Biggest Little Town in Arizona: Cottonwood's Wild & Woolly Past

"Biggest Little Town in the State of Arizona
Cottonwood’s Wild & Woolly Past"
The Noise, November 2010- The Outs

Ellen Jo Roberts



According to many old timers, Cottonwood was a tiny hamlet in 1960, no bigger than the palm of your hand. Truth is, the historic terrain of Cottonwood Arizona is wide reaching, and broad—as varied as its lush mix of rare riparian landscape, and sun-baked high desert chaparral. Rather than seek out the exponential ways the town has expanded since it was incorporated 50 years ago, let's discuss the common threads running through time into the present day. To me this is always the most interesting: the surviving old mixed in with the new.


The Beginning

The settlement was founded around 1879 along the Verde River, a silty ribbon running through the valley providing steady water for farm and ranch land. For a time the area was known simply as “Verde”, a stop along the trail between army camps Fort Verde and Fort Whipple, and between Flagstaff and Jerome. Just as Flagstaff was named for a Ponderosa Pine stripped bare to become a flagpole, Cottonwood was also named for an arboreal landmark. Cowboys running cattle between Oak Creek and Camp Verde frequently made camp along a stretch of river featuring a circle of 16 large Cottonwood trees. Referred to as “The Cottonwoods”, the name was made official when the post office was established in 1885. One of the early settlers, Charles Willard, is now known as The Father of Cottonwood. Much land is still owned by his descendents, and a main traffic artery, Willard Street, links Old Town with newer areas of the city. Evidence of the city’s bucolic pastoral origins still exist at every corner of the map, with historic ranches and farms still in operation, and open space nature conserved as city parks, state parks, and the Verde River Greenway. Cottonwood produce fed Jerome and Clarkdale, and soon businesses began to spring up to service other needs as well.



“By 1925 there was not another town in the U.S. that could boast so many business houses for a population of 1,000. Cottonwood was known as ‘the Biggest Little Town in the State of Arizona’!”
-Karen Leff, local historian and storyteller, owner of the Cottonwood Hotel




The Bootlegging
“Old Town” is the original Cottonwood, a short stretch of Main Street business district and storefronts. In its modern 21st Century incarnation, Old Town sustains a variety of exceptional restaurants, cafes, shops, galleries, taverns, and wine tasting rooms. It’s completely adorable, very lively… almost harkening back to a wild time during the 1910s and ‘20s when Old Town was the nerve center of a jumpin’ bootlegging industry.

“Joe Hall, Cottonwood pool room owner, was bound under $1,000 bond for trial in federal court on charges arising out of a raid on his home last Saturday when 150 gallons of whiskey were found in his basement and another 50 gallons together with 100 gallons of wine were taken from a nearby garage.”
- Prescott Journal, August 2nd 1929

Built in 1924, Joe Hall’s house still stands in 2010, an unimposing little stucco bungalow at the corner of Cactus and Pinal Streets. The yard is generally full of children and dogs now, so it’s amusing to think the place was once chock stocked with jugs of “joy juice”.



A system of tunnels (many filled in by Cottonwood Public Works over the years, but many still in existence) linked Joe Hall’s home to his pool hall at 1004 N. Main. Hall was linked to Al Capone, who allegedly spent a night in the Old Town Jail. Two large fires swept through Old Town during the bootlegging era. The first fire happened in 1917, followed by a larger blaze in 1925. Both were caused by exploding stills and flammable booze from Joe Hall’s whiskey business.




With the repeal of Prohibition, bootlegging and booze brewing went out of vogue and Cottonwood returned to its rural peace and quiet. Because it was a “free town”, unlike neighboring mining company towns, Clemenceau and Clarkdale, there was a certain lawlessness, but also more acceptance of different ideas, entrepreneurialism, and ethnicities that were persecuted elsewhere.



Hollywood in Cottonwood

The Old Town Palace Theater, built in 1923 and formerly called the “Rialto”, was the United States’ “Oldest Operating Single Screen Theater” until it was burnt by fire in 1998. Rescued by the Jurisins of “Jerome Palace” (aka “The Haunted Hamburger”), and neighboring “Nic’s” fame, the structure was saved and reopened in 2005 as the Tavern Grille. Remnants of the movie theater forever captured in the scorched bare concrete walls may be spotted by keen eyed diners.



