Arizona history – On the road with Jim

Tires, Trails, and Tamarisks: Adventures at Palmerita Ranch Pictures of the Month: Along the Santa Maria River, Arizona

Rustic corral fence with desert bluff and trees at Palmerita Ranch in Arizona. — Corral Fence at Palmerita Ranch Bluff – This rustic corral fence, silhouetted against the rugged bluff of Palmerita Ranch, captures the spirit of Arizona’s ranching legacy. Framed by desert vegetation and illuminated by the warm light of the setting sun, the scene speaks to the enduring harmony between nature and history along the Santa Maria River.

Nearly three years after limping the Turd home from a Las Vegas dealer, it finally earned a new set of shoes. The Turd—our trusty but unglamorous RAV4—had been rolling around on a mismatched set of tires so cheap they probably doubled as floaties in their previous life. The dealer, ever the bargain artist, slapped two new tires on the front and waved off the rears, claiming they were “good enough.” Good enough for what? Ice skating?

Now, I’ll admit, I’m a cheapskate. No, wait—cheapskate is too generous. I’m a cheap-sketeer, proudly waving my coupon flag while riding into battle on a discounted steed. Queen Anne was already less than thrilled about buying an SUV in the first place, so I figured, why spend a penny more than necessary? Besides, I was sure those dealer-installed tires would wear out faster than flip-flops at the Grand Canyon. But to my surprise—and annoyance—they wouldn’t die. One year went by, then another, and finally, this fall, I noticed the wear bars creeping up between the treads like a slow elevator. “Yes!” I cheered. It was finally time.

I took the Turd straight to Tony’s Tire-O-Rama, where Tony recommended a set of beefier tires tough enough for Arizona’s backroads. I didn’t want anything flashy—no oversized doughnuts that scream, “Look at me, I’m compensating!” They’re a smidge wider and taller for an extra half-inch of clearance. The result? It’s subtle but satisfying. The Turd now stands a bit prouder, like a French maître d’ with a slight bow, murmuring, “Ho ho, monsieur, you mistake my purpose.” With these new shoes, I finally have the confidence to tackle sandy washes, rocky trails, and all the Arizona backroads where secret treasures are hidden.

East side of historic adobe homestead at Palmerita Ranch shaded by two large tamarisk trees. — Palmerita Ranch Homestead Shaded by Tamarisk Trees – The east side of the Palmerita Ranch homestead rests in the protective embrace of two towering tamarisk trees, their thick trunks and sprawling branches casting a cooling shadow over the adobe walls. These massive salt cedars, among the largest in the area, tell a quiet tale of resilience, thriving in the arid desert alongside the ranch’s enduring legacy.

Shakedown Cruise to Arizona’s Secret Lake

When I first heard about Palmerita Ranch, a historic homestead nestled in the Alamo Lake area, I knew it was the perfect destination for the Turd’s inaugural off-road adventure on its new tires. Alamo Lake, often called Arizona’s “secret lake” (or perhaps “secret park,” depending on who you ask), sits so far off the beaten path that it feels more like a treasure hunt than a road trip.

The journey began with a drive halfway to Quartzsite, where we turned right at a wide spot in the road named Wenden. From there, we headed north on Alamo Road, threading the Harcuvar Mountains through Cunningham Pass and descending into Butler Valley. I’d only been out this way once before—to photograph a hike in the Mud Cliffs—and I remembered the dirt roads being manageable enough that I didn’t need a tank to navigate them. My main concern this time was the deep sand in the dry washes.

Sure enough, the Date Creek Wash gave us our first test. As the Turd climbed the sandy bank on the far side, I felt a surge of confidence—no need for 4WD here. The extra width and chunky tread on the new tires made light work of the loose sand, even if Queen Anne didn’t quite share my enthusiasm. She grumbled through every bump and rut, reminding me why we call this a “shakedown cruise.”

