Maricopa – On the road with Jim

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

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

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

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

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

This time, I suggested the Ranch House.

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

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

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

Touché.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anne slid one over her wrist. Then the other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Sundad Shift

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” I asked.

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

I chalked it up to heatstroke.

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

Fourth of July Butte

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I blinked. “System?”

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

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

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

Return to Sender

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Ghost Town Gears: Vulture City’s Mechanical Past Picture of the Week, Vulture City, Arizona

Antique differential gearing linked to a hit-and-miss engine, showcasing the mechanical history of Vulture City. — Vulture City’s Mechanical Tale: A Flywheel’s Connection to a Bygone Era

Welcome back, intrepid explorers, to our final haunting episode in Vulture City. Today, we’re diving deep into the mechanical heart of this ghost town and a peek at the commendable efforts by the caretakers to ensure its stories are preserved for eons to come. Remember last week’s little misadventure? Let’s stick close together; one ghostly escapade is quite enough!

This week’s spotlight is a relic from yesteryears—an old gas-powered engine. Not the vroom-vroom kind in your garage, but a stationary titan engineered to power the weighty machinery of its time. Its genius? To be fuel-efficient, it was crafted to ignite every other cycle, creating an unmistakable bang-pop-pop sound. This rhythmic cadence christened them “Hit-and-Miss” engines. Much like the nostalgic rhythm of a gramophone, the beat of these engines is Vulture City’s undying echo from the past.

Surprisingly, despite their robust build with cast iron and boilers, you rarely find them in old abandoned mines. Why? Because most were sold or, unfortunately, scavenged for scrap. But in Vulture City, these pieces of history stand tall, painting a vivid picture of the bygone era.

Visiting Vulture City is akin to stepping into a time capsule. But don’t be fooled by the town’s pristine appearance. Recent photos showcase the harrowing reality of dilapidated structures just a few years back. However, the new stewards have tirelessly worked to resurrect the town. From rusty Core 10 stainless steel rooftops to stabilized walls, every corner has been touched with care. And while some artifacts aren’t precisely period-authentic, they enhance the visitor’s experience manifold.

OMG—They Do Exist!

Humorous Halloween scene in Vulture City's brothel with playful pumpkins, hinting at a night of mischief. — Haunted Brothel: Pumpkins Celebrate in Style – Have you ever wondered why the Great Pumpkin never appears before the ‘Peanuts’ character, Linus? Here’s why. The Pumpkin has better things to do than hang out with kids all night.

Have you ever met pumpkins with more charisma than the guests at some fancy parties? Thanks to Ray Villafane’s magic touch, the pumpkins at Vulture City are a sight! Having showcased his prowess on HGTV, Ray’s uncanny ability to breathe life into gourds has added a spooky charm to the town’s Halloween festivities. For a deeper dive, check out this article here. All these initiatives spotlight the town’s undying spirit and commitment to entertaining and educating visitors year-round.

Thanks for tagging along on our ghostly gallivant this month. We’ve been overjoyed to share our tales and would be thrilled to hear yours! We invite you to share your Halloween or even brothel stories in the comment section below. Drop by my website for a closer peek at the engine here, or visit its gallery on Fine Art America here. Next week? A new location and saga you won’t want to miss. Be sure to tune in.

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

Techniques: Shapes as Compositional Muses

Close your eyes and imagine… Oh wait, bad idea! Let’s explore the transformative power of shapes in photography. Do you think a plain signpost is mundane? Tilt it a bit, and you’ve got a story! Here’s a dive into how shapes craft a picture’s narrative:

Horizontal Lines: These lines evoke a sense of tranquility and restfulness. Imagine the horizon during a sunset; it exudes peace and serenity.
Vertical Lines: These lines impart strength, rigidity, and stability. Think of towering skyscrapers or tall trees reaching up to the sky.
Circles: Representing wholeness and unity, circles can create a focal point that keeps the viewer’s eye engaged. The never-ending loop of a circle often symbolizes the circle of life or eternity.
Triangles: Triangles can provide a sense of balance and stability in a composition, often directing the viewer’s eye to the top or base of the triangle. They can be dynamic or stable depending on their orientation.
Curves and S-Curves: These lines are graceful, flowing, and can be sensuous. S-curves, in particular, can guide the viewer’s eye through the composition, providing depth and interest. Picture a winding river through a landscape; it captivates the viewer into the scene.

Mining Memories: The Silent Sentinels of Vulture City Picture of the Week - Vulture City, Arizona

Headframe: Vulture City's towering relic from its mining past — Mining Memories: The Silent Sentinels of Vulture City – Dive into Vulture City’s history, and you’ll discover mining relics, quirky tales, and even pumpkins with legs. Your unexpected desert journey awaits!

Hello again from Vulture City, where the unexpected is just another Tuesday! As I’ve continued my explorations here, I uncovered stories hidden in the shadows and surprises around every corner. I have butterflies in my stomach, and I can’t wait to tell you that I was right about those menacing pumpkins—but let’s talk about this week’s photo first, and then we’ll get to the paranormal.

