Route 66 crosses the Texas panhandle badly carved up, with frequent sections taken over by I-40. I did pass through a few of the quiet little towns. I was pleased in Shamrock to see the Deco Tower and U Drop Inn, a classic gas station-restaurant combo that thrived through the decades of US66 (now a showplace with requisite vintage vehicles).
Then down the road in McLean, another well-preserved vintage gas station.
Gradually I was moving up onto the northern part of the Llano Estacado “Staked Plain”, a broad high table-land that extends down much of the length of west Texas. This is a vast empty region, some grassland, some bare prairie. The name is claimed as either relating to early pioneers driving posts to mark a trail (to avoid getting lost) or to the high mesa looking from afar as being lined with a barricade of posts, or stakes.
In any case, the land lacks any features, practically any trees – just endlessly flat, until it drops off soon after reaching the New Mexico border. It is telling that further south there really is a town named Levelland. The fact that along Route 66 there were numerous little towns across the panhandle, many dried up by now, is a testament to how tough are the folks scratching out a living in this inhospitable place. And of course this area was in the middle of the Dust Bowl and all its “worst hard time”.
Amarillo demonstrated to me that, yes, Texans are a little different. I found my motel, moved in, and set out for the not-to-miss Big Texan Steak House. At the desk clerk’s suggestion, I called them and, amazingly, they sent around an old cowboy in a very nice Cadillac who shuttled me out to the east end of the city to the restaurant. It is a huge, lively, crowded tourist trap with loud country music and a very tall cowboy statue out front. After wandering around a bit I was called to the dining room, which to me was a surreal experience. I took some pictures, ate my only fair steak, and caught a shuttle limo back to my motel.
The next morning I set out on a clear day bound for New Mexico, but very quickly had to stop for a shot of the famous Cadillac Ranch. These ten Caddys range through the “tail-fin” years, from 1948 to 1964. It was a nostalgic moment, as I remembered my own 1962 mauve Sedan DeVille (very finny, with all-leather mauve interior!). I bought it in 1970 for $175, and drove it for a couple of years as it gradually died. Memorable. Anyway, Cadillac Ranch is a wonderfully odd work of art.
The Old Road soon took me into the small town of Vega, Texas. As I pulled through town I had to note a wonderful statue of a Longhorn. As I turned to go, a lady beckoned me to come over to a gas-station museum she was opening. She was the head of the Vega chamber of commerce and booster of the town’s history with Route 66. I listened to a lot of Vega history, signed the guest book, put a few bucks in the jar, and excused myself.
Down the road I stopped in for coffee at Adrian, Texas, which claims to be the midpoint of Route 66. I said hello to some other “66ers” I had met somewhere back east, and noted a purple Corvette (sorry, not convertible) a couple of guys were driving west. I would see them two more times on my trip, and we waved as if we were old buddies.
One of the guidebooks suggested I turn off before the state line and go through the defunct berg of Glenrio, Texas, and then follow the original old gravel 66 (another paved route had eclipsed it) some twenty miles into New Mexico. Glenrio was a classic example of the many “spots in the road” serving Route 66 that had been bypassed and abandoned as a newer highway came through.
I enjoyed the stretch of gravel road, far from the interstate, and the paved section after that which took me into Tucumcari. Tucumcari was a popular tourist spot back in the 66 heydays, with many large dinosaur statues around town (some bones had been unearthed in the area), along with Mexican restaurants and Western and Indian attractions (curios shops and the like). The Blue Swallow Motel was a 66 classic that is a going concern to this day (must be the “100% Refrigerated Air”). Tucumcari is just off the interstate, so has remained fairly healthy.
The interstate was built on top of much of the old road between Tucumcari and Albuquerque, so I saw few things of much interest. I was impressed when the highway descended, fairly steeply, for some distance down into the Pecos River valley, approaching the town of Santa Rosa. I learned that I had fallen off the high table-land down the Mescalero Escarpment, named after the Apaches that used to hang out around there.
Beyond Santa Rosa the land is open prairie until you near Albuquerque (Abq), at which time Route 66 departs from I-40 and wanders through a beautiful cut in the Sandia Mountains, opening to the east end of Central Avenue, the old main street through Abq. That is a lengthy drive down into the city, and along the way there are many motels and cafes that look like 40s-50s vintage establishments, still in business.
My host for the night in Rio Rancho, north of Abq, was James Sloan, another WMA classmate with whom I’ve kept in touch over the decades. We had a lovely New Mexican dinner and much reminiscing. In the morning I found my way back to US66 and headed for Arizona.
Much of the old road between Abq and Gallup is open and in good repair. Quite a bit of it is alongside I-40. At one point I came over a rise and stopped to admire the vista, thinking of the folks from back east, seeing such vistas for the first time. Some stretches wind through hills of pinon and juniper. I agreed with Michael Wallis that a lovely section is in the vicinity of the Laguna Pueblo.
Before Gallup I crossed the Continental Divide. Gallup was not too interesting, so I grabbed some quick lunch and moved on. I ignored a sign instructing a return to I-40, and enjoyed the old road for a few miles. And then I enjoyed it back the other way.
Soon after this misadventure, I cruised on the Super Slab into 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.
