Travel – Page 36 – On the road with Jim

Red Henry J Picture of the Week

Route 66 Fun Run In Kingman – For the last 35 years, proud antique car owners gather in Seligman to participate in a fun run and show their cars in Seligman, Kingman, Oatman, and Needles.

My folks lived in Kingman from time to time, so it’s been a common source for many of my stories in the past. After they retired, mom and dad bought a trailer so they could travel the country—or that was the plan. What they did was to split time between Georgia—where my sister lives—and Arizona. It’s not clear to me, but I think they wanted to be close to their kids—however not too close.

They didn’t move on any schedule. Whenever my mom would get a hair up her butt, my dad would call to announce they were leaving. We didn’t know it then, but she was in the early stages of dementia, and something could trigger an episode of paranoia, and then they’d pack up at a moment’s notice. Within a year, they’d be back at the same trailer park where they always stayed. Their random migrations never made sense. We believed they were crazy, which—in the case of my mom—turned out to be more valid than we could have ever suspected.

Since their passing nearly a half-decade ago, we no longer had any reason to stop in Kingman, but last November, when I featured Seligman as our featured destination, I wrote about the Route 66 revival and gathering of classic car and hot rod enthusiasts each year that make a pilgrimage to their Mecca—the Mother Road. Nearly a thousand collector cars gather in Seligman to drive the last contiguous 150 miles of Route 66. They turn a three-hour drive into a weekend event by making show-stops in Kingman, Oatman, and Needles. This Fun-Run has been going on for thirty-eight years, and it happened again this weekend. Since Kingman is up the road (it’s closer than Mesa), I decided to play with the shiny cars, and just to be mean, I dragged Anne along with me.

Red Henry J – Look closely, and you’ll see the Hotel Beale reflected in the red paint of an old Henry J.

For this show, the city of Kingman blocked off the downtown streets and parked the cars diagonally on each side. The car owners set up chairs in the shade on the sidewalks, while the looky-loos (including us) walked up and down the streets. As we walked through the displays, two things stood out. These were old (my age) white men. No Gen X or Millennials participated in the event. After talking with several owners, I got the impression that they didn’t want to drive those cars. They considered them investments, and the worst thing you could do is to add road miles. For example, I talked to the owner of a Dodge Duster that had a blown drag-race motor and sponsor decals down the sides.

I asked, “What’s your best quarter-mile time?”

“Oh, it’s never been on a drag strip. It’s a show car.”

I cringed and glanced at the roll-cage and thought, “What’s the point?”

On our way to see the cars, I told Anne that I wanted to take photographs capturing the vehicle’s essence. Abstracts that you could show to any car-guy and they could name the auto’s make, model, and year. I wasn’t trying to document the vehicle’s visit to the show. I was looking for graphic art. I feel that I succeeded with this week’s featured image that I call Red Henry J. At first glance it seems like a simple shot of a chrome name badge against the red background. If you look closely, however, you can make out the Hotel Beale reflection in the red paint—even though the Internet jpg version loses much of the original’s detail.

Anne had never heard of Henry J’s, so I explained that hot-rodders liked them because they were small and light. They stuffed big engines in them for drag racing, much like what Carol Shelby did for Cobras. You can see the Henry J parked in the middle of the opening shot above. You can also see the Web version of Red Henry J by clicking here. I hope you enjoy viewing this week’s post and next week; we’ll show another image from our afternoon in Kingman.

Until next time — jw

Lava Tube and Brittlebush Picture of the Week

Everywhere I look, the desert is yellow, and it’s as thick as a jungle out there. When Queen Anne and I run into town, the train tracks—only a block from the road—are hidden behind the dense foliage. I supposed this was predictable with the good rains we had this winter. We had a good crop of poppies this month along with purple lupine and orange mallow lining the highways.

Several plants give to the yellow with the first to bloom is the Brittlebush. Their soft yellow flowers look like small pale yellow daisies on stems rising from sage-green leaves. Unlike the poppies, their color isn’t vibrant, but they’re so pervasive that they’ll turn mountainsides yellow. They thrive in disturbed soil, like the highway shoulders.

Creosote bush adds a second note of yellow. The lowly creosote is like the lawn of the desert, except it grows 4-6 feet high. A couple of weeks ago, the field across from the park was Kelly green. The bush’s flower is small—almost like buds, and now that they’ve popped, the green has a golden tint.

