desert road trip – On the road with Jim

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

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

Monsoon Madness

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded. “Fine.”

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

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

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

Northbound on 93

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

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

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

Check-In at the Atomic Inn

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

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

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

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

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

The Bar Across from the Casino

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

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

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

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

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

“What beers do you have?”

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

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

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

Meet Harlan and Deborah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Homemade clam chowder,” she answered proudly.

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

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

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

Beatty’s Second Fiddle Years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ghost Rider of Rhyolite

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

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

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

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

He let that hang in the air.

Anne asked softly, “What happened?”

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

I blinked. “Mexican?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tires, Trails, and Tamarisks: Adventures at Palmerita Ranch Pictures of the Month: Along the Santa Maria River, Arizona

Rustic corral fence with desert bluff and trees at Palmerita Ranch in Arizona. — Corral Fence at Palmerita Ranch Bluff – This rustic corral fence, silhouetted against the rugged bluff of Palmerita Ranch, captures the spirit of Arizona’s ranching legacy. Framed by desert vegetation and illuminated by the warm light of the setting sun, the scene speaks to the enduring harmony between nature and history along the Santa Maria River.

Nearly three years after limping the Turd home from a Las Vegas dealer, it finally earned a new set of shoes. The Turd—our trusty but unglamorous RAV4—had been rolling around on a mismatched set of tires so cheap they probably doubled as floaties in their previous life. The dealer, ever the bargain artist, slapped two new tires on the front and waved off the rears, claiming they were “good enough.” Good enough for what? Ice skating?

Now, I’ll admit, I’m a cheapskate. No, wait—cheapskate is too generous. I’m a cheap-sketeer, proudly waving my coupon flag while riding into battle on a discounted steed. Queen Anne was already less than thrilled about buying an SUV in the first place, so I figured, why spend a penny more than necessary? Besides, I was sure those dealer-installed tires would wear out faster than flip-flops at the Grand Canyon. But to my surprise—and annoyance—they wouldn’t die. One year went by, then another, and finally, this fall, I noticed the wear bars creeping up between the treads like a slow elevator. “Yes!” I cheered. It was finally time.

I took the Turd straight to Tony’s Tire-O-Rama, where Tony recommended a set of beefier tires tough enough for Arizona’s backroads. I didn’t want anything flashy—no oversized doughnuts that scream, “Look at me, I’m compensating!” They’re a smidge wider and taller for an extra half-inch of clearance. The result? It’s subtle but satisfying. The Turd now stands a bit prouder, like a French maître d’ with a slight bow, murmuring, “Ho ho, monsieur, you mistake my purpose.” With these new shoes, I finally have the confidence to tackle sandy washes, rocky trails, and all the Arizona backroads where secret treasures are hidden.

East side of historic adobe homestead at Palmerita Ranch shaded by two large tamarisk trees. — Palmerita Ranch Homestead Shaded by Tamarisk Trees – The east side of the Palmerita Ranch homestead rests in the protective embrace of two towering tamarisk trees, their thick trunks and sprawling branches casting a cooling shadow over the adobe walls. These massive salt cedars, among the largest in the area, tell a quiet tale of resilience, thriving in the arid desert alongside the ranch’s enduring legacy.

Shakedown Cruise to Arizona’s Secret Lake

When I first heard about Palmerita Ranch, a historic homestead nestled in the Alamo Lake area, I knew it was the perfect destination for the Turd’s inaugural off-road adventure on its new tires. Alamo Lake, often called Arizona’s “secret lake” (or perhaps “secret park,” depending on who you ask), sits so far off the beaten path that it feels more like a treasure hunt than a road trip.

The journey began with a drive halfway to Quartzsite, where we turned right at a wide spot in the road named Wenden. From there, we headed north on Alamo Road, threading the Harcuvar Mountains through Cunningham Pass and descending into Butler Valley. I’d only been out this way once before—to photograph a hike in the Mud Cliffs—and I remembered the dirt roads being manageable enough that I didn’t need a tank to navigate them. My main concern this time was the deep sand in the dry washes.