The mid-century popularity of western movies brought California film crews to Arizona’s picturesque Verde Valley. Most of these features and rushes were shot in Sedona, but Old Town Cottonwood played “stand in” for town scenes in many of these films. “Desert Fury”, a 1947 film starring Burt Lancaster, shows up now and again, on late night TV, and screened in local halls. I’ve seen it more than once. It’s kinda’ silly, and I sure don’t even remember the plot. Burt Lancaster spends an awful lot of time driving back and forth on 89A, in ways that we locals all know don’t add up to him getting anywhere. The female lead calls everyone “baby”, and smokes using a long skinny cigarette holder. Our favorite part: a car crash filmed at an old bridge that no longer exists in lower Clarkdale. Right into the Verde River with that big giant American post-war car.

Kerplunk!




“Stay Away Joe” was a 1968 Elvis vehicle, filmed in Sedona, and Cottonwood during 1967, before he gave up his acting career for his comeback to music. Legend has it that Elvis was so enchanted with this area he planned to relocate here from Memphis. (Of course that never happened, but one must wonder what the result would be had he stayed.)

In typically wacky Elvis movie style, Presley plays a Navajo (!) named Joe Lightcloud, and Burgess Meredith plays his pappy. There was some go-go dancing, some bull wrangling, and a whole lotta singing and smooching.

Old Town Cottonwood once again was called into duty, playing the role of “town”.



Elvis signed autographs outside the Cottonwood Hotel, after filming a scene on Main Street. The Cottonwood Hotel played hostelry to many a star filming on location, including Mae West, and John Wayne. Since 1917 the hotel has been Cottonwood’s oldest and longest standing business with the same name.


Cottonwood Inc.

Cottonwood remained unincorporated until 1960. The town’s 1,600 residents were mobilized to act after Clarkdale (incorporated in 1957) tried to annex Old Town Cottonwood. Incorporation was initially voted down in 1958, but proponents maintained that it could improve property values, provide better police, fire, and sanitation services, control growth, and increase tax benefits. In November of 1960, Cottonwood Arizona was incorporated, with 476 favorable petitions, just 9 over the required 66% of property taxpayers and residents, becoming Arizona’s 58th incorporated community.

This year’s 3rd annual “Walkin’ on Main” street-fest will pay tribute to Cottonwood’s 50th anniversary of incorporation. From 11:00am- 6:00pm on Saturday November 13th, Old Town’s Main Street Historic 89A will be blocked from traffic, and filled with art, vintage automobiles, open-air vendors, and live entertainment. Wine and olive oil tasting will highlight some of the new industry taking hold in the Verde Valley. In lieu of basement brewed whiskey, Cottonwood is now making its mark as part of the Verde Valley Wine Trail.

True to its roots, “The Biggest Little Town in Arizona” spins its 131 years of history into a modern community full of big city amenities.

Cheers to many more years of success, neighbor!



For more information:

History, photos and a self-guided walking tour of Old Town Cottonwood
http://www.cottonwoodhotel.com/


City of Cottonwood’s website
http://www.ci.cottonwood.az.us/


Ellen Jo Roberts has lived in the Verde Valley since 1997, and now she has a sudden urge for some bootleg local-brewed whiskey. Roberts shares a historic brick bungalow with Bike Daddy Chad, and an assortment of other ornery critters.Read all about it at www.ellenjo.com

Very Superstitious

Very Superstitious
October 2010 Outs
Ellen Jo Roberts



Everyone has a superstition. Even when folks profess not to, it always turns out they really do. A superstition is a belief in magic, in that somehow we control the how the workings of the world.
By dictionary definition a superstition is…
“1. a : a belief or practice resulting from ignorance, fear of the unknown, trust in magic or chance, or a false conception of causation b : an irrational abject attitude of mind toward the supernatural, nature, or God resulting from superstition
2. a notion maintained despite evidence to the contrary.”

Religion is both simultaneously disdainful of and completely reliant on superstition. Religion succeeds because people are willing believe the unbelievable, and have faith in things that cannot be proven by fact. Totems, icons, and spirits all exhibit supernatural elements.
Many think that you must throw salt or knock on wood. It’s not very popular to open umbrellas indoors, or walk under ladders. Break a mirror? Rotten luck for 7 years! A black cat crosses your path? You are in trouble. The legendary fear of the number 13 (clinically called “triskaidekaphobia”) is the reason many skyscrapers go from the 12th floor directly to 14. It’s all around us, in fortune cookies, and lottery tickets, and myriad other neatly packaged disguises. I asked a bunch of folks what sort of things they were superstitious about, and got some interesting responses.

“Black cats, the number 13, walking under ladders, full moons, broken mirrors, chain-letters, accidentally spilling salt, stepping on cracks … I don’t follow any of that hooey.”

“I always pet black cats just in case they are witches in disguise and can grant your wishes.”

