Tag: US 93

The Gilded Road Home: Double Rainbows Over Congress Picture of the Week - Congress, Arizona

Double rainbows arching over State Route 71 with dark golden clouds and the Weaver Mountains in the background, Congress, Arizona.
Double Rainbows Over Congress: An Arizona Road Home – Explore a stunning double rainbow on Arizona’s SR 71. This golden hour capture sets the Weaver Mountains and road to Congress as the perfect backdrop

Welcome back to the final leg of our US 93 in the Golden Hour trip—it’s like a happy hour but with fewer hangovers and more lens flares. Last week, if you recall, we played hopscotch with raindrops beside the road, capturing the Date Creek Range in its full golden glory. After which, I hopped back in the truck, already chalking up the day as a wrap, convinced the photo gods had closed shop for the day.

As I barreled down the highway, I noticed two glorious arcs of color in my windshield. It was like the sky had painted its version of Starry Night but with rainbows. These weren’t your garden-variety, quick-glimpse-or-you’ll-miss-’em types. They were vivid, full-arc, double rainbows. You bet I thought about stopping there—if only the road weren’t hogging the frame. Nature’s light show so entranced me that I almost shot past my exit. Veering onto the ramp like a last-minute shopper on Black Friday, I parked at the bottom, hoping to snag that elusive west leg of the rainbow. No dice.

But then, the universe threw me a bone. As I swung left under the overpass, the eastern leg of the double rainbow was practically touching down on SR 71—my road to El Dorado. I couldn’t resist; the cosmos said, “Welcome home, Jim. Your pot of gold—aka Queen Anne dressed in pearls and pinafore is waiting with a nice pot roast.”

I wanted this shot to scream, “You’re almost home!” as loudly as an Irish setter wagging its tail at the front door. Standing in the middle of the asphalt, eyeballing the lens and framing that quintessential road view, felt right. The receding road signs served as breadcrumbs leading us to the mountain’s base—the ultimate exit sign to our slice of paradise. And hey, that mileage sign? Seven miles to home, folks. The rainbow, of course, gets top billing, occupying most of the frame because, let’s face it, it’s the Beyoncé of this visual concert.

Did you know you can never drive through a rainbow? Yep, don’t even bother revving that engine. That’s because rainbows aren’t physical entities; they’re celestial eye candy, illusions caused by sunlight’s refraction, dispersion, and reflection in raindrops. If you hadn’t fallen asleep in your high school physics class, you’d know these things. When sunlight enters a raindrop, it slows down and bends as it goes from air to water. Inside the raindrop, the light disperses into its various color components. It may reflect off other raindrops as it exits the raindrop, creating this stunning arc. The magic number here is a 42-degree angle of refraction. No, it’s not the secret of life, the universe, and everything—though it’s close—but rather the angle at which light is refracted to form that vibrant arc in the sky.”

And just when you thought one rainbow was enough to make you pull over and risk getting your shoes muddy, nature decides to double down. That’s right—a double rainbow, all the way! But wait, there’s a twist. If you look closely, you’ll notice the colors in the second, fainter rainbow are flipped. While the primary arc screams ‘ROYGBIV,’ its more introverted twin whispers’ VIBGYOR.’ What’s the deal with that, you ask? The second rainbow undergoes a second reflection inside the water droplets, effectively flipping the color scheme. It’s like nature’s version of a plot twist in a thriller movie. You never saw it coming, but it makes the story better.

You might be scratching your head, wondering why you don’t always get a two-for-one deal with rainbows. The answer, my friends, lies in the perfect concoction of light intensity, droplet size, and good ol’ atmospheric conditions. The second rainbow is like the shy sibling at a family gathering—too bashful to crash the party without an engraved invitation from the universe. It needs more specific conditions to come out and play, like bigger raindrops and darker skies to contrast its fainter colors. So, the next time you spot a lone rainbow, know its elusive twin wasn’t feeling the party vibe.

Hey there, rainbow chasers and golden hour aficionados! I hope you’ve enjoyed this magical journey down Arizona’s highways as much as I have. If this picture has left you starry-eyed and longing for more, don’t forget that you can see bigger versions of this photo in my New Work collection (Jim’s Web) or its page at Fine Art America (FAA Page).

While we’re wrapping up this month’s project, rest assured that another adventure is on the horizon. So make sure you swing back around next week for a new slice of life, served up Jim Witkowski style. Now it’s your turn. Have you ever encountered a vibrant double rainbow that made you forget about your exit? Or maybe you have a rainbow story that can top mine? Either way, spill the tea—or, in this case, the rainbow—in the comments below!

