Anyway, I’ve finally finished my yearly task of archiving last year’s photos, and already my nascent education is affecting what I consider worth keeping. Suddenly, a whole new catalog of errors jumps out at me: blown out skies, camera shake, clueless use of flash, noise, chromatic aberration, and of course, mediocre composition.

But they say that a healthy part of any education is putting your work out there for better or worse, so here’s the short list from 2007. It’s no surprise that my favorites of the bunch are actually the ones taken by my wife. But this year, I hope to surpass her in at least the math department, which she hates.



It’s finally starting to cool off around these parts. Soon enough, I’ll able to once again take actual road trips to parts of the state I haven’t seen yet. But the internet still continues to offer an adequate substitute for real experience. I’ve recently found a few great sites that are new to me at least.

Aaron Walton’s Western Mining History site is probably my favorite, if only for the sheer perversity of its presentation. Clustered around its prominently displayed Google ads, the site’s photo galleries offer exquisite views of dilapidated small towns throughout the western United States. Its brief tour of Miami, Arizona is a real treat. The town’s hovels, back alleys and shuttered buildings are lovingly exhibited without commentary or any trace of irony, as barren as the streets of Miami themselves. Meanwhile, Globe and Bisbee look positively opulent by comparison.

I had varying degrees of success finding photos of the others towns in my personal pantheon of destinations. I enjoyed Jeff Knapp’s photos of Superior, even if they were all in black and white. The Library of Congress American Memory page has a lot of great pictures of Tombstone from the mid-20th century, before the place was tarted up for the tourist trade. But you’ve got to use their cumbersome search engine to find them. All I could find about Yarnell were pages about the Shrine Of St. Joseph, of which this one is my favorite.

None of the above, however, can match Prescott’s Sharlot Hall Museum site for sheer volume. Stretching from the mid 1800s to the present day, exhaustively documented and annotated in most cases by by accompanying articles, the collection has no rival that I’ve found. The also voluminous Arizona Memory Project, to which the Sharlot Hall Museum is a major contributor, comes awfully close though.

Readers as equally bitter as I am about the modern state of things might enjoy whiling away a few hours lost amidst these fantastic photo collections from Arizona’s past. The rest of you can get a quick fix from my latest batch of postwar postcards from the fine folks at Curt Teich:



Since our entertainment was taken care of, all we had to do was map out a short list of vegan restaurants in the city. These were our anchor destinations, around which we planned our urban hiking adventures. Unfortunately, we left our Trimble-compatible mobile phone at home, so Geocaching was out. But naturally, we brought along our camera. For as terribly hayseed-like as it may seem, there’s nothing I like better when I’m in the city than a good long gawk at all the tenements. There’s something about a code-straddling subsistence-level multi-family dwelling that starts something fluttering in my breast. I don’t even mind if it’s just a crumbling old boarded up office building, as long as its got that hungry look of potential flammability about it.

Of course, to truly capture these mighty beasts in their own habitat, I’d have to live among them. But one look at the state of my complexion after a mere three days on the street tells me this option is out of the question. The slow buildup of toxins would surely kill me. So you’ll have to forgive my piddling and rather scatter shot approach. Still, I think the cumulative effect of the photos is stirring enough. I’ll leave the detailed documentation to those better equipped for more extended efforts.

Once a designation has been recorded at the Court of the Lord Lyon King of Arms, it becomes inseparable from the surname. James MacTavish of Auchenshoogle cannot be James MacTavish through the week and MacTavish of Auchenshoogle at the weekend or at Highland Balls. The whole name should be used as the daily signature, on notepaper, visiting cards, cheques, credit cards etc. Similarly, anyone writing to him should give his full style, to style him as “Mr. MacTavish” or “James MacTavish, Esq.” is not only incorrect, it is rude and disrespectful. The correct prefix for a Laird, Baron, Chieftain and Chief is “The Much Honoured”. The styles “Mr.” and “Esq.” should never be used as these are below the status of a Laird. By law, only Peers, Bishops and Chiefs are allowed to sign with one name e.g. “Atholl”. A Laird, Baron or Chieftain must use the Christian name, surname and designation e.g. “James MacTavish of Auchenshoogle.”

Clear enough.

While beautiful in its own right, with a strong European flavor (no doubt due its extensive sea trade with the continent), Edinburgh struck us as somewhat cold and stern. Given our time constraints, we were unable to crack its touristic facade (though we did find a terrific meal and spend a splendid evening with friends). The imposing castle overlooking the city that bears its name is restored to the point of fussiness and, having once been the headquarters of the Scots Guard, maintains a strong military presence. Many of the exhibits did little but glorify Scotland’s participation in England’s imperialist adventures. I did, however, enjoy the recruitment posters describing “national service” as an opportunity to play football with one’s mates.