Leading the tour today, we’re craning our necks to take in a lofty structure known as a headframe. No, it’s not the latest in chiropractic care; it’s an essential tool in mining. Headframes served as the backbone (pun intended) of many mines, hauling not just ore but the brave souls who ventured deep underground. While the exact inventor of the headframe remains a debate for the history books, these mechanical marvels evolved from humble hand-powered origins to the might of steam and electric prowess.

In our arid southwest, standing headframes are rarer than rain. Given that lumber had to journey to these barren expanses, and the indigenous trees weren’t quite up for the task, it’s hardly surprising. The smaller mines often skipped the theatrics, as their digs weren’t exactly the stuff of Jules Verne novels. However, tread cautiously if you’re trekking across the desert and spot one (or just heaps of sturdy wood)! There’s likely a yawning chasm lurking beneath.

The sentinel at Vulture City isn’t the grandest I’ve encountered, and it’s been repositioned away from the original mine shaft. I surmise it’s a safety maneuver to stop kiddos from taking unplanned trips down under—after all, youngsters aren’t toast. They don’t pop back out when they’re done. With its singular pulley setup, this headframe likely relied on sturdy equine muscle power. Imagine that—an equestrian gym session! These timber titans might be mute but resonate with tales of grit, ambition, and underground treasures.

When I thought Vulture City couldn’t get any more bizarre, the town proved me wrong. As I walked through the displays, I saw one building marked with a Brothel sign. Of course, I had to check it out because—that’s the kind of guy I am. I expected to see an excellent museum-style exhibit featuring swanky furniture and feather beds covered with hand-made quilts. You know, the usual dust-covered stuff. But what did I find when I walked into the Brothel’s waiting room? Three pumpkins casually lounging on the sofa, arms and legs crossed, discussing the weather (I presume—I don’t speak pumpkin). But the moment they saw me, it was like I’d flipped on the lights in a New York City apartment at midnight—those pumpkins scattered faster than… well, pumpkins with legs!

Three orange clients spending their free time looking for social media. — Ghostly Gourds: An Unexpected Brothel Encounter – You’ll never know who’s already in line when you unannounced into a brothel’s waiting room.

I was lucky that I already had my camera at the ready. I was able to squeeze off one clear shot before all of that dust was kicked up. They scattered in different directions so fast I sprained my eyeballs tracking them. You see—I was right about these pumpkins, and unlike the fuzzy Sasquatch photos you see in the check-out counter rags, this one’s sharp as a tack.

As we inch closer to the spookiest day of the year, keep your camera ready, and more importantly, keep a wooden stake and garlic clove nearby! Who knows what might be lurking around the next corner? If you’d like to examine the headframe closer, it’s on my website (Jim’s Web page) and a page at Fine Art America (FAA Link). Join me next week as we conclude our Vulture City voyage and, fingers crossed, solve the pumpkin enigma.

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

Techniques: The Art of Capturing the Unexpected

The most mesmerizing snaps in photography often arise from serendipity—like those jaw-dropping space launch vistas captured by eagle-eyed air travelers. Hence, when queried about the best camera, I quip, “The one you’ve got handy,” which, nowadays, is probably your phone.
Photography, much like life, is peppered with unforeseen marvels. Whether it’s anthropomorphic pumpkins or whimsical backdrops, mastering these fleeting instances demands foresight and improvisation. Here’s my toolkit for seizing the spontaneous:

• Stay Vigilant: Your camera should be an extension of your arm. Magic rarely sends an RSVP.
• Opt for Rapid Shutter: The key to pinning down swift, fleeting moments in pristine clarity.
• Experiment with Perspectives: An unusual viewpoint can accentuate the oddities of a scene.
• Keep a Cool Head: When faced with the unexpected, breathe, tweak, and click.
• Welcome the Unscripted: Don’t shun the anomalies; let them enhance your photographic narrative.

Remarkable snapshots often sprout from impromptu events. So, let spontaneity be your muse, and you might clinch that once-in-a-lifetime frame.

BTW:

I just added another YouTube video to my On the Road series. This one covers my Arizona Mountain Portfolio. If you’d like to watch this six minutes of eye candy, you can see it here: https://youtu.be/pN0dbZ2tBj8

Desert Artistry: Vulture City’s Frankentruck Picture of the Week - Wickenburg, Arizona

Desert Artistry: Vulture City’s Frankentruck – Patchwork truck made from various parts, standing guard outside Willard Miller station in Vulture City, Arizona

Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Money can’t buy you happiness?’ Well, Henry Wickenburg might’ve echoed that sentiment. While our Prussian immigrant struck gold in the quartz shelf, there’s a vast difference between finding and monetizing gold. Being a prospector and not a miner, Henry didn’t venture much further than his initial discovery. Delving deeper into the earth to pursue gold requires a workforce and resources. And before we wade into the treacherous waters of math (and I’m watching Queen Anne for any eye-rolling), it’s essential to understand the intricacies of return on investment.

