released September 19, 2023

Arizona

1. Meteor Crater

The tourism industry in the Grand Canyon State has been blessed with not only one, but two enormous holes in the ground. There's that great big one up north for which the state is nicknamed, then a bit further south there's the gaping void known as Meteor Crater.

Mind you, it's not "the" Meteor Crater. Just "Meteor Crater"––referred to in the manner of Tonto or Tarzan, like you haven't yet grasped the nuance of definite articles, as in "I drive long way, see Meteor Crater."
It's just 30 minutes east of Flagstaff, off Exit 233 and at the end of a 6-mile, yet seemingly interminable road extending south into the center of nothing. It sits isolated in the middle of a deserted tableland, a pockmark nearly a mile wide interrupting an otherwise unmitigated horizontality, as if God himself took a melon baller to the Colorado Plateau.

At the rim, which rises 150 feet from the surrounding flatland, one can look down from a suspended platform to witness what the absence of roughly 80 million cubic yards of dirt looks like. It's nearly a mile to the other side and well over 500 feet to the bottom. Though wind erosion has filled it in just a little in the last few millennia, it appears today very much like it did shortly after its formation 50,000 years ago, making it the most well-preserved impact crater on Earth.

The forces in creating the giant pothole were so great, they can be difficult to wrap your brain around. Some 175 million tons of rock were displaced when the meteor responsible hit the planet, scattering debris for over a mile. Limestone boulders the size of houses were blown onto the rim. The compression forces at the moment of impact were so intense––more than 20 million pounds per square inch––that small amounts of graphite present in the meteor were instantly turned to microscopic diamonds. Most of the material melted or vaporized.
The mass of nickel-iron that did all this, which was up to 150 feet in diameter and weighed some 300,000 tons, is believed to have been traveling almost 27,000 mph upon impact. The resulting blast of energy was equal to that of at least 2.5 megatons of TNT, although some estimates have placed it at 20, or even 40, megatons. In standard measures, that's a ball of 40,000 African elephants traveling from Tucson to Flagstaff in 104 seconds, then exploding with the power of no less than 165 atomic bombs like that dropped at Hiroshima, Japan.
If you're still having trouble grasping those figures, don't worry. The world's leading scientists only recently worked it out, themselves. Until the 1960s, when famed scientist Eugene Shoemaker published his findings, not everyone was convinced the crater was even caused by a meteor. At first, it was dismissed as the result of a steam explosion. In 1891, the chief geologist for the U.S. Geological Survey, G.K. Gilbert, figured any supposed meteorite would be almost as big as the crater itself and would be buried beneath the surface. But since the theoretical mass of iron didn't affect his compass, it couldn't be there. So, the cause had to be volcanic. All the meteorites found nearby were just coincidence.

A decade later, a mining engineer named Daniel Barringer disagreed. Learning that meteorites were mixed with the ejected material, he was positive it had to be an impact crater. Still, like Gilbert, he remained convinced the meteorite was underground. Calculating its composition at 10 million tons of iron, he knew he could make a fortune mining it. Over the next 27 years, he spent the equivalent of $10 million hunting the object, drilling more than two dozen shafts in his search. Finding nothing, Barringer was forced to call it quits in 1929. He died of a heart attack just weeks later.

Yet, Barringer's efforts weren't wasted, at least not scientifically speaking. Even though he was wrong about the meteorite, the evidence he uncovered in all his years of research and exploration continued to support his impact hypothesis. Though he encountered relentless opposition from those who disagreed, the scientific community eventually accepted his theory and Meteor Crater became the first proven impact feature on Earth

2. Montezuma Castle

Slip a fiver to the guy in the funny hat and it's just a short walk out the back door to one of Arizona's most remarkable perplexities. The postcards in the visitors’ center provide all the details you're going to see, but catching sight of the real thing still delivers a subtle jab to the optic nerves, not to mention the reasoning centers of the brain.
Lodged in a cranny on the side of a limestone cliff, Arizona's most staggering housing community teeters about 100 feet overhead. It's still advertised by the National Park Service as Montezuma Castle, although, as it's pointed out in every write-up, Montezuma never lived there, nor gave it his celebrity endorsement. Some say it isn't a castle, either, but if a five-story stone refuge atop a sky-high embankment doesn't count, I don't know what does.

This mind-boggling feat of architecture has been attributed to the Sinagua Indians, who lived in this region as agriculturalists and traders. According to the experts, they built this dwelling in the 12th century, completing it in stages until it consisted of 20 rooms stacked in five layers, totaling a height of about 40 feet. When you consider that the build site was accessible only by a precarious series of ladders as well as how many tons of rock, mortar, and timber it took to construct these homes, the achievement is incredible. While a cut-away diorama attempts to depict the cliff dwellers as ordinary people, it's hard to think of anyone who cooks breakfast ten stories up the side of a sheer crag as run-of-the-mill.

