jw – On the road with Jim

Whispers from the Atomic Inn at the Edge of Death Valley This Month’s Pictures - Rhyolite Ghosts

Ruins of the historic Cook Bank building in Rhyolite, Nevada illuminated by the last rays of sunlight — Cook Bank Building — The most photographed ruin in Rhyolite, and for good reason. Built in 1908 with three stories of stone, marble floors, and electric lights, it was the pride of town… for about as long as the gold boom lasted. Now only the shell stands, glowing in the evening sun as the mountains steal the light away.

Monsoon Madness

There’s a sound this time of year that rattles me: the air conditioner, running without pause, day and night. During monsoon season, it gulps filters like snacks, demanding more every week, and still it drones like a jet engine parked on the roof. I swear it growls if I reach to adjust the thermostat. When I was considering putting it down for a nap, Anne filled the office doorway, arms akimbo, with her annual August decree:

“We’re going to do articles about California redwoods and coastal beaches. I booked us a week in Crescent City. Pack your bags.”

Her idea of bags was two matching roll-around suitcases already staged in the hall. One held clothes. The other? Let’s say Ulta would call it a warehouse. My idea of luggage was a brown grocery sack — stuffed with a change of socks, a toothbrush, three cameras, a knot of chargers, and enough cables to wire a small radio station.

“We’re leaving Sunday morning,” Anne said. “Reservations start Monday night in Crescent City.”

I did the math out loud cause — that’s my department. “Freeways, we can be there in two days.”

She nodded. “Fine.”

“But if we take 93 north, stretch it to three days, we could scoop up a couple of ghost towns on the way. Maybe even Reno for dinner.”

Anne shrugged. Driving and mileage are my problem. If I wanted to turn it into a backroads scavenger hunt, she wasn’t going to stop me.

Moby, the big Lexus, sat in the garage — roomy, comfortable, built for the open road. Instead, we crammed ourselves into the Corolla econo-box. Why? It saved us seventeen bucks on gas. Never mind that the inside looked like a rolling storage unit — cameras, Anne’s suitcases, a couple of coolers, bags of snacks, and enough odds and ends to qualify as a rolling kitchen. At least we wouldn’t waste time at McDonald’s.

Northbound on 93

We pointed the gutless wonder north on US-93 just as the sun cleared Four Peaks to the east. The stretch between Phoenix and Kingman, we could drive blindfolded. Thirty years ago, it was a two-lane daredevil run, white-knuckled and death-defying. Now it’s primarily four lanes, crowded with people eager to lose money in Vegas, blasting past at criminal speeds until the pavement pinches back to two and everyone stacks up like cattle in a chute.

But for us, the trip doesn’t really begin until the far side of Vegas. Out there, the road empties — mile after mile of desert sage, sky bigger than the map, hardly a soul in sight. On the west side of 93, the signs all promise wildlife refuge this and preserve that — acres fenced off for sheep and tortoises. The east side looks the same, but the clues are different: concrete chicanes at the exits, security gates, motion detectors strung along the fences, and town names that sound more like warnings — Indian Springs, Mercury, Sedan Crater. It’s almost like they’re keeping something hidden in this area.

Both horizons appear identical, but one claims it’s saving lives while the other practices ending them. Maybe the wildlife is just an act of contrition.

Check-In at the Atomic Inn

By the time we rolled into Beatty, the sun was already angling low, and the semis were tangoing through the four-way. We pulled in slow, scanning for our motel — and there it was, glowing like a Cold War punchline: The Atomic Inn. Yes, that’s where Anne made the reservations.

We checked in, tossed our bags inside, and immediately split up. I grabbed my cameras and headed for Rhyolite, hoping to get a few shots before the sun slipped behind the hills. Anne, naturally, went in search of antique jewelry at the local curio shops.

I spent a couple of hours wandering Rhyolite, watching the light slip across broken stone and bottle-glass walls. On the drive back, the landscape was to die for, colors shifting every mile along the empty road into Beatty.

When I opened the motel room door, Anne was gone. On the nightstand, a note: Bar across from the casino.

Weathered caboose car parked outside the historic Rhyolite hotel in Nevada — Union Pacific Caboose — This weathered red caboose once capped the end of freight trains rolling through the Nevada desert. Now it sits parked near Rhyolite’s depot, its paint sunburned and boards sagging, more ghost than railcar. In its day, the caboose was the rolling office and bunkhouse for train crews — today it’s just another relic in a town that outlived its purpose.

The Bar Across from the Casino

So I walked back to Main Street in the dusk. The neon buzzed, the semis groaned through the four-way, and the air smelled faintly of dust and fryer grease. I pushed through the door and stepped inside a bar dimmer than the twilight I’d just left.

At first, I couldn’t see much — just shapes. As my eyes adjusted, the room came into focus: gray, paneled walls slapped together from old shacks, gaps wide enough for the smoke from the back barbecue to seep through. The paneling glowed under animated beer signs. Love Shack playing on the juke box through the speaker wires drooping across them like vines. The ceiling sagged under dollar bills tacked corner to corner.

There were only a couple of tables inside, and four barstools at the counter. Three were already occupied — Anne, a whiskered man, and… a burro. The fourth stool sat open, waiting for me. Other than a man in the corner eyeing the room like he’d been followed, the place was empty.

I slid onto the stool beside Anne and waited while the bartender finished shouting drink orders to the patrons on the porch. Her voice carried just as strongly out there as it did inside. Then she turned to me, smiling.

“What can I get for you?” she asked, her Filipino accent lilting every word.

“What beers do you have?”

She rattled them off in one long practiced breath: “Coors Light, Bud Light, Miller Lite, Michelob Light, Busch Light, Natural Light, Keystone Light, Amstel Light… and Shiner… ”

“I’ll have a Shiner,” I said. “Shiner Bock.”

From outside came a burst of German voices, clinking bottles of Bud Light like it was Champagne.

Meet Harlan and Deborah

Anne set her glass down as I settled in. “Jim, I want you to meet Harlan…” She hesitated a beat, then added, “…and his friend, Deborah.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. Harlan gave me a slow handshake, heavy as a sandbag. Deborah just snorted through her nose, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sneeze.

Anne lifted her glass and caught the bartender’s eye. “Another chardonnay — and this time, could I get a proper wine glass, please?”

The bartender froze mid-pour, leveled a glare across the counter, and kept right on filling the same stubby stemless glass.

“Boy, I’m hungry,” I said to no one in particular. “Are the burgers any good here, Harlan?”

“They usually are,” he drawled. “But the supply trucks haven’t shown up in a week… and the bar’s still flippin’ burgers. Wouldn’t you know it, Deborah’s sister went missing the other day.” He set his glass down and leaned closer. “So if I were you, I’d steer clear of the burgers.”

Deborah gave a little snort through her nose as if she agreed. Nobody else smiled.

I scanned the ink-jet printed menu and looked at the bartender. “What’s your soup of the day?”

“Homemade clam chowder,” she answered proudly.

“Ooo, my favorite. I’ll have a bowl of that.”

She scribbled on a ticket, clipped it to the wheel, gave it a spin, and shouted, “Order up!” A slight blur reached up and snatched the slip away as the wheel kept turning. From behind the thin paneling came the thud of a pot hitting the stove… followed by the unmistakable whir of an electric can opener.

Large trucks perform a careful dance around a sharp corner in Beatty, Nevada, by the closed Exchange Casino. — Exchange Club Corner — Once the centerpiece of downtown Beatty, the Exchange Club Casino now sits dark, its steampunk façade outshining the slot machines that went silent after the Covid pandemic. Truckers still provide the nightly entertainment here, swinging their rigs wide around the tight four-way stop, gears grinding while chrome octopuses glare down from the walls.

Beatty’s Second Fiddle Years

Anne leaned toward me. “Harlan’s lived in Beatty his whole life. He knows all the stories.”

“Great,” I said. “I’d love to hear them. What’s with the closed casino across the street?”

Harlan swirled his glass slow. “That was the Exchange Club. Town’s centerpiece, once. COVID killed it. Shame.”

I grinned. “I would have loved to toss 20 bucks away just to poke around inside.”

He shrugged. His voice came out in a gravelly drawl, slow as desert dusk. “We’d have gladly taken your money. Beatty’s always played second fiddle. Rhyolite had the gold; we just hauled the freight. Later, when the bomb boys came through, the scientists stopped here for drinks while the brass stayed in Mercury. Then Vegas lit up, and we just watched the traffic roll by.” He nodded toward the four-way. “These trucks out here? That’s the floor show now.”

