Butterfield Stage - statistics and account

The Butterfield Stage ran through Arizona in the years between 1858 and 1861, with the help of a $600,000 annual grant from the US Government. The route started in St. Louis and ended in San Fransisco, with stages running twice a week, a distance of 2800 miles, covering the route in 24 days. In three years, the stage was late only three times.

Butterfield employed 2000 people. They had 250 coaches, including the lightweight "Celerity" model that ran better in the desert. Additionally, they had several hundred freight wagons. Butterfield had 1800 horses and mules.

In the three years, Apaches killed 22 drivers.

I don't know what the overall fare was, but on a local coach between Tucson and Tombstone - the Tombstone Express - the fare was $10 for only 100 miles.


Sample distances in eastern AZ:

Steins Pass to San Simon 13 miles
SS to Apache Pass 18
AP to Ewells 15
E to Dragoon Springs 21
DS to San Pedro 25
SP to Cienega 25
C to Tucson 30

Notes: the first three (short distance) involve hills/mountains. The essential fact is that the stations could be only in the scarce places that had water for the stock.

From Pumpelly:

“Having secured the right to a back seat in the overland coach as far as Tucson, I looked forward, with comparatively little dread, to 16 days and nights of continuous travel. But the arrival of a woman and her brother, dashed, at the very early onset, my hopes of an easy journey, and obliged me to take the front seat, where with my back to the horses, I began to foresee the coming discomfort. The coach was fitted with three seats, and these were occupied by nine passengers. As the occupants of the front and middle seats faced each other, it was necessary for these six people to interlock their knees… An unusually heavy mail in the boot, by weighing down the rear, kept in those of us who were on the front seat constantly bent forward… rendering rest at all times out of the question.”
“The fatigue of uninterrupted traveling by day and night in a crowded coach, and in the most uncomfortable positions, was beginning to tell seriously upon all the passengers, and was producing a condition bordering on insanity. This was increased by the constant anxiety caused by the danger from Comanches.”
“We frequently traveled at great speed with only half broken teams. At several stations, six wild horses were hitched blindfolded into their places. When everything was ready, the blinds were removed at a signal from the driver, and the animals started off at a runaway speed, which they kept up without slackening till the next station, generally 12 miles distant. In these cases the driver had no further control over his animals then the ability to guide them; to stop, or even to check them, was entirely beyond his power.”

In the former county courthouse(now museum) in Tombstone, I noted down the LAST WORDS of the members of the Heath Gang, who were hanged on December 9, 1883.

Heath, himself: "I'm not afraid of this. I've been close to death before."

Next guy: Asked what he had to say for himself - ""Nothing. I guess I deserved it."

Dowd: "Since I'm a cowpuncher, I'd have to say a bull broke my neck."

Bill Delaney: "This is the damnedest choking machine I ever saw."

Kelly: "Let 'er go, Gallagher."

My wife Pam and I are back in Arizona for a week, in the same Dragoon Mountain area.

Before I left home, I happened to check the internet ship traffic site for the Strait near where we live. The first ship icon I selected was the ocean tug named "Cochise", of all things. Put your consciousness on some subject, and you can't get away from it. I have been explaining to people that I go off into Apacheria. Apacheria was the term for the time and place of the Apaches, ending with the surrender of Geronimo. The place roughly exists today, but clearly it is short on Apaches. The real Apacheria exists partly in place, but is largely a "virtual" realm, as all history. I am spending another week here, in and out of Apacheria.

Today we drove through Middlemarch Pass and south around the bottom of the Dragoons, which means I now have been all the way around. On the east side, after the Pass, and a bunch of miles on red dirt roads, we came to Pearce. Pearce is described as a ghost town, one of many mining villages that have faded. It still exists on the map and as a crossroads with a few occupied structures, and a former post office. Going south on another dirt road I figured this was probably the most miles I would drive in Arizona without seeing a motorhome. Come to think of it, we went most of the way without passing a car. This area is not a big draw for tourists. In bright sun we drove for miles through mesquite covered desert, occasionally seeing old mine diggings. We passed two more ghost towns which still showed adobe walls and foundations.

After a total of about 80 miles, we came west to Tombstone, which put us square back in Touristland. Back in the late 1800's, there was a time when Tombstone's population of 15,000 surpassed Tucson's. Today its population is swelled each day by visitors who want to see something of the cowboy and mining era. We had to go through it on our way back, plus we wanted to visit the old courthouse, now a State Parks museum. The courthouse was excellent, and my favorite thing was the account of a witness of the execution in December 1883 of the Heath Gang, who had robbed a store and killed a few folks.

In particular it was the last words part of the account that I liked. Heath, the leader said, "I'm not afraid of death. I've been close to death before"

The next bandit, when asked, "What have you to say?" replied, "Nothing. I guess deserved it.

Bandit Dowd said "Since I'm a cowpuncher, I'd have to say a bull broke my neck."

Bill Delaney: "This is the damndest choking machine I ever saw."

Bandit Kelly: "Let 'er go, Gallagher."

Apache photos by C S Fry in 1886

Naiche and wife. Naiche was Chiricahua chief. Geronimo was war leader, but second to Naiche. Naiche was second son of Cochise.

Geronimo and Naiche, March 1886.

Tsisnah, son of Geronimo on right.

Style mattered to them!

Geronimo and his warriors. Naiche on horse.

Geronimo at 1st surrender in March 1886. He and a number (including Naiche) fled as they expected the Army was going to execute them. They surrendered a final time in September 1886.

Sorry for consusion of pictures. This is Picture B
In last post if you follow the pictures bottom to top, they will be in the right order. I will try to improve it.

Stronghold hidden behind here.

February 5


Dragoons at twilight.

I write tonight from Norco CA. I started home yesterday, spending last night in Apache Junction with a number of Washington friends who winter there.

I had carefully driven the route around the Dragoons in my truck, and had selected and gotten acceptance of two places to spend the night with horses, then returned with hay to the second one. I also got permission to leave my truck and trailer at the ranch near the West Stronghold. I closely inspected every cattle guard on the trail to be sure they had passage gates next to them.

This was way more involved than my cross country horse venture from years back. In that , however, I was on paved roads. It was simpler.

My start was at the site of the original Dragoon Ranch house, which is owned by the couple who developed the ranch 15 years ago. On the ranch they have an impressive program of breeding Spanish Barb horses, the horses that were brought to the New World early on by the Spaniards.

His wife had informed me earlier that Jerry Dixon was well-read in Apache history, so I opened that topic with him as I brushed bucket loads of early shedding hair off of my horses. We had as intense a conversation about Apache historians as one can have while at the same time harnessing horses. I wished we had had more time. I learned that Jerry is friends with the man who is probably the leading writer on Apaches today, Edwin Sweeney.

I was soon on my way through the ranch gate, headed south in bright sunlight. Fortunately the day was cool. With delays in the morning, I hadn’t been able to start until one o’clock.

(Picture A)

A friend of the Dixons, Kristin Wister rode with me. This was fortunate, as she brought a fancy Nikon and took pictures as we went along, including ones from the ground, the kind I can’t take. Most every picture I take has horse butts in it. In a couple of miles, Jerry arrived to take Kristin back.

(Picture B)

This first section, from the ranch, south along the mountain, close in, was a special treat. The Dragoons are notable for much variation, with a combination of volcanic and uplift mountain. The volcanic rock is in great rounded shapes. Some of the rocks lightly balanced on other round rocks or columns. One hill merges into another, making hiding opportunities everywhere, if you were an Apache, pursued by cavalry. I frequently imagined Apaches behind the rocks or the short mesquite trees. If Apaches were there or not, whether me or an army rider in 1870, it looked the same. The Apaches were known for their ability to disappear in their environment.

