Twilight’s Ember – A Natural Sculpture Carved by Time – Witness the interplay of light and shadow on the ancient red sandstone, highlighting the peak as if it were aflame in the heart of Valley of Fire State Park.
Last week, I shared a whimsical thought sparked by our visit to the once-submerged town of St. Thomas along Lake Meade’s shores. The idea? A short video starring our unwitting adventurers in an underwater exploration gone awry. With anything SCUBA, my thoughts invariably turn to the Poteets—Fred being a certified diving instructor. My idea instantly became a classic case of good and bad news. Deb quickly noted the absence of wetsuits in their wardrobe, while Fred, ever the sport, proposed renting them for our aquatic escapade. Thus, I spent the week crafting an epic screenplay for our faux underwater archaeology saga, ready for your enjoyment.
Not Quite a Fathom by Jim Witkowski
EXTERIOR SCENE. ZODIAC DIVING BOAT—DAY
The scene opens with FRED and DEB POTEET, waist up, sitting on the edge of a Zodiac diving boat. Clad in wetsuits, they finalize their snorkeling gear setup. Fred delivers the pre-dive briefing with a hint of solemnity.
FRED (fiddling with a weight belt)
Remember, St. Thomas has been a memory under Lake Mead’s waters since 1938, untouched by time. The condition of the buildings is unknown, so let’s avoid the timbers.
The camera cuts to a tight shot of Deb; her concern is visible even behind the mask.
DEB
I hope we don’t stumble upon any forgotten skeletons.
Cutting back to Fred, his assurance is firm.
FRED
Fear not. Hugh Lord, the town’s final farewell, waved as the waters embraced his home in ’38. All were safe.
With a final gear check, Fred signals readiness.
FRED(continues)
Ready?
Both poised on the Zodiac’s brink, a countdown commences.
FRED
On three. One… two… three…
On three, Fred leans back and rolls off the Zodiac into the water, followed immediately by Deb.
Cut to a drone camera, tight on Fred’s shocked face.
As Deb turns to Fred, her expression seems to ask, “WTF?” The drone camera slowly pulls up, revealing they are lying face-up on the dry lakebed, their legs still resting on the side of the Zodiac.
The drone camera pulls back further, exposing the dry town site’s barren concrete foundations and pads. As it gets altitude, Fred and Deb stand up, now tiny figures in the vast, dry landscape, including the Muddy River bed.
The camera ascends, eventually dissolving into a Google Earth Studio shot of the Lake Mead Overton arm, zooming out until the entire planet fills the frame.
FADE TO BLACK.
It’s a masterpiece if I do say so myself. Now, about those props—does anyone have a Zodiac lying around? Or perhaps other treasures hidden in your garage that could bring our production to life? Share your ideas in the comments! But let’s pivot from our playful banter to the awe-inspiring beauty captured in this week’s photographs.
This week’s highlight is a breathtaking sandstone formation, its pinnacle bathed in the sunset’s final embrace. The iron oxide-rich layers glow, a fiery testament to Valley of Fire’s geological wonders.
The uplift and erosion revealing such splendor speak to the Basin and Range Province’s dynamic history. Here, the forces of nature sculpt masterpieces: holes carved by chemical reactions with rainwater, alcoves shaped by the relentless wind, and striations etched by the journey of rainwater.
Thank you for joining us on this adventure. As the Superbowl looms, I wish your team luck and, perhaps more importantly, that this year’s commercials bring us joy. Next week promises more marvels from Valley of Fire. Don’t miss it.
Till then, keep your camera at the ready and your humor dry.
jw
White Gibraltar – The Navajo Sandstone Giant of Valley of Fire – A Vision in Sandstone – Rising from the Valley of Fire’s rugged landscape, this pale monolith echoes the grandeur of its namesake, standing as a silent sentinel in the desert sun.
Techniques: Exposing for the Highlight
I spotted the Aztec Sandstone formation while returning to the Turd on a trail hike at the end of the day. My eye was drawn to the very tip of the pinnacle, still glowing in the sun like the flame on the Statue of Liberty or ET’s finger. I knew that if I exposed the shady part of the sandstone, the finger would wash out the nice red color. So, to retain that glow, I pointed my camera at the sky above the finger, half-pressed the shutter to freeze the exposure reading, and slowly lowered the camera to include the rest of the scene.
The raw image looked too dark, and I almost rejected it. However, in post-processing, I could mask off the bright areas and increase the shadows by almost two F-stops. That was enough to bring out the erosion holes and keep the glow on ET’s finger.
Cool Springs Route 66: Relics and Flags – Echoes of the Past: Vintage cars sit silently under the vibrant hues of the American flag at Cool Springs Station, capturing the enduring spirit of Route 66.
