tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91509330193843934812024-03-13T05:06:57.002-07:00Just West of My HeartThe American West, old and new, offers fertile ground for a dreamer's imagination. Here, visit the settings of past range wars or gunfights; take a trip back to the average person's daily life in the old west; or learn about historical episodes. Amazon affiliate: Author may receive compensation for Amazon products linked on this site.Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-28260819010240359712024-02-04T16:22:00.000-08:002024-02-04T16:22:34.150-08:00Rambling Around the East Flank of Turquoise Ridge, Dragoon Mountains<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXLNTRuLk2HL9chEDjWopKxVkgI8wzDWqgzBfIBvd_FNFjJW5OSZtU3Z10MIg7P62HmEY9lBlRzRNEXTCy3kxmcgxrbX9tgt2kXzAlm1LoM7dF0t88pQjWHZapz37y8MKZDAyT56tfLV02JMy8RzgqtXRGB8APr4vmWQzhq9Fh5x_xlXr3D7CuiAupIU/s4608/DSCF4608.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXLNTRuLk2HL9chEDjWopKxVkgI8wzDWqgzBfIBvd_FNFjJW5OSZtU3Z10MIg7P62HmEY9lBlRzRNEXTCy3kxmcgxrbX9tgt2kXzAlm1LoM7dF0t88pQjWHZapz37y8MKZDAyT56tfLV02JMy8RzgqtXRGB8APr4vmWQzhq9Fh5x_xlXr3D7CuiAupIU/w640-h480/DSCF4608.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>After a leisurely morning beginning with the $5.99 breakfast special at Sandy's (opt for the side of hash brown casserole; it's damned tasty) and a drive along Turkey Creek near Johnny Ringo's death site, we took Courtland Road back as we neared home. We diverted north onto the Pierce Road and stopped by some lovely stone ruins of what had once been a grand old building. Just west of it is the east flank of Turquoise Ridge, not far from the ghost towns of Courtland or, nearer to home and to the south, Gleeson. <p></p><p>These are the mountains I look out upon as I sit here at the computer. I see the south face of them, and the traces and slag from the old copper mines at Gleeson. Turquoise Mountain, though, is (shockingly enough) more known for its turquoise mining. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOvQBuritbAWR42MzK-HD9OSGPTC8vYEnbP9lf0_VBGKc-F_6PRlyuZ6vK8U7qJ4f0YxTs-3MeuYcXmfH4Q23uBx_H5DKg4ryk9Klu1Tag5LzbHJYzvMCX3foGdQmKJVolH28hKOjLmB7Fp0yQBSdgoO66k1iMWe8M6PMljOGg92tl5tUTH4uUVB9Nz6s/s4608/DSCF4648.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOvQBuritbAWR42MzK-HD9OSGPTC8vYEnbP9lf0_VBGKc-F_6PRlyuZ6vK8U7qJ4f0YxTs-3MeuYcXmfH4Q23uBx_H5DKg4ryk9Klu1Tag5LzbHJYzvMCX3foGdQmKJVolH28hKOjLmB7Fp0yQBSdgoO66k1iMWe8M6PMljOGg92tl5tUTH4uUVB9Nz6s/w400-h300/DSCF4648.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Today I wanted to see how close I could get to a specific gorge in the mountains, just below the ridge (see the dark "v" almost dead center in the photo above, taken from the ruins). Having not much time to hike back and still get home to give my special pup his meds on time, I figured I'd get as close as I could and then return with more time, a day pack with a sandwich, and my GPS to mark the site. <div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDxsioWghEQCNDm7-UOlmyBDnl9Av9X3A8Y-XItNRkjwDa287AgwzQ-bRXtVfvpoliraY6mNOlUQE56Tnfsd-hOiv3av41ikS5rMak3FXDog1zvob6S-i8dYAH5-t2IVV_Dsrb33zHykC5g98Gg2lqYvjoZe7FeUuR9aYHZe81w3a0vP1x-0NCaYLq57k/s4608/DSCF4635.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDxsioWghEQCNDm7-UOlmyBDnl9Av9X3A8Y-XItNRkjwDa287AgwzQ-bRXtVfvpoliraY6mNOlUQE56Tnfsd-hOiv3av41ikS5rMak3FXDog1zvob6S-i8dYAH5-t2IVV_Dsrb33zHykC5g98Gg2lqYvjoZe7FeUuR9aYHZe81w3a0vP1x-0NCaYLq57k/w640-h480/DSCF4635.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My other half, maintaining a comfortable distance as we hiked "together."</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Near here, along what was once the stage route that conveyed travelers to Tombstone starting in 1890, was the settlement of Turquois (as they then spelled it) and its multiple saloons, hotels, eating places, and store. There is no "first jail" where one can visit ruins; the "jail" was, in the 1890s, a live-oak tree to which offenders would be shackled by the ankle, as many as three transgressors at a time. Miners produced silver ore from the area (the Turquois Mining District) and freighted it to mills at Soldier's Hole in the valley below and to the east. The glory days didn't last long: In 1894 the demonetization of silver closed the enterprises. Miners abandoned the camp. Just two remained behind to dig for the semi-precious turquoise prevalent in the area that had long been mined by native people. Those two, Silas Bryant and N. C. Rascal, eventually deeded most of their claims to a New Yorker, G. Armeny. Armeny had the enviable fortune of contracting with Tiffany & Co. to provide the turquoise they sold. Despite turquoise selling for less per ounce than gold, Armeny made a greater profit than those digging the precious metal: he sent shipments of the blue-green rocks to New York for up to $500 a pound. Under various owners, the hills produced a great deal of turquoise up through 1936 when the claims, largely exhausted, were sold to Indian traders in New Mexico for jewelry crafting. (Source: The Dragoon Mountains, by Lynn Bailey.)<div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKlqyUrFn9VvyoFptyzGxdQ41cxyt_QaRyIXmkG_SBJDNOAxFq_sxK7lI86zXAdrrRN5LLXq5H9xJnoNRcLtKY3VJGk97PL57HwzkbicApiWxJL4K_V3RZfUz4cB0qaqxxF86-VKsFqog-Ynkhlw-Qb1QP9SpVI2ZZj1aMhBmERfrDnQ1sp4XPEK6Jo4E/s4608/DSCF4652.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKlqyUrFn9VvyoFptyzGxdQ41cxyt_QaRyIXmkG_SBJDNOAxFq_sxK7lI86zXAdrrRN5LLXq5H9xJnoNRcLtKY3VJGk97PL57HwzkbicApiWxJL4K_V3RZfUz4cB0qaqxxF86-VKsFqog-Ynkhlw-Qb1QP9SpVI2ZZj1aMhBmERfrDnQ1sp4XPEK6Jo4E/w400-h300/DSCF4652.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Some pretty rocks still remain in the Dragoons</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>But back to the hike. We poked around some mining slag heaps and what appeared to be long-abandoned sites where ore was washed, then headed cross-country up the hillside to the small gorge that incited my curiosity. This time of year, there's not much greenery, but there - in the v of the mountainside - are green trees, what appears to be a small cave, and a field of ocotillo on the slopes. Often, ocotillo-covered slopes are a "tell" of underground caverns. The trees make me think there's a spring there.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgekApTxHqeE3hEbBDftfjEVDcVFh4-qBjikC7ZNw6G0JU3GZyhNQYhC0ld_Tdr4XdW3bIwWOYbYv_HlnT6akUGDPyViMdLvT3dNb1Jqp3O_zI1JXmUeW53Njmf79UkyY7UDzXSAWmM0bK3B8unviNyDn89cO9qAJ3F0ZtQpO8io7qsmrxUIWt3m2REqcI/s4608/DSCF4628.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgekApTxHqeE3hEbBDftfjEVDcVFh4-qBjikC7ZNw6G0JU3GZyhNQYhC0ld_Tdr4XdW3bIwWOYbYv_HlnT6akUGDPyViMdLvT3dNb1Jqp3O_zI1JXmUeW53Njmf79UkyY7UDzXSAWmM0bK3B8unviNyDn89cO9qAJ3F0ZtQpO8io7qsmrxUIWt3m2REqcI/s320/DSCF4628.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ruins near the slag heap. Note the horizontal pipe extending from the right side. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /><div>There is a mining road, parts of which have long since seen any use, proceeding up to Turquoise Ridge, but the switchbacks built in for the safety of hauling ore make it more direct to just forge through the nasty-ass mesquite and up and down a few steep ravines. The terrain is rough and the loose rocks made my bad ankle turn on a few occasions, but with the assistance of a sotol shaft as a makeshift walking stick, I survived. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVb5RPYrVCkOouomJMkPkGuKs0jKb5kYApUuwb4es8iXtc5xTalPdP7wQslMrCOcUR2USCjdquLrvDRpbg5KMo9MHHY9hrTrvBiF5S27GoeMIrlZuLOO-Fa0uS6i9AkTZ3m_heMznYvtbCUyuki6qT4bJROlN4j-29Ob83zoeFse7CHDdB4xL7qIiMI2M/s4608/DSCF4645.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVb5RPYrVCkOouomJMkPkGuKs0jKb5kYApUuwb4es8iXtc5xTalPdP7wQslMrCOcUR2USCjdquLrvDRpbg5KMo9MHHY9hrTrvBiF5S27GoeMIrlZuLOO-Fa0uS6i9AkTZ3m_heMznYvtbCUyuki6qT4bJROlN4j-29Ob83zoeFse7CHDdB4xL7qIiMI2M/w640-h480/DSCF4645.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The intended destination. I got this close!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /><div>We got as close to the little gorge in the hillside as possible before I decided to head back. So close! Within reach, but not today. Not the ocotillo in the lower right foreground and the vertical sotol shafts scattered across the slope in front of the gorge. </div><div><br /></div><div>And so we turned back into the mesquite and the loose rock and made our way to the Jeep by the ruins.</div><div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZENvWw5NeI0PiEGRWH7NASZfN_mMKhS3pdRzC-1VFZ_3sVYv9EwxW-_STe2SuP5-c_dFp14NsyvTOoSgwwqNx8DRoD0VSIYQFk1lRZ0yu4pnmNkyAENSfEJL6ABf5jsPVNaHVrP9Ye2DW7MgwogGujeC2_3dL4hrfwWVxpj27O5jCXH-YnCId_7vj-QQ/s4608/DSCF4646.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZENvWw5NeI0PiEGRWH7NASZfN_mMKhS3pdRzC-1VFZ_3sVYv9EwxW-_STe2SuP5-c_dFp14NsyvTOoSgwwqNx8DRoD0VSIYQFk1lRZ0yu4pnmNkyAENSfEJL6ABf5jsPVNaHVrP9Ye2DW7MgwogGujeC2_3dL4hrfwWVxpj27O5jCXH-YnCId_7vj-QQ/w640-h480/DSCF4646.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The hike back on a stretch of old mining road. Note the two structures in the distance: That's where we parked. The Swisshelm Mountains are in the background, with the snow-covered Chiricahuas at left. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div><br /><div>The ocotillo faded away as we hiked, as did the sotol, leaving red rock, grass, and that blasted nasty-ass thorny mesquite. Plenty of lovely purple-hued antique glass dots various sites along the hike, along with rusted fragments of cans and plenty of cow chips from the herds that still roam the ranches here. </div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxa_QvstlAifbPc4ifSF_FcALLGjxzuqYVkjDMCbTN7ULTxNlLUzWNb-yjiG25MhZ9oD43AGZ2XgOuBQ8vF599i6BWH0_vCHplJYIXC0IDtbeL8mxMhpK5Uh6GGU2Oqpid5tXIqgN5-VqMC0WXlREShaJ2czi7C1NZ97dBZHzvhfV6XV_kZpGrJZ7B7nQ/s4016/DSCF4640.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3093" data-original-width="4016" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxa_QvstlAifbPc4ifSF_FcALLGjxzuqYVkjDMCbTN7ULTxNlLUzWNb-yjiG25MhZ9oD43AGZ2XgOuBQ8vF599i6BWH0_vCHplJYIXC0IDtbeL8mxMhpK5Uh6GGU2Oqpid5tXIqgN5-VqMC0WXlREShaJ2czi7C1NZ97dBZHzvhfV6XV_kZpGrJZ7B7nQ/w640-h494/DSCF4640.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The path turned the prettiest color of rust for part of the hike</span>. <span style="font-size: x-small;">The Chiricahuas are at background right.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXEjuJu47i_OvUvjlyI4RAulLqFBclUsLvNLDiGpLc7aIxIZngVaZxgTDqJU0N903ff2oROfnWq3DfT952KAAgV6vFaaPTdFNyDNElp8m5vcFvIB-ZnoJ-XUhfONEaF-rYMNJ9CstfrKn3OZ57b9JcSv0jZ95fJSo79k1eCkFFJ6XqQfZgr3qwSlJR45U/s4608/DSCF4651.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXEjuJu47i_OvUvjlyI4RAulLqFBclUsLvNLDiGpLc7aIxIZngVaZxgTDqJU0N903ff2oROfnWq3DfT952KAAgV6vFaaPTdFNyDNElp8m5vcFvIB-ZnoJ-XUhfONEaF-rYMNJ9CstfrKn3OZ57b9JcSv0jZ95fJSo79k1eCkFFJ6XqQfZgr3qwSlJR45U/w400-h300/DSCF4651.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">We knew we were close to the Jeep when we hit this fork in the road.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>These mountains - the Dragoons - are filled with fabulous ruins, be they of stone-built buildings or concrete mining structures. I have to laugh reading Yelp reviews of the ghost towns here; a lot of readers are distinctly unimpressed because the ghost towns are "nothing but ruins." Some even put "ghost towns" in scare quotes to drive home the point they doubt that such remnants of the past are, in fact, <i>ghost towns.</i> Dear Reader, please note that a ghost town <i>is, </i>de facto, ruins and remnants and tattered, wind-eaten walls. You will not find cute boutiques here with T-shirts and scorpion-filled resin keychains. You're only 15 miles from Tombstone, though, so have at it. Here, you'll be able to visit the wonderful "living" ghost town at Pierce, the many ruins along the Ghost Town Trail (including at Gleeson, a mile from my home), and a shop at the privately-owned town of Turquoise, where you can even buy some turquoise. There's plenty to look at if you get out of your car and walk around those crumbling stone walls along the way.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHrzv5SkQuRYwxE7T_viYHJiclQPf_NVd8Rrpt_aR8eqhq54LnGlMU7Q_Dmlie9X3zZXy3ZneZtQOjVyZGUlce7lToDdJ8wxa_62EWbu-a7w1M4onNbbwXOP_YsVPKZ4ljEQuLEwqT8DpL5dbGbGjLJIdmZDyCURlchof7gNWx9G-BPaRuA44STsMKqo/s4608/DSCF4605.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHrzv5SkQuRYwxE7T_viYHJiclQPf_NVd8Rrpt_aR8eqhq54LnGlMU7Q_Dmlie9X3zZXy3ZneZtQOjVyZGUlce7lToDdJ8wxa_62EWbu-a7w1M4onNbbwXOP_YsVPKZ4ljEQuLEwqT8DpL5dbGbGjLJIdmZDyCURlchof7gNWx9G-BPaRuA44STsMKqo/w400-h300/DSCF4605.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Yours truly, old dog-eared ruins among the ruins.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p><i>If you go:</i> I'd call this a moderate hike; short, but with plenty of slope, rough terrain, and the nasty-ass mesquite. During warmer months you'll need water and to be very aware of the rattlesnakes. There are open mines, shafts, and pits throughout these mountains, so watch where your feet will fall at every step. The ravines are steep and slippery. There's often no one around, so be aware and be self-sufficient. No bathrooms. No trail guide. No signs. The way life ought to be. And if you pack it in, pack it out.</p><p><br /></p><p><i>For further reading: </i>I love this book by Lynn Bailey that I sourced above. If you buy it through this affiliate link, I thank you for your purchase as I may receive a commission. <a href="https://amzn.to/3OqSWf2">The Dragoon Mountains</a></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright (c) 2024 by Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content may be reproduced without the express written or electronic permission of the author * Links, however, may be freely shared and are appreciated * Thank you for linking, liking, forwarding, citing, or otherwise helping grow my audience * Most of all, thank you for stopping by and taking a moment to appreciate this amazing state of Arizona.</span></p></div></div></div></div>Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-29773566019052184152023-11-21T16:47:00.000-08:002023-11-21T16:47:46.706-08:00The Chiricahua's "Wonderland of Rocks" Scenic Drive<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmZw7T34jaJ5pCjPAqqFax-nwFZmRxsDGkYktiZAwqhMz-ET3a3stj_E5T6K0EI7HQBOD94beUVjRmsxEDO7qMKK8Hg5AGEvUlXZm1ej2yqc41R2DR4iE8VrYm17TyZnImC3CEvAWpJBOlSTVjxRy2cwTP4cjIJbXWUR2t0L226HkmNBWLodKlxPdxTY/s4608/DSCF3832.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmZw7T34jaJ5pCjPAqqFax-nwFZmRxsDGkYktiZAwqhMz-ET3a3stj_E5T6K0EI7HQBOD94beUVjRmsxEDO7qMKK8Hg5AGEvUlXZm1ej2yqc41R2DR4iE8VrYm17TyZnImC3CEvAWpJBOlSTVjxRy2cwTP4cjIJbXWUR2t0L226HkmNBWLodKlxPdxTY/s320/DSCF3832.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Some places I crave the same way I crave a good steak or a hot cup of morning coffee. Lately I've been craving another plate of Chiricahua Mountains. Down in the San Pedro valley, the trees are changing color; I figured the sycamores in the Chiricahua Monument would be strutting their fall stuff. The windy season is back upon us here in the Dragoon foothills outside of Tombstone, so it's the perfect day for a scenic drive to the monument. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMxqJHQoyXB9tz6atQai7Eem-MYt6OxUPiNahyGI6WOJG-eMoZDSQovvRddsH4Icc7pHK1i6MRwnQi73CZXO9dsCM4yhXL7Yhcwn9jAtnVpDtynX7MokMpVuy9c2L8zYRVhr9Z-v_4hRniW0wsl5wzq1DSv30RZBaJFbzgbbltkuyTQNC8E6ws6qUvKU/s4608/DSCF3841.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMxqJHQoyXB9tz6atQai7Eem-MYt6OxUPiNahyGI6WOJG-eMoZDSQovvRddsH4Icc7pHK1i6MRwnQi73CZXO9dsCM4yhXL7Yhcwn9jAtnVpDtynX7MokMpVuy9c2L8zYRVhr9Z-v_4hRniW0wsl5wzq1DSv30RZBaJFbzgbbltkuyTQNC8E6ws6qUvKU/w400-h300/DSCF3841.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">View from Massai Point</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>And so off we went to seek autumn and sanity. The brief drive up Bonita Canyon Drive packs a lot of punch for its length, with some of the most breathtaking and unique views in Arizona. Starting with tree-canopied roads, the route climbs into the rock-spired heart of the Chiricahuas.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52G0b9BzEcH3ba47hNsBhFGS1ejwfTkYNeFZ9v-nlHK63nHDRJz3pHboSoKMz7ea4RYcFswd0bqelu_UMY5rZ2sdd1FpaHgkzv-xTnJ4bNDcgqaXhFgILQgYZYnr_BOYt57LRyttfOOZYLWQOFTqV9VMQYuY77NbpVyHCpT_cj-UeVYEdOKThSkW6dzQ/s4608/DSCF3873.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52G0b9BzEcH3ba47hNsBhFGS1ejwfTkYNeFZ9v-nlHK63nHDRJz3pHboSoKMz7ea4RYcFswd0bqelu_UMY5rZ2sdd1FpaHgkzv-xTnJ4bNDcgqaXhFgILQgYZYnr_BOYt57LRyttfOOZYLWQOFTqV9VMQYuY77NbpVyHCpT_cj-UeVYEdOKThSkW6dzQ/s320/DSCF3873.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Bonita Canyon </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>To the north, the drive overlooks Bonita Canyon with its layers of mountains folded against each other. Trailheads mark the roadsides, varying from easy trails at the start near the historic Faraway Ranch house and at the end with the Massai Nature Trail to the most challenging, Heart of Rocks Loop, buried among the vast expanse of rock spires. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDekovI3S_UD8RWPVB6HgeE-TZGI-7oYcRHdSSbl6sNWEbOe5RXZqjiUuGYwfvnqlAOFaFX_OWcHoXX5_WXMsUtkeCB6HKJUVnp7OaI4Etl-Rbd39u16eLo5t_UD0HXxlvhxrZEgfhuvo6GVj1-YNqn9vbtg0Ho4y18NOauhaIWylp3jBWZY8zygIoSeI/s4608/DSCF3825.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDekovI3S_UD8RWPVB6HgeE-TZGI-7oYcRHdSSbl6sNWEbOe5RXZqjiUuGYwfvnqlAOFaFX_OWcHoXX5_WXMsUtkeCB6HKJUVnp7OaI4Etl-Rbd39u16eLo5t_UD0HXxlvhxrZEgfhuvo6GVj1-YNqn9vbtg0Ho4y18NOauhaIWylp3jBWZY8zygIoSeI/w400-h300/DSCF3825.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Rock Spires at Massai Point</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>Today, we hiked just the easy nature trail at Massai Point and, quite literally hanging onto our hats against the fierce wind, just a brief foray along Sugarloaf Trail.<div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2vYW0O13qa5SG0Ee4qInP3Bnaskgk90xNhhp-1pGaAZQ9ZGCrFYbKBXRQ4FNIKmoS0SXY2k-Du67tzXhVFCa7Jli0V3IyUPEp-Pvo0LnbAwbP9gjueuwV9rJh0nVR-fqyvUH0FUyaVTcoVdH52Oz_QX1Eyajx4KEpzCd8Kcj00U7baJh_IH9xmfJw3U/s4608/DSCF3848.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2vYW0O13qa5SG0Ee4qInP3Bnaskgk90xNhhp-1pGaAZQ9ZGCrFYbKBXRQ4FNIKmoS0SXY2k-Du67tzXhVFCa7Jli0V3IyUPEp-Pvo0LnbAwbP9gjueuwV9rJh0nVR-fqyvUH0FUyaVTcoVdH52Oz_QX1Eyajx4KEpzCd8Kcj00U7baJh_IH9xmfJw3U/w640-h480/DSCF3848.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Manzanita along Sugarloaf Trail</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSR2hNyUVyP7_lNUu-VE-liAYe5xA6OLeg9ibhsLNWhVX8pet-r4xcdRWtHBXufDja717PxdTP2xellnoSOrT8ZZuIw7hk81Mgv7JoU0NLjmz03QuQF9eC2k4-2KZQTwntfc_txw78adToXT5QVrjENHbyUoy7ipDD1-8IM-a5NqkBVHxVuFRMpwGrmv0/s5184/IMG_1864.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSR2hNyUVyP7_lNUu-VE-liAYe5xA6OLeg9ibhsLNWhVX8pet-r4xcdRWtHBXufDja717PxdTP2xellnoSOrT8ZZuIw7hk81Mgv7JoU0NLjmz03QuQF9eC2k4-2KZQTwntfc_txw78adToXT5QVrjENHbyUoy7ipDD1-8IM-a5NqkBVHxVuFRMpwGrmv0/w640-h426/IMG_1864.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Spires as seen from Sugarloaf Trail<br /><br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table>The spires - an army of thousands of lichen-covered rock spires - can hardly fail to astonish with their other-worldliness and drama. Some are famous for their shapes or physics-defying appearances, with some of the most distinctive given names such as "Sea Captain," or "China Boy." Within the Heart of Rocks Loop a hiker will see Punch and Judy, Duck on a Rock, or Pinnacle Balanced Rock. I remember seeing these images in the pages of the 1970s <i>Arizona Highways Magazines</i> long before I ever ventured into the Chiricahuas in person during college. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5EtT6PQoE0OLathxfP3AfjumbaFexmyrc2R4s4RxjuzxqrpOKgsp9UxMQhoPlxzS3Wi3oSVcNaOsldL5CGOeNoDgmcJoiHE3PSbEKnGhFKLDKrr5q4J6HDHJWmq4DUonjiM3MlFbjOS5SanK-IWPiWsxrm57YTZaTZR6uUKvr7IbD3lgjz5OD8s8JLI/s5184/IMG_1872.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5EtT6PQoE0OLathxfP3AfjumbaFexmyrc2R4s4RxjuzxqrpOKgsp9UxMQhoPlxzS3Wi3oSVcNaOsldL5CGOeNoDgmcJoiHE3PSbEKnGhFKLDKrr5q4J6HDHJWmq4DUonjiM3MlFbjOS5SanK-IWPiWsxrm57YTZaTZR6uUKvr7IbD3lgjz5OD8s8JLI/w640-h426/IMG_1872.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Spires and spires and more spires<br /><br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>In these mountains named for the Chiricahua Apache people whose great Chief, Cochise, gave his name to our county, it's appropriate one of the formations bears a likeness to the prone profile of Cochise. It is known, appropriately, as Cochise Head. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCGwrBFwWUReqiuB-ZrRPuoZ50fZ_6mgfA3mZl1FhJ6tThaAUcTtqr5IrwD4ofE7S2jrK6NwAqC6u9NT6b6Z7PnX892a-wFfMAEsUfwRS3m96_R1e6JuEfltiBrHIRQe1zcLi4Mywxkdr2VojDSXjoV9JWi-NqDWZenQr-3hXCg_PwOu4wB4FO0-UB1hE/s1971/DSCF3856.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1567" data-original-width="1971" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCGwrBFwWUReqiuB-ZrRPuoZ50fZ_6mgfA3mZl1FhJ6tThaAUcTtqr5IrwD4ofE7S2jrK6NwAqC6u9NT6b6Z7PnX892a-wFfMAEsUfwRS3m96_R1e6JuEfltiBrHIRQe1zcLi4Mywxkdr2VojDSXjoV9JWi-NqDWZenQr-3hXCg_PwOu4wB4FO0-UB1hE/w400-h319/DSCF3856.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Not the best angle, but you can still make out the profile of Cochise among the crags in the background.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><p>At top of Sugarloaf Mountain (at 7310 feet) and at the end of the .9 mile trail is a historic fire tower. Burnt-out landscapes from a massive fire several years ago bear witness to the need for such towers. The mountains are recovering, but burned skeletons of trees are still prevalent, and flash-flooding remains a hazard during the rainy seasons. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikjjqsWbBlpRVqq_3ks0awHUC21DL9nZzXR9th4KJvOXhFkPIPT1ELgs1lg3Sde666ifXzAqguMtgWuKfDYH3_prMBhnvb9McW8yji6Fa6jCu3uxiqfmuSsb6fALBsySK6MhEWy0K9o9i-ERaLUyD-ZcflC3HCMRI7SigntHeN3VAfJKeMKBcdA_j-t0Y/s5184/IMG_1867.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikjjqsWbBlpRVqq_3ks0awHUC21DL9nZzXR9th4KJvOXhFkPIPT1ELgs1lg3Sde666ifXzAqguMtgWuKfDYH3_prMBhnvb9McW8yji6Fa6jCu3uxiqfmuSsb6fALBsySK6MhEWy0K9o9i-ERaLUyD-ZcflC3HCMRI7SigntHeN3VAfJKeMKBcdA_j-t0Y/w640-h426/IMG_1867.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">To left, the ramada atop Sugarloaf. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9cdNqlpLge-5HsOMODKueSOUim_K523fixUAy8RDRW605GxRqOnuxt6H3ZY3h6qrGqmrbSMEi6Pi7Lg69sELqDIaRkm3TKR1doDQWYRmPeXIq8D6Ogba93ffLD7jmZ0PTeRQPbmN764xkk_Vcd6z2TOMYhtd0TgGbVoo4tVNaHVK4ifJd7xzRMM_e4Ac/s4608/DSCF3842.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9cdNqlpLge-5HsOMODKueSOUim_K523fixUAy8RDRW605GxRqOnuxt6H3ZY3h6qrGqmrbSMEi6Pi7Lg69sELqDIaRkm3TKR1doDQWYRmPeXIq8D6Ogba93ffLD7jmZ0PTeRQPbmN764xkk_Vcd6z2TOMYhtd0TgGbVoo4tVNaHVK4ifJd7xzRMM_e4Ac/w640-h480/DSCF3842.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Dotting these hills viewed from Massai Point are the burned remains of trees damaged in a fire several years ago.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>We opted to save the "real" hike for future trips when the wind is less of an impediment, but expect to return when the snow hits for some more eye feasts. On our list for warmer weather (many of the area roads and trails are closed during winter) are hikes along the trails, one at a time, farther into the wilderness area. I'm particularly looking forward to seeing the Natural Bridge from the 2.4 mile Natural bridge Trail (4.8 mile total - it's not a loop) and, of course, the Heart of Rocks Loop (a 1.1 mile loop over challenging terrain after you've hiked in on longer, but more moderate, trails.) </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnmNw5gSHqvQRHwCU1ebel0q4chjvf2SV0NDevQ401XmSbRvZfigPfZ2YI7g6a1edPrzoMfMfWFr8S5RGrDUTYgD3t59wNy55eWSEZVDNT_avbCeqfpzSIIkqx_hEpkXgWR9dNERKPf0clBRgFpnRL_1WrRp_yhA6pxiEZbz-c_X148CYvem-67nFvgEw/s4608/DSCF3847.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnmNw5gSHqvQRHwCU1ebel0q4chjvf2SV0NDevQ401XmSbRvZfigPfZ2YI7g6a1edPrzoMfMfWFr8S5RGrDUTYgD3t59wNy55eWSEZVDNT_avbCeqfpzSIIkqx_hEpkXgWR9dNERKPf0clBRgFpnRL_1WrRp_yhA6pxiEZbz-c_X148CYvem-67nFvgEw/w400-h300/DSCF3847.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Husband Person looking perfectly comfortable in the chilly, windy weather along Sugarloaf Trail. <br /><br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEs9NcRiFzzz_zNwJ7FCEHfmiWw_sY2ou-UwQ85a8tLZDpp3NJoMxx7ergghAlwmB3RXkR2lTCWOuY9T8BLhTwsGgF-6-53d9l5dHAuhirqtmYRrdlLfSCOaxw4qtbp2hcpou66EWpIJdvzXS-MxNuIDqvrc27YslWtLkrhY_fESfDwbrBYVpoduMnqDM/s4608/DSCF3835.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEs9NcRiFzzz_zNwJ7FCEHfmiWw_sY2ou-UwQ85a8tLZDpp3NJoMxx7ergghAlwmB3RXkR2lTCWOuY9T8BLhTwsGgF-6-53d9l5dHAuhirqtmYRrdlLfSCOaxw4qtbp2hcpou66EWpIJdvzXS-MxNuIDqvrc27YslWtLkrhY_fESfDwbrBYVpoduMnqDM/w300-h400/DSCF3835.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div>As for the autumn color extravaganza? Once we were in the pines and oak, we had lush greens but little in the way of oranges and yellows. The lower parts of the roads and the basins along the creeks were lined with tall trees, some of which were exquisite this time of year (November). </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjka3iTRWt4bfHJYTDO6-SgHGK9cvWT0C0A20a1bg47RgpYsRPSNrt-iTC-imfo4-7cpga350kWTiVWLlGR18BkKGEBOjArAT3zHbbn4uFvfAXGRGf7OFGkWBC_G-o-4QgKmRmEP3eG_9ABHXUv_Kd-ofAu6V8Hng8FLgb6tq6H_cfJna4_lgEY0UJ7zKA/s4608/DSCF3906.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjka3iTRWt4bfHJYTDO6-SgHGK9cvWT0C0A20a1bg47RgpYsRPSNrt-iTC-imfo4-7cpga350kWTiVWLlGR18BkKGEBOjArAT3zHbbn4uFvfAXGRGf7OFGkWBC_G-o-4QgKmRmEP3eG_9ABHXUv_Kd-ofAu6V8Hng8FLgb6tq6H_cfJna4_lgEY0UJ7zKA/w400-h300/DSCF3906.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div>Wildlife was scarce this morning as well, but you might be able to spot the three critters well-camouflaged in the photo below. On hikes, you're sure to see plenty others, including coatimundi, javelina, deer, birds you won't find farther north in the state, rattlesnakes, and (being so close to the border), illegal border crossers and drug smugglers - so be cautious and don't hike alone.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsu7cUbkLQRcIaH0iU5n8QrVxe9lOGR-f2XHpmX8u_bUz8Co-JefY7tD3f_K3oywEe1tlarkTlBUzgL2cg_1Zmx9O0BgJJJqOwIinki_Ke1bbuA6_tLMo1Gkgy3zxs1SeMZlo4lVahWNIx1G27x2mFGllmTkSoqaRtcYVOQROn5NurXes_BfTO1OSNNpE/s4608/DSCF3908.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsu7cUbkLQRcIaH0iU5n8QrVxe9lOGR-f2XHpmX8u_bUz8Co-JefY7tD3f_K3oywEe1tlarkTlBUzgL2cg_1Zmx9O0BgJJJqOwIinki_Ke1bbuA6_tLMo1Gkgy3zxs1SeMZlo4lVahWNIx1G27x2mFGllmTkSoqaRtcYVOQROn5NurXes_BfTO1OSNNpE/w400-h300/DSCF3908.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><b>If you go: </b>Take 191 from either I-10 between Benson and Willcox or from Elfrida and turn onto 181 when you're at Sunizona / Mustang Mall. Stop in at Sandy's for a great lunch or breakfast! Follow 181 east to 186 (there are signs to help you navigate to the monument) and continue to the visitor's center. Stop in for some shopping - I can never avoid picking up an embroidered cap, books, and postcards - and for your free map. Remember to take jackets and water. It can be surprisingly cold in the mountains even when the weather is hot in surrounding areas, and the altitude will help dehydrate you. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>For further reading:</b> One of several books I picked up at the visitor center (and read much of on the drive home) is an excellent overview of the history of the Chiricahua pioneers and wittily named <i>"A Portal to Paradise"</i> (one town on the east side of the mountains is Portal, and another within the mountains themselves is called Paradise - and both have colorful histories). It's beautifully written and features some historic photos I hadn't seen before. You can buy a copy here (I may receive commissions from items purchased through this link, so thank you!): <b><a href="<iframe sandbox="allow-popups allow-scripts allow-modals allow-forms allow-same-origin" style="width:120px;height:240px;" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" src="//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ss&ref=as_ss_li_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=hubp00504-20&language=en_US&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=0816521441&asins=0816521441&linkId=7e9da505f2ba70f1a3d983dca5b7e468&show_border=false&link_opens_in_new_window=true"></iframe>">A Portal to Paradise</a></b></div><div><div><br /></div></div><div>So get out there either on foot, on horseback, or in your car and enjoy these stunning mountains - or do some armchair traveling with <i>A Portal to Paradise</i>! Thank you for stopping by.</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright (c) 2023 by Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content, including photographs, may be used with out the express written permission of the author * Links, however, may be freely shared, and are appreciated * Thank you for reading, sharing, liking, and otherwise helping grow my audience * Most of all, thanks for sharing my love of this great state!</span></div><div><br /></div>Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-75926069477775370512023-10-29T19:21:00.002-07:002023-10-29T19:23:50.547-07:00Visiting Historic Camp Rucker, Cochise County, Arizona <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRyCgBQsWdrgi1w80OI5AE8hFZr3D5X-pi7vixqDP7xNlmNH943pGyDxRtrZQOeNO0bZ6ChtfKxFyIY9U6M2BwWXjmzHsqCnO6yfbzB0f2egzyAniqqwKv-x6Znwdv4r02vkYIEe3vUx4erQvtKXiHuKGleHRZHRfaLz_KD7WliPRCZpqWyFuVzahuk3I/s4608/DSCF3682.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRyCgBQsWdrgi1w80OI5AE8hFZr3D5X-pi7vixqDP7xNlmNH943pGyDxRtrZQOeNO0bZ6ChtfKxFyIY9U6M2BwWXjmzHsqCnO6yfbzB0f2egzyAniqqwKv-x6Znwdv4r02vkYIEe3vUx4erQvtKXiHuKGleHRZHRfaLz_KD7WliPRCZpqWyFuVzahuk3I/w640-h480/DSCF3682.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Nestled in one of the most idyllic of locations - the Chiricahua Mountains of Cochise County - are the quiet ruins of one of the lesser-known Cavalry camps of Arizona Territory. It is a ghost fort of many names: Formally known as Camp John A. Rucker, and sometimes referred to as Fort Rucker, the site was originally known as Camp Supply (as were several other Cavalry camps) before being renamed Camp Powers. At first Camp Supply stood near a tributary of the White River, but it was relocated closer to the White River headwaters near the South Fork branch of the river. The original location was established on April 29, 1878, but by the time it was moved to the South Fork site, a double tragedy had occurred. A much-loved and respected officer, Lt. John A. Rucker, had drowned while attempting in vain to save his friend and fellow officer, Lt. Austin Henely, who'd been caught in the floodwaters of one of the desert's fierce summer monsoons on July 11, 1878. Both men had been West Point attendees, although only Henely had graduated from the academy. In honor of Rucker and the affection his men had for him, the camp was renamed in his honor, as was Rucker Canyon and the oft-dry Rucker Lake. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBo9Sw7qd_ie2gawVIIQIuZoCXpDJ1w4Wyum6ifYn9iH8xftbwmhwaQDKNOsKnVGVcCMVcLbw0tp74o6RWvRrigfKL5YM0Z8o3rqqyiqU-wYUsVoVQu0Z7JT1jF4eQjQHTmF3GaqmwAjO_hB10Y6SFLjdBlyGeOzpUoKQv61w7yeGZ6UAuJw1sgslKqvY/s3025/DSCF3684.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3025" data-original-width="2169" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBo9Sw7qd_ie2gawVIIQIuZoCXpDJ1w4Wyum6ifYn9iH8xftbwmhwaQDKNOsKnVGVcCMVcLbw0tp74o6RWvRrigfKL5YM0Z8o3rqqyiqU-wYUsVoVQu0Z7JT1jF4eQjQHTmF3GaqmwAjO_hB10Y6SFLjdBlyGeOzpUoKQv61w7yeGZ6UAuJw1sgslKqvY/s320/DSCF3684.jpeg" width="229" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Lt. John A. Rucker of the 12th Infantry</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>The little camp is, today, a serene gem far less known or trodden than Fort Bowie, its counterpart on the northern end of the Chiricahuas. Located near quiet campgrounds, it is accessed by taking E. Rucker Canyon Road east from US Highway 191 north of Elfrida. As you pass Devil's Canyon, you'll soon hit a fork in the road: Camp Rucker Campgrounds are off the branch to the left, and the branch to the right is marked "N. Tex Canyon Road." That's the road that actually brings you to Camp Rucker itself. <div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipx2EO8igp7d-_wKODtR7uz6rrpCRLVBuifbAnps4FDiTuojSMonsV5TUfqP2x9AELsxld3GNafLLyrx6mrrshnuDXGQJ63Xzr2mN7zrlyTHOaGe-iMXIf7-pLlyI7HtDpqLdbTjEJuC1hPqDxOVT5rlngxh53w12hLmMrLP3oKERFd6HqyjbN52P_hGY/s4608/DSCF3594.