Road Tested

The great dunes under a monumental sky.

Last week's post offered images from a recent visit to the San Luis Valley of southern Colorado. The SLV is the largest alpine valley in the world at 60 miles wide by 120 miles long. It’s a behemoth that’s lightly populated and a person could wander its backroads for a lifetime. 

Shadows and Light.

To simplify.

Swoosh.

Today and perhaps for several editions are a clutch of Roadside Attractions that are contenders for our upcoming show by that name and for my May-June article in Shadow and Light. Selecting 10 images out of 100s is always a daunting task. I both relish and hate the process. Looking back I often discover a image I missed back in the day. I like that part of the drill. Moving forward its about identifying something special in a subject or a scene. We're searching for another dimension that separates this image from the ordinary. Today's post relates to the theme of our upcoming show and to the article in that the photographs were made on the road to or from somewhere. Among the 10 or so images in the article will be gems from the archives and more recent efforts. In the ideal world the selections for the article and for the show would be weighted toward the new and favor New Mexico. But, ultimately, it's he best 10,15 or 25 that are true to the theme.

The image curation task and our tour of the San Luis Valley a week ago yesterday led me to the Great Sand Dunes National Park, the wonder within the great valley. It is breathtaking. Above are four images from that magnificent place.

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Roads Revisited

This little number comes to you courtesy of our upcoming summer show and a possible article for Shadow and Light. It’s rare when I can vanquish two birds with one theme. That theme is Roadside Attractions, the working title of our sixth biannual show at our Taos Gallery, Wilder Nightingale. So, here’s your first notice of the show which will open on Saturday, August 30. Consider yourself warned.

"We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto."

The theme, Roadside Attractions, comes from Peggy’s fertile brain. Though I have had reservations about the title and have wondered if it's too restrictive, I’ve embraced it more or less. Can a still life be a roadside attraction?  On the other hand, most of my photographs and Peggy’s paintings have been inspired by short jaunts or meandering journeys into the southwestern landscape. So, that part works.

A sliver of color in the high desert,

New road trips are part of the plan and in the past week we returned to the San Luis Valley of southern Colorado. So, on our week ago yesterday excursion we revisited old friends like the Great Sand Dunes National Park and an abandoned farmhouse in Mosca, Colorado. A dozen years ago I photographed the lonely dwelling which looked to me more like the Midwest than Southwest. So, I called the photograph “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.” I’ve been processing the new ones of the farmstead and either the original will be in the show or one of the new ones if it’s better. Both of these are 2025 iterations.

Abandonado, Costilla, NM.

Just south of the Colorado border on the way to the San Luis Valley we explored the town of Costilla. West of the downtown, I use the term loosely, on the west side of NM 522 we found an entire village of abandoned buildings. It’s as if Costilla once thrived then died. One of the photographs of the abandoned buildings shown above is a work in process but I'm getting there.

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King Copper

The Ray Mine with Teapot Dome in the distance.

In an Instagram post a couple of weeks back I referred to a side trip to the threadbare copper mining town of Winkelman, Arizona. We were driving back from the California coast and planned to avoid Interstates where possible and to use so-called Blue Highways from Apache Junction, Arizona to I-40 in Grants, New Mexico. We had in mind driving northeast from Apache Junction on US 60 through the copper mining towns of Superior, Miami and Globe then through the White Mountains and plains of northeast Arizona into New Mexico at Quemado. From Quemado we’d traverse more grasslands before entering El Malpais National Monument and the junction of I-40.

Betwixt and Between

It was a daunting 12-hour haul from Arizona’s Copper Country to Taos in one long day. In the lead-up to the turn northeast Peggy expressed interest in visiting the less known copper mining town of Winkelman where her grandfather once lived and where she believed her uncle George was born. I told her, “We absolutely have to do that.” The math suggests that her grandfather would have arrived in Winkelman around the turn of the twentieth century and that her uncle would have been born there in 1920 give or take, 

Winkelman, AZ

A shell of its former self

Fate made that a necessity. As we approached Superior, population 2.407, we saw signs saying that US 60 was closed from Superior to Miami and Globe and that we’d have to take a detour through Winkelman and back to US 60 in Globe. We had no idea whether Winkelman still existed or that copper mining was alive and well. Perhaps 15 miles south on AZ 177 we caught our first glance of the sprawling Ray Mine in Hayden, AZ. It is still functioning and now Mexican owned. I photographed the mine which stretched from north of Hayden and into Winkelman with its smelter on a shallow rise above the village of 353. The town was founded when the former Kennecott Copper Mine was built in 1881. The town’s bones are of that era and there has been little new construction since. Gotta love it. In another IG post I wrote that I could spend a week in what’s left of the once bustling burg. One of my favorite portfolios, dare I say an important one, is The Edge of What’s Left. Winkelman is what's left. I am and will always be drawn to the decaying and forgotten.

