tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2593424335945143782024-02-08T14:17:46.711-06:00Happy StichLove-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-59906702445123813642010-04-23T17:58:00.002-05:002010-04-23T18:01:14.957-05:00ItalyThe March trip to Italy was great! A couple of days with a friend at Ostia Lido (on the coast south of Rome -- Rome's original port, and a place I hadn't been before), then several days playing tour guide in Rome (Vatican Museums, St. Peter's, Castel San Angelo, Piazza Dei Venezia, the Colosseum & Forum, Piazza Navone, Trevi, Spanish Steps, the Pantheon, and a Papal Audience) and Tuscany (climb up the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Florence's Uffizi, and several medieval hilltop fortress villages -- another "new" thing for me, which I loved), staying at a lovely Agriturismo in the Tuscan hills near San Miniato. Too soon, it was time to return to real life -- but it was a great break in the meantime!Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-17597490228624859242010-04-23T17:55:00.002-05:002010-04-23T18:01:40.858-05:00MinneapolisMinneapolis, Minnesota. 6pm, and I'm tearing my hair out after hours of waiting at the airport already. Having decided to head back to Michigan for niece Sage's first communion tomorrow, I had trouble getting out of Colorado Springs, due to winter weather that moved in overnight: we all wakened to snow and ice this morning, a stark contrast to the 60's and sunny we've been enjoying all week!<br /><br />With any luck I'll catch a flight to Grand Rapids in a little more than an hour from now, and will be able to share in the weekend festivities there. We're all relieved that Sage's other grandmother's breast cancer surgery last week seems to have gone well; it'll be good to see her in person tomorrow.<br /><br />Over and out at MSP.Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-49862629639055261492009-09-24T15:13:00.003-05:002009-09-24T15:18:52.817-05:00Day 14: Barstow to Santa Monica, California24 September. Calabasas, California. 11 pm. We finished our journey, toasted our success, and snapped some pictures before parting company in Santa Monica temporarily for logistical reasons.<br /><br />Executive Summary: Barstow – Oro Grande – Cajon Summit – San Bernardino – Rialto – Fontana – Santa Monica (and on to Calabasas and other points in the greater Los Angeles area). 7am start, 2pm finish, 151 miles.<br /><br />I wakened at 4am and couldn’t get back to sleep, still puzzling over why exactly spending those 3 extra minutes in Oatman would have been so horrible. I still haven’t been able to figure it out and would love to understand. Dad, also an eternally-early riser, got up a little after 5:00, and the two of us pulled on shoes and left the room, walking out into the still-dark, pre-dawn air of early morning beside the desert, awaiting the first rays of the sun.<br /><br />Walking over to a nearby coffee and donut shop, Dad offered the option of returning to Oatman on Saturday from Lake Havasu, where we’ll be staying with June and Brian over the weekend, so that we can see the other show. It was sweet of him to offer, but as I explained with a resigned shrug, it isn’t about seeing that show. That whole place isn’t my kind of thing; I wasn’t particularly enthralled to be there in the first place... but, once there, I wanted to at least experience it fully, if for no other reason than to feel as if I had the entire experience. As it turned out, we devoted 7 hours getting there and back – but without having the full experience, by a margin of exactly 3 minutes. That is what frustrates me. It’s like the Great Barrier Reef all over again and, having gone to the trouble of getting all the way there expressly to go SCUBA diving, being ordered by Paul not to go SCUBA diving so that I wouldn’t be away from him and Maura for 60 minutes, leaving me unable to dive the Great Barrier Reef, as I had wanted my whole life to do (the whole reason I got certified in the first place all those years ago)... but not necessarily wanting to make the trip all the way out there again just for that. The chance is lost – precisely the reason for my frustration in forsaking it, for the sake of 3 minutes.<br /><br />This morning’s driving was easy, a slower-paced meander along gently-curving country roads that became steadily more lush as we distanced ourselves from the parching desert. We began by crossing sandy, sagebrush-dotted hills along the Santa Fe Railroad and the tree-lined, mostly-dry course of the Mojave River, starting our day along the National Old Trails Road.<br /><br />We passed through little Hodge in a blink, finding an old sign for Newton’s Towing in Helendale, where its ponderous parrot (mascot for the old "Polly" gasoline brand) perched atop a sign proclaiming the once-current gas prices (18.9 regular; 21.9 ethyl – a far cry from the over-$3-per-gallon that is not uncommon these days) and the roadside remains of a stone residence adapted from the old Sage Brush Inn, where Sagebrush Annie formerly operated a rumor-inciting roadhouse. Next was a Bottle Tree Ranch, an artistic creation composed of countless colorful bottles arrayed on "trees" intermixed with 66 signs and other artifacts in the tradition of Miles Mahan. Oro Grande was both depressing and fascinating: a line of old strefronts on one side of the old road, now relegated to some kind of aging antique mall alongside Route 66 near a dust-producing cement factory, near the abandoned Mohawk Mini Mart and the false-fronted Route 66 Antique Station complete with a big, old, bright red caboose.<br /><br />A majestic 1930 modified Baltimore truss bridge carried us over the Mojave River, featuring ornate guardrails along a curved approach near Victorville, where we bypassed the California Route 66 Museum, observing a series of vintage motels and signs.<br /><br />Hopping unavoidably onto the interstate, we cruised up I-15 to the Oakhill Road exit at the top of Cajon Pass, a regular stop back when topping the pass was still a big deal, and made our way to the Summit Inn, which has welcomed weary travelers on Mariposa Road since 1952 with its cinnamon rolls, coffee, and ostrich eggs – which Dad ordered for breakfast (they tasted like regular eggs). All of our portions were enormous; a single meal could have fed all 5 of us.<br />Where I-15's east- and westbound lanes separate, the old 1920s Route 66 once fell between them. Intact sections of pavement remain, but they are inaccessible today. We were, however, able to enjoy a short section with a wonderful feeling of time suspended, just beyond Cajon Junction. Taking the Cleghorn Road exit, we found this great stretch of Roue 66, where the former 4-lane winds its way along Cajon Creek, through rugged topography created by the infamous San Andreas Fault, some classic old bridges crossing normally dry gulches along the way. There, Swarthout Canyon Road was the site of an old migrant workers’ camp during the Great Depression. Further along, the Blue Cut is named for blue-gray colored rock through which Cajon Creek cuts, its immediate area including a wide, tree-shaded spot on the creek bank with an historical marker that must once have been a great place to picnic or watch trains.<br /><br />A brief interstate interlude was necessary, but we soon exited again in Devore, watching for vintage motels and other businesses on our way to San Bernardino, home to more long-ago-bypassed vintage motels now catering to long-term guests. We watched for, but weren’t heartbroken to miss, the location of the world’s first McDonalds, begun in 1948, when the McDonald Brothers branched out and evolved their "speedee service system" and golden arches long before Ray Kroc bought out the fledgling chain. We did find the tee pees of the Wig Wam Motel between San Bernardino and Rialto, the other remaining wigwam motel on Route 66 and the last of the chain built. Although there were more of them at this location, we decided that the ones in Holbrook had more character – and all the vintage cars to boot!<br /><br />We followed the old road through Rialto, Fontana (finding Bono’s Historic Orange, the last of the giant orange stands that once lined California roads), on through Rancho Cucamonga (finally finding the historic Sycamore Inn that originally was a stagecoach stop, a place with metal dinosaur sculptures), and into Upland (where two former wineries, Virginia Dare Winery and the Thomas Vineyards at Vineyard Avenue have been adapted as shops).<br /><br />The Skyliner was protesting the climbing temperatures and frequent stops due to traffic and stoplights, so at this point we decided to head for the highway and make our way to the coast at Santa Monica. Although it was interesting to see the original route, years of corporate development and modern landscaping have forever altered the original surroundings, so I don’t think any of us felt that we were missing out on Route 66 ambience here. So we hopped on the 210 heading west, making our way south onto the Pasadena Freeway and eventually the Santa Monica Freeway, which dropped us off almost right at the terminus of Route 66.<br /><br />The actual, "official" end of Route 66 at Olympic and Ocean has been all but obliterated by I10, fairly well trashing the original intersection and its 1950s coffee shop. But a few blocks northwest, we found the plaque memorializing Route 66 as the Will Rogers Highway, ending our journey along the path in Palisades Park, above the Pacific. The afternoon sun and heavy mist over the ocean, however, made this less-than-desirable for photos, so we also snapped several at a nearby tourist marker created in the shape of the Route 66 highway shield, proclaiming the End of Route 66. (If only Chicago had erected such a sign at the start!). Murphy’s Law precluded us from getting a penultimate shot of the 5 of us standing in front of the Skyliner at that sign, when a tour bus pulled up to take over after the space had sat empty for the preceding 30 minutes – but I did manage to snap a picture of at least the car before the impatient bus driver blasted his horn and forced Tom to take off.<br /><br />Thus ended the Stiches’ Route 66 roadtrip, slightly anticlimactic without any fanfare or welcome committee, on a hazy afternoon along the Pacific Coast Highway near the Santa Monica Pier. But, as with any road-weary travelers at the end of an epic voyage, we were able to bask in the relief and the pride in knowing that we had done it; we had made it. To paraphrase Timothy, <em>we have fought the good fight; we have finished our course; we have come to the end of our journey; we have kept the faith</em>.<br /><br />Mom, Dad, and I headed northwest to Calabasas, where we were to stay with cousins June & Brian, while Tom and Don headed for Don & Dianne’s home in nearby La Palma. There, they dropped off Tom’s car, picked up Dianne, and headed up to hang out with us for the rest of the afternoon and evening. This was June and Brian’s 9th anniversary, and we reflected that all of us had been together in southern California 9 years ago today – a fitting way to celebrate their anniversary and the end of our roadtrip. The La Palma contingent departed around 9:30, with a feigned misty moment when we realized that this would be our first night apart since our start 2 weeks ago back in Bloomington.