Category: Arizona

Bisbee’s Pythian Castle: A Clock Tower of History Bisbee, Arizona

Bisbee's Pythian Castle: A Clock Tower of History - The green and white clock tower on the red-brick building pierces the cold blue winter sky.
Bisbee’s Pythian Castle: A Clock Tower of History – The red-brick building’s green and white clock tower pierces the cold blue winter sky.

During our December visit to Bisbee, Queen Anne and I was once again captivated by the town’s beauty and rich history. We finished the morning enjoying lunch at the historic Copper Queen Hotel before embarking on a walking tour of the city to capture new angles and perspectives with my camera. However, as we made our way up the town’s hilly streets, we were reminded that walking in Bisbee can feel more like hiking, and I must admit, as someone who dislikes exercise, I was less than thrilled.

Bisbee’s layout is like a wicked witch flashing you a peace sign with her crooked fingers. Her left finger is Tombstone Canyon, with galleries, shops, and cafes. The right finger represents Brewery Gulch, which holds several boutique hotels, restaurants, and a most attractive building—the Pythian Castle. This grand and ornate structure always winds up at the other end of my lens each time we’re there.

The Pythian Castle was built in 1904 as a meeting hall for the Knights of Pythias, a fraternal organization popular in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The Knights of Pythias were known for their philanthropy and community service, and their membership included many prominent business people and politicians. The castle’s grandeur was a testament to their wealth and influence, and it quickly became one of Bisbee’s most iconic landmarks. Over the years, the Pythians gradually faded into obscurity, and the castle changed hands several times. Today, it is a popular venue for weddings, events, and ghost tours, but its history and architectural beauty inspire visitors and locals alike.

When I stand before a historic old building like the Pythian Castle, my mind floods with ideas of what I’d do with it if I had the wealth, time, and my youth back. At first, I saw it as a restaurant worthy of a James Beard award. The castle’s grandeur and history would make it a perfect establishment, offering diners exceptional food and an unforgettable experience. But why mess with a landmark the town is already proud of when there’s a better option next door?

Nostalgia on Ok Street: The Philadelphia Hotel in Winter Light - I imagine that this forgotten hotel cries out at night, "Save me. Please somebody, come and save me."
Nostalgia on Ok Street: The Philadelphia Hotel in Winter Light – I imagine this forgotten hotel cries out at night, “Save me. Please, somebody, come and save me.”

Just a few steps away from the Pythian Castle is the Philadelphia Hotel, a historic building that has sat empty for years. Although there were plans for its renovation in the past, nothing ever came of them, and the hotel continues to await its chance to shine. Imagine the facade transformed with yellow-striped awnings like a grand Parisian bistro beckoning visitors to come in and dine, and the faded sign replaced with new copper letters. Inside, the hotel could be renovated into a destination restaurant, complete with tables covered in white tablecloths and serving up gourmet cuisine—I’d call it W.C. Fields. Our café only needs half of the building’s first floor, so that would leave enough room for another complementary business. Which would you choose: a bakery and gourmet deli, a Patagonia-style clothing store, or a luxury day spa where guests could indulge in some well-deserved pampering?

But the real gem of the Philadelphia Hotel lies in its 38 hotel rooms. With some TLC, a lot of elbow grease, and modernization, these rooms could be brought into the 21st century. The conservative route would be to restore each room with period furniture and modern plumbing. But why not go hog wild by halving the room count, doubling each room’s size, and wind up with 20 suites? Either way, the hotel would become a sought-after destination for travelers from all over the world. And with Bisbee’s growing popularity as a tourist destination, the Philadelphia Hotel could become the next big thing, drawing visitors in with its historic charm and modern amenities. The Philadelphia would rival The Copper Queen.

In my photograph of the Pythian Castle, I wanted to capture its grandeur and sense of mystery and intrigue. The late afternoon winter light added contrast to the scene, highlighting the details of the clock tower and spire. I chose a low angle to emphasize the castle’s height and dominance over the surrounding buildings, while the receding perspective of the street adds depth and dimension to the composition.

I hope you’ve enjoyed seeing this week’s images from Bisbee and that you found my pipe dreams fun. Click here for a larger version of the Pythian Castle photo on its webpage. Join us next week as we delve into Bisbee’s thriving art scene. We can’t wait to share more of Bisbee’s charm with you!

