Summer Driving, Photography, and Goldfield, Nevada

An abandoned train car in Goldfield, Nevada. (Click on photos to view larger)

When I saw a chance for a road trip in late August, I took it. It had been a long summer. The monsoon mostly fizzled in Silver City, limiting us to early morning hikes on local trails and afternoon crossword puzzles under our ceiling fan. I’d barely lifted my camera for months, unmotivated to search for photos under a blaring sun and too lazy to climb out of bed before dawn to catch fleeting morning light. 

 

So I agreed eagerly to deliver a used car to our daughter in Ferndale, Washington (near Bellingham), spend a few days visiting, and then fly home. My plan was to make the 2,000-mile trip in 2.5 days, leaving a little time to take a few photographs if opportunities arose. 

I left Silver City on a hot morning, pausing to photograph familiar scenes along I-10 in New Mexico--a Lordsburg school bus, permanently parked in a gravel lot; a tire shop in Road Forks where gas is cheap--before pushing on to Tucson to spend two nights between doctor’s appointments in a surprisingly luxurious $100 hotel.

An old school bus in Lordsburg, NM.

A quonset hut in Lordsburg, NM.

Tires, Road Forks, NM.

Leaving Tucson in the late afternoon after my last appointment, I soon found myself in Phoenix traffic, inching along with hundreds of commuters, the car thermometer pegged at 115 degrees outside my air-conditioned sanctuary. I’d stopped once to photograph a canal delivering water to the city, even as Lakes Powell and Meade shrank to near critical levels and triggered water reductions for the Lower Basin States, but then the heat and traffic squelched my photographic ambition. My admiration for photographers successful in extreme weather grew. Later, between Phoenix and Kingman, I stopped briefly and photographed cacti in the blazing sun at a rest area and a lonely and strangely tilted thunderhead hanging over dry hills west of the highway, producing only virga. 

Canal southeast of Phoenix.

A tilted thunderhead between Phoenix and Kingman, AZ.

I could relate to Sally Mann, a well-known and sometimes controversial photographer, who once embarked on a long road trip through the Southeast, eager to take haunting images of old plantations and southern rivers, but days in she had nothing, lamenting:

D was keen on finding a graveyard where a Confederate relative had been buried and my heart lifted at the prospect of romantically drooping moss-draped branches and ancient, lichen-covered tombstones. Who can’t get a good picture in a cemetery? Apparently me. Hardly worth bringing out the camera. I was discouraged, the 2^nd long day of this trip and so far, three gas stations, a weed-covered hill, and Stalinist blocks of stone instead of tombstones. No moss. Blazing sun, no atmospheric haze. Regular old trees. (Sally Mann from Art Work: On the Creative Life, pg. 171)

I spent that night in Kingman, Arizona in a Ramada Inn decorated with Rt. 66 nostalgia during this 100^th anniversary of the iconic highway. The next morning, I woke early and headed for Las Vegas, driving through a strangely hazy landscape of sparse desert vegetation and low hills bathed in what could only be described as drab light, like a classic black and white photograph but without enough contrast. I stopped anyway, forcing myself to snap photos of dirt roads leading away from the highway toward distant hills, hoping to jump-start my creative instincts despite the light, wondering what a good photographer might see that I didn’t. 

 

Ramada Inn, Rt. 66, Kingston, AZ.

Gate and road in drab light between Kingman, AZ and Las Vegas, NV.

Finally, I hit a little paydirt in an old Nevada mining town called Goldfield, about thirty miles south of Tonopah. I’d stopped to photograph a mildly-inspiring, abandoned gas station by the highway when a white-bearded local driving an ATV stopped to talk to me. He pointed me down 5^th Street to the old ghost town and railroad yard of Goldfield, suggesting that the best photo-opps were there and needlessly apologizing that Goldfield didn’t have more to offer. I headed down 5^th to an area where I could have spent the rest of the day had I not had so many miles to cover. I was in a good place in the harsh light of midday, but I tried to make the best of it, photographing old miner’s cabins, railroad cars, piles of junk, and the remarkably untouched remnants of a town that bustled with activity 120 years ago.

 

A strangely undisturbed miner's cabin in Goldfield.

Another miner's cabin where they finished their drinks and left town without even recycling.

Goldfield boomed after particularly rich gold deposits were found there in 1902, soon after Tonopah became a silver boomtown, drawing prospectors to the area. At its peak, 20,000 people lived in Goldfield, making it the largest town in Nevada at that time. Some of the gold was so pure that miners hid nuggets in their boot heels and hollowed-out axe handles according to legend. Wyatt Earp and his brother, Virgil, once roamed the streets. A bar in town was a block long, requiring 30 bartenders to keep the whiskey flowing. But, bust follows boom, and by 1910 the mines were more expensive to operate than they were worth, and the crowds moved on. A flash flood in 1913 destroyed some of the town, and an exploding moonshine still in 1923 set much of what was left on fire. Today, about 225 people live in Goldfield.