It should be noted that the Ray Mine encompasses 59,000 acres and is the second largest producer of copper in Arizona, a state that produces 65% of America’s copper.

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Those cotton fields back home

The Palms Inn still standing tall.

Back in 1965 I was a cotton inspector for the state of Arizona. In no way was I qualified to inspect cotton but my college roommate at Arizona State University, Cal Z. Miller, was an entomology student. He studied bugs, Cal was going to be a cotton inspector in the hell hole of Gila Bend that summer and he recommended me to join him. It was the best paying job a college student could get in the mid-Sixties. $1.50 an hour was the going wage for a bartender or men’s wear salesman. I was both as well as others like a truck driver, bank teller, a PR flack and a singing waiter. As cotton inspectors we’d be making $275 a week. A bank trainee straight out of college earned about that. We were in high cotton if you'll excuse the pun.

So, I interviewed with Cal’s supervisor at the state Capitol in Phoenix, couldn’t spell the weevil in boll weevil, and still got the job.

Palms at the Palms

The legendary pool at the Palms.

Learning to be a cotton inspector had a short and shallow learning curve, right up my short and shallow alley. You opened the cotton boll, looked for the tiny insects, did that a hundred times and your day was done. As I recall it, we walked twenty steps into a row of cotton, picked a plant, inspected it and moved on to the next row. It was easy if blisteringly hot work. By noon each of us had tested the obligatory 100 plants. We worked five or six hours a day, five days a week for our $275. We found no weevils. Ever.

Throughout the summer of '65 we drove 70 miles from Tempe to Gila Bend every Sunday night, checked into the Palms Inn, still there and better than ever as the photographs above attest. I’ve punched the saturation to cast a mid-century vibe. We returned to our apartment at the Lone Palm in Tempe every Friday afternoon, and repaired to the pool beer in hand. It's been said that college mates say they never saw me without a beer after 5pm. We held beer chugging contests from time to time. The contestant stood in the bath tub, it's wet business, beer can in hand and waited for the go signal.  Two stop watches timed his effort. Jack Francis amazed with a world record of .9 seconds. I did 1.2. Yes, sports fans, that's faster than you can pour a beer down the drain. As if anyone would do that

When I call Gila Bend a hell hole I am not embellishing. The town was often the hottest in the country vying for that recognition with Presidio, Texas and Death Valley. To survive we were in the fields by 6am and back at our motel by noon every day.

Our routine was to work in the morning, have lunch in our swamp cooled room, take a nap, lift weights, hang out by the pool, shower, read a good book and walk to Frankie’s Bar for a steak and several bottles of Budweiser, the King of Beers. It was the same every day. Then and now I relish routine and ritual. On Fridays we were back by the pool at the Lone Palm in Tempe by mid-afternoon. It was a simple, unchallenging life. By the end of the summer of 1965 Cal and I were bronzed gods and rolling in dough.

In the spring of 1966 Cal graduated from ASU and became a health inspector in LA. I graduated a year later after eight off and on years. He visited us in Van Nuys a couple of times after Peggy and I moved to The Valley in 1968, Then we lost touch.

All of this is prompted by our drive to southern California in mid-March. In our two-day trip to the coast we stayed in Tucson for one night and took the low road to Borrego Springs through Gila Bend. We were not impressed by the backwater. It is a pit. Whereas most towns from my long ago and misspent youth in Arizona had flourished, Gila Bend had shriveled. It was less than I remembered and that’s saying something.

Of the icons of the summer of 1965 in the no stoplight Gila Bend the Palms Inn still there and was crisp, beautifully maintained and much better than it was when I was 23. Sadly, Frankie’s is no longer. If, indeed, that was it's name. I don't have a clue but Frankie's feels right. The building that once housed the dive bar was gone. I considered making the shuttered bar across Main Street from the Palms as Frankie’s but Peggy’s disdain for small fictions dissuaded me.

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Back and Forth

High Plains north of Show Low, Arizona.

We’ve just returned from a road trip to Del Mar, California to visit our friend of forty years, Glenn Goodstein, whom I met while opening a restaurant in Brentwood in 1984. Glenn was a senior at UCLA and was, as I told him then, “You’re the best host I’ve ever worked with.” That was true and I knew he was destined for big things. Prescient as I am, he has been the great success I predicted and is living the California Dream with a sweeping ocean view from his Del Mar condo, a short amble to the beach and with a Porsche Macan SUV and a spanking new Jeep in the garage. The Porsche roadster is in storage. I asked Glenn how we became unlikely friends, a college kid and a restaurant executive. He told me that my praise and encouragement had meant a lot him. I may have been a father figure to him though I felt like a boy of 43 at the time. We attended his sumptuous Beverly Hills wedding, And he visited us in Massachusetts with a redheaded Brazilian bombshell in tow. We have a natural camaraderie. We delight in each other. It's a continuing feast of friendship and food. And speaking of food, we ate non-stop during our visit. Glenn is a man with prodigious appetites and zest for life. I haven't hung with a wealthy bachelor in a long time as in never. It was a revelation.