(Picture C)

I learned a day later that when Coronado came through this area, he referred to it as the “Displobado”, a land “unpeopled”. There were in fact Apaches here then, but were unseen by him. Apache history, such as it is, did not present evidence that Apaches had seen him either.

Before long I came to my first cattle guard. A cattle guard is a construction placed in the road where the road goes through a fence. They are usually steel bars crosswise to the road, close enough that a car can drive over, but spaced to a horse or cow foot would fall between. Animals have been known to break legs in them, but mostly I guess they work pretty well. My horses are unfamiliar with them, so I am extremely careful around them.

(Picture D)

My first cattle guard had a hinged metal gate. I drove the horses right up to it, close, where I attempted to open it with one hand while holding the horses’ reins next to their bits in the other. Having a second person was the obvious solution, but that wasn’t going to happen this trip. Once open, I drove the horses through, then got down to close. I made a key good choice for this procedure by bringing my four-in-hand leader horse reins instead of my normal pair lines. The leader lines were eight feet or more longer, and I could hold them from behind my wagon, looped over my arm as I wrestled with the gate.

The trail, which is part State Park road and part Forest Service, wound along next to the mountain. The surface was tan dust. There were pot holes, but the road was generally in good condition, and a delight to drive on. The surface was dusty.

I was very conscious of the horses’ temperatures, as they still had substantial winter coats. Even a brief trot warmed them up quickly, so we mostly walked. The air temperature was 60-65 degrees, which helped, and humidity was almost non-existent.

At the bottom of the first leg, I came to Middlemarch Road, which crosses the mountains. I am told it is called Middlemarch because the pass was about half way from Fort Huachuca to Fort Bowie, to the east. Both forts existed for management of the Apaches.

At Middlemarch I encountered my third cattle guard. This one had a faulty latch. With one hand I held the horses, and with the other I banged with a rock on the latch till it came free. The next step was to get on the wagon and drive through. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to relatch the gate, but just as I closed it, a truck drove up, so I asked the driver to help close the gate for me.

Closing the gates was essential, as there could be wandering cattle grazing the area. Not closing a gate securely would be considered a significant offense. My strategy, if unable to secure a fence, would be to tie it shut with hay twine. Fortunately I did not have to.

The climb up Middlemarch was not steep, but it was constant and long. As we rose, the pass took us between mountains, among mountains. Cattle guards appeared every so often, with wire passage gates. None were difficult to refasten. The worst was one that had standing Angus cattle nearby. The horses were anxious about the cattle, but kindly stood while I opened it. On the far side, I was slow to close the gate and as I struggled with it, the cattle glided closer on the far side, curious about events in their domain. My horses turned their heads, each to the outside, but they didn’t try to leave. I finished and we drove on, thanking them for their cooperation.

I have discovered these mountains have a lot of fans. Even people who have lived in the area all their lives have expressed fresh wonder. Dragoon Mountain admirers are a small subculture, or maybe even a large one. The West Stronghold was Cochise’s favorite place to return to, and he was buried somewhere in these mountains. The exact location was kept secret. His horse was buried with him.

With these mountains being Cochise’s resting place, and given that the government treaty with Cochise gave this territory to his people as a reservation, then took it away when best I figure they were in the way of silver mining (the Apaches referred to silver as “white iron”, and apparently had little interest in it), it would be an appropriate act of contrition on the part of the government to name these mountains for Cochise, rather than some sort of foreign soldier. Whether the Chiricahuas would welcome that renaming, I couldn’t guess, but the offer could be made.

(Picture E)

Going up the hill, I kept close attention to the boys’ heat. Reaching forward, I could put my hand on Solven’s butt and could tell when he was getting hot. We would pause from time to time for the horses to cool. I tried to keep moving as much as possible because I didn’t want to finish up after dark, and at this point the shadows were long.

Watching the light on the rocks of the hillside, the term “play of light” came to mind. Thinking back to my conversation with my philosopher, where perspective is changed by adding a new dimension, similarly perspective is changed by change of light, or more poetically, by the play of light. Late in the day, in particular, the light made the rocks their most dramatic.

Finally, at the top, we reached the grandest view of all. The road curved around to the left, along the top edge, Beyond the edge the land fell away steeply. Below was what in New England is a called a “gulf” - a large hollowing of the mountain, a half bowl, opening to the plain below. Step over the edge of the road and you could tumble down the side for hundreds of feet. Now, in the late afternoon, the distant plain was colored crosswise in strips of light and dark, Arizona colors of tan and yellow and shadow. The Chiracahua Mountains showed faintly in the far distance. The view took my breath away when I first saw it.

(Picture F)

The dirt road went across the top and then wound its way down in switchbacks. The boys, going downhill in the evening shade, cooled quickly. After several more cattle guards, we came out at the bottom, leaving the Forest Service land with a final cattle guard.

February 14

A few hundred yards further, I entered the ranch where I would stay the night. I had reached these people by phone a few days earlier. As they had no idea who I was, their first reaction was cautious, but with a reference from my host, who was their veterinarian, they gave me full welcome, and additionally contacted their friend, at the foot of Cochise Stronghold, who would let me bring the horses to his place the following night.

Barbara, I learned, was a veteran of riding in endurance and competitive trail events. I went through a phase in my horse competition when I did competitive drives, the driven version of the event. Also I had done lots of scribing for endurance veterinarians, and had lots of special friends in the endurance world. Having this common background we were immediately connected, and the whole visit flowed smoothly. My horses ate hay I had carried, in a pen next to Barbara’s four horses.

I was prepared to sleep on the ground in my sleeping bag, but on this chilly evening which would go to frost, I took the indoor option.

In the morning Barbara pointed my eyes to the red brightening of the dawn on the mountain slope behind their pasture. The day began bright and cool.

By nine my horses were harnessed and hooked to my wagon, and I started down the road, east towards Pierce Arizona. As soon as I could, I turned left back towards the mountains. My choice would have been to drive Cochise Stronghold Road, which edges the mountain, but from my scouting I knew this road, though continuous, was blocked by several ranches it crossed. I stayed a little further out. The roads were graded and level, making easy driving. We trotted part of the way, stopping for a few more cattle guards.

One passage gate was challenging to stretch enough to close. I man arrived in a state truck. I asked if he could help me. He said he was limited with a broken arm, so I had him hold the horses’ reins while I strained on the fence. He was close enough that I could have assisted him.

He told me he was a guard for a crew of inmates who were cutting brush on the road. Further down the road I saw a van full of them. By the look of them and their driver, we were the most interesting thing that had passed that morning.


Same as the other side, I watched the mountain, imagining Apache lives. This side appeared less variegated, but I learned my impression was wrong. Although seeming like a mountain without openings, it hid the remarkable Cochise Stronghold, where Cochise’s band camped from the 1840’s to 1870’s.

In early afternoon I arrived at the ranch just east of the Stronghold, which lies on hilly land which becomes plain. Although I was staying near the gate, I drove the horses up the road to the ranch house, to meet my host.

I did not know what to make of this ranch. The entrance was carefully groomed, and there was no evidence of grazing animals. Unlike ranches nearby, the grass was long enough to have seed heads. The ranch looked like it might the fancy rural home of some rich urban guy.

I am used to my first impressions being wrong. I get lots of examples. Doug, my host, came from a ranching family in Colorado. I believe I heard he owned other acreage that supported cattle, but he had decided not to graze this ranch. Soon after moving there he realized the archeological importance of this place. For something like a millennium, the Hohokam people lived on the ranch, followed in the 1400’s by the Apaches, who had migrated south from western Canada. Doug had been working with the archeologist of the Amerind Foundation in Dragoon to come up with a plan for studying sites on the ranch.

