Peeples Valley Pastoral: A Chilly Morning Among the Cottonwoods – Cattle calmly grazing in Peeples Valley’s frost-kissed fields, with majestic cottonwood trees standing guard on a cool morning.
The enchanting snowscapes we’ve shared recently have sparked a sense of wonder and hope. They offer more than just a visual feast; they promise water—our desert’s lifeline. While winter’s chill entices snowbirds to the desert’s warm embrace for leisurely golf, the irony is stark; these dry, sunny days often come at the expense of precious groundwater pumped tirelessly to maintain verdant fairways.
Yet, behind this recreational facade lies a stark reality that Arizona has grappled with for over 20 years: an unyielding drought. It has depleted reservoir levels at historic lows and water tables, setting the stage for ecological challenges. From bark beetle infestations decimating Ponderosa pines to our iconic saguaros standing beleaguered under the strain of aridity, the impact extends beyond plant life. Wildlife, too, has felt the pinch, venturing ever closer to human settlements in an urgent quest for hydration.
In this delicate balance, even humans’ habits are shifting. Golf courses, once lush and abundant, are re-evaluating their water use. Cities across the Southwest, including Phoenix and Las Vegas, face the reality of water scarcity. We are reminded that water is a finite resource that requires our respect and careful management.
A Silver Lining in the Clouds
Nature’s wheel turns, and recent winters have brought whispers of change. Snowflakes and raindrops have graced our arid state more generously, hinting at a shift in the tide. Could this be the beginning of the end of Arizona’s long dry spell? Our hearts cling to hope.
We understand that recovery is a marathon, not a sprint. One season of abundant rain doesn’t herald the end of a drought; it is merely a single step. The land is thirsty—its water tables are like empty wells waiting to be refilled. Our great reservoirs, Lake Mead and Powell, exhibit their white rings—a bathtub’s stain that marks levels of plenty long gone.
This Week’s Reflections
This week’s images—a frozen puddle and grazing cattle in a frost-touched field—are snapshots of this hopeful chapter. They’re visual stories of the land in a rare, quenched state, testaments to the resilience and adaptability of life in Arizona.
As we marvel at the snow-capped peaks and frost-adorned fields, let these recent rains be a sigh of relief and a symbol of nature’s enduring cycle. It’s a cycle that echoes resilience and renewal, qualities deep within the Arizonian spirit. While we cherish this momentary abundance, let’s carry forward the wisdom it brings—to live in harmony with our desert’s rhythms and conserve every resource.
Morning Freeze: Ice Takes Hold in Peeples Valley – A stillness descends on Peeples Valley as dawn reveals a frozen puddle amidst the fields, with the majestic snow-capped Weaver Mountains in the distance.
Our beautiful, rugged state narrates stories of the past and hums with songs of the future, a reminder that as we hope for wetter winters, we must also adapt with creativity and care. We step forward with a sense of stewardship, treasuring each precious drop and each frozen morning as gifts to be respected and protected.
May our appreciation deepen for the water that sustains us and the entire tapestry of life that thrives in our majestic desert. Until the next rainfall, we remain vigilant and thankful, for we understand the value of the desert’s offering.
I invite you to view these moments captured in time, visit my website <Jim’s Site> and Fine Art America page <FAA Link> for larger versions, and witness the unusual beauty that unfolds when winter visits the desert.
Until next time, keep your canteens handy and your humor dry.
jw
Survey and Looking Forward
As we close the chapter on our March survey, there remains one last chance for your valuable feedback. Your insights are like the spring rain that nurtures this newsletter’s growth. Stay tuned—next week, we’ll unveil the survey results and explore what lies ahead for Arizona’s landscapes and this newsletter. Your voice matters, and I eagerly await sharing our future with you.
Storm-Lit Skies Over Date Creek Range – Caught in the golden embrace of the setting sun, the Date Creek Range and its Joshua Tree sentinel defy an impending storm. Can you spot the elusive rainbow?
