Stamp Sickness Part II: Anniversaries, Shrines, and those Damned Magnets

If there's a break in the clouds and a penny to spare, our thoughts head in the direction of visiting an NPS site. Even if we've been there before, or have drained it dry of tidbits and collectibles, there's always the possibility of a new stamp that some aging volunteer had assumed was junk. Why, there could be a long-lost picture stamp stuffed in a drawer somewhere that could have been brought out since our last visit! If there's a chance - even a small one - we're willing to gas up and hit the road. And then there's the new wrinkle that's destined to drain our sanity even further: the Passport Program's 25th Anniversary Stamps. Just when we thought there was no reason to look back - only forward - we are forced, through compulsion alone, to retrace our stamps and stuff our second passport book (also a 25th Anniversary edition) with these little ink devils. Why do they torture us so? Don't they know we'll suffer from the DT's until this damned deed is done?

So yes, while we were excited about hitting new sites on our most recent trip to Arizona, we also logged significant miles throwing open the doors of familiar visitor centers to hunt down the anniversary stamps. Even Capulin National Monument, an hour out of the way despite our fatigue, could not be ignored, even though we had no intention of driving up to the top once again. In, stamp, and out, all in under a minute of rushed excitement. And if we were told that they forgot to tell us about the odd little rarity that just arrived in the mail that morning, we'd be back again, even if we had nothing else to do in the area. Fortunately, our mental illness is directed at sending more dollars to an already strapped element of the federal government. No one is harmed, except of course the occasional ranger who gives us lip and doubts a stamp's existence.

And then there are the park brochures, called "unigrids" by the faithful. While containing beautiful pictures and valuable information, why not slice them down to size, frame them, and decorate the walls of our home? While we've limited their scope to two rooms and a hall, there's no reason we can't go further, spending hundreds of dollars to dazzle the eye with assorted collages and artful poses. The images are diverse and colorful, so they really add character to an otherwise bland environment, and they sure beat the presidential photos we preferred in years past. In the end, it's always better to stare at Devils Tower instead of Warren Harding.

Finally, there are the magnets. Not as vital as the stamps, of course, but pretty damn close. The obsession started harmlessly enough in December 2009 at the Salinas Pueblo Missions, and though it was not known at the time that it would feed our OCD, it took only a month for the collection to catch fire. But what to do about places we had already visited? Would we have to drive back? Not necessarily. Fortunately, there's an Arizona-based organization called Western National Parks Association, and in addition to stocking bookstores at assorted NPS sites, they have a teeming catalog of park-related collectibles, including those glorious magnets. As such, we were able to secure magnets from well over a dozen past sites that would otherwise elude us. Still, the WNPA is not everywhere, and for some, we would have to make a personal appearance. Hey, it's always a good thing to see America's treasures, but I can't say it tickled my travel bone to be forced to hit Agate Fossil Beds once again. Needless to say, we went anyway, taking a weekend to also hit Fort Laramie, Scotts Bluff, and Chimney Rock.

Will we ever stop? I doubt it, as our refrigerator still has space galore; more than enough to accomodate over 100 sites. But why? Aren't such collections usually reserved for the severly autistic or eldery shut-ins who spend more time talking to their trash than other human beings? Sure, every serial killer or mental patient has a box of something to foist on outsiders, but for now, we're still in possession of our faculties. That said, check back in a few years to see how we're doing. At the very least, we'll have more magnets to show you.

Side Dish: Queen Mine Tour - Bisbee, AZ 3/5/11

Our country's history, above all, is the story of capital versus labor. Not to descend into Marxist paranoia or anything, but whenever we're honest with ourselves and the legacy of the American Way, we come face to face with broken backs, dirty faces, and the cigar-chomping pigs who exploit them. From Pinkerton goons firing on women and children, to company towns that had all the good cheer and freedom of Stalinist gulags, the nation's poor have chopped, picked, smashed, and choked, all in untold pain for the benefit of a few. I think we all know this in our heart of hearts, but prefer the comforting fable that via the proverbial bootstrap, anyone can be anything, which, translated into Americanese, means we all expect to be rich inside of an hour. Most of us, however, are working people. Maybe not exploited, abused, and tossed aside like so much rubble, but paycheck to paycheck nonetheless. And yet we always keep one eye on that mansion on a hill, straightening our cheap ties in case we're ever asked to the grown up's table.

