilt.

As I paused to take a few photographs, I felt a hint of magic floating through the air—an indefinable sense that beyond what my eyes perceived, an age-old spirit thrived. The Celtic symbols on the headstones seemed alive, their swirling knots hinting at the cycle of life and death, the oneness of the world, and the bridging of earthly existence with the mystic realm. I found myself recalling old Irish legends: stories of saints who could converse with animals, of spirits dwelling in hidden glades, of holy wells that healed weary travelers. It felt as though those tales were all around me, wrapped in the tapestry of this timeless valley.

Looking out toward the remains of the stone church—its walls crumbled yet proud—my imagination conjured the chanting of monks, their voices echoing off the surrounding hills. The same forest that sheltered me now would have encircled them all those centuries ago, shifting from season to season. It was easy to picture them gathering by the lake’s edge, cups of cold, clear water cupped in their hands, or moving reverently among the graves of those who had come before them. Here, time seemed an illusion. The line between past and present faded as I stood among these enduring stones.

Winding paths of grass guided me to another section of the cemetery, where weathered inscriptions told the stories of families, lineages, and deep connections to the land. Some headstones were so old that the lettering had nearly eroded, but others still proudly bore legible names and dates. Names like Power, Byrne, and Keane were etched in memory, followed by poignant words of affection and devotion. The place felt both solemn and comforting at once—a harmonious interplay of remembrance, reverence, and the gentle pulse of nature.

Valley walls are dramatic and steep

A sudden breeze rippled through the trees, setting the leaves to dance and carrying the lilt of birdsong across the valley. I turned to admire the view once more, and there, between towering yew trees, the lake glowed like a polished mirror. Soft clouds glided overhead in a pale blue sky. The entire scene seemed woven from a single, unbroken strand—mountain, forest, gravestone, lake, and sky merging in a spellbinding harmony. It was the kind of moment that invited awe, a moment in which to lose oneself and yet feel more fully found.

I left the cemetery with a deeper sense of peace than I had known in some time. The photographs I took may capture the beauty of Glendalough’s ancient crosses and serene landscape, but it’s the intangible hush of centuries and the gentle brush of magic that remain with me. With every step back toward the car, I felt the warmth of timelessness, and as the day’s golden light enveloped the stone monuments behind me, I carried away a tiny spark of the valley’s enchantment—a reminder that some places are truly touched by the divine.Look closely at the carved scroll at the foot of the cross.

For more background of this site, see my posting “The Cloigheach of Glendalough.”

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Exploring Rincon Peak: Hiking Adventures in Arizona

As we stood atop Rincon Peak, the sky darkened with the approach of a sudden thunderstorm. Below us, the San Pedro River valley sprawled, with the Mae West Peaks to the left and the legendary Dragoon Mountains straight ahead. This photograph captures that exhilarating moment—standing on the summit with the world at our feet and the wild Arizona sky closing in. Curious about how we got there and our race against nature’s fury? Join me on the blog to delve into the full adventure and explore more stunning images from the heart of the Rincon Wilderness.

The Rincons are one of 42 Sky Island mountains isolated from each other due to gradual warming and drying climate changes since the last ice age, 10,000 years ago. While this marvelous environment of oak and pine forests is accessible only on foot and with significant effort, it is visible from every point of the Tucson valley, home to a million inhabitants.

The name ‘Rincon,’ Spanish for ‘corner,’ reflects the mountains’ shape as they enclose a space on the west and northwest. This area, formerly used for ranching, is now being developed for tract housing. In contrast, the mountains themselves are preserved as wilderness, with parts designated within the Saguaro National Park and the Coronado National Forest.

In the past 51 years, I have been lucky enough to visit the Rincon Wilderness interior four times, shouldering different style backpacks onto the mountain and walking in different boots. My first trip was during college in the 1970s, when a party of six of us left from the end of Speedway, heading up the Douglas Springs trail. The climb was an exercise in desert survival that several friendships did not survive, replaced by new friends met on Mica Mountain. I have no photographs from that experience, only memories and the backpack.

Decades later, reconnecting with Arizona in 2004—thirty-one years after that first experience—I took no chances. This time, my attempt on Rincon Peak was a success. I reduced risk and effort, though not eliminating them, by hiring a guide for the four-day trip. We reached Rincon Peak via the Turkey Creek Trail out of Happy Valley, climbing a mountain buttress with views that widened and lengthened with every step.

Capturing these moments, I took several photographs during that experience. Two years later I added a landscape of the peak at sunset.

Along the Turkey Creek trail, Sego Lilies bloomed among a stricken oak and drying grasses, offering a vivid glimpse into the region’s delicate ecosystem. It is the winter rains that trigger such a bloom.

Sego Lilies -- CLICK ME!!!!

Enthralled by their beauty, we paused while I unpacked my gear to photograph the Sego Lilies growing along the trail.

Sego Lilies -- CLICK ME!!!!
Sego Lilies -- CLICK ME!!!!

When we reached Deer Head Spring at the top of Turkey Creek Trail on April 27, 2004, it was a moist spot with no accessible water. With only about a gallon of water each remaining, we pressed ahead to Heartbreak Ridge and climbed into Happy Valley Saddle, where, thankfully, the creek—though low and full of algae—was usable. It was here that I caught my first glimpses of Rincon Peak, looking across the aptly named Heartbreak Ridge and Happy Valley Saddle.

Distant View of Rincon Peak-- CLICK ME!!!!
Telephoto view of Rincon Peak -- CLICK ME!!!!