Till next time
jw

BTW:

Our friends, the Poteets, are touring southern Arizona and meeting with their adoring fans. Before they left, Fred swore on a stack of Bibles that their first stop would be Picacho Peak to capture the wildflowers growing on its slopes. When they return and have their slides developed, perhaps Fred will consent to share one of his finest.

Technicolor Stroll Down Tombstone Canyon Bisbee, Arizona

Technicolor Stroll Down Tombstone Canyon - A group strolling down the sidewalk on Bisbee's colorful main street-Tombstone Canyon.
Technicolor Stroll Down Tombstone Canyon – A group strolling down the sidewalk on Bisbee’s colorful main street-Tombstone Canyon.

Welcome back to a new month and a new project! To play a joke on you, I almost sent out a blank post yesterday for April Fools. But, being the clever person you are, I deduced that you’d be too smart to fall for it. So then, I switched days on you and almost sent the prank out this morning, but I realized that you, a person of superior intelligence, wouldn’t be tricked by that ruse, either. Instead, I fooled you and wrote this new article, and you never saw it coming—HA! Inconceivable! Happy April Fools’ Day! – (thanks, Rob)

This month, Queen Anne and I will drag you back to Cochise County and Bisbee because we have a soft spot for this little mining town nestled in the Mule Mountains. Of all of Arizona’s ghost towns, Bisbee has been our favorite since our first visit, sticking with us like a catchy tune you can’t get out of your head. With its mile-high elevation, the weather’s usually pleasant, even in the hot summer months—as if Mother Nature herself turned down the thermostat. Instead of decaying wood shacks, Bisbee’s structures were built to last, and most of them are still standing, like proud survivors of a bygone era. The town boasts a thriving art community and a wide variety of shops, restaurants, and architecture. Oh, and let’s not forget the Copper Queen Hotel, once the poshest place to rest your head between St. Louis and San Francisco, where even its ghosts have high standards.

The Mule Mountains and Bisbee area have a rich natural and geological history. Millions of years ago, the mountains were formed through volcanic activity and shifting tectonic plates, resulting in deposits of copper and turquoise hidden beneath the surface—the juniper-covered Mule Mountains cradle Bisbee, nestled in the folds of its canyons. The region’s unique geological history has also led to the formation of these valuable deposits, shaping Bisbee’s identity as a mining hub. Anne and I enjoy capturing the breathtaking landscape and remnants of the town’s mining heritage. The area’s natural beauty and rich history have made it a true gem in the heart of the Southwest.

Long before the arrival of European settlers and the establishment of Bisbee, the Mule Mountains were already painting a masterpiece in vibrant hues of copper and turquoise, like a natural work of art that only the Hohokam, ancestors of today’s Tohono O’odham and Pima tribes, had the privilege of appreciating up close. These skilled farmers, traders, and artisans were the original caretakers of the land, leaving behind a legacy of pottery, petroglyphs, and other artifacts that offer a glimpse into their rich and colorful culture. The mountains were their muse, the copper and turquoise their paint, and the result is a stunning canvas that still takes our breath away today. The Mule Mountains had always held a special place in the hearts of those who called this land home long before Bisbee became the colorful town it is today.

Bisbee’s European history began in the late 19th century when prospectors discovered rich copper deposits in the Mule Mountains. The town proliferated, attracting miners, merchants, and entrepreneurs worldwide. By the turn of the century, Bisbee was a bustling hub of activity, with saloons, hotels, and shops lining its streets. Bisbee has had its fair share of both good times and bad. The town has a rich history, from its early days as a mining community to its recent incarnation as an artsy, quirky town. But with its history comes some dark moments, such as the Bisbee Deportation of 1917 and the Bisbee Massacre. These events left a lasting impact on the town and its residents, reminding us that Bisbee’s story is not just one of beauty and charm but also struggle and resilience.

This week’s photo is a street scene of Bisbee’s main street—Tombstone Canyon—lined with a row of historic buildings painted in various colors reminiscent of San Francisco’s Painted Ladies. As was expected before WWII, the shops share a common wall to maximize their interior space. The most colorful building is topped with a plaque identifying it as the Letson Block. A small group of pedestrians is walking down the sidewalk; perhaps they’re window-shopping tourists. On the otherwise drab street, reflections of the sun off windows create interesting random rectangles.