The things you do for love. We don’t often get company, but when we do, Queen Anne transforms into a machine as she attempts to disinfect the house from top to bottom. My best chance of staying out of the trash bin or sucked into one of her vacuums is to lock myself in my office. That’s what happened the first week of December. Anne’s sisters came out for a long weekend visit, meaning that she spent the entire month of November scrubbing the walls. She only put down her Comet can for our traditional Thanksgiving dinner at Denny’s.
Before leaving to pick them up from the airport, imagine my surprise when she handed me a crisp $20.00 bill and told me, “Find someplace to spend the night.” It was predictable because we haven’t had enough beds for multiple guests since we sold our Casita (don’t remind me). I decided to drive over to the river and lose my newfound wealth on the Craps table. Since I was going in that direction, I thought I could get some Route 66 shots. And there, my friend is the story of how Oatman became January’s photo project.
In Arizona, there are two long stretches of the original Mother Road. The first and longest is the Seligman – Peach Springs – Kingman section. The other runs from Kingman, through Sitgraves Pass, to Oatman, and then the old bridge crossing the Colorado River. Since I have very few photos of Oatman, I took this route on my way home from Laughlin. I’m glad I did.
The only other time I drove this section of Old Route 66 was during the pandemic. At the time, we were avoiding people, so we didn’t stop to shoot any roadside attractions. However, the Cool Springs Station burned a hole in my lens, so it was a required stop on this trip.
Cool Springs: Route 66’s Desert Jewel – Stepping back in time at Cool Springs Station, an iconic stop along Arizona’s stretch of Route 66, nestled against the majestic backdrop of Thimble Mountain.
You’ve likely seen pictures of this place in books or videos about Route 66. With its classic shiny red Mobil gas pumps (there’s a rusty one, too), it’s a perfect backdrop for motorheads to snap a portrait of their car. It hasn’t always been this gleaming jewel on the Mohave Desert floor. It has a history.
Nestled against the rugged backdrop of the Black Mountains, Cool Springs Station has stood as a silent witness to the ebb and flow of Route 66’s storied past. Established in the mid-1920s, Cool Springs was built to serve the burgeoning car culture of America, providing fuel, refreshments, and a welcome respite to weary travelers making their way through the Sitgreaves Pass. Its distinctive stone façade and gleaming gas pumps quickly became a symbol of the optimism and adventure spirit embodied by the Mother Road.
However, the passage of time and the shifting sands of progress were not always kind to Cool Springs. In the late 1960s, as the new interstate system redirected traffic away from Route 66, the station saw a decline, eventually falling into disrepair and was nearly forgotten. It wasn’t until 2001 that Ned Leuchtner, a Route 66 enthusiast, recognized the cultural and historical importance of Cool Springs. He undertook the painstaking task of reconstructing the station, using vintage photos as his guide to ensure authenticity. Today, the station has been restored to its former glory, complete with those classic red Mobil gas pumps and the original stone masonry, standing as a tribute to the enduring legacy of Route 66.
My picture of the month isn’t of the station but the yard art off to the side. The image is a trio of old car shells clustered under an American flag, with the Black Mountains as a background. Although these vehicles are historic, if they had any value, some collectors would have snatched them long ago.
The thing that made me choose this week’s photo is the flapping flag. I shot this midday with lighting that blends the cars and mountains into a bland porridge. The flag becomes the image’s star. It’s almost like the flags that fly over our national cemeteries. The picture says, “These are the fallen heroes of the long Route 66 history.”
We’re tickled that you started this year by spending time with us. If you want to see a larger version of this month’s photo, they are online on my website < Jim’s Page> and Fine Art America <FAA Link>. If you want to buy the Chevy Truck, you can contact Uncle Jim’s Cherry, One Owner, Used Car Emporium by leaving a comment below.
We look forward to your comments, so don’t be bashful. We’ll return with more Oatman and Route 66 photos next week, so don’t touch that dial.
Till then, keep your spirits high and your humor dry.
jw
Techniques: Waiting for the decisive moment.
You might think snapping a flag is a breeze, but let me tell you, it’s more like herding cats on a windy day. I aimed for a balance—not too limp and not overly taut—to convey a sense of movement and life. This required patience and timing, like capturing the peak moment in sports photography. With the wind’s whims as my conductor, I played a game of red and green light, waiting for Mother Nature’s perfect cue—talk about being at the mercy of the elements. In retrospect, a tripod would have saved me from the armache of holding steady through the breezes.
For the technically curious, this was a dance of light and speed. I shot in Aperture Priority mode with an f-stop of 6.1, relying on the bright midday sun to provide a fast enough shutter speed. My main concern was keeping the truck headlights and the flag’s stars and stripes in sharp focus. Choosing the correct f-stop or waiting for the wind is like deciding on the right spice for a stew or the right socks for sandals—not always obvious, but oh-so-important!
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!