<br /><br />When we spoke on the phone later, I learned that poor Bernie got chewed out at orchestra rehearsal for making plans to be out of town to meet up with us this coming weekend; poor thing! I’m in bed in Madison’s pink princess room, having taken over June & Brian’s daughter’s place for a couple of nights. An enormous couch downstairs would have served just fine, too – in fact, I caught a catnap there in the afternoon after we first arrived – but it will be a nice treat to sleep in a real bed, in a real house, and to relax for a couple of days (until we have to start heading back east) without having to pore over tour books and maps or scour the landscape for this or that historic marker or landmark not to be missed.<br /><br />I have more thoughts, but will have to add them later (along with stats like total mileage, expenses, etc.), since I need to try to get some rest for now, knowing I’ll likely awaken earlier than necessary, even with the luxurious option of sleeping in pretty much as late as I would like.Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-14270116231403299152009-09-24T14:58:00.000-05:002009-09-24T15:00:14.106-05:00The End of the Road23 September 2009. Barstow, California. 5:30 am. It’s early, but I’ve already been awake for an hour ready to roll, and I need to find something to do while everyone else sleeps, so I thought I would let everyone know that we’ll make Santa Monica this afternoon. We’re all looking forward to reaching the end of Route 66. It’s been quite an experience!<br /><br />23 September. Ocean Boulevard, Santa Monica. We made it! 1:30 pm found us on Ocean Boulevard, toasting our successful journey with pink champagne near the Will Rogers Memorial Highway marker in Santa Monica. Details to follow.Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-76921722613112633392009-09-24T14:52:00.010-05:002009-09-25T08:52:12.837-05:00Day 13: Kingman, Arizona to Barstow, California22 September. Barstow, California. 10:15 pm.<br /><br />Executive summary: 7am start, 7pm finish. 360 miles. Kingman - Lake Havasu - Topock - Kingman - Oatman - Topock - Needles - Goofs - Essex - Cadiz Summit - Amboy - Ludlow - Newberry Springs - Barstow.<br /><br />I almost hesitate to post this day because a lot of it will sound negative, and I haven’t yet figured out how to gloss over the disappointments while remaining honest about what went on – but based on the feedback received so far, people have appreciated our "keeping it real" by including the lows as well as the highs. And as every good traveler knows, any adventure includes plenty of both – so here goes. Besides, everyone knows that on the TV reality shows, the parts where they all get mad at each other are the most entertaining for everyone else, so maybe this will be more amusing for readers than it was for us living through it in person. If so, you can break out the popcorn, sit back, and enjoy!<br /><br />Wanting to see Oatman, take in a couple of shows there (which we believed were at 12, 1:30, and possibly 3pm – meaning that we could see the 12 and 1:30, with time between to explore the town and sit down for a leisurely lunch), but still to try to make Barstow for the night, we had decided to rise early, drive on ahead to drop off Tom’s car (he didn’t want to drive it on the road to Oatman) at Topock and the camper at Lake Havasu City (it would be dangerous on that road, and which we wouldn’t need again until Friday). The plan was for Mom and Tom to drive his car directly to Topock, where they could park it and have a leisurely breakfast at the marina while Dad, Don, and I took the camper to June and Brian’s place down in Lake Havasu City. Then we would swing over to Topock to pick up Mom and Tom and, all in the truck, return to Kingman, traverse the infamous Oatman Highway, hopefully in time to experience Oatman’s burros, wild-west-style main street, see its shows, explore the town in between, and be on our way west by 2pm.<br /><br />I reflected that by leaving the camper behind, with the consequent decisions needing to be made about what to leave and what to take with us, we were granted a small glimpse into a very real aspect of early pioneers’ passages westward across the continent. We all have read books and seen movies in which the characters become so beaten-down and so overcome by unforeseen circumstances that they are forced to make difficult decisions, choosing which priceless possessions to leave behind along the dusty wagon trail and which few things to take along, whether in a covered wagon, by horseback, or on their own backs. Of course, our choices were not so weighty, knowing that we’ll be back in a couple of days – but the very fact of making them helped to illustrate in some small way what it must have been like for those early pioneers, who knew that they never would return and were leaving their things behind forever. In the end, things are only things – but out there in the desert, making choices to leave them behind likely became tragic and nearly unbearable at times.<br /><br />Our logistical planning paid off: our estimated times were almost right-on, and we reached Oatman actually ahead of schedule (the Oatman Highway itself proved far less treacherous than I had believed, and the Goldroad gold mining town was inhospitable, with no hint of the Gold Road Mine Tours about which I had read). Reaching Oatman with time to spare before the first of the 2 shows we were trying to catch, I heaved a private sigh of relief, immensely glad to be completely done meeting schedules and deadlines for the rest of this trip, and with only 90 minutes of time to kill between the two little shows we had come to see, allowing more than enough time to see the little town. The best information I had been able to obtain beforehand turned out to be dead-on, as confirmed by the first person I asked upon alighting in town. We made the first show (a gunfight on main street), and we managed to find something to do for 87 of the 90 minutes we needed to pass until the second before we would have been out of there and happily on our way... but suddenly Tom announced, "We’ve gotta go!" The rest of the group agreed, and off we went. Yes, having spent no less than 6 hours and 27 minutes successfully executing our Oatman plan, we abandoned it 180 seconds short of completion.<br /><br />Oatman was the kind of place that is like hell on earth for someone like me, composed entirely of shop after kitschy shop crammed to the hilt with kitschy tourist souvenirs: keychains, shot glasses, mugs, hats, scarves, rugs, blankets, wind chimes, aprons, cookbooks, you-name-it... and, of course, T-shirts by the hundreds. Each side of the little main street contained about a dozen of these shops, interspersed only by a couple of ice cream shops and a hotel and restaurant (where we killed most of the time we needed to expend between the 2 little shows). I was a good sport about it, obligingly peeking into all the little shops, and even making a couple of purchases, all with a good attitude. But when it came to seeing the one thing that I (and, I had thought, the rest of the group) actually wanted to see – animals – that favor was not returned.<br /><br />One might ask why anyone would make the effort to traverse the treacherous road to get there for the sake of a bunch of souvenir shops that sell the same things you could buy anywhere. Well, it’s to see the donkeys! Wild burros descended from a herd brought by long-ago prospectors roam the area and its streets, infamous for eating out of tourists’ hands (we had come prepared with carrots).<br /><br />Sadly, we didn’t get to see any burros, hurrying out of town literally 3 minutes before the canned performance utilizing them was to begin. This begs the question of why we had expended so much time and effort to get there in the first place – as well as when exactly the plan evaporated, and why 3 minutes one way or the other was so earth-shatteringly important that we had to miss what we had come to see (and what at least one of us desperately wanted to see, having made so much effort and already invested so much time...). I would have been perfectly fine with skipping Oatman entirely, had I known we weren’t going to see any donkeys or would wind up wasting 7 hours getting there and back, for the sake of about 2 minutes of entertainment that we did get to see. Or, I would have been fine with simply making it a 15-minute photo op stop; no problem. But to not only make the effort to get there, but then to deliberately kill time for almost an hour and a half, only to leave immediately before the performance we had been waiting all that time to see... that made no sense to me.<br /><br />I’m still scratching my head as to why exactly 3 minutes (or 5, or even – gasp! – 15, if the second show, as we believed, was more involved than the first) suddenly were so important, but apparently they were, so we all left without seeing any donkeys – or any wildlife at all – the only animal we saw (besides some roadrunners) was a lonely black and white cat on the porch outside one of the souvenir shops.<br /><br />So I wound up frustrated and downright angry. It’s not easy being the group tour guide, narrator, navigator, travel agent, and waiter... but all those jobs become even harder when you have to fight with people at every turn! It’s not about having my own way, or wanting to follow some agenda, or anything except wanting to be rational. I had no set schedule in mind when we began – in fact, I was excited about not having to live by a fixed itinerary, with a smaller group that would allow flexibility. As the trip has progressed, we have thrown out a number of ideas and adapted as we went. Last week in Tulsa they were wanting us to be only as far as Lake Havasu – still westbound – next Sunday! (Leaving me all the more perplexed as to why time suddenly was so critical that we couldn’t linger 3 minutes in Oatman as planned.) One of my early suggestions, upon realizing that time in Oatman was something the group wanted to do, was to devote a full day between Kingman and Needles, which would have facilitated an easy day, so that people wouldn’t feel rushed, and would have permitted us to begin the desert crossing bright and early the next morning, before the sun got going full-bore. Another suggestion had been spending a night in Flagstaff in order to reach Kingman earlier in the day, permitting an afternoon visit to Oatman and an overnight in Needles, with the same unhurried result. We adopted the schedule we did because it was what the group wanted... So if Tom (or anyone else) wanted to reach Barstow by a certain time, or not to be driving across the desert in the afternoon, there had been plenty of opportunities to raise those concerns. Even on arriving in Oatman, we could have agreed to make it a quick photo op stop, rather than to wait around for 2 hours (or even an hour), if anyone was in a big hurry to get someplace else on a deadline. But to go to all that trouble, and to deliberately kill time for almost an hour and a half, only to decide literally at the last minute that we weren’t going to wait the last 3 minutes... that was inconceivable.