With this posting, we’ve completed this month’s photo excursion of Castle Hot Springs Road. The detour north of State Route 74 started with almost prairie-like flat desert adjacent to the Wickenburg range. Then the road ascended into the Buckhorn Range with a magnificent view of the Bradshaw’s. Next, our back road dropped down to Castle Creek through the Hieroglyphic Mountains past the hot springs resort. Finally, we returned to asphalt at Lake Pleasant where we saw vast groves of saguaros growing on the mountain slopes (I put that in my mental filing cabinet for a future outing).
There was one scene along the way that wasn’t quite ripe enough to shoot when I first drove by it, so I wanted to backtrack and see if it improved with the warm afternoon sun. It did, and it is this week’s featured image which I call Mine Tailings.
Mine Tailings – Tailings comprised of red soil caught my eye because of the color and erosion pattern.
I don’t know if there are an inordinate number of mines in Yavapai County, but it seems like they’re everywhere. A few hearty souls—that either suffer from unrelenting gold fever or have nothing better to do—still work the claims, but most of the mines are abandoned. When the ore runs dry, the prospectors move on in search of the next elusive bonanza. Because there’s no economic incentive to restore the claim, abandoned mines are left unposted and are often dangerous. Just this year, rescuers have pulled a couple of people trapped in mine shafts. It’s a growing Arizona problem.
One of the tells of an old mine is the tailings. As prospectors tunnel into a mountainside, they have to remove the diggings and pile them somewhere. In massive operations, fleets of trucks build hundred-foot-tall dikes, like the one that used to line Highway 60 in Miami, Arizona. But with smaller claims of one or two men, they will fill a wheelbarrow and walk it outside and dump it over the edge, building a tailings dump; the deeper the mine, the bigger the tailings.
The thing that makes the tailings in this week’s photo interesting to me is that they’re red, and the late afternoon sun exaggerates that color. The red against the blue sky vibrates my eyeballs. There’s more that we can learn from the image, like how old it is. The erosion patterns are deep from many seasons of heavy rain, and its fan pattern is reminiscent of what you see in the Painted Desert. In both cases, water easily cut through soft soil. Finally, dirt and rock that comes out of a shaft is well below the topsoil level, so it’s not rich in nutrients. Here, the desert Mesquite has begun to colonize the hillside, so the soil contains some organic material already.
You can see a larger version of Mine Tailings on its Web Page by clicking here. Be sure to come back next week when we set off for another adventure exploring Arizona’s back roads.
Castle Hot Springs Resort—Originally built in 1896 by Frank Murphy, the owner of the Congress Mine, it will reopen in October, so cash in your IRA and visit. I believe the tarp covers the garden where the chief grows fresh vegetables for the restaurant.
It doesn’t matter which way you travel on Castle Hot Springs Road, either clockwise or the other way, will get you to the historic retreat—the luxury resort for the rich and famous built-in 1896. Your choice of travel depends on whether you want to drive through the mountains via Morristown or north of Lake Pleasant via Castle Creek. As a history buff, I prefer the original route, but I also live closer to the old railroad depot, and I’m too lazy to drive that distance to Lake Pleasant.
After moving to Arizona, I heard stories of the ghost resort from friends, but I didn’t look at it for thirty years. After the last of my infamous station wagons was totaled while parked in the Sun City Boswell Hospital parking lot, we replaced it with my first SUV—Shadowfax. It was an Olds Bravada with ground clearance and four-wheel drive that was good enough to begin exploring back roads. One of my first outings was to Castle Hot Springs. As a film shooter back then, I didn’t have a perfect shot of the main house, so I didn’t bother taking any pictures.
There’s quite a bit of history that would make good stand-alone stories. Trivia like:
The hot spring was found by Ft. Whipple Calvary soldiers tracking bandits.
Frank Murphy—the Congress Mine owner—bought the land, built the buildings, and paid for the road.
The resort thrived during the first half of the 20th Century, catering to the Roosevelts, Rockefellers, Vanderbilts, Wrigleys, Zane Gray, and Clark Gable (there had to be famous actresses who visited, too, but I didn’t discover any of their names).
