Sundad: Six Theories and a Circle of Rust Pictures of the Month: Sundad, Arizona

Aerial photo of triangular rock art near Sundad, Arizona, featuring an anchor, star, circles, and the word 'SUNDAD' spelled in stones
Anchor, Star, and Circle: Cryptic Rock Art at Sundad’s Gateway – An aerial view of the triangular stone glyphs that greet visitors entering Sundad from Agua Caliente Road. The arrangement—star, anchor, and cryptic symbols—suggests a coded history waiting to be read.

I Didn’t Set Out to Solve a Mystery. I Just Wanted to See the Rocks.

Some people are drawn to ghost towns. Others chase old roads or abandoned buildings. Me? I follow the rocks.

Rock formations of any kind are my kryptonite. I can’t resist them—especially when human hands have arranged them in some message, symbol, or cosmic doodle. Maybe it’s the geometry. Perhaps it’s the mystery. Maybe I was just dropped on my head near a petroglyph as a child.

Over the years, we’ve chased plenty of these:

    • The Blythe Intaglios, massive geoglyphs scratched into the desert crust near the Colorado River.
    • The stone maze in Palm Canyon, deep in the Kofas, where someone went full Minotaur without leaving a forwarding address.
    • A hidden plaza beneath Dome Rock, where a dedicated boondocker has spent years—maybe decades—rearranging flat stones into a labyrinthine camp patio, complete with walls, paths, and what we think was a meditation corner (or perhaps a solar oven).

So when I saw a video that casually mentioned “rock art” outside of Sundad, I was already halfway in the car. Another mystery. Another pattern in the dust. Another chance to squint at the desert and wonder what kind of mind says, “Yeah, this is a good place for a star made of gravel.”

What I didn’t expect was a full-blown investigation—one that involved half-buried relics, bad land deals, maybe a smuggling ring, and the only known resident ever to leave town after everyone else.

I didn’t set out to solve a mystery. I just wanted to see the rocks.

But when Clouseau and Watson (the Costco version) hit the backroads of Arizona, there’s always a case to crack—even if it’s made entirely of basalt and lies.

That’s when the detective hats came out. Figuratively, anyway.

Anne donned her travel tiara—a double-sided unit with built-in ear flaps adorned with diamonds, because she insists they improve reception. I tied my shoes (eventually), and we declared ourselves ready for fieldwork. The Case of the Stone Circles had officially begun.

I may have had the obsession with rock formations, but Anne, true to her Watson role, has the gift of noticing what others ignore. Where I charge in looking for the weird and the wonderful, she’s the one who points out the thing that’s been right in front of us all along. She doesn’t try to solve mysteries; she just quietly sees them forming. Which, come to think of it, is precisely what a good detective—and a better travel companion—does.

The Drive Out – In Which We Pursue the Phantom Town

If you were trying to pick a spot in Maricopa County that felt as far from civilization as legally allowed, you’d probably land at Sundad. It’s pinned like a forgotten thumbtack between I-10 and I-8—right where your cell signal dies of thirst and your GPS gives up and asks if you’ve considered turning back.

I had braced for an all-day slog over jagged mining roads—visions of rock gardens, tire-piercing shale, and the Turd’s new backroad treads earning their keep. I even pre-warned Queen Anne that lunch might consist of a warm protein bar and a view of the tow truck.

But the Agua Caliente–Arlington Road turned out to be a dirt expressway—broad, smooth, and graded like the county grader just needed something to do. Anne’s “gutless wonder” could’ve floated down it like a shopping cart in neutral. We didn’t pass a soul on the way in, and I suspect we doubled the traffic count for the year just by showing up.

Eventually, though, the express lane ends, and the real Sundad begins. If you want to see what’s left of the town—or at least its artistic ambitions—you’ll need a high-clearance vehicle, four-wheel drive, or a good pair of Merrells for the final mile and a quarter.

I chose the first option. Anne chose sarcasm.

Exhibit A: The Desert Sanatorium That Wasn’t

According to Arizona Place Names, Sundad was “once proposed as a desert sanatorium.” That’s it. That’s the entry. No dates, no founders, no grand opening ceremonies. Just a vague proposal and a note that “the origin of the name has not yet been ascertained.”

Which is fair, because the origin of the town hasn’t been ascertained either.
If there was ever a medical facility here, it left no trace. No plumbing. No foundation. No ruins—unless you count the rusty bedframe half-buried in gravel, which may have belonged to a patient or a prospector, depending on how optimistic you’re feeling. …And yet… there is a large metal tank at the townsite, tipped on its side like a fallen silo. It looks like the kind of water tank you’d use to feed a well—or at least the kind you’d bring in if you were pretending to have a well. It’s the first piece of evidence that suggests someone made an honest attempt, however half-hearted.

Still, building a desert sanatorium without reliable water is like opening a hospital with no bandages. It’s possible someone tried. It’s just as likely that someone merely talked about trying and hoped the desert would do the rest.

The real TB sanatoriums in Arizona—Sunnyslope, Papago Park, Oracle—had infrastructure, funding, and staff. Sundad had… potential. Or maybe just the silence to dream out loud before the sun cooked the idea into vapor.

Drone photo of a five-point star made of stones with a blue-glass center, surrounded by desert terrain near Sundad, Arizona
Desert Star with Blue Glass Center – Sundad’s Mysterious Symbols – A five-point stone star with a blue glass center marks the desert floor near Sundad, Arizona. This recurring motif suggests intentional symbolism lost to time.

Exhibit B: The Health Spa Without Water

After the sanatorium idea dried up—likely before it even got wet—someone must’ve decided Sundad needed a new pitch. Enter: Stanley J. Pickleton (we changed the names to protect the guilty), land promoter, wellness visionary, and enthusiastic liar.

We have no formal record of Stan, but you can feel his presence. This has all the hallmarks of his era: promises of curative mineral waters, vague maps with dashed-line access roads, and the kind of flyer that uses too many exclamation points and phrases like limited investment opportunity!!

According to lore, an ad in the Tucson Newspaper (and possibly wishful thinking), Sundad was once marketed as a mineral spa paradise—a bubbling fountain of wellness tucked into the warm embrace of the Arizona desert. Never mind that the only moisture here is the condensation on your water bottle. There’s no spring, no stream, no oasis—just sand, gravel, and a metal tank that may have once held hope—or diesel.

Nearby Agua Caliente, once a real hot spring resort, has since dried up. That, at least, had a reason to exist. Sundad feels like it was built on the reputation of having heard about Agua Caliente once at a bar.

But this didn’t stop Stan. I imagine his pitch went something like:
“You there—yes, you! Are you tired of city smog? Chronic fatigue? Excess bone marrow? Come to Sundad, where the air is dry, the scenery is rustic, and the mineral content of the sand is second to none!”

He probably sold ten plots to a dentist in Des Moines and a preacher from Dubuque before moving on to his next venture—possibly underwater cactus farming.

Like the sanatorium, the mineral spa left no trace but rumor and rust. Still, in a place like Sundad, even a ghost of an idea leaves a shadow. Don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty of mineral water out here, but it’s instant. Just scoop up a glassful from the wash bottom—and add water.

Exhibit C: Mining or Misinformation?

Great mining towns all have one thing in common: minerals worth mining. But the great ones also have something even more valuable—something rare, precious, and not found in abundance at Sundad.

