Day 8: Amarillo, Texas to Tucumcari, New Mexico.

17 September. Tucumcari, New Mexico.

10:30 mountain time (we just turned our watches back an hour at Glen Rio, gaining an hour in an already-wonderful day). After the others turned in, I washed the dishes, showered, and now finally am able to sit down and reflect on the day and update where we’ve been since last we slept. We have internet here, so I finally can get online to post some updated news to the blog; yay!

Executive summary: Canyon, Texas to Tucumcari, New Mexico. Amarillo, Vega, Adrian, Glenrio, Tucumcari. 8:45 am start; 2pm finish; 126 miles. This day was another great one, starting out right from the get-go on Larry & Jere’s farm in Canyon. They’re having to put up with a construction detour from I-27 right past their house, so trucks roared by through the night with their Jake brakes on (just as Jere had lamented they would). Nonetheless, I was so tired (and so comfortable!) that I slept like a log until 6am. I tried to get back to sleep but couldn’t, so eventually I rose and studied the guidebooks and maps until everyone else was up and around.
Larry and Jere had been up for hours doing chores, getting their kids off to school, and whipping up an enormous farm-style breakfast for all of us. Mom sounded the alert that a hot-air balloon was about to fly over the house, so we took a short intermission to hurry outside and watch the great green balloon float peacefully past in the sunrise-bright sky barely beyond the house, before returning to sit down to a feast: stacks of Larry’s fluffy, freshly-made, perfectly-golden-brown pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, fresh orange juice, coffee, and chi tea, all of it fabulous! Too soon, it was time to say goodbye and be on our way, letting them get on with their day. I was touched almost to tears when Larry made a point of telling us how proud he was that we had stopped by on our trip: rather than mind having 5 strangers arrive and set up camp out in their yard, they were gracious and hospitable just like Steve & Cindy, Mark & Leslie, and Monica’s family before that. Truly, this world is filled with wonderful people!

Generous down to the wire, Jere picked fresh hot peppers from the garden for Dad and gave Mom a bunch of postcards before we were on our way. After filling the Skyliner’s gas tank in downtown Amarillo, we were on our way west, first stop: the Cadillac Ranch, the modern art piece commissioned by eccentric millionaire and art patron Stanley Marsh 3, who hired the artist group "Ant Farm" to install it in 1974. The 10 luxury-liners planted nose-down in the soil at an angle mimicking that of the Egyptian Pyramids beckoned us over to add our own touch to the graffiti adorning them. As we were leaving, the English group of Harley-Davidson riders who were at the Big Texan last night pulled up and walked in; many of them recognized and greeted us, while others lingered at the road to admire and discuss Tom’s car. I recognized Miguel, the guy who took the Big Texan Challenge in trying to down a 72-ounce steak and sides within an hour to get the meal free, and asked whether he had succeeded. He shook his head, ruefully reflecting that he still had 17 ounces to go. When we asked how he was feeling this morning, he sounded surprised to answer, "Just fine!"

We hummed along near I40, finding various quonset huts (refugees from old military bases in the area, but I didn’t feel compelled to photograph any – they’re everywhere on Minnesota farms), Wildorado, and Vega (Sands Motel, "end of the road" for Route 66 at one point). We intended to stop at Route 66 Antiques so that Mom could poke around there, but found nothing around Landergin and decided that the once-well-off antique shop there must have gone the sad way of so many other businesses out here and been forced to close its doors. Next up was Adrian, recognized as the geographic midway point along Route 66. There we easily found the Midway Café, where we ordered several slices of its signature pies, passing them around to taste (we ordered chocolate peanut butter, chocolate chip, coconut, and lemon, although they were out of lemon, so Mom had to settle for coconut instead. They all were delicious – as well they should be, at $7.95 per slice!). I was mollified finally to understand why the guidebooks had listed so many names as "the place" to stop for a treat in tiny Adrian: the café had changed hands – and names, half a dozen times – no wonder I had been confused! Again, the English Harley group arrived just as we were leaving; both groups were tickled. We took pictures of their Harleys, and they of Tom’s Skyliner – oh, for fun! :)

