Crystal Palace – When we travel to Tombstone, we make a point of stopping in the Crystal Palace to admire its back bar.
How adventurous are you? Do you try new things or stick with the tried and true when you return to a location? I’d say that Queen Anne and I are 25/75 split. We always seem to return to the joints we’ve enjoyed but try to see what else is out there. I’m unsure if that’s adventurous or what other people usually do.
That holds for Tombstone as well. It may not be a surprise that when we get to town, one of our first stops is a bar—not just any bar, but we specifically make a beeline to the Crystal Palace. We don’t go there because the beer is cold or the wine is vintage; let’s face it, beer is beer, and bar wine is—ugh. When we are belly-up to the bar, the alcohol is only a vessel for a toast to a great piece of furniture—the Crystal Palace back bar.
The Palace is on the south end of town on Allen Street. During winter, they keep the front doors closed, but you can bust your way through a pair of a traditional cowboy swinging doors during summer. As you look around the cavernous room, you’ll see a bigger-than-life roulette wheel hung as wall art. The ceilings are two stories high and covered in stamped tin tiles. There’s a stage along the back wall where rows of cancan girls danced. On the room’s left is a massive mahogany back bar dwarfing the bartenders. The room smells of stale beer, French fries, and hamburgers smeared on a leather saddle.
The cabinet that is the source of our admiration reaches about three-quarters of the way to the ceiling. It has three arches supported by Corinthian columns with mirror inserts. I wonder how often those mirrors were targets of bullets or flying cowboys. It looks like one piece, but I’ll bet there’s a seam hidden beneath the center trim and festoon. On each of its flanks are matching liquor hutches. If you don’t have time to drive to Tombstone, you can see its twin sister in one of Prescott’s Whiskey Row bars (I don’t recall exactly which bar it was because I spent too much of my life doing research for this article).
We don’t grow mahogany in Arizona or any other hardwood that would be nice enough for cabinets like this. This one was ordered from furniture makers in New England and then shipped around South America’s treacherous Cape Horn (no Virginia, the canal wasn’t yet built). Once the sailboat reached the Sea of Cortez, the bar was unloaded and carried overland by wagon.
If you’re hungry, you can order food. It’s not the worst place in town, but it’s still bar food. They prepare onion rings in-house, notably better than those awful versions at Jack’s or The King. If the tour busses are in town, the place will be packed, and the crowd can overwhelm the staff. Then you’ll have to be patient with your food and bill. But it’s not any better at the other restaurants.
There is one more thing about the Crystal Palace that I should warn you about—especially in spring. For some reason, enough couples are getting hitched in Tombstone; the town provides them with sideshows. On one of our visits, we noticed a table full of guys having a bachelor’s party. They had a great time drinking beer and being loud when suddenly an attractive woman dressed in a bright red dance costume burst through the swinging doors. She was followed by three men with handlebar mustaches wearing long black dusters and deputy badges. The young woman walked over to the groom-to-be and pointed her finger at him. She shouted for the entire world to hear, “That’s him! That’s the slime ball. Last night he promised to love me forever, and today he’s running off with another woman.”
Then the deputies grabbed the scoundrel under his arms and dragged him through the side door to the hanging tree out back. The crowd emptied the bar and filled the streets. Once there, the posse strung him up but stopped until someone fetched the bride.
Once she arrived (accompanied by her entourage), the lawmen presented their case. After hearing what they had to say, she promised that after their wedding, she’d set him straight, and he would never do it again. The sheriff polled the crowd, “Do you believe her?”
Most of the mob said yes, so he removed the noose, and we all went back into the bar and ordered another beer—on the groom.
I called this week’s picture Crystal Palace, and it’s of the cabinets described in my story. I was happy that my shot was sharp in such a dark room without using a flash or a tripod. I lightened the wood in post-production to show off its luster and grain. To get a clean shot, I had to wait for the bartenders to go to the kitchen window. Sometimes it pays to be patient.
You can see a larger version of Crystal Palace on its Webpage by clicking here. I hope you’ll join us next week when we come back with another Tombstone story.
Till next time
jw
BTW:
Are you ready for flowers? With the frequent rain this winter, we will have a bumper crop of wildflowers. Now is the time for you to come up with some strategery on where to go to photograph them.
Gunfighters – Actors dressed in Earp costumes try to stay warm on Allen Street while coaxing visitors to see the 3:00 pm show.