Water.

Need we say more?

There was mining here. You’ll find a few old shafts, collapsed timbers, and rusted cans scattered around the perimeter like leftovers from an abandoned science fair project. However, none of the mines are deep, none of the tailings are impressive, and none of the known claims have ever recorded actual ore being processed.

This wasn’t a bonanza. It was a maybe.

When I was a kid, I watched The Lone Ranger—and yes, I’m old enough to admit that without irony. In one episode, a couple of smooth-talking swindlers fired gold bullets into a cave wall, then tried to sell the claim as the next great strike. That kind of stunt may sound ridiculous, but it’s not far off from how most desert mining towns began—or ended.

For the record, the average prospector in Arizona found just enough gold to make one bullet. Maybe two, if he didn’t eat much. Which makes you wonder how many bullets were found in Sundad’s rock walls.

So yes, there was mining here. But it wasn’t serious. It was more like someone tried to look serious long enough to convince someone else to buy in and dig deeper. Like everything else in Sundad, the idea of mining here had just enough surface detail to keep the dream alive—but not enough depth to make it real.

Drone image of two stone glyphs in Sundad, Arizona: a left-pointing arrow and a diamond-shaped eye with blue glass center, split by a cracked concrete slab
Symbolic Road Markers in Sundad’s Ghost Town Core – A left-facing arrow and diamond-eye glyph form the second symbolic divider on Sundad’s Main Street. Their shared cracked slab hints at forgotten paths and fractured intentions.

Exhibit D: The Widow Who Waited

For all the wild theories Sundad inspires—spas, communes, and questionable mining operations—only one story is confirmed to have happened here. And it’s stranger for being so unadorned.
In 1966, Velma and Lee Bailey—aged 58 and 77—were the only known full-time residents of Sundad. Retired. Living in a one-room mining shack. No phone. No neighbors. Not a whole lot of exit strategy.

On November 30th, Lee died. Velma, crippled and alone, couldn’t drive the car for help. So she did what anyone in her situation might do: she stayed put and started keeping an hourly diary. She kept his face covered with a cloth, scattered white fabric outside the shack in hopes a passing airplane would spot her, and waited for six days.

When a friend finally came to check on them, she was still there—the last living soul in Sundad.

And that’s what makes her story stand out: not because it’s tragic, or even mysterious. But because it’s provably real. In a town filled with speculation and rust, Velma Bailey happened. She’s the footnote every other theory tries and fails to become.

Why they chose Sundad for retirement is anyone’s guess. Maybe Lee had a lust for gold, or perhaps they just wanted to be left alone. However, it raises an essential geological point: the area is mostly basalt, not granite—meaning gold wasn’t exactly in abundance here, which makes you wonder if Lee was chasing riches, or just chasing the idea of being a prospector in a place nobody else wanted.

Either way, when Velma finally left, she did something no one else ever managed in Sundad: she turned out the lights.

Exhibit E: Commune of Confusion

After Velma, the shack door was left swinging in the desert breeze. The wind whistled through the cracks, but there was no one left to hear it. Sundad stood empty… for a while.

Then came the Age of Aquarius. Love children were turning off, tuning in, and dropping out. And according to local rumor, some of them dropped into Sundad.

Supposedly, a commune of free spirits moved in to build their desert Nirvana. But even the rumors seem half-hearted, like they were started by someone who wanted to believe the desert still had a use, any use.

Hippies, for the record, had a preferred fleet: converted yellow school buses, sun-bleached VW vans, and Dodge A100s painted with peace signs and daisies. None of which were known for off-road prowess or gas mileage. If you needed groceries, your options were Buckeye, Gila Bend, Yuma, or Blythe—all a hundred miles of rutted road away. And then you had to make it back before your bean sprouts wilted.

As for farming their food? Without groundwater, the only thing you could realistically grow out here was thirsty. There’s no trace of crops—unless they were cultivating spiritual enlightenment. And no signs of livestock unless you count lizards.

Even the foraging options would’ve made Euell Gibbons gag. You can’t live on creosote and mesquite pods unless you’re trying to commune with the emergency room.

So maybe a few wanderers tried it. Maybe they strung up a hammock, stared at the stars, and wrote bad poetry. But if anyone came here to drop out, they dropped right back out as soon as the thermometer hit 110.

If Sundad ever hosted a commune, it didn’t survive its first summer.

Enlightenment needs shade.

Drone photo of large rock circle in Sundad, Arizona with four quadrants, a rusted center, and the photographer’s shadow on the left
Circle of Sundad: Final Glyph and the Shadow of the Storyteller – The final glyph at Sundad’s end of Main Street: a massive four-quadrant circle anchored by rusted metal. The photographer’s shadow reminds us—someone was here to wonder why.

Exhibit G: The Smugglers’ Signature

Let’s take a step back and reexamine the scene.

Sundad is remote—even by Arizona standards. It sits squarely in the middle of nowhere, on public land, far from anything resembling oversight. No ranger station. No historical designation. No fences. Just silence, sun, and speculation.

And yet, the rock art here is oddly meticulous.

Stars, diamonds, arrows, and one enormous circle filled with rusted metal—all laid out with deliberate care. But here’s the twist: these shapes aren’t made to be seen from the ground. They’re aerial designs—high contrast, pale on dark, clearly visible from above.

I was standing at the base of the giant arrow, scanning the horizon like an amateur archaeologist with a directional fetish. It pointed due south—across a stretch of flat nothing—and I saw… well, nothing. Just more gravel. More brush. More questions.

That’s when Anne, standing a few steps behind, shaded her eyes and said,
“What’s that orange thing over there?”

I turned. And there it was—a windsock.

Not old. Not sun-faded. Bright orange—vivid enough to catch her eye and fresh enough to make the whole setup feel suddenly… active.
Mounted on a solitary pipe, fluttering in the breeze, like a signal waiting to be read.

I had missed it completely. She saw it instantly.

That should’ve been the clue. But it gets better. Pull back on Google Earth, and suddenly it becomes obvious—though you could walk across it in person and never think twice. A long, straight strip of desert, running north–south through the center of town, has been subtly but deliberately cleared of large rocks. It’s not a cattle trail. It’s not a mining road—just a narrow corridor, flat and open—a homemade runway.

Crude, yes. But serviceable—for a Piper Cub, helicopter, or ultralight. And in today’s world, you don’t even need a Piper Cub. A drone could do the job—quiet, fast, and invisible from the road. The rock markers are large enough to be spotted from altitude, and the windsock confirms wind direction without requiring a human on the ground. It’s as if the whole setup was designed for someone to find… but not everyone.

A plane could land, unload, and take off—all without passing a house, a ranger station, or a single “No Trespassing” sign. And when it’s done, the rock shapes are still there, ready to guide the next flight in.
And here’s the kicker: no one talks about this.

The rock formations aren’t listed in travel guides. No historical society is trying to preserve them. The authorities aren’t investigating, and the off-road crowd hasn’t chewed them up. They’re undisturbed, unacknowledged, and unofficial.

These aren’t ancient symbols left by long-forgotten tribes. They aren’t folk art from the 1930s. They’re new. Recent. Maybe even 21st-century.
So, if they’re not historical, recreational, or artistic, then what exactly are they?

I’m not saying this was a smuggling airstrip.