I don’t subscribe to most popular superstitions. Mine are very specific, and most are related to travel, perhaps because it is a time we feel more vulnerable to unknown catastrophes. For example, while traveling via airplane I always wear the same shoes on the return trip that I wore on the outbound trip. Same socks or stockings too, if I can. I also never change my watch to whatever time zone I’m visiting. I leave it on Arizona time at all times, despite the constant mathematics it involves, as some sort of assurance I’ll make it home safely. These codes are stringently followed for no real reason.

“Every time I get on a plane, before I board it, I always lay my hands on the plane and knock 3 times on it, and that way it doesn’t crash. And I know that it works because I’ve never been involved in a plane crash.”

While driving in my car I NEVER play any song with the words like these: heat, hot, burn, fire, inferno, flame. I’ve not been able to listen to The Steve Miller Band’s “Abracadabra” for over a decade. I’m confident this has contributed to the longevity of my automobile by keeping it running cool. Also, while topping off the gas, I try to come up with a dollar figure equivalent to something meaningful: the year I was born, my address number, my engine’s displacement in CCs, my brother’s birthday, or sometimes just the good ol’ “1-2-3-4”.

“If I find a coin, it's good luck if it's heads up and I have to put in my shoe, heads up, opposite side of the hand I picked it up with. I think I'm having good luck if I look at a clock randomly and the numbers are something like 3:33, 5:05, 4:04, 9:06, 6:09 or 11:11 and similar combinations. I think I feel like I'm in sync with something. Also, I make wishes if I glance at the clock and it happens to be 11:11.”

My childhood was full of complicated superstitions as a fan of the Chicago Cubs. A highly random, ever-evolving collection of rules somehow helped the Cubs win, or, if not followed, caused them to lose. “The Cubs are on a 4 game winning streak. Each day they won, I picked a dandelion at the park. I’d better keep picking dandelions or they will lose.” This of course, is completely absurd, yet somehow provided a sense of comfort, like I was doing my part, contributing my energy towards the cause. My brother shares similar baseball superstitions.
“If the Cubs win a game when I am there, I will try to wear the same Cubs t-shirt the next time I go to the game,” he explained, “However, I usually try to force myself into realizing that the Cubs winning or losing logically has nothing to do with what underwear I am wearing, or what food I eat, or what gate I enter Wrigley Field. I try to not be superstitious. God knows none of it has worked yet.” The Cubs’ team history of failure is drenched deep in superstition, ever since Sam Sianis put a hex on them in the 1940s for not allowing his pet billy goat to attend a game. Professional sports are fraught with famous superstitions: playoff beards, rally caps, abstaining from sex and/or the changing of socks during a winning streak.

“When I was a rodeo cowgirl I had a lucky shirt and a lucky pair of socks. I wore them until they were literally in tatters, because I felt like I had to have them on in order to perform well.”

Secret wishes on shooting stars, blowing out candles. These things are attempts to control the future by magic and sheer force of will. There is a power in the energy we create as humans.

“I make a wish on all found eyelashes”

“ I make a wish on the first snow of the season”

“I always say ‘God Bless You’ when someone sneezes because I think when you sneeze your heart stops.”

“If a roadrunner crosses the road in front of me, I see it as a sign of good luck.”

“I kiss my hand and then touch the roof of my car (on the inside) if a light turns yellow and I drive through it at an intersection. I've been doing that since I have had my license.”

St. Christopher is the saint of travel. They sell mini St. Christophers for your car dashboard. I have his medallion on my car keys and have since my first car. Makes me think of that old honkytonk truck driving tune refrain, “I don’t care of it rains or freezes, ‘long as I got my plastic Jesus, riding on the dashboard of my car.” In consulting with my many associates to see what magical little beliefs are a part of their daily lives, a rare few downplayed, rebelled against, or were simply unaware of having any superstitions.

“I think I have no superstitions. I don’t go to church and I’m not a member of any hocus pocus organizations, like the Masons or the Elks, Lions, Tigers or Bears. I am completely rational, like Spock, yet full of human emotions like love, hate and all in between, unlike Spock.

“I don't like being held hostage by superstitions so I break as many as I can.”

“I have NO superstitions that I can think of. Is that odd? Am I an anomaly?
I asked the girl who sits next to me if she has any superstitions and she said she has to put her left shoe on first. She doesn’t know why, though, she just does.”

“Murphy’s Law” is a national observation typically defined as “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.” Origins are attributed to American engineer, Edward A. Murphy (1918-1990). Murphy’s Law often contributes to a “we’ll all laugh about this someday” type mayhem. Fate is always listening, and ever watchful of being tempted.

