A new year's moose moment

Fog hid the upper reaches of Cheyenne Mountain. The clouds that obscured the mountains and Pikes Peak for new year’s eve dropped a glaze of snow on the entire town. There was no difference between ice and powder. 

Still, I headed up the mountain for a first-day trip through the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo. The drive was not as treacherous as it appeared, and zoo visitation was light at opening. Besides, I find therapy at the zoo, watching the animals long enough that they forget your presence, if not their own captivity.

Staff milled about, but no one followed my path into the Rocky Mountain Wild section. I always start here, because these animals are mostly natives and typically stay active when people are not around. Usually I go for the Mexican gray wolves, mountain lions, or the rambunctious porcupine. 

This time I stopped at a duck pond on the edge of a ravine He stood across his habitat when I arrived, grazing on sprigs of grass on the snow-covered ground. He took immediate notice of me watching him.

 At four years old, Atka looks every bit of a bull moose in his prime. When he first arrived, he was little more than legs and a head. When his mother was killed in a car crash, Atka was just eight weeks old, far too young to survive in the wild. He’s been in human care nearly his entire life. He had to be bottle-fed till he was old enough for solid foods. 

But that 80-pound baby pushed past 1,000 pounds in 2025. He wore a sturdy set of antlers, the velvet long gone. In the wild, you would give him a wide berth. At the zoo, the fences allow for closer interaction. The longer I stood there, the more curious he was. He moved closer until he reached the fence and trees that kept him in.

As I spoke softly in his direction, he made a few soft noises, not quite moans, but gentle moose whispers. His ears never pulled back. Wild mammals can change mood on a dime, but he seemed at ease on this snowy morning. 

He pushed his snout on the net fencing, as if hoping I had something for him. Maybe food, maybe scratches, I couldn't really say. I didn’t have any food for him and told him as much. The distance was too far for me to reach his snout without crossing the thigh-high barrier, and I was not feeling like being the first person the zoo kicked out in 2025. 

Mostly I just stared at the massive ungulate five feet away. I don’t have good words for the feeling. But starting my year with 15 minutes of one-on-one with a captive moose … what else can I say? Just standing so close, being in that presence warmed up my morning. 

 Then came the voices of  people coming up the hill to Rocky Mountain Wild. I decided to bid Atka a good 2025 and move on. I would visit again, probably several times before the zoo's busy season, but the start of the year felt like a moment that would not recur.

 Leaving him, I headed uphill in the snow. I felt eyes on me and turned. One of Cheyenne Mountain’s three mountain lions stared at me from less than five feet away. I instinctively jumped back two steps despite the fences between us. The predator sat within pouncing range and I stayed oblivious.

The cat continued to study me. I moved again and he bounded up the rocks in his exhibit to watch me from above. After my time with the moose, another close encounter was asking too much. 

Finally, Casa Bonita

We didn't account for the tree.

Casa Bonita was open when I first moved here. But not for long. The COVID-19 pandemic struck, the Lakewood institution closed its doors, its parent declared bankruptcy, and it seemed I missed my chance. Colorado media continually asked about its status, but hopes for reopens never seemed bright. 

Enter Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Fresh off the latest syndication contract for South Park, which landed them $800 million, they announced they bought Casa Bonita and planned to renovate and revive it. 

But they ran into 30 years of deferred maintenance and other issues. When they finally opened, each month's block of tickets vanished in minutes. I wanted to go. But when?

My dear friend Rob was kind enough to ask if I would be a sixth in a party that already had five. I couldn't wait to reply. 

Having wondered how I would get to Casa Bonita when everyone I knew in Colorado would probably find their way there with another group, I wondered no more. How better to experience such a place than with a friend of 20-plus years?

Cliff diver

After some strong winter in early November, our date arrived with 50 degrees and sun, optimal conditions for Colorado between October and May. We milled outside for a bit before they ushered us in, gave us a brief Casa Bonita primer (you have an hour at your table, so wait on the attractions because you can stay as long as you like after you eat) and brought us to the second floor. 

