Ruins – On the road with Jim

Hot Springs, Dusty Trails, and Desert Tales: The Story of Agua Caliente Pictures of the Month - Agua Caliente, Arizona

1940s vintage gas station in Agua Caliente, now operating as an ice cream shop under a clear blue sky. — Historic Stop: Old Gas Station Turned Ice Cream Store – Perched near the edge of a dormant shield volcano’s western plain, this charming 1940s gas station is a window into Agua Caliente’s storied past. Once serving travelers as a vital fueling point, the “Sentinel Station” now delights visitors with sweet treats as an ice cream shop. Though replaced by a modern Chevron station nearby, its enduring presence marks the starting point for our journey to the historic resort town of Agua Caliente.

If you thought Arizona’s summer heat this year was terrible, you should have been here a couple of epochs ago. In the Miocene epoch, around 20 million years ago, molten lava wasn’t just rolling—it was stampeding across this landscape like spilled coffee on a countertop, much hotter and far less forgiving. Why? Because this corner of the Earth sat atop one of the most geologically active regions on the planet. Tectonic plates jitterbugged and collided, cracking the Earth’s crust like a fragile eggshell. Faults yawned open, releasing fiery rivers of lava, and the Earth wasn’t just warm—it was downright boiling.

Arizona’s Volcanic Past

Volcanoes were breaking out all over Arizona like pimples on a teenager’s face—a geological puberty that stretched for millions of years. It all started in the Miocene Epoch, about 20 million years ago, when the Earth’s crust stretched like an old pair of jeans across the Basin and Range Province. Magma bubbled through the cracks, spilling to form shield volcanoes and sprawling lava fields. One of the grandest results was the White Mountains, whose towering peaks and vast basalt flows gave the landscape a bold, volcanic makeover.

Arizona’s volcanic party got going by the Pleistocene Epoch around 2.8 million years ago. In the San Francisco Volcanic Field, stratovolcanoes like Humphreys Peak erupted with flair, spewing ash and lava while smaller cinder cones popped up like freckles across the northern plains. Bill Williams Mountain joined the festivities later, its viscous dome adding another dramatic feature to the state’s volcanic portfolio.

The evidence of all this geological chaos is still visible today. Any hill, mountain, or plain covered in black basalt is a telltale sign of volcanic activity. You can spot these dark, rocky remnants from your car as you cruise Arizona’s desert highways, head toward California, or explore the state’s backroads. These basaltic leftovers aren’t just eye-catching—like a giant road map to the state’s fiery past.

All this volcanic activity didn’t just leave behind rugged peaks and lava fields; it also created geothermal hotspots. When groundwater seeps deep into the Earth, it brushes against rocks still warm from ancient magma chambers and rises to the surface as hot springs. While Arizona isn’t as famous for these thermal features as neighboring Nevada, it still boasts a few noteworthy examples. Tonopah and Castle Hot Springs offer glimpses of this natural phenomenon. Still, one of the most intriguing is the spring at Agua Caliente—a warm oasis that once lured travelers seeking rest and rejuvenation in the heart of the desert.

Indigenous and Early History

Long before stagecoaches rattled across Arizona’s rugged terrain or settlers carved dusty trails, the hot springs at Agua Caliente were a haven for Indigenous peoples. Tribes such as the Hohokam and later the Tohono O’odham and Apache revered the springs as sacred ground. Their mineral-rich waters weren’t just warm—they were believed to heal both body and spirit, offering relief from ailments and a deeper connection to the land. The springs were more than just a practical resource for these early inhabitants—they were a spiritual touchstone, humming with the Earth’s energy.

When Spanish explorers ventured into the region in the 16th and 17th centuries, they encountered these springs and called them Agua Caliente—”hot water.” To the Indigenous peoples, however, the springs were simply part of a greater whole called Tonopah, meaning “hot water place.” Though the Spanish expeditions were brief, their naming left a lasting imprint on the area’s history.

By the mid-19th century, Agua Caliente was at the crossroads of history as westward expansion swept through the region. The Butterfield Overland Mail stage line, operating from 1858 to 1861, threaded its way across the Arizona desert, linking the eastern United States with the golden promises of California. While Agua Caliente may not have been an official stop, its reputation as a reliable water source made it a lifeline for travelers braving the relentless sun and parched soil. To a stagecoach driver, spotting those steaming springs must have been like finding an oasis in a sea of dust.

Later, the Oatman Route brought settlers, traders, and wagons rolling through the area, further cementing Agua Caliente’s importance. Named after the harrowing story of the Oatman family’s capture by the Yavapai, the trail became a crucial passage for pioneers navigating Arizona’s unforgiving wilderness. Even the Yavapai and Apache, who knew this land better than anyone, often stopped at the springs during their movements. Agua Caliente stood where cultures intersected—a desert crossroads where survival trumped divisions.

Before the railroads ironed their way through Arizona’s vast deserts, Agua Caliente was a beacon for anyone bold enough to journey through southern Arizona. From Indigenous healers seeking spiritual renewal to stagecoach passengers desperate for a drink, its waters sustained weary travelers across centuries. Every ripple in its springs carried a story, each as rich as the minerals bubbling up from the depths.

Basalt-covered mountain peak in Agua Caliente, likely formed by volcanic fissure eruptions, with the moon rising above. — Volcanic Legacy: The Basalt-Covered Mountains of Agua Caliente – This rugged peak in the Agua Caliente mountain cluster offers a glimpse into the region’s volcanic past. Likely formed by a fissure eruption, the hill is cloaked in black basalt, and the cooled remains of the ancient lava flow. These mountains once served as the underground furnace that heated the famous hot springs, drawing settlers and visitors to the area. With the moon overhead, this image highlights the geological forces that shaped the desert landscape.