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipx2EO8igp7d-_wKODtR7uz6rrpCRLVBuifbAnps4FDiTuojSMonsV5TUfqP2x9AELsxld3GNafLLyrx6mrrshnuDXGQJ63Xzr2mN7zrlyTHOaGe-iMXIf7-pLlyI7HtDpqLdbTjEJuC1hPqDxOVT5rlngxh53w12hLmMrLP3oKERFd6HqyjbN52P_hGY/w400-h300/DSCF3594.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><p>You'll likely be greeted by the local church ladies: fat Angus cows pastured adjacent to the ruins of the camp, watchful for ranchers bringing cake. Forge onward and you'll find the cavernous barn from the site's days as Old Camp Rucker Ranch, after it had been repurposed by area ranchers. (I will add a separate blog entry dealing solely with the camp's second life as a ranch, as it well deserves its own more-detailed treatment.)</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2KAGkRX0CtaPL8qDEcXVH_ORg46PJnzDv75XyLkP7sWs9f9SrInLdmvz3xrDo57wD8cL7ER3ndC4FnyV6o2k4SURuspyvNZ6dwZTM77FwxZYJ2Ellk7bVnxolrEKmsytyO-OQcwMeD6mksLItisdh2ddF-XaV31PmUOZz8EoQxTLrkiWSuXc0QdABk_w/s4608/DSCF3601.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2KAGkRX0CtaPL8qDEcXVH_ORg46PJnzDv75XyLkP7sWs9f9SrInLdmvz3xrDo57wD8cL7ER3ndC4FnyV6o2k4SURuspyvNZ6dwZTM77FwxZYJ2Ellk7bVnxolrEKmsytyO-OQcwMeD6mksLItisdh2ddF-XaV31PmUOZz8EoQxTLrkiWSuXc0QdABk_w/w640-h480/DSCF3601.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Old Camp Rucker Ranch Barn</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Surrounding the barn are oak trees, pine, and the stunning backdrop of the Chiricahua cliffs and outcroppings. This time of year - late October - the colors have just begun to turn. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj30yqP55HzUxqmkrtV-T_0fr7NfL29K-FO4YUVkp2ZCRVAm1D182Wt6yl73oeRfCyx7ySFbFUR2cXMBeERLQ0AlM3-_xjZ9PINMDsI5Fl2EnAxU0Hvp7BED6bLC3VIK8JxAyHHuTa5onzzd6ddVA56a3sB9s6RgHJU0i3EDwdLWvt_FD86fqnJGjG7-kg/s4608/DSCF3618.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj30yqP55HzUxqmkrtV-T_0fr7NfL29K-FO4YUVkp2ZCRVAm1D182Wt6yl73oeRfCyx7ySFbFUR2cXMBeERLQ0AlM3-_xjZ9PINMDsI5Fl2EnAxU0Hvp7BED6bLC3VIK8JxAyHHuTa5onzzd6ddVA56a3sB9s6RgHJU0i3EDwdLWvt_FD86fqnJGjG7-kg/w400-h300/DSCF3618.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Beyond the barn is a surprisingly-well preserved adobe structure shaded by oak trees. The roof is new to preserve the building, but the walls are the original adobe. This was the Officers Quarters, likely built in the 1880s. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNIiN5dkFnR12gSJX2RCO4XbcT-5FgJxOR7n4-IGHW-pTO0CsNVLLrIvIGBdVa2TjPbROrEkvnsyI4HmREqmP9Gv0uZB2jKEpvDK07x_G_EVobTw0imPXMGgfU9bWXhPAEHynlWgxEmtU7AXwBFuDpsSgkIappDWVlCmycIldjnZ0lTtzy3dRnq5rpubE/s4608/DSCF3621.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNIiN5dkFnR12gSJX2RCO4XbcT-5FgJxOR7n4-IGHW-pTO0CsNVLLrIvIGBdVa2TjPbROrEkvnsyI4HmREqmP9Gv0uZB2jKEpvDK07x_G_EVobTw0imPXMGgfU9bWXhPAEHynlWgxEmtU7AXwBFuDpsSgkIappDWVlCmycIldjnZ0lTtzy3dRnq5rpubE/w640-h480/DSCF3621.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Officers Quarters</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Unlike so many of Arizona's historic sites, the buildings at Camp Rucker are accessible: You can walk inside and admire the dappling of the sunlight through the porous rooftops, and sense the scale and feel of them. Inside the Officers Quarters is a surprisingly decorated ceiling, painted by one of the ranch wives after a marital occupation replaced the martial occupation.<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdBEiS22PJHwuIb-Pc8y3CUcSu4xjP1SrhutORX5_UO8vxWFRSl0DAwub-v9b_GYy07lLbhT9TvXY8nO_LY-pfDl1A0S5DdppnL9dWhKnUwc2-iZqPlyPSa2PBrpy-gy6RTR7a2_4FOlL-ZrzYBaVn5OZlrioT1Rv61XPUKG5TbOZZKNCJWJWv9buQios/s4608/DSCF3627.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdBEiS22PJHwuIb-Pc8y3CUcSu4xjP1SrhutORX5_UO8vxWFRSl0DAwub-v9b_GYy07lLbhT9TvXY8nO_LY-pfDl1A0S5DdppnL9dWhKnUwc2-iZqPlyPSa2PBrpy-gy6RTR7a2_4FOlL-ZrzYBaVn5OZlrioT1Rv61XPUKG5TbOZZKNCJWJWv9buQios/s320/DSCF3627.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Arizona Sistine: The Painted Ceilings of the One-Time Officers Quarters</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYcUeIPS5S-3wV2jhHrY8EshhFiL9vEOeeA2-uR_2c5Z22tCgkx6PzXGJgDBdMg7eV7rWpljifTKuCxkzTg99TQkdRewT1C_Ha5HdFg-L5XAJZ7i8UnR4ZqwhBPlhgRRDsS_cOTZEXkiZVFAJ8thIiksXzBgSxJ_EFbhSi9bbpRBApR7WzPDJ96ejLdto/s4608/DSCF3631.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYcUeIPS5S-3wV2jhHrY8EshhFiL9vEOeeA2-uR_2c5Z22tCgkx6PzXGJgDBdMg7eV7rWpljifTKuCxkzTg99TQkdRewT1C_Ha5HdFg-L5XAJZ7i8UnR4ZqwhBPlhgRRDsS_cOTZEXkiZVFAJ8thIiksXzBgSxJ_EFbhSi9bbpRBApR7WzPDJ96ejLdto/s320/DSCF3631.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Beyond the Officers Quarters, to the northwest, stands another well-preserved adobe. Adobe, formed of mud amended with straw and other organic matter, is susceptible to the ravages of wind and rain unless coated with a protective stucco surface. The adobe buildings at Camp Rucker remain uncoated, which offers a good opportunity to see the native material - but will ultimately result in their return to the soil from whence they were created. This adobe building was the camp bakery. </div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ0GFXSg8WBUf93RPgiupJxiQ2Daw1dq9DT4S2GmDcnCMWCJQeTXzLQSR0t0jCe_WoFB2dwi7O_Q833qu_PSrXK2BW4BrCojp9zyBbgvH7s1-hdrijwMGEBKUEvo2CpE4mSX0f3RmbljBa8ONPdngAUAo_9gfcFe2Q-0_bo_HYBlFaIJhWeapxef4AHko/s4608/DSCF3666.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ0GFXSg8WBUf93RPgiupJxiQ2Daw1dq9DT4S2GmDcnCMWCJQeTXzLQSR0t0jCe_WoFB2dwi7O_Q833qu_PSrXK2BW4BrCojp9zyBbgvH7s1-hdrijwMGEBKUEvo2CpE4mSX0f3RmbljBa8ONPdngAUAo_9gfcFe2Q-0_bo_HYBlFaIJhWeapxef4AHko/w400-h300/DSCF3666.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Camp Rucker Bakery</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Inside the bakery is the outline of the oven, a ghost hearth of sorts, reminiscent of the large medieval hearths that both warmed homes and provided cook space. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOHRpeB8KDz1kFIPv2kmcWY4K3s07I4bJ2Is7zgh0U6kKhA8R4cTB2Il2MHNObJM1PErPLZp7nXM2QvpsvQF6xd98txKoziiEJbns6oSsZ-BHkdcmKkIx446u6JlzZPFKKL6xfwJjW5tYZ5o7NYI5B7e8P2m7I9xulyeII6hMETM8p0U23t47a0AR9Y8/s4608/DSCF3656.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOHRpeB8KDz1kFIPv2kmcWY4K3s07I4bJ2Is7zgh0U6kKhA8R4cTB2Il2MHNObJM1PErPLZp7nXM2QvpsvQF6xd98txKoziiEJbns6oSsZ-BHkdcmKkIx446u6JlzZPFKKL6xfwJjW5tYZ5o7NYI5B7e8P2m7I9xulyeII6hMETM8p0U23t47a0AR9Y8/w400-h300/DSCF3656.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkquozSVMgNBDUah6cz6mgfpPOnk06FC0Ui9GirQKmqG18SyTVe3zqswIt_KAX1cobpni1Gw1Hbo1VwjXokKDHrZ3rlQ3odMuxD2wRykz1vxFjfX3_3YdghyphenhyphenAFQhgK7eB0hzSTlrQ41-s2Fkth3h94d6ePeGmnZatMRtStLiQlD7sEqdaMoWQ5ynOUzYA/s4608/DSCF3658.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkquozSVMgNBDUah6cz6mgfpPOnk06FC0Ui9GirQKmqG18SyTVe3zqswIt_KAX1cobpni1Gw1Hbo1VwjXokKDHrZ3rlQ3odMuxD2wRykz1vxFjfX3_3YdghyphenhyphenAFQhgK7eB0hzSTlrQ41-s2Fkth3h94d6ePeGmnZatMRtStLiQlD7sEqdaMoWQ5ynOUzYA/w400-h300/DSCF3658.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Outline of the oven at the Camp Rucker Bakery<br /><br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The roof and ceiling of the bakery have not been replaced with steel, and still feature the original wood shake shingles; the sunlight (and, on less perfect days, the rain) comes in easily. The sunlight today dropped like so many stars on the walls and floor in a dazzling feat of natural beauty. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63X1NjGQgjQiHP7LK96n4b69p4-YCkyBQIAiIL_DFPxIpsPWmjSToJ-6XPwxnrc8GjpIWvXw6TviEOG2e5omYc28MVKG9iY0rr2CV5WNSJMaJaEeI72xKWune7RfOWBzrFkce_ClKOerFt-5Vk_oEjqQl9w4wZ58OaUAteoU-spdOU2qXzXRJM4Otu3A/s4608/DSCF3654.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63X1NjGQgjQiHP7LK96n4b69p4-YCkyBQIAiIL_DFPxIpsPWmjSToJ-6XPwxnrc8GjpIWvXw6TviEOG2e5omYc28MVKG9iY0rr2CV5WNSJMaJaEeI72xKWune7RfOWBzrFkce_ClKOerFt-5Vk_oEjqQl9w4wZ58OaUAteoU-spdOU2qXzXRJM4Otu3A/w400-h300/DSCF3654.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yards from the bakery are the haunting remains of the original Commissary. The foundation and one corner of the walls are all that remain, a mournful footprint, since the building burned in 1921. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGbPTm8e8DBgMmsQgrQDK2jhXTwp3zpgcbDdVkRRbG-Ouw3uYuebcRUIiRwm2ob1ztPIVaYPRVNM5JIvFoM3Ba59bfQVW-EKqvnuZmyTzj7LLeCA6PSDfteOOM0BI9AmTJ-YN-cbaM1UYkDJ26_JXRb2tmhV3IBV7_f_61fYl5ajOhNFU-8wv7H-oaz3I/s4608/DSCF3650.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGbPTm8e8DBgMmsQgrQDK2jhXTwp3zpgcbDdVkRRbG-Ouw3uYuebcRUIiRwm2ob1ztPIVaYPRVNM5JIvFoM3Ba59bfQVW-EKqvnuZmyTzj7LLeCA6PSDfteOOM0BI9AmTJ-YN-cbaM1UYkDJ26_JXRb2tmhV3IBV7_f_61fYl5ajOhNFU-8wv7H-oaz3I/s320/DSCF3650.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-JV2yK07m9EMOFQr_2jc4VyEFS15UY_RU_qt6eDfi0O6eYxbPln71_l3yUhJIT0xMkbabnSCd5-IHjZs0PlfuK_nJKH6YdeVJtKCUX-dn5Zn9YXHALOqOqE1VjFU1dsT0ugBgsWFkFYXNZkDeNYY3_fLlOFiR8rg8uIGR1qYStznpNIK1Mp-PeeW2Joc/s4608/DSCF3649.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-JV2yK07m9EMOFQr_2jc4VyEFS15UY_RU_qt6eDfi0O6eYxbPln71_l3yUhJIT0xMkbabnSCd5-IHjZs0PlfuK_nJKH6YdeVJtKCUX-dn5Zn9YXHALOqOqE1VjFU1dsT0ugBgsWFkFYXNZkDeNYY3_fLlOFiR8rg8uIGR1qYStznpNIK1Mp-PeeW2Joc/s320/DSCF3649.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Zp59gJCzOlNXpkV0mDlNtXB3aPlo426ex43F6CdBz3a48lAnYhT39eNmWwf6kEy7EHJqNCSkWVJmHEhez625Es2APYRf5XoK4yxkJOgbiRPB6BG7xCxBVYWVUUfrl8WTWanzFWb6tVk2iCzW-fdkrBj_nVHuFuC6WNhlA7vNGf7atd4bg5OcSpsPuS4/s4608/DSCF3648.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Zp59gJCzOlNXpkV0mDlNtXB3aPlo426ex43F6CdBz3a48lAnYhT39eNmWwf6kEy7EHJqNCSkWVJmHEhez625Es2APYRf5XoK4yxkJOgbiRPB6BG7xCxBVYWVUUfrl8WTWanzFWb6tVk2iCzW-fdkrBj_nVHuFuC6WNhlA7vNGf7atd4bg5OcSpsPuS4/s320/DSCF3648.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW1DMMai35KnYMUHuiwXrdr0MvTNdrvlSXKIY7NoYlm2yeFunlc_-1z-oO2i5dmvJmtGKW5qai2W5GAU54stego9ZxTN9limbDw8Kb9vDK9cvszRZV1H3MEvFQRdTfX2Gqnv5_AsauyyMUx4b4bN9-ZYhCr241n6dbiK9McsbUfdBEilvwkFeAR43hyphenhyphenjc/s4608/DSCF3646.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW1DMMai35KnYMUHuiwXrdr0MvTNdrvlSXKIY7NoYlm2yeFunlc_-1z-oO2i5dmvJmtGKW5qai2W5GAU54stego9ZxTN9limbDw8Kb9vDK9cvszRZV1H3MEvFQRdTfX2Gqnv5_AsauyyMUx4b4bN9-ZYhCr241n6dbiK9McsbUfdBEilvwkFeAR43hyphenhyphenjc/s320/DSCF3646.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDNq3Vy8aF1HY0SoWBAwXTPcVf2Bc2laGS3Sdj113LHkABnYyxFnwo_2ffX_Gi618hzH5GkF7-XbNh7yAk5JFsHheN2P4EccvRGIlWfkeLSI9nXQ6gqPqwu6zwkS-3AHs9bfMjZ91lVamRia4pgVg3vGSeddBrSKl3WC8L6_GhmgR3EoaByKGLgU7r4S8/s4608/DSCF3643.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDNq3Vy8aF1HY0SoWBAwXTPcVf2Bc2laGS3Sdj113LHkABnYyxFnwo_2ffX_Gi618hzH5GkF7-XbNh7yAk5JFsHheN2P4EccvRGIlWfkeLSI9nXQ6gqPqwu6zwkS-3AHs9bfMjZ91lVamRia4pgVg3vGSeddBrSKl3WC8L6_GhmgR3EoaByKGLgU7r4S8/s320/DSCF3643.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The final building you will find at the old camp / ranch site is the ranch house of those who followed the military - the Hampes, the Raks, and Mrs. Dana - and despite the toll the years and elements have taken, you can still imagine the cozy loveliness of it. Again, I'll go into the ranch owners separately, but include a couple of photos here in keeping with the "as it stands" theme.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqqKSZF97Hxsp3vwNgZeY0tv_tcImDL9Gwr-MCnkp6QxQ4WLoWcYk7gCVIVqaAaZKgEEQRCAuWGTWKdxJO0J-uOs47icsJESZGNyP2bVSA6GTJrhwfWFsX9CItBefu_7KBin45tKnVlMAvrv8eiTYv3V00m5XkkYCxKzb8cTt4MkXntK5AXZStj6Ch6LQ/s4608/DSCF3699.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqqKSZF97Hxsp3vwNgZeY0tv_tcImDL9Gwr-MCnkp6QxQ4WLoWcYk7gCVIVqaAaZKgEEQRCAuWGTWKdxJO0J-uOs47icsJESZGNyP2bVSA6GTJrhwfWFsX9CItBefu_7KBin45tKnVlMAvrv8eiTYv3V00m5XkkYCxKzb8cTt4MkXntK5AXZStj6Ch6LQ/s320/DSCF3699.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlaxEa7P3hOucJAacfi-nP3pBeUOJ1O9BxWI6dOe53ayUoy_JRz8TiAfD8B6J6ht7LTN3IipKvgy__CayZ9VEqAGPPA71XzaaUxXA_eyxPNLugMjm1VGSbN47Fs8M-vt70XFWErtjSVOwZzbvcm9HPbVugiJFbotO9yJInElnR4l4sbEkpOg1NhAvoF3g/s4608/DSCF3704.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlaxEa7P3hOucJAacfi-nP3pBeUOJ1O9BxWI6dOe53ayUoy_JRz8TiAfD8B6J6ht7LTN3IipKvgy__CayZ9VEqAGPPA71XzaaUxXA_eyxPNLugMjm1VGSbN47Fs8M-vt70XFWErtjSVOwZzbvcm9HPbVugiJFbotO9yJInElnR4l4sbEkpOg1NhAvoF3g/s320/DSCF3704.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fe1ovQWgdnSSHTmPevRem1XQwoQWzjGt569yKFf2KiJmNmfa-aC-rII3qf82uLWYBBITDvvcfqU0qAdXi8A8raOBSo-pCh8eN6hEAeHD88UEUxehdO3BPxQrwhEs9WGA0_8ODUbZ9dU95oBLEflXMnMmfk3au1EMmXIGT8iXCCs6IV9TW3qMu3e9ARY/s4608/DSCF3712.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fe1ovQWgdnSSHTmPevRem1XQwoQWzjGt569yKFf2KiJmNmfa-aC-rII3qf82uLWYBBITDvvcfqU0qAdXi8A8raOBSo-pCh8eN6hEAeHD88UEUxehdO3BPxQrwhEs9WGA0_8ODUbZ9dU95oBLEflXMnMmfk3au1EMmXIGT8iXCCs6IV9TW3qMu3e9ARY/s320/DSCF3712.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi04Ig0L6IgUU8mU4XCrhWdNUe8QZlF4GZ4DLXJ6XWkt3S4u2yUojzhnqLuPOUwH3ZrTB-4Ag_pDM6uZRU1NaVFr14WY0gklj5pB0CDG36jfy00yBxuV6LJ9HM7uIPmUeJ6Ln-3w60Ju93PhhhoDFZuLO49mpToZpIJHz3b4MZoDrVrpgANOW51hb_guq4/s4608/DSCF3701.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi04Ig0L6IgUU8mU4XCrhWdNUe8QZlF4GZ4DLXJ6XWkt3S4u2yUojzhnqLuPOUwH3ZrTB-4Ag_pDM6uZRU1NaVFr14WY0gklj5pB0CDG36jfy00yBxuV6LJ9HM7uIPmUeJ6Ln-3w60Ju93PhhhoDFZuLO49mpToZpIJHz3b4MZoDrVrpgANOW51hb_guq4/s320/DSCF3701.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhHZaS-aVgC4_ukFi6ec8Yb6RqJ7N4x6vRL56YrOZB1QaC91WhxMDvs1yfwO9j0qNDc6qJqShvFJaMiCTrs98b84zuCYLqawAA39hR9o1w4Z9DxsBhcSWyrpKGyA4pfrHy2itbQ1I_7Nn9RCs7-uXyDlImw6L3Dq2l1FFEeSW8NqiQfIhucfgJSdD9TzA/s4608/DSCF3720.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhHZaS-aVgC4_ukFi6ec8Yb6RqJ7N4x6vRL56YrOZB1QaC91WhxMDvs1yfwO9j0qNDc6qJqShvFJaMiCTrs98b84zuCYLqawAA39hR9o1w4Z9DxsBhcSWyrpKGyA4pfrHy2itbQ1I_7Nn9RCs7-uXyDlImw6L3Dq2l1FFEeSW8NqiQfIhucfgJSdD9TzA/s320/DSCF3720.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Again, we're fortunate to be able to walk through these doors, just as the ranchers did, and see the view through the windows they once looked from. The ranch house was reinforced by the adobe bricks salvaged from the ruins of the Commissary, used to fortify the occupants from the cold winters in the mountains.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Although it is a weekend, we encountered only one other group of visitors during our time at Rucker today; a family on foot from the nearby campgrounds. Even the children toted rifles; it is hunting season, after all.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Never tiring of the vast vistas as you drop down from the mountains, we opted to leave via Tex Canyon Road east to US Highway 80, a sixteen-mile trek on dirt roads. Despite the warning about risking tire damage posted as we embarked, the road was easily passable - rough in spots with loose rocks, but otherwise in fine shape. I'm not sure I'd want to take it during a monsoon, but other than the knuckleheads who set camp ON the road itself, it was an easy route that brought us onto the road to either Douglas or Apache. Below are photos of selected parts of Tex Canyon Road as you enter the San Simon Valley and back onto paved roads.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwOuHzwdf3C9S177jRgbqpcj-a9qKsGegWemWk0CD2E5kjSPNolifqMXl2Gw0DfVK-BzmXIoiR5TpHO5g9MquKdOua2sMc1PmE0rqWjqGXHnbSMyUJeHfnac31QytcwM8oYCvwMC3_SxKkkWdSw9V9AOcA9cvAoxNveUobwP8cjZyeoU36h-JZBJwgtA/s4608/DSCF3748.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwOuHzwdf3C9S177jRgbqpcj-a9qKsGegWemWk0CD2E5kjSPNolifqMXl2Gw0DfVK-BzmXIoiR5TpHO5g9MquKdOua2sMc1PmE0rqWjqGXHnbSMyUJeHfnac31QytcwM8oYCvwMC3_SxKkkWdSw9V9AOcA9cvAoxNveUobwP8cjZyeoU36h-JZBJwgtA/s320/DSCF3748.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLOy1Emv3bDKD9QGGMmiM9Xt_V_l1ljqUj0bu4ENS046TB0jb5tz7bDWQop8KvokuAefTTDGPDlDeINzwP_RlOzqnDhofAgUJ0eFPAkjj_WAAFDPm6ETfRxAYkbdwC-OOaV119UMXH3URaMXIsh3-qImYcz5wbj0m7xSkXBK3gSv49trA-CqNiN4EOXGA/s4608/DSCF3749.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLOy1Emv3bDKD9QGGMmiM9Xt_V_l1ljqUj0bu4ENS046TB0jb5tz7bDWQop8KvokuAefTTDGPDlDeINzwP_RlOzqnDhofAgUJ0eFPAkjj_WAAFDPm6ETfRxAYkbdwC-OOaV119UMXH3URaMXIsh3-qImYcz5wbj0m7xSkXBK3gSv49trA-CqNiN4EOXGA/s320/DSCF3749.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcONgNXDkZN9BSAMKuEUcHBpaT4rr4dSz6mdE4E7gDuAI9lzNvzapTbMTS1Z1XfhRZe7QE2jm3SjZi1Aq2XF60sKGW8qhmR5QgTeMqHN-NoMeWx1S1gPItk4ra8zKAhWXb5UxAAU-0R6d6rWYWlAx6eqDDqhdPXI991Mps0JNlBX47KPlJYGtudNlk0lQ/s4608/DSCF3750.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcONgNXDkZN9BSAMKuEUcHBpaT4rr4dSz6mdE4E7gDuAI9lzNvzapTbMTS1Z1XfhRZe7QE2jm3SjZi1Aq2XF60sKGW8qhmR5QgTeMqHN-NoMeWx1S1gPItk4ra8zKAhWXb5UxAAU-0R6d6rWYWlAx6eqDDqhdPXI991Mps0JNlBX47KPlJYGtudNlk0lQ/s320/DSCF3750.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrZsrnHcsOHJkVQMKqjAy7_SPjW-L_aLWM6zMFqU9CO2CheeJNl9tnaguVkhM3-5KWNyeXhfVNgdLb2sRq3GYFN_5urwQsYLrOpVDFUI7oo4rDyCnpIBfyrBikYLXbzC6EAtx9eK8OJ86nfuEiqtGM92rUSkOEVzntWybd8icDL5HSMWMi8qnSHczJEYA/s4608/DSCF3751.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrZsrnHcsOHJkVQMKqjAy7_SPjW-L_aLWM6zMFqU9CO2CheeJNl9tnaguVkhM3-5KWNyeXhfVNgdLb2sRq3GYFN_5urwQsYLrOpVDFUI7oo4rDyCnpIBfyrBikYLXbzC6EAtx9eK8OJ86nfuEiqtGM92rUSkOEVzntWybd8icDL5HSMWMi8qnSHczJEYA/s320/DSCF3751.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKokqeLcoXcW9T1ewUVHFMrFx3UNsV4qJeWEjkXxiI58KebQrqpLzBf4Xm8r7eUSSW91kjG9f-YADsBSAdS0VW8BY9lOYOEYExQpAtK9WG15SQ_eiIwRkxeGl0d9H-Gu76E-Gd-JNqewVt0qcqyli1Uf7-Abqg81dAv01ZNgyTbWdgvrAVtQqPQqzPkvk/s4608/DSCF3754.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKokqeLcoXcW9T1ewUVHFMrFx3UNsV4qJeWEjkXxiI58KebQrqpLzBf4Xm8r7eUSSW91kjG9f-YADsBSAdS0VW8BY9lOYOEYExQpAtK9WG15SQ_eiIwRkxeGl0d9H-Gu76E-Gd-JNqewVt0qcqyli1Uf7-Abqg81dAv01ZNgyTbWdgvrAVtQqPQqzPkvk/s320/DSCF3754.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><b>If you go:</b> Take water and weather-appropriate clothing, including a jacket, in case of emergency. There are no facilities at Camp Rucker or along the road to Hwy 80, and you will not have reliable cell phone service or Onstar. There is, however, a ranger station and campground on Rucker Canyon Road north and west of Camp Rucker historic site; to access it, backtrack along Tex Canyon Road and proceed north. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright (c) 2023 Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content, including photographs, may be shared without the express written permission of the author * Sharing the links to this page, however, would be greatly appreciated * Thank you for stopping by!</div>Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-14145417299446723372023-08-24T18:14:00.002-07:002023-08-24T18:39:28.701-07:00Lunch Trip to Patagonia's Velvet Elvis<p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwKorSZDf__8cmeHXScRNWgHjUj2tiNsC-dNp9p6DV8hie623DAKJvx9IGUl7UHJsSDqDe9Oz-HwzHEIteFGZBfG_xj-8htYmPOYkamtlzcuyq3U5YJXmYVpO8UCCGQkKt_53RPGVcIZaVHJDglLXzJQ2V0gjplnaNkw10WADuiKljZYLA1Kqpss_VO6A/s4608/DSCF2890.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwKorSZDf__8cmeHXScRNWgHjUj2tiNsC-dNp9p6DV8hie623DAKJvx9IGUl7UHJsSDqDe9Oz-HwzHEIteFGZBfG_xj-8htYmPOYkamtlzcuyq3U5YJXmYVpO8UCCGQkKt_53RPGVcIZaVHJDglLXzJQ2V0gjplnaNkw10WADuiKljZYLA1Kqpss_VO6A/w400-h300/DSCF2890.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Pizza, that most essential token of affection from the oft-hostile universe, is hard to come by in my area. Good pizza, that is. The soulless chain outlets provide what can only be described as Bowling Alley Pizza; the pre-made offerings at local saloons and cafes are dismal offerings that, should they be offered in sacrifice to the Pagan Pizza Gods, would only result in the vengeful end of humankind. The occasional standout offers good pizza, but without much charm. But drive out a bit further, past the vineyards of Sonoita and Elgin, and to the perfectly adorable hamlet of Patagonia, and you will find truly great pizza and ambience to match.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrVQGPtlZQDYJDjj2NZhNIdhhkzMFN6KdjVBgBHc4Oi9vhIelVqv1iRJ3jecmOGz1ECdeqgeffriylbJIpbeDJy3RwNIpmye-8IGP2a2mPHG2fVZejNLwd5Vn_C5o1OLvl_9qCVA_O5PNJALeq22xizubtEkkPDqE2rjmuru3-OILTWze_NPu_aEhmElg/s4608/DSCF2879.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrVQGPtlZQDYJDjj2NZhNIdhhkzMFN6KdjVBgBHc4Oi9vhIelVqv1iRJ3jecmOGz1ECdeqgeffriylbJIpbeDJy3RwNIpmye-8IGP2a2mPHG2fVZejNLwd5Vn_C5o1OLvl_9qCVA_O5PNJALeq22xizubtEkkPDqE2rjmuru3-OILTWze_NPu_aEhmElg/w400-h300/DSCF2879.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Housed in its new location in a restored 1915 saloon called the Big Steer, Velvet Elvis has larger quarters now made to resemble a peaceful mission. These adobe walls were once crumbling, but have, Phoenix-like, risen from the dust. Within, the restaurant pays homage to art, the triumph of good over evil, South American culture, Frida Kahlo, the archangel Michael, snakes, jaguars, and tropical plants - and it all blends seamlessly into a serene and joyful place to grab tapas, a margarita, or ... most importantly ... damned fine pizza.<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXjC6DUkfDm4-3B8EqcLLaAKdzBJZzD6DsH2qUOKWCZWvxcwf0p4073fBvQePwKzOAzxMcAPMf_0TzapILcidzZ5AMxggkn8OVihmZ_g9Qh-0x0oBnNFB2rzbRiHiRtmswPs77xw51VnIFdP3ZixSXoizCRcz2gpclA8iFmQx8SZ56Cn9fyO9xC4aSNQ/s4608/DSCF2867.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXjC6DUkfDm4-3B8EqcLLaAKdzBJZzD6DsH2qUOKWCZWvxcwf0p4073fBvQePwKzOAzxMcAPMf_0TzapILcidzZ5AMxggkn8OVihmZ_g9Qh-0x0oBnNFB2rzbRiHiRtmswPs77xw51VnIFdP3ZixSXoizCRcz2gpclA8iFmQx8SZ56Cn9fyO9xC4aSNQ/w640-h480/DSCF2867.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>A portion of the mural depicting a South American Eden, complete with snake, and a chieftain I assume to be Moctezuma. Other parts of the mural, which graces the barroom, include jaguars, toucans, and the Tree of Life.</i></span><br /><br /><br /> </td></tr></tbody></table>While enjoying your meal, absorb the good-over-evil icons: Archangel Michael slaying a goblin; an armored Archangel Michael carved of wood in larger-than-life scale, wielding a staff of vengeance; cherubs and Marian images gracing the walls; the mission-like vaulted ceiling; candles of offering; and an elaborately-painted vast snake that coils at the ceiling-wall juncture around the entirety of the dining room. <div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV3Oveeq2xnMtFgdz8gzP9mJ9bn8gRoh-JttaIXtd5dhr3G2YOKA3kCTnqGXrSttFZwLVX7cf1-_I1JP_848f2qkufOPBxykIEGRZEt_b7Q6LpspgFRPoKCcM_fzVeAguXvLMgNNOR4vxY7FLriqq141FgVEg0XJ8awJ5kOPRri0zAO-f_w5bygei_rfU/s4608/DSCF2874.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV3Oveeq2xnMtFgdz8gzP9mJ9bn8gRoh-JttaIXtd5dhr3G2YOKA3kCTnqGXrSttFZwLVX7cf1-_I1JP_848f2qkufOPBxykIEGRZEt_b7Q6LpspgFRPoKCcM_fzVeAguXvLMgNNOR4vxY7FLriqq141FgVEg0XJ8awJ5kOPRri0zAO-f_w5bygei_rfU/w400-h300/DSCF2874.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Study of the carved Archangel Michael.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div>And there are other heroes, prominently displayed, as well: Frida Kahlo appears repeatedly, alongside butterflies or small tropical monkeys. Above the gorgeous wood-grain of the bar back hang paintings of Sugar Ray Leonard and John Wayne to each side and, front and center, the restaurant's namesake: a Velvet Elvis. As a child, visiting Nogales just across the border, I remember entire shops devoted to velvet paintings: Mustangs running out of the very fabric; dogs playing poker; Marilyn Monroe; and .... of course, Elvis.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNMcesMTxlX98nVpSsTVJU1ZhrnxZLBcPIrQoEf-mtCAmDdVmJqWV94OxzOL5xU9nksm84CAPQ2l83KOJK3-5W1eGw33SeGVqwyziDe4syPEc4AudFqqObF1NBcRdpOqNr3jx9OdYqVwsDMpadS9DNfd2B51o2b7cmzoSrgWqTCB_9T37-Js-JEmxUXF0/s4608/DSCF2872.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNMcesMTxlX98nVpSsTVJU1ZhrnxZLBcPIrQoEf-mtCAmDdVmJqWV94OxzOL5xU9nksm84CAPQ2l83KOJK3-5W1eGw33SeGVqwyziDe4syPEc4AudFqqObF1NBcRdpOqNr3jx9OdYqVwsDMpadS9DNfd2B51o2b7cmzoSrgWqTCB_9T37-Js-JEmxUXF0/w400-h300/DSCF2872.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /><p>But back to the pizza. The menu offers a variety of "Designer Pizzas," with sumptuous southwestern-influenced ingredients from cilantro to jalapeños. For the gluten-avoidant, the smaller pizzas can be made with almond flour. To satisfy my months-long craving, though, I needed a classic: a large mushroom pepperoni. It was exactly as pizza should be: a crust doughy and fresh, tomato sauce where you can taste the sweetness of the tomatoes themselves, and a wonderfully gooey cheese, applied liberally. It was the answer to my lengthy search, covering literally hundreds of miles across southeastern Arizona, and truly the stuff of pizza dreams.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3NUcmEtj_x9OCgSfbrcj3zHXdjBtijbGFJjhog4iuIvz4Q-5IJRTNqvDBR71f74R5a_OS1QgITgerol8_-vcUMJBQvN6c7DLsAa6cXN1bmKlWC9t0NzF4O7WZfSQFTqbXV-VGKWaB6ozBjpmGkhus7LHlCoKd5Z_vJ8zL2fYqOPLZuDV3zqxls_eGg_I/s4608/DSCF2869.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3NUcmEtj_x9OCgSfbrcj3zHXdjBtijbGFJjhog4iuIvz4Q-5IJRTNqvDBR71f74R5a_OS1QgITgerol8_-vcUMJBQvN6c7DLsAa6cXN1bmKlWC9t0NzF4O7WZfSQFTqbXV-VGKWaB6ozBjpmGkhus7LHlCoKd5Z_vJ8zL2fYqOPLZuDV3zqxls_eGg_I/w400-h300/DSCF2869.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Filling myself on outstanding pizza, watched over by blue-lit cherubs and the Virgin Mary, and partaking in excellent conversation with a friend too-seldom seen, made for the perfect afternoon.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJB3bDkxw04OEDqanOlLMJx2vcj-V4NIu9PP4kTKGQDS9gP1U8qccDGefaq3KlFfMMtZobLzoHEIjHL29OUrV42KnOgMWdxHC3DZNXLilOsDuQ-ciPtOTWPe9gLrnuaJvKnTtxXoXVn0rfYrmUNLafL0iNnmG2VkJAA2AunVZWbSmWm_WYiXByDv0d2Q/s4608/DSCF2876.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJB3bDkxw04OEDqanOlLMJx2vcj-V4NIu9PP4kTKGQDS9gP1U8qccDGefaq3KlFfMMtZobLzoHEIjHL29OUrV42KnOgMWdxHC3DZNXLilOsDuQ-ciPtOTWPe9gLrnuaJvKnTtxXoXVn0rfYrmUNLafL0iNnmG2VkJAA2AunVZWbSmWm_WYiXByDv0d2Q/s320/DSCF2876.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>A few doors down we stopped in at the Patagonia Trading Post, a shop filled with treasures crafted by local and international artisans and books of local interest and - best of all! - a shop cat named Oreo. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIF4XiZy1KQ3ugv6d0GFQNxQKRYJNB158xHNasJjxmDKW3GAkeV-puF4UqGciJ-Ul1po-NeW06aptIwzxdjqWIgdBO9d61i3DgXljVDJQaXDoIytUIDb2Ik841LwTnrUhWCJ3689CwS-UUsQjz7Ff0TnnyY54eCvyY3QekOdlvQ1XPXNGYWgBObPoL-pY/s4608/DSCF2892.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIF4XiZy1KQ3ugv6d0GFQNxQKRYJNB158xHNasJjxmDKW3GAkeV-puF4UqGciJ-Ul1po-NeW06aptIwzxdjqWIgdBO9d61i3DgXljVDJQaXDoIytUIDb2Ik841LwTnrUhWCJ3689CwS-UUsQjz7Ff0TnnyY54eCvyY3QekOdlvQ1XPXNGYWgBObPoL-pY/s320/DSCF2892.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Oreo's favorite hiding places - Saguaro-shaped cat beds; cat baskets; other fluffy nooks - fit in almost indiscernibly on the shelves filled with candles, artwork, hand-felted toys, and objets d'art too vast and variable to recall. Here, a rack of native plant seeds, beautifully packaged; feet away, a comfy cat bed. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK_EllJWboqmTHCC4gprgBzBPGsL6zm5ZPw4Mno-ULL_Lf9b0JwBi2q2xul8NnO5EtavKP6Id2fyBn4vnqzFR9aEs0edCFPPkmLZ2VDy_t7yAJ7ZiVoIQQ9iZrXvO1pIcD8YGgt5o2tWNzthvTCEBwtWxxAkkKuvJ_X5Wdr8tIxlq94kdv0EG9FGvYwe4/s3761/DSCF2889.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="3761" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK_EllJWboqmTHCC4gprgBzBPGsL6zm5ZPw4Mno-ULL_Lf9b0JwBi2q2xul8NnO5EtavKP6Id2fyBn4vnqzFR9aEs0edCFPPkmLZ2VDy_t7yAJ7ZiVoIQQ9iZrXvO1pIcD8YGgt5o2tWNzthvTCEBwtWxxAkkKuvJ_X5Wdr8tIxlq94kdv0EG9FGvYwe4/s320/DSCF2889.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Oreo, shop cat, on the job.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Armed with books and (amazingly) resisting the temptation of so many other goodies, my friend and I moved on. As we'd driven to Patagonia, another place called out to me: The Meading Room outside of Sonoita. Vineyards and wine-tasting outlets grace the serene foothills throughout the area, but mead? My familiarity and attraction to mead has largely been a literary and historical one; from meads mentioned in Chaucer to the meads of Medieval history, I'm aware of their lengthy place in the world of fermented spirits, but I've never <i>tasted </i>the stuff. Unlike wine, which relies on fermented grapes, mead is a fermented <i>honey </i>beverage. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh61CJxpOvITBMlZ-FzoIEP8QMUb0Ip2IOl14s99rcNvh-prsx4ijoiNy7L19JlXAfNViBZwUP74rZw8q8AN-U77EumEl7Y69dU7CIuVTjNXG-Ei8kmsivQF6BXuxvHEM_d-48JRefcNn0VdTLrs7K_2f8rIyWDEGOTqicRLdeWFZ5KY639tFdfph_MfPY/s4608/DSCF2901.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh61CJxpOvITBMlZ-FzoIEP8QMUb0Ip2IOl14s99rcNvh-prsx4ijoiNy7L19JlXAfNViBZwUP74rZw8q8AN-U77EumEl7Y69dU7CIuVTjNXG-Ei8kmsivQF6BXuxvHEM_d-48JRefcNn0VdTLrs7K_2f8rIyWDEGOTqicRLdeWFZ5KY639tFdfph_MfPY/s320/DSCF2901.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p>The Meading Room is a play on words for the mead hand-crafted onsite as well as the corner of the mead room lined with bookshelves and featuring cozy chairs where a weary traveler can take a break, sip a cider or a mead, and read until restored - or meet (mead!) with friends. The mead room also offers shelves of tasteful artsy gifts and souvenirs, from T-shirts and watercolor dots to, well, mead. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zO6qhJAzDjX9VQ0X-k8-MzaKPou9FaUfzu_H6UHgc6y7ZR-RzN078NQT454GpWHgMStooLx7zX98X5R1dbIOpcxocIe87ZYTltjf2mLv4g0nh9ltU87xJs7ctLWV2gdIlRvdKlRtEKRaQsEeQdLyeFnVDaKU4ZB9ftFuW64XeE9Kn75dDi2kHdjAsqk/s4608/DSCF2896.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zO6qhJAzDjX9VQ0X-k8-MzaKPou9FaUfzu_H6UHgc6y7ZR-RzN078NQT454GpWHgMStooLx7zX98X5R1dbIOpcxocIe87ZYTltjf2mLv4g0nh9ltU87xJs7ctLWV2gdIlRvdKlRtEKRaQsEeQdLyeFnVDaKU4ZB9ftFuW64XeE9Kn75dDi2kHdjAsqk/s320/DSCF2896.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>I tasted three varieties of the many offerings at the Meading Room; first, a lavender and pear offering; next, a ginger bubbling variety called Ziggy's; and finally, a new offering that isn't yet bottled (waiting on labels to be printed) but is available behind the bar. The lavender used in the products at the Meading Room is grown on-site, along with other herbs in an immaculate, picture-perfect garden outside the building. As a sucker for anything ginger, though, I left with a bottle of Ziggy's. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsEWoWtAqv5_GirffEk-hXF023ovTuDZZVKooJ8sRw8z4h2mVXw54WxeGmduxnqQ0xSFj3vhBndCtq0BCm2uf_BK9wJRft-2-GXdnv9QZZR7XOu6-d7Cp4K39lv2pv1ukp6HyixjUGq8pNW8hRRisT_hotanA2V-aTUFAJutSw4MScbmEuY4iSLgJESXY/s4608/DSCF2909.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsEWoWtAqv5_GirffEk-hXF023ovTuDZZVKooJ8sRw8z4h2mVXw54WxeGmduxnqQ0xSFj3vhBndCtq0BCm2uf_BK9wJRft-2-GXdnv9QZZR7XOu6-d7Cp4K39lv2pv1ukp6HyixjUGq8pNW8hRRisT_hotanA2V-aTUFAJutSw4MScbmEuY4iSLgJESXY/s320/DSCF2909.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Note the alcohol content on the label: 8.5%. Mead is notable for its high ABV. The stronger the honey flavor in standard ("sack") meads, the higher the alcohol content. There are lower-ABV meads and "seltzer" meads, but if I'm going to go for the closet thing to original, I'm going to go for the standard. It'll be the perfect accompaniment for revisiting Beowulf and the Canterbury Tales. </p><p>On the rolling hills behind the Meading Room, antelope watched us come and go. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggy82duBKR4EChGG91Uuq8sQ65FN4Nep5Tl-OTwA2qomhn0tT7cP5yEqAY5VTRmKlBQxO4H1j1IKH3T6om19GtFffGvNJFGUca64NGWBcpVinMtWSxH2EqjLvsMnb1NxXtmL6IC80bkuHQ2cgNiKZ5XDgqEkoL0U_UeXTwqzlJgUo2p5XDCRPSm-vWaYE/s4608/DSCF2894.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggy82duBKR4EChGG91Uuq8sQ65FN4Nep5Tl-OTwA2qomhn0tT7cP5yEqAY5VTRmKlBQxO4H1j1IKH3T6om19GtFffGvNJFGUca64NGWBcpVinMtWSxH2EqjLvsMnb1NxXtmL6IC80bkuHQ2cgNiKZ5XDgqEkoL0U_UeXTwqzlJgUo2p5XDCRPSm-vWaYE/w400-h300/DSCF2894.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Antelope sentinels under storm clouds behind The Meading Room.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><br /><p>Pizza, mead, antelope, local art, visiting locally-owned places that are clearly passion projects, and driving historically-rich and visually-stunning roads ... no better way to spend an afternoon. If you go, here are some helpful links:</p><p>Velvet Elvis: <a href="https://www.velvetelvislamision.com/">https://www.velvetelvislamision.com/</a></p><p>The Meading Room: <a href="https://www.themeadingroom.com/">https://www.themeadingroom.com/</a></p><p>Enjoy your visit (and the cooler climate than Tucson or Phoenix!) and don't forget to give scritches to Oreo!</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright (c) 2023 Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content, including photographs, may be used without the express permission of the author * Links, however, may be freely shared and are greatly appreciated * Thank you for stopping by!