After Doug helped me settle the horses in his corral, he took me to an area a few hundred yards away where we quickly found numbers of pottery shards on the ground surface. Numbers of them were glazed, with patterns. I found sharp stone bits that would have been the waste from making arrow or spear points. In one place he showed me a built up mound, with lots of rock. Likely a wikiup structure would have been there. He said the rock was certainly transported from the mountain, as there was none in the soil.

When we returned to the corral, we saw the first black twin-propped Air Force plane come roaring low and fast through the Stronghold valley. Doug said he believed they were practicing for Afganistan. I saw several more that evening and a few in the morning. Doug, a pilot himself, said they were flying illegally low.

The Air Force again reminded me of the parallel of Afganistan and the Apaches. Hiding in the mountains was easier in the 1880’s, but here again the US military was haplessly fighting a dedicated local population in their home territory, similarly a successor to previous failure. With the Apaches, we followed the failures of the Mexicans. In Afganistans, the Russians and British. The Air Force returned here to a site of the previous conflict, but flew by too quickly to learn any lessons.

Back at the corral, Doug offered me the use of the apartment in his barn, where I could sleep. After showing me the route I could walk in the morning to meet up with him so he could guide me to the trail in to the Stronghold, he left, and I had the evening to myself. I spent it reading his book which was the telling of the story of Cochise’s grandson, who avoided the Army roundup of Apaches when they were shipped to Florida, who went with a small band into Mexico to live in a hidden stronghold in the northern Sierra Madres. I appreciated the apartment heat for the evening, but decided that the opportunity to sleep outside in the area of the Cochise Stronghold was too good to pass up. Getting the feel of the place mattered to me, despite Doug telling me about the mountain lion breeding pair that lived nearby, and also the large stuffed cat in Doug’s barn.

My solution was to sleep inside the horse corral, to reverse my role with the horses from protecting them, to them protecting me in my sleep. I layed down my Thermorest pad and got into my sleeping bag. Brisk came over to wonder what kind of crazy thing I was doing. The judgment was my interpretation, as Brisk approaches everything with pure curiosity. He put his nose down near my face. The view of a horse from underneath was comical and a bit bizarre. From the ground, he had this amazing long, long nose, and gangly legs that looked like awkward support for his big body. He looked at me and thought at length, then went back to his hay.

(Picture G)
If the cats were near in the night, catlike they would not have let me know till their claws were on me. With the coyotes, different story. Just before sleeping I began to hear them, first on one side then the other, calling and answering. They became much louder, till I was hearing them on all four sides. To the south I heard triumphant shouting that could have been a celebration of rabbit blood. The sounds became more distant and I fell asleep.

I believe the night sounds of the coyote were part of the life of the Hohokam and Apaches. The history books cannot communicate this.

(Picture H)

In the morning I fed the horses before dawn, and when I could see, I began the walk to join Doug. As we walked, we talked more about the Apaches. Doug said they typically would stay in an area about three weeks, then move to find fresh provision. There might be three or four hundred people in camp, which meant need for lots of food.

Doug showed me a rock near his house that had holes used for grinding grain or pinon nut.

(Picture I)

I asked Doug his opinion whether the Apaches used horses. He was certain that they used them extensively. Despite this, my own guess is that they both made some use of horses and also traveled lots on foot. From my own experience, horses needed lots of feed and water. Horses for everyone would have been a huge burden. I know the Apaches above all, were adaptable, so when it was convenient, such as following a raid, they would have used horses to herd horses. I would not think of them as a horse culture. I noted at the pow wow that in the varieties of Apache decoration and jewelry, horsehair as a material was totally absent.

(Picture J) Cochise Stronghold hides behind this view.

Doug said that probably even before the Spanish arrived, the Apaches were a raiding culture. Once they moved into the area, other tribes were absent. Something Doug said affected my thinking. He said the Chiricahua were efficient as raiders. They didn’t waste effort. They worked to perfect raiding. They were specialists.

Before 1840, the Chiricahua were living in Mexico and raiding there. The Spanish restrained them by attempting to put them on welfare, providing them life support if they stayed put and didn’t raid. This partly worked, except that the Apaches may not have understood white peoples’ agreements. When it said not to raid, they may have thought it applied to this group of people but not to that group. I picture the Spanish army being short-staffed with cultural advisors. Nonetheless, the system sort of worked. When the Spanish army more relied on Mexican resources, in 1840, the welfare ended, and the Mexicans opted for extermination. Geronimo, in particular, suffered from the Mexican attacks, having his first wife and children murdered by them. He claimed to a special hatred of Mexicans from that date and resolved to kill as many as possible in revenge.

By this time, and with the arrival of more settlers and miners, hunting was less productive, and the Chiricahuas relied more on provisioning by raiding.

With Doug’s guidance I came to the edge of his land, where a trail to the Stronghold continued up the mountain. I was entering not via the valley, but over the first ridge. The early morning sunlight highlighted the varied rock formations above me. Shortly after leaving Doug, I turned to see if I could spot him. We were both invisible to each other. The rocks and brush on the hillsides gave us cover.

When stopping to catch my breath, I thrilled on the huge silence that weighed on all the empty air between me and the distant Chiricahua Mountains. I heard only the occasional real-life twitter of a bird. But mostly silence.

On high ground I could see higher peaks of the Dragoons. Doug said if you climbed up there, you would find low rock walls the Apaches built. They could lie behind the rocks and watch progress of soldiers from Fort Bowie or Fort Huachuca.

As I went down the trail towards the Stronghold, I thought about hunting. Hunting, done efficiently as they would have, probably meant watching the trails that went to water. On the west slope, a stream flowed to the bottom.

I followed the road a couple of miles further into the Stronghold. Along the way I saw areas of frost still in the shade.

The Cochise Trail, which connects East and West Strongholds, rises from the end of the valley along a deep fast flowing creek. I am told even this creek goes dry in late summer, but springs remain. I tasted the water. I was drinking the water the Apaches drank. I was putting my feet on the trail where their feet walked.

I was concluding that Apache life was not as hard as I had imagined from Washington state. They weren’t foolish - they didn’t live in the desert. They traveled in it, they hunted in it, but they lived where the living was kinder, and where more wildlife existed. They knew their land well.

The first part of the trail was moist and green, nothing like desert. As I went higher, the trail became dryer. I was grateful that my legs were holding up. At Geronimo’s first surrender in 1886, Capt John Bourke wrote about the physical condition of the Apaches: “…every muscle was perfect in development and hard as adamant [diamond], and one of the young men…was as finely muscled as a Greek statue.” Lieutenant Wesley Shipp added, “No wonder our soldiers could not catch people like those. If our little army of 25,000 were composed of such men …it would be unconquerable by the best army now existing in Europe.” If I had spent a lifetime walking these trails, I would have a different sort of leg under me.

(Picture K)

(Picture L)

Volcanic rock formations along the trail had formed in fantastic shapes. Many had the green glow I had seen on the western side. An informational display at the Stronghold said the green is lichen growth, and that lichen is actually made of two plants: fungi and algae. The rocks I was seeing must have had Apache names. They looked like spirits would reside in them. I have no doubt these mountains were fully alive in the Apache mind. My own cultural background only gives me a glimpse of that relationship.

Along the trail on the east side I met some American Conservation Experience volunteers, who were digging water bars to protect the trail from erosion. I learned that ACE was attractive to many Europeans, who come to the US to volunteer. They told me their crew was all American, as only Americans are allowed to assist on federal lands. Foreigners work in state or local parks only. This must have been the Patriot Act at work.

I was happy to get to the western slope, to be striding downhill, as my uphill muscles were tiring. Going up or down, I thought about the issue of army troops following Apaches into the hills. Not only do the rock and flora give cover, but I realized that when you go up or down a rocky trail, your eyes are constantly on the ground. You are not looking for “hostiles”, and would be easy prey.