I flagged the bartender. “Let me buy you a round. What are you drinking?”
“Cosmo on the rocks,” Harlan said. “And Deborah here’s got a Vodka Cranberry.”

The bartender set down two glasses that looked identical, except Deborah’s came with two long straws. I must’ve stared, because Harlan leaned in and explained, “Well, she can’t just pick it up with her hooves, now can she?” (Thanks, Joel.)

Deborah crossed her legs then, and I noticed her hooves were neatly manicured — polished, even. It made me wonder who in town offered that service, and how much they charged.

Nobody made a joke. Not in front of Deborah. Harlan might’ve called her his “friend,” but from the way the bartender shot her a quick glance, I figured she was more than that. Around here, Deborah was a big shot.

White ghostly sculpture with bicycle, The Ghost Rider by Albert Szukalski, at Goldwell Open Air Museum near Rhyolite train station — Ghost Rider — The tale Harlan swore was true finds its echo here: a spectral figure in white with a bicycle, part of the Goldwell Open Air Museum outside Rhyolite. The piece, by Belgian artist Albert Szukalski, was installed in 1984 and has become one of the site’s most photographed works — half sculpture, half apparition, and just eerie enough to make you wonder. Bath night not included.

The Ghost Rider of Rhyolite

Anne asked, “So how were Rhyolite and Beatty connected?”

Harlan swirled his Cosmo. “Rhyolite was the boomtown; Beatty was just the depot. Always been that way — second fiddle. First to Rhyolite, then to the bomb tests, then to Vegas, then as a truck stop along 93, then with the Exchange Club across the street. And when I-11 cuts east of town, downtown’s finished unless they sell themselves as the gateway to Death Valley.”

Harlan set his glass down and leaned closer. His voice dropped so low I had to lean in, too.

“My mama… or was it my grandma… worked the hotel over in Rhyolite. Every night, she rode her Schwinn the four miles down to Beatty after her shift. Then one night… she didn’t make it.”

He let that hang in the air.

Anne asked softly, “What happened?”

Harlan rubbed a hand over his whiskers, eyes fixed on the glass in front of him. “Folks said she was run down by an illegal alien.”

I blinked. “Mexican?”

He shook his head slowly. “Na. One of them little gray fellas. Came slidin’ down the canyon road in a flyin’ golf cart. Had it wound up faster than hell. She never saw it comin’. Passed so close she got sucked into the whirlpool trailin’ behind.” He paused, voice dropping lower. “Dragged her thirty yards down the gravel. Left half her Schwinn in the sagebrush.”

The bar had gone quiet, except for the hum of the jukebox wires overhead. Even Deborah had stopped snorting, her ears pitched forward.

“She was real pretty,” Harlan said, almost tender. “Sunday dress, ribbon in her hair. But you wouldn’t recognize her now. Folks say she rides that stretch every night — draped in white, like a shroud… or maybe a cape. Some swear it’s a wedding dress that trails out behind her, floatin’ in the wind. You’ll hear the pedals creak before you see her.”

He drained the last of his Cosmo, set the glass down gently, “’ Cept Wednesdays. That’s her bath night.”

Deborah slid off her stool, her hooves clicking against the wooden floor, and gave a little snort of goodbye.

“Big day tomorrow,” Harlan said, standing slowly. “Got business to settle in Pahrump.”

They shuffled toward the door, out into the desert night.

Anne and I stared at one another, mouths agape, while Love Shack started up again on the jukebox.

Till next time, keep your spirits high, and your humor dry — the spirits prefer it that way.
jw

From Texas Dust to Chaparral Rust: Moby’s Long Road Home Pictures of the Month - Midland, Texas

White family SUV parked in motel lot, captured during travel stop — Family Car Journey: Moby at Motel Stop – Our newly adopted Lexus GX—still trailing Texas dust—settling in for its first night on the road with us.

Prologue: A Lexus, a Mission, and a Prayer

We didn’t mean to find religion in Midland. The plan was simple: rescue a used Lexus from suburban exile and steer it west through as many two-lane highways as Texas would give us. But somewhere between the dealership handshake and the first real dust cloud, the road started whispering old names—Rattlesnake Raceway, Chaparral, Hall. And just like that, Moby’s maiden voyage turned into something else. A memory lane detour. A gearhead’s homecoming. A dusty road trip with a fiberglass finish line.

Search History Confession

I’ve tried to buy my last truck three times now.

I was chasing a unicorn: a rugged, off-road-capable rig that could tow a decent trailer without guzzling fuel like a frat boy at happy hour—something practical, reliable, and just adventurous enough to justify my search history.

First up was the 2010 Mercedes Bluetec diesel. Legendary for its longevity—until we learned that fixing one requires a certified priest and a small loan. You don’t own a Mercedes diesel. You lease the illusion of German competence and hand over the keys when it starts acting moody.

Next was a Jeep Grand Cherokee diesel. Apparently, I thought doubling down on questionable diesel tech would fix things. The Jeep promised capability, but delivered paranoia. It was the kind of vehicle for which the forums suggest “covering the warning lights with tape” as a legitimate repair strategy. We rolled the dice and lost. Badly.

That led us to the Toyota RAV4—affectionately (and accurately) nicknamed The Turd. It was basic, dependable, and as exciting as toast. But it never broke. Not once. Other than an oil change now and then, it asked for nothing. That reliability sold me on Toyota. Its only flaw was its popularity—we kept losing it in parking lots full of identical white RAV4s.

Departure: Fort Worth or Bust

I dreamed of upgrading to a 4Runner, or if I hit the lottery, maybe even a Land Cruiser. But during the pandemic, I stumbled onto the Lexus GX. Built like a tank, babied by its original owners, and often confused with its global twin, the Land Cruiser Prado.

That’s when I found Moby. Right price. Right year. No golf club residue. A proper rescue.

And maybe—just maybe—third time’s the charm.

No sooner had I shown Anne the ad and rattled off a litany of reasons why this was the one, she didn’t roll her eyes—which, in our house, is as close to a green light as it gets. I was on the phone with the dealer in under a minute.
He offered to pay off the Turd’s loan as a trade-in. That’s all I needed.
I called the bank, got a loan, and walked past Anne’s desk wearing a grin I couldn’t wipe off with sandpaper. She looked up and said, “When are we going to Texas?”

“Tomorrow. Do you have the bags packed?”

We wanted to get to Fort Worth fast—sign papers, grab Moby, and head home the same afternoon. So we pointed the nose east down I-40, set the cruise control four miles over the speed limit, and overnighted in Tucumcari. Damn the mileage.

We arrived at the dealership five minutes ahead of schedule. Made sure all the parts were where they were supposed to be, took a quick spin around the block, rolled down the windows, and confirmed that every radio station was broadcasting some version of Jesus.

We signed the papers, shook hands, and pointed Moby west—all within two hours.

Cruising Altitude: Sweetwater, Maps, and Mild Enlightenment

With the crisis behind us and the paperwork complete, we slipped out of Fort Worth’s gravity via the nearest freeway ramp. The adrenaline faded, and with Moby quietly humming beneath us, we stopped thinking like panicked buyers and started thinking like explorers again.

Texas unveils itself at under 60 mph. That’s when it stops being a blur of Buc-ee’s and billboards and starts showing texture—peeling paint on roadside barns, abandoned gas pumps that still smell like leaded fuel, diners where you get a fried egg and a free opinion.

We started making what can only be described as strategery—we were in Texas, after all. Still crawling through rush hour traffic, we tried to figure out what each mysterious button on Moby’s dash did.

“What’s this one do?”

Click. Gospel radio gone. Silence. Blessed silence.

Anne didn’t even look up. Her nose was deep in a Rand McNally atlas and the Hotels.com app—working both like a desert octopus with a sense of mission.

She found us a room in Sweetwater. Far enough to make the next day productive, close enough not to arrive exhausted. No frills, no tiny shampoo bottles, but plenty of truck parking.

Moby floated along the highway, smooth in that soft-suspension, Lexus-does-clouds kind of way. We clicked “sport mode,” hoping it would sharpen the feel. It helped… a little. The steering still didn’t exactly command the road—it mostly just suggested a path and hoped for cooperation.

Exterior of Chaparral Cars headquarters, home of Rattlesnake Raceway, Midland, Texas — Chaparral Cars Headquarters & Rattlesnake Raceway, Midland, TX The unassuming building south of Midland where racing legends were born. Just across from the cemetery—make of that what you will.

The Pivot Point: “Midland’s Not Far…”

That night in the motel, maps and screens spread across the bedspread, we sketched out a scenic route home. Carlsbad Caverns, White Sands, a couple of ghost towns—enough interesting detours to stretch the trip out a day or two. It was a solid plan.