</span></p><p><br /></p></div>Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-73832916513113120912023-08-06T16:00:00.001-07:002023-08-06T16:00:57.045-07:00Journey to Rucker Lake<p> It's too hot to ride, too hot to drive T-posts - so what better day for a refreshing trip to Rucker Lake, just over an hour's drive away? </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVrNS2qLqOlx30FnE0h88hBGGV8HDwOrpHIG4_9sPFVw0Xf9tZpJ7hW1O15xuqYGX2yibuhchuHK0FlKYNJeirMAbRmg8R6s4BxZR9p-pRxAkeRQLo3Gf-_m4BrS8FvJWJU4DVrGBwVygLZ7Ockv97PK3FR7NXVyANwDxJzyp-rvNvC0GEc4ptIN5rNkU/s4608/DSCF2708.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVrNS2qLqOlx30FnE0h88hBGGV8HDwOrpHIG4_9sPFVw0Xf9tZpJ7hW1O15xuqYGX2yibuhchuHK0FlKYNJeirMAbRmg8R6s4BxZR9p-pRxAkeRQLo3Gf-_m4BrS8FvJWJU4DVrGBwVygLZ7Ockv97PK3FR7NXVyANwDxJzyp-rvNvC0GEc4ptIN5rNkU/w640-h480/DSCF2708.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>So, after a leisurely breakfast at Sandy's Cafe in Sunizona, we turned onto Rucker Canyon Road at the Border Patrol checkpoint and headed east. We'd already passed the orchards, the grain bins, the fields of towering corn north of Elfrida. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixUSF9bt6rVUx4-8ddiN5u05KBYSl-p_91W8Bfr7YKsK4TTm10rHMOfBXbCb-wmN4Mq4oYILMijI2t_2RjbKkLRMRToo0i5oz0oDH-n57cd_4bfLFBfvl008DA7n5y7a4YZHuPBI9Wr0IxBmUGgBbHgpwdO8qpTdjli-QNaBosh5yt0ef93mILDtBQyt4/s4608/DSCF2737.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixUSF9bt6rVUx4-8ddiN5u05KBYSl-p_91W8Bfr7YKsK4TTm10rHMOfBXbCb-wmN4Mq4oYILMijI2t_2RjbKkLRMRToo0i5oz0oDH-n57cd_4bfLFBfvl008DA7n5y7a4YZHuPBI9Wr0IxBmUGgBbHgpwdO8qpTdjli-QNaBosh5yt0ef93mILDtBQyt4/w400-h300/DSCF2737.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLuJis-4lCJoot88WFc5FsjX2lUwShVL6C3CfW95NWEUkBpPs-ERTudSVfWpniXgvFNJ0JoeWDN4dCM6LTeZVEDZRhjW-flTkS5eXzZ307B3VqFfgpCHBvs9FP9kSMFipvk_ejcD10VOfJsFFppaH5zLKjGnugpzNdSeAm6dAp93fLk5AIsfVjkSjElaM/s4608/DSCF2732.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLuJis-4lCJoot88WFc5FsjX2lUwShVL6C3CfW95NWEUkBpPs-ERTudSVfWpniXgvFNJ0JoeWDN4dCM6LTeZVEDZRhjW-flTkS5eXzZ307B3VqFfgpCHBvs9FP9kSMFipvk_ejcD10VOfJsFFppaH5zLKjGnugpzNdSeAm6dAp93fLk5AIsfVjkSjElaM/w400-h300/DSCF2732.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Once we hit Rucker Canyon Road, the landscape began to shift back to rolling hills as we climbed out of the valley. Although we're full-on monsoon season right now, it's been a disappointing "Nonsoon" so far, and it's a parched land - but we hit water in a few creek crossings. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN_frduBLSuikby6YgecJT5i40YqK2heAaJCnEjl6HrpOuz3pipn5t95Txb8fckFMVE3-X4DXpPw7ZZ0SWYviFAhhNIuJPAyUFgnoDFL-xDHJGJp0D-rL3-3xoXvfWSam7p5e6a3sd3ZK69qRSFOPHnx9ze2xVURHzgY7Lm49jbPAEPjmr9KkYvEe9XfA/s4608/DSCF2697.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN_frduBLSuikby6YgecJT5i40YqK2heAaJCnEjl6HrpOuz3pipn5t95Txb8fckFMVE3-X4DXpPw7ZZ0SWYviFAhhNIuJPAyUFgnoDFL-xDHJGJp0D-rL3-3xoXvfWSam7p5e6a3sd3ZK69qRSFOPHnx9ze2xVURHzgY7Lm49jbPAEPjmr9KkYvEe9XfA/s320/DSCF2697.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP0OdGYoLjT09DxJZ_Y4exTYIAWrZf7FsP0h8aoegyTooxEZiZ5Ip5Y3KFaIfpnpnDIcUnu2I2Opz5ydk7KZq0MFNgpVqEaQY-tatwQ3GMCBxE5Px16M0trRIFHjV_EJS871xP29a0t-s1nEs49Zdu7axfQOIKIap7UcU_b0VbogwxGpu9CaCUgLRufeE/s4608/DSCF2700.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP0OdGYoLjT09DxJZ_Y4exTYIAWrZf7FsP0h8aoegyTooxEZiZ5Ip5Y3KFaIfpnpnDIcUnu2I2Opz5ydk7KZq0MFNgpVqEaQY-tatwQ3GMCBxE5Px16M0trRIFHjV_EJS871xP29a0t-s1nEs49Zdu7axfQOIKIap7UcU_b0VbogwxGpu9CaCUgLRufeE/s320/DSCF2700.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit6rWKDjhwm9CdH8EoqVainWKL20gkWRoi8gqE9jPWbGVv0I9mINEk-_TDNKHPFB-pvw0VyRAga1C4TfxCMkl35XdPTqCupV8QRj7L-2kwmPwLHLuNOTwXrKdpVAVcoX85LerfxnMq3O6caZmi_HAz2RyVJsIc2eA2Lhs-n94uh_e3Y_bwodtrSCVJy-g/s4608/DSCF2702.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit6rWKDjhwm9CdH8EoqVainWKL20gkWRoi8gqE9jPWbGVv0I9mINEk-_TDNKHPFB-pvw0VyRAga1C4TfxCMkl35XdPTqCupV8QRj7L-2kwmPwLHLuNOTwXrKdpVAVcoX85LerfxnMq3O6caZmi_HAz2RyVJsIc2eA2Lhs-n94uh_e3Y_bwodtrSCVJy-g/s320/DSCF2702.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tree-lined verdant dirt roads shaded us, but the creek bed beneath this cool wooden bridge was dry. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7cYIV0u1bJyPveWMRIgV1fhxgenyoIGRzS9vIsstCR4IigZN-Vk6CN3S8APcDKOYdr_B8tfX48YIkJNYss4ZzapT0RNXvEuMWMgCjAm0tKb-L79-tbkYdLz_GNZrHuxdyImv489GRayKSIbRcSoNiIU_SZKx_Y1jcZg5ftz_HjOXU9X24FkqffNmKpgI/s4608/DSCF2680.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7cYIV0u1bJyPveWMRIgV1fhxgenyoIGRzS9vIsstCR4IigZN-Vk6CN3S8APcDKOYdr_B8tfX48YIkJNYss4ZzapT0RNXvEuMWMgCjAm0tKb-L79-tbkYdLz_GNZrHuxdyImv489GRayKSIbRcSoNiIU_SZKx_Y1jcZg5ftz_HjOXU9X24FkqffNmKpgI/w400-h300/DSCF2680.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As we neared the canyon, the rock formations in this once-home of the Chiricahua Apache people began to resemble the famous spires of the Chiricahua Mountains. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9KByP0fkDRH2u1o8x7u_1iCrJvXTZAgpVeu2sq2M3QOh9XHASlGdLNU-ZlRZjyJmIhlJCvIAlDNybHgkgWpJ7SMKAzV2OwQqjbIF5aW_MRe6axZ_2VUu0tcFWVkIscydOI19BIIP661k0-g2htCsTiSkawwPTnx3D2VD5Rt86gyeamDOo_cK1VH8Lhbg/s4608/DSCF2688.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9KByP0fkDRH2u1o8x7u_1iCrJvXTZAgpVeu2sq2M3QOh9XHASlGdLNU-ZlRZjyJmIhlJCvIAlDNybHgkgWpJ7SMKAzV2OwQqjbIF5aW_MRe6axZ_2VUu0tcFWVkIscydOI19BIIP661k0-g2htCsTiSkawwPTnx3D2VD5Rt86gyeamDOo_cK1VH8Lhbg/w400-h300/DSCF2688.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4V8m0r_nSyHF-cODFghHuCEP-YklNCtv3oR6q2vied-XCdLKnvAy0BnYN9d9sMugBwYF-J5rZ6OB20x1QW1ADJqOeJ4I6Z8NpYW8XcR-HnTSHDWRvU6Ibl_asGiG6pqObf9UzI4NXmzZaqrW5X17UV1mN-TPSTH5Cr45r0Pmp0uz7_oSHS4-BdUUZqao/s4608/DSCF2690.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4V8m0r_nSyHF-cODFghHuCEP-YklNCtv3oR6q2vied-XCdLKnvAy0BnYN9d9sMugBwYF-J5rZ6OB20x1QW1ADJqOeJ4I6Z8NpYW8XcR-HnTSHDWRvU6Ibl_asGiG6pqObf9UzI4NXmzZaqrW5X17UV1mN-TPSTH5Cr45r0Pmp0uz7_oSHS4-BdUUZqao/w400-h300/DSCF2690.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was at Rucker Canyon on the White River that Lieutenant John "Tony" Rucker died on July 11, 1879 attempting to save his friend, Lieutenant Austin Henely, who was already in peril in the treacherous waters. Both men drowned; their bodies were recovered and returned to Fort Bowie, where they were interred (later to be moved back east). Camp Rucker, a temporary camp off of what is now Tex Canyon Road, was renamed to honor the popular Lt. Rucker, as is the canyon itself. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The waters didn't rage today, though. The river bed was barely damp enough to breed mosquitos. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgToQ-7PHtociVj-7-JlhJEksKozNF4MPqleUJrlA8pqseW1Q6D0vqA2Oi1TOf6siT9q0tF6Pb-Tf8p3SsKN5tCdDMQJFbi-eQ3HoDYilRdFpCQXYmgmI_Vnuyjgy3Lo6DWxTLCBncCY06FKAwLTiNfEbiDywk2AmRFTfH5DGsFESesnEPVUaYHXW8IkEU/s4608/DSCF2717.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgToQ-7PHtociVj-7-JlhJEksKozNF4MPqleUJrlA8pqseW1Q6D0vqA2Oi1TOf6siT9q0tF6Pb-Tf8p3SsKN5tCdDMQJFbi-eQ3HoDYilRdFpCQXYmgmI_Vnuyjgy3Lo6DWxTLCBncCY06FKAwLTiNfEbiDywk2AmRFTfH5DGsFESesnEPVUaYHXW8IkEU/w400-h300/DSCF2717.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The air, though, was pure and invigorating, the breeze carrying the fragrance of the juniper that shared the land with Emory oak, an occasional birch, and piñon. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgijFsejYqv4I7NNA0pOfjjCBca6NoQvKEvLSIwey_A_1A2HMc1Txnxr5W56MBisoZQcFXL2Mz5vK2q830eiG2l9NoekrymsQfcNfy7SuK7ohQjUKvCXUcWVcvGGJAaqrnqopDdvx24mqYXQBjqlydOLNfM8y0aiBK0STv7UW7EfdZR_1Z8zmSBi89Kq48/s4608/DSCF2712.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgijFsejYqv4I7NNA0pOfjjCBca6NoQvKEvLSIwey_A_1A2HMc1Txnxr5W56MBisoZQcFXL2Mz5vK2q830eiG2l9NoekrymsQfcNfy7SuK7ohQjUKvCXUcWVcvGGJAaqrnqopDdvx24mqYXQBjqlydOLNfM8y0aiBK0STv7UW7EfdZR_1Z8zmSBi89Kq48/s320/DSCF2712.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2UU9Yvb2MAp1VrKNzKborftawTZ3Zdn9UqmLkLJC6_hCCJntnOW9oA-I-SjE6wJkPBqLZCYliedFfVDbgqL95sDemF7H1OkZc272DYAs1oproVZFxl4bL3kSHIN2J_X9DBtYPZzhaS9UMpYeIDf2EK5CTQdkPLYYdpiwLJVHioKFu6T1vi3LDbcsuFKI/s4608/DSCF2721.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2UU9Yvb2MAp1VrKNzKborftawTZ3Zdn9UqmLkLJC6_hCCJntnOW9oA-I-SjE6wJkPBqLZCYliedFfVDbgqL95sDemF7H1OkZc272DYAs1oproVZFxl4bL3kSHIN2J_X9DBtYPZzhaS9UMpYeIDf2EK5CTQdkPLYYdpiwLJVHioKFu6T1vi3LDbcsuFKI/s320/DSCF2721.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>And then we were there: Rucker Lake! I was eager to slip my shoes off and wade into some cooling waters. It has been years since I've seen a lake. Desert people crave pools of water in ways normies might never understand. We parked at a pullout, not another soul to be seen ... and I hopped out of the car, camera in hand.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGBq40ezBA6FzBwM8B5lOkodh_IX6y5VDQWKdtZ1peGSFXb1ypxQzIBXWRdJ0reBSsEL222Sz1CyTZy8zEjoJk8S6Q6n3OS3mVN4Frp31PGbi2xgtCpbXb8RfeypqVbRLe2ArIdIgjgPp5iUE0X2ENqPPbfqueBW-VxvO322a1Y9p_LIR-ahwPmhisNkk/s4608/DSCF2705.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGBq40ezBA6FzBwM8B5lOkodh_IX6y5VDQWKdtZ1peGSFXb1ypxQzIBXWRdJ0reBSsEL222Sz1CyTZy8zEjoJk8S6Q6n3OS3mVN4Frp31PGbi2xgtCpbXb8RfeypqVbRLe2ArIdIgjgPp5iUE0X2ENqPPbfqueBW-VxvO322a1Y9p_LIR-ahwPmhisNkk/w640-h480/DSCF2705.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuPPhIsg3v343tDCLDPCA5uz2PjfeRN2rwFPmrJ0uWcdX6Be7Ppr0zV2WaHPFwd7lClS7NTw40YWvrMWDNuAfmACG-BmsRRB2Nm9WA7PKcedYcGExf85nqPHRNPnFk94UHjCBUB0Wd3rdjaKGPZbWaLRheBjcav162PKWf83Br0zXqP9_OEs4PER7mNM/s4608/DSCF2710.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuPPhIsg3v343tDCLDPCA5uz2PjfeRN2rwFPmrJ0uWcdX6Be7Ppr0zV2WaHPFwd7lClS7NTw40YWvrMWDNuAfmACG-BmsRRB2Nm9WA7PKcedYcGExf85nqPHRNPnFk94UHjCBUB0Wd3rdjaKGPZbWaLRheBjcav162PKWf83Br0zXqP9_OEs4PER7mNM/w640-h480/DSCF2710.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>And there it is, in all its glory, in the two photos above: RUCKER LAKE! A small lake bed, surrounded by breathtaking views .... and utterly, devastatingly dry. Suffice it to say the fish were not biting. </div><div><br /></div><div>I feasted on the fragrant air, sipped from my bottle of ice water, and figured I'd just come back when we actually get some rain. The drive was beautiful. The scenery, exquisite. The area history, rich and tragic. And the lake ... a mirage. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2kxyIMpkZUXEe7wMXlFNsXhwtIidP0aeZAuOOEa6koAGteEBbKy41j_CN2lCZhvKgUZZFzteoJiCPEiDK5RKIA5WV4zilG4fSrQb4NdZ21GEioIb0r-lZhza2ggrWTEPCgJE3Nb9pbs3VFIXBxElY9SzWJ4cBORNwmhgg_uUX7BLG2FOOsFpRp6sGFSg/s4608/DSCF2715.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2kxyIMpkZUXEe7wMXlFNsXhwtIidP0aeZAuOOEa6koAGteEBbKy41j_CN2lCZhvKgUZZFzteoJiCPEiDK5RKIA5WV4zilG4fSrQb4NdZ21GEioIb0r-lZhza2ggrWTEPCgJE3Nb9pbs3VFIXBxElY9SzWJ4cBORNwmhgg_uUX7BLG2FOOsFpRp6sGFSg/w400-h300/DSCF2715.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Above: Me, noticeably NOT dipping toes in lake water. </div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i>If you go: </i>Take Hwy 191 to Rucker Canyon Road (north of Elfrida); head east. Stay on the main road. The road dead-ends at a roadblock not far north of the lake bed, but there are hiking trails, camp sites (fees required), and plenty of parking pull-outs. Today is Sunday, and we saw one occupied campsite and one other vehicle near the canyon, so expect isolation and carry emergency water. The campgrounds feature bathroom facilities. During a normal monsoon season, expect arroyos and washes to run; don't cross flooded crossings. You wouldn't want a canyon to be named after you.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSirNpIXIQybf7HdChsaa0-LbKJSnQLuWpvswo47ByxdH4fIGg0JG4okL9ji_dkFy_qcpdQeCjbs2F1Y98sPXS3EBNfHiIeFV5xxDaSvuUSDYlYkX_yG4eNfyC9ewfMIOC4rWV6pe2VaTL5htLkGUM-lcu09ZupjW9WpRPQBeguoAMaPEUcYsMtHsT56s/s4608/DSCF2693.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSirNpIXIQybf7HdChsaa0-LbKJSnQLuWpvswo47ByxdH4fIGg0JG4okL9ji_dkFy_qcpdQeCjbs2F1Y98sPXS3EBNfHiIeFV5xxDaSvuUSDYlYkX_yG4eNfyC9ewfMIOC4rWV6pe2VaTL5htLkGUM-lcu09ZupjW9WpRPQBeguoAMaPEUcYsMtHsT56s/w400-h300/DSCF2693.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br />Copyright (c) 2023 MJ Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content may be reproduced without the express permission of the author * Thank you for visiting and sharing links, though!<br /><p><br /></p></div>Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-20479215474073272762022-11-03T10:38:00.003-07:002022-11-03T12:28:44.748-07:00 I Hate Sierra Vista<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5q1dV-QmHy-J9t7ueDypcfwuWs1aypjB2ZUe0Rq7FU_ulumw-yo0pSHCGjGdU7JJV5UQ0g2FkJjT5mLMxp2wjPCAMozy5EiQOwFqRh_PLG7PQEAWh6cyblWhMCIQbxhjwRDHykrBrJMg3cZmq7wRCxwOgWAsUZPXC9Me3gxZKalI9r3MrvR8uhJ0Z/s5184/03907AA6-907C-468B-A922-DB0D28D46527.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5q1dV-QmHy-J9t7ueDypcfwuWs1aypjB2ZUe0Rq7FU_ulumw-yo0pSHCGjGdU7JJV5UQ0g2FkJjT5mLMxp2wjPCAMozy5EiQOwFqRh_PLG7PQEAWh6cyblWhMCIQbxhjwRDHykrBrJMg3cZmq7wRCxwOgWAsUZPXC9Me3gxZKalI9r3MrvR8uhJ0Z/w640-h427/03907AA6-907C-468B-A922-DB0D28D46527.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A mountain view as seen from Fort Huachuca<br />(c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p> I usually don't do this. I'm usually a relentless booster of Arizona's smaller cities and towns. I'm a veritable glitter bomb of positivity on most things Arizona. I'm of the "just walk/scroll/pass on by" camp if I see something I don't like. But ... let's have a courageous conversation about Sierra Vista. </p><p>The name is lovely, I'll give it that. Sierra Vista! Mountain views! And those mountain views, of the nearby Huachuca Mountains, are stunning. To the south, you've got the Whetstone Mountains - also a feast for the eyes. But those Huachuca Mountains! When the clouds are low or the fog rolls in or the winter snows frost the peaks and slopes ... oh man, they're just gorgeous! Granted, I haven't visited too many military bases across the country but I can say that Fort Huachuca has amazing views and is a truly lovely base.</p><p>But the city of Sierra Vista ... No, no, nopety nope nope. My "thing" is exploring Arizona's historical sites and researching those who've been there before me. Certainly, Fort Huachuca - established as "Camp Huachuca" in 1877, and home to the famous Buffalo Soldiers - has no dearth of history. And visiting the base is a treat, with excellent museums, a historic parade ground, and many of the original buildings and barracks. But the city itself lacks any sort of historical appreciation or historical focus. Drive through the city and just try to identify any older sites, and sense my frustration. You'll find every sort of lower-end chain restaurant, and just about every chain retail outlet that you need, but don't look for charming older buildings. Drive through downtown, and - wait! That's another issue. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO11hvYbwGJg_obkrr31BJu0qm0yED1dSxnW0hb0yBkCxtK-9C9i8CleR8mL3CeBMW2nXHYf48fMb_gltDc1Ceh4_49hb0XACjNq_bk9X9PahPYJ_3NfZtWiRE0wJjTmjNQA7Mlq7t8Q2KGXVqHT4CNaEr5LYDbxtHizJJMDKXbCwK0K9o14g6BK5a/s5184/126E5FF4-71FC-4931-BADB-93404F75BD0B.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO11hvYbwGJg_obkrr31BJu0qm0yED1dSxnW0hb0yBkCxtK-9C9i8CleR8mL3CeBMW2nXHYf48fMb_gltDc1Ceh4_49hb0XACjNq_bk9X9PahPYJ_3NfZtWiRE0wJjTmjNQA7Mlq7t8Q2KGXVqHT4CNaEr5LYDbxtHizJJMDKXbCwK0K9o14g6BK5a/w640-h427/126E5FF4-71FC-4931-BADB-93404F75BD0B.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A fine example of public art honoring area history at Fort Huachuca (on base). The surrounding city would benefit from more such works. (c) 2022 by Marcy J. Miller</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><b><i>Sierra Vista doesn't have a downtown.</i> </b>Literally. There's no charming center square. There's no municipal complex. There's no row of older buildings - no "old town" - you'll find in so many cities or small towns. No place to congregate with people you like, or to avoid those you don't. No pedestrian-heavy streets where you can window-shop while toting your pricey Starbucks confection, and no little downtown cafe where you can sit at a yellowed Formica counter and look out upon the street scene. No downtown, folks! None. It's funny how you don't miss a downtown until you realize there isn't one to be had. </p><p>The lack of a downtown also entails a lack of walking points. For those who enjoy leisurely walks through town, Sierra Vista will make you rethink your pastimes. For the profoundly committed walkers, you'll pass by an occasional street denizen and making your way around the occasional overladen shopping cart, but nothing like the gauntlet you'll run in the Portland or San Francisco urban hells. You'll have some lovely mountain views but the street views? Gah. The weather is usually terrific, but just try to find a streetscape to match it. No lovely, sculpted medians. No public art. No appealing landscapes. No tree-lined boulevards. No nicer neighborhoods. Just grungy, themeless byways. </p><p>Themeless. That's Sierra Vista's theme, overall. The city isn't "tied together" by a unifying motif. It's a military town, and the "Purple Heart City" signs are a welcome sight, but that's about it. What a difference some bronze sculptures of military figures would make. (There are some outstanding bronze statues on the base, but I'm talking about the rest of the city.) Imagine a trio of bronze, life-size Buffalo Soldiers at the city's western edge, or a pair of early lawmen at the north-eastern gateway to the city. This is an area that could easily capitalize on some very real historical charm ... but nah. You get a crazy quilt of businesses and residential areas and a particularly off-putting street layout that prides itself on a plethora of "No U-Turn" signs, which are particularly frustrating since the street medians prevent you from making left turns. </p><p>But that's not all! Sierra Vista is peopled with weirdness. Weird people offering sub-standard service in grungy businesses. For a real-time example of this weirdness and retail hell, try to pick up a prescription at the local Walgreen's. I kid you not. You'll want to stab yourself in the eye with a pencil while standing in the long, long, slow line. Or visit Denny's on a holiday when nothing else is open and you're desperate for a bite. There are bright spots, for sure: the Vietnamese restaurant, Peacock Restaurant on Fry - one of the very-rare independent businesses in town - which offers excellent fresh cuisine. (Cuisine is a word I rarely attach to Sierra Vista.) And of the many, many soulless chain restaurants there, I recommend the Native Grill and Wings, the Texas Roadhouse, or Panda Express. (Many of the businesses in town haven't figured out "If you can't be competent or pretty, you can still be friendly!") I absolutely adore the staff and facility at New Frontier Animal Medical Center (one of the few businesses that has a lovely landscaped front and a grassy expanse). Top-notch customer service, outstanding veterinary care, and pleasant surroundings (because of course, its founder is Dr. Prevatt - who also co-founded the once-amazing Animal Health Services in Cave Creek). </p><p>One of the best feed stores I've frequented is on the outskirts of Sierra Vista, as well. Jem's Feed on Moson Road is fantastic. And Sierra Vista also boasts a Tractor Supply outlet and the queen-mother of rural chain stores - CAL-Ranch. There's something to be said for the convenience and predictability of having chain stores in your town - but they'll never have the special nature of independent, locally-owned businesses. Sure, there's a Home Depot, and I'm thankful it's there; and an Ace, but they can't compete with the customer service you'll find up the road at Redding's Hardware and Goods in Tombstone, where the owner will not only help you find what you need, but tell you "if you have an emergency in the middle of the night, call me and I'll meet you here!" The Ace in Sierra Vista, by the way, is appropriately near the ax-throwing place, which is perfect because if any place is going to make me want to throw an edged weapon, it's Sierra Vista.</p><p>Sadly, Sierra Vista features many, many vacant and even boarded-up businesses on its main streets, from the Golden Corral to a good number of non-chain retail sites. It's neither vibrant economically nor nostalgic in its decline. People struggle here, as they do in just about all of the border region of Arizona, but you don't have the "we're in this together" attitude you get in Elfrida, St. David, or Willcox, and you don't get the "we love that you're spending tourist dollars here" welcome that you find in Tombstone, Patagonia, or Bisbee. There's more of a sense of desolation. </p><p>Here's a rabid generalization: The people of Sierra Vista aren't, well, <i>very pleasant.</i> They aren't well-groomed, they aren't well-mannered, and they aren't going to go out of their way for you. From the woman opening the bags of grapes, fondling them, and popping a meal's worth into her mouth while "shopping," to the grumpy-ass pharmacist at Walgreen's, you're not going to find a lot of customer service gems. It makes it all the more exceptional when the teenage boy at the fast-food drive through stops while handing me my order, makes eye contact, and says, "Thank you for being nice." It's one thing to survive being a customer in Sierra Vista, but damn, it's got to be tough being part of the workforce in that population. I love the young man at CAL-Ranch who told me, "God bless you," after I thanked him for helping me out; what a difference a gesture like that makes. There are nuggets of gold in that leaden morass of a city, and I hope people treat them kindly. Little, humble Benson, my other grocery alternative, is the opposite. It's not an affluent area. There's no huge tax base. But the people are kind, helpful, pleasant. The restaurants in town are generally independently-owned, and the owners take pride in their establishments. It's not a fancy area, but it's always a pleasure visiting there. And they cherish their rich history and their community.</p><p>Oh, Sierra Vista. I so wanted to love you. I didn't expect to see the hollow faces of meth addicts in your gritty grocery stores. I was surprised to find that a community of military families and retired folks has turned Sunday shopping into a combat sport at the Fry's. I remain shocked that there's little visible historical appreciation of your amazing past outside the gates of the base. I am dismayed you haven't landscaped a city to match the utterly breathtaking surrounding areas you are so blessed with. Why, Sierra Vista? Why?</p><p>And for the traveler in the area, take advantage of the nearby hiking trails. Take a drive to Coronado National Monument, to the south, and bask in some of the prettiest wilderness areas you'll see. Visit the birds at Ramsey Canyon. Heck, there's even a Mammoth Kill Site of anthropological interest a short drive out of town. The world famous Kartchner Caverns aren't far away. There's SO much to do in the surrounding areas. But brace yourself for the ugly weirdness that is the city of Sierra Vista. </p><p>Am I too harsh? Give a shout-out to what's right in Sierra Vista in the comments. I'd love to be proven wrong.</p><p>(c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content, including photographs, may be used without the written permission of the author * Links and shares, however, are greatly appreciated! * Thank you for stopping by.</p><p><br /></p>Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-13146516862976441202022-10-24T18:22:00.001-07:002022-10-24T18:22:31.874-07:00Roster of the Dead at Fort Bowie Cemetery, Cochise County, Arizona<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaoEU4QmbUyzmdOazdoczPDmF3Hs_9nbi_cuCQzW5CtKrZ88QC_f0EhXRHn4oRQJ07zbYqyJFXwNMF4TeFMLivKTMESdo2528XqWhVU8ziDMVs5I8arWSrUuhIeupQC3xQ8gpi0WSvM3a5UsGpHLHgoSbY3d9xkjilIq7YLfoyvH7u1afjo89fU2Bk/s4608/CD982EAF-1679-40BF-88A2-29CFC681ADC3.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaoEU4QmbUyzmdOazdoczPDmF3Hs_9nbi_cuCQzW5CtKrZ88QC_f0EhXRHn4oRQJ07zbYqyJFXwNMF4TeFMLivKTMESdo2528XqWhVU8ziDMVs5I8arWSrUuhIeupQC3xQ8gpi0WSvM3a5UsGpHLHgoSbY3d9xkjilIq7YLfoyvH7u1afjo89fU2Bk/w640-h480/CD982EAF-1679-40BF-88A2-29CFC681ADC3.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post cemetery, Fort Bowie. Helen's Dome features in the background. (c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><br /></p>Almost two dozen bodies remain interred at this secluded spot at the northern tip of the Chiricahua Mountains. Surrounded by stunning landscapes, the souls here know a peace that eluded them during their abbreviated lives. Many were killed by their enemies; now they are united with them in death. <div><br /><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuN_aqjZ8Uqoabz-19cNmM_kBFEbyCKlCXZfQ6vaHyzvgLWwZ8umacDDmXac_W95zNSjfs5Vcp__c4TKwQ4tiSYkroaoSxvgALH6jw0b5qT-K4qOM8hmUq0H-MW3bCh3GNiP0lHd-WmvWgwsWvp-fFxYrQFg30POZs-Amm8paK6xG6lnIG4Je1Rc7-/s4608/2D4EF69C-39F0-40F8-A387-D86750F47B52.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuN_aqjZ8Uqoabz-19cNmM_kBFEbyCKlCXZfQ6vaHyzvgLWwZ8umacDDmXac_W95zNSjfs5Vcp__c4TKwQ4tiSYkroaoSxvgALH6jw0b5qT-K4qOM8hmUq0H-MW3bCh3GNiP0lHd-WmvWgwsWvp-fFxYrQFg30POZs-Amm8paK6xG6lnIG4Je1Rc7-/w640-h480/2D4EF69C-39F0-40F8-A387-D86750F47B52.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The humble gateway from the cemetery, looking toward the north. (c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At one time this graveyard was filled with soldiers and their families, but after the closure of the post, the military exhumed their bodies and transferred them. They left behind the civilians, including members of the Chiricahua tribe.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSzVdLOSX5XxQQ-_YemjAPYIKg18USJFphVaojxqdxhmgd0qldgtDrSnp4JTt0fpWskfbCBMZJlZCcBMHFxO3uKUJpvmLAj-83wozzwtJaNkuA2Sg_zduBOkWVsvjU5WGnfAdhwAgPyQKG0ve6shRaYg65kELEmt9ywqQnKCXzeoUpHgnqmb9dfY1z/s4608/3DD3B7AF-A607-4FB8-9A72-094C1F7FE5B8.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSzVdLOSX5XxQQ-_YemjAPYIKg18USJFphVaojxqdxhmgd0qldgtDrSnp4JTt0fpWskfbCBMZJlZCcBMHFxO3uKUJpvmLAj-83wozzwtJaNkuA2Sg_zduBOkWVsvjU5WGnfAdhwAgPyQKG0ve6shRaYg65kELEmt9ywqQnKCXzeoUpHgnqmb9dfY1z/w400-h300/3DD3B7AF-A607-4FB8-9A72-094C1F7FE5B8.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The dead remaining here include Apache children, including one little girl named Marcia.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3EWAskSjsdUlhqbCRYduK646MOVTokEePakPHuKw3Ewje82RzZ106J32e-_GoxIVR32ypYQ_W6XLYauAqMlwBdu83X-Qda0sFbaP7c8p6SntUM0W-7WnDtUK7vKR3peNA7wx-h1h_jv1CCjyAZfT-dq5-zrMr7XyHA7T5xnMVcu7--6EnRwfGDY91/s4608/5835E027-282D-49C1-9183-CAC8A77AFF5D.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3EWAskSjsdUlhqbCRYduK646MOVTokEePakPHuKw3Ewje82RzZ106J32e-_GoxIVR32ypYQ_W6XLYauAqMlwBdu83X-Qda0sFbaP7c8p6SntUM0W-7WnDtUK7vKR3peNA7wx-h1h_jv1CCjyAZfT-dq5-zrMr7XyHA7T5xnMVcu7--6EnRwfGDY91/w300-h400/5835E027-282D-49C1-9183-CAC8A77AFF5D.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grave of Little Robe (c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>The toddler son of Geronimo, <b>Little Robe</b>, died of dysentery, a common affliction. <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The military's Record Book of Interments offers a semi-chronological register of those buried at the post cemetery. From what I can make out the handwriting in the record book, I've compiled a roster (likely incomplete) of those once buried in the cemetery. I've furnished additional information from other sources for selected individuals. Some dates and details do conflict with other records; I've tried to fact-check when possible and indicate the conflicting information. Note that the register likely was not completed as each body was buried, as the handwriting is the same for nearly every entry, and entries don't always appear in order. As remains were brought in from other locations, the information on their death dates was entered retroactively. The Apache children mentioned above do not appear on the military roster of those interred here.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first person recorded in the register was <b>Albert Schmid</b>t of the 1st California Column of Volunteers. Of unknown rank, Schmidt died on June 25, 1862. On the same day, <b>Peter R. Maloney</b> and <b>J. F. Keith </b>perished as well. They, too, were of unknown rank and were in the same regiment with Schmidt.</div><div><br /></div><div>On July 15, 1862, <b>Sgt. C. M. O'Brien</b> and <b>Pvt. John Ba</b>?? (illegible; appears to be "Bam") were killed in the Battle of Apache Pass, but their remains were not brought to the cemetery until 1891. Newspapers of the time said nine people were killed in this skirmish, and that one appeared to have been burned at the stake. One newspaper cited the following names of victims, but none appear to be those listed in the official register at the fort: Thomas Buchanan of PA; William Allen of IL; Conrad Stark of OH; William Smith of PA; David Berry of IA; James Barnes, an Irishman from WI; James Ferguson, an Englishman; and two unidentified Mexicans from Mesilla. </div><div><br /></div><div>On May 23, 1863, <b>Wells</b> died and was interred in the cemetery.</div><div><br /></div><div>New Mexico "A" Company Infantryman of the 1st Regiment, <b>Vivian Lucero</b>, joined the dead on July 24, 1865. </div><div><br /></div><div>On August 2, 1865, <b>Samuel Payson</b>, S. Company, 1st Regiment of the California Column, died.</div><div><br /></div><div>On October 6th, 1865, <b>William Carmichael</b> died.</div><div><br /></div><div>February 1st, 1866: <b>1st Lieutenant Juan C. Tapia</b> of the New Mexico Infantry.</div><div><br /></div><div>August 16, 1866: <b>Pvt. John Walters</b> of G. Company.</div><div><br /></div><div>February 19, 1867: <b>Pvt. Capius A. B. Fisher</b> of the 1st California Column. </div><div><br /></div><div>June 6, 1867: <b>Pvt. James McIntyre.</b> </div><div><br /></div><div>August 6, 1867: <b>Pvt. James F. Walker.</b></div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU-MVYDZXaBohxLjTG3rK36rT-dTLbM_7GVZLOSW2eDyUOZMR0lonVEsX0ytmv18z13MGHkXfFOmF-IpdEfJh8j5xGV_UR0FwpQMu33ipkcsIPclTdVZIMIgmiX_vWByjafiNHEHht22PyzFeD_jR_-bGGR1g5uiJHWusJ6DryVu2ikZzDGBnuT8tu/s4608/5D564A68-1C63-4BF6-9310-FEABA0993AF8.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU-MVYDZXaBohxLjTG3rK36rT-dTLbM_7GVZLOSW2eDyUOZMR0lonVEsX0ytmv18z13MGHkXfFOmF-IpdEfJh8j5xGV_UR0FwpQMu33ipkcsIPclTdVZIMIgmiX_vWByjafiNHEHht22PyzFeD_jR_-bGGR1g5uiJHWusJ6DryVu2ikZzDGBnuT8tu/s320/5D564A68-1C63-4BF6-9310-FEABA0993AF8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><b>Lieutenant John Slater</b> died November 5, 1867. Born in 1832 in Ireland, he was a lieutenant in the 5th Regiment. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>1st Lieutenant John Carroll</b> of the 32nd US Infantry died November 5, 1867 as well. </div><div><br /></div><div>May 26, 1868: <b>John Brownley</b>, a citizen.</div><div><br /></div><div>May 26, 1868: <b>Pvt. George Knowles</b> of D. Company, 32nd US Infantry.</div><div><br /></div><div>May 26, 1868: <b>Pvt. Robert King</b>, D. Company, 32nd US Infantry.</div><div><br /></div><div>August 19, 1868: <b>Pvt. Daniel Rock</b>, D. Company, 32nd US Infantry. </div><br />On September 15, 1868, young <b>Georgie Macomber,</b> the child of <b>First Lieutenant George Macomber</b>, died. The following year, on September 19, the child's father died when a derrick fell on him. </div><div><br /></div><div>February 18, 1869: <b>Capt. John M. C___</b> (illegible) of the 4th California Column died. </div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglRhhRiUeKlJVDRo3REbkJ3CsNKtP1XCcaCDi5-p03dJDqUjdNgCyz-lsnroqNo2ti-WEpkrZmyeH41FX6U1HmUZUfWchWqpBbERzK-zlQn7sB-hZ2uOSRpEQNQDx33py9XduCF-IWKabXjPTyXdj08fw8wSJy7cT-HFEdEzCVfNIbLFM42zuBDjD8/s4608/D19B2059-F2A9-4A5B-B7CA-49E60631618F.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglRhhRiUeKlJVDRo3REbkJ3CsNKtP1XCcaCDi5-p03dJDqUjdNgCyz-lsnroqNo2ti-WEpkrZmyeH41FX6U1HmUZUfWchWqpBbERzK-zlQn7sB-hZ2uOSRpEQNQDx33py9XduCF-IWKabXjPTyXdj08fw8wSJy7cT-HFEdEzCVfNIbLFM42zuBDjD8/s320/D19B2059-F2A9-4A5B-B7CA-49E60631618F.