On the way down, the trail wound back and forth to ease the steepness of descent. Here the slopes were more vertical than the east side. Below and across the valley a waterfall came out of the rocks. At the bottom, in the West Stronghold, the ground flattened and a substantial creek ran down the middle. A state campground was at the head of the valley, in just the place everyone at any time would have wanted to camp.

I still had a walk of a few miles to get back to the ranch where my truck and trailer were. The day was warming and I was definitely tired now. The further out the Stronghold, the drier the land. Eventually the creek just disappeared into streambed gravel. Back at the truck, I guarantee I was happy to sit down for a little while, before driving around the top of the Dragoons to retrieve my horses.

In these three days in the end of January 2010 I found the completion to my venture into Arizona to learn about the Apache. My description does scant justice to the excitement I felt to be close to these mountains, to be in these mountains, to be close to the history of the people here. I was trying to learn about the people who were in such long conflict with the intruders to their land, to learn about them in my bones. When I finished crossing the mountains, somehow I was done. Something really changed. My sense of quest was gone for the moment. It was time to go home and let it all sink in, and do further study from books.

February 4

I learned from my host that Baxter Black lives in the Benson area. Also yesterday I visited the rather famous Singing Winds Bookstore. The store, with no sign is at the end of a dirt road a few miles out of town, in a ranch (real ranch that is) house. On the wall was an article from a few years back from the Wall Street Journal noticing this quaint business. Amazingly they have about 18,000 titles - a real bookstore. I went because they are known to have one of the best assortments of books about Apaches. They don’t take credit cards. They are notably well informed and very friendly. And they are on the same road as the Dead Dog Ranch.

I guess these things balance out, and maybe Benson is an okay place.

February 4

The other shoe: My drive around and through the Dragoons was a great success. More to follow.

January 30
This morning, after a day with my horse on Bute, and another day of rest (today), we decided he is fully fit to travel. This morning he had no signs of lameness. I have the great benefit that my host is a veterinarian, so we can consider this an informed decision.

I have officially declared that she, my host, is the angel of this venture. When she learned I wanted to drive my horses around this area, she said I could bring the horses to her place, and I have based here. I had vaguely wanted to drive in this plain between the mountains, and this has evolved into the trip I have planned to start tomorrow. The mountains themselves are the important part, more than the plain, and this trip is two days across them and in their shadows. I am not exaggerating when I say these low mountains are one of the most beautiful spots on earth. Each time so far that I have driven in my truck next to them I have been in awe. Going slowly by horse will be all the finer.

Having visited Cochise Stronghold a couple of days ago, I can see how the mountains were so important to the Apaches, that most of their life would have been in the mountains. The mountains had the water and the richest vegetation, and other advantages. The lowland plains mostly are desert, and in the time of conflict, the Apaches were vulnerable there if seen. If as I am told, the Apaches traveled mostly on foot, the Army would have had some advantage of speed on horses. But in the mountains, the advantage was to the person afoot. From the mountains, the Apaches could see the Army approaching from much distance. If the Army was approaching one side of the mountain, the Apaches could flee from the opposite side.

This morning I went to look at Apache images. In Tombstone, 20 miles south of here, at the OK Corral (in its original location, a museum) is a display of photographs of C. S. Fly. Fly took almost all of the well known pictures of the Chiracahuas, including those of Geronimo. At a later date I will copy some of them here.

The contrast of the Apache pictures with the presentation of cowboy and mining history of Tombstone made the settlers look coarse, corrupt and immoral. One of the presentations was of the prostitutes of the town. I don’t remember the number but can safely say "plentiful". In the display were certificates issued to women by the town, authorizing their trade. The description of their line of work was “ill fame”. Prostitution continued in Arizona until WWI.

Some of the white folks in this area still fail to impress. I took a wrong turn up someone’s drive yesterday near Benson. It was a trailer house with junk cars and garbage all over, and a junkyard dog that approached my truck. I stayed in the truck and turned to leave. Along the drive, I looked down to see a small recently dead dog lying there. On one of the cars was a bumper sticker, “Proud to be a Republican”. I didn’t see much reason for them to be proud of anything, but what do I know?

I am told that Charles Manson declared Benson to be a special place, something like the center of evil. Used to be there was a Route 666 near here, presumably some indication of the devil, but too many people were stealing route signs, so Arizona change the number.

Maybe the area was in better hands with the Apaches.

January 28
This was a day of ups and downs.

I started the day talking to woman on a ranch close by the Dragoons who knows a lot of the Apache history locally. She told me that the historic agreement between General Howard and Cochise happened only about 100 yards from where we talking, in her kitchen. She mentioned that Coronado, on his way through Arizona passed through this valley in the late 1600’s. Coronado, when crossing the Dragoons, said they were “sierra[s] muy penascosa”, very rugged mountains. She told me that the Apaches did not much use horses. The mostly walked or ran, which of course was an advantage when they wanted to disappear. They stole horses from ranchers and miners, but those horses were brought home as food. Having seen the picture of Geronimo and Naiche on horseback, I can believe that they found horses useful at some point. I have heard accounts of the Apaches running horses to death in an escape.

This woman told me I would not be able to complete my drive around the Dragoons, as the road on the northwest corner is on private land and unavailable. I drove up that way to check it out, and found that in any case the road crosses a couple of cattle guards where there are no passage gates next to. I consider that a capital crime, but there was no one to tell. EVERY cattle guard has to have a gate next to it.

I left that area and went to the east side, going into the Cochise Stronghold. This is an area where Cochise would retreat to, a favorite living place of Cochise’s people. It was easy to see why. It is what is in New England is known as a gulf, a hollow place in the side of a mountain. From a distance the stronghold would be hidden. The road winds up into the interior valley, crossing flowing water numbers of time. The trees and ground vegetation was the greenest I have seen anywhere in this area. The trees were double size.

Above the green, the cliffs were varieties of shapes and colors. The Apaches found one of the finest places on earth, a place with flowing water in a dry land.

In speaking to someone today about my project of seeing the Apache land as key to who they were and how they lived, I said how the land is the same, and as an afterthought, it is the same as seeing the land when the Apaches were there, because they would have been invisible if they wanted.

I could have spent a day in the Stronghold, but I had to pay attention to the time. I drove out to where the Forest Service road goes to the north along the hills. After a couple of miles I started to wonder if I should turn back. The road was borderline passable for a pickup truck. I was going over grapefruit sized rocks and then a few washes that were wet from last night’s rain. In one place despite four wheel drive, I could not go forward. Fortunately I was able to back up and detour. The road was only 8 miles, but it took a long time. I think I aged my truck 5 years. After those first two miles I decided I had no interest in driving the horses on this road. I came up with a new plan, which was to camp the night just outside the Stronghold, and then the next day to walk from the East Stronghold, which is where I was, to the West Stronghold, which happens to be next to the ranch where I will start. My truck and trailer will be there. I will walk back to them, and then bring the trailer to the horses. Not a full drive around the Dragoons, but at least a good part of it. And I have now driven the truck the whole way. No need to get steamed up about those few impassable .cattleguards at the north end of the mountains.

All of this seemed fine until I got home and discovered one of my horses limping heavily on one front leg. He has been in a safe paddock, with only his mate. The best I can figure is that he slipped in mud. My hope was to start Saturday - two days from now. That is now uncertain

January 27
Today I moved on from Silver City to return to the Dragoon Mountains. In the week I was away I decided these mountains are about my favorite anywhere, and I got the idea to do a circumnavigation, or less nautically, a drive-around. I estimate the distance to be about 50 miles. The drive will give me the chance to be next to these hills for three days and nights, and admire them in all lights. Most of the local advice I got was negative, with lots of reasons why I couldn’t do it. I don’t mean it to sound arrogant, but my experience is that this is the normal precedent of most of what you do in life when you think up something. I decided to see how far I could get with the plan before total defeat. This afternoon I drove my truck over half the route, till I ran out of daylight. So far the road surfaces look adequate, and - critically important - each cattle guard has a gate beside it. Best of all in the course of my exploration I met a succession of delightful people, who have responded with enthusiasm. I have located a first night’s accommodation for the horses, at just the right place and distance. Stopping to ask some local trail information I met Eve, the owner of the Grapevine Ranch, a guest ranch, and learned that she had ridden the same route I had in mind. She invited us to stop in for lunch when I come by with horses.