The real challenge came when we reached the Santa Maria River. The ranch was on the same side of the River as us, but the high bank demanded an entry road that plunged sharply down a rocky, narrow cow path carved into the hillside. The grade was so steep that we couldn’t see the abandoned buildings until we were two-thirds down. Gravel and loose rocks made the descent feel like riding a controlled avalanche. By the time we reached the bottom and prepared for the climb back up, the sun was setting, Anne’s stomach was growling in duet with her commentary, and I decided it was time to engage 4WD to assist. Was it overkill? Maybe. But it got us up the hill faster, and sometimes, survival means knowing when to appease your passengers.

Of course, the entire trip from our house in Congress to the ranch measured precisely 100 miles. Had I been feeling adventurous (read: foolish), I could’ve driven up US 93 for 33 miles and hiked 14 miles down the Santa Maria Riverbed through the Arrastra Mountain Wilderness. But let’s be honest—you know how I feel about hiking.

Back door of Palmerita Ranch house with falling plaster revealing adobe block walls. — Back Door of Palmerita Ranch Exposing Adobe Walls—The back door of the Palmerita Ranch house offers a candid glimpse into the home’s construction, where time and weather have peeled away layers of plaster to expose the raw adobe blocks beneath. This weathered detail tells the story of the ranch’s enduring architecture, built to withstand the harsh desert environment and reflect a bygone era of resourceful craftsmanship.

The Hidden Legacy of Palmerita Ranch

The Valenzuela family, who founded Palmerita Ranch in the 1860s, were a remarkable lineage with roots stretching back to Spanish settlers who arrived in California in the late 1500s. Their eastward migration brought them to the Arizona wilderness, where they built a life of resilience and resourcefulness. As ranchers and homesteaders, the Valenzuelas thrived despite the isolation and arid conditions, raising livestock and cultivating the land with ingenuity and determination. Their story is one of courage, perseverance, and a deep connection to the land that still echoes through the ruins of Palmerita Ranch.

Palmerita Ranch sits quietly along the ordinarily dry Santa Maria River, where the water table isn’t far below the surface—a fact betrayed by the towering trees that shade the property. We discovered two homes nestled within a forest of giants during our visit. To the west, Red Gum and White Bark Eucalyptus trees soared over 100 feet, their stature a testament to the River’s hidden life. On the east side, the second house stood under the watchful guard of two colossal tamarisk trees, the largest I’ve ever seen.

A short walk along the riverbank brought us to a small cemetery, now overgrown and untended. Whatever names and dates once adorned the graves have been erased by time and the elements. Still, the site evoked a quiet reverence, hinting at the lives and stories that played out here. A visitor from the 1920s once described fields of alfalfa thriving in the riverbed, used to sustain livestock—hogs, cattle, and goats—that kept the ranch alive.

Though stripped of its comforts, the large adobe house revealed hints of its former grandeur. Its south wall featured large windows framed in flagstone, centered around a fireplace stained with years of smoke, and through the windows stretched a stunning view of the Santa Maria River and the Arrastra Mountains in the distance—a panorama that must have provided solace during the ranch’s more isolated days. Standing within those walls, I could almost imagine living there—if only it had electricity, city water, Wi-Fi, and a grocery store that wasn’t 100 miles away.

Palmerita Ranch may no longer be a working homestead, but its history and place in the Arizona wilderness endure. The soaring trees and sturdy adobe structures stand as monuments to the resilience of the people who once built a life here despite the challenges of isolation and harsh desert conditions. Walking its grounds, it was easy to feel connected to the past and to the enduring spirit of the land itself.

Backside of Palmerita Ranch house with porch and late afternoon sunlight, surrounded by eucalyptus and tamarisk trees. — The backside of Palmerita Ranch House in Afternoon Light – The backside of the Palmerita Ranch house basks in the golden glow of late afternoon sunlight, its rustic charm accentuated by the surrounding eucalyptus and tamarisk trees. This open section of the home offers a rare glimpse of the structure unobstructed by the dense greenery, with long shadows stretching across the weathered porch—a tranquil moment preserved in the Arizona desert.