So here we are in lonesome Bisbee, Arizona - a progressive town nowadays, what with its gay pride parades and hippie ethic - once the epicenter of copper mining in the Southwestern United States. And in case you doubted the official story, it retains the epic scar of the Lavender Pit Mine to prove that while we get so much wrong, we are experts at tearing the earth to pieces for its mineral riches. The pit remains jarring, but such buried wealth built this country, and while we might feel guilty, there's no denying it. Sure, such mines destroy any and all natural beauty in a given area, and the damage lasts well beyond the lives of those who made it happen, but what else have we? Surely windmills wouldn't have powered the United States to the status of a global titan, right? So it's a conflicted legacy, and in a place like Bisbee, we take all the pain, blood, and tears, and spit it back as tourism. And why not? When in doubt, slap on the gear of a miner, sit your ass on a tram, and go where so many went, black lung and all. Only now, it's a theme park. Sixteen-hour days with no health insurance as a vacation.

So why go on the Queen Mine Tour? Because it's only $13 a person and you've never been in an actual mine before, dummy. And while it was slightly humiliating to be the only person on the tour to be handed the XXL yellow slicker, it was kind of cool to be strapped in and outfitted like we were all headed to our doom. They place the helmet on your head, squeeze you into your belt, and pat you on the back with good fellowship. It's not at all an authentic mining experience (first of all, there aren't enough kids to round out the child labor quota), but few can turn down an opportunity to enter the bowels of the earth and return unscathed. And hell, it's only 1,500 feet down, and while cool (the mine is always 47 degrees), no one would have to work up a sweat with a pick-ax. Sure, the man in sitting in front of me was so close to my lap that I damn near felt obligated to tuck a dollar bill in his g-string, but it just felt good to get out of that gift shop before I bought something predictably silly.

The tour lasted 75 minutes, which wouldn't have been half bad had the tour guide hit reliable English more frequently than one out of every ten words. He was a charmer, but he could have been cursing us under his breath and we wouldn't have been the wiser. Though the expected sentence - "mumblemumblemumble ... INSTANTDEATH ... mumblemumblemumble ... GETTHEHELLOUTNOW" - never came, the history lesson wasn't all it could have been had we been led by a firm, full-throated speaker. Oh well. He took us off the tram now and again, up some rickety stairs, and into various nooks and crannies where holes were drilled, dynamite set, and poor mules left to go blind and drop dead, all for the glory of copper. To be sure, the danger of the mine was never minimized, but I wonder how accurate the impressively low death rate actually was. Fine, maybe few died right there and then, but how to account for cancer and respiratory failure? One imagines few lived to collect Social Security.

In all, the mine tour is a must-do, as much as it's always obligatory to visit any place a town is known for. Bisbee itself, while similar to some of the nice mountain towns we've seen a million times, is not the stuff of dreams, often appearing low rent and dilapidated instead of quaint and rugged. We'd have stayed longer, but, well, none of the cafes and coffee shops looked like they would remain standing by the time we emerged from the mine tour. Our visit, like so much else on this trip, was mandatory given that we drove right by two short years ago, but we left with little more than a shrug. Yeah, come if you're in the area (because you're likely to end up in Bisbee by accident), but don't put yourself out too much. Unless you simply must snap a photo of Copper Man. Which we also did.

Side Dish: Fort Craig Nat'l Historic Site 3/5/11

This should not be a side dish. In a perfect world - one in which the faceless cowards at Eastern National didn't make arbitrary distinctions between the NPS and BLM, thereby denying the latter their own proud set of passport stamps - we'd make the turn from Interstate 25, drive the dozen or so miles of dirt road, and pull into a well-scrubbed visitor center to receive our bounty. No such luck. Mind you, we knew there wouldn't be any stamps at this location (we have studied the appropriate lists enough to know every last hiding place), but we felt obligated to at last make a visit, largely because we'd seen the road sign so many times that curiosity finally overtook common sense. I also knew that unlike many forts in the NPS system, this non-NPS locale was barren beyond belief, and what remained standing was barely enough to suggest a fort had even existed. Oh well.....what's an extra hour or so as the New Mexico sun begins its final fade?

