ALONG THE WAY

BISBEE STATE of MIND

Seventy percent of the artists represented are local. The high quality of the work, the way the light spills in the front windows and the homemade sweets she keeps on hand, all contribute to a soothing and inspirational atmosphere. “I love it here,” Sterbick-Nelson says. “It is a holy place.” George Bellinger meets both criteria of the quintessential Bisbee citizen. He is an artist and a retiree—after a career as a designer and painter. Of retirement he says, “I’ve lived in Los Angeles and Paris, but I’ve never been busier in my life.” He lives high on the hillside overlooking Brewery Gulch in a small house once occupied by Cornish hard-rock miners. The steps to his house, like every other home in Old Bisbee, are many and steep. Lumber is stacked on his porch. He plans to expand. He first came to Bisbee seven years ago with a friend whose hobby is to experience fine dining around the world. His friend read somewhere that Cafe Roka in Bisbee is the best dining experience in the Southwest. They came to Bisbee and ate at the restaurant. “I remember thinking, ‘Interesting. The countryside looks slightly European, but not quite. I wonder who lives here?’ And that was the end of it.” Six years later, his son called him to say he and his wife were living on 13 acres in southern Arizona and were planning to adopt a child. Would George be interested in moving nearby to play “grandpapa?” “Find me an interesting place to live nearby,’ I told him,” George says. “He said, ‘What about Bisbee?’ and I said, ‘No, no, no. Bisbee is over the hill and over the dale.” Finally, George agreed to the move and asked his son to find him a miner’s shack with running water, heat and an indoor toilet. “The second day I was here, I went on my porch, and there were irises and chocolate chip cookies and other assorted things to welcome me to this place. Who are these people?” Now he knows. “I walk down to the post office to get my mail, and it takes me two hours. Everybody seems to know everybody. This is a community in the extraordinary sense of that word. This is an American community, albeit made up of disparate parts from everywhere. It is the most diverse place that I have ever lived.” Ralph Rattelmueller agrees. “It’s the most wonderful community I’ve ever lived in my life. My favorite definition of community I read in some other book: ‘A community is any group of people that cares more about each other than they have to.’ It’s not about people holding each other accountable, like in so much of suburban America. We hold ourselves accountable, and we help each other out.” Even a single visit to Bisbee leaves an indelible mark. Whether it’s a night spent in the Tiki Bus at the Shady Dell vintage trailer park, or fried chicken for lunch at Dot’s Diner, or a performance by the Bisbee Community Chorus, mention Bisbee to others, and those who know will try to explain that Bisbee is both a place and a state of mind. Now, for us, when someone asks us the same question, we can tell what we know or heed the sign and “STOP trying.” AH Bisbee offers one of the best small-town Fourth of July celebrations in the Southwest, but don't plan on driving down Main Street first thing in the morning, unless you're between the ages of 9 and 16 and behind the steering wheel of a gravity-powered coaster. The Bisbee Coaster Race begins at the east end of town, at the underpass to State Route 80, at an elevation of 5,650 feet, winds down through Tombstone Canyon and ends near the post office on Main Street, elevation 5,350 feet. With a 300-foot drop in 1.5 miles, racers can reach 50 mph in a little over 2.5 minutes. Started in 1914, the Bisbee Coaster Race has had its ups and downs during the ensuing decades, but since 1993 it has been an annual event that attracts thousands of spectators to watch the exhilarating race down Main Street. Information: www.bisbeemarquee.com/ www/0501/004.php. Location: Bisbee is approximately 90 miles southeast of Tucson. Getting There: From Tucson take Interstate 10 to Benson. Take Exit 303 onto State Route 80 south approximately 49 miles, through Tombstone to Bisbee. Lodging: Canyon Rose Suites, toll-free, (866) 296-7673; www.canyonrose.com.; Copper Queen Hotel, (520) 432-2216; www.copperqueen.com.; Shady Dell RV Park, (520) 432-3567; www.theshadydell.com.; School House Inn B&B, tollfree, (800) 537-4333; www.virtualcities.com/ons/az/b/azb4501.htm. Dining: Cafe Roka, (520) 432-5153; www.caferoka.com; Hot Licks Barbecue and Blues Saloon, (520) 432-7200. Additional Information: www.bisbeemarquee.com.