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><b>John Finkle "Colonel" Stone</b>, listed as a citizen in the Record Book of Interments, died on October 5, 1869, when he was killed by Apaches near Dragoon Springs. Born in New York in 1836, he lived throughout the west and at one time served as a Deputy US Marshal in New Mexico. In 1868 he co-founded the Apache Pass Mining Company and it was while doing work related to this venture that he was killed while enroute from the Pass to Tucson. The <i>Weekly Arizonian </i>eulogized Stone, stating ""Many a good and gallant man has fallen by the hands of the Apache, but none who will be longer or more sincerely lamented than John F. Stone." </div><br /><br /></div><div>November, 1870: <b>John Kelley</b>, citizen. </div><div><br /></div><div>On December 17, 1870, many perished:<b> J. G. Duncan</b>, citizen, and seven others who were listed as "unknown." </div><div><br /></div><div>Unreadable date, 1871, <b>1st Lieutenant Thomas Mooty or Moody</b>. </div><div><br /></div><div>July 18, 1871: <b>Julian Aqueira</b>. </div><div><br /></div><div>October 1, 1871: <b>Pvt. A. Andrews.</b> </div><div><br /></div><div>January 24, 1872: <b>A. Bice</b>, citizen. F. Pilly, citizen. T. Donovan, citizen. McWilliams, citizen. </div><div><br /></div><div>June 10, 1872: <b>Mary McDonnell</b>, child. </div><div><br /></div><div>June 15, 1872: <b>Son of Marajildo Grijalva</b>, child. Interesting backstory: this boy's father, Marajildo, and mother, Rosa Jorquez Grijalva, were children in Mexico when kidnapped by the Apache in Sonora in 1850. Marajildo was ten; the boy's mother, Rosa, was six. Cochise became well acquainted with the kidnaped children and became their protector. In 1859, Marajildo escaped from his captors and eventually arrived at Apache Pass, where he ultimately served General Crook as a scout and interpreter. In 1867, Marajildo and Rosa married. After the death of their young son, they adopted two orphaned Apache children to raise as their own. </div><div><br /></div><div>July 5, 1872: <b>Pvt. Frederick Auction</b>, 5th US Cavalry. </div><div><br /></div><div>August 20, 1872: <b>Tilghman F. Roth</b>, US Infantry. </div><div><br /></div><div>February 26, 1873: <b>Isabella Munson</b>, citizen. </div><div><br /></div><div>March 3, 1873: <b>Pvt. William H. Patrick.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>July 16, 1874:<b> Sgt. William McComb</b>, F Company, US Infantry.</div><div><br /></div><div>March 25, 1875: <b>Juan Frentes</b>, Mexican citizen. </div><div><br /><div>August 1, 1874: <b>Major Eugene W. Crittenden</b>. Crittenden enlisted in the regular army in Kentucky in 1855, ultimately being promoted to major in 1866. He'd arrived at the post on November 15 of 1873. Major Crittenden died of apoplexy. Territorial newspapers lamented his passing and cited his honorable, industrious career.</div><div><br /></div><div>October 11, 1875: <b>N. M. Rogers</b>, citizen. Although his death date is listed as given here, newspaper accounts of the time indicate he was murdered at the same time as O. O. Spence, immediately below the next photo.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOWcZIPb6EPfPWL2nFsXwngpxu-YPaBFNQdlYiBm30kDXI0R5zpPH8s5hPtIQ9ovkUjuiwETQJP8OkmDsDozrSB8e71UCVgu09cb_otuMYOtkfxZXo6azWnLhieEnBeS-HqYLkjcheojKUQWXjNS6Vx23bvCaX7MWD7mOlHtRRBwPjn23c9RpFpyhA/s4608/B6DBEDC2-E214-4509-8945-5930FB5F75CD.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOWcZIPb6EPfPWL2nFsXwngpxu-YPaBFNQdlYiBm30kDXI0R5zpPH8s5hPtIQ9ovkUjuiwETQJP8OkmDsDozrSB8e71UCVgu09cb_otuMYOtkfxZXo6azWnLhieEnBeS-HqYLkjcheojKUQWXjNS6Vx23bvCaX7MWD7mOlHtRRBwPjn23c9RpFpyhA/s320/B6DBEDC2-E214-4509-8945-5930FB5F75CD.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>1876: <b>O. O. Spence</b>, "killed by Indians." The post record indicates his death date as April 23, 1876, which conflicts with the April 7th date on his grave marker (and the latter which contemporary papers cited as the accurate date). Spence was a citizen. Spence and Rogers had been sitting outside the house at the Sulphur Springs Station when two Apache, Pi-On-Se-Na and his unidentified nephew, both drunk on whiskey, arrived on horseback and opened fire on the men. Rogers died instantly but Spence made his way into the building to grab a Henry rifle, but succumbed before being able to return fire. One of the attackers had allegedly killed two of his own sisters before the assault on the men at Sulphur Springs. Spence had been an employee of Mr. Rogers at Sulphur Springs. This attack ended three years of relative peace. </div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Private Daniel Wallace</b> died the same date. </div><div><br /></div><div>October 30, 1876: <b>Pvt. Adam Eckstien</b> (probably correctly spelled Eckstein), G Company.</div><div><br /></div><div>November, 1876: <b>Pvt. Thomas Rofs</b>, L Company. </div><div><br /></div><div>December 22, 1877: <b>James Stapleton</b>, H Company. </div><div><br /></div><div>January, 1878: <b>Pvt. Henry Stone</b>, L Company. </div><div><br /></div><div>July 11, 1878: <b>Lieutenant Austin Heneley and J. A. Rucker</b> died. Rucker was later removed to Arlington. </div><div><br /></div><div>On August 9, 1878, <b>Private Nicholas Marringer</b>, a blacksmith, was struck by lightning while heading uphill towards his quarters. The official report described him as having died instantly, while not more than five feet away, children were uninjured. In addition, he was passing among three different sets of buildings that each had higher points than Marringer's height, yet none of the buildings were damaged. The author of the report on the incident noted that Marringer's clothes were likely filled with iron fragments and dust due to his occupation, which may have contributed to the selective nature of the bolt from above.</div><div><br /></div><div>January 30, 1879: <b>Pvt. Thomas Dowdell</b>, E Company. </div><div><br /></div><div>February, 1882: <b>Pvt. Charles P. Laging</b>, M Company, US Cavalry. </div><div><br /></div><div>January 29, 1883: <b>Pedro Valdez</b>, citizen. </div><div><br /></div><div>March 10, 1883:<b> Pvt. M. Shuck Ormsby</b>, US Cavalry.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>H. H. Nickause</b>, Saddler, 4th Regiment, US Cavalry.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Pvt. Dezo Vislavki</b>, C Company, 4th US Cavalry.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Pvt. Phillip O'Neill</b>, 4th US Cavalry. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Pvt. William C. Drake</b>, G Company, 4th US Cavalry.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Pvt. William Bray</b>, 9th Regiment, Infantry.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sgt. C. M. O'Brien</b>, 1st Regiment, US Cavalry. </div><div><br /><div>June 8, 1891: <b>Mabel</b>, infant daughter of Sgt. Phillip Roth. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><p></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6g7tB2ggnsYwQn-dFoqL3C2wjmXSe-iTkxwPf4yREVj0r9Ux3lPKu86tlsnFTtva2zZWdizOCz4bRVhY3e_Ny1VYVBp8vF9lkpyTsYvXudrU46LeaVO9zD293T5mNvhPOVr1ItGJM56coBMtN5nuZ92QDv3Tudq6bd16Pi2fMNqLF9RvFrnuGct7T/s4608/9053C535-A757-47C0-AC90-771415B9DCF2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6g7tB2ggnsYwQn-dFoqL3C2wjmXSe-iTkxwPf4yREVj0r9Ux3lPKu86tlsnFTtva2zZWdizOCz4bRVhY3e_Ny1VYVBp8vF9lkpyTsYvXudrU46LeaVO9zD293T5mNvhPOVr1ItGJM56coBMtN5nuZ92QDv3Tudq6bd16Pi2fMNqLF9RvFrnuGct7T/w640-h480/9053C535-A757-47C0-AC90-771415B9DCF2.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">To visit the cemetery, park at the Fort Bowie trailhead and hike a short distance along the well-marked trail to the cemetery. There are bathrooms at the trailhead at Apache Pass. Wear appropriate shoes for desert terrain, and take water. This is the same trail that extends to the ruins of Fort Bowie itself - one of my new favorite sites. That hike is well worth every step of the 1.5 miles to the Fort. In all, you'll hike over more than four miles by the time you visit the many spur trails along the way. If you have the energy left for a little more rugged terrain after you've seen the ruins at the fort, take the Overlook Ridge Trail back to the parking lot. It offers spectacular vistas in both directions. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright (c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content may be reproduced without the express permission of the author * Thank you for sharing links and for stopping by * Please subscribe to my blog, buy my books, and keep my donkeys in hay * </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div></div></div>Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-58208399372418112672022-10-19T21:30:00.007-07:002022-10-19T21:31:14.337-07:00Apache Spring, Cochise County, Arizona<p> Stopping at this tranquil, Edenic spot on the trail to the ruins of Fort Bowie, it's difficult to imagine so serene a site was responsible for so much contention and carnage. Here, at this quiet grotto shaded by lush trees and brush, is Apache Spring. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOA8_gpVFBFy3m7D3oELGwIekX3AFs7UOHSLf5z0eBhFVGRqX0VQgWVD89nr7sYs35uWXbRk3mWkZgdVdVc7xkHc47xKp2ltn2xeNOjKMLjcCsv2xPRIaKRDydCXYMeZMO1Zy4KiLQ14hLG97ViIri6Y5-TlolnY8o4bNV6fHH77-_-NPWamLMTM6V/s4608/AE0610C7-3ACC-4AED-A1C8-AABA519230F9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOA8_gpVFBFy3m7D3oELGwIekX3AFs7UOHSLf5z0eBhFVGRqX0VQgWVD89nr7sYs35uWXbRk3mWkZgdVdVc7xkHc47xKp2ltn2xeNOjKMLjcCsv2xPRIaKRDydCXYMeZMO1Zy4KiLQ14hLG97ViIri6Y5-TlolnY8o4bNV6fHH77-_-NPWamLMTM6V/w640-h480/AE0610C7-3ACC-4AED-A1C8-AABA519230F9.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apache Spring (photo by Marcy J. Miller)</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Even now, the spring produces a trickle of water. Walk another mile or so up the trail and you'll reach a drinking fountain at the ranger station, but in the 1800s, this spring was the only reliable source of water for many, many miles. The water is no longer as pure as it once was, unsurprisingly; don't drink from the spring.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhFlvijzhiqdeyCD58sfXgb7h1oyQ_LCQjuauJ0TeFuqPyja59axTPxiv-imEzWetncLjqpKDFmFaXVV0fX-SxhOCWHos2SBBA79NQmCM5vqUQXC43rpkAPmqIZ_BpOAD2Mcld8-ErhFcBclUkBsO-wO5eHSBrUC32-agUcP_4Ax_cXvD8MPKf25ly/s4608/7D97AECD-DC75-40F9-B9F3-EACD3985AA49.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhFlvijzhiqdeyCD58sfXgb7h1oyQ_LCQjuauJ0TeFuqPyja59axTPxiv-imEzWetncLjqpKDFmFaXVV0fX-SxhOCWHos2SBBA79NQmCM5vqUQXC43rpkAPmqIZ_BpOAD2Mcld8-ErhFcBclUkBsO-wO5eHSBrUC32-agUcP_4Ax_cXvD8MPKf25ly/w640-h480/7D97AECD-DC75-40F9-B9F3-EACD3985AA49.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apache Spring (c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller<br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>For hundreds of years, indigenous people relied on this spring. Ancient pottery fragments indicate pre-historic tribes were here. Later, it was a crucial site for the Chiricahua Apache. Living in impermanent dwellings called "wickiups" built from locally-available plant fibers and branches, the Chokonen band of Chiricahua Apache used this spring's water when in the northern end of the mountain range that took their name, the Chiricahuas. Here, accessed by the pass between Dos Cabezas and the Chiricahua - <i>Puerto del Dado, </i>or "Pass of Chance" - now known as Apache Pass - was one of the favorite camping sites of the great chief Cochise. <div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFYRYlaweibaoGZrottyrog5Jk0RFPmQunBpT2QEOOwUe2k5ztdFzlqD6JLyATqv42DfRykTffAVmLBDhST91s0sVIiEhWyG-3RolMwhx9IOZX3jMjmln3IiVW83Ot078dty-pvIuYg2KhbzkYs6mLYRUmfKnMG472lgxXuPPTwWRMIduEKR4Crens/s4608/FDA77997-4CE4-43CD-8570-00E536148635.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFYRYlaweibaoGZrottyrog5Jk0RFPmQunBpT2QEOOwUe2k5ztdFzlqD6JLyATqv42DfRykTffAVmLBDhST91s0sVIiEhWyG-3RolMwhx9IOZX3jMjmln3IiVW83Ot078dty-pvIuYg2KhbzkYs6mLYRUmfKnMG472lgxXuPPTwWRMIduEKR4Crens/w640-h480/FDA77997-4CE4-43CD-8570-00E536148635.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Example of an Apache wickiup and ramada. Fort Bowie National Park. (c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller<br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>The presence of the spring drew Anglo settlers. In late 1858, the country's transcontinental mail service - the Butterfield Overland Mail Company - established a stagecoach stop at Apache Pass not far from the spring. The station was off to a bad start when the station keeper, Anthony Elder, beat and humiliated a Chokonen warrior in retaliation for an Apache raid on the Santa Rita Mining Company's stock. Facing severe revenge from Cochise, Elder was transferred away from the Pass.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnHvu8X8cs4jdD9Fna81_yJCNN2nQLX70K19WPMJLVznRyL7L_Z1awD-moWQeq9u8TEac_zZMKkOCwPm_pUTswD7b0AJErjAnO3ffG2KdaP1xMlqqYTBygWKjs1jBpp-tg_nlz9It1r9qqIsqhvPCMDMj97kCttKkqQ6Ll3EXh87mw-Y7PU_G0zo4E/s4608/7352A1A0-B639-425C-99C9-9ACF4EB74A65.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnHvu8X8cs4jdD9Fna81_yJCNN2nQLX70K19WPMJLVznRyL7L_Z1awD-moWQeq9u8TEac_zZMKkOCwPm_pUTswD7b0AJErjAnO3ffG2KdaP1xMlqqYTBygWKjs1jBpp-tg_nlz9It1r9qqIsqhvPCMDMj97kCttKkqQ6Ll3EXh87mw-Y7PU_G0zo4E/w640-h480/7352A1A0-B639-425C-99C9-9ACF4EB74A65.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruins of the Butterfield Overland Stagecoach Station at Apache Pass. (c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>The station keeper who succeeded the impetuous Elder, James H. Tevis, presided over the Apache Pass station from 1858 to 1859 and grew to know Cochise. This was during a two-year period of peace with the Chiricahuas, with an unwritten understanding between the band and the Americans. The Apache, in return for provisions, would refrain from attacking and looting Americans. This agreement did not, however, offer any protection to those on the other side of the border. Throughout this time, Cochise actively offered protection to the Americans, including mail carriers and facilities, even going so far as to kill one of his own warriors who breached that trust by carrying out a raid on livestock in the Patagonia area.</div><div><br /></div><div>By late 1859, the fragile peace between the Chokonen people and the Americans began to break down. Numerous tit-for-tat conflicts began to escalate until, in 1860, Cochise commanded a war party below the border, murdering dozens of Mexicans, murdering four more while heading back to the north. Well back into Arizona Territory, the raiders eventually struck the stage station at Dragoon Springs, stealing livestock. Word got back to the Butterfield station at Apache Pass that they would soon be targeted. </div><div><br /></div><div>By January, 1861, relations had deteriorated to the point that the scene was set for the unfortunate, devastating Bascom Affair. An inexperienced officer, First Lieutenant George Bascom, botched negotiations intended to recover a young boy named Felix Ward who'd been kidnapped by Apache during a raid. Despite indications the boy had been taken by Coyotero Apache, not by the Chokonen people, Bascom determined to retaliate against Cochise. In a meadow near the spring and the station, Bascom attempted to detain Cochise and the rather innocuous traveling party with him. Cochise, however, escaped. This bad-faith encounter directly led to the utter breakdown of relations between the Americans and the Chokonens. </div><div><br /></div><div>Three unfortunate employees of the Butterfield station opted to get involved with the negotiations with the Apache. One, named Welch, was killed at the station's corral (probably by so-called "friendly fire"); a man named Charles Culver was wounded; and the third, James Wallace, captured. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next day, on February 6, Cochise's warriors attacked an eastbound wagon train at the summit of Apache Pass. Nine Mexicans were tortured and killed; three Americans were captured. Cochise hoped to use the Americans in trade for his own people. For extra insurance, the following day he attacked the eastbound stage at the summit, three miles from the station below. Despite the attack itself, the wounding of the driver, the killing of a mule in the team, and the sabotage of the already treacherous Butterfield Stage Road, the coach made it to the station in the middle of the night. </div><div><br /></div><div>After a day of inactivity on February 7th, Cochise rallied his troops for an assault on Bascom's soldiers at Apache Spring. Thinking the Apache had left the area, brought the Army's entire herd of stock to the spring to water. As the men drove the stock back toward the station, about 200 Apache warriors attacked, unsuccessfully attempting to cut them off from the station. The entire herd, however, was taken and run into the mountains above. Although the soldiers repelled the assault, the Apache returned and attacked again. The US troops fended off the attackers, suffering the death of one Butterfield employee, the wounding of one US troop, and the loss of dozens of mules. At least three of the Apaches were killed. </div><div><br /></div><div>Unsurprisingly, the Apache warriors tortured, killed, and mutilated the four prisoners they'd hoped to use in a hostage exchange. The battle was over, but the hostilities were far from finished. Finding the bodies of the four prisoners, the Army commenced to hang the six adult male Chiricahua prisoners from four large oak trees on the west side of Apache Pass. The remaining prisoners, women and children, were released. </div><div><br /></div><div>In June of the next year, the US Army sent Brigadier general James H. Carleton and his California Column of Volunteers to the pass to protect Apache Spring. Perched on a hillside above the spring and fortified by an adobe wall, Camp Bowie was established. From that tactical position, the troops could easily fire on any of the Chiricahua who attempted to access the spring. This was the genesis of what would ultimately become Fort Bowie.</div><div><br /></div><div>The spring itself is easily accessed from the Fort Bowie trailhead. Of note is the geological fault on the mountainside above and north of the spring. The fault is what makes the flow of water from the spring possible. To access the fault on the mountainside itself, take the Overlook Ridge return trail from the ranger station at the fort. Midway along your hike is a well-marked placard pointing out the fault. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm7KRhY8clJkcb5Q7P912T35rQlwPyNi8g0kc9ibSZEqjo6vhBnCgjNXiy_601ppwanWYPxr9l_bL4cxzVvR4OZouRYycDWP6BddFbcQxJ8M6lzZeM0nUVSZmVA2Y-KJZ41R4oaZV7MJHjrCdak1mczM5on2UK8Mtp2RxPSPiFwtjlkfBSxMSMoEUw/s4032/79836999-B00B-48D3-B9A3-0723B9CA9DED.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm7KRhY8clJkcb5Q7P912T35rQlwPyNi8g0kc9ibSZEqjo6vhBnCgjNXiy_601ppwanWYPxr9l_bL4cxzVvR4OZouRYycDWP6BddFbcQxJ8M6lzZeM0nUVSZmVA2Y-KJZ41R4oaZV7MJHjrCdak1mczM5on2UK8Mtp2RxPSPiFwtjlkfBSxMSMoEUw/w640-h480/79836999-B00B-48D3-B9A3-0723B9CA9DED.heic" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apache Spring (with the yellowing trees) as seen from the Overlook Ridge Trail. The distinctive peak in the background to the south is Helen's Dome. (c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>For further reading, I highly recommend Edwin R. Sweeney's book, <i>Cochise: Chiricahua Apache Chief.</i> You can order it from Amazon <b><a href="https://amzn.to/3eM7yXG">here</a></b>. Disclosure: I may receive compensation from Amazon for purchases made through this link. </div><div><br /></div><div>Stay tuned for further posts on Fort Bowie! You can do so by subscribing to this blog.</div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright (c) 2022 by Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content may be used without the express permission of the author * Thank you for sharing links to this page! *</div><div><p><br /></p></div>Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-36067499111476945242022-08-24T22:01:00.000-07:002022-08-24T22:01:21.185-07:00Historic Tucson Station: Where Wyatt and Doc Shot Frank Stilwell<p> </p><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlvkRU2pE4yHY8BNNRUMcpNDo2ZJ6sG4BQ6P1qjOOf9T3y1EmxJZlL_7-IKbLVzrrgiJ_IDq4Ttm890WfF6Awygxpn1TjiuxMy7WVgZPoWtM5tI0X9S0fFi5_t9FWg7fvTg8jLD0d7X10kJDjarJdXh0RrXw6Gs4W0lfgXB1E9_nlYpdHEE7pUtzwB/s5184/D640EE6F-B814-4CCA-98CA-2055720EE982.jpeg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlvkRU2pE4yHY8BNNRUMcpNDo2ZJ6sG4BQ6P1qjOOf9T3y1EmxJZlL_7-IKbLVzrrgiJ_IDq4Ttm890WfF6Awygxpn1TjiuxMy7WVgZPoWtM5tI0X9S0fFi5_t9FWg7fvTg8jLD0d7X10kJDjarJdXh0RrXw6Gs4W0lfgXB1E9_nlYpdHEE7pUtzwB/w400-h266/D640EE6F-B814-4CCA-98CA-2055720EE982.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>With Virgil still recovering from his serious wounds and Morgan's body barely cold, on March 19, 1881, Wyatt Earp, brother James, Doc Holliday, and a posse of their allies took Morgan's corpse to Contention to be sent by train to Colton, California. There, the Earp brothers' family compound awaited, headed by their parents, Nicholas and Virginia. James Earp accompanied the body. Louisa Earp, Morgan's frail, rheumatic young widow, had already gone to Colton for safety. </p><p>The following day, Wyatt and company headed to the train station in Benson, southeast of Tucson, to put Virgil and his wife Allie on a train to Colton. Along the way they learned that Ike Clanton, Frank Stilwell, and a couple of other members of the cowboy faction were monitoring the trains in Tucson - where the train from Benson would be stopping. Although Stilwell had verifiable business in Tucson, their presence at the train station and their behavior while there made it clear they were planning to ambush Virgil and finish what they'd tried to do on December 28th, not even three months before. </p><p>Wyatt, now concerned he was about to lose another brother, boarded the train with Virgil and Allie. His friends and posse accompanied him, with Doc Holliday carrying two double-barreled shotguns. On arrival at the Tucson Station, Doc disembarked with guns in hand - where he was promptly met by Deputy U. S. Marshall J. W. Evans, who convinced Doc to check the guns at the station. Evans, however, provided additional protection by his presence. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4JaQEZYdb_POmXuLMcHqZzoxgcXv6katZX0IR53TmVBQObbIfHXxoXvkYwO0_yIN7gA80A6mIuSwlYVryckKySfMsE1rT78Mob_yKCG4CBLnEZxpI55MSZT1PsYi-_CDC4eer1SJYfOwpcOEVDJZPCQjUNldwj6jXGfXF06MWnT9wxr73KQI9R8Fv/s5184/F9E46446-4F89-4487-AE59-6ADA180C1AD3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4JaQEZYdb_POmXuLMcHqZzoxgcXv6katZX0IR53TmVBQObbIfHXxoXvkYwO0_yIN7gA80A6mIuSwlYVryckKySfMsE1rT78Mob_yKCG4CBLnEZxpI55MSZT1PsYi-_CDC4eer1SJYfOwpcOEVDJZPCQjUNldwj6jXGfXF06MWnT9wxr73KQI9R8Fv/s320/F9E46446-4F89-4487-AE59-6ADA180C1AD3.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The original Tucson Station, built in 1880. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Wyatt, Doc, Virgil, Allie, and the posse including brother Warren Earp, Sherman McMasters, and Turkey Creek Jack Johnson, had a short layover in Tucson. They enjoyed dinner at the adjacent hotel, Porter's, and then escorted Virgil and Allie back to the train to re-board. The station released the shotguns to Sherman McMasters. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PnRC-7EKiROTwIrQSe9Dba-XdU4du3_lrf0PbT2BE_LAgQdZRfy8lGOay1OPLPrBVAICTIPTHtDxAlj5oGzj-gj0xkKtX79BvJmGLECzROHB0aHxdB_TOQCBnT0kybI-dz_FRKYBHf8rTkEn6qFe9xUZzAGQIhu0LSYGuYtvGMjMOtVsjkyARicU/s5184/9E904042-3A1D-4DD0-931F-528C076EDAD5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PnRC-7EKiROTwIrQSe9Dba-XdU4du3_lrf0PbT2BE_LAgQdZRfy8lGOay1OPLPrBVAICTIPTHtDxAlj5oGzj-gj0xkKtX79BvJmGLECzROHB0aHxdB_TOQCBnT0kybI-dz_FRKYBHf8rTkEn6qFe9xUZzAGQIhu0LSYGuYtvGMjMOtVsjkyARicU/s320/9E904042-3A1D-4DD0-931F-528C076EDAD5.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Antique railroad car at Tucson Station, 2022. Marcy J. Miller photo.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Word got to the group that two men were seen lying on a flatcar towards the train's engine. Wyatt, armed with one of the shotguns, detrained and made his way to the flatcar in the darkness. As he approached, followed by Doc, Warren, McMasters, and Turkey Creek Jack, two men made a break from the flatcar and tried to flee. One of them - perpetual nuisance Ike Clanton - successfully got away into the night, but the other - a terrified Frank Stilwell, one of the gang who'd conspired to kill Morgan - found himself at the end of Wyatt's shotgun. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By some accounts, such as retold in Tom Clavin's <i>Tombstone</i>, a desperate, shaking Stilwell grabbed at the shotgun barrels, and Earp reacted by jerking the trigger. When Stilwell's body was found after sunrise, it was full of not just buckshot but bullets as well, thoroughly shot up by various weapons. It's assumed everyone in the posse wanted to vent a bit on Stilwell by ventilating his corpse. As luck would have it, Tucson was in the midst of celebration over newly-installed gaslights, and those who heard gunshots attributed them to the celebration. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The actual inquest into Stilwell's death, though, offered a different perspective. Several eyewitnesses were aware at the time that violence was imminent, and even the engineer on the outbound train, R. E. Mellis, witnessed the flashes from the very audible gunshots and saw a group of four men standing where the shooting occurred. For whatever reason, though, the body wasn't found until the next morning.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The attending physician who examined the body, Dr. Dexter Lyford, testified at the inquest that one charge of buckshot, fired from close range, struck Stilwell's liver, abdomen, and stomach; a rifle ball entered at the armpit and passed through the upper portion of the lung; another ball passed through the upper left arm; a second charge of buckshot struck and fractured the left leg; and finally, a rifle ball went through the right leg. Two of the wounds were deemed fatal by Dr. Lyford.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh146PQuwAE4RWxKfLBik5hqLafL_tIRqomuIplReCKwd-uRnqJeLCPByqCY-qeYS8Qg4j8AdKvLWGQxc7HBj4815XFS36c-LKDUzOr6KUFPhN7y_uBgTvK81tcdeJs1K-rwr8RMWe_NR3jKIzHHZoWzZFdoSpb03qh43_MLYDK9XTCzsUz1uqLtzPa/s5184/857A2B4C-01E3-48F1-82C3-75D6345F3CF1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh146PQuwAE4RWxKfLBik5hqLafL_tIRqomuIplReCKwd-uRnqJeLCPByqCY-qeYS8Qg4j8AdKvLWGQxc7HBj4815XFS36c-LKDUzOr6KUFPhN7y_uBgTvK81tcdeJs1K-rwr8RMWe_NR3jKIzHHZoWzZFdoSpb03qh43_MLYDK9XTCzsUz1uqLtzPa/w640-h426/857A2B4C-01E3-48F1-82C3-75D6345F3CF1.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Lifesize bronze of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday, Tucson Station. Marcy J. Miller photo.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><br />Earp and his cohorts, knowing a posse would soon be pursuing their own posse, walked on foot to a station about twelve miles outside of Tucson. Look for "Papago Station" on Google maps and you'll find nothing; other map sites take you to an incorrect site alongside the tracks northwest of Tucson, north of Tangerine Road; but newspapers of the 1880s describe it as 12 miles east of town. Logically, it would be along the tracks heading southeast from Tucson to Benson. That stage station was also known as "Aguirre's Station," and in 1884 Aguirre moved it two miles west (closer to Tucson). Regardless of the exact location, from that station the men hitched a ride on a freight train back to Benson, where they recovered their horses and continued on their way.<div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggOAvXRXNGjaObyY-egEolpgV7QYDety9nDIIAxGBk_mfmXsOoFcuOavycrCEf-g5TEP2esbYFO64_oEcl7c__5m4ySlYG5LJnq77KHSt9YEOyKyHuNAnMzBFuLZuVFMojj6U9dfAQjJdDBmYnKSC0eboHXYr88lHo1lGLraNUHdTtqt_bpiZACVX7/s5184/1642F5D6-E6F2-4CCC-AFD4-D0F345FDC9DC.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggOAvXRXNGjaObyY-egEolpgV7QYDety9nDIIAxGBk_mfmXsOoFcuOavycrCEf-g5TEP2esbYFO64_oEcl7c__5m4ySlYG5LJnq77KHSt9YEOyKyHuNAnMzBFuLZuVFMojj6U9dfAQjJdDBmYnKSC0eboHXYr88lHo1lGLraNUHdTtqt_bpiZACVX7/s320/1642F5D6-E6F2-4CCC-AFD4-D0F345FDC9DC.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Tucson Amtrak Station, 2022. Marcy J. Miller photo.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><br />The site of the shooting of Frank Stilwell is located at 400 N. Toole Avenue in downtown Tucson, but the depot the Earps strode through on their path of vengeance is not the one you'll see today. The original building, built in 1880, showed its age by the turn of the century. In December, 1906, L. Zeckendorf sold a city block bounded by Stone Avenue, Franklin Street, Ninth Avenue, and Sixth Street, to Southern Pacific Company for $11,500. There, construction began on a new 2,964 square foot brick depot, measuring 38 feet wide by 178 feet long. By July, 1907, the Tucson <i>Daily Star</i> headlined an article with, "Freight Yards and New Depot Very Complete." On August 22, 1907, the Tucson <i>Citizen</i> reported that the transfer to the new depot was now complete as Resident Engineer Bordwell's office had been moved the day before. The old building had served for 27 years. (Coincidentally, the day ticket agent at the new depot in 1907 was named Maurice Holliday.)<div><div><br /></div><div>The 1907 stucco Spanish-revival building remains intact today. To commemorate the Earp / Stilwell incident, a life-size sculpture of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday was commissioned of Tucson sculptor Dan Bates and installed in 2005. Within the building is the Southern Arizona Transportation Museum; admission to the museum is free, but - like much of southern Arizona - it is closed on Mondays. Outside, you can see an original steam engine, complete with quite happy railroad cats-in-residence. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhta-2wmsKIzIrH_ZITj6tdqQAw55JPCgikH_NrQO5QQLTGIzTpdsbg6tGH5r8TMjHPDn9XInmMavLS3UD3R8TyALWbvwdizn140TPhv94EAns3FoBYH7evxLak3LtidEQ2nf8VvsJ9__99qGU5AgRcJcz6pNCXV7JMAIBehrDJNacpCda6w6BRuHuN/s5184/670A855F-70F2-443F-8307-51C1AD16CB05.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhta-2wmsKIzIrH_ZITj6tdqQAw55JPCgikH_NrQO5QQLTGIzTpdsbg6tGH5r8TMjHPDn9XInmMavLS3UD3R8TyALWbvwdizn140TPhv94EAns3FoBYH7evxLak3LtidEQ2nf8VvsJ9__99qGU5AgRcJcz6pNCXV7JMAIBehrDJNacpCda6w6BRuHuN/w400-h266/670A855F-70F2-443F-8307-51C1AD16CB05.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy6pOJZ7TVv1wgpOOwwF7ZGYr--OzkiILNyYefkcI_n3nVjXrQ2IU5Fs-R1BtnPl8yuqrqemDOTe9kg0b1pG3_MXwjIBROFlO5ssdpPSWC9j4ygCqDyPR-bwDlIKL2wh0mtx9COHUYkJK3ETKbHXlLEi-v5pj2MB33yFjISKjAzB9cuSJmkDGtII57/s5184/4A7027D1-9165-4569-AB2C-765ABF7A7601.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy6pOJZ7TVv1wgpOOwwF7ZGYr--OzkiILNyYefkcI_n3nVjXrQ2IU5Fs-R1BtnPl8yuqrqemDOTe9kg0b1pG3_MXwjIBROFlO5ssdpPSWC9j4ygCqDyPR-bwDlIKL2wh0mtx9COHUYkJK3ETKbHXlLEi-v5pj2MB33yFjISKjAzB9cuSJmkDGtII57/w400-h266/4A7027D1-9165-4569-AB2C-765ABF7A7601.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">One of the resident cats at the Tucson Amtrak Station on Toole. Marcy J. Miller photo.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42ttll60SWRt_7cEagHK2VP7PskCnSLFCBzR7iMqJQSzBDlLlOryckXwEx6FbEQsQoDzpPY1wmjf7AQfxChgT20j7oXsz1b0mbQC3wX3cXV3C5nbhcI6av6WFaHMkHTiUuRc__9x7wBHvE5u5nDJe4b-P-lI4WCXiacZv6a1m21rEjmM3FCBKZZbD/s5184/61262942-7974-4A72-9BCC-B4F0879A3C1F.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42ttll60SWRt_7cEagHK2VP7PskCnSLFCBzR7iMqJQSzBDlLlOryckXwEx6FbEQsQoDzpPY1wmjf7AQfxChgT20j7oXsz1b0mbQC3wX3cXV3C5nbhcI6av6WFaHMkHTiUuRc__9x7wBHvE5u5nDJe4b-P-lI4WCXiacZv6a1m21rEjmM3FCBKZZbD/w400-h266/61262942-7974-4A72-9BCC-B4F0879A3C1F.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Steam engine on display at Tucson Amtrak Station. Marcy J. Miller photos.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwG3awZFA_m_yTPsrZ2fjwB6-ybw4gaKYNo8Fde0Jcc1XJEna5HopO3x04FaEtbryQTHyIKcjsl2V3w5ySX-LLfpy7RIK4g9afCNmYG9RO_ZxRT0tVw7L-TVz1daUxRh1mWsJfbxKg-Lbm1WjAoQ5VW_h8SkdYqXSLuMvN6dtP3QONzoIW89nm28qi/s5184/9BD416EA-A32D-4F70-B481-18A7C0981782.jpeg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwG3awZFA_m_yTPsrZ2fjwB6-ybw4gaKYNo8Fde0Jcc1XJEna5HopO3x04FaEtbryQTHyIKcjsl2V3w5ySX-LLfpy7RIK4g9afCNmYG9RO_ZxRT0tVw7L-TVz1daUxRh1mWsJfbxKg-Lbm1WjAoQ5VW_h8SkdYqXSLuMvN6dtP3QONzoIW89nm28qi/w400-h266/9BD416EA-A32D-4F70-B481-18A7C0981782.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sadly, the Stilwell shooting was not the last law enforcement-involved shooting at the site. In 2021, DEA Special Agent Mike Garbo was fatally shot during a contact with a passenger carrying bulk marijuana on a double-decker Amtrak train. Two other officers, one a fellow DEA Special Agent and one from Tucson Police Department, were wounded in the gun battle. The suspect was shot and killed. Rest In Peace, Agent Garbo. Agent Garbo had served the DEA for sixteen years. <i>End of watch October 4, 2021.</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-PgzDeS7x9Pn66-KHRWbX2SZ3iu8Ub9og6ZJyosZ36gj5dh3OesT4Tfwpml36jLkqtqll7XXQelVrn-J2KXqKtNq6A6JpTKKpGiILQ6Z0Ke2_LybSIGVk5qdOJj2myeqSvcZydG1Ua5K5-Kq0XhjIbePDdF1YGLGKTnPrgK2bqAZqvVl7DuCNHuu8/s5184/24D2F2B8-C029-43DD-BADD-527BDBB95A30.