WEEKEND GETAWAY: TUBAC

Haughtily ignoring a dozen clicking cameras. It's a good thing the festival runs for several days because there's more to see here than is possible in one weekend-even without the art festival. With more than 80 craft shops and galleries; the Presidio State Historic Park, an 18th-century Spanish garrison now housing a living-history museum; and the 4.5-mile Juan Bautista de Anza National Historic Trail along the Santa Cruz River, visitors could easily get their fill of art, history and nature. And a bird checklist from the presidio park identifies 83 local species, including six kinds of hummingbirds and 18 flycatchers.

During the festival, snatches of Spanish, German, Italian, French and a variety of Native American languages create the spirit of an international street market. "Global gourmand" describes the menu: Greek, Thai, Mexican, Southwestern and good old American-style hamburgers. Paintings, pots, furniture, sculptures, music, posters, gizmos, glass and gadgets abound. And don't forget distinguished artists. Nationally recognized Native American artist Amado Peña attended in 2001 and signed posters commissioned by the Tubac Chamber of Commerce.

I make a point of meeting Hal Empie, 92, one of Tubac's more famous citizens. Dozens of his cartoons have appeared in Arizona Highways and Life magazine and he's known internationally for his oil paintings, charcoals and line drawings. His daughter, Ann, and her husband, Peter Groves, run the Hal Empie Studio & Gallery on Tubac Road, where each day Empie paints scenes from the Arizona he remembers.

"I understand terrain," says Empie. "I don't have to look at anything."

I'm drawn to artists who prefer primitive techniques, so finding Peruvian potmaker Vilma Santana also makes my day.

"I use only ancient methods and the same tools my ancestors used," Santana says. "They must cool three days in the oven." She strokes a brightly colored pot with an expressive hand, deciphers the delicate Inca designs and speaks of her great respect for the bygone culture.

I never miss a chance to visit Lee Blackwell's modern metal sculpture studio. One of his life-size copper desert foliage fountains graces the entrance to The Rex Ranch Resort & Spa where

Coming Face to Face With Fear Under a MOUNTAIN LION'S Penetrating Gaze along the Way

ON THE SECOND MORNING OF A SEVEN-DAY solo trek through the Blue Range Primitive Area in east-central Arizona, I carried my backpack through ponderosa forests. Just after dawn, my eyes were sharp for animals. This is when I usually see them, skirting between night and day. Just as light emerged I came upon an ani-mal sitting at a water hole.

It took a second to register fully. At first I noticed the color of an animal, then the shape of a predator-and, finally, the mountain lion itself. It faced away from me, unaware of my presence. I dropped to my knees.

They say not to drop. They say to look big, make noise. Small statures invite attacks by mountain lions. My reflex, though, was to avoid being seen. I wanted to watch and I stayed low and absolutely still after releasing my pack to the ground. The lion drank from a stagnant bowl, a big clearing the cattle had been using. Per-fect form, this animal, a piece of absolute wildness that had yet to find my scent.

The lion turned and scanned the terrain once, twice, finding nothing unusual. Muscles showed through its tan summer coat. It was a male, a large cat. When it walked away from the hole and vanished into the for-est, I followed, arriving at the water several minutes behind it. By then the lion had gone into the trees. This time I made noise. I wanted it to know I trailed behind. With the clatter-ing of rocks and my shouting, I figured the mountain lion would start run-ning the other way. I had to get down there to find the scent while it was fresh. To see the tracks. No field books can repeat the effect of an animal's presence only a few moments old. When I came upon the tracks, I looked behind to check my back. I saw the lion. It had circled around on me and lain down. We shared a glance, 30 feet apart. It came to its feet quickly, causing me to suck in a breath. Then it walked toward me It did not move fast, as in a rushed attack, but slowly and deliberately. From its eyes, I could see it was not going to stop. It would walk straight through fire. The mountain lion, for as slowly as it seemed to move, was suddenly in front of me, 10 feet away. My eyes had already grown wide. I had already pulled the knife from my hip. I had already gulped in all of my fear. There was nothing I could do with it. The lion was there, and the voice in my head said, No, no, this is not supposed to happen. Never have I seen anything so void of hesitation. Its methodical stare gutted me. Every loose end, every frayed thought was gone. The lion had me frozen. The voice inside disappeared. The lion stopped just short of me, barely out of my reach. Its shoulders came about to my waist. The size of a large dog, around a hundred pounds.

It walked a tight circle to come around my back side, its tail swaying like a fencer's sword. I followed, never breaking eye contact. My feet stayed planted as I turned. This went on for minutes, hours, days. My entire life. If I stepped forward by an inch, the lion would have to either attack or step back. There was not a drop of debate in its stare. It looked for a weakness, for a chance, for me to slip and reveal the wall of fear I had swallowed.

It walked near the shade of the junipers, getting farther away. When I lifted my arms to appear larger, it returned instantly. I again froze and it circled me once more, then walked toward the junipers again. There it doubled back, skirting the forest. Eyes were on me every second, even as it turned. Then the mountain lion let go of me. As quickly as it had approached, it was gone.

Although the air stood still. Early sunlight came through ponderosa pines, shattering on the ground like pieces of broken glass. Along with the scent of sweat, I could smell the fresh sawdust of carpenter ants and the dryness of fallen oak leaves. I smelled the morning rising off the water hole where cold air had slept all night. My joints were stiff from standing still for so long. I felt as if I were made of porcelain, as if everything-my body and the world around me-would break the second I moved. So I remained standing as long as I could, remembering everything I could. The lion was gone and blood began to seep back toward my skin. Al