Then I said it.

“Midland’s not far. That’s where Jim Hall’s from. I wonder if Rattlesnake Raceway is still there—we could swing by, snap a picture through the fence.”

Anne, still in full mission-control mode, tapped her screen and paused.
“Uh… it says the cars are on display. Like, a whole collection. At the Permian Basin Petroleum Museum.”

My heart didn’t just sink—it did something complicated and internal, like a piston misfire mixed with a gear shift into childhood.

The Chaparrals weren’t gone. They weren’t rumors. They were right there.

Preserved. Waiting.

So much for the scenic route.

Sorry, Carlsbad. Sorry, White Sands. We had priorities now.

The next morning, we topped off the tank and I checked the tires. Three were ten pounds over. The fourth was off in the other direction entirely, which explained why Moby kept trying to change lanes on his own. I aired them all down to spec. The wandering stopped. So did the weird floaters that had been dancing across my vision every time we crossed a tar strip.

Orange Barrels and Slalom Enlightenment

Texas highway construction didn’t help. For a state that claims to loathe federal oversight, they sure know how to burn through Washington’s asphalt budget. We saw more “Reduced Speed – Fines Double” signs than we saw exits. What we didn’t see were “End of Construction” signs. You just drove forever, unsure whether you were still in a work zone or just participating in an elaborate traffic psychology experiment.

Eventually, I got bored. The orange barrels were endless. The vague steering begged for something to do. I remembered a video I’d seen at an SCCA convention—some guy weaving a Corvette through construction barrels like it was an autocross course.

So I started slaloming.

Not recklessly—just a gentle flick left, then right, every few hundred yards. Testing Moby’s transient response like we were at a solo event. And now I’ve got it.

Moby handled it fine. Bit of lean. Bit of grace. Still tracked true.

Anne glanced up from her Kindle. “Are you doing that on purpose?”

“Yes,” I said.

She went back to reading.

Midland: Dust, Oil, and Genius

Midland felt like Bakersfield with more swagger—flat, industrial, and humid in a way that didn’t sit on you so much as climb into your clothes. We were still east of the dry line, and you could tell. The air blurred the horizon, and if you walked too fast, it felt like your shirt tried to cling to your chest in self-defense.

The skyline told its own story. Black pumpjacks still nodded along the fence lines, but now white wind turbines spun above them—new tech rising behind old wealth. It reminded me of Bakersfield, where the windmills came first. Funny how the world changes, then loops back—only louder and taller.

This was the environment Jim Hall came from. Oil fields. Open space. Big ideas. He was a free-spirited engineer with a West Texas bankroll, made rich by the very pumpjacks still nodding along the roads we drove in on. He and his racing partner, Hap Sharp, weren’t just car guys—they were oil guys with the freedom to do whatever they wanted. And what they wanted was speed.

In proper West Texas fashion, they started by stuffing big American V8s into lightweight British imports—Birdcage Maseratis, Jaguars, and Lolas. The result wasn’t subtle. These things didn’t drive so much as launch. You mashed the throttle, held on, and prayed the brakes were still where you left them.

But it still wasn’t enough for Jim. He didn’t just want horsepower—he wanted control. Back then, nobody talked about “downforce.” What we believed in was “road-holding weight”—Buicks, Cadillacs, and Hot Rod Lincolns with enough steel to convince the tires to stay put. The imports were featherweights. Hall wanted the best of both worlds—lightweight cars with the grip of a freight train.

So he got to work.

And money helped—a lot.

They didn’t just race. They built a race car factory. And then—because why not—they built their private track just south of town: the famed Rattlesnake Raceway. While other teams were renting laps and standing around with stopwatches, Hall and Sharp were testing on their own turf, on their own terms. They weren’t just timing laps—they wired the track for sector splits so they could pinpoint where gains were made. Hall didn’t just build cars—he composed airflow the way Miles played silence, or Ansel coaxed shape from shadow. It was engineering, sure—but also taste.
Nobody else was thinking like that. Everyone wanted to go fast.

Jim Hall wanted to understand fast.

Rattlesnake Redux: Across from the Boneyard

We’d exited the freeway on Midland’s east side, hoping to catch the track without having to backtrack. I asked Anne to Google Rattlesnake Raceway. Miraculously, it showed up—right there on the map, labeled like it had never stopped mattering. County Road 340.

We turned south, and Anne started navigating by phone.
“Three miles… two miles… one mile… half a mile… quarter mile…”

We passed a cemetery.

“Wait… quarter mile again… one mile…”

We had passed it. So we turned around.

Same thing again. The countdown led straight to the cemetery twice.

“Great,” I said. “They plowed the track and turned it into a cemetery. Or worse—maybe it’s those storage lockers we passed.”

Anne zoomed in. “Wait, does it have an address?”

It did. And it ended in an odd number.

“That’s across the street,” she said. “We’re looking on the wrong side of the road.”

And there it was—tucked into the east side of the road, facing the cemetery like some forgotten shrine across from its own boneyard.

We pulled into the gravel drive, and I got out to see how far my nose could make it through the chain link gate. The track wasn’t gone. Just sleeping.
I wish I had brought the drone.

We spent a few moments in front of the offices, taking documentary photos to prove to the faithful that I’d been there, and then we set off to find the Petroleum Museum—Home of the Chaparral Gallery.

Chaparral cars showcasing airflow evolution in the Midland museum exhibit. — Chaparral Cars: Airflow Evolution at Midland Museum – The whole evolution of Jim Hall’s aerodynamic obsession, lined up like a fever dream of fiberglass and ground effects.

The Chapel of Speed

It turns out the museum wasn’t far—just off the CR-308 exit, tucked along the freeway’s access road. We turned into the drive, which turned into a wide circular drive passing through the portico, and rolled into the parking lot.

The walk to the entrance took us past outdoor displays of towering drilling equipment and a string of Burma Shave–style plaques explaining the local geology. It laid out the timeline of oil: its formation, its discovery, and its exploitation—Midland’s holy trinity.

Inside, it was church-quiet—carpeted floors, climate control, reverent lighting. The air inside wasn’t just cool—it had that archival dryness, like books in special collections or climate-sealed vaults. Corridors fanned out like pew aisles, each leading to a different wing of the museum.
We stopped at the docent’s desk and asked two questions:

“Where are the cars?”

“And how much does it cost?”

We bought two tickets and were directed down the main hall, appropriately marked by a bright yellow Indy car nailed high on the wall. The Chaparral 2K. It wore Pennzoil livery like a crown. I made a snarky comment about displaying a non-Texas oil company.

We spent almost two hours among the cars.

The exhibit traced the evolution of Jim Hall’s obsession with airflow. Each car was more radical than the last, like flipping through a wind-tunnel engineer’s fever dream. Movable wings. Ducts. Sucker fans. Ideas so far ahead of their time, the rulebook had to be rewritten just to keep up.

Anne trailed behind me, listening politely while I tried to explain what I knew about each car. Then we sat down and watched the museum’s film on Chaparral history, which, naturally, did a far better job than I did.

The gallery brought back another name: my friend Gary Wheeler, one of the few aerodynamicists I’ve known personally. He worked for Dan Gurney during that same era and co-invented the Gurney Flap, a tiny lip at the back of a wing that dramatically improved downforce efficiency. He once designed a rear wing so effective it slowed down Kenny Bernstein’s top fuel dragster—just to prove a point.

Gary and Jim Hall never competed directly, but from Gary’s tone, I always knew he respected Hall’s work. Real recognizes real. Both were trying to solve the same problem from opposite directions—Gary pushing the car down from above, Jim pulling it down from below.

We wrapped up—like all good pilgrimages—in the gift shop. I bought an overpriced Chaparral T-shirt and a baseball cap. The docent tried to talk us into a membership in the Chaparral Club, which comes with invitations to special events.

The cars aren’t static. Once a month, they pull them out, top up the fluids, and drive them—one at a time—around that 360-degree circular drive we passed on the way in.

I looked at Anne, eyes wide.

Her stone-cold look shut that down quickly.

And then there was the final photo—me in the Chaparral photo-op car they set up for wide-eyed enthusiasts like me. If I look a little strained, that’s because I was. My 78-year-old backside didn’t fit a seat designed for the lanky Texan, and stopped about three inches short of the actual bottom, so my gut was too close to the wheel to mount it properly.

I wasn’t grinning. I was grimacing—like a kid on a grocery store quarter-horse ride that suddenly tilted too far left.

