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The wind whispers through the weathered wooden structures on Tennessee Avenue, carrying the faint echoes of miners’ pickaxes and the ghostly rattle of ore carts. This is Chloride, Arizona, where the harsh desert sun bleaches what remains of once-bustling saloons and mercantiles. Nestled in the Cerbat Mountains of Mohave County, 23 miles northwest of Kingman, this remote outpost once vibrated with the energy of over 2,000 souls seeking fortune in the silver-rich hills. Today, the town sits in quiet testimony to ambition’s impermanence, its pioneer dreams etched in stone across two distinct cemeteries that chronicle the community’s rise and gradual decline.
The old “Boot Hill” cemetery and its newer counterpart stand as silent custodians of Chloride’s history. Nearby, the foundations of the printing press that once produced the town’s newspapers remind us how isolated communities maintained connection with the wider world. The railroad grade that once linked this mining boomtown to distant markets now lies mostly reclaimed by the desert. Together, these abandoned elements of Chloride—its weathered buildings, solemn cemeteries, forgotten press, and vanished railroad—reveal the complex story of Arizona’s pioneer past and the tenuous nature of frontier prosperity.
Chloride’s downtown is like an open-air museum of Arizona’s mining past. Wooden storefronts, old signage, weathered homes, and vintage mining equipment tell the story of a boomtown that once boasted saloons, hotels, and a thriving population. Walk the main street, pop into shops, and discover quirky displays around every corner—including a few lovingly maintained historic structures from the 19th century.
A must-see highlight is the Roy Purcell murals, known as the “Painted Rock Murals”, located about a mile east of town along a rough dirt road. Created in 1966 and refreshed in the 2000s, these large, psychedelic rock paintings cover boulders in brilliant colors and symbols. They blend spirituality, mythology, and modern art, and their remote desert setting makes the experience even more striking. The road is rocky—high-clearance vehicles are recommended.
Located in the old Chloride Post Office, the Chloride Historical Society Museum preserves the town’s rich mining heritage. Exhibits include photographs, artifacts, tools, and memorabilia from Chloride’s boom years. It’s a great stop to understand the deeper history behind the buildings and ruins scattered throughout the area.
On the first and third Saturdays of each month, the High Desert Drifters, a local group of Old West reenactors, stage free gunfight shows in Chloride’s center. These fun and theatrical performances bring a little Wild West flair to the town and are often paired with local events or vendors.
The hills surrounding Chloride are dotted with abandoned mine shafts, tailings, and old cabins, many of which are accessible by hiking or 4×4 roads. The terrain offers excellent views of the desert valley and rugged mountains. Always use caution—do not enter mine shafts, and watch for loose rock and wildlife.
With its location at the edge of the Cerbat Mountains, Chloride is a gateway to desert backroads and OHV trails. Off-roaders can explore ghost mines, climb to mountain viewpoints, and connect with other historic sites like Mineral Park or Cerro Colorado. Fall and spring are the best seasons for backcountry drives.
Far from city lights, Chloride offers fantastic stargazing conditions. Visitors who stay overnight in the area, whether camping or lodging, are treated to dark skies filled with stars, planets, and meteor showers during peak seasons.
Each weathered headstone and newspaper fragment preserves fragments of lives that animated Chloride’s story. In the pioneer cemetery, the grave of William “Nugget Bill” Johnson (1839-1882) tells of frontier justice and vigilantism. According to surviving accounts in the Mining News, Johnson, a claim jumper with a reputation for theft, was found hanging from a Joshua tree with a crudely written note pinned to his shirt reading “Claim jumped once too often.” Though the community officially condemned the act, the paper noted that “few tears were shed for the departed,” revealing the harsh frontier code that sometimes superseded formal law.
In sharp contrast lies the community cemetery’s most elaborate monument, belonging to Eliza Krider (1858-1922), the progressive newspaper publisher who championed education and civic development. Her detailed marble headstone, featuring a carved inkwell and quill, bears the inscription “She gave voice to our better angels.” Krider’s obituary in the Arizona Republic noted that she established Chloride’s first lending library in the back room of her newspaper office and fought unsuccessfully for women’s voting rights in territorial elections.
The Chinese section of the community cemetery contains several markers for railroad workers, including Wong Lee (1871-1918), who began as a section hand but eventually operated a successful laundry business on Second Street. The Chronicle mentioned his establishment’s opening in 1907, noting that “Mr. Lee brings much-needed services to our community, having learned his trade in San Francisco.” Wong’s transition from railroad worker to business owner represents the economic mobility possible even within the period’s significant racial constraints.
