Category: Mines

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

Backroad Gold: The Art and Abandoned Mines of Chloride Pictures of the Month - Chloride, Arizona

Chloride Downtown Historic Buildings Post Office and Antique Store
Chloride’s Last Standing Originals: A Post Office and Antique Store – Three historic survivors of Chloride’s fiery past mark the heart of the small town’s original downtown. The white structure serves as the town’s active post office, while the other two—an antique store and an unused building—stand as quiet reminders of a resilient history.

We’re always looking for fresh material to share with you, so I turned to my trusty wall map and noticed a glaring gap in our travels—Mohave County. Curious, I paired my map-gazing with a quick Google search and a nudge from my AI brainstorming partner, ChatGPT.

“Besides Bullhead City—which, let’s face it, is mostly about gambling—what’s worth exploring in Mohave County?” I asked.

The response? “Chloride.”

“Chloride? Why Chloride?” I countered.

The answer? “Get off your duff and go find out yourself.”

Suddenly, it felt like I was stuck between two Queen Annes, demanding action and sass in equal measure. With that, the adventure began.

The Road to Chloride.

Thinking about the journey to Chloride made me shudder. Traffic at the I-40 and US 93 junction is always a nightmare, with semis and cars lined up for miles waiting to transition. And there’s always that one clown in a big rig who turns right onto 93, then immediately swings left to reach the Flying J. It’s like a slow-motion ballet of bad decisions.

Surprisingly, when I braced for the worst, the roadwork wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined. They’re already building a bypass around town, going to Coyote Pass, where the freeway picks up north of Kingman. For once, progress felt like it was helping.

Back then, US 93 was a rutted, narrow, two-lane road where only the brave dared pass. Now, it’s a rutted, crowded four-lane highway with so many potholes that you must dodge; you’d be foolish to speed down it. Even my trusty Turd struggles to keep up with the mad rush to throw money away in Vegas. Semi-trucks blink their headlights at me as if to say, “Move it, grandpa!”

US 93 cuts through a vast desert basin known as Golden Valley, flanked by the Cerbat Mountains to the east and one of Arizona’s many Black Ranges to the west. The valley’s name hints at riches, but today, it’s primarily low-density sprawl—cheap land attracting slow but steady growth. However, this is still the Mohave Desert, and with limited rainfall, water is a growing concern for the area’s future.

An alpine-style gas station in Chloride, Arizona, with vintage gas pumps, narrow-gauge tracks, and nostalgic yard art under a decorative portico.
Alpine Gas Pumps: A Nostalgic Stop in Chloride’s History—This alpine-style gas station in Chloride, Arizona, is staged with nostalgic yard art and vintage gas pumps to recreate its historic glory. Narrow-gauge tracks circle the building, possibly repurposed from ore cars, adding to the building’s unique character and charm.

Chloride the Town.

Chloride proudly claims to be Arizona’s oldest continuously inhabited mining town, with roots dating back to 1863. However, mining didn’t boom until the 1870s, when a treaty was signed with the Hualapai Indians, allowing for more significant expansion. By 1917, the town’s population peaked at around 2,000, but by 1944, mining had declined, and Chloride teetered on the edge of becoming a ghost town.

Not that the current residents see it that way. Unlike places like Jerome or Oatman, which fully embrace their ghost town status, Chloride’s locals still treat it as a living, breathing community—even if it’s quieter these days.

Chloride gets its name from the chloride compounds mined here, which have historically been used in chemical warfare, medical applications, and industrial processing. Various chloride forms have been used for everything from hospital disinfectants and intravenous solutions to de-icing roads and manufacturing plastics. The US military even experimented with chloride-based compounds for early chemical warfare research.

When the first mine played out, a more extensive operation opened several miles south, and many of the original miners commuted rather than relocated. Today, the new mine still creates rush-hour traffic jams during shift changes.

Much like my hometown of Congress, the town’s population is aging, and there’s no new construction. The nearest grocery store is 35 miles away in Kingman, and the closest Costco requires a road trip to Las Vegas. Local businesses include a restaurant, a B&B, and a gas station, where the prices are as inflated as a carnival balloon.