Old safe, Goldfield, NV.

Truck interior, Goldfield, NV.

More recently, the quirky “International Car Forest of the Last Church”, just outside of Goldfield, has become a draw for travelers. The Car Forest is an installation of old cars, buses, and trucks, embedded as if they’d flown in from outer space, nose-diving into the dirt. Graffiti artists decorate and redecorate. Hipsters make videos. The rest of us walk around in the hot sun, peering into makeshift car-rooms and watching out for snakes.

 

The International Car Forest of the Last Church.

While researching Goldfield, I was surprised to find a video of Alex Honnold exploring the town and its adjacent car art installation, apparently as part of a Nevada promotional campaign. If you haven’t heard of him, Honnold is famous for palm-sweating unroped climbs of massive cliffs, culminating in his free solo of El Capitan in Yosemite, a climb captured in the Oscar-winning documentary, Free Solo. He looked more comfortable in that film climbing the Monster Corner thousands of feet off the deck, unroped, than he did sitting in a makeshift radio studio in Goldfield being interviewed by Carl, the local DJ, and listening to the “Burro Weather Forecast.” He did manage to climb the vertical bus in the Car Forest, a probable first ascent that I now wish I’d ticked before Honnold when I was there in 2024 so that I could call him out on his claim. That would have been a moment of glory.

 

Alex Honnold claims the first ascent of the upended school bus.

Just as Goldfield quickly turned from boom to bust, so did my photography. I pulled into Winnemucca after dark that night, booking a room in the Shady Grove Motel. A few of the rooms were occupied by long-term renters—a quiet group of men gathered around a grill in the shade, cooking dinner. Across the parking lot from them, each room was labeled with the name of a saint (or perhaps towns named for saints). Christian martyrs (Ynez, Susana) guarded some rooms while others commemorated domestic activities (Rosa, the patron saint of embroidery and gardening). I pity the newly married couple booking the Santa Rita room, named for the patron saint of “impossible, broken, or deeply troubled marriages.” My room was off to the side, surprisingly large and unconsecrated. After a good meal at a Mexican restaurant a few blocks away, I hit the sack, anticipating an early start and a fourteen-hour drive to Bellingham. 

The Shady Grove Motel, Winnemucca, NV.

The last day of my trip was a grueling push with little time to stop except to get gasoline and fast food. I was lured briefly from the car between Winnemucca and Boise by a collection of animal skulls. Later, I drove into the dense smoke of Northwestern wildfires, over the Cascades, and into the rush of Seattle traffic before arriving in Ferndale in time for dinner.

Part of a large collection of skulls north of Winnemucca.

I'll finish with a few more Goldfield, Nevada photos, a place where someday I'll spend a few days.

Rocking chair in train car, Goldfield, NV.

Window curtain in an old cabin, Goldfield, NV.

Metal door, Goldfield, NV.

E-bike prototype? Goldfield, NV.

 

 

The New Mexico Bootheel

Sunrise at Granite Gap, just north of the Bootheel, with the Pyramid Mountains in the background.

(Click images to view larger)

I scoured Mountain Project (an online crowd-sourced rock-climbing guide) before moving to Southern New Mexico in 2023, hoping to find climbing areas near Silver City. There are a few, but Granite Gap near the “Bootheel,” the southward protrusion of New Mexico that borders Arizona and Chihuahua, Mexico, sounded especially intriguing because of its obscurity, even though the climbing wasn’t very tempting. The Mountain Project reporter noted that: 

“Much of the rock is dubious…This is a primitive desert environment where it seems every plant and animal is hostile. Cactus everywhere and huge rattlesnakes. Sounds great heh?”

Though bouldering with fat rattlesnakes and cactus spine landings didn’t appeal, empty desert along the Mexican border did, and I looked forward to exploring and photographing this unknown (to me) piece of New Mexico. Web searches revealed few images except for those by Continental Divide Trail hikers on the first few days of their northbound treks, taken as they slogged across shadeless desert, drinking from cattle troughs to get to Lordsburg and then the Gila National Forest, where the trail becomes less stark. A few people have documented tiny towns and mining ruins, but images are scarce, prompting dreams of unique photo opportunities, rare in a world so awash in imagery.

A cholla flower at Granite Gap, where the coarse soil supports a lusher vegetation than in much of the Bootheel.

