HIKING APACHERIA
Scouting for Nat Wittum
Nat Wittum was killed in 1885 in the last great Apache breakout. More than 120 years later, the descendants of Wittum's one-time partner trekked to his gravesite in a remote canyon of Blue River.
Story and photos by Jerry Eagan
"Father bought a few cows (about 60 head) and with the help of Nat Wittum, an old Army scout, moved those few cattle into the lower Blue River . . . . They decided to move up the river and stopped where the old Baseline Ranger site was later located and built another cabin. In the late spring father went to Clifton after supplies . . . While he was gone, a band of Apache Indians broke out of the reservation and made a raid through the lower Blue River country . . . . When father returned, he found Wittum dead in the cabin."
—Memoirs of Fred J. Fritz, Jr., Clifton, Ariz.
I often hike Apacheria alone, or with my friend, Pete Crum. Those hikes are slow and quiet. We give plenty of time to exploration. Exploring, I've realized, is the key ingredient in my hiking adventures. I am an explorer. It's a simple pleasure, and deepens my understanding of the land. A New Mexico or Arizona mile is far more than an Ohio mile. Canyons, side canyons, mountains and steep rocky bluffs call for far greater effort. I hike twice a week, regardless of weather. In so doing, I've learned some things about small chunks of this land.
 |
To find Nat Wittum's grave site,
descendants of his former partner trekked along the Blue River. |
I've hiked nearly every week I've lived here. In those 400-plus hikes, I've run into other hikers maybe 15 times. Some of those encounters were merely seeing other hikers, not face-to-face encounters. The greatest gift of New Mexico hiking is the solitude of this enormous country vaulted by spacious blue skies that are mine, at least for the duration of each hike.
Recently, I asked local area ranchers with stories of Apacheria to contact me; several did. I knew that would mean hiking with people I didn't know, but I wanted to hear their stories. As it turned out, I found myself warming to a lead I'd heard two years earlier.
Then, my broker at Edward Jones, James Edd Hughs, told me his mother and father-in-law, Ed and Mary Cosper, had history going back to 1885, when Geronimo killed the ranch partner of Ed Cosper's grandfather, Fred Fritz, Sr. He also said that Fred ("Freddy") Fritz, Sr., had later been horribly mauled by a grizzly bear, and that the injury had indirectly led to his death. Both stories were family legends.
Fred Fritz, Sr.'s ranch partner in 1885 was named Nat Wittum. Hughs said the place where the attack had occurred was on the Blue River in Arizona, near a place called "Baseline." I'd never met anyone who had a story to tell about an Apache attack. Wittum could have been killed by Geronimo, Nana, Chihuahua, Naiche or Ulzana (see the June 2006 Desert Exposure), as they all broke off the San Carlos Reservation in May 1885.
That was the last breakout the Apaches ever made; approximately 100 American and Mexican deaths later, Geronimo and his last holdouts surrendered to General Nelson Miles in Skeleton Canyon in Hidalgo County, on Sept. 4, 1886. Within days of their surrender, the last remaining Chiricahua Apache warriors, representing the most tenacious remnants of three centuries of Apache habitation in Arizona, New Mexico and Mexico, were sent to Forts Marion, Pickens and Barrancas in Florida. None of those Chiricahua, or even most of their children, returned to Arizona again for decades.
Fred Fritz, Sr., was born in Fredericksburg, Texas, in a German-American colony in 1857 but left in 1873. According to his son's memoir, "Father wandered out to Fort Davis [Texas] and became a stagecoach driver. This was Comanche Indian country but they did not make raids or kill after sundown. The 30-mile run he had through the Fort Davis mountains was at night." Later, Fritz worked on the Mexican Central Railroad and spent time in Tombstone, Ariz. With a man named Ira Townsend, he "moved into the San Francisco River country near Big Dry Canyon and spent the winter of 1884-1885 trapping beaver." He and Townsend built a small cabin near the Blue River, from which Fritz moved into the Baseline cabin with Wittum.
We don't know which late spring day of 1885, Fritz left Nat Wittum, described as an "old Army scout," at the cabin. That detail is lost, although it was probably mid-May. Fritz rode to Clifton for supplies and business; Wittum stayed. A flip of the coin may have cost him his life.