“I try not to say ‘WHAT ELSE can happen?’ after a series of bad or unlucky things have happened to me or someone else. Because we may just find out WHAT ELSE can happen.”

“I never say ‘wow, the traffic seems really light today’, or else BLAMMO!”

“I have this feeling if things are going too well, something will happen to spoil it. I actually dread happy occasions ‘cause I know something bad is going to happen.”

“When I was a river guide in the Grand Canyon they used to tell me never sing the ‘Gilligan’s Island’ theme song while on a river trip.”

One time while driving 89A from Sedona to Cottonwood on a Friday the 13th
I made a huge mistake by saying, “It’s Friday the 13th, but nothing bad happened today.” Moments later, a gravel truck with an uncovered load drove past throwing gravel everywhere and breaking a dozen windshields including ours.

For some reason, railroad tracks, bridges, and cemeteries commonly play a role in superstitious rituals. Perhaps it is because they all represent a connection or transition from one place to another. A danger zone, a risky moment, purgatory.

“When I go over railroad tracks I hold metal and say who I love. Weird, right? When I go thru viaducts I hold my breath and make a wish. I think of these superstitions as reminders of what's important daily.”

“I hold my breath driving past cemeteries.”

“I make the sign of the cross 3 times on my steering wheel with my right thumb while driving over railroad tracks”

Superstitions are all around us, in every facet of our lives. It’s not just gypsies tossing the evil eye. It’s on road signs and in skyscrapers, and horseshoes above doorways. It’s at the casino, and on the trinkets we carry in our pockets. It’s in our cars, our homes, it joins us on our travels, in our classrooms, houses of worship, and sports stadiums. It brings us victory, and protects us from misfortune. Knock on wood.


Ellen Jo Roberts lives in Clarkdale Arizona with Bike Daddy Chad, some famous pets, and assorted vintage Volkswagens. It is never bad luck if any of them cross your path. Well, except for that vicious Chihuahua. You might wanna steer clear of him.
Read all about it at ellenjo.com

California Dreaming along Highway 1

California Dreaming
Coastal Campout Along Highway 1
The Outs- Ellen Jo Roberts
The Noise
September 2010



California’s Highway 1 is just a road, just a narrow curving ribbon of macadam perched along the western edge of the USA. It’s also something legendary, lyrical, mythical, magical: from books, magazines, movies and commercials.
A National Scenic Byway, it’s been designated an “All American Road”.
We all dream of Highway 1, as part of our collective consciousness.

My husband and I celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary this summer, a milestone worthy of a special road trip celebration. We wanted to be part of the dream, so we planned a Highway 1 adventure. All year we poured over library books, maps, brochures, Google Earth, and the state park websites, plotting our journey, booking our reservations. For Chad, the planning part is sometimes even more exciting than the trip itself. For months he lay awake in bed at night, satellite imagery dancing in his head.



We travelled on the cheap, loaded up with camping gear and a picnic basket full of dry goods. Our only “luxury” was renting a Toyota Prius for its excellent fuel economy (averaging 50+ mpg), lower environmental impact, and modern comforts like satellite radio, climate & cruise control. We do all our longer road trips like this. Renting a car conserves both our vintage Volkswagens and our marriage.
The scenic routes Chad chose were both more direct, and more time consuming. After our first 13 hours on the road, we arrived in San Luis Obispo County, in a seaside town called Avila Beach, where we set up our tent after dark, at an area campground. The next morning we were up early, making our first memories of Highway 1, via San Luis Obispo. “SLO” as the locals call it, is hopelessly adorable, chock full of tidy Mediterranean bungalows and well-groomed yards. It’s home to California Polytechnic State University (“Cal Poly”), and the delightfully tacky 1950s “Madonna Inn”, with its outsized pink sign, and crazy gingerbread flourishes.





Highway 1 through the central California coast is one of the rare things that lives up to the hype. You fear a collision from gawking at the scenery. It’s also achingly slow moving, constantly curving, elevating, and bound to cause moments of nausea in even the sturdiest passenger. It is riddled with delightful pull-offs and scenic overlooks. The ocean on a cloudy day is grey, but when the fog lifts the water changes color to an unbelievable turquoise, with tangled forests of kelp floating offshore like vegetable soup.

Big Sur, from “El País Grande Del Sur” (big country to the south), a moniker given by Carmel’s early Spanish settlers, remains fairly remote and sparsely populated. Highway 1 wasn’t completed through the area until 1937, and electricity didn’t arrive until the 1950s. Vast stretches are unpopulated, and the mountainous terrain to the east is Los Padres National Forest. The area is historically wealthy with inspiration for photographers, artists , beatniks, poets, writers, and other free spirits escaping from large cities to the south and north.



