Much of the way to Barstow (most of the way across), the Old National Trail Highway departs from the interstate. That road was the forerunner road, many stretches renamed US66 as that highway was made official. I expected to drive it, but for some reason I can’t recall (maybe extensive construction), the few exits to it were blocked off. I contented myself making a fast run across the state to Barstow on I-40, and then south toward San Bernardino alternating between US66 and I-15. I was happy to set cruise on 80 on the Super Slab, and focus on my audiobook. On one stretch of the old road, perhaps around Victorville, I did find one establishment still celebrating Route 66.
As I approached the greater Los Angeles area, the interstate dropped substantially down the very long Cajon Canyon. I was surprised to find myself, during rush hour, in miles of stop and go traffic heading down off the desert plateau. It was well after dark when I left I-215 and attempted to follow the 66 path westward. That was futile. After much map study and wandering, I did find my way onto Foothill Blvd., which follows the Old Road all the way across the northern LA suburbs (just south of the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains).
After a few miles of not-very-inviting motels and environs, what did I find? Another Wigwam Village Motel! The evening security arrangements at the office attested to it not being a very nice neighborhood, but I checked in anyway. My teepee was simple but clean and adequate. Since the area eateries were few and closing up, the best I could do was take-out spaghetti. After my simple meal in my humble abode, I had a good night’s sleep. I was happy to see my vehicle still on site and intact the next morning.
I headed west on Foothill Blvd. after morning rush hour had diminished. Route 66 had followed the path of this pleasant four-lane boulevard most of the length of the LA area, eventually flowing onto Colorado Blvd., then the lovely Arroyo Seco Parkway, then Sunset Blvd., then Santa Monica Blvd. I did not have any difficulty following the old route, aided by occasional signs. I did not notice many old relics from the 66 heydays. The noteworthy thing was that it was all of four hours, in moderate mid-day traffic and many stoplights, to finally reach Santa Monica, at the Pacific Ocean.
After finding parking and lunch, I walked on out to Ocean Avenue, the shore road that follows lovely Palisades Park along many blocks, overlooking the wide beach below.
Wallis had advised me to dip my toes in the Pacific Ocean, so I descended to the beach and waded in. After my feet dried, I walked down the beach to the famous Santa Monica pier.
Touring the pier reminded me of my one previous visit here. When I was 16, my mother and I came to LA to visit her two brothers, and one day I set off on foot from my uncle’s home in North Hollywood. I wandered most of the day, and ended up at the pier. For a souvenir, I bought a lovely pale-blue ceramic wall-mount mermaid (bare-breasted even, pretty cool). It was probably 18” tall and heavy as hell, but I lugged it back, packed it home, and had it hanging on my wall at home for some time. Eventually it was lost in the shuffle. But this time, I bought no souvenirs. Rather, I stopped and chatted with a young man at a Route 66 kiosk at the entrance to the pier – and thanked him for his service.
Walking back up through the park to Santa Monica Blvd., I stopped and had my picture taken with the Will Rogers Highway memorial plaque, which marked the end of the Mother Road for many travelers over the decades. I still had to look forward to a four-hour ordeal on rush hour I-10 across LA, to my escape northeast to Barstow and toward home, but that was not part of my Route 66 escapade. I had arrived. Michael Wallis, when I sent him a shot of my toes in the surf, congratulated me and pronounced me a “true road warrior”. Not a bad badge to wear.
As I made my way back home to Colorado, I reflected on the connections that this Route 66 experience had made for me. First, it brought back periods in my life when I have been a Midwesterner and a Westerner. Traveling through the eight states, along previously traveled roads, put me in touch with times and places I had long forgotten.
I became newly convinced that “taking the scenic route”, a preference I had long held, had great value for me in terms of memorable encounters with people and places that the fast runs down interstates rarely offer. Decades ago, William Least Heat-Moon gave me that idea in his excellent travel story Blue Highways, and when time allowed, I have generally chosen the secondary road.
I reflected that the two Route 66 trips I had now made were like bookends, early and late in my life. Seeing many of the same sights again gave me a connection across time, with myself as a little boy excited about so many new adventures.
This trip also let me sense a bit of what the Route 66 journey amounted to, over the half-century when that was the best way to travel from the middle of the country to the west coast. I think we sometimes yearn to travel back in time and experience what life was like in earlier periods, earlier ages. To pretend I was looking at the long stretches of the old two-lane, or like-new vintage Phillips 66 stations, or Mojave Desert expanses along Route 66, through the eyes of Dust-Bowl “Okies” in the ’30s or wide-eyed tourists in the ‘50s, gave me a glimmer of how those experiences must have been for those folks. I am enriched and grateful that the Mother Road made all these connections for me.
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