Once again the page on my calendar has changed, and I need to find a new site in the county to photograph. I spent all last week pouring over my maps that I had spread across the dining room table looking for an exciting candidate. I wanted to avoid the Christmas decorations towns put up during the holidays, so I was resigned to someplace rural. Then—on Monday—during my morning bike ride, I passed the Poteets who were out for a morning stroll. As I passed by, he shouted out an offer to ride in Fred’s fabulous four-wheel flier. The park’s off-road group planned an outing to Anderson Mill. I didn’t know what that was, so when I got home, I looked it up, and behold, it was in Yavapai County—only by a mile, but it still counts, and that meant the trip would kill one stone with two birds. I immediately sent him an email accepting his invitation.
Anderson Mill – A World War II-era mine and mill that produced mica for electrical insulators.
Before I talk about the mill, let me explain the trip. The off-road group is a bunch of friendly people who have all-terrain vehicles (ATVs) or rock-crawling Jeeps, and they go on regular outings to places of interest to drive their toys. It’s the trip and not the destination that’s important; the more circuitous the route, the better. We spent all day driving to a place that’s only a half hour away if you go by the highway into Wickenburg. They drove down the washes and trails where Fred and I got lost a couple of years ago, and they did it on purpose. They relish getting dusty; something they feel is a feature and not an off-road nuisance. The dust was terrible when Fred and I went out alone, but this time we followed a half-dozen other ATVs. When I walked into the house that evening and brushed the dust off, it looked exactly like in this YouTube clip from the new Cohen Brothers Netflix movie The Ballad of Buster Scruggs (Another masterpiece. Try to imagine Gene Autry meets the Twilight Zone).
Meanwhile, back at the mill …
Water Pump Gears – The gears of the Anderson Mill water pump located north of Wickenburg.
Anderson Mill was a homestead claim run by Sid Anderson and his brother (documents don’t show the brother’s name) during the World War II period. They mined and processed mica—a mineral useful for electrical insulation and drywall joint compound among other things. The mine and mill are located in the San Domingo Wash north of Wickenburg and was productive until 1951—when plastics became a cheaper substitute. The mill’s ruins consist of welded panels and stairs topped by a rotating tumbler that—oddly enough—still has the original drive belt. As you would expect, pirates have already salvaged all the working motors and engines.
This week’s featured image is from a pump that pushed water up to the tumbler. The smaller gear drove the large one, which eventually cycled a piston pump. A Hit-and-Miss engine probably powered the whole Rube Goldberg setup. The things that compelled me to take this image are the relationship of the gears, the radial pattern of the spokes, the mass of iron bolted to an I-beam, and the beautiful rust patina. I gave the photograph the simple name of Water Pump Gears.
You can see a larger version of Water Pump Gears on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy viewing this week’s post and come back next week when we’ll show another featured image from San Domingo Wash.
This week’s story has all the ingredients of a great Hollywood Western movie: plantations, young love, war, drugs and alcohol, heartbreak, gold, bright futures, despair, stage robbery, friendship, false accusations, and tragic death. I don’t know how to tell it all in 500 words and still explain my weekly photograph in the third paragraph. I’ve found several books and articles about Jack Swilling, but there haven’t been any films. That’s a shame because I can visualize it like the Steve McQueen movie Tom Horn.
Swilling Cabin Window—Jack and Trinidad’s cabin ruins in Black Canyon City are on private property, and their caring owners are their only protection.
Every school kid in Phoenix knows how Jack Swilling—or one of his friends and crew, Phillip Duppa—tossed out the mythical bird’s name for the small town they were developing. Swilling filed a land claim around present-day 32nd Street and Van Buren Road for the rest of you. He wanted to grow hay to sell to the cavalry at Fort McDowell, so he copied the Hohokam method of using Salt River water for the fields by digging new canals to his property. The visionary Swilling (I suggest casting a 20-year-old Jeff Bridges) played an essential role in the layout and alignment of the new town. A couple of years later, he lost interest when the council—or whoever decided those things—moved downtown three miles west to its present site. Jack threw his hand up in disgust, and he and his wife, Trinidad (my casting idea would be a 17-year-old Natalie Wood), moved to Gillett—a mining ghost town three miles south of Black Canyon City.
