#newberry springs

[zachbradleyphotography]

Just a shadow flickering underneath the sun

Newberry Springs, California

[thingsmk1120sayz]

[filmap]

Don’t Worry Darling Olivia Wilde. 2022

Headquarters 50451 Silver Valley Rd, Newberry Springs, CA 92365, USA See in map

See in imdb

[unteriors]

Palo Verde Lane, Newberry Springs, California.

[digitalnewberry]

Celebrate the beginning of spring with the most rainy and flowery vintage postcards the Newberry has to offer 🌷

Send postcards over text and email with Postcard Sender View spring postcards at Newberry Digital Collections

[dilawrosas]

[BOOK REVIEW] ARC: Everything But You by Harlow James

This Harlow James book is AVAILABLE NOW! ✍️✍️✍️✍️✍️ The last book in the NEWBERRY SPRINGS series features a pair of high school sweethearts having their second chance after years apart living their own individual lives. The hero goes to Las Vegas and meets up with the heroine, having a chat with her and realizing that the feelings for her are still there. However, the heroine’s fiancé appears,…

[zero-likes]

Newberry Springs, CA

[hometoursandotherstuff]

For the buyer looking for unique, angled, downright weird, architecture, we have the perfect fixer-upper for you. It's a 1981 Whatchamacallit style located in Newberry Springs, CA. 4bds, 5ba, 9,000 sq ft, $999,900. Look at all the shapes!

And, there it is- in the entrance there's the quintessential '80s chandelier. The owner was fixing it up to become a bed & breakfast, and a nursery, but gave up.

Then you enter the angular, octagonal main room. Oy, yesterday we saw beautifully painted clouds on the ceilings. Look at the sorry ass ones above us, here. A paint roller on a pole will fix that.

So, let's see what needs to be done. Railings are missing in the mezzanine and they have building supplies stacked up in the alcove on the left. Is it me, or does the woodwork in this house look DIY?

I see that they tore all the floors up. So, at least the whole main level needs new flooring. On the upper left some drywall is missing. I do like the combination dining/pool table. They must've had the top custom made.

Big kitchen needs cabinets. The double ovens are freestanding out in the open.

Day-um, even the pantry needs work.

The powder room needs a ceiling and a sink vanity. I'm beginning to deduct from the price, b/c I'm seeing a lot of work here.

This room just needs flooring.

This one, too. I don't know about this. All the flooring is going to cost a lot.

Uh-oh, the toilet looks a little tipsy.

Terrible. After they painted one cloud, and saw how it looked, they should've stopped. Needs a nice railing up here. The angles in the ceiling are nice, though.

Oh, yay, this bedroom has a new floor. What's on the walls, though? They look rough. I think I like that loft area above the bed.

I'd like it better if you could go up there, though.

Very angular ensuite. You may have to bend your knees to see in that mirror.

Another large bedroom with a larger loft above.

So many angles and stuff.

Interesting large room with a drop down ladder to the attic.

This trailer is included in the sale, so it could be a rental, or somewhere to stay while renovating the main house.

Plenty of property for a pool.

Uncemented cinderblock wall.

it's a big house with lots of land, but I think they're asking too much.

The lot measures 40 acres. What's that green circle? Helicopter landing pad?

I don't know about this place. What do you think? There's a lot of land, but it's desert in the middle nowhere.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/45985-Cottonwood-Rd-Newberry-Springs-CA-92365/17486687_zpid

[caldrive]

Near Newberry Springs, Old Route 66, California (October 2023). Yes, I take a variant of this shot almost every year, but it's one of my fave places…

[bignaz8]

Driving west along Route 66, I felt the weight of the desert's solitude press around me. The sun was sinking low, casting everything in that magical, fleeting light that every photographer craves. I had one goal: reach Newberry Springs before the day’s last light faded. I'd read that all that remained of the Henning Motel—a place that once held life, laughter, and the weary travelers of the Mother Road—was its towering sign, a rusted relic of a bygone era.

This wasn’t just any sign. This lonely sentinel was part of movie history, having appeared in Bagdad Cafe, a film that turned a small, dusty corner of the desert into an icon of American pop culture. The motel itself was long gone; demolished and scattered by time, leaving only this skeletal reminder standing against the California desert. I could almost feel the echoes of that story—a tale of lost souls and unexpected friendships—blending with the orange hues in the sky.

I pulled over, and as I stepped out of my car, the warm, dry air hit me, carrying the faint scent of sun-baked creosote and dust. The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional car passing by and the faint hum of power lines stretching toward the horizon. The air vibrated with the remnants of the day's heat, which radiated from the ground and wrapped around me like a blanket.