"McWay Falls” is an icon of Big Sur, a t-shirt emblem just like the Bixby Bridge further north. Located near Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park, the waterfall tumbles west of Highway 1 onto a secluded seashore, sheltered in a stone cove. The only creatures on the beach below it were seagulls. It’s off limits to humans, though a boardwalk above allows views of the beautiful scene.


A few hours north on Highway 1, with every mile taking twice as long as we’d planned, we headed east to the quicker 101 to make up some speed to our next destination, San Francisco. It was nearly sunset by the time we arrived in the foggy city by the bay. Even the dreary weather couldn’t dim its loveliness, all vertical and cascading down hills in vintage perfection.



Cold in July, with everyone was wearing sweaters, coats and hats, I kept thinking of Mark Twain’s joke :” The coldest winter I ever spent was the summer I spent in San Francisco.” Perhaps it was a culmination of a long day of driving, the maps strewn everywhere in the cramped car, Chad arguing with the GPS lady-- I dunno-- but I burst into tears driving down famously steep Russian Hill. I was so scared!
We’ve driven on some hair-raising mountain roads before, crawling boulders in the wilderness, but nothing has ever frightened me as much as Lombard Street in San Francisco. I’m no “Bullitt”.
There are stoplights at the top of a 45 degree hill. There are points where you cannot see the road above/ below you and you must just have faith there is nothing in your way as the light turns green. And if your car isn’t in great shape- if the engine is weak or the brakes are bad-- you’d better just go home.



Our San Francisco night was spent at the Motel Capri, an inexpensive mid-century gem located in the Marina District, close walking distance to many interesting street scenes.



Time in San Francisco was too short: just a night and part of the next morning-- not nearly enough to soak up this vibrant city. Hiking up the steep streets on a Sunday morning with all of my cameras clattering, I was grooving on the big city life, being just a face in the crowd, one of many. No one batted an eyelash at me (unlike in my own tiny town where I am a featured landmark.) San Francisco is a smart, wealthy city, beloved by many who’ve left their hearts there. The streets are so steep it’s a full-on cardio work out all the time. A friend of mine lived there for 7 years and says, “Try walking up and down those hills every day, yeesh! I ended up in Delaware - flat as a pancake. To paraphrase Tony Bennett ‘I Left My Girlish Figure in San Francisco.’"



From San Francisco we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge north to Marin County, to have lunch with a dear favorite friend, an Arizona ex-patriot. She and her surfer beau live in a cozy 1910 built "love shack" near the sea in tiny Stinson Beach, and invited us to stay.



We cancelled our camping reservations at Manresa Beach State Park near Santa Cruz in favor of setting up tent in their garden amidst their surfboards, nestled between the fog-shrouded Mt. Tamalpais, “Birthplace of Mountain Biking”, and the cold grey waves of the Pacific.



Marin County is notoriously suspicious of outsiders. Nearby Bolinas is famous for removing their city sign, to discourage tourists. Hanging with the locals we were instantly accepted as locals by proxy. Romping and running wild with our dogs on the beach was a thing of pure joy. Our friends cooked us a wonderful dinner, we drank wine, laughed, and told stories well after dark. It was a highlight of our trip and finally felt like the vacation had begun.



Highway 1 north of San Francisco is fragrant with eucalyptus. The giant groves of quick growing Australian trees are not native, and have their detractors for this reason. Despite this, the willowy giants have somehow become synonymous with California. The gold rush and railroads brought the species here in the 1850s, when the state government authorized and encouraged their quick growing establishment. The astringent smell of the eucalyptus fills our noses.
Suddenly we are in love with this part of California. My mind wanders back to the beautiful eucalyptus tree we already have, in our own Arizona front yard.



Our next campsite was back down the coast at San Simeon State Park, followed by a night at Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park. We’d reserved all of our campsites months earlier, most of them at state parks for about $40 per night.
Pfeiffer Big Sur, a popular park since 1933, is a bit magical, nestled into the redwoods, and delineated by the clear grey green Big Sur River. There were swarms of ladybugs everywhere when we arrived. I wouldn’t have been surprised at all to see a unicorn.



Side note: They sell beer (!) at California State Parks. (Hey Arizona State Parks, ya’ listening?) After setting up tent it’s customary to take a dip in the Big Sur River. Hot, sunny, drinking beer in the river—just like home.



Chad led us on a sunset expedition to nearby Pfeiffer Beach. Amazing, framed by giant sea bound monoliths, and smooth purple sand, Pfeiffer Beach was blustery cold, full of photographers, picnickers sipping red wine, unruly dogs, and loud crashing waves.