It's a shame Fort Craig doesn't receive more attention, however, because from a historical standpoint, it can stand with other, more well-known structures. According to the brochure, "By July of 1861, Fort Craig had become the largest fort in the Southwest with over 2,000 soldiers and growing." It played a key role in the region's Civil War skirmishes (a show of force at the fort intimidated Confederate troops into squelching plans for a direct assault) and during the Indian Wars, numerous Buffalo Soldiers made their home there. During the fort's existence from 1854 until 1885, life was often described as lonely and deadly (leaky roofs, crumbling walls, and crowded conditions defined the remote site), but as conflicted as its legacy can be for modern historians, its continued preservation ensures that we'll always debate the merits of policies that both created an empire for some, while destroying a way of life for others.

Given the late hour, we were the only visitors at the site, though it's not hard to imagine the same would be true had we stopped by hours before. Some folks just dig forts - and we count ourselves among them - but as time goes by, we find that we're less inclined to drive to such places that fail to result in the inking of a stamp pad. The visitor center at Fort Craig not only lacks the sacred ink, but much interpretative data at all. I clearly surprised the skeleton crew on hand, as an aging woman ran inside to greet me, just in time to hand me a brochure that was clearly visible from the room's lone rack. I later learned that this woman lived on site in the RV parked next door, along with her husband, and that, along with a salary that can't be much more than the couple's Social Security checks, they were provided food, propane, and cyanide capsules for the winter months. These caretakers are charged with protecting the fort's shell from vandalism, though I can't imagine who would drive all the way out here to piss on some bricks. Never underestimate the will of your average bored teenager, I guess.

The site does feature living history displays and celebrations, but on this day, there's little more than a brisk walk along a rocky path, which inexplicably fails to loop around, forcing visitors to cover the same ground on the way back. This might sound trivial, but for the usually lazy and car-bound, this can be critical. The ghostly fort is spare, stark, and sad - and perhaps a little difficult to contextualize - but with the onset of twilight, the decaying walls held a certain grandeur, as if the past had a little more to say before it faded into silence. But as we drove away, leaving behind a lot of unanswered questions (the VC cries out for a film), I couldn't help but think about that old couple, likely finishing their Parcheesi marathon before settling in for a long, silent evening beneath the stars. What brought them here? Will they ever leave? And when will they once again meet with crazily obsessed visitors intent on seeing everything in the Land of Enchantment? Here's to 'em.

Getting Our Rocks Off: Chiricahua Nat'l Monument 3/3/11

Much to our surprise, Chiricahua National Monument made the list of the Twenty Least Visited National Monuments in 2009, clocking in at a relatively paltry 60,851 visitors. The source of our shock has much to do with what we thought was Arizona's popularity and appeal as an outdoor paradise, but also the stunning uniqueness of the site's "sky island" rock formations, beginning about 27 million years ago after the eruption of the Turkey Creek Volcano. Spewing ash over 1,200 square miles, the volcano produced heated particles that melted and cooled, cracked and shifted, and, via the usual erosive forces of ice and water, produced spires of stone that stagger the imagination with their beauty, breadth, and defiance of the ordinary. Chiricahua is a hiker's dream, and it seems more than a little odd that this has not become a mecca for the fit and the fearless. While we wouldn't be asking too much of our lungs on this visit, we can certainly understand the temptation to start on a trail, get lost, and never look back.