<br /><br />Even more than wasting time (sitting around for an hour and a half killing time is not my cup of tea), I can’t stand rushing away from something interesting – which is exactly what we did, after killing time doing something uninteresting by lingering in a dark hotel listening to some guy sing Karaoke Elvis songs while we killed time having lunch. I was mildly surprised when the uncles decided to move from the shady hotel/restaurant adjacent to the location of the next show in favor of sitting in the truck, but figured they wanted its stronger AC. I preferred to remain where we were for the remaining few minutes, curious to see the honeymoon hideaway of Clark Gable and Carole Lombard.<br /><br />We were a silent group heading west out of town, turning south toward Topock across a sobering desert section of old Route 66 that has not changed much (other than being paved) since the Dust Bowl days. We could understand why the Joads walked out into the Colorado River shallows and just stood there after driving this stretch. It is said that "the road from Oatman to Topock can be as tough as any road ever gets." It was bad enough for us today – mostly miserable because of the 3 minutes we didn’t stay to see the animals – and I’m sure that doesn’t begin to compare with what it must have felt like in a covered wagon or even some of the old automobiles!<br /><br />Emerging from the Oatman Highway at Topock, Don – ever the peacemaker – showed me around the Topock Gorge Marina, a lovely place with shaded tables overlooking the water where we could happily have lunched if we hadn’t been waiting in Oatman for the 2nd show (or if anyone had shared the urgent need to leave prior to sitting around there for an extra few hours). Although all of them had joined in the decision to rush away just before the show with the animals began (the human characters were already lining up on Oatman’s main street as we drove through on our way out), I was mostly irritated with Tom, who had seemed to be the one most hell-bent on hurrying off into the desert 3 minutes ahead of schedule, so I dared not ride with him, knowing it was likely that I would say something expressing my feelings about what I felt was an irrational decision. So I rode with Mom and Dad in the truck from there on, leaving poor Uncle Don to suffer in the air-condition-less Skyliner. I felt bad about that, but felt like I might have killed Tom if I rode with him. (It was similar to the way I had felt a few days earlier, after Mom insisted on our bypassing lunch at the U-Drop Inn in Shamrock – which Tom, of all people, could understand, since he had shared similar thoughts that day, when I rode with him and we voiced our mutual frustration in been rushed away from the kind of Route 66 experience we were there to have, for no logical reason – but now he was the one spearheading efforts to do exactly that.) In any event, I needed some time to simmer down before I could be cordial again with him, so Mom and Dad had to listen to me vent. Mom just kept reminding me, "We’re old," and "We don’t think as fast as you do," but that was cold comfort in the face of my repeated reminders that they could – and should, especially if unable to make responsible decisions themselves – just trust me when I try to offer guidance. Otherwise, don’t ask for my help in the first place – or be up-front about being unwilling to participate in the stated group goal, which here I thought had been to experience Route 66 as much as possible.<br /><br />Don – who, like me, I sensed still was keen to see the Route 66 sights for which we had embarked on this trip in the first place – still wanted to see what we could along the way, but after Tom’s little tantrum in insisting on rushing off from Oatman, I honestly felt like we dared not dally anywhere. After all, if we couldn’t spare 3 minutes in Oatman – after already devoting 7 hours to doing so – then how could we justify any stop, anywhere? I couldn’t understand (and I still can’t) what the big rush was, so I was exasperated trying to guess at what, if any, delays, would be acceptable after that little stunt. I was fed up with having to fight tooth-and-nail to see anything, and about ready to get out a book to read and let them all figure it out the rest of the way on their own (since apparently my suggestions to this point were so miserable that nobody could stand to endure an extra 3 whole minutes of it), but Don’s gentle requests for me to continue prevailed, so I sulkily resumed trying to guide us along as best I could.<br /><br />Following the National Trails road east from Park Moabi Road, we curved along the foot of a bluff marking the edge of the Colorado River, doubling back under the railroad and I-40 to an ancient stone billboard welcoming us to Historic 66, near the first and last automobile bridges over the Colorado River, including the graceful Old Trails Arch Bridge, built in 1916 for auto traffic but now supporting a gas pipeline, seen in the movie The Grapes of Wrath.<br /><br />Approaching Needles, we were greeted by its official Welcome Wagon, a reconstructed freight wagon bearing the town name. West of Needles, I40 charges boldly up and over the south pass of the Sacramento Mountains. I did suggest that if Tom was in a hurry, he could just take the interstate directly to Barstow where we could catch up with him later, thinking that might be the best solution for everyone: that way he could get to Barstow without having to see or do anything along the old road, while the rest of us could enjoy a more leisurely drive along it without having to feel rushed. But he wound up deciding to follow us after all, and even stopped later for ice cream (leaving me all the more exasperated, since that obviously took far more than the 3 minutes we couldn’t spare back at Oatman... I was furious – obviously – I’m still fuming), all confirming why I generally prefer to travel alone.<br /><br />Then again, perhaps there was something amazing and remarkable to see at the Ludlow, California Dairy Queen. I wouldn’t know, since I didn’t go there – as discussed in some detail beginning back in Lebanon, Missouri, as a general rule I do my level best not to eat at fast-food chains, but to patronize unique local businesses, and I certainly wouldn’t go out of my way to go to a Dairy Queen – particularly when there’s a Route 66 business that’s been there for more than half a century that’s right on the way. But that’s just me.<br /><br />Departing I-40, we opted for the early road, which followed the railroad over an easy-driving, little-trafficked, no-grade curve above the mountains. Unlike the winding, steep road to Oatman, which seemed deliberately to follow the most difficult route possible, this one made perfect sense as the path of least resistence to early travelers.<br /><br />In Goffs we stopped to see a restored 1914-era schoolhouse that also served as a community center, surrounded by displays of mining machinery, old vehicles, and windmills. A crusty desert town, Goffs is a survivor in its own right – one of those places that apparently wouldn’t know how to give up. Once, because it is usually at least 15 degrees cooler than nearby Needles, Goffs was a regular little summer resort. Now, despite double bypass surgery and air conditioning everywhere on the desert, the little town still carries on somehow.<br /><br />Then ensued a long, hot afternoon crossing the desert – although we realized how easy we have it today (even in the un-air-conditioned Skyliner), when we stopped at a roadside pullout to read a placard providing some insight into what early travelers endured. The pullout was in a spot from which we could see for miles in every direction, nothing but sun-scorched earth. The site marked the previous location of a roadside rest area consisting of four picnic tables, with the concrete anchors still visible. The explanation noted that early travelers took days to cross this section of the desert. Our casual crossing of just a few hours paled by comparison.<br /><br />This was the area where 50 years ago, the desert meant not death but a chance at life. During WWII, Hitler’s Desert Fox, Erwin Rommel, was loose with his Panzer Corps racing almost unopposed across North Africa toward an unlimited supply of oil needed by the Nazi war machine. If America couldn’t support the beleaguered British there soon, the war would most certainly have been lost. However, General George S. Patton, reared in this part of California, knew that the Mojave was not only similar to North Africa, but could be worse. So he pressed every tank, truck, motorcycle, and reconnaissance aircraft he could find into service as part of his Desert Training Center. Over 2 million men were trained to survive in the 10,000 square miles of desert surrounding us. In the end, the Great Mojave did its job, and Patton and his Second Corps did theirs, sweeping through North Africa as if they knew their way around, with no surprises that their own desert hadn’t already shown them.<br /><br />Passing Essex, we paused to see a public well that once provided "Free water!" to a thirsty US 66, now dry but still picturesque even – or particularly – in its abandoned state. A few miles west of there began a public art corridor of sorts, where hundreds of passing travelers had written their names with rocks, bottles, and other miscellany, on a dirt berm bordering the highway. We observed these but opted not to stop to add our own highway epitaph. Abandoned buildings, old garages, stations, cabins, cafés, and other shops whose only remnants are low walls, foundations, and cinder-block ruins and graffiti marked the former sites of Danby, Cadiz Summit, and on down the hill, Chambless and East Amboy, with its well-preserved ruins of the Roadrunner’s Retreat Café and Station, sporting an immense neon sign depicting a roadrunner. Apparently Dodge filmed a commercial there in 1988. Further along we came to the Route 66 place said to hold the record for appearances in commercials, videos, and movies, Roy’s Café and Motel in Amboy, begun by Buster Burris in 1938 and billed as "the crustiest, dustiest gas stop on all of Route 66." Tom topped off his tank there, and I treated us all to Route 66 Root Beers before continuing. A large coyote casually sauntered across the highway in front of us before we crossed the railroad tracks.<br /><br />A little further along, Mom, Dad, and I pulled over to check out Amboy Crater, a National Landmark whose lava flow crossed Route 66 a bit west. We drove in to the site, where Dad and I were disappointed after walking a 100-meter concrete walkway to find... nothing at the end. The place looked newly-developed, so perhaps they’re still in the process of erecting signage. There was a marker near the drive that explained that the crater is the result of 6 distinct periods of eruptions, starting 6000 years ago, with the last as recently as 500 years ago. We would have loved to have hiked across the lava field over to the crater rim, but not in that heat.<br /><br />We watched for the ruins of Bagdad (inspiration for the film Bagdad Café) between Amboy and Siberia, but never saw the crumbling foundations supposed to be there somewhere. I haven’t yet seen the film, but apparently it presents a tale of human relationships and what kind of endurance and personal responsibility it takes to transform misgivings and self-pity into trust and love, with Old Route 66 offering a way in and a way out, leaving everyone free to choose either direction, with the desert burning away everything else. Sounds interesting; I’ll have to watch it sometime with this day, and this stretch of highway, in mind.