In last week’s US 93 escapade, I put the pedal to the metal, racing the encroaching dark clouds to bask in the vanishing golden hour. I even detoured to Burro Creek campgrounds, where the only thing I found was…more clouds. Alas, as soon as I wrapped up my Burro Creek pit stop, those looming clouds won the race, swallowing the sun whole.
Disappointed, I set aside my camera’s relentless search for that perfect shot and started a leisurely drive home. No rush, right? Queen Anne was busy wallowing in precious metals at the jewelry store with her gal-pals, and I had miles of asphalt ahead of me. Soon enough, the highway carried me through the Joshua Tree Parkway, and then it began—Arizona’s version of ‘will it or won’t it’—raining from the sky.
Yes, this arid state has two kinds of summer rain. First, there’s the gully washer, the frog strangler, the cob-floater, a torrential rain that I can’t even see the house across the street. This type of downpour is the VIP guest that shows up uninvited, fills up the washes, and turns rattlesnakes into accidental Olympians. You should see them. Snorkels on their snouts, doing the backstroke like they’re auditioning for ‘Snakes on a Swim Team.’
Then there’s the other kind, today’s specialty: a rain so indecisive it could give Hamlet a run for his money. It’s like the weather gods couldn’t agree, and we get this annoying drizzle that teeters on the edge of being useful. You find yourself in this wiper-limbo, perpetually toggling between ‘kinda need it’ and ‘oh, the horror of that screeching noise.’ The local washes don’t even bother to fill up; rattlesnakes smirk and break out their snorkels for practice laps, just waiting for the next aquatic extravaganza.
Just when I was about to award myself the title of ‘Arizona’s Rain Philosopher,’ the universe decided to show off. The sun, ever the dramatic artist, slipped beneath the heavy cloak of the western clouds, making a brief but stunning encore. It was as if it said, ‘You thought I was done for the day? Hold my solar flare.’ And just like that, the golden hour was back on stage for its final act.
Dodging highway traffic and raindrops, I perched myself by a barbed-wire fence to capture what I’ve aptly named Storm-Lit Skies Over Date Creek Range. The Joshua Trees pop like jack-in-the-boxes from a golden sea of creosote, crowned by the glowing Castle Rock. For the eagle-eyed among you, squint a little harder. A subtle rainbow makes a cameo on the right of the taller Joshua Tree.
If you’re squinting at this on your smartphone, do yourself a favor—upgrade to a bigger screen. Trust me, this photo deserves it. You can see the bigger versions by browsing my website [Jim’s Page] or checking out my Fine Art America gallery [FAA Page]. Do make sure to swing by next week. The best is yet to come.
Till next time
jw
Techniques: Capturing Storms: The Drama Before, During, and After
Grab your umbrellas and wellies because today, we’re talking storms. And I don’t mean the kind you have with your spouse over who left the toilet seat up. We’re diving into the cinematic, the dramatic, the eye-candy kind of storms that would have made even Ansel Adams pause and say, “Well, would you look at that!”
Ah, the golden hour. That ethereal moment before the sky erupts into a Van Gogh painting or descends into gloom. But have you ever tried capturing a storm during this time? The universe throws you a curveball, saying, “Hey, here’s beauty and chaos, all wrapped in a corn tortilla of opportunity.” Remember Ansel Adams’ Clearing Winter Storm? The dude knew when to click that shutter.
You might think, “Jim, storms are just wet messes! How am I supposed to capture that?” Ah, my dry-weather fans, this is where things get electrifying. Capturing lightning requires some specialized equipment or mad reflexes. But the results? They’re shockingly good.
The storm has passed, but don’t pack up that camera yet. The sky now looks like hungover clouds meandering aimlessly, bumping into mountains, and trying to remember where they parked their cumulus cars. The aftermath can offer as many Kodak moments as the storm itself.