Agua Caliente’s Heyday

By the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Agua Caliente had transformed from a dusty desert waypoint into a sought-after retreat. The adobe guest quarters, built in the 1870s and expanded over the following decades, were simple yet inviting, nestled among the desert plains. Their charm matched the bubbling pools of mineral-rich water, which promised relief from aching joints to mysterious ailments doctors couldn’t quite name. Agua Caliente was Arizona’s answer to high society’s spas for a taste of rustic charm with the allure of healing waters.

The Southern Pacific Railroad played a crucial role in the resort’s rise, mainly after Arizona achieved statehood in 1912. Railcars carried passengers from the soot-stained cities of the East, eager to trade Wall Street stress for desert serenity. Lured by tales of magical waters, visitors—many dismissive of Indigenous traditions—were quick to embrace the springs’ purported healing powers. After all, if hot water could fix a stiff back, gout, or “nerves,” it was worth a shot.

Agua Caliente thrived in a world that was rapidly modernizing. As Arizona became the nation’s youngest state, the resort became a beacon for weary travelers and health seekers. The adobe lodges buzzed with activity. Guests soaked in the steaming pools daily, claiming the mineral waters melted away ailments and sour moods. By evening, laughter spilled from the adobe walls as card games and tall tales of desert adventures echoed into the night. It was a perfect mix of elegance and frontier spirit—where boots met parasols, and everyone left with a story.

Agua Caliente Pioneer Cemetery with American flags flying over graves on Veterans Day, restored with white crosses for unidentified graves. — Flags of Honor: Agua Caliente Pioneer Cemetery on Veterans Day – As you approach Agua Caliente, the Pioneer Cemetery comes into view, a poignant reminder of the lives that once thrived here. Visiting on Veterans Day, I found flags proudly waving over the graves of veterans, paying tribute to their service. Once neglected, with missing headstones and anonymous graves, this cemetery has been given new dignity by an anonymous caretaker who placed white crosses on each grave, ensuring no one rests unremembered in the desert sun.

Agricultural Development and Water Table Decline

As the 20th century progressed, the once-thriving oasis of Agua Caliente began to wither—fade from neglect but from the insatiable demands of agriculture. For much of the early 1900s, Arizona’s deserts were seen as vast, useless expanses. But farmers soon discovered a transformative truth: add water, and the barren soil could burst into life. With the promise of productivity on the horizon, the surrounding plains transformed into a patchwork of cotton fields and other thirsty crops stretching to the horizon. Wells were drilled, pumps roared, and groundwater flowed like there was no tomorrow—all to sustain an agricultural empire that would help feed the growing demands of a nation.

The boom wasn’t just about local ambition. As the country mobilized for two World Wars, cotton and other desert crops became vital resources for military use, from clothing to tents and more. The fields didn’t just symbolize progress—they represented patriotism and the belief that even the desert could serve a higher purpose. But with this progress came a cost.

Farmers likely dismissed the first murmurs of trouble. After all, how could a few wells harm a spring bubbling faithfully for centuries? To them, the water table was like the change jar on the kitchen counter—always there when you needed it. But the Earth, it turned out, had a different balance sheet. As the water table sank lower and lower, the hot springs that had sustained Agua Caliente faltered. Once-vibrant pools turned to muddy trickles, and the resort’s lifeblood evaporated into the desert air.

The decline of the springs was more than just a geological shift—it marked the end of an era. Without the water, the allure of Agua Caliente faded, leaving the adobe walls to stand as silent witnesses to what was lost. The same farmers who benefited from the booming fields likely drove past the resort ruins, perhaps scratching their heads and wondering what went wrong. Few, if any, ever connected the dots between their pumps and the death of the springs, a quiet casualty of human ambition.

Plaster-covered adobe buildings in Agua Caliente, the former reception and guest quarters of a hot springs resort, with basalt ruins nearby. — Resort Ruins: Adobe Structures of Agua Caliente – Standing as silent witnesses to the past, these adobe buildings once served as the Agua Caliente Resort’s reception area and guest quarters. Their plaster-covered walls hint at a time when visitors came to enjoy the region’s therapeutic hot springs. Behind these two main structures lies a cluster of unmarked buildings, their purpose lost to time. North of the complex, basalt stone ruins crumbles in isolation, with decay more pronounced the farther they sit from the heart of the resort. These remnants evoke a haunting beauty, narrating the gradual fading of a once-thriving retreat.

Decay and Urgency to Visit

Once a bustling oasis, the Agua Caliente resort now teeters on the edge of oblivion. The adobe structures, including the reception area and guest quarters, slowly succumb to time, their plaster peeling like sunburnt skin and walls crumbling into dusty heaps. Surrounding buildings, some made from rugged black basalt, are in various states of disrepair—especially those farther from the leading club central, where collapse seems not just likely but inevitable.

Ownership of the site remains a mystery, shrouded as much in obscurity as the ruins themselves. Nearby, a covered structure housing hay and equipment hints at a private owner, though specifics are hard to come by. What is clear, however, is the lack of preservation efforts. With no markers, informational signs, or protective measures, Agua Caliente’s historical significance seems to hang by a thread, leaving the remaining structures at the mercy of the relentless desert sun.