That said, this is not a site you can stumble upon by accident. Located 35 miles southeast of Willcox, the apparent closeness to civilization is almost laughably misleading, as one of Arizona's loneliest roads goes on and on and on, adding the unexpected treat of resembling a sun-baked roller coaster. Hungry? Low on fuel? Fill up both your belly and gas tank before heading out, as you'll encounter, well, absolutely nothing until you reach a sadistic visitor center that emptied its ancient shelves of sustenance long ago. Still, a bare cupboard is the least of the VC's problems. Let's take the ancient relic manning the register. I was damn near mummified after waiting several decades to purchase a magnet, and I'm pretty sure I was the very first person to whom she has counted back change. Hell, I'll be lucky to be upright at that age, but I'll also have the sense to know that I shouldn't be taking care of weary travelers at a national park site. I would have complained about the shabby ink pad that left our stamp appalingly light, but I'm not sure I had the patience to endure her confusing hunt for the "talking box" so that could pass along my concern.

Still, grandma was, against the odds, far from the oldest fixture at this New Deal-era visitor center. The film? Your guess is as good as mine, as I'm pretty sure a site with rocks should actually discuss said rocks. The exhibits? If your idea of informative is a grab bag of random objects from the "brand new" Civilian Conservation Corps, as well as placards using a font retired along with Joe McCarthy's career, then proceed with a toothy grin. And the computer that just might accept those eight-inch floppy discs with which one could play Oregon Trail? Who the hell knows. With so many sites getting new digs these days, clearly someone needs to take up Chiricahua's fight. Like, now.

Cheap shots aside, we're here for what the Apache called "standing up rocks." After leaving the VC, we hit the Bonita Canyon Drive, which is eight miles in length and climbs 1,500 feet in elevation before reaching its end at Massai Point. While that point produces the best views, the drive itself is packed with sights at the assorted pullouts, including the Organ Pipe Formation, Sea Captain, China Boy, and Echo Canyon. In addition to the rocks, there are endless seas of oak, ponderosa pine, and Douglas fir, along with a wilderness area that appears to extend forever. Yes, yes, we know all about the assorted hiking trails, but we would be content to stand before the Rhyolite Canyon with only the cool desert air to guide us. I hopped along the rocky path to reach the best vantage point, and I'm glad I did, as many of the rocks to my left were thinner and more striking than many seen elsewhere.

Did we stay long enough at Chiricahua? I fear not, but when you're covering the kind of ground we do in so short a time, pup tents and campfire chats are not in the cards. Everything we saw here was thrilling to be sure, but it's debatable whether we spent more time driving in than at the site itself. And to add to the frenzy, the time crunch forced us to leave nearby Fort Bowie National Historic Site in our wake, which has come to haunt us now that we know we could have driven the ranger access road instead of suffering through a three-mile roundtrip hike to the visitor center. Will we be back to right that wrong? You have been reading the blog, right? Count on it. Sooner than later. Mileage be damned.

FINAL RATING

8/10

Up Against the Wall: Coronado National Memorial 3/5/11

"DO NOT COME HERE!"

"It isn't worth the taxing drive on the dirt road for a whole lot of nothin'."

"Your car most likely will be broken into if it is in the Visitor Center parking lot."

"Don't even try to drive up Montezuma Pass....The Border Patrol are harsh and will follow your every move."


These are just a few warnings posted amongst the various blogs on the Web regarding Coronado National Memorial in Arizona. When looking at the Rand McNally atlas, Coronado appears to be straddling the border between the United States and Mexico with not a town or soul in sight to save you from the drug cartel that you KNOW is waiting for you if you attempt to venture here.

Rubbish.

Most of it, that is. Coronado National Memorial, approximately 25 miles south of Sierra Vista, Arizona, isn't nearly the arduous task that other bloggers led us to believe. Sierra Vista, an isolated military outpost of over 50,000, never really ends as you make your way to the memorial. Neighborhoods, sprawling ranches, and even a group of teenagers on a ROTC exercise, welcomed us on the easy drive to the site. The expected pothole-ridden dirt road nightmare turned out to be a new two-lane asphalt road that took us all of 15 minutes from "downtown" Sierra Vista.

The dark brown line in the middle of the above shot is all that separates Coronado National Memorial from Mexico. This is the fabled fence that will protect the souls of the United States (read: scared white people) from incoming illegal aliens. This fence, in our minds, is as sturdy as an iron gate behind a mine field preceded by electric chicken wire.

