THE barkeep moves away to the far end of the dimly-lit saloon, where he sets out a shot glass on the empty bar and pours a hefty slug of Tennessee sippin' whisky. That's odd, we think. It's a little early for a bartender to start drinking.
Within seconds, a shaft of sunlight splashes the rough-hewn floor as the door creaks open and a reed-thin man with stetson, cowboy boots and ponytail strides in. The first of the Buckhorn Saloon's daily regulars has arrived.
As we sit in the half-light of the 1860s hostelry in the tiny gold rush town of Pinos Altos, New Mexico, the drinks and the stories begin to flow. The gold that was discovered here in 1859 is long gone, but somehow, the town clings to existence. Sitting right on the Continental Divide at the gateway to one of the most remarkable, primitive areas of the southwest - the Gila Wilderness - this is the real wild west, with an untamed history and more than its fair share of legends: Kit Carson, Butch Cassidy, Judge Roy Bean, Geronimo and Cochise all strode into the sunset across the local hills, and Billy the Kid, undersized and girlish-looking, is said to have killed his first man just down the road in Silver City.
But centuries before that, ancient peoples with primitive tools achieved amazing feats in these parts. From our base in Pinos Altos, we drive the Trail of the Mountain Spirits National Scenic Byway to the Gila cliff dwellings, some 40 miles of switchbacks and hairpin bends that have us tightening our shoulders at every blind curve or unguarded drop off. We are rewarded by the vast panoramas and undulating forest vistas of the Gila Wilderness, which became the nation's first designated wilderness area way back in 1924. It's 3.3 million acres of transition zone between the Rocky Mountains and the Chihuahuan Desert, and a hiker's paradise.
The Gila Cliff Dwellings tell a story of a resourceful people surviving in a tough environment. Eight centuries ago, a tribe of the ancient Mogollon culture clambered up from the canyon below to construct 42 rooms inside a series of broad caves. From this stronghold, they would hunt deer, rabbit or mountain sheep or gather wild foods like prickly pear, agave and pinyon nuts to add to their corn, squash and beans. For them, plants represented a grocery store, tool shed and pharmacy. We try to visualize their lives, working with the rhythm of the seasons, the sounds of their voices echoing amongst the rocks as they made their pottery or traded with other communities.
Unlike the convolutions of the road through the Gila wilderness, the way to Glenwood and its quirky Catwalk, some 65 miles away, is as straight as a die. Under high, wispy cirrus, we cross the Continental Divide yet again, travelling through sparse cattle lands that roll away into the distant Big Burro Mountains, hazy and soft-focused. Water-greedy cottonwoods mark creeks or gullies like veins in the sun-bleached and parched grass cover. It's a vast country and empty. It's definitely no place to run out of gas.
Once upon a time, Geronimo and Butch Cassidy hid out in the remote bush terrain around Whitewater Canyon, an area that was also a central point in the region's mining history. To link the gold claims upstream with the processing mill lower down, a three-mile, four-inch metal pipeline was built through the narrow canyon in an extraordinary feat of engineering. Maintenance workers going up and down the pipeline on rough planks called it the Catwalk. Today's upgraded metal walkway clings to the sides of the gorge, suspended from the eroded Cooney Tuff. Hovering in mid-air above the rushing waters, in a ravine that is only 20 feet wide in some places, it provides easy walking.
Our fingers touch the old brace holes that can still be seen in the massive rock walls and wonder at the hardships the original miners endured during their 10 short years here. We are dwarfed by the rock faces that close in as the canyon narrows, but the feeling is brief. As the Catwalk ends, the canyon opens up and we hike further into the ravine hoping to catch a glimpse of bighorn sheep or javelina. Great dusky-rose boulders, most of them bigger than an SUV, clutter the creek bed forcing the water into small falls and bathing pools where we dabble our trail-weary feet.
Back in Pinos Altos, we re-visit the recently refurbished Buckhorn Saloon and Opera House for "some of the best food in New Mexico," which is how Bob Pelham, the owner of our rented cottage, describes it. It's a veritable time capsule in here: red brocade drapes, ornate paintings of reclining nudes, uneven smokeblackened ceiling. In contrast, the dining rooms are prepared with crisp white linens and fastidious place settings. Pictures and memorabilia reflect those bygone pioneer days when Pinos Altos was a bustling and rowdy gold mine town and the Buckhorn attracted merchants, miners and very racy ladies. In the adjoining opera house, Victorian melodramas are performed (in season) with audiences encouraged to cheer for the hero or boo and hiss the villain. It's an intriguing replica of the past with its ornate stage curtain, rows of opera boxes and old chandeliers. Ghosts of the gold boom populate its dark corners.
Nearby Silver City charms us with its slightly hip and ever-so-homely appeal. Its original silver boom days ended in 1893, but with its gentle desert climate (an average of 300 sunny days per year, they say) the town became a magnet for tuberculosis patients, including Billy the Kid's mother. Copper mining began in 1910 and the Chino mine is still one of the largest open pit copper mines in the world. The legacy of this eclectic historical mix is a place where ranchers, artists, miners, students, shopkeepers and lovers of the great outdoors all add something to the blend. We stroll Big Ditch Park in the historic town centre and find it far more attractive than the name suggests with its walkways, park benches, flower beds and stream. Dusty trading post stores offer exquisite turquoise jewellery side by side with rugged leather goods, antique books and reproduction earth-toned Mimbres pottery. Adobe galleries in pale pastel shades rub shoulders with pubs like the Buffalo Bar with its ranks of spotless Harley Davidsons lined up outside.
This southwestern corner of New Mexico has been home to Apache, Mogollon and Mexican cultures, to miners, ranchers, desperados and gunslingers. With a little imagination, we can still hear the faint echo of gunshots or smell a wisp of phantom smoke from ancient campfires. It may be a little rough around the edges, but that's just how the independent, resilient folks hereabouts like it. And as we leave our cabin on our final day, our host says it best: "Around here, you'll always find a welcome sign and a place to tie your horse."
