OATMAN, ARIZONA

We cruised down the mountain passed a dilapidated ice-cream van and into Oatman to be greeted by a couple of people outside a bar. We chatted to them, parked up and went inside for a well-deserved beer and a game of pool. We explained, when asked that, no we didn’t come from the west, we came from the east…
“You came down the freaking mountain in that thing?”
“She did… I can’t drive!”

After a beer or two and as more locals arrived the legend grew. From twenty six feet an hour before, when his friend walked in, one local Bill proclaimed “This girl just drove a seventy-five foot R.V. down the fucking mountain!”

With a round of applause we, or rather Natalie, had written ourselves into local history as much as Olive Oatman who gave the town her name after being rescued in 1857 from Apache Indians who had forced her into slavery and tattooed her face to prove their ownership.

We moseyed around the Wild West mining town, the venue for Clark Gable and Carole Lombard’s 1939 honeymoon stopover (he often returned to play poker with the miners) had our fortunes read by one of those coin operated Prospector Pete machines and cooked and ate cowboy beans for dinner… Almost as romantic as Clark Gable’s honeymoon because under the silvery moonlight, and a gift from the Indian Gods just for us, sat shining a perfect accompanying fairy ring; the first Natalie had ever seen. We snuggled up for an early night only to be interrupted by the hee-haw of the particularly nosey local inhabitants.

Ghosts came up in conversation yet again but I didn’t tell my lover the legend of Oatie, who Bill told me inhabited the Oatman Hotel while she was in the bathroom. Later research tells he is a friendly poltergeist whose identity is believed to be that of William Ray Flour, an Irish miner who died behind the hotel, presumably from excessive alcohol consumption. Flour's body wasn't discovered until two days after his death and it was hastily buried in a shallow grave near where he was found.

Early Sunday morning, the place was lit by stunning sunshine, we walked up Main Street and it was hard not to imagine a busting mining town. The hundred year old whispers of Old Time Prospectors, could still be heard on the breeze, repeating “There’s gold in them thare hills” Save for the odd café, this place hasn’t changed in almost a century. The Oatman Hotel was built in 1902, and still stands.

Duels over rights to bountiful land, sparkling gold and fine women must have been a two-a-dime.







This outlaw would fight to the death for his fine, sparkling, bountiful Arizonan Girl.


The petrol heads were still in town so Hot Rods and vintage cars lined old Route 66, Mustangs replacing the cowboys steeds of yesteryear, brake horse power usurping their legs and air horns mimicking their whinnies and neighs.











There are no stallions tied-up outside saloons, but wild burros freely roam the town and can be hand-fed carrots, readily available in practically every store in town.








The burros are descended from pack animals turned loose by early prospectors, and while cute looking are in fact wild. Signs advise visitors to exercise caution. Indeed I saw one woman nearly receive a mule kick by ignorantly walking behind one. The young ones have stickers on their heads announcing that they should not be fed.

Like Gary Cooper, we saddled up and rode out of town around High Noon.