We found Miguel sitting alone on a curb just outside the restaurant and asked whether he was going to have a piece of the café’s famous "ugly-crust pie," to which he responded with a somewhat sheepish groan, "Nah; I just finished my steak from last night!" Hilarious! Their group planned to continue today all the way to Santa Fe, there to remain for 2 nights; we may encounter them again farther along the road, since we all plan to reach the west coast late next week. I do hope our paths cross again; they seemed fun! Many of them will be continuing from L.A. back up to Vegas to attend one couple’s wedding, at which they plan to dress up in medieval costumes – what a hoot all around!!

Before leaving, Tom put down the hard top on the convertable. When he activated the retractable mechanism, there was a shout and an audible gasp and hubbub inside the Café, as the entire group of 45 Harley riders whipped out cameras and crowded around to take pictures of the wondrous event. Great entertainment, all around!!

Having just bypassed the Bent Door, a falling-down former café in a structure that was once a control tower for an army landing field that I was keen to see just because it sounded interesting, we backtracked all of a quarter-mile to get to it. There, to our delighted surprise, we found that the Skyliner serves as a ticket for all sorts of things! As we paused in the lot for me to snap a picture, we saw a man come hurrying over from an auto repair shop next door, eager to ask Tom about it and inviting us to pull in. He owns the Bent Door, and he wanted to take a picture of the car there; how sweet! He amiably invited us inside to take a look around, which we did with awe, savoring the museum-like memorabilia from an old-fashioned juke box (it changed vinyl records from a fairly large rack) to twin carved-wood cherubian statues to the nose of an airplane sticking out of the wall/ceiling, its propellor turning as a ceiling fan – how clever! He and his wife are in the process of trying to refurbish the place, which they told us is at the actual Route 66 midpoint. I have no doubt that if they get this place up and running, they’ll do business hand over foot... an onerous task, but with great potential. I wish them all the best luck!!

So many frustrated, fallen, and forgotten dreams litter the roadside along Route 66. Deserted, dusty town after desolate, despondent town rolled by; vestiges of their former selves unable any longer to maintain their former glory, eventually hunkering down close to the dust and dirt as if hoping to fade into it. GlenRio was one such place. The name sounded exotic and exciting, and I imagined a once-beautiful location that would offer hints and suggestions of its former glory. Beaten by the bypass, that former bustling road-town straddling the Texas/New Mexico border is now home only to barking dogs and picturesque ruins that whisper amidst the ever-howling wind across time, the forlorn Texas Longhorn Motel (once boasted to be the "first" and "last" motel in Texas) barely recognizable. The town’s sign has long since faded and fallen, along with the hopes and dreams of another bypassed town.

We opted out of the Dirt 66 options, continuing to the New Mexico visitors’ center to pick up brochures and information. They had a computer available for travelers to check email, etc., and I scanned briefly through my work email titles but, finding no fires needing immediate dousing, opened not one, musing at how nice it has been not to feel tethered to my desk for the past week as we have traveled west beneath a wide-open sky!

Indeed, New Mexico is descended from the sky. Other places along old Route 66 were formed by rivers, mountains, and plains. Other states have been forged by iron-willed men meeting in urgency behind closed doors to make a truce, a compromise, a set of defensible boundaries. But New Mexico has no door on its history, no roof on its being. The first allegiance of most people here is to the land and the generous sky above. Boundaries here seem best determined where these two – earth and sky – meet. In the New Mexican view, cities are meant to be used as gathering points – for art as much as commerce – and not as population centers or power bases. Santa Fe is odler than any city of Colonial America and has been a capital for more than 300 years – yet its population barely tops 75,000. The oldest public building in the United States is there – yet even with such a head start, the city refuses to have a proper airport. Newcomers rarely understand this until they have lived there awhile and realize why there is no major airline operation in Santa Fe: it would interfere with the sky.