So, the next time you see those dark clouds looming, don’t just think about whether you’ve left the laundry out. Think about the once-in-a-lifetime shots that could be waiting for you. Embrace the wild mood swings of Mother Nature. After all, when the weather can’t decide, it might just be helping you make up yours about that next epic shot.
Do you have any of your own storm-chasing or weather-defying photography tales? We’d love to hear them! Please share your stories in the comments below, and let’s swap some epic weather adventures.
Shadows and Spires: An Afternoon on Big Sandy River – Captured during the golden hour, these eroding cliffs along the Big Sandy River reveal nature’s ceaseless artistry. With preliminary hoodoos and soft evening light, it’s a visual spectacle that evokes the grandeur of Bryce Canyon on a smaller scale.
Have you ever heard the saying, “Necessity is the mother of invention?” Let me tweak that: “Frustration is the father of discovery.” A couple of weeks ago, Queen Anne and I were on a quest to pick up her “new-to-us” car from Henderson, Nevada. Ah, the optimism. The plan was simple: drive up, sign paperwork, and zoom back to Congress. We were convinced we’d be home by 3:00. But reality had other plans: car dealerships—the black holes where time and patience vanish. So, our speedy mission morphed into an all-day ordeal, and instead of a quick casino lunch, we settled for an early Mexican dinner in Kingman.
Life’s little curveballs aren’t all bad. The Universe threw us a photographic bone: we were heading back during the golden hour. Of course, I’d left my camera back at the ranch. Insert a string of inventive curses here. Cut to a few days later, and I’m driving that route again, camera in hand and tank full of liquid gold, catching that magical golden hour. Trust me, the encore was worth every cent and expletive.
Situated just a stone’s throw south of Wikieup—Arizona’s self-proclaimed ‘Rattlesnake Capital’—we stumble upon an intriguing spectacle: silt cliffs carved by nature’s endless waltz of wind and water. But the real artist here? The Big Sandy River has been doing its chisel work for millennia, crafting an earthen canvas rich with geological stories. The formations boast early signs of hoodoo development, but erosion’s speedy pace keeps them from becoming full-fledged, free-standing wonders. Think of them as Bryce Canyon’s more humble cousins.
Veteran followers might recall a rookie error I made some years back: driving out here in the dead of night to shoot these west-facing cliffs at sunrise. Yeah, not my brightest moment. But this time, bathed in a warm honeyed glow, these cliffs were showing off for my camera. The low sun cast deep shadows, revealing the intricacies of erosion and the potential of fledgling hoodoos—sort of like teenagers eager to bust out on a Friday night.
Thanks for tagging along on this picturesque journey through Arizona’s road to Sin City—remarkable US 93. This highway, often buzzing with travelers darting between Phoenix and Las Vegas, has hidden gems that’ll soon vanish as Interstate 11 takes over. So catch these scenes while you can! For a high-definition experience, check out the larger version on my website (Jim’s) or peruse it on my Fine Art America page (FAA Page). And join us next week, where we’ll explore another sun-kissed snapshot from the drive on US 93 (boy, wouldn’t ‘drive on 95’ have rhymed so much better?).
Until next time
jw
Techniques: The Art of Capturing the Golden Hour
Ah, the golden hour—nature’s very own Instagram filter. This fleeting window right after dawn or before dusk can magically transform even the most drab scene into a masterpiece. Unlike the harsh glare of the midday sun, the golden hour bathes everything in a soft, ethereal light. It’s like Photoshop, but Mother Nature is at the helm.
Wake up early or set an alarm for the evening. Please make sure you’re in position well before the golden hour begins because, let me tell you, this light waits for no one. I’ve made that mistake before, and it was as frustrating as finding a rattlesnake in my boot.
Personal Note: On our Alaska expedition, I discovered that as you venture away from the equator, the golden hour stretches, much like a cat in a sunbeam. That hour of perfect light can become two during summer, and it’s an all-day thing north of the Canadian border in winter. However, it’s over in the blink of an eye in the arid southwest deserts, as if someone flipped off a celestial switch. Timing and location can throw some delicious curveballs into your golden hour captures, so be prepared.