It's a spectacle, to be sure. Meant to mimic a Mexican village, the tables are set among fake palm trees and rock formations, with a waterfall and splash pool at the center of things. 

The food might not have been worth $50. My Colorado friends warned me the food was truly awful - you went for the experience, and maybe some sopapillas. In the purchase announcement, Parker said he four-year-old mentioned how bad the food was, and that it has to be overly bad to register with someone that young.  

Still, green chile brisket was probably a much better option than what preceded the new ownership. Chips and salsa came with the meal, and it concluded with an order of the fabled sopapillas (one free per table). They were quite tasty, even though I ended up with honey on my hands and jeans.

Lest we forget...

With brief warning, we were given notice that it was diving time. From our second-floor table, we appeared to have a prime spot, were it not for the faux rock formation in our direct path. 

The cliff divers assembled. In their red swimsuits, they strolled around the rocks before taking the 20-foot dive into the pool. Only they may dive; anyone else who attempts a dive earns a trip to jail and a permanent Casa Bonita ban. Imitate Eric Cartman, and you are guaranteed to follow him to jail and never enjoy Casa Bonita again. 

After a few rounds of cliff divers and a stop through the arcade, we entered the closed theatre for a magic show. It ended up being pretty entertaining. 

The puppet shows have resumed, and brought a crowd each time to the little set of seats near Black Bart's Cave. The gorilla in gym shorts has been replaced with ManBearPig, a creature from the show seemingly created by Al Gore for attention but later proven to be real.

We maneuvered through the confines of Black Bart's Cave, where Black Bart is most definitely not hiding, as the sign will tell you. A little series of tubs announces the presence snakes, and forced air tickles your hand if you dare to test them.

Mostly I was glad to see Rob, since we often go 5-6 years between visits. This time, we went a scant seven months. And by making friends with Rob's friends, I will only go a scant four months between Casa Bonita visits, because it's fun, silly, and the much-lambasted food didn't offend the senses. 

Garden City nights

Cousin Eddie welcomes travelers to Coolidge, Kansas

I roared out of Colorado on Black Friday, eager to erase a blacker Thanksgiving. No turkey, no company, no nothing but a good bottle of wine that I didn't want to drink alone. And a good bottle of wine without someone to share the wine never tastes as sublime. 

So I headed out along the Arkansas Valley drive, U.S. 50, bound for Kansas and a little Midwest friendliness. Somehow, I would find it in Garden City, 50 miles across the border, yet tied to the same region as my Ohio roots some 1,300 miles northeast. 

The town of 30,000 is a regional hub among the vast farm fields of Kansas. The west begins to take hold here, as influence of the Gulf of Mexico fades. But its location on the Arkansas River boosts local farming. 

Due to local meat-packing and farming operations, Garden City has a large Hispanic population, and good Mexican options are abound. I picked one that was packed inside, and took my burrito to go so I could have a quiet picnic at the Lee Richardson Zoo, Garden City's biggest attraction. 

I have written about the LRZ before, and it will write about it again, but the zoo remains the best place to wander around in southwestern Kansas. 

A free zoo (you can drive through for a fee), it has lions, lemurs, sloth bears, otters, and an impressive Cat Canyon exhibit with bobcats, cougars, jaguars and several species of leopards. Not animals came out - more comfortable in much warmer temperatures, the rhinos and giraffes were kept indoors. The lions were still stalking their prairies, with the males trading roaring sessions. 

I spent some time observing the zoo's newest arrivals, a pair of burrowing owls. The tiny owls live on the Great Plains and often occupy abandoned prairie dog tunnels. The zoo constructed a new exhibit with tunnels for the owls to occupy. 

Full on burrito and time outdoors, I found my hotel and headed for Hidden Trail Brewing, one of Garden City's two breweries. Hidden Trail is a standalone facility, with a big modern taproom that was crowded with Chiefs fans watching their Black Friday game with the Raiders. Some 375 miles from Kansas City, this was the western edge of Chiefs fandom, not the place to bring up favorable calls from referees. 

