The final push

The Final Push: Tornado Alley and Home

After lingering longer than expected in Picher, I linked up with I-35 and started the final stretch home—1,235 miles through Kansas, Iowa, Illinois, and Michigan.

Kansas and Iowa are well-known for their tornado activity, and sure enough, the skies began to look ominous as I neared Des Moines. The temperature dropped, the sky turned that telltale mustard-green, and the radio was full of storm warnings.

While I made it through Kansas without issue, Iowa was another story. One moment, the sun was shining on golden wheat fields; the next, everything changed. A heavy downpour turned daylight into darkness, and in my rearview mirror, I saw two funnel clouds forming.

Thankfully, neither fully touched down, but I wasn’t about to stick around to see what Mother Nature had planned. At that point, all I wanted was to cross the border and head home.

What started as a potentially exhausting 600-mile day ended up being surprisingly smooth.

Iowa farm field with approaching storm

Within moments things turned to this.

Then the rain came.

What started as a potentially exhausting 600-mile day ended up being surprisingly smooth.

Now, just one thing remains: the epilogue.

The most toxic place in America

Picher, Oklahoma: A Town That No Longer Exists

Tucked against the Kansas border, in the northeastern corner of Oklahoma, lies a place that was once called Picher.

I say once because, in 2008, Picher’s charter was officially dissolved, and it ceased to exist.

Traveling through Oklahoma today, it’s hard to imagine that, not so long ago, this state gave birth to the Dust Bowl—a man-made disaster that devastated the land, forcing a mass migration to California. In our desperate pursuit of profit, we exhausted the soil, turning it into dust. We killed the golden goose—and paid the price.

You’d think we would have learned.

Yet, Picher’s story proves otherwise.

Talk about a contradiction

The Greed That Built—And Destroyed—Picher

If the Dust Bowl was an experiment gone wrong, then Picher was its second act, driven by ignorance and greed.

Between World War I and World War II, an astonishing 75% of all bullets and artillery shells fired by American forces came from minerals mined in Picher.

Once again, the land was squeezed for every last cent—but at an unimaginable cost.

One of the many mountains of poisonous lead and zinc

The Silent Killer Beneath Picher

The tragic byproduct of those bullets and shells, beyond the countless lives they took in battle, was the slow, unseen destruction of Picher itself.

• 34% of the town’s children suffered from lead poisoning, a grim testament to the town’s toxic legacy.
• Towering mounds of mining waste, laced with lead, zinc, and arsenic, poisoned the water, air, and soil.
• The land became so toxic that Picher joined the short list of places on Earth deemed uninhabitable due to human-caused environmental catastrophe.

By 2008, the U.S. government bought out the remaining residents, and Picher was officially abandoned.

The Fire hall and EMS station with flag and tornado siren stand, but no one works here anymore.

Rusting equipment sits beside empty lots that once housed the buildings that serviced them.

The Final Blow: Nature Finishes the Job

As if lead poisoning and environmental ruin weren’t enough, an F4 tornado struck Picher in 2008, leaving little more than concrete slabs where homes and businesses once stood.

That was the final straw.

The only thing left standing is this home's tornado shelter.

 Homes once sat on these slabs, now all raised by the US government, only the poison mountains remain.

Today, Picher is a ghost town in the truest sense—not just abandoned, but erased, its remaining structures buried under the weight of its own history.

The Most Toxic Town in America.

Time to find somewhere a little more uplifting.

More.....

Into the Valley of Death Rode the Brave 600

No Russian Cannons, But Plenty of Desert Heat

Okay, so maybe this isn’t the Crimean War, and I’m not dodging Russian cannon fire, but let me tell you—the American Southwest desert can be just as intense.

This time of year, the desert comes alive—briefly—before slipping back into its usual deception. It flaunts bursts of color, teases with cool mornings, and then—BAM!—it reminds you who's boss with blistering heat and endless dust.

As always, I did my best to avoid the interstates, and while stopped on a remote, dusty road just west of Glenrio, NM, a car pulled up.

And out popped a Tig.

No, not Tigger from Winnie the Pooh—but Tig, from Hartlepool, England. Which, last time I checked, is a long way from New Mexico.

Don't try and pick these buds or you will get more than you bargained for.

Shortly the greenery and flowers will be gone.

 Meet Tig: The Ultimate Tourist

Turns out, Tig is an adventurer through and through. With a full month to explore, he’s on a mission to see every legendary Wild West site he’s ever heard of.

He whipped out a list and started rattling off names:

• Billy the Kid's birthplace and hideouts
• John Dillinger’s stomping grounds (though I had to inform him that Dillinger was from Illinois, not the Wild West)
• Buffalo Bill, Wyatt Earp, and just about every other gunslinger he could think of

Honestly, if some random sign in the middle of nowhere claimed "General Custer Fought Here," I’m convinced Tig would drive 500 miles to see it.