Till next time
jw

Techniques: The Wide-Angle Wonder—Capturing Expansive Landscapes

Do you know how the perfect landscape shot often feels like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole? There’s just too much beauty to squeeze into that tiny frame. Enter wide-angle lenses—the landscape photographer’s magic wand for making square pegs fit just right.

Let’s start by cracking the code on focal lengths. A wide-angle lens typically has a focal length of 35mm or less. And this little number can pack in a lot of sky, earth, and anything in between. That’s why it was my go-to for capturing this double rainbow phenomenon. It allowed me to give the rainbow—and its quieter, introverted sibling—the room they needed to shine.

Wide-angle lenses aren’t just for fitting more stuff into your shot; they’re great for storytelling, too. In our Double Rainbows Over Congress, the wide-angle lens allowed me to include the expansive sky, the road signs gradually shrinking into the distance, and the mountains’ embrace, all without cramping the style of the rainbows that are undoubtedly the stars of the show.

But it’s not all rainbows and unicorns. Wide-angle lenses can distort straight lines, making them curve towards the edges of the frame. Sometimes, you can turn this into a creative advantage, like making the road seem even more stretched, like reaching for the mountains. Other times, you might want to tweak things back to normal in post-processing, using lens correction features.

A word to the wise: wide angles can make close objects appear more prominent, and distant objects look farther away. But don’t be fooled—this lens isn’t an all-you-can-eat buffet for your frame. The trick isn’t to turn your photo into a yard sale of visual elements; it’s about emphasizing what matters. Do it right, and your image becomes a gourmet burger with just the right toppings. Do it wrong, and you’ve got yourself a Dagwood sandwich—so stuffed you don’t know where to take the first bite. That’s where your artistic judgment comes into play. How much space do you want to give each element so they all get their moment in the sun, in this case, between the rain showers?

And there you have it—a quick but jam-packed dive into the wonders of wide-angle lenses for landscape photography. I hope you find it as liberating as I do when you’re chasing your next perfect shot.

Erosion and Elevation: Arizona’s Basalt Playground Picture of the Week - Wikieup, Arizona

A sun-kissed Arizona landscape showcasing erosion patterns on basalt rock formations, a tear in the earth, and desert flora like Palo Verde and Saguaro.
Erosion and Elevation: Arizona’s Basalt Playground – This striking photograph captures the complex topography along Arizona’s US 93. Late afternoon light bathes a basalt outcrop and highlights the intricate erosion patterns, casting dramatic shadows across the earth. A tear-like ravine carves through the landscape, bordered by softly rolling hills and rugged cliffs. The terrain is dotted with native flora, such as Palo Verde trees and Saguaro cacti. Above this awe-inspiring scene, cumulus clouds meander across the sky, echoing the earth’s undulating forms.

Well, folks, it’s week two of our September golden hour stint along good ol’ US 93. Last week, we dabbled in the architectural nuances of silt cliffs—kind of like the Las Vegas Strip but without the neon lights or questionable life choices. Today, we clambered back into the truck, waved hasta la vista to the Big Sandy River, and headed south like snowbirds in reverse. After scaling what can only be described as a geographical hiccup of a hill, we’re greeted by the brooding spectacle of a lava dome. Not the explosive kind, mind you. This one’s been dormant long enough to warrant a picture.

This is one of those places that has escaped my camera for decades because I had been rushing to somewhere else, the light wasn’t right, or the ‘T’ on my typewriter sticks. Pick any excuse; it doesn’t matter. The truth is that I never made myself stop until this afternoon’s trip.

Have you ever driven on US 95 toward Goldfield, Nevada, and thought, “Gee, what this place needs is more cactus”? Well, welcome to Arizona’s answer. Trading Nevada’s coarse, scratchy sagebrush for a verdant army of Palo Verde and Saguaro cacti is far from the barrenness one might expect—like trading in a Ford Pinto for a Mustang.

Don’t be fooled by the lush desert life clinging to these hills. Forget garden-variety potting soil; what you’re laying eyes on is rugged, unyielding basalt—nature’s bedrock. Yep, volcanic rock is hard enough to make diamonds jealous. Another meandering mile down the asphalt ribbon, and we’ll find ourselves hovering on a bridge over a canyon so deep, it could swallow a 30-story building, where Burro Creek has sliced the basalt like it’s a hot knife through…well, rock. Nature’s got its own set of carving tools. It’s such a pretty place that you may want to spend a night in the campground at the bottom, where the song of the semis pounding on the bridge’s expansion joints will lull you into a deep sleep—or give you a headache.

