APACHE PARADISE

Not long since I took time to write a brief article for the Arizona Republic, suggesting that it was plainly up to Arizona and to the congress of the United States to set aside an area in the heart of the White Mountains of our state as a national playground, and call it "The Apache Paradise National Park."

It was quite my own thought to begin with, though endorsed enthusiastically enough by every one to whom I mentioned it. The idea of a park, to a practical Arizonian, was the idea that by calling such an area a national park we would be able to call the attention of the rest of the world to this wonderful region, thereby advertising what we who live here already know: that in Arizona we have a very large area that is as nearly ideal a place to live in summer, as the irrigated lowlands of our stato are ideal for the season when the rest of the country is under a blanket of snow.

Of course, when I burst out into words and grammar and syntax and what not about these things, of which every Arizonian already knows, it seems like one of those obvious works of supererogation; not exactly "gilding the lily," but rather more like constituting one's self press agent for Paradise. Still, I reconcile myself by reflecting that, incredible as it may seem, there are actually people who have lived in Phoenix all their lives who have never been to this high green Paradise that supplies most of the water which keeps our valley verdant; there are natives of other parts of Arizona who apparently do not realize that opening up a highway through our high forest-the greatest body of pine still standing in the country-building our highway, as I say, so that the auto tourist entering Arizona from the east comes to think of Arizona as an immense region of magnificent forest and snow-capped mountain, and in summer of coolness and endless fields of flowers, before he drops down into the lowlands and the marvedls of irrigation I am getting involved in my grammar and syntax, but the idea is that to make of this a great state we have to have people by the hundreds of thousands come here, and on arrival realize that this state has advantages over all other states as a place to live in, in summer as well as in winter. We have Arizona to sell, and our highways are our show windows. It seems plain that our White Mountain area, so startling amid the more arid reaches that surround it on every side, is one of our most important selling points, during half of the year. During winter it is fortunate that at Showlow we have the lowest saddle in the whole Mogollon Rim and are assured of being able to keep the road passable. Getting back to this business of being self-appointed press agent for Paradise: A national park here is what we call a "gesture." The forest is already there, needing no conceivable gilding nor improving to make it a lovely place to camp and spend the summer; it is held by the national governnent and is, in effect, a park right now.

Half of it is, nominally, an "Apache Paradise," as it is in the Apache Reservation. The term was ironic as I first applied it in my mind, comparable to the "Horse Heaven" I knew in Wyoming; so high and inaccessible that a horse could not get into it. The Apache can get into this Paradise, and as an Indian's Paradise is a place where he does nothing, the term is highly apropos here.

To me, the high mountains are as near to Paradise as I ever hope to attain. As long as I am permitted to tarry there now and then I care not who administers the property, whether it be tribe of aborigines or governmental bureaucracy or potentate of our moneyed oligarchy. There is nothing there I wish to take away, except memories memories of tumbling streams, of groves of whispering aspens or towering banks of spruce,It is a heritage from the remote past that we wish to seek game as soon as we enter the forest. I am not especially proud, but indeed grateful to a Providence that has ordained that the hills would be just as attractive to me if there were nothing there to kill. To me the mountains like this Apache Paradise of ours are a hunting ground of the spirit; I seek, and find, the lost dreams of boyhood and the thoughts that somehow escape us in cities and settled areas. There is naught of the ironic when I call the White Mountains my "Heaven on Earth." of fields of flowers of every color, of banks where violets and ferns and columbines grow together. The mountains are Paradise, and there could not be mountains too high. I should like to enter a country where one climbed and climbed, ever higher, and could never get to the highest peak. One of the most important moments in life is the first time you see the dawn from a mountain peak.

You can make of the hills a happy hunting ground if you will; the game and fish are there. This appeals to the instincts of most.

Stopping a Fight "Where are you hurrying to?"

"I'm running to try to stop a fight between a fine married couple."

"Who are they?"

"I'm one of them."