Our final night on the Big Sur Coast was spent at Kirk Creek, a federal campground. There are world-class resorts all up and down Big Sur, each charging hundreds of dollars a night. None would compare to this $22.00 campsite. When we arrived, our jaws dropped. Site #11 at Kirk Creek was the best campsite we've ever had in our lives: big, beautiful, carpeted by soft grass, high on a bluff overlooking the sunny Pacific, surrounded by sweet scented wild fennel, sage, and yarrow. A steep trail leads down to the rocky shore below.









Unpacking, setting up, breaking down, and repacking camp every day was hard work. The Prius was so small we basically had to unload the entire car, and reload the entire car every day. Thank God for Chad's engineering-style mind. The camping life is hard work, toting water, lifting gear, washing dishes outdoors, washing our hair in sinks—everything takes more time and energy.
And somehow, the food tastes better. The sleep in the tent is more restful.
The hard work makes everything more valuable somehow.







Without showers for days, we were kinda’ grungey, with our rock star hair and dirty feet like a couple of goddamn hippies. It didn’t bother me at all, until we took the dogs for a stroll through a field of tall dried thistle, just north of nearby Sand Dollar Beach. Headed to a special seashore Chad selected, I looked down at the dogs and noticed little dark dots all over them. Yanking my chihuahua up by his harness, my fears were confirmed. Ticks! The dogs are covered with ticks!! Panic sets in and a shriek wells in my throat. I start brushing them off of him frantically, brushing them off my bare legs, and looking for the nearest exit. Sitting on a barren bluff, high above the rocky beach, socked in with raging high tide, I managed to clear all the ticks off of Floyd, because they are easy to spot in his pale fur. Ivan, the Boston Terrier was not as lucky. We manage to find most of them in his dark brindley fur, but miss the final two until the next day.
That night I feel itchy all over, and wish for a shower.







Away from the sea and back to the desert, we spent a night at a 1950s built motel in Palm Springs. San Francisco in July is cold enough for polar fleece. Palm Springs in July is like a blast furnace. It was still over 100 degrees when we rolled into town at 9pm, and already back up to 109 by 9am the next day.
Travel tip: Palm Springs motel rooms are cheap in July.



"Salvation Mountain", about 75 miles from the Coachella Valley in a remote sun-baked location near Niland, has been on my list of places to see for years. Our last day on the road, we head a lil’ bit out of our way down to see this amazing bit of folk art. The Colorado Desert sits below sea level, and is sparsely occupied during the summer. Bombay Beach along the Salton Sea is a 1960s resort town gone wrong, a post-apocalyptic paradise full of bombed out trailers and land locked boats.



Further south is “the last free place”, Slab City, a transient community setting up camp on concrete slabs left behind from a World War 2 military installation.



We arrive at Salvation Mountain, a massive bit of crazily colorful religious folk art created by Leonard Knight. Mr. Knight, 78, has spent decades carving and coating the side of a dirt hill with adobe, straw, thousands of gallons of donated paint, and various versions of “God is Love”, scripture, and testimony to Jesus.





Everything is fancifully painted: cars, trucks, bikes, boats. 113 degrees at high noon. I thought my Chuck Taylors might melt. Salvation Mountain was worth the many out-of-the-way miles. It is a true thing of beauty, and as important to American iconography as Highway 1.



Driving through the heat of day, we arrive back in our neighborhood by dusk.
The Verde Valley always looks really good after a long road trip, after driving through many random small towns of assorted quality.
“You know something, this place we live in is pretty damn good. It looks pretty great here.” Back at home we feel exhilarated, relaxed, as we pour over Polaroids, tip back cold California beers, and sit close to the eucalyptus tree.


http://www.madonnainn.com/index.php
http://www.sfmotelcapri.com/
http://www.parks.ca.gov/
http://bigsurcalifornia.org/
http://www.salvationmountain.us/

Ellen Jo Roberts lives in a historic brick bungalow in Clarkdale Arizona, with Bike Daddy Chad, 2 small dogs, a cat, and a collection of vintage Volkswagens, none of which have cruise control, air conditioning or satellite radio.
Read all about it at ellenjo.com

The Clark Mansion Fire

The Clark Mansion Fire
A Mysterious Tale of Wealth, Decay, and Haints
The Outs
Ellen Jo Roberts
August 2010



“The beauty of that jewel in the desert, a relic of Clarkdale's youth, fueled creativity and imagination. I always wished I could see inside and wondered what it was like to live there when it was new.” – Clarkdale resident, artist Sandy Boothe.