Dot's Diner - Don't care to stay in a stuffy ghost-laden hotel. Then head down to the cemetery and stop at Dot's, where you can book a night in an Airstream, Airplane, or Yacht. Besides, it's an excellent place for breakfast in the morning.
Dot’s Diner – Don’t care to stay in a stuffy ghost-laden hotel. Then head down to the cemetery and stop at Dot’s, where you can book a night in an Airstream, Airplane, or Yacht. Besides, it’s an excellent place for breakfast in the morning.

We hope you’ve enjoyed this week’s photo of Bisbee’s Main Street, showcasing Bisbee’s charm. You can view a larger version of Technicolor Stroll Down Tombstone Canyon on the official website by clicking here. Join us next week for another exciting photo and tale from our favorite ghost town. We can’t wait to share our enthusiasm for this quirky, historic town.

Till next time
jw

BTW:

I told you so. If you haven’t gotten out yet, you need to get going. The fields are awash with flowers now. Grab your camera and get out there.

Shell Station Lowell Arizona

Shell Station - A small Shell gas station is located at the north end of Erie Street in Lowell, Arizona.
Shell Station – A small Shell gas station is located at the north end of Erie Street in Lowell, Arizona. The 51 Chevy parked out front was a nice touch. The pumps are priced at 41 cents per gallon if you’re interested.

Maybe I’m doing this wrong, but I’m a photographer first and a storyteller second. When I’m out taking pictures in the field, I don’t have a story in mind that I have to illustrate. My stories come after I’m at my desk trying to explain why I bothered to snap the shutter. Some weeks, I struggle to put together two pages of sensible words; other times, my thoughts fly at my keyboard, and my fingers seem to move barely.

When Queen Anne and I happened upon Lowell and made our unplanned stop, I hopped out of the car and started snapping pictures down one side of Erie Street and up the other. When I returned home and processed the images, it was like there was a story in me begging to be told—and these were the perfect pictures to hang it. Like the rest of February, this week’s featured image, Shell Station, has a built-in untold story about my first real job.

I never got an allowance when I was in high school. My dad paid me to work at his drapery factory after school and on weekends. It should have been the perfect arrangement because I was mostly alone. I hated it because it was repetitive work, and it had nothing to do with cars or girls—besides, Dad always thought I was goofing off, which I was.

The summer of my graduation, Dave—a good friend of mine—asked if I’d be interested in working evenings at his brother’s gas station. George—the owner—was short a person and needed someone dependable. I went for an interview, and George wanted me to start that very Saturday so that he could teach me how to pump gas. On Saturday, I was still in bed when the phone rang, and I vaguely remember driving to Van Nuys half-dressed.

George’s station was an Atlantic-Richfield (ARCO now) on the northeast corner of Van Nuys and Magnolia Boulevards. It was about three times the size of the Shell Station in this week’s picture. He had three gas islands and two service bays, open 24 hours daily. My salary was only 1.65/hr, but because it was a service station, we got a commission on everything but gas. That’s why we were so happy to wash your windows (blades), check your oil (air filter), and your tire pressure (if you sold a set of tires, you were golden). Although it was common then, we didn’t pressure the customers to buy anything—we’d show them the evidence and let them decide. It worked for me, and I could make an extra $5.00 weekly.

There was another significant aspect of George’s station. I don’t know if you did this in your part of the country when you were a teenager, but cruising was extensive on the west coast. Every Friday night, pimpled face adolescents from across the valley would pile into shiny cars and drive up and down Van Nuys Boulevard. The guys paired up in someone’s hot rod, and the girls rode around in Daddy’s T-Bird. Our traffic pattern started in Panorama City, south through Bob’s Big Boy, a turn around at Magnolia, and drove back to the beginning. There wasn’t any point to it other than to see and be seen (and it annoyed older people). If you need an example, run to Blockbuster Video and check out the movie American Graffiti—that was us.

Our station was at the loop’s south end (less than a mile from Bob’s), and we’d have more traffic driving behind the gas station every Friday night than we did out front the rest of the week. Since we were convenient, the kids took advantage of our restrooms. From the horror stories I heard, I’m glad I wasn’t part of the Saturday morning crew that had to clean them.