Although the Vulture Mine produced gobs of gold—the top gold-producing mine in Arizona history—it wasn’t that profitable. Its poor standing is because the mine is out in the middle of nowhere, with no water, timber, transportation, or other resources needed to bring the yellow ore to the market. The nearest river is the Hassayampa, some 12 miles away. In 1864, you couldn’t just stroll to your local Harbor Freight and grab a generator. Those hefty stamp mills required steam, which needed water and fuel, be it wood or coal. So, the ore dug from the Vulture Mine had to be hauled to the mills for processing, either by pack mules, wagons, or in your pockets.

Henry’s solution was genius. He sold the diggings to speculators by the ton. It’s sort of like people buying unclaimed storage units at auctions. Buyers paid a set price at the mine and transported it to the river mills. Sometimes they made money; sometimes they didn’t. But Henry always got his cut.

Funny thing about naming towns back then. Often, they didn’t have formal names until a need arose. When the community sent a plea for protection against marauding tribes to the Army, the soldiers referred to their destination as the return address on the letter—Wickenburg Ranch. At his ranch, Henry lived a comfortable life. Investors like Baron Goldwasser (Goldwater) threw money at him, and he was able to give back to the growing community. He donated land for the town’s first church and invested in the hair-brain start-up company Jack Swilling’s Ditch Company—which you may better know by its current name, the Salt River Project. But as he aged, he gave a large chunk of his fortune to his caretaker, Jesus Maria Martinez.

In 1905, in a plot twist befitting a murder mystery, Henry was found dead with a gunshot to the head. And though the gun was right next to him and was ruled a suicide, not everyone was convinced. The twists? The bullet wound was on his right temple, despite Henry being left-handed. Just last week, an article in the Wickenburg Sun questioned the shooting. The people the paper interviewed called for a new investigation using modern forensic tools. They implied that his caretaker was involved in the death to get the rest of Henry’s money.

This week’s photograph makes me smile. What seemed like another rusted relic was an artist’s whimsical touch—a sculpture concocted from disparate vehicle parts welded together to birth this fantastical mine truck. Other than an art piece, it’s useless; it doesn’t have an engine or frame, and the barrel is held in place with chains. Its colorful yellow cab certainly caught my eye and is the essence of mining equipment at ¾ scale.

Pumpkin’s Silent Vigil in Deserted Cabin – Pumpkin sitting on a window ledge of an old, cracked wall in Vulture City.

On a darker note, there’s an issue with this week’s other photo. When I went inside the assay house, I saw the crumbling plaster and deep window frame needed when building with adobe blocks. So, I took this shot using the wonderful natural window light. But when I viewed it on my computer—I saw the pumpkin. It wasn’t there when I took the shot—I swear. I warned you from the outset of this series there’s something spooky and evil about these creatures.

Thanks for joining our journey through Vulture City’s history. Do drop by next week as we delve into the town’s leaner times. If you want to examine the ‘art’ truck closer, please visit my website (Jim’s Website) or the page I created on Fine Art America (FAA Link). In the comments below, we’d love your stories of makeshift repairs, gold mining, or mysterious pumpkins.

Till next time
jw

Techniques: Enhancing Photo Narratives

What’s your story? Um, let me rephrase that. What are you thinking about when you take a photograph? No doubt, you’ve heard the phrase, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” As a photographer, those words should be reverberating through your head while looking through your lens. If you’re memorializing your kid’s first step, your wet dog’s first bath, or taking a shot of your cat napping on the windowsill (ew), snap the shutter—capture that unique moment. But then, you should think, “How can I frame this better?” Look beyond your subject. Is there too much clutter in the rest of the frame that you can eliminate by moving closer? Is there something that you can include to support the story? I always take at least two shots, but not identical (unless I know I blurred the first one). In my subsequent attempts, I either move or shift the camera and when I edit, I pick out the better photo and hide the rest. You have to be ruthless about that.

Take this week’s photo, for example. I could have framed the Frankentruck tighter and let it fill the frame. But I included the fake gas station because it tells a richer story. Over the past two weeks, I’ve presented two versions of the same photo. A building in decay with an old vehicle in front of it. But their stories are different. In Echos of a Bygone Era, we see the assay office with a rusted hulk out front. The car supports the building by introducing a period into it. On the other hand, this week’s Frankentruck is the subject, and the shed adorned with auto memorabilia gives it context. You understand the truck’s purpose—everything else is the movie set.

So, always seize the fleeting moments when you’re out with your camera. Yet, elevating your narrative is about more than just a click; it’s about the intention behind that click. Every frame is a canvas, every shot an opportunity to share a tale. With each focused intention and deliberate choice, you’re not just taking photos but crafting stories. And trust me, with time and practice, this art of visual storytelling becomes an innate part of your craft.