BISBEE COASTER RACE when you go

A Ground-pounder Gives Thumbs Up to a Biplane Ride

What am I DOING HERE? I am so afraid of heights that I often sedate myself for commercial flights. Yet, here I am loosely strapped into one of the holes of a red biplane, taxiing down a dirt runway. The wheels pull up from the desert floor, and we rise into the clear southern Arizona sky. Larry, the pilot, says it is a good day for flying, but I imagine he feeds all his patrons that line. He also mentions something about how I can pick my thrill level: One thumb up means I'm having fun, two thumbs up means he should make it even more exciting. Not likely. Just flying in a straight line at 100 mph in an 80-year-old biplane sounds like all the excitement I can stand. Despite my qualms, flying is in my blood. A yellowed newspaper clipping details how my great-great-greatgrandmother, Jane Uppington Langley, celebrated her 90th birthday in 1929 with a flight in an open-cockpit biplane much like the one I'd strapped myself into (except mine's a relic, hers was brand new). Other clippings document the subsequent flights she took over the next seven years and the fuss she made that her sons refused to fly.The only other jarhead in the family besides ground-loving me was also a pilot-my great-uncle, Bob Scott. He delighted in flying right up until his death a year ago, enjoying the clouds and the freedom that comes with soaring high above the landscape.

So, with the propeller rumbling and my nerves restless, I take some comfort in imagining that Bob and Jane might be watching over me.Suddenly, I am Frank Luke and Eddie Rickenbacker rolled into one, soaring through the desert sky and inhaling a new perspective on life.

Medal of Honor recipient and Phoenix native Frank Luke Jr., for whom Luke Air Force Base is named, shot down four airplanes and 14 German balloons in a 17-day spree during World War I. The feat earned Luke the nickname "Arizona Balloon Buster" and made him the Ace of all American Aces, second only to Rickenbacker. However, Luke died shortly after his illustrious piloting career began. I only hoped that Larry and I would have better luck than Luke and make it from runway to runway in one piece. Or, at least alive. Something gets into me a few minutes later, however. I think it is courage. Maybe it is just stupidity. In any case, I put first one, then two thumbs in the air.

"What did I do that for?" I mumble immediately.

"It's okay," replies Uncle Bob in my head.

Larry acknowledges my psychotic moment by graciously executing a maneuver I can only describe as the hold-ontoyour-butt death dive-a nose-down half-spiral that hurls the plane at the ground. I try to yell the ground away, but it doesn't help. The desert floor races toward me.

What was I thinking? What made my thumbs stick up? What made me crawl into this archaic contraption?

Miraculously, we level off and fly across Yuma, passing over perfectly manicured date farms jutting from the desert and the border town of Algodones, Mexico. Larry waggles the wings, like he said he would, as we fly over an intaglio. The desert drawing, known as Intaglio Man, gives me a thumbs up sign. Helplessly, I follow suit and give Larry two thumbs again. He obliges with a series of terrifying twists and turns. For some inexplicable reason, I pump my foolish thumbs several more times, drunk on adrenaline.

Forty-five minutes later, Larry eases the red biplane onto the dirt runway with a landing that's smoother than any commercial flight I've ever sweated through. After taxiing a short distance to Tillamook Air Tours' roadside stand, I climb out a changed person. I'm addicted and want to go up again. I want to wear the leather helmet until it dry rots atop my bald head and flies away into the wind.

Unfortunately, my budget won't allow it.

So, I unstrap the leather helmet, take off the goggles and brown bomber jacket and walk away-but, only because I must.

Before leaving the airport, I watch the red biplane climb into the sky again. As the plane flies overhead, I almost see my Grandma Jane put two thumbs in the sky. Uncle Bob obliges and they go looping off into the cloudless blue sky-leaving me with only the memory of our recent flight together and the hope that one day descendants of my own will muster enough courage to climb in, take off and throw two thumbs to the wind. All