Ghost towns in Arizona are a dime a dozen. There are enough of them to fill a book. I know because I currently have five of them sitting on my shelves. The morphing of a city into a ghost town follows a familiar pattern. It starts with some loony prospector finding a valuable mineral—gold, silver, copper, diamonds, or another precious stone. News of the bonanza spreads quickly and lures a gaggle of opportunistic people. Half of them want to get rich by picking nuggets from the ground, and the rest want to pick them from someone’s pockets.
A new town springs from the ground like a children’s pop-up book. More people settled in the town and either got jobs at the mine or open shops that every mining community needed, like bars, gambling halls, and whore houses. Eventually—in a year, a decade, or a century—the gold (or whatever) pans out. The excitement of living in a mining town slowly dies, and its residents move on to the next boom town. Mother Nature reclaims the land without caretakers; all that remains is a pile of rotting wood, some foundations, and the eerie spirit of ghosts.
Of course, there are exceptions to my rule. In a handful of cases, when the mine goes bust, its residents look around and say to themselves, “This is a great place to live.” They find other sources of income. I call these places amusement communities. Examples that come to mind include Oatman, Jerome, Bisbee, Bagdad, Clifton, and Tombstone.
Of those locations, Tombstone is the odd duck. There are no gaping open pits to gawk at, historic hotels, or James Beard-worthy restaurants. I suspect that most of its visitors don’t even know about the silver mine. That’s because the silver vein wasn’t gigantic, and that’s how it got the name Goodenough Silver Mine. A gunfight between the Earps and the Clantons secured Tombstone’s historical spot. If it weren’t for that singular gang fight, Tombstone—’The town too tough to die’—would be a pile of splinters by now.
Don’t get me wrong; there is a list of exciting things to see in Tombstone. It was the Cochise County seat for a while, so there’s the old courthouse (with its gallows patio), the Crystal Palace back bar, the world’s largest dead rose bush, and the Birdcage theater should be on everyone’s checklist. Of course, if you have the time and money, you should see the show at the OK Coral, but realize that the actual gunfight was on Highway 80—behind the Coral.
I took this week’s photo on a cold, windy December afternoon. We had checked into our motel and started into town before the light faded. Standing in the middle of Allen Street (dirt, then paved until the street department poured dirt over it again—for authenticity) were four gunfighters dressed in black wearing badges. They tried to stay warm while they hawked visitors to the 3:00 pm show. I don’t know how successful they were because the streets were empty as people sheltered inside the bars. I titled this shot Gunfighters.
You can see a larger version of Gunfighters on its Webpage by clicking here. I hope you’ll join Queen Anne and me throughout January as we show some of the exciting Tombstone scenes we found.
Till next time
jw
BTW:
Queen Anne and I are working on our calendar for the year. We’re putting together a list of places we’d like to visit and this year’s book topics. If you have any requests, let us know in the comments section.
Eagle Crags – Red-rock Vermilion Cliff outcrops covered in the snow make a perfect Christmas greeting card.
Have you ever been in a situation where you had to resort to Plan B at the last moment—and in the end, Plan B was always the better choice? In a convoluted way, that’s what I did to bring you this week’s picture. Let me start at the beginning.
When I set up my December project, I already had four photos picked out. Three of them went up without a hitch, and the last was scheduled for today. I thought it was a doozy—a view of looking down the stairwell of the Hassayampa Inn. You know, one of those shots where the stairs wrap around the frame and seem to go on forever. In the photography world, if you see a shot like that and don’t snap the photo, they will revoke your Artist License.
When I looked at the file closely this week, it was too blurry. The stairwell was dark, and I didn’t hold the camera steady enough while the shutter was open. If you saw it from across a large room, you couldn’t tell, but on close inspection, it looked like something my Aunt Kay would take. I gave up and deleted the file like the professors told me.
Now I panicked and started looking through my files for an alternative. This is where I got distracted and began chasing squirrels. My RAW image files are only halfway organized. I started a system a couple of years ago where I keep them grouped by State-Location-Year (I have so many Arizona pictures that I include a county folder, State-County-Location-Year). Since we moved to Congress, I’ve used this system, but my older files haven’t yet been sorted. It’s one of those Round-To-It things. You’ve probably guessed that I picked this week to start organizing and forgot that I was looking for this week’s post.
I was working on a 12-year-old file from a trip that my friend Jeff and I made to Zion National Park. We’d driven there on the long Thanksgiving weekend and shared a motel room. One image mixed in among the others was a shot of a Vermillion Cliffs uplift called Eagle Crags. When I looked at this image, I wondered, “Why haven’t I ever shown this file?” The mystery was solved when I looked at the file data. The camera that I used had a limited file size and couldn’t be used to make decent prints, so I considered it a snapshot of the weekend.