And remember, while nature’s giving you a fantastic light show, your camera still needs some fine-tuning. Since the light is dimmer than mid-day, tripods can help stabilize long exposures, and a wider aperture can draw focus to your main subject. So, pack wisely, set up carefully, and prepare to create magic.
The Enigmatic Black Mesa – A stunning basalt pyramid rising majestically in the rugged beauty of the Mazatzal Mountains.
Welcome back to our exploration of the Mazatzal Mountains and the scenic journey along the Beeline Highway. As we continued our expedition, the changes in scenery required frequent stops for pictures. Although the scenery changes with each bend, over the years, the road has undergone its transformation—from a challenging back road to a modern highway.
My love/hate affair with the Beeline Highway began shortly after I arrived in Arizona half a century ago. At the time, I resided in south Scottsdale and had developed a passion for trout fishing. Despite my work obligations, I jumped at any opportunity to escape and make a Payson run. With a left turn at the end of McDowell Road, I could travel the picturesque route in just 90 minutes, reaching the tranquil Rim lakes where I would indulge in the serene beauty of nature and cast my fishing line.
However, weekends brought out the Beeline Highway’s dark side. State Route 87 north of Fountain Hills was a narrow, two-lane rollercoaster that could quickly diminish the joy of driving. While I found the route challenging and enjoyable under normal circumstances, the presence of holiday travelers towing trailers brought the fun to a screeching halt. A comfortable 90-minute journey became a tedious ordeal lasting several hours. These underpowered tow vehicles crawled up the grades at a snail’s pace, followed closely by a long line of frustrated drivers.
During my recent ride with Fred, I was pleasantly surprised by the Arizona Department of Transportation’s significant improvements to the Beeline Highway. The road has undergone a remarkable transformation. It now boasts four lanes for most of its length, except for a couple of long grades where they added a truck lane. The curve radius has been expanded, the shoulders widened, and other safety measures implemented, bringing the highway’s standard close to that of a freeway.
This week’s photograph was captured approximately 10 miles north of Four Peaks, featured in last week’s post. As we continue along the Beeline Highway, the elevation gradually increases, but at this particular spot, we find ourselves at the same elevation as Four Peaks Road. We haven’t gained much altitude because we recently drove over a pass at a large granite field, descending into another valley. Now, we’re beginning the ascent toward a second pass.
When I arrived at this location, the sun had just cleared the horizon, casting its soft light upon the mountaintops. It was the perfect opportunity to pull over and capture this week’s photograph of Black Mesa. Upon closer inspection of the photo, you can observe the traces of volcanism in black basalt trails running down the ravines on the mountain’s face. However, what truly caught my attention in this scene was the abundant presence of saguaro cacti on the southeast-facing slope. They outnumber the Palo Verde trees.
This is the last point on the road where saguaros thrive. Further up this grade, an imaginary frost line marks the limit for these majestic cacti to survive. As we ascend, the winters become too cold for the saguaros to endure. This splendid grove contrasts sharply with the sparse landscape and yellow grass we encountered last week. This week’s second photo was shot near where I stopped to look at a dense cluster of saguaros—the densest I’ve ever seen. It’s a testament to their resilience in this harsh desert environment, especially considering the recent wildfires that have thinned the surrounding landscape.
Desert Sentinels: Clusters of Saguaros Embracing the Sonoran Desert – A captivating ensemble of saguaros showcasing the beauty of the Sonoran Desert.
I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride so far. I appreciate your company as we explore the captivating landscapes of the Mazatzal Mountains. If you need a little break, I invite you to take some time to immerse yourself in the larger versions of The Enigmatic Black Mesa, available on my website (Black Mesa Webpage) or my Fine Art America upload (FAA Webpage). These images allow you to delve deeper into the beauty and details of this remarkable landmark. And remember, our adventure doesn’t end here. Join us next week as we explore the rugged Mazatzal Mountains on our way to Payson. There are more wonders to discover, and I look forward to sharing them with you.
