Suspended in Time: Adventures Beyond the Petrified Forest Picture of the Month - Petrified Forest National Park

Colorful petrified wood logs under a dramatic sky at Petrified Forest's Rainbow Room with the White Mountains on the horizon
Clouds Over Color: A Journey Through Time: The Petrified Forest’s Rainbow Room captivates with its rich hues of fossilized logs, set against a backdrop of the White Mountains and a dramatic sky.

In the darkness of a new moon night, as the planets aligned in an alphabetical parade across the sky, a mysterious vortex reveals itself on the Petrified Forest’s Blue Mesa. During our March visit, this phenomenon descended upon the desert so abruptly that even the coyotes ceased their howlings and sought refuge. Emitting a strange, bluish light that paradoxically cast no shadows, the vortex resembled a serene tornado devoid of wind or dust.

Queen Anne implored me to remain safely in the truck, but driven by an irrepressible curiosity—and a touch of male recklessness—I approached the enigmatic glow. To my astonishment, the light seemed to emanate from an infinitely deep shaft that absorbed all light, a celestial anomaly that didn’t just block but swallowed the stars behind it, much like a black hole. The sheer impossibility of its physics beckoned me closer yet filled me with an instinctual dread.

Retreating momentarily, I fetched a new tee shirt from our recent gift shop visit, wadded it into a makeshift projectile, and lobbed it at the spectral phenomenon. On contact, the light flared like a campfire doused in brandy, the tee shirt evaporating into a blaze of unknown physics, replaced by a window into another era. What lay before me was alien and familiar—the same lands but from an unfathomably distant past.

As I peered through the temporal aperture, the vivid contrast between past and present became strikingly clear. Below me, the landscape stretched out at a significantly lower elevation, nowhere near the mile-high expanse of the contemporary Colorado Plateau. The sun blazed directly overhead, its position a stark reminder of our proximity to the equator in this ancient era. This verdant vista was a sharp departure from the blue-gray dust bowl that surrounded me in my own time. Volcanoes loomed in the distance, their eruptions feeding a robust river that sustained expansive forests of towering Norfolk Island Pines along its banks. The trees, resembling those I had seen in the South Pacific, rose majestically above broad meadows draped with lush ferns.

Two vibrant red petrified logs in the middle of Petrified Forest National Park against a desert backdrop
Timeless Twins: Petrified Logs Standing Sentinel in Arizona’s Heartland—Red Remnants of Prehistory: Twin logs of petrified wood stand in stark contrast to the barren terrain of Petrified Forest’s central expanse.

A sense of awe welled inside me as I realized I was witnessing the Triassic Period, gazing upon the supercontinent of Pangaea during the dawn of the dinosaurs. I was observing the initial deposition of what would become the Chinle Formation. I recalled from my readings that this geological stratum could reach staggering thicknesses of up to 1,000 feet in some areas, comprising mud, volcanic ash, and silt layers. Each layer, uniquely colored by the minerals brought by successive floods, painted a vivid rainbow across the landscape. This explains today’s mesmerizing array of colors in the petrified logs and strata. These layers were like pages in a book, each telling a story of ancient environmental changes and cataclysmic events that shaped this prehistoric world.

I wanted Anne to witness this extraordinary spectacle, so I glanced at the truck, hoping to catch her eye. However, Anne was deeply ensconced in her usual road trip posture: head wedged comfortably between the headrest and the door window, eyes closed, with a gentle series of snores that rhythmically fogged the glass. Outside, the coyotes, usually the desert’s nocturnal soundtrack, had retreated into a tense silence, perhaps unnerved by the vortex’s eerie presence. Anne’s sporadic snoring crescendoed to fill the void in their absence, unwittingly providing a somewhat incongruous lullaby for the mystical night.

Every so often, her snoring reached such a volume that it startled her awake, causing a brief moment of confused blinking before she settled back into her dreams, her snores resuming their irregular serenade. It seemed even the peculiar happenings of the universe couldn’t rouse her as effectively as her resonant outbursts.

As I turned my gaze back to the mystical landscape before me, movement along the tree line caught my attention. A herd of dinosaurs grazed contentedly on the lush ferns, presenting a sight as bizarre as it was fascinating. Standing about as tall as me at their shoulders, these creatures appeared as if someone had whimsically grafted a walrus’s head onto a hippo’s body—only, the resemblance ended there. Unlike the smooth, blubbery skin of a hippo, these dinosaurs were decked out in what looked like nature’s version of leather armor, tough and textured, designed for the rough-and-tumble lifestyle of the Triassic.