Antique stores dot the town, though most wares are old mining relics rather than fine china. And while the air is fresh, thanks to constant winds, the lack of rainfall in this part of the Mohave Desert makes long-term growth challenging.

Overview of Roy Purcell’s murals in Chloride, Arizona, showcasing a central cosmic-themed mural surrounded by smaller painted rocks in the Cerbat foothills.
Roy Purcell’s Milky Way of Art: Chloride’s Largest Mural Panel – An expansive overview of Roy Purcell’s murals in the Cerbat Mountain foothills near Chloride, Arizona. The central mural, bursting with vibrant colors and cosmic imagery, is surrounded by smaller painted rocks, creating a visual galaxy that echoes Purcell’s vision of interconnectedness between humanity, nature, and the cosmos.

The Murals: The Secret Reason to Visit Chloride.

The murals are the real reason to detour off the highway and visit Chloride. Yet, the locals don’t seem to market them at all. There’s no sign on US 93 pointing the way, and if it weren’t for a few boulders painted with rough directions, you might never find them.

Just before stepping into the Chloride visitor center—which also happens to be the town store—we crossed paths with a man straight out of a ZZ Top album cover.

He had a grizzled white beard that tumbled past his chest, sunglasses that hid whatever stories his eyes might tell, and a dusty black cowboy hat that had seen some miles. His Dickies overalls were well-worn, and his plaid shirt looked like it had survived a hundred desert suns. He leaned against the store’s porch railing like he had all the time in the world.

We asked about the murals.

“Oh, yeah. Those things,” he said, shifting his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Just go up this road until it turns to dirt. Follow it through the wash if it ain’t flooded, then head up the hill.”

Not exactly GPS coordinates, but we made do.

The murals were first painted in 1966 by Roy Purcell, an artist working in the mines while taking a break from his MFA studies. With little more than house paint and a grand vision, he covered massive boulders with bold colors, cosmic symbols, and surreal imagery, turning the desolate mountainside into an outdoor gallery. In 2006, Purcell returned to restore the murals, brightening them back to their original vibrancy.

After almost 20 years of exposure to the brutal desert sun, wind, and sand, the colors remain as vivid as if they were painted yesterday—a testament to Purcell’s craftsmanship and the enduring magic of this hidden treasure.

The first thing that goes through your mind when you see them is: How did he get up there? Was this guy part goat? The murals span multiple rock faces, tied together by a serpent winding its way up the mountainside. Around the central panels, smaller satellite paintings orbit like star clusters hanging at the edge of the Milky Way.

You can’t stand in one place and take it all in simultaneously. The murals demand movement—walking the viewing area reveals new details from every angle, unfolding like a slow-motion kaleidoscope of color and meaning. In that way, Purcell’s work feels almost Dali-esque; its surreal and shifting forms reveal something different depending on where you stand. Like Picasso’s cubist portraits, each fragment works as part of a greater whole, forcing you to engage with it rather than passively observe.

Roy Purcell described his work as a visual philosophy, blending Eastern and Western ideas into something profoundly personal and universal. In his own words:

“I painted these images as an expression of self-discovery, a synthesis of my studies in Eastern philosophy and Jungian psychology, and an exploration of humankind’s place in the vast order of things.”

A word of warning: Wear good shoes. Trying to scramble over the rocks in Top-Siders, like I did, is a bad idea. Those slick-soled boat shoes might be great for gripping a yacht deck, but they turn you into a human tumbleweed out here. The terrain is steep, uneven, and unforgiving—so unless you have goat-like climbing skills or an excellent sense of balance, plan accordingly.

If rusty yard art and ghost towns are your thing, visit Chloride.
If art and hidden gems are your thing, visit the murals—you’ll be one of Arizona’s insiders.

And if you’re the kind of person who ignores all advice and climbs rocks in boat shoes? Well… at least you’ll have a good story to tell.

Close-up of Roy Purcell’s mural in the Cerbat Mountain foothills, painted adjacent to ancient petroglyphs, respecting historical rock art in Chloride, Arizona.
Respecting History: Roy Purcell’s Mural Adjacent to Ancient Petroglyphs—This is a close-up of Roy Purcell’s mural in the Cerbat Mountain foothills, carefully painted adjacent to ancient petroglyphs. This juxtaposition highlights contemporary artists like Purcell’s respect for historical art, creating a fascinating intersection of cultural expression spanning centuries.