Today’s photography menu featured a main course of Golden Hour light, served up like liquid gold spilling across the jagged landscape, and boy, did it deliver. This week’s photo offers a unique lens into Arizona’s oversized playground. You look at the flora covering these slopes and think, “Ah, a lush, manicured lawn.” But no, that’s not grass. It’s full-sized saguaro and palo verde trees, so don’t go planning a picnic.

What’s more, the distribution of the saguaro says a lot. They’re abundant on this ravine side but scarce on the far side. This is where an imaginary frost line is. That’s Mother Nature’s version of police tape preventing the saguaros from marching north and overrunning Reno. This line in the sand is the boundary between the Sonoran and Great Basin deserts.

Alright, time to hightail it back to the trusty truck; ominous storm clouds are massing in the southern sky, ready to let loose with a downpour. Before you know it, we’ll navigate a basalt slip ‘n slide. Please take a moment to check out larger versions of this week’s photo—Erosion and Elevation—on my website (Jim’s Site) and Fine Art America (FAA Page). Be sure to tune in next week; who knows what wonders—or calamities—we’ll encounter next.

Till next time
jw

Techniques: The Rule of Thirds and the Quest for Visual Balance

The Rule of Thirds is a fundamental principle in photography and art, but its origins are a bit murky. Some trace it back to John Thomas Smith’s 1797 book “Remarks on Rural Scenery,” while others connect it to broader theories of divine proportions. Regardless of its origins, the idea is simple: divide your frame into a 3×3 grid and position the subject or critical elements along those lines or at their intersections. Doing so generally leads to more dynamic, balanced compositions that are more engaging to the viewer.

In this week’s photograph, the basalt butte is a textbook example of the Rule of Thirds in action. It straddles the right vertical line, grounding the image, while its peak touches the lower horizontal line. This positioning does more than “look good”—it directs the viewer’s eyes around the frame in a natural progression, from the butte upward to the cloud lines.

Moreover, using the Rule of Thirds for the butte leaves space for the towering clouds overhead, which adds drama and scale to the photograph. This mirrors the real-life experience of being dwarfed by nature’s grandiosity. It also serves a practical purpose—making room for those clouds allows them to act as another compositional element, filling the frame without crowding it.

The Rule of Thirds isn’t an ironclad law—sometimes breaking it produces strikingly original work—but it’s useful for photographers looking to up their compositional game. Understanding and utilizing the Rule of Thirds can transform a ‘pretty view’ into a compelling visual narrative for a landscape photographer like myself.

KofA Thunderhead Picture of the Week

KofA Thunderhead - An autumn thunderhead builds over the KofA Mountains in western Arizona.
KofA Thunderhead – An autumn thunderhead builds over the KofA Mountains in western Arizona.

Each time Queen Anne and I jump into the car; I pack a camera in the back seat. I don’t mean on local errands like a trip to the grocery store but on drives longer than an hour. Rarely do I stop to take a picture, but should one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments happens, I’m ready.

If I capture some unique photographs, they don’t fit our usual workflow. We usually pick a location as a month-long project and photograph enough shots for a month of articles (or even a book). My one-of-shots along the highway traditionally become forgotten orphans. No one gets to see them—until now.

For December, I decided to make this month’s project out of the non-project shots I collected this year. With these four pictures, a special moment made me pull over and stop the car. That’s pretty hard to do because once I have a destination set in my mind, I only stop for gas, a candy bar, and bladder relief.

Anne and I run to Mexico about four times a year. We go to Algodones to see our dentist and buy 90 days worth of prescriptions. We’re on Medicare, and we have a gap plan that pays for most of the pills we take, but some of the select drugs (hint: you see them advertised on TV) are so much cheaper in Mexico that it pays for the drive. If we don’t have to wait on the dentist, we can make a drug run in a day. We leave here at 8:00 am, walk two blocks across the border, stop at Mickey D’s for lunch, and get home by 5:00 pm.

That was our itinerary on September 22—the first fall day. As we drove home on Highway US 93, I watched a single thunderhead building thirty miles north over the KofA Mountains. I thought it unusual to have monsoon activity in autumn and a single storm cell develop so far west in Arizona. I spent the next half hour arguing with myself.

“That will be a great shot if the clouds hold together until we get there.”

“If we stop, we’ll get home after dark.”

“It’s an isolated cell, and it’s posing like a runway model.”

“It’s the wrong time of day, and the light is wrong.”

Just after passing the Border Patrol station that marks halfway between Yuma and Quartzsite, I noticed that the cloud was beginning to tear apart (the wispy part on the tower’s left side). It was time to stop the car. I reached back for my camera and hiked a few steps off the highway. I set the zoom-lens as wide as possible before framing and then snapping a couple of shots. I call this week’s featured image KofA Thunderhead.