I had read that travelers along old Route 66 "begin to notice something different in the sky above about the time they reach Tucumcari, when its color – a deeper, more translucent lens of cobalt blue – can take even experienced color photographers by surprise. No wonder, then, that painters and writers began migrating here well before Route 66 first made its way across the state. Driving through New Mexico’s high country in crackling bright sunshine, or rolling through one of the long valleys with billlowing rain clouds so close overhead they seem almost touchable, everything here seems to put you at stage center. It’s easy for a traveler to get religion – any kind – in a place like New Mexico, where earth and sky and wind and water greet one another in such unexpected ways. All the simple distinctions of mind, former notions about what is and what isn’t, begin to blur. Following old Route 66 at a slower pace through the eastern hills, across the Continental Divide and into serious mesa country, perceptions change. It’s easier here, as an observer, to become part of all that is being observed, to feel a sense of connection with everything around. As a traveler, it is easier to slip loose from the sense of detachment and not-belonging that often seems to be a part of any great crossing. This enchanted land asks only one thing of you as a traveler: that you allow yourself to become enchanted, too." I couldn’t wait to let the enchantment begin!

Indeed, in this land that felt endless and eternal, it was easy to understand why some of the early westbound Route 66 travelers traveled no further, many realizing that they had finally come home.

We passed poor little San Jon (pronounced "San HONE"), devastated by a one-exit bypass. Now mostly ruins of old gas stations and motels, of which only one is still operating, line the broad main drag where we doubled back. It looked larger, but even more sad, than GlenRio. Continuing west of San Jon, 66 briefly cut away from I-40 as it dropped down through impressive red hills, heading over the escarpment from the Texas high plains and on toward Tucumcari.

For many old Route 66 travelers, the real West began with some meaningful event, whether that be their first glimpse of the long, low, fencelike sign for Whiting Brothers... or arriving in Tucumcari. "Tucumcari Tonight!" "City of 2000 rooms!" "The only place to spend tonight!" With powerful roadside advertising, it was tough to pass Tucumcari by, and few did. Picturesque old motels remain in Tucumcari, from the Safari Inn to the Tee Pee and countless others, but the Blue Swallow motel had called to me like a siren – particularly after yesterday’s Route-66-icon-near-miss at Shamrock. The Blue Swallow is on the National Register of Historic Places, a Route 66 treasure featuring some of the best neon on 66: a huge neon swallow tops the neon sign arching over the driveway at the office entrance; neon tubes outline the eaves; and little neon swallows perch on pastel-blue stucco walls. I couldn’t wait to get there! This being an iconic experience, I was glad for the short driving day – and knew that it probably would be good for everyone’s frame of mind; the rest of the group, I sense, is feeling fairly hard-driven by me and probably could use a break with a short, easy day.

A couple named Bill and Terry run the place now. We pulled in, ostensibly to leave the pickup and to let them know that we were leaving our camping rig there while we tooled around town in Tom’s Skyliner. However, as we got out of the car, the uncles suggested we look at our room, Mom looked aghast on learning there were no laundry facilities on-site, and Don started sounding like he needed to see the room before he could decide whether he wanted to stay here. I about snapped his head off, having a momentary flashback to yesterday’s mutinous decision to skip dining at the U-Drop Inn in Shamrock – I was not about to go through that again! There was no way we were going to have come all this way to Tucumcari, secure the last room available at one of the most renowned motels along the entire Route 66, and then decide not to stay at the famous Blue Swallow motel, for any reason. We stayed put. (And I apologized to Don, who of the whole group has been the most laid-back, mellow, un-irritating person imaginable – he was gracious, acting like he didn’t realize what I was talking about; Tom for his part joked that he was still mad, cracking us up.)

We left the camping rig, heading downtown to visit the Tucumcari History Museum at the suggestion of the Glenrio Visitors’ Center hostess, and we weren’t sorry. Though physically small, the little museum packed in a ton of information about the area, with intricate displays of memorabilia, clothing, rocks, and household items inside the museum. Outside we found a railroad car, a late 1940's Chevrolet fire engine (I was amused to read that its refurbishing cost a total of $400, teasing Tom that I wondered whether he was able to refurbish the Skyliner’s for about that amount), an old Air Force plane, and more. And because they’re having some kind of festival this week, we all got free Tucumcari lapel pins!