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-PgzDeS7x9Pn66-KHRWbX2SZ3iu8Ub9og6ZJyosZ36gj5dh3OesT4Tfwpml36jLkqtqll7XXQelVrn-J2KXqKtNq6A6JpTKKpGiILQ6Z0Ke2_LybSIGVk5qdOJj2myeqSvcZydG1Ua5K5-Kq0XhjIbePDdF1YGLGKTnPrgK2bqAZqvVl7DuCNHuu8/w640-h427/24D2F2B8-C029-43DD-BADD-527BDBB95A30.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright (c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content may be used or reproduced without the express permission of the author * Sharing this link, however, would be greatly appreciated * Thank you for visiting, sharing, and otherwise helping grow my readership</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p></div></div><br />Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-28198500610384874462022-07-11T19:00:00.000-07:002022-07-11T19:00:38.679-07:00Perfectly Patagonia<p style="text-align: justify;"> Subtly funky Patagonia, situated between Nogales and Sonoita on southern Arizona's Highway 82, might just be my new favorite little Arizona town, the epitome of adorable. With a history tracing back to Jesuit Father Eusebio Kino's forays into the region in the 1500s, parts of the town reflect the Spanish influence. The train depot, though, is pure turn-of-the-century western, while the small, square, concrete Marshall's Office and jail are 1920s WPA (Works Progress Administration). Other structures hearken back to 1950s road-trip culture, and the Velvet Elvis Pizza Shop adds just-enough-modern-funk to be charming and yet not so much to be ruined by its own preciousness. Open roads in each direction are rich with pre-territorial and territorial-era military history and are pure joy to drive for the varied open terrain. Even on this mid-July Arizona day, when Phoenix-area temperatures rose to 114, at 4050 foot elevation, Patagonia was ideal - the kind of day you'd say, "Yeah, let's sit outside for a while," and enjoy the green hillside views brought to you courtesy of this year's monsoon.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAwYY8L1ksX3cR988PFky5xvSTZEPGmGUccyW454WJVcrlaMsyHirF5DDvLcTu64zqMA7DdkB8sGBjnOv8CIk5YIO2vKkopTiDtvebCIRRe2Dua0SOMQn3V_CtMnrlRUfluX7i0VFX-aaeknTWOTwemK6S_RViigUIMjSBl7xU993CymsLeN-UbB8-/s5184/8EEF6D25-A410-44DD-9FEF-F00BB010C332.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAwYY8L1ksX3cR988PFky5xvSTZEPGmGUccyW454WJVcrlaMsyHirF5DDvLcTu64zqMA7DdkB8sGBjnOv8CIk5YIO2vKkopTiDtvebCIRRe2Dua0SOMQn3V_CtMnrlRUfluX7i0VFX-aaeknTWOTwemK6S_RViigUIMjSBl7xU993CymsLeN-UbB8-/s320/8EEF6D25-A410-44DD-9FEF-F00BB010C332.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The town's name derives from the Spanish and means "big foot." Some early sources said it was so called for the distinctively big feet of local Indians. The town itself was named after the nearby Patagonia Mountains, which were named after the Patagonia Mine, which had been so-named in 1859 by Lt. Sylvester Mowry, who purchased the mine from a Mexican. The naming origin gets more confusing, though: Originally, Patagonia indicated the post office founded in 1866 at the Mowry Mine, ten miles to the south; the first postmaster at that location was Lt. Mowry's brother, Charles. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">A Pennsylvanian and Civil War veteran by name of Rollen Rice Richardson, made wealthy by eastern oil money, bought large ranch holdings in the region, including Monkey Springs Ranch and the abandoned Camp Crittenden. By 1890, Richardson and his two partners had a vast cattle enterprise but the drought devastated the enterprise. Richardson sold out everything but 500 acres which included the site of today's town of Patagonia. Richardson moved the town of Crittenden, residents and all, to the site in 1896. Sadly for Richardson's legacy, the townspeople refused to support his quest to name the town (via name of the post office) Rollen, but in a turn of good luck for lovers of appealing and interesting names, they chose the name Patagonia for their new town, co-opting the name from the previous post office at the mine. The post office at the current Patagonia was established in 1900 under the oversight of postmistress Mamie M. Cretin.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2YuxcPsB69HXhePApnxKpKYT0-NIN4_6O7w8t7E1Oi5D7g-dWDv7kL0zfe2e9OtaXox2LfrbSDb5sOCUlwkojTD_CtADuWY5KBATfNxguvaykK3x5EnNuCJrhWvM0kvGZrkJI9iLa8YxAi0wdYkWiklILSmf45mTapBLEei7eYz7c3_x5ALs9YEEF/s5184/4487A274-611E-4D08-9ECE-6A3FEE4E4CFC.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2YuxcPsB69HXhePApnxKpKYT0-NIN4_6O7w8t7E1Oi5D7g-dWDv7kL0zfe2e9OtaXox2LfrbSDb5sOCUlwkojTD_CtADuWY5KBATfNxguvaykK3x5EnNuCJrhWvM0kvGZrkJI9iLa8YxAi0wdYkWiklILSmf45mTapBLEei7eYz7c3_x5ALs9YEEF/w426-h640/4487A274-611E-4D08-9ECE-6A3FEE4E4CFC.jpeg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The mine itself had been a rich source of silver and lead deposits, and Lt. Mowry himself - recently retired from the U.S. Army - was accused by the military of using the mine's lead to make bullets, which he sold to the Confederacy. Lt. Mowry was arrested, charged with treason, and held at Fort Yuma, and the mine confiscated by the Army. Lt. Mowry was never court-martialed and later sued the federal government and culpable army staffers in vain. The marker above is in front of the train station at Patagonia.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMrp1EyHwgW0WfebUBOVs41QSwdbHU2RiuToTnzdalwcReJIJicZJBMPSr3dttuAz1FbsoIBUc_LHbrr47fff-kt71x-K3jHN8UmI6nkPgtvGVs4EU-RxRgLqnM5GSJj_ikjxdg80UQj2odd6ZyuiTO1EOqFE2VEe946M99BBAhuG1OQ7ezTpfEA_/s5184/3257FB77-92DF-4845-8466-190503B5CC80.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMrp1EyHwgW0WfebUBOVs41QSwdbHU2RiuToTnzdalwcReJIJicZJBMPSr3dttuAz1FbsoIBUc_LHbrr47fff-kt71x-K3jHN8UmI6nkPgtvGVs4EU-RxRgLqnM5GSJj_ikjxdg80UQj2odd6ZyuiTO1EOqFE2VEe946M99BBAhuG1OQ7ezTpfEA_/w640-h426/3257FB77-92DF-4845-8466-190503B5CC80.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The train station, built in 1900, stood along the now-abandoned tracks that were built in the 1880s to connect Nogales to Benson. The peak of the railroad's use came during World War II, when thousands of tons of ore were shipped out of the area's mines each month to support the war effort. As the mines shut down, a preservation-minded citizen, recognizing the significance of the train depot, purchased it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJWUnbulMIuO-13TwTI5uPcP2IlCaPOpv4D960aCfpO5vIWzvDPpJdZaCTlECJqpiVU6Sua1ioO2tqdxE6NYlyTj44DvEjnPLQEXTCooq2-B1QdDp989SEMSdjXETNJn0NVDs5pnYS64OV09lbpFWM5fk3gKrTTFyS-oK_tsvwqgUEGZ2U7-CCOWB/s5184/AA77485A-A911-4AAF-A3C3-5882348F328D.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJWUnbulMIuO-13TwTI5uPcP2IlCaPOpv4D960aCfpO5vIWzvDPpJdZaCTlECJqpiVU6Sua1ioO2tqdxE6NYlyTj44DvEjnPLQEXTCooq2-B1QdDp989SEMSdjXETNJn0NVDs5pnYS64OV09lbpFWM5fk3gKrTTFyS-oK_tsvwqgUEGZ2U7-CCOWB/w640-h426/AA77485A-A911-4AAF-A3C3-5882348F328D.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">By the 1930s, the Mowry Mine townsite was a ghost town, but the Works Progress Administration brought some work to the area: the small town jail above was built by WPA crews. The WPA also hired authors to chronicle America and its history; their volume on 1930s Arizona included visits to Patagonia and neighboring areas. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxFCIiYag8qgIlQ6nvaWDYwv0XNaQmT2AL5m-Knj4FK74E-er-RknwibymzIiDVaXI7_mZcqqxK2BpXGSfowvP8gK9inZtGH_AOIJeyaMSqYg6clYtCnlNkvDvgI3rpS9UIbjLvZHssdcMQxHmm_NzfG-kVIxn7deQzaddcLmaI_c71H98Vfycmh5/s5184/066F9851-1F42-488E-A318-E1F413C93D5E.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxFCIiYag8qgIlQ6nvaWDYwv0XNaQmT2AL5m-Knj4FK74E-er-RknwibymzIiDVaXI7_mZcqqxK2BpXGSfowvP8gK9inZtGH_AOIJeyaMSqYg6clYtCnlNkvDvgI3rpS9UIbjLvZHssdcMQxHmm_NzfG-kVIxn7deQzaddcLmaI_c71H98Vfycmh5/s320/066F9851-1F42-488E-A318-E1F413C93D5E.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">At the time of the WPA writers' visit, the town boasted 500 residents, considerably more than the 133 who occupied the town when the train station was built. Throughout these decades, the community's Methodist Church, shown below, served the faithful. Built around 1923 by local residents, the elegant stained glass windows were added by local artist Jean Burger in the late 1980s throughout the 1990s. According to the plaque to the left of the door, the window shown here is called "Cross Window and White Rose" and employs the "Tiffany method of stained glass art." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5r_97-AOFlvN87X0e2IOAZUPT5qUTQV3WWja6l4LNS2jknSp3DO4U7kMS_LGdkgqB9rUSY_5HiO7HOdcr08cBUQ1fd-T8ewH9LYaglBHLEwqyFP8-k49quw_vGFfiif283uZWsDzzFVWwQQ-cpjL-S0SKb8M7pEZOOYi-vJhP4nEWNdINdEPNAH1z/s5184/CCBD6440-A8D4-4AAD-AC90-300FA829DA98.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5r_97-AOFlvN87X0e2IOAZUPT5qUTQV3WWja6l4LNS2jknSp3DO4U7kMS_LGdkgqB9rUSY_5HiO7HOdcr08cBUQ1fd-T8ewH9LYaglBHLEwqyFP8-k49quw_vGFfiif283uZWsDzzFVWwQQ-cpjL-S0SKb8M7pEZOOYi-vJhP4nEWNdINdEPNAH1z/w640-h427/CCBD6440-A8D4-4AAD-AC90-300FA829DA98.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Znh4cAlrLZx4nC6iquWo1Sg-kU9MvOJdyupABYVkipRT-yZ-L76vcZ8eM3aWww32ozYrxXBPFz4A-HXd-65PUseLVtWdBRg9BOJlx8jlhplsJbBDILTIog65b8JFEKfFVUe5JbloToMugbAht7RAtt_WurAj628C9kblmJ1kOheNz9O3J-btaCSz/s5184/67E2CEB8-3B7E-4F54-82DA-2C5FD18D0275.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Znh4cAlrLZx4nC6iquWo1Sg-kU9MvOJdyupABYVkipRT-yZ-L76vcZ8eM3aWww32ozYrxXBPFz4A-HXd-65PUseLVtWdBRg9BOJlx8jlhplsJbBDILTIog65b8JFEKfFVUe5JbloToMugbAht7RAtt_WurAj628C9kblmJ1kOheNz9O3J-btaCSz/w426-h640/67E2CEB8-3B7E-4F54-82DA-2C5FD18D0275.jpeg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Across the main road of town, look for the wonderful PIGS station below, a throwback to rural stations of mid-century roadtrips. What's not to love about Patagonia? Even at today's record-high gas prices, a roadtrip to Patagonia - and while you're at it, nearby Sonoita and Elgin - is worth the time and money. If you're from the Phoenix or Tucson metro area, you'll feel like you're in an entirely different state - and no matter where you're from, you'll feel like you're a time traveler visiting an entirely different era. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFBLxQ7RJ55lbEMJRUBbxP6GkFcyWnB3T4QgwXoS2dtUw_957Ht1AHY_ZJwAu-27OfakLapkQawM32VnVmypYZOMfTmOG5zfutS8MTsBJUsnJLFLHX8Ejr9KnDb4lt6Dsu1OVzla1jZsCMhWXNesTanSHO2CdOCET9Q8wRBgjxiJ8ECTjh3wIOrcr/s5184/9D65D915-2959-4B77-8CC4-8C22A90A395F.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFBLxQ7RJ55lbEMJRUBbxP6GkFcyWnB3T4QgwXoS2dtUw_957Ht1AHY_ZJwAu-27OfakLapkQawM32VnVmypYZOMfTmOG5zfutS8MTsBJUsnJLFLHX8Ejr9KnDb4lt6Dsu1OVzla1jZsCMhWXNesTanSHO2CdOCET9Q8wRBgjxiJ8ECTjh3wIOrcr/w640-h426/9D65D915-2959-4B77-8CC4-8C22A90A395F.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Copyright (c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content, including photographs, may be used without the express permission of the author * Links and shares, however, may be freely shared and are appreciated. All photographs by Marcy J. Miller.</i></span></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Partial list of sources: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Will C. Barnes, <b>Arizona Place Names, </b>1960 edition</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><b>The WPA Guide to 1930s Arizona</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">John and Lillian Theobald,<b> Arizona Territory Post Offices and Postmasters, </b>1961</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Ray Brandes,<b> Frontier Military Posts of Arizona,</b> 1960</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><b>Arizona Highways Magazine</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">On-site placards and historical markers</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9gYtn50U_meFYHRo0GvCYXylgwJ6hj_e3nMoyPzlkY1YLNgVCbSpeXvGWsij83Dt--SL75RBJKi1gs48ZWSacDCpPrS2IznZK8hTTNUWrynpvncPKgma2IE3pY85SzMtmsdXG0B7LIu4dA0iRJAVTJxfB5OPffRDnwjGCfkQ7kQ8eCIeHjy7nqvrS/s5184/F4992AA9-535B-4C28-9C94-A70F80BD1339.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><br /><br />Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-89460686027934886112022-07-08T21:51:00.001-07:002022-07-08T21:51:44.614-07:00The Site of the Bisbee Massacre, the Lynching of John Heath, and the Grim End of the Cochise County Cowboys<p style="text-align: justify;"> As a child, already enthralled by Arizona's history and constantly poring over my Dad's library of books on the subject, I was simultaneously mesmerized and intrigued by a grim photograph of a blindfolded man dangling by the neck from the crossbar of a pole, a dapperly-dressed crowd gathered beneath his feet. His name, John Heath - whatever book I'd first seen the photo in had "John Heith" in the caption - stuck with me. I later learned the backstory of the photo, and over the years I revisited the photo many times in many different sources, first in the brittle pages of fly-jacketed volumes of local history, then online. This morning I visited the site where the photo was taken.</p><p><br /></p><p><img height="856" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/03/JohnHeith.jpg" style="-webkit-user-select: none; display: block; margin: auto;" width="573" /></p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">On the southeast corner of Toughnut and 2nd Street in Tombstone, just slightly off the tourist-beaten path to the east, is a historical placard. It stands on the edge of a neatly-kept property with a small, charming picket-fenced cottage, the famous Tombstone Courthouse looming in the background. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJS7GjRwhby0-uOcQ-9N-y02WyZ86adi_Luj6X2ONv4qRqTAmrWi4yJv5jbmiKq9-2RLrdNM3VYJyM9vkERir7ik5tHsHxLokTRGuE_5ysE6i8A14LkhLBsMyUm9s-DbzGe9Ttgg43LrkttRz94Lfabe3IQr9m5rgybOR_2bPkCHW1bMSFvbsV9Hw5/s5184/0347AE8C-9313-4A1A-8555-01E7BD16C087.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJS7GjRwhby0-uOcQ-9N-y02WyZ86adi_Luj6X2ONv4qRqTAmrWi4yJv5jbmiKq9-2RLrdNM3VYJyM9vkERir7ik5tHsHxLokTRGuE_5ysE6i8A14LkhLBsMyUm9s-DbzGe9Ttgg43LrkttRz94Lfabe3IQr9m5rgybOR_2bPkCHW1bMSFvbsV9Hw5/s320/0347AE8C-9313-4A1A-8555-01E7BD16C087.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Yw1nNIj6r3bVsGogeu90CI47x4Dtg5pHYyt2Rsr2bR-od6ZH2a6-SzYp6_wZ_rb7tpkjCLeGqQMvue_CoKB-WDrzOHYIyyB4qaxF2w01IicNcq9U3Akq5NjsS_EKOsIYRAz7FF2TvFqQiWWgpKRqsEw7ccxeyytPhTzRMCTIEuARYyjETMAoxmmg/s5184/5EDE1A03-6256-43B0-8FCC-5B8B476CB6A7.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Yw1nNIj6r3bVsGogeu90CI47x4Dtg5pHYyt2Rsr2bR-od6ZH2a6-SzYp6_wZ_rb7tpkjCLeGqQMvue_CoKB-WDrzOHYIyyB4qaxF2w01IicNcq9U3Akq5NjsS_EKOsIYRAz7FF2TvFqQiWWgpKRqsEw7ccxeyytPhTzRMCTIEuARYyjETMAoxmmg/w640-h427/5EDE1A03-6256-43B0-8FCC-5B8B476CB6A7.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">What's most interesting in the larger photo above is the stump of a pole to the left of the placard. That is the stump of the telegraph pole from which Heath was hanged by the angry mob. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The crime for which Heath had been lynched was shocking to the people of A.T. (Arizona Territory) despite the frequency of violent crimes in the region. Later dubbed "the Bisbee Massacre," it was a robbery-gone-bad. Hoping to rob the Goldwater and Castaneda Mercantile of the payroll for the Copper Queen Mine, members of the Cochise County Cowboys gang tied up their horses down the street to the east, near the smelter for the Copper Queen Mine. They entered the general store only to find the payroll hadn't arrived yet. They did, however, take what was available as well as rob everyone in the store at the moment. They made off with perhaps as much as $3,000 dollars plus watches and jewelry. Citizens nearby recognized a robbery in progress and intervened. The shootings commenced. The first man shot was J. C. Tappenier, an assayer for the mine. Next, a San Pedro rancher and Deputy Sheriff, C. Tom Smith, having dinner across the street, confronted them, allegedly identifying himself as a peace officer. Members of the gang quickly felled him with a shot to the head. They shot lumberman J. A. "Tex" Nolly in the chest, and shot the pregnant proprietor of a boarding house, Mrs. Annie Roberts, who'd come out to see what was going on. The bullet penetrated her spine and later proved lethal. Another man was struck in the leg by a wayward bullet and injured while fleeing, but did not die.</div><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_5JyV6EO2P6jnE24tfv69legwU6UyCNgDqEc5azsV2hCuBUfyJEtyOTC94rU45aOxEmxSP31Ou90qWvXa3kuYLstGPky7twzzVjSYpPgMaoqu1VslUf4ZVGG4OsnvypbgHzqLmU8N8KOTeT-rhNPT_V3bphZRhSz9Z99OD6Kcwq-VPMb9L_RwaMdN/s5184/C89A6D92-1D2C-4240-9B59-EDCC8FA1441F.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_5JyV6EO2P6jnE24tfv69legwU6UyCNgDqEc5azsV2hCuBUfyJEtyOTC94rU45aOxEmxSP31Ou90qWvXa3kuYLstGPky7twzzVjSYpPgMaoqu1VslUf4ZVGG4OsnvypbgHzqLmU8N8KOTeT-rhNPT_V3bphZRhSz9Z99OD6Kcwq-VPMb9L_RwaMdN/w640-h427/C89A6D92-1D2C-4240-9B59-EDCC8FA1441F.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Here - at 26 Main Street, Bisbee - is the Letson Loft Hotel, which now occupies the building that once housed the Goldwater & Castaneda Store, where the Bisbee Massacre occurred. (c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller </i></div><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7AULe4WZttjseWWDmaBwoWendZnMr3hKZSvnuYQoDxeos1-Eb2ZyeHouX-1rpNiqdcoOHT6GbdsD444QJDz6t3NBkv8WCrKfnOpVV_Hjgxij9pf-J0CEnMCH0_bO-dJEZdtO7jvH7k0aq9Cxug35Rm_H6k5QefERx8CAQsXQoUMSvDg0am3HA4Jfb/s5184/FCA95F19-2945-403F-B727-A96F5DE9181B.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7AULe4WZttjseWWDmaBwoWendZnMr3hKZSvnuYQoDxeos1-Eb2ZyeHouX-1rpNiqdcoOHT6GbdsD444QJDz6t3NBkv8WCrKfnOpVV_Hjgxij9pf-J0CEnMCH0_bO-dJEZdtO7jvH7k0aq9Cxug35Rm_H6k5QefERx8CAQsXQoUMSvDg0am3HA4Jfb/w640-h427/FCA95F19-2945-403F-B727-A96F5DE9181B.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i>This view, with the former Goldwater & Castaneda Store on the extreme left edge, shows a street view in the direction of where the horses would have been tied. Bisbee's narrow streets didn't accommodate buckboards and horses tied in front of businesses, making a quick getaway difficult. (c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;">Outrage over the brutal, senseless crimes was immediate. Posses quickly assembled and pursued the members of the gang. The first posse, headed by Cochise County Deputy Sheriff William "Billy" Daniels, left Bisbee immediately in pursuit. That posse included none other than John Heath, who'd been deputized for the purpose of pursuing the robbers. </div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;">Meanwhile, the culpable cowboy gang assembled to the north at Soldier's Hole, a historic site east of the Dragoon Mountains and between Gleeson and Elfrida, where they split their haul and then split up. Once serving as a stop on the Butterfield Overland Stage route - among other utilitarian purposes - Soldier's Hole (alternately known as Soldier Holes, Soldier's Holes, and Descanso) is an unremarkable flat patch of land now commemorated by a historical marker. The robbers gathered there included Omer "Tex" Howard, Red Sample, Daniel "York" Kelly, Daniel "Big Dan" Dowd, and William E. "Billy" Delaney. John Heath knew them from a spread in the Sulphur Springs Valley known as the Buckles Ranch, and once Deputy Daniels was able to identify Tex Howard, suspicion soon fell on John Heath in a clear case of guilt by association. The men were rounded up in various corners of the region: Tex and Red were found north of Clifton; Big Dan and Billy were found across the border in Sonora; and York made it as far east as Deming. <span></span></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;">The men were reunited in Tombstone. After a three-day trial presided over by Judge Daniel Pinney, five of the men - Tex Howard, Red Sample, York Kelly, Big Dan Down, and Billy Delaney were found guilty on February 18, 1884, and sentenced to be hanged until dead. Four of them had been identified by eyewitnesses at the scene of the crime or during their flight immediately afterwards. John Heath, however, was tried separately. No eyewitness tied him to the crime, but a cavalry soldier who'd been locked up with the men testified he'd heard the gang - Heath included - discussing their aborted attempt at robbery. Based on his testimony, Heath was convicted of second-degree murder and sentenced to life at the notorious Yuma Territorial Prison. (The soldier who testified against him, likely in exchange for his testimony, received a lenient sentence at Yuma for the murder he had committed.)</div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIshrQO3yhPdNPQYLJ0esU4g3Eytu46yJdudfZysrMqACDBXvXP8PTGlgBDl9mSZXdtY_FUx5khonTo49ew71jMAH_cMGIx4YXQoLvnfMWGypTkrn7jS88rjZ5CwZ59hcrGSpzgK3VhdvC5PnvUXZSLRfguiE1KGsHnVMHEmoiTF4Ms-Y15wgqu3zE/s4032/410D6A53-9CF9-4A83-AB47-071F60D35551.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIshrQO3yhPdNPQYLJ0esU4g3Eytu46yJdudfZysrMqACDBXvXP8PTGlgBDl9mSZXdtY_FUx5khonTo49ew71jMAH_cMGIx4YXQoLvnfMWGypTkrn7jS88rjZ5CwZ59hcrGSpzgK3VhdvC5PnvUXZSLRfguiE1KGsHnVMHEmoiTF4Ms-Y15wgqu3zE/w640-h480/410D6A53-9CF9-4A83-AB47-071F60D35551.heic" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>The stately Cochise County Courthouse in Tombstone, Arizona, where the Cochise County Cowboys were tried and convicted for the Bisbee Massacre. (c) Marcy J. Miller</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZvCHC4KDrgpp0XTf36ztzmYSPwftNzAbB_tOjFnOl0s3-L1ZVQflb-3fjHzsrgu6kcmAcAbNb4EVSgl3rluKqfPuujyzF8WCm0ItO2M6F23YDP8m2ZWnPgFNtVqzfYurMC312xGvjbZUHksB-WAvyS6pOOnhPko-4C0ap6yem-D3o5mr019HuK34N/s4032/140F0BF9-7100-4DE6-9BB3-C0B6F8D2AE10.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZvCHC4KDrgpp0XTf36ztzmYSPwftNzAbB_tOjFnOl0s3-L1ZVQflb-3fjHzsrgu6kcmAcAbNb4EVSgl3rluKqfPuujyzF8WCm0ItO2M6F23YDP8m2ZWnPgFNtVqzfYurMC312xGvjbZUHksB-WAvyS6pOOnhPko-4C0ap6yem-D3o5mr019HuK34N/w640-h480/140F0BF9-7100-4DE6-9BB3-C0B6F8D2AE10.heic" width="640" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Frontier justice intervened. While the five men who'd been sentenced to death lived on for another m month in jail, awaiting their execution, on February 22, 1884, Heath was busted out of jail by an armed lynch mob and cruelly, slowly strangled to death, drawn up by manually by the neck via the rope slung over the telegraph pole. Guilty, if at all, of nothing more than participating in planning the crime and perhaps attempting to misdirect the posse as the others fled, he faced the cruelest death of all the men. On March 28, 1884, his compadres were professionally hanged on a specially-built gallows behind the Tombstone Courthouse, and all but Big Dan Dowd died promptly when the gallows door dropped. The drop wasn't adequate for Big Dan, though, and he strangled just as Heath had. </div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;">A thousand people were in attendance for the grim display, many of whom paid $1.50 each for a seat in a specially-constructed grandstand. The bodies hung for about half an hour before being cut down and removed to the mortuary for examination; all but Omer "Red" Sample died of strangulation. He, being more fortunate than the others, incurred a dislocated neck during the hanging. The bodies were given a Christian burial at nearby Boot Hill Cemetery where, just as during the execution, visitors continue to find them a source of entertainment. John Heath's body, initially interred there as well, was later relocated to his home state, but a less-reverential resurfacing was spared his partners in crime. The "Angel of the Mining Camps," famed and kind-hearted Tombstonian Nellie Cashman, prevented the condemned mens' bodies from being dug up and used for medical research. She arranged for local miners to guard the graves for ten days and prevent exhumation. It was Nellie, too, who was horrified by the spectacle that attended the mens' execution, and arranged for the destruction of a viewing platform for the audience. </div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;">All the men proclaimed their innocence to the end, claiming they were judged wrongly based on their own reputations, but unlike Nellie Cashman they were no angels. Billy Delaney's own frequent proximity to newly-dead corpses gives a glimpse into his character; on the day of his execution, he spoke with reporters. Billy, apparently much-misunderstood throughout life, said he was born on July 11, 1856, in Scranton, Pennsylvania, and later "was supposed to have left Harrisburg under suspicion of a murder, of which I am innocent." He went on to say he'd lived in Arizona Territory for four years as a miner and prospector and was indicted in Graham County for shooting a man through the heart after the man intervened in an argument between Billy and a Mexican woman, but - Billy averred - "I am entirely innocent of this crime," and stated he was misjudged based on his own reputation. The <i>Arizona Daily Star </i>described him as a "short, well-built man about five feet four inches in height; he has clear, intelligent eyes, black hair, a well-developed forehead, and expresses himself in a gentlemanly language." </div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;">Twenty-four year old Missouri-born Omer "Red" Sample also avowed his innocence on the gallows, saying "I am to be hung for a crime I never committed." The paper described him as a "splendid specimen of physical manhood," and 6'1" in height, already suffering from a gunshot wound in his side and "of a brutal countenance." The writer described Daniel Kelly as 25 years old, with a very dark complexion, 5'6" tall; Tex Howard was 24, born in Texas, and with an intelligent, manly face - and real name unknown. Daniel Dowd was 27, 180 pounds, and had come to Arizona four years previously. He, Howard, and Delaney echoed Red Sample's proclamation of innocence in the moments before Kelly said, "Let her loose!" and the gallows trap was sprung. </div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;">Shortly after the crime had occurred, and while the gang was still on the run, another paper, the <i>Weekly Republican</i>, via the <i>Benson Herald</i>) provided physical descriptions of the men as well. Red Sample - called "Big Red" in that edition - had light hair, very red complexion, and a badly crippled right hand from partially-healed gun shot wounds, with part of his thumb shot off. Big Red had a distinctly receding chin and round shoulders. Dan Kelly was "splendidly built" and had a thin mustache, while Tex Howard - called simply "Tex" in this article - was a well-built 5'11, 160, with light brown hair and a light complexion. Mis-understood Delaney had a mustache, too.</div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;">As for ill-fated John Heath's physical countenance, he was described as 5'6", 150, with a dark complexion, very black hair, and very dark mustache - and a glass eye on the right side. </div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrq4x60K-S8ddlKeL_2JlDnKFgB1PTX787jVrKQrPCEjcr-NK_Vmyab6paOhnEQhvm7_DlkCKv0H8uUTOPNdx9RDE6tQkuFxIGLf5B6wkspljntDnLLYSlfhwHycySLwzF-FWD6d6Ffl4KAA40a9bwnq9TzhevHBosLhqTqQfEZgtqZeZrYmF0tU4A/s4032/C5030CC9-6C0E-4555-A5B3-DDF6D2B03FF7.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrq4x60K-S8ddlKeL_2JlDnKFgB1PTX787jVrKQrPCEjcr-NK_Vmyab6paOhnEQhvm7_DlkCKv0H8uUTOPNdx9RDE6tQkuFxIGLf5B6wkspljntDnLLYSlfhwHycySLwzF-FWD6d6Ffl4KAA40a9bwnq9TzhevHBosLhqTqQfEZgtqZeZrYmF0tU4A/w640-h480/C5030CC9-6C0E-4555-A5B3-DDF6D2B03FF7.heic" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>The tidy cottage now standing on the corner where John Heath was lynched. The telegraph pole from which he hanged is to the right side of the picket fence on the right edge of the lot. This view faces south. (c) Marcy J. Miller</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content may be reproduced, including photos, without the express permission of the author * Links to this page may be freely shared and are appreciated! Thank you for stopping by.</span></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><p><br /></p>Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-61636049505063195522022-01-17T21:39:00.003-08:002022-01-18T04:01:49.210-08:00Cochise County's Spanish Fort: Presidio Santa Cruz de Terrenate <div class="separator"><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></p></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0K6c_iK3YmTEPxfOCsSVrJSaeXaJyO2R6LUNNcSZZvXpsQayQgJegYXkNyauss0prJzx_KZ5DzVkVcIlanhTScRlYXgbLnXe58eKpwpt5JYTwpHOWA_ayvF_QNxJbkf2vKSAbvj-GTR5nG-mqaAhERe4QF4y8gmdmoUoBzsECtyzxkLs2i-fq4JWA=s2904" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3Kz1ca_SYKTbJzN2FSOhb-NtVJk8rRZjl3E5BkdNMja4r8Oo9wWgAhFJ8ll7gR5fhmS23gC7qf6axCOtNE5no0_U-cW9tXVNR3131l2AgnEPlCCqFLam6zMm8D7PwTQV7M8Y2waQ0c0iiTKSToJVwyi8K_7f9dx0k7Ujy1MuBnNMFBModYF-zlcAy=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3Kz1ca_SYKTbJzN2FSOhb-NtVJk8rRZjl3E5BkdNMja4r8Oo9wWgAhFJ8ll7gR5fhmS23gC7qf6axCOtNE5no0_U-cW9tXVNR3131l2AgnEPlCCqFLam6zMm8D7PwTQV7M8Y2waQ0c0iiTKSToJVwyi8K_7f9dx0k7Ujy1MuBnNMFBModYF-zlcAy=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">View to the Northwest from the Site of the Presidio, Showing Former Location of the Railroad Tracks</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">On the banks of the San Pedro River, a couple of miles north of the ghost town of Fairbank, Arizona, stand a few remnants of adobe walls. Their edges rounded and smoothed by over two hundred years of wind and rain, they bear little resemblance to the grand Spanish fort they were once intended to be. The beautiful land around them remains unpopulated and, for the most part, pristine. Pristine, that is, but for the ballast of what was once the railroad line that carried ore from the area's mines, some debris left by more recent visitors, and the tastefully-few signs and trails leading to the site of the old adobe ruins.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">This site was once the Presidio Santa Cruz de Terrenate. Here, in the late 1700s, the Spanish military erected one of several forts - presidios - to serve as a system of defense against the native people, the Apache. In the typically cosmopolitan manner of the region, it was an Irish mercenary, Hugh O'Conor, who founded the fort in 1775 on behalf of the Spanish crown. The endeavor was hardly a success. The predations of the Apache were too persistent and deadly for the Spanish troops and by 1781, they admitted defeat and abandoned the still-incomplete presidio. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Named Terranate - Spanish for "land the color of masa (corn flour)" for the pale yellowish color of the earth - the presidio appears as one of ten Spanish fortifications on the 1777 Spanish map of the region, a portion of which is below:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJKsAcswRd0bp0_V4oL5saSn-IT_ZHc2IrWOxmu_h9fYUGiSEQK2WBepk-hrWqZtOriTXPmqs8Cq39thUWBWkxDxZjOzEpzB_G9Y5f4IWxnyJDDMmPFl29bA5N50nt6Kg_t28ETFCl5SUTlnkpQYHo0F5q55mcZN70-L7aqfl3tRwiyH7W9SDdaCAS=s2904" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2904" data-original-width="2471" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJKsAcswRd0bp0_V4oL5saSn-IT_ZHc2IrWOxmu_h9fYUGiSEQK2WBepk-hrWqZtOriTXPmqs8Cq39thUWBWkxDxZjOzEpzB_G9Y5f4IWxnyJDDMmPFl29bA5N50nt6Kg_t28ETFCl5SUTlnkpQYHo0F5q55mcZN70-L7aqfl3tRwiyH7W9SDdaCAS=w544-h640" width="544" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Note the settlement called "Tuqulson" to the upper left of Terrenate. That is now the present-day city of Tucson; directly beneath it is "S. Xavier," - the Mission San Xavier del Bac, founded in 1692 by Padre Eusebio Kino. <span style="text-align: left;">The Spaniards had maintained at least a nominal control of the territory since beginning their explorations in 1540. Although the area boasted abundant silver and gold, the Spanish were unable to effectively exploit the rich minerals due to the Apache attacks. From direct assaults on the troops to a campaign of stealing the Spaniards' horses or raiding the mule trains bringing much-needed supplies, the Apache made the forts impossible to defend. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The presidio at Terrenate was laid out with a main entry facing the San Pedro River and staffed by 56 men. Thick adobe walls were built to surround the fort, and within it, the hopeful settlers would plant crops and build a chapel, barracks, and commander's quarters. Early in the effort, on July 7, 1776, a raid on the fort resulted in the death of 30 men, including the commander, Francisco Tovar, himself. He was replaced by Captain Francisco Ignacio de Trespalacios, who'd arrived with reinforcements and additional supplies in August. The new captain lasted until the summer of 1778, when he and 19 others were killed in another assault on the presidio. His replacement, Lieutenant Colonel Pedro Fages, would be the final commander. As the fort's supply of horses - originally over 350 - dwindled to under 100, and troops were diminished to just 46 soldiers, the decision to abandon the fort was made by Inspector Roque de Medina. The location was too difficult to defend and too remote to be reliably provisioned. By 1780, the remaining men were relocated. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The Apache, meanwhile, used the plunder from the raids to facilitate their own raids on enemy tribes. From wearing the helmets and leather jackets of the soldiers they slaughtered to riding the Spanish horses, they employed the muskets and pistols of the fallen as well. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNFgUUEZ-u4dw3b_KNTmSgfmdXCwop8LrXXFHiXi-ZTz04v3r4UTa3yohu_cTdJ31vIEjqSfpBhCyDMriuxuR42WVdPUXsmJvkF8zoY2ImBCX2y5QUeVuAkyOY1uaCEKRbVb_dVjQ2vnT5MVwSs3L_XQC6_X9ADxNNBa-zR4fXKeEsYqHMjIwe-YED=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNFgUUEZ-u4dw3b_KNTmSgfmdXCwop8LrXXFHiXi-ZTz04v3r4UTa3yohu_cTdJ31vIEjqSfpBhCyDMriuxuR42WVdPUXsmJvkF8zoY2ImBCX2y5QUeVuAkyOY1uaCEKRbVb_dVjQ2vnT5MVwSs3L_XQC6_X9ADxNNBa-zR4fXKeEsYqHMjIwe-YED=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Remains of the Chapel Walls</span></div><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Today, all that remains of the ill-fated presidio are portions of the walls of the chapel, commander's home, barracks, and front entry. Mounds of what had been adobe bricks dot the fort's footprint. Signs are present along the interpretive trail offering a brief history and identification of the ruins. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZsoI86f-6Gx0c9RLvJWNzCAbWKe-QmntAaJa9klgO0SrvCuxb2MJodC0iq8jQP5C23ckopgcGlk9fz2N7xrCH1EHdRWjwvzsA17YaDfP9J1spAdIQgP7izIaW09tpLARxYt2cEQCDU0xnquMoWKzVF9M6eMeM3qW8zFW5UOXfxMxorYujmQARmaHr=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZsoI86f-6Gx0c9RLvJWNzCAbWKe-QmntAaJa9klgO0SrvCuxb2MJodC0iq8jQP5C23ckopgcGlk9fz2N7xrCH1EHdRWjwvzsA17YaDfP9J1spAdIQgP7izIaW09tpLARxYt2cEQCDU0xnquMoWKzVF9M6eMeM3qW8zFW5UOXfxMxorYujmQARmaHr=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Ruins of the Commandant's Quarters</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Should you wish to visit the ruins of the presidio, access Highway 82 from Highway 80 (the road between St. David and Tombstone). Go west until you reach N. Kellar Road; turn right (north) and proceed until you see the parking lot / trailhead to the presidio on your right. The trail to the ruins is 1.2 miles of mostly flat and easily navigated terrain, but note that when you reach the railroad ballast (the foundation the tracks once sat upon), follow it to the right / east. On my recent visit there was no directional sign at the ballast. There is no water, shade, or other amenities, so be sure to dress appropriately, take water, and wear appropriate clothing. This means a hat to provide sun protection and proper shoes / boots that can handle the prickly things that the desert is famous for. In warmer weather (and it's usually warmer), snakes may be present. Respect the historic significance of the site and don't be the idiot who leaves this on the railroad ballast along the way: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEUZNqSNK6CtJXy22I7h0XT3oaVJjEzJ1tLNAdmrS1iBl7shwn2Wc6kHSW9tTNwPBEiZALKsNf-gw-ebDsJl9rlxjTOVZ3UWS8tyIHWbRHj9SSFW5NwkDWDg7GgUhs4cESiH5oDiEV3FELGYOm_5X3PKbWuw-wJ5FAgVVzJm8KCjUTMOLeme5EnO87=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEUZNqSNK6CtJXy22I7h0XT3oaVJjEzJ1tLNAdmrS1iBl7shwn2Wc6kHSW9tTNwPBEiZALKsNf-gw-ebDsJl9rlxjTOVZ3UWS8tyIHWbRHj9SSFW5NwkDWDg7GgUhs4cESiH5oDiEV3FELGYOm_5X3PKbWuw-wJ5FAgVVzJm8KCjUTMOLeme5EnO87=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">While you're in the area, be sure to visit the nearby ghost town of Fairbank. More on that coming soon.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(c) 2022 Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content, including photographs, may be reproduced without the express permission of the author * Links, however, may be freely shared and are appreciated * Thank you for visiting!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p></p><p><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p>Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-88783456026982671502020-02-17T14:35:00.003-08:002020-02-24T20:55:57.101-08:00An Arizona Visionary and a Long-Forgotten Town: Marshall Shelton and Acre City<br />