Family connections emerge through the cemeteries’ arrangement. The Pearson family plot in the community cemetery contains three generations, from patriarch James (1842-1926), who arrived during Chloride’s earliest days, to his granddaughter Mary (1907-1918), who succumbed to the influenza pandemic. James’ son Thomas (1866-1939) served as the town’s final postmaster, closing the facility in 1931 when operations moved to Kingman.
Newspaper accounts preserve everyday moments that humanize the town’s story. An 1897 article in the Mining News describes the wedding celebration of mine foreman Henry Mills and schoolteacher Sarah Parker, noting that “the entire town turned out to the dance at Thompson’s Hall, where refreshments flowed freely until dawn.” A tragic counterpoint appears in the Chronicle’s sensitive coverage of the 1904 Tennessee Mine disaster, where editor Krider wrote, “Each man lost was a neighbor, each family grieving now bears a wound that our entire community must help heal.”
The railroad’s human element appears in the story of station agent Robert Calloway, who, according to local legend, saved the town during the 1905 flash flood by telegraphing an early warning that allowed residents to evacuate the lower sections of town. Though no lives were lost, the flood severely damaged several structures. Calloway’s quick action earned him a commendation from the railroad company and a community celebration documented in both local papers.
| Feature | Details |
|---|---|
| Location | Pima County, southwestern Arizona, approximately 43 miles from the Mexican border |
| Founded | 1847 as mining camp; developed significantly in early 1900s |
| Status | Semi-ghost town/small unincorporated community (not fully abandoned) |
| Population | Approximately 3,000 residents (down from peak of 7,000+) |
| Etymology | Named after the Spanish word for “garlic” (possibly referring to wild garlic growing in the area) |
| Economic History | Home to one of Arizona’s largest copper mines (New Cornelia Mine) |
| Mining Operation | Run by Phelps Dodge Corporation until 1985 closure |
| Architecture | Features Spanish Colonial Revival style in town center |
| Notable Structures | Curley School (repurposed as artist residences), Plaza and Historic District |
| Town Design | Planned community designed by architects John Greenway and William Kenyon |
| Plaza | Distinctive central plaza with arcaded buildings |
| Current Economy | Tourism, retirement community, border patrol operations |
| Nearby Attractions | Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument (33 miles away), Cabeza Prieta National Wildlife Refuge |
| Cultural Significance | Rich mining history, Native American heritage, proximity to Mexico |
| Climate | Hot desert climate with mild winters and very hot summers |
| Elevation | 1,759 feet (536 m) |
| Annual Events | Sonoran Shindig, seasonal festivals |
| Museum | Ajo Historical Society Museum showcasing mining and local history |
| Outdoor Recreation | Desert hiking, wildlife viewing, photography |
| Modern Relevance | Becoming known for affordable living for retirees and artists |
Unlike many Arizona ghost towns that were completely abandoned, Ajo represents a “living ghost town” – a community that experienced significant decline after its main industry collapsed but continues to exist with a smaller population. The town’s well-preserved Spanish Colonial center and mining history make it a unique example of Arizona’s industrial past.
Founded in 1863, Chloride took its name from the silver chloride ore discovered in the surrounding mountains. The settlement began as a simple mining camp when Jim Byrnes first discovered silver, but the threat of Apache raids initially kept development limited. After the nearby military post at Fort Mohave helped secure the area, Chloride blossomed into one of Arizona Territory’s earliest mining districts.
The Cerbat Mining District, which included Chloride, helped fuel Arizona’s territorial economy before copper became the dominant mineral resource. Silver, along with lead and zinc, drew prospectors from across the nation. By the 1870s, a small but determined community had established itself, with significant growth occurring after 1900 when a more substantial wave of development began.
The town reached its zenith between 1900 and 1920, boasting a population that swelled to over 2,000 residents. During this heyday, Chloride featured a two-story schoolhouse, a hotel, multiple saloons, stores, restaurants, and all the trappings of a proper frontier town. The economic driver remained primarily the mines, including the Tennessee, Schuylkill, and Midnight mines that yielded substantial quantities of silver alongside lead, zinc, and gold.