Several large pieces of petrified wood clustered together in Petrified Forest's agate section
Agate Assembly: Petrified Logs in Nature’s Mosaic at Petrified Forest – Scattered Legacy: A cluster of petrified logs in the agate-rich grounds of Petrified Forest, each piece a fragment of prehistoric life frozen in time.

Their grunts and murmurs filled the air, a primitive yet oddly harmonious symphony. They kept close contact, communicating in low rumbles that resonated through the ground, much like whales in an ocean vast with silence. Upon consulting my trusty Wikipedia back home, I confirmed these bizarre beasts were Placerias, herbivores of the Triassic who seemed to have missed the memo on needing fat ripples for insulation. Their skin, devoid of flabby undulations, clung to their frames, armored against predators and perhaps the occasional bad weather day.

Watching them, I couldn’t help but marvel at their comical appearance—imagine a group of dignitaries dressed in bulky, ill-fitting leather armor attending a gala where the dress code was strictly ‘prehistoric chic.’ Their grave, tusky faces and the earnest way they munched on ferns added an air of solemnity to their otherwise ludicrous ensemble.

As I continued observing this prehistoric tableau, I was drawn to another pair of Placerias further out in the meadow, engaged in a rather comical sport. These two weren’t simply grazing like their peers; instead, they were energetically flinging an orange Frisbee back and forth with surprising dexterity. Unlike dogs who catch with their mouths, these ancient athletes used their tusks to scoop the disk, then launched it with a practiced snap of their heads, turning a simple game into a spectacle of prehistoric lacrosse.

To my astonishment, one of them sported a familiar-looking tee shirt, now a makeshift jersey. Squinting for a better view, I couldn’t help but exclaim, “Hey, that’s my tee shirt!” Objects, too, could travel through time via the vortex. As I watched, they skillfully navigated their game of ‘Shirts and Skins,’ the tee shirt serving as a team uniform in this bizarre version of Jurassic Sports.

Their game was a peculiar sight—half-fetch, half-soccer, with all the earnestness of Olympic competitors. It was a scene of sporting prowess that would have baffled even the most imaginative sports commentator. Amid my amusement and disbelief, a part of me couldn’t help but feel a touch envious of their uninhibited joy—a stark contrast to my usual self-deprecation and haplessness, which at that moment seemed confined to the sidelines of time.

I dubbed the one sporting my shirt “Gonzo” for his daring antics, and the other I named “Norm” after his uncanny resemblance to the beloved barfly from Cheers with his leisurely demeanor and stout build. As Gonzo and Norm chased the Frisbee across the meadow, their surprising agility belied their substantial physiques; their scaly, armored skin showcased the muscle tone of seasoned athletes rather than any signs of bulk slowing them down. They weren’t the brightest crayons in the box, though. Their antics were a series of comedic missteps—tripping over their feet, tumbling in clumsy somersaults, wholly absorbed in their game.

Despite their athletic pursuits, they remained blissfully unaware of the brewing storm. Dark clouds rolled over the distant mountains, and thunder rumbled ominously, yet Gonzo and Norm continued their game undeterred. It was a stark reminder of their simple minds, focused solely on the moment’s joy, oblivious to the growing threat that gathered with each passing minute.

Even though this ancient land was far from the desert I call home, it shared one familiar trait: the occurrence of seasonal monsoons. The storms I observed gathered ferocity over the volcanic mountains, mirroring the summer storms of my own time. These prehistoric storms unleashed torrential flash floods that brought more rain in an hour than we see all year, transforming the tranquil scene into a landscape of chaos.

As I watched, a formidable wall of dark gray water mixed with ash and debris surged over the land. It moved with the relentless force of cement pouring from a mixer’s chute, snapping ancient trees as if they were mere twigs and sweeping them up in its muddy grasp. The deluge roared across the plains, an unstoppable force of nature.

The monstrous wave of mud and debris bore down on them, and Gonzo and Norm finally noticed the danger. There was a brief, comical attempt to outrun the flood—Norm’s legs churning comically fast, Gonzo awkwardly trying to scoop up the Frisbee with his tusks for one last throw. Perhaps they understood, in their simple way, that this was the end, but they faced it as they had lived: together, amid their favorite game. Their final squeals, a mixture of surprise and protest, were quickly silenced by the relentless flood as if the land wished to spare them any prolonged fear.