In Gillett, they built a cabin along the stage route and provided travelers and horses food, water, and rest. It helped to supplement his paltry mining income. His health was failing from his old head and bullet wounds he got as a younger man. He took morphine and drank whiskey to counter the constant pain, but now the drinking got worse. When he got word that Colonel Jacob Snively—his old Indian war buddy—was killed near Wickenburg by Apaches, Trinidad encouraged him to retrieve the body and give Jacob a proper burial. Jack enlisted the help of a couple of neighbors and rode out to recover his friend. During that same three-day period, a stagecoach was robbed—also in Wickenburg—and the robbers murdered everyone on board. After Jack returned and buried his friend, he was at the bar when he heard about the stagecoach massacre. Jack cracked a joke about how robbing the stage is the only way to make big money these days, and the vague description of the robbers could include his retrieval party. They were arrested on the spot and shipped off to Prescott for trial. Since the Feds had charged him, too, the territorial government dropped their complaints to save money. The marshalls transferred Swilling to the Yuma prison, where his health took a turn for the worst, and he died before his trial. Shortly after his death, the law identified and caught the real robbers. Jack was already buried in the Yuma Prison cemetery before they notified Trinidad of his death.
When I decided that October’s subject would be Black Canyon City, I did my research, and there, I discovered the cabin ruins were in town. I wanted to photograph them, but they’re not on a map. That’s because they’re on private property and not open to the public. I stopped and talked to the tourist info people, who gave me directions to the house. When I drove to the residence, the owner came out and chatted with me. When her parents built her home, they bought adjoining lots to keep the stacked stone cabin intact. Black Canyon City doesn’t protect historic sites like other cities, so they took that task upon themselves. She permitted me to roam the property and to photograph the cabin with two caveats: don’t lean on the walls—they’re fragile and will quickly crumble, and don’t take any of the artifacts she has on display. A very reasonable request, I’d say.
Of the shots I took, I liked this variation best because of the window and the light filtering through the mesquite trees. Jack’s one-room cabin may not seem like the palace that the Father of Phoenix (and Mother) should have lived in, but examining the rock work made my sciatica nerve go off. It’s on a quiet cul-de-sac surrounded by modern homes near the Agua Fria River. I stood for a while and listened to the breeze blowing through the tree canopy, and I could see how it might have been to live there a century and a half ago.
You can see a larger version of Swilling Cabin Window on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy viewing this week’s post and return next week when we show another featured image from Black Canyon City. “Oh!” you say. “But Grandpa, what about the rest of the story—where are the parts about the plantation, the Mexican-American War, the Confederate Lieutenant, Peeples Valley, Rich Hill, et al.” Well, you’ll have to wait for the movie or pick up a book.
When I was roaming around Black Canyon City a couple of weeks ago, I was on a street with homes along the right side and open land on the other. On the hillside was a dense stand of saguaro growing, and I knew I wanted to capture their image, but the field had a barbed wire fence. As I drove further down the street, I found an open spot. A gravel road led onto the property, so I parked the truck and got out for a closer look.
Saguaro Grove – these giant cacti grow exceptionally well on south-facing, well-drained slopes.
I’m usually cautious about trespassing, so I always look for Keep Out signs. After all, this is Arizona, and I’m allergic to bullets. I saw no postings nearby, but a sign was down the road. It read, “Agua Fria National Monument.” I thought, “There’s a national monument? Here, this close to Phoenix? Why don’t I know about this?” All the open areas from Black Canyon City to Cordes Lakes and east of Interstate 17 were given monument status in 2000 because the Agua Fria River is a treasure of ancient dwellings, petroglyphs, and artifacts. There are no freeway signs, visitor centers, or entrance fees. There is a hiking trail that runs its length, and you can walk, bike, or ride horseback. Bloody Basin Road cuts through the monument; from it, you can access a couple of rugged jeep trails. So, I’ve already mentally filed it away as a future project.