As I looked at the broken snow-covered sandstone, I remembered that Adobe had added a Photoshop tool that added pixels to an image from thin air—using artificial intelligence. So, I dug around and processed my small file using the “Super-Rez” tool, and the results were impressive. The original file would comfortably fit on a 5”x4” photo, but if you visit my store, you can see what it would look like 5 feet wide. It’s good enough to include on my Web Pages. So while I’m stuck in the house recovering from the crud Queen Anne passed to me, I can wade through more files and discover other hidden gems.
You can see a larger version of Eagle Crags on its Webpage by clicking here. I hope you agree that it’s a lovely Christmas card from Queen Anne and me. Next week we begin a New Year, a new month, and a new project. Be sure to come back then and see where the road takes us.
Till next time
Jw
BTW:
From the Witkowski household to you, we wish you a Merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year.
Bold and Beautiful: Natley at the Casino Entrance – Bold and Beautiful: Natley at the Casino Entrance
Queen Anne, my darling wife, flew east last month to join her sisters for a week in New England. Supposedly, it was an Autumn-Leaves tour, but they went to Salem in October during a full moon. I’m no math whiz, but I know what you get when you combine four and ten. That’s right—WITCHES!
I’m a big boy, so I wasn’t about to spend my time alone sulking and drowning my sorrows in a tub of Cherry Garcia—I intended to treat myself to a night on the town—another town—in another state. Laughlin, Nevada, is an easy three-hour drive via Kingman, across Golden Valley, through the Black Mountains, and down to the river. I booked a cheap casino hotel room for Wednesday night and set off, determined to lose some money on a craps table.
The downside of weekdays in Laughlin is that it’s mostly closed. The big weekend crowds are working, so the remaining patrons are retirees like me. Half of the restaurants are dark, and some casinos don’t open the gambling tables. You have to search for a place to eat and find some action, so I ended up at the Riverside Casino. They had a couple of working Blackjack tables and one craps table. I think the staff outnumbered the players when I joined. Two people were on the right of the stickman, so I claimed an open spot on the left.
Trying to get a feel for the player’s moods, I looked at the faces around the table. Because masks were mandatory, it was hard to tell who was doing well. A woman across from me wasn’t even a whole face—only a pair of brown eyes behind jewel-rimed glasses and a silver-blue hairdo peering over the table’s edge. Like my mom, her short hair had enough hairspray to keep it in place between weekly salon visits. She had a few chips on the rail pushed to one side so they wouldn’t block her view of the playing field.
I placed my bet; someone threw the dice twice and lost. Then, we all took a turn bouncing the dice off of the far wall when the silver-haired lady stood up. Until then, I didn’t realize she was sitting. Even when she stood, she wasn’t much taller. She scooped up her remaining chips into a clutch. I thought she was leaving. Instead, she began pushing a walker towards my side of the stickman.
As she maneuvered her tricked-out lavender walker behind the dealer, I saw that she had dressed to party. She had on a very sparkly silver lame top and black spandex pants—which, quite frankly, bagged a bit. Weirdly, as I watched her, I suddenly heard Lenard Cohen singing his tune—Closing Time—in my head:
“…And the place is dead as Heaven on a Saturday night And my very close companion Gets me fumbling gets me laughing She’s a hundred, but she’s wearing Something tight…”
When she got close, she spoke through her mask in a voice from years of smoking Chesterfields, “Hey, big boy. You need a good luck charm.”
“Hi,” I smiled (a useless gesture behind my mask) and introduced myself, “I’m Jim.”
“Nat-ly,” she replied.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Natalie.”
“No. I’m from Flatbush. It’s Nat-ly,” she corrected with furrowed eyebrows.
“Sorry. What kind of good luck charm are you talking about?”
She explained, “Well, every high roller knows it’s good luck to have an attractive woman beside him while he rolls the dice. You’re alone, and I’m the best-looking dame in the joint.”
Just glancing around the room was enough to confirm that she was right. “What’s in it for you?”
“Well, you tip me each time I blow on your dice for good luck.”
I was curious, “Do you do this for everyone?”
“Na,” she blushed and went on, “The girls and I spotted you the minute you came through the door.”
“That was because of my dashing good looks and natty fashion sense, I bet.”
“No. You’re the only man in the casino standing upright without a cane. You know how cougars are; we like ’em young and stupid.”
