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.
