Date Creek Range – On the road with Jim

Lone Winter Sentinel: Snow Graces the Date Creek Range Picture of the Week - Congress, Arizona

Snow-covered unnamed peak in the Date Creek Range, contrasting with dark storm clouds and the desert landscape — Lone Winter Sentinel: Snow Graces the Date Creek Range – The Date Creek Range is under a theatrical sky, with its highest peak adorned in a stunning snowcap amidst the desert’s earthy tones.

Imagine a tranquil blanket of white embracing the Weaver Mountains in Congress, turning the rugged landscape into a scene straight from a winter fairy tale. In my previous tales, I might have painted a picture of winter in the desert as a predictable season, with just enough chill to remind us it’s not always sunny in Arizona.

The Unpredictable Dance of Winter

But let’s be honest: predicting our winter weather is as straightforward as dancing with a hula hoop while bouncing on a pogo stick. Sure, if our weather patterns were a simple hula hoop spinning predictably around our waists, we could anticipate where it would land next with the precision of a well-practiced trick. “It’s all physics,” you might say. Given the Earth’s tilt, orbit, and seasons, one could forecast the weather with the same confidence as predicting the hoop’s path.

Yet, here’s the twist in our meteorological tale: what happens when you throw a pogo stick into the mix? Suddenly, the predictable rotation of the hoop is interrupted by leaps and bounds, each jump adding a new layer of complexity. That’s Arizona’s winter for you, where every jump in temperature and every bound of precipitation defies expectations, much like our unpredictable twins, El Niño and La Niña, who I’ll introduce to you next.

Ride that Pogo Stick, Cowboy

Enter the mischievous twins of climate variability: La Niña, the cool little sister with a dry sense of humor, and El Niño, the warm-hearted brother who likes to stir the pot. They lead in the El Niño-Southern Oscillation (ENSO) drama, a global weather narrative with plot twists dictated by fluctuating ocean temperatures in the equatorial Pacific.

While not the sole scriptwriters of Arizona’s winter tales, these siblings can certainly add surprising chapters. La Niña tends to skim moisture away from our skies, while El Niño generously spills warmth and rain across our desert stage. Understanding their patterns is like getting a peek at the rehearsal — it doesn’t give us the exact timing of every line. Still, it helps set the stage for the season’s performances, allowing us to anticipate whether we’ll need an umbrella or a sunhat as we step out into the year’s unpredictable acts.

These brats—er, I mean children- represent our Pogo stick’s up and down cycles. The El Niño bounce is associated with increased rainfall and warmer temperatures, while the La Nina phase brings the downward thrust of drier and cooler temps. These fluctuating climate patterns don’t have a regular cycle but can last 9-12 months (or years) and occur every two to seven years. Being able to predict these ocean temperature variants means that meteorologists need to consider what drives them. To paraphrase the most significant line from the movie Jaws, “I think we’re going to need a bigger computer.”

Our Photo

That’s a partial answer to why our exceptional winter storm was a delight and allowed me to get a series of great shots for this month’s project—which brings me to this week’s image called Lone Winter Sentinel.

On the morning after the snowfall, I intended to capture some images of the sugar-coated weavers, so I drove north on Route AZ89 and stopped along the roadside. As I faced north, I focused on the Weavers, medium-sized mountains with 4000-6500 foot peaks. After firing off several variants, I turned back to my trusty stead—the Turd—and that’s when I spotted snow on our other mountains—the Date Creek Mountains. These are minor mountains around 3,000 feet, but this morning, the snow revealed where in their midst they hid their NBA center. The contrast of white among the brown desert peaks made me walk across the highway to get a better shot. I think of them as our HO-scale Rockies.

Close-up of morning sunlight highlighting the patterns in a patch of snow in Peeples Valley — Dawn’s Glimmer: Patterns in the Snow – The first light of dawn casts a golden glow on the intricate snow patterns in Peeples Valley, highlighting nature’s subtle artistry.

Kids These Days

Before you go, let me share a bit of humor from this week. Queen Anne and I enjoyed an evening out at our local country club. Our server, a bright young woman, wore a ‘Kinzie’ name badge. Intrigued by her unique name, I ventured, “Kinzie, that’s quite distinctive. Reminds me of the Kinsey Report, doesn’t it?”

“No, it’s short for Mackenzie,” she answered.