The spectacle I had witnessed was poignant, akin to losing friends in a sudden natural disaster, yet enlightening. It revealed how the distinctive popcorn-textured strata of the Chinle Formation were laid down and how the ancient trees and flora were interred within it. As the vortex gradually dimmed and vanished into the encroaching darkness of the night, I could hear coyotes yelping in the distance, perhaps sharing tales of the strange light show with their kin.

Deep erosional textures of the Chinle Formation seen from Blue Mesa walkway in Petrified Forest National Park
Blue Mesa’s Eroded Wonders: Textures of Time in Petrified Forest—Nature’s Sculpture: Blue Mesa’s eroded beauty unveils the Chinle Formation’s intricate textures, a testament to the relentless artistry of natural forces.

Lost in my reflections, I strolled back to the truck and gently nudged Anne awake. “Hey, ready to go back to the motel and get some sleep?” I asked, the irony not lost on me that I was interrupting her sleep to suggest we sleep. Her only response was a sleepy nod, barely comprehending the night’s extraordinary events.

Before leaving the Holbrook area the following day, we stopped at the park’s gift shop, hoping to replace the shirt I had lost to the vortex. I scanned the racks for something similar but found nothing. Seeing my frustration, the sales lady mentioned, “That style sold out yesterday, but a ranger brought in one just like it. Found it at a dig site, believe it or not. It’s in the lost and found. Would you like to see it?”

Curious, I nodded, and she fetched a bin from behind the counter. Inside was a stretched, soil-crusted shirt—remarkably similar to mine- with tags. My heart skipped a beat as I lifted it, revealing a beat-up orange Frisbee nestled underneath, riddled with puncture marks. “Looks like mine, alright,” I murmured, a chill running down my spine as the pieces of an impossible puzzle fell into place.

As Gonzo’s and Norm’s tale whimsically illustrates, the Petrified Forest National Park is not merely a portal to the past but a vibrant laboratory of ongoing discovery. Here, every visitor has the chance to tread amid echoes from millions of years ago, exploring the geological marvels of the Triassic period. Whether you’re an aspiring paleontologist, a lover of natural beauty, or a seeker of time-bound adventures, the Petrified Forest awaits to unfold its rich tapestry of tales. Plan your visit, and you might uncover a hidden chapter of Earth’s history, where the past and the present merge in the whispers of the stones.

Thank you for joining me on this incredible journey through Petrified Forest National Park. Suppose you’ve enjoyed this tale of prehistoric whimsy and modern-day mystery. In that case, I invite you to explore larger versions of this month’s images on my New Work portfolio and the detailed pieces I’ve posted on Fine Art America. These photos will be displayed there for three months before being rotated.

As the echoes of the ancient past slowly fade, let’s turn our gaze to a different historical exploration. Next month, join me for a night among the neon and nostalgia of Gallup’s abandoned motels. We’ll explore the haunting beauty of old motel signs, capturing the stories they whisper to the desert winds. Don’t miss this eerie yet visually captivating journey—subscribe now to get a reminder as soon as we go live.

Until then, keep exploring the layers of history around you, and perhaps you’ll discover your own story woven into the fabric of time.
jw

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?

Old Holbrook train station sign with Santa Fe logo on a building repurposed as a warehouse along the railroad tracks
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

Desert Dichotomy: Prickly Pear and Snow Peaks in the Weavers Picture of the Week - Congress, Arizona

Snow-capped peaks of the Weaver Mountains in the background with desert vegetation in the foreground on a sunny morning.
Desert Dichotomy: Prickly Pear and Snow Peaks in the Weavers – Early morning light bathes the Weaver Mountains, revealing a rare sight as winter’s frosty blanket contrasts sharply with the resilient desert flora of Arizona.

Greetings again from the heart of what’s suddenly become the Arctic Circle’s kissing cousin, our own Weaver’s Winter Wonderland. This week’s spotlight, Desert Dichotomy, is yet another snapshot from that astonishing February storm that dared to blanket the Weavers in snow. This time, I’ve dared to pair the icy peaks with the sopping-wet desert flora upfront, striking a contrast that even a snowbird might find chillingly beautiful.

It’s been a month heavy with winter portraits, an oddity for us desert dwellers, and an outright betrayal for the snowbirds who come here seeking sanctuary from their shovel-laden driveways. Bookmark your favorite image, friends, because the mercury is on an upward trajectory. Soon, as you fan yourself on a patio sweltering under a 115° sun, these images might be the only breeze you’ll feel. You’ll find larger copies on my website <Jim’s Page> and Fine Art Americas <FAA Link>.


