Arizona Highways, November 1996

              ARIZON􁪽􋵈
HIGHWAYS
......
NOVEMBER 1996 VOLUME 72 NUMBER,ll
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. . .. . ......................................................................•
S PEe A L SEC T a N
COL LEe, '@' HEW E S ,
From kitsch to kachinas and cowboy hats to Mexican furniture,
collectors have found a bonanza in the Southwest. PAGE 4
CLASSIC ARIZONA KITSCH
jackalopes, labeled spoon rests, Roundup
dinnerware, ad nauseam. Not in your house?
That's what they all say PAGE 6
MEXICAN
AND SPANISH
This is a fertile land in which to begin
exploring for these collectible items with
scores of shops in Tucson, Phoenix,
Tubac, and Nogales, Sonora. PAGE 10
COWBOY
"Virtually all things cowboy have become
so popular, almost anyone can reach back into
memory and pull
out a cowboy fantasy
and find it offered
for sale." PAGE 14
INDIAN
Collectors need to know what they are
about in this game.They need to know not only
reputable places to shop but what each specializes
in. Here's your basic guide. PAGE 18
(LEFT) The old mining town
ofJerome is our author's
destination as he travels the
Perkinsville Road. See story on
page 36. GEORGE H.H. HUEY
(FRONT COVER) The infinite
variety of Western collectibles is
reflected here: an Indian basket
from Gallery 10, a religiOUS
paintingfrom Bischoff's Shades
of the West, a chuckwagon lamp
and boots from Ranchero
Design, and a colorfully
painted animal from the Old
Territorial Shop. RICK GAYLE
(BACK COVER) A saguaro
cactus dominates this scene in
Organ Pipe Cactus National
Monument. PATRICK FISCHER
DEPARTMENTS
Along the Way 2
It's time to show a little respect for the lowly gobbler.
Letters 3
Wit Stop 44
Emmett Kelly jr. Days in Tombstone awakens strange urges.
Legends of the Lost 46
Lord Duppa died without leaving a clue to his silver strike.
Arizona Humor 48
Roadside Rest 49
Arizona's curious and spirited designations stand alone.
Back Road Adventure 50
Tip Top was a chlorider's dream come true ... for a while.
Mileposts/Events 54
Hike of the Month 56
Romero Pools? Mister Spock would love them.
HISTORY
The Impossible Journey
When the exhausted
cavalrymen finally reached
their destination, their
supplies were gone along
with many of their animals;
even their boots had
disintegrated. And it was all
for nothing. PAGE 32
INDIANS
The Wood That Sings
Chesley Goseyun Wilson is
an Apache who makes - and
plays - a one-string violin,
almost a lost craft until he
took it up. PAGE 22
PORTFOLIO
Waiting for the Rain
Sunrise and sunset are the
best times for dramatic light.
But combine that with the
seasonal monsoons, and
you get something unique.
PAGE 24
TRAVEL
Backcountry on the
Perkinsville Road
"Winter shouldn't look this
good. The sky was vast, a blue
world. It was hard not to
believe that this feeling would
last forever, not just until I
reached my destination:
jerome, the old mining town
that kept burning down and
coming back stronger than
ever." PAGE 36
POINTS
OF INTEREST
FEATURED
IN THIS ISSUE
Perkinsville
Ro􁪽􋵅EROME • CAMP
VERDE
Tip Top·
• Camp
* McDowell
PHOENIX
Arizona Highways 1
•...................... .
T EXT
Isn't It Time
We Started
Talking Turkey?
GeneMason left his tour­ticket-
selling job at the
Grand Canyon and went to
work as security chief for the
Nevada Club in Laughlin, Ne­vada,
just across the Colorado
River from Bullhead City. We
had been pals at the Canyon. I
dropped by the Nevada
Club to visit him one
day and saw a placard
on the wall that read,
"How can you soar with
eagles when you have to
work with turkeys?" If
Gene had known as
much about turkeys as
Ben Franklin did - and
I do - he would not
have put himself down
like that.
Although I may have
more experience with tur­keys
than Ben Franklin
accumulated, he regularly
gets quoted for efforts to
get the big bird eulogized
as the national symbol.
Thomas Jefferson went
up against Ben with the
bald eagle and won.
Ben argued that the
bald eagle was a "bird of
bad moral character,"
meaning the eagle will
eat carrion and fish, sometimes
kill small furry animals, and
has bad breath. Although I've
never smelled the breath of
either, I suspect the turkey'S
is not like that at all. Mainly
they live on acorns, seeds,
fruits, isolated insects, and
other good things found in the
forest. That may account for
the turkey being highly de­sired
on the platter, especially
at Thanksgiving, while no­body
wants to eat an eagle.
2 November 1996
ALONG
AND P HOT 0 G RAP H
My personal interest in tur­keys
began when I lived at the
Grand Canyon, where I had
various jobs. Among the more
important were stints as a Fred
Harvey guide and Kaibab Na­tional
Forest fireguard. Both of
these pursuits put me into
turkey territory.
Eagles are notoriously skit­tish
when man comes around,
but nowhere near as skittish as
turkeys. Sometimes I wasn't
even sure I had seen a turkey,
maybe just a turkey mirage.
One morning, a mile or so
after I had turned off East Rim
Drive onto the Grand View
Tower road, the sun probed
into a pretty little open spot
in the forest, and the simple
primeval beauty of it brought
me to a stop.
I poured some coffee from
my thermos into a cup, walked
a few yards into the scene, and
sat with my back against a
deadfall. I looked at nothing in
particular, sort of absorbing the
T H E WA Y LETTERS
............................................• . .
BY JAMES TALLON
entire vista. Suddenly there was
movement out about 75 feet: a
turkey hen walked into the
opening. Our eyes locked, and
without hurrying she stepped
behind a red-barked ponderosa
about halfway between us. She
never came into view on the
other side.
After a few seconds, I raced to
my side of the tree and, feeling
rather foolish, looked around it
and fast-scanned 180 degrees.
No turkey was to be seen. I
looked up into the branches of
the tree. No turkey. Then into
the branches of nearby trees.
No turkey. I ran around the
tree several times counter­clockwise
to see if she might be
pulling a trick by staying on
the opposite side of the tree
from me, then I switched di­rections,
in what you might call
a "surprise move." No turkey.
Suddenly I was thinking
about dinosaurs and their small
brains in relation to the size
of the turkey'S head and what
it contained. I arrived at no
real conclusion, but went away
with a great deal of respect for
how effectively the turkey used
what gray matter it had; and
wondering if it were possible to
transplant turkey brain tissue
into drivers who feel that using
turn signals on vehicles should
be optional.
Now having been eyeball to
eyeball with the Real Thing, I
felt compelled to pit my crafti­ness
against the turkey'S crafti­ness.
After all, Thanksgiving
was coming up.
My wife, Vicki, and I
sat near Hull Tank,
and I worked a "scratch­er,"
a turkey call. I must
have done something that
sounded like Richard Gere
in one of his spendthrift
romantic moods because
a dozen hens came with­in
a few yards of us. I
dropped one with a sin­gle
shot from the double
barrel and passed the
gun to Vicki, whisper­ing
in a high-pitched
voice, "Shoot, shoot."
But she hesitated, and
since you now know
as much about turkeys
as I do, you know what
happened. But, remark­ably,
I was able to call
them back into range,
and when she didn't
pull the trigger again, I
asked, "Why ... didn't
... you ... shoot?"
She said, "I didn't see any
I liked." Vicki was hunting
turkeys the same way she
hunts shoes.
Each year the Associated
Press compiles a list of negative
and sometimes nutty news­makers,
e.g. Saddam Hussein,
and defines them as turkeys,
which, as you now know, is a
compliment. Ben Franklin and
I would have called them bald
eagles. n
CiQ. "6¢/ PRODUCED IN THE USA
ARIZON􁪽􋵈
HIGHWAYS
NOVEMBER 1996 VOL. 72, NO. 11
Publisher-Nina M. La France
Editor-Robert]. Early
Managing Editor-Richard G. Stahl
Associate Editor-Rebecca Mong
Photography Director-Peter Ensenberger
Art Director-Mary WinkelmanVelgos
Deputy Art Director-Barbara Denney
Associate Art Director-Russ Wall
Production Assistant - Vicky Snow
Managing Editor, Books-Bob Albano
Associate Editor, Books - Robert]. Farrell
Circulation and Marketing Director­Debbie
Thompson
Finance Director-Robert M. Steele
Fulfillment Director-Bethany Braley
Information Systems Manager-Brian McGrath
Production
Director-Cindy Mackey
Coordinator-Kim Gibson
Design Manager-Patricia Romano McNear
Governor-Fife Symington
Director, Department of Transportation
Larry S. Bonine
Arizona Transportation Board
Chainnan: Sharon B. Megdal, Ph.D., Tucson
Vice Chainnan: Donovan M. Kramer Sr., Casa Grande
Members: F Rockne Arnett, Mesa;
John I. Hudson, Yuma; Jack Husted,
Springerville; Burton Kruglick, Phoenix;
Jerry C Williams, Morenci
Toll-free nationwide number
for customer inquiries and orders:
(800) 543-5432
In the Phoenix area or outside
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Fax: (602) 254-4505
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edi tor@arizhwys.com
International Regional Magazine
Association
IIM\ Best Regional & State Magazine
1995, 1993, 1992, 1991
Western Publications Assn.
Best Monthly Travel Magazine
1995 Silver Award, 1994 Silver
Award, 1993 Bronze Award
Society of American
Travel Writers Foundation
Arizona Highways® (lSSN 0004-1521) is
published monthly by the Arizona Department
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year in the U.S., $29 elsewhere; single copy
$2.99 U.5., $3.99 Canadian. Send subscription
correspondence and change of address infor­mation
to Arizona Highways, 2039 W Lewis
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paid at Phoenix, AZ and at additional mailing
office. Postmaster: send address changes to
AI'izona Highways, 2039 W Lewis Ave.,
Phoenix, AZ 85009. Copyright © 1996 by the
Arizona Department of Transportation. Repro­duction
in whole or in part without permission
is prohibited. The magazine is not responsible
for unsolicited materials provided for editorial
consideration.
TO
Cochise Concerns
We feel it is most unfortu­nate
that the search for the site
where Cochise is buried still
goes on, and more unfortunate,
that it has been documented
and encouraged in your publi­cation
("Searching for Cochise,"
May '96).
We hope that the true burial
location of the great Apache
Chief Cochise is far from where
those who would disturb and
desecrate his rest continue to
search, and that all such search­es
will be futile.
We look to the existing laws
that protect cultural resources,
sacred sites, and especially
human remains as basic civil
rights protection for Indian
peoples.
Those with interest in Native
American culture and history
should visit the reservations as
guests and tourists and con­duct
themselves with respect
for traditional Indian culture.
The right to conduct back­country
exploration does not
include a right to disturb ar­chaeological
sites or graves.
Chad A. Smith, Archaeologist
San Carlos Apache Tribe
Cowboy College
We have really enjoyed read­ing
your magazine since 1940.
In the May edition a story by
Gail Dudley ("Arizona Cowboy
College") was most interesting.
There are many Arizona res­idents
who own and love hors­es
and have never heard of a
cowboy college.
Sidney Taiz
Tucson
The Jackson Ride
The June '96 article on Dr.
Ken Jackson ("From Parker to
the Blue") sure struck a deep
emotional chord in me. I read
it with a big lump in my throat
and tears in my eyes.
By far the majority of people
THE EDITOR
today lead a fear-based life, re­inforced
by what they watch on
TV and read in newspapers
and magazines.
To read of one man's pro­found
journey through his
fears to a place of trust is truly
uplifting.
Wendy Ellsworth
Quakertown, PA
Flag Picture
Your July '96 issue arrived at
my home on Flag Day. I was so
disappointed to see our Amer­ican
flag being displayed in­correctly
on the cover.
Your acknowledgement with
the caption, "Its flag may be
hung incorrectly, but it's the
patriotic thought that counts"
doesn't make it okay for the
cover.
Helen M. Seredynsky
Tucson
We received nine letters
complaining about the flag
picture.
Prescott Issue
It is with great pleasure that
I read your articles on Prescott
in the July '96 issue, but I do
.. .
wish you would not advertise
the good life that is enjoyed by
all who live there.
I hope the transplants re­member
why they left Califor­nia
and resist any temptation to
turn Prescott into just another
suburb of Los Angeles.
Sam Pinterpe
Huntington Beach, CA
Llama Loads
I was very happy to see an
article about llamas as Arizona
hiking companions ("Along the
Way," June '96).
My husband and I happen to
be the proud owners of two lla­mas,
which we use for packing
into the Alaskan wilderness.
Ours have proven not only
practical for our life-style but
fun to work and travel with.
However, I was concerned
about the article's claim that
llamas can easily carry 150
pounds for 20 miles. Llamas,
and other pack animals, can
safely carry approximately 20
percent of their weight. So an
adult llama weighing about 400
pounds can carry 80 pounds of
your equipment.
Michelle H. Brown
Soldotna, AK
Issue Date for Circulation Data Be'low:
July '95-June '96 July '96
Average no. copies each Actual no. copies single
issue during issue published
preceding 12 months nearest to filing date
442,536 417,111
U.S. Postal Service
STATEMENT OF OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT, AND CIRCULATION
Title of Publication: Arizona Highways Publisher: Nina M. La France
Publication No.: ISSN 0004-1521 Editor: Robert J. Early
Date of Filing: July 23, 1996 Managing Editor: Richard G. Stahl; address below
Frequency of issues: Monthly
Number of issues published annually: Twelve Complete mailing address of known office of publication:
2039 West Lewis Ave., Phoenix, (Maricopa) AZ 85009-2893
Annual subscription price: $19.00 U.S. & possessions;
$29.00 elsewhere
Owner: State of Arizona
206 S. 17th Ave.
Phoenix, AZ 85007
Known bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders owning or holding 1 percent or more of total
amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securities. None
The purpose, function, and nonprofit status of this organization and the exempt status for federal income tax
purposes has not changed during preceeding 12 months.
EXTENT AND NATURE OF CIRCULATION
A. Total number copies printed ..
B. Paid circulation
1. Sales through dealers and carriers, street vendors,
and counter sales 21,435
2. Mail subscribers 364,137
C. Total paid circulation 385,572
D. Free distribution by mail 1,304
E. Free distribution by other means. 1,923
F. Total free distribution 3,227
G. Total distribution 388,799
H. Copies not distributed:
1. Office use, leftovers, spoiled... 15,738 9,505
2. Return from news agents........ 37,999 35,004
I. Total............................................ 442,536 417,111
Percent paid 99.2% 99.5%
I certify that the statements made by me are correct and complete. Nina M. La France, Publisher
22,008
348,889
370,897
1,097
608
1,705
372,602
Arizona Highways 3
c o L L E c T T
Arizona's a collector's paradise.
