Arizona – Page 40 – On the road with Jim

George’s Camp Picture of the Week

Serendipity is a word that means finding something different from the thing you were trying to find. It was so overused back in my flower child days that I don’t like to use it. I wish there were a better term—but there isn’t—that describes what happened to Fred and me this week.

As I wrote in last week’s post, my project for April is to find exciting things to photograph in Nothing—the abandoned gas stop on Highway US 93. It’s a voluntary exercise to help improve my creativity. Nothing is in the middle of nowhere; I’ve been pouring over my maps the past week. I found that on the north side of the gas station, there is a sizeable lava flow. It’s spring, so there is new bright green growth on the desert plants, and that should contrast well against the black rocks. Even better, I found that the flow’s west side covered a wash or creek. Over eons, the water has opened a channel through the hardened magma, and it’s called Black Canyon (I know, there must be hundreds of Black Canyons in Arizona).

After deciding to try to follow the back trails and visit the canyon, I asked Fred if he’d like to sit shotgun. I figured that he could change a flat if needed, and he always carries his cell phone which might be handy. It surprised me when Deb permitted him to go out with me again, but only after I swore up and down that we’d be home by dark.

On Thursday we packed Archie and set out on a new adventure. We got a late start because I wanted the proper light, but the day ended in overcast, so I gave up on beautiful sunset pictures. The topo map that we brought showed a jeep trail, leading to the canyon; then we’d have a half mile hike up a pack trail at the end. As we crept along the so-called road, I knew that I had to stay left at each intersection that lay before us. The last turn put us on a rutted track where we maneuvered between boulders, but at its crest, we saw Black Canyon in the windshield which meant that we were driving along the pack trail. We would have done better with Fred’s ATV.

Well used Ford – A parted out Ford truck is abandoned in camp.

As we descended to a wash we came upon a couple of sheds, and I thought, “Oh no! We’re reliving the night we spent at Stephen’s house.” You’ll remember him from our first outing where we got trapped inside private property. I got out of the truck and started calling. No one answered, so we walked around both sheds trying to find the owner. We saw the sign in the first photo that raised more questions than had answers. What Fred and I stumbled upon is—as I call it now—George’s Camp.

Macrame Tee Pee — Macrame Teepee – A hand made teepee provides a little shade in George’s front yard.

As we wandered the campsite, I wondered about George. Did he sell his paintings, had I ever seen one? How did he get groceries? What made him become a recluse? Of the artifacts we found, they seemed fresh enough to suggest that George’s passing was recent. If he had any property of value, someone had already taken them. It was apparent from the words on the sign that someone felt sad that George has moved on.

We delayed our canyon hike long enough to look at the art pieces George had left. I tried to imagine the kind of soul that he was, and I got a bit sad that I missed meeting a fellow artist. Of the scattered yard art, the tree ornaments moved me the most, and that’s why I selected it as this week’s featured image. I call it George’s Cup. It already has a picture frame.

You can see a larger version of George’s Cup on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy viewing this week’s post and next week; we’ll show another featured image from Nothing. Maybe by then, we’ll make it to Black Canyon.

Until next time — jw

Large Boulder Picture of the Week

Nothing Arizona Sign — Nothing Arizona – Only a crooked sign and empty building shell are all that remains in Nothing

My generation is probably the last to have a love affair with automobiles. For us, cars defined who we were. They opened the country for us to explore. Now that we’re old, most of our recollections are car-centered, and I’m an example of that. Over my life, I’ve owned a varied stable of vehicles; from ones German engineered to station wagons that the Griswolds from Family Vacation would reject.

The car that still gives me the most angst was the Camaro that my parents gave as a wedding gift for my first marriage. It was special because it was the racecar version built for the original Trans-Am series. To qualify for the races, manufacturers had to produce at least 1,000 units, and they had to sell them through their dealer networks. Very few Americans knew they existed. I knew, because I read racing magazines, and after I got back from my overseas tour, I hunted one down. Their moniker came from the option package number—Z/28. After the first batch quickly sold out, Chevrolet offered them to the public.