<br /><br />Instead, we proceeded northwest toward Ludlow for a scheduled ice cream treat stop at the Ludlow Café and Coffee Shop, with its genuine display of old mining carts out front and interesting architecture – we could check out a view from inside through angled stained glass windows while enjoying our dishes of ice cream, banana cream pie, and coffee for Dad. Tom and Don opted for a Dairy Queen across the street.<br /><br />From there we played some vehicle leapfrog (we spotted the Skyliner crossing an overpass above us after the Dairy Queen stop, as we hurried to catch up from the Ludlow Café) as we continued to Newberry Springs, which retains a relic of the former Whiting Brothers Gas Station chain and the current Bagdad Café, a nondescript wooden A-frame structure preserved complete with pumps behind a fence. Next up was Dagget, described as "an aging bridesmaid among railroad towns." It was once a major transshipment point for the borax trade from Calico to the north, apparently featured in reruns of Ronald Reagan hosting Death Valley Days. Local developers at one point learned that the Santa Fe Railway planned a major switching complex there, and they drove the price of land up – but they did so to such an extent that the complex wound up being built at another location instead, at a site given the middle name of the railroad’s president, William Barstow Strong. Now Daggett holds littlel more than a homey general store and the Stone Hotel.<br /><br />For our own accommodations, we had opted for Barstow’s Route 66 Motel, feeling that appropriate on this, our last night together on the Mother Road. Like so many of the mom-and-pop motels along Route 66, it sported a great neon sign, along with a courtyard display of old cars. Our room in a 1920s-era stucco cabin, was simple and Spartan (not even a phone), but relatively clean and quiet (ironic – despite Barstow owing its very existence to the railroads, with the very location of downtown having been dictated by the Santa Fe in 1925, when the whole place had to be moved to enable the railroad yards to be expanded – this was one place where we did not have trains roaring right past us all night long).<br /><br />As I mentioned, it had been a difficult, trying day for all of us. Still frustrated with wasting several hours of time for no apparent reason and being rushed around for the express purpose of not seeing what we had come to see, I toyed with the thought of just hopping on a plane back from Barstow. (Earlier in the trip, I might have done so, unwilling to throw time down the drain if only to be wasted going out of our way not to see things – I would rather take my time – yes, even 3 extra minutes here and there – and see what I can, when I have the opportunity; the whole carpe diem concept.) Though teasingly dubbed the "travel Nazi," I was not the one pushing us hard to meet some deadline (much less a secret one, as-yet undisclosed), and I don’t find that an enjoyable way to travel – particularly when doing so forced us to miss out on something we had made such a tremendous effort to see and in which we already had invested so much time. But at this point we had only one day left. We would make Santa Monica tomorrow, and then everyone would be free to rush home to their everyday lives and never have to linger in the desert for a single extra moment to see burros or drink in the experience of someplace new and different.<br /><br />So... I guess that "3 more minutes" might become a meaningful mantra, similar to the "We were on a break!" recited so often and with such uncomprehending irritation by Ross on the TV show <em>Friends</em>.<br /><br />When I related the tale later, Bernie’s first question was, "Well, why couldn’t you have just found someplace in the shade for them to sit and wait?" Of course, this made me wail all the more, since that was exactly what I had done, enduring an hour of listening to that aging, Elvis-impersonating karaoke-singing guy inside the restaurant at the Oatman Hotel while eating overpriced mediocre food biding our time... but they then insisted on returning to the blazing sun during the final 15 minutes of our wait. The next comment was that I should have just refused to get in the truck to leave. Tom (and the rest of them) might have been antsy for 3 minutes – but we would have been able to see what we had come for.<br /><br />Later, when cooler, more rational heads prevailed, Dad also mused that he wished I had just refused to leave Oatman. But that’s the problem – that’s not the way I roll – I would never behave that way, insisting on having my own way regardless of what others might want (and even when my position is, as it was here, supported by reasoned, rational thinking). In hindsight, it would have been better to have behaved that way at least on this occasion (and probably back in Shamrock, Texas – and over in Skagen, Denmark in 2006, and way back on the Great Barrier Reef in 2004)... but I just can’t ever bring myself to run roughshod over others’ feelings. I always wind up putting others first – even when they’re being irrational, and even when it forces me (and sometimes others who are cutting off their nose to spite their face) to make sacrifices – so I’m the one who winds up having to be the bigger person, bite the bullet, and just roll with it. For such people it doesn’t seem to matter that those "once-in-a-lifetime" chances don’t come again, and for those of us to whom it does matter, we are left with the choice of leaving those people behind, or giving up on opportunities because of them, if we choose to keep them in our lives. I’ve always chosen the people over the experiences, but days like today test my patience! Fortunately I’m resilient, and try simply to find the lining in any cloud.<br /><br />Finding that silver lining in this context, I guess this day helped prove the point that, as they do in real life, the road and the desert tend to strip away all but the bare essentials. Hot, tired, and weary from the road, people begin to show their true grit, with nothing left but character. Some remain determined to accomplish what they have set out to do, while others feel so overwhelmed that they want only to give up and "end it all," as noted in the quoted passage. Our experiences of this day seemed to underscore that point, and our various personalities bore it out to a person: some people wind up being ready to cut and run, succumbing to panic in a moment of heated, hopeless exasperation to such an extent that reason is lost; some are exasperated by that willingness to just give up and go, resilient and still focused on the goal, whatever it might be (that was me – I suppose that in the days of the wild west, I might have been the sheriff who simply shot dead the townsperson who had gone mad with the desert heat and was causing a panic among everyone else and so endangering the town); many fall into the herd mentality, willing to just go along with the path of least resistance offering momentary relief from the desert heat without really thinking through the long-term consequences; and some remain reflective, quiet, persistent, declining to engage in any heated discussions but listening carefully and serving as ambassadors to all in trying to smooth things over and find common ground to continue (like a one-man judge and jury whose advice everyone hears and obeys – that was Don). So in their own way, the road and the desert laid bare our own truest tendencies during our own difficult crossing, teaching us many lessons along the way.Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-75172608664191046892009-09-23T00:06:00.007-05:002009-09-24T14:57:10.023-05:00Barstow: Beyond the DesertBarstow, California. 10:15 pm.<br /><br />This was a long, hot, hard day for everyone. It’s only 10:00 now in Barstow and I’m feeling refreshed (just out of the shower), but my eyes are so dry from salt, sweat, and heat that they’re burning and crying to close, so I’m going to cut this short, summarizing the day by quoting from one of the travel guides about the mountainous desert region we traversed today (repeatedly, given that we had decided to speed forward to drop off Tom’s car and the camper at Topock and Lake Havasu respectively, then return to Kingman in order to drive the Oatman Highway up and over Sitgreaves Pass to tiny Oatman to see the donkeys and a couple of skits).<br /><br />"<em>If a major part of your driving time until now has been up on the superslab, you’ll be surprised how quickly civilization fades once you are away from town. There are real beginnings and endings here on old Route 66, and a truer sense of being alone, dependent on your vehicle and the road itself to take you safely through. Along this stretch especially, there’s often the very first glimmer of how it must have been for travelers forty or fifty years ago. As you roll deeper into the desert, a more primitive part of the brain begins to stir. You may find yourself listening more carefully to the engine, checking the gauges, feeling with your hands what’s happening on the road just below. By the time you reach Cool Springs Camp (which is none of those, but only a trashed ruin now) you may even have heard some mechanical notes never audible to you before. Funny how perfectly good engines can sound rough way out here.</em>"<br /><br />... And west of Topock (finally in California), "<em>where the road curves down and away to the right, you’ll get a first look at what lay in wait for the pioneer or the Dust Bowl family. Imagine the feeling: just when you have struggled past the terrible grade west of Needles and believe the worst to be over, you see what must yet be endured.</em><br /><br /><em>Out beyond the shimmering, glass-hard desert floor in front of you is another range of mountains, a thousand feet higher than those you just crossed. And beyond them yet another great barrier range, higher still, Peaks to 10,000 feet, some still carrying the snows of winter. Perhaps you tremble a little at the thought of what it will be like to go on. Most did tremble. And some, taking in the seeming endlessness of these trials, just stopped their creaking wagons or steaming old cars and without a word to anyone, walked away into the desert and disappeared. It was not a good end. But it was a way to have it over with, and that’s all some could find for themselves in this merciless place. Just an end to it all.</em>"<br /><br />Yes, "an end to it all" – I’m sure that each one of us was wishing for that at some point or another during this hot, endless day – exhausting even with cars; I guess one faces all sorts of adversity in the desert. But now everyone else is asleep, snoring away, in a stucco cabin at the 1920s Route 66 Motel in Barstow. Tomorrow we’ll reach Santa Monica and the end of the Mother Road. California or bust indeed.Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-18618131019078399852009-09-22T08:25:00.003-05:002009-09-24T14:58:03.897-05:00California or Bust!22 September. Kingman, Arizona, 6am.