Nearing El Malpais. Those are the sandstone bluffs on the horizon.

The bluffs that formed in the Jurassic period.

The bluffs in falling sun.

La Ventana a natural arch is on the right center.

As much as I could continue the story of his ascent and heady California lifestyle, this post is about the roadscapes we encountered on the northern route from SoCal through the bare knuckle copper mining towns of central Arizona and high plains of Arizona and New Mexico. The capper of seven days on the road was the marvel of El Malpais National Monument with lava fields and sandstone bluffs stretching from Quemado, New Mexico to Grants and I-40. We instantly agreed to return soon, stay in Grants and appreciate El Malpais at all times of day. It is glorious. Sadly, the visitor center is closed thanks to the chain saw DOGE took to the Park Service.

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Skies Three

Billowing Clouds. Taos Mountain.

Continuing the darkly rendered, big sky theme of the last two posts I’m issuing a third edition. There may be a fourth depending on what the California coast and desert west provide over the next few days. These are dark, have a dominant sky and just enough earth to tell the story.

Cow Springs Sundown. Navajo Nation, Arizona.

Layers of Meaning. Navajo Nation. Arizona.

Entrada. San Luis Valley, Colorado.

Ranchitos Sundown. Taos, New Mexico.

Hang in there with my hyperlink adventure. Please click on the link below to go to the wonderfulness of the actual blog. I appreciate it.

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Dark Sky Laws

The San Luis Valley from west to east with Ute Mountain bottom right.

Shafts of Light off 1-40 between Kingman and Needles.

The Sinclair in Sinclair Oil.

Continuing the darkly rendered, big sky theme of last week’s post which may include a third edition next time are four more offerings. They are dark, they have a dominant sky and just enough earth to tell the story.

Looking west from Blueberry Hill.

Mesa Blanca.

They could all be from New Mexico which is the standard bearer of monumental skies or hail from anywhere in the West.

Hang in there with my hyperlink adventure. At the bottom of the page will be the same hyperlink as yesterday and one shorter one created as I wrote the post. Yesterday’s was functional but ugly as sin. Big thanks to all of you tried the link in my short but sweet post yesterday. The link worked for most of you which suggests I'm on the right path for a short term solution to get you to the blog.

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This is a test

Three weeks ago the link that took you to the actual blog post stopped working and is apparently unfixable. In the old days you could click on the post title in the Monday email and you'd be taken to the blog itself. Those days are no longer and I may have to create a new blog with a new host. That could take awhile. 

In the meantime I trying a workaround that I hope will get you from the email to the blog. The link below is that workaround. You'd do me a big favor if you'd click on the link to see if it works for you. And you'd be a real saint if you'd leave a comment using the link at the bottom of the post saying that it worked for you. Many thanks.

Steve

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The Sky Above

Occluded Sun.

High Plains Drifter.

The revelation began with images from the California coast. One was Occluded Sun, so named by dear friend Jamie Hindman. There were at least four worthies just that morning between Petaluma and the coast and a couple more from the Point Reyes Peninsula’s North Beach. From the moment of Occluded Sun a theme has emerged. It’s of brooding images that I’ve rendered even darker than they were in real life. It’s clearly about a sky that dwarfs the earth or the sea below. The developing series honors the immensity of the sky and that reveals that our earth is a minor player in the grand scheme. Joining Occluded Sun is High Range Drifter which was taken on my beloved NM Highway 104 east of Las Vegas. The great expanse of rangeland and the monumental sky dwarf an abandoned homestead with a farmhouse, a windmill and a corral. A photographer friend called the image “the essence of New Mexico” when I posted it to Instagram a couple of weeks back. So, now I’m photographing to the theme of brooding skies while examining past efforts for images that show a slice of terra firma dwarfed by the sky above. I couldn’t live in a better place to build this portfolio. New Mexico skies thrill me every day.

Walking Rain.

Canyon Country.

High Plains Motif.

I have many too many photographs for a single post of dominant skies. Here are several.

Demasiado Mucho Demasiado Tarde.

El Cachalote, Malaga. Home of the best fish I've ever eaten.

The aforementioned best fish. Lubina, a Mediterranean sea bass and whole sardines.