It was British racing green with a pair of broad white stripes on the hood and trunk. Ours didn’t carry the familiar Z/28 badge on its nose; instead, it just had the numbers 302 which was its engine size. Trans-Am limited the displacement to 5 liters, and that meant that it was the smallest V8 that Chevrolet put into Camaros, but those engines were specially built and had more horsepower than the other power plants available. Since it was a high revving motor, you couldn’t get air conditioning or (gasp) power steering. Because I raced mine, I added 10” wide wheels and fat tires which made it near impossible for my wife to drive.

At the collector’s car auctions, 1968 Z/28s sometimes go for over a hundred grand, and because mine was a low chassis number, I believe it could’ve been more valuable if it were in pristine shape. But, I was living in a lot of turmoil and planned to move to Arizona where I would need an air-conditioned car, so I got a thousand dollars on trade for a Vega—possibly the worst purchase I ever made in my life.

It was mustard-yellow with a single black stripe. I wanted the GT version because it came with gauges instead of idiot lights. The dealer didn’t have one with air, so they installed an aftermarket unit, which was like bolting a cinder block to the side of the engine. Because of the weight and engine vibrations, the compressor fell off when the bolts sheered—twice. All of the gauges worked except for the water temperature, which I noted to the dealer while it was under warranty. They said they’d order one, but I don’t think that they ever did, and wound up rebuilding the engine after it seized from overheating.

My horrible decision meant that I gave away the impractical car that I loved, to buy the practical car that I hated, and that includes all the awful station wagons we’ve owned. Its gas mileage wasn’t any better than my hot rod, and with a nine-gallon tank, our gas stops doubled. The engine vibrations were so bad that I carried a screwdriver and wrench because, at each fill-up, I had to re-tighten the carburetor screws. The only fond memory I have of that car was besting the local legend—Don Roberts—at a Big Surf event. He drove a different Vega—a station wagon. That was a nice feather to have in my cap.

My second wife and I went to Las Vegas, Bullhead City, or one of those destinations involving Highway US 93. We packed the Vega—it never deserved a name—and headed north for the weekend. We planned gas stops in Wickenburg, Kingman, and Vegas—or wherever. However, because of the Vega’s limited range, we had to stop again after climbing the grade after the Santa Maria River—at Nothing, Arizona. I had to pay a buck-and-a-half for gas, which was highway robbery at the time. That makes me the only person in the world to have bought gas in this month’s featured destination—Nothing—population: 4.

The abandoned store in Nothing is at the top of the pass between the Poachie and Aquarius Mountain Ranges. Its elevation is 3700-feet, and the terrain is part of the granite boulder field that stretches from Prescott to Kingman. The store, as they tell it was, ”built by four drinking friends having nothing better to do.” It was open only a couple of years before being abandoned. I don’t remember this, but according to Wikipedia, in 2016, Century 21 ran a promotion for father’s day with the promotion line, “Give Dad Nothing for Father’s Day.” They sold 24-hour deeds to property in Nothing. The current property owner was in on the joke and buyers could download a gift card and a “Certificate of Nothing” valid on June 19, 2016, only.

So for April, I will be trying to make something from Nothing—pun intended—like this week’s featured image—Large Boulder. There’s some pretty country in the pass between the Santa Maria River and Burro Creek. My job is to find enough to produce four images for April. Do you think I’m up to it?

You can see a larger version of Large Boulder on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy viewing this week’s post and next week; we’ll show another featured image from Nothing.

Until next time — jw

P.S. You should see my grammar checker going nuts over Nothing.

P.P.S. Speaking of old Chevys—this week I sat through a show that Queen Anne likes. I think its called The Kids Are Alright. It’s about a Catholic family with a gaggle of boys. They’re struggling to make ends meet, so they drive an old station wagon—a ’66 Chevelle. As I watched, I had to pause the show and show Her Majesty the station wagon’s nose badge. It indicated that the car had a 396 motor, but it wasn’t an SS model. Very rare and valuable.

89 Sunrise Picture of the Week

There are two types of drivers on the road. The first type is people trying to get somewhere, while the second group is people who are out for a ride. You’re not always stuck in one group or another. Sometimes you have an appointment to make; while on other occasions, you have all the time in the world. My dad was part of the gotta-get-there group. Once he got in the car, he didn’t stop for anything unless it was gas. Although he was our family’s driver, I don’t think he liked it much.