Photographer playfully sitting in a classic display car at an exhibition. — Photographer’s Playful Moment with Classic Display Car – Too wide, too old, and too happy to care. This moment was the closest I’ll ever come to qualifying in a Chaparral.

Epilogue: Finding the Right Vehicle for the Next Chapter

We didn’t talk much for a while.

Anne dozed. Or maybe she just closed her eyes and let the road slip by. I sat behind the wheel, quietly replaying everything—Rattlesnake Raceway, the Chaparrals, the kid I used to be when all of this was new and loud and possible.

Every so often, I’d blurt out another memory.

“Turn nine at Riverside—that was the long banked one. I got to drive it, years later, after we moved to Arizona. Funny how things circle back.”

Anne nodded from the passenger seat—no words needed.

I thought about Le Mans. I would have liked to see them run there, but the Army had other plans for me. That’s life. Straightaways cut short, turns you didn’t expect.

We left the museum full of memories—climbing into Moby with the sense that maybe, just maybe, the next adventure had already begun.

And this time, we’d brought the right vehicle for it.

Not a bad trade.

Until next time, stay cool, steer steady, and if the air starts to feel like soup, you’ve gone too far.
jw

Queen Anne and the Basalt Protocol Pictures of the Month - Gila Bend Mountains

Leafy Occotillo with a second plant in the background, photographed in the Arizona desert after rainfall. — Sonoran Desert Rainfall Brings Ocotillo to Life – Rare green foliage covers this ocotillo after a desert rain near the Gila Bend Mountains. A second ocotillo echoes its form in the distance, emphasizing the fleeting vitality of the Sonoran spring.

We never go anywhere on weekends. That’s when the amateurs are out. The motorcycle packs, the sports car clubs, the families with kids screaming in the back seat, and snacks flying like confetti. No thanks. Let the Porsches and Ferraris do their canyon-carving in peace. We leave the weekends to the unwashed.

Thursdays, though? Thursdays are for dump runs—and that’s when we roam.

The routine goes like this: Load up the garbage, swing by the transfer station in Congress, then treat ourselves to breakfast somewhere along the highway. We keep it varied—Nichols West, Denny’s, Spurs, sometimes the Ranch House up in Yarnell. It’s all part of the plan to stay married: don’t talk politics, take separate naps, and never eat at the same restaurant two Thursdays in a row.

This time, I suggested the Ranch House.

“You want to go up the hill?” Anne asked.

“Sure. Want to stop at an antique store and relive your childhood?”

She rolled her eyes. “You do realize you’ll always be older than me, right?”

Touché.

We pulled off on Yarnell’s main drag and parked in front of one of those shops where everything smells like mothballs and linseed oil. I did my usual speed-run through the front room—scouting for old highway signs, dented milk cans, and that glass-cased assay scale I’ve always wanted for the mantle over the fireplace.

We’ve never had a fireplace. Or a mantle. Still, a guy can dream.

Anne, meanwhile, made a beeline for the antique jewelry cabinet and stopped cold. She wasn’t browsing—she was studying. Staring. Like a metal detector had gone off inside her chest. I wandered over and peered into the case, expecting the usual lineup of clip-on earrings and tarnished trinkets.
What I saw was… different.

Resting side by side on a velvet pad were two thick bands—bracelets, technically, but only if you define bracelets as metal cylinders with the attitude of ancient armor. They weren’t polished exactly, but they had a sheen, like copper dreaming of gold. Or maybe gold pretending to be copper. Either way, they weren’t any metal I could name.

Each band was the size and shape of a man’s shirt cuff. Too big and blocky to be called elegant, too perfectly formed to be junk. Dead center on each one, there was a raised “W”—not stamped, not etched, but embossed with such confidence that it looked like the symbol had formed first, and the bracelet had grown around it. “W for Witkowski,” she said, deadpan, like they’d been waiting for us.

“They probably wouldn’t even fit me,” I said, trying to sound indifferent.

Anne slid one over her wrist. Then the other.

They slipped on easily, like she’d worn them for years. A perfect fit. And then—this may have been the lighting, or my imagination—they shrank ever so slightly. Not tight, but exact. Like a pair of Levi’s straight out of the dryer, molding themselves to her mood.

She didn’t say anything. Just raised one eyebrow and gave me that look.
That “you have no idea what you’ve just started” look.

“They’re five bucks,” I said, which answered nobody’s question. But I paid the clerk and figured we’d add them to the costume drawer.

The thing is, she started wearing them—a lot.

No green skin. No tarnish. Just… a shift.

A little taller. Shoulders back. Chin lifted. Nothing dramatic—just the kind of change you’d notice if you’ve been married a long time and still pay attention.

Then, one afternoon, she goes out to pick up a gallon of milk and drop off a box at Goodwill. Comes home with a pair of bright red riding boots—leather, laced all the way up the front like something you’d see on a circus performer or a traffic cop from the future.

“They were in the window. I couldn’t believe how comfortable they are,” she said, practically glowing.

“You don’t wear lace-up anything,” I said. “You can’t bend over far enough to tie your shoes.”

She slipped one boot off and back on again without breaking eye contact. “I can these.”

Cooper Wash cutting through red rock layers with Montezuma Head and Face Mountain ridges in the Arizona desert. — Monteuma Head & Face Mountain: Arizona’s Painted Geology – Cooper Wash reveals vivid red and orange layers beneath the volcanic ridges of the Gila Bend Range. Montezuma Head rises on the left, with Face Mountain’s folded ridgeline stretching southward like a desert wave.

The Sundad Shift

Ever since Anne put on those bracelets from the Yarnell antique shop, she hasn’t been quite the same. Normally, on our road trips, she falls asleep somewhere between the pavement and the first cattle guard. While I bounce down dirt roads rattling off local trivia to no one in particular, she’s usually in the passenger seat with her Kindle, tuned out and unimpressed.

But on our trip to Sundad, something changed. She stayed awake the entire drive down Agua Caliente Road, asking questions about the ghost town, the mountains, the rail lines, even the geology—which, let’s be honest, is usually where I lose people. She seemed genuinely interested, like she was trying to see the landscape through a different set of eyes.

When we got to the townsite, she walked with me—actually walked, not just posed for a photo and retreated to the air conditioning. She examined the shapes in the rocks, ran her hands over crumbled cement, and even spotted a few relics I’d missed. When I flew the drone, she guided the shot like a director on set. “Get this one. Don’t forget the star over there.”

She wasn’t a passenger anymore—she was a partner.

On the way home, the late-afternoon light was perfect—the kind of desert gold that makes every rock look important. Our first stop was the bridge over Cooper Wash. I was pacing back and forth, trying to line up the perfect angle of Face Mountain and Montezuma Head, when I noticed Anne had wandered off.

Without warning, she put her left hand on top of the guardrail and vaulted both legs over like she was auditioning for the Olympic team. I watched—stunned—as she cleared the rail, dropped ten feet into the sandy wash below, and stuck the landing like Simone Biles… if Simone Biles had titanium knee replacements and a mild disapproval of authority.

I rushed forward, expecting to see a puff of dust and a regretful groan. Instead, she was already walking—calmly—toward the red clay wall like she knew something was waiting there.

“Anne!” I yelled, expecting a limp or at least a groan. She didn’t even look up. Just started walking toward the exposed red clay on the far bank.
She stopped, crouched, and brushed away some dirt. Then she reached into the wall, as if it were Tupperware, and pulled something out.

When she climbed back up, she held it out for me to see. It was a thin metal plate—copper or brass, about the size of a playing card. The edges were worn, and its surface was etched with strange angular markings.

“What is it?” I asked.

She turned it in her hand, watching the sun catch the faint inscriptions.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But it’s not natural. It’s part of something.”
Then she slid it into her white shirt pocket, sat back on the guardrail, and said nothing more.

I chalked it up to heatstroke.

But she kept glancing east. Toward Fourth of July Butte.

Fourth of July Butte

Fourth of July Butte’s official story isn’t much of a mystery. According to local lore, it was named by a group of Tin Horns—easterners from the Agua Caliente Hot Springs resort who thought it would be “charming” to have a picnic out in the wash on Independence Day.

They packed up their gingham and parasols, took a guide who probably should’ve known better, and set out in search of authenticity. By the time the watermelon was warm and the flies took over, someone suggested naming the place for the holiday: “Let’s come back to the Fourth of July Wash next year!”

And just like that, it stuck—lazy desert naming at its finest.

I always liked the story because it amused me that Anne—who was actually born on the Fourth of July—now shared a name with a geological shrug. I told her once that the Butte was probably named after her in a past life. She didn’t dignify that with an answer.

