Photo Essay: A Slice of Arizona's Longest Operating Mining District, Castle Dome

A little over two years ago, a group of us ventured out to Yuma, Arizona for some sightseeing. By then I'd already been wanting to visit the Yuma Territory Prison historic site for a while—but to be honest, the real draw for me for that particular trip was to visit the "Enchanted Cavern" at Castle Dome Mine Museum.

It's become a tourist attraction for sure, but it began as Hull Mine. Its naturally fluorescent mineral walls—sparkling with cobalt blue fluoride crystals—make it a good candidate for a psychedelic spectacle.

There was only one problem.

Our trip didn't overlap with the days of the week that the Enchanted Cavern is actually open. And the Castle Dome Mine Museum wouldn't bend the rules to let us in off-schedule.

The sentiment of the group was that we would just return to Yuma sooner rather than later to cross the Enchanted Cavern off all of our lists. But other sites (and sights) and adventures have taken precedence since 2018—and we haven't made it back yet.

Fortunately, the Castle Dome Mining District—which once encompassed 10 square miles and eventually 300 mines—had plenty to offer to keep us occupied for a few hours.

And as it's only fully open from October to April (call for hours the rest of the year), I'm glad we got there when we did.



In operation from 1864 to 1979 (the longest operating mining district in Arizona), Castle Dome began with 17th-century diggings from Spanish explorers—which eventually gave rise to the state's second patented mine, the Flora Temple Mine, in 1871.

Down there—150 feet deep—they found a half-mile-long vein of galena, an important source of silver (mixed with lead). Galena is formed along earthquake faults, where the earth fractures and is pushed up by seismic and volcanic action.



In fact, most of the mines at Castle Dome produced silver—though occasionally a pocket of gold would be uncovered.

There was enough mining activity at one point to warrant a population explosion of up to 3000 residents, living in cabins...



...and, eventually, bunkhouses (presumably for the bachelors without families).

By the year 1878, Castle Dome City was bigger than Yuma, having gotten 200,000 ounces of silver out of 5000 tons of silver galena ore.

But now it's a ghost town, its only permanent residents the bodies that are buried in the cemetery—including those who died by a knife wound or were beheaded—and those of four miners who got caught in a flash flood in 1887 and never escaped from the 450-foot-deep vertical hole.



Today, the Castle Dome Mining District attraction is a step back in time to an era of machine shops, mercantiles, a blacksmith shop, a saw shop (which sells, literally, saws), and more.



Among the 50+ buildings (seven of which are original to the town), there's a stone cabin, filled with artifacts (many unearthed from surrounding mine shafts)...



...and a church, situated against the backdrop of the Castle Dome Mountains (and the "dome" itself, actually a butte) and the surrounding Kofa National Wildlife Refuge.



Preservation efforts have really benefitted from Castle Dome's remote location.



The church's bell in its tower still rings.



Owned by Pennsylvania-born 49-er Jacob Snively and his brother Connor, Castle Dome Mining District consisted of just a portion of mining claims along the Colorado River—which enabled the ore to be transported by (steam?)boat and ultimately shipped out for smelting.



But those who lived and worked at Castle Dome mostly never left—and the isolated boomtown was a boon for their most basic tendencies.



It was the Wild West, with all the trappings...



...including the town saloon.



A miner's life can be the pinnacle of the "work hard, play hard" ethos...



...and there was plenty of work to be dome at the bank, the assay office...



...the recorder's office...



...and even the barber shop.



The deepest they ever got was 700 feet. Given what a chore it was to separate the silver from the lead, it wasn't really worth it to dig any deeper.

And with the rise and fall in demand for silver over time. so did the success of Castle Dome fluctuate.

During both WWI and WWII, lead actually emerged as the more valuable mining yield—and with the involvement of Arizona Lead Company, bullets were made from millions of pounds of extracted lead.

Still, the war effort wasn't enough to keep the Castle Dome school from being shut down in 1950.

In 1979, the drop in silver prices was a death knell for Castle Dome's mining operations. When the separating process began to cost more than the value of the silver, it dealt a final, fatal blow to legitimate mining on the claim.

In the years that followed, scam artists showed up as scam artists are apt to do. In 1993/4, Allen Armstrong and his wife, Stephanie bought the land that sits atop three of the patented claims of the former mining district—and by 1998, they were able to open it as a museum.

The Hull Mine—the sparkly, colorful, "enchanted" one—is actually a recent acquisition, circa 2016. I hope it sticks around long enough for me to go back and see it in person.

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Photo Essay: Welcome to The Real Radiator Springs, Old National Trails Highway

Well, it's not exactly Radiator Springs. There is no real Radiator Springs, the fictional town created for the movie Cars.