A Pit Stop for Burgers and Brew

The sun sank low as we started back up the embankment from Palmerita Ranch. By the time we reached the top—after listening to Queen Anne grumble about the constant need to adjust her tiara—I knew we wouldn’t make it home before evening. I stopped the Turd so she could use the mirror to perfect her royal accessories.

“How long’s the drive back?” she asked, still fussing with her reflection.

“Well,” I said, calculating the distance, “long enough to work up an appetite. How about we stop at that bar on the way back and grab a burger for dinner?”

She huffed something indistinct, which I took as an enthusiastic “yes,” so we began the dusty trek toward civilization. Oddly enough, the drive back always feels shorter than the trip out, and before we knew it, we pulled into the Wayside Bar.

Holding the door for Anne to make her grand entrance, I followed her inside and let my eyes adjust to the dim light. The decor was exactly what you’d expect: rusted road trash nailed to the walls, a few highway signs, animated beer lights flickering halfheartedly, and dollar bills covering the ceiling like a green constellation. It reminded me of the Pinnacle Peak Patio at Riata Pass, the first place I’d ever seen that particular motif.

At the far end of the room sat a row of cowboys, their white hats lined up brim to brim along the bar. It felt like a scene straight out of Charlie Daniels’ Uneasy Rider. We grabbed a couple of stools at the other end, strategically positioned with a clear view of the door—just in case.

The barkeep came over and asked what we’d like. Anne ordered a Chardonnay, and I went for the only beer on the list that didn’t have “lite” tacked on it. When it arrived, Anne’s wine was served in a Welch’s grape-jelly glass. She was just about to object when I quickly clamped my hand over her mouth, sparing us both a lecture about proper stemware. My beer followed in—what else?—a frosty mason jar. High-class all the way.

We ordered a burger to split, piled high with jalapeños and enough sauce to make it slide apart at first bite. And fries. Lots of fries. Out there in the dirt, even a roadside burger tastes gourmet. We devoured it like we hadn’t eaten in days, which was a slight exaggeration but not by much. Naturally, I ended up with all of Anne’s peppers, so my half of the burger packed more punch.

When the barkeep returned to ask about dessert, I opened my mouth to remind Anne of the fresh-baked goodies at home. But before I could say anything, she politely declined, asked for the check, and whipped out her credit card to settle up. You could practically hear a record scratch. All along the bar, cowboy hats tilted slightly as they saw Anne paying. I was too busy mentally rehearsing my next line to notice the collective eyebrow lift.

As the bartender returned the card, I leaned over, channeling my manliest voice. “Are you ready to go…cupcake?”

The reaction was immediate. At the far end of the bar, the cowboys snapped their heads around so fast their hats created a breeze. Silence followed, then synchronized laughter erupted like a perfectly timed punchline. The catcalls started as we slinked toward the door, Anne’s tiara slightly askew. The long, quiet ride home was all the sweeter for the fresh-baked dessert waiting for us—though the real treat might have been the memory of that moment.

Final Thoughts

Thanks for coming along on our journey to Palmerita Ranch! We’d love to hear your thoughts—whether it’s about the ranch’s history, your own funny bar story, or anything else you’d like to share. Your comments always make these adventures more fun and meaningful.

If you’d like to see larger versions of the images from this trip, please stop by the New Work section of our website. They’ll be there for the next three months until fresh troops take their place. And don’t forget to join us next month as we set off on another dusty trail, chasing adventure, stories, and, of course, more unforgettable moments.

Until then, may your roads be smooth, your tires chunky, and your humor as dry as the Santa Maria River.
jw

Vintage Red Crown Gas Pumps: Oatman’s Route 66 Treasures Pictrure of the Week - Oatman, Arizona

Vintage Red Crown gas pumps in Oatman, Arizona, along the famed Route 66, evoking the golden era of American road travel. — Time-Standing Still: Vintage Gas Pumps of Oatman – Step back in time with these meticulously preserved ‘Red Crown’ gasoline pumps, a vibrant reminder of Route 66’s golden era, now standing proudly outside Oatman’s antique store — a treasure trove awaiting its next collector.