With that, Nat-ly positioned her seat to my right and plopped herself down. On my roll, she blew on my dice for luck. I made my point once, so her luck wasn’t bad. “You’d do even better if I hung off your shoulder,” she offered, “It’s only $20 bucks.”
As she shuffled into position with her walker, I noticed it wasn’t just any old walker—oh no. This thing was tricked out. The wheels sparkled with silver hubcaps, and a small rearview mirror was angled just right so she could check her six. On the front, she had a basket full of essentials: a pack of Chesterfields, a rhinestone coin purse, and what I can only assume was a custom-made cup holder for her drink. This was a woman who came prepared.
Nat-ly caught me eyeballing her ride. “Yeah, pretty sweet, huh? Got it for a steal from that nice boy on Pawn Stars. Ain’t it somethin’?”
I nodded, impressed. “Must turn a few heads.”
“More than you, honey. But don’t worry, you’re cute for an amateur.” She gave me a wink that made me wonder just how deep this rabbit hole of flirtation was about to go.
After she blew on the dice and I made my point, she leaned in close—well, as close as someone who needs a walker can lean—and whispered, “You know, I used to be quite the looker back in my Mustang Ranch days. They called me the queen of the floor.”
I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the casino or…well. Either way, I kept my poker face on.
“I bet you were,” I replied, tiptoeing across a tightrope suspended over a canyon of uncomfortable truths.
Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “You ever been to Mustang Ranch, big boy?”
I coughed and pretended to study the felt of the table like it was the most exciting thing I’d ever seen. “Can’t say I have.”
“Pity,” she sighed, blowing more cigarette-scented luck across my dice. “But you can call me Queen Nat-ly tonight.”
“Right,” I mumbled, “Your Majesty.” I couldn’t help but picture her in some sparkly crown, probably with matching orthopedic shoes.
As I rolled again and somehow avoided crapping out, she started to hum, her raspy voice crackling like the old vinyl records my parents used to have. I strained to listen. Was that Frank Sinatra? No. Wait…Dean Martin? Then I caught the words. “Fly me to the moon…”
Of course, why wouldn’t the woman sitting next to me, flirting and stroking my arm with a cane, be serenading me with a Sinatra classic? This felt like a fever dream, yet I was a willing participant.
Given her stature, I couldn’t imagine how she could reach that high, so my curiosity bettered me. I handed her a couple of chips. She reached down and pulled a cane from the tool rack attached to the walker’s side. Then she raised it, hung the crook over my shoulder, and gently stroked it back and forth. I almost laughed, but she was so adept that it felt alright.
She said, “For $5 more, I’ll play with your ear.” When I turned, she held one of those trash-grabbers for me to examine. I declined, so she slipped it back into its rack spot.
The night passed, and the dice went clockwise around the table twice while we talked. She worked at the Mustang Ranch until the Feds seized it, and she retired. Since the Treasury Department managed the business, she got a federal employee pension. After she quit, she moved south from Reno to enjoy a warmer climate and affordable housing. Now, she spends her free time watching the tanned muscle boys ride jet skis up and down the river.
I managed to hold onto my bankroll an hour and a half before it ran out. As I packed my things, I saw Nat-ly slumped over—asleep. I knew the dealers wouldn’t let her stay at the table alone, and I didn’t want to wake her. So, I pushed her to the nearest quarter slot machine and parked her in front. I reached into my pocket and threw all but one of my quarters into the tray. The last, I stuck in the coin slot. I knew security wouldn’t bother her if a bet were on the table. With that, I left and went to my room. I have pictures to shoot tomorrow so that the day will begin early.
Union Pass – If you’re heading from Kingman to the Colorado River, you’ll find yourself winding through Union Pass, a rugged stretch that feels like something out of a something out of a John Wayne western. It’s a landscape dominated by layers of Tuff—volcanic ash that was once spewed from ancient eruptions like confetti at a Fourth of July parade. Over the millennia, the earth beneath Union Pass has shifted, crunched, and folded like a creased road map in the glove box, the layers into the Black Mountains we see today. The result? Jagged formations of twisted rock that look like they’d been tossed around by a giant who got fed up with a frustrating game of Jenga. These rocks are as old as time and just as stubborn, refusing to wear down despite the elements constantly gnawing at them.
The last time I made it through the Black Mountains of Mohave County was during last year’s trip to Oatman, where I nearly lost my mind watching burros treat the town like it was their buffet. Every time I drive through these mountains, it’s like catching up with an old friend who’s always got a new trick up his sleeve. This time, Union Pass caught my attention—a stretch of road that, depending on the light, either looks like a peaceful desert oasis or the aftermath of a Hollywood disaster flick.