<br /><br />The camper has been rocking for the past hour or so as one by one we have begun to stir. For those keeping abreast of our progress, I thought I would share an excerpt from one of the travel guides about what’s in store for us today. (After the logistical maneuvering of dropping off vehicles and campers at points south and west and returning to Kingman to begin our westward progress in earnest). I love this description:<br /><br />"<em>If you fancy yourself something of a canyon buster, the run over Sitgreaves Pass into Oatman may be just what you’ve been waiting for. Especially if you’ve dreamed of the twisties on the famous Stelvio Road in the Alps, but cannot yet make the fare to Europe.</em><br /><br /><em>All right, then, just imagine an alpine road dropped down into the middle of the American desert. Instead of black ice and maniacal Italian bus drivers, here you’ll be dealing with scattered patches of shoulder gravel, rock-hounds in 4x4s, and the occasional band of wide-angle choppers. Still, it’s often said that the highway surface, curves, and gradients are a miniature version of the Stlevio run.</em><br /><br /><em>In the old days, when cars and trucks had little power, even in first gear, the only way up the 3,500-foot grade from Oatman east was in reverse – a craft mastered so well by locals that they could do it at top speed, by rearview mirror only, while dangling one arm loosely out the window. So, as you drive these marvelous old switchbacks, imagine how city-bred easterners must have felt when they veered into a blind, cliff-hanging curve, only to encounter some mad local coming full steam up the mountain backward. Commercial laundries at the bottom of the hill must have done a hell of a business.</em>"<br /><br />So... off we go! Talk to you again from California!<br /><br />Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-48618602655325956782009-09-22T00:40:00.013-05:002009-09-24T14:47:56.469-05:00Day 12: Holbrook to Kingman, Arizona21 September. Kingman, Arizona. 10:30 pm, and we’re all tucked into the camper; the others are happily snoring already. Because we plan to make an early start in the morning, I’m going to go ahead and post this without any proofreading or approval, so take it with a grain of salt, knowing I’m rushing through it.<br /><br />Executive Summary: Joseph City, Winslow, Meteor Crater, Twin Arrows, Winona, Flagstaff, Williams, Seligman, Grand Canyon Caverns, Peach Springs, Kingman. 6:30 am start; 6pm finish. 264 miles. A varied day meteor craters, underground caverns, and exploring the locals that have inspired musical lyrics and pop subculture. Desert crossing under a blazing sun, and a relaxing evening of making plans over the picnic table, beer, and cheap – I mean, fine – wine.<br /><br />The day began with some bad news: Dad accidentally broke one of the bottles of pink champagne I had bought in preparation for our Santa Monica celebration, as well as the handle off of the Midway Café mug I had saved from my spiced tea savored at the Route 66 halfway point. Ah, well; I have plenty of coffee mugs. The worse problem (in Mom’s mind) was the thought of spilled strawberry liquid in their bed in the camper.<br /><br />I had fully intended to sleep in until nearly 7 this morning, and had sternly lectured Dad about not disturbing us before then... but I wound up awake and up for the count by 5:30. Deciding to try to let Mom get some extra rest, I moved outside to the turquoise metal bench just outside our wigwam to enjoy the sunrise; Dad (who had been sitting up reading in the pickup truck) soon joined me. Not long after that he took coffee over to Tom & Don’s teepee to waken them around 6. We all were pretty much ready to roll by about 6:30, even with a picture-taking session, so we loaded up and headed out ahead of schedule. We had hoped to be on the road by 7:30, and wound up already having filled the Skyliner’s tank with gas by then.<br /><br />Heading west from Holbrook, our first intended stop was west of Joseph City, where we easily found the Jackrabbit Trading Post with its giant jackrabbit, on which we took turns sitting for photos. Billboards had announced our approach, counting down the miles to it just as similar yellow and black signs once taunted hundreds of miles of Route 66 with the mileage countdown. We did see one billboard with a black jackrabbit, topped by little rabbit silhouettes, standing proudly across the road, loudly exclaiming, "HERE IT IS!"<br /><br />Next was Winslow, made famous by the Eagles’ song Take it Easy containing a line about "Standin’ on a corner in Winslow, Arizona." We found the town’s Standin’ on a Corner park, complete with a statue of a dude toting a guitar, standing on a corner. A mural painted on the building behind him depicted a "girl in a flat bed Ford" as if reflected in a shop window, watching him; upstairs windows in the mural depicted a couple making out and a bird on a ledge. Apparently the site is prone to fires: one in 1992 destroyed the building on which the statue stands, and the building on which the mural was painted was gutted by another fire in 2004; now all that remains is the 2-dimensional brick facade bearing the mural.<br /><br /><em><u>Take it Easy</u> (The Eagles)</em><br /><em>Well, I’m running down the road trying’ to loosen my load. I’ve got seven women on my mind.</em><br /><em>Four that wanna own me, 2 that wanna stone me, one says she’s a friend of mine.</em><br /><em>Take it easy, take it easy. Don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy.</em><br /><em>Lighten up while you still can; don’t even try to understand. </em><br /><em>Just find a place to make your stand and take it easy.</em><br /><br /><em>Well, I’m a standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona and such a fine sight to see:</em><br /><em>It’s a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford slowin’ down to take a look at me.</em><br /><em>Come on, baby, don’t say maybe. I gotta know if your sweet love is gonna save me.</em><br /><em>We may lose and we may win, though we will never be here again,</em><br /><em>So open up, I’m climbin’ in, so take it easy.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Well, I’m running down the road trying to loosen my load, got a world of trouble on my mind.</em><br /><em>Lookin’ for a lover who won’t blow my cover, she’s so hard to find.</em><br /><em>Take it easy, take it easy. Don’t let the sound of your own wheels make you crazy.</em><br /><em>Come on baby, don’t say maybe. I gotta know if your sweet love is gonna save me.</em><br /><em>Oh, we got it easy. We oughta take it easy</em>.<br /><br />We drove by the restored 1928 La Posada Hotel and an old red and white Valentine diner in original-looking red and white livery looking for breakfast; we eventually happened upon the Falcon Restaurant on the east end of town, whose owners have been serving good food and caring for Route 66 travelers for almost fifty years. There, we feasted on another big breakfast, pausing before we left to visit briefly with a gun-toting guy seated in one of the outdoor booths, the restaurant’s smoking section, adjacent to the parking lot – where he had been admiring Tom’s car while we all stared at the big gun hanging in a holster at his waist, joking to each other about how someone should go tell him to get away from Tom’s car.<br /><br />After breakfast we made straight for Meteor Crater, the site of a meteor hit 50,000 years ago: a 150-foot-long chunk of rock that created a crater two miles across and several miles wide. It was pricey ($15 per person) but fascinating, with good exhibits inside on not only this particular meteor, but meteorology in general, studies regarding other meteors that will pass close to the Earth in the next few hundred years, displays of other meteorites, and all sorts of information about minerals and what happens when a meteor enters Earth’s atmosphere. We walked through a series of exhibits, explored the outdoor walkways overlooking the crater, and watched a film about it before continuing on our way.<br /><br />Next up was a short detour to see Twin Arrows, once an attractive establishment with a red and white Valentine diner and two namesake gigantic arrows thrust into the soil. Now boarded up, the remains were picturesque but unreachable because of concrete barriers. Strange graffiti invited readers to join 9/11 there; it was an odd place, not least because of its isolation out there in the scrubby, dust-blown desert.<br /><br />Another famous song lyric cautions, "Don’t forget Winona," and we didn’t – although there wasn’t much to see there. We stopped to fill gas at a Texaco-cum-Shell station, which served as a motel way back when, when its rooms provided simply an iron frame and guests had to bring their own mattresses, Grapes-of-Wrath style. Nice! Disappointingly, corporate-dictated renovations have removed all hint of history, so that only the sign gave away its identity as anything out of the ordinary: the place still uses the block letters from when it was a Texaco, just leaving one blank on each side. Just west of there we found an old iron bridge that provided a genuine photo op with mountain peaks as a majestic backdrop.<br /><br />Flagstaff didn’t really thrill any of us. Although we managed to spot Miz Zips, the towering Hotel Monte Vista sign, and the Paul Bunyan "giant" near Granny’s Closet, a restaurant on the site of the former Lumberjack Café, which was home to the first of the giant so-called "Muffler Men," ancestor to the three Illinois giants we had seen earlier in the trip. This giant wasn’t so giant by comparison – nor by comparison to the Paul Bunyan that we’ve all seen in Bemidji, Minnesota.<br /><br />We opted to skip all the gravel and dead-end option detours to and through Bellemont, Parks, Monte Carlo, and even Ash Fork, meaning that today’s drive entailed a lot of interstate travel – which turned out fine, since we had more ground to cover. We did exit for the four-mile swing through Williams, the town with the distinction of having been the very last US 66 town to be bypassed, on October 13, 1984. There we found Twisters 50's Soda Fountain ("The Route 66 Place"), where all of us took a load off and sat down for treats: I savored a dish of peppermint stick ice cream, Tom had ice cream, Dad and Don had coffee, and Mom ordered a hot dog. The place screamed vintage diner / soda shoppe, with a pink ‘55 Ford parked out front. I encouraged Tom to park the Skyliner right behind it; then we were entertained watching people take pictures next to his car rather than the one that was part of the place. Leaving Williams, we watched for the historic 1908 log depot and the old Frey Marcos Hotel, near the Grand Canyon Railway.<br /><br />We stayed on I-40 past Crookton Road, exiting instead at #123 for Seligman, once a time-zone division point, stopping there to check out the birthplace of the Historic Route 66 Association of Arizona and of the annual Fun Run, where each spring hundreds of cars cruise downtown before heading out to Topock or vice versa. Founder Angel Delgadillo wasn’t there manning the former barbershop, but his workers were helpful and friendly, earning their keep by inspiring me to buy a tanktop I don’t need (I need clothes like I need a hole in the head!) – but I decided I’d like to have something kitschy to wear when we hit the beach at Santa Monica in a couple of days, and maybe as a souvenir later.