I ended up talking with a man who had a house in Green Mountain Falls (up the hill from Colorado Springs) but grew up in Garden City about what brought me there. He seemed glad that I was a little taken with his hometown. It's the first place I can get a taste of the Midwest. He invited me to come back for one of the various 5Ks run through the LRZ and downtown. 

As for the beers, they were fantastic, especially the honey strawberry wheat, which requires one to resist the urge to just pound the beer. They leaned toward hazy IPAs, but had a seriously dank pale ale that taste unlike anything else in the hoppy beer realm. The staff were friendly and rolled with all my questions about the brews.

With Black Friday in full swing, I stopped at a Goodwill and took the rare step of perusing their records. To my shock, another lady looking at them noted a big stock of recently stocked country records. An even bigger shock was their pristine condition. I could have left with a stack but opted for two classics - Merle Haggard's Mama Tried and an Elvis Christmas album. 

The night ended with more turns. I tuned to Applebee's for a nightcap. Not a place I had visited in a decade or maybe two. But it was relatively friendly and inexpensive. Plus, I was gunning to get my 10,000 steps so I needed a good walk. I ended up doing laps around a closed Sam's Club parking lot. I planned to use the hotel's treadmill, but after 20 seconds the screen went dark and could not be restored. So I wound down, expecting an early start even if Garden City had not yet risen. 

GC cat with cannon

Abandoned hotel 

Aside from a few runners and delivery drivers, I was alone downtown. A black cat crossed my path for far less time than I would have liked. 

Finney County courthouse

I bought a coffee and started walking the blocks. I hate to blame a certain ubiquitous big-box employee, but it shut out most of the business that would have occupied these downtown spaces. 

Garden City has a few spots with special history, such as the Finney County Courthouse, where the murderers from In Cold Blood were tried and sentenced to death. In this sparsely populated spot at the Midwest's edge, that history never goes away. 

Some change is afoot. The Flat Mountain Brewhouse, a steakhouse and home to Garden City's other brewery, has been transformed into the Main Street Food and Brew Hall, with five vendors and the brewery. That's enough enticement to draw me back in late spring, when I might need another night away. 

Inevitably, I decided to head west again. I could find more to like in Garden City, but wanted enough to fill a future night on the plains. 

A needed return to the COS Philharmonic

 I don't get to the symphony nearly enough. Pre-pandemic, I expected to. The Colorado Springs Philharmonic is a jewel of this town, a big-city symphony that plays the top classical pieces but isn't afraid to throw in some lesser-known gems. 

At the moment, the Philharmonic is between conductors, so guest conductors have driven the current season. Longtime musical director and conductor dozen years, Josep Caballé-Domenech left in 2023. But not having a full-time director isn't the worst thing. A symphony can build a quality program with a series of guest conductors, and that seems to work for the moment. 

The evening opened with Claude Debussy's Prelude to an Afternoon of a Faun. Debussy is a welcome part of any classical evening. The momentum shifted to Prokofiev's Piano Concerto No. 3. While different in tone, it fit. I'm grateful that the COS Philharmonic can bring such pieces to life. 

The biggest revelation was yet to come. I wasn't familiar with William Grant Still's Symphony No. 2, Song for a New Race. Or with William Grant Still, a Black composer active from the 1930s to 1950s. He was a trailblazer, among the first Black composers to score films and the first to conduct a performance in the Deep South. 

Nearly a century later, it has aged well and deserves a spot among contemporaries like Gershwin and Grofe. If my notes are scant, I found myself drawn into the piece and didn't want to break from the feeling it conjured. 

The piece is powerful and moving. When it includes, Symphony No. 2 requires a few minutes to process the intensity of the final few minutes. The symphony will stick with you as easily as the seminal Debussy piece that it followed. Hopefully Still's Second Symphony will find further renown as its second century approaches. 

Keepers 2025

Late with the list this year, I lament it is so short. But I filled in gaps from past years rather than focus on new releases. 

