Quiet Retreat to Greenlee County

County, High Frontier

It's peaceful, uncrowded and quiet-a place for retreat and you might feel as if you've slipped through some weird time warp and ended up back on the frontier.

Pull into idyllic Hannagan Meadow high in the mountains of Greenlee County

Wolves-wild wolves-roam the nearby woods.

Ranchers still work the rugged range mostly on horseback.

The main highway is so sparsely traveled that a black bear is occasionally seen lying in the middle of the road. Locals have dubbed him "Rug" in recognition of his risky lifestyle.

The air is pure pine scent. Silence is the most common sound. Your cell phone refuses to communicate. It really does feel almost like a frontier.

Well, here's the thing: Greenlee County not only feels like frontier. It is frontier. Literally. By definition of the federal government.

Greenlee, about 120 miles long and 20 miles wide in eastern Arizona, was officially designated a "frontier county" by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, based on its population density of a mere 4.6 people per square mile. The generally accepted standard for frontier status requires fewer than six people per square mile.

That means the county-stretching from the Peloncillo Mountains and Duncan in the south to the 9,000-foot heights of the Blue Range Primitive Area in the north-is short on cities and long on high lonesome. It makes an excellent travel destination for anyone seeking a respite from the rat race and solace in the wild.

Kay Gale, Greenlee County administrator, reels off some indicators of Greenlee's frontier personality:

[PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 8 AND 9] The panoramic view from Blue Vista Overlook in the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forests unveils an amber dawn over Pipestem Mountain and the lower reaches of the Blue River.

[CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT] As day draws to a close, juniper bushes cast long shadows on the slopes of Four Bar Mesa about halfway between Clifton and Hannagan Meadow. Barbara Marks tends to her horses at the ranch homesteaded by husband Bill's family in 1891. Built in 1911, the Greenlee County Courthouse provides a historic backdrop for County Administrator Kay Gale. Constructed in 1913, Clifton's train depot today houses the Greenlee County Chamber of Commerce.

the sole Circle K store in Greenlee, which was named for early settler Mason Greenlee.

All of this blatant lack of urbanity makes Greenlee County a slice of paradise for many residents and visitors. While there are other counties across the nation, including La Paz County in far-western Arizona, that qualify as frontier based on sparse population, few offer the striking scenery and tonic atmosphere of Greenlee.

"It's peaceful. It's quiet. It's beautiful. It's the closest thing to heaven I can imagine," says Cyndie Edelblute, assistant manager of the Hannagan Meadow Lodge, as she watches morning mist waft across the tree-rimmed meadow in front of the lodge, at an elevation of 9,100 feet.

"We see deer everywhere, and elk, and even some of the wolves," Edelblute says. "We see wolves right over there in the meadow quite often."

The Mexican gray wolves, which have been reintroduced into the area by wildlife officials in recent years, are a source of pride for some area residents, but are viewed with a wary eye by many ranchers who see the predators as a threat to livestock. Other wildlife-including deer, elk, bears, wild turkeys, hummingbirds and other bird species-boost the local economy by attracting ecotourists, hikers, campers and hunters. exploring historic niches of Clifton, nearby mining coun-try, remote stretches of U.S. Route 191, the pine, fir and spruce forests around Hannagan Meadow and the deep wilderness of the Blue River area.

The high country of Hannagan, however exotic, is just one of the attractions of the Greenlee County frontier. Travelers can spend a day or a week or much longer

That sense of paradise found, of a haven pretty close to heaven, seems to resonate from one end of the Greenlee frontier to the other.

Many visitors begin at the southern foot of the county with a stop in Duncan or in what passes for a metropolis in these parts: Clifton. With deep roots in mining and other hands-on hard work, Clifton is not a croissants-and-latte-for-breakfast kind of place. Stop in at PJ's, a Mexican and American restaurant on the main drag through town, where you can chow down on frontieresque fare of eggs, meat, hash browns and hearty black coffee served in heavy porcelain mugs on Formica-topped tables.

Nearby, just off 191 in midtown Clifton, is the Chase Creek Main Street Historical District. This is a place to get a taste of late-frontier life and meet some colorful town folk and a few entrepreneurs who see possible profit in preserv-ing the frontier atmosphere of the district.