Murphy’s brother, when he was the territorial governor, turned the resort into Arizona’s Mar-A-Lago because winters were too cold in Prescott. And because Warren Murphy ran the state from here, Arizona’s first telephone was installed in the hall of the main building (I believe it survived the ’76 fire).
The temperature of the hot springs water is 12oº, which is the same as every Phoenix household during summer.
There’s another more interesting story, however. The resort was dark during the Second World War because of rationing and shortages. After the war ended, Walter Rounsevel, owner and general manager, leased the property to the U.S. military as a recovery and rehab facility for injured officers. One of those officers was a young lieutenant whose back was injured after a Japanese destroyer rammed his PT boat. The officer’s name was John F. Kennedy, and he spent several months recovering at Castle Hot Springs, soaking in the springs, hiking trails, and golfing.
Salvation Peak Flag—During World War II, the Castle Hot Springs Resort received special dispensation to fly an American Flag on Salvation Peak 24 hours a day to provide a place for injured officers to recuperate.
For its part in helping with the recovery of these servicemen, a special dispensation was given to Castle Hot Springs to fly an American flag 24 hours a day atop Salvation Peak. The flag was visible along the road before and after passing the resort, and I took several shots of it even though the sun was directly behind. My favorite version is this week’s featured image, which I call Salvation Peak Flag. Although it looks formidable, Salvation Peak is a smaller outcrop of Governors Peak, which is located within the Hells Gate Wilderness area.
You can see a larger version of Salvation Peak Flag on its Web Page by clicking here. Be sure to return next week when we present the final photo I made on my Castle Hot Spring Road outing.
George’s Camp – Written words on the whiteboard sign note the passing of George, the painter.
Serendipity is a word that means finding something different from the thing you were trying to find. It was so overused back in my flower child days that I don’t like to use it. I wish there were a better term—but there isn’t—that describes what happened to Fred and me this week.
As I wrote in last week’s post, my project for April is to find exciting things to photograph in Nothing—the abandoned gas stop on Highway US 93. It’s a voluntary exercise to help improve my creativity. Nothing is in the middle of nowhere; I’ve been pouring over my maps the past week. I found that on the north side of the gas station, there is a sizeable lava flow. It’s spring, so there is new bright green growth on the desert plants, and that should contrast well against the black rocks. Even better, I found that the flow’s west side covered a wash or creek. Over eons, the water has opened a channel through the hardened magma, and it’s called Black Canyon (I know, there must be hundreds of Black Canyons in Arizona).
After deciding to try to follow the back trails and visit the canyon, I asked Fred if he’d like to sit shotgun. I figured that he could change a flat if needed, and he always carries his cell phone which might be handy. It surprised me when Deb permitted him to go out with me again, but only after I swore up and down that we’d be home by dark.
On Thursday we packed Archie and set out on a new adventure. We got a late start because I wanted the proper light, but the day ended in overcast, so I gave up on beautiful sunset pictures. The topo map that we brought showed a jeep trail, leading to the canyon; then we’d have a half mile hike up a pack trail at the end. As we crept along the so-called road, I knew that I had to stay left at each intersection that lay before us. The last turn put us on a rutted track where we maneuvered between boulders, but at its crest, we saw Black Canyon in the windshield which meant that we were driving along the pack trail. We would have done better with Fred’s ATV.
Well used Ford – A parted out Ford truck is abandoned in camp.
As we descended to a wash we came upon a couple of sheds, and I thought, “Oh no! We’re reliving the night we spent at Stephen’s house.” You’ll remember him from our first outing where we got trapped inside private property. I got out of the truck and started calling. No one answered, so we walked around both sheds trying to find the owner. We saw the sign in the first photo that raised more questions than had answers. What Fred and I stumbled upon is—as I call it now—George’s Camp.
Macrame Teepee – A hand made teepee provides a little shade in George’s front yard.
As we wandered the campsite, I wondered about George. Did he sell his paintings, had I ever seen one? How did he get groceries? What made him become a recluse? Of the artifacts we found, they seemed fresh enough to suggest that George’s passing was recent. If he had any property of value, someone had already taken them. It was apparent from the words on the sign that someone felt sad that George has moved on.
George’s Cup – Decorating a dead stump are a collection of household items. I wonder if George wrote the inspirational message inside of the cup.
