A Sliver of A Slice of Arizona Nice

 May 5, 2026

   Well, Happy Cinco de Mayo to you as well. What have I learned from my fifty years of being in love with Cave Creek, Arizona?

The lonely cave that Cave Creek is named for

Last Man In

A sliver of a slice of Arizona nice

   The Apaches knew. They often stayed overnight in our cave on their way to the Tonto Rim and beyond. But one fine morning in December of 1873, new guys—who look like me—ambushed them in the cave. These fine gents claimed they wanted to make this a better place, but you know how that goes.

The Apaches Knew

   Every last person who has come to this sliver of a slice of heaven has said, "I am here, so let's close the door to anyone new." And this mantra continues to this very day. I've said it myself. I first came out here in 1970 and fell under its funky spell. And, thanks to Judy Darbyshire, we moved out here in 1986. When we got here we wanted it to stay rural and unknown. That was the charm of it.

Cave Creek as I first witnessed it in 1970

   It seemed like everyone had a nickname, like Hippie George or Bee Keeper Bill, Mad Coyote Joe and don't forget Tara Mine Shaft Jones. 

Tara's Mine Shaft Restaurant And Bar

Sinners and saints all. In those faraway days, the hippies, the miners and the drug dealers got along fine, if you don't count the nightly bar brawls at Harold's.

The actual Harold in his office with his

ahem, bookkeeper

   I've hiked up to Fortification Rock where the Hohokam made their last stand (probably against the Apaches) and so today I will make mine.

Fortification Rock, at bottom, center

   The last man in, was, and is, the beginning of the end and here I sit in my own sliver of a slice of heaven, under the Seven Sisters. 

Artist Lon Megargee holding one of his paintings with the Seven Sisters in the background

   Now, it's too big for its own good and too wild to tame. Is it just me, or does it seem like Bike Week from Hell is every other week?

   Yes, Carefree is just up the road, but it ain't funky enough for me because it's too rich for my blood. East Egg, West Egg, whatever, it's all too foo foo. And, yes, I admit at one point it may have been on the receiving end of a carefree highway, but now it's more like a highway to hell.

   Don't get me wrong. I love it here. My honey and I sit in the front yard and count all the cars that don't come by. 

The Bells move in, December of 1986

   And, yes, in case you haven't noticed by now, I've become one of those grumpy Boomers, an old coot whining about the good old days. But don't laugh too hard, because someday you just might be the last old-timer still standing in these parts and you too will moan about the ruin all these newcomers have made of the place.

   The Apaches knew. And now, so do you.

—Bob Boze Bell