EDITOR'S LETTER

Eighty years ago this month, in September 1943, we got a letter to the editor from Ansel Adams. Like finding a Buffalo nickel in your grandmother's davenport, that would have caused a stir in the mailroom.

"I have intended for a long time to write you and express my sincere admiration for the job you are doing with Arizona Highways," he wrote.

"My admiration is augmented by the fact that the quality of the magazine has not been reduced during the war period - in fact, in some ways, it has seemed to me to have actually improved. Being in a chronic state of disgust over the attitudes and abilities of the average 'travel promoter, your magazine gives me the pleasure and the privilege of being able to point to one example in the domain of travel and regional promotion which combines common sense, clean approach, and a lack of both the 'arty' and the commonplace. Living in the mountains as I do for a good part of the time creates a special sensitivity towards the cheap exploitations so painfully evident in the advertising and promotions of the Natural Scene. There is little sympathy for the basic qualities of the land or its people. Your magazine conveys a true impression of Land and People, and should serve as a model for all publications of this type. I am very happy to be on your mailing list!"

Three years later, Ansel Adams would become our most esteemed contributor. A famous name on a roster that already included several marquee photographers: Joseph Miller, Esther Henderson, Josef Muench, Barry Goldwater, Tad Nichols.

Floyd Getsinger wasn't on the list - half the time he never even got a byline - but he was in the mix. More importantly, he was in the room in 1930 when Mae Cobb, an editorial assistant, blurted out six words that would become our blueprint.

The story of that day is a story I'd never heard before, and never would have heard if it weren't for Celia Gilbert, who called a few months ago to talk about her father. As it happened, she didn't reach me. So she called again. And again and again and again. If you knock long enough at the gate, Longfellow said, you're sure to wake up somebody.

Eventually, we met at a coffeehouse in Scottsdale, where Ms. Gilbert handed me her father's memoir. It begins: "I was born May 10, 1906, on a plantation near Spartanburg, South Carolina." He then writes about his childhood in Phoenix, his love of photography and being hired as an engineer for the Arizona Highway Department. A few pages later, the scene shifts to the early days of this magazine.

"In 1930," he wrote, "the entire staff of Arizona Highways consisted of Vince Keating, the editor, and Mae Cobb. One morning I noticed Mrs. Cobb coming into the drafting room, in an obvious hurry. She bounced, jigging and jogging between drafting tables. When she was about 10 feet from me, she blurted out, 'Floyd, Vince has quit, and you have to help me get the magazine out!' I replied that I knew nothing about getting a magazine out, so what could I do? After some hesitatin', she said, 'We'll fill it up with pictures.' My reply was, 'What kind of pictures, and where are we going to get them?' Again, after a long delay, she said that the state fair was coming up, and she'd get me a pass to the fair and talk to my boss about getting a day off to take pictures.' In November 1930, we published 10 of Mr. Getsinger's black-and-white photographs of the fair. There would be more images in the coming decades. "My father always had a passion for photography," Ms. Gilbert says. "He was very proud of being published in Arizona Highways; however, he was most proud of his role in that 1930 issue."

Fill it up with pictures. That strategy still guides us today, but it's not as frantic for us as it was for Mrs. Cobb, who's affectionately known as "the mother of Arizona Highways." From the beginning, she did it all. She was at the plant when our premiere issue rolled off the press in April 1925. And she's credited with saving the magazine in its early years. She was "invaluable," Bert Campbell, our fifth editor, said. "She would help get material, and did some good editing. She was someone you could always count on.

Like Radar pulling the strings for Colonel Blake, Mrs. Cobb was critical to the success of every editor until her retirement in 1950, including Raymond Carlson, who continued working with Mr. Getsinger. Their most ambitious collaboration came in November 1956, when Mr. Carlson had the audacity to put a collection of rocks on our cover. Floyd Getsinger was the Ansel Adams of mineral photography.

"I told Mr. Carlson that all I had were 35 mm slides," the photographer said. "His answer was, 'Well, Floyd, as you know, I never publish 35 mm slides, but I want to see anything you have.' I set a time for an interview. At that meeting we established a series of three articles, all of which had some 35 mm slides, and one of which was all 35s." Turns out, the film didn't matter.

"I am an enthusiastic, dedicated and fervent rock hound," Enos E. Martinette of Springfield, Missouri, wrote in a letter to the editor. "Therefore, imagine my pleasure when I pulled your November issue out of its envelope and saw that brilliant spread of mineral specimens on the cover. Mr. Getsinger did a beautiful job for you. And you are to be congratulated for being so courageous as to put rocks on your cover."

In his reply, Mr. Carlson wrote: "Judging by the response to our November issue, many people enjoyed our story Beauty From the Earth. We have no hesitancy whatsoever putting rocks on our cover, as long as they are as beautiful as those presented by Floyd Getsinger."