WEEKEND GETAWAY: FLAGSTAFF

Many buildings on the tour exude the flavor of the Old West, including the McMillan Building, also known as the Bank Building, and the Weatherford Hotel, both on Leroux Street at its intersection with Route 66.

The Weatherford has anchored its spot downtown since opening in 1900. Owners Henry Taylor and his wife, Sam Green, have spent years refurbishing the place to its original look, including reinstalling second-floor balconies that burned in a 1929 fire.

A saloon on the hotel's third floor houses a huge mahogany bar that Taylor believes once stood in Tombstone's Palace Hotel in the 1880s.

My favorite story about the Weatherford involves Jimmy Swinnerton, an artist for Hearst Newspapers and a frequent guest, whose hobbies, especially when boozing, included spitting off the balcony at passersby.

In about 1915, he came to town to dry out, and, while doing so, he painted. When his boss, William Randolph Hearst, visited, Swinnerton showed him his paintings and asked for the newspaper mogul's opinion. Hearst, thoroughly unimpressed, cracked that Swinnerton should start drinking again.

Writer Zane Grey also stayed at the Weatherford while hunting on the Mogollon Rim, and included descriptions of the hotel in his 1924 novel Call of the Canyon.

Green says potential guests should know that the hotel's rooms lack phones and televisions, and the nights can get noisy if the saloon is hopping. “But if you have a spirit of fun and want some entertainment, this is the place,” she says.

Another great old structure is the Babbitt Building, constructed in 1888 as a general store. The family has been a defining presence in town, with business interests ranging from retailing to ranching, cars and sheepherding.

The family's success made them the subject of a joke or two, retold by the Mangums: A man approaches a sheep lolling in a meadow and asks, “Who's sheep are you?” And the animal responds, “Baaaaaaaa-bbitt's.” “This downtown has really come back since the mid-1980s, when we had a lot of vacancies here,” says businessman James E. Babbitt, brother of former Arizona governor and Secretary of Interior Bruce Babbitt. “But with the variety of shopping we have now, it's One must-see is Steve Beiser's store, Puchteca, named for an Aztec trader's guild that operated a thousand years ago. Its members walked to Flagstaff from northern Mexico to trade their wares.

The Indians Beiser buys from today travel much shorter distances, but their goods are absolutely authentic. Most of his stock comes from Hopis and Navajos, and includes paintings, pottery and jewelry. His Navajo rugs are made by the best weavers, and range in price from $400 to $2,500.

Anyone interested in differentiating a real kachina from an imitation can chat with Beiser, who has been in business 26 years, and before that worked at a trading post.

"You can tell by what the kachina is carrying, and the colors and facial features," explains Beiser. "It's like the difference between cubic zir-conia and diamonds. They look alike, but one has value and one doesn't."

The Winter Sun Trading Company also sells authentic kachinas, but adds a twist with its wide selection of medicinal herbs, many of which havebeen used by Navajos and Hopis for centuries.

The shop draws locals who might stop by to pick up a bag of, say, osha root, which looks like a twig and serves as a throat lozenge, or some Mormon tea for the sinuses. "A lot of Native Americans shop here. We even have a laboratory downstairs where we make tinctures," says clerk Jonathan Day, referring to mixtures of liquid plant extracts.

Another downtown store popular with Indians is Galaxy Sales Co., which has sold saddles and colorful Pendleton blankets among other stock since 1956.

The store remains a cramped throwback to the past, and even has a saddlemaker working in a shop out back. Ramon Paredes has been handcrafting his creations for more than 30 years, a "Not many of us still do it this way," says the 50-year-old Paredes. The leather on each of the store's saddles is stamped "Galaxy, Flagstaff, Az," and numbered, indicating how many they've made. They're approaching 5,000.

When it's time to eat, downtown Flagstaff doesn't disappoint. Charly's Pub & Grill, on the ground floor of the Weatherford, offers a good

meat and fish menu. For Italian food, there's

Pesto Brothers, across the railroad tracks on South San Francisco Street, and an upscale

white-tablecloth spot called Pasto, just down the

street from the Weatherford.

But my favorite activity is browsing the streets on a bright Sunday morning, dropping in at McGaugh's Newsstand to flip through its collection of books, newspapers, magazines and even cigars.

Then it's an easy stroll across the street to Heritage Square, a beautiful red-brick plaza next to the Babbitt Building, to read, listen to the train whistles - they howl 81 times a day and daydream.

I recall a story told by longtime Flagstaff resident Joe Riordan, who, as a 13-year-old, worked at a dirt golf course near town. Early one sumOne morning in 1949, he was walking to work when he hitched a ride with a man in a big black car, who, it turned out, was also going to the golf course.