Fritz went on to have a son, "Freddy" Fritz, Jr., a rancher and politician who held office in both houses of the Arizona state government and was well known around Clifton and Morenci, Ariz. He was a decent, hard working rancher most of his life, and a veteran of World War I. He'd inherited the ranch upon his father's death in 1916. Fred Fritz, Jr.'s written memoirs defined the family's history.
Information on Nat Wittum is more sparse. A cursory review of a genealogical Web site shows a dozen "Wittums" with records in Louisiana, Nebraska and Nevada, prior to 1885.
My research suggests that Chihuahua's or his brother Ulzana's group killed Nat Wittum, Robert Benton, Jim Montgomery, the Lutter or Lutten or Luther brothers, Calvin Orwig, John Lilley, Presley Papineau, John Prior, Dr. William Maddox, and 8th US Cavalry Privates Frank Hutton, Daniel Collins, Harry McMillan and George Gibson. Benton, Montgomery and the Lutter brothers are mentioned in Freddy Fritz's memoirs as being killed at the same time as Wittum.
Before going to the Baseline Ranger site with the Cospers, their daughter Deb and son-in-law, James Edd Hughs, and their other daughter Kate, I tried to find any morsel of information on Nat Wittum. I perused the "Southwest Oral History" tapes and transcripts, commonly referred to as "The Blachley Tapes," which are available at the Silver City Public Library. Those taped interviews with "old timers" record New Mexican history clear back to the 1840s. Interviewer Blachley almost always asked about recollections of Apache encounters. There are first-hand accounts of Victorio and his Chihinne warriors attacking a group of ranchers and settlers near Alma, NM, in 1878. Other old-timers such as Montague Stevens shared recollections of the Soldier Hill attack on Dec. 19, 1885. But not a word of Nat Wittum's death on the Blue River in 1885.
The Silver City Enterprise carried items about Apache raids, even those in Arizona. Silver City, was, after all, one of the larger towns in southern New Mexico Territory. The paper listed the casualties sustained by New Mexicans and Arizonans in the spring of 1885. The Clifton Copper Era newspaper was in existence in 1885, but, alas, its records and original papers were lost in a massive turn-of-the-century flood. The only existing records of the newspaper are in Phoenix. Even the highly detailed list of General George Crook's summary of the 1885-1886 campaign against the Apache showed no Nat Wittum listed as killed by Apache.
So I felt slightly off kilter when I went with the Cospers to the old family ranch on the Blue, in May of this year. Mary Cosper is a spry lady of 82 and a "cradle robber" to boot (Ed Cosper is several months younger than she). Her father worked for Phelps Dodge, running a pumping station for the big Morenci mines. Mary studied archaeology and worked at the "field school" at Point of Pines, on the San Carlos Reservation. She later became a court stenographer and she and Ed raised their children mostly in Phoenix, where Ed became a school administrator. They later moved from Phoenix to Pinos Altos.
They wanted to take me to the graves of Ed's grandfather and Nat Wittum. Ed was ever so gracious to explain, patiently, the familial relationships with Freddy Fritz (his uncle) and Fred Fritz, Sr., (his grandfather) and the history of the Fritz and Cosper family ranches.
After a few weeks of planning, we went to the Blue River in a caravan. I decided that if possible, I'd try to locate any county records that Graham or Greenlee Counties had on deaths in the spring of 1885. Perhaps I might find a notation of Wittum's violent death, or even more details of the man.
On May 7, we left early for our hike up the Blue, to the cabin built by Fred Fritz, Sr., and Nat Wittum in 1884. The river was cool, the air warm, the southeastern Arizona sky clear blue, and there wasn't much wind. In the beginning, the width of the Blue River canyon was no more than 200 yards. I realized I hadn't a clue what to expect of our journey up the Blue, but Ed Cosper said the canyon would "open up" wider as we walked farther north.
He was right. Hikes along rivers in this part of the country are measured primarily by how many water crossings are required to reach the destination. In the nearly four miles we walked, we crossed the Blue at least eight times. At times, the scenery along the Blue resembled the three forks of the Gila: At one spot bluffs, at another, sheer cliffs. I've never seen any part of any of the Gila forks, however, as wide as the Blue except below the Gila bridge at Grapevine Campground, four miles south of the Cliff Dwellings. Even there the wide spots in the canyon aren't as open as on the Blue.
There were many beautiful swimming pools in the equally beautiful Blue River. The river canyon's wide flats created pools—perfect for skinny-dipping, I thought—that often were in the sun all day.