For those intrigued by its haunting beauty, visiting Agua Caliente sooner rather than later is not just a suggestion—it’s a ticking clock. The adobe walls and basalt stones are steadily losing their battle against gravity and heat, while the surrounding grounds are a minefield of rusted roof timbers, ancient nails, and the odd relic of its former life. Add to that the possibility of encountering a rattlesnake seeking shade during summer, and it becomes clear: caution is your best companion.

But tread lightly, both literally and figuratively. These ruins are more than just crumbling buildings; they are fragile echoes of Arizona’s past. The desert reclaims a little more sand each year, and time erases what remains. If you’re tempted to take a souvenir or leave your marks, resist the urge. Respecting the past means preserving it for others to experience its quiet, crumbling beauty—just as you have.

Agua Caliente is a place where history whispers, not shouts. Visit while you still can. Move carefully, look closely, and honor the stories etched into the adobe and basalt. They won’t linger forever.

Final Thoughts

Thank you for joining me on this journey through time to the once-thriving resort of Agua Caliente. From its fiery volcanic beginnings to its heyday as a desert retreat and, finally, to its quiet decline, this place stands as a testament to the resilience of nature and history. It’s a story of survival, ambition, and the delicate balance between progress and preservation. I hope you’ve enjoyed exploring its layers as much as I’ve enjoyed sharing them.

Be sure to visit the gallery on my website for larger photos of the ruins and the surrounding desert landscape. These images, featured in the New Work portfolio for the next three months, capture this unforgettable place’s haunting beauty, quiet mystery, and inevitable decay—and they might inspire your own adventures.

Next month, we’ll hit the road again to uncover another abandoned spot steeped in history and intrigue. Where will the road take us? That’s a story for another time—you must stay tuned to find out!

Until then, keep exploring, respect the places you visit, and remember to bring water—especially if your journey takes you to Agua Caliente.

Holbrook Chronicles: A Quirky Journey Through Time and Asphalt Picture of the Month - Holbrook, Arizona

White tee pee-shaped motel rooms with classic car parked outside on Route 66 in Holbrook, Arizona — Nostalgic Nights: The Historic Tee Pee Motel of Route 66 – Step back in time with a glimpse of the historic TeePee Motel on Route 66 in Holbrook, Arizona—where classic cars and unique accommodations summon the spirit of America’s golden age of road travel.

Earlier this year, in a fit of cartographic embarrassment, I noticed my Arizona map was as barren in the northeast corner as my understanding of quantum physics. We use the map to bookmark locations we’ve visited and shared with you. “We must address this travesty,” I declared, or perhaps just thought loudly. Thus, Queen Anne and I embarked on an expedition to Holbrook, a place as famed for its petrified wood as my living room is for lost remote controls.

Upon our grand arrival in Holbrook, it became immediately clear how the town’s history was as layered as my attempt at a seven-layer dip, which never made it past layer three. From the ancient trading routes that seemed slightly busier than my last garage sale to the modern buzz of I-40, which promised the thrill of gas stations and fast food, Holbrook whispered tales of change. And by whispered, I mean it mumbled incoherently, much like Uncle Ray after his third Thanksgiving cocktail.

Wide-angle photo of playful dinosaur sculptures in a rock shop yard in Holbrook, Arizona, with petrified wood for sale — Petrified Pals: The Dinosaur Ambassadors of Holbrook’s Rock Shop – Encounter the past in a playful panorama with Holbrook’s roadside dinosaurs, a nod to the rich paleontological history unearthed at the nearby Petrified Forest National Park.

Diving into the town’s lore, we uncovered tales of early Pueblo peoples, whose idea of commuting was traipsing along the Little Colorado River. They traded goods with the enthusiasm I reserved for exchanging unwanted Christmas gifts. Picture them, settling down by the river’s edge, not to snap sunset selfies, but to swap stories of Coyote, the original trickster who probably invented the concept of “fake news,” and Spider-Woman, the ancient weaver who, unlike me, never blamed her tools for a botched job.

Then came the white men, striding into the horizon with all the subtlety of a brass band in a library. With their grand plans to connect coasts, Lieutenant Whipple and Edward Beale undoubtedly paused to ponder, “Will there be sufficient parking?” Their surveying tales were likely less about the awe of uncharted lands and more about the days when their socks stayed dry.

Early Settlement

In 1876, Mormons fleeing the excitement of Utah found solace in what would become Holbrook, a place that made their former home seem positively Las Vegas-esque in comparison. By then, the town had started to take shape, much like my attempt at sourdough during lockdown—full of hope but ultimately flat.

Our foray into this historical mosaic first led us to the part of town that had seen better days. “I’m not getting out of the car,” declared Queen Anne, with the determination of someone guarding the last slice of pizza. And who could blame her? The charm of the Arizona Rancho and the Bucket of Blood Saloon was as evident as the potential in my high school yearbook photo—present, but requiring a generous imagination.

Pedro Montaño built the Arizona Rancho home here between 1881 and 1883. It started as a single-story plastered adobe building with a high-pitched roof and dormer windows. After it was sold to the Higgins family, it became the Higgins House—a boarding house with a two-story addition. Next, it became the Brunswick Hotel. In the 30s, the west wing was used for Holbrook’s hospital, and during World War II, the Navy leased it to house pilots training at the airfield north of town. Now, it’s listed on the National Historic Registry and appears to be undergoing renovation.

Crossing the street from the train depot is another historic building in decay. It was initially called Terrell’s Cottage Saloon, and it was popular with cowboys and ruffians. After a violent gunfight in 1866 that ended up with two men dead, the street was described as if someone had poured a bucket of blood on it. The name stuck, and the saloon and street name bear the moniker. When we visited, a prominent sign urged people to contribute to saving The Bucket of Blood Saloon.