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Sleepy, dusty Phoenix had not even 25,000 residents by 1916, but had more than its share of visionaries who saw a chance to make a better life or better world. From those who found ways to bring water to the desert to those who built resorts to help "lungers" (tuberculosis sufferers), people who dreamed of making a difference found fertile ground in the arid earth of the Salt River Valley. Some live on in our daily lives by leaving their names on streets, dams, mountains, or hospital wings; others never achieved their dreams at all. Many, if not most, occupied that middle ground between the magic and the tragic, where they achieved some success but ultimately watched their castles crumble.</div>
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Marshall Shelton's name is unfamiliar to most Arizonans. On some online maps, it appears as a neighborhood name tagging part of the area between Van Buren and Washington, from 30th Street to 34th Street. Adjacent to the "Shelton" area is an area labeled "Acre City," and below that, between Air Lane and Madison, is "Pacific Place," and to the east is "Portland." These Monopoly-game names are all connected, historically as well as geographically, in a unique tale of a man who dreamed of giving a small, disenfranchised population their own exclusive community to follow their own dreams.</div>
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Marshall H. Shelton arrived in Arizona a couple of years before it achieved statehood, accompanied by his Tennessee-born wife, Genevra, and their two adopted sons, Charles and James. Born in Missouri on April 2, 1870 (or the 21st, or March, 1873, depending on which official records you choose to believe are correct), Shelton had come most recently from Seattle, but had lived in plenty of other states before making his way to the southwest. As a young adult he worked for several years as a porter at various places in Kansas City, including The Tuxedo Club (1898). By 1900, still in Kansas City, he'd married his wife, Genevra Williams, to whom he'd remain married until her death. They moved to Seattle by 1910, and Marshall worked as a solicitor. 5'10" and a slim man, Marshall was ambitious and hard-working.</div>
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Soon the couple found themselves in Arizona, settling near Washington Street in what was then the fringe of Phoenix, an area verdant with alfalfa crops and citrus groves. Marshall, by then a real estate broker, conceived of a lofty plan. He established an office at 215 W. Washington and from there he began marketing the opportunity of a lifetime: Giving people who were otherwise not likely to be able to buy real estate a chance to buy their own acreage in his planned community, which he called Acre City. By May, 1914, Shelton was advertising lots at $350 an acre, some of which were already planted in alfalfa. He promised the area would soon grow into a thriving town of industry, with a general store coming to the corner of National Avenue and Division Street. Shelton encouraged those who dreamed of raising chickens or cattle to buy in his new town, even offering to help them get a cow if they didn't have one.</div>
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Shelton laid out the streets of his new town with attention to every detail. He named one street, Genevra Court, after his wife; others were given women's names such as Leola, Zelda, Edna, Maria, and Elvira. The street he called Genevra (sometimes appearing as Genevie in newspaper articles) is now Madison Street, and the National Highway he proudly raved about is what is now Van Buren. At the time, the area he developed - Washington to Van Buren between 32nd Street and towards 44th - was in between the cities of Phoenix and Tempe, and Shelton saw it as an "intermediary" town.</div>
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The <i>Arizona Republic </i>carried frequent mention of Acre City in its section devoted to local news from around the state. A woman named Hope Edson was Acre City's designated correspondent. Her columns were filled with optimism for the emerging community as she informed readers of critical events. Mr. George Cagle planted fruit, pecan, and shade trees on the George Utley property, she wrote; her husband, P. J. Edson, harvested a crop of pears for Mr. Carr. She told us when Mrs. Carson had left for the mountains to partake in the bracing air up north, and when Mr. Cotton and his son, Fred, were in the mountains for Mr. Cotton's recuperation from an unspecified illness. Ella Stevenson bought an acre to raise chickens on, and Mr. McNeff bought the property north of F. R. Towar on Genevie Court. As for Marshall Shelton himself, Hope Edson boasted that Marshall had a flock of 80 colorful ducks.</div>
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So the town grew. Five houses popped up on Division Avenue. Mrs. T. V. Parsons, from Fresno, purchased five acres in the Zeibenow addition nearby. By fall of 1914, acres were going for $525 apiece. The next year, the Cauthen family moved to an orange grove north of the Desert Inn, and Belle Grissinger, a farmer's daughter, made plans to convert her seven-room house into apartments. Roberts Willabos visited his brother Louis, and Mrs. Carson built a chicken coop. Babies were popping up all over: by March, 1916, Acre City boasted no fewer than a dozen infants and toddlers under the age of three years. Children had become so abundant that the city had an active boys club that promoted reading, writing, recitations, and cornet playing. Residents circulated a petition in an effort to bring a primary school to town, as the National Highway had become so heavily trafficked that it was unsafe for the little ones to walk to school. </div>
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A big event happened in January, 1919: Mr. and Mrs. R. A. Waschan had twins. Hope Edson referred to them as the "famous" twins, and the newspapers carried the news that the Waschans were going to name the babies with the public's help. Ruby Bowers and Mabel Weaver submitted the winning names: Milton and Marie. </div>
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Meanwhile, Marshall and Genevra themselves had added two boys to their family. There's a mystery involving the boys, though - their origin, and whether or not they were actually their biological sons or not. One census record specifies the boys are adopted, but there are reasons to doubt this assertion. You see, the reason Marshall and Genevra Shelton began master-planning a community was that they wanted people like themselves to have an opportunity to own land. In a time when banks generally denied mortgages to black people, Marshall and Genevra - designated "Neg," for "Negro" on census records, or with a "C" for "colored" on voter's rolls - were themselves a black couple who saw a chance to create an exclusive community where blacks were able to buy property and achieve the dream of home ownership and cottage industry. By 1920, only about 4% of the population of Phoenix was black. Perhaps it was because, compared to most states, Arizona's was relatively hospitable to blacks drew the Sheltons to the valley. Already Phoenix had a black newspaper, the <i>Phoenix Tribune</i>, devoted to civil rights issues and local black news. The well-established <i>Arizona Republic</i> praised the paper and its publishers, and encouraged readers to subscribe to the <i>Tribune, </i>in addition to promoting the news and marketing of Acre City. News of the settlement spread and even the nationally-known black educator, Hattie Q. Brown, bought land from Shelton for her winter home. Whatever the reason, the ever itinerant Sheltons stayed in Arizona for the remainder of both their lives.</div>
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Here's the mystery regarding the Shelton boys. Charles Courtney Shelton was born in 1921 in Denver, Colorado. His brother, James Curtis Shelton, was born March 8, 1925, in Portland, Oregon. In the 1930 census, Charles and James are listed as adopted, and their race is designated as white. In the 1940 census, the boys were not cited as adoptees, and their race has been designated "Neg" for "Negro." Shortly after that census, the young men went to war. On their draft cards and subsequent military records, they're both designated as white. I assume that, whether or not the sons were in fact adopted or were the biological sons of Marshall and Genevra, that they were light-skinned enough to "pass" and that their parents made the decision to identify them as adopted white children to offer more opportunities to the young men. I could find no birth records or newspaper accounts of their births, but that isn't in itself unusual. On James' 1942 draft card, his description is given as 142 lbs., 5'8", with brown hair and brown eyes and a "sallow" complexion. I could find no photographs of them - yet - but I did find yearbook photos of Charles' two sons, Curtis James and Bruce Eugene, and they each have features that appear consistent with some African descent. Clearly I do not know with any certainty the facts of James' and Charles' birth or ancestry, nor the motivations for the family changing their racial identity to "white" on documents, but based on that being a not infrequent occurrence in those years, and the understandable inclination to want their sons to be as free as possible of bias and closed doors, it makes sense to me.</div>
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Marshall's two sons, as mentioned, went off to fight in World War II. Private Charles Courtney Shelton, service #18017448, served in the 60th Coast Artillery Corps., I Battery Anti-Aircraft, in the Southwest Pacific Theatre: Philippines. In 1943, he was taken prisoner by the Japanese and detained at Hoten POW Camp (Mukden) in Manchuria. Pvt. Shelton was liberated on May 7, 1942. He suffered greatly during his detention and became disabled. Upon his return, Pvt. Shelton lived only until April 9, 1949. He left behind his widow, Alice, who briefly stayed in Phoenix with the two small children. In March, 1951, Alice accidentally backed her car over two-year-old Bruce in the driveway of her home at 9101 N. 12th St. in Sunnyslope, breaking his leg. Not long thereafter, she took the boys to Springfield, Missouri, and raised them there. Both eventually returned to Arizona after graduation from high school.</div>
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The younger brother, Bruce Eugene Shelton, was born on December 7, 1948, seven years to the day after the attack on Pearl Harbor. He attended Phoenix College and ASU. Like his father, he went off to war and served in Vietnam in the First Cavalry 11th. Bruce died on September 7, 2012 and is buried at the National Memorial Cemetery on Cave Creek Road in Phoenix. Bruce's older brother, named Curtis James Shelton in tribute to his uncle, was born June 1, 1947, also went to Vietnam. On November 28, 1967, he was wounded in the war. Curtis survived and returned to Tucson, Arizona, where he died on March 15, 2003.</div>
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The uncle Curtis was named in memory of, Marshall Shelton's younger son James Curtis Shelton, (born March 8, 1925) enlisted in the 1402 Army Air Force on June 15, 1943. On March 31, 1945, he was killed in action. James' body was brought home to be buried at Tempe Cemetery, not far from Acre City. On February 3, 1949, Marshall Shelton applied for his son's grave marker. His address at the time was 33 North 11th Street, Phoenix, still near the place he'd built a city in the desert.</div>
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By then, Genevra Shelton had died. Born on February 1, 1875, in Nashville, Tennessee, to James Williams and Julia, Genevra was a petite 5-foot-tall, 100-pound woman on her voter registration in 1928. (Both she and Marshall were registered Republicans.) Genevra, despite her birth as a woman of color in the 1800s in a southern state, was literate. She and Marshall formed a business with a partner from Los Angeles. They were both founding officers of the Phoenix and Los Angeles Investment Association formed on April 18, 1928. </div>
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During this chapter of the Sheltons' life - the 1920s - the were hard at work on developing acreage known as "The Portland Tract" into another exclusive community for black Arizonans. By 1923, Shelton advertised that the land was near a meat packing plant and that a cement plant would be built as well, offering more opportunities for industrious-minded people. The Portland Tract was bordered by Van Buren on the north; "Four Mile Road" on the west (now the 40th Street alignment) and "Chicago Avenue" on the east (now 44th Street) and the northern edge of what is now the Sky Harbor Airport grounds. Shelton, acting as agent for his Los Angeles partner Edward L. Minsoh, requested the platting of the tract for his new city. That tract was the NW 1/4 of Section 7, TWP 1N, Range 4E. </div>
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The Portland Tract - which it appears was to be called "Pacific City" - remained mostly undeveloped into the 1930s. It is likely the Great Depression halted Shelton's progress. In 1941, Sky Harbor (nicknamed "The Farm" because of its location in rural farmland of the valley) began rapidly expanding. Much of the Portland Tract was consumed by the airport. It was noted to have been occupied primarily by squatters in cars and tents by then [FAA Sky Harbor Environmental Impact Statement, June, 2005]. Once - in the 1890s - owned by livery stable owner Joseph S. Drew, the land then became a failed city for people of color, and was now to be part of an airport that would one day grow to be the busiest in the nation. </div>
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His dreams halted by the economy, Shelton stayed in the area throughout the 30s and 40s. At 11:40 a.m. on November 29, 1946, at age 71, his long-time wife and partner, Genevra, died of colon cancer in Tempe Hospital after a two-month stay. I could find no obituary nor newspaper tribute to Genevra. Her name on her death certificate was spelled "Genevera"; at times in census records and other documents, it appeared as Genevie. Searches under all such spellings turned up nothing to honor her death. Soon, Shelton would be alone in Arizona, his grandchildren having moved to Missouri; his sons both dead; and his wife gone. On June 16, 1952, Shelton died at his home at 311 N. 32nd Street. Maricopa County Sheriff's deputies served to provide information to the medical examiner regarding his death, as no family was left to do so. He was in his 80s when hypertension-caused heart failure felled him. Shelton is buried in Tempe at the Double Butte Cemetery, near the land he'd believed in. I could find not a mention of his passing in the papers. </div>
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Nothing discernible remains of Acre City, Pacific City, or the Portland Tract except asphalt, dusty weed-filled lots, and a mention on online maps. A few businesses - Circle K, a car lot, and so forth - have been built, and a few aged homes cling to the neighborhood behind chain-link fencing. Planes taxi down runways where Portland Tract once promised to be the promised land. Even the street names have changed; there's no Shelton Road, nor is Genevra still commemorated on street signs. But once, that area was an exciting, thriving community, all because of Marshall Shelton's ambition and vision. </div>
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For anyone researching Acre City or its original inhabitants for genealogical purposes, here are a few of the additional names I ran across. Spellings of names are suspect, so don't accept them as accurate; many were gleaned from Hope Edson's newspaper column about Acre City happenings. I cross-checked many names in census records and other official documents, but interestingly, found very few of the people below were designated as black in those records.</div>
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Bates: Little Gordon Bates was ill as of January, 1916, but improving.</div>
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Carr: Owned a pear tree orchard</div>
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Carson</div>
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Nellie Cassity: Lived in Colorado, but attended school in Acre City.</div>
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Cotton</div>
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Couthen (lived on the Dr. Bond property until moving to an orange grove north of the Desert Inn).</div>
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Donaway: Mrs. Donaway lived in Acre City until moving to Phoenix.</div>
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Hope Towar Edson: Born in 1901 in Iowa, daughter of P. J. Edson</div>
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Gareison / Garelson: "A resident of Acre City for some time" moved to Phoenix in September, 1915, to open a business there.</div>
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Emmanuel Gormezis: In 1916, erected a large chicken yard on the Jack verner property just west of Belle Grissinger's house.</div>
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Cathuleen Kendall lived in Acre City until September, 1915, when she left for Tempe to attend the Tempe Normal School (now ASU).</div>
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Lasem: lived in Acre City in October, 1915.</div>
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Lasuer: Mr. Lasuer worked at a quarry near Tempe.</div>
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McNeff: owned the property north of the F. R. Toward place on Genevie Court.</div>
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Pare: Mrs. Pare was ill in January of 1916 and was attended by Dr. Dameron.</div>
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Robert Parscal: The Parscal family owned a ranch and alfalfa fields in Tucson. Robert Parscal was a resident of Acre City in January, 1916 and, at the time, suffered a serious illness.</div>
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Ella Stevenson bought one acre in Acre City.</div>
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Mr. and Mrs. R. A. Waschan had the twins, Milton and Marie.</div>
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Robert Willabos</div>
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Residents of Genevra Court (Del Rey Precinct) as of 1930:</div>
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Charles and Thelma Norton (white)</div>
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Charles M. and Ethel M. Norton (white)</div>
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Mary Fraley (white)</div>
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Thomas and Frances Brown (white)</div>
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Bradbury Thomson (white) </div>
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Silvio Sinforiani (white, Italian immigrant)</div>
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Matthew Mitchell (black - listed as "Negro" in census records)</div>
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In 1930, the Shelton family lived at 305 Orange Road, one of the north / south streets in Acre City / Portland Tract.</div>
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<b><i>Credit for the inspiration for this content goes to Twitter friend @UncleTom2019, with my thanks for introducing me to such an interesting and little-known piece of Arizona history.</i></b></div>
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<b>Copyright (c) 2020 by Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content may be reproduced without the express permission of the author * Links, however, may be freely shared and are appreciated * Thank you for stopping by!</b></div>
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Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-68660623157196773712019-11-05T09:22:00.000-08:002019-11-05T09:22:03.270-08:00Arizona's Official Anthem, 1901On March 16, 1901, by way of Act No. 49, the Arizona Territorial legislature adopted an official anthem of the Territory of Arizona. Here, faithfully transcribed in all its sun-kissed glory, are the lyrics.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>HAIL TO ARIZONA, THE SUN-KISSED LAND.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">O, Arizona, Sun-kissed Land; </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Thy day of birth is near at hand;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Upon they mountains' rugged crest,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">They native sons still call thee blest;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Within thy valleys' broad domain,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">In love, thy foster children reign;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Fair Land of gold and sunny peace,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Of flower and vine and rich increase,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Of cloud-kissed hills and wooded wold,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Of countless mines and wealth untold.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">CHORUS.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Hail: all hail to Arizona:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Sound her praise from sea to sea:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Land of sun and summer showers,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Land of grain and gold and flowers,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">In Columbia's diadem</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Of jewels rare thou'lt be the gem,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Hail to Arizona, the Sun-kissed Land.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Primeval stands thy forest grand,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The ancient Zuni's fatherland,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The plain and lofty mountain round,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Were many moons his hunting ground,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Unbosomed in thy sun's bright ray</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">His olden ruins slow decay;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Where once the tribes of Ishamel's band</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Marauding wandered o'er the land,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The mighty "Phoenix" rose to fame</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">From the ashes of destruction's flame.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">(Chorus.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Hoary with age, thou still art young,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Land of renown with praise unsung;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Nature with a master hand</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Hath carved thy wondrous Canyon Grand;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Magician-like her wand she plied,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">And lo: thy Forest Petrified;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">From craggy peak of Castle Dome,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">From Copper Queen to rich Jerome,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">She pours her lavish treasure forth</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">In molten streams of priceless worth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">(Chorus.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Not all thy riches, glorious Land,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Are due alone to Nature's hand,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">For man with unremitting toil</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Brings forth a bounty from the soil;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">From vine-clad hills and limpid streams,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">From fruitful vales where plenty teems,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">O'er verdant fields he points with pride,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Where flocks and herd are scattered wide,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">To schools where art and skill combine,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">To homes in love and truth enshrined.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">(Chorus.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Proud Land, thy rock-ribbed hills record</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The history of a mighty horde;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The onward tread of centuries old</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Hath left its imprint strong and bold</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">On the hearts and lives of thy brave sons,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">In the winsome grace of thy fairer ones;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Thy Rider's Rough, a valiant band,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">With loyal hearts forever stand</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">To guard the flag that floats above</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Thy homes where reign content and love.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">(Chorus.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">(End anthem.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The statue passing the adoption of the above anthem also mandated that trustees of the school districts were to furnish copies to all schools to allow Arizona's students to learn and perform the song "as part of the musical exercises of their schools." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The "day of birth" mentioned in the first stanza refers, of course, to the optimism towards approaching statehood. Due to the "Indian troubles," statehood wasn't granted until several years later in 1912. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Note that the final verse pays homage to the Rough Riders, of which Buckey O'Neill was a member. In the same legislative session, it was also enacted that the Roosevelt Rough Riders Association would be permitted to commemorate the Arizona contingent of the First United States Volunteer Cavalry - better known as the Rough Riders - with a medallion, inscribed with the names of all the Rough Riders who perished in the Spanish-American War, in the rotunda of the Territorial capitol building. </span>Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-12825289337132286432019-06-24T21:50:00.002-07:002019-06-24T21:50:50.236-07:00A Whistle-Post on the Railway: Arntz, ArizonaFollow the railroad tracks best of Holbrook, and just a few miles outside of town you'll pass a bare patch of land where a railroad station once stood. You'll know you're there because the Arntz Road crosses the tracks there from the north before veering sharply east. The station took its name from Werner Peter Arntz, the railroad roadmaster for the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad. Arntz may never have even lived in the settlement that took his name. In June, 1921, Arntz succeeded H. C. Storey as the train master on the Phoenix - Ash Fork Line of the railroad upon Storey's death, and resided in Prescott. There he stayed until he received a promotion in November, 1922, when Arntz returned to California to work at the Terminal Division in San Francisco.<br />