"I traveled this river many times on horseback," Ed recalled. "First, in the saddle in front of my mother with my older brother behind her and, from about the age of four, in my own saddle. The earlier trips were made when my mother would set out with her two sons to visit with her mother, 10 miles from our adjoining ranch."
Deb Cosper later reflected, "We walked beneath the red cliffs, waded through the clear water, navigated through brush and catclaw, stepped carefully over river rock and fallen logs. We talked sometimes as we walked, sharing stories, pointing out landmarks, marveling at the beauty and the solitude surrounding us. Always with us was the knowledge that here in this place was where our ancestors chose to live, work and love.
"This was their home, their ranch, this remote piece of country called the Blue River, where once white-faced calves grazed. My father knew the way."
At one point, as we walked north, Mary Cosper tired. Her daughter, Deb, and James Edd, slowed. The Blue's canyon had opened wider; the heat was more apparent; the shade was less available. Sand tugged at our feet. At one point, we considered whether to continue. Ed Cosper said the foliage of the river had grown up so much in the years since he'd last been to Baseline, that he wondered how much farther we had to go.
But Ed knew the river. He'd ridden it for years as a cowboy. A large canyon coming in from the east was Horse Canyon. A trail went from near Baseline to Maple Peak, where Ed and his father had hauled supplies in to a fire base camp once. Ed and his daughter Kate Cosper, a Goldie Hawn look-alike, set a robust pace. My hips ached from hiking over the thousands of rocks along the river bottom. I'd hiked earlier in the week, and that, plus the heat, took a toll.
Ed had passed a walkie-talkie to the James Edd, Deb and Mary contingent. He and Kate moved out briskly, belying his 82 years of living and hiking. I was between the two groups, not wanting to lose sight of Ed and Kate, but trying to be available for the three following us. As I crossed what I thought was Horse Canyon's mouth, I saw more trees up ahead, on the east side of the river, then an old fence line. This must be it.
Kate and Ed had found the ruins of the Baseline Ranger cabin. As Kate later recalled, "Our hike up the Blue to the site of my great-grandfather's cabin (later the site of the Baseline Ranger Station) was one of those special events when you wish you could freeze time, linger in the moment, and drink it in slowly. None of us had been to Baseline since about 1962, and the growth along the river had changed so much, obscuring landmarks. But, after having hiked for about four miles, Dad, far out in front and leading the way, recognized the bluff from which the Apaches fatally shot his grandfather's partner. He hiked right up to the remnants of the old Baseline Ranger Station chimney. I remembered the chimney from when I was a little girl, thinking it a lonely, haunted outcropping of rock amidst the cottonwoods and sycamores."
Another set of ruins was nearby. Someone had cut a hole into the side of the hill, rocked up three sides, and placed some large logs over the top of the hole to support beams laid perpendicular, to support a jacal, or large canvas roof. A man could not have stood upright in it, but it could have served as an initial "shelter" for Fred Fritz, Sr., and/or Nat Wittum.
"I think that was the cellar," Ed said, pointing to the shelter cut into the bank. I'd hoped it was the original cabin for Fritz and Wittum. But Ed said he thought this had been where the rangers stored foodstuffs needing to be kept cool.
He pointed to a rocky knob perhaps 100 feet above the shelter. "Everyone told me that the Apache killed Nat from up there." It was a great place to ambush someone from above and behind the river.
That was all I needed to launch a foray. The climb wasn't much. Old trails wound through mesquite and catclaw. More than a few others had trodden those old trails, as they wound up to a series of rocky outcrops bordered on the south and east by a barbed-wire fence.
As I ascended, I found a shiny black glassy obsidian flake—knapped, since raw obsidian has a flat blacker look. Maybe the knapper was the man who killed Wittum.
Freddy Fritz's memoir said nothing about how Wittum died.
Another frustration. Because I had been a soldier, those missing details felt like a cholla needle stuck in my finger. What did Wittum even look like? Photos exist of Fred Fritz, Sr. I felt disappointed I hadn't found a single fact about Wittum's life, much less a photo of him.
We sat around the chimney and fireplace that was the only remnant of the Baseline Ranger Station. Pictures were taken, and I enjoyed watching this family as they talked amongst themselves in a way that demonstrated love and connection developed over many years.