But this time, she seemed… drawn to it. On the way home from Sundad, we pulled off and hiked a short way into the wash.

About a quarter-mile in, we found a shaded alcove at the base of the Butte. It didn’t look like much—just a rock overhang. Anne stepped forward, brushing her fingers across the stone until she found a faint depression—a small notch, easily missed. She reached into her shirt pocket and pulled out the copper token from Cooper Wash, then slipped it into the slot.

There was a soft click. Nothing dramatic—just enough to make the air feel like it shifted. She retrieved the token and slid it back into her pocket without a word.

The rock trembled. A low click echoed from within. A seam opened in the alcove wall, and a stone slab slid away with a sound like a safe being unsealed.

Inside was a dark tunnel—too straight, too precise to be natural. At the end: a chamber, circular and silent, lined in smooth stone.

…On the far wall: a mural fused into the surface. A lone figure stood atop a mountain, red boots on her feet, golden wristbands catching firelight, one arm raised toward a starburst sky. Beneath her, etched lines fanned out like water or energy. One of them clearly pointed to our location: Fourth of July Butte.

But the others… they stretched outward in all directions, connecting to nodes—clusters of shapes that mirrored the strange rock alignments we’d seen in Sundad.

Stars, spirals, and the crooked hash patterns Anne had pointed out back at the ghost town? They were all here, burned into stone long before anyone settled the area.

I looked from the wall to Anne, “Those markings at Sundad… they weren’t just decorative, were they?”

She smiled, faintly. “Nope. They’re part of the system.”

I blinked. “System?”

She tapped her bracelet, which pulsed faintly against the mural.

They’re waking up,” she said. “That’s why we found them now. You think this is the only hatch?”

Three desert peaks surrounded by cacti and brush, photographed in Arizona near Signal Mountain Wilderness. — Three Peaks Near Signal Mountain Wilderness – Three rugged peaks rise from the Gila Bend backcountry near Signal Mountain Wilderness, their slopes patterned with saguaros and sun-shadow textures.

Return to Sender

The mural seemed to hum in the quiet, as if it were holding its breath. Anne stepped forward, brushing her fingers across the stone until she found a faint depression just below the etched figure’s feet—a small notch, easily missed. She reached into her shirt pocket and pulled out the copper token she’d found at Cooper Wash.

No fanfare. No glowing light. She just slipped it into the slot.

There was a click—soft and precise. Then, without a sound, a section of the wall opened inward. A hidden drawer, lined in deep velvet or maybe silk, like something from a jewelry box dreamt by an archaeologist.

Inside: two shallow impressions, shaped exactly like the bracelets.
Anne studied it for a moment. Then, wordlessly, she slid the cuffs off her wrists and set them into place. They fit perfectly. The drawer paused for a beat—as if waiting for second thoughts—then slowly eased shut and vanished into the wall like it had never been there.

That’s when the rumble started. Low, deliberate. Not an emergency, exactly—more like a polite but firm “you should go now.”

“Exit protocol,” Anne muttered. “Of course.”

We scrambled up through the tunnel and out the hatch just as the chamber sealed behind us with a final, echoing thunk. The desert air hit us like a welcome slap.

Anne didn’t say much on the hike back to the car. But when we reached the RAV4, she let out a dramatic sigh, lifted the tailgate, sat under it, and started yanking at her red boots.

“These are ridiculous,” she grumbled. “Nobody talks about how much superhero footwear hurts.”

The left one came off with a pop. The right one took a little swearing.

“You’re never buying me antique jewelry again,” she said, tossing the boots into the back.

“Deal,” I said. “Unless I find a matching tiara.”

She gave me the kind of look that ends conversations and bloodlines.

Ten minutes into the drive, she was out cold—boots off, dust on her jeans, arms folded. Back to Queen Anne. Desert royalty with knee replacements and zero tolerance for nonsense.

Me? I just kept driving—the Butte behind us. The bracelets were where they belonged. And next month’s post is already writing itself.

Until next time, keep your spirits high, your wristbands polished, and your pie warm.
jw

Sundad: Six Theories and a Circle of Rust Pictures of the Month: Sundad, Arizona

Aerial photo of triangular rock art near Sundad, Arizona, featuring an anchor, star, circles, and the word 'SUNDAD' spelled in stones — Anchor, Star, and Circle: Cryptic Rock Art at Sundad’s Gateway – An aerial view of the triangular stone glyphs that greet visitors entering Sundad from Agua Caliente Road. The arrangement—star, anchor, and cryptic symbols—suggests a coded history waiting to be read.

I Didn’t Set Out to Solve a Mystery. I Just Wanted to See the Rocks.

Some people are drawn to ghost towns. Others chase old roads or abandoned buildings. Me? I follow the rocks.

Rock formations of any kind are my kryptonite. I can’t resist them—especially when human hands have arranged them in some message, symbol, or cosmic doodle. Maybe it’s the geometry. Perhaps it’s the mystery. Maybe I was just dropped on my head near a petroglyph as a child.

Over the years, we’ve chased plenty of these:

- The Blythe Intaglios, massive geoglyphs scratched into the desert crust near the Colorado River.
- The stone maze in Palm Canyon, deep in the Kofas, where someone went full Minotaur without leaving a forwarding address.
- A hidden plaza beneath Dome Rock, where a dedicated boondocker has spent years—maybe decades—rearranging flat stones into a labyrinthine camp patio, complete with walls, paths, and what we think was a meditation corner (or perhaps a solar oven).

So when I saw a video that casually mentioned “rock art” outside of Sundad, I was already halfway in the car. Another mystery. Another pattern in the dust. Another chance to squint at the desert and wonder what kind of mind says, “Yeah, this is a good place for a star made of gravel.”

What I didn’t expect was a full-blown investigation—one that involved half-buried relics, bad land deals, maybe a smuggling ring, and the only known resident ever to leave town after everyone else.

I didn’t set out to solve a mystery. I just wanted to see the rocks.

But when Clouseau and Watson (the Costco version) hit the backroads of Arizona, there’s always a case to crack—even if it’s made entirely of basalt and lies.

That’s when the detective hats came out. Figuratively, anyway.

Anne donned her travel tiara—a double-sided unit with built-in ear flaps adorned with diamonds, because she insists they improve reception. I tied my shoes (eventually), and we declared ourselves ready for fieldwork. The Case of the Stone Circles had officially begun.

I may have had the obsession with rock formations, but Anne, true to her Watson role, has the gift of noticing what others ignore. Where I charge in looking for the weird and the wonderful, she’s the one who points out the thing that’s been right in front of us all along. She doesn’t try to solve mysteries; she just quietly sees them forming. Which, come to think of it, is precisely what a good detective—and a better travel companion—does.

The Drive Out – In Which We Pursue the Phantom Town

If you were trying to pick a spot in Maricopa County that felt as far from civilization as legally allowed, you’d probably land at Sundad. It’s pinned like a forgotten thumbtack between I-10 and I-8—right where your cell signal dies of thirst and your GPS gives up and asks if you’ve considered turning back.

I had braced for an all-day slog over jagged mining roads—visions of rock gardens, tire-piercing shale, and the Turd’s new backroad treads earning their keep. I even pre-warned Queen Anne that lunch might consist of a warm protein bar and a view of the tow truck.

But the Agua Caliente–Arlington Road turned out to be a dirt expressway—broad, smooth, and graded like the county grader just needed something to do. Anne’s “gutless wonder” could’ve floated down it like a shopping cart in neutral. We didn’t pass a soul on the way in, and I suspect we doubled the traffic count for the year just by showing up.

Eventually, though, the express lane ends, and the real Sundad begins. If you want to see what’s left of the town—or at least its artistic ambitions—you’ll need a high-clearance vehicle, four-wheel drive, or a good pair of Merrells for the final mile and a quarter.

I chose the first option. Anne chose sarcasm.

Exhibit A: The Desert Sanatorium That Wasn’t

According to Arizona Place Names, Sundad was “once proposed as a desert sanatorium.” That’s it. That’s the entry. No dates, no founders, no grand opening ceremonies. Just a vague proposal and a note that “the origin of the name has not yet been ascertained.”

Which is fair, because the origin of the town hasn’t been ascertained either.
If there was ever a medical facility here, it left no trace. No plumbing. No foundation. No ruins—unless you count the rusty bedframe half-buried in gravel, which may have belonged to a patient or a prospector, depending on how optimistic you’re feeling. …And yet… there is a large metal tank at the townsite, tipped on its side like a fallen silo. It looks like the kind of water tank you’d use to feed a well—or at least the kind you’d bring in if you were pretending to have a well. It’s the first piece of evidence that suggests someone made an honest attempt, however half-hearted.