Decisions, Decisions

There I was, knee-deep in mud, the cold nipping at my every extremity, and it hit me—I was actually having fun. A realization dawned, brighter than the sun glinting off the snow: Photography, with its promise of eternalizing a moment, is the lifeblood of my existence. It’s not the accolades or the Instagram likes; it’s the mud, the cold, and the hunt for the perfect shot.

Background and Evolution

In 2002, this website was a digital photo album devoid of captions, context, or care. As all things do, it evolved into a monthly newsletter recounting the high-stakes drama of our lives—Queen Anne and I versus the Wild. The Alaska expedition of 2016 demanded daily updates, transforming the newsletter into a casualty of efficiency. After returning to our home in Arizona, we switched to weekly posts, turning my Sunday mornings into a spirited race against my verbosity.

Feedback from you, dear readers, nudged me towards improvement. Books on writing, a thesaurus thick enough to serve as a murder weapon, online classes, and software soon became my weapons of choice in a battle against mediocrity. The downside? What once was a quick jaunt through my thoughts now takes days of meticulous crafting. In my quest to hone the written word, I nearly forgot the joy of wrestling with alligators—metaphorically speaking.

Frequency Insights

Buried in an internet rabbit hole, I unearthed a nugget of wisdom: The best newsletter frequency is once or twice a month. My inbox, swollen with the daily messages from overzealous websites, confirmed this truth. Too much of a good thing, and I’m out in the garage, hunting down the unsubscribe mallet.

Looking Ahead

Hence, we pivot. The weekly parade will cease, creating a monthly spectacle beginning in April. ‘The Picture of the Month’ will emerge, promising less inbox clutter and more breathing room for storytelling and photography. Imagine—more comprehensive tales, less repetition, and an inbox as unburdened as a desert sky.

Your seat on this journey is reserved; your input is invaluable. In the comments below, let us know your thoughts on our impending metamorphosis. With this shift on the horizon, we’re poised to dive deeper, travel further, and share the essence of our adventures with renewed vigor.

To more unhurried adventures and the promise of untold stories waiting just beyond the lens. Here’s to less time spent with the thesaurus and more pressing the shutter button.

Until our trails cross again;
jw

Peeples Valley Pastoral: A Chilly Morning Among the Cottonwoods Picture of the Week - Peeples Valley, Arizona

Cattle grazing in a field with frost under cottonwood trees at sunrise in Peeples Valley, Arizona
Peeples Valley Pastoral: A Chilly Morning Among the Cottonwoods – Cattle calmly grazing in Peeples Valley’s frost-kissed fields, with majestic cottonwood trees standing guard on a cool morning.

The enchanting snowscapes we’ve shared recently have sparked a sense of wonder and hope. They offer more than just a visual feast; they promise water—our desert’s lifeline. While winter’s chill entices snowbirds to the desert’s warm embrace for leisurely golf, the irony is stark; these dry, sunny days often come at the expense of precious groundwater pumped tirelessly to maintain verdant fairways.

Yet, behind this recreational facade lies a stark reality that Arizona has grappled with for over 20 years: an unyielding drought. It has depleted reservoir levels at historic lows and water tables, setting the stage for ecological challenges. From bark beetle infestations decimating Ponderosa pines to our iconic saguaros standing beleaguered under the strain of aridity, the impact extends beyond plant life. Wildlife, too, has felt the pinch, venturing ever closer to human settlements in an urgent quest for hydration.

In this delicate balance, even humans’ habits are shifting. Golf courses, once lush and abundant, are re-evaluating their water use. Cities across the Southwest, including Phoenix and Las Vegas, face the reality of water scarcity. We are reminded that water is a finite resource that requires our respect and careful management.

A Silver Lining in the Clouds

Nature’s wheel turns, and recent winters have brought whispers of change. Snowflakes and raindrops have graced our arid state more generously, hinting at a shift in the tide. Could this be the beginning of the end of Arizona’s long dry spell? Our hearts cling to hope.

We understand that recovery is a marathon, not a sprint. One season of abundant rain doesn’t herald the end of a drought; it is merely a single step. The land is thirsty—its water tables are like empty wells waiting to be refilled. Our great reservoirs, Lake Mead and Powell, exhibit their white rings—a bathtub’s stain that marks levels of plenty long gone.

