Tough Enough

"More trailer parks," said Andy, as we left Interstate #10 and headed south through Benson on Arizona #80 to Tombstone.
"Temperatures are supposed to reach 75 today," I said. "That's why the trailers are here."
"Yup," he answered, "by April when it gets hot most will leave."
The 9:30 a.m. sun beat down, blinding us with each turn, but Andy edged the heat on as we climbed in elevation. "We might need jackets," he said. "Tombstone is higher."
Arizona roads are so much cleaner than California's. We passed bags of trash collected and waiting for pick-up.
"That's the people who have taken responsibility for this stretch," said Andy.
What a difference it makes!
Outside of Tombstone, a wrought iron fence lined the historic cemetery at Boot Hill. "This has been so improved," said Andy. "I remember this place in shambles, rocks everywhere." Now, graves were neatly marked with two-foot high stone piles. Many said, unknown; others included names and years of death; some had interesting sayings, including how individuals kicked the bucket--shot, stabbed, Indians, pneumonia. Most graves labeled 1882 suggested violence ruled in Tombstone for gun fighters, Chinese workers and unnamed pioneers moving west.

Tombstone, "the town too tough to die," awoke lazily as we walked the streets. Bow-legged cowboys, spurs jingling, encouraged tourists to come to the gunfight in Helldorado Town at 11:30 a.m. I posed outside the Bird Cage Theatre, where Fatima, later known as Little Egypt, belly danced in 1881 and photographed the horse-drawn stage coach, one of three in town.

"We're the only authentic ride in existence since 1881," called out the bearded driver down the street. "Come ride with us."
Tombstone, "the town too tough to die," now lives off of tourists.

Residents of Bisbee once mined copper. "I read Bisbee has become an artists' community," said Andy. He was right. Founded in 1880 in the Mule Mountains, the narrow streets lined with two and three-story buildings now housed jewelry stores, galleries, gift shops and cafes. Once a booming mining community with one of the richest mineral deposits in the world, Bisbee became the largest city between St. Louis and San Francisco. On the other side of town, Brewery Gulch still houses old time saloons that retained the boisterous character of old copper mining days.
"I heard a kid read that 32 million tons of dirt came out of that hole," said Andy, as we looked into the deep open pit near Bisbee town center. "Out of that dirt they smelted a million tons of copper." Unlike Butte, the water table is much lower here. Only a puddle of dark rusty liquid remained in the very bottom at least a thousand feet down. "That probably is sulfuric acid and who knows what else," said Andy, "but unlike Butte, it isn't contaminating anything and won't have to be monitored for perpetuity."

Coronado National Memorial, only a few miles from the Mexican border, posted warnings: Be aware of your surroundings and Never hike alone. We drove the gravel road to Montezuma's Pass at 6,575 feet and then climbed the .4 miles to the top, a 360 degree view from 6,864 feet. Here, Francisco Vasquez de Coronado surveyed the countryside beneath him in 1540 before crossing what is now Arizona into New Mexico. Seeking Cibola, the Seven Cities of Gold, he was disappointed when native inhabitants presented roasted yucca fruit. We climbed the 300 feet in shirt sleeves and sneakers over steps carved in the rock. The view was breathtaking. As he trudged uphill, Coronado must have hoped he would see the riches of Cibola from the top. No wonder he didn't react as we did. He had trekked 750 miles from Compostela on the west coast of Mexico with 339 soldiers, 4 Franciscan priests, 1100 Indians and 1500 head of livestock, and all he got was cactus fruit and a beautiful view. But unlike our visit years ago, I maintained a wary eye and a nervous edginess.

The half-mile Cave Trail climbed 500 feet from the road into a limestone canyon. There deep in a wash ravine was a wild cave, exploring permitted. Six people crawled out as we arrived. "It drops sharply," said a girl with a gun and two clips, open carry allowed. "You need a strong flashlight. I've been down there at least 35 times. It gets belly narrow farther in."

Andy lowered himself. "You won't like it, Sue," he called back up. "It does open up, but it's very steep, and this flashlight isn't enough to see much."

I stayed on top and took pictures instead.
"It will be dark when we get back to Tucson," said Andy, as we pulled out of Fairbank. The dawn-to-dusk ghost town, managed by the Bureau of Land Management, had been a prosperous railroad town in the late 1800's. Here in this classy and thriving place, residents even had clams on the half shell packed on ice and shipped in from the coast. Fairbank had nearly as tough a reputation as nearby Tombstone, but it wasn't tough enough to survive. A renovated schoolhouse stood in the center of what was left of the town, but only ghosts walked the streets of Fairbank.

Only one Border Patrol delayed us on the trip back to Tucson, our only check stop of the day, even though we saw vehicles all over Coronado National Memorial.

"Good evening," greeted the guard, bullet-proof vest and weapons evident. "And how are you doing this fine evening? Are you both U.S. citizens?"

We chorused a yes, and he waved us through.