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Born in January, 1873, in Wisconsin, Arntz was the son of a French-born father and a German-born mother. In 1895, he married Hannah; census records show their children included Jeraldine and Julian. A lifelong railroad employee, Arntz was Chief Clerk at the AT & SF RR by 1915, when he lived in San Francisco at 3727 25th Street.<br />
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Arntz moved around as necessary for his railroad job. Just prior to moving to Arizona, he was Chief Clerk at Fresno. Arizona, at the time, was considerably less lively than his California residences. Perhaps the highlight of Arntz's Arizona career was traveling with the popular Sells-Floto Circus when it traveled by rail across the southwest. In September, 1922, Arntz was responsible for ensuring the bigtop and its entourage were safely moved. He joined them from Prescott to Ash Fork, where he left them to make their own way on the train to Winslow for their next show.<br />
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In April of that year, the papers were proud to announce the arrival of "high officials" of the AT & SF RR. Traveling in a special five-car train to tour the Santa Fe lines, the lofty executives were joined in Prescott by Arntz himself. His Arizona career, though brief, had its challenges: railroad labor unrest divided communities, and as workers pitted themselves against the railroads, Arntz found that he and his employee could find nowhere to eat in Parker (Arizona) in August, 1922. Four restaurants they tried to eat at closed their doors to the railroad men, hanging signs up saying, "We are not feeding scabs."<br />
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As for the tiny way station called Arntz, it remained humble. Its biggest news was excitedly reported by the <i>Holbrook (Arizona) News</i> on November 24, 1922. Calling it "a whistling post" seven miles east of Holbrook, the paper announced that Section Foreman William Melton and a section hand named Liberado Flores were arrested for having "materials and machinery" for the "manufacturing of the product so obnoxious to Mr. Volstead." Volstead, students of American history will know, was Mr. Andrew Volstead, whose name was given to the act establishing prohibition - the 18th Amendment. Melton and Flores were bootleggers, although the newspaper delicately avoided giving them such a scandalous name. The newspaper was more concerned with the fact a place called Arntz even existed: "So it is that Arentz breaks into fame, and we must confess that up to this time we ourselves had been entirely ignorant of its existence."<br />
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As for Werner P. Arntz, he and Hannah continued to move around in California after the Prescott office he'd held was abolished November 15, 1922. They lived, in 1932, once again in San Francisco; by 1939, in San Jose; ever moving along the tracks as needed by the railroad. His name remains in Arizona, though, a pin-prick on a wind-blown lot with just a tree-break still remaining along the tracks outside of Holbrook.Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-30547497112598678832018-11-07T20:17:00.003-08:002018-11-07T20:17:41.793-08:00Announcing the Release of Black Canyon UndergroundI've been remiss, again, in maintaining my blog. I'm blaming life, baby burros, a newly-torn rotator cuff, the long hot summer ... oh, and the release of my latest book on Arizona history. Book releases aren't just a sigh of relief and a bottle of celebratory adult beverage - they're hard work, really. They entail festivities: a party of appreciation for the people who supported the project ... some live music ... and <i>marketing.</i> It means some public speaking, lots of signing, updating websites, and arranging for online sales. Then there's the business end of things ... and in all of the chaos and fun and learning things about retail I've never had to learn before, I've neglected to update this site.<br />
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So here it is, for those of you who love Arizona history, are curious about my efforts at linocut and woodcut illustration, or want to support local authors (and their newly-adopted BLM donkeys): <a href="https://marcyjmiller.com/online-shop">Black Canyon Underground</a>. It's a story-driven volume, with what I consider "the best of" Black Canyon City's historical tales from the 1800s to the 1970s. If you've lived in Arizona for any length of time, you'll recognize many of the names - but you may be surprised at their often-indirect relationship to Black Canyon City.<br />
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Meanwhile, I'm immersed in writing another book on Black Canyon City, one which will be more reference-style than about the story - although certainly stories have made their way in. I expect to have it in print by January.<br />
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Although I haven't mentioned the hardcover editions of <i>Black Canyon Underground </i>on my site, I do have a very limited number of them available for those who, like myself, appreciate a book that feels more solid and durable. I'm a bookish person, and I'll never tire of hardcover books. From that subtle sound of the "crack" when you first open them, to the way they stand neatly on a shelf without the saggy trousers of a paperback, they're a book-lovers' book. But they're expensive to produce and ship, and for that reason I have few on hand. Drop me a line if you'd like to get your hands on one.<br />
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With a little luck and self-discipline, I'll be back soon with more Arizona history for you!<br />
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<br />Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-59082127067046310922018-05-27T14:58:00.001-07:002018-05-28T10:33:05.249-07:00May 28th, 1918: On this Day in Arizona History (Memorial Day edition)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's Memorial Day, May 28th, 2018 - and an appropriate time to remember the first Arizonan killed in World War I, exactly one hundred years ago today. That man who died a hero's death on May 28, 1918, was a Pima Indian, Matthew B. Juan. Born in San Tan, Juan grew up in Sacaton, a village of the Gila River Pima Community. Juan was part of the first American offensive on a German stronghold at Cantigny, France, in the first major American battle of the war. </div>
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Matthew B. Juan had already survived the January 24, 2018 torpedoing of his troopship, the U.S.S. Tuscania, in an attack which killed 210 of his fellow troops. The Tuscania, originally a luxury Cunard liner, had been repurposed as a troopship. The German submarine UB-77, under the command of Wilhelm Meyer, launched two torpedoes at the three-year-old ship and brought her down.</div>
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Juan was later transferred to the First Division, 28th Infantry, Company K. As his unit advanced on the Germans at 0645, Juan took machine gun fire and was killed. Although he was initially buried in France, his body was later exhumed and returned home to the reservation at Sacaton. Nearly three years later on April 9, 1921, Juan was laid to rest in the desert. Juan is honored by a stone memorial at the Matthew B. Juan - Ira Hayes Veterans Memorial Park in Sacaton on his native reservation south of Phoenix. The name Ira Hayes, another famed Pima veteran from Sacaton, is recognizable to many from the Johnny Cash song about him. Those who know their history, though, will recognize Ira, a US Marine, as one of the six flag-raisers at Iwo Jima commemorated in the poignant Joe Rosenthal photograph.</div>
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When Matthew died, a friend visited the <i>Arizona Republic</i> office to tell them not only of his death but of his life. Matthew (who also went by the name "Matthew Rivers") had been an athlete and a star baseball pitcher at the prominent Sherman Indian High School in Riverside, California. When American entered the war, he promptly enlisted out of Texas, where he was at the time. Matthew's friend also said, "If you put anything in the paper about my friend, tell the people that 30 boys from Camp Kearny, all Indians, have just started for France, and tell them too - tell them that the fighting spirit of Matthew Rivers will live long in the hearts of the Pima Indian people."</div>
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That fighting spirit did indeed live on and continue to grow. <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">A tribute to Juan in the May 30, 1941 </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Arizona Republic, </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">as the nation again faced war, said 81 Pima Indians had entered military training camps to again fight. In May, 1943, the Pima High School at Sacaton had no graduation ceremony. <i><b>Every single graduate, with the exception of one girl, either enlisted or was drafted into the war. </b></i>One of those was Ira Hayes.</span></div>
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Only three of the soldiers in the iconic photo survived the war; one with physical wounds, and all scarred by their experience. Ira's fame - and perhaps the inevitable and tragic survivor's guilt - contributed to his downfall. Ira now lies at rest in Arlington National Cemetery. </div>
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<i>With gratitude to all who gave all under the colors of our flag, and with special respect to the Native American heroes of our wars and conflicts. </i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright (c) 2018 by Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content, including photographs, may be reproduced in whole or in part without the express permission of the author * Links, however, are truly appreciated * Thank you for linking, liking, forwarding, tweeting, and otherwise helping grow my readership * Most of all, thank you for visiting and - veterans - thank you for your service.</span></div>
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Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-22323817724183151592018-05-26T21:43:00.000-07:002018-05-26T21:43:37.063-07:00Historic, Under-Appreciated Willcox, Arizona<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Willcox Depot</td></tr>
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I'm a sucker for authentic old western towns, unspoiled by tourism and kitschy re-creations of sites and events. Put a life-size diorama at an old fort site and I'm unimpressed. Do mock shoot-outs in the streets and I'm heading the other way. But leave the old buildings intact, and do tasteful markers and monuments - well, I get a bit weak at the knees.<br />
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That's Willcox. Still a cow-town with cow-haulers parked on the streets and the livestock auction grounds barely on the edge of town, it has that slow-paced and wonderful western feel. There aren't scads of out-of-state plates, nor do easterners clog the sidewalks. It's still genuine. Many of the old buildings are still intact, although perhaps the most famous building of all - what was once Brown's Headquarter's Saloon, where Warren Earp was shot to death - burned down in that most-Arizona-of-fates in 1940.<br />
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Willcox, part of the Sulphur Springs Valley in Cochise County, owes its origin to the Southern-Pacific railroad. The depot, shown above, was built in 1881 to service the area. It's the oldest extant redwood station in the country and has been lovingly maintained. To the left, partly obscured by the stop sign, you can see the old signal booth, complete with early phone numbers scratched into the metal on the door.<br />
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The historic downtown area is quiet now, but during territorial days, it was a notoriously tough town. Many of Arizona's most nefarious characters passed through, and many made Willcox their home. Working girls populated the saloons, and rival rustlers and cowboys engaged in gunplay on the street. Shootings weren't uncommon. Train robber Burt Alvord, infamous in the state's history, was deputy sheriff under the famed Sheriff John Slaughter (a much tougher Arizona sheriff than Joe Arpaio ever was, by the way). Here in Willcox, Alvord killed the cowboy William King.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At left, the site of the original Headquarter's Saloon, where Warren Earp was gunned down in 1900.<br />
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Another notorious outlaw, train robber Bill Downing, kept a house of ill repute appropriately named the "Free and Easy Saloon" on Maley Street (the street across which the above photo is taken). Downing was killed by Arizona Ranger Billy Speed in 1908, just a year before the Rangers were disbanded after an eventful - and highly successful - eight-year run.<br />
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Willcox's most famous son, though, was cowboy star Rex Allen. As a boy, Allen performed in a barber shop on the street where today stands the Rex Allen Museum. The museum itself is in the old Schley Saloon building. Rex Allen never let his fame ruin his natural down-to-earth personality. He often visited old friends in Willcox. Leonard Sly performed in town, as well, before becoming Roy Rogers.<br />
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Although Marty Robbins was from Glendale, the Marty Robbins Museum and Gift shop stands next to the Rex Allen Museum. You can pick up my favorite Marty Robbins CD there, too - Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs. I grew up listening to it on vinyl; it was one of Dad's most-played albums.</div>
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In the town square, a larger-than-life sculpture of Rex Allen by prominent Arizona artist Buck McCain looks over the town. Rex is keeping an eye on more than the passers-by, though. In front of the sculpture is a section of concrete imprinted with ranch brands, and beneath the concrete lies Rex Allen's famous co-star and stallion, KoKo. KoKo traveled half a million miles with Rex. </div>
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Throughout town are the sort of subtle gems that make photography a delight: ornate scrollwork accents on building facades; old signs painted on red-brick walls; the occasional amusingly misspelled business sign. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Willcox is cult-free, so don't hesitate to step inside. They mean "Cutlery."</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An accent piece on a vintage building.</td></tr>
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Should you make your way to Willcox, stop in at the Friendly Book Store - they're friendly, and they have a good selection of Arizona history books. The milk shakes at the Mother Lode ice cream store are not to be missed, either. You can pick up a free self-guided walking-tour map at the Chamber of Commerce (or many of the local businesses). </div>
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If you'd like to enjoy some vintage photos and history of Willcox, you can pick up your copy of Arcadia's "Images of America: Willcox" book here: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00LYJ6AH8?ie=UTF8">Willcox, Arizona</a> (affiliate link). Support local authors!</div>
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On the edge of town is the Old Willcox pioneer cemetery, too - but more on that later, so make sure you sign up to follow my blog by email. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright (c) 2018 by Marcy J Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content, including photographs, may be reproduced without the express permission of the author * Links, however, may be freely shared and are greatly appreciated * Thank you for linking, liking, tweeting, sharing, and otherwise helping grow my readership * Most of all, thank you for stopping by and sharing my enthusiasm in the great American west.</span></div>
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Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-23754927646014699352018-04-21T21:01:00.001-07:002018-04-21T21:01:33.945-07:00The Death Site of Sheriff Glenn Reynolds <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cross along the Florence-Kelvin Road<br />
(c) 2018 MJ Miller<br />
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Outside of Florence, there's a sandy dirt road that leads east. Called the Florence-Kelvin Road, it's still a rural drive, as yet uncluttered by subdivisions (although they're in the plans for the future) and untroubled by too much traffic or asphalt. You'll first drive by the Arizona State Prison in Florence and if you're lucky you'll get a glimpse of the mustangs and burros being trained by the inmates on the prison ground's edge. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The long, sandy grade where Sheriff Glenn Reynolds was killed.<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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There are no historical markers along this road, but here, on November 2, 1889, Sheriff Glenn Reynolds and his deputy, William H. "Hunky-dory" Holmes, were murdered by Apache convicts they were transporting from Globe to Yuma Territorial Prison. I've described the event in detail here: <a href="http://justwestofmyheart.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-death-and-gravesite-of-sheriff.html">The Death of Sheriff Glenn Reynolds</a><br />
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The Florence-Kelvin Road is an old stagecoach road connecting Globe to Florence. Take the road from the east and start at Ray Junction (formerly Kelvin) to re-create Sheriff Reynolds' final journey. Kelvin has since been devoured by the vast Ray Copper Mine, but the old historic Kelvin Bridge remains across the Gila. Soon, it will be closed to vehicular traffic and the much larger, much stronger new bridge will open. Take a few minutes to enjoy the bridge; it's historically significant as a bridge designed by Daniel Luten, constructed in 1916. More on the bridge here: <a href="http://justwestofmyheart.blogspot.com/2018/04/the-bridges-of-kelvin-and-riverside.html">The Historic Bridges of Kelvin and Riverside </a><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old adobe at Riverside along the Gila<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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The stagecoach carrying the Apache prisoners - including the notorious Apache Kid - stopped at Riverside in the late afternoon on November 1. There, they overnighted. William T. Branaman, a stagecoach driver himself, opted to guard the prisoners overnight for $5 rather than drive the stage in the morning. Starting afresh at five the next morning, they left idyllic Riverside (and Branaman) behind, Eugene Middleton driving the stage while Holmes and Reynolds tended the prisoners. <div>
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About four miles west of Riverside, the stagecoach reached Zellweger Wash, the low point at the base of a long, steep grade. The deep sand made the haul tougher on the horses. The prisoners were, according to Branaman's later account, numb with cold. Reynolds allowed six of the eight prisoners - one Mexican and seven Apache - to get out of the stage and walk up the hill, partly for their own warmth and partly to help the horses ease up the grade. The prisoners who got out were shackled; the Apache Kid remained in the coach with one other prisoner and the driver, Middleton, continued onward with them. He was to wait at the top of the hill until the rest caught up.</div>
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The prisoners on foot had planned their escape. As the coach got well ahead, two of them attacked Sheriff Reynolds and two attacked Deputy Holmes, killing both. Middleton heard the shots and assumed the lawmen were shooting the prisoners to quell an attack, not realizing the men had been fatally wounded. The lone Mexican prisoner took Sheriff Reynolds' gun and advanced on the stagecoach, shooting Middleton. As the team of horses bolted on, Middleton fell from the coach with wounds to his head, neck, and side. The Apache Kid intervened as the other Apaches caught up and began to attack Reynolds as well, telling them Middleton was already dead and so not to shoot. </div>
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Middleton, though, was not dead. One of the bullets struck him in the right cheek, exiting at the top of his head; it likely followed the path of least resistance as it traveled upward, rather than entering his skull. He later said he'd "played possum" while the Apaches took his gun, coat, and valuables. They also took the orders of commitment to prison and tore them up at the scene.</div>
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Middleton was able to walk back to Riverside and, although the papers at the time reported him as "nearly dead," he lived until April 24, 1929, dying in the apartment complex he owned in Globe. Middleton, a true pioneer, had lived in Gila County since 1876.</div>
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Sadly, there's no official monument to the incident along the sandy stretch of road. From my own exploration of the area and the landmarks described in the papers of the time, the grade on which the murders occurred is easily identifiable. Precisely where the incident happened is uncertain; it's midway up the hill and out of sight of where Middleton waited at top. The photo of the road above is my best estimate as to the rough location of the murders. Nearby is the cross in the top photo. I believe it is intended to mark the death of the two lawmen and may well have been where the tragedy occurred.</div>
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Reynolds and Holmes were among the first of Arizona Territory's line of duty peace officer deaths. Should you drive that dusty highway, take a moment to remember them.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Florence- Kelvin Road<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright (c) 2018 by Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content, including photographs, may be reproduced without the express permission of the author * Links, however, may be freely shared * Thank you for linking, liking, sharing, forwarding, and otherwise helping grow my audience * Most of all, thanks for stopping by.</span></div>
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Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-55494924546767924042018-04-15T00:05:00.000-07:002018-04-15T00:05:16.006-07:00The Bridges of Kelvin and Riverside, Arizona<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Old Kelvin Bridge at Riverside, Arizona<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller<br /></td></tr>
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The Gila River barely flowed this afternoon, relaxed by months of drought and little snowmelt. Like any of Arizona's rivers, it has a ferocious, voracious alter-ego during heavy rains. Our rivers divide communities in the literal sense during the most productive storms; our bridges are lifelines. Our historic bridges spanned the waters beneath old wagon and stagecoach roads; slowly, motorized vehicles and blacktop took over. Although many of our early state bridges have vanished, enough remain to make bridge-hunting a rewarding pursuit. In recent decades the new bridges have risen above and near the historical bridge, and a few older bridges have been converted to pedestrian bridges or have been abandoned but not demolished. <div>
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The Riverside / Kelvin / Ray Junction area along the Gila is a joy for bridge-chasers. Turn off the highway onto the old Florence-Kelvin Road and you'll find a new bridge under construction. In its shadows is the old Kelvin Bridge just below it. Showing its age in the deteriorating concrete and the single-lane scale, it's a graceful reminder of the elegant and attractive designs once employed in civil engineering projects. Designed by Daniel Luten, an Indiana engineer famed for his patented concrete-arched bridge designs, the Kelvin bridge no longer has its original decorative guard rail but retains its sweeping grandeur. Built in 1916, it is on the original stage road that connected Globe and Florence via Kelvin and Riverside. On that road, not even five miles away as you head toward Florence, Sheriff Glenn Reynolds was murdered by Apache prisoners he was transporting in 1889. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Old Kelvin Bridge<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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It is an idyllic area. Swallows build mud nests beneath the bridge. On the southwest edge of the bridge is a quiet hiking trail; one leg leads to the river banks and the other leads farther than I had time to walk it. Hawks, bright yellow finches, and cardinals were nearby in the cottonwoods and salt-cedars. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Kelvin Bridge Placard<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The new Kelvin Bridge looms over the 1916 Luten bridge.<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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The Kelvin Bridge is actually in the community of Riverside, a territorial town where once Eugene Middleton, the stagecoach driver wounded during the murder of Sheriff Reynolds, resided. Middleton came to Arizona Territory in 1874 and stayed until his death in Globe in 1929.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A third bridge at the Kelvin Bridge site: a working bridge for construction crews.<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mud swallow nests cling to the bridge's underside.<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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The town of Kelvin itself was consumed, as much of the area's settlements were, by the Ray Copper Mine operations. That vast mining operation is responsible for the small Copper Basin Railroad that makes its way back and forth throughout the area. With that railroad came the gorgeous but purely functional iron bridges across the Gila.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Copper Basin Railroad Bridge near Ray Junction<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abandoned bridge near Ray Junction<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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Just south of the Kelvin bridge, where the 177 and 77 meet, is the abandoned concrete bridge above. It angles across the road to what was once the old wagon road, now replaced by the paved highway, crossing not the Gila River but one of the larger creek beds feeding it.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A small bridge on the Ray Junction / Kelvin Road<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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The terrain throughout the region is rugged and ever-changing. Dotting the landscape are small concrete bridges across the channels variably known as ravines, washes, arroyos, creek beds, and coulees that texture the land.<div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ethan and Me at the Copper Basin Railroad Tracks<br /></td></tr>
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I have Jerry A. Cannon and his co-author Patricia D. Morris to thank for my relatively recent appreciation of Arizona's bridges. Until I began packing a copy of their <i>Arizona's Historic Bridges</i>, I too often drove over, passed by, or stopped and photographed our scenic, historically significant bridges without knowing their history or importance. I recommend Jerry's book for your own Arizona history library: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1467133442?ie=UTF8">Arizona's Historic Bridges</a> (affiliate link).<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright (c) 2018 MJ Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content may be reproduced without the express permission of the author * Thank you for liking, linking, sharing, tweeting, and otherwise helping grow my readership * Most of all, thanks for visiting and sharing my love of the west!</span></div>
Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-11777148811329867462018-04-04T20:47:00.000-07:002018-04-04T20:47:36.144-07:00An Apache Trail OutingMy childhood was filled with adventures by proxy: my father's return from his frequent outdoor expeditions always included his tales of Arizona history and sights. An avid outdoorsman and amateur historian who'd moved to Arizona by the 1950s, he took every opportunity to venture out in his faded blue Land Rover whether it was to go rockhounding, gold panning, hunting, fishing, or visit historic locations.<br />
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Although I was too young to accompany him on all his adventures, I cherish the memories of those I did participate in - and the ones I missed, I'm catching up on now. Others, I was too young to well recall, and I'm repeating them now with camera in head. One stretch of twisting, winding dirt was particularly notorious. Dad (sometimes with my mom bouncing along white-knuckled beside him) drove the Apache Trail on many occasions; I can barely distinguish between my own youthful memories of it and Dad's references to it as a treacherous piece of road.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tortilla Flat<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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The Apache Trail is somewhat tamer now, but no straighter nor flatter. The first part of the journey - because you want to take it from Goldfield north rather than from Roosevelt south - is paved, and offers an opportunity for the less adventurous to enjoy the trail without hitting the winding washboard slopes. If you count yourself among that group, consider a trip to Tortilla Flat for lunch. Stop at the Superstition Mountain Museum on the way; enjoy some views of Canyon Lake below it; enjoy the atmosphere at Tortilla Flat; and by all means have some prickly pear ice cream at the shop next to the restaurant before you head back to urban mayhem.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tortilla Flat<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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The restaurant is generally packed on even weekdays, drawing tourists from all over the world, so get your name on the list (there's going to be a wait) before you visit the tourist shop. Take some time to appreciate western kitsch and choose a souvenir or two. Don't miss the guacamole when you win the "your table is ready" lottery!<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fish Creek Canyon<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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Should you decide to continue onward (and high five to you, intrepid traveler!) make sure you've got fresh batteries in your camera and someone riding shotgun who can snap photos for you. Wear sensible shoes because you don't want to miss the overlook stops.<br /><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My good friends, Jennifer & Steve, who never say no to an adventure and have introduced many to the Trail.<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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The Apache Trail, largely built onto the ancient footpath of the prehistoric Anasazi indians, is a microcosm of Arizona's history. Its story is that of famed scout Al Sieber, stagecoaches, wagons, freighters, dam builders, Teddy Roosevelt, Model A's, Sunday drivers, farmers, water sources, flood control, and fishermen. It features sweeping vistas, deep canyons, historic bridges, and the memories of lives lost. Built as a supply road to the worksite of what would be the Theodore Roosevelt Dam, the road was once called the Mesa-Roosevelt Road. Early territorial tour guides and tourism boosters gave it the name by which it's known today.<br /><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fish Creek Canyon<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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Often described as the most picturesque section of the Trail is the Fish Creek area, including the steep Fish Creek Hill and Fish Creek Canyon below. There's a good pull-out and parking area for you to stretch out, take some photos, and enjoy the breathtaking views. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The author at Fish Creek Canyon Overlook</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A narrow passage approaching a single lane bridge</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sentinels<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A glimpse of Apache Lake<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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One of many historically-significant sites along the Trail is the Alchesay Canyon Bridge. Built in 1905 by Apache laborers, the bridge remains today as Arizona's oldest extant vehicular bridge.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Precious, life-giving water<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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The queen-mother of the Trail is the Theodore Roosevelt Dam. Construction began while Teddy was president and, on completion of the masterpiece of engineering, Teddy himself was on-site for the dedication ceremony.<br /><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Theodore Roosevelt Dam<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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The dam is taller now than it was on that memorable day. The maximum flow was initially under-estimated. Seventy-seven feet have been added to the top to handle the higher levels of water. The dam resolved water supply issues as well as addressing the frequent flooding the valley suffered in territorial days as water surged down the Salt River.<br /><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The stunning Roosevelt Bridge<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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The reservoir created by the dam is Roosevelt Lake, popular with fishermen and boaters. Dad used to fish there frequently in his old bass boat. I don't know if, as he fished, he thought about the one-time community of Roosevelt far beneath the boat's bottom. Wherever large-scale infrastructure projects were built in the territory, pop-up towns were built to accommodate construction workers. Just as Frog Tanks lies beneath Lake Pleasant, once the site of a thriving community of dam-builders and their families, so lies Roosevelt, having served its purpose. Of those dam-builders, 44 died in the construction of Roosevelt Dam.<br /><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roosevelt Bridge<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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Our final site of note on the Apache Trail was the Roosevelt Bridge. Arguably the most elegant bridge in Arizona, this arch bridge is reminiscent of a rainbow. For scale, see the close-up photo (two pictures above) and note the size of the car. This bad boy is a massive, daunting structure - and so large it isn't the least bit intimidating to drive across even for the most bridge-wary driver. <div>
