​My son and I were camping this week up on the Mogollon Rim country, near an unassuming little spot called Potato Lake.  On our way out to the paved road we happened along an isolated marble grave marker just off the side of Forest Service Road 300.  Since such markers are unusual here, I stopped to take a look, and was rewarded with a piece of Arizona history.
 
The marker was made of fine marble, engraved with the restrained description of the interred:  Andres Moreno, b. 1840 d. 1887, of 1st Battalion, Company E, Arizona Infantry.  As my son and I pondered the fate of this man who met his end 25 years before Arizona would become a state, a small herd of elk passed quietly behind the marker.  Who was this man?  What sort of pitched battle must he have been involved in to find his end here, in 1887?
 
Enter Google.  Andres Moreno was a Mexican from Sonora whose family moved north to Tubac when he was in his teens.  The Gadsden Purchase granted him American citizenship, and in 1865 he joined the Arizona Volunteer Infantry, which was being put together hastily to shore up Army duties in the Territory while Army regulars were being sent back East to fight in the Civil War.
 
The Arizona Volunteer Infantry was a hard-riding lot, or should I say hard-marching, as they left Tubac, AZ and marched all the way to Fort Whipple, near Prescott.  They spent a hard year fighting marauding bands of Apache with almost no support or meaningful resupply, and when their enlistment was up in 1865, they were grossly underpaid by a nearly bankrupt Territorial legislature who could only offer them their praise.
 
Moreno left for New Mexico, where he courted and married a Delfina Mazon, with whom he had several children.  He became a freighter, and this trade returned the family to Arizona, where the family once again sought their fortune on our soil from Barth to Globe. 
 
In 1887, Moreno contracted with a doctor and a lawyer, both going to Flagstaff, one to catch a train headed west and the other to assume a teaching position. Knox Lee, the lawyer, and Moreno engaged in a spirited dispute over who was responsible for providing the food for the journey, and this dispute came to a head along Baker’s Butte, on what is now Forest Road 300.  Moreno and Lee were detained to repair a harness, and while Moreno was bent over his work, Lee shot him in the back of the head.  He then re-arranged the crime scene to appear as though he shot Moreno in self defense.
 
Dr. Cook was able to ascertain that Lee’s story held no water, and Lee faced murder charges in Prescott.  Sadly, anti-Mexican sentiments ran high in 1887, and Lee was sentenced to the lighter charge of involuntary manslaughter; he was able to conduct a political letter-writing campaign to turn this into a pardon only a few months into his sentence.
 
Moreno’s grave remained unmarked for 60 years until his great-grandson Frank Moreno was able to locate the site in 1964 and petition the Veteran’s Administration to provide the headstone I saw, which was put into place by Forest Rangers.
 
As we head into Memorial Day weekend, I am struck by the serendipity by which I encountered this headstone and the story that accompanies it.  As we pass through this world, we owe our history, and our memory, to those we leave behind, even generations later.  It is to them that we entrust our stories, and our legacy, and that is the honorable burden each of us bear for the heroes who have passed before us.
 
 
 Works Cited
 
Brown, Stan.  “The Wild West in the Rim Country,” PaysonRoundup. Nov 30, 2011.
            Web. May 27, 2016

​A few weeks ago I took a short trip up to the Mogollon Rim, and found myself hiking around the West Clear Creek area.  I encountered a line of barbed wire fencing which bore this sign:

​Quite frankly, I think the point of this post is that I’m not sure how I feel about this sign – or rather, the idea behind this sign, what this sign represents.  On the one hand, I am gladdened to know that the state has set aside tracts of land for wilderness, land that will presumably remain relatively pristine and untouched by logging, logging roads, and the ubiquitous Winnebago RV.
 
Still, I wonder what it means that to be behind this sign, behind this permeable boundary represented by barbed wire (barbed wire, of course, is the quintessential symbol of civilization for every westerner).  What does it mean to the tree in front of this sign versus one of the pines behind it?  Do foraging elk care what this barbed wire represents?  Do the bear?
 
“Wilderness” is defined by an online dictionary as “a wild and uncultivated region, as of forest or desert, uninhabited or inhabited only by wild animals; a tract of wasteland” (dictionary.com).  According the Wilderness Act of 1964, “A wilderness, in contrast with those areas where man and his own works dominate the landscape, is hereby recognized as an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.”
 
Such definitions fit the legal designation, the denotative meaning of the sign, but there is another meaning of wilderness, a more connotative definition that hinges on the root word “wild.” That which is wild is natural and unrestrained, and how can a state restrain through barbed wire borders that which is properly, by definition, unrestrained?  Doug Peacock, author of Grizzly Years, used a different definition, saying “it ain’t wilderness unless there’s a critter out there that can kill you and eat you.”   I love this definition.
 
This is not to suggest that there is something morally superior about being mauled by a bear, but that there may be something morally superior in choosing to tread where one is not guaranteed of being the apex predator.  Here is the psychological value of wilderness for mankind, especially in the highly complex, technologically driven cultures of first-world nations.
 
It’s good for the state to designate land as “wilderness” in order to protect it from the ravages of civilization, both the rapacious industries of logging and mining as well as the well-intentioned consumption of RV campers.  But don’t be fooled; it’s not really wilderness until you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.