Sure enough, the Date Creek Wash gave us our first test. As the Turd climbed the sandy bank on the far side, I felt a surge of confidence—no need for 4WD here. The extra width and chunky tread on the new tires made light work of the loose sand, even if Queen Anne didn’t quite share my enthusiasm. She grumbled through every bump and rut, reminding me why we call this a “shakedown cruise.”

The real challenge came when we reached the Santa Maria River. The ranch was on the same side of the River as us, but the high bank demanded an entry road that plunged sharply down a rocky, narrow cow path carved into the hillside. The grade was so steep that we couldn’t see the abandoned buildings until we were two-thirds down. Gravel and loose rocks made the descent feel like riding a controlled avalanche. By the time we reached the bottom and prepared for the climb back up, the sun was setting, Anne’s stomach was growling in duet with her commentary, and I decided it was time to engage 4WD to assist. Was it overkill? Maybe. But it got us up the hill faster, and sometimes, survival means knowing when to appease your passengers.

Of course, the entire trip from our house in Congress to the ranch measured precisely 100 miles. Had I been feeling adventurous (read: foolish), I could’ve driven up US 93 for 33 miles and hiked 14 miles down the Santa Maria Riverbed through the Arrastra Mountain Wilderness. But let’s be honest—you know how I feel about hiking.

Back door of Palmerita Ranch house with falling plaster revealing adobe block walls. — Back Door of Palmerita Ranch Exposing Adobe Walls—The back door of the Palmerita Ranch house offers a candid glimpse into the home’s construction, where time and weather have peeled away layers of plaster to expose the raw adobe blocks beneath. This weathered detail tells the story of the ranch’s enduring architecture, built to withstand the harsh desert environment and reflect a bygone era of resourceful craftsmanship.

The Hidden Legacy of Palmerita Ranch

The Valenzuela family, who founded Palmerita Ranch in the 1860s, were a remarkable lineage with roots stretching back to Spanish settlers who arrived in California in the late 1500s. Their eastward migration brought them to the Arizona wilderness, where they built a life of resilience and resourcefulness. As ranchers and homesteaders, the Valenzuelas thrived despite the isolation and arid conditions, raising livestock and cultivating the land with ingenuity and determination. Their story is one of courage, perseverance, and a deep connection to the land that still echoes through the ruins of Palmerita Ranch.

Palmerita Ranch sits quietly along the ordinarily dry Santa Maria River, where the water table isn’t far below the surface—a fact betrayed by the towering trees that shade the property. We discovered two homes nestled within a forest of giants during our visit. To the west, Red Gum and White Bark Eucalyptus trees soared over 100 feet, their stature a testament to the River’s hidden life. On the east side, the second house stood under the watchful guard of two colossal tamarisk trees, the largest I’ve ever seen.

A short walk along the riverbank brought us to a small cemetery, now overgrown and untended. Whatever names and dates once adorned the graves have been erased by time and the elements. Still, the site evoked a quiet reverence, hinting at the lives and stories that played out here. A visitor from the 1920s once described fields of alfalfa thriving in the riverbed, used to sustain livestock—hogs, cattle, and goats—that kept the ranch alive.

Though stripped of its comforts, the large adobe house revealed hints of its former grandeur. Its south wall featured large windows framed in flagstone, centered around a fireplace stained with years of smoke, and through the windows stretched a stunning view of the Santa Maria River and the Arrastra Mountains in the distance—a panorama that must have provided solace during the ranch’s more isolated days. Standing within those walls, I could almost imagine living there—if only it had electricity, city water, Wi-Fi, and a grocery store that wasn’t 100 miles away.

Palmerita Ranch may no longer be a working homestead, but its history and place in the Arizona wilderness endure. The soaring trees and sturdy adobe structures stand as monuments to the resilience of the people who once built a life here despite the challenges of isolation and harsh desert conditions. Walking its grounds, it was easy to feel connected to the past and to the enduring spirit of the land itself.