Much more charming, and much less crowded, Craigmillar Castle rests nearby in a suburb on the outskirts of town. One of the most intact of Scotland’s surviving castles, Craigmillar still has its upper floors, allowing exploration of the rooftops and affording a great view of the big city off in the distance. Except for the resident pigeons, we had the place to ourselves.



From Stirling, we drove up the east coast to the outskirts of Stonehaven. By the time we got to Dunottar Castle, it was raining steadily and my battery light was blinking. I struggled to get off as many shots as I could, but my camera died long before I was satisfied. This ruin was one of the most awesome of our trip. Extremely defensible due to its isolation at shore’s edge, Dunottar is the site of both bloody battles and atrocities. Its earliest evidence of fortification is believed to date back to as early as the late 600s, when it served as a defense against Viking attacks. Centuries later, it was the last stand of followers of Charles II, who met defeat at the hands of Cromwellian forces. In the 1500s, the castles was used to imprison nearly two hundred enemies of the state, all but a small handful of whom perished in one of its small dungeons overlooking the sea.

We more or less blundered upon Linlithgow Palace by accident. We had some time to kill during our trip to Edinburgh, so we decided to cruise over. Who knew it would be a vast ruin so picturesque that it even lifted the spirits of my wife, who was starting to feel the negative effects of getting dragged all over the country just to stumble in the rain over mossy rocks covered with pigeon dung. But the clouds parted to reveal a delightful surprise. Though Linlithgow is the birthplace and home of Mary, Queen of Scots, it fell into serious disrepair after her abdication. It was later rebuilt, but government troops finally put the torch to it during pursuit of its final royal inhabitant, Bonnie Prince Charlie. Today, the palace is just a seven-story shell with no floors or windows. But what’s left is magnificent and — for septics at least — still evokes a “storybook” charm.

Unfortunately, subservient as they are to my own personal artistic agenda, my snapshots offer little actual sense of what the buildings are actually like. I’m more stirred by the odd abstract shapes in the stone and the imposing claustrophobic power of close-ups and tight framing. Not to worry, every year these Scottish landmarks draw amateur photographers by the hundreds. And it seems most of them have Flickr accounts. In fact, it’s easy find photos with the exact same (or better) compositions as mine. But for some real fun, I recommend a visit to old-picture.com to see what castle photography is really all about.



The main historic significance of Dunstaffnage Castle, built in the early 1200s, seems to rest on its being being wrested from its original owners, the MacDougall clan, by no less an individual than Robert Bruce. Bruce bestowed it upon the Campbell Clan as a reward for helping him best the MacDougalls. The Campbells and MacDougall wrangled over ownership until the late fifteenth century, when the MacDougalls finally accepted land in eastern Scotland as a trade. It has remained with the Campbells ever since. It is occupied once a year by the Campbell Captain of Castles as a condition of title, but the rest of the year it stands open to the public.

Doune Castle, on the other hand, was usurped by none other than King James I, who appropriated the property after executing its original owner, Murdoch Stewart, for treason in 1424. For over a century, it was used at the leisure of the monarchy as a retreat or a hunting lodge. Though it was eventually returned to the Stewarts, title finally passed to the Earl of Moray through the accident of marriage. These murky details are easily trumped in the minds of most people, however, but its more modern claim to fame: it’s appearance in the film, “Monty Python & The Holy Grail.”

No such turbulence marks the details behind Aberdour Castle. In fact, the circumstances of its ownership remained stable for so many centuries that its main claim to fame seems to be the numerous successive renovations and additions that make it somewhat of a patchwork of styles and architectural advances of its various periods.

Alas, my puny little Canon PowerShot and my even punier talent can’t begin to do these sites justice. I’d like nothing better than to return to Scotland with better gear under my arm and a lot more time to spend. For those grown impatient with my amateurish attempts at photography, however, I can’t recommend enough the awesome HDR work of Trey Ratcliff, especially his incredible series, “The Churches Of Italy.”

Though it may be Arizona’s capital and largest city, Phoenix began as a small agricultural community set up to supply food to the mining towns that thrived north of the valley. The most famous of these is Jerome, which still supports a mini tourist mecca perched on the side of Mingus mountain atop a maze of abandoned mine shafts. But a hundred years ago, over a dozen boomtowns clustered among the Bradshaw mountain range. These were sustained by the “Impossible Railroad,” so named for its ambitiously precarious route into the remote hllls.

At the foot of the the Bradshaws lies the remains of Arizona’s most prosperous gold mine. Discovered in 1862 by immigrant Henry Wickenberg, it lies about ten miles south of the town that still bear his name. The Vulture mine maintained a population of five thousand during its heyday, and brought in millions of dolllars. Though crime and fraud were rampant throughout its history, the mine stayed in operation until the 1940s, changing hands serveral times. It only closed for good after wartime restrictions on the production of non-strategic metals pulled the final rug out from under it.