We delayed our canyon hike long enough to look at the art pieces George had left. I tried to imagine the kind of soul that he was, and I got a bit sad that I missed meeting a fellow artist. Of the scattered yard art, the tree ornaments moved me the most, and that’s why I selected it as this week’s featured image. I call it George’s Cup. It already has a picture frame.
You can see a larger version of George’s Cup on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy viewing this week’s post and next week; we’ll show another featured image from Nothing. Maybe by then, we’ll make it to Black Canyon.
Nothing Arizona – Only a crooked sign and empty building shell are all that remains in Nothing
My generation is probably the last to have a love affair with automobiles. For us, cars defined who we were. They opened the country for us to explore. Now that we’re old, most of our recollections are car-centered, and I’m an example of that. Over my life, I’ve owned a varied stable of vehicles; from ones German engineered to station wagons that the Griswolds from Family Vacationwould reject.
The car that still gives me the most angst was the Camaro that my parents gave as a wedding gift for my first marriage. It was special because it was the racecar version built for the original Trans-Am series. To qualify for the races, manufacturers had to produce at least 1,000 units, and they had to sell them through their dealer networks. Very few Americans knew they existed. I knew, because I read racing magazines, and after I got back from my overseas tour, I hunted one down. Their moniker came from the option package number—Z/28. After the first batch quickly sold out, Chevrolet offered them to the public.
It was British racing green with a pair of broad white stripes on the hood and trunk. Ours didn’t carry the familiar Z/28 badge on its nose; instead, it just had the numbers 302 which was its engine size. Trans-Am limited the displacement to 5 liters, and that meant that it was the smallest V8 that Chevrolet put into Camaros, but those engines were specially built and had more horsepower than the other power plants available. Since it was a high revving motor, you couldn’t get air conditioning or (gasp) power steering. Because I raced mine, I added 10” wide wheels and fat tires which made it near impossible for my wife to drive.
At the collector’s car auctions, 1968 Z/28s sometimes go for over a hundred grand, and because mine was a low chassis number, I believe it could’ve been more valuable if it were in pristine shape. But, I was living in a lot of turmoil and planned to move to Arizona where I would need an air-conditioned car, so I got a thousand dollars on trade for a Vega—possibly the worst purchase I ever made in my life.
It was mustard-yellow with a single black stripe. I wanted the GT version because it came with gauges instead of idiot lights. The dealer didn’t have one with air, so they installed an aftermarket unit, which was like bolting a cinder block to the side of the engine. Because of the weight and engine vibrations, the compressor fell off when the bolts sheered—twice. All of the gauges worked except for the water temperature, which I noted to the dealer while it was under warranty. They said they’d order one, but I don’t think that they ever did, and wound up rebuilding the engine after it seized from overheating.
My horrible decision meant that I gave away the impractical car that I loved, to buy the practical car that I hated, and that includes all the awful station wagons we’ve owned. Its gas mileage wasn’t any better than my hot rod, and with a nine-gallon tank, our gas stops doubled. The engine vibrations were so bad that I carried a screwdriver and wrench because, at each fill-up, I had to re-tighten the carburetor screws. The only fond memory I have of that car was besting the local legend—Don Roberts—at a Big Surf event. He drove a different Vega—a station wagon. That was a nice feather to have in my cap.
My second wife and I went to Las Vegas, Bullhead City, or one of those destinations involving Highway US 93. We packed the Vega—it never deserved a name—and headed north for the weekend. We planned gas stops in Wickenburg, Kingman, and Vegas—or wherever. However, because of the Vega’s limited range, we had to stop again after climbing the grade after the Santa Maria River—at Nothing, Arizona. I had to pay a buck-and-a-half for gas, which was highway robbery at the time. That makes me the only person in the world to have bought gas in this month’s featured destination—Nothing—population: 4.
The abandoned store in Nothing is at the top of the pass between the Poachie and Aquarius Mountain Ranges. Its elevation is 3700-feet, and the terrain is part of the granite boulder field that stretches from Prescott to Kingman. The store, as they tell it was, ”built by four drinking friends having nothing better to do.” It was open only a couple of years before being abandoned. I don’t remember this, but according to Wikipedia, in 2016, Century 21 ran a promotion for father’s day with the promotion line, “Give Dad Nothing for Father’s Day.” They sold 24-hour deeds to property in Nothing. The current property owner was in on the joke and buyers could download a gift card and a “Certificate of Nothing” valid on June 19, 2016, only.