Final Thoughts.

Thanks for joining us on this mountainside adventure and enjoying this two-for-one special on ghost towns and hidden art. If you’d like a closer look at the murals and the town, larger versions of these photos are now posted in my New Work portfolio. They’ll stay there for three months—until something better comes along.

We’d love to hear your thoughts on Chloride, Roy Purcell’s murals, or anything near and dear to your heart—so drop a comment below. But do it soon! We close comments after five days, or we’ll be buried in Cyrillic spam up to our eyeballs.

Come back next month when we take another back road home.

Until then, keep your eyes on the road and your humor dry.
jw

Oatman’s Revival: A Tale of Dams, Dreams, and Daring Do-overs Picture of the Week - Oatman, Arizona

Weathered coffee shop sign on the side of a historic hotel in Oatman, Arizona, with an A-frame house looming in the background and a saloon to the left.
Fading Memories: Oatman’s Historic Hotel Coffee Shop Sign – Remnants of a bygone era, this faded sign on the Oatman Hotel whispers stories of travelers and townsfolk who once gathered over coffee in the heart of a bustling mining town.

Last week, we left Oatman looking more ghostly than a town with a future. But then the mid-20th century rolled around, and everything changed like a plot twist in a spaghetti western. It started with a need for flood control and water conservation, a task as ambitious as teaching a cat to swim. Enter the Bureau of Land Management with its dam-building frenzy. They tamed the Colorado River, creating recreational oases like Lake Mohave and Lake Havasu, inadvertently setting the stage for Oatman’s second act.

Meanwhile, Don Laughlin, a casino mogul with an eye for opportunity sharper than a cactus spine, flew over the Colorado River en route to Kingman. Spotting a riverside motel in 1964, he didn’t just see a run-down building; he saw a neon-lit future. Don transformed the motel into the Riverside Resort, where you could lose your nickels in slot machines and gain a few pounds with 98-cent chicken dinners. This move ushered in a casino boom, turning Laughlin, Nevada, into a gambler’s paradise across the river from Bullhead City.

Not to be outdone, Robert McCulloch, a chainsaw magnate with an affinity for outboard motors and grand gestures, bought a swath of lakeside property. He didn’t just stop at creating Lake Havasu City; he went full theatrical by importing the London Bridge. Yes, that London Bridge—which he rebuilt in the middle of the desert. The Brits scoffed, the Americans gawked, and tourists flocked in droves.

But Oatman’s real comeback hinged on a nostalgia trip kick-started by Angel Delgadillo, a barber from Seligman with more vision than a Route 66 tourist with a pair of binoculars. In the 1980s, as Interstate 40 siphoned off Oatman’s traffic, Angel founded the Historic Route 66 Association of Arizona. He campaigned to get the Mother Road recognized as a Historic Route, sparking a revival that put Oatman back on the map. Suddenly, tourists craved an authentic slice of Americana, and Oatman served it up with a side of staged shootouts.

The final puzzle piece was the cultural shift in San Francisco in the late ’60s. A generation enamored with art, nature, and history began resurrecting Victorian homes with colorful paint jobs that’d make a peacock jealous. This love for the old and quaint spread to Arizona, and towns like Oatman reaped the benefits. The once-desolate streets now buzz with shops, tourists, and the occasional wild burro, all basking in the glory of a Route 66 renaissance.

So there you have it: a cocktail of dams, dreams, and a dash of historical reverence, shaken not stirred, brought Oatman from the brink of becoming a forgotten footnote to a must-visit destination on the map of Americana.

Oatman Hotel

In the heart of Oatman, where the Wild West refuses to be tamed, stands the Oatman Hotel. Its story begins in 1902, opening its doors as the Drulin Hotel, a name as sturdy as the building itself. It was more than just a hotel; it was a beacon for weary gold miners, travelers, and anyone looking to swap tales over a stiff drink. Its walls, if they could talk, would spin yarns of dusty days and golden dreams.