But I am saying: if you were going to build one, this is precisely how you’d do it.

Closing Arguments: Who Made the Art?

We came to Sundad to see a ghost town, but instead we found a puzzle made of rocks—stars, diamonds, arrows, and a giant rust-filled circle that anchors the whole site like a sundial built by conspirators or desert poets.

Who made it?

Was it the hippies, laying out cosmic symbols in the dust before their tie-dye melted in the July heat?

Was it boondocking RV’ers, rearranging gravel between solar power checks and sunstroke naps?

Was it aliens, communicating in geometry because they couldn’t get a cell signal either?

Or was it something else? Something more deliberate?

The arrows don’t just point randomly. The wind sock doesn’t hang itself. The runway doesn’t clear its own rocks. It’s all too quiet, too intentional, and—most tellingly—too modern to be folklore.

We don’t know who built it. But we know this: somebody wanted to be seen from the air… and just as easily forgotten on the ground.

And maybe that’s why we came. To find the mystery. To walk the question mark. To leave just enough footprints so the next person knows they’re not the only one who saw it.

Who made the art?

Perhaps the better question is: Who will add to it next?

Personal Reflection / Backroad Philosophy

The backroads don’t always lead to answers. Sometimes they don’t even lead to destinations. But if you pay attention—really pay attention—they often lead to something better: questions worth asking.

Sundad isn’t a ghost town in the usual sense. There were no saloons, no shootouts, no bustling main street slowly fading into history. It never lived long enough to die. Instead, it’s a place built from attempts—a town-shaped shadow of ideas that never quite took root.

A sanatorium without patients. A spa without water. A mine without gold. A commune without crops. And yet, here it still is, marked with symbols someone thought worth laying in stone.

In that way, maybe Sundad wasn’t a town at all.

Maybe it was a mirror—reflecting whatever dream the visitor brought with them: health, wealth, escape, or purpose. If you’re looking for answers, you’ll leave frustrated. But if you’re looking for meaning, you might find just enough scattered across the gravel to spark something.
That’s the art of travel on the backroads: knowing that not every journey needs a conclusion. Sometimes it’s the wandering that sharpens the eye, the silence that tunes the ear. And in places like Sundad, the ones you’ve never heard of, that’s where the real connoisseurs begin to notice the difference between empty and unfinished.

Call to Action: Your Turn, Detective

So what do you think?

Who made the art? Was it a commune? A cartel? A clever retiree with a surplus of rocks and time? The desert’s not saying—but you’re welcome to weigh in.

Drop your theory in the comments. Have you stumbled across a place like Sundad—quiet, forgotten, and full of questions? We want to hear about it.
Arizona’s backroads are stitched with stories that never made the brochures. Ghost towns without ghosts. Towns that never were. And if you’re willing to wander a little off the map, you’ll find them—layered with dust, sun-bleached history, and the occasional conspiracy.

Just remember: explore with respect, leave no trace, and take only pictures. And if you’re struck by the urge to rearrange rocks into cosmic symbols—maybe pick up a patio kit from Lowe’s instead.

The desert has enough mysteries already.

See you on the next trail.
jw

The Listener Pictures of the Month - Cambria, California

Wooden Tudor-style birdhouse covered with thick succulents in a sunlit Cambria Pines Lodge garden.
Tudor-Style Birdhouse Reclaimed by Succulent Garden – The weight of seasons bowed the little cottage, but the plants cheered quietly among themselves — a kingdom without subjects, waiting for the wind.

There’s a window between breakfast and when Queen Anne finishes her transformation sequence. If I don’t use it, I’m trapped in a room full of mirrors, hair product, and decisions about whether navy is “too predictable.”

So I wandered outside—not far, just down the gravel path that winds behind the main building of the Cambria Pines Lodge. The lodge, if you’ve never been, looks like the kind of place where weddings happen at sunset and someone’s cousin eventually ends up in the koi pond. It’s quaint. Rustic. The walls creak in the wind. The wifi creaks all the time.

But the gardens — those are something else.

Most hotels put in landscaping as an afterthought. A few hedges, a lawn, maybe a dying lavender bush in a whiskey barrel. Not here. The gardens came first. Literally, in 1929, a nursery tycoon named Mr. Covell laid out the grounds not to accent a hotel — but to show off his rare plants. The lodge came later, almost as an apology. “Come see my lobelias,” he might’ve said, “and if you get tired, we have rooms.”

Covell was big on juxtaposition. Cactus next to roses. Pines next to palms. I suspect he was the kind of man who called eucalyptus a conversation piece. The grounds still host garden shows and landscaping workshops, and judging by the succulents, he may have been on speaking terms with his next-door neighbor, Randolph Hearst.

Tall, weathered birdhouse with a roof of succulents and trailing plants in a garden setting at Cambria Pines Lodge.
Forgotten Birdhouse: Nature’s New Tenant at Cambria Pines – Like a lighthouse for travelers who no longer came, the tall birdhouse stood wrapped in vines and dreams, waiting for the last sparrow to find it.

That’s Just the Cover Story

Tucked into one of the garden’s shady corners, I found a row of ornate birdhouses, each one weathered and half-swallowed by clusters of succulents. They leaned at odd angles, rooflines buried beneath rosettes of jade and lavender-toned sedum.

“What a clever idea for a planter,” I mumbled aloud.

“That’s just the cover story,” came a familiar gravelly voice — the kind that carried faint traces of the East River, like someone who once tried not to have an accent but never quite pulled it off.

I turned, expecting another guest or maybe a gardener. Instead, I was greeted by a raccoon. An aging one. Standing upright. One arm was draped casually across the arm of a wooden bench. The other? Holding what looked very much like a scale-model Havana cigar.

He gave me a long, squinty look that somehow sparkled while also suggesting he’d already solved three mysteries today. The black patches around his eyes looked like wire-rimmed glasses, and streaks of gray crept along his muzzle like sideburns that had given up.

He was leaning on one of those California garden benches with a name plaque bolted to the backrest. I didn’t look just then; it didn’t seem important at the time.

I blinked. Then, brilliantly: “You’re… a talking raccoon.”

He dragged on the cigar, exhaled nothing, and said,

“We talk all the time. Your kind just never listens.”

Still stunned, I tried to recover.

“Do you talk to all the hotel guests?”

He smirked.

“Mostly, we stay away. But you’re different. You’re weird. And your wife wears a plastic tiara to breakfast, so you’re probably somebody.” The name’s Rocky,” he said, puffing on the cigar that didn’t burn. “But around here my folk call me George… for some reason.”

I nodded like that explained something.

“Hi, I’m Jim. What do you mean the planters are a cover story? A cover story for what, exactly?”

George squinted at me with something between pity and amusement.

“For the truth,” he said. “And believe me—you don’t want to know how deep the mulch goes.”

“Try me,” I shot back.

George twirled his twig-sized cigar in the air like a conductor about to cue the string section.

“Don’t you notice anything missing?”

I glanced around, hoping something obvious would jump out. But the garden looked perfectly normal. Impossibly curated, even.

“No,” I said. “Things look… perfect.”

“That’s because you’re looking with your eyes and not your ears,” George said, already disappointed.

“Don’t you notice how strangely quiet it is?”

“Yeah. I like that.”

He sighed through his nose, as if I’d just missed the whole point of the universe.

