I sez "Chiricahua"

Can you say it? Geronimo could. So could Cochise, Geronimo's subaltern. Chiricahua was his hideout. The Chiricahua National Monument sits just southeast of Willcox, Arizona, on the other side of the Dragoon Mountains from Benson. Oh, and before we go any farther, I should tell you that it's pronounced "chee-ree-CAH-wha." Once the stronghold of the last belligerent remnant of the Apache tribe, it is now a park, loaded to the brim with mountains, fir trees, trails, and assorted wicked-cool wildlife. We set out at about 9:30. I volunteered to ride with Uncle Bob and Aunt Barb, in their minivan. It was a comfortable ride, with the added bonus of guidance. Barb, a veteran snowbird, was up-to-date on all relevant historical and geographical information. I sat in the backseat and took copious notes as we passed power plants, and dairy farms, and mountains, and ranches, and all manner of unlikely landmarks (including a herd of mule deer). After an hour and a half of scenic Arizona, we were pulling up to the monument gates. The ticket booth was closed—there was a sign that read PAY WHEN YOU LEAVE instead—so we drove on through and up into the mountains. It was a disorienting sensation to see yucca plants poking out of the rocky ground beneath fir trees and a scanty blanket of week-old snow. We ducked into the visitor's center, grabbed a map, and then drove a few miles (and a few thousand feet) up into the mountains to Massai Lookout, 6800 feet above sea level. Man, you could see everything from up there. And by "everything" I mean the remains of the volcanic caldera which formed the mountains in the first place (background)... ..."Cochise Head," a gigantic rock outcrop that eerily resembled an upturned face... ...the San Simon Valley and the distant Dragoon Mountains... ...and bunches and bunches of rhyolite pillars. (And you could see ME.) We hiked a strenuous quarter-mile to the observation station and learned a little about Chiricahua's rich historical and geological tradition. Massai Point, it seemed, had been named after an Apache tribesman, "Big Foot" Massai. He stole a horse from a nearby farmhouse way back in the 1880s. He was pursued to the present-day lookout point, whereupon he vanished. He escaped completely. They never caught him. The settlers must've named the area after him out of sheer admiration. We paused for a snack at the parking lot below Sugarloaf... ...pausing to take a few opportunistic snapshots... ("We've got to show the folks back in Ohio that there's snow in Arizona," Barb said in wonder.) Then we piled back into the cars and headed for town. The only regret I had upon leaving was that I hadn't seen so much as one coatimundi. But I did see this on the way out, almost as good: Uncle Bob spent 10 minutes at the exit gate, trying to pay for both his car and our Hummer behind. He had to buy two senior National Park Service passes (for $20 each) to do it. And he had to dig his driver's license out of his back pocket, which was a laugh and a half. But he managed it. Then we were rolling down Arizona State Highway 181, angling for the town of Sunsites, wherein lay a mighty good café that Bob and Barb recommended. Along the way, Barb spotted a bobcat lurking by the road, which promptly darted back into the scrub as the minivan approached. Dang, I wish I had seen that. Bobcats! In Arizona! In January! In the wild! This is another reason I love Arizona. I dig these long, straight patches of highway. They're intoxicating. They truly are. There's nothing like driving for miles and miles along a perfectly straight road, through some of the prettiest desert you've ever seen. The deserted, dilapidated quality of that road is an added bonus. After a long-yet-short drive, we got to Sunsites (pronounced just like it's spelled). Barb's Postulate proved correct: the popularity of an Arizona diner is directly proportional to the number of pickup trucks parked outside. Feast your eyes upon the Sunsites Country Café. The inside was plainly decorated (a gas-station tile floor and some lovely watercolor prints on the walls), but the food was undeniably savory. I had a bomber sandwich: roast beef, red onions, pepper jack cheese, and Cajun mayonnaise. Lip-smackin' good. On the way back, we made a quick stop by the Triple T Ranch (just off I-10), where the desert rocks have gotten to be a tad invasive. The ranch contained such oddities as a bar with a rock in the middle... ...and a rock with a tree growing around it. Weird. We witnessed these wonders thanks to the lone caretaker-lady who thoughtfully unlocked the bar and ushered us around back to look at the aforementioned mutant tree. Thanks, whoever you were. Anyway, we finally saddled up again and headed back to Benson. But not before we'd had a look at the airport. Uncle Bob and Aunt Barb are mighty pleased with my flying ambitions, it seems; for they insisted on taking me to this airport, letting me take a gander, and hobnobbing with the fellow in charge of the FBO. I chatted with him a while, during which I learned that it was possible to get from Benson to Los Angeles on one tank of gas (in a Cessna 172). I also learned that the fellow at the FBO (who spoke with a British accent) had once flown a Robinson R-22 helicopter all the way from Bend, Oregon to L.A. Whew, what a flight that must've been. He told me that they got stuck on the top of Mount Shasta one night during some bad weather and slept in some kind-hearted folks' cabin before flying out the next morning. Whoa, cool. Not much was going on. The Benson airfield was quiet. They didn't get much traffic, I gathered. Still, I liked the place. It was small, quiet, and unassuming, and smack dab in the middle of some kick-ass scenery. What more could you want out of an airport? We hit up the Apple Farm Country Restaurant for dinner (speaking of lip-smacking good). I had a difficult conversation with Uncle Bob; difficult because the restaurant was noisy, and Uncle Bob speaks quietly and without aspirating his consonants. Then the company adjourned back to the trailers for a lazy evening and a restful night's sleep. For on the morrow, we would depart.