Along its streets and byways await
galleries, shops, and trading posts
filled with a variety of collectibles, ev­erything
from high-end Navajo rugs
and jewelry to the most affordable
desert critters entombed in plastic.
In the following pages, our writ­ers
circumnavigate the sometimes
serious but often comical world of
collecting Arizona-style.
Lawrence W Cheek dis­covers
fine Mexican and
Spanish crafts and an­tiques.
Barton Wright de­livers
an introduction to
Indian works of art. And
Jana Bommersbach takes
a look at cowboy treas­ures
and what she brands
Classic (you'll-know-it-when-you­see-
it) Arizona Kitsch.
Our experts offer helpful tips for
seasoned collectors as well as novices,
plus some laughs along the way And
- perhaps best of all - they lay to
rest Sebastien Chamfort's assertion
about those of us who live to collect.
The 18th-century French wit said,
more or less, that collectors are like
H E w E s T
people who eat cherries. At first they
select only the ripest and juiciest,
then they end up pigging out on ev­erything
in sight.
Of course, Monsieur Chamfort was
talking about a lack of discrimination
in collecting verses and epigrams not
prime Papago baskets and service­station
glassware. After all, he'd never
been tempted by the siren song of
a Tucson mercado or the
mind-boggling possibili­ties
at Chief Yellowhorse's
roadside souvenir stands.
He also never talked to
our panel of experts. To
find out how to get the
most - and best - out of
collecting, read on ....
- Rebecca Mong
Arizona Highways 5
K tsch:
n the Eye 0 f
t s
the
All
Beholder
COLLECT'@THE WEST
" I t
􁪽􋵣
c. k h 􁪽􋴚􁪽􋴺
:;) so . .. i t s c y ...
How many times have you looked
at something, let's say, unusual, and
used that phrase?
You probably said it haltingly, not
wanting to hurt the feelings of its
owner; not sure that your apprecia­tion
of the, let's say; unusual, was suf­ficiently
developed.
Kitsch is like that - a squirrelly
thing.
Officially kitsch is defined as the
epitome of bad taste. But that doesn't
really do it. Perhaps a better label
would be something so awful it's
wonderful. Or something so silly it
delights. Or maybe overly sentimen­tal
memorabilia would cover it. Of
course you could always call it what
many do: junk.
It soon becomes apparent that you
can't always define kitsch, but you
know it when you see it. Kitsch is in
the eye of the beholder.
The praying Santa that is so popu­lar
is considered kitsch by some but
a wonderful appreciation of Christ­mas
by others. A pink flamingo in
the garden? Anyone who thinks it's a
lovely lawn ornament would be in­sulted
if you laughed at it and called
it kitsch. Just like historic building
(OPPOSITE PAGE) Treasured kitsch like
Blakely glassware, a Tepco bowl, and
salt and pepper shaker headstones
can be found at Dowadidy's of
Phoenix. The place mat is from
Flagg's of Scottsdale.
(ABOVE) A Roy Rogers and Dale
Evans lunch box is a great 1960s'
keepsake. We found this one at
Shaboom's of Glendale.
preservationists would take issue
with the idea that Phoenix's wed­ding-
cake-shaped Tovrea Castle is
pure kitsch.
So when compiling a list of kitsch,
you've got to be very careful. And
when you enumerate Arizona kitsch,
well, there could be problems. Toes
are going to be stepped on. Feelings
are going to be hurt. State pride is go­ing
to be wounded. Oh well, onward.
Arizona kitsch is a special breed. It
encompasses history; tradition, life­style,
mischief, utilitarianism, and a
heavy dose of humor.
To qualify for the dubious list of
Classic Arizona Kitsch, it has to be
something extra special. Or extra
awful.
We're not talking here about the
ordinary everyday stuff you can still
find in any souvenir shop.
Arizona Highways 7
Don't try to pass off Arizona-labeled
shot glasses or spoon rests or trays or
toothpick holders or playing cards as clas­sic
kitsch. A Grand Canyon State T-shirt
doesn't make the list. Neither does a key
chain with a picture of a roadrunner. Nor
does virtually any desert animal preserved
in a plastic dome, like a scorpion or a
black widow or a rattlesnake.
Oh sure, they're kitsch, they're just not
classic kitsch. If you think about it, you get
the distinction.
But jackalopes are definitely classic kitsch
- so kitschy that few would dispute their
inclusion in this category
Jackalopes are a myth: a cross between
a jackrabbit and an antelope. Hence, the
thing looks like a rabbit with horns. No­body
has any real idea who came up with
this ridiculous image, although some say it
can be traced to 15th-century Jesuits from
Germany's Black Forest. Now they're so ac­cepted
as an inside joke that in the mid-
60s, then-Governor Jack Williams named
Arizona author Don Dedera as the state's
Official Jackalope Inspector. (Dedera still
has the proclamation, complete with the
state seal, in the bathroom of his getaway
cabin - a document that itself qualifies as
Classic Arizona Kitsch.)
If you're looking for pricier Arizona
kitsch, you couldn't do better than Red
Wing earthenware in the Roundup pattern.
This set of dishes is something to behold.
You stand there, looking at various pieces
in Deb Walker's Whiskey Row Emporium
in Prescott, and you really can't believe
your eyes. You're not sure if you should
laugh or cry You end up laughing until
you cry
N ow any collector knows Red Wing
is a winner; dozens of hand-painted
patterns are available from this fine ce­ramics
firm. Many patterns are beauti­ful.
Some are clever.
Roundup, on the other hand, is totally
awful.
Each piece - and all are different -
features a wild-looking cowboy on the
range. Sometimes he's stirring a pot over
a campfire. Sometimes he's roping a calf.
Sometimes he's sitting on a fence watch­ing
the dogies go by. Sometimes he's
heating a branding iron. The same colors
show up on all the pieces: pinks, blues,
browns, and greens.
Want a dinner plate in Roundup? It will
cost about $45. A gravy boat goes for
$95. A cookie jar for $225.
This isn't for the casual collector.
This is for those truly serious about
Arizona kitsch. And it seems there
are plenty because Deb Walker says
8 November 1996
Roundup is a hot seller
in her store.
And all should be
warned: like most kitsch,
the stuff grows on you.
Half an hour after being
introduced to Roundup,
you could fantasize that if
you ever fell in love with
a cowboy and had a ranch
house on a hefty spread in
the mountains of Arizona, this set of dish­es
would be - oh gee, this is tough to
admit - perfect.
Now if a complete set of wild cowboys
would never be your style - even if you
fell in love - then maybe your perfect
Western table could be set with old adver­tising
pieces. Like a plate and bowl ($24.50)
that promoted "Rod's Steak House, Will­iams,
Arizona: Gateway to the Grand Can­yon."
This type of "restaurant ware," as it
is called, was once the rage. Various res­taurants,
resorts, and stores in Arizona had
it made up as souvenirs. The Collector's
Mart in Prescott has a nice example in its
"Safford Valley Plate" for $25.
It's blue and white with cat­tle
brands around the edge,
made sometime in the
1940s by Vernon Kilns.
Keep an eye out for that
particular kiln because it
went out of business in
the 1950s, making its
products particularly collectible
in the kitsch market. So while a Grand
Canyon plate made today - and available
for a couple bucks just about anywhere in
Arizona - is not kitsch, what does qualify
is one made by Vernon Kilns for Fred
Harvey, who developed the lodge at the
Grand Canyon. And that will cost you
about $25. What you get is a plate of var­ious
scenes of the Canyon with Indian fig­ures
around the edge.
Short of that, you could give your kitch­en
a touch of this particular brand of sub­lime-
ridiculous for just $lO. That is, if you
can find a set of the only salt and pepper
shakers bizarre enough to make the list of
Classic Arizona Kitsch.
Imagine this: white tombstones with the
name Tombstone, Arizona, printed on the
front. Now if they stopped right there, they'd
be just a dumb souvenir. The kind you'd
take home to the cousin you don't partic­ularly
like but must remember anyhow.
Of course, they don't stop there.
"Here Lies Salty O'Day 1861-1881. Hoss
thief," reads the front of one. And then fol­lows
the piece d'resistance:
"A rope necktie / An old oak tree / And
Salty wasn't / What he used to be."
If you think that's good, consider the
companion:
"Here Lies / Pepper Tate / 1860-1881 /
Hanged by mistake / He was right / We was
wrong / But we strung him up / And now
he's gone."
Like Pepper Tate, the most collectible
Arizona kitsch is the stuff that's long gone.
Things that harken back to the earlier days
of Arizona before interstate highways and
nuclear power plants and cities that gob­bled
up the desert.
From the 1940s to the early '60s, Blakley
gas stations were found in various parts of
Arizona. The nice thing about Blakley was
that you got coupons -like green stamps
-when you filled up, and once you saved
enough, you could turn them in for Blak­ley
dishes.
Two varieties were available, one in fine
china, the other in stoneware. The favorites
were a set of cactus glasses, either the tall
ones just right for sun tea or the juice glass­es.
And you were really in if you had a
complete set of both.
The tumbler set included a wooden tray
embellished with various cowboy brands.
Each end of the tray had four indentations
to hold the tumblers. In the middle was a
little corral to secure the pitcher. The best
part was that each tumbler featured, in
color, a different cactus or desert plant:
prickly pear, organ pipe, yucca, century
plant, ocotillo, barrel, saguaro, or cholla.
Nowadays, reports Doug Patterson of
Phoenix's Dowadidy's, it's "pretty rare" to
find a complete set of the tumblers. If you
do, they'll set you back about $125. You
could get by a little cheaper - but not
much - with the juice set of eight small
glasses on a round wooden tray, no pitcher.
But no one should get the idea that kitsch
is limited to tableware or knickknacks.
Virtually anything that could be labeled
"cowboy furniture" falls into the Classic
Arizona Kitsch category.
You want a sofa and coffee table decorat­ed
with half wagon wheels? Honey, you're
into kitsch. How about a lamp made out of
a dried piece of cactus? Or an animated
clock with a bowlegged cowboy whose arm
holds a rope that twirls as the clock runs?
Absolutely. How about an entire set of out­door
furniture made of iron horseshoes
welded together? Maybe uncomfortable but
certainly sturdy and certainly kitsch.
"Cowboy stuff really commands a high
price," notes Jacque Stufflebeam, whose
own collection so spilled over that she and
her daughter opened Shaboom's, now in
Glendale.
Now Jacque seems like a perfectly nor­mal
and intelligent woman. But as she leads
you into the Western section of the nostal­gia
store, her eyes take on a special glow.
Before you is just about any imaginable
item that celebrates the days of the Old
West. And almost everything carries a price
tag that yells, 'This is for the serious collec­tor
only!"
"I know this stuff is kitsch, but I love it,"
she says, showing off a dining room hutch
made of dead saguaro cactus pieces that goes
for $695. If you need a ceiling light cover
with a cowboy theme, she has them for $95
to $125. Or maybe you want something
(LEFT) ]ackalopes, like this one from the
Rock Springs Cafe store, are said to be
a myth, nevertheless Arizona has an
Official ]ackalope Inspector:
(ABOVE) Recognizing the lure of the
Old West, a citrus company affixed this
label (found at Shaboom's) to its
shipping crates in the 1950s and '60s.
(OPPOSITE PAGE) Shaboom5 also had this
tie with a painted cow, which in the 1950s
advertised a Western store.
COL LEe T '@T HEW E • T
more personal, like a green silk tie with a
cow painted on the front that advertises
"Gene Autry'S Western Store, Phoenix, Ariz."
This item from the 1950s runs $65.
But it's not always "things" that count as
Classic Arizona Kitsch. Sometimes, it's "The
Thing?"
You've been tantalized by this strange
roadside attraction if you've ever driven
Interstate 10 between EI Paso and Phoenix.
Every now and then, there comes another
blue and yellow sign entreating you to
see for yourself the "mystery of the
desert" that is "The Thing?" Between
Benson and Willcox, there it is, a weird
must-stop that's been featured in a
Jane Pauley special on NBC-TV and
in the trash -culture travel guide
Roadside America. Closer to home,
journalist Dave Walker has called
The Thing? "one of our state's most
intriguing tourist attractions."
Walker also labels it "absolute
kitsch."
What is "The Thing?" Well,
that's exactly what the sign
says directly above the block
enclosure that holds the trea­sure.
And don't be surprised
when after looking at it -
staring, actually - you still
don't know. It appears to
be a mummified woman
and child, but then it
could be old papier mache.
Whatever. The entrance price
of 75 cents is certainly reason­able
for this piece of Classic Ari­zona
Kitsch.
"The Thing?" opened in its present
location in 1965, and it has remained vir­tually
unchanged since.
And finally, with apologies to Western
art collectors who think anything featuring
a cowboy is sacred, we come to the ulti­mate
piece of Classic Arizona Kitsch.
It's the series of four paintings by Ari­zona
artist Lon Megargee for the old A-I
beer label.
The most famous is called Cowboy's
Dream, and it features a sleeping cowboy
dreaming of a woman sans clothing riding
a horse in the clouds over his head.
The second is called Barbershop Quartet
and shows four guys singing in front of the
Poker Flat Saloon (where "regular meals" are
two bits). The third is called Black Bart and
features the hombre getting a haircut. And
the last is called The Dude, boasting a heavy­set
lady doing rope tricks for cowboys. In
each picture, the A-I label is somehow pre­sent,
like on the face of the branding iron
lying next to the sleeping cowboy
You'll be
hard-pressed
to find copies of
all four, but any self­respecting
collection of
Western kitsch will have at least one.
Going through this list you probably
laughed, shook your head in disbelief,
and thought "never in my house." But don't
be so sure. Today's serious collectors ac­knowledge
they thought the same thing
once. But the stuff grew on them. It made
a statement.
Mostly it said, "I'm a piece of kitsch -
a silly piece of history - and proud of
it." 􁪽􋵐
Phoenix-based [ana Bommersbach loves to go antiquing
and "secondhanding" in search of bizarre treasures. She
also wrote the story about cowboy collectibles in this
special section.
Richard Maack, also of Phoenix, is thinking about
becoming a collector of Westem memorabilia.
Alizona Highways 9
Search
Mexican
n 9
and
for Those
Span s h
Spec al
Treasures
COLLECT'@THE WEST
EVE'ry 0 c t 0 b E' r Tu c son
􁪽􋵳
s Db std ian
Gallery throws a month-long party for
skeletons. There are skeletons duded
up in party dresses, skeletons that
look like Mickey Mouse wrapped in a
Mexican serape, skeletons riding mo­torcycles,
skeletons blowing trumpets,
skeletons grinning from shot glass­es.
It's the gallery's annual Dia de los
Muertos show, which celebrates Mex­ico's
"Day of the Dead" festival held
on November 2, the day on which the
dearly departed are believed by some
to return home for a visit.