Till next time
jw
Techniques: Mastering White Balance
Have you ever wondered at the wonky colors some of your photographs have? A simple answer could be the wrong White Balance adjustment. To the human eye and brain, a white sheet of paper looks white outside in the sun, in the shade, under house lights, or fluorescent bulbs. If you shoot using your camera’s raw data file, then you apply that fix in post-processing. But, if you’re shooting JPEGs or videos, the camera does the processing. Usually, cameras (and phones) have an Auto White Balance setting, but the color of a shirt, the distance of the subject, or even the wall color can easily fool it. It’s undependable.
Let’s look at it this way to keep this lesson short and sweet. The color of the sun we grew up and live with is white. If we lived on a different planet with a different sun, our brains would adjust to a new white in a few days. Scientists use the Kelvin scale as a way to measure relative color. It’s a numerical scale to measure the temperature of white light sources. A low Kelvin is warm and has a yellowish cast, so you add blue for balance. A higher Kelvin value is bluish and needs yellow for balance. For example, daylight is typically around 5500K, while tungsten lighting is around 3000K. So if you’re shooting outside, set your camera (or phone) to 5500k (or pick the sun icon), and if you’re using house lights, choose the light bulb icon (or around 3000k).
There are only a couple of exceptional instances. The first is in open shade—you’re out of the sun but under a blue sky, which are the conditions I had shooting this week’s pictures. Here, the light is being bounced off the sky, and the number needs to be higher to offset the additional blue cast. That Kelvin number is around 6500k, or the camera’s shade icon. The second exception is on cloudy days when there’s no blue sky. This is when you set the white balance to 6000k or use the camera’s cloud icon.
There is another infrequent situation that you may run into. It’s when you’re taking your eBay pictures in the garage, someone at a hospital, or a product in a retail store that has old fashion fluorescent tubes. They don’t emit red rays, so things look green. Not only do you have to adjust for the temperature, but you have to add the missing red. If your camera has a tube setting, you’re golden; otherwise, you’re alone.
If I’ve intrigued your interest and you’d like to dive deeper into white balance, numerous educational resources like this are available on YouTube (White Balance Video). You can also search YouTube for tutorials on “color correction” or “white balance” in your preferred post-processing software. There, you’ll find step-by-step guides and demonstrations to help you master this essential technique for getting natural color in your photographs.
Queen Anne, my darling wife, flew east last month to join her sisters for a week in New England. Supposedly, it was an Autumn-Leaves tour, but they went to Salem in October during a full moon. I’m no math whiz, but I know what you get when you combine four and ten. That’s right—WITCHES!
I’m a big boy, so I wasn’t about to spend my time alone sulking and drowning my sorrows in a tub of Cherry Garcia—I intended to treat myself to a night on the town—another town—in another state. Laughlin, Nevada, is an easy three-hour drive via Kingman, across Golden Valley, through the Black Mountains, and down to the river. I booked a cheap casino hotel room for Wednesday night and set off, determined to lose some money on a craps table.
The downside of weekdays in Laughlin is that it’s mostly closed. The big weekend crowds are working, so the remaining patrons are retirees like me. Half of the restaurants are dark, and some casinos don’t open the gambling tables. You have to search for a place to eat and find some action, so I ended up at the Riverside Casino. They had a couple of working Blackjack tables and one craps table. I think the staff outnumbered the players when I joined. Two people were on the right of the stickman, so I claimed an open spot on the left.
Trying to get a feel for the player’s moods, I looked at the faces around the table. Because masks were mandatory, it was hard to tell who was doing well. A woman across from me wasn’t even a whole face—only a pair of brown eyes behind jewel-rimed glasses and a silver-blue hairdo peering over the table’s edge. Like my mom, her short hair had enough hairspray to keep it in place between weekly salon visits. She had a few chips on the rail pushed to one side so they wouldn’t block her view of the playing field.
