GROWING OLD

Sycamores, cottonwoods, ponderosas ... all of these mighty species can be found in Arizona, but if there's a true giant growing with charisma, determination and sometimes gnarled, ancient wisdom, it's the alligator juniper, some of which are older than Sir Francis Drake.

AN ESSAY BY TYLER WILLIAMS

PHOTOGRAPHS BY BILL HATCHER

The gnarled limbs of an alligator juniper catch the last light of the day at an elevation of about 6,500 feet in the Santa Catalina Mountains, near Tucson.

WEEK BEFORE 19 MEMBERS OF THE GRANITE MOUNTAIN HOTSHOTS tragically perished in the Yarnell Hill Fire, they saved a tree. That tree was an alligator juniper, the largest one known - 27 feet around. Today, the tree still stands - an illustration of nature's magnificence, but also a shrine to those who kept the flames away that day nine years ago.

The alligator juniper embodies the strange uniqueness of the far Southwest like no other tree. And there is stiff competition. Twisting sycamores, spreading mesquites and stately ponderosa pines all make Arizona their home, but if there's a true giant growing with charisma, determination and sometimes gnarled, ancient wisdom, it's the alligator juniper. Juniperus deppeana is easily recognizable to Arizonans by its checkered, alligator-like bark. To unfamiliar visitors, it often looks like some exotic from another hemisphere, and in a sense, it is: Deppeana is a tree of the subtropics. It traces its evolution to populations in Veracruz, Mexico, and even today, it's found into Guatemala. That far south, it's identified by the variety gamboana, but if you're familiar with Arizona alligators, you'll quickly recognize even a Guatemalan specimen. There are other varieties, too, all really just shades of gray, tracing north through the mountains of Mexico into Texas' Big Bend, to New Mexico and here to Arizona. Alligator junipers have been moving north and upward throughout the many ice ages with a sort of "two steps forward, one step back" pace, climbing to moister mountaintops when the climate warms, then retreating to the foothills whenever centuries of cold return. Currently, the northwesternmost trees exist northwest of Flagstaff. Southwest of there, they grow in the Santa Maria Mountains, northwest of Prescott, and it's there that some of the biggest trees lurk.

One very large specimen, just barely less massive than the champion beneath Granite Mountain, grows beside a forest road in the Santa Marias, about 25 air miles from Prescott's Courthouse Square. Despite this proximity, the tree, which I call “The Contender,” hides behind kidneyjarring back roads in a wooded, empty quarter of our state. Driving in, the area just felt like it would reveal something magical, such as a giant tree. I struggled to make sense of the geography, an odd combination of plateau country and rounded hills, of pine valleys and cactus slopes. Pottery shards and grinding stones lay among the bushes near The Contender, indicating that people gathered here in centuries past, perhaps when the creeks flowed a bit more. The big tree stood on a flat above a draw where its roots likely still find extra water. This is a common strategy among the biggest alligators. The “Hotshot Tree” also grows beside a granitic wash that trickles clear following wet weather. A mile away from the champion, two more giants stand on opposite sides of a drainage. One boasts a single trunk, rippling and They seem unlikely, these giants, to be growing in the pygmy forests and grasslands of Central Arizona. At the same time, the greatest gators always grow in some special place. checkered beneath a perfect arc of canopy. The other splays into five trunks, a common growth habit of alligators. One of the trunks was cut long ago; before that, that tree might have been the champion.