The mountain views along my way would have been reward enough today. It is nature's masterpiece in rock! Pictures to follow.

I hadn’t intended to write about this venture until it was a sure thing, but this process of putting it together feels worth telling. So far the obstacles are tumbling like dominoes. The kindness and interest of the people I am meeting makes me feel welcomed to these hills. There is still lots to do, lots of details to be solved, but I am encouraged. I'm back on the road again in the truck tomorrow.

We took in more Pow Wow this afternoon.

The young singer of the Apache group today had his New York hat on straight. I jump to the conclusion that this is an act of respect.

In late afternoon the MC announced the score of whichever big football game that was playing somewhere. I couldn't picture that happening at the ballet.

A man in a camouflage suit and Army boots had an Army beret with an eagle feather in it. He was carrying his you child.

The drums pound out heartbeat.

January 24
Where my horses are is within a few hundred feet of the Continental Divide. South of Silver City, the Rockies taper down to an end. I had wondered if this was the official end of the Rockies, but apparently the accepted belief is that the end is somewhere further north in NM, with a gap between there and here. This, then, is the second end.

Friday night, in mid bizzard, we went to the Red Paint Pow Wow and again yesterday. This event is undoubtedly important in my understanding of the 19th Century Chiracahuas, but I am overwhelmed with impressions. It is easier seeing patterns in history than present. It is like using Google Maps, where you start with large scale and zoom in. Zoomed in, I am in a large room bordered with vendors of jewelry of bead and stone, with lots of people milling around. Half have darker skin. Gradually organization emerges, and singing and dancing begins. Dancers wear elaborate colorful beautiful costumes. Men have headwear with swaying porcupine quill manes, or feathers. Some have large splaying feathers like the stereotypical headdress, one from the back of the head and a second suspended behind, at hip level. There is a general pattern to the outfits, but great personal variation in colorful decoration. We are present at a huge celebration of life and tribal life, and of tradition.
I am trying to see the historical Chiricahuas in this, which is confusing. Most of the participants are Apaches, a category which includes even the Navajoes, who are represented. A smaller number are Chiricahuas, but of course it is usually not clear to us who is who.
Many things go through my mind. How are modern day Chiricahuas related to the Apaches who so successfully fought the Army, other than by kinship? Who are they in their current lives? How do they see themselves, and others?
A Chiricahua father, son and nephew sing for us. The father takes time to review and honor the lives of the Cochise era Apaches, and tells us he is a great grandson, or great-great, of the great leader. He is in the present a holder of the traditional songs. His voice when he first speaks, startles us with its strength and directness, and when he sings it is powerful. There is urgency to his presentation: essential to tell the story and sing the songs with clarity and passion, to get it right.
One of the two younger men, of the three, has a hat that says in large letters on the side: "NEW YORK". The brim is sideways and both he and the other wear baggy gansta pants and shapeless sweatshirts. Their clothes speak rebellion from tradition, but they know the songs and are there singing.
Among the tribes here, the Chiricahua have the most impressive resume, at least the one that made headlines 150 years ago, the ones that movies were made of. It is a history of glorious accomplishment in warfare. But within that heritage things are complicated. Even among the Chiricahua, there was division in the time of Geronimo, with many of the tribe feeling that his actions would bring total destruction of the tribe. He was seen by some as a cause of their 27 year imprisonment. Some of the tribe was employed by the Army, working for the defeat of Geronimo. How was all of this resolved over the years? In the present, I get the impression that the Chiricahua carefully guard membership in the tribe. I had a fascinating conversation with a woman whose grandparents were Chiricahua who escaped the gathering of Apaches for the train trip to prison. Her people lived north of here in Winston, in freedom. The ancestors of this group are now trying to gain federal recognition, not for benefits or land, but just for their own identity. She said the Chiricahua have been very secretive about ancestral records, not helpful at all. Records of Catholic baptisms have supported her case.

In the present, however, there is dancing, singing and camaraderie. Here in a plain large hall in a building outgrown by WalMart, now a county convention center, Indian traditions are stirring. My mind sees the man in front of me, in high moccasins and leggings, running across land I recently drove with my horses, heading for cover in the Dragoon hills. The boldness of his dance costume can inspire both admiration and fear. If I dressed in such things I would probably look silly. There was absolutely nothing silly about him.

The event is an environment of of honoring and tolerance. Armed Forces veterans were honored, making clear that warring in the service of the USA was highly regarded. Older members of the audience were honored with gifts - along with a number of others, our host here, Harriet, a clear non-Indian, was given a basket of food and candy. The confidence of these people allow and welcome our presence, rather than being threated by it.

Several very small children are dancing in the center. They are miniaturized versions of their elders, with equally elaborate outfits. They are followed by adolescents, boys and girls separately, doing fancy dance. The dance of the teens is especially impressive, with their youthful athleticism.

The dance and singing will go on all day and into the night. I come to a point where I can't watch anymore and it is time to leave.

I don't know what to make of it all, but I am deeply honored to be allowed to watch - more than that,even. Welcomed.
Part of my confusion, I think, is that I have been put in my place. This people and this history is beyond my understanding and explanation. My own role is shrunken. I am a participant, a very small part, not privy to the larger picture. I am content. I am happy. My role is experience.

January 21
How could I have known? We have had a day of snow and more tonight. I am glad to have not clipped my horses' winter fur.

Today is the start of the Red Paint Pow Wow here in Silver City. The timing of this was perfect, as we could see before I left home. My wife Pam has joined me here for the week.

We just sampled the Pow Wow this afternoon, looking over the numerous vendors of jewelry. Tonight there is a special event of singing and dancing by Yaquis, Chiracahua Apache, Navajo and San Carlos Apache. Other tribes, some from great distance, will perform over the weekend.

I found it notable that the program asked for respect for the US flag. The official policy is a patriotic attitude towards the US. My own read imagining the position of the Chiracahuas, is that they have nothing to prove, and complaints about the government and history are too small a response for a history of misdeeds on the part of white folks, and the government. These are not people for trifles.

Silver City gives a strong clue in its name. This is a mining area even to the present. Copper is the product now, but some traces of gold and silver show up in the mining. The town was founded in 1870. Here is some history from Wikipedia:
The founding of the town occurred shortly after the discovery of silver ore deposits at Chloride Flats, on the hill just west of the farm of Captain John M. Bullard and his brother James. Following the silver strike, Captain Bullard laid out the streets of the Silver City, and a bustling tent city quickly sprang to life. Although the trajectory of Silver City's development was to be different from the hundreds of other mining boom towns established during the same period, Captain Bullard himself never lived to see even the beginnings of permanence, as he was killed in a confrontation with Apache raiders less than a year later, on February 23, 1871.

The town's violent crime rate was substantial during the 1870s, Grant County Sheriff Harvey Whitehill was elected in 1874, and gained a sizable reputation for his abilities at controlling trouble. In 1875, Whitehill became the first lawman to arrest Billy the Kid, known at the time as William Bonney. Whitehill arrested him twice, both times for theft in Silver City, and would later claim that Bonney was a likeable kid, whose stealing was a result more of necessity than criminality.

Me again: This was a town in the midst of Apache territory. In the 1870's and 80's, all in this town would be familiar with death by Apache. Of course, the history of the town indicates that the miners and townspeople were pretty good at killing each other, too.

