This isn't an investigation report of any kind. If you're looking for a run down on the local ghosts you'd best move along. Unless you want some kind of context, that is. Something that tells you a little bit about what being at the mine is like.
First of all, it's in the middle of nowhere. The mine isn't that far, relatively speaking, from Wickenburg. It's not even that far from Phoenix for that matter. When you get there, though, you drive through what looks like some awfully lonely countryside. You've seen it, or so you think, in dozens of Westerns (although those were more likely bits of California or possibly Spain, depending on what kind of movies you watch). It's rugged. If this countryside was a person it would be able to strike matches on it's chin, wrestle a steer to the ground (we were warned away from those, apparently they're mean) and it would have a nastier bite than a diamondback. If this countryside were a person, you'd call it "sir" and try to stay on its good side.
Vulture Mine is in the middle of all of this. It's not exactly well signposted; it doesn't really advertise its presence. It's just there, much as it has been there for the last hundred and some-odd years.
As you pull in, there's a small shack where they'll sell you stuff so you can pan for gold. As I arrived there were a couple of people there, smiling pleasantly. They seemed happy to be there, and so was I, trundling on up to the main parking area. Vulture Mine isn't what you'd call commercial. When I arrived the two caretakers were chatting amiably with a guy from Wisconsin who'd arrived to take a look around and, having done so, stayed a while to tell stories and smoke a cigar.
The first thing you notice about the mine is: it's dying very slowly. There's machinery rusting into oblivion everywhere, the buildings are disintegrating and only the plants really seem to be doing well. The second thing you notice is that other than the buildings the place is crawling with life. Birds and bugs were the first things I really saw moving. In summer, apparently, the place is a bustling metropolis for snakes and all manner of other critters. Apparently if you tour the mine while it's warm enough for rattlers they give you a forked stick to defend yourself with.
When something dies in the desert, it eventually dries up and blows away. That's what is happening to Vulture Mine. The process is going to take another hundred years or so to reduce the buildings to the foundations and then maybe another couple of hundred for the land to swallow those. To keep the mine as it is now, someone's going to have to go there and put down five million cash, and then prop the place up. But without major restoration work, it's palliative care only. People live there, sort of, because here's the other thing about Vulture Mine: it's great. The people who have spent time there have fallen in love with the place. A former caretaker was buried there; he simply couldn't be parted from it. You can see why. It's peaceful. It's quiet. For the first time my suburban ears couldn't hear the whine of electrical machinery and I realized I had tinnitus.
As you walk around you find a definite desire to stick to the trails. They're marked and the ground isn't exactly precipitous or treacherous but on the other hand looks can be deceptive. You get advised to stick to the trails so that's what you do. Eventually you'll find yourself at the Glory Hole, the place where high grading from the roof supports killed miners when the roof came in, and able to look out over the actual mine. It's a hole in the ground. No surprises there, really. That's what mines tend to be. It's a very large, very deep hole in the ground and while you might itch to go on down and take a look, the various bits of tape advise against it. With no particular urge to die underground, I obeyed the tape. But then you're up by the more industrial buildings, where the actual buildings seem a little more solid - until you look closely and then they're held together with rust or habit. They still contain original machinery. I have no idea what it did, or was meant to do, or might be capable of now but what it does is sit there looking squat and powerful and just a little bit menacing.
After sunset, you get treated to a desert sky. If you’ve been anywhere without cloud cover and no light pollution, you’ll know what to expect. I hadn’t done this in a while and was surprised all over again by the sheer number of visible stars, aircraft and what might have been satellites. While you’re looking up, remember the steers and the Javelina that might be out rooting around. Apparently the Javelina are a kind of wild pig, which are territorial and decidedly grouchy and are armed with razor sharp tusks (which is how they get their local name). They also stink, which means you’ll get some kind of warning that they’re around.
Not that you’ll be too concerned. If you’re in Vulture Mine after dark you’re not there for the scenery (although the starlight on a clear night makes it pretty easy to see), you’re there for the UFO activity (keep in mind, Luke AFB isn’t too far off and neither is Phoenix Sky Harbor airport but the caretakers report lights in the sky that they say aren’t aircraft) or you’re there for the reputation that the place may be haunted. It’s easy to see why it might have that rep. 18 people were hanged at the local hanging tree –which even after a hundred years isn’t tall enough for any kind of neck-breaking drop – and more were killed in and around the mine through various accidents. It probably deserves to be haunted. Luckily, the caretakers are happy enough to talk about the prospect of doing an investigation – they’re friendly and talkative folks. Whether you’re in the area and want to do something touristy but off the beaten track, or if you’re looking for an investigative challenge, it’s a place to consider.