Cindy Lee, Diamond Jubilee
There aren't many two-hour, 31-track albums that compel to listen all the way through every time. But this record comes from somewhere else - don't ask me where. It's clearly crossing over from a world adjacent to our own. There's an undeniable  late 50s/early 60s vibe but it's processed through something rough yet ethereal. I put it on in the car and the two hours blink past. But I think it's a record suited to a night drive, a time when you can devote attention to every song. For most of 2024, Diamond Jubilee was only available on YouTube and a geocities site, then it finally came to Bandcamp. Hopefully it will become better discovered as time goes on, as its songs already feel timeless. The physical release won't arrive till February 2025 so there's still time to join the Cindy Lee train. 

The Cure, Songs from a Lost World
Somehow, The Cure broght me back to the fold.  Songs from a Lost World sounds like the Cure record I hoped would Wish, not the occasional moments of brilliance and long gaps between albums that started in the mid-1990s. Words of caution - This is not a record to devour when you're already depressed. But Robert Smith and company reward repeated listens.

Hurray for the Riff Raff, The Past is Still Alive
This one hit me hard, and the incisive lyrics challenge me with every listen. It's a batch of unsentimental Americana that resides in rare air. Few albums could boast such rich songwriting. I keep returning to The Colossus of Roads, and so should you. 

Reissues
Mark Lanegan, Bubblegum XX
Remember those constant Mark Lanegan releases of a decade ago, sometimes 2-3 albums and EPs a year. I complained then. But the solo album that kicked off Lanegan's impressive solo run gets a deserving anniversary reissue. The deluxe four-LP boxed set includes the original record spread onto two albums, the Here Comes that Weird Chill EP that preceded Bubblegum, and a record of recently discovered hotel-room demos that show how Lanegan could work up music anywhere (several are early versions of tunes that appear later in his solo career). If it's the last Lanegan release I buy (aside from the continued Screaming Trees archival releases), it's a worthy finish, a leap back to the point at which Lanegan's solo work took a major leap. The demos star as much as the album, because they reveal an artist always in motion, creating at every step.

Bad Brains, I Against I
I longed for a vinyl reissue of this mid-80s masterpiece. Bad Brains started off playing hardcore at a blistering pace but had heavy roots in reggae and 80s rock. She's Calling You could have been a hit in a different universe, with dizzying guitar work among lyrics that could have come from Prince. You can feel the influence on everyone from Guns N Roses to 311 to the Roots. It's wide-reaching, influential, and sold about 1,000 copies when it deserved to go multiplatinum. This vinyl reissue includes a Punk Note variant cover - copying the style of venerable jazz label Blue Note.I feel like that cover is appropriate, since I Against I is a timeless masterpiece barely known to the masses. 

Guided by Voices, Tonics and Twisted Chasers
Of course they join the list. But this reissue of a fan club-only vinyl from their prime mid-1990s output has a major draw - the studio version of Dayton, Ohio 19-something-and 5, what might be the band's best song, an autobiographical track from Robert Pollard that drops you into a cookout in suburban Dayton. It's such a beautiful song in way only GBV can claim.   

Best discoveries
Big Bill Broonzy, The Blues
There's always something new to discover in music. My preference lies with acoustic blues, and somehow I neglected to sample Big Bill Broonzy until picking some records to purchase from my friend's divestiture. The muscular songs go far beyond a man with a guitar.

Squeeze, The Singles
Chalk this long-player up as another "I can't believe how many of these songs I know" listen. I bought it blind, not convinced I knew Squeeze at all. It came with a happy coincidence - a week before, I heard a song on a Spotify playlist that sounded a lot like Spoon. The song turned out to be "Pulling Mussels from a Shell," a Squeeze single. So it turns out that Spoon sounds a lot like Squeeze at times.

Let us never speak of the shortcut again (Arizona edition)

 

Radio telescopes of the Very Large Array.

“U.S. routes usually don’t get too crazy,” I even said to myself when scanning that the map. With no cell reception in Chiracahua country, I had to rely on Rand McNally. It showed me a scenic route 

From Safford, the highway climbed into the mountains. Everything narrowed at Clifton, with the town wedged into a canyon formed by the San Francisco River, a tributary of the Gila. Trucks hauled huge loads through Clifton and traffic stopped repeatedly. After Clifton and its stately but rundown old buildings, the road grew strange indeed. 

