It was a good year. Nineteen twenty-five. The Great Gatsby hit bookshelves, the Grand Ole Opry transmitted its first radio signal, and Leica marketed the world’s first 35 mm camera. In the world of music, Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington made their first recordings. And at the grocery store, Corona, Burma-Shave and Sugar Daddy caramel pops started showing up. It was a good year for birthdays, too. Born in 1925 were Paul Newman, Dick Van Dyke, Johnny Carson, B.B. King and a magazine called The New Yorker, which published its first issue on February 21, 1925. A few weeks later, in April 1925, Arizona Highways made its debut. It was a humble beginning.
“The magazine’s offices were reached by entering the Highway Department’s engineering building,” said Gary Avey, our ninth editor. “From there, you’d go out the back door into the equipment yard, past the new equipment and maintenance shops, and then past the wrecked vehicles to the back of the yard. There were three adobe rooms up against a wall that separated the yard from the Santa Fe railroad tracks. The floors were made of linoleum tiles laid on dirt.”
We worked from the old adobes until 1948, when we moved into a new, 6,000-square-foot brick building on the corner of 17th Avenue and Jackson Street. Fourteen years later, in 1962, we moved into our world headquarters on West Lewis Avenue. The slump block building, which measures 102 by 114 feet, was built by the Marshall Construction Co. of Phoenix for $143,212. When adjusted for inflation, that’s about $1.5 million.
Walking in, it doesn’t feel expensive. It feels more like a midcentury middle school, where teachers with names like Mrs. Wesenberg and Mr. Fritz would have taught reading, writing and arithmetic. There’s nothing sophisticated about our building, but it’s where we do our best to carry on the legacy of Raymond Carlson, George Avey and Jim Stevens. They’re the heroes of our story. Athos, Porthos and Aramis; the father, son and the holy ghost.
As editor, art director and business manager, those three men envisioned and built a phenomenon. Never in the history of publishing had there been a magazine quite like Arizona Highways. Like Gatorade, Frisbees and Ferris wheels, it was an idiosyncrasy — a magazine so unique it was banned in the Soviet Union because its beautiful pages “propagandized the American way of life.” Without those men, we wouldn’t have been. But it wasn’t just them. There were so many others who played a role.
“I can do things you cannot, you can do things I cannot,” Mother Teresa said. “Together we can do great things.”
I wish I could tell you something about everyone who has ever worked here, but there’s no filing cabinet filled with personnel records. No hints. No clues. And even if there were, I’m limited by the dimensions of our pages and a word count dictated by designers who see words as blocks of gray space. A gallon gets 128 ounces. I get 1,500 words. Or 15 words for every year we’ve been publishing Arizona Highways. That’s not enough, which is why I’m excited to be writing a book about the history of the magazine. A hardback with enough space to spell out the details and share some of the stories I’ve learned.
Meantime, here are two of my favorites. Like squinting through a keyhole, each story offers some insight into the mad genius of our editor emeritus.
A Rat in the Magazine
About five years ago, I was sitting on a couch in Central Phoenix with Willis Peterson, a longtime photographer. He was 96, but sharp, like a scalpel. He told so many stories. The best was about kangaroo rats, and a story he’d pitched to Raymond Carlson. He’d done a similar piece for Audubon and figured it would be an easy sell. It wasn’t.
“No, Pete,” Mr. Carlson said. “I’m not going to have a goddamned rat in my magazine.”
“I didn’t know what to say,” Mr. Peterson said. “George Avey, the art director, was standing in the doorway. I looked at him. His eyes said don’t push it. Then Mr. Carlson, a little less gruff, said: ‘Come back later. I think you can do better than that.’
“For two days,” Mr. Peterson said, “I couldn’t shake his response. Finally, I called him at home and asked to see him, even though that’s a no-no. A writer never calls his editor at home. I wondered if my writing career for Arizona Highways would be over. However, his wife answered the phone. ‘Certainly, Willis, come right over, Raymond is here.’ I drove across town, muttering about what I’d say. I knocked on the door, noting that it was the famous Frank Lloyd Wright home I’d heard about.
“ ‘Come in, Willis,’ Mrs. Carlson said pleasantly. ‘Raymond is upstairs.’ She pointed to a stairway. I climbed a few steps, which opened onto a mezzanine floor. Mr. Carlson was bent over a long light table, where he could study transparencies.
“ ‘Well, Pete, what brings you to see us?’ He offered me a drink. Flustered at first, I started to explain how interesting kangaroo rats really are. ‘See,’ I said, ‘he even seems pious, clasping his little hands.’ ‘Is he praying for a second chance?’ Mr. Carlson quipped. My mind raced as he read my story. Then he took my transparencies and laid them out on the light table.
“ ‘All right, Pete, it looks as though we can do something on what you have here. Would you like another drink?’ I took it for fear of not being friendly, hoping I wouldn’t be too tipsy while driving home.
“A few days later the phone rang. ‘That little mouse-animal of yours,’ Mr. Carlson said, laughing, ‘he’s got the funniest face I’ve ever seen. What do you suppose he’s thinking about? (More laughter.) Does he always jump around like that, with his hands begging under his nose? (More laughter.)
A little pious beggar … that’s him, all right.’ I heard someone else laughing in the background. Then, laughing some more, Mr. Carlson hung up on me.
“I turned to my wife, flabbergasted. ‘That was Raymond Carlson,’ I said. ‘He must be muddled. One too many. I never heard him talk like that before.’ What a turnaround. From damning my article to finding it so funny he had to call me. We stared at the phone in wonder.”
Leatham Learns a Lesson
Nyle Leatham was a newspaper photographer who eventually became a contributor. He got off to a slow start.
“My Raymond Carlson story,” he said, “happened in 1953. I’d taken some shots in the Superstition Mountains with my $30 Agfa Isolette. Later, out in Burbank, I made some prints. I thought they were good. How could any Arizona Highways editor not write me a check?
“The fantasy gave me the courage to walk in on Mr. Carlson cold turkey. Instead of throwing me out, he said, ‘Help me clear this desk and we’ll look at your stuff.’ He handed me a thick brown paper package. As I untied the string, I read the name: Ansel Adams.
“The pictures were all 5x7s or 8x10s. Not enlargements. Contact prints. Each mounted on clean white cardboard with penciled notes. The subject was Northern Arizona. All were razor sharp, perfectly balanced austere compositions with not the slightest dust spot or image flaw. I didn’t know that such black-and-white tones were even possible.
“Mr. Carlson gathered them up. ‘Nothing special here,’ he said. ‘Let’s look at yours.’
“I said, ‘Mr. Carlson, I’ll see you in about two years.’ And I fled.
“Looking back, I wondered if he’d kept such a package on hand for such a lesson.”
I NEVER HAD THE PLEASURE of meeting Raymond Carlson, but he and I share a place in the history of this magazine, along with the other 12 editors who were tasked with the challenge of telling the “Arizona Story.” In 1963, Mr. Carlson wrote about how hard that is.
“I’ve been editor of Arizona Highways since 1938,” he said. “In the spring of that year, after my third or fourth issue, I was confronted with the awful and terrifying realization that we were running out of material. Now, twenty-five years later, I’m confronted with the still more awful and still more terrifying realization of how inadequate we’ve been in telling the Arizona Story.”
Six decades after he wrote those words, we still haven’t told the entire story. But we’re not finished yet. Not even close. We’ll see you again in May with a few more stories. Meantime, on behalf of everyone at Arizona Highways, thank you for getting us to this milestone. We’re sincerely indebted.