"People are taken aback by it," ad­mits
Obsidian owner Elouise Rusk.
"I spend a lot of time explaining."
Perhaps, I offer, Mexican poet
Octavio Paz captures it best: "The
Mexican is familiar with death, jokes
about it, caresses it, sleeps with it,
celebrates it. ...
" In keeping with
that, the images associated with Day
of the Dead celebrations are much
more humorous than macabre. And,
says Rusk, connoisseurs throughout
the country contact her gallery every
year to collect new pieces.
Dos Cabezas, "two heads," is
Scottsdale's toniest Mexican arts and
crafts gallery. Owner Newey DeMille
opened it 44 years ago "simply to
make a living," as she now says. Not
(OPPOSITE PAGE)
The collection of Gloria Giffords
of Tucson includes a variety
of Hispanic arts and crafts.
(ABOVE) Giffords began
collecting retablos, religious paintings,
such as this one in a tin frame,
three decades ago.
just another gallery featuring the
usual Mexican folk art, Dos Cabezas
commissions original works from
Mexican artists, such as the chain of
four cinema seats with portraits of
conquistador Hernan Cortes, patriots
Jose Maria Morelos and Emiliano
Zapata, and dictator Porfirio Diaz.
"I've never known a Mexican who
didn't have a hidden artistic talent,"
says a smiling DeMille. "You just have
to encourage and develop it."
That sweeping observation could
be buttressed by the Mendivil fam­ily,
which moved from Mexico City
to Tucson 1 0 years ago and four years
later opened [Aqui Esta!, a huge Mex­ican
import and custom furniture
store in an old brick warehouse.
Proprietor Martha Mendivil's son,
Gerardo Olmedo, promptly taught
Arizona Highways 11
CD' , E C T '@T HEW EST
Corona agrees. "It's becoming very, very
commercialized. It's becoming hard to find
people who are doing something just for
the love of it. Mexico is so rich in culture
and artists, but they prostitute themselves
because they're hungry - and I under­stand
that."
"For example," adds Giffords, "about 15
years ago, the women of an Indian village
called Ocomichu in the state of Michoacan
produced clay Christmas bells for children.
carving; they seem much larger than the
furniture in my house - as does most of
what lounges around Corona's shop.
"This oversize furniture started in Mexico
with the building of great haciendas," he
explains. "The furniture was out of human
scale, but it was very much in harmony
with its physical environment."
Before the Mexican revolution of 1911-
20, the arts and crafts of the country had
a European accent. "Mexican craftsmen,
though, were a little more primitive, rustic,
less precise," says Corona. 'There was more
of a sense of formality in Europe, and they
were more advanced in tools and tech­nology.
But I think that's to Mexico's ad­vantage.
I don't like perfection without
harmony. I like things that are imperfect
and have harmony."
After the political revolution came an
artistic one. A monsoon of national pride
swept the country, and mestizos and pure­blooded
Indians turned back to their roots
for inspiration. Color and fantasy reigned
supreme.
Scottsdale's Dos Cabezas, for example,
features a dizzying variety of animal
sculptures, including carved
wooden serpents with apples
in their mouths and a green
ceramic cat with a forest scene
painted on its flank. Nogales'
Crazy Frog exhibits wood
carvings of winged dragons in
a panoply of scarlet, pink,
turquoise, and bright blue.
iAqui Esta!, the Mendivils'
Tucson store, has a cere­monial
mask from the
state of Guerrero with four
figures stacked vertically
on it: the face of Death, a
tiger, the Devil, and a frog.
But was this artistic
revolution more about
commercialism than na­tionalism?
Gloria Giffords
of Tucson, a serious col­lector
and author of Mex­ican
Folk Retablos, believes
so. "These people haven't
become more phantasma­gorical
in the last century;
I think it's an attempt to
attract business."
Casa del Encanto's
That's all they did. Then someone from
Mexico City showed the women how to
produce colorful demons from the same
clay. They don't sell these to other Mexi­cans;
they sell them to foreigners. To Amer­icans,
seeing a demon riding a bicycle,
that's worth a laugh."
Nevertheless, it continues to be possible
to find and collect exquisite Mexican
art, crafts, and furniture, and if you shop
wisely, often at very reasonable prices.
Talavera ware, brilliantly painted
ceramics that are a specialty of the
city of Puebla, has been made
in essentially the same way
since the 16th century.
Most of it is utilitarian
- bowls, plates,
cups - but Dos
Cabezas has un­believably
elab­orate
Talavera
candleholders
that feature
four crocodiles
climbing highly
stylized pyramids
to support the can­dle
plate.
Images of santos, or
"saints," and the painted religious
scenes are ancient traditions still honored
today, though probably more in the U.S.
Southwest than in Mexico itself. "We start­ed
collecting retablos and santos 30 years
ago," says Giffords. "In the early days,
people were selling them for $4
apiece. It was unbelievable."
Such collectibles, says
Giffords, are now more
easily obtained in U.S.
shops than in Mexican
markets, and "most of
the best ones are here."
Aren't U.S. collectors,
then, depriving Mexico
of part of its cultural
heritage?
"I don't think so,"
she says. "We are talk­ing
about things that
people had discarded
willingly, replaced by
modern lithographs
that don't rust. I don't
look at Americans as
people who are raping
and plundering their
neighbor. Styles change;
people's tastes change."
Incidentally, not all
collectors of Mexican re­ligious
art are believers
themselves. At a gallery
in Santa Fe that special­izes
in santos, a man
who says he's a com­mitted
atheist buys one
of the little statues every
year. Finally, owner Rey
Montez asked him why.
He said, "They're pretty,
and they make me feel
peaceful."
himself woodcarving and cabinetmaking
and began turning out dazzlingly elaborate
bed headboards covered with carved leaves,
flowers, abstract curlicues, and
rising suns - which Mendivil
paints in typically Mexican
eye-opening colors of yellow,
red, pink, blue, and turquoise.
Arizona is a fertile land
in which to explore Mexi-can
and Latin Ameri­can
collectibles. There
are scores of shops in
Phoenix, Tucson, and
Tubac - and
just across the
border in N 0-
gales, Sonora­that
deal in imports,
reproductions, or, like
Obsidian, American­crafted
interpretations
of Mexican folk art
traditions.
A few shops, such
as Phoenix's Cas a
del Encanto, spe­cialize
in Spanish
Colonial antiques. At
least one, La Paloma de Tubac, deals not
only in Mexican crafts but also Guatemalan,
Peruvian, and Ecuadorian. And, of course,
there's Calle Obregon, the shopping district
in Nogales, Sonora, where the adventurous
collector should import a good sense of
humor and a strong conviction for what
constitutes schlock, kitsch, and art. All are
available on Calle Obregon, but they aren't
labeled.
When Luis Corona moved to San
Diego, California, from Michoacan,
Mexico, in 1970, he brought along a sense
of responsibility to his native country. "It
used to hurt me when I would go back to
my village and see beautiful stone build­ings
with ceramic tile torn down. I decided
to make it a part of my daily living to pre­serve
that culture."
Which Corona does, in a foreign nation.
His shop, Casa del Encanto, near down­town
Phoenix features 18th- and 19th-cen­tury
retablos (religious images on silver, or
wood, or some other material), historic
Mexican furniture, and commissioned re­productions.
We talk, seated in a pair of
gigantic chairs ornamented with rustic
Spanish Colonial collectibles
are, of course, rarer and more expen­sive.
And Mexico's antiquity law is rather
murky. Pre-Columbian and colonial art
cannot be taken out of the country; but
decorative art can. The problem, says
Giffords, is that there's seldom anyone at
border crossings who can make the distinc­tion
or accurately judge the age. Corona,
though, says he's never had a problem
when buying for his Casa del Encanto.
For the average art lover, where to buy
collectibles is not a problem; the Tucson
phone book alone lists 14 Mexican im­porters.
Nogales, Sonora, is controversial.
Some people think it's great fun; others are
put off by the hubbub, the haggling, and
the constant hawking of vendors trying to
lure customers into their stores. Actually,
the merchandise in Arizona stores, partic­ularly
iAqui Esta! and Dos Cabezas, is less
likely to be predictable. A famous mansion
in Nogales, Arizona, owned by Edward
Holler and Samuel Saunders, houses an as­tounding
collection of Spanish Colonial art
and furnishings, not only from Mexico but
from South America as well- and it's all
for sale. Markets in Mexican towns and
cities deep in the country's interior also can
be a rich source, and the interior has great
dignity, beauty, and antiquity going for it,
as well.
"There's a fascination with things from
Mexico that seems to be insatiable among
Americans and Europeans," Giffords says.
"And people like me are even more fas­cinated
with the culture. We're probably
reincarnated Aztec sacrifice victims who
keep returning to Mexico in search of our
hearts." 􁪽􋴨
(ABOVE AND OPPOSITE PAGE, TOP) Ceramic Day oj the Dead sculptures
at the Obsidian Gallery in Tucson reflect a holiday that's "more humorous
than macabre," says our author.
(RIGHT) Tucson's iAqul Esta! gallery Jound a prominent place to display this
carved wood religiOUS piece.
Lawrence W Cheek lives in Seattle, Washington, but he
spent many years in Tucson, where he developed an
appreciation Jor Hispanic Jine arts and craits.
Tucson-based Peter Noebels says that his knowledge oj
Hispanic art has soared since this photo assignment.
12 November 1996 Arizona Highways 13
F n d n 9
t
C a
h E'
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I s
mar a
o n
w boy b a :
Rae E'
1
COLLECT'@THE WEST
I always wanted a lot of fringE'.
David Anderson fancied silver studs.
I had fringe on the hem of my
leather riding skirt and, of course, all
over my vest, on the edge of my
gloves and even on the band of my
cowboy hat.
David had silver studs covering his
chaps, all over the crown of his Stet­son,
and in a neat row on his holster.
But if you think we were decked
out - if you had the eyes to see the
magic costumes two seven year olds
could create in 1950s North Dakota
- you would be even more aston­ished
at the saddles and bridles we
conjured up for the horses we so des­perately
wanted.
No horse ever wore a saddle as
finely crafted as the ones we imagined
- me for my "Queenie," David for
"Midnight." We were splendid in our
fine duds aboard our horses as we
wore ourselves out with smart gallop
imitations on summer afternoons.
I t had been a long time since I
thought about that girlhood fantasy;
decades since I abandoned the idea
of ever really having a Queenie. And
then I started paging through a cata­log
of cowboy collectibles, and there
(OPPOSITE PAGE) For collectors of
cowboy memorabilia, the market
ranges from fancy boots to Western
movie posters, as these treasures from
the Autry Museum of Western
Heritage in Los Angeles attest.
(ABOVE) These McChasney
double-mounted galley spurs from
High Noon of Los Angeles make an
impressive addition to a collection.
was a dress that looked so very much
like the fringed cowgirl outfit I always
pretended I wore. And a few pages
later, there were chaps just like the
ones David always described.
These didn't have to be fantasies
anymore.
Cowboys - virtually all things
cowboy - have become so popular,
almost anyone can reach back into
memory and pull out a cowboy fan­tasy
and find it offered for sale.
You've got to search, but that's what
collecting is all about: finding that
special treasure. I went searching and
found the only thing keeping me
from the fringed cowgirl outfit I al­ways
wanted was the $800 asking
price. And I can't even bring myself
to tell David his fancy duds just went
at auction for $11,000.
Arizona Highways 15
jam-packed. That's the word to describe
The Bit & Spur in Dewey, Arizona - an
antique store with a decidedly Western
attitude.
Jam-packed with the state's largest col­lection-
under-one-roof of cowboy gear:
spurs, chaps, hats, boots, tack, rare guns -
you name it, if a cowboy used it, Doug
Dishon has it.
'Tve traded everything from Victorian to
prehistoric, but when I got into cowboy
gear about 10 years ago, I found I never
liked anything as much," he remembers.
His customers come from around the
world. But even casual visitors who just
happen upon the store find they want to
dally "People come in and get caught up,"
Dishon says.
He has a Japanese collector who stops in
once or twice a year and "buys a lot." One
customer came in specifically to purchase
a set of spurs and left several thousand dol­lars
later with a heap of items. He sells
"tons" to Easterners who never had cow­boys
of their own.
"Western collectibles are a form of art," he
says. "Most of it is in the hands of families
who won't let it go. It's hard to acquire."
But what is available speaks of a special
time in American history and a special
breed of American. Owning something that
belonged to a cowboy puts you in touch
with all that. "You get a feel for the cowboy
who used that item," Dishon notes.
He warns that collectors need to be care­ful
about things like Western law enforce­ment
badges, which too often are fake.
"But," he adds, "most of the things cowboys
used were handcrafted and signed with
stamps, so they're hard to counterfeit. The
average guy today wouldn't know
how to go about making
it and faking it."
"People are into col-lecting
Americana,
and what is more
intrinsically Ameri­can
than Cowboys
and Indians?"
That's how Linda
Kohn of Los An­geles
describes the
fascination that has
made cowboy col­lectibles
one of the
hottest trends in
the country
"I first collected
belt buckles," she
says, "and then I
got fascinated with
horsehair belts -
they were made in
the prison system
until the '40s.
And then I
16 November 1996
started looking for spurs, and after that it was
bits and then chaps and then clothing and
then saddles and then parade saddles and
then anything made by Edward H. Bohlin."
By then, Kohn and her partner, Joseph
Sherwood, were not just collectors but own­ers
of High Noon, a California company
specializing in Western collectibles. Each
year the outfit sponsors a respected show in
Phoenix which attracts collectors in droves.
There's a terrific bonus in this collecting
business: the people who have turned their
own passion for cowboy things into a busi­ness
will spend hours with you discussing
it all, a great way to learn what's out there.
If you're a new collector, you need to un­derstand
there's nothing "supermarket"
about this - you don't dash in, grab a few
trinkets, and dash out.
Collecting by its nature - and certainly
by its price tag - is something to savor.
The next time you're in Scottsdale, savor
a little of AP Hays, who with his son owns
Arizona West Galleries on Main Street. He's
a lifelong collector himself; has been a fix­ture
in Scottsdale for the last two decades.
Hays specializes in Western art, books
about Western artists, and memorabilia
from the Indian wars through the Mexican
border wars (basically from 1870 to 1920).
Shopping for a fine watercolor of a na­tional
park by Gunnar Widforss? Hays has
it. How about an oil painting of a West­ern
landscape by a master like Maynard
Dickson, Carl Oscar Borg, or Edgar Payne?
He's got them, too.
.
Don't despair that these artists com­mand
from $10,000 to hundreds of thou­sands
for their work. Hays also has their
drawings, prints, and etchings, and they
are much cheaper.
Maybe you're more into the Mexican bor­der
wars. How about the exciting era in the
early 1900s - when Pancho Villa was the
obsession of Gen. John]. Pershing. A mas­sive
army led by Pershing pursued Villa for
months - going almost as far south as Mex­ico
City - but they didn't even see him.