January 20

Before I began this trip, I consulted with my philosopher. Just the notion of it pleased me. Yes, it is probably a good idea for a traveler to spent a little time in contemplation of purpose and concerns. Surely a journey is a deeper experience with a small effort to bring these things to consciousness. Plus, a good philosopher, which he is, will add depth.

Cris is concerned with how we see and understand things. He makes the point that when you add a dimension, in effect your perspective changes. If you have two dimensions and go to three, for example, what appears to be a dividing barrier in two dimensions, may only be a line on the surface, seen from a third dimension. Add time, and you might have a “wisdom” to see that the condition of a moment that could lead you to despair may evolve to something better. You gain that time-aided perspective. Cris, who inspires me with his humane views, trusts that this is good news for resolution of human conflict.

I had concerns about writing a blog. How can you properly tell a story from inside, when you don’t know outcomes? Might I just lead my patient readers down blind canyons? It is an act of faith to try anyway.

Yesterday, on my route to Silver City, I stopped at the Amerind Foundation museum in Dragoon, in Texas Pass, near the top of the Dragoon Mountains. Interstate 10 goes through the Pass. Many people had spoken highly of Amerind.

The Museum houses many artifacts of local archeology, plus items bought from elsewhere that had come from this area. The exhibits go back more than a couple of millennia, however my interest, as ever, was Chiracahua Apaches. In the room devoted to them, I saw beautiful beaded shirts that displayed an attention to fine detail and design. Knee length mocassins were crafted skillfully, and I could picture them worn in a 12 hour run across desert, returning from a raid, pursued by cavalry. Those runs, while more strenuous than travel by horse, gave the Apache the ability to disappear up near invisible mountain trails where horses couldn’t follow. Those moccasins had to be very well made. I saw a bow and arrows that Geronimo himself had made (in captivity. He sold such things to whoever would pay), and signed. That sent a chill of excitement through me to be so close to something his hand had touched.

In the same room a video was playing continuously the WBGH Public Television film “Geronimo and the Apache Resistance”. I had seen the tail end of it on TV recently, but not the beginning. The film is comprised of interviews of grandchildren of the Chiracahua survivors. Until recently, the descendants were reluctant to talk, because of cultural strictures concerning talking about the dead. In this film, however, the people strive to give a clearer image of the era of warfare, from the point of view of the Apaches. “Quietly and affectingly told” the New York Times aptly said.

The film gives a picture of a people struggling from the invasion of their land, and then the efforts of the invaders to kill them. Under these pressures, the Chiracahua changed from hunting and gathering to some of that but also a reliance on raiding. Settlers and miners came equipped with food, horses, cattle and weapons, and were easy targets for the Apaches, who had the advantages of acclimation to a hard land, and a thorough knowledge of its terrain. They became specialists in raid-and-disappear. The film documents the attempts of a people to survive. At times even Geronimo tried reservation life - at the dry and barren San Carlos Reservation. The Apache tried to rely on the integrity of the US Army, yet time and time again found the Army used deadly deception and easily broke essential promises. When Geronimo first surrendered in the spring of 1886, he and Naiche quickly came to the conclusion that the Army intended to execute them, and they fled, a group of 20 men and 13 women. The second surrender was later that year, after tribe members were already being shipped to POW imprisonment on the east coast of Florida, and Geronimo and Naiche’s band would be totally isolated before final extinction. After the second surrender,he Army did not execute them, but did break promises to unite them with their families (they were initially imprisoned in a second fort on the Florida panhandle), and more importantly, did not return the people to Arizona in two years as promised, but imprisoned them in the east for 27 years. Under these circumstances, Geronimo, Naiche and the others of the warring Apaches did not see an alternative to war, for the sake of their lands, for the survival of their people, and for their sense of essential dignity. All of this is well presented in the film.

Many factors complicate the picture. Political pressures, cultural differences, personalities - all make this a complex story.

Nonetheless, you cannot ignore things like the major accomplishment of the Apaches, evading control of the Army for roughly 25 years. You can’t ignore the occasional humane actions of some of the Army officials. You can’t ignore what was called the savage brutality of the raiding and warring Apaches. You can’t ignore the occasion of Teddy Roosevelt inviting Geronimo to the White House. The Apaches were equally feared and respected.

Ultimately their treatment by the government was brutal also. One hundred twelve Chiracahua children were shipped to the Carlisle School in Pennsylvania. Twelve died the first year. In nine years, 37 had died, and perhaps more among ones sent home.

Despite all this, somehow to the present day the Chiracahua show a strength that is remarkable among tribes. They have adapted to life in a non-Indian world, while still retaining important aspects of Apache culture. They are like the doll that always rights itself.

I started out talking about perspective because I came away from the Museum with a distinctly shifted perspective. I felt perhaps some of what I wrote earlier I see in a slightly different way. And I see that this is a problem of blogging, while at the same time the blog can be seen as a process of coming to understandings. What I write about the Apache today may be out of date next week. Please have patience!

This morning, here at 6000 feet in Silver City, we had four inches of snow, and where my horses are, at 7,000 feet, more.My Norwegian horses looked pleased.

That's not us heading for Silver City. We'll use the truck.

Just north of here was the route of the Butterfield Stage Route, Missouri to California. The company lost lots of drivers and station employees to the Apaches, who saw them as easy prey.

Does anyone know if any of the original Butterfield route can still be driven by horses?

This morning we head for Silver City NM

Here's a correction on my estimate: The Dragoons are 25 miles long. This site gives a nice overview of the geology:
http://skywalker.cochise.edu/wellerr/students/dragoons/mark_alexander_geology_web_page.htm

I drove the horses this morning again, heading for a time towards the Dragoons. I was struck by how little this area has changed. Yes, there is a scattering of houses, scraped roads and occasional fence, but the land and the vegetation looks unchanged. This isn't a place where land gets plowed. There is some cattle grazing, but the landscape is still mesquite and yucca. The mountains, thankfully, don't have towers on top. It is easy to image Apaches behind bushes or laying in the grass. Driving along I picture they would wait till the coach passed and attack from behind (unlike stagecoach robbers in the movies). That way they would have a chance to shoot without counterattack.
Driving along the south wind blew my brim hat back on its chin string, again, an image from the movies.
I'll add some pictures of my horses from yesterday, taken by a neighbor.

January 18
I think I am getting the hang of picture posting. More to come.

It occurred to me that in my writing about the Apache I might have given the impression that they were misunderstood and abused. This was true, no doubt, but the story is much more complicated. There was an exchange of violence, and the Apaches held up their end. Larcena Pennington's story was one I knew from Pumpelly, and I suspect it was known nationally at the time. Here is a recent and detailed writing about her. It speaks for itself, and gives an indication of the fear experienced by settlers and miners in that era. For the feint of heart, scroll past.