Like a determined prospector, the Drulin Hotel embraced change as time passed. It donned a new name, becoming the Oatman Hotel, as if shedding an old skin to reveal a more refined identity. This wasn’t just a name change, a rite of passage, and a nod to the town’s enduring spirit.
The Oatman Hotel wasn’t just any stopover; it became a slice of history, a living museum with beds. It earned its rightful place as a registered historical building, a title as prestigious as a sheriff’s badge. Its walls, now seasoned by time, became a gallery of memories, each room whispering secrets of the past.

But wait, there’s more glitz to this tale. The Oatman Hotel, with its rustic charm, caught the eye of Hollywood’s finest. None other than Clark Gable and Carole Lombard, after their 1939 Kingman courthouse wedding, chose this very hotel for their honeymoon. Imagine that! Hollywood royalty, nestled in the embrace of the rugged Mojave. Their stay added a sprinkle of stardust to the hotel, making room 15 forever a shrine to their love.

The Oatman Hotel stood tall through booms and busts, a sentinel of history. It watched as Oatman ebbed and flowed yet remained steadfast as ever, a reminder of the golden days and starlit nights.

The Boundary Cone, a significant peak for Mohave tribes, stands tall against the morning sky, viewed from the juncture of old Route 66 and Boundary Cone Road.
Guardian of the Mohave: The Boundary Cone’s Tale – Standing tall against the morning sky, the Boundary Cone serves as a timeless landmark at the crossroads of Route 66, embodying the sacred history and enduring spirit of the Mohave Valley.

We hope you enjoyed our time in Oatman. As usual, larger versions of this week’s image are on my website < Jim’s Web> and Fine Art America <FAA Link> for you to examine. Be sure to return next week when we begin a new project. For February, we’re returning to nature an hour north of here.

Till then, keep your spirits high and your humor dry.
jw

Techniques: Capturing Oatman’s Palette

In this week’s snapshot, the Coffee Shop sign of the Oatman Hotel is a beacon of nostalgia in a sea of architectural chaos. But why this particular sign, you ask? Well, it’s all about perspective and a little artistic rivalry.

On the flip side of the hotel, there’s another sign vying for attention. But there, the Coffee Shop sign gets overshadowed, like an understudy in a Broadway show where the lead refuses to call in sick. The other side also features the Oatman Hotel’s sign, turning the scene into a visual shouting match where the quaint charm of the coffee shop gets drowned out.

Now, let’s talk about setting the stage. The chosen angle for this week’s photo is like a Cubist’s dream from the 1950s, where geometry and color come together in a symphony of shapes. We’ve got the white stucco of the hotel, a daring triangle of an A-frame house peeping from behind, and the bold red facade of the neighboring bar. It’s an ensemble of structures, each playing its part in framing our star sign.

These buildings create a natural frame, like ushers in a theater, guiding your gaze to the center stage where the sign takes its bow. This arrangement keeps the viewer’s eye dancing around the central focus, ensuring the sign isn’t just seen but experienced.

And let’s not forget the grand finale of colors—a patriotic red, white, and blue – tying this month’s photos together like a well-rehearsed chorus line. Each hue plays its part, creating a visual melody that’s distinctly Oatman, distinctly Americana.

So there you have it, a behind-the-scenes peek at how a simple choice of angle and a keen eye for color can turn an everyday scene into a snapshot that captures the essence of a town with as much character as Oatman.

Vintage Red Crown Gas Pumps: Oatman’s Route 66 Treasures Pictrure of the Week - Oatman, Arizona

Vintage Red Crown gas pumps in Oatman, Arizona, along the famed Route 66, evoking the golden era of American road travel.
Time-Standing Still: Vintage Gas Pumps of Oatman – Step back in time with these meticulously preserved ‘Red Crown’ gasoline pumps, a vibrant reminder of Route 66’s golden era, now standing proudly outside Oatman’s antique store — a treasure trove awaiting its next collector.

Let’s talk about a little thing called ROI, or return on investment. In layperson’s terms, it’s like this: if your piggy bank’s diet consists more of withdrawals than deposits, it’s time to put that cash-chewing pastime on a strict no-spend regimen. It’s a handy rule of thumb for deciding whether that avocado toast obsession is a splurge too far and for the bigwigs running the corporate circus. They don’t just steer the company ship; they’re the jugglers, tightrope walkers, and lion tamers tasked with keeping the ROI roaring so the shareholders don’t start looking for a tamer’s head to put in the lion’s mouth.