Chloride’s story parallels the broader narrative of Western expansion, representing the boom-and-bust cycle typical of mining communities throughout Arizona Territory. When Arizona achieved statehood in 1912, Chloride was in its prime, serving as a vivid example of how mineral wealth could transform empty desert into centers of commerce and community.
Today’s visitor to Chloride encounters a curious blend of ghost town authenticity and small-town resilience. Unlike many abandoned mining camps that have completely vanished, Chloride maintains a small permanent population of around 400 residents who treasure their town’s colorful past. Tennessee Avenue, once the main thoroughfare, still features several original structures dating to the mining era.
The old train depot, though significantly weathered, remains recognizable. The former general store building now serves as a museum housing artifacts of the town’s mining days. Yellowed newspapers, mining equipment, household items, and photographs preserve fleeting moments from Chloride’s boom years. Several false-front buildings line the street, their faded paint and tilting porches testifying to decades of desert exposure.
Beyond the semi-preserved center, foundations and stone walls mark where additional businesses and homes once stood. Mine tailings spread across the hillsides like pale scars, while the entrances to once-productive mine shafts—now safely sealed—dot the surrounding landscape. Rusted equipment including ore carts, boilers, and processing machinery lie scattered through the brush, slowly surrendering to the elements.
Preservation efforts, while modest compared to more famous ghost towns like Jerome, maintain Chloride’s authentic frontier appearance. Local residents have established the Chloride Historical Society to protect remaining structures and educate visitors. The “Chloride Days” celebration each June commemorates the town’s mining heritage with period costumes, reenactments, and tours of accessible historical sites.
Visitors can easily access Chloride year-round via Highway 93, turning west on Chloride Road for the four-mile drive to the historic district. The town welcomes respectful tourists, though many sites are on private property and should be viewed from designated areas only.
About half a mile northwest of town, up a winding dirt path on a rocky slope, lies Chloride’s original “Boot Hill” cemetery. This pioneer burial ground, established shortly after the town’s founding in the 1860s, presents a stark portrait of frontier mortality. Weathered wooden markers—many illegible after more than a century of exposure—stand alongside simple stone monuments and metal crosses. The cemetery occupies approximately one acre of rocky ground where digging graves often required blasting through stone.
The earliest verifiable burial dates to 1873, though local tradition holds that several unmarked graves may predate this. The cemetery remained active until approximately 1916, when the newer community cemetery was established. Records suggest between 60 and 75 individuals found their final rest here, though precise documentation is incomplete.
Several grave markers tell stories through their inscriptions. A stone marked simply “Thomas McGuire – Killed by Apache – 1874” speaks to the dangers of frontier life. Another weathered wooden marker reads “Eliza Jane Smith and infant son – Taken by childbed fever – 1881,” representing the high maternal and infant mortality rates common to isolated communities. Perhaps most poignant is a small cluster of crude stones marking the victims of a mine collapse in 1883, when six miners were entombed together after a support timber failed in the Tennessee Mine.
The pioneer cemetery reveals patterns typical of mining camps—predominantly male burials, many indicating violent or accidental deaths, with surprisingly few elders. Disease outbreaks are evident in clusters of dates, particularly the influenza epidemic of 1889-1890 that claimed seven townspeople within a two-week period.
Today, the pioneer cemetery suffers from natural erosion and occasional vandalism. The Chloride Historical Society conducts periodic cleanup efforts, but limited funding hampers comprehensive restoration. The stark, unadorned nature of this burial ground contrasts sharply with the more established community cemetery established later, highlighting the precarious nature of Chloride’s earliest days.
Approximately one mile east of town, the newer Chloride Cemetery presents a more orderly and maintained final resting place for the community’s dead. Established around 1916 as the town achieved greater stability, this two-acre site features proper plots arranged in clear rows with more substantial monuments. Unlike the pioneer cemetery’s harsh hillside location, the community cemetery occupies a relatively flat area surrounded by creosote and mesquite.
The community cemetery reflects the town’s changing demographics as Chloride matured. Family plots become common, indicating more permanent settlement patterns. Monuments display greater craftsmanship, often sourced from Kingman or even as far as Phoenix, reflecting improved transportation and economic stability. Religious symbolism appears more prominently, with crosses, biblical verses, and denominational markers indicating the community’s diverse Christian traditions—predominantly Methodist, Baptist, and Catholic.
