COMPLETING this spate of Arizona reflections, we left Silver Town and headed off to Pinos Altos mine, which sits on top of The Great Divide - the first time we had been that close to the famed division. It is the point in the US where the water from the rivers runs east to the Gulf or Atlantic and, on the other side of the hill, runs west to the Pacific.

Years ago, when the Yanks declared war on Mexico, the Apaches gave safe passage to the US troops through their country to wage war on the hated Mexicans. The Mexican lost and the US took on the independent republic of Texas, plus areas that became New Mexico, Arizona and California.

Magnus Colorado and his tribes, who hated Mexicans, were then told their land belonged to the US not Mexico. They made agreements and lived in peace, but still raided their traditional enemies, the Mexicans.

All it meant to the Apaches was that they had to go further south to raid into Mexico. But, as invariably happened, the whites discovered gold and silver and copper on the Apache lands, moved in and started to mine it. The Apaches complained at the trespass and no one listened. Settlers began to follow and small townships developed.

Mangas Colorado, the main Apache chief, went down to the Pinos Altos mine, invited by the whites to discuss their differences. When he arrived, he was dragged from his horse, tied to a tree and flogged. Among the many mistakes and treachery perpetrated against the Native Americans, this was notable.

Some cynics may argue the bigger mistake was to release him and send him home as a warning to others. Not surprisingly, Mangas Colorado was not disposed towards further discussion with the Americans for that was the start of that area’s Apache Wars that were to take many, many lives over the next couple of decades. So we went into the Pinos Altos and visited the Museum, run by a hippie in a cowboy hat, who reckoned he owed 60,000 dollars of health bills from a car accident. We bought a couple of items because it was deserted and, fair play to him, he had spun a good yarn.

I had always wanted to go and see where the third big name Apache, Geronimo, had surrendered but it transpired the place was on private property. Imagine the Yanks allowing some of their history – such as where the last Indian surrendered - to be excluded from the public by private ownership. There is a memorial stating he surrendered “near here” but some miles away. I bought a leaflet on his surrender with a photo of the monument near the site and saved the petrol.

We drove on towards a fort, one of many established in Indian territories; the concept around which Hollywood has built a legend. Indians were into hit and run, skirmish, ambush and guerrilla warfare. Set-piece battles did not take place and neither did Indians keep circling well-defended positions trying to set fire to it or shoot the defenders through the gaps in the woodwork. Soldiers slept in forts and rarely had to defend them. When they emerged from the forts, then they were vulnerable.

We drove on towards Apache Pass, the famed pass, which was on the only route from Tucson to El Paso and was used by Cochise first in peace as a means of commuting into Mexico for raids, and then, after the Bascom Affair in 1861, to ambush travellers.

We imagined a rocky, terrain; a narrow gulch with high sides. As it happens, cattle could graze and do, all over it. It was a little like a more undulating Exmoor. We approached Apache Pass through orchards of what they insist on calling p-carn trees, vines and many beehives. The country between the mountains is flat but there are warnings firstly about dust storms. Barriers of lights are in place at various junctures and when switched on, they warn you not to go further mainly because of the risk of flash floods. Strange to think that water constitutes a danger in such a dry, arid area.

Looking out you can see what looks like the occasional bonfire but in fact it is a series of little dust tornadoes. During the dustbowl years of the Depression, Oklahoma and other states noted for the dust storms caused by misguided-farming. Much of the dust ended up in Arizona.

The tarmac ran out and we found ourselves on a dirt road, of far better quality than you find in England, France and Spain. It was heading for Apache Pass.

Yet it is not a canyon, just a route over mountains and hills, undulating and twisting through grassy uplands with plenty of small trees and shrubs to provide cover. You would be unable, I suspect, to get up a head of steam on horseback let alone with wagon, carriage or coach, because of the nature of the terrain. It was ideal ambush country in a way not depicted by Hollywood.

We pulled up by a police car, which was in reality the customs and border patrol vehicle, to inquire if the road got any rougher. Ellie was told: “No Mam, but keep to the right as we have a situation here. There is a man out there and I will soon be joined by someone coming in the opposite direction to you and he will be coming fast.”

Apparently it is 70 miles from the border and there are lots of illegal immigrants and smugglers coming through.

We climbed to the top of Apache pass and got out and went for a short walk to enjoy the view. Things kept flying from under our feet – known, we learnt subsequently, as The General grasshopper, which can fly with very pretty open wings for ten yards or so, clicking as they go like crickets.

We drove on and parked up. Another custom man was parked 100 yards further down. We ate our food in the car and in the next half-hour, five more police cars came up - each one stopping to inquire if we were ok and acknowledging in best Bob Newhart-speak, as they nodded to the ever-present blue skies: “Hell of a good day for a picnic.”

The last of the quintet had been over in England the previous summer for a holiday: “Done Stratford, The Tower, Big Ben and a whole mess of stuff.”

We were also advised that if anyone approached us on foot, we should shut the doors and drive away. We were well placed up high with a good view of the immediate terrain below, but we listened out for owl hoots or the like, while constantly surveying the territory, for we were in ambush country, imagining an arrow lodging in the tyre, with a sudden quivering “thwack”.

It was good being in the famed Apache Canyon and the countryside was brilliant but the fact “it’ is still going on - hunt, humans and danger – added extra piquancy to the visit.

We finished our meal, took some photos and prepared to leave whereupon another customs car came blistering up. Had he been in England on holiday recently just like a couple of others before him? No he just wanted to know we did not have any problem with the car.

We had just had a picnic, we explained, and were moving on. He wished us a good trip and we pulled away. We could have been in cahoots with the illegal immigrant for all they knew and had a “wetback” in the boot/trunk. That fact hit home when we were a mile down the dirt road and Ellie turned towards the back and called out to the trunk: “Are you Ok in there, Miguel?”