Imagine Holbrook as the Wild West’s version of a reality TV show, complete with outlaw gangs and cattle thieves vying for the title of Most Wanted, starring the Hashknife Gang and the Blevins Brothers, with special guest appearances by the Clantons, who thought the Earps’ version of justice was a tad too personal. Enter Sheriff Commodore Perry Owens, Holbrook’s answer to a sheriff who didn’t just wear a badge but practically invented the law enforcement genre with flair. His Wikipedia page? It’s the binge-worthy history lesson you never knew you needed.

Traffic Increases On Route 66

Faded green signage on an abandoned gas station under dramatic sky in Holbrook, Arizona — Deserted Drive-Up: The Withered Gas Station under Holbrook’s Sky – Behind a chain-link time capsule, the remains of what could be a Sinclair station stand sentinel under the vast skies of Holbrook, a mute testimony to the bustling days of Route 66.

Holbrook thrived on a cattle economy akin to a bovine social club for decades until 1926 rolled around with Route 66, flipping the script. Suddenly, Americans, intoxicated by the freedom of their Model Ts, were gallivanting across the country, pioneering the original road trip minus the luxury of air conditioning or reliable GPS. The Dust Bowl era added a gritty reality show twist, turning Route 66 into the “Mother Road” of all escape routes. By 1938, the road’s complete paving made cross-country jaunts less of a teeth-rattling affair, shifting Holbrook’s social scene north of the tracks. The town’s once-thriving pit stops turned into a ghostly strip of nostalgia, save for the Tee Pee Motel, now a restored relic where vintage cars outnumber guests—missing the chance to sleep in a concrete teepee? Now, that’s a modern regret.

Post Interstate 40

As Holbrook entered the fast lane of the Interstate 40 era, it seems the town, like a bewildered tortoise at a Formula 1 race, was sidelined by the rush towards efficiency. Where once adventurers might pause to marvel at the local color, they now zoom towards the neon glow of franchise signs, seduced by the siren call of combo meals and loyalty points. It’s as if America’s highways have become conveyor belts, whisking travelers from Point A to B with little regard for the stories and spectacles they blur past.

Amidst this homogenized landscape, Holbrook is a defiant reminder that sometimes the best part of the journey is the quirky diner you didn’t expect to love, not the time shaved off your ETA. In rediscovering Holbrook, we find not just a town but a treasure trove of tales begging us to slow down, look around, and maybe, just maybe, find a piece of ourselves among the echoes of Main Street. So, let’s take that exit ramp less traveled; who knows what stories await among the faded signs and whispers of yesteryear?

Tracks to the Past: Warehouse Days at Holbrook’s Old Depot—Standing with silent stories, the repurposed Holbrook train station along the SP tracks endures as a storied warehouse among the town’s architectural relics.

I hope you enjoyed our Holbrook tale and viewing the new photos. If Queen Anne and I have piqued your interest, you can see larger versions of this month’s adventure in my New Work collection <Link> and Fine Art America page <FAA Link>. They’ll be there for the next three months before they make way for a new adventure. Be sure to return next month when we stop at the Painted Desert and Petrified Forest.

Until our next detour, may your travels be full of discovery and stories as rich as Holbrook’s past.
jw

Cool Springs Route 66: Relics and Flags Picture of the Week - Oatman, Arizona

Vintage cars parked under a waving American flag at Cool Springs Station on Route 66, Oatman, Arizona. — Cool Springs Route 66: Relics and Flags – Echoes of the Past: Vintage cars sit silently under the vibrant hues of the American flag at Cool Springs Station, capturing the enduring spirit of Route 66.

The things you do for love. We don’t often get company, but when we do, Queen Anne transforms into a machine as she attempts to disinfect the house from top to bottom. My best chance of staying out of the trash bin or sucked into one of her vacuums is to lock myself in my office. That’s what happened the first week of December. Anne’s sisters came out for a long weekend visit, meaning that she spent the entire month of November scrubbing the walls. She only put down her Comet can for our traditional Thanksgiving dinner at Denny’s.

Before leaving to pick them up from the airport, imagine my surprise when she handed me a crisp $20.00 bill and told me, “Find someplace to spend the night.” It was predictable because we haven’t had enough beds for multiple guests since we sold our Casita (don’t remind me). I decided to drive over to the river and lose my newfound wealth on the Craps table. Since I was going in that direction, I thought I could get some Route 66 shots. And there, my friend is the story of how Oatman became January’s photo project.

In Arizona, there are two long stretches of the original Mother Road. The first and longest is the Seligman – Peach Springs – Kingman section. The other runs from Kingman, through Sitgraves Pass, to Oatman, and then the old bridge crossing the Colorado River. Since I have very few photos of Oatman, I took this route on my way home from Laughlin. I’m glad I did.

The only other time I drove this section of Old Route 66 was during the pandemic. At the time, we were avoiding people, so we didn’t stop to shoot any roadside attractions. However, the Cool Springs Station burned a hole in my lens, so it was a required stop on this trip.

Cool Springs Station and vintage gas pumps along Route 66 with Thimble Mountain in the background in Oatman, Arizona. — Cool Springs: Route 66’s Desert Jewel—Step back in time at Cool Springs Station, an iconic stop along Arizona’s stretch of Route 66, nestled against the majestic backdrop of Thimble Mountain.

You’ve likely seen pictures of this place in books or videos about Route 66. With its classic shiny red Mobil gas pumps (there’s a rusty one, too), it’s a perfect backdrop for motorheads to snap a portrait of their car. It hasn’t always been this gleaming jewel on the Mohave Desert floor. It has a history.