Morenci Mine on Google Earth

At one turn the sign said 191/Mine Entrance. I expected a fenced area that led into mountains. I expected might see the tunnel leading into the mine. 

But nothing can prepared visitors for the Morenci Mine. The largest copper mine in the country has produced 3.2 billion tons of copper ore and continues to produce from its shaved mountains and open pit. This was no hole under the Earth; the entire landscape has been resculpted into terraced, trapezoidal mountains. The road turned to gravel , clouds of dust sent up by heavy machinery everywhere. 

I passed several other highway tunnels as the road soared above the man-carved valleys of the mine. Signs warned of hours-long delays when blasting occurs, and I added a few mph to my speed. I looked around and saw the inverse of a national park. 

There was a certain beauty to the mine, even with its mountains reshaped by industry, treeless valleys and inclines, and clear tailing ponds with water definitely not for drinking. But we all use copper daily, so it’s necessary evil. Better it sits deep in a remote mountain range where most will never encounter those winding, dusty roads. 

Coronado Scenic Byway, all 460 hairpin turns.

The road wound around geometrical crimson mountains. There might have been an overlook, but I wouldn’t have considered stopping. 

The end of the mine and the rough road had to be close. The wildness of the Morenci Mine came to a swift end at the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest boundary. Certain industries worked in national forests but not mines. Yet the winding road did not unwind. I hit the first of several signs warning of mountain grades and tight curves for the next few dozen miles. 

I happened onto the Coronado Trail Scenic Byway that spans the 123 miles between Clifton and Springerville. The highway roughly follows the path of Coronado's 1542 expedition. The map showed a scenic route, but left out the 460 hairpin turns that define the route. 

Near Hannagan Meadow, past the worst curves.

Miles clicked down so slowly the distance almost seemed to go back up at times. The Apache portion encompasses most of Greenlee County (Arizona has massive counties) and the main route skirts across ridgetops and clings to mountainsides. 

Aside from squirrels and a few deer I countered little wildlife and not a single car headed in my direction. This continued for several hours till I passed I took a break the Blue Vista Overlook, With expansive views of the mountains from 9,000 feet of elevation, I never even lifted my camera, just enjoying a few minutes off the road. 

I caught glimpses of tremendous views from the byway, one of Arizona’s highest roads, but mostly glue my eyes to the road. AAA was not venturing up here for a tow. 

Only at Hannagan Meadow, a recreation site with some lodging, did the curves straighten out. The road fell into the valleys between mountains and I cruised into long-awaited Springerville, which had occupied every distance sign for 150 miles. A spur road put me out on the town’s east side, I turned to rip off the last 15 miles before New Mexico. The towns don’t get better in New Mexico, even as the names do. Quemado had a few cross-streets and not much more. 

But the next town of a few blocks had an unforgettable name - Pie Town. Enduring the wilderness route was partly to connect with the route to Pie Town. I had to see this trip. 

Named for a bakery famous for apple pies in the early 1900s, Pie Town has less than 200 residents. Pie Town spans several blocks atop a hill. I just missed their annual Pie Festival in mid-September. Just getting to Pie Town felt like a victory this day. 

I pulled into The Gathering Place with a major appetite and the relief of having 400-some hairpin turns behind me. Along with a chipotle chicken sandwich and a cup of coffee, I bought pies for the balloon crew tailgate the next morning – apple, blueberry, and blackberry lemon. But I had the last piece of peach pie on my own. 

After Datil, the road crosses some mountains then descends into a dried lake bed, the Plains of San Augustin. The valley has no town but its occupants were visible the moment I entered. Multiple radio telescopes that stand 80 feet tall were spread all over, able to move across the valley on railroad tracks. I had reached the Very Large Array, the nation’s premier tool for exploring the origins of the universe. Initially I hemmed and hawed about stopping, with another 150 miles till Albuquerque. 