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Should you decide the Apache Trail isn't for you but the views of the lake, dam and bridge are irresistible, take the alternate route from the Beeline Highway to the Roosevelt exit. You'll pass through scenic pastoral land as well as the communities of Jake's Corner, Punkin Center, and the historic Tonto Basin. </div>
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To fully appreciate the drive, you might want to pick up a copy of Richard L. Powers' <i>Images of America: Apache Trail </i>before you go. Available in the Superstition Mountain Museum bookstore in Gold Canyon, you can also purchase it here: <a href="https://amzn.to/2uNqKwu">Images of America: Apache Trail</a> (affiliate link). The book features vintage photos of the Apache Trail scenery, early drivers and freighters, and construction of the Roosevelt Dam, with a good overview of the history. </div>
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If you love historic bridges as I do, I recommend packing a copy of <i>Images of America: Arizona's Historic Bridges </i>by Jerry A. Cannon and Patricia D. Morris. You can purchase a copy here: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Arizonas-Historic-Bridges-Images-America/dp/1467133442/ref=as_sl_pc_qf_sp_asin_til?tag=hubp00504-20&linkCode=w00&linkId=587abd9aeaeca8921614c39fd09cf394&creativeASIN=1467133442">Images of America: Arizona's Historic Bridges</a> (affiliate link). Mr. Cannon is a structural engineer and in addition to the book's historic photos and background, he provides an expert's guide to the types of bridges and information specific to their construction. I fear my copy will soon be tattered as I explore the bridges he and Ms. Morris have featured.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright (c) 2018 by MJ Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content, including photographs, may be reproduced without the written permission of the author * Links, however, may be freely shared and are appreciated * Thank you for linking, liking, sharing, emailing, tweeting, and otherwise helping grow my readership * Most of all, thank you for visiting and for sharing my love of western history.</span><br /><br /></div>
Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-21655725765752672192018-01-29T20:49:00.000-08:002018-01-29T20:49:34.574-08:00The Death and Gravesite of Sheriff Glenn Reynolds<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tombstone of Sheriff Glenn Reynolds<br />Copyright (c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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By five a.m. on a cold November 2, 1889, Gila County Sheriff Glenn Reynolds and his deputy, William A. Holmes, had barely begun the second day of their long trek from Globe to the Yuma Territorial Prison with nine prisoners. Eight of the convicts were Apaches - one of them the infamous Apache Kid, another Pash-Tan-Tah - and the remaining prisoner a Mexican man named Jesus Avott. The prisoners rode in a stagecoach driven by its owner, Eugene Middleton. Next to Middleton sat Deputy Holmes, riding shotgun, while Sheriff Reynolds accompanied them on horseback. <div>
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On the Globe - Florence stagecoach road about four miles west of the town of Riverside, the travelers arrived at a steep and sandy hill known as the Kelvin Grade. To ease the burden on the four horses, the lawmen directed seven of the prisoners to exit the coach and walk up the hill, leaving the Apache Kid and another shackled in the coach. The Apaches, handcuffed but not shackled, managed to overpower 35-year-old Reynolds and 44-year- old Deputy Holmes, seizing their weapons. Deputy Holmes was shot once, an immediately lethal round through the heart. Sheriff Reynolds did not die as mercifully. He was shot in the shoulder and had several buckshot wounds in the face and head, but struggled for his life. For his efforts, he was beaten to death with rocks and the butt of a long gun until his skull was crushed. </div>
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The Apaches shot Eugene Middleton as well. Initial accounts varied, some saying Middleton was shot in the right side of the face, the bullet exiting through the top of his head, but that he was still able to walk to Riverside for help - and arrived after the two-hour walk near death. Another account said he was shot in the shoulder as well as taking a round to the cheek and sustaining a scalp wound. A third report simply described him as "wounded." As it turns out, Middleton survived. The round, likely a 40-80 from Holmes' rifle, penetrated his face and somehow missed his vertebrae, exiting his neck at the base of his skull. By November 9th, Dr. Mann of San Carlos deemed he was mending well. </div>
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The Mexican was soon captured but the Apaches, now well armed, headed south. Shortly after the news was reported, a posse led by Deputy Ryan left Globe in pursuit. Another posse left from Florence, led by Sheriff Jerry Fryer - husband to the renowned Civil War spy, Pauline Cushman. (The Florence posse, interestingly, included Peter Gabriel, one of the combatants in the famous Florence saloon shootout.) By one in the afternoon, the Cavalry commander at San Carlos had received telegrams and dispatched two lieutenants with 30 men from Troop G as well as Lt. Watson with 20 scouts. Arizona Territorial Governor Lewis Wolfley quickly published a "Wanted" notice in the papers announcing $500 reward for the murderers.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Copyright (c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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The Arizona Silver Belt, a Globe territorial paper, paid flowery tribute to the mens' death. "... While we greatly miss their presence and deeply regret the sudden ending of their useful lives, it is a consolation to believe that while they can no longer enjoy life's alluring cup there is a lighthouse for the soul that beacons to a tranquil home. Then why should we mourn that the shroud and the vault have left a blank in the tome of a busy life? The part of the living is simply to cherish the names and virtues of the loved ones who have passed the boundaries of time."</div>
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Sheriff Glenn Reynolds, a Texas native, left behind his widow, Augusta, and four surviving children of the five they'd had. </div>
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Deputy William Holmes, a native of Texas, had arrived in Arizona in 1869. Known as "Hunky-dory Holmes" he was one of the original settlers of Phoenix and had donated 160 acres to the townsite. </div>
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Eugene Middleton lived to be 66, when in 1929 he succumbed to a heart attack at the apartment building he owned in Globe. </div>
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The Apache Kid was never caught. Having shot famed scout Al Sieber and spent time in Alcatraz prior to the murders of Reynolds and Holmes, his name - unlike those of his more heroic victims - remains a household word to the casual enthusiast of western history.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gravesite of Miriam Middleton, mother of Eugene Middleton<br />Copyright (c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gravesite of William Middleton, Father of Eugene Middleton<br />Copyright (c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gravesite of Willis A. Middleton, brother to Eugene Middleton<br />Copyright (c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright (c) 2018 Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content may be reproduced without the express permission of the author * Links, however, may be freely shared and are appreciated * Thank you for linking, liking, tweeting, sharing, and otherwise helping grow my audience * Most of all, thank you for stopping by and sharing my affection for Arizona history *</span><br /><div>
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Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-58641241378384180952018-01-27T20:04:00.000-08:002018-01-27T20:04:00.453-08:00Stumbling onto Phineas "Phin" Clanton's Gravesite <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Globe Cemetery, Arizona<br />(c) 2018 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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Historical research is, at its best, full of serendipitous finds and surprising epiphanies. Rarely have I visited a site or buried myself in archives and not had the sudden goosebumps that accompany the discovery of an unexpected and exciting nugget. Sometimes it's the key to unraveling a mystery I've been working on; other times, it's recognizing a connection between places or people; often, it's something as tangible as happening across a grave you weren't looking for, but that's somehow relevant to the search you were on. When you're open to detours and digressions, one line of research always links to another in the most wonderful ways whether you're interviewing an old-timer or turning brittle pages of a dusty document.</div>
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I've been trying to verify the details of a relatively unknown 1877 shooting that occurred in Yavapai County for my current book-in-progress. The victim in that shooting had, a few months earlier, killed a man in Globe. After chasing down some worthwhile details last night, the incident was fresh in my mind as we made a trip to a gun show in Globe today. My other-half Russ wanted to look for the grave of Mattie Blaylock, Wyatt Earp's common-law wife; I wanted to look for any familiar names in the less-than-focused, spontaneous, <i>laissez faire</i> method of research I do. Some might call it haphazard, even. (Some might even be accurate in doing so.)</div>
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Short of time after a few side trips, we stopped at the Globe Cemetery rather than verifying which plot of land held ill-fated Mattie's remains. Russ wandered in one direction, I wandered in another, and we found many of the nuggets I'd hoped for. One of the more interesting was Phin Clanton's grave.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Phineas Fay "Phin" Clanton's Gravesite, Globe Cemetery, Arizona<br />(c) 2018 Marcy J. Miller</td></tr>
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The graves the cemetery had determined to be of greatest historical significance were clearly marked with signage - Al Sieber, Glenn Reynolds, and so forth. In contrast, Phin's grave had no additional marker to call attention to it, no sign indicating his relevance to the historian. </div>
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Phineas Fay "Phin" Clanton was one of the seven children of "Old Man" Clanton, Newman Haynes Clanton. Phin, along with his brothers Ike and Billy, was involved in the conflicts in Tombstone culminating in the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. For those of you who need a brief refresher, Billy (William Harrison Clanton) was killed in the gunfight, while Ike (Joseph Isaac Clanton) was uninjured. Phin and Ike were suspects in the attempted revenge murder of Virgil several weeks after the gunfight as well as the successful murder of Morgan Earp two months after that.<div>
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Phin danced in the grey throughout his life. He was known to be a cattle rustler. He also was tried and did time for crimes he was apparently innocent of; on one occasion, he was acquitted of burglary after it was determined he'd been framed by the actual embezzler of the money. On another he completed nearly a year and a half of a ten-year sentence in the notorious Yuma Territorial Prison for larceny until being released when it came to light the star witness had falsely and perjuriously accused him for the reward money. Whether guilty or not, Phin was later arrested in an armed robbery of a Chinese man - and again, Phin was acquitted.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As he approached 60 years old, Phineas Clanton ultimately married and settled down. He never celebrated his third anniversary, contracting pneumonia in January, 1906, and succumbing. Phin left behind a widow and stepson, William. He was buried in Globe, where he and his friend, fellow outlaw and Yuma Penitentiary alum Pete Spence, raised goats. In an apparent jab at the lawmen who'd fought his family and friends, Phin's grave marker bears the quote, "Not all good men wore badges." </div>
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Spence married Phin's widow, Laura, and after his 1914 death was buried beside Phin. There is no marker for Spence's grave. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright (c) 2018 Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content, including photographs, may be used without the express permission of the author * Links, however, are enthusiastically encouraged * Thank you for linking, liking, tweeting, sharing, and otherwise helping grow my audience * Most of all, thank you for stopping by!</span></div>
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Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-29164255383348395102017-11-13T20:37:00.000-08:002017-11-13T20:37:40.294-08:00Unexpected, Unspoiled Main Street Florence<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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Florence's reputation too often precedes her. A prison town in the flatlands, from the highway she boasts backyards of single-wides to the west and the massive correctional complex to the east. Like many, I've ignored her, seen her as a place to pass by en route to my destination, yet her name is one of the most recognizable of the state's small towns.</div>
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"He was sent to Florence." Sentenced - to Florence! Inextricably intertwined with connotations of punishment, execution, and escape, Florence is home to the state's oldest operating penitentiary. Built in 1908 when Arizona was still striving for statehood, it replaced the infamous Yuma Territorial Prison. Prisoners did much of the construction on the new facility, and work programs continue as a valuable part of the correctional philosophy. Now, in addition to various trades and agricultural pursuits, inmate work with the BLM wild horses and burros, taming and training them for their future adoptive homes.</div>
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The history of the prison itself is material for volumes, but step away from Florence's shady side for a bit and you'll uncover one of the best preserved, historically significant towns in the state. Charming, tidy, and jam-packed with historic buildings, Florence is an unexpected delight. Unspoiled by flocks of tourists, it is a perfect site for rambling about, unbothered and unhurried, basking in sun and history.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Old Florence Hotel / Silver King Hotel<br />(c) 2017 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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We visited yesterday, on a Sunday, and were quickly and happily transported back to a slower-paced time. Stores and restaurants were closed, few cars were on the streets, and we had the town to ourselves. When drivers did appear, I was taken aback by their politeness. Two cameras in hand, I invariably had one focused on a structure at any given time. To my surprise, every passing car stopped so as not to ruin the picture by getting between me and the subject, and when I waved with appreciation, I could count on a return wave and a smile. A young woman on a bicycle apologized for </div>
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riding into my picture. Who is possibly that polite in this day and age, people? I was quickly smitten with the town. Sidewalk planters held "usable" plants, such as basil or sweet potato; hunter green park benches - all empty during our visit - were readily available for the tired visitor. Public restrooms weren't just convenient, but so appealingly appointed with talavera tile and hunter-green wood my husband actually called me over to look. </div>
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After my love-at-first-sight reaction, we got to work looking for historical sites. In all honesty, it would have been harder work <i>avoiding </i>them. It seemed nearly every building bore a historical placard. The buildings were largely intact and un-ruined by well-intentioned renovations, and the markers conveniently indicated what major changes had been made. A historian's and photographer's paradise, I suspect Florence will dominate this blog for weeks to come. In this post, you'll get but a sampling of Main Street photographs. I'll offer more in-depth histories in future entries.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: justify;">The First Pinal County Courthouse / Pinal County Hospital. The one-story section dates to 1877, with the two-store portion dating from 1883. Now a visitor's center. (c) 2017 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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Main Street, Florence may well be Arizona's Mayberry. Vintage toys tempt from the windows of the TrueValue Hardware store, formerly the White-McCarthy Lumber & Hardware Co., at 290 N. Main. I can well imagine Ralphie pressing his nose against the windows, dreaming of a Red Ryder BB gun. The metal sidewalk canopy was added in 1941.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The White-McCarthy Lumber and Hardware Co. Building, 1914.<br />(c) 2017 MJ MIller</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vintage-style doll, TrueValue Hardware store window. <br />(c) 2017 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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Across the street, the Rexall sign provokes momentary nostalgia. <div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) 2017 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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The Mauk Building at 360 N. Main, designed by architect George Mauk and built in 1925, quite literally reflects a past era in its upper windows. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mauk Building, 1925.<br />(c) 2017 MJ Miller<br /><br /><br /></td></tr>
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<br />Hand-painted advertisements, murals, and traces of past businesses abound.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) 2017 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) 2017 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) 2017 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) 2017 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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From the red, white, and blue festooning the first Pinal County Courthouse to signs in shop windows, patriotism is evident - and I'm always happy to see it.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) 2017 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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The well-preserved buildings of Florence represent a plethora of different architectural styles. The William Clark House is an example of the "late transitional" style, featuring a Victorian bay window and a pre-fabricated entryway. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The William Clark House, 1884.<br />(c) 2017 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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More photos ahead in coming posts! </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright (c) 2017 MJ Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content, including photographs, may be used without the express written permission of the author * However, links may be freely shared * Thank you for liking, linking, forwarding, Tweeting, sharing, and otherwise helping grow my readership * Most of all, thank you for stopping by!</span><br /></div>
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Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150933019384393481.post-71647646999764132962017-08-25T16:48:00.002-07:002017-08-25T18:26:41.945-07:00Wyatt Earp's Lonely Desert Cottage in Vidal, California<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wyatt Earp Cottage, Vidal, California<br />
(c) 2017 MJ Miller<br />
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On a flat expanse of chaparral-dotted dirt in the Mohave Desert near Parker, Arizona - and not a whole lot else - is a tidy white cottage with baby-blue trim. Save for the traditional western design and the historical marker in front, you wouldn't take much note of it. Here is where the legendary Wyatt Earp and his third wife, Sadie, spent their final winters together. Glancing around the "town" of Vidal, California, you're likely to wonder why Wyatt chose this still-remote site to settle down in what the historical plaque informs us was their only permanent home together in their years of marriage. The little house had been site-built in the town of Calzona, where the Earps had lived until 1922 when Calzona met the fate of so many desert towns and burned down. The house survived the conflagration, and the Earps had it moved to Vidal.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Copyright (c) 2017 MJ Miller<br />
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Wyatt and Sadie - better known as "Josephine" to the public, but "Sadie" to her friends in a version of her middle name, Sarah - lived in Los Angeles during the hotter months, but traveled to Vidal so Wyatt could work his mining claims. The tiny house there had previously been the home of Wyatt's brother, Morgan. Wyatt, long weary of curious visitors seeking him out to discuss the Tombstone days, sought the solitude of the lonely place. He maintained a wooden cabin a few miles north of Parker at what was then called "Drennan," in closer proximity to his "Happy Day" copper and gold claims. Sadie and Wyatt were known for taking their four-mule team and wagon out prospecting along the Arizona - California border.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Earp, California<br />
(c) 2017 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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The tiny town of Drennan, a former signal station for the Santa Fe Railroad line servicing the Phoenix to Cadiz route, adopted the name "Earp" after Wyatt's death in homage to the elderly miner who'd been a local fixture in his later years. Consisting of not much more than a post office and a couple of local businesses, the community commemorates Earp with his portrait on a building's side and a mock grave in front of the post office. Earp's rustic cabin has long since been razed. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Faux Grave at Earp, California<br />
(c) 2017 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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Wyatt Earp passed away at age 81 on January 13, 1929 at his summer home at 4004 West Seventeenth Street, Los Angeles. His funeral was a who's who of fading western figures. Bill Hart, Major Tom P. Clum (first mayor of Tombstone, and founder of the famed Tombstone Epitaph), William Mizner, and Tom Mix served as pallbearers. Other attendees represented various and distinct phases of Earp's amazing life: Jack Cochrane, who knew him during Earp's time mining in Alaska; Dr. George B. Calnan, who met him in El Paso; Joe Treest, who knew him while Earp mined in Tonopah and Goldfield (California); Tom Grady, E. A. Speegle, M. C. Beckwith, and Dr. D.K. Dickinson, all of whom knew him during his Tombstone days; and Frank E. Cline, who knew Earp during his twenty years in Los Angeles. Pallbearer Hart knew Earp in Dodge City.<br />
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After Wyatt's death, Sadie continued on at the cottage at Vidal for a couple of seasons, summering in Pasadena. She lived at the Grand View Hotel at the river's edge in Parker for two years as well, ultimately returning to Los Angeles where she served as a technical advisor for the film version of Wyatt's Tombstone years. Sadie died December 20th, 1944 at age 75.<br />
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About four miles from the Colorado River, the town of Vidal peaked during the building of the Los Angeles Aqueduct in the 1930s, boasting 435 residents. Wyatt and Sadie were already gone by the boom. The town was originally homesteaded in the 1880s by Anson Brownell. Brownell operated a trading post for local ranchers, miners, and Indians, leaving his estate to his son Charles. Charles ran a poker table in the general store, and Wyatt, lifelong gambler, was known to frequent the table.<br />
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Charles sold the property to the Sparling family. In 1931, the Sparlings developed it into 575 individual homesites, building the first houses in 1932. By 1933, the San Bernardino County Sun described Earp and Vidal as two of the four "booming" villages along the aqueduct. Vidal even had a Justice of the Peace court, necessary for the execution of justice in the rowdy town: the town was essentially a large labor camp for the dam builders and aqueduct construction crews, and proved troublesome during the violent union agitation days. The I.W.W. sent agitators to the town, and many were arrested for rioting and tried at the Vidal J.P. court.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The J. M. Heacock Building, Vidal, California<br />
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By 1935, the area had no less than 28 liquor establishments, the paper describing them as "hangouts for river toughs and equally tough women." The then-lone law enforcement officer of the area, Deputy Sheriff Hal Oxnevad, had a job referred to by the paper as the "suicide" job of the county. <br />
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Across the railroad tracks from the Earp cottage is a desolate cemetery. No doubt on a quiet night you can sense the presence of the Holly Ghost within its barbed-wire expanse.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) 2017 MJ Miller</td></tr>
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Buried within the Holly Cemetery is the man who served as Deputy Coroner of Vidal in the early 1930s, John Harger. </div>
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Veterans and prospectors have ample room in the cemetery. Most plots are either unmarked or unfilled. The few marked graves are rendered all the more poignant for the solitude.</div>
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Prospector Peter Hulsman's marker lovingly depicts his tool-in-trade, a rock-hammer, fashioned of local rock fragments and bits of ore. Pardon the errant photographer's arm in the picture - bear with my inability to add the edited image into the sequence!<br />
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Just beyond the cemetery is a vestige of more recent history - a small collection of debris from the mid-1900s comprised of old cans, tobacco tins, and broken glass.<br />
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The Great Depression destroyed the promising town of Vidal. At some point, Anson Brownell's estate reverted to ownership of his son, Charles. When Charles died in 1943, Hal Oxnevad, the deputy who'd worked the area during its roughest years, bought the 100 acre townsite. Oxnevad, who'd risen to the rank of Undersheriff, may have purchased it with affection for the town's history. Oxnevad kept the land for over 20 years.</div>
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In September, 1967, the San Bernardino County Sun enthusiastically wrote of the town's pending revival. At the time it had nearly 35 residents. Most of the houses were already gone, either torn down or moved to other locations. Retired Undersheriff Oxnevad sold the land to two Blythe men who planned to build vacation homes for boaters and fishermen from the fast-growing Los Angeles area. Their plans unfulfilled, the desert oasis of Vidal never came to fruition. By 1970, Vidal had only 15 residents, their age averaging 70.</div>
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For those of us who seek out authentic traces of the west we love, it's for the better. Spend time at Vidal and you'll have a sense of the sheer remoteness you won't find in Tombstone, Dodge City, or Wyatt's other more famed haunts. You can appreciate the J. M. Heacock building and its masterful hand-crafted early 1900s stone construction, without skyscrapers or gleaming condominiums to distract from what was certainly then anything but humble. In its ruins, Vidal is arguably unruined.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright (c) 2017 Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content, including photographs, may be used without the express permission of the author * Links to this page, however, are greatly appreciated * Thank you for liking, linking, sharing, forwarding, Tweeting, sending by passenger pigeon, and otherwise helping grow my audience * Most of all, thank you for stopping by!</span><br />
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Marcy J. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563695567270793250noreply@blogger.com6