“No, Curly — don’t you notice there’s no songbirds?

Weathered birdhouse with a roof of succulents and moss, blending into a garden at Cambria Pines Lodge.
Succulent Roof Birdhouse: Cambria’s Quiet Garden Relic – Once tended by human hands, the little birdhouse stood patient and proud, crowned by wild succulents, waiting for life to find it again.

When the Garden Was Loud

George adjusted his posture like he was settling in for a fireside story, minus the fire.

“Before the silence, we had sparrows. Bluebirds. Thrushes. Finches, even. We were lousy with melody back then. Whole mornings would pass in song battles. Territory disputes settled with harmony instead of feathers.”

“That house over there?” he said, pointing at the fanciest birdhouse in the shade. “Used to be the zoning office. Mostly disputes about nest overhangs and who was allowed to hang wind chimes. The wrens ran it — fair but strict.”

I blinked. “You’re saying… the birds had a council?”

“A council, a housing board, three choirs, and an amateur seed-throwing league,” George said flatly. “It wasn’t perfect. But it was alive.”George paused, reached up with his free paw, and pushed at the fur around his eye like he was adjusting a pair of nonexistent glasses — the kind he probably wore in a past life. The gesture landed like a punctuation mark.

“Then the humans stopped tending the feeders. The suet dried up. The fountains got slimy. The bluebirds were the first to leave. Then the thrushes. The rest followed.”

He paused.

“The pigeons?” I asked, curious.

George shook his head. “Pigeons are just sparrows with gambling problems. They moved to Pacoima. Haven’t been back since the peanut debt scandal.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t.

“That was the mayor’s house,” George said. “She ran three feeder disputes and one mating scandal out of there. “

‘Sup George

We were just starting to hit a rhythm — George waxing poetic about bird bureaucracy, me barely keeping up — when a voice drifted in from our right.

“‘ Sup, George.”

It came from a small coastal mule deer standing half in the shade of a low juniper. I say “standing,” but he was slouched. Hard to tell if he had antlers — his hoodie was pulled so low it covered his eyes, and the sleeves hung well past his knees.

“Hey, Daryll,” George replied, barely turning his head.

Then, leaning toward me, he added in a hushed voice,

“He thinks he’s a celeb ’cause one of his kin starred in a movie a long time ago. They still run it on PBS during pledge week. It’s too violent for me. They shoot the mother.”

“Why’s he dressed like a punk?” I asked. “He does know he can’t run with his pants that low, right?”

George didn’t answer. Just stared after him with the quiet sadness of someone who’s already tried. George shrugged.

“Had a vape habit. Rehabbed in Morro Bay. These days, he mostly plays Candy Crush on his phone and wanders the neighborhood with his pants halfway down his backside. Says it’s a ‘statement.’ I think it’s just bad elastic.”

Daryll didn’t say anything else. He just nodded toward us like he might return later, then vanished behind a hedge, earbuds in, and his tail barely twitching.

Old wooden barn-shaped birdhouse with broken boards, nestled among garden plants at Cambria Pines Lodge.
The Last Barn: Crumbling Birdhouse in Cambria Pines – Long after the songs had faded, the empty barn waited, its timbers whispering to the wind, keeping watch for travelers who never came.

The Scout and the Succulents

George’s voice dropped lower as we walked, like he didn’t want the garden itself to hear.

“It’s not about shelter,” he said. “We’ve got roofs. Shade. Free mulch. But they didn’t leave because of housing. They left because the world got… wrong.”

“Wrong how?”

“Thin, he said. “The sky tasted funny. You know how the air gets before a storm? It felt like that, but all the time. The bluebirds left first. Then the wrens. Even the finches packed it in.”

He paused near the second birdhouse — the tall, elegant one, its wooden walls still proud beneath a crown of trailing succulents.

“Funny you say that,” I offered. “I saw a bluebird this morning. Took a photo of it at the park across the highway.”

George stopped walking. Didn’t blink.

“You’re lucky,” he said slowly. “That was Indigo Jack.”

He stepped closer to the birdhouse, touching the platform’s edge like he remembered something private.

“That’s where Jack stops when he comes. He doesn’t stay long. Never sings. That’s how we know it’s him.”

Like that Potter kid, I didn’t want to interrupt while Gandalf talked. Not that George had a staff — just a twig that smelled like burnt mulch.

“Jack’s a scout,” George continued. “He flies ahead of the flock. Checks the air, the ground, the trees. Looks for signals. We don’t know what kind. Something in the dirt, maybe. A rhythm. A scent. A change in temperature. Nobody asks. He wouldn’t tell us anyway.”

He puffed on his cigar for effect, then glanced at me sideways.

“He used to be bright blue. Almost electric. These days, he’s gone a little gray.”

We passed the third birdhouse — the round, bushy one with a dense succulent crown, like a thatched roof overtaken by leafy tentacles.
George pointed at it.

“We think the succulents are listening.”

“Come on.”

He gave me that sideways look again, like I’d just insulted his mother’s potato salad.

“If you ever turn your back on one, they wiggle their stubby arms, doing that thing where they stick their fingers in their ears and blow raspberries.”

I blinked. “How do you know they move?”

“Because we have to send a cleaning crew out every morning to pick up the beer cans after their frat parties.”

Then he looked over his shoulder, lowering his voice:

“There was another scout once. Before Jack. Showed up unannounced. Landed on the gazebo rail like he owned the place.”

“What happened to him?”

“Didn’t stick the landing.”

Not a Song. Not Yet.

The next morning, the garden was still. Not dead — just… held in place. Like the whole place had paused to hear something faint.

I wandered the paths again, slower this time. George was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Daryll. Not even a hummingbird dive-bombed the feeders. Then I heard it — not a song, not even a chirp. Just the soft beat of wings cutting the air. I looked up.

At the far end of the garden, on the oldest birdhouse — a barn-shaped thing collapsing under its memories — a bird had landed. Smaller than Jack. Grayer. Still. She didn’t sing. She didn’t move.

“That’s not Jack,” I whispered.

George appeared beside me like he’d been there all along. He stared at the birdhouse for a long time before speaking.

“She’s one of the listeners,” he said. “They come first. If she sings, it’s too soon.”

He glanced at me, eyes squinting with that familiar gleam.

“If she comes back with company…”

He let the sentence hang.

“… that’s when you’ll know.”

Just then, the unmistakable clank of a garbage can lid echoed faintly through the trees — hollow and metallic, like someone had just uncovered a half-eaten burrito from last night’s wedding reception.

George didn’t flinch.

“Listen, kid,” he said, already turning away. “I’d love to spend the rest of the day talking with you, but that’s my lunch bell.”

He wandered down a rosemary-lined path, disappearing into the green, pausing momentarily to snap off a twig for seasoning.

I stayed in the garden a little longer. Walked the loops again. Let the silence settle. Then I returned to that bench — the one George had leaned on when we first met. The wood was cool. The seat creaked just slightly when I exhaled. I didn’t check my phone.

I didn’t try to understand any of it.

Eventually, I stood and set off to find Queen Anne and start the day’s drive. That’s when I noticed it — the plaque: tarnished brass, just two words.

Goodnight Gracie.

I left the garden changed. Not in a dramatic way — no epiphanies, no flash of purpose. Just a quiet feeling, like someone had handed me a secret I didn’t quite understand yet.

