EDITOR'S LETTER

My grandfather was 4 when he got "the plague." That's what they called it. They didn't know any better. All they knew was that everyone around them seemed to be dying. My grandfather's brother died. His name was August. My grandfather was supposed to die, too - his parents had even bought him a casket. But he was a fighter, and he somehow survived the Spanish flu, which ultimately killed about 50 million people around the globe. As staggering as that number is, it's only a percentage of the Black Death. Up to 200 million people died during that pandemic. Our pandemic is the coronavirus. No one expects the numbers to be as high as they were in 1918, when my great-uncle died, but as I write this, there are still so many unknowns. And the uncertainty of the unknown is unsettling as we sit in our homes, locked down to whatever degree, looking for answers from doctors and scientists. The smart people. And while we look, we go about our business as best we can. For us, our business is to inspire people to get off the couch and explore the state. Of course, when we planned this issue last summer, we had no idea that the world would be in the vise grip of a pestilence, and that conventional wisdom - and the rule of law - would force us inside. In our view, as we saw it last summer, June is the perfect time to be outside. But so much has changed. So, in this moment, our business is to reinforce the safety messages of the smart people. And the directives of the Arizona governor's office. Currently, we're under a stay-at-home executive order, like at least 30 other states. Keep in mind, though, this magazine is shipping to the printer in midApril. By the time you get it in early May, the governor's order may have tightened. Or loosened. But even when we do regain full access to our public lands, we'll need to be disciples of physical distancing. At least for a while. That's not only for our own safety. It's for the safety of everyone around us, including other hikers, mountain bikers, park rangers, bus drivers ... we have a responsibility to one another. Frank M. Snowden, a professor emeritus of the history of medicine at Yale, explains why that's so important. "We need as human beings to realize that we're all in this together," he says in The New Yorker, "that what affects one person anywhere affects everyone everywhere, that we are therefore inevitably part of a species, and we need to think in that way rather than about divisions of race and ethnicity, economic status, and all the rest of it." David Byrne, in an op-ed piece for The Wall Street Journal, simplified it for Everyman. "We're all in the same leaky boat." What's more, we're in uncharted waters. And we're all just trying to find our way. As a species, as a society, as individuals trying to make a magazine. I can't say so unequivocally, but I'm pretty sure this is the first-ever "homemade" issue of Arizona Highways. It's been a long time since our staff was in the office together. For weeks, most of us have been working at home. Under normal circumstances, we refer to the magazine as "the monthly miracle." This month, it's more so. We're a group that's used to close proximity. And eating lunch together every day - in the art department, where the pages of the magazine hang on a wall. We eat, but we talk about the issue in front of us. "The Dykinga photos came in," Jeff will say to me with a self-assured smile. "Right on. How do they look?" "Well, we might want to add a couple of pages to the portfolio." Fonts, missing copy, printer deadlines, old photos from the Library of Congress ... like rugby players in a scrum, we interlock our arms, put our heads down and push forward. Under normal circumstances. Now, we're doing all of that remotely. It's working, but creative energy radiates differently in the two dimensions of Zoom and FaceTime. "It's ironic," Byrne, the rock 'n' roll poet, writes. "As the pandemic forces us into our separate corners, it's also showing us how intricately we are all connected." I miss my people. But I sleep better at night, knowing they're safe. And I'm proud of their resilience. I'm also proud of our first homemade issue, even though its intended purpose - to get you off the couch - might be deferred for a while. Meantime, I hope you'll enjoy it as an armchair traveler, from the safety and comfort of your home. And once the coast is clear, you can put these pages in your back pocket and hit the trail, whether it's an easy footpath in the mountains or a trek through the cinder fields of an ancient volcano. In fact, Sunset Crater might be the perfect place to go when we get to the other side. In addition to the natural wonder of the national park, you'll find a parable in the backcountry. Rising from the ashes of the old volcano, which blew its top several centuries before the Black Death erupted in Eurasia, is an unlikely forest of ponderosa pines. They're not like other ponderosas. Instead of tall and majestic, they're stout and gnarly. More Jack Elam than John Wayne. But they're there. A testament to survival. And a powerful reminder that no matter how bleak the landscape might appear, life resumes. And so it will. Until then, we're not going anywhere. We're in this together. Be safe. Be strong. Be well.