The spot where I stopped was several miles away, and for perspective, the jagged KofA peaks rise a couple of thousand feet above the 500-foot high basin. That makes the billowing cumulus top nearly 40,000 feet in the air. Unfortunately, I didn’t capture any lightning strikes beneath the storm.

We returned to the road and continued the drive, watching the storm evolve. The upper winds blew the clouds apart by the time we were due east of it. That’s when we saw a funnel cloud drop below the ceiling. The tornado briefly touched the ground near Crystal Hill Road before it disappeared.

We weren’t done with it yet. After stopping for gas in Quartzsite, the storm ambushed us on the pass at Guadalupe Mountain. As it moved north over Interstate 10, it dumped rain so hard that the wipers couldn’t keep up, and traffic slowed to a crawl. We hoped we wouldn’t be surprised by a second tornado, but after a mile or so, we broke into the clear, and the deluge was only an image in the mirror.

You can see a larger version of KofA Thunderhead on its Webpage by clicking here. Next week, I’ll drag out another orphan photo for show and tell. We’ll see you then.

Till next time
jw

BTW:

Anne and I are negotiating next year’s schedule, so there will be a lot of yelling and screaming around here during the holidays. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtains.

Burro Creek Canyon Picture of the Week

There is the phrase Grand Canyon State on every Arizona license plate—it’s our state slogan. I find it ironic that the biggest thing we brag about is something that eroded millions of years ago. Sure, we have the World’s biggest hole in the ground, but there are many other sights in Arizona that we can be proud of.

I think that the slogan can have two meanings. First is obvious; the Grand Canyon State—we’re the state where the Grand Canyon is. The other interpretation that I see is; the grand canyon state—meaning that we’re a big state with lots of canyons within it. It’s true. We have pretty canyons all over the state. There’s the big ditch, of course, but there is also Canyon de Chelly, Salt River Canyon, Oak Creek, Madera Canyon, Sabino Canyon, and too many others to list here. Actually, I looked for a comprehensive list like the one I found for our mountains, but it alluded me.

Burro Creek Canyon - An awesome view that most people miss because they're in a hurry to get to Vegas, or back home.
Burro Creek Canyon – An awesome view that most people miss because they’re in a hurry to get to Vegas or back home.

Our stop this week along Highway US 93 is Burro Creek Canyon. The view of the canyon is spectacular, but it’s hard to see from the road. The bridges over the chasm are short, and the walls are high, so unless they’re in a semi-truck, most people don’t get to see over them—a gripe I share with the new bridge at Hoover Dam. The highway department didn’t build a scenic overlook, and you’re not supposed to walk across the bridge. You can take in the vista in my shot by parking in an unmarked lot accessible from the northbound lanes. Then, a short hike up a trail will get you to the south wall.

Canyons have always been important to Arizona travelers because you usually find water in them. After all, that’s how they were carved. Burro Creek is one of those exotic desert waterways that always has water (in normal years). As you can see in my shot, a couple of surface pools reflect the blue sky even during our extended drought. That makes the creek a reliable water source for wildlife, cattle, and even the wild burros that are pervasive in western Arizona.

I’ve considered adding canyons to my projects list. There’s enough subject matter to fill another of my book fantasies. However, my to-do list already has mountains, old towns, historic hotels, deserts, farms, Colorado Plateau, and the Grand Canyon on it. How do I prioritize them? Where would I ever find the time to photograph them all? I’d have to clone myself because my time is getting short, and the list keeps growing.

You can see a larger version of Burro Creek Canyon on its Web Page by clicking here. Next week, I’ll turn the camera around for a nice look in the other direction.

Until next time — jw

Date Creek and Tres Alamos Picture of the Week

It’s hard for me to work during the summer, whether it be house chores or photography. That’s why my favorite pastime during these months is procrastination. Face it; I’m allergic to heat. Thinking about going outside is worse than actually doing so. After all, in today’s southwest, we’ve learned to minimize our heat exposure. We move about in a succession of air-conditioned cocoons.

Heat is why I had a difficult time coming up with a theme for  July. The monsoons haven’t really kicked in yet, so most pleasant campsites are on fire or closed. I have to stay close to home, venturing out in the early morning or after dinner, find a shot, and then scurry home.

I decided that July’s theme will be U.S. Highway 93. That’s the main thoroughfare near my house that Phoenicians (and Tucsonans) use to commute to Las Vegas. The route actually goes all the way to Canada, but I’m only concerned about day trips for now. Because I’ve often traveled the section between here and Kingman, I know a few vistas that I wanted to capture on film but never had time to stop. This week’s image is an example.