As you’ve heard, everything shall pass, which also happened with George’s station. As property values rose in the San Fernando Valley, the gas station’s land was so expensive that Atlantic Richfield sold the land to a developer who built a high rise. George got an amicable settlement and a much smaller station in Reseda, which closed at 9:00 pm each day and didn’t open on Sundays and holidays. I worked at that station until I got drafted. Besides getting my first drag racing ticket on my way home, I don’t have any interesting stories from there.

Click here to see a larger version of Shell Station on its website. This completes our February visit to Lowell, so we’ll move on next week. Come back and find out where the road led us—won’t you?

Till next time
jw

BTW:

Did you work at a gas station? How do you think they compare to the self-service ones we have today? Do you feel the cars get as much care as they need?

Greyhound Lowell Arizona

Greyhound - An old Scenicruiser waits for passengers outside of the bus terminal.
Greyhound – An old Scenicruiser waits for passengers outside of the bus terminal. Note the prehistoric air conditioning in the window above the dog’s head.

I have ridden my share of buses in my life. I rode in school buses, metro buses, tour buses, trams, and trolleys, but the only time I was a passenger in a Greyhound Scenicruiser—like the one seen in this week’s image (titled Greyhound)—wasn’t one of my most pleasant memories.

That ride happened in 1967. Two other recent graduates and I were in the Army and on our way for a 13-month Korea tour. We flew commercially from Fort Holabird in Baltimore to Seattle on the first part of our journey. The sun was going down as we took off, so it was late in the evening when we landed at SeaTac. As we got off the plane, a military representative greeted us. He looked at our orders and directed us to the buses waiting outside. After retrieving our duffel bags, we headed out into the damp and chilly night.

We looked around and saw a line of Greyhound Scenicruisers. To keep the engines and interior warm, they sat idling at the curb and spewed plumes of white vapor from their exhaust. They looked like steam engines at a railroad depot. As we reached the lead bus, someone ordered, “Stow your duffels in the cargo bay and get on board.” Like good PFCs, we obeyed unquestioningly. Once seated, we waited and waited, and waited for something to happen.

In case you don’t remember, in 1967, the U.S. was in the midst of the Vietnam War. The military was going through boys like Lucy and Ethel at the chocolate factory. The Army drafted kids off the street, trained them, sent them to Fort Lewis, and put them on the next plane crossing the Pacific. The Army ran an efficient system at SeaTac. They grabbed anyone coming off an airliner in uniform and stuck them on the bus.

We sat in that dark Greyhound for hours before it filled. The door closed, and—around midnight—it started on the short drive to Fort Lewis. I don’t sleep well in moving vehicles, so I was looking forward to a warm cot and sleeping till noon. Silly me; I forgot that I was in the Army. When we got to the base, we had to be processed, which meant we stood in line filling out forms until they handed us a pillow and assigned us a bunk.

I was in a deep sleep and busy sawing my way through a pine log when someone rousted me at 03:30 (I can still remember the military time). “Get up and get dressed. You’re on KP duty this morning,” a strange voice barked in the dark. After donning my last set of clean fatigues, I fell in with a group on their way to the mess hall. I guess someone has to peel enough potatoes to feed hash browns tor a hungry Army base. That morning was the only time I had to do KP in my military career.

We finished up our kitchen duty at lunch. I was dog tired and just wanted to flop on my bunk and recover, but when I got back to the barracks, I was told to change and pack my bag again. I was moving out in an hour. This time, there was no fancy civilian bus waiting. Instead, they loaded us in the back of a duce and a half for the ride to a military air base. As the sun went down again, the Army loaded us on a Northwest 707 that the soldiers affectionately dubbed the Big Red Tail. We knew and counted the days until we’d board the Red Tail to come home—some of us walked on, but Honor Guards loaded too many in the plane’s cargo bay.

The Scenicruiser in this week’s shot was designed and built by General Motors and was supposed to imitate the luxury stainless steel passenger train cars of the time. GM only manufactured them between 1954 and 1956, but Greyhound used them into the 70s. The buses were supposed to offer a luxury parlor experience and had an onboard toilet (RVs from the past). The early ones were delivered with whitewall tires. Their Achilles heels were that they were too long and too tall to be driven in some states. After Greyhound retired them, they started using ordinary buses that fit within the size restrictions and had enough cargo space for 50 passengers.

