After more than three decades of exploring Arizona's back roads, I've come to an unscientific conclusion. All those lonely hamlets, burgs and dusty, one-road, well-off-the-beaten-path towns have one thing in common: a clapboard saloon that features cold beer, straight-up shots, greasy cheeseburgers, a used-up pool table, jukeboxes that only play country tunes and eclectic locals who suspiciously tolerate strangers in their midst. These rustic watering holes are my lifeline.

"Are you sure about this, Marty?" Patty asked when we stopped at the local beer parlor in tiny Gisela. "Those rough-looking guys sitting on the boardwalk swigging brews aren't even wearing shirts. It's only a few minutes after 10 on a Sunday morning. You don't suppose this bar doubles as the local church?"

I was mindful of the unshaven, middle-aged men who were nursing their longneck Buds, eyeing us skeptically.

"We passed a church on the way into town," I answered, wondering if I could get coffee in the bar. "There wasn't a single car in the lot. Besides, we need directions to the ruins we're looking for. And if you want honest answers, ask the locals at the town pub."

Gisela is located in a picturesque valley in a much larger region of central Arizona that geologists identify as the Tonto Basin. With a population of about 530 hardy, self-sufficient residents, Gisela can be reached by driving on a paved, but twisting and narrow, double-lane road that branches off State Route 87 (Beeline Highway) approximately 20 miles south of Payson.

Tonto Creek, which begins its migration to the Verde River from high on the Mogollon Rim, meanders through the Basin's valleys and meadows. Dominated by creosote, juniper and high-desert scrub, the Tonto Basin has been inhabited for more than 10,000 years. Here, pre-Columbian cultures, most notably the little understood Sinagua people, built pithouses and above-ground pueblos. These resourceful native cultures thrived by hunting deer, antelope and small game and planting crops of beans, squash and corn. Archaeologists have determined that there are more than 100,000 archaeological sites within the boundaries of the Tonto Forest. Only one percent have been surveyed and just a handful have been excavated to any degree.

It was the reliable water source provided by Tonto Creek that allowed prehistoric cultures to flourish. The same can be said about Gisela today.

"Is there a bathroom here?" Alexis asked, scanning the surroundings with wide eyes. "Alyssa (Goya of Phoenix, age 10) and I both have to go."

Merritt hadn't had any breakfast, so food was foremost on her mind: "Do you think they serve chicken fingers in the bar?"

I suggested that Patty take the girls inside for a bathroom break, and to check out the food availability. I would see about getting directions from the town's citizens.

"Take the main road through town until it turns into a dirt road," explained one of the gentlemen between a slug of beer and drag on an unfiltered cigarette. "Stay on the road as far as ya can. But I'm warnin' ya. Don't try to drive through the mud bogs. You'll sink to the tops of your tires and someone will hafta pull ya out. Git out and hoof it to the river."

"What river?" I asked, thinking that maybe the beer tap should be turned off. "I don't know of any river in this area."

"Oh just Tonto Creek," the man replied looking at me like I was an out-of-his element city boy. "We call the creek a river cause it always keeps flowin'."

I scratched my head, but accepted the explanation. Additional directions included walking the banks of the creek until we came to a small bluff, which we were instructed to climb.

"Dozens of ruins are on top of the mesa," the man added, dropping his empty bottle into a trash can. "Just keep yer eye peeled for rattle-snakes. They'll be out warmin' themselves this hour of the mornin'."

Bouncing along the rutted dirt road, we did indeed encounter the largest, most impassable bog I've ever seen. Without hesitation, I pulled off the road and parked the Explorer in the shade under a towering cottonwood tree. We laced up hiking boots and sneakers, grabbed water bottles and began the easy, quarter-mile walk to the ruins.

Merritt began snapping landscape images with her digital camera.

"This is really pretty back here, Dad," she observed when we reached the creek. "I like all of the tall trees along the banks of Tonto Creek. It's no wonder the ancient people set up shop in this area. They had water and a view."

After exploring the bluff, which had been partially undercut when a flood roared through the basin a number of years ago, we began the short, but steep, climb to the top. Slightly out of breath, we reached the top of the mostly flat mesa. With the exception of creosote and juniper, there were few trees on the mesa. However, we had to trek gingerly to avoid the enormous stands of prickly pear, cat claw, hedgehog cacti and wicked cholla that seemed to intentionally attack our boots and shoes.

Spotting the remains of a block wall, I knew that we had found the ruins of a pueblo. Most of the undisturbed pueblo was buried under centuries of hard-packed dirt. But judging from the tops of exposed ancient walls, this ruin was quite sizable, housing perhaps 50 to 100 individuals.

"Merritt, take a look at this," I said, motioning for her to examine the ground. "Do you see all of the pottery shards and flakes? You can touch and photograph, but be sure to put them exactly where they were."

Alexis and Alyssa were making their own discoveries.

"What are these black, sharp things that are all over the ground?" Alyssa asked, picking up a razor-sharp point. "Are they arrowheads?"

I explained that the objects weren't actually arrow or spear points, but instead were flakes discarded as ancient craftsmen made tools.

"So, this was kinda like a workshop," Alexis accurately observed. "That's so cool."

After returning to the Explorer, I announced that I had one more stop to make.

"Daddy, the sign is misspelled," Lexi pointed out when we stopped at the roadside bar and diner.

Chuckling, I explained that the spelling was indeed correct. The tiny community I had chosen for lunch was Punkin Center. Almost deserted during the summer, the town swells with snowbirds and hunters during the winter.

While Patty and the girls munched on cheeseburgers in the mostly empty restaurant, I hung out at the bar watching NFL football.

"You have to admit, Patty, small town saloons can be a lifesaver," I said on the drive home. "We would never have found the ruins if we hadn't asked the guys at the bar."

"Okay. I'll admit that we got honest directions," she answered. ""I'm just glad that when you belly up to the bar you always order coffee or a soda."

Getting there

Gisela: From the intersection of Shea Boulevard and State Route 87 in Fountain Hills, take 87 north past the junction with State Route 188. Turn right at the well-signed road leading to Gisela. The town is five miles east of 87. It would be almost impossible to provide directions to the ruin sites. Do what I did: ask the locals once you enter town.

Punkin Center: From State Route 87, go right (east) on State Route 188. Punkin Center is located about 12 miles from the junction of 87 and 188.

This article first appeared in the December 2004 issue of Raising Arizona Kids magazine. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, rewritten, broadcast or redistributed without permission of the publisher. For more information, write to editorial@raisingarizonakids.com.