<br /><br />An easy drive beyond Seligman, we reached the Grand Canyon Caverns, where we spent a couple of hours first enjoying refreshments in the restaurant while awaiting the next tour; then taking a 45-minute tour of the underground caverns here. These differed from Meramac in that they’re dry. I didn’t find them as captivating, but they made a nice comparison/contrast. Our tour guide, Jerry, took us on a 3/4 mile walk along paved walkways 21 stories (210 feet) underground, telling a ton of bad jokes and sharing interesting information, like the only link between this place and the Grand Canyon being that there is a passageway somewhere in the rock connecting the air between them; or about the bobcat and the giant sloth who unfortunately met their demise decades ago by falling in and being unable to escape the empty caves, which became their tombs. Poor critters; they must have been terrified! Our guide emphasized the caves’ dryness, repeatedly pointing out things that have been perfectly preserved over unbelievable lengths of time because of the less-than-6% humidity down there. The tour script was full of groaner jokes and conducted in a steady singsong, but still interesting and informative, if only as a nice comparison/contrast to the Meramac Caverns we saw back in Missouri.<br /><br />Approaching Peach Springs (inspiration for Radiator Springs in the movie <em>Cars</em>), I was on the edge of my seat awaiting the view of the distant Grand Canyon from the steep hill down into town. Sadly, the view was too distant to make for good pictures, but was breathtaking nonetheless. Next we passed through Valentine, whose post office (famous for Valentine’s Day postmarks) is long gone but where the Valentine Indian School remains standing near a one-room "Non-Indian" school "across the tracks." We continued through Crozier Canyon and tiny Truxton and at Antares Junction passed a 14-foot-tall tiki (an Easter Island idol head) looking completely out of place in the desert. Then it was a straight shot on to Kingman, where we found the KOA campground despite nearby detours, checked in, and set up for the night.<br /><br />We all were hot and tired from today’s drive across arid desert terrain, so we walked over to the campground pool for a quick, refreshing dip in its chilly water before showering, eating, or even toasting another great day (so you know we were hot)!<br /><br />Don briefed us on plans once we reach L.A. His son Brian hopes to meet us when we triumphantly arrive at Santa Monica Wednesday afternoon; then Tom will go stay at Don & Dianne’s while Mom, Dad, and I go to stay with June & Brian G. Based on that, and brainstorming later over our plans the next few days, we managed to think outside the box enough to come up with a clever plan that should save time and help things logistically in the long run – although it will make for a somewhat frantic morning. Wanting to see Oatman but knowing that Tom’s car shouldn’t traverse the treacherous road to it, we decided to take his car and the camper and drop them off in Topock, then return to Kingman, cross Sitgreave Pass altogether in just the truck, experience Oatman, and then drop south to pick up Tom’s car – we wound up deciding to take the camper all the way (another 20 miles or so) to June and Brian Gutshalls’ place in Lake Havasu, where we can retrieve it when we return Friday to spend the weekend with them there, but without having to pull it all the way to California or to maneuver it through L.A.’s traffic and turns. A great revision to our previous plans!<br /><br />I’m somewhat petrified already of tomorrow’s drive to Oatman. While promising excitement and gorgeous views, the road is also truly treacherous, and I’ve had enough nightmares about crashing down formidable cliffs with Dad driving to know already that I’ll be on pins and needles for most of it (not because of any lack of faith in Dad's driving ability, but because of my inherent fear of, and aversion to, driving over the edge of steep cliffs!).<br /><br />This afternoon’s drive seemed to illustrate the concept of Fernweh, a German word for which there is no English equivalent, though it represents a long for, and a need to return to, a place you’ve never been. We passed and crossed creviced arroyos, long sloping rifts, and grassy hardpan, with unending vistas of scrubby desert, rocky crags, and sand to every horizon. This region held a high-desert sweetness heavy with solitude. It’s in the nature of a desert to be harsh – but here on this old section of Route 66, there was a sense of poignance as well; a section where we could almost hear the past singing sweetly on the wind.<br /><br />One of the guidebooks noted that "with the passage of only fifty years or so, the frontier is still very much a part of everything you’ll find here. Stories of shoot-outs, lost gold mines, and desert massacres are still told by the people who lived through those days. It’s a time warp worth stepping into. There is also a compelling intimacy about the way old Route 66 and the land go on together. At night, especially, there is a personal feeling of timelessness here. Once you are away from the lights, take time to stand for a while in the night. Pull the darkness around you like a cloak and feel what it is to be on the frontier of your own being, the land spilling away beyond your sight and hearing. Haul the stars down – so many here you may not even recognize old friends among them. Bring them close. Feel your own breathing and the life, unseen but sensed, everywhere around. There are not many places left in which to take a moment like this. Arizona, along old Route 66, is one of the last." True, that: stepping outside the camper moments ago, I observed a limitless sky arching above, velvety-black and punctured by a thousand bright stars hanging low over the desert. Already I’m starting to feel nostalgic for the end of this great voyage; an adventure right here in Americana that, like all adventures, will be over far too soon.<br /><br />We’ll have a long day tomorrow any way you slice it: Oatman and the infamous road to get to it; then a long drive to Barstow, California. But that should set us up for an easier day on Wednesday, when we’ll cover the final stretch from Barstow to Santa Monica. Hard to believe we’re that close!Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-39166269506891458572009-09-22T00:37:00.005-05:002009-09-24T14:46:19.526-05:00Day 11: Gallup, New Mexico to Holbrook, Arizona20 September. Holbrook, Arizona. 10pm. [No internet here, so we won’t be able to post this until who-knows-when – but at least I can get up-to-date.]<br /><br />Executive Summary: Gallup, Painted Desert, Petrified Forest, Holbrook. An easy day distance-wise, though this was our first day encountering heat that approached uncomfortable in the Skyliner sans air conditioning.<br /><br />Dad and I slept in until after 6:30 this morning, moving to the hotel lobby to relax and visit with the Harley riders as they prepared for their 8am load, briefing, and 8:30 departure. We listened in on their briefing, amused to hear that they would be hitting many of the same sights as we on their way west – although we already knew that our paths won’t likely cross again on this trip. They plan to make Williams tomorrow, where they’ll stay a couple of days to visit the Grand Canyon before heading north into Utah before continuing to Los Angeles via Route 66, reaching Santa Monica Thursday, likely a day behind us. But hopefully we’ll stay in touch with a few of them. They were a fun, friendly group who added greatly to our Route 66 experience!<br /><br />Mom, Dad, and I left around 8:45 to attend mass at nearby St. Francis church in west Gallup. The church reminded me both of St. Paul’s in Big Rapids (in size and style) and Dolores Church in Austin (in its bilingual congregation and humble atmosphere), and I enjoyed the music: a small group with a keyboard, guitar, and a few voices led by the talented guitarist/singer. They did mostly familiar songs like Sing a New Song and On Eagle’s Wings, and the offertory was the same Servant Song that I first heard and loved earlier this summer in Moose Lake; the singer sang the very harmony that I’ve been hearing in my head when I play it at home!<br /><br />That song is one that struck an immediate chord with me the first time I heard it; it's one of those pieces that seems to present the perfect marriage of lyrics and music, and I love its haunting simplicity, particularly on the guitar:<br /><br /><em><u>Servant Song</u> (Donna Marie McGargill, OSM)</em><br /><em>What do you want of me, Lord? Where do you want me to serve you?</em><br /><em>Where can I sing your praises? I am your song.</em><br /><em>Jesus, you are the Lord. Jesus, you are the way.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I hear you call my name, Lord, and I am moved within me.</em><br /><em>Your Spirit stirs my deepest self. Sing your songs in me.</em><br /><em>Jesus, you are my Lord. Jesus, you are the way.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Above, below, and around me. Before, behind, and all through me,</em><br /><em>Your Spirit burns deep within me. Fire my life with your love.</em><br /><em>Jesus, be the warmth of my heart. Jesus, you are the way.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>You are the light in my darkness. You are my strength when I’m weary.</em><br /><em>You give me sight when I’m blinded. Come see for me.</em><br /><em>Jesus, you are my light. Jesus, you are the way</em>.<br /><br />Returning to the El Rancho, we loaded up the camper and checked out around 10:30, retracing the main street back to an interesting-looking diner that Tom and I had noticed on our way in last night, the Railroad Café. There, we all stuffed ourselves with an enormous breakfast. Tom ordered the "Not for Sissies" combination, about which we all teased him, while my mouth was set aflame by the huevos rancheros, so hot that my lips were burning for an hour afterward. Tom at least finished his breakfast, apparently confirming that he is not a sissy.<br /><br />Following Route 66 west from Gallup (not entirely intentionally: we had intended to hop on the interstate – something you wouldn’t think should be difficult, but wound up being tricky), we enjoyed a scenic stretch near Manuelito, where the road climbed and clung to the sheer side of Devil’s Cliff, beneath precariously-balanced boulders (held back by a protective mesh fence), after which we drank in a grand view of Route 66 and the Rio Puerco as they squeezed between rugged mesas into Arizona.<br /><br />We entered harsh but beautiful countryside with clear, unspoiled vistas featuring mountains rising spectacularly from a flattened landscape, visible long before the road finally curved toward them. This felt like true cowboys-and-Indians scenery straight out of a western movie.