Only one problem with our viewpoint. The fence is made of a couple wires and a sequence of 2x8 plywoods traversing the length of this harsh landscape. A problem with the assumptions of the American people is that the majority have never ventured 200 miles from a border town. Stealing your Grandmother's Cabbage Patch Kids collection is most likely a more difficult task than scaling the border wall. Coronado lies a mere 3/4 mile from the border, and homes dot the landscape on the U.S. side, while Mexico's side near Coronado holds nary a tree, house or available shade outpost for a traveling Tejano. The border patrol does indeed scour the area on a constant basis, but given the bleak view on the Mexico side, if people want to breach the border, they will.

At the end of the short road, a small visitor center offers everything that this site could possibly entertain. Being a National Memorial, and the exact location of Coronado's crossing into (today's) United States remaining unknown, the site itself is a homage to Coronado and the invasion entrance of the European explorers and the ensuing culture clashes and bloodbaths it ultimately resulted in.

What the visitor center does exactly right is immediately immerse the tourist in Spanish times and decor. A jarring sight, when one is used to sterile centers with white walls and 70's exhibits, you enter into a space no larger than 500-600 square feet that resembles a Spanish villa.

The NPS Ranger acted as though she would have rather eaten nails than welcome us to the site. We imagined her days were spent with Border Patrol visits and the occasional lost traveler, but a smile goes a long way, Toots. The 15-minute video was a surprise. An introduction to Coronado and his ensuing demise and path to failure was a triumph for a site this small.

For you see......Coronado was scammed worse than Amway, folks.

In 1536, a group of shipwrecked Spanish explorers returned to the motherland with grandiose tales of cities, "lined with goldsmith shops, houses of many stories and doorways studded with emeralds and turquoise". The Viceroy of New Spain, intrigued by the first reports, sent Fray Marcos de Niza to scout the area further to confirm the prior explorers' tales.

Fray Marcos de Niza (apparently high on peyote) embellished the previous stories and promised Spain the wonders of Cibola, or the "Seven Cities of Gold" throughout the areas of Northern Mexico, and continuing through Arizona and New Mexico. The Viceroy, thrilled by the news of gold-covered towns, sent the official expedition led by Francisco Vasquez de Coronado to capture the land for Spain while converting any and all non-Christians along the way. 

Armed with 350 Conquistadors, several priests and Benedict Arnold Fray Marcos, Coronado set forth from Mexico's west coast in search of Cibola. Traversing through the Sonoran region of Northern Mexico, Coronado and his men traveled near the site of the now NPS memorial while continuing their search.

Liar McFibberson Fray Marcos urged the armada on, promising the gold cities of Cibola around the next bend. The Spaniards met many Native Americans along the way, stood agape at the simple adobe houses and people who knew only the gold of the maize they grew in the fields, but pressed on. Jon Lovitz Fray Marcos was finally figured out and shipped back to Mexico City.

However - the Native Americans stepped in and fueled the fire. Coronado was then informed that Cibola did indeed exist but was found in the region of present-day Kansas. Coronado led his men through the prairie, not assuming that the Natives led them to the land in hopes of driving them to starvation. Cibola, alas, was never discovered (unless one counts Las Vegas), and Coronado lived out his short, remaining life in failure and ridicule (much like the person in the picture below.) A newfound respect for Conquistadors was discovered after draping myself in Chain Mail. Weighing no less than 40-50 pounds, I had difficulty breathing and moving without distress.

After leaving the visitor center, we decided to travel the "Nature Walk" directly outside the center. We wanted to step into Coronado's shoes and push through the natural environment of the borderlands.

What you see above you is the entirety of the Nature Walk at Coronado NM. 100 feet of prickly pear and yucca "wonder" is all the casual tourist is afforded. We look around confused thinking, "Did we miss something?"

There are two other attactions available for the visitor here. Coronado Cave, a small limestone depository can be reached after hiking 3/4 of a mile straight up (we'll wait for you in the car) and a drive up the aforementioned Montezuma Pass. The unpaved road takes the traveler over the mountains and 55 miles to the town of Nogales, AZ. We began the trek, and 200 feet up the road were immediately tracked by a Border Patrol car. Being whiter than the dude in "Powder", he didn't give us much of a second look, but we heeded the warning and turned back.