Kate later described it: "As we gathered around the chimney and ate our lunch, it gave us chills and pause as we contemplated the isolation and rugged beauty and tried to comprehend the incredible amount of history and stories that had taken place at this site and up and down this river. Time and nature have slowly taken back many of the signs that there were once families which lived out their years along this river."
After surviving the Apache outbreak of 1885, Fred Fritz, Sr., put together his ranch and made it an enormous success. In 1899, he was badly mauled by a grizzly bear. The bear attack was a classic, with the bear charging again and again, shot eight times as he attacked Fritz not once, but twice. The bear was shot in the jaw, among other places, and that prevented him from eating Fritz. A nephew, who'd been helping round up cattle, killed the bear with a rifle.
Fred Fritz, Sr., died in 1916, on the ranch where he'd spent so many years of his life. His grave is maintained in perpetuity by the US Forest Service, which later took over the ranch.
Before we left the ruined ranger cabin, Ed Cosper showed me where he thought Nat Wittum's burial site was. It was 100 yards from the ranger cabin and at first, the rock arrangement looked like an ordinary fire-rock ring. Ed said he didn't think that was so; he recalled how others, closer to the event, had shown him the grave.
I cleared away dead leaves scattered over the small circle. A small rock comma indented the rock circle and gave it a cleft, like a heart with overlapping chambers. There wasn't a gravestone, as I've found in other places, or a long pile of rocks, such as litter Cooke's Canyon.
"I'd like to give him a moment of silent respect," I said to Ed. I feel deeply that anywhere someone has died in combat, there is sacred ground. I imagine the vultures had already got to Wittum by the time his partner Fritz returned from Clifton. Wherever people die, a sacred vessel is extinguished.
"He died alone," I said. "That's a hard way to go." I've always been glad others were with me when I got shot and nearly killed in Vietnam.
We gave it another minute. If I'd been alone, I'd have stayed a few hours, in silent meditation.
With the Baseline camp and Nat Wittum's grave located, we headed back. Some folks had to work the next day, and it was a four-hour drive back to Silver City. As Deb later described the return trek: "We rested, then headed back toward our starting place, pausing at our favorite pools, listening to the birds, watching the circling buzzards and laughing that they might be watching for us! We were weary but content, anxious to near the conclusion of our eight-mile trek, but sad to see it end— for this time anyway. We were proud we had done this together—my husband, my sister, our friend Jerry and my ageless and extraordinary octogenarian parents.
"We are now back living our respective lives, filling our days with tasks and chores needing to be done," Deb went on. "Since that perfect summer day, I find myself occasionally closing my eyes and remembering the smell of the Blue River, hearing the sounds of moving water, feeling the sun on my back, walking stick in hand, squinting at red cliffs and marveling at the passage of time, of a family's journey, of life and love."
"My paternal great-grandparents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and my own father carved out a life here that it sometimes seems as if the canyon walls, rocks and trees hold close the stories of these lives that they witnessed," said her sister Kate. "We have, in recent years, returned with increasing frequency to these remote hills, to remember and pull close to those that went before us. Short of cloying, there is a sweetness here. We will come back because this is from where we came and it is, and always will be, home."
As for me, I went on to Graham County and Safford, Ariz., where I turned up not a shred of evidence of Nat Wittum. This victim of the last great Apache breakout has disappeared in time—but not for the Cosper family, who continue to return to the place where he died alone.
"I never fail to thrill at the fortitude exhibited by the early settlers along this isolated little river in Southeastern Arizona," Mary Cosper told me. "Their will, their courage, were boundless—and these were my husband's people and the grandparents and great-grandparents of our children. Each of them holds dear the stories, their personal memories of those who came before them. Each time we return, those are only enhanced."
Jerry Eagan is a retired civil servant who writes, sells his photography at A Daily Practice yoga studio, 104 N. Texas St. in Silver City, and hikes twice a week into Apacheria. This is the fifth of a series of articles about his experiences; for future articles, he would like to hear from Apaches about their experiences. Readers can contact him at zennhead@zianet.com. He wishes to thank the following people for their assistance: Ed and Mary Cosper; Kate Cosper; Deb and James Edd Hughs; Don Lunt; the Clifton, Ariz., Museum; the staff of the Graham County, Ariz., County Clerk's Office; and Gwen Demott, assistant at the Graham County Historical Society.