Lost Dutchman is not only a popular place name near Apache Junction, Arizona, it’s also a tall tale that dates back to 1891. On his deathbed, Jacob Waltz, a German immigrant spoke of his lost mining claim and allegedly drew a map. Gold in the hills is an irresistible draw, so the myth remains and people to this day are still searching for vestiges of the lost mine or possibly a cache of gold. Oddly, Dutchman was an Old West Americanization of the word “Deutsch” and not a reference to immigrants from the Netherlands.
The Lost Dutchman is also an Arizona State Park that sits at the feet of the Superstition Mountains, the legendary location of Herr Waltz’s mine. It is a beautiful spot. Invoking our new camping rule, “If we like where we are then let’s stay awhile”, we turned a one-night reservation into a three-day respite. It took a bit of finagling as the campground is booked solid every night in the winter. Snowbirds — seasonal campers from northern states and Canada — flock to the area each winter. We learned to walk down to the ranger station early each morning and ask about cancellations. We moved from site to site, but still had a magnificent view of Superstition Mountains, a red rhyolite formation that looks like a walled city built on high ground.
Located on the edge of the Tonto National Forest the park felt like the wilderness, yet the sounds of city life wafted over the campers and day hikers. We never lost track of time, as every half-hour a train whistle blew at the Goldfield Ghost Town and Mine Tours, a local tourist attraction. Throughout the day we heard student pilots practicing airplane stalls and saw a red biplane giving air tours.
Yet we were surrounded by saguaro cacti, some over forty feet tall. To me the green giants look like sentinels standing guard over the desert. But for the local bird populations they were home. Some saguaros were pock-marked with so many holes they looked like apartment building windows. Our first campsite was shaded by the arms of a saguaro that was home to a family of Gila woodpeckers.
In the campground, I loved watching the coveys of Gambel’s quails scurry along the ground from bush to bush. With a single feather that flops over their face, they look like a bird wearing an elegant hat. The quails appear to be as busy as the camp hosts dedicated to cleaning each site after visitors depart. Both groups are industrious. But the camp host actually rake the desert floor around the bushes, trees and cacti. The quails are in constant conversation with each other using as series of chip and chirps as they search for food and watch for predators. The camp hosts prefer to communicate with walkie-talkies as they drive golf carts from site to site as they try to wrap-up their duties by noon.
During the day, under a clear blue sky, we hiked on the networks of trails connected to the campground. Jumping Chollas, a cactus that likes to drop prickly round balls, makes desert walks a challenge with our four-legged pal. I scanned the ground continually as we ambled along, but the chollas seemed to love Molly’s furry paws. Joe, a man that lives the Boy Scout motto “Be Prepared”, carried a cactus needle removal kit in his day pack. With ready access to a pair of work gloves, pliers, tweezers and paw cream, we were well-equipped to do battle with the local floral. Still Molly preferred cacti free paths.
The desert becomes a magical place at sunset. The sounds of the city fade away, shadows lengthen and colors deepen. Bushes and cacti blend together to create the illusion that the Superstition Mountains are surrounded by a green carpet. As day turns to night, the desert heat dissipates as if the earth is exhaling. Coyotes call to each other as they leave their dens to hunt and hawks perched on tip top of saguaros, swivel their heads as they search the desert floor as if they were scanning a dinner menu.
There’s a natural quiet to a desert night that infuses my soul with peace, and creates a desire to return again and again. Even if I never plan to hunt for gold.