Still, building a desert sanatorium without reliable water is like opening a hospital with no bandages. It’s possible someone tried. It’s just as likely that someone merely talked about trying and hoped the desert would do the rest.

The real TB sanatoriums in Arizona—Sunnyslope, Papago Park, Oracle—had infrastructure, funding, and staff. Sundad had… potential. Or maybe just the silence to dream out loud before the sun cooked the idea into vapor.

Drone photo of a five-point star made of stones with a blue-glass center, surrounded by desert terrain near Sundad, Arizona — Desert Star with Blue Glass Center – Sundad’s Mysterious Symbols – A five-point stone star with a blue glass center marks the desert floor near Sundad, Arizona. This recurring motif suggests intentional symbolism lost to time.

Exhibit B: The Health Spa Without Water

After the sanatorium idea dried up—likely before it even got wet—someone must’ve decided Sundad needed a new pitch. Enter: Stanley J. Pickleton (we changed the names to protect the guilty), land promoter, wellness visionary, and enthusiastic liar.

We have no formal record of Stan, but you can feel his presence. This has all the hallmarks of his era: promises of curative mineral waters, vague maps with dashed-line access roads, and the kind of flyer that uses too many exclamation points and phrases like limited investment opportunity!!

According to lore, an ad in the Tucson Newspaper (and possibly wishful thinking), Sundad was once marketed as a mineral spa paradise—a bubbling fountain of wellness tucked into the warm embrace of the Arizona desert. Never mind that the only moisture here is the condensation on your water bottle. There’s no spring, no stream, no oasis—just sand, gravel, and a metal tank that may have once held hope—or diesel.

Nearby Agua Caliente, once a real hot spring resort, has since dried up. That, at least, had a reason to exist. Sundad feels like it was built on the reputation of having heard about Agua Caliente once at a bar.

But this didn’t stop Stan. I imagine his pitch went something like:
“You there—yes, you! Are you tired of city smog? Chronic fatigue? Excess bone marrow? Come to Sundad, where the air is dry, the scenery is rustic, and the mineral content of the sand is second to none!”

He probably sold ten plots to a dentist in Des Moines and a preacher from Dubuque before moving on to his next venture—possibly underwater cactus farming.

Like the sanatorium, the mineral spa left no trace but rumor and rust. Still, in a place like Sundad, even a ghost of an idea leaves a shadow. Don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty of mineral water out here, but it’s instant. Just scoop up a glassful from the wash bottom—and add water.

Exhibit C: Mining or Misinformation?

Great mining towns all have one thing in common: minerals worth mining. But the great ones also have something even more valuable—something rare, precious, and not found in abundance at Sundad.

Water.

Need we say more?

There was mining here. You’ll find a few old shafts, collapsed timbers, and rusted cans scattered around the perimeter like leftovers from an abandoned science fair project. However, none of the mines are deep, none of the tailings are impressive, and none of the known claims have ever recorded actual ore being processed.

This wasn’t a bonanza. It was a maybe.

When I was a kid, I watched The Lone Ranger—and yes, I’m old enough to admit that without irony. In one episode, a couple of smooth-talking swindlers fired gold bullets into a cave wall, then tried to sell the claim as the next great strike. That kind of stunt may sound ridiculous, but it’s not far off from how most desert mining towns began—or ended.

For the record, the average prospector in Arizona found just enough gold to make one bullet. Maybe two, if he didn’t eat much. Which makes you wonder how many bullets were found in Sundad’s rock walls.

So yes, there was mining here. But it wasn’t serious. It was more like someone tried to look serious long enough to convince someone else to buy in and dig deeper. Like everything else in Sundad, the idea of mining here had just enough surface detail to keep the dream alive—but not enough depth to make it real.

Drone image of two stone glyphs in Sundad, Arizona: a left-pointing arrow and a diamond-shaped eye with blue glass center, split by a cracked concrete slab — Symbolic Road Markers in Sundad’s Ghost Town Core – A left-facing arrow and diamond-eye glyph form the second symbolic divider on Sundad’s Main Street. Their shared cracked slab hints at forgotten paths and fractured intentions.

Exhibit D: The Widow Who Waited

For all the wild theories Sundad inspires—spas, communes, and questionable mining operations—only one story is confirmed to have happened here. And it’s stranger for being so unadorned.
In 1966, Velma and Lee Bailey—aged 58 and 77—were the only known full-time residents of Sundad. Retired. Living in a one-room mining shack. No phone. No neighbors. Not a whole lot of exit strategy.

On November 30th, Lee died. Velma, crippled and alone, couldn’t drive the car for help. So she did what anyone in her situation might do: she stayed put and started keeping an hourly diary. She kept his face covered with a cloth, scattered white fabric outside the shack in hopes a passing airplane would spot her, and waited for six days.

When a friend finally came to check on them, she was still there—the last living soul in Sundad.

And that’s what makes her story stand out: not because it’s tragic, or even mysterious. But because it’s provably real. In a town filled with speculation and rust, Velma Bailey happened. She’s the footnote every other theory tries and fails to become.

Why they chose Sundad for retirement is anyone’s guess. Maybe Lee had a lust for gold, or perhaps they just wanted to be left alone. However, it raises an essential geological point: the area is mostly basalt, not granite—meaning gold wasn’t exactly in abundance here, which makes you wonder if Lee was chasing riches, or just chasing the idea of being a prospector in a place nobody else wanted.

Either way, when Velma finally left, she did something no one else ever managed in Sundad: she turned out the lights.

Exhibit E: Commune of Confusion

After Velma, the shack door was left swinging in the desert breeze. The wind whistled through the cracks, but there was no one left to hear it. Sundad stood empty… for a while.

Then came the Age of Aquarius. Love children were turning off, tuning in, and dropping out. And according to local rumor, some of them dropped into Sundad.

Supposedly, a commune of free spirits moved in to build their desert Nirvana. But even the rumors seem half-hearted, like they were started by someone who wanted to believe the desert still had a use, any use.

Hippies, for the record, had a preferred fleet: converted yellow school buses, sun-bleached VW vans, and Dodge A100s painted with peace signs and daisies. None of which were known for off-road prowess or gas mileage. If you needed groceries, your options were Buckeye, Gila Bend, Yuma, or Blythe—all a hundred miles of rutted road away. And then you had to make it back before your bean sprouts wilted.

As for farming their food? Without groundwater, the only thing you could realistically grow out here was thirsty. There’s no trace of crops—unless they were cultivating spiritual enlightenment. And no signs of livestock unless you count lizards.

Even the foraging options would’ve made Euell Gibbons gag. You can’t live on creosote and mesquite pods unless you’re trying to commune with the emergency room.

So maybe a few wanderers tried it. Maybe they strung up a hammock, stared at the stars, and wrote bad poetry. But if anyone came here to drop out, they dropped right back out as soon as the thermometer hit 110.

If Sundad ever hosted a commune, it didn’t survive its first summer.

Enlightenment needs shade.

Drone photo of large rock circle in Sundad, Arizona with four quadrants, a rusted center, and the photographer’s shadow on the left — Circle of Sundad: Final Glyph and the Shadow of the Storyteller – The final glyph at Sundad’s end of Main Street: a massive four-quadrant circle anchored by rusted metal. The photographer’s shadow reminds us—someone was here to wonder why.

Exhibit G: The Smugglers’ Signature

Let’s take a step back and reexamine the scene.

Sundad is remote—even by Arizona standards. It sits squarely in the middle of nowhere, on public land, far from anything resembling oversight. No ranger station. No historical designation. No fences. Just silence, sun, and speculation.

And yet, the rock art here is oddly meticulous.

Stars, diamonds, arrows, and one enormous circle filled with rusted metal—all laid out with deliberate care. But here’s the twist: these shapes aren’t made to be seen from the ground. They’re aerial designs—high contrast, pale on dark, clearly visible from above.

I was standing at the base of the giant arrow, scanning the horizon like an amateur archaeologist with a directional fetish. It pointed due south—across a stretch of flat nothing—and I saw… well, nothing. Just more gravel. More brush. More questions.

That’s when Anne, standing a few steps behind, shaded her eyes and said,
“What’s that orange thing over there?”

I turned. And there it was—a windsock.

Not old. Not sun-faded. Bright orange—vivid enough to catch her eye and fresh enough to make the whole setup feel suddenly… active.
Mounted on a solitary pipe, fluttering in the breeze, like a signal waiting to be read.