The biggest deppeana specimens, growing in good locations, are often old but not necessarily the oldest. And as a species, they're difficult to date. “They are opportunistic growers, so they can produce more than one growth ring annually,” says Chris Baisan, of the University of Arizona's Laboratory of Tree-Ring Research. They also fuse their multiple trunks, creating a messy labyrinth of tree rings that makes their ages fairly elusive. The oldest confirmed alligator juniper is just over 500 years old, but Baisan says, “It wouldn't be surprising to find a 1,000-year-old specimen in Arizona.” “Medusa,” an ancient tree that literally overhangs the Arizona Trail in the Superstition Mountains, might be that tree. Twenty-five feet around at its base, Medusa blossoms into an array of trunks and limbs that spread into a crown 75 feet across and 60 feet high. Strips of alligator bark streak up the trunk between old, polished boles, showing that nutrients still come from the earth to the branches and foliage, giving us pockets of flourishing, blue-green needles. Much of the tree is no longer wearing a shield of bark, however, and most limbs curve overhead a smooth silvery-gray. It is gnarly. I slept directly at the base of this tree in a windstorm, protected from any flying debris by its huge, stocky lower limbs. Maybe that guardianship created a fondness that I'm making into more, but I felt a presence there, a palpable vibe of an elder.

Even if Medusa is “only” 500 years old (a conservative estimate), it was a seedling in 1522, a couple of decades before Francisco Vázquez de Coronado came marching through the deserts below. And if trees can recognize change (of course, I'm anthropomorphizing here, but research is showing they are “smarter” than we thought), then this tree first noticed the glow of Phoenix emanating from beyond a ridge roughly 75 years ago. That's about the same as five years ago to me, a middle-aged human. That roar of jet engines in the sky? A new nuisance that began just a couple of years back, in tree years. I wonder if Medusa wonders when all the commotion will cease.

Other junipers get older: Sierra junipers have been dated to 2,500 years, and a few Rocky Mountain junipers have approached 2,000 years. But few are as big as the alligators. They seem unlikely, these giants, to be growing in the pygmy forests and grasslands of Central Arizona. At the same time, the greatest gators always grow in some special place.

When I went seeking a big tree on the Verde Rim, the view was remarkably unimpressive at the car, bland chaparral grassland cluttered with little one-seed junipers — big bushes, really, too small to walk under and too big to see over. I grumbled and doubted my coordinates.

Ten minutes later, a meadow emerged, with whispering cottonwoods and a spring. A tribe of javelinas trotted past, the last one sniffing me from 20 yards away before raising its hackles and shuffling onward. Stout oaks drew me along, and then, wham-bam, there it was.

When I see a great gator, there is instant recognition. I might first see the top of the tree looming through the canopy or spot a piece of the massive, muscular trunk from a distance. Either way, within seconds, I feel that tree. And it feels like finding an old friend, even though I might never have been there before.

I anticipated such an encounter with “Joy,” another giant juniper growing in an Arizona heartland: the headwater basin of Tonto Creek. Yes, that Tonto Creek: where much of Phoenix's early water came from, where the Arizona State Living on an exposed ridge in the Santa Catalinas may have contributed to the unusual shape of this alligator juniper.

Arizona Sun Devils football team has summer training camp, where purple and white walls twist upward from water's edge to form an iconic gorge called Hellsgate. The Highline Trail, here near the Tonto Creek Fish Hatchery, rambles over the same Permian red rock found in Sedona, leav-ing the cool creek for a rich and rugged cloak of piñon pines, oaks and alligator junipers. There are many stout old junipers along the trail, but the biggest ones now are stark, ghostly snags, having burned in the great Dude Fire of 1990. Joy is one of those. I have yet to find her, but someday I will, and the moment will be satisfying and maybe a little sad.

Baisan says alligator junipers are "moderately fire resistant," able to withstand most burns but not the really hot ones. So, then, there is plenty of good fortune surrounding these still-living big trees. They have germinated in a good spot, escaped the wrath of hungry saws and evaded the scorching flames - for centuries. Maybe that's why I like sitting or sleeping near the great ones to get in on some of their good luck. Medusa appears to have been guarded from the Wood-bury Fire of 2019, much like the Hotshot Tree was six years earlier.

There is a trail to the Hotshot Tree a pretty simple one, really, considering how obfuscated many of the giants remain. But even here, on the outskirts of Prescott, among well-signed forest routes, the terrain is sneakily convoluted. Numerous little creek bottoms tucked into the chaparral gently curve away from one another, leading wan-derers astray. The trail is just cryptic enough to give one pause, a chance to remind ourselves that we are entering a shrine.