Setting up my camera, I could feel the urgency. The sky was transforming, a blazing orange melting into dusky purples and blues. The neon sign stood tall against this palette, its letters peeling, weathered by years of desert winds and relentless sunlight. Power lines stretched away into the distance, drawing the eye along the path of Route 66, as if they too remembered the glory days of this once-busy road.

I waited, hoping for that perfect moment as the sun dipped closer to the mountains. The warmth of the desert air softened, but the earth still radiated heat from the long day. The shadows grew longer, stretching across the dirt, while the light cast the sign in a golden glow that felt almost holy, like the last ember of a fire. This was the Henning Motel’s swan song, and I was there to capture it.

I pressed the shutter, each click a heartbeat, each shot preserving a sliver of history. I imagined travelers from decades past, pulling in to rest under this sign. They might have walked into the motel lobby, greeted by the clanging of an old bell on the door. Now, only silence filled the space where the motel once stood.

The scene was haunting yet beautiful. This solitary sign, standing tall against the vast California desert, was a reminder of how places change and how they live on in memories, photographs, and film. With the last rays of sunlight slipping below the mountains, I knew I had captured something special—a moment where history, art, and the spirit of the open road met in perfect harmony.

📷 Robbie Green Photography

#bagdadcafe #outofrosenheim #route66 #route66roadtrip #historicroute66

[rabbitcruiser]

Newberry National Volcanic Monument, OR (No. 20)

Newberry National Volcanic Monument is a place of exceptionally ancient significance. Over 10,000 years ago, this was the site of village settlements and camps, as well as important hunting grounds. Across time, the spring waters that bubbled to the surface here, and the lakes of Newberry Crater—Paulina and East Lake—sustained residents and visitors alike. Yet, this landscape stood apart for other reasons as this was among the Northwest’s most impor​tant places to quarry obsidian, which occasionally erupted from the ground, flowed downslope, and hardened into ridges of glassy black rock stretching across the volcanic landscape. Reflecting this remarkable antiquity of human use, tribal oral tradition speaks of the place as a center of settlement and obsidian gathering since the beginning of remembered time. Archaeologists also attest to the depth of human connections to this place, uncovering settlements and quarries buried below deep ash from Mount Mazama, which erupted and collapsed some 7,700 years ago to form Crater Lake.

Source

[bettergeology]

Thinking about this wonderful Canada goose family we saw on the Deschutes River last spring. There are still four or five months of winter until spring reaches central Oregon again.

In this stretch, the Deschutes River meanders lazily through verdant wetlands, the floor of an ancient lake. Many times in its life, the river has been dammed by lava flows from Newberry Volcano, Oregon’s largest active volcano. The river ponds behind the lava flows and builds up a large lake that can last for decades before it eventually erodes through (or around) the offending lavas and empties. The fertile lakebed soil historically made this high altitude plain a center of agriculture, but now it’s mostly vacation homes and lovely kayak routes through a -mostly- healthy ecosystem.

[scotianostra]

Esther Inglis

Dear Davy Tolmie - I am fair pleased that ye hae taen tent o Esther Inglis, but I’m afraid she deit on 30 August 1624, nae 10th; I quote hir testament dative, NRS CC8/8/53, p.27, registered “xi martii 1625”,  viz.  “ye tyme of hir deceis quha deceist vpon the penult day of august 1624” ; the same info is in David Laing’s great “Notes” in the 1865 Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries, available in PDF online.  I published twa muckle articles on hir in spring 2023, one in the online “SSL 48.2” (just google that, and the journal will come up) and in the Journal of the Edinburgh Bibliographical Society.  There is a huge amount of info about her online at “estheringlis.com” - there is an awful lot of colonialist nonsense anent “Esther Inglis the Elizabethan Englishwoman” online,  maist recently in the piece “Happy New Yeeres from the Newberry”, pitten oot be the Newberry Library in Chicago, and it’s gaun to be a lang, lang trauchle tae get the puir wumman acknowledged for the daughter of Edinburgh that she was; but if ye could correct “10th” August  to “30th”, that would be great. 

Thank you Doctor Reid-Baxter, am just a wee auld guy who enjoys telling the world about oor ain country, the info I post is from what is available to me at the time, and while I try to be as accurate with my poosts, as I cann, I can’t claim to always be 100% right. The links I added to the posts I made, going back to 2019 originally, pre-date your own, I have amended the 2023 date, and come August 30 this year I shall refresh myself with her story via your links from 2023, I doth my cap to fellow Scots who share anything that tells the story of oor ain fowk, thank you 

[conandaily2022]

Nancy Gerwatowski biography: 13 things about Gillette, Wyoming woman

Who is Nancy Gerwatowski? Nancy Ann Gerwatowski is an American woman from Gillette, Wyoming, United States. She is Kara Kristine Gerwatowski‘s mother and Jenna Gerwatowski‘s grandmother. Aside from Gillette, Nancy has lived in other parts of Wyoming including Wamsutter, Pinedale, Rock Springs, Big Piney and Cody. She previously lived in Grass Valley, California, USA and Newberry, Luce County,…

[cadenceoftheblade]

We Leave After We Eat

Have a draft a thing.