Queen Anne was waiting by the car, looking regal and impatient in her travel tiara, blissfully unaware of the diplomatic tension I’d just witnessed among the local fauna.

As I turned to go, something caught my ear — soft, tentative.

A chirp.

Not a song.

Not yet.

But close.

Thanks for listening with your eyes.
jw

BTW:

Last year, Wickenburg got a stand-alone butcher shop: Capitol Meats. It sells all-natural, hormone-free, grass-fed beef. It’s not cheap, but we saw a line out the door for their hamburgers last Saturday, so we got in.

The line moved fast: one woman on the register, four guys on the flattop. We split a $15 burger and waited. While I wandered the shelves, I had a full-on epiphany: nothing was packaged in plastic or aluminum. There was nothing to recycle—just honest food in glass and paper. I caved and bought two small jars of truffle-infused mayo. Who needs a pig anymore?

When the burger arrived and we took our first bite, we moaned in stereo. The forward flavor? Beef. Real beef. Everything else was backup singers.
If your favorite burger joint wins you over with secret sauce, you don’t know what you’re missing.

Highly recommended. Just… don’t crowd it up.

The Gutless Wonder Rides Again: Romance, Road Trips & Real Chardonnay Pictures of the Month: Cambria, California

Close-up of twisted trunks and exposed roots of Monterey Pines shaped by coastal winds at Moonstone Beach in Cambria, California
Rooted in Wind: Monterey Pines Shaped by the Coastal Breeze – A tangle of weathered trunks and roots from Monterey Pines near Moonstone Beach in Cambria, California. These coastal trees are shaped by years of persistent wind, creating a natural sculpture garden just steps from the Pacific.

When I first met Queen Anne all those years ago—shortly after she finished planting the redwoods—she worked for Eastern Airlines and wore a t-shirt that read, “Marry me and fly free!” I fell for it. And while the days of jetting around the world on pass-rider status are long gone, her forty-plus years in the travel industry still pay off now and then. She’s on a mailing list reserved for travel professionals, and every so often, it offers what they call a fam trip—a discounted stay meant to help agents get acquainted with resorts. One of our favorite hits each spring: the Cambria Pines Lodge, perched just above our favorite beach town on California’s Central Coast. The moment it shows up in her inbox, we’re packing the car.

Fuel Calculations and the Gutless Wonder

Since it’s a ten-hour drive to the coast, I like to get an early start. That way we can check in, pick up a bottle of local wine, and still make it to dinner without looking like we crawled out of a dust storm. Knowing Anne would grumble from bed to passenger seat, I set the alarm for 5:30. Once she’s strapped in with her seatbelt, I know she won’t wake up again until Barstow. So, under the cover of darkness, we pointed her Corolla west, dodging the Gordian Knot known as Los Angeles.

Although the Turd’s gas mileage isn’t bad for an SUV, we always take the Gutless Wonder for California runs. It’s lighter on fuel and easier on the wallet when you hit those dreaded Golden State pump prices. Typically, I top off the tank before crossing the Colorado, but this time I got cocky. I thought, “Maybe, just maybe, we can make it to Barstow on one tank.” We came up 60 miles short, muscling through headwinds fierce enough to stall a freight train.

That’s how we ended up at the Route 66 café in Ludlow, ordering a decent-enough breakfast while I choked down the $6-a-gallon Chevron fill-up.
We were five minutes early pulling into the lodge’s parking lot and checked into our little cottage for the next two nights. It’s a nicely decorated place with neither a heater nor air conditioning—because in Cambria, you rarely need either. Heat, if you want it, comes from a thermostat-controlled fireplace. Now that’s ambiance. If that flickering blue flame doesn’t scream romance, I don’t know what does.

Our package included a generous room discount, breakfast, and one dinner at the lodge’s restaurant—including a bottle of house wine. We always save that dinner for our second night, once the road buzz wears off and we feel more civilized.

Western Bluebird perched on a weathered wooden picnic table in a grassy park near Moonstone Beach, California
Picnic with a Bluebird: Unexpected Wildlife Along Moonstone Beach – A brilliantly colored Western Bluebird lands on a weathered picnic table in a Cambria park, offering a rare close-up of its vivid plumage in morning light.

Buffet by Name, Rubber by Nature

Over the years, we’ve developed a good working routine for these photo holidays. I get up before the crack of dawn, fumbling around in the dark trying not to wake her—don’t poke a snoring bear—and sneak out to shoot pictures. When I return, she’s up and almost ready to hold court. Then we’re off for breakfast and a bit of sightseeing.

In Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare wrote:

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

If you read between the iambs, this is his way of telling Juliet, “Hey, you’re not a bad-looking chick—for a Montague.”

I think he was wrong, though. Some names carry powerful magic. Take the word buffet. No matter how classy the restaurant tries to be, the moment you slap breakfast in front of buffet, the spell kicks in: the eggs turn to rubber, the potatoes are somehow both overcooked and undercooked, the sausage loses all flavor, and the butter comes in those annoying foil wrappers that belong in a church basement potluck.

Personally, I’d rather skip it and hit a Denny’s.

“But they’re free,” Anne argues.

“They’re awful,” I counter.

“But they’re free.”

Why can’t someone offer an all-you-can-eat ahi tuna Benedict, savory crepes, or chicken and waffles? I’m convinced a dedicated S.E. Reykoff truck delivers these sad trays to every lodge, hotel, and conference center in the country. You could blindfold the cook, and it’d taste the same.

Early morning view looking south over Moonstone Beach in Cambria, California, with waves breaking gently on a rocky shoreline
First Light on Moonstone Beach: South Coast View at Daybreak – From a bluff overlooking Moonstone Beach, the view south captures the soft glow of early light on the Pacific—a tranquil stretch of sand, rock, and rolling surf.

Chardonnay, Terroir, and ChatGPT’s Finest Hour

Longtime readers know there’s a mandatory stop at a vineyard anytime we’re in California. But thanks to the skyrocketing prices—and the new ritual of reservation-only tastings—we’ve had to revise our modus operandi. Gone are the days of casual roadside discoveries. Now we pick one winery per trip, and we make it count.

This time, I wanted the best return on our investment. So I consulted my new favorite research tool, ChatGPT, which is basically Google with an opinion. I asked it to recommend a vineyard known for its Chardonnays. It—she? he? whatever—suggested a spot way out in Edna Valley called Chamisal Vineyards. It’s a small, private operation tucked so deep into the hills it feels like you need a secret handshake to find the gate.

The estate sits on a weird-shaped plot carved into the ancient talus slopes of the nearby mountains. It’s where geology, botany, and Julia Child all come together. They analyzed their soils and systematically planted each grape varietal to match the dirt. That little ol’ winemaker (kids, ask your grandmother) is probably rolling in his grave with envy.

The tasting bar was handled by two charming young women who knew their wines, poured generously, and smiled like they’d just heard your best joke—even if you hadn’t said anything funny yet.

They poured two Chardonnays for us. First up was their 2023 Estate Bottled, young and vibrant enough to sell me on the first sip—clean, balanced, and already showing promise. But then came the 2021 Califa, and that’s when things got serious. Slightly darker in color with a high, elegant note of lemon reminded me of the wines from the Montrachet region in Bordeaux. That same scar-on-the-memory intensity, born from the soil rather than the barrel.

