Impressions of a Village Life

Pine, Arizona Impressions of a Village Life

Pine, Arizona rests easily on the land. An unincorporated village, it is, along with its tiny neighbor, Strawberry, to the north, home to about 400 people. Set amidst a great ponderosa pine forest, it nuzzles the lower flanks of the great exposed rock massif of the Mogollon Rim.

The 100-year-old hamlet is no intrusion on this tree-studded Central Arizona land. No great swaths of neon and noise, no denuded ruin of once virgin forest, no great holes or marred landscape interrupt the sublime timeless feeling of this place. It is an ageless portrait of village life, forever lost to most of America.

Today, many of the offspring of the early Mormon founders of the town grandchildren and great-grandchildren still call the little village home and take joy in the quiet life, as do a few relative newcomers like Bill Ahrendt, who strongly feels an invitation to stay. . . .

Of the many moods of Nature expressed within the state, I find the forested Mogollon Rim country of Central Arizona most moving. It's here that Nature gets a grip on me, and where I most strongly feel her invitation to stay. I sense the dynamic contrast between the monumental presence of the Mogollon Rim, on one hand, and the sheltering seclusion of the forest on the other.

The Mogollon Rim is a giant wall of sedimentary stone rising at points to 2000 feet above the floor below. This abrupt declivity meanders from west to east across two-thirds of Northern Arizona. It is justifiably referred to as Arizona's mighty backbone. My studio home is tucked deep within a great vertebra of that backbone, where it is flanked on the west, north, and east by the forest-covered walls of Pine Creek Canyon. The towering edifice of Milk Ranch Point rises like a tapestry of interwoven trees and stone, standing Sentinel high above my village of Pine, immediately before my studio window. How often I've found interest stolen from my work in the studio by the enchanting play of light on that enormous magic wall.

Climbing to the top of that wall was surely the greatest and most exhausting athletic achievement of my life, as well as one of the most rewarding. From the brink of its summit the world fell away at my feet. The view from the crest of the Mogollon Rim is seldom equaled. The great ponderosas of the Rim Country form an unbroken 19-millionacre stand, the largest in the West. This forest occupies one-fourth of the land area of the state. From here hundreds of miles come into view. Awed before this breathtaking panorama, I became aware of the enormity of my forest home. I looked down to find in the midst of the vast forest this tiny village, an island in an endless sea of trees. The feeling of smallness, which I'd sensed a moment ago, vanished, and I felt at home again.

The man-made structures of many of the towns and cities across our state look fairly new, and, generally speaking, they are. But in Pine they don't look new; they look old. Barns and log houses built in the last quarter of the 19th century are still in regular use. In fact, there is, I'm happy to say, an honest air of antiquity about Pine, which lends the village a unique charm. A rough patina of age has crusted over marks made by the hand tools of the strong men and women whose spirit and bravery brought them first to this valley in 1879.

Pine Creek, which helped sculpt the majestic canyon setting, also supplied water, that precious basic necessity for survival. The availability of water was Nature's invitation to the first comers who stayed on to carve out their future from the forest. The strength and simple honesty of Pine's settlers is expressed by the hand-wrought structures which they have left.

I often go into the village to draw from these old structures, and always the history which calls out from them echos in my drawing. These subjects inevitably speak to me as much from the past as from the present. Intriguing evidence of former days and the patient work of passing time find their way into the pencil strokes of my work. I find great pleasure in drawing, in making my pencil marks record not only what I see but how I feel about it. I see on the surface of an old barn post the scalloped strokes of the adze used to square it, then feel the sweep of the adze as I form my post with chip-like pencil strokes. Tracing along an ancient strand of fence with my drawing point, I'm delighted to discover that the old wire passes through the center of an oak trunk, which has enveloped it with years of growth. In another passage, my lines form the tangle of weeds, which mat among the spokes and clutch the metal wheels of an old iron farm implement, rooting its rusted carcass to the earth it once tilled. The joy which I experience when drawing from these subjects is almost spiritual. My outdoor studio is the bed of a 1965 Dodge slant-six turquoise and rust pickup. It's equipped with a drawing table and a folding chair. With the old Dodge in low, I chug along the roads of Pine seeking the ideal setting for the

The rustically charming Fuller barn, built in the 1880s, is a reflection of the strength, determination, and simple honesty of Pine's pioneer founders. Courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Gene Lange.

(Following panel, pages 12-13) The Mogollon Rim Country of northern Arizona. Here, quaint tiny villages like Pine and its neighbor Strawberry remain little changed in looks and temperament from a century ago.

Pine from page 11

One day's work. No matter where I settle I'm eventually found by Ralph Fuller, a friend of mine, who descends from the earliest settlers of Pine. Ralph is half philosopher and half historian, and he really knows this village. He comes aboard each day to check my drawing and express his opinion. Happily, I'm usually critiqued with approval. Like myself Ralph has his heart in the history of Pine and would like its antique charm to remain forever. One day, I was up on the main road drawing the old stone house built many years ago by a man named Miller. It had recently been converted from a private residence to the office of the local water company. The former lawn, which had been surrounded by a wood post fence and entranceway, was now replaced with a small parking area. By the time Ralph arrived that day I was already well into my work. Upon seeing the sketch, Ralph's expression grew troubled. With some reluctance, I requested his comments. "Everybody would like it better if you drew it the way it was," he replied. I was willing. Being ignorant of its former appearance, Ralph coached me through the revamping of my drawing, describing each detail completely. Done with our cooperative effort, Ralph appraised the results. "Boy that really looks nice," he concluded and was on his way. I look forward to Ralph's regular arrival because he is always able to share some interesting bit of history about the scene. He told me where the former schoolhouse stood and which buildings had been moved from old locations. One day he announced "that's the Randall house you're drawing. It's the oldest standing house in Pine." Then he added, "it's a log house. Those siding boards were added in the thirties." Ralph's informative comments provided little windows to the past through which I was better able to perceive my subject.

I've never enjoyed a drawing more than Ralph's own gas station. He told me that the center part was once the post office, which had been operated by his dad. In 1940, when they put the road through Pine, it stood right in the way. Ralph hooked a rope to it and towed it off to one side where he made a gas station out of it. The old station has been closed since 1976, when the rapidly rising price of gasoline led Ralph to the discovery that his antique Texaco pumps wouldn't register sales above 50 cents per gallon. In those days, the technique of doubling the price shown on the meter wasn't permitted. While drawing the old station I was able to discern a lot of pioneer spirit in it. Without its gas pumps, it could pass for a trading post or stagecoach stop. Its timbers, hand hewn from trees in the surrounding forest, express the economy of solution and the direct link to nature which typify the early settlers. The rough tool marks on its boards, simple functionalism of its construction, and indifference to polish tells of the rude security of former times. But nothing more clearly symbolizes pioneer triumph in the struggle with Nature for survival than the many animal skulls, horns, and antlers which decorate the old station. Trophies of victory in the encounter with the wilderness proudly displayed. Taking a break, I climbed down from my pickup to examine the subject close up. I peered through the cracked and dust-crusted window of one of the gas pumps. I could make out the amount of the last sale, one dollar and seventyeight cents. Next to the pump, Ralph's old inner tube testing tank caught my eye. On the still surface of the rainwater standing in it, I picked up a reflection of movement in the sky. I looked up. High above, a needle of white vapor silently drew across the intense blue heaven, a concentration of man's technology focused at its point. Yet, standing before Ralph Fuller's gas station the modern world seemed a century in the future. I felt beautifully lonely, sheltered within the walls of the Rim, the endless forest around me, but most of all by the "once was" feeling of Pine.