This Week’s Reflections

This week’s images—a frozen puddle and grazing cattle in a frost-touched field—are snapshots of this hopeful chapter. They’re visual stories of the land in a rare, quenched state, testaments to the resilience and adaptability of life in Arizona.

As we marvel at the snow-capped peaks and frost-adorned fields, let these recent rains be a sigh of relief and a symbol of nature’s enduring cycle. It’s a cycle that echoes resilience and renewal, qualities deep within the Arizonian spirit. While we cherish this momentary abundance, let’s carry forward the wisdom it brings—to live in harmony with our desert’s rhythms and conserve every resource.

Close-up of a frozen puddle in a frosty field with the Weaver Mountains in the background on a cold Arizona morning
Morning Freeze: Ice Takes Hold in Peeples Valley – A stillness descends on Peeples Valley as dawn reveals a frozen puddle amidst the fields, with the majestic snow-capped Weaver Mountains in the distance.

Our beautiful, rugged state narrates stories of the past and hums with songs of the future, a reminder that as we hope for wetter winters, we must also adapt with creativity and care. We step forward with a sense of stewardship, treasuring each precious drop and each frozen morning as gifts to be respected and protected.

May our appreciation deepen for the water that sustains us and the entire tapestry of life that thrives in our majestic desert. Until the next rainfall, we remain vigilant and thankful, for we understand the value of the desert’s offering.

I invite you to view these moments captured in time, visit my website <Jim’s Site> and Fine Art America page <FAA Link> for larger versions, and witness the unusual beauty that unfolds when winter visits the desert.

Until next time, keep your canteens handy and your humor dry.
jw


Survey and Looking Forward

As we close the chapter on our March survey, there remains one last chance for your valuable feedback. Your insights are like the spring rain that nurtures this newsletter’s growth. Stay tuned—next week, we’ll unveil the survey results and explore what lies ahead for Arizona’s landscapes and this newsletter. Your voice matters, and I eagerly await sharing our future with you.

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Winter’s Veil: Snowy Peaks Along AZ 89 Picture or the Week - Congress, Arizona

Road leading to snow-covered Weaver Mountains in Arizona under blue skies
Winter’s Veil: Snowy Peaks Along AZ 89—The scenic Route AZ 89 cuts through the arid terrain, leading towards the snow-laden Weaver Mountains. It captures a rare and serene moment of winter’s touch in the heart of Arizona’s landscape.

Growing up in Pennsylvania, snow days were the surprise holiday every kid dreamed of. Schools shuttered—not just for our safety, I reckon, but for teachers to catch a break, too. We, oblivious to any danger, greeted the snow with the enthusiasm a child could muster. Clad in mittens, we carved new paths with our sleds, turning the white blanket into our playground. Then, the West Coast called, and I bid farewell to those spontaneous winter celebrations—until the desert showed me it, too, could play host to such marvels.

Fast forward a few decades to last month’s surprise in the desert. Snow days, they returned, albeit cloaked in an Arizona guise. The saguaros, sentinels in their own right, stood frosted—a sight as unexpected as snowflakes in the sunshine. And just like that, the desert transformed into a wintery ballroom, with creatures great and small stepping out for a dance in their frost-touched finery. The desert, it seems, had been harboring its childhood joy, awaiting just the right moment to release it into the wild.

School’s Out For Everyone

The desert flora isn’t just tough; it’s runway-ready, even in the cold. Take the plant in Desert Glow—it might look like a typical weed, but as the sun breaks, it turns into a golden firework. You could say it’s the desert’s way of holding onto the warmth any way it can, glowing defiantly against the nippy morning air.

Imagine, if you will, the desert’s snow day transforming into an arena for the most endearing of animal antics. Jackrabbits accessorize with fluffy earmuffs, while roadrunners trade their famed sprint for graceful glides across the ice. Enter the mule deer, the unexpected champions of snowball mischief. They masterfully dip their noses into the snow, crafting frosty pellets in their nostrils only to launch them at unsuspecting quail. It’s as if the desert whispers its tales of frolic and play under the winter sky. Here, amidst the silence of the snow, the fauna engages in a playful dodgeball match, where snowballs fly, and laughter echoes through the crisp air.

Out here, snow angels are more like snow lizards, and snowball fights are postponed due to lack of thumbs. But the quails seem delighted by the extra fluff on the ground and the coyotes? Let’s say they’ve never seen their shadow quite like this before.