If you want to own anything from badg­es
to spurs to horse bits or guns that were
used during the border wars, Hays' shop is
the place to start. But don't go there look­ing
for Villa's gun or saber or saddle. Hays
warns there are lots of fakes out there -
especially items attributed to the Mexican
Robin Hood - so beware.
Hays credits the resurgence of Western
themes in the movies and
on television for creating
the latest wave of inter­est
in cowboy collecti­bles.
"People interested
in history are inclined
toward collecting," he
notes.
And Arizona has
a built-in advantage
when it comes to attract­ing
collectors, he says: "Tomb-stone.
Collectors come to visit because they
want to go to Tombstone."
"I think the basic reason people collect is
the romance of the West," Linda Kohn says.
"Those were the days when the good guys
wore white hats; when young men and
women settled the West. Plus there are all
those people who grew up on Saturday
morning television with Gene Autry and
Dale Evans and Roy Rogers."
Jim Nottage, chief curator at the Autry
Museum of Western Heritage in Los Angeles,
agrees with Kohn. "There have been many
cycles of popularity in Western culture, go­ing
all the way back to the 1880s, but the
last decade and a half has seen an increased
interest. I think it's because baby boomers
want to collect things from their childhood."
Nottage has devoted his career to the his­tory
of the West, so he says he only collects
"intellectually," but he's kept an eye on
the market. "A few years ago, we saw a
huge jump in prices for fancy boots," he
recalls. ''Then a big collection of boots was
dumped on the market, and it ruined
the market for boots. Last year I bought
boots for the museum that I couldn't
have afforded to collect the year before."
Kohn remembers when fancy vin­tage
boots were going for $2,500 a pair.
"But now they're back down to the
$750 to $1,000 level where they should
be," she notes.
And, of course, as with all collect­ing'
somebody with a fat wallet and a
hankering for a special item will pay
whatever it takes for what they want
- like the California spurs made by
master craftsman G.S. Garcia. Kohn
notes they were featured at her 1994
Wild West Auction with an estimated
value of $15-20,000. They actually went
(LEFT) These circa 1950 roper's boots were
worn by cowboy movie actor Gene Autry
and now reside in the Autry Museum.
(OPPOSITE PAGE, ABOVE) This
silver and gold Renalde
trophy buckle from High
Noon shows the fine .
craftsmanship of Edward
H. Bohlin's Western creations.
(OPPOSITE PAGE, BELOW) Rare
matched his and hers parade saddles from
Bohlin's company are part of the private
collection of the late Elaine Horwitch.
COL LEe, '@' HEW E S ,
for $46,000. That collector really wanted
those silver spurs.
Kohn says there are two major areas of
collecting, and most people choose one or
the other - although she dabbles in both.
Some collectors want only authentic cow­boy
gear that comes from the 1850-1915
era, things cowboys made for themselves or
had custom made for their individual tastes.
The favorite items are fancy spurs
and hand-tooled leather
spur straps, clothing,
and magnificent
saddles made by
hand.
The other focus is
the Hollywood cow­boy
of the 1920s-50s.
Name any cowboy ac­tor,
and you know his
old costumes or boots or
saddles or hats are being
collected. "In the Holly­wood
era, Tom Mix is it when it comes to
collecting," Kohn says. "He was a real cow­boy
who went into the movies, so in him,
you have got both eras."
This also was the era when Edward H.
Bohlin reigned. According to High Noon's
biographic sketch, his company was "with­out
equal among Western-style silversmiths,
building a reputation 0[1 flawless workman­ship
that ranged from silver and gold tro­phy
buckles to ornate parade saddles."
Bohlin's clients included virtually every
Hollywood cowboy, as well as Mae West,
Lyndon Johnson, and Ronald Reagan.
Western author Bob Boze Bell, a cow­boy
collector since he was a kid growing
up in Kingman, says he's glad there's such
an interest in the West, but the downside
is "collecting has gone through the roof."
Bell particularly treasures authentic doc­uments
of Western heroes and rogues,
such as Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, and Billy
the Kid, all of whom have been subjects of
his books.
"You used to be able to get fine original
documents at affordable prices'," he notes,
"but a letter by Wyatt Earp just sold for
$60,000. I can't afford originals anymore.
But I love the stuff, so I buy good copies
these days, laser prints."
Linda Kohn points out that both the
cowboy collectors and collectibles are cen­tered
west of the Rockies, but says the East
Coast will be the next great treasure trove.
"We're finding lots of wonderful things in
the East because when wealthy Easterners
vacationed in the West, they bought the
best. They took it home and said, 'My gosh,
what did I do? This doesn't fit into my
home at all.' So they put it away in the attic.
It was usually top of the line stuff, and it's
still in great shape."
If you want an even higher-falutin fix,
how about those rich Europeans in the sec­ond
half of the 19th century who traveled
the West for adventure and sport, bringing
along craftsmen to artistically chronicle
their cowboy experience. High Noon just
auctioned off a solid oak "buffalo chair" that
was probably produced on such an expe­dition.
It went for $4,125.
As with all collectibles, there are still
great deals to be found, still treasures to be
stumbled upon. So if you've always want­ed
to collect cowboy things, don't be dis­couraged.
Museum curator Nottage has some basic
advice for anyone wanting to join the cow­boy
collectibles craze: "The first thing you
should collect are books and publications,
even magazine articles, about the West and
Western items. Read everything you can.
Go to the best museums, meet the deal­ers,
educate yourself."
Once you get into it, there are so
many fascinating avenues to explore.
I mean, we haven't even talked about
the toys and photos and advertise­ments
and dinner bells and lamps
and fireplace screens and dishes and
rugs and furniture and moccasins and
gauntlets and fobs and ... did I mention
there's a fringed cowgirl's dress that still has
my eye? n
[ana Bommersbach is a Midwest girl who now
lives in the West. She says she once had breakfast
with a real live cowboy in Globe.
Tucson-based Howard Linton is not a collector, himself,
but he says this photo aSSignment was "like a tlip down
memory lane,"
Arizona Highways 17
Buy n 9 n d a n Art s and Crafts
COLLECT'@THE WEST
ThE' sensuous curves of pottery,
the delicacy of basketry, the sparkle
of jewelry, or the appeal of the many
other Native American arts and crafts
that grace the Southwest will sooner
or later foster the desire to collect.
When first smitten by this urge, it
is wise to consider some basic pre­cautions
and not be overcome by the
sheer beauty of the collectibles. There
are a great many artisans in each field,
whether it be clay; wood, stone, fiber
arts, or pigments; and their efforts
range from naive to ultrasophisticat­ed.
Their handiwork is sold in many
locations by individuals who range
from uninformed to expert. In addi­tion,
some objects produced may be
rooted deep in time and tradition
while others are as fresh as a newly
minted coin. Through this great bazaar
of beauty, incipient collectors must
wend their way to acquire the best.
Just as a seasoned traveler would
never venture into a strange land
without maps, directions, and advice,
so must collectors be prepared. They
need to know not only reputable
places to shop but what each special­izes
in, for one may emphasize a spe­cific
art or craft while another gives it
only casual representation. Oppor­tunities
abound to meet the artists on
(OPPOSITE PAGE) This treasure chest
of pawn jewelry was
collected at the R.B. Burnham
Trading Post in Sanders.
(ABOVE) Karen Abeita,
a Hopi, made this exquisite
915-inch-high pot which we discovered
in McGee's Gallery ofHolbrook.
a one-to-one basis at fairs, powwows,
and exhibitions, adding enormously
to the enjoyment and perception of
the worth of any acquisition.
The most important step is the
honing of collectors' knowledge and
tastes so they can recognize that the
hype promoting one artist may ig­nore
an equally gifted one. This also
will help collectors recognize that a
small percentage of artists or dealers
will sell anything from authentic to
fraudulent to illegal. '
An immersion in the literature in­creases
awareness of the fashions that
come and go in Native American art,
, just as they do in women's apparel,
for what is authentic and available
today may disappear overnight. And
the popularity of the current hot item
is - or will be - reflected in its
Arizona Highways 19
price. One of the most valuable steps to
ensuring an excellent collection is read­ing
all you can about your particular
interest.
Considering that the opportuni­ties
to amass a good collection or a
worthless one are about equal,
here are a few suggestions to
change the odds to favor the
collector:
Museums are probably the
least recognized resource for
collectors. Many contain
exhibits on Native Amer­icans,
their land, their tradi-tions,
and historic examples
of their arts and crafts. For exam­ple,
The Heard Museum in Phoenix,
the Museum of Northern Arizona in
Flagstaff, and the Arizona-Sonora
Desert Museum in Tucson present
such information in abundance.
In addition, these museums
have shops that not only handle
authentic arts and crafts but also
provide information about the
artisans and their work. They
offer a range of items (and
prices) which allows beginners
to examine many works and to
acquire a feel for what they wish
to collect; or if they have begun
already; the shops help them eval­uate
their initial efforts as to both
quality and price. Properly used,
museums are an excellent com­parative
tool to evaluate what is
available elsewhere.
Museums often promote ex­hibitions
of Indian art work,
such as the Pueblo Grande
Indian Market, the Annual
Guild Indian Fair and Mar­ket
at The Heard, both in
Phoenix; the Heritage Pro­gram
of different tribes at the
Museum of Northern Arizona,
the Hopi Arts and Crafts Show,
and the summer events at
the Coconino County Art Center, all in
Flagstaff.
These events allow collectors to visit the
artists' booths, view or handle their work,
talk to them, and purchase what they
please. This invariably results in a greater
appreciation of the artistry and sometimes
a lasting friendship with artists.
Similar events are put on by organiza­tions
other than museums, and their pur­pose
often is to fund a favored Indian
support program. The all-Hopi show of
Tutotsvola in Sedona is such an event, as is
the Indian Fair at Litchfield Park, while
others like O'odham Tash in Casa Grande
and occasional events in Scottsdale are
held to increase awareness of Indian arts
and crafts.
A profusion of galleries, trading posts,
ethnic shops, Indian stores, and curio shops
carry Indian arts and crafts. A few of the
galleries that carry top-end merchandise
are: Lovena Ohl, Gallery lO, John C. Hill's
Gallery of American Indian Art, White Ho­gan,
and Old Territorial Shop, all in Scotts­dale;
the Morning Star Gallery and Mark
Bahti's Indian Store in Tucson; Blair's
Indian Gallery in Page; McGee's in Hol­brook
and Keams Canyon; the California
Trading Co. in Prescott; and Dan Garland's,
Hoel's, and Kopavi in Sedona. This sam­pling
barely skims the surface of the places
specializing in fine items made by name
artists whose prices reflect that quality
Stores carrying low-end merchandise are
filled with reproductions, factory-made ver­sions
of Indian arts and crafts, and imports.
The stores between these two extremes
are where the new collector's knowledge is
particularly important because there is often
an interweaving of items both good and
bad. Many stores offer several levels of mer­chandise
ranging from handmade to ma­chine-
made items and foreign rip-offs. If
the store is reputable, this will be noted by
labels or mentioned during the transaction.
However, the personnel in these stores may
not have the expertise available in galleries.
If there is no separation of good and bad,
(LEFT) This Crow Mother Kachina was created by Ros George, a Hopi.
George created the figurefrom a single piece of wood.
(RIGHT) These Tohono O'odham baskets from C & R Traders in Casa
Grande reflect a rich variety of designs. Clockwise from top, right,
they show a fruit picker by Margaret Saraficio, a butterfly by
Angelita Lopez, animals and geometric symbols by Rose Osife,
squash blossoms by Matilda Thomas Miguel, squash blossoms by
Marian Carrol Cruz, and a Man in the Maze by Francis Stevens.
(OPPOSITE PAGE, ABOVE) A 38-inch by 71-inch pictorial weaving
by Navajo Marilyn Paytiano, which we found at the Hubbell
Trading Post in Ganado, depicts a Humpback Yei design.
20 November 1996
CD' , , C T '@T H' W' • T
no written information about
the items for sale, and there
are no knowledgable store
clerks - or if prices seem
almost too reasonable - do
some intensive comparisons
before buying.
In addition to the places
where the shop name is a
guarantee of quality, there are
organizations that help indi­viduals
buy knowledgeably
One is the Indian Arts and
Crafts Association (IACA) ,
whose members mark their
stores with a logo. These out­lets
are pledged to truth in
selling. They handle only au­thentic
merchandise, which is
accompanied by certificates of
authenticity on all important
items. Their sales come with
money-back guarantees, and
they offer free pamphlets pre­pared
by experts on the vari­ous
arts and crafts.
Among their goals is the
prohibition of spurious dis­count
sales and the sale of
competitive imports, the first
because it is deceptive to the
customer and the second
because it exploits both the
artisan and the buyer.
Pawn offered for sale is "dead," unre­deemed,
and thus technically old. There is
a difference between this and "old pawn."
Many people harbor the romantic notion
offinding unrecognized Indian art trea­sures
in dead pawn. This stems from the
discovery of beautiful Indian art objects
buried in people's attics. But truly old pawn
is snapped up by dealers aware of its value.
Sometimes one of the biggest difficulties
is not what to buy but when to buy An ob­ject
that every craftsman seems to make
and can be found in every store one day
will disappear. It is wise to follow the rule
that if an object appeals it is best not to
hesitate, for unlike factory merchandise
which can be ordered by the gross, cov­eted
handcrafted articles mayor may not
reappear.
Having cleared the many hurdles and
become more knowledgeable on the nu­ances
and subtleties of the market, the
usual collector sets about adding items.
Almost every collection is marked by
pieces acquired through early and less dis­cerning
efforts. The usual inclination later
on is to pitch these out and upgrade the
collection, but don't do it. These early
acquisitions mark the beginnings of a
valuable collection, demonstrate the im­provements,
and may even enhance later
acquisitions.
A final word of caution is to re­member
that when Native Amer­icans
give you information, tribal
affinity does not necessarily guarantee
"""' "''',..., " .... ""'􁪽􋴬,.....􁪽􋴭-r ...... '.iW 􁪽􋴮."'_,." ...... j •• _"IJ
... -.;iV' .... ..._􁪽􋴚􁪽􋴮 ..... j 􁪽􋴚􁪽􋴮 .. 􁪽􋴮.-"""'" -􁪽􋴮.,... ••• -' ....
the accuracy of the knowledge they impart.
Look, listen, and compare.