At this point, he had already racked up 3,000 miles—and still had most of the month left. Chatty, hilarious, and determined, he was even on a mission to track down a mythical Texas town called "Monkey Hanger." (Google "Monkey Hanger" + "Hartlepool"—trust me, it’s a story.)

 The "Tig" looking for Monkey Hanger.

A Quick Stop in Cuervo

After parting ways with Tig, I made a quick revisit to Cuervo, NM.

Cuervo is one of those forgotten places, locked in time, where you can return again and again and always find something new.

Unlike Tig, Cuervo isn’t in a hurry to go anywhere.

 Alone with just a sliver of light under the door, Glenrio, NM

 Too often we only look into the ruins and don't try to see what the owners must have seen.

a relic of Cuervo

Time to move on.

More.....

Water, where you'd least expect to find it.

Lakes in the Desert and a Visit to an Old Friend

Lakes aren’t exactly what you expect to find smack dab in the middle of the desert, but just outside Prescott, AZ, sits a real gem—Watson Lake. A stunning surprise in an otherwise arid landscape.

Lake Watson, Prescott

After my fiery escape from the Bradshaw Mountains, I rolled out of Prescott and headed for Jerome. But it wasn’t the town itself that drew me back—it was a crusty old character named Don Robinson, who runs the Gold King Mine Ghost Town, just a quarter-mile past Jerome.

Jerome: From Ghost Town to Tourist Trap

Sadly, Jerome isn’t what it used to be.

Once an almost-abandoned mining town with dusty windows, quirky shops, and restaurants that proudly displayed “Open from 11 to 4” signs, Jerome has now transformed into just another tourist trap. Gone is the eerie, forgotten charm. In its place? Crowds, souvenirs, and overpriced trinkets.

The only Submarine Engine that actually functions outside of a Sub.

After and Before. Only last year Don raced this car. The one on the left that is.

Don Robinson: The Wizard of Rusty Relics

But Don? He hasn’t changed a bit.

Don is a mechanical genius with a knack for taking a pile of rust and turning it into something that moves, grunts, or twirls again. If it once had wheels, gears, or an engine—be it an old car, truck, or even a submarine engine—Don can bring it back to life.

At 73 years young, he’s still at it, though his hat and shirt have seen better days, and his pit crew has shrunk in both size and ability.

But that doesn’t slow him down. Don still builds and races cars, tinkering away in his mechanical wonderland, turning sow’s ears into silk purses—or at least something that runs.

And that, my friends, is far more interesting than anything you’ll find in a Jerome gift shop.

Directing work under the hood.

Don and his pit crew. At least what's left of it.

Pushing onward.

More….

Fire and Brimstone, chased off a mountain by a dragon.

Shirts, Fire, and a Goat Trail Called a Highway

Nothing particularly exciting happened on the first leg of my eastward journey—unless you count forgetting every single one of my shirts in LA and racing away from a fire-breathing beast. More on the beast in a moment.

First, the dumb move.

Dumb, dumb, dumb! I was so proud of myself for mastering the art of packing light—whittling my bags down from six to three to avoid the dreaded daily car-to-motel shuffle—that I managed to outsmart myself. In my grand effort to travel lean, I decided to hang my shirts and dress slacks separately in the car, thinking I’d grab them as needed. Genius, right?

Well, not if you leave them all behind in LA.

So, tomorrow morning, I’ll be making a quick run to Prescott’s finest Wal-Mart to stock up on their legendary $5.99 short-sleeve shirts. High fashion, here I come.

The Desert and Its Warnings

A few signs tell you when you’ve really entered the heat zone:

1. The ones that remind you not to pick up hitchhikers—especially near state prisons. Always reassuring.
2. The ones that suggest you turn off your A/C to avoid cooking your engine. I ignored that one. Some comforts are non-negotiable.

As if a reminder to not stop for hitchhikers is needed

Despite the blistering heat, the desert has a beauty all its own—vast, rugged, and untamed.

A raw beauty.  Appears lifeless until you hear that ominous rattle.

Sure love their flag. Nothing is too big.

Enter the Fire-Breathing Beast

Now, about that dragon.

As I climbed up and over the Bradshaw Mountains on Highway 89, a flash forest fire erupted. Just as I was approaching the summit—a mere 8 minutes (3.7 miles) from Prescott—two state troopers came flying past me, sirens blaring, just as the flames roared into full force. Moments later, they shut down the road.

Which meant… detour time.

I had to turn back, retrace my steps (well, tire tracks), and take the long way around via Highway 93, then Highway 96—which, let me tell you, is a glorified goat trail with a thin layer of asphalt to make it “official”.

This so-called highway twisted, dipped, climbed, and plunged over flash-flood creeks—each one marked with an oh-so-helpful sign that read:

🚨 “If flooded, don’t cross.”