From Rincon Peak, the view to the south was breathtaking. The white rocks at the lower right formed the Valley of the Moon wall. Below lay the San Pedro River valley, with the Mae West Peaks at the left margin and the Dragoon Mountains with Cochise Stronghold at the center. I took this photograph around 12:30 PM on April 28, 2004, just as a thunderstorm was approaching.

View from Rincon Peak -- CLICK ME!!!!

Rotating the camera to the south-southwest, the view stretched over the Valley of the Moon to the eastern Tucson Valley and the Sky Islands of the Whetstone Mountains (Apache Peak), with the Santa Ritas behind them. In this vast landscape, the works of man are overpowered by sky, rock, and distance.

View from Rincon Peak -- CLICK ME!!!!

We made a hasty departure ahead of the thunderstorm. Attempting the peak that day had been a touch-and-go decision, but we reached the summit with moments to spare.

On the morning of April 29, 2004, the day after reaching Rincon Peak, I set up my tripod near our Happy Valley Saddle camp. In the serene early morning sunlight, I captured images of Rincon Peak, reflecting on the previous day’s ascent.

Rincon Peak from Happy Valley Saddle, dawn -- CLICK ME!!!!

On the day we descended to the X9 Ranch via the Rincon Creek trail, we were granted a unique opportunity. My guide’s grandfather had a homestead at the X9, and his access to the trailhead through private lands opened this ro ute for us. That evening, I took a photograph of the sunset on Rincon Peak from the X9 Ranch, looking east from the ‘Rincon’—the corner formed by the massifs of Rincon Peak, Mica Mountain, and Tanque Verde Ridge.

The X9 ranch sits in the Rincon (spanish for corner) made by the massifs Rincon Peak, Mica Mountain and Tanque Verde ridge.

Two years later, on the evening of November 2, 2006, I climbed the Tanque Verde trail in Saguaro National Park East for about 30 minutes to reach a vantage point of Rincon Peak. Intending to capture the peak bathed in golden light, I waited until just before the sun set behind the Tucson Mountain. Afterwards, I raced the sun hiked back to the car. In my hurry, I tripped on a stepped turn and dove headfirst into a large prickly pear cactus. It was a very painful experience. Large spines pierced my face, while tiny, pesky spines covered my chest and back. The large spines, not being barbed, came out easily, but I needed to visit a physician to remove the rest.

Click me for a framed version of this photograph
Rincon Peak from the X9 Ranch-- CLICK ME!!!!

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Resilient Mountain Beauty

Embark on a journey through the serene Rincon Mountain Wilderness with me. Witness the rugged beauty of the Hedgehog Cactus and the whispering Bear Grass through my lens. Let’s unravel the secrets of the desert together, and find solace in the still life of the Happy Valley Saddle. Join me, and let’s capture the enduring spirit of Arizona’s hidden treasures.

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Lichens: Symbiosis Set on Stone

Discover a timeless world through my lens: delve into Arizona’s Rincon Wilderness, where lichens and hedgehog cacti narrate Earth’s enduring, untold story. Join me.

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Rincon Flame: The Southwestern Paintbrush’s Desert Dance

Step into the Rincon Wilderness with me, where the Southwestern Paintbrush blooms amidst the ancient stones.

Discovery in the Rincon Wilderness

In the embrace of the Rincon Mountains, east of Tucson’s hum, lies the Rincon Wilderness, a tapestry of desert life and geological marvels. These mountains, one of the “Sky Island” ranges cradling the Tucson valley, are less rugged than their siblings, the Santa Catalinas and the Santa Ritas, offering a gentler invitation to explore their secrets.

Happy Valley Saddle’s Floral Jewel

Amidst the rugged beauty of Happy Valley, a hidden corner in the quilt of the Rincon Wilderness, a singular red-orange glow caught my eye. There, among the lichen-encrusted boulders, stood the Southwestern Paintbrush, Castilleja integra, its flamboyant bracts a fiery contrast to the muted greens and grays of its surroundings.

Portrait of a Parasite

This herbaceous perennial, with its soft downy coat, is a paradox, both painting the desert with life and leeching it from others as a hemi-parasite. Its roots, entwined with those of other desert dwellers, tell a tale of survival that’s as old as the hills themselves.

The Brushstrokes of Evolution

Each leaf, narrow and dusted with hairs, speaks to the adaptive artistry of nature, designed to conserve precious moisture. The flowers, with their extended blooming season and generous nectar, court the hummingbirds who dance between the blooms, pollinators in this ancient symbiosis.

A Symbiotic Canvas

The Southwestern Paintbrush, with its colorful allure, draws more than just winged admirers. Its presence among the rocks is a reminder of the complex ecological web of the Rincon Wilderness, a part of Saguaro National Park’s rich mosaic

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Dawn’s Embrace: A Morning Among the Rincon Peaks

Step into the serene embrace of Happy Valley Saddle through our latest blog post, and wander with us as the dawn unfolds over the majestic Rincon Peak.

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On the Road to Killen

In the early dawn, I walked the path to Killen, drawn by the legacy of my mother’s Irish youth. An abandoned hay wagon stood, a relic amidst the whispers of history and myth. Join me in uncovering the roots that intertwine family and the enduring Irish land.

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Understanding the Sego Lily: Calochortus nuttallii

Discover the Sego Lily, Calochortus nuttallii, a symbol of resilience and beauty in the arid deserts of the West. Uncover its role in pioneer survival and its captivating presence on a serene April backpack into the Rincon Wilderness. Join us in exploring the enduring grace of this desert gem.

Continue reading “Understanding the Sego Lily: Calochortus nuttallii”