Backlit desert plant glowing with a straw flower-like appearance at sunrise
Desert Glow: Sunrise Illuminates a Wild Shrub – A desert plant, bathed in the warm morning sunlight, transforms into a beacon of golden radiance against the tranquil backdrop of the Southwestern wilderness.

The Photos

The quest to capture nature’s impromptu art show was not without its slapstick moments—convincing a cactus wren it wasn’t auditioning for March of the Penguins or mistaking a cholla’s frosty disguise for a benign bush, a prickly mistake I won’t soon forget. Yet amidst these playful blunders, a simple desert shrub, caught in the soft glow of dawn, stole the show, its silhouette aglow with a warmth that only the morning sun could paint.

However, the lead in this week’s wintry saga is Arizona 89, our gateway to the high country. This asphalt ribbon, featured in Winter’s Veil, guides us from the snow’s gentle beginnings at the Weaver’s base, ascending to a crescendo of white in Prescott, where the snow day is not a mere memory but a living joy for children who, much like I once did, greet the snow with hearts wide open and sleds at the ready.

As the sun sets on our desert snow day, we’re reminded that life can sparkle, even with a chill in the air. And just like the desert after a rare snowfall, we come out on the other side, a little bit stronger and much more enjoyable. For a closer look at the day’s enchantment, I’ve posted larger versions of this week’s images on my website and Fine Art America. Feel the crisp air and witness the silent dance of winter in the desert by clicking [here for my website] and [here for FAA].

I’d love to hear about your most unexpected nature encounters! Please share your stories in the comments below, and let’s swap tales of when the weather went wild. Did you snap any cool critter pics? Let’s see them!

Until our next frosty surprise, keep your gloves close and your camera closer, but don’t put your tongue on the frozen glass.
jw

March Survey

Don’t forget to take a minute to fill out our March survey. Your feedback is as rare and valuable as snow in the Sonoran, and it helps us keep our content as fresh as a winter bloom. You’re all set if you filled it out last week—thank you! If not, here’s another chance to help shape our newsletter. Find the survey [here] or at the top of this email.

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Lone Winter Sentinel: Snow Graces the Date Creek Range Picture of the Week - Congress, Arizona

Snow-covered unnamed peak in the Date Creek Range, contrasting with dark storm clouds and the desert landscape
Lone Winter Sentinel: Snow Graces the Date Creek Range – The Date Creek Range is under a theatrical sky, with its highest peak adorned in a stunning snowcap amidst the desert’s earthy tones.

Imagine a tranquil blanket of white embracing the Weaver Mountains in Congress, turning the rugged landscape into a scene straight from a winter fairy tale. In my previous tales, I might have painted a picture of winter in the desert as a predictable season, with just enough chill to remind us it’s not always sunny in Arizona.

The Unpredictable Dance of Winter

But let’s be honest: predicting our winter weather is as straightforward as dancing with a hula hoop while bouncing on a pogo stick. Sure, if our weather patterns were a simple hula hoop spinning predictably around our waists, we could anticipate where it would land next with the precision of a well-practiced trick. “It’s all physics,” you might say. Given the Earth’s tilt, orbit, and seasons, one could forecast the weather with the same confidence as predicting the hoop’s path.

Yet, here’s the twist in our meteorological tale: what happens when you throw a pogo stick into the mix? Suddenly, the predictable rotation of the hoop is interrupted by leaps and bounds, each jump adding a new layer of complexity. That’s Arizona’s winter for you, where every jump in temperature and every bound of precipitation defies expectations, much like our unpredictable twins, El Niño and La Niña, who I’ll introduce to you next.

Ride that Pogo Stick, Cowboy

Enter the mischievous twins of climate variability: La Niña, the cool little sister with a dry sense of humor, and El Niño, the warm-hearted brother who likes to stir the pot. They lead in the El Niño-Southern Oscillation (ENSO) drama, a global weather narrative with plot twists dictated by fluctuating ocean temperatures in the equatorial Pacific.

While not the sole scriptwriters of Arizona’s winter tales, these siblings can certainly add surprising chapters. La Niña tends to skim moisture away from our skies, while El Niño generously spills warmth and rain across our desert stage. Understanding their patterns is like getting a peek at the rehearsal — it doesn’t give us the exact timing of every line. Still, it helps set the stage for the season’s performances, allowing us to anticipate whether we’ll need an umbrella or a sunhat as we step out into the year’s unpredictable acts.