I had missed it completely. She saw it instantly.

That should’ve been the clue. But it gets better. Pull back on Google Earth, and suddenly it becomes obvious—though you could walk across it in person and never think twice. A long, straight strip of desert, running north–south through the center of town, has been subtly but deliberately cleared of large rocks. It’s not a cattle trail. It’s not a mining road—just a narrow corridor, flat and open—a homemade runway.

Crude, yes. But serviceable—for a Piper Cub, helicopter, or ultralight. And in today’s world, you don’t even need a Piper Cub. A drone could do the job—quiet, fast, and invisible from the road. The rock markers are large enough to be spotted from altitude, and the windsock confirms wind direction without requiring a human on the ground. It’s as if the whole setup was designed for someone to find… but not everyone.

A plane could land, unload, and take off—all without passing a house, a ranger station, or a single “No Trespassing” sign. And when it’s done, the rock shapes are still there, ready to guide the next flight in.
And here’s the kicker: no one talks about this.

The rock formations aren’t listed in travel guides. No historical society is trying to preserve them. The authorities aren’t investigating, and the off-road crowd hasn’t chewed them up. They’re undisturbed, unacknowledged, and unofficial.

These aren’t ancient symbols left by long-forgotten tribes. They aren’t folk art from the 1930s. They’re new. Recent. Maybe even 21st-century.
So, if they’re not historical, recreational, or artistic, then what exactly are they?

I’m not saying this was a smuggling airstrip.

But I am saying: if you were going to build one, this is precisely how you’d do it.

Closing Arguments: Who Made the Art?

We came to Sundad to see a ghost town, but instead we found a puzzle made of rocks—stars, diamonds, arrows, and a giant rust-filled circle that anchors the whole site like a sundial built by conspirators or desert poets.

Who made it?

Was it the hippies, laying out cosmic symbols in the dust before their tie-dye melted in the July heat?

Was it boondocking RV’ers, rearranging gravel between solar power checks and sunstroke naps?

Was it aliens, communicating in geometry because they couldn’t get a cell signal either?

Or was it something else? Something more deliberate?

The arrows don’t just point randomly. The wind sock doesn’t hang itself. The runway doesn’t clear its own rocks. It’s all too quiet, too intentional, and—most tellingly—too modern to be folklore.

We don’t know who built it. But we know this: somebody wanted to be seen from the air… and just as easily forgotten on the ground.

And maybe that’s why we came. To find the mystery. To walk the question mark. To leave just enough footprints so the next person knows they’re not the only one who saw it.

Who made the art?

Perhaps the better question is: Who will add to it next?

Personal Reflection / Backroad Philosophy

The backroads don’t always lead to answers. Sometimes they don’t even lead to destinations. But if you pay attention—really pay attention—they often lead to something better: questions worth asking.

Sundad isn’t a ghost town in the usual sense. There were no saloons, no shootouts, no bustling main street slowly fading into history. It never lived long enough to die. Instead, it’s a place built from attempts—a town-shaped shadow of ideas that never quite took root.

A sanatorium without patients. A spa without water. A mine without gold. A commune without crops. And yet, here it still is, marked with symbols someone thought worth laying in stone.

In that way, maybe Sundad wasn’t a town at all.

Maybe it was a mirror—reflecting whatever dream the visitor brought with them: health, wealth, escape, or purpose. If you’re looking for answers, you’ll leave frustrated. But if you’re looking for meaning, you might find just enough scattered across the gravel to spark something.
That’s the art of travel on the backroads: knowing that not every journey needs a conclusion. Sometimes it’s the wandering that sharpens the eye, the silence that tunes the ear. And in places like Sundad, the ones you’ve never heard of, that’s where the real connoisseurs begin to notice the difference between empty and unfinished.

Call to Action: Your Turn, Detective

So what do you think?

Who made the art? Was it a commune? A cartel? A clever retiree with a surplus of rocks and time? The desert’s not saying—but you’re welcome to weigh in.

Drop your theory in the comments. Have you stumbled across a place like Sundad—quiet, forgotten, and full of questions? We want to hear about it.
Arizona’s backroads are stitched with stories that never made the brochures. Ghost towns without ghosts. Towns that never were. And if you’re willing to wander a little off the map, you’ll find them—layered with dust, sun-bleached history, and the occasional conspiracy.

Just remember: explore with respect, leave no trace, and take only pictures. And if you’re struck by the urge to rearrange rocks into cosmic symbols—maybe pick up a patio kit from Lowe’s instead.

The desert has enough mysteries already.

See you on the next trail.
jw

The Listener Pictures of the Month - Cambria, California

Wooden Tudor-style birdhouse covered with thick succulents in a sunlit Cambria Pines Lodge garden. — Tudor-Style Birdhouse Reclaimed by Succulent Garden – The weight of seasons bowed the little cottage, but the plants cheered quietly among themselves — a kingdom without subjects, waiting for the wind.

There’s a window between breakfast and when Queen Anne finishes her transformation sequence. If I don’t use it, I’m trapped in a room full of mirrors, hair product, and decisions about whether navy is “too predictable.”

So I wandered outside—not far, just down the gravel path that winds behind the main building of the Cambria Pines Lodge. The lodge, if you’ve never been, looks like the kind of place where weddings happen at sunset and someone’s cousin eventually ends up in the koi pond. It’s quaint. Rustic. The walls creak in the wind. The wifi creaks all the time.

But the gardens — those are something else.

Most hotels put in landscaping as an afterthought. A few hedges, a lawn, maybe a dying lavender bush in a whiskey barrel. Not here. The gardens came first. Literally, in 1929, a nursery tycoon named Mr. Covell laid out the grounds not to accent a hotel — but to show off his rare plants. The lodge came later, almost as an apology. “Come see my lobelias,” he might’ve said, “and if you get tired, we have rooms.”

Covell was big on juxtaposition. Cactus next to roses. Pines next to palms. I suspect he was the kind of man who called eucalyptus a conversation piece. The grounds still host garden shows and landscaping workshops, and judging by the succulents, he may have been on speaking terms with his next-door neighbor, Randolph Hearst.

Tall, weathered birdhouse with a roof of succulents and trailing plants in a garden setting at Cambria Pines Lodge. — Forgotten Birdhouse: Nature’s New Tenant at Cambria Pines – Like a lighthouse for travelers who no longer came, the tall birdhouse stood wrapped in vines and dreams, waiting for the last sparrow to find it.

That’s Just the Cover Story

Tucked into one of the garden’s shady corners, I found a row of ornate birdhouses, each one weathered and half-swallowed by clusters of succulents. They leaned at odd angles, rooflines buried beneath rosettes of jade and lavender-toned sedum.

“What a clever idea for a planter,” I mumbled aloud.

“That’s just the cover story,” came a familiar gravelly voice — the kind that carried faint traces of the East River, like someone who once tried not to have an accent but never quite pulled it off.

I turned, expecting another guest or maybe a gardener. Instead, I was greeted by a raccoon. An aging one. Standing upright. One arm was draped casually across the arm of a wooden bench. The other? Holding what looked very much like a scale-model Havana cigar.

He gave me a long, squinty look that somehow sparkled while also suggesting he’d already solved three mysteries today. The black patches around his eyes looked like wire-rimmed glasses, and streaks of gray crept along his muzzle like sideburns that had given up.

He was leaning on one of those California garden benches with a name plaque bolted to the backrest. I didn’t look just then; it didn’t seem important at the time.

I blinked. Then, brilliantly: “You’re… a talking raccoon.”

He dragged on the cigar, exhaled nothing, and said,

“We talk all the time. Your kind just never listens.”

Still stunned, I tried to recover.

“Do you talk to all the hotel guests?”

He smirked.

“Mostly, we stay away. But you’re different. You’re weird. And your wife wears a plastic tiara to breakfast, so you’re probably somebody.” The name’s Rocky,” he said, puffing on the cigar that didn’t burn. “But around here my folk call me George… for some reason.”

I nodded like that explained something.

“Hi, I’m Jim. What do you mean the planters are a cover story? A cover story for what, exactly?”

George squinted at me with something between pity and amusement.

“For the truth,” he said. “And believe me—you don’t want to know how deep the mulch goes.”

“Try me,” I shot back.

George twirled his twig-sized cigar in the air like a conductor about to cue the string section.

“Don’t you notice anything missing?”

I glanced around, hoping something obvious would jump out. But the garden looked perfectly normal. Impossibly curated, even.

“No,” I said. “Things look… perfect.”

“That’s because you’re looking with your eyes and not your ears,” George said, already disappointed.