Ethnic diversity becomes visible in this cemetery, with sections containing Hispanic names and even a small area with markers bearing Chinese inscriptions, representing the railroad workers and merchants who joined the primarily Anglo mining community. Class distinctions appear in the varying elaborateness of stones, from simple concrete markers to carved marble headstones with ornate Victorian symbolism.
Community traditions included an annual Memorial Day ceremony when the cemetery would be thoroughly cleaned and decorated with desert wildflowers. This practice continued even after Chloride’s decline, with former residents returning for the occasion into the 1950s. Today, occasional maintenance occurs through volunteer efforts, though with less regularity.
Several prominent community leaders rest in this cemetery, including James Byrnes, the town’s founder, whose 1922 granite monument was reportedly shipped from Saint Louis via railroad. The graves of successive postmasters, school teachers, and mine supervisors paint a portrait of established civic leadership that contrasts with the transient population suggested by Boot Hill’s more anonymous markers.
Chloride supported two newspapers during its heyday, providing windows into daily life, community concerns, and broader perspectives on territorial and national affairs. The first, the Chloride Mining News, began publication in 1879 under the editorship of Marcus Brunswick, operating from a small wooden structure on Tennessee Avenue. Brunswick, formerly a printer in Santa Fe, brought his press overland by wagon—a monumental undertaking that demonstrated his faith in the town’s prospects.
The Mining News maintained a decidedly pro-business stance, advocating for mining interests and railroad expansion while frequently criticizing territorial government taxation. With a weekly circulation of approximately 300 copies at its peak, the paper sold for 10 cents and reached readers throughout Mohave County. The rival Cerbat Mountain Chronicle began in 1886, founded by Elizabeth Krider, one of Arizona Territory’s few female publishers. Krider’s paper took a more progressive stance, advocating for school development, church establishment, and temperance.
These newspapers documented the rhythm of community life—from mining accidents and new strikes to social gatherings and school achievements. Birth announcements, wedding celebrations, and death notices traced family histories. Coverage of national events like presidential elections arrived with considerable delay, often reprinted from larger papers in California.
The Mining News office operated from a wooden structure on Tennessee Avenue that also served as Brunswick’s residence. After his death in 1901, the paper continued under various owners until 1912. The competing Chronicle worked from a stone building near the intersection with Second Street until its closure in 1907. Both papers published their last editions as declining silver prices and mine closures diminished the town’s prospects.
Several bound volumes of the Chloride Mining News survive in the Arizona Historical Society’s collection in Tucson, while fragmented issues of both papers are preserved in the Mohave Museum of History and Arts in Kingman. These yellowed pages provide researchers with invaluable glimpses into Chloride’s daily life beyond the bare economic facts of production figures and population statistics.
The arrival of the Santa Fe, Prescott & Phoenix Railway’s spur line in 1898 marked a transformative moment in Chloride’s development. This narrow-gauge branch connected to the main Atlantic & Pacific line (later the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe) at Kingman, finally linking Chloride to national markets. Before the railroad, transporting ore required arduous wagon journeys over rough terrain, severely limiting production capacity.
With rail access, mines could ship lower-grade ore that previously wasn’t economically viable. The railroad also dramatically reduced the cost of importing heavy machinery, construction materials, and consumer goods. Chloride’s commercial district expanded rapidly after the rail connection, with businesses clustered near the newly built depot on the town’s eastern edge.
The depot itself was a modest but proper structure featuring a waiting room, ticket office, and freight storage area. A water tower, essential for the steam locomotives, stood nearby. The weekly schedule initially offered two roundtrips to Kingman, later expanding to daily service during peak mining periods. Passengers could connect in Kingman for service to Los Angeles (approximately 14 hours) or Albuquerque (10 hours).
Freight service dominated the line’s business model, with ore cars leaving Chloride loaded with silver-bearing rock and returning with mining timbers, explosives, machinery, and merchandise for local stores. The railroad employed approximately twenty men in Chloride itself—from station agents and freight handlers to track maintenance workers.
The spur line operated successfully until 1935, when declining mining activity and the Great Depression forced service reductions. Regular passenger service ended in 1931, though freight continued for several more years. The final train departed Chloride on November 12, 1935, marking the end of an era.
Today, the raised railroad grade remains visible east of town, though tracks and ties were salvaged during World War II. The depot foundation and portions of the water tower foundation can still be identified. Several ore loading platforms stand as crumbling cement ruins along the former right-of-way, silent testimony to the vital connection that once linked this remote community to the world beyond.