As expected, I made the turn. The VLA includes 28 telescopes, with 27 deployed at all times while one receives maintenance in The Barn, a huge shed that easily fits them. One telescope is situated close to the visitor center and another along the gravel entry road to give visitors a close-up view.

 The movie Contact gives one the idea that the radio telescopes of the Very Large Array all sit close together. Most alignments spread them far across the dry lakebed. Also, the array is not searching for extraterrestrial life, but observing black holes, stars with developing planetary systems, and other distant objects.

Watching the silent array probe the origins of the universe made those 400-plus tight turns feel somewhat less significant. Then again, it might have taken that long for the adrenaline surge to wear off. 

Chiracahua National Monument's silent majesty

A curious and historic place, Fort Bowie served as an appetizer to the main stop on this short tour through southeastern Arizona. 

The pavement resumed at an intersection with the road south to Chiracahua National Monument, a lightly visited wonder. More mountains erupted from the flat desert to the south, cutting a deep contrast. 

One of Arizona’s wildlife-rich sky islands, Chiracahua National Monument protects 12,000 acres and several canyons in the Chiracahua Mountains. I dove right in.

After roughly following Bonita Creek into the forest, the road abuts some soaring hoodoos, but no one could prepare me for the turn, when the slowly rising road clings to a cliffside, with a long drop into the valleys of the Chiracahua Mountains on the other. Up top comes the views of Chiracahua’s mountaintop amphitheatre of hoodoos, closely bunched rock towers that could stand dozens of feet tall. 

The rock towers are what remains after the erosion of volcanic rock deposited millions of years earlier. The monument quieted here. Few cars, some tourists hunkered in the shade. Finding solitude and a good observation spot grew easy. 

If I lack the words to properly describe to top of the monument, I was a bit awestruck. Having quiet time in such an august place should cause such a reaction. At least I believe so. Shadows grew long at an early hour in the narrow canyon on the park road. 

I scoped out my campsite, then sprinted out of the monument over the pass that separated Chiracahua from Willcox, the 3,000-person metropolis with a dry lake and a small wine region. I crossed the west of the Dos Cabezas, the mountains on the north side of Apache Pass. I quickly grabbed supplies for the night and headed back to Bonita Canyon. 

I enjoyed wandering the monument. The crowds diminished as the afternoon wound on. The quiet time was a welcome change from the crazy pace of the fiesta and its major crowds. 

A small cemetery near the entrance holds the graves of the Ericksons, the homesteaders that gave up the land for the national monument. They moved to the area after Geronimo surrendered and the Chiracahua Apache were forcibly removed to Florida then Oklahoma. The Faraway Ranch, their one-time home, is also preserved as part of the monument. 

Deeper in the mountains on private property lies the grave of Johnny Ringo of fame from the 1880s Cowboy Wars in Tombstone. 

I was tantalizingly close to Tucson, but knew the trip needed at least two more days to encompass Tombstone, Bisbee, Coronado National Memorial, and the Rincon district of Saguaro National Park. Those must wait for another trip. 

For all the warnings about animals, I saw only birds. I saw all types of scat on the trails and creek beds, but no actual mammals. The park road has coati crossing signs, but none of the little mammals were seen during my 17-hour visit. Not even a deer poked out of the forest. 

Someone did see a black bear near the Bonita Canyon campground. All the sites had metal lockers for food and coolers. The night grew dark quickly. I drank a few craft lagers, wrote and ready by lantern-light. I fell asleep early as the people in the next camp partied till quiet hours. 

A few hours later,  I stepped out into a Chiracahua’s International Dark Sky Park and its perfect noise, my feet the only noise.. No one was about except the stars and exception views of the Milky Way where the dense tree canopy opened. 

I spotted several satellites and a small meteor, then returned for a short sleep. I knew I would grow restless early, but I didn’t want to head out in total darkness. 

By headlamp I packed my bag and tent in the pre-dawn of a silent campground. I tried to stay quiet and raised no more noise than the grunt of a dog inside a nearby tent. 