But Cool Springs, Arizona comes pretty darn near close.



Driving east along Oatman Highway—a former alignment of Route 66—along the hairpin turns through Sitgreaves Pass between Oatman and Kingman feels much like racing on the Radiator Springs ride at Disney's California Adventure.



But there's no Cozy Cone Motel here, nor a Flo's V8 café—just an old Mobil station that acts as a rest stop...



...with a mini-museum and gift shop...



...and no gas.



Cool Springs Camp, located on the eastern slope of the Black Mountains, was abandoned in 1964—just over a decade after the new Route 66 alignment bypassed Sitgreaves Pass. Although the camp burned down in 1966, its rubble subsequently attracted the attention of Hollywood location scouts (including those for the movie Universal Soldier).



In 1997, Chicago real estate man Ned Leuchtner drove through town and somehow ended up adopting the site, purchasing it in 2001, rebuilding it to its former circa 1926 glory, and reopening in 2004.



Eight tourist cabins were built in the 1930s by James Walker and his wife Mary, who later operated them in the 1940s with her second husband, Floyd Spidell—but those are long gone.



But Thimble Butte is unquestionably still there—looking unmistakably like one of the geologic formations in the animated landscape of Cars.



And then, of course, are the cars themselves at Cool Springs...



...one of which may have been the original "Tow-mater."



Just like Radiator Springs, Cool Springs has struggled to survive without a steady flow of traffic coming through.



But now, tourists come for the delicious abandonment more than for travelers' services.



So pack a lunch and kick back for a nice picnic. There'll be plenty of peace and quiet—at least, until the old Nash starts talkin' to ya.

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Photo Essay: The Ghost Town That Won't Die, And the Animals That Keep It Alive

"Have you been to Oatman?" Robert asked. "No, but it's on my list."

A typical response from me.

Someone else asked, "What's in Oatman?" and all I could say was "I ferget."

Also typical.



But pulling up into the town of Oatman, Arizona early Sunday morning, it quickly became clear what attracts visitors to this Old West town along the Mother Road.



The burros.



"You can pet them," one of the shopkeepers said, "but they are wild."



In reality, they're incredibly habituated to the townspeople of Oatman as well as those who're just passing through.



They don't budge unless you've got food.



And then, they'll make a beeline for you.



Between feeding them directly and selling bags of pressed pellets...



...the locals keep the adult wild donkeys munching away...



...and discourage visitors from giving any food to the babies who are still nursing.



And what babies there were! Opal had been born three days before. She was too new to the scene to ask for food or to fear humans. Her coat was so soft.



The burros are a living reminder of the town's legacy as a late bloomer in the Gold Rush—first as Blue Ridge Camp, then renamed Oatman in 1909.



From about 1906 to the mid-1930s or early 1940s, their ancestors were used as livestock and labor—they worked in and around the mines, hauling rock, ore, and water.



By 1942, all the mines had closed.



When the prospectors and miners moved on, they left their hardworking companions behind, releasing them into the hills.



So what you see now is just a fraction of the herd of once-domesticated animals gone wild, coming down into town for a snack...



...timing their journey with the arrival of carloads and busloads of tourists exploring Route 66.



Like similar living ghost towns like Randsburg and Oro Grande in Southern California, Oatman embraces its history in spades...



...with thriving businesses like a saloon, roadside museums, and antique shops...



...with names like Jackass Junction, The Classy Ass, and The Buck Tooth Burro.



In the center of town, there's the Oatman Hotel, which lives in infamy as where Clark Gable and Carole Lombard cozied up in the honeymoon suite of what was then known as the Durlin Hotel, in 1939.



Built in 1902 and rebuilt after a fire in 1924, it's supposedly haunted by the ghosts of both of them.



It's one of the only places in town you can get breakfast and a cup of good, hot coffee...



...which you'll enjoy in the "dollar bill bar," surrounded by an undetermined amount of dollar bills signed by tourists and stapled to the walls...



...and nearly every other surface, too.



Back in the town's heyday, the miners would tack their dollars up on the wall and sign them when they had the money; and when they didn't, they would go looking for their signed bills to pay their tabs.



Although the focus of Oatman shifted away from mining in the advent of World War II (when materials for the war effort were far more valuable than precious metals), the town continued to thrive during the 1940s with all the folks in cars getting their kicks on Route 66 and passing right though the center of town.



But in 1952, Interstate 40 essentially replaced the Mother Road and bypassed Oatman. The town would've fallen off the map entirely if it hadn't been for the periodic return of mining to the area, which even persists today.



But of course, the biggest draw for those outside the mining industry is the burros. And even if you weren't planning on stopping in town, the burros will block the road and stick their noses in your car windows.

After that, it's hard to resist staying for awhile.

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