Sotol flowers at Granite Gap.

Technically, Granite Gap is a little north of the Bootheel, though everything south of Lordsburg is usually lumped in. The Bootheel itself isn’t small, covering about 1,500 square miles, but that’s a tiny fraction of the area of New Mexico, and with a population density of about one person per square mile, most living around a few tiny towns (Animas, Cotton City, Hatchita, Rodeo) between mountain ranges, there’s a lot of empty country. But much of the land is private or inaccessible. 

An old saloon and its mural in the small town of Hatchita. Hatchita and the ruins of old Hatchita were mining towns. Now CDT hikers stop at the Hatchita store to refresh on their way north or south.

The Cotton City Grocery and Laundromat. 

The Diamond A Ranch, one of largest ranches in the Bootheel, is committed to conservation and cooperates with the Nature Conservancy but doesn’t allow public access, even forcing the CDT to be rerouted around their holdings and causing controversy due to locked gates on county roads which are supposed to be open to all. Some of the prominent mountain ranges (Big Hatchets, Alamo Huecos, Peloncillos) in the Bootheel include large Wilderness Study Areas but are difficult or impossible to access, while others (Animas, San Luis) are mostly private and off-limits. That’s a lot of intriguing country that is out-of-bounds for most of us.

Beth and Steve Buskirk and Ellen hiking in the Southern Peloncillo Mountains. Access to parts of the Peloncillos is blocked by the Diamond A and other private land holdings.

Despite the harsh arid environment, the Bootheel was home to indigenous people for thousands of years. I’ve read journal articles describing archaeological sites all over the area, many along the margins of playas that were presumably a source of water or in the foothills where water was also more abundant. On one trip, armed with waypoints gleaned from archaeological site descriptions, I tried to visit some of these pre-contact sites but was stopped every time by locked gates or No Trespassing signs. 

A cattle guard at the entrance to a road leading out onto a playa (dry lakebed) in the Bootheel.

More recently, Geronimo, the Apache military leader, surrendered in 1886 to Lt. Charles Gatewood near Skeleton Canyon in the Peloncillo Mountains before being shipped to Florida to join other Apache prisoners. He died a prisoner of war in Ft. Sill, Kansas in 1909. A stone monument to his surrender west of the entrance to Skeleton Canyon incorporates matates once used to grind corn or mesquite pods, but that end of the canyon is blocked by private land, requiring long hot hikes to access it from the east or south. The title of David Roberts' book, Once They Moved Like the Wind, about Geronimo and the Apache wars, evokes the freedom Apache and other indigenous people enjoyed before ranchers and miners claimed the land for themselves.

A storm over the Chiricahua Mountains looking west into Arizona from near Skeleton Canyon.

Part of Mexico until the Gadsen Purchase in late-1853, the Bootheel and southern Arizona were the last significant addition of land to the contiguous United States. The $10 million purchase facilitated a southern transcontinental railroad between the South and the West Coast. This was before the Civil War, but southerners, including Gadsen, feared that without a southern railroad line, the North would benefit disproportionately from trade. Events leading to the purchase were complicated, but the result was the addition of close to 30,000 square miles of territory to the U.S. extending from near Las Cruces to the California border and incorporation Tucson, Yuma, and other important southwestern cities.

Sunset looking westward across country added to the U.S. by the Gadsen Purchase of 1853.

Today, the Bootheel is a hotspot for illegal immigration despite Trump’s wall and the heavy presence of the Border Patrol. In the Southern Peloncillos, I’ve seen border agents on horseback, rifles in scabbards, riding into the hills like a posse from the Old West to track immigrants. Border Patrol pickup trucks drag tires along road margins and fencelines, smoothing the dirt so that fresh footprints can be detected and followed. Camping near the border is said to be dangerous, and there are occasional incidents with smugglers moving people or drugs.

Water and juice perhaps left for immigrants in a chapel in Hatchita.

So, the Bootheel is an interesting and complicated place, but despite a half-dozen driving trips and a few exploratory hikes, I’ve seen little of it and photographed even less, mostly without much success. In the wide-open desert, it’s hard to find ways to anchor a 35 mm frame. The morning sun bursts over the horizon, transforming the Borderlands in minutes from soft to glaring light. Sunsets linger a little longer but are also fleeting, and the sky is often cloudless, less visually interesting than when storms sweep through, rarer during weak monsoons like I’ve experienced since moving to New Mexico. In summer, the Bootheel bakes in the sun and temperatures are often over 100 degrees, discouraging outdoor adventure. Still, the lure of obscurity is strong, and there is a lot of exploring to be done, particularly in the mountains. With work, these ranges can surely be accessed, even while we can no longer move through them like the wind.