Nestled against the rugged backdrop of the Black Mountains, Cool Springs Station has stood as a silent witness to the ebb and flow of Route 66’s storied past. Established in the mid-1920s, Cool Springs was built to serve the burgeoning car culture of America, providing fuel, refreshments, and a welcome respite to weary travelers making their way through the Sitgreaves Pass. Its distinctive stone façade and gleaming gas pumps quickly became a symbol of the optimism and adventure spirit embodied by the Mother Road.

However, the passage of time and the shifting sands of progress were not always kind to Cool Springs. In the late 1960s, as the new interstate system redirected traffic away from Route 66, the station saw a decline, eventually falling into disrepair and was nearly forgotten. It wasn’t until 2001 that Ned Leuchtner, a Route 66 enthusiast, recognized the cultural and historical importance of Cool Springs. He undertook the painstaking task of reconstructing the station, using vintage photos as his guide to ensure authenticity. Today, the station has been restored to its former glory, complete with those classic red Mobil gas pumps and the original stone masonry, standing as a tribute to the enduring legacy of Route 66.

My picture of the month isn’t of the station but the yard art off to the side. The image is a trio of old car shells clustered under an American flag, with the Black Mountains as a background. Although these vehicles are historic, if they had any value, some collectors would have snatched them long ago.

The flapping flag is what made me choose this week’s photo. I shot this midday with lighting that blends the cars and mountains into a bland porridge. The flag becomes the image’s star. It’s almost like the flags that fly over our national cemeteries. The picture says, “These are the fallen heroes of the long Route 66 history.”

We’re tickled that you started this year by spending time with us. ~~If you want to see a larger version of this month’s photo, they are online on my website < Jim’s Page> and Fine Art America <FAA Link>~~. If you want to buy the Chevy Truck, you can contact Uncle Jim’s Cherry, One Owner, Used Car Emporium by leaving a comment below.

We look forward to your comments, so don’t be bashful. We’ll return with more Oatman and Route 66 photos next week, so don’t touch that dial.

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

Techniques: Waiting for the decisive moment.

You might think snapping a flag is a breeze, but let me tell you, it’s more like herding cats on a windy day. I aimed for a balance—not too limp and not overly taut—to convey a sense of movement and life. This required patience and timing, like capturing the peak moment in sports photography. With the wind’s whims as my conductor, I played a game of red and green light, waiting for Mother Nature’s perfect cue—talk about being at the mercy of the elements. In retrospect, a tripod would have saved me from the armache of holding steady through the breezes.

For the technically curious, this was a dance of light and speed. I shot in Aperture Priority mode with an f-stop of 6.1, relying on the bright midday sun to provide a fast enough shutter speed. My main concern was keeping the truck headlights and the flag’s stars and stripes in sharp focus. Choosing the correct f-stop or waiting for the wind is like deciding on the right spice for a stew or the right socks for sandals—not always obvious, but oh-so-important!

Echoes of a Bygone Era: Vulture City’s Assay Office and Vintage Relic Picture of the Week - Vulture City, Arizona

Historic rock-faced Assay Office in Vulture City with a rusted 30s-era Ford sedan in the foreground, set against a clear blue sky. — Echoes of a Bygone Era: Vulture City’s Assay Office and Vintage Relic – Vulture City’s Assay Office: Where tales of gold and dreams converged, with the silent witness of a bygone era—the rusted Ford—standing guard.

Welcome back to the ever-mystifying Vulture City. Every corner here whispers tales of yesteryear, and as we look closer, I must admit it feels like someone—or something—is watching. Spine-tingling.

Imagine our main character, Henry Wickenburg. Not your typical gold-seeking caricature, but a slender gentleman in a coat and tie. I know; I, too, sometimes imagine prospectors as chubby caricatures in tattered hats with picks in hand, somewhat like that character the Arizona Lottery loves to flaunt. But Henry? Far from it. This Prussian immigrant, born Johannes Henricus Wickenburg, once mined coal back in his homeland and found himself on the wrong side of the law for poaching the King’s coal on the family farm. Landing in New York in 1847, the lure of California’s gold rush pulled him westward to San Francisco.

Henry’s journey, like my attempt at a diet, seemed doomed. He hit the Bay area just after the gold had panned out. Journeying further, he reached Yuma, only to find he was late to the party again when prospector A.H. Peeples and his crew discovered the Rich Hill find. Still, Henry, ever the optimist, pitched his camp beside the Hassayampa River, holding onto his golden dreams.

Then, as luck would have it, during an expedition with King Woolsey—an Arizona rancher, businessman, and Lieutenant-Colonel in the Arizona Militia—Henry spotted a promising quartz outcrop. While he failed to convince his comrades to investigate, he returned the following year in May 1864 with a new crew. They filed a claim, establishing the Vulture Mining District, and birthed one of Arizona’s most prolific gold mines. But as you’d expect in such tales, it wasn’t all peaches and cream, but more on that next week.

Today, the assay office stands proudly, echoing those golden times. Its walls, crafted from mine tailings rumored to contain gold, house tales of affluence and decline. The preservation efforts by the current owners ensure that its stories won’t crumble to dust. Though not from the gold rush era, the yard’s rusting Ford provides a curious juxtaposition against this historical backdrop.

Stay tuned as next week, we’ll dig deeper into the Vulture Mine’s intricate tapestry. To get up close with the Assay Office, swing by my Website (Jim’s web page) or its dedicated Fine Art America Page (FAA link). And, with Halloween around the corner, beware of the naughty pumpkins lurking in the shadows. Stick close, and stay alert.

