Hope's Mansion

with Indians and evidently everything to do with a cowboy who loved the land and wanted a little bit of privacymaybe a lot of privacy.

I first heard some of the intriguing history of this unique house from an acquaintance in Safford who knew the way. He even had some snap-shots of the place, as well as a colorful yarn to go along with the package.

"There's an incredible abandoned man-sion in that canyon," he declared. "You have to drive 10 miles on a jeep road, and then when the road ends, you have to hike down another mile to find it. The place was built by a writer from England who went riding out there with some cowboys from a dude ranch near Benson. She loved the place so much she went home to England, packed up her belongings and came back and built a mansion in the cliffs."

"What was this writer's name?" I asked.

"Hope Jones," he replied.

"What did she write?"

"Beats me," he said.

I wrote to a friend who works as a research librarian at a university in Wales. She looked for information about a British writer named Hope Jones and came up empty-handed and perplexed. What kind of phantom was I dealing with? she wondered.

A few months later, I called Vay Fenn, a friend who lives in Pomerene, roughly 40 miles southeast of Redfield Canyon.

"Vay, you ever heard of some kind of mansion buried in a cliff in Redfield Canyon?" I asked.

"Mansion? I don't know about a man-sion," he said. "People around here call it 'the cliff house.' It's Hope Jones' old place. You want to go there?"

"Wait a minute," I said. "You know who Hope Jones was?"

"Was? Did Hope die?" he asked. "She used to stop by and visit with Barbara and me whenever she went into town. She'd be well up in years by now, but I didn't know she'd died."

That was, more or less, the beginning of a journey that sounded, in a way, like a game of telephone. My original source had one or two of his facts right, but evidently infor-mation about the cliff house in Redfield Canyon had been passed through too many people. By the time it reached the man in Safford, it was a romantic and colorful tale that had little to do with reality.

The reality made a better story. It unfolded as Vay and I left his adobe home in Pomerene, a few miles north of Benson, and headed toward what is now the Bureau of Land Management's Redfield Canyon Wil-derness in the Galiuro Mountains.

We drove north and west for 38 miles through the high desert. Saguaro cacti swollen from the summer rains, dark mesquite trees and graceful yuccas covered the hills around us. We passed the site of Tres Alamos, where once stood a Butterfield Stage station, and continued through the hamlet of Cas-cabel to the outskirts of the ranching com-munity of Redington.

As we approached Redington, Vay said, "As soon as we cross that bridge, the road into Redfield is on the right."

The unpaved road leads through state lands and ends up on private land adjacent to BLM property. As soon as we turned right and went through the unlocked gate, we came across a registry, in which we record-ed our names and the time we entered.

Past a second unlocked gate about 100 feet beyond the first one, the road looked like it had been paved with river rocks not paved exactly, but choked. We took it slowly and were rewarded with a smoother ride for most of the way.

After 9 miles we came to what looked like a circular drive. Two roads, both of which were worse than the one we'd been on, tookoff at each side of the circle. We puttered around and made some mistakes and ended up on paths that were better suited to donkeys than trucks - the kind of rutted, rocky roads that dip into washes so steep and narrow you can scrape the rear bumper of a truck trying to get up the other side.

House of Hope

Roughly a half-hour later, we went back to that first turnaround. Somehow we had convinced ourselves that beyond the rocky crags clearly visible east of that circle we would find the cliff house. We drove about an eighth-mile down the road that appeared headed that way from the traffic circle, but quickly realized if we continued there'd be no way to turn around. Backing up on a road like that seemed as enjoyable as a root canal. In retrospect, we can tell you the best thing to do is stop at the turnaround at the top of the hill and walk down that steep and narrow jeep road. When the trail reaches the creek, follow it to your right, or just follow the creek bed, where you'll usually find running water.

About 100 feet downstream, the stone cliff house peeks out from the side of an overhang. Even though we expected to find it - for no more logical reason than we had worked so hard to get there - we were still startled. The house, a three-sided structure, wraps around a small patio that faces the creek and the granite walls of the opposite cliff. Carefully placed stones and mortar make up its walls, and its interior boasts hardwood floors. A circular window sits above the arched entryway; long rectangular windows flanking the circle provide a great view of the wild terrain out front. The 900-square-foot living area lies almost entirely beneath the overhang. This house rated as a gem when it was built. But why did someone build this beautiful structure in a place where everything mortar, cement, wood flooring, windows, water storage tank, and even a huge bathtub had to be packed in? And how did they do it?