Coronado National Memorial is undeserving of the poor press others have given it in the past. There are not activities or hikes available to visitors, but the reality of the location is always at hand. It is inevitable that one thinks of Juarez rather than Coronado at this memorial while visiting, but it is worth the time and very little effort it takes to get here.

Can we interest you in a Cibola Pyramid Scheme by any chance????

FINAL RATING

5/10

Mission Accomplished: Tumacacori Nat'l Historical Park 3/4/11

For reasons unknown, Tumacacori National Historical Park beckoned like nothing else on our recent visit to the Grand Canyon State. Odd indeed, given that the site features nothing by way of the usual sun baked landscapes, but rather the ruins of a 19th century mission whose construction began in 1800 and, despite fits and starts, was never fully completed. We are not the type to be awed into reverential silence by religious imagery or architecture, but pictures of Tumacacori have always possessed a quiet beauty, as if a once bustling symbol of Spanish domination and conversion had been hastily abandoned and left to die in the cruel heat of the desert. It seems fitting, too, that this tool of oppression fell victim to revolution, war, and poverty, given that few could defend Christianity's legacy regarding the native peoples of the early Americas. Father Eusebio Francisco Kino, deemed the "founding father" of the mission despite never having been a resident priest, would not have been satisfied with Tumacacori's ultimate end, but perhaps he might approve of its resurrection via the National Park Service.

Driving within earshot of Nogales for the second time in as many years, we once again righted a wrong and, instead of sailing by obliviously, pulled off the highway for our long-delayed date with this humble mission. I'll admit to a giddy excitement as we ambled into the visitor center, as it seemed that of all the "skips" from 2009, this one hurt the most. We were here at last, and couldn't wait to get inside. The visitor center (built in 1937), though small, opens onto a charming patio garden, along with a small room housing what has been described as one of the most bizarre videos in the entire NPS system. As usual, it went unwatched, largely because we had to catch the ranger before he moved too far along on his tour. Blue hairs swarmed to his side, but we still decided not to wait until the next run. Before the tour, though, is that first glimpse of the ruins. Though relatively small and far from grand (compared to the San Xavier mission up the road, of course), it retains a charm unmatched by the more ostentatious odes to the Almighty. Perhaps it's the unfinished bell tower (the dome was never built), or even the surrounding wall that isolates the site from any outside intrusions, but whatever it is, Tumacacori is ultimately most successful in transporting visitors to a specific time and place and giving modern eyes an insight into life as it was once lived.

Once inside, it's not hard to imagine a service from centuries past, and despite reinforcements to the roof, the walls retain the wear and tear of time's ultimate cruelty. Because the site is only around 200 years old, the modern touches are a stark contrast to the usual ruins we encounter, which flirt with a millennium of existence. To the park service's credit, there is neither celebration nor damnation here, avoiding the predictable rants about Catholicism and Native Americans in favor of mere presentation. Religious men lived here, attempted, and often succeeded, at conversion, and then, in a historical flash, were gone. Missionaries remain, as do the churches and landmarks that testify to their faith, but here, in land that once belonged to Spain (then Mexico) until the Gadsden Purchase of 1853, is a symbol of failure. It's as if it stands as a reminder that the proud and the powerful always, in the end, meet the same fate as the most common and humble.

Upon leaving the main structure, one can see other, less dramatic buildings preserved by the NPS, some of which are reproductions and "filler." There's a reconstructed O'odham abode, cemetery, morturary chapel, lime kiln, and convento (priests' quarters), and though they pale in comparison to the church itself, they help fill out the park with a sense of community. People once lived and worked here, and though committed to a cause considerably sinister to these eyes, we can appreciate any devotion that required living and dying in such a remote desert outpost. There's a reassuring calm to Tumacacori that so many sites - even good ones - lack, and we left pleased with the fulfillment of a goal. As if to add an unexpected cherry to our day, the site's museum was shockingly decent, succeeding where so many fail. Others can learn from its insistence on explanation and updated materials, much as we all can learn from Tumacacori's rise and inevitable fall.

FINAL RATING

9/10