I placed my bet; someone threw the dice twice and lost. Then, we all took a turn bouncing the dice off of the far wall when the silver-haired lady stood up. Until then, I didn’t realize she was sitting. Even when she stood, she wasn’t much taller. She scooped up her remaining chips into a clutch. I thought she was leaving. Instead, she began pushing a walker towards my side of the stickman.
As she maneuvered her tricked-out lavender walker behind the dealer, I saw that she had dressed to party. She had on a very sparkly silver lame top and black spandex pants—which, quite frankly, bagged a bit. Weirdly, as I watched her, I suddenly heard Lenard Cohen singing his tune—Closing Time—in my head:
“…And the place is dead as Heaven on a Saturday night And my very close companion Gets me fumbling gets me laughing She’s a hundred, but she’s wearing Something tight…”
When she got close, she spoke through her mask in a voice from years of smoking Chesterfields, “Hey, big boy. You need a good luck charm.”
“Hi,” I smiled (a useless gesture behind my mask) and introduced myself, “I’m Jim.”
“Nat-ly,” she replied.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Natalie.”
“No. I’m from Flatbush. It’s Nat-ly,” she corrected with furrowed eyebrows.
“Sorry. What kind of good luck charm are you talking about?”
She explained, “Well, every high roller knows it’s good luck to have an attractive woman beside him while he rolls the dice. You’re alone, and I’m the best-looking dame in the joint.”
Just glancing around the room was enough to confirm that she was right. “What’s in it for you?”
“Well, you tip me each time I blow on your dice for good luck.”
I was curious, “Do you do this for everyone?”
“Na,” she blushed and went on, “The girls and I spotted you the minute you came through the door.”
“That was because of my dashing good looks and natty fashion sense, I bet.”
“No. You’re the only man in the casino standing upright without a cane. You know how cougars are; we like ’em young and stupid.”
With that, Nat-ly positioned her seat to my right and plopped herself down. On my roll, she blew on my dice for luck. I made my point once, so her luck wasn’t bad. “You’d do even better if I hung off your shoulder,” she offered, “It’s only $20 bucks.”
As she shuffled into position with her walker, I noticed it wasn’t just any old walker—oh no. This thing was tricked out. The wheels sparkled with silver hubcaps, and a small rearview mirror was angled just right so she could check her six. On the front, she had a basket full of essentials: a pack of Chesterfields, a rhinestone coin purse, and what I can only assume was a custom-made cup holder for her drink. This was a woman who came prepared.
Nat-ly caught me eyeballing her ride. “Yeah, pretty sweet, huh? Got it for a steal from that nice boy on Pawn Stars. Ain’t it somethin’?”
I nodded, impressed. “Must turn a few heads.”
“More than you, honey. But don’t worry, you’re cute for an amateur.” She gave me a wink that made me wonder just how deep this rabbit hole of flirtation was about to go.
After she blew on the dice and I made my point, she leaned in close—well, as close as someone who needs a walker can lean—and whispered, “You know, I used to be quite the looker back in my Mustang Ranch days. They called me the queen of the floor.”
I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the casino or…well. Either way, I kept my poker face on.
“I bet you were,” I replied, tiptoeing across a tightrope suspended over a canyon of uncomfortable truths.
Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “You ever been to Mustang Ranch, big boy?”
I coughed and pretended to study the felt of the table like it was the most exciting thing I’d ever seen. “Can’t say I have.”
“Pity,” she sighed, blowing more cigarette-scented luck across my dice. “But you can call me Queen Nat-ly tonight.”
“Right,” I mumbled, “Your Majesty.” I couldn’t help but picture her in some sparkly crown, probably with matching orthopedic shoes.