The yellow crescendo comes when the Palo Verde bloom. Last week, Her Majesty and I ran down to our dentist at the border, and along the way, the trees were already blooming in the low-lands. The bloom moves through the desert like an opening curtain into the highlands. Today I see the trees in our park are beginning to show the tiny flowers. At their peak, the Palo Verde dot the mountainsides with yellow splotches. It’s then you realize that they’re growing everywhere. There’s a color symphony, and quail provide the background music with calls as they stake out their territory. It’s the best time to live in the Sonoran Desert.

When Fred and I were out taking photos in Black Canyon a couple of weeks ago, I saw lots of brittlebush growing in the lava rock cracks. Their soft yellow popped against the dark, almost black canyon walls. Since they screamed, “Spring,” I wanted to capture the contrast. Out of the several shots that I took, I liked this week’s image best.

In the shot that I call Lava Tube and Brittlebush, three plants were growing below a gaping void in the rocks. I believe it’s a tunnel that formed when the molten magma lost pressure then receded. It’s just like when you were little, and your older brother tortured you by pinning you to the floor then drooled over your face but sucked the spit back at the last moment. The threat was always worse than the spit. Oh! By the way, on your first desert visit, inevitably someone will tell you, “Don’t sick your hand into any place you can’t see.” The lava tube is an excellent example of what they mean. I tried to get Fred to see if he could find any rattlers in there, but he refused. He was no fun at all.

Oh, if you’re wondering how brittlebush got the name, here’s an example of how they look after a couple of weeks without water.

You can see a larger version of Lava Tube and Brittle Bush 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 a different Arizona site.

Until next time — jw

George’s Camp Picture of the Week

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 Tee Pee — 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.

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.

Until next time — jw

Rock Frog Picture of the Week

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.

Until next time — jw

Sleeping Under the Stars Picture of the Week

There’s something wonderfully romantic about how cowboys spent evenings eating beans around a fire before laying out their bedrolls and sleeping under the stars. It makes me wonder if I would have been any good riding a fence line. I love the outdoors, campfires, looking at the stars, and dreaming of the ladies back in town (sigh). I can assure you that I could never do that because the last horse I got on said, “oof” and sleeping on the ground has rocks, snakes, spiders, scorpions, skunks, and rabid chipmunks—not to mention the inclement weather.

Queen Anne and I still enjoy getting out in the wilderness; we just bring half of the house with us. For some reason, I sleep very well in our little Casita trailer. She has two layers of foam over the cushions that make into a full-size bed, and when I crawl under our down coverlet, my eyes slam shut faster than a mouse trap. As I lie next to my love and wrestle for more space, I listen to her rhythmic breathing. The hypnotic cadence is a mantra luring me to dreamland—until she misses a gear and sounds like a manual transmission exploding. But, she stops as soon as I nudge her to roll over.

All of this is fresh in my mind because we’re recently back from spending the week in the KofA Wildlife Refuge with The Ritz—our trailer. We succeeded in getting more images to finish up with this month’s topic but concluded that there is a lot more to the KofA range than a couple of blog posts. I think it may need to be a long-term project.

This tip was the first time we used the trailer in winter, and although the days were sunny, the wind blew, and the nights were colder than our Alaska trip. We had to use its heater at night. Even though we set the thermostat to 58º, it still came on often and blared at 85_dB. The first time it came on, it made that burning dust smell and I thought we were going to die of carbon monoxide poising, so I opened the windows, which was counterproductive. Like all furnaces, the smell cleared eventually and we stopped jumping every time it started. Even with that racket, I slept until sun up.

We spent two days exploring and shooting photos at the refuge, and on the last day, the wind died, so we were able to use a week’s worth of wood for a fire. We ate brats, drank rich cocoa, and roasted marshmallows for jimmyums over the burning logs. Its warmth kept us outside long enough that the stars came out—all of them. We stared at Mars so hard that it began darting across the sky until we looked through binoculars and proved it wasn’t doing that. Finally, the creamy streak of the Milky Way began to reveal itself and forced me to set up my camera.

This week’s featured image is the result of that effort. It’s called KofA Milky Way, and I shot it from our campsite. The bright spots on the ground are from the next camp. The mountain is Signal Peak silhouetted against the lights of Phoenix—150 miles to the east. The constellation Orion is center-right, and Pegasus with the Andromeda galaxy would be overhead, but the fire died, and the cold chased us inside before we could find it.

As usual, you can see a larger version of KofA Milky Way 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 Arizona.

Until next time — jw