DESTINATION: Sharlot Hall Museum

John Charles Fremont, who became Arizona's colorful fifth Territorial governor in 1878. He got the governorship as a delayed reward for withdrawing from the 1860 primary race against President Lincoln. Though spare by today's standards, the cottage back then stood clapboard and gingerbread above the rough log house across the path that functioned as the Governor's Mansion at the time.

The museum's only Territorial structure still on its original site, the mansion looks palatial only when seen through the eyes of settlers who were making do with tents, shacks or wagons in 1864. Left untended for years, the decaying home was rescued when Hall petitioned the city to begin a museum in 1927. She argued that Prescott needed a place “to hold the soul of yesterday” and that the mansion was the place. City officials agreed and leased her the property for life. After months of labor to make it habitable, she moved in and supervised this adobechinked log building's restoration. It now serves as the museum's centerpiece.

In the stone Sharlot Hall Building, I found several teenagers discussing the intricacies of the Mutascope, a movie projector predecessor, while others rang up “sales” on a big brass cash register. I preferred the historical photos on the touch-screen computer kiosk because my score at naming household items in the Victorian vignette was nothing to brag about. Although it recalled a sad part of history, the Yavapai Indians exhibit documented the local tribe's culture and bloody conflicts with American soldiers.

No visit is complete without chatting with the costumed living-history guides. Ask the “pioneer woman” tending her vegetable and herb gardens at the Ranch House about her ranch duties, or discuss blacksmithing, newspaper production or life as a teacher in the tiny one-room school. Sometimes, there's a dapper “gunfighter” in a Wyatt Earp hat who spins heart-stopping tales.

The Sharlot Hall display in the Museum Center definitely makes the do-not-miss list. All history museums feature oddities of the past, but few can claim a founder who's at least as colorful as its contents.

“I am no man's woman,” Hall wrote. “My heart and soul belong to this vast land of desert, cactus, pine, and mountain.” Explorer, writer, editor and passionate history preservationist, Hall became Arizona's second Territorial Historian in 1909, the first woman to fill a Territorial office.

Not one to dwell exclusively on the past, however, Hall once wrote to her cousin that the “... past and present and future are one continuous stream of life.” Having that philosophy, she'd probably enjoy the contemporary side to the museum's programs. Annual schedules include four major events (Folk Arts Fair, Cowboy Poets Gathering, Indian Art Market and Folk Music Festival) and more than a dozen smaller events, including concerts and river-rafting trips. Continuing Hall's literary legacy, the museum hosts a writer-in-residence program, writers' weekends and original productions from its own Blue Rose Theater group.

For Sharlot Mabridth Hall, history existed as a living, breathing entity, not only to be read, but experienced, preserved and pursued. Luckily, she was a woman true to her calling, and today visitors from around the world can admire her achievements and her spirit in this tranquil oasis in time. All

THINGS TO DO IN

YOUNG'S FARM A working family farm offers fresh poultry and produce in season, tours and hayrides during special events. Country store, restaurant and bakery open all year. Kids love the farm animal zoo; Dewey, 632-7272.

THE PHIPPEN MUSEUM OF WESTERN ART View works by prominent Western artists; Prescott, 778-1385.

THUMB BUTTE PARK From downtown, take Gurley Street/Thumb Butte Road west 3.5 miles to the trailhead and picnic area at the foot of the granite landmark. Parking fee; Prescott National Forest, Bradshaw Ranger District, 771-4700.

PRESCOTT

YAVAPAI COLLEGE ART GALLERY The campus gallery sponsors events and exhibits art by students and faculty, as well as by national and local artists; Prescott, 776-2031.

PRESCOTT FINE ARTS ASSOCIATION Community volunteers have organized an art gallery, gift shop and theater in what used to be an historic downtown church. Call for schedule of performances; Prescott, 445-3286.

LYNX LAKE Southeast of town, picnic, camp, boat and fish under the pines. Recreational parking fee; Prescott National Forest, Bradshaw Ranger District, 771-4700.

