Old Bisbee still startles first-time visitors with its narrow, twisting streets, its tin-roofed houses precariously positioned on angular hillsides, its steep cement stairs that no mail carrier dare climb. The gentle breeze blowing through town seems to come from the WPA era.

Bisbee's appeal lies in its satisfaction with making ends meet and the suspicion of anything more grandiose. On occasion, a gentrification disturbance threatens and shops become shoppes, but the gathering clouds soon dissipate, the turnover of stores on Main Street continues, and Bisbee retains its reputation as America's only town with a maximum wage.

Bisbee remains the capital of what some call the Free State of Cochise -- a mix of ornery cultures linked by geography and independence. Cochise County itself, which contains mountain ranges with lovely names like Chiricahua, Huachuca, and Peloncillo, lies closer to Mexico than to the United States, though it pretty much ignores the laws of both. What appeals to me most about the capital of the Free State of Cochise, I suppose, is its natural continuity. When plums and other fruit fall off the trees, it's not uncommon to see javelina snorfing around, chomping them off the ground. In the monsoon season storms rush through the canyons, and clouds bounce back and forth between the mountain walls that define the town's outer limits. It's inspiring to watch the power go out, candles light up, and gullies overflow. At sundown, a stand of back-lit tamarisks shuddering in the distance resembles an impressionist painting.