Let’s talk about a little thing called ROI, or return on investment. In layperson’s terms, it’s like this: if your piggy bank’s diet consists more of withdrawals than deposits, it’s time to put that cash-chewing pastime on a strict no-spend regimen. It’s a handy rule of thumb for deciding whether that avocado toast obsession is a splurge too far and for the bigwigs running the corporate circus. They don’t just steer the company ship; they’re the jugglers, tightrope walkers, and lion tamers tasked with keeping the ROI roaring so the shareholders don’t start looking for a tamer’s head to put in the lion’s mouth.

In the harsh and unforgiving world of mining towns like Oatman, hitting the ROI redline means ‘game over’ for the local economy. The investors pack up their checkbooks, the mines shutter faster than a camera at a ghost sighting, and the workers scatter like tumbleweeds in a dust storm. The town’s pulse slows, and those left behind are like the band on the Titanic—playing on bravely, knowing the finale is nigh.

The tale of Oatman follows a script as predictable as the instructions on a shampoo bottle—minus the rejuvenating wash. It’s a cycle as old as time: boom, bust, and echo. The brightest stars eventually fizzle out, and Oatman’s star, once a beacon of the Gold Rush, was no exception. And just like a one-two punch in a heavyweight bout, Oatman’s knockout came swiftly. First, the mines dried up, and then Route 66 got a face-lift that sidestepped the town altogether. Modern progress, they said, but for Oatman, it was more like a step into obscurity.

The new road followed the railroad’s less adventurous path, leaving Oatman off the beaten path and out of the family vacation route. From the Clampetts to the Griswolds, no one was clamoring to visit an old shanty town at that time—and the Department of Transportation—forgot. Oatman became the town overlooking Mohave Valley with a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hung on its door.

As the rest of the world hurtled forward into the mid-20th century, Oatman seemed to hit the pause button. The once frenetic streets, echoing with the din of prosperity, fell silent, leaving only the whispering desert winds to tell their tales. For the few who chose to stay, life became a study of survival and simplicity. Oatman’s dwindling population, a patchwork of tenacious old-timers and resourceful souls, found a way to eke out a living from the sparse offerings of a town that had given its all to the golden days of yore.

The rustic sign of Judy's Saloon and Pool Hall under a wall-mounted American flag on the historic Main Street of Oatman, Arizona. — Judy’s Saloon: Echoes of Oatman’s Vibrant Past – Under Oatman’s azure skies, the worn sign of Judy’s Saloon points the way, juxtaposed with a rustic American flag, to a place where the spirit of the West is not just remembered but still lives on.

The rhythm of life here was no longer dictated by the pulsing promise of gold but by the sun’s arc across the sky. The remaining residents turned to the land, coaxing modest gardens from the arid soil, trading with neighbors, and gathering at Judy’s Saloon for some, reliving the glory days in stories told and retold like cherished family heirlooms. They adapted, repurposing old mining tools for mundane tasks and transforming abandoned structures into homes and makeshift businesses that catered to the occasional traveler, lost or adventurous enough to stray from the new Route 66.

In this era, Oatman’s heartbeat was a subtle one, felt rather than heard, in the stoic persistence of its people and the silent dignity of its weathered buildings. The community’s fabric was tightly knit, each person a thread bound to the other by shared history and collective tenacity. Life in Oatman wasn’t about thriving; it was about enduring, about preserving the essence of a town too proud to fade away.

The gasoline pumps featured in this week’s picture tell a story that’s as much about progress as it is about preservation. Red Crown gas, a blend marketed by Standard Oil (now Chevron), was the fuel of choice during the era these pumps would have served. Picture this: classic cars now wear the badge of ‘vintage’ had a dial for drivers to adjust the timing advance. A tank full of high-octane Red Crown meant more zip without the dreaded engine knock. Nowadays, that’s a job delegated to the computers in our cars.