Backside of Palmerita Ranch house with porch and late afternoon sunlight, surrounded by eucalyptus and tamarisk trees. — The backside of Palmerita Ranch House in Afternoon Light – The backside of the Palmerita Ranch house basks in the golden glow of late afternoon sunlight, its rustic charm accentuated by the surrounding eucalyptus and tamarisk trees. This open section of the home offers a rare glimpse of the structure unobstructed by the dense greenery, with long shadows stretching across the weathered porch—a tranquil moment preserved in the Arizona desert.

A Pit Stop for Burgers and Brew

The sun sank low as we started back up the embankment from Palmerita Ranch. By the time we reached the top—after listening to Queen Anne grumble about the constant need to adjust her tiara—I knew we wouldn’t make it home before evening. I stopped the Turd so she could use the mirror to perfect her royal accessories.

“How long’s the drive back?” she asked, still fussing with her reflection.

“Well,” I said, calculating the distance, “long enough to work up an appetite. How about we stop at that bar on the way back and grab a burger for dinner?”

She huffed something indistinct, which I took as an enthusiastic “yes,” so we began the dusty trek toward civilization. Oddly enough, the drive back always feels shorter than the trip out, and before we knew it, we pulled into the Wayside Bar.

Holding the door for Anne to make her grand entrance, I followed her inside and let my eyes adjust to the dim light. The decor was exactly what you’d expect: rusted road trash nailed to the walls, a few highway signs, animated beer lights flickering halfheartedly, and dollar bills covering the ceiling like a green constellation. It reminded me of the Pinnacle Peak Patio at Riata Pass, the first place I’d ever seen that particular motif.

At the far end of the room sat a row of cowboys, their white hats lined up brim to brim along the bar. It felt like a scene straight out of Charlie Daniels’ Uneasy Rider. We grabbed a couple of stools at the other end, strategically positioned with a clear view of the door—just in case.

The barkeep came over and asked what we’d like. Anne ordered a Chardonnay, and I went for the only beer on the list that didn’t have “lite” tacked on it. When it arrived, Anne’s wine was served in a Welch’s grape-jelly glass. She was just about to object when I quickly clamped my hand over her mouth, sparing us both a lecture about proper stemware. My beer followed in—what else?—a frosty mason jar. High-class all the way.

We ordered a burger to split, piled high with jalapeños and enough sauce to make it slide apart at first bite. And fries. Lots of fries. Out there in the dirt, even a roadside burger tastes gourmet. We devoured it like we hadn’t eaten in days, which was a slight exaggeration but not by much. Naturally, I ended up with all of Anne’s peppers, so my half of the burger packed more punch.

When the barkeep returned to ask about dessert, I opened my mouth to remind Anne of the fresh-baked goodies at home. But before I could say anything, she politely declined, asked for the check, and whipped out her credit card to settle up. You could practically hear a record scratch. All along the bar, cowboy hats tilted slightly as they saw Anne paying. I was too busy mentally rehearsing my next line to notice the collective eyebrow lift.

As the bartender returned the card, I leaned over, channeling my manliest voice. “Are you ready to go…cupcake?”

The reaction was immediate. At the far end of the bar, the cowboys snapped their heads around so fast their hats created a breeze. Silence followed, then synchronized laughter erupted like a perfectly timed punchline. The catcalls started as we slinked toward the door, Anne’s tiara slightly askew. The long, quiet ride home was all the sweeter for the fresh-baked dessert waiting for us—though the real treat might have been the memory of that moment.

Final Thoughts

Thanks for coming along on our journey to Palmerita Ranch! We’d love to hear your thoughts—whether it’s about the ranch’s history, your own funny bar story, or anything else you’d like to share. Your comments always make these adventures more fun and meaningful.

If you’d like to see larger versions of the images from this trip, please stop by the New Work section of our website. They’ll be there for the next three months until fresh troops take their place. And don’t forget to join us next month as we set off on another dusty trail, chasing adventure, stories, and, of course, more unforgettable moments.

Until then, may your roads be smooth, your tires chunky, and your humor as dry as the Santa Maria River.
jw