Tours were once conducted through this cliffhanger address, though visitors were still required to reach it via ladder, same as those who lived here. Their visits included not only a stroll through the various levels, but also the presentation of a glass-encased, mummified child that was disinterred during repair work, one of many bodies discovered buried throughout the structure. Due to the damage caused by increasing tourism, however, both the tours and the mummy show were terminated by 1951.

No one's quite sure why the Sinagua chose to settle down on high. Theorists have offered explanations as varied as tradition, utilization of the warm southern exposure and an appreciation of the view.
Being farmers, it's possible they just didn't want to take up any plow space. Many assume it aided in defense against invaders, but that makes little sense when all the enemy would have to do is unwind with a good petroglyph and wait below till they ran out of food. Perhaps one of the park's volunteer guides had the best explanation: "They kept looking up there at that spectacular cave, and one day one of them said, 'All right, let's get going! We gotta build something up there!'"
Just to cloud the situation a bit more, no one can be sure of the former inhabitants' fate, either. After living on the side of a cliff for about 300 years, the Sinagua up and left. Again, theories differ as to the reason. Their destination has also remained unknown, though many Hopis claim the Sinagua as ancestors. All we can be sure of is that by 1450, Montezuma's Castle sat abandoned, waiting four centuries to be rediscovered.

3. The Boneyard

In the Arizona desert is one of the most surreal sights I’ve ever come across in 25 years of exploring ruins––AMARC, the Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Center, also known as “The Boneyard.” It is next to Davis-Monthan Air Force Base and was created after World War II––it’s where old planes go to die. Some are actually just kept in storage until needed, some are converted into pilotless drones to be used for target practice, some are sold to foreign governments, while others are picked clean for parts. But in the end most wind up being sold for scrap to the half dozen or so aircraft salvage yards located around the base.

Right now there are over 4,000 aircraft in the base––that’s around $30 billion in tax dollars. I first visited in 1989, and have gone back several times since. When I was first at AMARC there were thousands of F-4 Phantom’s that were used in Vietnam and were then being retired from the Air National Guard. Today F-14 Tomcats are showing up more frequently as they’re being retired. There are even B-1 bombers, which cost over $300 million each to build.

On one trip I chartered a helicopter for a couple of hundred dollars and with the Air Force Base’s permission I was able fly over AMARC to photograph. A door was taken off the chopper and I was strapped into a harness so I could sort of hang outside with my feet on the skid. The duct tape they put around the latch as a safety precaution didn’t actually make me feel safer. We flew over the base and I got to direct the pilot to hover over the planes while I leaned out and shot. Every now and then the base controller––AMARC is adjacent to Davis-Monthan Airforce Base––would come on and tell us to move out of the way, some F-16s were coming in to land. We’d then shoot up from treetop height to 5,000 feet. Which was sort of fun to see the ground receded quickly until I realized it was getting freezing cold and I was only dressed in shorts and a t-shirt since it was 100 degrees that day on the ground.

I also took photos of many of the planes on the ground. When I first visited in 1989, there were hundreds of B-52s there. Most have since been destroyed as part of the START treaty with the Soviet Union––they used this huge guillotine to chop them into large pieces. They would then leave them in place for 90 days to let Soviets satellites verify their destruction before scrapping them.

The B-52’s were painted in either gray, if they were with the Strategic Air Command, or camouflage if they were used in the Vietnam War. I climbed into the belly hatch of one and made my way to the cockpit to take some photos with a fisheye lens. For such big plane it was incredibly cramped inside––I couldn’t stand up straight and there were rows of electronic equipment racks lining the aisles. Later, I as warned not to climb into any of the planes as rattlesnakes like to go inside them to stay cool. Getting killed by a snake on a plane that could’ve killed millions would certainly be an ironic way to go.

I also photographed the two-stage Titan II missiles, which were once tipped with nuclear warheads and scattered around the U.S. in protected silos. Now they’re kept in storage until they’re needed to launch satellites. The Titan II’s and the B-52 bomb bays reminded me of the “duck and cover” drills we did in grammar school in the early 60’s.

I wandered around a field of old 707’s that were from the dawn of the age of commercial jet travel, many with the logos of since bankrupt airlines like Pan Am and TWA. They were brought to AMARC so their engines could be used to upgrade KC-135 Stratotankers. Inside I found a old seat back safety card showing a stewardess in a 1960s uniform––it was a bit of a step back in time to when air travel was glamorous.

A fence keeps you from getting close to the C-123 Providers. That’s because the C-123s were used to drop millions of gallons of dioxin-containing Agent Orange during the Vietnam War to defoliate forests to deny cover to the North Vietnamese. During one of my visits I heard that the military flew the planes in and parked them, and that the civilians that work there can’t touch them because of OSHA rules (Occupational Safety and Health Administration). So they could still be there in fifty years. Perhaps they should simply be declared a monument to the soldiers and civilians harmed by Agent Orange.
So if you’re in Tucson and want to see something truly surreal, drive around AMARC, or, better yet, take the tour offered by Pima Air Museum – www.pimaair.org. If you don’t get out that way, I’ve got more photos of my trips to AMARC on my website – www.modern-ruins.com. There’s also a great website about AMARC at www.amarcexperience.com. And you can also have fun at Google Maps––just search “Davis-Monthan Air Force Base” and zoom in and around the planes.