Gee, thanks. I’ll try to remember that while I’m dodging deer and praying my GPS isn’t leading me into the abyss.

This lovely detour added 3 hours and 120 miles to my trip, all in pitch darkness.

Retreating to the detour.  This smoke wasn't there when I started my climb.

 

The Fire’s Grand Finale

But there was one unexpected reward.

From the backside of the mountain, in the dark, I had a perfect view of the fire. It crowned the mountaintop like a molten halo, flickering and twisting in the night.

They say forest fires take on a life of their own. From where I stood, this one wasn’t just alive—it was a full-fledged monster, bleching fire and fury into the night sky.

At night the dragon looks scary. Wouldn't want to come face to face with it, day or night.

And I was just another traveler, dodging its flames, chasing the road home.

 

They say that forest fires take on a life of their own and this one looked like a real fire-breathing monster.  

More……….

Westward Hooooo!, er um, Eastward I mean

  With My Apologies to Lewis Carroll…

“  "The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
 Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
 Of cabbages—and kings—
 And why the sea is boiling hot—
 And whether pigs have wings.”

   What in the blue blazes is he talking about?

   Well, shortly, I’ll be leaving LA and starting my journey back home, and honestly, nothing sums up my thoughts on La La Land better than Lewis Carroll’s nonsense rhyme.

I  I’ve hinted before that LA, more than any other city I’ve visited, is a walking contradiction.

   You have the beautiful, self-absorbed people competing for space with the homeless, self-absorbed people—one group desperately chasing attention and fame, the other just trying to disappear into the background. And let me tell you, there are a lot of the latter. To most Angelenos, they’re simply invisible.

Moving to a better neighborhood

 

Waiting for God

 

Rich man's Leftovers, Poor man's treasure.

LA really is the city of dreamers and broken dreams.  A beautiful and yet sad place existing around a mythical shining city on a hill called Hollywood. This last sentence is Hyperbole by the way.  The actual hill is a bump in the centre of LA that’s a colourless dusty mound with a famous fading sign on it.

 

Queuing in the hope of being discovered.

And yet—despite all this—LA is home to some of the friendliest people I’ve met. Even those living on the streets, when approached, are often not just kind but genuinely fascinating individuals. Of course, discretion is key—some encounters have been wonderful, others… well, let’s just say I’ve learned when to make a quick exit. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. 

Shooting the Streets

A lot of street photographers shoot from a distance, using long lenses to keep a safe barrier. And while I understand the risks, I believe that’s more voyeurism than photography. Shooting from afar earns you nothing but suspicious glares. Getting close, engaging with people—that’s where the real stories (and photos) happen.

Phil played for me.  Down but not out.

 

Street Kids Skateboarding in a safe caged off area

The LA Attitude

My daughter thinks the city's cheerful vibe is a result of the year-round sunshine. Or maybe it’s just that nobody wants to be negative—you never know if the person you’re talking to is a big-shot Hollywood producer who might hand you a golden ticket to fame.

Whatever the reason, LA is a mix of wonderful, bizarre, and heartbreaking.

Either way, there are many wonderful,  yet at the same time,  strange and sad aspects of this city.   

 

The LA Dream. For One Brief Shining Moment We Can Almost Fly.

 

Their Dream Arrives.  Another New Running Shoe Store's Stock Arriving.

 

Most great cities have something non-human that defines them.

• New York has its concrete canyons.
• Miami has its beaches.
• New Orleans has its food.
• Santa Fe has its Pueblo-style architecture.
• Sedona has its red-rock buttes.
• San Francisco has its hills, prison, and cable cars.
• San Diego has its Navy.

But LA? More than anything else, LA is defined by its people. Oh, and that Hollywood sign.

Even the small ones what to make a statement

For me, LA is like a mosquito bite—you scratch it, but the itch keeps coming back. I know I’ll need to return and explore more before the itch finally fades.

 

Making the most of ones limited garden space.

 

911 Anyone?  One reason why cell phones are all the rave in LA.

 

LA version of All Your Ducks in a Row

 

Many LA homes have swimming pools.  Any bets as to this one?

Soon, I’ll be saying cheerio to LA and heading home.

The only problem is… the itch is still there.

More…………

Getting lost in time

Day #6 – Where Time Slipped Away and I Slept with a Coyote

Didn’t post anything for Day #6 because, well, I ran out of time. Literally. I shot so late into the night and ended up so far from anything resembling civilization that I had no choice but to sleep in my car on the side of the highway—with a coyote and a few truckers for company. Cozy, right?

One thing people forget about Route 66 is that the farther west you go, the more the distances stretch between motels and hotels. My grand plan was to power through Texas and land in Gallup, New Mexico, in one shot. Totally doable—unless, like me, you get easily sidetracked.