Meanwhile, back at Black Canyon City …
Saguaro grows exceptionally well on well-drained south-facing slopes, so when you see a grove like this, you can tell the compass direction—like moss on the north side of trees. The overhead clouds are remnants of Hurricane Rosa, which dumped enough rain to plump up these giant cacti. They look like my uncle making his way to the couch after Thanksgiving dinner. I could have titled the image with a snarky name, but I didn’t. It’s merely titled Saguaro Grove.
You can see a larger version of Saguaro Grove on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy viewing this week’s post and return next week when we show another featured image from Black Canyon City.
By now, you know that I’m a history buff—or perhaps I’m only interested in trivia. I don’t see the distinction, but I know I’m not cut out to be a scholar. I don’t have the patience to spend months in the Vatican Library tracing the origins of … anything. If Google or Wikipedia doesn’t explain, I move on. However, if someone mentions Hannibal, I think of elephants, not fava beans. I even watched all the James Burke’s Connections series—twice. I’m the only person that I know who has a personal copy of Arizona Place Names—and uses it. This probably explains why I write blog posts instead of novels, and it is the reason behind this thought I had when I published this week’s image—I wonder how many young people know the history of the sidewalk’s stamp.
While scurrying up and down Jerome’s hilly streets last week, I went into the Holy Family Catholic Church on Country Road for an interior shot. After that, because the day was late and I was out of breath, I returned to Main Street, where Queen Anne awaited me. A few stairs were at the end of the street, so I looked down to prevent falling. That’s when I first saw the stamping and decided that I needed to take another photograph. I call it WPA Sidewalk.
This sidewalk section in Jerome is a museum piece people walk on daily.
This is only the second existing example of a Works Progress Administration—renamed in 1939 as the Works Project Administration; it was the depression era program that employed people for public works projects—that I have cataloged in my brain’s world map. The other is a bridge on the US89 north of Flagstaff. (Maybe finding and shooting WPA sites would be a book-worthy photography project.) Jerome has already replaced many of its walkways with ADA-compliant versions. They had to because of age, winter freezing, and earth movement, but this one is still in good shape and used daily. With the hand-scribed lines (for better footing?), it’s certainly different from the sterile versions that machines spit out today. Since it’s over fifty years old, it probably qualifies for protection under the American Antiquities Act. This sidewalk is the only museum piece I know you can stroll down.
You can see a larger version of WPA Sidewalk on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy viewing my newest entry and return next week when I post another Jerome photograph.
My lovely bride abandoned me for a couple of days to get her annual check-up at a beauty spa on the Arizona Rivera—Lake Havasu City. Before she climbed into her friend—Yasmeen’s—car, she turned to me and with a pointed finger and sternly said, “I have two words for you. Be – have!” Well … that sounded like a challenge to me, so I began thinking about what kind of trouble I could get into. I was in the mood for a photography outing and I hadn’t been to Stanton since Fred and I got lost, so I tossed my gear into the truck and set off to get some new photos.
Hotel Stanton – During the Summer of Love, hippies moved in and set up a commune. Unfortunately, they tore down many of the old buildings for firewood. LDMA has slowly repaired the remaining structures since acquiring the town in 1976.
Stanton is one of the many towns in mountainous Yavapai County (rhymes with have-a-pie) where, because someone discovered gold, a town sprung up overnight and disappeared just as quickly when the ore played out. It was little more than a stagecoach stop on the Wickenburg-Prescott road at Antelope Creek until a tracker named Alvaro chased an errant burro to the top of what is now Rich Hill. When he got back to camp and told the expedition leader—Pauline Weaver—about finding gold nuggets “the size of potatoes” on the summit, you can surely guess what happened next.
Opera House – The Opera House is an adobe building with a brick façade. It’s now used as a meeting hall for the RV Park.