Click here to see a larger version of Greyhound on its web page. Next week we’ll finish our stroll down Erie Street and the memories it evokes. Be sure to join us then for another tale from Lowell, Arizona.

Till next time
jw

BTW:

Last week, I threw out a challenge for my Gearhead friends who know 1957 Chevrolet trivia. Interestingly, all the commenters who had the correct answer (including myself) are older than dirt. Kids these days don’t have the passion.

Bel Air at the Gulf Station Lowell, Arizona

Bel Air at the Gulf Station - a 1957 four door Chevy Bel Air waits for gas at the Gulf Station in Lowell, Arizona.
Bel Air at the Gulf Station – 1957 four door Chevy Bel Air waits for gas at the Gulf Station in Lowell, Arizona.

My lifelong love affair with cars runs so deep I’m sure I was born wearing aviator sunglasses and a pair of black Italian leather driving gloves—the kind with knuckle holes. My earliest memories are of toy cars from my parents, the countless scale model kits I built in my room, and the peddle car I had when we lived on the steepest hill in Pittsburg. At age five, I learned to drive it with my feet off the peddles so it could go faster. I held on for dear life and eventually got around the corner at the bottom without lifting (for the uninitiated, that means not scuffing your shoes along the sidewalk). Of course, even then, I complained about the dreaded push back up the hill.

My dad and Uncle Bunny (Yeah, that’s right. His real name was Charles, but everyone called him Bunny) came home one Saturday when I was thirteen with a beater 51 Ford sedan. It was less than ten years old but already considered junk. Dad proclaimed, “If you can fix it, you can have it.” He handed me a pair of pliers and a flathead screwdriver. I had no mechanical training and no idea what to do. After unsuccessfully trying to remove one of the head bolts from the old flathead V8, I gave up. The coupe sat silently in our garage for years.

I did find a use for it eventually. One day I was walking in our alley from school when I spotted a trash can overflowing with Playboy magazines. I don’t know who threw them out, but it was a gold mine for a 13-year-old. I scooped up as many as I could carry and stashed them in the back seat of my Ford when I got home. My little friends and I spent countless hours pouring over those articles until we wore out the magazine staples. I suppose that’s when my dirty old-man training began.

I guess that’s why I’m so delighted to find a place like Lowell and its open air museum showcasing things from my past. For example, when I look at this week’s picture—called Bel Air at the Gulf Station—I see the 57 Chevy and remember cruising through Bob’s Big Boy in a 58 Ford my cousin drove that dad bought us. Clydie would pull a couple of plug wires off, so it had a loping idle. It didn’t bother him that the car reeked of unburned fuel or that the guys with real hot rods were wise to his scam. It was Clydie’s moment in the sun. There are so many stories about that 58 and my cousin Clydie it would fill a whole chapter in my autobiography.

We never had Gulf or Sunoco gas stations on the west coast. Our premium gas was Chevron Supreme. I became a fan-boy when Gulf sponsored the winning Fords and Porches at Le Mans. If there were a Gulf station within a hundred miles of my house, I would have gone out of my way to fill my tank. Unfortunately, Gulf Oil merged with Standard oil in 1986, and their stations are now Chevron and don’t sponsor racecars. Maybe that’s why there is a Chevron sign on the orange building, which otherwise seems out of place.

I feel there are a couple of errors in this presentation. The first is that Chevrolet is a four-door, and no self respecting greaser would own a four-door. Even our friend Fred once owned a 2-door (maybe he’ll share a photo with us). However, 57 Chevy’s are the pinnacle year for collectors, and they have cherry-picked them off the market. I doubt that there are any more hiding in barns somewhere in America.

The other error is a Pepsi and 7Up machine, but not a Coca Cola box. Unless you lived in Utah, no one drank anything other than Coke. Long before In-N-Out, Bob’s had a gorilla menu, and you could order a Coke with a shot of vanilla or cherry flavor. I knew all of that hip stuff.

You can see a larger version of Bel Air at the Gulf Station on its Webpage by clicking here. There’s more to see along Erie Street, so don’t forget to come back next week for another story.

Till next time
jw

BTW:

There is a gold star waiting for the foreheads of anyone —except for Fred—who can tell where the gas went into a 1957 Chevrolet.