I decided to pull over at the hilltop on my way home, determined to capture the rugged beauty of this desert landscape. I mean, how could I resist? The morning sun played peek-a-boo through thin clouds, casting soft shadows across the rock formations. The kind of light makes photographers drool and desert rats scratch their heads, wondering what the fuss is about.
This week’s featured image comes from my morning scramble at Union Pass. I named it after the location because that’s where I parked the truck, hopped out, and started pacing up and down the highway with my camera like a man on a mission. The morning light, softened by a delicate veil of clouds, created a perfect mix of shadows—.just enough to make the rock layers stand out without giving it the overexposed look of a tacky postcard.
I’m sure these are the same Tuff layers we learned about during our Organ Pipe National Monument visit. Tuff is the aftermath of volcanic eruptions—a thick blanket of ash that hardens over time into solid rock. What makes Union Pass fascinating is how those layers have been cracked and thrust into the sky during the tectonic tantrum—a geological fit of rage—formed the Black Mountains. It’s like nature’s geology lesson, written across the landscape in jagged peaks and crumpled ridges.
If you’re curious about what else I captured at Union Pass, swing by next week. I’ve got another shot that showcases just how wild and beautiful this stretch of the Black Mountains can get. Trust me, you won’t want to miss it!
Our home in Congress is on a scenic byway. Each weekend, lines of exotic sports cars and motorcycles pass by our trailer park to prove it. Several roads, like AZ 89, in our state offer motorsports enthusiasts a venue to stretch the legs of their beloved machines. I’m sure that the other states have roads like ours. I’m surprised someone hasn’t compiled an encyclopedia of “The World’s Great Weekend Roadtrips.”
The route passing our home is known as the back road to Prescott because it avoids the weekend traffic on Interstate 17. It’s a longer drive, but that’s not the point. I think this passion is best described in Queen’s song; I’m in love with my car. “. . . get a grip on my boy-racer roll bar…” (Yes, Virginia, Queen recorded songs other than Bohemian Rhapsody). It’s customary to play this anthem at full volume with the top down and the sun flickering through the pines onto your Ray-Bans.
There are actually two ways to get to Prescott from here. The first is to stay on ’89 and drive between the Sierra Prieta and Bradshaw Mountains. The motor-heads like this way because they get to test those big Brembo brakes on their Lamborghinis. This way, it is challenging to keep up with the speed limit; you’re up in the pines quicker, and the road dumps you onto Whisky Row, where everyone parks around the courthouse for an impromptu car show.
The second option is better if you tow a trailer, haul a load of eggs from Costco, or try to keep Queen Anne from throwing up in your lap. To go this way, you turn off at Kirkland Junction and pick up Yavapai County Route 10—Iron Springs Road. This route is more docile as you travel through Kirkland, Skull Valley, and Iron Springs, although it’s a bit trickier to find your way downtown once you get to Prescott.
Kirkland Peak—Runoff from the granite-covered mountain has cut into a limestone layer deposited on an old lake or sea bed.
On this second route, you’ll see the subject of this week’s featured image—Kirkland Peak. The rocky mountain will fill your windshield at the Kirkland stop sign. There’s even a better view if you drive straight and cross the tracks. But right now, we’re going to turn right onto Iron Springs Road toward Prescott because there’s something else I want you to see.
Soon after leaving the junction, CR 10 follows the railroad tracks and Skull Valley Wash, filled with cottonwood trees. In this section, between Kirkland and Skull Valley, there is a cluster of limestone hoodoos where the granite top layer has been eroded. I’ve tried to photograph the outcrops on several occasions, but telephone lines and private property frustrated me. When I visited last week, a new mine began setting up operations, and they scraped the land clean. There are two new five-story silos built beside the road, and I’m afraid that the remaining hoodoos will be gone shortly.
When I drove up to shoot Kirkland Peak this week, I was pleased to find where the mountain’s runoff has exposed more limestone, as seen in this week’s picture, called Kirkland Peak. There are eons of geology exposed in this photo. The bottom layer is an ancient lake or sea bed, covered by granite (lava cooled slowly), and a mountain thrust above it. The evidence of up-thrust is in the grain of its rocks along the ridgeline (you can’t see that on your phone). As Kelly Bundy said, “The mind wobbles.”
Click here to see a larger version of Kirkland Peak on its website. Next week, I’ll bring you another image from our corner of the world.