The two adventures in Spain in a major travel year were eclectic as in varied locales and themes. This third entry in the grouping may be part of an upcoming article about the last stops in a fall trip to Spain. One location, Gaucin, is an old friend and the other two, Malaga and Girona, will be new to Shadow and Light.

Placa Domenic, Girona Ciutat Velle.

Riu Anyar, Girona, Catalunya.

It's all a blur. Running through the Girona's Ciutat Velle.

Una Pueblo Blanco, Gaucin, Andalucía. 

As I have been in front of my computer ten hours straight today there will be precious few words and this handful of images for your perusal. The article was due on March 1 and I’ll be lucky if I submit it on the third. There were too many places, too many photographs, too little time and I’m still flummoxed.

Más España

Plaza Catalunya, Barcelona.

Trying to recapture the magic of our Spanish spring not to mention the lost photographs I travelled differently, more simply and cheaper. I’ve already established that I ride the train when possible but I also look for accommodations a couple of notches below the three plus stars Peggy and I favor. And while that is partly driven by frugality it also comports with my belief that the more stars your hotel boasts the more you’re removed from the heartbeat of the community. And engaging with real folks is the wonder of memorable travel. So, when alone I choose unstarred hotels, ones that are a world apart from the whole star system. And despite that the modest establishments can wonderful. 

Along the strand, Barceloneta.

In Madrid I stayed in the two-star Hotel Mediodia at the perfect location for the Prado, La Reina Sofia and the Parque Retiro where I ran each day. I found a local bar and a place for a 5-euro lunch including a small beer. From Madrid I took the high-speed train, second class, to Barcelona where I stayed in student housing near the beach in Barceloneta. It was simply furnished, came with a simple breakfast brought to my room and with a laundry downstairs. Sure, it was spare, but it was four blocks from the playa, three from an amazing mercado and surrounded by tasty local eateries with no tourists.

Centro, Cordoba.

I

Roman Ruins, Cordoba.

Royal Alcazar, Sevilla.

Catedral de Sevilla.

In Cordoba I stayed at the El Convento Antiguo, also un-starred, where I sat on the front steps talking with the Ernesto the front desk manager who commuted to work from the countryside. Yes, it was once a convent.  In Sevilla it was the well-named Hotel Sevilla, another no-star just a block from great tapas, ice cream and flamenco. The Sevilla offered a prepared to order breakfast, an ideal location and was 79 euros with the breakfast. I couldn’t ask for more. It was personal and welcoming compared to a faceless chain hotel. And it was across a small plaza from a bar that filled with lawyers, teachers and workers enjoying a traditional prix fixe lunch of an appetizer, an entrée, a dessert and a small beer or wine for the munificent sum of 8 euros.

It doesn’t take big money to enjoy a city. Quite the opposite I’d say. And you can stay longer at at less than 100 euros a night. I struggle to rationalize 300-euro hotels, and $6,000 a week guided tours when for that price I can a stay for a month and really get to know the place. To me it's a gimme. 

Seeing double in Spain

Atocha Station

It’s likely I’ll write about Spain for the next issue of Shadow and Light. It is not a given at this point and I have almost two weeks to get it together. Why hurry when you can get the adrenalin rush that comes with a deadline tomorrow.

School children at La Reina Sofia Museum

2014 was a major travel year for the Immels. We spent a month in Andalusia in the spring, a month in the south of France in the fall and I revisited Spain after the French sojourn because Peggy scrubbed all my Spain photographs while we were in Madrid when the screen on my laptop was disturbing her sleep.

Walk on By.

The one euro lunch.

My local in Madrid.

The gist of the tale is that she bid me adieu in Marseille, and I flew to Madrid to retrace my steps and replace the lost images as best I could. I enjoyed a modicum of success at best. But I gave it a shot and saw the important locales a second time and added two, Girona and Malaga.

I travelled by train except from Malaga to Gaucin where we’d spent a month in the spring. Trains in Europe are superb and driving in cities is, simply put, stupid. So, I rode the train from Madrid to Barcelona in 2-1/2 hours, had a beer and sandwich along the way, napped a bit and arrived in the center of Barcelona fresh a daisy. In the spring we drove it in 5-1/2 hours, played hell finding our hotel and slept for 12 hours.

As much as I wanted to replicate the shots from trip one, it was not to be, as in impossible. I knew it but had to try. I remembered specific images from trip one and tried to find the exact location at the right time of day but four months later everything was different. The light, the people and the magic.

Today are a few from Madrid, the first stop on my second Spanish merry-go-round. I liked Madrid even more the second time and would return in a heartbeat. These are mostly street shots even though Madrid is an architecturally handsome city. In the upcoming article that may change. Barcelona, Malaga, Girona, Sevilla, Gaucin and Cordoba may be part of my Spanish journal. I ’ll know when I begin piecing it together.