4. Black Canyon Greyhound Park

There is something exciting about abandoned places. Everything about them presents a challenge to the modern-day explorer. It's not always clear why an establishment closes its doors; sometimes it's not even clear what type of business it was.

But it can be rewarding to try and unlock the mysteries that old, abandoned places carry with them. Things like old paperwork, old machines and cultural artifacts can be a looking glass to the past. Such is the case with Black Canyon Greyhound Park in Black Canyon City, roughly 30 miles north of Phoenix.

This decaying structure is a former greyhound racetrack at the north edge of town, just west of Interstate 17. It sits on a hilltop, a large rectangular mass with a dark brown rooftop. The corner has the words "Dog Track" painted in bright orange, but the T is missing so it reads "Dog rack." The building is bordered by a massive parking lot that was once paved, but has since turned into loose gravel. Little is known about the track, but it certainly invites visitors to discover more.

A covered entryway leads to a set of large glass doors where employees and customers once entered. Today the only occupants are pigeons and other desert creatures. The facility looks much larger inside than it does from the outside. A deafening BANG startles the visitor. The wind has blown the door against the frame and was surprisingly loud. The heart races; the brain recognizes that it’s already sprung into panic mode. But there is no threat. There are no greyhounds, no employees, no gamblers and no security. There is only silence.

The absence of walls and the narrow support beams create a feeling of vast openness. Clinging to the high ceiling are rows upon rows of fluorescent lights, now yellowed with age. The betting counter runs the entire length of the building, now covered with dust and debris. One can guess that in its heyday, the track was capable of handling very large crowds. One wonders how large the crowds really were, and if low attendance was a factor in the place becoming abandoned.

Above the betting counter, a small sign still hangs on the wall. "Min To Post," it reads, as if it were ready to light up before the next race. The kitchen is right by the front entrance, with an array of equipment still in place. Beside the sink and the grill sits an old soda dispenser, toppled on its side. At the far end of the track there is another small kitchen with a walk-up bar. No longer does it serve burgers and hot dogs and cold drinks. It now stands only as a reminder of the convenience of the past.
The seating area is impressive any way you look at it. The chairs are color-coded: yellow seats were 75 cents and red seats were 50 cents. They are hard plastic, lined in rows along the bare concrete floor. They offer a great view of the track through massive windows, which fill the place with sunlight. Outdoor seats were the cheapest, though they were covered with a shade screen at one point. The screen is gone but the support poles are still in place. Was this a year-round track? It is just one of many unanswered questions.

From the rooftop, the outline of the track is clearly visible. It’s now overgrown with creosote and prickly pear cactus, but it's there. The view at the top is excellent. One can see the rows of kennels on the north side of the track, where dogs were once boarded. Up close, they reveal another part of the mystery of this place.

Old signs and an office inside the maintenance area indicate that the kennels may have been used as a local mini-storage facility at one time. Inside the main grandstand, signs advertising a weekly swap meet indicate it had a second chance as well. When was this place built? Who owned and operated it? Was it ever famous? When and why was it closed? There is still a great deal of mystery about this place.
Inside, there are some clues to the past. An old license plate from 1972 lies on a workbench. A phone book from 1994 sits on a desk. Cans of chemicals which have been restricted long ago by the EPA are on a homemade shelf in the back. It’s timeless, really. The architecture, the design, the conveniences––they could have been built any time within the last 30 years. It’s difficult to tell just by looking.

Between the grandstand and the kennels, there is a modestly sized restaurant. The windows are long gone, allowing visitors to peer right in. Wooden chairs are stacked upside-down on the tables, as if the cleaning crew were coming after closing time. The floor consists of a dusty green carpet, spanning wall to wall. It offers a fine view of the first corner past the starting line. One wonders what type of restaurant it was. Did it serve the wealthy, or the common man? Was the food any good? What did they serve at a racetrack?

The exploration of places like Black Canyon Greyhound Park is a humbling experience. It’s about the people who used to work and be entertained there. It’s about finding that strange little room or closet that makes you wonder what it could have been used for. It’s about those questions that never get answered. It’s about discovering the past. It’s about being startled by strange noises and nesting birds. But most of all, it’s about the totally weird places you’ll find if you just keep your eyes and your mind open

Recorded at Harsh Reality Music September 2023

Chris Phinney: (Mental Anguish) - synthesizers, electronics, fx, final mix, cover art

The Church of Noisy Goat

thechurchofnoisygoat.bandcamp.com

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