The town—known at the time as Antelope Station—got its name from an unscrupulous character named Chuck Stanton who moved to the thriving community several years later. Stanton opened a store and, with the help of his hired banditos, killed off his competition. His reign didn’t last very long as he was shot and killed that same year (living with swords, I guess). The town thrived afterward for several decades but it had a bad reputation. “In 1892, for example, a Prescott newspaper reported that the residents of Stanton liked to ‘drink blood, eat fried rattlesnakes and fight mountain lions’” (Wikipedia). By 1905 the gold ran out and Stanton was abandoned.
Stanton Homes – Only three houses have survived the years of abandonment. They line a street surrounded by campers.
Ownership has changed several times since then and now it belongs to Lost Dutchman’s Mining Association (LMDA) and they have turned it into a member’s only RV Park. Membership is kind of pricey but LDMA has methodically bought up mining claims in the area and its members can work those old claims without charge. It’s surprising how many people will pay good money to play in the dirt—I don’t even like to plant flowers. Guests are allowed to visit but they first have to stop by the office and sign a release.
After my visit this week, I drove further down the road to the old Octave and Weaver mine sites and saw people on either side of the road prospecting. Late in the day, I stopped to take a photo along the roadside at quitting time when several trucks pulled out of a side road. They all slowed and waved and one of the men stopped to ask if I was getting some good shots. I asked him how his day went.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Did you make a fortune today,” I explained.
He laughed and replied, “Only the boss makes any money.”
“I see.”
Then he started telling an old joke, “Do you know how to make a small fortune in placer mining?”
“Yeah, you start with a big fortune,” I responded.
With that, he laughed and drove off in a big trail of dust.
Robson Mining World Sign – The entrance to Robson Mining World is bullet-riddled Yavapai Apache riding a pinto.
I grew up during the era of the TV cowboy. After dinner, my family would gather in the living room and watch shows like Gunsmoke, The Rifleman,Maverick, and Have Gun—Will Travel to name a few. My dad was a tyrant about the shows we watched and we kids were the remote. Maybe that’s the reason I—and perhaps all my generation—have a fascination with ghost towns. We grew up with Tombstone, Dodge, and Virginia City on our TVs, and vowed to visit them one day. Maybe we’re longing for a simpler time—when the good guy wore a white hat.
The ghost towns best known in Arizona are Jerome, Tombstone, and my favorite, Bisbee. All of these places have residents, so they’re not as much a ghost town as they are tourist traps. A mining town’s fortune is dependent on the mineral wealth removed from the ground. The town’s size correlates perfectly with the amount of ore; be it gold, silver or copper. As soon as the ore plays out, people move on to the next bonanza leaving the hovels and shacks they occupied behind. Without maintenance, those relics soon rot or they’re repurposed for sheds, outhouses, or worst of all, firewood. Most often, when you visit a ghost town, the only things you find are a slab or wall. There’s not much interesting left to photograph. Fortunately, there are exceptions where a state or county government acquired and preserved the scene as a park, such as Bodie and Calico in California.
Yavapai County, where Queen Anne and I live, has its share of Ghost Towns—including Jerome—the most famous. Most of the old sites are high in the Bradshaw Mountains, but mining towns are scattered throughout all the Yavapai mountain ranges; including Congress—our hometown. It wasn’t until we moved here a couple of years ago that I learned about the best ghost town ever, and it’s a mere fifteen miles down the road tucked into the south-eastern flank of the Harcuvar Range.
Travel west on Highway US 60 and Aguila is the first small farm community you’ll come to. The name is Spanish for Eagle derived from the eagle-shaped window in the low mountain overlooking the town’s cemetery. The western terminus of Arizona State Route 71 is a mile east of Aguila, and that’s the short-cut you take if you’re heading northeast to Congress or Prescott from California. Just before the road crosses the Maricopa-Yavapai County line is a sign with a bullet-riddled Indian riding a pinto horse. The sign is for Robson’s Mining World—the ghost town you can see at the mountain base. It’s a mining town that no one ever lived in, but has an interesting story nevertheless.
Robson Ranch Booth – When you enter the town’s soda parlor, you’d expect to order a milkshake. You’d be disappointed because it’s all for a show.
