The sun was low on the horizon as I turned and drove south on Arizona State Route 80. Twenty-three miles off the interstate, I wasn't quite sure what prompted me to detour so late in the day. But curiosity and intrigue lured me, in spite of the hour.

I arrived just as the sun was setting, passing Boot Hill Graveyard and entering the famous mining town. Named "Tombstone" by prospector Ed Shieffelin in 1877, who had been told he would find only his tombstone in this remote area, But he was searching for silver and proved the skeptics wrong, as the town became not only a legendary part of the west, but produced millions of dollars of silver and gold over a seven year period of time.

With only a few turns of the steering wheel, I found myself on Allen Street, the center of the historical district and pulled over and parked my car. I grabbed my camera and keys and jumped out, determined to latch onto the last of the sunlight. Instead, to my surprise, I simply stood still, an odd sensation running through me.

It suddenly didn't matter whether I caught the glow of the sun on the O.K. Corral, site of the Earp-Clanton gunfight of Oct. 26, 1881, though it stood directly across the street. I was frozen, standing next to my car, unable to move or place my thoughts. Everything felt very surreal.

Even with a few lingering shopkeepers locking their doors and walking away, I don't know if I've ever heard such quiet. Where tourists had most likely crowded together earlier in the day, instead was an empty, silent street.

The wind took me by surprise. I hadn't remembered any wind back in Tucson, which I had passed just earlier that afternoon. But the gusts that swept past me and through me were strong and heavy, carrying both force and sound within. They whisked unexpectedly by like a train roaring through and then just as quickly faded into complete stillness.

I had the intense feeling that I had traveled much, much farther than I thought I had - not a hundred miles, but perhaps a hundred years or more

Slowly I walked across the street, looking over my shoulder out of habit for non-existent oncoming cars. A white gazebo to the left of the legendary O.K. Corral was draped in red, white and blue streamers, blowing in the wind. A flag snapped with the intermittent breeze.

I continued slowly down the deserted walkway, passing storefronts and reading historical markers. Inside the shops were abundant tourist goods, but with the locked doors I was left with the old western architecture, signs, fences, walls and the alternating wind and quiet.

I stopped to take a picture in a window and jumped at a creaking sound. Thinking someone was behind me, I turned quickly, but found only a wooden sign, swinging above on metal hinges.

And then there was complete silence. And empty space. It nearly took my breath away.

Down Allen Street I continued, passing a few locals hanging out in front of a saloon, bikes parked along the front curb. Big Nose Kate's, the sign read, one of a number of saloons along the main street.

I passed The Crystal Palace, reputed to be one of the most luxurious saloons in the west. The door was open and I peeked inside finding velvet booths, gold fixtures, subdued lighting and dark carved wood.

With the sun down, light was fading quickly, but I kept walking, entranced in the past. Signposts marked sites of gun battles. The Bird Cage Theatre, built in 1881, stood quietly on the corner of 6th St. Everywhere I turned there was a sense of the past - churches, the old courthouse, historic houses.

Darkness continued to fall, though the clouds still held a soft glow. I rounded back to the car, absorbing the unusual sensation of displacement. Before returning to the road, I stopped at Boot Hill Graveyard and peered over the fence at the small tombstones, surrounded by cactus and rocks.

One last shopkeeper latched the door to the trading post across the street from the graveyard, glancing at me with some surprise. I'm sure he wondered what a California girl was doing past sundown, on tiptoes, peering over the graveyard fence, trying to capture just one last glimpse of the wild, wild west. He must have thought I'd arrived too late in the day, after the bustle of tourists and souvenir shopping and gunfight reenactments were long gone.

But as I listened to the silence, watched the wind stir the dust around a weathered tombstone and glanced back at the last bit of fading light on the town’s historic structures, I knew the truth. I was there at exactly the right time.