Larcena Pennington, Arizona pioneer survivor
By Kimberly Matas arizona daily star Tucson, Arizona Published: 10.31.2009
Hardships were part of life for Southern Arizona pioneers in the mid-1800s, but the trials endured by Larcena Pennington Page would have brought the toughest frontiersman to his knees. Her survival after being kidnapped, stabbed, beaten and left for dead by a band of Apaches was near-miraculous. Larcena was a young woman with a lot of responsibilities when she arrived in Southern Arizona in 1857. After her mother's death, it was up to Larcena and an older sister to care for their 10 younger siblings as they rode in a wagon train with their father from Texas to California. However, by the time they reached Fort Buchanan near Sonoita, in what was then Apache country, Larcena was ill with mountain fever and the Penningtons were forced to drop out of the wagon train while she recovered. The family settled near Sonoita, where it cultivated vegetables and earned money by providing hay to the fort. The Apaches mostly left the family alone except for occasional raids to steal corn from its garden. A year after arriving, Larcena, a tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed, good-natured woman, married John Hempstead Page, a lumberman who hauled timber from the Santa Rita Mountains to Tucson. They lived at Canoa Ranch, but John often spent long stretches working at a lumber camp in Madera Canyon. Larcena, missing her husband during his many absences, eventually persuaded John to take her with him on a trip to the lumber camp. They were accompanied by another frontiersman, and Larcena brought along Mercedes Quiroz, an 11-year-old Mexican girl whom she tutored. The party of four had no sense of danger when it pitched its tents beside a stream in Madera Canyon the first night. After breakfast the next morning, the men left camp — Page riding ahead to check on the next load of lumber and his partner gone in search of wild game. Once the men were out of earshot, a band of five Apaches, who had been following the group throughout the previous day, attacked. Larcena grabbed a pistol, but the gun was wrestled away from her. Before marching their captives into the hills, the kidnappers ransacked the campsite. The hilly trail was difficult, and the temperature was cold. It was March 1860, and snow still lay in large patches on the ground. As the group walked, Larcena tore bits of cloth from her dress and bent twigs in her wake to signal the rescuers she hoped were in pursuit. "My inability to travel at the speed which they desired was the cause of my receiving the most brutal treatment at their hands," Larcena later said. "They several times pointed a six-shooter at my head, as much as to say that my fate was already decided upon and that I was to be made a victim of savage barbarity." Near sunset, when Larcena no longer could keep up, her captors forced her to remove her corset, skirt and shoes, leaving her nearly nude. Suddenly one of the Apaches stabbed her in the back with his lance, causing her to tumble down a ravine. The others followed, stabbing her repeatedly — 11 times in all — and pelting her with rocks until she lay motionless in a snowbank. When Larcena finally regained consciousness, three days had passed. The chilling snow had slowed the bleeding from her wounds. Fearing the Apaches who had kidnapped her were nearby, she did not want to use the same trail they'd traveled. Instead, after slaking her thirst with snow, Larcena used natural landmarks and the position of the sun to get her bearings and set off bushwhacking across the desert. Barefoot, blistered from the glaring sun on her bare skin and weak from blood loss, "my feet gave out the first day and I was compelled to crawl most of the distance," Larcena said. "Sometimes after crawling up a steep ledge, laboring hard for half a day, I would lose my footing and slide down lower than the place from which I started." She subsisted on snow and wild grasses. During the frigid nights, she clawed shallow indentations in the hard earth and slept. All the while, search parties led by her husband and soldiers from the fort were scouring the vast landscape looking for Larcena and Mercedes. On the 12th day of her ordeal, Larcena reached a high point on a ridge. From the perch, she could see the camp where she'd been abducted and men passing through the site. Tying her petticoat to a stick, she waved her makeshift signal flag and screamed for help, but her shouts went unheard as the party moved on. It took Larcena another two days to crawl to the camp. She found a log still smoldering in the fire pit and, using water from the nearby stream, she scraped up enough of the flour left scattered on the ground by the Apaches to make a humble meal — she fashioned dough into patties and cooked the flatbread over the fire. After spending the night sleeping next to a warm campfire, Larcena moved on. It was on the 16th day that she finally found help after stumbling into another campsite along the logging route. Hair clotted with blood, wounds gaping, skin blackened by the sun, emaciated and nearly naked, she shocked the men who saw her approach. One declared her to be an apparition. They could not believe the 23-year-old had survived more than two weeks in the desert and had traveled 15 miles in her condition. The men transported her to Canoa Ranch and sent for her husband and a doctor. Edward F. Radeleff, an accountant for a Tubac-based mining company, rode with the doctor: "There I saw the poor woman. Lance thrusts in both breasts and in numerous other places, bruised from rocks thrown at her by the Indians, almost everywhere covering her with blood, emaciated beyond description, her hands and knees and legs and arms a mass of raw flesh almost exposing the bones, caused by crawling over the cruel rocks, uphill and downhill." After two days' rest at the ranch, Larcena returned to Tucson, where she was reunited with Mercedes. The little girl had been recovered as part of a prisoner exchange between the Apaches and the soldiers at Fort Buchanan. Unfortunately, her 16 days in the desert weren't the last anguish Larcena would suffer. She was pregnant with her first daughter when, a year later, her husband was killed during an Apache ambush. Within the next several years, she lost five more family members. Her father and two brothers were killed by Apaches, one sister died of miliaria and another from pneumonia. Yet when the rest of her grief-stricken family decided to return to Texas, Larcena stayed behind. She married miller and miner William F. Scott, had two more children and lived out the rest of her 76 years uneventfully in downtown Tucson, near the street — Pennington — that bears her family name.

January 18

Sonoita hosts a Border Patrol station. As you drive into town you see a field full of full size brand new vehicles. It gives some indication of the scale of operations, given that these are the vehicles not at work. The government has to be General Motors biggest customer.

Just above Tombstone yesterday I went through full time Border Patrol check station on Rt 80. The check was perfunctory and polite. I can't imagine it is too productive, as anyone involved in illegal activity might well have the sense to take an alternative route, or walk well around it.

The local folks I have talked to confirm that the Border Patrol is a grand scale demonstration of failed policy.

(enroute to Dragoon Ranch)
January 17

The driving event was excellent. My horses were uncooperative in the first two parts, and then in the hazards they were the best they had ever been, turning together on a light cue, maintaining speed, and courageous in tight spaces. It was like all the training I had ever done with them came together on that field. I was elated.

I stayed the night at Grass Ridge, and left for the Dragoon Ranch at first light of dawn, an hour's drive over a couple of ridges and valleys, to be on the valley - more like a plain - between the Rincon and Whetstone Mountains to the west and the Dragoons to the east. I had the Dragoons in sight all day. After driving the horses twice on the endless dirt roads, I drove the truck over to the mountain. The Dragoons are not terribly high, except that they start from the valley altitude of 5000 feet. The highest peak is 7600 feet. The range extends from ground level to ground level over 12 miles, north to south. My host just said, "Twenty years driving by that, and wow!" It is a range of remarkable complexity, which made it an excellent hiding place for the Apaches. The Cochise Stronghold is in the interior, a place where his band often successfully hid. I look for clues to history from the terrain, and realize that once the Apaches retreated into the hills, the cavalry would have been highly reluctant to follow them, as the Apaches best knew the terrain and were masters of ambush.

In their own words:

http://www.chiricahuaapache.org/Chiricahua_Apache.htm

January 15 night
I am back at the fairgrounds and it is quite cold. I miscounted the stars, so to speak. The sky is carpeted with stars. At home I see the brighter ones. Here the combination of few lights and low humidity means I see the dimmer stars. The entire sky is covered with glitter.
I heard an Arizona tall tale tonight, from the husband of the woman running the event. He said that in a really rainy year they discovered that the frog that had been there all along didn’t know how to swim.
He also told me that the surrender of Geronimo in 1886 did not end the era of Apache conflict. He said the conflict continued in Mexico until 1930! I trust this to be accurate. He has been an Arizona resident for 60 years.
Enough. It is too cold. I’m into the sleeping bag.
January 16
Today I compete the horses at the Grass Ridge Equestrian Arena Driving Trial, a one day event. I have met numbers of loyal driving compeititors, including one who I at least knew by phone, who had bought a harness from me. I have made a contact who will let me base for a couple of days in the territory where I want to drive this week.