In the harsh and unforgiving world of mining towns like Oatman, hitting the ROI redline means ‘game over’ for the local economy. The investors pack up their checkbooks, the mines shutter faster than a camera at a ghost sighting, and the workers scatter like tumbleweeds in a dust storm. The town’s pulse slows, and those left behind are like the band on the Titanic—playing on bravely, knowing the finale is nigh.

The tale of Oatman follows a script as predictable as the instructions on a shampoo bottle—minus the rejuvenating wash. It’s a cycle as old as time: boom, bust, and echo. The brightest stars eventually fizzle out, and Oatman’s star, once a beacon of the Gold Rush, was no exception. And just like a one-two punch in a heavyweight bout, Oatman’s knockout came swiftly. First, the mines dried up, and then Route 66 got a face-lift that sidestepped the town altogether. Modern progress, they said, but for Oatman, it was more like a step into obscurity.

The new road followed the railroad’s less adventurous path, leaving Oatman off the beaten path and out of the family vacation route. From the Clampetts to the Griswolds, no one was clamoring to visit an old shanty town at that time—and the Department of Transportation—forgot. Oatman became the town overlooking Mohave Valley with a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hung on its door.

As the rest of the world hurtled forward into the mid-20th century, Oatman seemed to hit the pause button. The once frenetic streets, echoing with the din of prosperity, fell silent, leaving only the whispering desert winds to tell their tales. For the few who chose to stay, life became a study of survival and simplicity. Oatman’s dwindling population, a patchwork of tenacious old-timers and resourceful souls, found a way to eke out a living from the sparse offerings of a town that had given its all to the golden days of yore.

The rustic sign of Judy's Saloon and Pool Hall under a wall-mounted American flag on the historic Main Street of Oatman, Arizona.
Judy’s Saloon: Echoes of Oatman’s Vibrant Past – Under Oatman’s azure skies, the worn sign of Judy’s Saloon points the way, juxtaposed with a rustic American flag, to a place where the spirit of the West is not just remembered but still lives on.

The rhythm of life here was no longer dictated by the pulsing promise of gold but by the sun’s arc across the sky. The remaining residents turned to the land, coaxing modest gardens from the arid soil, trading with neighbors, and gathering at Judy’s Saloon for some, reliving the glory days in stories told and retold like cherished family heirlooms. They adapted, repurposing old mining tools for mundane tasks and transforming abandoned structures into homes and makeshift businesses that catered to the occasional traveler, lost or adventurous enough to stray from the new Route 66.

In this era, Oatman’s heartbeat was a subtle one, felt rather than heard, in the stoic persistence of its people and the silent dignity of its weathered buildings. The community’s fabric was tightly knit, each person a thread bound to the other by shared history and collective tenacity. Life in Oatman wasn’t about thriving; it was about enduring, about preserving the essence of a town too proud to fade away.

The gasoline pumps featured in this week’s picture tell a story that’s as much about progress as it is about preservation. Red Crown gas, a blend marketed by Standard Oil (now Chevron), was the fuel of choice during the era these pumps would have served. Picture this: classic cars now wear the badge of ‘vintage’ had a dial for drivers to adjust the timing advance. A tank full of high-octane Red Crown meant more zip without the dreaded engine knock. Nowadays, that’s a job delegated to the computers in our cars.

But take a closer look at these gravity-feed pumps. Their pristine condition raises a question—have they stood the test of time, or are they beautifully restored pieces of history? It’s a bit of a mystery, much like the stories they hold. And for my eagle-eyed followers, yes, you’ve already noticed the white roof of the Diner Car peeking out on the left.

I hope you enjoyed this stroll down the quieter lanes of Oatman’s history, but don’t pack away your walking shoes just yet. Next week, we’re dusting off the fairy tale books for Oatman’s own Cinderella story—a happy ending sure to sparkle. If your curiosity about those Red Crown pumps is ticking like a Geiger counter in a gold mine, here’s your treasure map: links to my web page < Jim’s Site> and the Fine Art America page <FAA Link>. And hey, if you find yourself meandering through Oatman in the next few months, pop into that antique store and snoop around for the price tag on those pumps. Don’t forget to spill the beans in the comments below—I think they’d make a lovely gate for the end of my driveway.

