Arizona

Northern Arizona is on a high plateau, and except for the more montane stretch around Flagstaff, it is pretty much dry desert or grassland.  The eastern stretch is highlighted by the excellent Petrified Forest National Park.  My dad and brother and I went through that park when I was six or so, and Pop bought us each a small piece of polished petrified wood.  I had mine for quite a few years, until domestic shuffles caused it to be lost.  I remember a picture taken of me climbing on a fallen petrified tree trunk.  So I had to visit again, and pick up some petrified wood pieces for my grandchildren.

This time the park was probably even more enjoyable.  The Painted Desert area was showing its colors, and the stark landforms in other parts of the park were impressive.

                      

                                       

I stopped in one pull-out to inspect petrified wood.  I didn’t see whole fallen trees, but rather short blocks, cut across so evenly that I thought it looked like chain-saw work.  On the way out, the ranger told me that this was the way the ossified trees broke.  Okay.

                                 

Leaving the park, I drove on into Holbrook, and spied my first of the three or so Wigwam Village Motels that are along the old Route 66 trail (I actually only noticed two).  It was worth looking over the numerous period autos around the lot.

                                        

Even though it was late in the day, I decided to run on another hour to Winslow.  I had been told to stay at the classic La Posada Hotel, and I thought to see if they had a cancellation since I had found No Vacancy on-line that morning.  I was in luck!  And for a very acceptable price, I had a lovely room in a corner upstairs where I could play my guitar without concern about disturbing the neighbors.  This hotel is absolutely charming, in a Spanish Southwest way, and I would go out of my way to stay there again.  Good enough for a host of movie stars, politicians, and other notables, good enough for me.

                            

You may recall the reference to Winslow in the Jackson Browne – Glenn Frey tune “Take it Easy”.  I was there on Friday when, in the middle of town, around the statue of a guy leaning on his guitar, the annual (yep) Standin’ on the Corner music festival was getting underway.  Because of the crowd, parking issues, and too many blocks to walk, I passed on that and played a few tunes, had a quiet dinner, and retired back to my quarters.  I kind of regretted not checking out the festivities, but it had been a full enough day.  And I’m “no spring chicken”, as my 100-year-old grandmother would say.
Often, as I journeyed west from the Oklahoma and Texas panhandles, I thought of how the landscape must have felt to the folks fleeing the Dust Bowl, and even those in later decades motoring for hours across prairie miles.  After the dry stretches of New Mexico and eastern Arizona, they must have breathed a sigh of relief as they followed the Old Road through the high alpine country around Flagstaff.  I loved to see the distant San Francisco Peaks, and for some miles before and after the city, 66 proceeds through rolling forested hills.

                    

   
Except for a few Route 66 references on mid-century-era motels and cafes, I saw little to catch my attention going through Flagstaff, so I motored on west.  On down the road, however, the little town of Williams is a very lively tourist stop.  After being slowed down for a time when I-40 by-passed the town, it appears to have recovered, celebrating its 66 heritage and its location as “Gateway to the Grand Canyon” which is a few dozen miles north.  Mid-day Saturday I found the streets full of cars and the bars, eateries and shops no doubt doing a brisk business.  I should have stopped, but pushed on toward my goal of Kingman, at the west edge of the state.  I was rewarded by a nice stretch of the original old road between Ash Fork and Seligman, and by a nice visit in Seligman.

                            

 


In Wallis’s book I learned about an elder in Seligman, Angel Delgadillo, who was a shop owner and town barber.  He was also very active in the Arizona Route 66 Association, and a big booster of the highway.  And, his shop does a lively business in 66 paraphernalia to 66 roadies (I got a great hat).  I stopped in to see him, but it was his nap time (he’s in his mid-nineties), so instead I visited with the manager, Angel’s son-in-law Mauricio “Mo”.  A nice fellow, and a memorable visit.  

Mo suggested I stop next door for lunch at Angel’s brother Juan’s Snow Top burger joint (below), but a large fleet of bikers and others made the wait too long, so I moved on through town.  After lunch at the Road Kill Café, I rode on west.  The 85-mile run to Kingman is judged to be one of the best-preserved stretches of Route 66 anywhere.  It is a good two-lane highway through open country bounded by distant mesas, and it serves several trading-center towns, very far from I-40.  Everything is probably much like it was a half-century ago…except for the year models of passing cars.  Approaching Kingman I enjoyed seeing the rising Black Mountains to the west.

                         

   
The next morning I stopped on my way out of Kingman to go through the excellent Historic Route 66 Museum.  Photos and text gave me a better picture of the struggles made to upgrade the original road to be a reliable dirt highway, and eventually to be fully paved (in the late 1930s, as I recall).  The most moving exhibits were life-size replicas of families with covered wagon and truck, respectively, moving painfully west.  The pregnant mother walking behind the wagon says it all.  Also sobering was a long, sad passage from Grapes of Wrath, writ large on the wall.

                                         

   
I had been looking forward to the next part of the journey especially, because of pictures and descriptions of the difficult passage over the Black Mountains.  The road is steep and narrow and winding, causing folks back in the day to need to be towed to the top, or sometimes to have collisions or slide off to their deaths.  After topping Sitgreaves Pass, the long descent led into the tiny mining town of Oatman and on out to Topock, where Route 66 crossed the Colorado River into California.
Before I started to climb the pass, I met a greeting party standing in the shade of one of the few trees on the flat.  The trip up the narrow pass was indeed a bit white-knuckle, as I feared meeting a big pickup on one of the many tight curves.

                                        

On the way up, I stopped in at a very old Route 66 stop that had been critical for many, to obtain gas or water, or food or lodging before making the trip over the mountains.  After some years falling into disrepair, the current owners of Cool Springs had done much to revitalize the shop and museum and brighten up its 66 imagery. 

                                        

 

The scenery was lovely from the top of the pass (if you like desert and rocks), but again on the way down I kept my eyes on the right edge of the pavement, and around the next curve.  I anticipated stopping in Oatman, as Michael Wallis had suggested it and his book included some lore of the place.  After the mining had played out, the unemployed burros were let loose to inhabit the surroundings.  As tourism strengthened in the town, they found it inviting to roam the main street for strokes and handouts.  This particular day found many folks in town willing to give them both.

                                         

 


The historic Oatman Hotel is kind of a centerpiece on Main Street, and worth a look.  The upstairs rooms are not rented at this time, but are available to look into.  In 1939, after a quiet marriage in Kingman, Clark Gable and Carole Lombard only got this far on their drive back to LA.  So of course their hotel room is kept just as it was then.  Well, the bed has been made.  The hotel downstairs appears to be doing well enough with the gift shop and restaurant.  The dollar bill coating of the café interior took me back immediately to the dining room in the lodge on Cabbage Key in Florida.  But, Cabbage Key’s was better.

                                             

 


I stopped for a beer at Judy’s Saloon, walked up and down the street, and left town.  But first I was shut down for a while as it was noon and a big crowd filled the street around a scheduled shoot-out.  Wild West.

The drive down to Topock was unexceptional, but for the scenery and some of the more peculiar cacti I’ve ever seen.  At Topock I rejoined I-40 and crossed the Colorado River into California.  This weekend day saw the river busy with pleasure boating all around the commercial cluster by the bridge.

                     

Back when the Dust Bowl Okies got here, so I read, they rejoiced having crossed arid Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona – and here was the river and there was California!  They were saved!  No doubt many of them had never heard of the Mojave Desert.