The gold mine at the end of the trail was first claimed in 1917 by Westley Rush, an Aguila melon farmer. Rush’s two daughters—Nella and Alameda, for whom the Nella-Meda gold mine was named—managed to hand dig through the first 115 feet of solid rock before Ned Creighton—a Phoenix banker—bought the claim in 1924. Ned hired a crew to work the mine, and over decades he expanded the claim to its present size. His crew worked until World War II when the Feds shut down all private mines. The mining engineer, Harold Mason, stayed on as caretaker and eventually got the property deed after Ned passed.
After the war, Charles Robson was building his fortune by farming, running the Saguaro motel in Aguila, and hustling the health benefits of his local bee pollen. Harold and Charley became acquaintances when Mason let Robson place hives at the mine. There were minerals around the mine that made the bee pollen exceptional and the bees deterred poachers. That informal partnership lasted until 1979 when Charlie bought the mine from the aging Mason. Robson had bigger plans for the place.
Cash Register – What this old cash register lacks in functionality, it makes up for with class.
Meanwhile, in 1922, Wilber T. Johnson migrated from Missouri to Apache Junction—a community east of Phoenix at the foot of the Superstition Mountains—so he could work in the mines. In 1930, Wilber traded his pick and shovel for an engineering degree from the University of Arizona which made him a highly valued employee. Now we’d call Wilber a hoarder because he collected mine junk—lots of mine junk—for the next fifty years. Johnson got his stash from abandoned mines in the Superstition Mountains, the Mazatzal Mountains, and other mines east of Phoenix and because of its size, his collection wasn’t a big secret. He reputedly turned down a multi-million-dollar offer from Disneyland Tokyo because he knew that they cherry pick the best and discard the rest.
Mack Truck – A classic truck that miners used to haul stuff.
After Charles Robson acquired the mine, he offered to buy Wilber’s collection and the two men finally struck a deal when Charlie promised that the collection would stay intact on Robson’s property. The ink on the signatures hadn’t dried yet before more than 250 truckloads moved decades of mining history to its new home. For ten years Charles, his wife, Jeri, and their sons reassembled the buildings and filled them with the collection’s artifacts. After Charlie died in 2002, Jeri carried on the dream, and toward the end of her life sold the place lock, stock, and barrel to Western Destinations Corporation—the present owners—on the stipulation that nothing ever leaves the property.
Water Truck – A GMC truck that was used to haul water up from the well to the mine.
There’s a small garden in front of the Opera House where we sat in a mesquite tree’s shade as Brett Bishop told me this story. He’s the current caretaker and he and his family live on site. He’s a young man, and when he’s not greeting visitors he keeps busy unpacking the remaining crates and creatively arranging the contents for display. It’s easy to tell—from the tone of his voice and the sparkle in his eyes—that he loves his job. He calls Robson’s a living museum and he often must unravel the mystery of the items he finds in the boxes.
If you’re a photographer interested in nostalgia, I highly recommend a visit. The cost is $20.00 per person which goes toward upkeep. Don’t count on food or entertainment and even the restrooms are period authentic—that’s right; crescent moons. The mile-long dirt road is navigable by a sedan, except after heavy rains. I know that Robson’s will become one of my resources.
I am a reluctant traveler. When Linda — my wife — suggested we go to Serbia this year to join my son and his family on vacation, I was more reluctant. Then she said we would also be spending ten days on a Greek island visiting new beaches every day during the middle of our visit to Belgrade. That’s when I reluctantly agreed.
The island of Rhodes is closer to Turkey than Greece.
My wife, my son, Nathan, his wife, Nela, and their three-year-old son, Matija and I took a ten-day diversion trip from Serbia to see Rhodes. This was one of the best vacations I have ever been on. We booked a package tour that included the flight from Belgrade, ground transportation, and ten days at a hotel with what’s called “half board”. That means the price included breakfast and dinner and we were free each day to explore the island for good places to eat lunch
I am barely off the plane and I am already awestruck by the history of this island! Most of us are familiar with the Colossus of Rhodes, the giant statue that stood at the mouth of Rhodes harbor, and one of the wonders of the ancient world, built in 280 B.C. Historians estimate the statue was as tall as the Statue of Liberty. An earthquake destroyed it in 226 B.C. and the harbor it overlooked has a “new” lighthouse built quite recently (1412 A.D.).