My wife and I discovered Vulture a couple years ago, during one of our desperate periodic weekend flights from the effects of our workaholic lifestyle. As enchanted as I was, I still managed to “produce.” That is to say, I took some dandy photos.

The two-story assay office building is still intact, as are its upstairs apartments. The remaining machines at the worksite are awesome to behold, especially the huge ancient diesel engine which towers above the rest of the powerhouse bulidling, rusted to lustrous craggy hues of copper and gold. The mess hall and many residential buildings also all remain in various degrees of ruinous detail.

The Vulture mine is far and away the best of its kind here in Arizona, and if I ever graduate to a better camera than my little Canon PowerShot, I will definitely return. Fortunately, the town has attracted the attention of folks who’ve made a greater investment in photographic equipment than I. The Ghost Town Gallery site run by the Swiss team of Daniel Ter-Nedden and Carola Schibli smokes anything you’re likely to find on my Flickr pages. Likewise, the site by Christian L. Deichert also offers excellent coverage.

If you’re like me, however, these pix won’t be enough. You’ll want to find a way to visit Vulture yourself. Fear not — it’s entirely doable, as this page attests. And if that’s not enough, you might even want to buy it. Of course, if that’s more of a commitment than you can handle, there’s always the DVD.

The first time I crossed the Mississippi with the Meat Puppets was in the fall of 1982. Nothing in in my remote desert experience prepared me for the damp, high-density dilapidation I encountered in the major cities of the midwest and east coast. But in spite of my initial reaction (horror), I was fascinated. I couldn’t resist the urge to get out of the van and walk around. After a while, it got so I couldn’t wait to get into town and start exploring.

Now that I’m retired from the road, I have to leave the exploring to others. Sure, I love to visit ghost towns in Arizona every chance I get. But we’ve got nothing around here that compares to a town like Detroit, Michigan. But then, nothing anywhere compares to Detroit, Michigan.

I’ve been there at least a dozen times, taken some stunning walks, found some great old soul records, and even managed to get harrassed by the locals. (Back in my 20s, I experimented with dyed black hair and sideburns. A guy followed me up the street and accused me of being Elvis Presley. It was special on many levels.) I love the view from the freeway, with these giant old industrial compounds jutting out of the landscape.

But as much as I enjoyed visiting Detroit in person, the Web has made it unnecessary. It seems Detroit is the internet’s favorite city as well. Urban explorers, Nazis, firemen, everybody’s posting about the Motor City. Bloggers are of course represented, and there’s even a DVD coming out about it. And they all make my little strolls look like pathetic walks in the park.

Both The Ruins Of Detroit and DetroitPix offer extensive photographic tours of Motown’s remains.

Urban Adventure pays a clandestine visit to the Fisher Body Works.

Forgotten Detroit has an excellent section detailing the history and ultimate fate of the city’s finest hotels, theaters and office bulidings.

I don’t mean to be flip about it, or wax too ironic about the grim decline of this once-powerful and dynamic city. The fact is, Detroit’s got pone of the best collections of 20th century architechture in the country. Perhaps one day it’ll be worth it to somebody to knock ‘em all down. But if demoilshed is the only other alternative, I’m satisfied with abandoned. And although Detroit looks more like the future of America than most people are ready to admit, it’s nice to know the town’s been well documented, just in case it does ever go away.

I know I’m a bad person for hijacking outlander content for a post. But this week has set an all-time record for being from hell, and, well, since it’s tax season and all, perhaps we could all use a little break.

Two links have been going around recently, both concerning the grandaddy of all planned communities. Both sites offer detailed documentation and analysis:

Levittown: Building the Suburban Dream

Levittown: Documents of an Ideal American Suburb

I myself first learned of this glorious slice of postwar history many years ago, from a book called Yesterday’s Tomorrows : Past Visions of the American Future. But it was more concerned with fanciful atomic age futurism than suburban planning. The book itself is great; not a popular collection of photographs and sarcastic captions, but an expanded catalouge for an exhibit prepared for the Smithsonian Institution Travelling Exhibition Service. As such, though it’s too short (and too small), the book offers an acceptably in-depth and insightful treatment of its topic.

We’ve got a dilly of a planned community north of Phoenix, called — unfortunately enough — Anthem. It goes without saying that it’s sterile, isolated, destructive of the desert, unable to support itself economically and above all, reeking of dystopic population control. But it also apparently got a pass on having to pony up tax dollars for infrastructure. As huge as it is (and growing; oh yes), it’s serviced only by the same four lane highway that the rest of us have to use.

Consequently, we’re seeing reports in the news about folks leaving for work Monday on Sunday night and staying in town all week. There’s just no way to get the commuter traffic through. Though the various municipalities involved are scrambling to find money to fix the problem, at this point there is no plan to widen the freeway for NINE YEARS.

Somebody check me on this one — it can’t be right!