Until next time
jw

Techniques: The Evolution of Architectural Perspective—From View Cameras to Photoshop.

Those towering buildings can play tricks on the eye in architectural photography. Point your camera up or down, and suddenly, those sturdy, straight lines appear to lean and converge. We’ve all seen those dramatic New York skyscraper shots that seem to stretch forever into the sky, making the buildings look as if they’re toppling.

Photographers had two main tools to correct this perspective distortion in the days before digital took over. The first was the view camera—which looks like an accordions and requires you to drape a cloth over your head. These cameras allowed for lens and film plane adjustments, ensuring buildings stood tall in photos. But they were bulky, required a tripod, and slowed you down.

Then, there was a clever darkroom method for those who didn’t have access to a view camera or wanted to correct images in post-production. Photographers could wrestle those leaning lines back into place by tilting the easel while projecting the negative. It was a delicate dance: tilt too much, and parts of the image would blur. While not as precise as today’s tools, it showcased the hands-on artistry of photography.

With the digital era in full swing, these older techniques are primarily of historical interest. Software like Photoshop provides a handy lens correction tool that quickly straightens skewed perspectives, found under Filter→Lens Correction.

Consider this week’s image of the Vulture City Assay office. I got up close and personal with my wide-angle lens to capture the sedan and the chimney. However, this meant some verticals weren’t… well, vertical. Enter Photoshop’s lens correction tool. After a few tweaks, everything was right again.

However, as with all things digital, this magic touch has critics. Some purists argue that such corrections can degrade image quality. While this is a valid concern, especially for large prints, it’s generally a non-issue for images meant for online display. Like with any tool, the key is using it judiciously.

Fading Echoes: Vulture City’s Cantina After Dark Picture of the Week - Vulture City, Arizona

Weathered metal exterior of Vulture City's Cantina featuring vintage food and drink signs, captured in dim light after sunset. — The weathered metal exterior of Vulture City’s Cantina features vintage food and drink signs captured in dim light after sunset.

October has finally graced us with its presence. That’s significant for us desert dwellers for a couple of reasons. Most importantly, summer’s relentless grip has finally loosened. It’s still hot during the day and will be for several more weeks, but we can go out on the back deck, enjoy a cup of java, and watch the doves run for their lives in the cool mornings. The other nice thing about October is that it’s the beginning of the festive gauntlet, where celebrations stack up on one another. If the calendar were a wheel, we’d have to take it to the tire shop to balance it.

Queen Anne’s favorite holiday is Halloween, of course. What else would you expect from a woman who wears a black pointed hat and always has a broom at arm’s length? All through the month, she buys bags of miniature Heath Bars at Safeway—not to give to kids trick-or-treating at the door (they don’t grow out here), but so she has plenty of stock when she watches Spaced Invaders looping constantly. So, what better way to celebrate Halloween than to spend the month in a ghost town? It’s one we haven’t visited before and is at the bottom of Vulture Mine Road. Of course, I’m talking about Vulture City, the mine that gave birth to Wickenburg.

A rusted, vintage Ford truck stands in a ghost town, framed by timeworn buildings and a sky punctuated by twisted arrowhead-shaped cirrus clouds. — Iron Beauty: Aging Gracefully in Vulture City – his Ford’s not going anywhere fast, but its enduring character keeps it forever at home in the forgotten corners of Vulture City.

Vulture City’s history starts long before any crusty prospectors unstrapped a pick from their burro. Judging from the mix of rocks you can see along Vulture Mine Road, the Vulture Mountains formed through a symphony of molten eruptions and earth-shattering shifts over millions of years. The evidence is the basalt layers and limestone blocks you see along the road. The area is rich in gold because hydrothermal activities carried gold from the Earth’s mantle to the crust. Like Queen Anne, Mother Nature has a flair for flaunting her geological bling.

Before European settlement, the Hohokam primarily inhabited this region and later the Apache—specifically the feared Yavapai Apache. While there is no definitive evidence, native tribes did engage in rudimentary mining and likely found semi-precious stones, but gold was not their primary focus. The natives considered many of the natural formations sacred, adding an extra layer of mysticism to the area. It was as if the land crooned a mystical siren’s song long before tourist-hot-spot was even in the lexicon. And then came the white man, which we’ll get into next week.

This week’s photo is of the mining town’s cantina, mess hall, cafeteria, or whatever they called the place where they fed workers. Ho ho! Staring at a sleeping princess may feed the soul, but you need sustenance to swing a pick all day in a dark mineshaft. When I took this image, it was well after sunset on a cloudy evening, so the lights were on, and I was captivated by the geometric dance of perpendicular rectangles. The porch light infuses a golden glow to the otherwise cold and dusty scene. Although the food signs jammed into the window frame add color, I don’t believe they’re authentic to the period. I mean, 15 cents for a hot dog would have been a lot of money back then—besides, I don’t think Costco yet invented the little sausages of mystery meat.

I’m pleased that you joined us on this month’s spooky adventure. Stick close together unless you fancy being spirited away by one of Vulture City’s resident phantoms who takes on pumpkins’ color and shape. We’ll return next week with stories of the mine’s beginnings and how one man was responsible for a town’s creation. If you want to search this week’s image closely for ghostly apparitions, visit my website (Jim’s web link) or the Fine Art America page I made for it (FAA link). Don’t go near the pumpkins—they’re cute, but bite your face off.