These brats—er, I mean children- represent our Pogo stick’s up and down cycles. The El Niño bounce is associated with increased rainfall and warmer temperatures, while the La Nina phase brings the downward thrust of drier and cooler temps. These fluctuating climate patterns don’t have a regular cycle but can last 9-12 months (or years) and occur every two to seven years. Being able to predict these ocean temperature variants means that meteorologists need to consider what drives them. To paraphrase the most significant line from the movie Jaws, “I think we’re going to need a bigger computer.”

Our Photo

That’s a partial answer to why our exceptional winter storm was a delight and allowed me to get a series of great shots for this month’s project—which brings me to this week’s image called Lone Winter Sentinel.

On the morning after the snowfall, I intended to capture some images of the sugar-coated weavers, so I drove north on Route AZ89 and stopped along the roadside. As I faced north, I focused on the Weavers, medium-sized mountains with 4000-6500 foot peaks. After firing off several variants, I turned back to my trusty stead—the Turd—and that’s when I spotted snow on our other mountains—the Date Creek Mountains. These are minor mountains around 3,000 feet, but this morning, the snow revealed where in their midst they hid their NBA center. The contrast of white among the brown desert peaks made me walk across the highway to get a better shot. I think of them as our HO-scale Rockies.

Close-up of morning sunlight highlighting the patterns in a patch of snow in Peeples Valley
Dawn’s Glimmer: Patterns in the Snow – The first light of dawn casts a golden glow on the intricate snow patterns in Peeples Valley, highlighting nature’s subtle artistry.

Kids These Days

Before you go, let me share a bit of humor from this week. Queen Anne and I enjoyed an evening out at our local country club. Our server, a bright young woman, wore a ‘Kinzie’ name badge. Intrigued by her unique name, I ventured, “Kinzie, that’s quite distinctive. Reminds me of the Kinsey Report, doesn’t it?”

“No, it’s short for Mackenzie,” she answered.

“Oh, like in Mackenzie Phillips?”

“I don’t know who that is,” was her answer.

About halfway through my explanation of who Mackenzie Phillips was and the shows in which she stared, her eyes began to glaze over. I was losing her. I gave up and told her, “Go ask your mother.”

Kinzie said she would, pointed to another waitress on the floor, and continued, “That’s her, over there.”

When I glanced at the woman she pointed at, it dawned on me—her mother was also part of the generation more acquainted with digital downloads than with Mackenzie Phillips. I realized I was fishing for cultural references in a stream where even the concept of a mixed tape might be considered an archaeological find.

Thus, the moral of my story: When your pop culture references fall flat, or if you’re curious about the bygone era of hula hoops and pogo sticks, it might be more straightforward to say, “Go ask your mother—or better yet, your grandmother. They might teach you the lost art of keeping entertained without Wi-Fi.”

As is our norm, there are larger versions of this week’s image on my website, and you can view them by clicking on these links: < Jim’s Webpage> and <FAA Post>. Be sure to show up next week when we continue to play in the snow. We always look forward to reading your comments about photography, the weather, or even Mackenzie Phillips.

Until next time, keep your snowshoes handy and your humor dry.
jw

March Survey

This is the second week of our month-long survey. It’s unchanged from last week, so if you were kind enough to answer it, you’re done. I’m asking you to answer some questions about how we’re doing. The survey below will appear over the following weeks, but I only need your opinion once. At the end of the month, I’ll review your input and discuss any decisions we make. I dislike taking these surveys as much as you do, so I’m keeping it short. Mark the first pair of questions with a single answer, but the third is multiple choice. Tick all the boxes that apply to you.

If you don’t see the form in your email, you can get to it by clicking on the email’s title line or using this link <Survey Link>.
Thanks in advance for helping us.

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Snow-Capped Majesty: Winter Embraces the Weaver Mountains Picture of the Week - Congress, Arizona

Snow-covered Weaver Mountains with clouds caressing the peaks, viewed from Congress, Arizona
Snow-Capped Majesty: Winter Embraces the Weaver Mountains – A serene morning in Congress, Arizona, as snow blankets the Weaver Mountains, with clouds tenderly skimming the peaks.

I’m often dumbfounded when I encounter snowbirds flocking at the Denny’s cash register complaining about our January rain. Frequently, I’ll interrupt their griping with local folklore. I’ll say, “The natives have a word for this weird weather pattern.”

“Oh ya,” their curiosity peaks, and they’ll ask, “What do they call it?”

“They call it winter,” I respond as I walk past them out the door, but I can always hear their groans behind me.