Bridgefang Plaza sweltered in the midday heat, buzzing with insects, people, and rumor. Towards the plaza's north end, a bakery mingled the scent of fresh bread with the food being served al fresco at small, boutique cafes. The sky above is a madness of flapping wings, shouted commands, and cracking, high pitched animal calls. Nobody payed any attention to the great flock of wyverns overhead, that was entirely normal. What caught the eye was the hunter.

The dark haired hunter that stood, ramrod straight, next to the fountain at the center of the plaza was hard to ignore; The enourmous longsword strapped to his back, obviously second hand, the lines of age in his face, the prominent marks on his uniform, indicating his low rank. The people that noticed Ordin had questions. He might even have answered those questions, if any of them had bothered to ask him.

Ordin Aery, newly promoted Two-Star Wildeguard Hunter, did his best to ignore the half heard comments that sounded like a little too late for the hunt, old man and held back a couple years, huh and clown-ass looking sword, bet he pulled it out of a dumpster for clowns. Ordin did his best not to hear any of this. After all, what did they know? He was about to depart on his first official mission, after all! And to the Wyniversity, no less, he thought.

He had arrived an hour ahead of his field team's scheduled departure, wanting extra time to double and triple check his equipment. He had now been standing here, marinating in sweat, sidelong glances, and the all the wonderful smells of Bridgefang Plaza, just waiting for that lagomorphic bastard to show up, for three hours.

Ordin was the very best at waiting. Before today, he had been pledged to the Order of the Sixth Star; a tea monk, a facilitator of rest and comfort, dedicated in service to his community. That monastic existence had consisted of rather a lot of waiting.

Waiting for the seeds and bulbs to become stalks and vines and fruit-bearing branches. Waiting for the shrill song of a kettle, for a floral scent to announce itself on gently curling wisps. Waiting for the people in his care to find the words or the silence or themselves in the steaming mugs Ordin held out to them.

Waiting for someone to finally explain to him why all of it had burned. Why it was that he had survived the fire at Rose Point Monastery, when so many others hadn't. Why the flames seemed to splash and flow and drip, like improperly thickened preserves. What it was he had seen in the sky.

For three aimless years, Ordin waited for those answers. They did not come. Like unpicked fruit, the inquiries he made into state of the investigation rotted in mail boxes, inboxes, and the confused looks of the fire warden's desk attendant, who had always just started working here and didn't really know how to do anything yet, sorry!

When construction began on a new monastery, right where Rose Point had been, the old building's foundation repaired and repurposed, Ordin knew he would never know the truth. For a while, he tried to live with that.

The new monastery was designed to be a perfect replica of the one that was destroyed. Every room, every hallway, every weird little closet, and oddly narrow staircase, recreated in exquisite detail. Every odd angle, every secretive little nook and cranny, exactly where Ordin remembered them.

Everything about it felt wrong. The lightswitches were stiff, and snapped into position with a spring-loaded aggression. The doors swung on silent hinges, carrying handles that glittered at the edges like freshly sharpened knives. The shower heads were utterly toothless, fed insufficient pressure by water heaters that seemed to have performance anxiety, swinging wildly between absurdly hot and shatteringly cold. There was not a single speck of dust to be found, anywhere in the entire building.

The monks that came to take up residence in the new monastery decided to call it Newberry. They welcomed him as a brother, putting him up in the room that now occupied the space the one at Rose Point had. The patterns his eyes traced in the ceiling looked like flames, melting flesh, and vast, leathery wings.

When his new siblings figured he'd been given enough time to settle in, chores began to roll in. As the months passed, Ordin realized he had fallen into the exact routine he had kept at Rose Point Monastery for nearly a decade. This is eventually what sent him packing.

One morning, nearly a year after his arrival at Newberry Monastery, Ordin opened his eyes, like he did every day, to the chiming of the First Bell, a fanfare that faded into the song of the morning. The sound of conversation, unintelligable behind closed doors and the receding fog of sleep. The trees outside, pushed by the breeze into a standing ovation, rolling applause for the forest's choir of birds. In the small corner kitchenette, his coffee maker gurgled with the promise of something lightly roasted and delicious. Slowly, but surely, Ordin rose, thoughts and feet meandering through a truely lovely morning.