Till next time
jw

Techniques: The Soft Glow of Overcast Skies—A Detail Photographer’s Dream

Capturing minute details in photography often feels like trying to corral a greased pig—you think you’ve snagged the perfect shot, only for the little nuances to elude you. But here’s where the misunderstood overcast sky swoops in like a caped crusader. Acting as nature’s softbox, it scatters sunlight to tone down harsh shadows and even out contrast, setting the stage for those intricate details to take the limelight—from the weather-worn wood of a rustic barn door to the delicate veins of an autumn leaf. However, be warned: while overcast light is your friend for showcasing detail, it can sometimes render textures like corrugated metal or rocky surfaces a bit flat. For those, a dash of direct sunlight might be the secret sauce to elevate the texture to center stage.

Think of overcast light as the sotto voce of the photographic world. It’s the quiet, unassuming tone that lets the content shine. Where bright, direct sunlight is the boastful tenor, belting out high notes and obscuring the subtler instruments, an overcast sky gently elevates the bassoons and cellos—the intricate details that offer richness and depth. This makes your subject the show’s star, allowing viewers to appreciate complexities they might otherwise overlook.

Of course, while overcast light provides a naturally diffused glow, you’ll still need to stay vigilant about your exposure settings. Cloudy skies can occasionally trick your camera’s metering system into underexposing the shot, making it appear gloomier than intended. A quick tweak to the exposure compensation can often rectify this, ensuring your details stand out crisply without veering into the realm of the overblown or washed-out.

BTW:

If you’re curious about our previous adventures, my new YouTube video on the Colorado Portfolio just went live. Feel free to take a gander.

Arlington’s Abandoned Feed Mill: Fading Memories of Cattle Country Picture of the Week - Arlington, Arizona

Abandoned farm equipment at Arlington Cattle Company — Arlington’s Abandoned Feed Mill – The abandoned grain hoppers and silos of the Arlington Cattle Company were left to rust in the Arizona desert.

Last week, I wrote about the exceptional rainfall we had in Arizona and how the wildflowers love it. Well, the same wet winter that showered our land with nature’s colorful confetti also brought heavy mountain snowfall. Since the predicted snowmelt and runoff would overflow our reservoirs, the Salt River Project began releasing water into the river. It’s been quite a while since we have had water in our ordinarily dry riverbeds. While some may scoff at the idea of water in Arizona’s riverbeds, I was thrilled that I might get the chance to shoot some whitewater rapids in the desert.

I convinced Queen Anne to go-for-a-ride(?) a couple of weeks ago. We drove down the west valley to the Gillespie Bridge, excited at the prospect of capturing the raging torrents of water. However, upon arrival, we were met with disappointment. The river was spent and lethargic when the artificial flood passed through Phoenix. The snowmelt’s aftermath left us with sluggish, murky water oozing through the tamarisk. It looked more like effluent than a river. Feeling disheartened, we started to return home when I noticed the stunning light falling on the machinery at the Arlington Cattle Company. When I stopped the car and grabbed my camera, Anne responded, “Hurry up! I’m Starving.”

The Gila River begins its journey in New Mexico’s Gila Mountains. It collects water from its tributaries, including the Salt River, the Verde River, the Santa Cruz River, the New River, the Agua Fria River, and the Hassayampa River. The Gila River embarks on an audacious westward journey, carving its path through untamed landscapes. Just after the confluence of the Gila and Hassayampa rivers, the Gila turns south for thirty miles towards Gila Bend. As the river flows past the Buckeye Hills, it enters a natural pinch point several miles down old US 80. It passes between a formidable silhouette of a volcanic sentinel and the edge of Gillespie Shield Volcano. The black rock lava flow rises two or three stories above the road and river and is known for its impressive pictographs, visible along the cliff of lava rock when examined closely. At this pinch point, pioneers attempted to build three versions of the dam. After they all failed, the highway department erected an all-season bridge to cross the river. Local farmers plant the dam’s old flood plains in summer with deep green cotton, making the little valley a desert oasis.

I’ve been to the Arlington Cattle Company before, so this wasn’t my first time photographing this abandoned equipment. The last time I photographed there was over a decade ago; the massive boom that sent grain over the road to the feed lots there had collapsed into the canal flowing along the roadside. Someone has cleaned that mess up since then. As I stood and framed the shot, I could hear the ghostly sounds of machinery banging, gears meshing, and belts squealing in protest. The equipment stands as a testament to the relentless march of time, bearing the scars of decades past, with the weathered vestiges of industry adorned in hues of faded silver and rust contrasting against the intense blue sky. However, what catches my eye in this photo is the tall silver elevator, which towers above all else, and with the sun’s reflection, it appears as a beacon against the bright blue sky. The wispy white clouds in the background are a bonus and provide a nice contrast to the earthy tones of the equipment.

The Arlington Cattle Company was established in the early 1900s by a group of investors led by William W. Clemens, who also served as the company’s president. The company purchased approximately 55,000 acres of land in the Arlington Valley and constructed a state-of-the-art cattle feeding facility. The company aimed to fatten cattle for the market using a combination of locally grown grains and hay from nearby farms.

The facility stood as a cathedral of innovation, a testament to the audacity of human endeavor, featuring a grain elevator that could lift and store thousands of bushels of grain at a time. The elevator was powered by an extensive motor and conveyor system that could move the grain from the elevator to the various silos and feedlots throughout the property. The company also built a vast network of canals and irrigation ditches to ensure a reliable water supply for the crops (and cattle).