I’m part of the second group. On a day like today, sunny and temperatures in the mid-seventies, I relish driving an excellent machine down back roads with the windows down so the wind can blow where my hair used to be. These are the times when I feel most alive and free. Nothing beats driving an empty winding road with a hot blond beside you in the passenger seat—even if it’s just my blow-up doll—er, sorry. I got carried away there. I see a time soon when we’ll have autonomous vehicles, and that’s fine as long as I’m not in one.

That brings me to one of our community’s best features—the road leaving town. Up until the Second World War, our trail carried most of the traffic between Phoenix, Prescott, and Flagstaff. At that time it was part of the U.S. highway system, and its designation was US89. After the Highway Department opened the last section of Interstate 17, the Feds depreciated our road, and now it’s officially Arizona State Route 89. During its heyday, US89 stretched between the Mexican Border at Nogales and Canada at Glacier National Park, but today it stops at the US66 junction in Flagstaff.

89 Sunrise – The road heading north out-of-town starts by climbing over the Weaver Range at Yarnell Hill.

Now that most of the traffic is on the freeway, SR89 has become a scenic back road that drivers love with low traffic, almost no trucks, plenty of curves, and a variety of scenery. I can prove it. On any weekend you can sit in your lawn chair at our park’s driveway and watch clusters of geezers on Harleys, boy-racers on rice rockets, and waves of sports car clubs headed north on Saturdays and south on Sundays. On weekdays, the proving ground boys’ wiz by driving disguised test cars and trucks. You know they’re having fun because you can see dilated eyes behind their Ray Bans and they have big grins on their faces.

When I thought about this week’s featured image, I wanted the road front and center, and the spot that I chose is where SR89 heads towards the Weavers as if they’re going to crash. They don’t however, because, at the last moment, the road turns right and starts up Yarnell Hill. If you’re traveling in a group, that’s where the race starts—well, actually I don’t need others because I raced in autocrosses—ask Queen Anne.

For this shot that I named 89 Sunrise, I wanted to have my tripod in the middle of the street, so I needed an empty road. That’s why I got there and set up before this morning’s sunrise. The highway is the subject of my image, but the Weaver’s aren’t bad either. In this shot, there’s a lot of green, but in a few weeks, it will turn golden brown.

You can see a larger version of 89 Sunrise on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy viewing this week’s post and come back next week when we’ll start a month of featured images from another Arizona place.

Until next time — jw

North Bound – An early morning freight train at the Congress Crossing.

PS—As I was finishing up this morning’s shot, I could hear a freight train pulling the Wickenburg grade, some four miles away. So I quickly packed up and rushed down to the crossing and got this image. It’s not the shot that I described last week, but at least it’s a train.

Sunrise on Track Picture of the Week

There are only a half-dozen places Queen Anne, and I frequent in our home town of Congress. There’s Nichol’s West—our favorite local restaurant, the Post Office, the clinic, the Kwikie Mart, and the Dollar Store. Oh, I forgot the dump. For anything else, we have to drive into town or—shudder—the big city. Half of those in-town destinations are on the west side of the railroad crossing, which never has a train—most of the time.

I wrote in a newsletter about our train when we first moved here. This section of track is called the Pea Vine Grade that follows Highway 60 out of Sun City till Wickenburg then continues north to Prescott and Ash Fork. The name is descriptive of the twists along the route.

The tracks aren’t busy like the southern route in Yuma, or the north through Flagstaff. This route isn’t bustling and only has four to six passing trains each day. They’re not on any schedule that I can discern and you don’t hear them go by as much as you feel their bass vibrations, especially the ones coming up the grade. The five engines work hard dragging loaded freight cars up the hill, while the ones headed south sound like a wooden roll-a-coaster as they effortlessly roll downhill. Their horns only blare in Wickenburg and the Congress crossings. That’s too far away to hear from the house unless we’re sitting on the back porch and there’s a north breeze coming off the mountains, but even that’s so faint that it’s like a scene from a Steinbeck novel.

Sunrise on Track – Dawn breaks with a red sky over the railroad tracks heading north from Congress Junction.