From the museum, we rolled around town admiring its many wall murals, finishing over near the high school with its enormous (mascot) Rattlesnake mural... and arriving just in time to watch their homecoming parade! Delighted, we alighted from the car and had only about 5 minutes to wait before the little procession approached. It was adorable, smalltown America all the way. The parade was all of about 10 vehicles long, starting with a local politician and his wife, followed by the girls on the homecoming court, all in convertibles or pickup trucks; then the football team and cheerleaders on flatbeds; then the sophomore, junior, and senior classes – meaning everyone in them, maybe 30-40 kids per class – riding on their own flatbed trucks. The parade-watchers consisted of the elementary and junior-high students, all of whom clamored up against fences beside the road under the watchful eyes of teachers (it was around 3pm, and school must not yet have been out for the day). For some reason watching this procession made me get all choked-up and teary-eyed, as if I were being allowed a secret glimpse into a private, untouchable world. Looking at all those young, excited faces, I was reminded of the lyrics to a Kathy Mattea song, Seeds, "... I wonder if they wonder what they’ll be someday. Some will dream a big dream and make it all come true – while others go on dreaming of things they’ll never do. We’re all just seeds in God’s hands: we start the same, but where we land is sometimes fertile soil, and sometimes sand. We’re all just seeds in God’s hands."

Happening upon a Friday afternoon high school homecoming parade in Tucumcari, New Mexico... What could be better than that?!

Returning to the Blue Swallow, we divided camp. Mom – who had been wanting to do laundry for a few days – and Dad headed off to find the laundromat 2 blocks from our motel, while the uncles and I checked into our "room" – the hotel’s suite, featuring two rooms connected by a 5-foot hallway, each room with a queen-sized bed and a second, smaller bed or futon; perfect for our group! And the price was right, at $115 for the night. We walked around exploring the motel’s several open garages, all featuring their own murals, taking pictures of them and of the motel itself; then strolled across the street to check out the kitchy-looking but eye-catching TeePee Curios, entering through a big teepee in front, and I took pictures of more murals in the immediate area.

After Mom & Dad returned from the laundromat, the uncles and I sat down to plan logistics over the coming week in order to try to coordinate our arrival on the west coast with family schedules and visits there, and arrived at a tentative overview: Albuquerque tomorrow (via the northern Santa Fe route), then Gallup, Holbrook, Flagstaff, Needles or Kingman, and on to L.A., probably reaching there late next Wednesday – with plenty of cushioned days to allow for serendipity. I’m a little concerned, though: I have space for fewer than 300 pictures left on my camera to last 6 more days!

We unloaded a tall stack of doggie boxes from the various restaurants where we’ve dined lately, hauling them and the microwave from the camper into our suite, where Tom and Don heated up tonight’s meal and I served it on a makeshift table out in front. Meanwhile, all of us enjoyed a rare chance to just relax, enjoying the chairs in front of our rooms facing the gravel u-shaped tourist court and the other guests, most of whom seemed just as friendly and eager to compare stories as we were. After introducing ourselves to Dave and Jill, another British couple traveling in a sports car (we had encountered them several times on the road today), we noted the surprising number of Brits out and about exploring Route 66 with us, from our friends with the Morgans to the Harley group today to this random couple – it would seem that Route 66 is as big of a craze in the U.K. as in the U.S.!

The Blue Swallow’s famed neon lights came on while we were finishing dinner, and we delighted in taking pictures of them. As darkness thickened around us, Tom moved the Skyliner over to the motel’s welcome carport – immediately attracting the entire clientele (and others) to eagerly snap away with cameras just as much as (or perhaps even more than) we were.
I’ve been at this longer than intended, and it’s almost midnight now; time to sign off and head to bed like everyone else. For my part, I’m looking forward to a sound night’s sleep in a spacious daybed.

As I lay me down to sleep tonight in Tucumcari, thinking of the steady stream of friendly people we have encountered so far along the Route 66, I am reminded that, "there are no strangers; only friends we haven’t met."