The Clark Mansion has been a town landmark since the late 1920s, created in Spanish-Revival style in the native colors of the surrounding desert, and flanked by two towering Italian Cypress. Originally built for William A Clark’s grandson, United Verde Copper Company heir, William Clark III, the house has lived many incarnations since young Clark’s unfortunate death in a nearby plane crash in 1932. During the last part of the 20th century, the 7 bedroom 5 bathroom mansion was leased for residential use, and also utilized as an auxiliary clubhouse and restaurant for the Peck’s Lake golf course. It had been used as a movie set several times, though no one can remember the titles of any of the films.

Over the past 15 years, Peck’s Lake has been in a state of decay mirroring that of the mansion. Once a vibrant part of Clarkdale’s company town amenities, Peck’s Lake was regionally famous for its dance pavilion, fireworks, town picnic, golf course, boat races, and other sporting events. The golf course closed in 1991. The dance pavilion burnt down, and the main clubhouse was vandalized (apparently by horny teens, and satan worshippers from the looks of the graffiti), a hollow shell of its former glory.
By the mid-1990s, the mansion was vacant and the windows boarded up. On January 1st 2004, Phelps Dodge closed off all public access to Peck’s Lake, blocking the road with an earthen dam, and wrapping the entire area, including the mansion, in barbed-wire-topped chain link fencing.



Even in its lonely neglected condition, separated from all of us, sealed off and empty, there remained something majestic about the Clark Mansion. It watched over us all from the edge of town. It glowed in the sunset, and fired up our inspiration. I made paintings and took photos of it. I called it My Dream House and imagined how I would fix it up should it ever miraculously be mine.



My friend and fellow Clarkdalian Brandi Lee Cooper said it was haunted--that a “haint” lived out there. Maybe it was dangerous to run past it after dark, and tempt the haint’s wickedness. My fear escalated as Brandi Lee told me the plane crash that claimed young Clark’s life took place in front of his wife’s very eyes, as she watched from the mansion in horror.



During the pre-dawn hours on June 25th 2010 a new horror happened at the Clark Mansion. Something terrible. Just after 4 in the morning, the mansion, haunted by haints and guarded by cypress, inexplicably began to burn. Quickly the fire grew out of control, with flames hundreds of feet high, according to witnesses, brightly visible from as far away as Jerome. Many called to report the blaze, though by the time the fire crews arrived, a power line had fallen onto the metal fence surrounding the mansion, electrifying it. Unable to spray any water until the electricity was cut, crews had to wait 20 helpless minutes for APS to arrive. The roof, interior walls and floors of the mansion collapsed in the fire, leaving just the heavy concrete exterior walls. According to Paul Peck of the Clarkdale Historical Society, the fire burnt so hot it severely damaged and cracked the remaining walls.



Like many locals, I slept through all of this, blissfully unawares. It wasn’t until I arrived at work a few hours later, the flames finally extinguished and the mansion still smoldering, that someone alerted me about what had happened, “The Clark Mansion burnt.” Immediately I ran outside to see for my own eyes what couldn’t possibly be true. At first I couldn’t even spot it. Without its red clay tile roof and sentinel cypress trees, it had become invisible, blending in with the color of the nearby earth. Then I saw the wisps of smoke still rising. The Italian Cypress had perished in the blaze (witnesses reporter hearing them “explode”). I burst into messy sobs. How could this be? Who could have been so evil to destroy this precious bit of Arizona history? My dream house! Perished!



Marsha Foutz, an artist and educator, has lived in her historic lower Clarkdale bungalow for 29 years. She included her home in Clarkdale’s first Home Tour specifically to highlight and educate about Clark Mansion by sharing her especially great view of it.
“During the many renovations to my home, I have always kept the view open and focused to the mansion. My studio was built to take in the view of the mansion as much as possible,” says Ms. Foutz, “From my house, I view the mansion many times a day. I have recently discovered that I used to ‘greet’ the mansion each time I saw it. I still get stunned and saddened 10 to 12 times a day as when I look up, there is nobody to greet!”



She’s always had hopes that the building would be restored. At the time of the fire, the mansion and its surrounding property was in the negotiations between current owner Freeport McMoRan, and local developers Verde Exploration.
Verde Exploration (UVX) reps confirm they had plans to eventually restore the mansion for commercial use. According to Clarkdale mayor, Doug Von Gausig, “Freeport-McMoRan was in the process of trading the building and 5 acres, as I recall, around it for some land that Verde Exploration owns adjacent to the Freeport land near Jerome. The deal would have been finalized about 30 days after the fire.”
This compounds the tragedy. Ms. Foutz adds, “Ironic that it was just going to a group that might have restored it… I've always heard that there were proposals to acquire and use it. The UVX trade might have made a difference in a few weeks. Too little too late for our friend.”