But take a closer look at these gravity-feed pumps. Their pristine condition raises a question—have they stood the test of time, or are they beautifully restored pieces of history? It’s a bit of a mystery, much like the stories they hold. And for my eagle-eyed followers, yes, you’ve already noticed the white roof of the Diner Car peeking out on the left.

I hope you enjoyed this stroll down the quieter lanes of Oatman’s history, but don’t pack away your walking shoes just yet. Next week, we’re dusting off the fairy tale books for Oatman’s own Cinderella story—a happy ending sure to sparkle. If your curiosity about those Red Crown pumps is ticking like a Geiger counter in a gold mine, here’s your treasure map: l~~inks to my web page < Jim’s Site> and the Fine Art America page <FAA Link>.~~ And hey, if you find yourself meandering through Oatman in the next few months, pop into that antique store and snoop around for the price tag on those pumps. Don’t forget to spill the beans in the comments below—I think they’d make a lovely gate for the end of my driveway.

Till our next adventure, keep your spirits high and your humor dry.
jw

Techniques: Mastering the Art of Symmetrical Composition

This week’s photo ventures into symmetrical composition, a method that, admittedly, I usually give a wide berth. Symmetry in photography is all about balance, akin to placing two candles at either end of a mantle for that classic, mirror-image elegance. But who says rules can’t be bent for a bit of creative flair?

Regarding the Red Crown gas pumps, symmetry was the starting point, not the destination. I aimed to capture both pumps in a single frame, spaced evenly from the frame’s edges to create a sense of balance. However, I opted for a slight twist rather than a straight-on, textbook symmetric shot. By shifting my position to the right, the pumps became natural frames for the ‘Antiques’ sign in the background, adding layers and depth to the image. It’s like setting those candles at different heights on the mantle; it catches the eye, creates tension, and makes you look twice.

The result? A photo that adheres to symmetry principles while stepping out of the conventional bounds, making for a more intriguing and dynamic composition. Sometimes, bending the rules just a little can lead to a more compelling story being told through the lens. What’s your take on it? Traditional symmetry or a dash of asymmetrical intrigue?

Desert Artistry: Vulture City’s Frankentruck Picture of the Week - Wickenburg, Arizona

Desert Artistry: Vulture City’s Frankentruck – Patchwork truck made from various parts, standing guard outside Willard Miller station in Vulture City, Arizona

Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Money can’t buy you happiness?’ Well, Henry Wickenburg might’ve echoed that sentiment. While our Prussian immigrant struck gold in the quartz shelf, there’s a vast difference between finding and monetizing gold. Being a prospector and not a miner, Henry didn’t venture much further than his initial discovery. Delving deeper into the earth to pursue gold requires a workforce and resources. And before we wade into the treacherous waters of math (and I’m watching Queen Anne for any eye-rolling), it’s essential to understand the intricacies of return on investment.

Although the Vulture Mine produced gobs of gold—the top gold-producing mine in Arizona history—it wasn’t that profitable. Its poor standing is because the mine is out in the middle of nowhere, with no water, timber, transportation, or other resources needed to bring the yellow ore to the market. The nearest river is the Hassayampa, some 12 miles away. In 1864, you couldn’t just stroll to your local Harbor Freight and grab a generator. Those hefty stamp mills required steam, which needed water and fuel, be it wood or coal. So, the ore dug from the Vulture Mine had to be hauled to the mills for processing, either by pack mules, wagons, or in your pockets.

Henry’s solution was genius. He sold the diggings to speculators by the ton. It’s sort of like people buying unclaimed storage units at auctions. Buyers paid a set price at the mine and transported it to the river mills. Sometimes they made money; sometimes they didn’t. But Henry always got his cut.

