WEEKEND GETAWAY: AJO

Ajo history. From 1854 to 1982, men seeking the wealth of copper and silver poured into the area. The town rose almost overnight in 1917, when John Greenway, general manager of the New Cornelia Mine, set out to create a utopian company town. His wife, Isabella, brought her California taste for Spanish Colonial Revival-style architecture to Ajo. Isabella Greenway would later design and operate the splendid Arizona Inn in Tucson and represent Arizona in Congress.

Norma Walker helped host VIPs at the company guest house back in Ajo's mining heyday of the 1970s. When copper prices fell and the Cornelia shut down in 1984, she and her sons bought the property and re-created its 1925 glory. Now Mike Walker pampers guests and tends the fragrant gardens that ring the house. He's been keeping an eye out for Ajo lilies, but the only one he's seen so far was on the front page of the Copper News.

On Saturday morning, after a huge waffle-andfresh-fruit breakfast at the inn, I take a walk through history. On the south side of the plaza sits the town's unofficial gathering place, The Copper Kettle restaurant. On the north side, the Plaza Ice Cream & Deli's retro decor echoes the building's former use as a movie theater. And here's a tip: Should you decide to have the deli's tuna, order half of one of the 4-inch-high sandwiches. Although there are people who claim to have finished a whole one, I have my doubts.

Crossing State Route 85 at the town's only stoplight, I get a closer look at two landmark churches. Isabella Greenway's architect, George Washington Smith, designed both with variations on Spanish Colonial Revival. The 1924 Immaculate Conception Catholic Church rises in soft curves, while the Federated Church's 1926 design incorporates vertical lines and Art Deco details.

Between the two churches, Lomita Avenue points uphill to the bell tower of the massive Curley School. Before the school opened in 1919, children attended class in tents. Now the former school houses apartments and offices.

When the Phelps Dodge Corporation closed the Cornelia Mine, company-built houses around the school went up for sale. Retirees flocked to Ajo. By painting, planting and prettifying, they made this historic neighborhood a treat for the eye. Architectural survivors from early Ajo include the Cornelia Hotel, which once hid some shady secrets of prohibition, speakeasies and gangsters. Undergoing restoration, it now houses more legitimate businesses. I could meander all day, but the Ajo lily beckons. Following the scenic-drive map, Garmise and I head west on Rocalla Street, which turns into a [CLOCKWISE FROM RIGHT] Old St. Catherine's Indian Mission, now home of the Ajo Historical Society Museum. The elusive Ajo lily in a bed of sand verbena in Mohawk Valley. RANDY PRENTICE The New Cornelia Open Pit Mine from the Open Pit Lookout.

LOCATION: 110 miles south of Phoenix. GETTING THERE: From Phoenix, take Interstate 10 west 29 miles. Take Exit 112, merge onto State Route 85 and travel south to Ajo.

WEATHER: April average high, 82°; average low, 55.6°.

PHONE NUMBERS: Area code is 520; 800 series numbers are toll-free.

LODGING: Guest House Inn, 387-6133; Marine Motel, 387-7626; La Siesta Motel and RV Resort, 387-6569; Coyote Howls R.V. Park in Why, 387-5209.

RESTAURANTS: Cañon Grill, 1051 Solana Ave., 387-6904; Señor Sancho's, 663 N. Second Ave., 387-6226; Plaza Ice Cream & Deli, 28 Plaza St., 387-3354; Bamboo Village, 1810 N. Second Ave., 387-7536; Copper Kettle, the Plaza, 387-7953.

ATTRACTIONS: The Plaza and Historic District, off State Route 85 near the south end of town; Ajo Historical Society Museum, follow signs from town, Indian Village Road to Mission Road, 387-7105; Mine Overlook, Indian Village Road (no phone - info at chamber office); Scenic Loop Drive, pick up map at Si Como No, 207 Taladro, 387-7001; Ajo Art Gallery, 661 N. Second Ave., 387-7525; Cabeza Prieta National Wildlife Refuge Visitor Center, 1611 Second Ave., 387-6483; Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, 34 miles south of Ajo on State Route 85, 387-7661 or www.nps.gov/orpi.

TRAVEL ADVISORY: Some businesses and attractions close during summer months.

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION: Ajo Chamber of Commerce, 387-7742 or www.ajoinaz.com; Ajo Copper News, 387-7688.

It pretty good dirt road just outside of town. Quickly slipping between rocky peaks, we spot some man-size clumps of organ pipe cacti. We turn onto a rough trail that some locals refer to as Blue Rock Mine Road, which leads to a heap of stones dug up in the search for copper. There we hike up a wash, looking in vain for lush lilies where she had spotted some earlier in the month.

After exploring the scenic loop and side roads, I drop Garmise at her mountainside home and drive north through town on State 85 to the Cabeza Prieta National Wildlife Refuge office. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service oversees this forbidding stretch of desert where the endangered pronghorn antelopes play. Anyone wishing to hike through the area or drive the lonely 127 miles of roads must contact the refuge office for a permit. Although lilies reportedly sprout on the refuge, the wilderness trek is more than I can handle in a weekend, so I view a video about the area and watch birds and lizards scavenging along a half-mile nature trail behind the visitor center.

The refuge office sits along the highway on the north end of Ajo, along with motels, RVparks, restaurants and other necessities. The dining choices offer mostly Mexican food, but the Bamboo Village serves delicious Cantonese dishes in its little spot beside the bowling alley. At other meals, I sample chicken molé at Señor Sancho's and the creative dishes of the Cañon Grill.