“Oh, like in Mackenzie Phillips?”

“I don’t know who that is,” was her answer.

About halfway through my explanation of who Mackenzie Phillips was and the shows in which she stared, her eyes began to glaze over. I was losing her. I gave up and told her, “Go ask your mother.”

Kinzie said she would, pointed to another waitress on the floor, and continued, “That’s her, over there.”

When I glanced at the woman she pointed at, it dawned on me—her mother was also part of the generation more acquainted with digital downloads than with Mackenzie Phillips. I realized I was fishing for cultural references in a stream where even the concept of a mixed tape might be considered an archaeological find.

Thus, the moral of my story: When your pop culture references fall flat, or if you’re curious about the bygone era of hula hoops and pogo sticks, it might be more straightforward to say, “Go ask your mother—or better yet, your grandmother. They might teach you the lost art of keeping entertained without Wi-Fi.”

As is our norm, there are larger versions of this week’s image on my website, and you can view them by clicking on these links: < Jim’s Webpage> and <FAA Post>. Be sure to show up next week when we continue to play in the snow. We always look forward to reading your comments about photography, the weather, or even Mackenzie Phillips.

Until next time, keep your snowshoes handy and your humor dry.
jw

March Survey

This is the second week of our month-long survey. It’s unchanged from last week, so if you were kind enough to answer it, you’re done. I’m asking you to answer some questions about how we’re doing. The survey below will appear over the following weeks, but I only need your opinion once. At the end of the month, I’ll review your input and discuss any decisions we make. I dislike taking these surveys as much as you do, so I’m keeping it short. Mark the first pair of questions with a single answer, but the third is multiple choice. Tick all the boxes that apply to you.

If you don’t see the form in your email, you can get to it by clicking on the email’s title line or using this link <Survey Link>.
Thanks in advance for helping us.

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Storm-Lit Skies Over Date Creek Range Picture of the Week - Congress, Arizona

Golden-light silhouette of Joshua Trees with a dark, stormy sky over Date Creek Range in Arizona. — 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.

Date Creek Clearing Picture of the Week

Sometimes you get lucky. As a photographer, I keep scenes in my head, so I can go back when the light is right when I want to capture them. That’s what happened for last week’s image, Resting Santa. We had a series of dry fronts move through Congress during the month, but the weather forecasts called for an afternoon where the sky would be clear so the evening sun would pleasantly light up the Harcuvars. I left the house at 3:30 and purposely drove out to get that shot. It was practically a product shot.

More often, I pass by beautiful once in a lifetime scenes that will never be replicated, and I chastise myself for not having a camera with me—or worse—not taking the time to stop. That’s almost what happened with this week’s featured image.

Date Creek Clearing - A clearing winter storm hangs over the Date Creek Range in the evening sun. — Date Creek Clearing – A clearing winter storm hangs over the Date Creek Range in the evening sun.

After I was finished shooting Resting Santa, I drove home on State Route 71. I was looking forward to getting back to a warm home, a nice glass of wine, and one of Queen Anne’s famous home-cooked Stouffer’s dinners. The sun was low on the horizon, and outside my window, a golden cloud hung over the Date Creek range. The conversation in my head went something like this.

“Oh my, that’s gorgeous. I should really come back with the camera sometime when the light is like this.”

“You idiot! Your camera is on the passenger seat, and the light is like this right now. Stop the truck, walk across the road, and take the picture.”

I was very convincing, so I did stop and take a shot—several of them to be exact. The version that I like most is called Date Creek Clearing. There are two prominent peaks in the Date Creek Range; both of them are unnamed. On the left is the rocky pinnacle that ate my first drone, so I call it Drone Eater Mountain. On the right side is the Range’s high point. They are only bit-players in this photo. The real stars here are the clouds caught in a moment that can never be duplicated. Those storm leftovers can never be the same.

I know that my work is considered trivial and will never warrant a Pulitzer Prize or other great awards. I shoot mostly meaningless pretty pictures, valued at a dime-a-dozen. But on a week such as the one we’ve experienced, I needed a bit of calmness and serenity. If you feel the same, then this is my gift to you.

You can see a larger version of Date Creek Clearing on its Web Page by clicking here. Next week, I’ll bring you another image from our small corner of the world. Stay safe.

Until next time — jw

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