The whole north and east coasts of Rhodes have become a resort Mecca on the Mediterranean Sea. The west coast is on the Aegean Sea. It’s windier and has more waves, so all the resorts are on the east side of the island. The water on that side is calm, clear, and warm enough for even us Southerners to enjoy. All beaches have chairs and ‘sunbrellas’ to rent, and most have kayaks or motor boats to rent, and some even offer parasailing. Our hotel was in a small town called Faliraki. The town’s main attraction is a long, wonderful beach with sand that felt like velvet under our bare feet.
This was my favorite beach and it typifies the beaches there. The white chapel on the right is dedicated to Saint Paul in honor of his 3rd missionary journey. You can see how clear the water is!
We shared a rented car with another family and used it to explore the island’s beaches and attractions. Every other day we would drive to a new beach, eat at new Tavernas (as they call them in Greece), and explore new fortresses. One day we visited Lindos, a famous town with a huge fortification at the top of the hill, but found we could not get to the beach easily with our bags and grandson. Just around the corner, however, was another called Saint Paul Beach — my favorite of the trip. There was a scuba diving school, good food, excellent beach sand, and we could swim out to a rock and jump from it. We walked over to a small white chapel to see it up close, and we saw a plaque that explained the bay’s name; it said Saint Paul visited here on his Third Missionary Journey as he returned to Jerusalem. The island’s incredible history came at us like waves all week.
The town of Lindos with the restored fortress at the top of the hill. The Knights of Saint John built the fortress after the Crusades.
Speaking of waves, there weren’t any. No tide either. This made for some very clear water and we realized it was perfectly safe to let the three-year-old play in the water without fear of him being dashed to bits by surprise wave action. Swimming was wonderful and the snorkeling was some of the best I have seen. The weather in July was incredible with blue skies every day, nice breezes to keep us comfortable, and temperatures in the mid-80s. One day there was a cloud and we all stopped to marvel at it; that’s how good the climate is there.
Everyone we met was friendly and almost no one was American. Along the coastline, nearly all the folks in shops and restaurants spoke enough English that communication was simple. We did take a couple of trips to remote areas of the island where English was not spoken, but we quickly learned to point and grunt to make our needs known. The real Greek food was delicious and they press olive oil right on the island. All the dining was al fresco and most places where we stopped had good Wi-Fi so we could update our messages and stare at our phones like true Americans. My only complaint about Rhodes (and most of Europe really) is they still allow smoking in restaurants and even seem to encourage it with ash trays on all the tables. Make sure to get an up wind table!
This is one of the gates to the ancient walled city of Rhodes. Just across the street behind where I took this photo, is the ancient harbor where the Colossus once stood.
I have gotten this far in the telling and have not mentioned the old, walled city of Rhodes. Oh, my! The history there is worth its own narrative. We spent a day visiting the shops, eating gelato, looking in at several restaurants, touring the old walls and bridges, walking down narrow alleys and passageways; did I mention the gelato yet? One of my hobbies is geocaching — an outdoor treasure hunting game using GPS enabled devices — so I took some time and found all the caches in the city. It led me to places I would never have seen otherwise.
The new city of Rhodes surrounds the walled city but it still exists and is vibrant and alive. This is the main shopping street which runs through the city; one side to the other.
I wish I could adequately convey the sense of awe and wonder we all felt at seeing the ancient and modern artifacts on the island. I would go back tomorrow if I could and I am so grateful to my wife for cajoling me into going this summer. Perhaps I won’t be such a reluctant traveler in the future.
Don
Don is Queen Anne’s older brother and he and his wife live in Charlotte, North Carolina. I’m pleased that they shared this story and pictures with us and I thank him for contributing to our blog. – jw