Mayor Von Gausig dedicated a recent town meeting to discussing the Clark Mansion, and initiated a resolution to encourage its restoration if at all possible. After all, the Old Town Theater, gutted by a 1998 fire, was able to be salvaged, restored and reopened after several years of renovation as the popular Tavern Grille. Perhaps there is also hope the Clark Mansion may be restored to something even better than its former glory.
“Has the fire been confirmed arson?” I ask.
“We don't know the answer yet,” answers Mayor Von Gausig, “The owner has engaged a structural engineer to assess the condition of the remaining parts of the building, but that assessment hasn't been made yet.” Fire inspectors have been unable to adequately access or assess the structure, due to its current instability. Initial inspection was done using Sedona Fire Department ladder trucks to view interior from the outside. The cause of the fire is confirmed to be of a “suspicious” nature.
“What's the next step?”
“Get the structural report. Then it's up to Freeport-McMoRan to decide what to do with the property,” said Mayor Von Gausig. “The town is on record with a resolution asking that they consider every possible alternative to demolition of the building.”

“NOW THEREFORE, BE IT RESOLVED that the Mayor, Common Council, and citizens of the Town of Clarkdale, Yavapai County, Arizona strongly urge the owners of the Clark Mansion and all other regulatory, public safety, legal and proprietary interests in the property to take no action that may preclude the possibility of restoring, renovating, or rebuilding the Mansion to its historic form and functionality without first exhausting all possible avenues that may preserve the building in as close to its former condition as possible” – from Resolution 1339, passed July 13th 2010.



“Years of indifference piled upon years of neglect and you get what happened,” said Chris Boothe, another long time resident of Clarkdale, “Yet, like the pyramids, we all wanted it to always be there, the icon, the sentinel, the soul of Clarkdale. I attended the Town Council meeting to support restoring what's left of the [Clark Mansion] but left dismayed to hear it's nothing more than a suggestion to Freeport McMoran. The bleak truth is that the company can raze what's left at any time. Perhaps with enough input from the public they will realize the importance of keeping a bit of Clarkdale DNA.”

Gerhard Mayer, is the CEO of MGL Development LLC, a solar system manufacturer and construction company based in Sedona. He’s lived and worked in the Verde Valley for almost 30 years, and used to golf at the Peck’s Lake course. At the July 13th town meeting, Mr. Mayer spoke passionately in favor of any preservation efforts for the remaining structure of the Clark Mansion.
“We are all stewards of our history and need to preserve our heritage respectfully for all future generations to build on. The Clark Mansion’s destiny was predictable, a building, not the most impressive one of all of Clark`s mansions, but a landmark for the Verde Valley, neglected, unoccupied, vandalized, torched by an arsonist and now facing the ultimate sentence, leveled, rubble for a landfill, erased, history wiped out.”
“We all have an obligation, the owner who neglected the mansion for decades, the city and citizens of the Verde Valley to stop this from happening. When I drive up 89A to Jerome and see a building along the highway being brought back to life from a near rubble, crumbling state, then I think this could be possible for this blackened historic jewel as well.” Mr. Mayer acknowledges such an undertaking would be expensive.
“It will not be cheap, but copper has reached $ 3.18 a pound. Freeport just announced that they are activating some of the dormant mines, the shares are traded at $ 66.06… It should be in the best interest of Freeport to have this mansion restored. What a great PR and image enhancing action.”

Perhaps Ms. Foutz speaks for many locals in calling the mansion fire “a death”.
“A senseless murder most likely. I am much more sad for this death than for the death of my father. My father was cared for. This home was abandoned. And so lonely! Its only friends were the cypress trees and now they are gone too. It was so loved and yet was so isolated!”
I was inconsolable for days after the fire. Even now, a full month later, all the air escapes from my lungs whenever I catch a glimpse of the Clark Mansion’s burnt hulk.
A ghost at the edge of town, a haint lingering in its crooked shadows.



If you’d like to lend your support by word or deed in favor of saving the Clark Mansion, please contact the Town of Clarkdale for more information.www.clarkdale.az.us

For photos of the Clark Mansion Fire
visit Doug Von Gausig’s Critical Eye photography site at
http://www.criticaleyephoto.com/Other/Clark-Mansion-Fire-6-25-2010/12691510_rfY89

Ellen Jo Roberts has a keen interest in vintage architecture, because she wakes up in a historic Clarkdale Arizona bungalow every morning. She also likes other assorted old stuff like neon road signs, air-cooled Volkswagens, cassette tapes, and antique cameras. Read all about it at www.ellenjo.com