Ordin's habit was to wait to leave his room until the conversation out in the hex died out. He dressed. He enjoyed his coffee, enjoyed the way it's scent mingled with the crisp air pouring in through the open window.

He wondered what sort of mad blends of tea and spices Brother Gawm would be coming up with right about now, what kind of groan inducing joke Brother Morly was no doubt scratching onto the antique chalkboard he kept on his desk. He smiled as he imagined Sister Mora standing in front of that board, pinching the bridge of her nose, letting loose the sigh of a woman who has spent long years in love with a man who's greatest pleasure is her mild irritation. Not once did Ordin think about the smell of burning hair and meat, or the sound of roaring that simply couldn't have been flames.

He finished his coffee, savoring the bitterness at the bottom of the cup. Sister Mora had said something about finally showing him the secret method she used to weave flower crowns that wouldn't come apart or wilt, unless you wanted them to. As Ordin stepped out into the hexagonal common room he shared with four other monks, there was a spring in his step.

"Well, good morning, Ordin! You're awfully spritely today!" said the stranger sitting behind Mora's desk.

"Yeah, it's kinda weird to see you that energetic this early in the morning!" said the stranger sitting behind Morly's desk.

They say that grief forgotten weighs twice as much. Ordin could feel it pulling him down as he turned to flee the people the universe had so callously replaced his friends with. Every corner revealed more unfamiliar faces with names he realized he didn't know. The lights were too bright. The air wouldn't fit inside his lungs.

Mora, Ordin's mentor since his days as a nervous, gangly apprentice, was dead.

Morly, her husband, the kindest, most ridiculous man Ordin had ever met, was dead.

Gawm, the great, mad tea monk, the first person Ordin had ever kissed, was dead.

And Ordin still didn't know why.

"Ordin! Hey, Ordin! What's a bumpkin like you doing in a place like this, huh?" someone cried from plaza gateway. The voice was too familiar, in more ways than one. "Don't you know we've got important work to do?"

"Important enough for you to arrive at the departure point over three hours late, sir?" Ordin called back, shaking himself out of his reverie, making sure his voice would carry to every person within earshot.

He finally caught sight of his Field Team Captain, an orange haired viera named Cade, approaching through a natural part in the sea of people. The lagomorph's face was plastered with the same shit-eating grin Ordin remembered from the day he decided to become a guild hunter.

"I was, uh, held up by other, equally important work." Cade sniffed. "Besides, you're the very best at waiting, aren't you?"

Ordin wasn't sure if the vague gesturing he recieved from his captain was meant to be a dismissive wave of the hand or a lazy facsimile of his own, practiced salute.

"Playing games on your pocket computer is as important as our departure time, sir?" Ordin asked, lowering his voice to a more personable volume.

Cade draped an arm around Ordin's shoulders, turning them both towards the north side of the Plaza, walking them in the direction of the bakery.

"You know I hate being accused of things I actually did, Ordin. Who in the seven hells told you?" Cade said, breezily, one end of his crooked bastard's smile climbing just a bit further up his face.

"You did, just now, sir."

Cade laughed hard at that, and the wrought-iron edge that Ordin kept in his voice softened, just a little.

"Is the rest of the team waiting for us in the bakery, captain? I'm going to be very upset if I could've been eating bread this entire time."

"Change of plans, old man. It's just you and me on this trip. Someone is very interested in that story you tell about the day Rose Point burned down. They're waiting for you in a tavern out on the Pylons. Waiting with an offer, in the interest of accuracy."

Ordin stopped walking, forcing Cade to do the same. The two men looked at each other, one searching for answers, the other searching for lunch. Cade raised an eyebrow and threw a glance at the bakery, a look that said bread? bread now?

"Cade, what the hell are you talking about?" asked Ordin.

The crooked bastard smile split the slender rabbit man's face open like a melon.

"We leave after we eat."

[digitalnewberry]

Jack Kerouac to his editor: "BOO!"

Jack Kerouac note and postcard to Malcolm Cowley, April 1956

For nearly three years, Jack Kerouac and his editor at Viking Press, Malcolm Cowley, had been working together to publish On the road.

A respected author, critic, and mentor, Cowley was determined to get Kerouac’s rambling ode to the Beat Generation across the finish line. But by the spring of 1956, Kerouac was getting frustrated with the pace of the editing process. Out of impatience and, perhaps, a little anxiety, Kerouac sent Cowley a one-word postcard on April 18: “BOO!”

Thanks to the Malcolm Cowley papers available at the Newberry, it’s possible to reconstruct the Kerouac-Cowley correspondence leading up to this unusual missive. Their letters capture a tense moment in their relationship...

--Read the full post at newberry.org

Jack Kerouac, circa 1956, by photographer Tom Palumbo