Yes, Virginia, the Sonoran desert gets rainy in the winter. It’s not our wettest time of the year. That honor comes with the summer monsoons. The dueling wet seasons are why our desert is home to the famous saguaro cactus. The winter months provide enough water for these giants for a spring bloom, and the monsoons provide water for the seeds to germinate. I’m unsure how the behemoth cactus scheduled the weather around their needs.

Understanding Arizona’s Two-Faced Winters

Arizona’s winters showcase a dual personality, much to our visitors’ fascination—and sometimes frustration.

The Gulf of Alaska pens the first act of our winter weather. These storms script our late December and January, bringing a chill that bites through the desert air. They’re the colder of our two patterns, and though the California mountains tend to hoard most of the moisture, they occasionally let enough slip through to grace us with a frosty spectacle.

Then, as if on cue, February presents a delightful intermission with weather so perfect it feels like paradise remembered. Daytime highs coyly flirt with the 70s and 80s, while the nights, crisp in the 40s and 50s, are ideal for a lover’s embrace or a solo serenade under the stars. It’s when we remember why we endure the scorching soliloquies of our summers.

But the final act belongs to the Pineapple Express. These storms spun from the warm waters around Hawaii and debuted around March and April. They bring a wetter, warmer embrace, coaxing the delicate plants from their frosty fear. Yet, this is no guarantee of a tender ending—Easter snow has been known to make a dramatic cameo.

Our rains are brief, a fleeting audience to our desert stage. They come and go, cleansing the air of Phoenix’s smoggy shroud and leaving behind a verdant carpet that transforms the desert floor. It’s a weekly show, though some complain it’s too often on weekends. But we Zonies? We wouldn’t have it any other way.

First Glimpse

When one of these Arctic Blasts cuts through the air, it’s as if the mountains around our house don an exquisite coat of powdered sugar. While the sight is breathtaking, the sun’s warm embrace usually coaxes the snow to leave by noon. However, this January presented an extraordinary spectacle that graced the Weaver’s and Date Creek Ranges with a full, snowy embrace from crest to base. This was not just a fleeting visitation but a rare, all-encompassing transformation that demanded to be captured.

On that magical morning, the urgency of the moment overtook me. Coffee, usually the first crucial step of my day, was forgotten. Dressed against the chill, I grabbed my camera gear and drove up the hill, driven by a compulsion to immortalize the scene before the sun could chase the frost away. March’s theme, the Weaver Winter Wonderland, is thus a tribute to this exceptional event. Through my lens, I hope to share the beauty of snow in the desert and a rare moment that reminds us of nature’s capacity for surprise and wonder.

Photographs

This week’s image is titled Snow-Capped Majesty, and it shows the area where AZ 89 scales the mountainside to the Granite Mountain Hotshots Memorial State Park and Yarnell. I’m happy with the clouds cascading down the slope and the morning light reflecting off the glowing grass. This scene rarely happens, but when it does, I’m glad I moved here to witness it.

Our second image this week was taken later after all but traces of the snow had disappeared. I named it Chilly Dawn, one of the lower hills among the Weavers having a bit of frost in the air. Those of you with sharp eyes know that this was taken at a high elevation in Peeples Valley because of the appearance of the Juniper trees.

Early morning light casting a chilly haze over the hills above Peeples Valley, Arizona
Chilly Dawn: Hazy Morning Light Over Peeples Valley Hills – The early light of dawn bathes the hills above Peeples Valley in a soft, chilly haze, capturing the tranquil essence of an Arizona morning.

I hope you enjoy viewing my photographs as much as I share them with you. Perhaps we should bookmark and save this series to dig them out in July when it’s 118° outside. Queen Anne and I look forward to your comments about the photos or your winter memories. I have posted larger versions on my website < Jim’s Web> and Fine Art America <FAA Link> should you want to look closer. I’ll have more from Weaver Winter Wonderland next week, so return then.

Until then, keep your socks and humor dry.
jw


March Survey

I need your advice. Since it’s already March, it’s time to consider spring cleaning. To keep my customers happy, I’m asking you to answer some questions about how we’re doing. The survey below will appear for the next four weeks, but I only need your opinion once, so answer the questions once, and you’re done. At the end of the month, I’ll review your input and discuss any decisions we make. I dislike taking these surveys as much as you do, so I’m keeping it short. Mark the first pair of questions with a single answer, but the third is multiple choice. Tick all the boxes that apply to you.

Thanks in advance for helping us.

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