EDITOR'S LETTER

THE BAD NEWS CAME IN A COUPLE OF WAVES. About an hour apart. First came the cactus. “I have some news, Bobby. The old saguaro on the Romero Trail came down. Too much rain, I guess. It just tipped over.” The next message was along the same lines. “Hello Robert. I wanted to let you know that Naurice Koonce passed away yesterday, at the age of 94.” I never had the privilege of meeting the talented photographer, whose work helped launch this magazine into orbit in the 1950s, but I knew the old cactus in the Santa Catalinas very well — I’d hiked across its hallowed ground many times.

No one knows for sure how old it was, but it probably took root around the time Napoleon was dying on the island of Saint Helena. In the decades since, it survived snow and ice, blistering heat and invasive species. It made it through many monsoon storms, too, but not the emphatic cloudburst that flooded the Sonoran Desert at the end of August. Like the denouement of the Edmund Fitzgerald, the old saguaro was overwhelmed and capsized, leaving behind a big hole in the sky. And a pool of sorrow on the ground.

In the Bible, Job offers a point of view that helps mitigate the mournfulness we feel about these things: “There is hope of a tree,” he wrote, “if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease.” But it’s hard to reconcile the painful loss of Mother Nature’s handiwork. There’s a word for how it makes us feel. It’s called solastalgia, and it’s used to describe the profound despair that’s caused by environmental change.

Not everyone is affected, but most of us, to some degree, lament the loss of the natural wonders around us. We hate to see them go, because they’re familiar. And they give us hope in a world where the polar ice caps are melting and the Western landscape is being devastated by wildfires. Like a remora, we cling to the old saguaro because it nourishes hope and feeds a need to believe that our neck of the woods is somehow invulnerable. That what's happening out there isn't happening here, but it is. It's happening everywhere. On every level.

A few years ago, the small town of Basking Ridge, New Jersey, lost one of the most impressive trees on the Atlantic coast — a 97-foot white oak that was more than 600 years old. Like one of the ancient trees in the Forbidden Forest, its twisting branches stretched over an old graveyard next to a Presbyterian church. When it died, the folks there were so distraught they held a memorial service. We grieve the loss of great things. Great white oaks, great saguaros ... and, on a higher level, the great men and women who touch our lives, either directly or indirectly.

Maurice Koonce was one of them. He produced a lot of photography for us, including a wonderful collection that became our cover story in June 1958. “We devote our pages this month to the Colorado River,” Editor Raymond Carlson wrote. “Naurice Koonce’s presentation is a notable one, and portrays the river better than we have ever seen it portrayed before.” When he wasn't on assignment for us, Mr. Koonce was busy running the commercial side of the photography business he built with Ray Manley, another longtime contributor. “Dad had a diverse job,” Steve Koonce says. “He could be doing something at the Old Tucson movie studio one day, shooting advertising photos at a leather shop the next, and then taking photos at 2 a.m. for the Union Pacific Railroad.” He photographed celebrities, too, including John Wayne and Santa Claus.

“Dad shot most of Coca-Cola’s Santa Claus images,” Steve says. Those photographs were used as a basis for the paintings featured in Coke’s annual holiday ad campaigns.

“He had so many talents,” says Carolyn Robinson, Mr. Manley’s daughter. “There will never be another Naurice Koonce.” In the past few weeks, I’ve heard many stories about the loving patriarch who enjoyed crossword puzzles and eating ice cream. They’re the fond memories of a grieving family that’s wrestling with the burden of letting go. That’s the hardest thing we do. Letting go and trying to fill the hole. Whether it’s an old saguaro or a beloved family member, it begins by embracing the blessings we carry forward. “Cultivate the habit of being grateful for every good thing that comes to you,” Emerson said.

November is the month we take inventory of those good things — it’s built into the calendar. Gratitude, however, extends beyond the national holiday. It does at this magazine. Every day we’re grateful for our readers around the world. To each of you, we are sincerely beholden. When you fill out your subscription card, order our license plate, or visit our online store to buy a book or a calendar or a Christmas ornament, you’re helping this old saguaro live to be another year older.

On behalf of everyone at Arizona Highways, thank you. I wish you all a safe and happy Thanksgiving.