Those Chardonnays didn’t just speak—they sang. Full-bodied, mineral-kissed, and tuned to that elusive oaky/buttery harmony we’ve been hunting for years. The Califa didn’t just show up—it owned the room like a wine snob with Bourdain’s swagger. We signed up for the wine club on the spot. That’s a commitment—and a compliment.

Great blue heron walking through a grassy park near Moonstone Beach in Cambria, California, lit by soft morning sun
The Park Stalker: A Great Blue Heron Strikes a Pose in Cambria – A great blue heron strolls through a grassy park in Cambria, California, pausing with an almost cinematic stillness—as though waiting for the camera to click.

Scallops, Soap Operas, and Foggy Submarine Surveillance

After our tasting, we raced back to Cambria through the weekday maze for a much-needed nap before dinner. That meal? Another small win. Anne went with the prime rib special—along with every other silver-haired guest in the room—while I rolled the dice on scallops. And they nailed it—the chef’s back in my good graces, at least until breakfast.

With the evening still young, we skipped our usual The Big Bang Theory reruns and drove up the coast to San Simeon. I had big plans—long exposures and dramatic shots of the lighthouse beam slicing through the night.
Instead, I discovered three things:

1. You need more than ambition to pull off night photography.
2. It helps if your tripod isn’t locked in the garage.
3. Sometimes, the best view is the one you don’t try to capture.

So we stayed in the car and watched as the last light faded below the horizon. The windows fogged up a little—not from the ocean air, but from… let’s say, warm conversation. Maybe we saw a whale. Maybe a periscope. Perhaps nothing at all.

But it felt like everything.

Danish Waffles, Rainy Goodbyes, and Strategic Sugar Spikes

The following day, we woke to rain. Cambria seemed just as sad as we were to see us go. After another breakfast from Groundhog Day, we packed up and hit the road.

Rather than endure another ten-hour drive home, we decided to make the return trip a two-day trip. We had one more critical stop to make.
In California, two bakeries qualify as mandatory detours anytime we’re within 200 miles. I wrote about the first—Schat’s in Bishop—last year, and its unforgettable Sheepherder’s Bread. The second is Birkholm’s in Solvang, three hours down the coast. They make a pastry straight from the Devil himself: raspberry and cream layered between two sweet, crispy filo crust slabs. I’ve always called them Danish Waffles, but they were labeled French Waffles in the display case. Whatever the nationality, they’re addictive and dangerous. If you eat one in the car, you’ll vacuum up the evidence for weeks.

Being the seasoned pros that we are, we stayed civilized. We sat down, each had one with coffee, and then bought a variety of goodies to test how much would actually make it back to Congress. (Spoiler: not much.) With my blood sugar in orbit, we piled into the car and set out to find a motel before tackling the long, lonely stretch across the Mojave.

Come for the Photos, Stay for the Pastry Talk

Thanks for joining us on this month’s road trip. We hope you had as much fun reading it as we did living it—minus the rubber eggs and $6 gas, of course.

If you’d like to see larger versions of the photos (without crumbs on them), head over to the website: 👉 www.jimwitkowski.com

Do you have thoughts, questions, or a favorite California bakery we haven’t visited yet? We’d love to hear from you. Drop us a comment below—make it quick. The window closes after five days (we must keep the trolls in their caves).

Next month, the Cambria Pines Lodge story gets weird. Let’s say it involves a mushroom garden, a misplaced key, and Queen Anne channeling Agatha Christie.

Keep your humor dry, your spirits high, and your pastries hidden from the Queen.
jw

Chasing Sunrises and Freight Trains on Route 66 Pictures of the Month - Hackberry, Ariozna

A full moon setting over the Cerbat Mountains at dawn, with pastel desert hues, captured from Route 66 near Kingman, Arizona.
Kingman’s Desert Dawn – Moonset Over the Cerbat Range – As we left on historic Route 66, the full moon slowly descended behind the rugged Cerbat Mountains, casting a soft glow over the pastel-colored desert. Sub-freezing temperatures couldn’t stop me from capturing this serene moment after walking a quarter mile to avoid power lines.

Last month, we wrapped up a late shoot in Chloride, and instead of making the long haul home, I had a brilliant idea: stay in Kingman and take the scenic route back through Hackberry, Truxton, and Seligman. That way, we’d get two stories for the price of one—and a night in a classic Route 66 motel. The neon glow of the old motor court signs flickered against the desert sky, whispering echoes of a bygone era when weary travelers pulled off the Mother Road for a night’s rest.

A second advantage to a night in Kingman was more selfish. I love Chinese food and’ll go out of my way for even a mediocre plate of Moo Shu Pork. Since Queen Anne agrees to accompany me on these shoots if I dine with her, I figured the two places in Kingman were better than what we have at home. Although the food was good and plentiful, she was miffed that they didn’t have her wine. She wouldn’t be able to have her guilt-free, cut-loose-on-the-bar kind of evening. But that’s alright because, unbeknownst to her, we had an early morning ahead—and you can’t Go-go dance to Chinese music.

The Great Hackberry Jewelry Heist (That Never Happened)

I wanted to shoot Hackberry in the rising sun, and since the famous Route 66 stop was a 30-minute drive from Kingman, I planned for us to leave in the dark. But convincing Anne to wake up before dawn takes either divine intervention or a well-crafted lie. I went with the latter.

“Did you know the Hackberry General Store has a hidden estate jewelry section?” I asked. “And the best deals are right when they open?”

The bait was set.

We were up before sunrise. Anne may never trust me again, but sacrifices must be made. She mumbled something about the unholiness of pre-dawn hours as she sleepwalked to the car, clutching her Diet Coke like a life preserver.

Beakfast Burritos and a Moonset

We left so early that even the motel’s complimentary continental breakfast wasn’t awake yet. So, we made a pit stop at Maverik because nothing says “fuel for adventure” like a gas station, breakfast burrito, or coffee strong enough to remove paint.

The scent of sizzling eggs and chorizo mingled with gasoline fumes as I fueled up the Turd (our trusty RAV4). The heater started working around the Kingman Airport, just after Andy Devine Avenue fades into Old Route 66. That’s also when the dashboard began flashing “Icy Road Warning.” The ever-dramatic car decided to alert us that we had ventured into the Arctic. It was in the 20s, and we were suddenly on an expedition neither of us signed up for.

Then I saw it—a full moon setting over the Cerbat Range. The lunar glow bathed the craggy peaks in an ethereal silver light. It was the kind of scene that makes photographers pull over on a whim. But there were power lines. Ugly, unavoidable power lines. I fought with myself about stopping, but in the end, I found a gate and stopped the truck. Walking up to it, I bent over and shoved my body through the opening as gracefully as a fat man wearing two sweaters and an insulated jacket could, then walked another eighth of a mile to get the shot. Anne, meanwhile, stayed in the car, watching me with a smirk.

“I was just waiting for you to get stuck,” she admitted.

“Why, did you think you’d need to go get help?”

“No, I was going to head back to the motel and finish my night’s sleep.”

Freedom on the Open Road

There’s a reason I prefer taking back roads. It’s not about getting there faster but about being free to drive the way you want. Out here, the road stretches for miles, uninterrupted. There is no wall of semis, no impatient tailgaters, and no high-speed herd mentality.