One of the greatest pleasures of a collec­tion
is the intangible content of memories
it carries. Each item brings back memories
of trips, newfound friends, and pleasant
adventures, adding another dimension of
enjoyment. 􁪽􋵐
Photo Workshop: Stops at historic Cam­eron
Trading Post and the famed Hubbell
Trading Post are included in Friends of
Arizona Highways Photo Workshop trips to
Canyon de Chelly, where thousand-foot
sandstone walls preserve ancient Anasazi
ruins and traditional Navajo ways, and
Monument Valley with its sculptured sand­stone
spires and buttes. The trips, planned
for fall and winter of 1997, are led by the
magazine's master photographers, who
provide picture takers of all skill levels with
hands-on instruction to help them take
photos like those in the magazine. For
more information about these trips and a
complete 1997 schedule, call the Friends'
Travel Office, (602) 271-5904.
Phoenix-based Barton Wright, a former curator and
director of the Museum of Northern Arizona, has written
a number of books about Indians.
Jerry Jacka, who also lives in Phoenix, is an expert on
the arts and crafts of Southwestern Indians.
Arizona Highways 21
CHESLEY GOSEYUN WILSON PLAYS
THE WOOD THAT SINGS IS FOUND IN
RAVINES AND ON HILLSIDES IN THE
DESERT, ITS WHITE-YELLOW FLOW- hat ERS SWAYING HIGH ABOVE DlMINU-TlVE
SHRUBS. THE WOOD THAT
SINGS IS AN UNUSUAL-LOOKING
PLANT THAT SOME MISTAKENLY BELIEVE WILL LAST A HUN-DRED
YEARS. IT'S CALLED THE CENTURY PLANT OR AGAVE.
Usually this plant doesn't sing at all unless the fiery winds go
crazy on a late afternoon in summer. Then everything in the desert
sings, a great rushing chorus of small plants and fat cactuses bat­tered
by wind and airborne sand, punctuated now and then by
the dominant crack of
monsoon thunder.
Chesley Goseyun
Wilson is the man
who brings music to
the wood that sings.
Wilson, an Apache
who was born on the San Carlos Indian Reservation, makes a
one-string violin from the stalk of the agave, an instrument his
people call tsli'edo'a'tl, "wood that sings." Others simply call it
an Apache violin.
Apaches made these odd-looking violins for at least a century­some
think it's been much longer than that - but until Wilson
took up the craft, it had nearly disappeared.
In the past, most Apache homes had one of these simple violins.
They were used to entertain at birthday parties and other social
gatherings. More recently they've functioned mainly as a tourist
item. However, tourist
violins are made to be
seen and not heard.
Unlike the fine in­strument
that Wilson
crafts, most of them
can't be played.
Wilson gathers the
wood he needs to make
his violins from the
arid hills of the San
Carlos reservation in
central Arizona. The
agave puts out its 12-
to 18-foot-tall rigid
stalk, which then flow­ers
and dies. Wilson
looks for stalks that
are just right, dead but
not desiccated. The stalk will form the body of the violin, but it
can't be too green or it will ooze a sap that causes itching; and it
can't be too dry or it will crack when he drills sound holes into it.
He cuts the stalk into 16-inch lengths, then uses a pocket knife
to pry out the soft interior until it is smooth and hollow. Then he
1TEXT BY SAM NEGRI
PHOTOGRAPHS BY
JESS ALFORD
(ABOVE) Chesley Goseyun Wilson
prepares an agave stalk that will become
the body of one of his Apache violins.
(OPPOSITE PAGE) Wilson demonstrates
the mellow sound his violin produces.
22 November 1996
the oot)
•
drills the sound holes. "They used to burn the holes into the wood,
but hey, this is the '90s, so I use a drill," Wilson says.
Wilson then varnishes the violin body inside and out. He ties the
lone string, which is sometimes horsehair and sometimes violin
string, in place, one end to the tuning peg that will pierce the side
of the body, the other end to a tiny dowel in the top of the instrument.
Finally he seals both ends of the stalk with plywood, and then
he decorates the instrument with snakes, geometric shapes, or
symbolic Apache motifs.
He makes the instrument's bow from a pliant wood, such as
willow or aspen, and adds strings of horsehair. The sound pro­duced
by the bow on the violin is soft and intimate, just about
the right volume for listening while sitting next to a wood stove
in a small room.
"The songs I play are the songs my grandfather sang," Wilson
says. "The way I make the violins is the way my grandfather and
uncle showed me."
In 1988 the Navajo-Ute flute player Carlos Nakai saw Wilson
demonstrating his violins at a crafts shop. Nakai brought Wilson
to the attention of the National Endowment for the Arts, and in
1989 he became one of 13 Americans awarded a Heritage
Fellowship. Publicity connected to the award yanked Wilson from
anonymity Suddenly he was featured on the Public Broadcasting
Network, and then invitations arrived for him to do demonstrations
in Chicago and other parts of the country
Eventually Hollywood and advertising executives came calling.
Wilson, with his slender build, small bones, flat face, and jet-black
hair (despite his 60-plus years), looks like what he is, an Apache
descended from two famous chiefs: Cochise and Eskiminzin. For
a national ad, Wrangler jeans put Wilson in a pair of its pants and
photographed him on a hillside in the desert holding one of his vi­olins.
The prominent artist Howard Terpening uses Wilson as a
model for Indian portraits, and Hollywood producers call him for
bit parts in movies about Apaches.
Most of this attention was a part of the remarkable spin-off of
being a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship winner.
More recently the Kronos Quartet commissioned Phoenix com­poser
Brent Davids to write a lS-minute chamber music piece
for the Apache violin. It premiered in Cologne, Germany.
"I'm glad," says Wilson, "to finally get recognition, not just for
myself as an artist, but for the Apache people. I think most peo­ple
see Apaches in a Hollywood movie kind of way, very violent.
I am glad that they will get to see and hear a different, more
usual side of the Apache people." n
Sam Negri, a frustrated musician who lives in Tucson, thought it would be simple to
playa violin with only one string. He was simply wrong, he admits.
Tijeras, New Mexico-based Jess Alford says that after 25 years in a big-city studio, it
was a pleasure to get out and photograph real people in Arizona.
WHI'EII 'NI"' "I,􁪽􋴧',,Ii
• -."'!􁪽􋵔
TH' E' S"K'y' I
" ., i ,
i .' ""': 􁪽􋴮. '1
i ': 1 I "I, !'
T'O' 'U' 'C" HIE'I" S',
, ,I" j \ I' :
"
THE
DE.SERT
A PORTFOLIO BY
PATRICK FISCH E R
WHEN
THE SKY
TOUCHES
THE
DESERT
find Arizona's
Sonoran Desert an amazing land­scape
to photograph. The play of
textures, patterns, and colors pro­duces
a creative playground with
an endless number of images.
On average there are 350 days of
sunshine a year in this climate­blessed
land. Even so, some of the
most striking scenes I have pho­tographed
appeared on those rare
days when the rains came, a time
when the sky touched the desert.
I had only to wait and watch. Sun­rise
and sunset are always the best
times for dramatic light. Combine
this with breaking storms and a
saguaro forest, and you have some
unique scenes. I can almost hear a
sigh as the desert drinks in the
moisture.
(PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 24
AND 25) The arms on these
cactuses in Saguaro National
Park indicate that the specimens
are at least 75 years old.
(LEFT) Organ Pipe Cactus
National Monument shelters
many kinds oj cactus, including
saguaros and chollas, as well as
other cactus species Jound only
there and in Mexico.
Arizona Highways 27
WREN
THE SKY
TOUCH IS;
THE
DESERT
(PRECEDING
PANEL, PAGES
28 AND 29)
Fog bestows an
otherworldly
aura on this
stretch of
Sonoran Desert.
(RIGHT) Organ
pipe cactuses
seem to hide
in the shade in
this play of light
and shadow.
M L E
ears before the Army
called upon him to under­take
a dangerous and possibly
undoable mission, Brevet Capt.
Camillo Casatti Cadmus Carr
was aware of a certain lack of
respect for the Quartermaster Corps in
which he served. Carr had heard the old
joke about the Corps too many times. It
seems that only two quartermaster sol­diers
had been killed during the entire
Civil War: one who was hit by hay bales
falling from a wagon - and another who
died laughing at the sight.
A Virginian who had moved to Chicago
and fought for the Union, Carr was twice
wounded in battle and advanced from pri­vate
to captain. When the conflict ended,
he still thirsted for adventure and volun­teered
to go west to fight Indians. To his
T ECA􁪽􋵌 L
S S o N MPOSS B
TEXT BY DEAN SM ITH
ILL U STRAT I ON BY JOH N B. M U R DOC K
32 November 1996
disgust, he was assigned as regimental
quartermaster of the l st Cavalry, stationed
at Drum Barracks near Los Angeles. There
would be no adventure or glory there.
He begged his superiors to be sent to
fight the Apaches in Arizona Territory, and
on April 19, 1866, his wish was granted.
He was stationed at Camp McDowell.
faa ... t
IF CARR CRAVED THE RUGGED LIFE, HE
certainly found it at Camp McDowell, near
the confluence of the Salt and Verde rivers.
To subdue the fierce Apaches, the Army
had established several outposts, includ­ing:
Fort Whipple, near the raw new ter­ritorial
capital of Prescott; Camp Lincoln
(eventually moved and renamed Camp
Verde on the Verde River in central Arizona);
Camp McDowell; and Camp Reno, in the
Tonto Basin northeast of Camp McDowell.
The soldiers at these camps endured
squalid conditions, living in tents or rude
adobes, eating bad food, and facing the
constant threat of Indian attacks. Isolation
and boredom were ever-present enemies.
Construction of wagon roads to facilitate
the transfer of men and supplies among the
posts became one of the Army's first im­peratives.
A passable road, which would
later become the first quarter of the famous
Crook Trail, had been laid out between
Whipple and Lincoln, some 50 miles to the
east on the Verde River. Pioneers and sol­diers,
at the recommendation of the terri­toriallegislature,
had hacked out another
road linking Prescott and the Salt River
Valley through Black Canyon (not far from
today's Interstate 17).
But there was no direct road connecting
Arizona Highways 33
CAVALRY 'rREK
Lincoln with McDowell or Reno. That de­ficiency
could prove fatal in a crucial en­gagement
with the fast-moving Apaches.
Lt. Col. Thomas Devin, the Arizona Dis­trict
commander, looked at his map of the
partially explored Arizona Territory and de­cided
that a 90-mile wagon road along the
Verde River from Camp McDowell to Camp
Lincoln should be feasible. Another road
linking Camp Reno (then under construc­tion)
with the other outposts should be
equally possible.
But flat maps and the tortuous terrain
they represent can be vastly different things,
as Captain Carr and his men were soon
to learn.
On January 7, 1868, Lieutenant Colonel
Devin issued an order directing Captain
Carr to scout a wagon road route from
Camp McDowell to Camp Lincoln, return­ing
by way of the Camp Reno site "with a
view of locating a practicable road between
these posts." Little did Carr know how
thoroughly his "thirst for adventure" would
be quenched.
Early on the morning ofJanuary 13, Carr
and his expedition left Camp McDowell
with 46 mounted troopers, a guide, and a
packer in charge of eight mules carrying
provisions. C.H. Webber of the Engineering
Department went along to take notes and
prepare maps.
Only 10 miles from their starting point,
they hit their first snag, an impassable
canyon of the Verde.
"The banks are very steep and close to
the water," Webber noted. "The river is
about 130 feet wide and very deep, and
shows signs of rising 40 feet."
So, as historian Jim Schreier later wrote,
the next morning they turned 1 0 miles to
the west and tried again. They encountered
what Carr called "fine rolling country" and
their spirits rose.
But soon the terrain grew rough. On the
third day, Carr climbed a mountain to see
what lay ahead and returned considerably
disheartened at the "one vast jumble of
mountains and rocks" in his path. But the
view of the spectacular snowcapped San
Francisco Peaks far to the north helped
spur him on.
Rain and snow pelted the party on the
fourth day, making the men miserable and
the footing treacherous. Several mules fell
and some equipment was lost. The next
day, they encountered their first Apaches.
The Indians built a fire on a nearby hilltop
and, in Carr's words, "engaged in some
demonstrations, the meaning of which was
best known to themselves." The expedi­tion's
rifles were kept at the ready until the
warriors disappeared.
34 November 1996
By then the horses were wearing out
from the rocky, almost impassable terrain,
and one had to be shot - a common prac­tice
to prevent a mount from falling into
hostile hands. The men were no less fa­tigued,
having walked most of the way,
leading their horses through narrow defiles
and up steep inclines, crossing and
recrossing creeks.
The following day, more
Apaches appeared, and anoth­er
worn-out mount was de­stroyed.
On January 21, nine
days out from Camp Me­Dowell,
it began to snow
heavily. The men had
only two days' rations
left and were exhausted
from their constant re­tracing
of steps up one
blind canyon and down
another.
The next day, they encoun­tered
an unexplainable phe­nomenon.
In Carr's words:
"Quite a number of animals had
already died of hunger and exhaus­tion
when the Verde River was
reached at a point where it must be
crossed but not forded. A raft of large
size was made of dry cottonwood
poles, which floated as lightly as cork.
The raft was loaded and two men
started with it for the farther bank.
"The water was as smooth as glass,
not a ripple disturbing its surface,
but when about from the middle
of the stream came a cry from
the men. An opening appeared
in the surface of
the water and
" 􁪽􋵴
the raft went t\􁪽􋵲r
down bow 􁪽􋵦
foremost, 􁪽􋴮.
never to be I"
,
-\
Arizona Miner. Carr and his men, though,
knew they had found no feasible route for
a wagon road.
Nevertheless, after little more than a week
of rest and refitting, the resilient Carr was
ready to launch the second leg of his expe­dition:
the return scout from Camp Lincoln
to Camp McDowell via Camp Reno.
Sc..t.;
S'.tI:I>:t., 1.. 􁪽􋵦fJ}!,,*'!'1
seen again."
At 2 P.M. on Fri­day,
January 24, the
weary, mud-spattered \'''''0
entourage reached Camp
Lincoln. Their supplies
were gone along with
many of their animals,
and their boots had
disintegrated.
But they had at /Jta/- last completed the
. i" perilous trip, and r-.-:c r7 􁪽􋴢 •
the news of their (n!.-;. ?k 'J􁪽􋴧 '" (}L􁪽􋴮 .!􁪽􋴧'􁪽􋴮.j
arrival made the 4􁪽􋴢"i;.r-􁪽􋵁A..' .
front page of the next ,􁪽􋴢"""" L e."); '. /" 4'«Q,fI4.v
... .{... ('􁪽􋴮 ....--.I'¢
issue of Prescott's !?,/. /J1t. (P. e. 1:. (j􁪽􋴯 /'lJ.tI'.
􁪽􋵤d/􁪽􋴮.
It would prove to be even more harrow­ing
than the first venture.
With his 46 soldiers, three civilians, and
a Camp Lincoln contingent led by Brevet
Maj. David Krause, he started south on
February 3, arriving at Fossil Creek two
days later. Then, following bad advice from
his guide, Carr and his men crossed Fossil
Creek and started climbing a nearby mesa.