Chloride’s decline began gradually after World War I, when silver prices failed to recover from wartime price controls. The 1920s saw several major mines reduce operations or close entirely as veins played out and extraction costs exceeded profits. The Tennessee Mine, once the area’s largest employer, reduced its workforce from over 200 men in 1918 to fewer than 50 by 1925.
The Great Depression delivered the decisive blow, forcing the closure of remaining marginal operations. By 1930, Chloride’s population had dwindled to approximately 300 residents. The Mohave County Miner reported in November 1931 that “Chloride’s business district presents a sorry spectacle with more than half its buildings standing vacant.” The post office’s closure that same year marked the community’s official diminishment.
The railroad’s service reductions both reflected and accelerated this decline. After passenger service ended in 1931, the reduced freight schedule made shipping increasingly difficult for remaining businesses. When the spur line closed completely in 1935, several families and businesses that had persisted despite economic hardship finally relocated.
The final issue of Chloride’s last newspaper, the Mining News (which had resumed publication briefly in the early 1920s), appeared in December 1932 with the headline “Thirty Years of Service Ends.” Editor Thomas Wilson wrote, “The voice of Chloride falls silent, though the mountains that yielded their treasure will stand eternal.” Within months of this publication, Wilson relocated to Kingman, taking the printing press that had documented the community’s life for decades.
Both cemeteries continued to receive occasional burials even after the town’s significant decline. The pioneer cemetery saw its final interment in 1945, when old-timer Frank Whittaker was laid to rest alongside his mining partners according to his will’s stipulations. The community cemetery continues to receive occasional burials to this day, primarily family members of the small population that maintains residence in the area.
Many former residents relocated to Kingman, Las Vegas, or Phoenix, establishing new lives while maintaining connections to their Chloride roots. Annual reunions occurred through the 1970s, often coinciding with Memorial Day cemetery visits. As Katherine Pearson, daughter of the last postmaster, told the Kingman Daily Miner in a 1981 interview: “You can take the people out of Chloride, but you can’t take Chloride out of the people.”
Chloride stands as a remarkably intact example of Arizona’s early mining communities, offering archaeological and historical significance beyond many better-known ghost towns. Unlike Jerome or Tombstone, which developed substantial tourist infrastructure that somewhat altered their historical character, Chloride maintains a more authentic connection to its frontier origins.
The town was listed on the Arizona Register of Historic Places in 1998, recognizing its well-preserved mining-era structures and cemeteries. Archaeological studies conducted by Northern Arizona University in 2003-2004 documented the mining district’s physical remains, including ore processing sites, habitation areas, and transportation networks. These studies helped establish the area’s significance in understanding early extraction technologies and settlement patterns.
For the Hualapai people, whose ancestral territory encompasses the Cerbat Mountains, Chloride represents a complex historical intersection. Tribal oral histories record both conflict and cooperation with the mining community. Contemporary Hualapai cultural preservation officers work with historians to document this relationship and protect sites of indigenous significance in the surrounding landscape.
Chloride plays a modest but growing role in regional tourism, attracting visitors interested in authentic Western history beyond the more commercialized destinations. The town’s remote location has paradoxically helped preserve its character by limiting development pressure.
The community’s newspaper and railroad history provides valuable case studies for understanding how communication and transportation networks shaped territorial Arizona. The Chloride Mining News archives offer researchers insights into how isolated communities maintained connection with national conversations despite their remoteness. Similarly, the railroad spur line demonstrates how even secondary connections to national rail networks could dramatically transform local economies.
The contrasting preservation states of Chloride’s two cemeteries highlight different approaches to historical conservation. The pioneer cemetery, with its weathered wooden markers and stone cairns, has been minimally disturbed since its abandonment. This benign neglect has paradoxically preserved its frontier character, though at the cost of losing many identifiable graves as wooden markers deteriorate and inscriptions fade.
The Mohave County Historical Society conducted a documentation project in 1987, photographing and mapping visible graves while recording legible inscriptions. This effort created a baseline inventory, though subsequent erosion and vandalism have further diminished the site. The cemetery’s remote location and lack of formal access routes have complicated maintenance efforts.
By contrast, the community cemetery benefits from occasional maintenance by descendants and local volunteers. A restoration project in 2012, sponsored by the Chloride Historical Society, replaced several damaged fences, cleared overgrowth, and repaired the most significantly damaged monuments. Annual Memorial Day gatherings continue to draw small groups of descendants who place desert-adapted flowers and clean grave sites.
