Tombstone, Arizona

The town of Tombstone is truly a throwback to the days of the Wild West.  It was founded in 1879 and thanks to a silver mine it soon became one of the richest towns in the American West.  Sadly the silver boom days didn’t last long, and nowadays the town survives on tourist dollars instead of whiskey, women, and gambling.  Walking down the dusty street, it wasn’t hard to imagine the likes of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday swaggering around the town.  In fact it was quite easy to imagine it because half the people we saw were dressed up in long duster jackets, neckerchiefs, and spurs.  (Handlebar mustache count: 14).  Not sure why, but this weekend there seemed to be very few tourists.  By dusk everyone had pretty much closed up shop and gone home making Tombstone truly seem like a ghost town.

We went to the historic Crystal Palace Saloon for a couple of drinks and then moseyed over to Big Nose Kate’s Saloon for a few more.  (No need to worry about drinking and driving, the Wells Fargo RV Park where we were staying was within spitting distance of the O.K. Corral.  Hoping to learn a little more about the history of the town, we had bought tickets for the Gunfighter and Ghost Walking tour.  It was kind of a bust, we really only walked a block or so in either direction and our female guide spoke in a monotoned drawl the whole time.  We did find it amusing that her anecdotes all involved specters that she called “abberitions” (an unintentional portmanteau of “apparition” and “aberration”).  But I shouldn’t split hairs -- maybe they were just deviant ghosts?
 
By the time the tour was over, there were only a few bars and restaurants open and we were starving!  Luckily, we hit the motherlode at the Longhorn Restaurant.  We were both impressed when the waiter brought out what appeared to be a metal pizza pan supporting a Flintstones-sized slab of ribs for Kevin.  Challenge accepted!  (Full disclosure: two of those beers are mine.)

We woke the next morning feeling less-than-stellar (not sure if it was the excessive red meat consumption or the copious amounts of alcohol).  We decided to skip the unnervingly loud restaging of the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral (which we had both already seen on a previous visit) in favor of quieter solitary pursuits.  Like getting a good look at the Worlds Largest Rosebush (planted in 1885 – it covers an area of 8,000 square feet).

On our way out of town we stopped in to check out the Boothill Graveyard.  Billy Clanton and the McLaury brothers (who died at the O.K. Corral shootout) are buried here.  Some of the epitaphs have made the graveyard occupants famous.  Who hasn’t heard this one:

“Here lies Lester Moore.  Four slugs from a .44.  No Les, no more.”

And this is the grave of George Johnson who must have never heard the phrase “Buyer beware”.  Back in the days of vigilante justice he made the unfortunate mistake of innocently purchasing what turned out to be a stolen horse.  His tombstone reads “He was right, we was wrong.  But we strung him up and now he’s gone.”  Poor George.