"The scout to the mesa was so difficult,"
he noted, "that it was almost impossible
for the animals to accomplish it. One of
my pack mules fell down the side and
was killed."
On February 6, searching for a way to
smoother ground, the party descended a
deep canyon and marched two miles be­fore
reaching a rocky impasse that forced
them to retrace their steps. Two days later,
they were drenched by a downpour that
dispirited the men and made progress al­most
impossible.
"Left camp at 9 A.M. [on February 8] ,"
Carr wrote in his report, "and marched to
the junction of Hardscrabble and Fossil
creeks .... The soil was like paste, owing
to the rain, and the efforts of the animals to
pull themselves through it very rapidly ex­hausted
them."
But the expedition pressed on, crossing
and recrossing Fossil Creek because of the
vertical rock walls. Several of the mules
lost their footing and deposited their loads
in the stream. Three more horses had to
be destroyed.
"February 9: Left camp at noon," Carr
reported, "and struggled through mud
nearly knee deep to a point three miles dis­tant
and camped at 2:30 P.M. on account of
the exhausted condition of my animals."
Now only three days' rations remained,
and the scout had hardly started. Carr knew
when he was licked:
"I then determined to return to Camp
Lincoln and report the state of affairs to the
proper authority"
Late in the afternoon of February 11,
after losing several more horses and mules
to the impossible terrain, the defeated ex­pedition
straggled back into Camp Lincoln.
After a good night's sleep, Captain Carr
was a bit more optimistic about the pros­pects
of eventual success:
"The route which I have traveled from
this camp to Fossil Creek is, in my opinion,
one well adapted for a wagon road, and it
will not require a great amount of labor to
put it in condition for use. But any wagon
road from Fossil Creek to Camp Reno must
run from 20 to 30 miles east of my trail in
order to go entirely around the heads of all
the frightful canons cutting the high table­lands
of the region .... They cannot be
made passable for vehicles of any descrip­tion
without bridges .... Since leaving
Camp McDowell, I have lost 11 horses and
4 mules, one fourth of the whole."
If further efforts to build such a road
were to be attempted, he added, the survey
should be made at some other time besides
winter, and the party should carry no less
than 20 days' rations.
t!:l􁪽􋵛
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LLO
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Jl
In view of all this, he concluded:
"I have the honor to request that I may
be allowed, if at all consistent with the in­terests
of the service, to return with my
command to Camp McDowell by way of
Black Canon and be relieved from the ex­ecution
of my orders until the arrival of a
more favorable season for operations."
No record of a reply exists, but Cap­tain
Carr did return to Camp McDowell,
never again to search for a feasible wagon
road route connecting the posts. In the
fall of 1868, his ambitious mother em­barrassed
him by writing a letter to Gen.
U.S. Grant urging him to promote "my
boy" (he was 26 at the time) to major or
lieutenant colonel.
In time Carr moved up the ladder after
serving in the Indian wars at half a dozen
Western posts, including Camp Verde,
where he was commanding officer. A man
of keen intellect, he wrote a notable narra­tive
about his years on the frontier, Days of
Empire: Arizona, 1866-69. He retired as a
brigadier general after some 40 years of
Army service.
CARR'S DEPARTURE DID NOT END THE
Army's search for central Arizona wagon
road routes. The abandonment of Camp
Reno less than two years after its estab­lishment
made it unnecessary to continue
that portion of the search, but the Army
did not easily give up on the Camp Me­Dowell
to Camp Lincoln route along the
Verde River.
In April, 1868, according to Camp Lin­coln
records, Lt. Lewis Derby led 50 men
to construct a road from the camp to "the
high mesa on which Fossil Creek rises."
That was the portion of the route that Carr
had believed feasible. Derby's own road­building
efforts ended when he walked up
to a dynamite charge to find out why it
had not exploded and was injured in the
delayed blast.
Other attempts to build the road were
made and abandoned.
The November 19, 1875, issue of the
Prescott Miner carried an announcement
that a Lieutenant Thomas was asking for
laborers to work on the Camp Verde to
Camp McDowell road. A map drawn in
1927, purporting to show military roads of
the late 1870s, includes a road or trail ex­tending
north from Camp McDowell about
halfway to Camp Verde. But that trail ap­parently
did not go much farther.
"A wagon road between McDowell and
Lincoln, paralleling the Verde River, al­though
desirable in theory and important
for military strategy, had proved impracti­cal,"
wrote historian Schreier.
Carr's "one vast jumble of mountains
and rocks" would remain impassable for
military vehicles.
There still is no such road. But no one
can say Capt. Camillo Casatti Cadmus Carr,
and those who followed him, didn't make
herculean efforts to locate a route. n
Author's Note: In 1940 the Phoenix Cham­ber
of Commerce proposed building a state
highway up the Verde River, but it never
came to fruition. The Black Canyon route
was used instead because it cost less to build
and was not as environmentally damaging.
(See Arizona Highways, May 1995, for a
modem hiker's attempt to follow Carr's trail,
which is still marked on topographic maps.)
Dean Smith was intrigued by Capt. C. C. C. Carr's
efforts to find a wagon road route between Camps
McDowell and Lincoln and spent several months
searching for records of what happened after his
unsuccessful scout of 1868. Smith, who lives in Tempe,
is the author of several books on Arizona hist01Y·
John B. Murdock, a frequent contributor to Arizona
Highways, is a member of the School of Art faculty at
Arizona State University
Arizona Highways 35
THE
TEXT BY LEO W. BANKS
PHOTOGRAPHS BY GEORGE H.H. HUEY
He said he might not have much time, and at first I didn't
believe him. He never uttered the word "dying." Directness
didn't suit him.
'They tell me I might be closing down," is the way he put it. Like
he was a gift shop.
"Oh, shoot." That's like me. I always know just what to say
He had something in mind, the reason for his call. Some years
ago, he spent a day rolling through some of the biggest country in
Arizona, ranch country, wide open, solitary, a continent of colors
and shapes, preciously lonesome, and then perilous on its last
stretch up over a hold-your-breath mountain road which was way
too close to the angels, at least too close too soon.
Nothing at all happened to him that day, and it was beautiful be­cause
of it. Simple, clean, and unforgettable.
He'd been thinking about it and wanted to do it again, but be-cause
of his illness he couldn't.
"How about you do it?"
"Me?" There I go again.
"Yeah. You do it for me. I'll be thinking about it, you know, at
the same time, and then you give me a call and tell me how it was."
"Oh."
"It'll be like I was there."
"Anything. Sure."
(LEFT) An old railroad bridge now used by automobiles crosses the
Verde River along the Perkinsville Road on the way to Jerome.
(ABOVE) This narrow, winding section of the road on Woodchute
Mountain follows an 1895 railroad grade used to haul copper ore
from Jerome to Chino Valley.
p\_wdays later, I was roaring along the
Perkinsville Road with a big dust bil­low
spinning over the trunk of my
car, following me, hot on the chase and
never quite winning.
Winter shouldn't look that good. The sky
was vast, a blue world. The air was clean
and delicious to breathe. It was hard not to
believe that this feeling would last forever,
not just until I reached my destination:
jerome, the old mine town that kept burn­ing
to the ground and coming back to life,
stronger, somehow unbowed. How appro­priate.
(See Arizona Highways, Feb. '93.)
Five miles in from State Route 89, at
Chino Valley, and a cow decided to test her­self
against my engine.
She was jet black and appeared out of
nowhere at my passenger door, running
shotgun, head pumping up and down,
enjoying the occasion of company to run
faster and faster into a draw below the road
and up, in sight again, back at my side.
Kicking dust. She worked hard for as long
as it was fun, then her nostrils jumped open
and shut as she lost her wind and fell back.
She disappeared in a swirl of dust. Far­ther
on where the road bent, I looked back,
and I saw her, still staring at me as I pressed
the pedal to beyond.
(LEFT) The Verde flows through the Perkins
Ranch amid a swath oj lush cottonwoods.
(ABOVE) Viewed Jrom Perkinsville Road
at dawn, the San Francisco Peaks
command the horizon.
Mile after mile and not a soul in sight.
The road and all of this country belonged
to me. How hard it is to have that any­more.
The course was mostly straight on
dirt solid enough to hold me at a steady
20 mph. It could handle much more, but
jerome could wait.
I passed a blue two-story ranch house
with a tin roof gleaming in the sun and a
windmill spinning above it. It was like a
painting that wouldn't sell for a penny
these days. Put me down for two.
Barbed wire, horses grazing on flat
ground, the thumping of my tires over
the cattle guards. At every cattle crossing,
the hard thumping sound startled me into
a different consciousness, filled me with
different thoughts.
Pancho Villa, the Mexican revolution­ary,
worked in jerome as a woodcutter.
Before his infamy Hired by the town. A
civil servant.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
Got to get to reading those books at bed­side,
I thought. Voodoo River, The Rainmaker,
Once They Moved Like the Wind, Vanishing
Arizona.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
Love to be on a horse right now, I
thought. Galloping, slapping his foamy
rump with my hat, hair flying back, and
who knows where we would come to a
stop. Ah, who was I kidding? A sun roof
gives me a headache.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
I hadn't thought about him at all, driving
this same red ground long ago. Oh no, not
Arizona Highways 39
a bit. There's a famous line from a detective
novel - Raymond Chandler, I think -
about something as inconspicuous as a
tarantula on a slice of angel food cake.
That was me, going along amid the pret­ty
silence, ignoring the tarantula.
]he day was violently bright. Out be­ond
my windshield, the flat ground
rose into shrub hills that rippled and
bulged as they went back mile upon mile,
unfolding in waves, each rise taking on a
new color before reaching the horizon, a
long ridge, flat across the top, and pink
from one end of the world to the other.
The farther along I traveled, the richer
the pink became. Sycamore Canyon Wil­derness
and the Sedona red rocks. World
famous. But not from that vantage point. It
was a view of them I'd never had before,
and neither have too many others.
Every mile the view changed, intensified,
became grander. Above the ridge, far out
at the limit of my vision, stood the San
Francisco Peaks north of Flagstaff.
They are the guardians of this land, the
warm heart of it. Everywhere I went on the
Perkinsville Road, they looked down on
me, three great white snow-covered peaks,
(LEFT AND ABOVE) The long-abandoned
Daisy Hotel, named for "Rawhide Jimmy"
Douglas' Little Daisy Mine, recalls the days
when Jerome was a raucous mining camp,
while a shop along Main Street reflects the
retail businesses that drive the town today.
looking positively dreamlike and unreal,
plucked from a poet's pocket and stuck on
the horizon for all time, above a pink ridge.
The enormity of the sight diminished
everything else. For a time, I couldn't take
my eyes off it, then I couldn't bring my
eyes back to it. The more I looked, the
more I vanished before it.
I rounded a bend and saw five deer in a
scatter in front of me. They were as startled
by our chance meeting as I was.
Up came their heads on cue, and they
stared. Very close, giant black eyes sudden­ly
livening, seeing, measuring, their noses
twitching to haul in a scent that might ex­plain
who this was out on this empty place.
They looked for several seconds, alert,
afraid, and unmoving, then one of them
leaped over a ridge of dirt at the side of the
road, and the other four followed. But one
of them, a horned buck, couldn't contain
his curiosity and stopped and swiveled a
proud head toward me, every sinew of
muscle in his shoulders and legs rigid.
Together they took another moment to
investigate, five animals watching. I slowed
in an effort to lengthen their lingering, con­vince
them I was no threat. But they had
had enough of me. They had plans.
The buck suddenly jumped a cholla, and
the spring in his spindly legs sent him air­borne.
Then he and the others bounced
and zigzagged through the low brush, stop­ping
and turning to look back, once, twice,
three times, and they were gone.
Twenty-one miles from Chino Valley, I
came to an intersection. I went left, a side
trip of two miles down to the Verde River,
its water running beneath a one-lane silver­beam
bridge covered with weathered wood
planks that rumbled like a hurrying army
as I drove across.
The sound alerted the cattle in a post
corral beside the bridge, and they craned
their necks, studying me, wondering what
the commotion was about.
They watched as I walked to the riverbed
layered with rocks and listened to the
sound of the water and the barely percep­tible
creak made by the wind hitting the
giant cottonwoods spread along the bank.
I stayed in this spot an hour, not think­ing
about the reason I was there and not
having a cattle guard handy to help me
think about anything else.
When I got into the car and started back
across the bridge, a curious cow mounted
a dirt pile in the corral and let out a high,
brazen call, as if to say good-bye. The
wooden planks pounded out my response.
theafternoon moved, making its shad­ws.
Jerome was 16 miles ahead. For­est
Service Road 318 ran flat at first,
then climbed onto Woodchute Mountain,
a narrow corkscrew of red dirt attached to
the side of the mountain by little more than
a wish.
In the early 1890s, a mining company
called the United Verde ran a railroad over
the mountain, and a five-mile stretch of it
came to be called the crookedest on Earth,
a reputation well earned.
No guardrail, a bottomless drop-off, a
Arizona Highways 41
great wilderness visible around every switch­back.
The wind faded as I negotiated the
turns, giving the mountain an unnatural
stillness, the air of a place apart.
Into a womb like hole in a hillside, at
crawling speed. High red walls on both
sides of me curled with the road over a
sun-shaded stretch of some 70 yards.
I emerged from the "tunnel" and chanced
another peek over the edge, a few feet to
eternity, and something popped into my
mind, something I had read about Jerome.
Unlike other Western mining towns, which
were inundated by bedbugs and other tor­turing
varmints, Jerome had none.
The sulphur fumes belched out by the
smelters killed them off. Everybody slept
like a wagonload of wood in Jerome.
A hundred twenty-five hookers in its
heyday, and on Christmas Eve, 1897, the
night the town went to flames, free whiskey
for everyone.
When the saloonkeepers realized that all
was lost, and their whiskey was beyond
saving, they yelled to the miners fighting
the fire, "Come and have a swallow, boys!
It's on the house!"
(LEFT) Flooding and underground
blasting played havoc with the mining
town perched on Cleopatra Hill.
During one shake-up, the town jail
slid across the street and down a hillside,
where it remains today.
(ABOVE) A garage just big enough for
one vehicle is all that one narrow
hillside lot could accommodate.
The sound of water buckets hitting the
ground could be heard all over Cleopatra
Hill. Men came running to toast the end.
But it wasn't the end. Jerome should've
died with the dreams of a thousand miners,
but it kept coming back from nothing,
holding a craggy hand up to the world and
saying, "Not so fast."
thesky was still aglow when I ended
my descent of Woodchute, past the
Gold King Mine and down onto per­fect
pavement.
Jerome - with its old buildings and
shops and galleries - teemed with cam­eras
and Bermuda shorts and straw hats
and fanny packs. On the streets, minivans
packed to the windows with faces, and on
the sidewalks, the whiff of sunscreen and
Obsession.