Local resident Georgina Martinez, whose great-grandparents were among Chloride’s Hispanic mining families, organizes an annual Día de los Muertos remembrance that honors those buried in both cemeteries. This cultural tradition, which began informally in the 1950s, has grown to include educational components that teach visitors about Chloride’s diverse community history.
Amateur genealogists and family historians frequently visit both cemeteries researching their Arizona mining-era ancestors. The Mohave Museum of History and Arts in Kingman maintains a database of known burials compiled from newspaper obituaries, cemetery documentation projects, and family records, facilitating these connections between present and past.
Visitors to Chloride’s historic sites should approach with respect for both the community’s past and its present residents. The small population that maintains homes in the area welcomes respectful tourism but deserves consideration. Private property boundaries should be observed, particularly around residential structures and active mining claims.
The pioneer cemetery, located on public land managed by the Bureau of Land Management, remains legally accessible but requires a short hike over rough terrain. Visitors should never disturb graves, remove artifacts, or conduct amateur excavations. Gravestone rubbings are discouraged as they can accelerate deterioration of fragile markers.
The community cemetery, while more accessible via a dirt road, remains an active burial ground with family connections to current residents. Photography for personal or educational purposes is acceptable, but commercial use requires permission from the Chloride Historical Society.
Archaeological resources beyond the cemetery and townsite face ongoing threats from scavenging and unauthorized metal detecting. Removing artifacts from public lands violates the Archaeological Resources Protection Act and diminishes the historical record for future researchers and visitors.
The Chloride Historical Society operates a small museum on weekends that provides orientation information, historical photographs, and artifact displays that contextualize the surviving structures. Donations to this organization help support preservation efforts throughout the historic district.
Standing in Chloride today, with the desert wind stirring dust along Tennessee Avenue and ravens calling from atop weathered wooden false fronts, one confronts the impermanence of human ambition. The town that silver built—once home to thousands, served by railroads and documented by its own newspapers—now slumbers as a quiet reminder of boom-and-bust cycles that defined the American West.
Yet in Chloride’s weathered headstones and faded newspaper pages, we find more than economic determinism. We discover the human spirit that animated this desert community—the newspaper editor advocating for better schools, the railroad telegrapher warning of approaching floods, the Chinese immigrant building a business, and the miners whose labor extracted wealth from unyielding rock. Their stories, fragments preserved across Chloride’s landscape, reveal the complex social fabric that made mining towns more than mere extraction sites.
As contemporary Arizona continues its rapid urbanization, places like Chloride offer essential perspective on our relationship with the landscape and resources. The town reminds us that settlements once considered permanent can fade when economic patterns shift or resources deplete. Yet it also demonstrates how human connections to place persist beyond economic utility, as descendants continue to honor their ancestors in hillside graves and preserve the stories of a community that refused to be forgotten.
In Chloride’s twin cemeteries, segregated by time and circumstance yet united in purpose, we witness the democratizing power of memory. Prospectors and publishers, railroad workers and shopkeepers rest in earth fertilized by the same infrequent desert rains, their stories intertwined in the historical tapestry of Arizona’s territorial days. Their pioneer dreams, though altered by time and circumstance, continue to resonate across the sagebrush landscape—reminding us that even ghost towns still speak, if we pause long enough to listen.
Arizona Department of Mines and Mineral Resources. “Chloride Mining District Report.” Phoenix, 1992.
Balk, Christine. Desert Graves: A Chronicle of Mohave County Cemeteries. Kingman Historical Society, 2004.
Lingenfelter, Richard. The Hardrock Miners: A History of the Mining Labor Movement in the American West. University of California Press, 1974.
Malach, Roman. Chloride, Arizona: Mining Town Extraordinaire. Arizona Department of Libraries, 1978.
Mohave County Historical Society. Pioneer Voices: Oral Histories of Northwestern Arizona. Kingman, 1985.
Trimble, Marshall. Arizona: A Panoramic History of a Frontier State. Doubleday, 1977.
Chloride is located approximately 23 miles northwest of Kingman, Arizona. From Highway 93, turn west onto Chloride Road and follow for approximately 4 miles to the historic district.
GPS Coordinates:
Historical photographs reproduced by permission of the Mohave Museum of History and Arts. Contemporary cemetery photographs by the author.