January 14
Last night showed the wild side of Arizona. A half hour after I bunked out in the trailer, lightning started flashing in the distant sky, and then rain came in. The rain was the kind that sounded like it was drilling holes in my aluminum roof. Could be there was hale, but I didn’t go outside to check. Now lightning was all over the sky, crashing all around. I wanted to believe the storm would quickly blow over, but it lingered, teasing with brief letups. I worried about the horses shivering, but when the rain tapered off and I went to check them, I could see that with their Washington fur, they were only wet on the surface. After giving them some extra hay I headed to bed.
Tonight I am sitting in the Steak Out Restaurant in Sonoita AZ. Today has been one of the most interesting day’s travel ever. I started from Apache Junction at 8:00 AM and drove south towards Tucson. The first part was broad desert surrounded by mountains at some distance, the Superstition Mountains to the north. The desert is cactus and scrubby brush with a floor of gravel. Further south, but still north of Tucson, I drove through many miles of irrigated fields, irrigated I think from the Gila River. I am not sure what all grows there, but cotton is part of it. Approaching Tucson, I pass that field where large numbers of surplus airliners are mothballed.
My immediate destination was the town of Tubac, south of Tucson. I was on the trail of Raphael Pumpelly, a personal hero. Pumpelly was a prominent geologist from 1860 to the early twentieth century. Notably, he discovered iron range (Mesabi?) on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Likely you have driven his iron. Detroit was a car building capitol because of the proximity of Pumpelly’s iron. He was professor of geology at Harvard. He taught the Japanese how to mile coal under the ocean. He did a lot of things and wrote lucidly and well about them in a style that is not dated. His autobiography is “The Reminiscences of Raphael Pumpelly”. If I successfully encourage one lucky person to read his story, I will consider my work done.
Today it is Pumpelly’s first job as an engineer that I am tracking. In 1861 he was hired at I believe the age of 23 as the engineer. He traveled from the Missippi River by stagecoach on what later became the Butterfield route to California, and his account is worth reading for that story alone. The stage rolled 24 hours for however many days, with stops only for horse changes every 10-12 miles. The rough motion prevented sleep except in brief snatches. Pumpelly was an adventurer though. The challenges of stage travel was nothing compared to the hazards from Apache attack. He had been well warned, but accepted the risk.
Pumpelly arrived at Tucson, rested a few days, then got on a stage south to Tubac. This was the route I traveled today, and I tried constantly to see it through Pumpelly’s eyes. By and large, ignoring the occasional Jack-In-The-Box or convenience store, it was easy. Desert is still desert and the mountains still ridge each side. I know he experienced the thrill I did. This is scenery painted with a big brush. It energizes a joy to be alive. Pumpelly, though, would have worried about Apache attack. With the Civil War started, the Army, which had to some degree limited Apache raids, had been pulled to fight the South.
I may not have mentioned the Apaches earlier. My foremost interest in coming to Arizona and New Mexico is to learn about this remarkable culture. For those who do not know, I will tell a little Apache history. This had been their homeland since before the Spanish arrived. The Spanish and Mexicans fought them. In 1840, the Mexicans resolved to exterminate the Apaches, a notion that severely underestimated the resources of the Apache. As Americans arrived, the Mexicans were still the prime Apache enemy. With their traditional hunting and gathering culture disrupted, some of the Apaches changed from hunting to raiding, providing themselves with food, horses and weapons from settlers. Relations with the US deteriorated when the Army deceived Cochise and some of his family into coming for a parley where he was captured, to punish him for a death which he actually was not responsible for. Cochise escaped, and then escalated the conflict by capturing several white men for hostages, to negotiate release of relatives. The Army refused. Cochise killed the hostages, and the Army killed his relatives, but did release his wife and son. Part of Apache culture is the practice of revenge, and the war was on. In time, Cochise was killed, and Geronimo, though not the chief, was the warrior leader. I should note here that some Apache bands accepted government terms and moved to reservations. Even Geronimo and Cochise tried that, but I think you could say it was intolerable to their dignity.
I should note here that the Apaches I am writing about are generally referred to as the Chiracahuas. Even among this group, some chose reservation life, and some actually worked for the Army in tracking Geronimo. One, named Fun, worked for the Army, then returned to fight with Geronimo, presumably advising Geronimo on Army habits and tactics.
The Army pursued these people for more than 25 years, and in the end, Geronimo, when it was clear that continued conflict would leave all of his people dead, surrendered on his own terms. The government then imprisoned Geronimo and his people at a fort in Florida, and then Oklahoma for 27 years. Now, half the band’s descendents still live in Oklahoma and the other half on the Mescalero Apache reservation in New Mexico. They never returned to their traditional lands.
I might add to all of this that I learned the Apaches in New Mexico established the first Indian casino, prior to government approval. They are still a force to be reckoned with!
Meanwhile, I am heading towards Tubac. Pumpelly arrived and took charge of 40 employees at the Heintzelmann Mine in the Cerro Colorado Mountain. Over a time, everyone Pumpelly worked with was dead. Apaches killed some, and in the end, apparently Mexicans killed more, wanting it to appear to be the work of Apaches. Pumpelly stayed a step ahead or behind, and missed death on numerous occasions. One of his associates, named Wrightson, was killed by Apaches. A mountain near Tubac is named for him.
I wanted to find the mine. I found the historical society in Tubac, and soon had several people looking for maps and accounts. Finally, in an old book, we found the mine, renamed Cerro Colorado Mine, and were able to pinpoint the location. By now it was 4:00PM, and much as I would like to have seen the site, I needed a place to overnight the horses, and Tubac was not looking promising. I continued on to Sonoita via Nogales, on the Mexican border. I will return to Tubac, this trip or another.
At Tubac or a little before, the land changes. The altitude is rising, and desert gradually turned to grass. After the ride south to Nogales, I entered the next valley (parallel to the one of Tubac) heading north, with more altitude, and more grass. I am learning about the Apache. Their land was not the desert I imaged. Still tough country, but richer. The hills are closer and the vegetation higher. To see it, you can picture the ease with which the Apache could hide or disappear. The land is complex, so they constantly had the advantage over the Army of knowing the land well.
I am in Sonoita for a horse event. An Arena Driving Trial happens Saturday, and I am entered. This will let me meet some local driving folks and get some advising on where I can drive my horses in this region. I am looking for trails in the heart of Apache country.
My horses are in a pen tonight at the Sonoita Fairgrounds. After dark the temperature was a cool 43. Apache Junction is 1700 feet. Here it is 5000. Mountains insulate us from population. The sky is dark with 10 times as many stars as I usually see.
January 15
Last night was cold enough there was ice on the horse water. Here is another clue about Apache territory. With the high altitude and bright sun, they saw large temperature swings, summer and winter. I am told they were known to sleep on the ground, with no covering down to 37 degrees. The scientific accuracy makes me suspicious, but I get the point.
My belief is that there were no weak Apaches. Life in this place, at that time, did not provide for any sort of weakness. That is my theory, and of course it is mostly based on second or third hand accounts. But now I have see the edge of their lands. It is very exciting.
I know a little more. Many aspects of Apache life were highly proscribed. Their folktales indicate a rather rigid worldview, yet their actions showed flexibility and cunning resourcefulness. Family was (is?) of very great importance to them. Girls were thoroughly trained in the skills to support nomadic homelife. Boys were learning the wide range of skills to fight, raid, endure hardship and become the men they needed to be to fight the Americans and Mexicans when the boys of those cultures were still in kneepants. No wonder the Apaches did so well against greater and vastly better equipped enemies. Plus the Apaches were really fighting for their very existence.
I probably need to renote from time to time that very many Apaches did not make this choice of opposition. Their choices no doubt had merit and they undoubtedly suffered less loss of life. The opposition and fierce independence of the Chiracahuas (and not all of them, and not all of the time) is unique in US history. It is my understanding that the whole nation followed the events of the Apache conflict and knew the leaders as fearsome celebrities. Indeed, years later, President Teddy Roosevelt invited the aged Geronimo to the White House and honored him. Even President Grant, a man perhaps no known for softheartedness, showed some compassion for the Apaches, and dispatched a highly ranked general to visit Cochise and make peace with him instead of pursuing extermination.