THE MCCORMICK ARTS DISTRICT

As you leave the Sharlot Hall Museum, find the colorful mural on the buildings at the corner of McCormick and Gurley streets and turn north. You can't miss the riot of funky hot pink, turquoise, lavender, neon yellow, orange and purple bungalows-turned-galleries. Watch for:

along the way The Night an ICEBERG HIT THE DESERT

AT DAWN, A SMALL GROUP OF YOUNG MEN stood awestruck at the sight before them: More than a hundred tons of ice slowly melted in the desert morning's first rays of sun. I stared at the glinting mini-iceberg and knew I was in deep trouble. Jobs for college and high school students were hard to find that summer of 1949. After a frustrating morning spent looking for any kind of job, I decided to cool off at the Mesa municipal swimming pool. There I ran into Russ, another unemployed young man I knew vaguely. Looking for sympathy, I whined about the unfairness of it all and the impossibility of finding a job without having connections. I figured Russ to be unconnected also, but he surprised me by confiding, "They're hiring at the icehouse for the night shift, and I bet if we get there early, we can get on."

He was right, and the next evening we started working through the night, 10 P.M. to 6 A.M. The simple, physical labor meant moving 300-pound blocks of ice from storage, breaking them up and packing the pieces onto railroad cars. This primitive refrigeration system cooled local produce during cross-country transport. Transferring the ice from the icehouse to "reefer" cars involved two crews. The inside crew pried loose the large blocks of ice, then sent them down a system of gravity chutes to outside the storage building. There the ice blocks rode along a system of conveyor chains and chutes, made a couple of turns and wound up with the outdoor crew at a long, high loading platform beside a railroad spur. The workers gaffed the blocks, split them into four pieces, sent them down portable chutes into the reefer car compartments and then broke them up further to fit as much as possible into each compartment. Russ and I joined the outside crew. His ability to spin a running skein of tall tales livened the long, dull nights of work. The work was not continuous. Often the Rube Goldbergian conveyor system would break down for a time, and we would get a break during the repairs. One night, because I happened to be the last one to enter the storage building, the foreman tapped me for what seemed a choice assignment. The foreman led me to a spot and told me to stay there and keep an eye on the last leg in the conveyor system and to be on the ready to sound an alarm if anything went wrong. I had just settled in for an easy-if-dull task when an assistant boss came along and wondered just what I was doing. I explained my temporary role in the scheme of things, but he wasn't buying it. So, off I went to spend a chilly shift indoors. We worked solidly through the night, prying, pulling and pushing; prying, pulling and pushing. Just before the shift's end, word came for us to assemble outside, where we came face to face with an immense, ragged ice floe, composed of almost all the blocks we had dispatched down the chute through the night. Early on, one block had jammed the system right at the point where it switched from a short chute to the final conveyor belt. Each successive block to fall joined the ever-growing pile. The foreman appeared, roused from his night's rest by a frantic phone call, and observed the mess. "Where," he snarled, "is the joker I told to...?" His voice trailed off as he spied me with a wild look in his eye. I rapidly backpedaled as he neared, trying to explain what happened. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the assistant boss trying to slink away. "It was him," I gurgled. The last I saw of the assistant boss, his arm was firmly in the foreman's grip as they went around a corner. The foreman was speaking softly but forcefully into that unfortunate's ear. I quickly clocked out with the distinct impression it would not be in my best interest to show up for the next night's shift. That afternoon I returned to the municipal pool, where once again I met Russ. When he stopped laughing, he explained that things had started normally and then the ice stopped coming. Far out on the end of the railroad loading platform, the outdoor crew had no idea what had happened and just took a long nap until the shift ended. Being unemployed through no fault of my own, I was less amused. "Hey, don't worry," chirped Russ. "I hear that a melon-packing shed is opening tomorrow morning. I bet if we get there early, we can get on." He was right again.