I was reminded of this on the Alcan Highway in the Yukon, driving my old Mercedes ML 350 diesel. On those endless roads, you didn’t just have a passing lane—you had the whole countryside. You could gradually pull into the other lane, ease past a slower car, and merge back without drama.
That’s the beauty of this section of Route 66—one of the few long, well-maintained stretches left. The others have faded into history, lost to time and neglect. You’re not in a rush—you’re just enjoying the drive.

A Golden Sunrise and a Locked Door in Hackberry

Rustic Hackberry General Store at sunrise with a weathered patrol car and classic gas station signs, capturing Route 66 nostalgia in Arizona.
Rust and History: Sunrise at Hackberry General Store – Arriving at sunrise, we caught Hackberry General Store bathed in golden light, its rusted cop car gleaming like a relic from a bygone era of Route 66. Trading shopping for perfect lighting, we captured this slice of Americana before the world woke up.

We arrived in Hackberry just as the sun cleared the horizon, spilling golden light over the cracked pavement and rusted relics. The timing was perfect. The store, however, was closed for another three hours. Anne was less than pleased.

Anne scowled at the locked door.

“Oh, honey,” I consoled, trying to sound convincing, “I wanted you to see all their fabulous antique jewelry. I’m so sorry. We’ll have to come back another time.”

Her silence was deafening.

Meanwhile, I got my shots—rusted gas pumps, vintage signs, an old patrol car straight out of a noir film. Hackberry General Store isn’t just a shop; it’s a time capsule of Route 66, stuffed to the rafters with kitsch. Route 66 place mats, belt buckles, neon clocks, and car posters—most likely all made in China. If you ever needed a flaming skull ashtray or a bottle opener shaped like a ’57 Chevy, this would be the place to find it.

Racing a Freight Train Across the Desert

Vintage gas station with faded signage and classic Route 66 fuel pumps in Truxton, Arizona, bathed in morning sunlight.
Timeless Gas Stop – Truxton Service Station in Morning Light – The Truxton Service Station still stands on the south side of Route 66, a rare remnant of a bygone era where travelers stopped for fuel and conversation. The sun casts warm morning light on its weathered sign and vintage gas pumps, keeping history alive in the Arizona desert.

As we rolled east, we picked up a new travel companion—an eastbound freight train. It became a game of leapfrog. We’d catch up to the lead engine, pass it, stop ahead to grab another shot, then watch as it rumbled by again—only to start the chase all over. Wash, rinse, repeat, like having John Henry as a sidekick. Anne was convinced she knew the engineer’s kids’ names when we reached Ash Fork. Probably their dog’s name, too. Any longer, and we’d have been invited to Thanksgiving.

Lost History Along Route 66: Truxton to Peach Springs

Faded blue Frontier Motel sign with peeling paint and a vintage café mural in Truxton, Arizona, along Route 66.
Neon Nostalgia – Frontier Motel’s Faded Glory on Route 66 – The weathered Frontier Motel sign is a faded reminder of Truxton’s Route 66 heyday, its peeling blue paint a testament to decades of sun and wind. A small sign nearby marks the Beale Wagon Road—an unexpected historical twist I never knew existed, but now I want one for myself.
Beale Wagon Road sign with Route 66 and Will Rogers Highway street signs in a rural Arizona setting
Tracing the Old West: Beale Wagon Road’s Legacy

Next up, Truxton. We shot the Truxton Gas Station (still open occasionally) and the Frontier Motel, one of the larger lodgings from Route 66’s heyday. A smaller placard marking the Beale Wagon Road was hanging below the motel’s sign. I had written about Edward Beale’s adventures before, but I never knew there were actual signs marking his route. And now that I do? I want one.

We continued east, hoping to photograph two buildings listed on the National Register of Historic Places—the Indian school west of Peach Springs and the historic Shell Station in Peach Springs with its distinct rock-wall façade. The school, a stark reminder of an era when Native children were removed from their families, stands as an important, if painful, piece of history. The Hualapai Tribe recently received grant money to restore both sites, but when we arrived, they were surrounded by construction equipment—not exactly photogenic. Oddly, there wasn’t a worker in sight. Whether it was a funding delay, a supply chain holdup, or just the usual bureaucratic red tape, we couldn’t say. We know that it gives us another excuse to return to the Mother Road (as if we need one).

Between Peach Springs and Seligman, we passed a stretch of restored Burma Shave signs, their playful rhymes adding a touch of nostalgia to the drive. We couldn’t resist reading them aloud in unison as we came across them, like a couple of hopeless jerks, laughing at every corny punchline.

Why You Should Take This Route 66 Road Trip

If you’ve never driven this stretch of Route 66, you should. And if you need an excuse, there’s no better time than the annual Hot Rod show. This rolling event brings classic cars to Seligman, Kingman, Oatman, and Needles, turning each town into a pop-up car show. (The Route 66 Fun Run will occur May 2–4, 2025. This 35th annual event covers a 140-mile drive from Seligman to Topock/Golden Shores, featuring events in nearly every community along the way, a car show in downtown Kingman on Saturday, and an award ceremony in Topock/Golden Shores. More details can be found on the Historic Route 66 Association of Arizona’s website: Route 66 Fun Run.

Even if you don’t go for the cars, go for the drive. Route 66 is a road worth slowing down for.

Final Thoughts

Thanks for riding along with us on this Route 66 adventure! As always, larger versions of these photos are in the New Work collection on our website: www.jimwitkowski.com/newWork.

We’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a comment—but be quick, as comments close after five days (thanks to the bad guys).

Be sure to join us next month when we dash to the coast for another adventure—you won’t want to miss it!

Until then, keep your spirits high and your humor dry.
jw

Backroad Gold: The Art and Abandoned Mines of Chloride Pictures of the Month - Chloride, Arizona

Chloride Downtown Historic Buildings Post Office and Antique Store
Chloride’s Last Standing Originals: A Post Office and Antique Store – Three historic survivors of Chloride’s fiery past mark the heart of the small town’s original downtown. The white structure serves as the town’s active post office, while the other two—an antique store and an unused building—stand as quiet reminders of a resilient history.

We’re always looking for fresh material to share with you, so I turned to my trusty wall map and noticed a glaring gap in our travels—Mohave County. Curious, I paired my map-gazing with a quick Google search and a nudge from my AI brainstorming partner, ChatGPT.

“Besides Bullhead City—which, let’s face it, is mostly about gambling—what’s worth exploring in Mohave County?” I asked.

The response? “Chloride.”

“Chloride? Why Chloride?” I countered.

The answer? “Get off your duff and go find out yourself.”

Suddenly, it felt like I was stuck between two Queen Annes, demanding action and sass in equal measure. With that, the adventure began.

The Road to Chloride.

Thinking about the journey to Chloride made me shudder. Traffic at the I-40 and US 93 junction is always a nightmare, with semis and cars lined up for miles waiting to transition. And there’s always that one clown in a big rig who turns right onto 93, then immediately swings left to reach the Flying J. It’s like a slow-motion ballet of bad decisions.

Surprisingly, when I braced for the worst, the roadwork wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined. They’re already building a bypass around town, going to Coyote Pass, where the freeway picks up north of Kingman. For once, progress felt like it was helping.