"Clifton is a well-kept secret, but it's being let out," says John Decker, a craftsman who is doing extensive interior renovation work on some of the early 20th-century build-ings in the historic district. "I'll tell you now, within three to five years, this old street is going to be active again with shops and places to stay."

"But you know, we're still the Wild West," Decker adds. "We've got a large herd of bighorn sheep right on the edge of town. We've got one of the few Arizona rivers that run year-round. You can still not lock your doors. It's not like living in the city."

Charles Spezia, whose grandfather built many of Clifton's historic buildings, and Jeff Gaskin, a U.S. Public Health Service dentist who is investing in Chase Creek renovation projects, are eager to show visitors landmarks such as the grand Palicio House, the ruins of the Lyric Theater vaudeville house and the Spezia House.

"I love the idea that this is still frontier," says Gaskin as he invites visitors into the antiques shop he operates in what was at one time a dry-goods store. "It's a rustic setting. I like a town like this, before people can see what it's going to be" following a tourist-friendly restoration.

Elsewhere along Chase Creek Street, you might happen across folks like Paul Whitted, a poet, musician and raconteur who speaks of one day opening a cafe in the historic district.

After this taste of life in Greenlee County's biggest burg, it takes just a few miles of travel to find yourself out in the big, open back-of-beyond along 191 on the serpentine drive north toward Hannagan Meadow. Be sure to have water, food, emergency supplies and a full gas tank for an excursion on 191, which is also known as the Coronado Trail. Gas is available in Morenci about 4 miles up the road from Clifton.

The journey begins with the almost surreal experience of driving through a part of the Phelps Dodge open pit mine just northwest of Morenci. A mine overlook site proves well worth a brief stop.

After the highway leaves the mine area, traffic drops off, the scenery turns sylvan and you know you're not in Kansas, or even metropolitan Clifton, anymore.

Drivers pass a cluster of old stone and wooden buildings-frontier-style habitations except for an apparently kaput vehicle languishing in the yard. A mile farther up the road, small hoodoos (rock towers) offer a preview of rugged mountain terrain to come.

Those equipped for camping might spend a night at the Granville Campground a few miles beyond the hoodoos. The site, nestled in oak woodlands just below a zone of piñon pines and junipers, is a favorite of locals as well as travelers. "Man, I love it-the fresh air, the breeze, the shade. It's beautiful," says Frank Morales, a Clifton native and Phelps Dodge employee, as he prepares to picnic with his family at the campground.

"Everybody knows everybody, just about, in Clifton," Morales says. "And we're right here in nature. You can pack up at any time and say: 'I'll go up the river. I'll go up the trail.' You can't do that in the city."

Beyond the campground and farther up the highway, summer wildflowers such as penstemons and paintbrushes add bright splashes of color to the deep-green forest.

At HL Saddle, between Mileposts 182 and 183, you get visual confirmation of just how steeply the highway has been climbing from Clifton, at 3,468 feet, on its way to the 9,075-foot heights of Hannagan Meadow. A table at the HL Saddle picnic site is perched at an overlook affording vast views over what looks a lot like, well, wide-open frontier.

Keep an eye out for wildlife all along the drive. I spot a dozen wild turkeys ambling along the roadside on the edge of an open, grassy plateau area between Mileposts 193 and 194. At the other end of the plateau, five deer, including a young buck, show themselves on this summer afternoon. If you can pull your eyes away from fascinating wild critters on this stretch of highland, you'll take in magnificent views-with vibrant mountain grasses in the foreground, deep forests midfield and far blue mountains hugging the horizons. The Red Mountain Fire Interpretation Overlook, between Mileposts 200 and 201, features information panels describing the effects of past wildfires on the landscape spread out before you.

Well-marked trailheads along the highway invite a short, stretch-your-legs stroll or an extended pack trip for hikers or horseback riders.

On this winding ribbon of grand overlook points, one stands out as "must see." It's the Blue Vista Overlook at Milepost 225. There's a lot of talk in this world about views that take your breath away, but this is the real deal. Framed with tall firs, blue lupines and hot-pink penstemons, the big look from Blue Vista is a visual feast of green canyons and shapely mountains, seemingly without end.