I had a drink at Paul and Jerry's, a fine
WHEN YOU GO
old saloon, and went out and found a pay
phone. It was up a set of stairs on a plat­form
overlooking Main Street, a perch from
which I could see down between the old
buildings onto the magnificent Verde Valley,
peaceful under cottony white clouds.
He answered on the first ring, a hard en­ergy
in his voice, a fight and a promise.
"Well, was it a good day?" he asked
cheerily
"Great day"
"Me, too. I feel better. I think every­thing's
going to be okay"
Standing there above Jerome, in the
falling sun, I believed him. 􁪽􋵉
In 20 years in Arizona, Tucson-based Leo W Banks
had never before driven the Perkinsville Road.
George H.H. Huey has lived in Prescott for much of
the past 25 years, but he'd traveled the Perkinsville Road
just twice before. Huey's latest book, with author Ros-e
Houk, is Wild Cactus (Artisan, New York).
To re-create our author's trip to Jerome from Prescott, travel north 17 miles on
State Route 89 to Chino Valley Stop at the Chino Valley Ranger District office, on
the right side of the road, to pick up a map of the Prescott National Forest.
Less than a mile past the office, take a right off State 89 onto Perkinsville Road,
which is marked as County Road 70 on the Prescott map. It is paved for a short
distance, then turns to dirt. Follow this road 21 miles to an intersection.
The left fork leads down to the railroad bridge over the Verde River, and the right
fork, County Road 72 on the Prescott map, leads to Jerome. As County 70 crosses
Woodchute Mountain, it becomes Forest Service Road 318. Only the most current
maps show the new county road numbers.
Take plenty of water. Don't attempt to drive over Woodchute Mountain after a rain
as the road can become slick and dangerous. Before setting out, call the Verde Ranger
District, (520) 567-4121, for current weather and road conditions.
Arizona Highways 43
. .
Be a Clown,
Be a Clown
Eachyear Tombstone hosts
Emmett Kelly Jr. Days, a
celebration of laughter which
features entertainment, pa­rades,
face-painting, and clown
costume contests. It's usually
held in November around the
famous clown's birthday.
I should be there. Not just in
Tombstone for the festivities,
but in the Clown Hall of Fame
alongside Emmett Kelly Jr. I've
always felt a calling to the
"Order of the Red Nose," and
many signs throughout my life
have nudged me toward that
noble profession.
As a youngster (I don't know
at what age - I was too young
to know much, but old enough
to be obnoxious), I decided to
leave home and join the circus,
as a clown, of course. Appar­ently
I was old enough to know
that I didn't want to work the
high wire without a net.
My mother, strangely enough,
agreed that I should (I must
have been even more obnox­ious
than I thought). She spread
peanut butter and jelly on some
bread, wrapped it in wax paper,
threw it into a bag with an ap­ple
and a candy bar, and even
helped me pack a few belong­ings
for my journey. She sent
me off with a hug and a kiss
and a question: "Are you wear­ing
clean underwear?"
I didn't become a clown then
because I wasn't allowed to
cross the street by myself, and
there were no circuses on my
side of the street.
The passion, though, persist­ed,
and the compass of fate
kept pointing me in that direc­tion.
Through my early school
years, friends kept telling me I
was a clown. Not that I should
44 November 1996
WIT S TOP
..........................................................................................•
TEXT BY GENE PERRET
ILLUSTRATION BY TIM RACER
be a clown, or I had the po­tential
to be a clown. I was a
clown. And not just a select
. few or isolated acquaintances
told me this; almost everyone
did. For example, in my senior
year in high school, every girl
I asked to be my date to the
prom said that to me.
The trend continued through
college. There I had to take a
test that supposedly would
show what course of study I
had an interest in and an apti­tude
for. The counselor told me
I should become a clown. He
didn't say it in those words ex­actly.
He said, "The results of
this test show that you should
pursue a profession that in­volves
either baggy pants or
oversize, floppy shoes . . . or
both." He dressed rather poor­ly
himself, so he suggested I
become a teacher. I knew he
meant "be a clown."
I knew it because I knew
what I had written on the test.
One of the inane questions
asked: if you stood in a long
line and someone jumped
ahead of you, you would (a)
accept it graciously, (b) say
something to that person, or
(c) physically harm the line­jumper.
I wrote down that I
would take all the people in
the line ahead of me and try
to crowd them into one tiny
Volkswagen. Circus clown­ing,
you see, pulsed through
my veins.
Naturally, though, I studied
more conventional subjects.
Took a conventional job. Even
that indicated my comedic
bent. Many times I would see
my superiors waving papers
and shouting, "What clown
wrote this report?" I swelled
with pride.
However, reading all about
Emmett KellyJr. Days in Tomb­stone
reawakened my youthful
desires.
At breakfast one morning, I
said to my wife, "Dear, I've de­cided
to become a clown."
She said, "Really, dear? What
kind of clown?"
I said, "A professional clown,
a real clown."
She said, "Good, darling.
You've come so close on so
many occasions."
I think she took my state­ment
lightly.
I said, "Sweetheart, I'm be­ing
deadly serious."
She said, "That's a fine atti­tude
for a clown to have."
I said, "I'm going to leave
my job and make my living as
a clown."
She said, "Oh, don't be silly."
I said, "That's exactly what I
intend to be."
"Being a clown is not as easy
as it looks. Name one thing
that you can do to qualify you."
I'd prepared for that ques­tion.
I leaned toward her and
squirted her with a trick flower
I had bought in a novelty shop
some years before. She didn't
seem pleased. It was proba­bly
not a good time in the dis­cussion
to introduce my use
of props.
She wiped her face and said,
"So you want to be a clown?"
I said, "More than anything
in the world. I want someday
to have clown festivities in my
honor."
"Do whatever makes you
happy," she said.
I never became a clown, but
my wife hit it right on the head.
Do whatever makes you happy.
Circus clowns, TV clowns, the­atrical
clowns, amateurs and
professionals, they all do what
makes them happy. More im­portantly,
they make other peo­ple
happy, too.
I may never become a pro­fessional
clown, never get into
that Hall of Fame, but I can
spread a little laughter, a little
joy each day. We all can. It may
not be our profession, but it's
not a bad hobby, either. n
LEGENDS
....................................
Lord Duppa's
Lost Silver Strike
May Still Be Hidden
in the Bradshaws
;\ blast of wind carried my .rt map into the brush not
far below. I should have left
it there instead of thrashing
through the gauntlet of man­zanita
and scrub oak. The stuff
was too flimsy to climb over
but too stout to walk through
easily
I plunged in and returned
half an hour later poked,
slapped, punched, scratched,
and bruised. Never has 30 feet
taken so long or been so ex­cruciating.
And for all the
good that map did me, I
should have let the wind keep
it. But then I wouldn't have
met the ghost of one of Ari­zona's
most interesting char­acters,
a charming English
drifter named Bryan Philip
Darrell Duppa, who camped
on the riverbank that became
known as Phoenix, now Ari­zona's
capital, and, perhaps,
found a vast ledge of silver.
In fact, Du ppa named the
fledgling town for the mythic
Egyptian phoenix bird which
rose from its own ashes to fly
again and live in splendor.
Duppa did have a way with
fancy words. Somewhere along
the way he even promoted
himself to the lofty position
of "Lord."
Duppa was the kind who
could do that. He could recite
from the classics and wear
continental clothes but still
survive in the wild and woolly
West. He ran a shanty store,
which he overrated as a restau­rant
and hotel. He redid his
name from deUphaugh to
Duppa with no hint at a pun
46 November 1996
o F THE
TEXT BY BILL BROYLES
ILLUSTRATIONS BY KATERI WEISS
on "dupe." He sold himself as
an English gentleman of hon­ored
lineage, when he was re­ally
a scallywag son whose
gentrified family paid him to
stay anywhere but home. He
was born October 9, 1832, in
(pick one) England or France.
In England young Du ppa
was sent to school where he
somehow absorbed bits of the
old languages and cultures. But
being the youngest of 15 chil­dren
born to a Kent family, he
was unlikely to inherit much
estate, so he studied without
purpose. Along the way, he ac­quired
some habits that em­barrassed
his prominent family,
which included clergy and
county officials.
So with stern prodding and
the promise of a monthly allow­ance
from home, he went as far
away as possible - New Zea­land,
where an uncle had ac­quired
land. In 1854 the vexed
uncle wrote a letter home about
the errant lad and bemoaned,
"I am anxious to see what can
be made of him .... I fear that
he has fallen into careless and
desultory habits - we must
however hope for the best."
Life in New Zealand wasn't
luxurious for Duppa. So in
1863 when he heard about
new gold claims near Prescott
in Arizona Territory, he hur­ried
right over.
He tumbled into Prescott
with the founding wave. The
town lay south of the cavalry's
Fort Whipple and didn't even
make up its own name until
May, 1864. Its raucous folk
were his kind of people; like
him they were forgetting their
pasts and building their futures.
He relished the adventure. He
rubbed elbows with tycoon
William D. Bradshaw, himself,
battled Apache Indians, turned
a few cards, and - fortuitous­ly,
as it would turn out - even
worked for a while doing some­thing
in mines.
But he wanted more money
in his pocket not just callouses
on his hands, so in 1868 he
ambled down to the valley of
the Salt River. There was no real
town then, just a patchwork of
farms and Hayden's flour mill.
To anyone who would listen,
Duppa proclaimed that this val­ley
rivaled the Vale of Tempe,
that Olympian valley praised
by Horace and Ovid for its lush
crops and bountiful beauty.
Los T
............................ •
Today Tempe is Arizona's sixth­largest
city
Du ppa homesteaded 160
acres in what now is downtown
Phoenix, but he soon grew rest­less
and never really lived on
the place. He drifted back and
forth from Phoenix to Prescott
many times. More than once he
was attacked by Indians, and it
is said that after one skirmish
on the banks of the Agua Fria
River, he decided to run no
more. There he opened a stage­coach
station, where passengers
could catch a meal and drivers
could replace tired horses.
It was a ramshackle affair,
a cottonwood frame covered
with cactus wood, canvas, and
gunnysacks. Planks of unfin­ished
pine served as the one
table. Weary travelers preferred
to sleep outside, but when bad
weather or marauding Indians
threatened, they crowded in­side
on the dirt floor.
When Army Capt. john G.
Bourke recorded the scene in
1871, he complained of "sand­laden
wind, no bread," and
"furniture too simple and mea­gre"
for even a monk. It did,
however, have plenty of hot tea
and fiery whiskey The station
site later was named Dewey.
As proprietor of such a way
station, Duppa undoubtedly
heard every rumor and tale that
any traveler or dreamer plunked
down on the counter. William
D. Bradshaw had first found ore
deposits in 1863, and other
mines sprang up like chuck­holes
in a muddy road.
Too, Duppa knew
the story of Edmond Peck,
who came across some heavy
rock while hunting deer. He
didn't get the deer, but the
rock assayed rich with silver
and produced more than $1
million in ore before 1878.
On one of his trips back
to Phoenix, Duppa detoured
through Prescott and took the
primitive wagon road over the
tops of the Bradshaw Moun­tains,
a surly granite range that
rises to nearly 8,000 feet. The
trail connected settlements such
as Palace Station and Goodwin,
and the Crown King gold mine.
Whether by chance or inten­tion,
Duppa made a shortcut
to the Agua Fria down a steep
canyon. Maybe his map blew
away in the wind, too, and he
just kept crashing downward
through the underbrush and
skidding on loose rocks as
I had.
The steep slopes of the Brad­shaws
are cloaked by impen­etrable
mats of manzanita,
scrub oak, and mountain ma­hogany
Higher up, pine nee­dles
and loose stones are like
grease underfoot. Few enticing
ridges peek out of the tangled
forest, but somewhere on that
descent Duppa found a ledge
of his own, a subtle exposure
of rich native silver that anyone
with lesser mining experience
would have missed. Making
the discovery was one of the
few things he had ever done on
his own.
Duppa wrote home to Eng­land
and gloated that he had
finally found his own fortune
... but keep the remittance
coming, thank you, so he could
develop the prospect. That let­ter
was the only record of his
find; he didn't dare tell any of
his acquaintances in Arizona,
and there's no evidence that he
ever developed the strike or
even filed an official claim. He
left no map, for the site was
clearly in his mind. Duppa may
have fallen back on his lazy
ways, or maybe he didn't feel
like fighting Indians and claim
jumpers right then. More likely
he saw it as a savings account,
insurance if his effortless remit­tance
ever ran out.
Some hecklers would say that
Duppa never found anything.
They point out that among
Duppa's Phoenix neighbors and
....................................................
friends was one jacob Waltz,
fabled to us nowadays as the
Dutchman, proprietor of a se­cret
gold mine in the infamous
Superstition Mountains east of
Phoenix. Waltz may have in­vented
the story of his lost lode
to cover his theft of ore from
other miners' claims. Skeptics
would accuse Duppa, too, of
inventing his story, perhaps just
to impress his family
But we must remember that
Duppa's Bradshaws were rich
in silver strikes; the first maps
even labeled them the Silver
Range. One find, the Silver Belt
Mine, revealed native silver
worked by prehistoric miners
using stone hammers. Others
- the Thunderbolt, Tip Top,
Stonewall jackson, Tiger, and
Howard - were all very prof­itable
silver works that would
have been famous far and wide
if they hadn't been overshad­owed
by gold-bearing neigh­bors
such as the Crown King
and Oro Belle.
Tired of dodging arrows and
listening to the wind blow
through the walls at the Agua
Fria station, Duppa spent his
last years retired in Phoenix,
where he died of pneumonia
on january 29, 1892.
Among the items left in his
will were a gold watch, un­cashable
New Zealand mining
stock, a sword, and a set of pis­tols
- but no map or title to
his lode in the Bradshaws. He
also left us the names of two
grand cities, Tempe and Phoe­nix,
and the dream of lost sil­ver.
In the subsequent century,
many silver digs in the Brad­shaws
made money Was one
of them Duppa's lost ledge?
If not, Lord Duppa's silver
strike is still there for the find­ing.
When the snow melts in
the high country, I think I'll
head back up there. But this
time when the wind blows my
map away, I'll gladly chase it
in hopes of tumbling over the
fabulous strike Lord Duppa
lost and left for us to find. 􁪽􋵁
Arizona Highways 47
ARIZONA HUMOR
•..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................•
"Let's keep riding. I'm wanted in both places."
Loss for Words
Recently, our kids came
from Texas to visit us in
Mesa, and they brought our
four-year-old granddaughter,
whom we hadn't seen since
she was a baby. I hugged and
cuddled her, exclaiming, "You
are so cute! And you have the
tiniest face I have ever seen."
She looked up curiously.
"How about a snake's face,
Granddad?" she asked.
