On the road in Sonora, on the west coastal plain. It was raining.
As a photographer in the mid-20th century I would never have thought of
printing a picture like this, even though I shot it, presumably
with some sense of meaning. Now it appeals to me.

(To be continued)

Henaldo, in Guaymas.
I had some Spanish and would chat with people. I do not recall if Fred also spoke the language, but his gregarious nature did attract people. The west coast highway was just being constructed, so people along here had not been overrun with tourists, and were curious and friendly

Guaymas

The main street had not been paved yet.

Fred at Guaymas with (!) Mel and Pat from UCLA.
So we didn’t own the highway.
We wondered if they had expected surf.

First seashore: Bacochibampo Bay on the Sea of Cortes

Like a moonscape with water

Finally we were in Mexico.
The highway from Hermosillo to the coast at Guaymas.
We had been warned about solitary cows by the road.
Hit one anywhere in Mexico and we might spend a week in jail and pay a big settlement.
We were also warned not to drink milk or water or order soup. We had many warnings.

(To be continued)

The Arizona night was hot in July.

Fred Chez at work.

Processing my film in the Howdy Manor Motel

Processing chemicals in the motel in Phoenix

On the road again, cooling off in the
Arizona Canal or one of its branches near Phoenix. It brings
Colorado River water to the dry valleys. I saw these canals again
in 2004, in Scottsdale, surrounded by homes and golf courses.

Not everyone's idyll. Jack showed us "the suicide shack" as we hiked back. I think an old ranch hand he knew had ended his days here alone.

(To be continued)

But beyond the canyon the river valley opened up. I wonder if it is a development now.

It was an idlyll. If Jack Switzer is still alive, I hope this place is still his secret.

I hope there is no highway coming through. No Marriotts overlooking it.

Jack's swimming hole. Fred's buns.

Then suddenly there were these lovely pools in this notch canyon.

The canyon narrowed. There was little water.

(For some reason I shot this one sequence in color.

In the book I print these as black and white.)

Jack’s secret canyon on the Hassayampa River

(to be continued)

Jack Switzer trusted the water, although the green algae
at its borders suggested fertilizer runoff from upstream.

The next day Jack took us hiking to a swimming hole in a canyon where the
Hassayampa River is forced to the surface by a constriction of the bedrock.
It was how he dealt with the July heat.

(To be continued)

We processed our film as we went along. The result was a lot of flaws, folds, and fogging.
But we were afraid the heat we were moving though would wreck the film
we had exposed if we didn’t. There was no way to keep it cool in the car.
These are uncorrected proofs in most cases.

Blue on his way to dinner

They insisted that I get on Blue. I did it, with a borrowed hat, but the only thing I knew about horses was that they could sense when the guy on their back was ignorant about horses. They could get away with galloping hard as soon as they were turned back toward the stable. I’d had that experience before.

You could see Blue thinking.

(To be continued)

An experiment: a book in form of a blog
(Remember, this reads up from the bottom, except for these two pictures.)


(All photos in this series are proof scans of somewhat damaged negatives.)

My friend Fred Chez came from southern Oregon and played
football, although he never became an All-American like his brother. We both made photographs, and wanted to make some in Mexico. He had a car.

Before crossing the border at Nogales, Fred wanted to visit his friend Jack Switzer, at Jack’s ranch on the Hassayampa River near Wickenburg, Arizona. Switzer lived alone there in the heat. So we went that way.






Fred rides "Blue," the gentlest horse on the Switzer ranch. At one point, Jack grabbed another horse’s erect penis and said "Forget it, Joker. You’re a gelding, not a stud." So I learned what a gelding was.


(To be continued)