The process of finding some answers started with a black and white photograph of an infant. Inside the abandoned cliff house, Vay and I found a loose-leaf book that contained notes from previous visitors. One of those visitors, Leann Taylor, left a photo of herself taken outside the cliff house in 1941. She also left a photo of her father, the late Leon Taylor, sitting astride a mule and dressed for work in a wide-brimmed hat and bat-wing chaps. In her note, Leann said she and her family lived in the cliff house when her dad worked as a cowboy for Hope Jones. Fortunately, she also left her phone number in Tucson.

"I was born in Texas and my dad came out here to cowboy for Hope," she later told me. "I was 6 or 7 months old in that photo. We lived in that house two years. To get materials down there, they used to load up these big wire cages and then mount them on donkeys to get from the holding pens at the top to the creek at the bottom. That's how they usually carried me down there, too. At some point, they would have to skid stuff down because the incline was too steep. My Uncle Curtis used to carry me down in his rifle scabbard."

Through Leann and a few others, I even-tually discovered that Hope Jones hadn't built the house. It first belonged to newly-weds Chick and Harriet Logan. According to a newspaper column, Chick worked as a cowboy gathering wild horses in Redfield Canyon. During the 1930s, he made a trip to Reno and met Harriet, a divorcee with two children. In 1936, the two started build-ing the cliff house in Redfield Canyon and finished it three years later.

Although the Logans didn't stay at the house very long, it made a lasting impres-sion on one of Harriet's sons. Years later, Frank Logan wrote a short novel, A Cave House Ranch, based on the family's experiences in Redfield Canyon.

Hope Iselin came to Arizona during the 1930s and, although she was only in her20s, started buying up land around Redfield Canyon, including the cliff house. A source who remains in contact with Hope, but who preferred to remain anonymous, said she was not from England but from a socially prominent Rhode Island family, and she was never a writer. Hope's family, wealthy financiers, also owned thoroughbred horses, which might explain her love affair with the West.

Hope married a cowboy named Honeycutt Honey Jones, who supplemented his income by playing guitar, singing and performing magic acts. No one I talked to knew where he ended up, but it wasn't with Hope. The couple had one son, Archer, before they divorced. For a while, Hope raised the boy in the remote cliff house. She eventually divided her time between Redfield Canyon and a small horse ranch on the far east side of Tucson.

Archer eventually married and moved to Rhode Island. In 1988, after his retirement, he returned to Arizona and died of a heart attack while hiking in the Santa Rita Mountains south of Tucson.

Hope, 94, now lives in an apartment in Tucson, where she gets 24-hour care. Her CSpear Ranch still operates in Redfield Canyon, managed by cowboy Johnny Lavin. Seven horses and a mule continue to roam around her other ranch near Tucson. A caretaker drives her out there every day. She sits in the car, trapped by fading vision, smells the animals in their pens, hears their hooves shuffling in the soft ground, and smiles.

Someone close to Hope said, "I don't know why she came out here originally. She was raised in wealth, once dated Fred Astaire, still speaks French fluently. The beauty of that setting in Redfield Canyon was what appealed to her. She initially bought that place to raise horses and let them run wild. The BLM eventually told her to get her horses off the rangeland, and then it became exclusively a cattle operation. She was definitely physically involved in the ranch. She lived in the cliff house off and on for a decade, and even though her memory is not in the best of shape these days, she still has strong feelings about that place."

No wonder. Despite vandals' damage to the interior, the cliff house remains a hauntingly beautiful surprise - difficult to find, difficult to get to and capable of generating a dozen mysteries about its origins, but well worth the effort. Much like solving the "mystery" of Hope Jones. AUTHOR'S NOTE: Access to the cliff house may be limited by the extreme roughness of the road, which crosses private land. In an effort to dissuade vandals, a private landowner often locks the second gate mentioned in the story.

Rex Redhair Leaves Audiences 'All Shook Up'

A thrill passed through the crowd as Rex Redhair, better known as the “Navajo Elvis,” walked into the Chinle High School auditorium. He quickly shook a few hands, waved to the buzzing audience, then ducked behind a floor speaker to await his introduction. Redhair fidgeted with his coat, smoothed his black hair, took a few deep breaths. “Boy, am I scared,” he said. Only after taking the stage and dishing out a couple of hip shimmies and a leg twist or two did he begin to feel comfortable. Then his voice dropped into that sweet, velvety, oh-so-familiar sound that makes women swoon and, at least during this performance, shut their eyes and cry. Not a bad night's work for 48-year-old Redhair, a mild-mannered school board member from the tiny Navajo Indian Reservation town of Rough Rock. About three times a month at graduations, holiday parties and conferences he sheds his everyday image as a father of three and grandfather of two to pursue his passion. He describes his Elvis impersonation, which he has been doing on and off the reservation for nine years, as an homage to Presley, his hero. Redhair earns between $200 and $700 a show performing many of Elvis' old hits, including “Don't Be Cruel,” “Jailhouse Rock” and “All Shook Up,” with some Conway Twitty and Eddie Arnold songs thrown in. Between numbers, he talked to the crowd. “Thank you, man, you're beautiful,” he drawled. “Navajos are the most beautiful people on Earth.”