The park was all mine. No one else stirred. I spent an hour or more before dawn visiting spots throughout Chiracahua. What a wondrous place to have to one’s self. Mountain peaks, dry creeks, a series of life zones chock full of animals just beyond view. 

Reluctantly I left the shadows of the Chiracahuas. Only the waking birds in the steep canyons offered company, the sun just catching the highest points in the Dos Cabezas.

The Fort Bowie foot approach

South of Bowie – fictional birthplace of the fictional John Rambo, home to a few trading posts and pecan orchards – the orchards end and the mountains loom large. 

The fort that gave the town its name wasn’t far, but hidden among the ridges . Getting there wasn’t so simple. Apache Pass Road feels like any dirt road until you imagine traversing it in Butterfield Stage. At a wide spot in the road, the foot path to the fort descends into the landscape. For most, the Fort Bowie Experience begins here.

Trail near Apache Pass Road

Fort Bowie offered an approach more historic forts could adopt. Only those who require accessibility could drive up to the visitor center. For those in decent health – which theoretically includes me - the visitor center required a 1.5-mile hike up a sometimes-shady trail. 

Late this Monday morning, I wanted all the shade I could find; summer temperatures lingered into October, baked the picturesque mountains. 

Passing one hiker, I asked her if was worth the hike. She affirmed it would be worthwhile, so I continued as the path cut in out and of the shade, up and down dry creek beds and small hills. Through signs, ruins, and natural features, the trails traces much of the history behind the Fort Bowie National Historic Site.

 The visitor center has some artifacts but is relatively small, so reading signs and markers in the valley illustrated the long history and the few violent decades that gave rise to Fort Bowie. 

Restored Apache dwelling

Instead, the trail hike supplied much of the Fort Bowie background. This secluded valley was once the homeland of the Chiracahua Apache people, best known for its famed leaders Geronimo, as well as Cochise, who often held the piece with settlers but famously cut his way out of a tent when soldiers attempted to hold him hostage for crimes his band didn’t commit. 

The path crossed a pioneer cemetery, the remains of the Butterfield Stage station (abandoned after the Bascom Affair) and the remnants of the Indian Agency office established in the 1870s when the San Carlos Apache reservation was formed. 

While the Butterfield office closed in 1862 due to the Civil War, Fort Bowie was created following the Battle of Apache Pass. The early fort would be replaced by more sturdy structures in 1868. Geronimo would fight until 1886, ending the Apache Wars and beginning his decades of imprisonment in Florida then Oklahoma, never again to see his homeland. 

Apache Spring

The second iteration of Fort Bowie closed in 1894 and fell into ruin, although much of the adobe foundations remain, making it easier to picture the fort’s bustling heyday as well as the earlier Apache camps. Along with massive horse corrals, the fort ruins included old and new hospitals, officers quarters that surrounded a parade ground centered on a flag post, separate infantry barracks, and a trading post on the fort’s edge. 

With arid land for dozens of miles in every direction, Apache Spring made the land valuable. The Chiracahua defended it from early Spanish intrusions, the Spanish referring to Apache Pass as the “pass of chance” because of the Chiracahua Apache. 

Water still flows from Apache Springs, although in early autumn the flow is minimal. Not treat for drinking, the spring resembles a 20-foot-long strand of water across some rocks that hid it from easy views.

From the spring, the path rises to the ruins of Fort Bowie. They seem older than their years, having been left to decay after the Apache Wars but still giving the fort a framework. 

The cabin-like visitor center overlooks the ruins of the fort, and the wrapround porch proved a good place to observe them while a liter of water or three. I stayed long enough to take in the exhibits and stop sweating for a while.

Parched and sweaty, I ascended to Apache Pass Road, looking back into the valley steeped in history and secrets. 

Some people asked me about the hike and I couldn’t speak; my mouth was too dry. I gave them a thumbs-up and cut around to tackle the last 100 steps up the hillside to Apache Pass Road. 

Chugging some needed water, I couldn’t stop staring at those mountains and their folds guarding the cool spring that brought life to the western edge of the Chihuahuan Desert.