Funny thing about naming towns back then. Often, they didn’t have formal names until a need arose. When the community sent a plea for protection against marauding tribes to the Army, the soldiers referred to their destination as the return address on the letter—Wickenburg Ranch. At his ranch, Henry lived a comfortable life. Investors like Baron Goldwasser (Goldwater) threw money at him, and he was able to give back to the growing community. He donated land for the town’s first church and invested in the hair-brain start-up company Jack Swilling’s Ditch Company—which you may better know by its current name, the Salt River Project. But as he aged, he gave a large chunk of his fortune to his caretaker, Jesus Maria Martinez.

In 1905, in a plot twist befitting a murder mystery, Henry was found dead with a gunshot to the head. And though the gun was right next to him and was ruled a suicide, not everyone was convinced. The twists? The bullet wound was on his right temple, despite Henry being left-handed. Just last week, an article in the Wickenburg Sun questioned the shooting. The people the paper interviewed called for a new investigation using modern forensic tools. They implied that his caretaker was involved in the death to get the rest of Henry’s money.

This week’s photograph makes me smile. What seemed like another rusted relic was an artist’s whimsical touch—a sculpture concocted from disparate vehicle parts welded together to birth this fantastical mine truck. Other than an art piece, it’s useless; it doesn’t have an engine or frame, and the barrel is held in place with chains. Its colorful yellow cab certainly caught my eye and is the essence of mining equipment at ¾ scale.

Pumpkin’s Silent Vigil in Deserted Cabin – Pumpkin sitting on a window ledge of an old, cracked wall in Vulture City.

On a darker note, there’s an issue with this week’s other photo. When I went inside the assay house, I saw the crumbling plaster and deep window frame needed when building with adobe blocks. So, I took this shot using the wonderful natural window light. But when I viewed it on my computer—I saw the pumpkin. It wasn’t there when I took the shot—I swear. I warned you from the outset of this series there’s something spooky and evil about these creatures.

Thanks for joining our journey through Vulture City’s history. Do drop by next week as we delve into the town’s leaner times. If you want to examine the ‘art’ truck closer, please visit my website (Jim’s Website) or the page I created on Fine Art America (FAA Link). In the comments below, we’d love your stories of makeshift repairs, gold mining, or mysterious pumpkins.

Till next time
jw

Techniques: Enhancing Photo Narratives

What’s your story? Um, let me rephrase that. What are you thinking about when you take a photograph? No doubt, you’ve heard the phrase, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” As a photographer, those words should be reverberating through your head while looking through your lens. If you’re memorializing your kid’s first step, your wet dog’s first bath, or taking a shot of your cat napping on the windowsill (ew), snap the shutter—capture that unique moment. But then, you should think, “How can I frame this better?” Look beyond your subject. Is there too much clutter in the rest of the frame that you can eliminate by moving closer? Is there something that you can include to support the story? I always take at least two shots, but not identical (unless I know I blurred the first one). In my subsequent attempts, I either move or shift the camera and when I edit, I pick out the better photo and hide the rest. You have to be ruthless about that.

Take this week’s photo, for example. I could have framed the Frankentruck tighter and let it fill the frame. But I included the fake gas station because it tells a richer story. Over the past two weeks, I’ve presented two versions of the same photo. A building in decay with an old vehicle in front of it. But their stories are different. In Echos of a Bygone Era, we see the assay office with a rusted hulk out front. The car supports the building by introducing a period into it. On the other hand, this week’s Frankentruck is the subject, and the shed adorned with auto memorabilia gives it context. You understand the truck’s purpose—everything else is the movie set.

So, always seize the fleeting moments when you’re out with your camera. Yet, elevating your narrative is about more than just a click; it’s about the intention behind that click. Every frame is a canvas, every shot an opportunity to share a tale. With each focused intention and deliberate choice, you’re not just taking photos but crafting stories. And trust me, with time and practice, this art of visual storytelling becomes an innate part of your craft.