Lovel L. Rogers
Mesa
Stranded
Last May I mounted my trusty
Harley for an annual trek
through the scenic territories of
Arizona. As I traveled State
Route 264 toward Tuba City, the
rear of my bike began to sway,
and I was soon broken down on
the shoulder of the road.
It wasn't long before a Navajo
Nation police car stopped, and
a tow truck was summoned
from Flagstaff (more than 150
miles away).
I waited in lonely isolation
near the shimmering blacktop
as the sun beat down on me,
and the desert stretched for
miles all around.
48 November 1996
After what seemed an eter­nity,
the tow truck appeared on
the horizon, and within a few
minutes the driver was backing
up to my crippled steed.
Grinning, I called out, "Noth­in'
like being stranded in the
middle of nowhere!"
Straight-faced he replied,
"Heck, this ain't the middle
of nowhere. I passed through
there a couple of miles back."
Kevin R. Mussack
East Bloomfield, NY
Recession Victim
In the 1980s, the media in
Arizona were reporting an
economic recession in the East.
One day Wes Hunter of Apache
Junction said to a shorts-clad
tourist as he climbed out of a
car with New Jersey plates,
"Well, things really must be
tough back East. I see you even
lost your pants."
Bud Brown
Prescott
Signage
"'\ X 'Tickenburg prides itself on
V V being the ultimate West­ern
town, situated as it is in
ranch country At the Wicken­burg
post office, one can almost
always see pickups or vans with
ranch names emblazoned on
the doors and tailgates, such as
Bar X and 2 Bar C.
One day, parked in a promi­nent
place in front of the post
office, I saw a rather beat-up
white pickup with the follow­ing
hand-lettered sign on each
door: I HAVENO RANCH.
Barbara Binney
Wickenburg
Cock-a-doodle-doo
"'\ X Thile driving along a
V V country road near Buck­eye
one day, I accidentally ran
over a rooster that tried to cross
in front of me. I pulled over
and walked back to where the
farmer was plowing in a field.
''I'm sorry-I just ran over
your rooster," I told him. ''I'm
willing to replace him."
"Fine," answered the farmer.
"Let's hear you crow."
Thomas LaMance
Prewitt, NM
Whoops
The owner of the Arizona
dude ranch was delighted
with the response to his first
international ad. But his delight
turned to confusion when the
first group of 20 tourists ar­rived
from Germany with ex­pectant
smiles but no luggage.
Things began to make sense
when one guest produced a
copy of the ad, which read:
"Ride the herd, learn to rope
'em tight. The Wild West is
sprawled at your feet when
you vacation at the Three Bar
Nude Ranch."
Sheila Roe
Scottsdale
Lessons
In an elementary school near
Tucson, a teacher was teach­ing
her second grade class
about Abraham Lincoln. To re­inforce
the lesson, the teach­er
asked her students what
they would do if they were
president.
One little boy who was
learning English as a second
language proudly announced
that if he were president, "I'd
undress the nation every day"
Andrea A. Newell
Tucson
TO SUBMIT
HUMOR
Send us a short
note about your
humorous experiences
in Arizona, and we'll pay $75
for each one we publish.
We're looking for short
stories, no more than 200
words, that deal with Arizona
topics and have a humorous
punch line.
Send them to Humor,
Arizona Highways, 2039 W
Lewis Ave., Phoenix, AZ
85009. Please enclose your
name, address, and telephone
number with each submission.
We'll notify those whose
stories we intend to publish,
but we cannot acknowledge
or return unused submissions.
ROADSIDE REST
. ..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................•
TEXT BY DON
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
Place-names:
In Arizona They Are
of a Different Ilk
Mohaves promise that in the
Harquahala Mountains: There
Is Water up High. Hopis desig­nate
Awatobi Village: High
Home of the Bow People. And
be advised, the community of
Bylas is known for: One Who
Does All the Talking.
In the beginning, likely all
significant places bore descrip­tive
aboriginal monikers. But
out of possessiveness or vanity
or plain ignorance, European
newcomers (mostly uncouth
males) affixed fresh labels. Some­times
indelicate, often lyrical,
generally accurate were the des­ignations
of the Spaniard, the
Mexican, trapper, explorer, sol­dier,
railroader, cowman, pros­pector,
packer, and farmer.
An uninhibited catalog en­dures
where pioneers tasted,
listened, looked, and felt. Alum
Gulch. Thunder River. Painted
Desert. Vermilion Cliffs. Freeze
Out Canyon. Dead Boy Point.
Devil's Windpipe. Music Moun­tain.
Tortilla Flat.
They freely put their own
names onto things. Blackjack
Canyon. Holy Joe Peak. Sandy
Bob Canyon. Jim Sam Butte.
Greasy Toms Creek. Eden and
Enterprise were denoted by set­tlers
seeking Utopia. Hope
rose, briefly, at a road bypass.
Two creeks lying side by side
were named for lovers Benny
and Rosey. Once a town
named Plenty earned a
post office
A izona's geography is de­nfined
by the most eccen­tric
and evocative place-names
in the world.
There. The brag is made.
Dissent is invited from global
landscapes where there are no
towns named Bumble Bee, no
mines titled Total Wreck, no
forts christened Misery, no
creeks termed Quien Sabe, no
canyons called Wickytywiz, no
municipal memories dubbed
Copperopolis, no hills styled
White Man's Nose.
The reason, it seems to me,
that there are more curious and
spirited designations in Arizona
than, s􁪽􋵹y, Iowa, is our abun­dance
of eventful landforms
and diverse peoples. Oh, Iowa
has its Storm Lake and Red Oak
and Mount Pleasant, a short list
to compete with the energized
dots on the map of Navajoland:
a leaning peak named Roof Top
Mountain on the Run, a slug­gish
stream named Water With­out
Ambition, and the boggy
ford named Where the Mexi­can
Wept.
Our Indian names are useful.
Navajos caution that
in their Naahtee
Canyon: Toad­stool
Causes
Blindness.
D E 0 ERA
JACK GRAHAM
for its hundreds of residents,
but today Plenty is nothing.
Surviving symbols speak
of desperation and
danger. Skele­ton
Canyon.
Doubtful
Bone­yard.
Upset Rapid. Fools Hollow.
Grief Hill. Mistake Peak. Fort
Defiance. Skull Valley. Lousy
Gulch. Bloody Basin. And of
course Tombstone, the Town
Too Tough to Die.
If cowboys had their way,
they'd nickname every rock
and cactus. And so modern
Arizona hurries into the 21st
century adorned with Chuck
Box Lake, Jerked Beef Butte,
Wild Bunch Pocket, Stray Horse
Canyon, Horse Thief Basin,
Rustler Park, Jackass Flat, and
Poker Mountain.
Miners exercised their hard­won
manic depression. Poverty
Knoll. Cash on Delivery Fools
Gulch. Devil's Cash Box. Rich
Hill. Gold Road. The Tip Top
proved a tip top prospect, and
The Lucky Cuss derived from
public opinion regarding a man
who hit a bonanza.
Then there occurs a sym­phony
of nomenclature.
Mystery Valley Rainbow
Plateau. Superstition
Mountains. Midnight
Mesa. Mount Baldy.
Window Rock. Screw­tail
HilL
Ranch. '--'1oA.L.L.L'-' .......... .. , ....... '-
Mountain. Agate
Bridge. Apache Leap.
Newspaper Rock.
Dragoon Pass. Half­way
Bend. Cochise
Stronghold. Whiskey
Creek. Surprise Canyon.
Devil's Kitchen. Copper
Queen Mine. Sleeping
Beauty Peak. And of course, a
state embracing a
Grand Canyon must
mark its chart with
. Sockdolager Rapids
and Bright Angel
Trail.
At least
two Arizona
place-names
endure with­out
elaboration. A
small prospering farming
center off Interstate 10 about
midway between Phoenix and
Tucson puts "Eloy" on its town
limits, but lost in history is its
origin, although the word
means "my God" in Syria. The
way-stop made famous in the
golden hit song Route 66 out­lives
a murky past. Getting
their kicks, Americans on the
move remembered Winona,
but the reason today escapes
us all.
Not so, Why Peggy and Jim
Kater long ago made their last
journey across the Little Ajo
Mountains, but not before they
baptized their own corner of
desert. At the junction of State
Routes 85 and 86, their home­stead
simply went by the de­scriptive
"The Y." Eventually
The Y attracted a post office,
and when the postmaster gen­eral
formally requested a town
name, Mrs. Kater submitted,
"Why." Why not? she argued.
And Why it is.
Oh, maybe somewhere in
Iowa an intersection is referred
to as The Y. But I'll bet there is
no signpost reading Where the
Mexican Wept. n
Arizona Highways 49
B A C K
•.. . .
The Twisting Trail
to Tip Top's Ghost
Isn't Always
Where Maps
Say It Is
Te advance word on Tip _ll􁪽􋵯op was this: there's not
much left of the onetime min­ing
town in Yavapai County,
except for the cemetery
That isn't strictly true. At
least it wasn't for us. We found
remnants of stone dwellings, a
concrete building which served
a purpose unknown to us, and
some old stone fences. We, and
some half-dozen other back­road
adventurers exploring the
southern reaches of the Brad­shaw
Mountains, also found
ROAD ADVENTURE
..................................................................................................................................................................•
TEXT BY ROBERT C. DYER
PHOTOGRAPHS BY JERRY SIEVE
some jagged hillsides never
viewed by sightseers willing
to restrict their travel to paved
roads. What we never found
was the Tip Top Cemetery
A word of caution. Don't
limit your advance planning to
the data found on USGS topo­graphic
maps. Some are out­dated,
and backcountry roads
aren't always where the maps
tell you they are. Flooding
changes the terrain; roads can
become trails, and trails have a
way of petering out.
We left Interstate 17 at Exit
236, marked Table Mesa Road,
doubling back northward be­fore
swinging west toward the
Agua Fria River. On every out­ing,
there's at least one wrong
turn. We made ours only two­and-
a-half miles off the luxury
of the freeway's paved surface.
At the fork where we made a
50 November 1996
bad choice, a sign points north
to the New River Sand & Grav­el
pit. Trusting our map, we
took the west (left) fork. Near
the Agua Fria ford, we encoun­tered
dozens of parked pick­ups,
RVs, and horse trailers­base
camp for an outing of the
Verde Vaqueros, we were told.
We also discovered that the
road runs into private property
of the Boulder Creek Ranch.
That meant backtracking about
three-and-three-fourths miles
to the fork and taking the route
to the gravel pit. About. 7 of a
mile beyond the fork, the road
branches again, and a sign
points left to the pit. Go right
there.
Just over two twisting miles
from the second fork, general­ly
northward, we forded the
Agua Fria near the ghost town
of Gillette, built as the mill
town for Tip Top's rich ore. At
the "T" junction atop the hill
on the west side of the river,
turn right. From that point on,
our map told us, we were on a
"jeep trail," nothing as grand
as the tortuous, bone-jarring
"unimproved" road we'd been
following.
For a while, the trail roughly
followed Cottonwood Gulch. At
one crossing, we saw a pair of
large concrete culvert sections,
pockmarked by recreational
shooters, perhaps hunters frus­trated
by the absence of game.
A cactus wren swooped by to
say "Howdy," the first real sign
of wildlife we'd seen.
But for the existence of our
road, rough enough going at
times to slow us to a crawl, it
would have been easy to be­lieve
we were the first intruders
to come this way There were
occasional reminders, though,
that we were following what
many others - mostly miners
and cowmen - laid down
ahead of us. About three-and­one-
quarter miles after crossing
the Agua Fria, we came to a
corral. Three pickups were
(LEFT AND ABOVE) Tip Top once had a post office and even a school,
but today only ruins, including an old assay office, mark the site of
the onetime mining town.
(RIGHT) The rusted remains of a steam engine lie near a mine shaft
above the ghost town.
........... ..
BACK ROAD ADVENTURE
...............................................................................................
parked there, the drivers ap­parently
off taking care of busi­ness.
We spotted two horsemen
some distance away; by their
look, we thought, they were
out for the pleasure of riding,
not for work.
Although it was midwinter,
the day was warm and sunny
It had been a dry season, and
we were surprised to see how
much water was in Boulder
Creek when we reached that
crossing. At the Gillette cross­ing,
we were barely 700 feet
higher than Phoenix, and we
would climb only about anoth­er
500 feet. That would be blis­tering
hot in summer, the creek
bone-dry
Again we saw some back­roaders
􁪽􋵴 two young men
with a pickup boasting only
rear-wheel drive. The pair ad­mitted
they'd had problems
negotiating a couple of the
steeper, rougher places on the
trail. This was four-wheel­drive
country, no question.
The trail ran fairly close to
Boulder Creek, then to Cotton­wood
Creek as it twisted and
turned toward Tip Top. About
three-quarters of a mile past the
ford where we encountered the
explorers, the road ran through
a circular corral. Again, a pair
of pickups, one with a camper
shell, told us we had company
close by
Just over one-and-a-half
miles past the corral, we saw
our first sign of Tip Top. The
ruin of a small concrete build­ing
has been a tempting and
easy target through the years,
standing up through enough
bullet impacts to win a minor
skirmish.
A few yards farther, we saw
the first of several ruins of stone
buildings strung along the
creek. They must have been
houses for miners, not as ex­pensive
as the concrete struc­ture
and made of the cheapest,
most plentiful material in the
area. Just upstream we came
upon a well, the few remain­ing
vanes of the dilapidated
(OPPOSITE PAGE) An old flywheel found a resting place near a mine
shaft. This view looks south toward Cottonwood Canyon.
(ABOVE) Although they'd heard there was little left of Tip Top, our
adventurers find much to explore and spark the imagination.
windmill perforated in a dozen
places by bullet holes.
According to Byrd Granger's
Arizona Names: X Marks the
Spot, Tip Top was settled along
Rock Creek. Contemporary
maps identify this as Cotton­wood
Creek, a tributary of
Boulder Creek.
Tip Top was a busy outpost
a hundred years ago, so.named
because it was considered a
"tip top prospect" by the small­time
miners known as "chlo­riders."
There was a post office
for eight months in 1879 and
again from 1880-95, and in
1897 it even had a school.
A few hundred feet up the
road, we prowled around a low
TIPS FOR TRAVELERS
The trek to Tip Top
.lrequires a four-wheel-drive
vehicle. Allow a full day for the
drive to and from the site and
time to wander around the
ghost town.
En route, take time to enjoy
the excellent stand of saguaro
cactuses along the road.
Back road travel can be
hazardous if you are not prepared
for the unexpected. Whether traveling
in the desert or in the high country, be
aware of weather and road conditions, and
make sure you and your vehicle are in top
shape and you have plenty of water.
Don't travel alone, and let someone at
home know where you're going and when
you plan to return.
stone fence closing in an area
something less than an acre.
The fence seemed too low to
have been used as a corral, as if
it had been built to define an
area rather than to prevent en­croachment
or animals from
escaping. No grav