This week’s featured image turned out completely different from how I originally visualized it. I wanted to capture this shot with a train in it. The tracks come into Congress Junction from Hillside through the valley between the Date Creek Range and the Weaver Mountains. On most mornings, there’s an early southbound train. We’ve seen it while we’re out for our morning walks. To further set the scene, the Date Creek Range foothills at the crossing are prettiest at sunrise. The rest of the day, they’re flat and dull. So that’s what I had in my mind when I drove there in the dark.

I previously scouted out a lovely spot overlooking the tracks, and I set up my camera and waited for the characters to arrive. As the eastern sky got brighter, the clouds overhead turned red, and I thought, “Ooo shiny.” I fired off a couple of frames. As I waited, the fast-moving clouds moved east and began to block the sunrise removing any drama from my scene. Besides, no trains showed up. Disappointed, I packed up and drove around town looking for other subjects to shoot.

When I got home and reviewed my images, this was the shot that impressed me the most. Even without a train, the tracks are a leading line that moves your eye to the foothills. The light bouncing from the clouds tints the scene pink, and that light softly brings out the mountain’s cone shape. There is a feeling of tranquility in this shot. It’s a moment of quiet and calm.

You can see a larger version of Sunrise on Track on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy viewing this week’s post and next week; we’ll show another featured image from Congress.

Until next time — jw

Rock Frog Picture of the Week

Our adopted town of Congress is a quiet retirement community these days, but it wasn’t always this sleepy. Like most of the old mining towns in Arizona, Congress was a bustling hive of activity as long as gold poured out of the ground. At its peak, the town had more people than a dusty farming village called Phoenix. But when the gold ran out, so did the reason to stick around. The land here is too rocky to farm, and there isn’t much to see—unless you’re a fan of large green amphibians.

Yes, Frog Rock puts Congress on the map. It’s not just any pile of boulders; it’s a pile of boulders that has been painted to look like a giant frog since 1928. I like to imagine that this oddball landmark sprang from the mind of Sarah Perkins, a homesteader’s wife who was bored out of her mind.

Picture a sweltering summer afternoon in 1928. Sarah is rocking on her front porch, the oppressive heat pressing down like a wet blanket. She’s sipping lukewarm lemonade and staring at the same pile of rocks she’s stared at every day for the last decade. Across the road runs US89, the main highway through town—a lifeline of commerce and travel. “Lester,” she says, her voice dripping with determination, “next time you’re in town, bring me some green paint.”

Lester, who’d been married long enough to know better than to question Sarah’s whims, nodded without so much as a grunt of inquiry. Weeks later, when he returned from Wickenburg with supplies in their rickety Model A pickup, Sarah found two cans of green paint and three sturdy brushes buried among the flour and beans.

The following day, before the heat became unbearable, Sarah gathered her sons and marched them across the road to the pile of boulders. With the determination of Michelangelo tackling the Sistine Chapel, they slapped on layer after layer of green paint. By noon, the Perkins family had created a masterpiece: a giant rock frog that gazed serenely at passing Model Ts.

Over the years, Frog Rock has become Congress’s pride and joy, our version of the world’s largest ball of twine or the giant ketchup bottle. Sure, it’s kitschy, but it’s our kitschy. When the paint fades, a self-appointed committee—armed with more enthusiasm than skill—ensures Frog Rock gets a fresh coat. On their last go-round, they even added spots to its back for extra flair.

Today, that highway is known as Arizona State Route 89, a quieter and more scenic version of its old self. Locals call it The Lost 89, a stretch of road that seems to have slipped out of time. Frog Rock has kept watch over it all—through the rise and fall of mining, the rerouting of highways, and the inevitable march of progress.

When I decided to photograph Frog Rock, I wanted to capture more than just the green paint job. I wanted to show how the massive granite boulder fits into its rugged desert surroundings, so I framed it with other rocks in the foreground. The result is a tribute to Sarah’s imagination and Congress’s ability to find joy in the simple things.

If you’re ever passing through town, stop by and say hello to Frog Rock. Don’t be surprised if you feel inspired to grab a brush and add your artistic touch. After all, in Congress, anything is possible—even turning a pile of rocks into a legacy.

Until next time — jw