The stranger asked Riordan to golf with him, and the boy agreed, playing three holes. That night, Riordan's mom was invited by the owner of the Hotel Monte Vista to have cocktails with the movie star who happened to be staying there. When she came home, his mom asked Joe if he knew with whom he'd played golf that morning. The youngster had no idea.

"It was Clark Gable," said his mom. The actor often visited Flagstaff to hunt and fish.

Even today, 51 years later, Riordan says, "It's funny, but I remember that black car more than I remember him. And back then, heck, I didn't know Clark Gable from a load of hay."

Folks in a similar predicament can come to Flagstaff's downtown to acquaint themselves with Mr. Gable's haunt or the railroad or the Old West or Zane Grey's stories - or any of the other historical attractions that make it a unique weekend destination. AH

When Did They Change Horses? CREATIVE SOLUTIONS to a Mounting Problem

WHAT HAPPENED TO HORSES? Why didn't someone tell me they got so tall? Course, I hadn't ridden a horse in 25 years, but when did it become nearly impossible to get on one? I received the shock of my life when I went to swing onto Old Buck and nothing swung. It took some stretching just to raise my left foot to the stirrup. Then I grabbed the saddle horn with one hand and the back of the saddle with the other, gave my right leg a swing and just stood there. The horse looked back at me with a "come on, what you waiting for?" expression, but try as I could, that right leg wouldn't cooperate. My swinger was done swung out. When the wrangler brought an old green bucket over, I swallowed my pride, stepped on the bucket and heaved myself onto the saddle. I couldn't believe it. When I was younger, horses weren't that hard to get on. Why, I used to do that fancy little step cowboys do. You know, the one where they grab hold of the saddle horn, give a cute little jump to get their foot in the stirrup, then effortlessly swing onto the saddle. I could even put one foot in the stirrup, give a giddy-up so the horse would take off, and I'd swing up and on in full run just like Roy Rogers in the movies. Hey, I was so good I could get on a horse bareback, wearing tight Wranglers, too. I've thought about this a lot. I know I haven't changed, so the problem must be taller horses. Probably the result of that new pellet feed and fancy oats or selective breeding and artificial insemination. Maybe, with those fancy blankets and stockings horses wear nowadays, they're just so proud they stand taller. Whatever the reason, something has got to be done. This is serious. I can't go on looking for a bucket, stump, the upside of a downhill or an obliging cowboy to give me a shove every time I get on a horse. This old gray mare by JANET WEBB FARNSWORTH is fine; it's the horse that ain't what he used to be. I've thought of a few solutions. Feel free to pick an idea and run with it. Heck, even patent it if you want. Those of you with scientific minds, get off your high horse and quit worrying about atoms, viruses and space exploration. Let's solve a real world problem. What about a stirrup that pulls down? Maybe attach a bungee cord to it, pull it down to your foot, stick your boot in and let go. Okay, okay, you might fly clear over the horse and land who-knows-where. But, like I said, it's just an idea and needs a few kinks worked out. You know those rope ladders on boats, the ones pretty girls in bikinis use to climb out of the water? Well, how about one of those attached to the horn and the back of a saddle? Just lower it down and climb aboard. I haven't quite figured out how to get it undone and stowed away, but one of you out there can surely handle that small obstacle. Come to think of it, why use a ladder when an elevator would do? They have those elevators that sit on the edge of the stairs and haul one person up - something along those lines. You step on the platform, push the button and up you go to the saddle. You'd have to be careful about your horse, though; he might shy at the noise. Come to think of it, there wouldn't be any place to plug in the electric line unless you carried a long extension cord or found a "current" bush. Maybe I'm looking at the problem all wrong. Cowboy boots could be the answer. Just put strong springs on the heels, you know, like those pogo sticks kids hop around on. First, I could warm up with a few short hops, then run, bounce hard once and fly onto the saddle. But then, maybe not. That landing might be a bit tricky. I've got it! Let's just train those high horses to get down on their knees. Camels do it, why can't horses? I know it wouldn't help the image of the American cowboy, but think about it. I'd saddle Old Buck, lead him out of the corral, pull my hat down tight, hitch up my Wranglers and imperially command Buck to "kneel." Obediently, my horse would go down on his two front knees, I'd gracefully slide onto the saddle and crisply order Buck to "rise." Then, with a snappy wave of my Stetson, it would be "yippy yi yay" away into the sunset. A much more elegant scene than me standing on a bent bucket with a cowboy straining to boost me onto the saddle.