“Don’t you notice how strangely quiet it is?”

“Yeah. I like that.”

He sighed through his nose, as if I’d just missed the whole point of the universe.

“No, Curly — don’t you notice there’s no songbirds?

Weathered birdhouse with a roof of succulents and moss, blending into a garden at Cambria Pines Lodge. — Succulent Roof Birdhouse: Cambria’s Quiet Garden Relic – Once tended by human hands, the little birdhouse stood patient and proud, crowned by wild succulents, waiting for life to find it again.

When the Garden Was Loud

George adjusted his posture like he was settling in for a fireside story, minus the fire.

“Before the silence, we had sparrows. Bluebirds. Thrushes. Finches, even. We were lousy with melody back then. Whole mornings would pass in song battles. Territory disputes settled with harmony instead of feathers.”

“That house over there?” he said, pointing at the fanciest birdhouse in the shade. “Used to be the zoning office. Mostly disputes about nest overhangs and who was allowed to hang wind chimes. The wrens ran it — fair but strict.”

I blinked. “You’re saying… the birds had a council?”

“A council, a housing board, three choirs, and an amateur seed-throwing league,” George said flatly. “It wasn’t perfect. But it was alive.”George paused, reached up with his free paw, and pushed at the fur around his eye like he was adjusting a pair of nonexistent glasses — the kind he probably wore in a past life. The gesture landed like a punctuation mark.

“Then the humans stopped tending the feeders. The suet dried up. The fountains got slimy. The bluebirds were the first to leave. Then the thrushes. The rest followed.”

He paused.

“The pigeons?” I asked, curious.

George shook his head. “Pigeons are just sparrows with gambling problems. They moved to Pacoima. Haven’t been back since the peanut debt scandal.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t.

“That was the mayor’s house,” George said. “She ran three feeder disputes and one mating scandal out of there. “

‘Sup George

We were just starting to hit a rhythm — George waxing poetic about bird bureaucracy, me barely keeping up — when a voice drifted in from our right.

“‘ Sup, George.”

It came from a small coastal mule deer standing half in the shade of a low juniper. I say “standing,” but he was slouched. Hard to tell if he had antlers — his hoodie was pulled so low it covered his eyes, and the sleeves hung well past his knees.

“Hey, Daryll,” George replied, barely turning his head.

Then, leaning toward me, he added in a hushed voice,

“He thinks he’s a celeb ’cause one of his kin starred in a movie a long time ago. They still run it on PBS during pledge week. It’s too violent for me. They shoot the mother.”

“Why’s he dressed like a punk?” I asked. “He does know he can’t run with his pants that low, right?”

George didn’t answer. Just stared after him with the quiet sadness of someone who’s already tried. George shrugged.

“Had a vape habit. Rehabbed in Morro Bay. These days, he mostly plays Candy Crush on his phone and wanders the neighborhood with his pants halfway down his backside. Says it’s a ‘statement.’ I think it’s just bad elastic.”

Daryll didn’t say anything else. He just nodded toward us like he might return later, then vanished behind a hedge, earbuds in, and his tail barely twitching.

Old wooden barn-shaped birdhouse with broken boards, nestled among garden plants at Cambria Pines Lodge. — The Last Barn: Crumbling Birdhouse in Cambria Pines – Long after the songs had faded, the empty barn waited, its timbers whispering to the wind, keeping watch for travelers who never came.

The Scout and the Succulents

George’s voice dropped lower as we walked, like he didn’t want the garden itself to hear.

“It’s not about shelter,” he said. “We’ve got roofs. Shade. Free mulch. But they didn’t leave because of housing. They left because the world got… wrong.”

“Wrong how?”

“Thin, he said. “The sky tasted funny. You know how the air gets before a storm? It felt like that, but all the time. The bluebirds left first. Then the wrens. Even the finches packed it in.”

He paused near the second birdhouse — the tall, elegant one, its wooden walls still proud beneath a crown of trailing succulents.

“Funny you say that,” I offered. “I saw a bluebird this morning. Took a photo of it at the park across the highway.”

George stopped walking. Didn’t blink.

“You’re lucky,” he said slowly. “That was Indigo Jack.”

He stepped closer to the birdhouse, touching the platform’s edge like he remembered something private.

“That’s where Jack stops when he comes. He doesn’t stay long. Never sings. That’s how we know it’s him.”

Like that Potter kid, I didn’t want to interrupt while Gandalf talked. Not that George had a staff — just a twig that smelled like burnt mulch.

“Jack’s a scout,” George continued. “He flies ahead of the flock. Checks the air, the ground, the trees. Looks for signals. We don’t know what kind. Something in the dirt, maybe. A rhythm. A scent. A change in temperature. Nobody asks. He wouldn’t tell us anyway.”

He puffed on his cigar for effect, then glanced at me sideways.

“He used to be bright blue. Almost electric. These days, he’s gone a little gray.”

We passed the third birdhouse — the round, bushy one with a dense succulent crown, like a thatched roof overtaken by leafy tentacles.
George pointed at it.

“We think the succulents are listening.”

“Come on.”

He gave me that sideways look again, like I’d just insulted his mother’s potato salad.

“If you ever turn your back on one, they wiggle their stubby arms, doing that thing where they stick their fingers in their ears and blow raspberries.”

I blinked. “How do you know they move?”

“Because we have to send a cleaning crew out every morning to pick up the beer cans after their frat parties.”

Then he looked over his shoulder, lowering his voice:

“There was another scout once. Before Jack. Showed up unannounced. Landed on the gazebo rail like he owned the place.”

“What happened to him?”

“Didn’t stick the landing.”

Not a Song. Not Yet.

The next morning, the garden was still. Not dead — just… held in place. Like the whole place had paused to hear something faint.

I wandered the paths again, slower this time. George was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Daryll. Not even a hummingbird dive-bombed the feeders. Then I heard it — not a song, not even a chirp. Just the soft beat of wings cutting the air. I looked up.

At the far end of the garden, on the oldest birdhouse — a barn-shaped thing collapsing under its memories — a bird had landed. Smaller than Jack. Grayer. Still. She didn’t sing. She didn’t move.

“That’s not Jack,” I whispered.

George appeared beside me like he’d been there all along. He stared at the birdhouse for a long time before speaking.

“She’s one of the listeners,” he said. “They come first. If she sings, it’s too soon.”

He glanced at me, eyes squinting with that familiar gleam.

“If she comes back with company…”

He let the sentence hang.

“… that’s when you’ll know.”

Just then, the unmistakable clank of a garbage can lid echoed faintly through the trees — hollow and metallic, like someone had just uncovered a half-eaten burrito from last night’s wedding reception.

George didn’t flinch.

“Listen, kid,” he said, already turning away. “I’d love to spend the rest of the day talking with you, but that’s my lunch bell.”

He wandered down a rosemary-lined path, disappearing into the green, pausing momentarily to snap off a twig for seasoning.

I stayed in the garden a little longer. Walked the loops again. Let the silence settle. Then I returned to that bench — the one George had leaned on when we first met. The wood was cool. The seat creaked just slightly when I exhaled. I didn’t check my phone.

I didn’t try to understand any of it.

Eventually, I stood and set off to find Queen Anne and start the day’s drive. That’s when I noticed it — the plaque: tarnished brass, just two words.

Goodnight Gracie.

I left the garden changed. Not in a dramatic way — no epiphanies, no flash of purpose. Just a quiet feeling, like someone had handed me a secret I didn’t quite understand yet.

Queen Anne was waiting by the car, looking regal and impatient in her travel tiara, blissfully unaware of the diplomatic tension I’d just witnessed among the local fauna.

As I turned to go, something caught my ear — soft, tentative.

A chirp.

Not a song.

Not yet.

But close.

Thanks for listening with your eyes.
jw

BTW:

Last year, Wickenburg got a stand-alone butcher shop: Capitol Meats. It sells all-natural, hormone-free, grass-fed beef. It’s not cheap, but we saw a line out the door for their hamburgers last Saturday, so we got in.

The line moved fast: one woman on the register, four guys on the flattop. We split a $15 burger and waited. While I wandered the shelves, I had a full-on epiphany: nothing was packaged in plastic or aluminum. There was nothing to recycle—just honest food in glass and paper. I caved and bought two small jars of truffle-infused mayo. Who needs a pig anymore?

When the burger arrived and we took our first bite, we moaned in stereo. The forward flavor? Beef. Real beef. Everything else was backup singers.
If your favorite burger joint wins you over with secret sauce, you don’t know what you’re missing.

Highly recommended. Just… don’t crowd it up.