Till our next adventure, keep your spirits high and your humor dry.
jw

Techniques: Mastering the Art of Symmetrical Composition

This week’s photo ventures into symmetrical composition, a method that, admittedly, I usually give a wide berth. Symmetry in photography is all about balance, akin to placing two candles at either end of a mantle for that classic, mirror-image elegance. But who says rules can’t be bent for a bit of creative flair?

Regarding the Red Crown gas pumps, symmetry was the starting point, not the destination. I aimed to capture both pumps in a single frame, spaced evenly from the frame’s edges to create a sense of balance. However, I opted for a slight twist rather than a straight-on, textbook symmetric shot. By shifting my position to the right, the pumps became natural frames for the ‘Antiques’ sign in the background, adding layers and depth to the image. It’s like setting those candles at different heights on the mantle; it catches the eye, creates tension, and makes you look twice.

The result? A photo that adheres to symmetry principles while stepping out of the conventional bounds, making for a more intriguing and dynamic composition. Sometimes, bending the rules just a little can lead to a more compelling story being told through the lens. What’s your take on it? Traditional symmetry or a dash of asymmetrical intrigue?

Hidden Americana: Oatman’s Retro Diner Discovery Picture of the Week - Oatman, Arizona

Vintage red and white diner trailer tucked away in an alley of Oatman, Arizona, along historic Route 66.
Retro Diner Charm in Oatman’s Alley – Discover the charm of a hidden vintage diner trailer in Oatman, AZ, a nostalgic slice of Americana nestled in the heart of historic Route 66.

Let’s embark on a journey back to school for a moment. Picture yourself seated in an Arizona grade-school classroom, pencil in hand and a fresh sheet of paper on your desk. Today’s lesson begins with a pop quiz, a staple of any Arizona curriculum. The question: What are the ‘5 Cs’ of Arizona? If you’re rattling off Copper, Cotton, Cattle, Citrus, and Climate, you’ve hit the nail on the head. But let’s add a twist for the history buffs among us. How about substituting with these: Cactus, Canyons, Crackpots, Computer-Chips, Construction, or Canadians?

The original five Cs were, of course, the most significant revenue producers in the state. But that was so 1950s. Although they still bring substantial money into Arizona, they’re a fraction of their past in the new millennium. For example, when I moved to Phoenix in 1972, the Valley of the Sun was wall-to-wall orange groves. Today, they’ve been replaced by tract homes with a token grapefruit tree in the backyard. The cotton fields stretching from Tolleson to Buckeye have suffered the same fate. The stockyards that fowled the air at the east end of Sky Harbor’s runways are now a parade of gleaming corporate offices.

That leaves climate as the surviving C-word, which brings in the Canadians, and we need to build something to keep them occupied while we crackpots are hard at work making computer chips and constructing new houses. This shift from the agricultural and raw materials of yesteryears to the high-tech and tourist-oriented economy of today mirrors the transformational stories of many Arizona towns. Among these tales of change, one town stands out as a vivid illustration of the state’s rich history and relentless march into the future: Oatman.

This once-thriving gold rush town, nestled in the Black Mountains of Arizona, is a relic of an era that defined the state and the American West. The story of Oatman begins with glittering prospects and dreams of fortune as miners flocked to its hills spurred by the promise of gold. The narrative takes us through the wild roller coaster of economic booms and crushing busts. It paints a picture of the indomitable spirit that characterizes so much of Arizona’s history.

As we dive into the tale of Oatman, we find not just a story of a mining town but a reflection of the more extensive American experience—one marked by hope, struggle, and resilience. So, let’s leave the modern suburbs of Phoenix behind for a moment and journey back to when gold was the C-word that captured everyone’s imagination and set the wheels of destiny in motion for places like Oatman.