The next morning I head up the hill to one of the largest open-pit mines in the country. The search for copper turned a mountain inside out, and the remaining terraced bowl plunges 1,200 feet deep and measures a mile and a half in diameter. A rainbow of rockmustard yellow, muddy brown, gray, lavender and mauve, broken by dots and streaks of turquoise-wraps around the now silent pit.

Across the pit, a humble white building with a bell tower clings to the rubbly side of the hill. Once St. Catherine's Indian Mission, it now serves as the “community attic,” the Ajo Historical Museum, run by volunteers who lived much of the town's history.

My guide, Ed Havins, an 80-year resident of Ajo, says, “Isabella Greenway was a nice person. I remember her riding around town in her big touring car. And Mr. Greenway was always on a horse.” Havins leads me through the warren of rooms. Where church services were once held stands a jumble of branding irons, baskets brown with age, a reconstructed kitchen with a 1938 calendar and an exhibit of World War I uniforms. I wince at the tools in an old-style dentist's office.

Back in town, I decide to take the 40-minute drive south to Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument in one last effort to find an Ajo lily. I see paloverde trees wearing clouds of golden blossoms, and hedgehog cacti sprouting winered flowers, but no lilies.

Maybe the weather isn't to blame for the Ajo lily's scarcity. Maybe, hard up for onions, those old miners ate too many of them. Who knows?

Still, even though the lily has eluded me, I have discovered enough treasures to make me want to return to Ajo and resume the search. All

along the way THE FISH DIE — That's the Catch for Three-yearold Fishermen

AFTER MONTHS OF WATCHING MY 3-YEAR-OLD twin boys fishing in the bathtub with anything remotely resembling a fishing pole, I decided to initiate them into the real world of angling. My brief experiences with catching grasshoppers for my father's bait (which I now suspect was a diversionary tactic) didn't prepare me for the task of teaching two boys how to fish in the wild. I opted for the more comforting atmosphere of a trout farm along Oak Creek north of Sedona in central Arizona.

I remember catching my first fish on a string attached to a stick, but Hayden and Blake insisted on real fishing poles, so we stopped on our way out of Phoenix and purchased Godzilla rods complete with little yellow tackle boxes. Despite my requests, the rods were quickly liberated from their plastic packaging and turned into makeshift swords.

After an hour and a half of back-seat “fenc-ing,” we pulled into the driveway of the Rainbow Trout Farm.

Once they saw the fish swimming in the clear pond, the boys' boisterous exclamations notified everyone nearby that there were fish in the water. Haunted by memories of silver minnows and fleshy earthworms, I found myself queasy at the prospect of baiting their hooks and momentarily hoped they'd be content watching the other people fish. That hope died a quick death. I asked for instructions at the shop in front, where one man inside was busily gutting someone's catch and another was handing out plastic foam cups of some grayish puttylike bait. I took the boys to a nearby table and fumbled with their gear a few minutes before giving up and heading back to the shop for assistance. The merciless man I'd seen through the window came out and carefully set up the boys' fishing poles. Then he helped me give them an introductory lesson in casting. Despite early mishaps, we finally got both lines in the water.

I told them to watch their bobbers, then settled under a shady tree for a leisurely afternoon read. I didn't get through the first paragraph of my book before Blake's bobber went under. His jumping and screaming got my attention, along with everyone else's. We lifted his line from the water to reveal a 14-inch trout. I stood frozen in astonishment while Blake watched the fish writhe on the hook with horrified fascination. A kind boy unhooked the fish just in time for me to turn and help Hayden. Within a half-hour they had reeled in five good-size trout and had caught several more that got away-thanks to their youthful technique. We lugged our bucket back to the shop where the boys' fish were measured, cleaned and packed in ice.

Not the biggest fish fan, I stopped at a friend's house on the way home and gave her all but Blake's first trout, which we transferred to a plastic bag for the final jaunt home. Blake held the bag in his chubby hand, beguiled by the shimmery scales and the fish's shiny black eyes. Once we got home I took the trout, turned on the oven, and pulled out a sheet of aluminum foil-all of which Blake watched suspiciously.

“Mom, what are you doing?” he asked with growing alarm as I began to rinse off his catch.

“I'm going to cook your fish,” I answered. Blake's eyes widened in horror. “No, Mom. Don't cook fish. Fish has an owie,” he insisted. “Put it back in the water.” “No, baby,” I said trying not to chuckle at his distress. “The fish is dead.” Nonchalantly, Hayden piped up. “The fish is dead, Blake.” The boys headed off to do little-boy things while I cooked dinner. I pulled the meat off the bones after it was cooked, in hopes they wouldn't question its source, before serving it with green beans, macaroni and cheese and sliced tomatoes. They sat down at the table, and Blake immediately looked at the steaming pink meat heaped on a serving dish.

His hazel eyes turned to me accusingly and in a voice filled with disgust, he asked, “Mom, is that my fish?” I nodded and then watched him walk to the trash can, where he found evidence of my dirty deed. Resignedly, we wrapped up the meat with the bones and the head and carried it to the outside trash can for an impromptu burial service. Once back at the dinner table, Blake served himself some macaroni and cheese and looked at me sweetly.

“Mom, I want chicken.” Heading to the microwave to cook some chicken nuggets, I wondered what I'd ever feed him if he discovered the relationship of his favorite food to those fluffy, yellow chicks at Easter.

Farms, I decided, are definitely off-limits. AH