Date Creek and Tres Alamos - Date Creek as it flows by the Tres Alamos Wilderness Area near Congress, Arizona.
Date Creek and Tres Alamos – Date Creek flows by the Tres Alamos Wilderness Area near Congress, Arizona.

North of the SR 71 – 93 junction, the Alamo-Congress Rod is a bad shortcut to Alamo Lake. It’s a broad dirt road that gets graded annually at best. About 10 miles west of the paved highway, it passes the Tres Alamos Wilderness Area. It’s a small nature preserve (83,000 acres) compared to the neighboring Arrastra Mountain Wilderness (129,800 acres). The high point on which Tres Alamos is centered is the 4257 foot Sawyer Peak. To reach the spot where I took this shot, I had to slowly travel a couple of miles on a Jeep trail that left Archie with some Arizona Pinstripes—a badge of honor for a Luxo-SUV.

The wash in this shot is Date Creek, which should be familiar to regular readers because Congress—and the old Congress Gold Mine—are located next to the mountains of the same name. The creek flows—as it were—from the Weavers, along the north side of the Date Creeks, to where it merges with the Santa Maria River upstream from Alamo Lake.

An interesting thing for me in the photo is the tire tracks in the sand. With the rising popularity of those all-terrain buggies, it’s easier for off-roaders to drive through the washes. Most of the time, the ride is smoother than the so-called mine roads. However, in the past, you could see tracks of the animals crossing the river bottoms. It was a visitor guest book. Now that natural history is erased each time they drive over it.

When I first moved to Congress, I coveted owning an ATV. I thought it would help me get into the backcountry and get some unique landscapes. After a couple of rides in Fred’s, I found them uncomfortable because you’re exposed to the elements and riding in his air-conditioned FJ is more my style of roughing it. Earlier this year, I got hooked on watching Matt’s Off-Road Recovery. He’s a towing company in Hurricane, Utah, and he documents his crew on YouTube as they drag 4-wheelers back to civilization. The best part is that he uses a modified Corvair Lakewood—that was the station wagon version. Anyway, watching him drag ATVs off mountains and dunes convinced me that I’m better off without one.

You can see a larger version of Date Creek and Tres Alamos on its Web Page by clicking here. Next week, we’ll travel further down the highway and see what’s around the next bend.

Until next time — jw

Clay Hills Picture of the Week

July is soon ending, and I’ll be writing about a different mountain range and its backroads next month. In a way, I’m not ready to move on. The Aquarius Range has more that I’d like to explore, and it may be a while before I get a chance to come back. I could use an extra Sunday to squeeze in another story. Oh well—a promise is a promise.

So, this week, we’ll finish up at the beginning or end—depending on your direction of travel—of the Aquarius Range, its south end. Here, there’s no sharp boundary that identifies that we’ve arrived. The mountains just taper into low hills then gently deliver you into the Burro Creek Valley at Six-Mile Crossing.

Depending on the source the Clay Hills or Hell's Half Acre
Depending on your reference these are the Clay Hills or Hell’s Half Acre as viewed from the south end of the Aquarius Range near Burro Creek Crossing.

As you descend from the higher mountains into the valley, you’ll notice a cluster of small hills with buckskin-colored cliffs for which I found two names. On the valley floor, there are Bureau of Land Management (BLM) signs saying these Clay Hills were restoration protection. On my TOPO Maps, however, they’re called Hell’s Half Acre. It amuses me that when pioneers found land that wasn’t flat and plowable, they called it Hell’s This or Devil’s That. I once had a friend who was an Ohio farm boy who told me, “… the Grand Canyon is a wasteland. You can’t grow crops there.”

I took this week’s image after I poked around the Six-Mile crossing for a while. I looked for a pretty shot of the creek running under the Cottonwood trees. The water was slow, stagnant, and choked with algae. It resembled a cesspool, so I gave it a pass, although the shade was pleasant.

As I began driving up into the mountains, I stopped to capture the scene that I call Clay Hills. It was already late morning, and the pretty light was quickly disappearing. The glare of the harsh desert sun would soon replace the warm colors. The camera is pointed west in this perspective and highway US 93 crosses Burro Creek Canyon on the far side of the cliffs. The pointy mountain eight miles in the distance is Burro Peak, so the air was pretty clear considering the recent fires near Prescott. For a cherry topping, I threw in a young saguaro with fresh buds sprouting from its top like the hairdo kids wear these days.

Click here to see a larger version of Clay Hills on its Web Page. Be sure to come back next week when we set off for another adventure exploring more Arizona back roads.

Until next time — jw