IS

Redhair's life changed forever on the day in 1958 he first heard Elvis sing. He was 6 years old and listening to his father's portable radio while herding sheep on Black Mesa, south of Kayenta. He jumped onto a large rock and sang along, using a piñon branch as a microphone.

"My first audience was sheep," said Redhair, a former probation officer and drug counselor in Chinle. "Whenever I heard him on the radio, I'd get up and shake every part of me that could be shaken, acting the fool."

But the isolation of the reservation made it difficult for Redhair to pursue his fascination. Who is this Elvis Presley? How can I get a look at him? he wondered.

Not until two years later, as a third-grader at Chinle Boarding School, did he see Presley's face for the first time. Redhair was lying in his bunk listening to music played by the dorm matron. When Presley came on, he hopped down, dashed for the record player and picked up the cover of one of Elvis' early albums.

"I looked at his picture and thought he was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen," said Redhair.

His wife, Darlene, certainly agreed. She was a junior in high school in 1971 when she met Redhair. He sang Elvis love songs to her and she fell head over heels.

"I was impressed because he was such a good singer," said Darlene. "My favorite was 'If I Were You.' There's a line in that song that goes, If I were you, I'd love me. Well, I did."

The two have been married 28 years. Darlene sometimes accompanies her husband to shows, giving her an up-close look at the occasionally wild antics of female audience members. Some throw room keys, scarves and flowers on stage. Redhair has even been handed scribbled love notes with names and addresses on them, and been asked to autograph various body parts.

"I'm used to ladies screaming and yelling," said Redhair, who is more shy than flamboyant off-stage. "Some of them even pretend to faint. At least I think they're pretending. But I don't take it too seriously."

The most outrageous episode occurred at a show in Crownpoint, New Mexico. Redhair was in the middle of his act when a pair of women's panties hit him in the face.

"They were humongous," said Redhair, spreading his hands to indicate underwear the size of a foot locker. He flung them away and kept singing. A moment later, he was hit in the face by a bra so big the impact almost knocked him over. Without missing a note, he got it untangled from around his neck and kept singing. Asked if he ever identified the undergarment tosser, he said, "No way. I was afraid to look."

Darlene was in the audience that night. "I thought to myself, What in the world's going on here?" she remembered. "Sometimes it gets a little embarrassing."

Redhair performed for the first time in 1972, when he attended Brigham Young University as a business student. His friends coaxed him into entering a talent competition. He did Elvis and won.

He performed several times that semester, but not again until 1992. A woman who'd known Redhair at BYU was arranging entertainment for a youth conference in Tuba City and remembered his act. She telephoned out of the blue and asked him to do it again. At first he said no. But she persisted, calling three times. He final-ly agreed, and the gig became his bust-out show. He began getting calls from around the rez that put him on the road nearly every weekend.

"He's the only Navajo I know with the courage to get up and do something like this," said Gloria Grant, curriculum center director for the Chinle schools. She helped organize Redhair's recent show in Chinle, part of a school district banquet.

With the singing over, some 30 fans crowded the stage to get Redhair's autograph or have their picture taken with him.

One little boy studied his signature and said sweetly, "Thank you, Elvis."

Redhair told him to stay in school and joked, "Hang onto that autograph because it might be worth a million dollars someday."

Most of those eager to meet Redhair were women, one of whom continued to brush away tears. But men respond to the Navajo Elvis, too.

Early in the show, Redhair had asked his audience what they'd like to hear. A Navajo man in the crowd, gray at the temples, arms folded, face expressionless, his black cowboy hat on the tablecloth in front of him, suddenly perked up. He cupped his mouth and hollered, "Love Me Tender!" AH

Birders come from around the country to witness the migratory flight of the sandhill cranes WINGS OVER WILLCOX

IN THE PREDAWN COLD, a small group of people stomp their feet and blow on gloved hands. They stand on a dirt road. The Dragoon Mountains to the west remain in the dark of night, while to the east, a golden hint of the coming day can be seen behind the peaks of Dos Cabezas. Then, the promised event that has brought them here begins, slowly at first. Four inky black dashes move across the eastern sky. Soon, four become eight, then a thin black line moving up and forming a liquid V. Birds. They have been waiting for birds. Now the birds cross the sky by the hundreds, then the thousands. Their long lines unfurl like ribbons of black velvet across the [THIS PAGE] Migratory birds use the Willcox Playa for roosting in winter, leaving early each morning in search of food.