Despite the initial success of the operation, the Arlington Cattle Company struggled to turn a profit. The company faced several challenges, including drought, floods, and fluctuations in the price of beef. In addition, the company’s location in a remote part of the state made transportation difficult and expensive. As a result, the company was forced to declare bankruptcy in the early 1920s. After the default, the land and equipment were sold to various buyers. Today, the rusting equipment seen along the roadside in the Arlington Valley are the only remnants of the Arlington Cattle Company.

Rustic Gillespie Bridge spanning the Gila River with a mountain in the background — Old US 80 Bridge at Gila River – The historic Gillespie Bridge at Gila River, part of Old US 80, features a rusted iron truss structure and spans over the water with a volcanic rock mountain in the background.

I hope you enjoyed this week’s photo and reading about the Arlington Cattle Company and the old farm equipment that still represents Arizona’s ranching history. Don’t forget to check out the larger version of Arlington’s Abandoned Feed Mill Cattle on our website by clicking here. Join us next week for more fascinating stories and photos of farming equipment, from the old to the new. And who knows, maybe we’ll even find something borrowed and blue. Thanks for reading!

Till next time
jw

Bisbee’s Pythian Castle: A Clock Tower of History Bisbee, Arizona

Bisbee's Pythian Castle: A Clock Tower of History - The green and white clock tower on the red-brick building pierces the cold blue winter sky. — Bisbee’s Pythian Castle: A Clock Tower of History – The red-brick building’s green and white clock tower pierces the cold blue winter sky.

During our December visit to Bisbee, Queen Anne and I was once again captivated by the town’s beauty and rich history. We finished the morning enjoying lunch at the historic Copper Queen Hotel before embarking on a walking tour of the city to capture new angles and perspectives with my camera. However, as we made our way up the town’s hilly streets, we were reminded that walking in Bisbee can feel more like hiking, and I must admit, as someone who dislikes exercise, I was less than thrilled.

Bisbee’s layout is like a wicked witch flashing you a peace sign with her crooked fingers. Her left finger is Tombstone Canyon, with galleries, shops, and cafes. The right finger represents Brewery Gulch, which holds several boutique hotels, restaurants, and a most attractive building—the Pythian Castle. This grand and ornate structure always winds up at the other end of my lens each time we’re there.

The Pythian Castle was built in 1904 as a meeting hall for the Knights of Pythias, a fraternal organization popular in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The Knights of Pythias were known for their philanthropy and community service, and their membership included many prominent business people and politicians. The castle’s grandeur was a testament to their wealth and influence, and it quickly became one of Bisbee’s most iconic landmarks. Over the years, the Pythians gradually faded into obscurity, and the castle changed hands several times. Today, it is a popular venue for weddings, events, and ghost tours, but its history and architectural beauty inspire visitors and locals alike.

When I stand before a historic old building like the Pythian Castle, my mind floods with ideas of what I’d do with it if I had the wealth, time, and my youth back. At first, I saw it as a restaurant worthy of a James Beard award. The castle’s grandeur and history would make it a perfect establishment, offering diners exceptional food and an unforgettable experience. But why mess with a landmark the town is already proud of when there’s a better option next door?

Nostalgia on Ok Street: The Philadelphia Hotel in Winter Light - I imagine that this forgotten hotel cries out at night, "Save me. Please somebody, come and save me." — Nostalgia on Ok Street: The Philadelphia Hotel in Winter Light – I imagine this forgotten hotel cries out at night, “Save me. Please, somebody, come and save me.”

Just a few steps away from the Pythian Castle is the Philadelphia Hotel, a historic building that has sat empty for years. Although there were plans for its renovation in the past, nothing ever came of them, and the hotel continues to await its chance to shine. Imagine the facade transformed with yellow-striped awnings like a grand Parisian bistro beckoning visitors to come in and dine, and the faded sign replaced with new copper letters. Inside, the hotel could be renovated into a destination restaurant, complete with tables covered in white tablecloths and serving up gourmet cuisine—I’d call it W.C. Fields. Our café only needs half of the building’s first floor, so that would leave enough room for another complementary business. Which would you choose: a bakery and gourmet deli, a Patagonia-style clothing store, or a luxury day spa where guests could indulge in some well-deserved pampering?

But the real gem of the Philadelphia Hotel lies in its 38 hotel rooms. With some TLC, a lot of elbow grease, and modernization, these rooms could be brought into the 21st century. The conservative route would be to restore each room with period furniture and modern plumbing. But why not go hog wild by halving the room count, doubling each room’s size, and wind up with 20 suites? Either way, the hotel would become a sought-after destination for travelers from all over the world. And with Bisbee’s growing popularity as a tourist destination, the Philadelphia Hotel could become the next big thing, drawing visitors in with its historic charm and modern amenities. The Philadelphia would rival The Copper Queen.

In my photograph of the Pythian Castle, I wanted to capture its grandeur and sense of mystery and intrigue. The late afternoon winter light added contrast to the scene, highlighting the details of the clock tower and spire. I chose a low angle to emphasize the castle’s height and dominance over the surrounding buildings, while the receding perspective of the street adds depth and dimension to the composition.

I hope you’ve enjoyed seeing this week’s images from Bisbee and that you found my pipe dreams fun. Click here for a larger version of the Pythian Castle photo on its webpage. Join us next week as we delve into Bisbee’s thriving art scene. We can’t wait to share more of Bisbee’s charm with you!

Till next time
jw

BTW:

Our friends, the Poteets, are touring southern Arizona and meeting with their adoring fans. Before they left, Fred swore on a stack of Bibles that their first stop would be Picacho Peak to capture the wildflowers growing on its slopes. When they return and have their slides developed, perhaps Fred will consent to share one of his finest.