A sofa in the living room of an abandoned house in Hatchita.

Seating (for funerals??) in the Cottonwood Cemetery along the Geronimo Trail in the Southern Peloncillo Mountains.

A sluggish Gila Monster at Granite Gap in November 2024.

A cowboy hat at a church in Hatchita.

The view southeast into the Bootheel from the ruins of Old Hatchita (now abandoned), a mining town.

Chiricahua Storm

Storm over the Chiricahua Mountains viewed from the New Mexico Bootheel.

(Click images to view larger)

Southern New Mexico has been in drought since we moved from Wyoming over two years ago. In normal years, the Arizona monsoon brings summer storms, blocking the sun and cooling temperatures. Even then, this is a sunny place, so it's exciting when rains come as they have over the last few days thanks to two low-pressure systems that swept from the California coast across the Southwest and then into the Plains. After rain, locals check their rain gauges and send texts to each other. It can feel almost competitive.

“How much did you get??” 

“We got 0.7 inches. How about you?” 

The sunshine is nothing to complain about, especially for those of us who love the arid West. For most of us, sunny skies and expansive vistas beat the dreary gray and oppressive undergrowth of more humid places. 

Photographically, startling clear blue skies are less interesting than dramatic storms or even well-spaced summer cumuli, so I was excited last weekend while driving home from visiting friends in Bisbee, Arizona when a storm engulfed the Chiricahua Mountains of Southern Arizona. By then, we were in New Mexico’s bootheel, looking west at the mountains where the sun poked through the clouds just enough to highlight a few places in the landscape. It was spectacular, and I stopped to shoot a few photos over the barbed wire fence beside the highway. 

Roadside view. 

The big picture.

Moody version of the storm

Northern New Mexico Exploring

The Penitente Morada in Abiquiu, built in the 1700s but restored more recently. 

(Click on images to view larger)

New Mexico is the fifth largest state in the U.S., behind Alaska, Texas, California, and Montana (Wyoming is 10^th). I’ve lived in Silver City for not quite two years and have barely begun learning the geography during local excursions (link, link, link), a short trip to east central New Mexico, and a little exploring in the Farmington area in the northwest (Bisti Badlands, Navajo archaeology, etc.). The area north and west of Santa Fe, with its long history and classic adobe architecture beckoned, and my friend Ed Sherline suggested meeting to have a look around. He’d planned a point-to-point bikepacking trip from Cumbres Pass, on the Colorado border, to Bandelier, south of Los Alamos, and needed someone to help shuttle his car, so I agreed to do that after a few days of photography. 

If you search “northern vs. southern New Mexico” online, there are reports of a friendly rift, with northerners certain that theirs is the prettiest part of the state and southerners countering with its more subtle charms. That’s a little like arguing whether Led Zeppelin is better than the Beatles (we all know the answer, right?? right?). Northerners cite the alpine terrain and the rich cultural heritage and art scene. Southerners point to White Sands and Carlsbad (and mild winters), though for me the remote desert “sky islands” and abundant archaeology are equally compelling. 

As it turned out, we chose one of the hottest weeks of the summer to be out, with triple-digit temperatures in the lowlands driving us onto the Los Alamos plateau to camp under ponderosa pines and limiting our functional time to early mornings. Despite pre-dawn starts, we were seldom in the right place in time to catch good light. We visited Espanola, Abiquiu, the Ghost Ranch, and Taos, drove a few back roads, met a mud adobe artist, did a spur-of-the-moment ascent of Wheeler Peak, New Mexico’s high point, swam in the Chama River, and ate a few good meals, but we didn’t get any great photographs. The summer light was harsh, and by mid-morning it was too hot to wander far from the car.

One hopes for a few “keepers” on photos excursions, but it doesn’t always pan out that way. The trips are still fun, though, and usually you find places worth returning to in different light or different seasons. Each fills in another piece of geography, and as your mental map grows, so do ideas about where to go next.

 

A lanky coyote plods along in 100+ degree heat in the Bosque del Apache.

The abandoned San Antonio depot south of Albuquerque. 

Cave dwelling, Frijoles Canyon, Bandelier National Monument. 

Volcanic rock formations, Frijoles Canyon, Bandelier National Monument.

Fruit stand, Rio Grande Gorge.

Theater, Espanola, New Mexico.

Crosses and shadows, Abiquiu, New Mexico.

Wooden cross, Abiquiu cemetery.

Cross with beads, Abiquiu cemetery.

Metal cross, El Rito, New Mexico.

Pigs (for sale?). La Cuchilla, New Mexico.