EDITOR'S LETTER

I usually don't talk to my Uber drivers. Not because I'm aloof. Or because I don't think they're interesting — I suppose some are like bartenders, with so many stories of scandal and deceit. But when I get in the back seat, I just want to put on my headphones, turn up the music and check out for a few minutes. I call it “Bobby Time,” and it's hard to come by. Like first editions of Kerouac. Or californium. So, I don't know how I got into a conversation with Gene.

“You flying out for business or pleasure?” he asked.

“A river trip,” I said, thinking my cutoffs and Grateful Dead T-shirt might have signaled as much.

“Where you headed?”

“Wisconsin.”

“Wisconsin! What's in Wisconsin?” “I'm going kayaking. A place called the Kickapoo River.” The small talk went on for a few miles. And I learned a few things about Gene. He's a retired businessman — he pioneered the Dreyer's and HäagenDazs brands in Arizona. He lives in Paradise Valley, a high-end ZIP code in metro Phoenix, and has three grown children. He seemed like a nice guy, but I was ready to put on my headphones. Fortunately, that didn't happen. Gene had more questions.

“So, what do you do for a living?” “I'm in publishing,” I said, hoping it wouldn't trigger an attack on the media.

“Oh, that sounds interesting. Newspaper?” “No, I'm the editor of a magazine called Arizona Highways.” With those 10 words, this issue started taking shape.

“I love Arizona Highways, he told me. “Are you familiar with a photographer named Allen Reed? His son, Brent, is a good friend of mine.” It wasn't an unusual question, not for someone on the outside, but for someone who wanders the hallowed halls of this magazine's world headquarters, it was like asking Ed Sheeran if he'd ever heard of The Beatles. Yes. I'd heard of him.

“Allen Reed is an editor's dream,” Editor Tom Cooper wrote in our May 1977 issue. “He can write, photograph and illustrate. Better yet, he does all of these things with expertise. He's one of those special people you can turn loose with a story idea and he will deliver a complete package.” After attending art school in Los Angeles, and being part-owner of an advertising firm there, Mr. Reed packed up and moved to Arizona. He quickly made a name for himself as a freelancer, and in July 1949, he made his debut in Arizona Highways. It was a story titled Peach Harvest in Supailand. “The twinkling fires of the Havasupais seem to be reflections of the stars,” he wrote. “A timeless moment to hesitate, as though on a cloud enveloped above and below by the heavens.” In the years that followed, he wrote and photographed more than 50 features for us. One of them, Oklahoma!, appeared in April 1955. As I was talking to Gene, he mentioned that Brent had “boxes and boxes” of his father's old photographs and letters. At that point, I forgot all about my headphones. I wanted to meet Brent.

Other than the books and magazines in our archive, there aren't many links to our storied past. There's no exclusive gathering place like The Explorers Club. No vintage diner where oldtimers meet to reminisce about the golden era. Most of our legendary contributors have passed, including Mr. Reed. His son, I thought, might be a conduit. Like Doc Brown's DeLorean. In particular, I wanted to know if any of those boxes had outtakes from Oklahoma!. The wheels were turning.

Long before I'd gotten into Gene's Buick Enclave, I knew that our August issue would be focused on the grasslands of Southern Arizona, which is where the movie version of Oklahoma! was filmed. And I knew that a new production of the play was scheduled to open on Broadway in April — we call that a “news peg,” a timely reason for running a story. With fresh images from the father via the son, we'd have the beginnings of something we could put into our August issue. Something to pair with Joel Hazelton's portfolio, which he'd started shooting a few weeks earlier.

On September 27, the DeLorean pulled up: “Hello Robert. My name is Brent Reed, I am the son of Allen Reed, who did a great deal of photography and writing for Highways in the 1950s and 1960s. My friend, Gene, who provided you with an Uber ride recently, forwarded your email address to me. I'd be glad to assist in any way regarding my late father's work or background, for any future projects you may undertake. Feel free to reach out if and when I can be of help.” It took us a while, but we finally met at a sandwich shop in Scottsdale. I could have sat there for hours, and maybe we did. By the time I left, I had several new story ideas. I also had access to all of Allen Reed's photographs, many of which have never been seen before, and some of which you'll see inside.

Sadly, I never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Reed, but now I know his son. Thank you, Brent. We're grateful for your generosity. And thank you, Gene. Your many questions were well worth the loss of a little Bobby Time.