Back then, US 93 was a rutted, narrow, two-lane road where only the brave dared pass. Now, it’s a rutted, crowded four-lane highway with so many potholes that you must dodge; you’d be foolish to speed down it. Even my trusty Turd struggles to keep up with the mad rush to throw money away in Vegas. Semi-trucks blink their headlights at me as if to say, “Move it, grandpa!”

US 93 cuts through a vast desert basin known as Golden Valley, flanked by the Cerbat Mountains to the east and one of Arizona’s many Black Ranges to the west. The valley’s name hints at riches, but today, it’s primarily low-density sprawl—cheap land attracting slow but steady growth. However, this is still the Mohave Desert, and with limited rainfall, water is a growing concern for the area’s future.

An alpine-style gas station in Chloride, Arizona, with vintage gas pumps, narrow-gauge tracks, and nostalgic yard art under a decorative portico.
Alpine Gas Pumps: A Nostalgic Stop in Chloride’s History—This alpine-style gas station in Chloride, Arizona, is staged with nostalgic yard art and vintage gas pumps to recreate its historic glory. Narrow-gauge tracks circle the building, possibly repurposed from ore cars, adding to the building’s unique character and charm.

Chloride the Town.

Chloride proudly claims to be Arizona’s oldest continuously inhabited mining town, with roots dating back to 1863. However, mining didn’t boom until the 1870s, when a treaty was signed with the Hualapai Indians, allowing for more significant expansion. By 1917, the town’s population peaked at around 2,000, but by 1944, mining had declined, and Chloride teetered on the edge of becoming a ghost town.

Not that the current residents see it that way. Unlike places like Jerome or Oatman, which fully embrace their ghost town status, Chloride’s locals still treat it as a living, breathing community—even if it’s quieter these days.

Chloride gets its name from the chloride compounds mined here, which have historically been used in chemical warfare, medical applications, and industrial processing. Various chloride forms have been used for everything from hospital disinfectants and intravenous solutions to de-icing roads and manufacturing plastics. The US military even experimented with chloride-based compounds for early chemical warfare research.

When the first mine played out, a more extensive operation opened several miles south, and many of the original miners commuted rather than relocated. Today, the new mine still creates rush-hour traffic jams during shift changes.

Much like my hometown of Congress, the town’s population is aging, and there’s no new construction. The nearest grocery store is 35 miles away in Kingman, and the closest Costco requires a road trip to Las Vegas. Local businesses include a restaurant, a B&B, and a gas station, where the prices are as inflated as a carnival balloon.

Antique stores dot the town, though most wares are old mining relics rather than fine china. And while the air is fresh, thanks to constant winds, the lack of rainfall in this part of the Mohave Desert makes long-term growth challenging.

Overview of Roy Purcell’s murals in Chloride, Arizona, showcasing a central cosmic-themed mural surrounded by smaller painted rocks in the Cerbat foothills.
Roy Purcell’s Milky Way of Art: Chloride’s Largest Mural Panel – An expansive overview of Roy Purcell’s murals in the Cerbat Mountain foothills near Chloride, Arizona. The central mural, bursting with vibrant colors and cosmic imagery, is surrounded by smaller painted rocks, creating a visual galaxy that echoes Purcell’s vision of interconnectedness between humanity, nature, and the cosmos.

The Murals: The Secret Reason to Visit Chloride.

The murals are the real reason to detour off the highway and visit Chloride. Yet, the locals don’t seem to market them at all. There’s no sign on US 93 pointing the way, and if it weren’t for a few boulders painted with rough directions, you might never find them.

Just before stepping into the Chloride visitor center—which also happens to be the town store—we crossed paths with a man straight out of a ZZ Top album cover.

He had a grizzled white beard that tumbled past his chest, sunglasses that hid whatever stories his eyes might tell, and a dusty black cowboy hat that had seen some miles. His Dickies overalls were well-worn, and his plaid shirt looked like it had survived a hundred desert suns. He leaned against the store’s porch railing like he had all the time in the world.

We asked about the murals.

“Oh, yeah. Those things,” he said, shifting his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Just go up this road until it turns to dirt. Follow it through the wash if it ain’t flooded, then head up the hill.”

Not exactly GPS coordinates, but we made do.

The murals were first painted in 1966 by Roy Purcell, an artist working in the mines while taking a break from his MFA studies. With little more than house paint and a grand vision, he covered massive boulders with bold colors, cosmic symbols, and surreal imagery, turning the desolate mountainside into an outdoor gallery. In 2006, Purcell returned to restore the murals, brightening them back to their original vibrancy.

After almost 20 years of exposure to the brutal desert sun, wind, and sand, the colors remain as vivid as if they were painted yesterday—a testament to Purcell’s craftsmanship and the enduring magic of this hidden treasure.

The first thing that goes through your mind when you see them is: How did he get up there? Was this guy part goat? The murals span multiple rock faces, tied together by a serpent winding its way up the mountainside. Around the central panels, smaller satellite paintings orbit like star clusters hanging at the edge of the Milky Way.

You can’t stand in one place and take it all in simultaneously. The murals demand movement—walking the viewing area reveals new details from every angle, unfolding like a slow-motion kaleidoscope of color and meaning. In that way, Purcell’s work feels almost Dali-esque; its surreal and shifting forms reveal something different depending on where you stand. Like Picasso’s cubist portraits, each fragment works as part of a greater whole, forcing you to engage with it rather than passively observe.

Roy Purcell described his work as a visual philosophy, blending Eastern and Western ideas into something profoundly personal and universal. In his own words:

“I painted these images as an expression of self-discovery, a synthesis of my studies in Eastern philosophy and Jungian psychology, and an exploration of humankind’s place in the vast order of things.”

A word of warning: Wear good shoes. Trying to scramble over the rocks in Top-Siders, like I did, is a bad idea. Those slick-soled boat shoes might be great for gripping a yacht deck, but they turn you into a human tumbleweed out here. The terrain is steep, uneven, and unforgiving—so unless you have goat-like climbing skills or an excellent sense of balance, plan accordingly.

If rusty yard art and ghost towns are your thing, visit Chloride.
If art and hidden gems are your thing, visit the murals—you’ll be one of Arizona’s insiders.

And if you’re the kind of person who ignores all advice and climbs rocks in boat shoes? Well… at least you’ll have a good story to tell.

Close-up of Roy Purcell’s mural in the Cerbat Mountain foothills, painted adjacent to ancient petroglyphs, respecting historical rock art in Chloride, Arizona.
Respecting History: Roy Purcell’s Mural Adjacent to Ancient Petroglyphs—This is a close-up of Roy Purcell’s mural in the Cerbat Mountain foothills, carefully painted adjacent to ancient petroglyphs. This juxtaposition highlights contemporary artists like Purcell’s respect for historical art, creating a fascinating intersection of cultural expression spanning centuries.

Final Thoughts.

Thanks for joining us on this mountainside adventure and enjoying this two-for-one special on ghost towns and hidden art. If you’d like a closer look at the murals and the town, larger versions of these photos are now posted in my New Work portfolio. They’ll stay there for three months—until something better comes along.

We’d love to hear your thoughts on Chloride, Roy Purcell’s murals, or anything near and dear to your heart—so drop a comment below. But do it soon! We close comments after five days, or we’ll be buried in Cyrillic spam up to our eyeballs.

Come back next month when we take another back road home.

Until then, keep your eyes on the road and your humor dry.
jw