Large Boulder – The landscape in the Nothing Pass is a boulder field like this delivery-van sized example.
So for April, I will be trying to make something from Nothing—pun intended—like this week’s featured image—Large Boulder. There’s some pretty country in the pass between the Santa Maria River and Burro Creek. My job is to find enough to produce four images for April. Do you think I’m up to it?
You can see a larger version of Large Boulder on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy viewing this week’s post and next week; we’ll show another featured image from Nothing.
Until next time — jw
P.S. You should see my grammar checker going nuts over Nothing.
P.P.S. Speaking of old Chevys—this week I sat through a show that Queen Anne likes. I think its called The Kids Are Alright. It’s about a Catholic family with a gaggle of boys. They’re struggling to make ends meet, so they drive an old station wagon—a ’66 Chevelle. As I watched, I had to pause the show and show Her Majesty the station wagon’s nose badge. It indicated that the car had a 396 motor, but it wasn’t an SS model. Very rare and valuable.
Frog Rock—The pile of boulders painted to resemble a frog has been a Congress landmark since 1928.
Our adopted town of Congress is a quiet retirement community these days, but it wasn’t always this sleepy. Like most of the old mining towns in Arizona, Congress was a bustling hive of activity as long as gold poured out of the ground. At its peak, the town had more people than a dusty farming village called Phoenix. But when the gold ran out, so did the reason to stick around. The land here is too rocky to farm, and there isn’t much to see—unless you’re a fan of large green amphibians.
Yes, Frog Rock puts Congress on the map. It’s not just any pile of boulders; it’s a pile of boulders that has been painted to look like a giant frog since 1928. I like to imagine that this oddball landmark sprang from the mind of Sarah Perkins, a homesteader’s wife who was bored out of her mind.
Picture a sweltering summer afternoon in 1928. Sarah is rocking on her front porch, the oppressive heat pressing down like a wet blanket. She’s sipping lukewarm lemonade and staring at the same pile of rocks she’s stared at every day for the last decade. Across the road runs US89, the main highway through town—a lifeline of commerce and travel. “Lester,” she says, her voice dripping with determination, “next time you’re in town, bring me some green paint.”
Lester, who’d been married long enough to know better than to question Sarah’s whims, nodded without so much as a grunt of inquiry. Weeks later, when he returned from Wickenburg with supplies in their rickety Model A pickup, Sarah found two cans of green paint and three sturdy brushes buried among the flour and beans.
The following day, before the heat became unbearable, Sarah gathered her sons and marched them across the road to the pile of boulders. With the determination of Michelangelo tackling the Sistine Chapel, they slapped on layer after layer of green paint. By noon, the Perkins family had created a masterpiece: a giant rock frog that gazed serenely at passing Model Ts.
Over the years, Frog Rock has become Congress’s pride and joy, our version of the world’s largest ball of twine or the giant ketchup bottle. Sure, it’s kitschy, but it’s our kitschy. When the paint fades, a self-appointed committee—armed with more enthusiasm than skill—ensures Frog Rock gets a fresh coat. On their last go-round, they even added spots to its back for extra flair.
Today, that highway is known as Arizona State Route 89, a quieter and more scenic version of its old self. Locals call it The Lost 89, a stretch of road that seems to have slipped out of time. Frog Rock has kept watch over it all through the rise and fall of mining, the rerouting of highways, and the inevitable march of progress.
When I decided to photograph Frog Rock, I wanted to capture more than just the green paint job. I wanted to show how the massive granite boulder fits into its rugged desert surroundings, so I framed it with other rocks in the foreground. The result is a tribute to Sarah’s imagination and Congress’s ability to find joy in the simple things.
If you’re ever passing through town, stop by and say hello to Frog Rock. Don’t be surprised if you feel inspired to grab a brush and add your artistic touch. After all, in Congress, anything is possible—even turning a pile of rocks into a legacy.