As I rolled again and somehow avoided crapping out, she started to hum, her raspy voice crackling like the old vinyl records my parents used to have. I strained to listen. Was that Frank Sinatra? No. Wait…Dean Martin? Then I caught the words. “Fly me to the moon…”
Of course, why wouldn’t the woman sitting next to me, flirting and stroking my arm with a cane, be serenading me with a Sinatra classic? This felt like a fever dream, yet I was a willing participant.
Given her stature, I couldn’t imagine how she could reach that high, so my curiosity bettered me. I handed her a couple of chips. She reached down and pulled a cane from the tool rack attached to the walker’s side. Then she raised it, hung the crook over my shoulder, and gently stroked it back and forth. I almost laughed, but she was so adept that it felt alright.
She said, “For $5 more, I’ll play with your ear.” When I turned, she held one of those trash-grabbers for me to examine. I declined, so she slipped it back into its rack spot.
The night passed, and the dice went clockwise around the table twice while we talked. She worked at the Mustang Ranch until the Feds seized it, and she retired. Since the Treasury Department managed the business, she got a federal employee pension. After she quit, she moved south from Reno to enjoy a warmer climate and affordable housing. Now, she spends her free time watching the tanned muscle boys ride jet skis up and down the river.
I managed to hold onto my bankroll an hour and a half before it ran out. As I packed my things, I saw Nat-ly slumped over—asleep. I knew the dealers wouldn’t let her stay at the table alone, and I didn’t want to wake her. So, I pushed her to the nearest quarter slot machine and parked her in front. I reached into my pocket and threw all but one of my quarters into the tray. The last, I stuck in the coin slot. I knew security wouldn’t bother her if a bet were on the table. With that, I left and went to my room. I have pictures to shoot tomorrow so that the day will begin early.
Union Pass – If you’re heading from Kingman to the Colorado River, you’ll find yourself winding through Union Pass, a rugged stretch that feels like something out of a something out of a John Wayne western. It’s a landscape dominated by layers of Tuff—volcanic ash that was once spewed from ancient eruptions like confetti at a Fourth of July parade. Over the millennia, the earth beneath Union Pass has shifted, crunched, and folded like a creased road map in the glove box, the layers into the Black Mountains we see today. The result? Jagged formations of twisted rock that look like they’d been tossed around by a giant who got fed up with a frustrating game of Jenga. These rocks are as old as time and just as stubborn, refusing to wear down despite the elements constantly gnawing at them.
The last time I made it through the Black Mountains of Mohave County was during last year’s trip to Oatman, where I nearly lost my mind watching burros treat the town like it was their buffet. Every time I drive through these mountains, it’s like catching up with an old friend who’s always got a new trick up his sleeve. This time, Union Pass caught my attention—a stretch of road that, depending on the light, either looks like a peaceful desert oasis or the aftermath of a Hollywood disaster flick.
I decided to pull over at the hilltop on my way home, determined to capture the rugged beauty of this desert landscape. I mean, how could I resist? The morning sun played peek-a-boo through thin clouds, casting soft shadows across the rock formations. The kind of light makes photographers drool and desert rats scratch their heads, wondering what the fuss is about.
This week’s featured image comes from my morning scramble at Union Pass. I named it after the location because that’s where I parked the truck, hopped out, and started pacing up and down the highway with my camera like a man on a mission. The morning light, softened by a delicate veil of clouds, created a perfect mix of shadows—.just enough to make the rock layers stand out without giving it the overexposed look of a tacky postcard.
I’m sure these are the same Tuff layers we learned about during our Organ Pipe National Monument visit. Tuff is the aftermath of volcanic eruptions—a thick blanket of ash that hardens over time into solid rock. What makes Union Pass fascinating is how those layers have been cracked and thrust into the sky during the tectonic tantrum—a geological fit of rage—formed the Black Mountains. It’s like nature’s geology lesson, written across the landscape in jagged peaks and crumpled ridges.
If you’re curious about what else I captured at Union Pass, swing by next week. I’ve got another shot that showcases just how wild and beautiful this stretch of the Black Mountains can get. Trust me, you won’t want to miss it!