By the time you pull into Hannagan Meadow-site of the Hannagan Meadow Lodge about 22 miles south of Alpine-you might be ready for a little taste of civilization. "We've been coming here since 1950," says Lela Carpenter Abegg, a Mesa resident who often hosts family reunions at the lodge. "What we love is the seclusion."

That seclusion, that enduring sense of the frontier, is precisely what keeps rancher Barbara Marks and her family living on the remote ranch that was homesteaded by her husband's clan in 1891.

"His family has been ranching here for over 100 years," says Marks, who has lived on the ranch near the tiny outpost of Blue with her husband, Bill, for 27 years.

She says the family now has about 110 head of cattle and does most of the day-in, day-out ranch work on horseback because of the rugged and mostly roadless terrain.

"It's wonderful, just wonderful. It's the best office anybody could ever have," Marks says. "I'm riding up the trail, I stop and look out at the panorama, and it still fills me with awe."

She says the Mexican gray wolves, reintroduced into the area in 1998 and now numbering 44 or more in the wild, have had an impact on ranchers. The wolves are believed to kill some livestock, Marks says, and also apparently compete for natural prey with other predators such as mountain lions, which then might prey on calves. "It's made life more difficult for us," she says. But even wolves aren't likely to drive Marks from her piece of the frontier.

"We're rich beyond all our hopes and dreams out here," she says. “The clear air, the birds, the wildlife. We’ve never become jaded by it.”

That sense of paradise found, of a haven pretty close to heaven, seems to resonate from one end of the Greenlee frontier to the other. Far down the Coronado Trail, in Clifton, County Administrator Gale shares Marks’ heartfelt sentiments.

“Greenlee County is one of God’s wonders,” Gale says, “and we are fortunate enough to live here.” All Douglas Kreutz of Tucson plans to win the lottery and retire with his wife in a secluded cabin high in the mountains of Greenlee County. If the lottery pipe dream doesn't pan out, he intends to continue visiting the backcountry as often as possible.

Jack Dykinga of Tucson says the coniferous forest near Hannagan Meadow, heavily draped with moss, is reminiscent of coastal rain forests and comes as a welcome diversion to desert dwellers like him.

BALL COURT MYSTERIES LINGER Did Celebrants at Arizona's 200 Sites Use Severed Heads as Balls?

Everything rested on the outcome of the game. The players eyed one another anxiously as they checked their equipment. A man stood at the center of a small clamoring crowd taking bets, while fans milled about waiting for the action to begin. Concessionaires ringed the court, providing food and drinks for the spectators. Everyone knew that before the day was over, heads would roll. Literally.

While there is no direct evidence that severed heads were actually kicked around by game victors at any of Arizona's roughly 200 ancient ball courts, it is true that such gruesome events occurred in some of the Mesoamerican versions of the contest: the ball game of the Mayas and Aztecs called ulama. Although Southwestern archaeologists disagree on exactly how the elliptical open-air courts in Arizona were used by the Hohokam and Sinagua, they agree the ball games were influenced by those south of Arizona's border.

The games and the ideology behind them might have been lost forever had Europeans not directly observed different versions being played during the 16th century in Mexico. In fact, when Hernando Cortez and his conquistadores returned to Spain from a voyage in 1528, they brought with them an entire team of ballplayers from Tlaxcala to perform for Emperor Charles V and his court. Numerous Catholic missionaries also observed and recorded the playing of the ball games in Mesoamerica, the region from Mexico south to Guatemala and Honduras. However, when it became obvious there were religious rituals tied to the games, they began a campaign to destroy the courts.

Some courts remain today, most of them difficult to see with the untrained eye even when standing in the middle of one. There is also what scholars refer to as "ball-game art"-decorated pottery, stone sculptures and wall paintings depicting the players and the games.

Cold raindrops begin to fall as David Wilcox, the senior curator of anthropology at the Museum of Northern Arizona, gazes out over a ball court site 15 miles east of Flagstaff. A small village once occupied the ridge overlooking the court. The ground, a rocky mixture of small chunks of red basalt and black cinder, is littered with potsherds, some with beautiful black-and-white patterns. Junipers dot the landscape, lending their piney scent to the rain-dampened earth while long-dormant volcanoes rest silently on the horizon. When asked to visualize what might have been happening at this ball court back when the game was still being played, somewhere between A.D. 750 and 1250, Wilcox smiles.

"Well, the short answer is we don't know," he says.