Before I knew it, I had passed Albuquerque (the last stop for decent accommodations before Gallup) and was too far from either to make it before exhaustion won. So, the coyote, the truckers, and I had ourselves an impromptu roadside campout.

The reason I lost track of time? I stumbled upon another gem.

I swung back through Texola and decided to check out the only business still open—the Tumbleweed Grill and Country Store.

Wow. Best decision ever.

 

Tumbleweed Cafe

 When I stepped inside, most of the place was in darkness. Coming in from the blinding Oklahoma  sun, all I could see was a faint sliver of light from what looked like a kitchen. I called out, “HELLO?” and—bam!—a face popped around the corner, lights flicked on, and there stood Masal.

 

 

Masal preparing lunch for a customer

 

Turns out Masal and her husband were just passing through Texola two years ago when their brand-new car broke down. A defective fuel pump left them stranded, and with the nearest motel 60 miles away, the gas station owner kindly put them up. With nothing but time on their hands, they wandered into the Tumbleweed, saw it was for sale, and figured… why not? The rest is history.

 

 

Masal in front of her pride and joy

Masal is now the chef, cook, waitress, bottle washer—basically, a one-woman show. Also, an artist.    She runs both the grill and the country store, and let me tell you, Texola is worth a stop just to meet herand try her food.

Next door to the  Tumbleweed Cafe but not in as good a shape

 

After leaving Texola, I figured I’d drop by Jericho, Texas , just across the state line.

Driving along the old Route 66 is a bit like taking a train cross-country. If you’ve done it, you’ll remember the rhythmic clickety-clack of the wheels on the tracks. That same sound plays beneath your tires on the original concrete sections of 66. It’s nostalgic, hypnotic… and then I got to Jericho.

It seems some folks need a lot of convincing they are going the wrong way.

At times the paved/concrete has reverted back to au natural

Disappointment.

Last year, Jericho was a ghost town—mysterious, desolate, perfect for photography. Now? Wind turbines. Dozens of towering, modern-day structures dot the landscape, shattering that eerie, abandoned atmosphere. Jericho no longer has the feeling of a ghost town sitting in nowhere but now just another collection of old deserted building surrounded by progress.        

Another casualty of modernization on the march. No doubt it’s progress for Texas, but for photographers? A tragic loss.

With daylight still in my favor, I decided to squeeze in more shooting. But here’s the problem: Route 66 is too interesting. I have an insatiable curiosity about what’s down every road, which often means my intended destinations take a backseat to my detours.

Progress isn't always a photographers friend

 

Everywhere you turn the wind towers now dominate the landscape.

It’s all changed Jericho no longer has the feeling of a ghost town sitting in nowhere but now just another collection of old deserted building surrounded by modern-day structures.  Another casualty of modernization on the march.

However, before one is aware of it the hour is getting late and the distance too great to make your intended destination.  Also compounding the matter is my insatiable curiosity as to what’s down the road tends to lead me further astray from the main roads, which add unexpected hours to the days travel.  

 

The road to curiosity

Two Guns, Arizona

Glenrio on the border of Texas and New Mexico

 

This time, it was Two Guns and Glenrio.

It’s mind-blowing how close these ghost towns are to the interstate—seriously, check out the Glenrio photo for a clue—but the vast majority of travelers speed right past, oblivious to the history sitting just off the road.

Here’s the thing about Route 66: If you really want to experience its magic, you have to slow down. If you just race along I-40, you’re missing the real Mother Road.

By the time I finally wrapped up shooting, I had no chance of making it to my original destination. So, rather than risk a drowsy drive, I accepted my fate: another night in the car, under the stars, with my pal Mr. Coyote and some truckers.

Day #7 – A Swiss Adventurer and a McDonald’s Pit Stop

The plan? Drive straight to Los Angeles—no detours, just fuel and rest.

Then I pulled into Kingman, Arizona, for gas and a McDonald’s coffee. That’s when I met Christian Schlatter, a Swiss motorcyclist in the final stretch of a 120,000-kilometer round-the-world trip.

He was huddled in a corner, trying (and failing) to blend in with his worn, bright-yellow-motorcycle gear while using McDonald’s free Wi-Fi—just like I do. His bike outside caught my eye, so I had to invade his privacy.

Turned out he was happy to chat. Over coffee, he shared some incredible stories from his journey.

The Map on one of the saddlebags

120,000 kilometers and counting

Christian planning his next few days.

If you’re curious about what a 120,000-kilometer motorcycle adventure looks like, check out his website: www.infiniteroad.ch.

As for me, I’m now in LA with my daughter, waiting on possible brain surgery for my grandson, Smith.

When I hit the road eastward again, I’ll post more as I continue tracking down the unusual people who call the ghost towns of the West their home.

Stay tuned...