I think it was the year I was ten that we first went to Snowflake, AZ. We were up in the mountains, cutting down Christmas trees with our friends, the Brintons, and someone suggested driving over to Snowflake because we were so close.
I had heard about Snowflake all of my life. It seemed like everyone had friends who either lived or were from there. Both Dad and Bishop Brinton had cousins who lived in Snowflake, and somehow Richard Brinton and my brother, Keith, who were best friends, knew that both of these families had cute girls, so the boys were excited about visiting. I didn't know anyone who lived there, but I was excited because I hated the desert, and visiting a town with an Alpine name like Snowflake sounded wonderful!
We had gone up on the Rim, (the Mogollon Rim, which dissects the middle of the State of Arizona, dividing the lower desert from the higher northern plateau, which is still a desert) to cut down our trees. We hadn't found anything we liked until we got all the way up in the mountains, near the town of Heber, and Snowflake was only 30 miles farther.
We were in a deep, snowy forest as we cut down our Christmas trees, and although I was cold I was having a great time. Snow was a luxury I didn't often get to see. As we piled back into our cars and headed on towards Snowflake I envisioned even taller fir trees, mountains, and alpine chateaus, like described in Heidi, one of my favorite books. You can imagine my disappointment, then, as we left Heber and drove out of the pines and onto an enormous, flat plain, leaving the snow behind.
This looked like a desert! Where were the mountains? Where were the fir and pine trees? Where was the snow? I was thoroughly disgusted! But still, I figured there must be a mountain up ahead, I just couldn't see it yet.
I watched the road intently as we covered mile after empty mile of flat sagebrush and cedar trees, keeping my eyes on the distant horizon, waiting to see the mountain. It never appeared. Half an hour later, still in the dry desert, we passed a sign welcoming us to Snowflake, and a few minutes later drove into a small, quaint little town nestled in a valley through which Silver Creek ran. No mountain, no pine trees, no snow. I was so disappointed!
How on earth could a town like this be named Snowflake? Who would pull a stupid trick like this on an unsuspecting desert dweller like me? I was really put out. I'll admit, Snowflake was a cute little town. Behind the rather drab main street we drove through a pretty little residential area lined with huge old trees, some of them even fir trees although they had obviously been planted, (this was not a forest!) and old fashioned houses.
I wasn't interested in visiting any of the people, I didn't know them, so I stayed in the car and read while the adults visited. We couldn't stay long anyway because it was a long way home and already the middle of the afternoon. I wasn't at all unhappy when we drove away, leaving that misnamed town behind us, nor did I look forward to ever going back to Snowflake again. What for?
Years later I learned how the town got it's name. It was settled by a man named William Flake, and a friend of his who's last name was Snow suggested they combine the two names to make Snowflake. I suppose it was a good idea. After all, no one expects to hear about a place named Snowflake, Arizona.
Little did I suspect that forty years later I would come to know Snowflake intimately. That I would drive down that main street daily, admire the stately fir trees and old fashioned houses, and even enjoy the three or four snowfalls that do come during a normal winter in Snowflake. It is a delightful town, and I love it! Most of all, I love it's name. But I'll have to tell you. Every time I'm talking to someone on the phone in another part of the country and they ask me where I'm from, they laugh when I tell them, Snowflake, Arizona.
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