In the early 20th century, Oatman was awakened from its sleepy existence by a glint of gold, setting the stage for transforming into one of Arizona’s most prosperous boom towns. It all began with prospector Johnny Moss, who first mined the area in the 1860s, staking claims to two mines, one of which bore his name and the other named after Olive Oatman, a young girl with a dramatic story of survival in the Wild West. However, it wasn’t until the early 1900s that Oatman’s destiny as a gold rush town was firmly sealed. The Vivian Mining Company started operations around 1904, and the discovery of significant gold deposits at the Tom Reed Mine in 1908 led to a frenzy of activity. By 1909, the once modest mining camp officially adopted the name Oatman, and the town was on its way to becoming a symbol of the American dream.

Oatman’s heyday spanned the 1910s and 1920s, marked by bustling streets, saloons filled with hopeful miners, and the constant clatter of activity. The town’s population swelled, and the promise of fortune lured people from all walks of life. The construction of Route 66 through Sitgreaves Pass in 1926 further cemented Oatman’s status. The new highway brought a steady stream of travelers, enhancing the town’s prosperity. During these golden years, Oatman was more than a mere mining town; it was a community brimming with hope and vibrancy, where the American spirit of adventure and pursuit of fortune shone brightest. But as with many boom towns, this period of prosperity would not last, setting the stage for the eventual decline that would transform Oatman into a poignant symbol of the transient nature of boom and bust cycles.

An abandoned house with broken windows, standing desolate along Route 66, symbolizing the unfulfilled dreams of past migrants.
Deserted Dreams: The Abandoned Houses of Route 66 – Amidst the whispers of the desert wind, this abandoned homestead on Route 66 stands as a stark reminder that not all journeys along the famed road lead to a promised land.

Each visit to a town steeped in history like Oatman becomes a treasure hunt for me, a quest for the extraordinary hidden amidst the ordinary. It’s not the overt that catches my eye—the comical store signs and typical tourist fare—but rather the subtle whispers of history that resonate most. This penchant for the historically authentic led me down an unassuming alley in Oatman, where the unexpected sight of a diner trailer captured my curiosity. At first glance, its vintage charm made it resemble a repurposed streetcar, but the presence of a hitch told a different story.

This intriguing relic was shrouded in mystery, nestled quietly away from the main thoroughfare. Questions swirled in my mind: When had this diner seen its heyday? Was it a festive cornerstone during Oatman’s booming past, rolled out for special occasions to serve hungry miners and travelers? Or perhaps it’s a more recent addition, a nostalgic nod to the town’s storied history? And who were the faces behind its service window? I could only hope this article might reach someone holding the keys to its past, someone who could unravel the tales this diner trailer has to tell.

Thanks for stopping by and visiting this week. If your curiosity has the better of you (and you’re not a cat), I have larger versions on my site < Jim’s Web Page> and a page on Fine Art America <FAA Link> for closer examination. We’d love your comments about the dinner or other Oatman experiences in the section below. Come back next week when we discuss what happens at the end of good times.

Till next time, keep your spirits high and your humor dry.
jw

Techniques: The Wide-Angle Lens or How to Save a Marriage

Picture this: there I am in Oatman, trying to frame the perfect shot of the diner, and suddenly, I’m playing a game of sardines with my camera. I’m backed up as far as I can go without turning into a human pretzel, and still, the ‘Diner’ sign is playing hard to get with my lens. At that moment, I realized that my lens wasn’t just wide; it was a regular Houdini, adept at escaping tight spots. However, even Houdini met his match, and so did my lens.

Here’s a secret between us (and please, if you ever meet Anne, mum’s the word): I’ve got my eye on a new-to-me wide-zoom lens. How, you ask? Let’s say I’ve recently saved someone from the clutches of the Maytag Man’s bill. My heroic washing machine repair has earned me some unspoken brownie points, which I intend to cash in for a shiny, used lens. My plan? To casually drop hints about this fantastic eBay find, nudging Anne into believing it’s her brilliant idea for my birthday gift. Genius, right?

With this new addition, my camera bag will boast a triumphant trio of lenses stretching from 16 to 200 millimeters, ready to tackle anything from ant-sized armadillos to gargantuan giraffes. So, stay tuned for my next eBay adventure, where I’ll be the stealthy bidder in the shadows, armed with a pocketful of washing machine savings and a dream.