<br /><br />The visitors’ center at the state line was anything but welcoming. An unsmiling attendant wordlessly flicked a flyer at me when I cheerfully asked if they had an Route-66-specific information, explaining that we’re taking a Route 66 trip. When I asked for extras for the others in my group, she told me that we could only have three. When Dad went up to ask for one for him and Mom, she asked suspiciously, "Are you part of that group of 5?", demanding that he sign in before she grudgingly flicked another flyer at him. Wow – what a terrible ambassador for the state! I’m sure that Mikey’s mom (now governor of Arizona) would not approve, if she knew!<br />So – without any real additional information about Arizona other than a rude impression of unfriendliness – we continued on the interstate a ways, passing Lupton, Allantown, Sanders, Houch, Chambers, and Goodwater, deciding to make straight for the nearby National Park (you can never go wrong with those, no matter what state they’re in!). There we spent the next few hours happily exploring the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest. The park rangers were friendly, the literature was helpful, and the scenery was spectacular. After our first awed glimpse from Tiponi Point, we walked the short Desert Rim trail from Tawa Point to Kachina Point, from which I sauntered back to drive up in Tom’s car, followed by Mom (who had stayed behind to rest in the truck, out of the hot sun) to pick up the Stich brothers. Continuing on around the northern loop of the park road, we stopped to take in the views at Pintado Point, Nizhoni Point, Whipple Point, and Lacey Point, as well as at a Route 66 marker. There, we were overtaken by a tourbus full of older folks more eager to photograph Tom’s car than anything else. A shout went up when he humored them by putting the top down, and the cameras were still clicking as we rolled away, waving merrily and feeling like movie stars. Our next stop in the park was Puerco Puebla, a partially-stabilized 100-room pueblo built about 1250 that may have housed nearly 1200 people, with a short trail offering wayside exhibits and petroglyph views. Next, we used spotting scopes to see hundreds of petroglyphs etched into stone at Newspaper Rock, paused to photograph the Tepees (layered blues, purples, and grays created by iron, carbon, manganese, and other minerals in cone-shaped formations), and drove the Blue Mesa loop overlooking views of b adlands, log falls, and pedestal logs. One highlight was the Agate Bridge, the result of water eroding rock under a 110-foot-long petrified log. In 1911 a concrete support was added to support the "bridge," and a concrete beam was placed under it, supporting it effortlessly for nearly 90 years. A sign nearby explained that if the log were to be discovered today, it would be left in its natural state rather than supported, which I found interesting. Another lookout provided views down over Jasper Forest, where the erosion of a high rocky bluff has left hundreds of petrified logs, once encased in the bluff, strewn across the valley below.<br /><br />Farther along, the Crystal Forest and Trail took us on an easy paved trail through a moonscape-like landscape of exquisitely colorful petrified logs that once held glassy amethyst and quartz crystals. The petrification process occurs when silica-laden sediment filters through fallen timber, encasing organic matter with minerals over time. I was disheartened to read accounts by early pioneers about how they blithely packed out as much of the petrified forest as they could carry; some actually used dynamite to blast apart giant logs into smaller, more manageable pieces. And I was disgusted by thoughtless fellow tourists who even today (literally – while we were there!) continue to endanger the place by deviating from the clearly-marked trails and handling the petrified wood. Before leaving, we made one more stop at the southern visitors’ center and walked part of the Giant Logs Trail to see the park’s largest log, known as "Old Faithful," behind the museum.<br /><br />It had been a hot afternoon in the Skyliner, which has no AC, and Tom was especially eager for "Miller Time," noting, "It’s 5:00 somewhere." (We had been discussing our having changed time zones upon crossing into Arizona, which doesn’t recognize daylight savings time and as a result is on Pacific Standard Time during the summer.)<br /><br />It wasn’t far from the National Park to Holbrook; an easy 15-minute drive along state Highway 180 to the northwest. There we would be splurging tonight to stay at the wonderful Wigwam Motel #6, one of seven Tepee-styled motels, the brain child of Frank Redford. The 1950 wigwams have a steel frame covered with wood, felt, and canvas under a cement stucco exterior. Each wigwam is 14 feet in diameter at the base and 32 feet tall. They proved to be bigger – far bigger! – on the inside than they look. I lamented that we all could comfortably have stayed in a single teepee rather than spending twice the money on two – but it was a fun splurge, and a nice treat for everyone to have their own bed for the first time on this trip.<br /><br />An older woman named Elleanor whose native American dress seemed to blend perfectly into the atmosphere of the Wigwam Motel greeted me when we arrived to check in. The Wigwam Motel apparently has been owned by the original family since the teepees were built in 1950, and many of the family’s old cars are parked by the Wigwams to add a 50's feel. Dad observed that that added as much to the place as did the teepees themselves, perhaps even more.<br /><br />The Wigwam Village was everything I had hoped it would be, and more. The 5 of us pulled around benches and a table and happily passed a couple of hours relaxing in front of one of our teepees, enjoying the cooling afternoon, the views of the teepees, and each other. We toasted another great day – and laughed heartily (if ruefully) when we realized that there were train tracks about 100 meters behind the Wigwam Village; we counted 7 trains passing during just the first hour and a half we sat there, wondering how often they would rumble past during the night. We noted that the ground shook when they did so.<br /><br />As the beer flowed, I enjoyed listening to Dad and his brothers reminiscing about old cars, old friends, and old times, from Dad’s memories of living in a Moorhead dorm on a floor with a bunch of Korean vets matriculating pursuant to the GI bill who mixed screwdrivers using an inverted light fixture as a bowl, which they passed around with plenty of vodka and very little orange juice; to Tom’s experience somewhere in the southeast where he swam everyday in a lake infested at night by water moccasins that spent the day up in trees overhanging the water – which he learned only after having spent many an afternoon swimming beneath them, blissfully unaware. All three of them have a plethora of hilarious stories to share, which they tend to freely do when the day on the road ends and they have a chance to relax together.<br /><br />I luxuriated under a scalding-hot shower with great water pressure in a bathroom and shower that felt enormous after the one last night, and I’m now sitting here typing in bed with the wigwam door wide open to let in the cool evening air. Everyone else is long asleep, as I soon will be as well – and it’s only 11pm! I’m excited at the prospect of getting some extra sleep, feeling exhausted from too many late nights and early mornings in a row: I tend to be awake a couple of hours after everyone else, and to waken when the first of our group stirs each morning.<br /><br />Tonight everyone has their own queen beds: Tom and Don in teepee #5, Mom and me in teepee #4, and Dad in the camper. He voluntarily went over there to sleep so that Mom could sleep, since she complained about having been unable to do so because of his snoring last night. So I’m amused now as I listen to in the bed across from mine, snoring right now. But it won’t bother me – and she needs a good night’s sleep: she’s been battling a cold for most of the trip, which cannot be fun at all on the road. She’s starting to sound better, though, with a less scratchy voice, and an improving mood; hopefully she’s on the mend and a good night’s sleep will put her over the hump.<br /><br />A short while ago I spoke with Bernie, who is going to try to meet up with us next weekend and at this very moment is trying to coordinate tickets to Vegas and a rental car to traverse the 115 miles from there to Lake Havasu, where we’ll be heading with Don, Dianne, and their kids and grandkids after we reach Los Angeles. It should make for a great weekend all around to cap off an already-great adventure. I can’t wait!<br /><br />I feel some distress at the poor quality of the writing of most of these entries – I don’t imagine they’re a picnic to read. We’re going so long each day (and my laptop battery is dead, meaning that I can only use it when actually plugged in) that there’s no opportunity to put anything down en route, so I find myself at the end of these days, already exhausted and reeling with sensory shock, mostly just trying to catalogue a list of what we’ve seen and done – if only to help us sort out the hundreds of pictures we’re going to have between us by the end later, when the long line of Mom-and-Pop motels, cottage gas stations, peeling signposts, neon lights, pavement markings, and panoramic vistas will inevitably tend to blur together. Already we have several times found ourselves trying to recall whether a particular incident occurred in Illinois – or was it Missouri? – that seems so long ago... Even sitting in church this morning, it took me a moment to remember where we were for mass last week (Marshfield, Illinois, the hometown of Dr. Edwin Hubble). We’ve come quite a way since then!<br /><br />This trip is shaping up fine logistically, which is a huge relief to me. As our numbers shrank before our departure, I wound up backing off from my initial inclination to carefully plan the details of each day’s itinerary: with changing numbers, it was impossible to make reliable reservations, etc., and with the group becoming smaller instead of larger and this being the off-season, my instinct was that it should be okay to sort of go on the fly (something I much prefer when traveling alone, but often impossible with any size of a group). So we’ve been winging it, most of the time not firming up a day’s plans until the night before. Everyone in the group is easy-going enough that that works, especially since we don’t have a lot of preconceived notions of things we definitely must do – or when we do, they tend to jive. I found myself particularly relieved that today shaped up so nicely with us all enjoying the National Park so much, making our 90-mile target travel distance too short to feel like a full day. But it wound up feeling just right, and it was a nice treat to finish early with plenty of time to enjoy simply hanging around the Wigwam Village – which, after all, is one of the highlights of the entire trip; perhaps the one thing that everyone had in mind as a thing-to-do before we even began.<br /><br />We passed 2000 miles today since the Route 66 starting point in downtown Chicago; Dad announced the milestone as we were driving the Blue Mesa loop in the Petrified Forest National Park. Obviously our Route 66 trip will be longer mileage-wise than a straight shot without deviations, given our many detours and backtracks (intentional or not). Hard to believe we’ve come that far already! Longer-than-original or not, I can’t imagine the early travelers coming so far by horseback, wagon, or on foot...Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-27019805999421932752009-09-22T00:35:00.005-05:002009-09-25T08:58:00.250-05:00Day 10: Albuquerque, New Mexico to Gallup, New Mexico<p>19 September. Gallup, New Mexico. Midnight.</p><p>Executive Summary: Albuquerque, Isleta Pueblo, Grants, Gallup. 1:30 start; 6:30 finish; 184 miles. Another great day: time with friends and views from Sandia Peak, fascinating uranium mining museum in Grants, gorgeous red rocks scenery en route to Gallup, and an evening catching up with roadtrip friends at the historic El Rancho Hotel. We’re all crammed into the Jackie Cooper room (#117 – they’re all named after movie stars who’ve stayed here in the past while on site for various movies). Everyone else is long asleep already, and I’m about to join them on a droopy little cot next to the bathroom.</p><p>I slept like a rock at Doc and Kathy’s, wakening around 6am and relaxing in bed another hour before rising to visit with them and the uncles while awaiting everyone’s readiness for our morning activities. Doc and Kathy wanted to take me for a run/hike up Sandia Peak, atop which we would meet everyone else (they would take the tram up) for lunch at 11:00. We left around 8:45, driving to a parking area for the La Luz Trail. We spent the next 2 hours ascending Sandia Peak, enjoying amazing views out over Albuquerque, then looking down over the clouds, and finally prancing through a fairly-like mist closer to the peak. Doc and Kathy, both having found each other later in life, are blissfully matched, and both sincerely enjoy working out and staying fit; it was fun to visit with both of them as we made our way up the trail, catching up and discussing topics ranging from all of our divorce experiences to fitness regimes to weightlifting.</p><p>I spent much of the climb kicking myself for not having brought along my camera. The views were incredible, and I would have loved to have preserved a few of them in pictures, as well as to get some shots of the 3 of us on the trail. We did run into some friendly hikers from the area who patiently agreed to take a few pictures of us on their camera, promising to send them via email later. None of us had along a pen or pencil to write down email addresses, but one of them thought to use her cell phone to save the info, and I feel sure that she’ll follow through.</p><p>Dad was waiting when we emerged from the trail to snap our pictures; then we joined the rest of the group at the restaurant, called High Finance. The fog by then had rolled in so thickly that it enveloped the entire peak, obscuring any view, but we enjoyed a big lunch before catching a tram down, glad to note that the clouds were thinning enough to get some view before doing so.</p><p>All 7 of us crammed into the Skyliner together to retrieve Doc and Kathy’s car from the trailhead before returning to their place to pick up Mom and Dad’s rig and the rest of our stuff. We said our goodbyes and were on our way, dropping south on Tramway to connect to Central Avenue and resume our westward progress along Route 66. There, local revitalization projects have done wonders in preserving and maintaining charming shops and businesses in the downtown area. There was almost too much to absorb in the hustle and bustle as we zoomed along Central past numerous still-operating diners and cafes, although motel properties have fared less well – but places like the De Anza, El Vado, and La Posada are well kept, and we had fun spotting the 1931 Aztec Motel, the giant lumberjack-style axe-man giant south of Louisiana, and various vintage business facades in the Nob Hill Historic district, marked at each end by gateway arches. Slowing in heavy traffic near the fairgrounds, we realized that the state fair was underway.</p><p>Heading south on I-25, we made our way next to Isleta Pueblo, an enchanting mission church and plaza on reservation land. The whitewashed adobe of the mission towered cool and majestic over its surroundings, where the locals were wise enough to stay inside out of the heat, their faces peering curiously at us through windows in the single-story adobe buildings surrounding the mission church. </p><p>I had thought that the mining museum at Grants sounded interesting, and everyone else seemed interested as well, so I called ahead during our drive south to Isleta – dismayed to learn that the museum would close at 4pm. It was now 2:30, and we were a good 80 miles away, and with tentative plans to follow a southwesterly loop from Albuquerque before turning northwest back up to I-40 and continuing west to Grants. A quick conference over the walkie-talkies, and we decided to revise that plan, doing an about-face after Isleta Pueblo to turn due north, retracing our path back up to Albuquerque and shooting west on I-40, making tracks for Grants. We would miss out on Los Lunas and Correo, but according to the guide books and the maps we had obtained from the state chamber of commerce, there wasn’t a lot to see that direction anyway, so we decided to make the trade-off.</p><p>The next hour was nail-biting as I constantly monitored our progress and watched the clock, calculating how long it would take us to reach Grants. I called back to the warm-sounding woman who answered the phone at the mining museum, keeping her updated of our progress and eventually pleading with her to keep the doors open a little longer for us. She cheerfully agreed to do so, and when we arrived, she greeted us warmly – and didn’t even charge us admission, since we would have to hurry through the exhibits (although they wound up making more from us than they would have through admission fees, since everyone dropped more in the donation box than they would have collected in fees).</p><p>Even as we drove in hurried suspense, we couldn’t help but observe the changing landscape around us. New Mexico’s people are drawn to earth-toned adobe homes and buildings incorporating Pueblo Revival, Southwest Vernacular, and Streamlined Moderne architectural styles. Heading west from the Albuquerque area, we noticed an endless sea of brown stucco/adobe houses that all looked alike, so much that Tom observed ironically that it might be tough to find your house if you came home after having a few too many drinks! </p><p>This day illustrated for us New Mexico’s cultural, topographical, and vegetative diversity: it is a place wide-shouldered enough to encompass the distant mesas of the high desert and the towering peaks of the southern Rockies; a land where Ponderosa and pinon pine and juniper trees bask beneath flawlessly blue skies in brilliant sunshine, mild winters, and low humidity, and it accommodates a burgeoning multi-cultural population.</p><p>The New Mexico Mining Museum proved to be well worth the effort to get there (at which I was immensely relieved, having felt like I sort of pushed the rest of the group into it based on my own mere inclination to want to get there). We began with a 12-minute video presentation providing an overview of the uranium mining process and explaining its efficiency in processing 4 pounds per ton of uranium into 86% of usable fuel in the finished product. Cold war era uranium mining was big in this region, and the facility provided us a glimpse at a typical mine (one story underground) in addition to fossil and Route 66 exhibits. We learned that the Ambrosia Lake mining area extended from Grants all the way east to Laguna, which we had passed during our westward zoom along I-40 (noticing its picturesque San Jose Mission on a village hilltop there). Going underground into the mine, we were treated to great audio-visual exhibits that walked us through the entire mining process from drilling to extraction in an extremely well-organized and well-implemented presentation.</p><p>Back upstairs we visited at some length with the docent, who introduced herself as Sarah Webb and proved extremely knowledgeable and as interesting and informative as the museum itself. She encouraged us to read about the 1979 Church Rock disaster, discussing the ongoing controversy regarding continued mining in the area and the competing concerns raised by tribal elders of the Navajo nation, understandably concerned about health and safety issues raised by reported elevated levels of certain cancers and other illnesses in addition to direct exposures and mining accidents, vs. the 50% unemployment rate on the reservation and the many tribal members who would love to be able to work at the jobs that mining could provide. I admired the way she spoke openly, yet fairly and objectively, about a topic that must be sensitive to everyone in the area and easy to take sides – and she inspired all of us to want to learn more about the local situation. What a wonderful ambassador not only for the museum, but for this area, the mining industry, and the entire state of New Mexico!</p><p>From Grants we were able to proceed at a more leisurely pace for the rest of the afternoon, rolling past Prewitt (spotting a small building covered in hubcaps, home to "Swap Meet 66"), Thoreau (pronounced "threw" by locals), in which all that remains is the faded facade of the Thunderbird Bar, bearing the remnants of a faded mural of a flying hawk and pink cliffs and proclaiming its elevation (7263 feet) and location, and on to the Continental Divide, where we stopped to take a group photo in front of the signpost marking 7275 feet elevation.<br />The final run into Gallup provided a breathtaking panorama of colorful rock cliffs and spires including the easily-identifiable Church Rock and numerous red rock formations all along the way.</p><p>I was excited to see Gallup, a town that might seem uninteresting if not in the context of a Route 66 journey. One of the guidebooks enticed, "More than most cities on the highway, Gallup maintains a sense of the Route 66 era. Little has been lost . . . Gallup has something few other places on Route 66 can claim – a longtime Hollywood connection. From Redskin, filmed in 1929, to the more recent adventures of Superman, the Gallup area has provided unequaled movie scenery. And El Rancho Hotel, now beautifully and responsibly restored, was the on-location home to stars like Tracy and Hepburn, Bogart, Hayworth, Flynn, and Peck. A production designer’s dream, the hotel at first looks like an architectural collision between Mount Vernon and a backlot set for Viva Villa. There’s even an Uncle Remus Wishing Well out front. Still, the overall effect is both inviting and absolutely right. How could it be otherwise?"</p><p>Entering Gallup, we saw the sharp, slanted ridge of the Hogback slashing across the east end of the town. That barrier, breached naturally at this point, apparently made the city a cold war nuke target during the heat of the Cold War, when it was realized that a single bomb could take out US 66, the railroad, pipelines, and communications. Despite the cold war’s passing, there remains much evidence there of old 66, including many old motels with nice neon like the Blue Spruce, the Lariat, and the famous 1937 El Rancho Hotel – at which we had a reservation for one of the rooms, all of which are named after movie star guests. It was easy to understand why so many westerns were filmed here, from the curving twin staircases to the second-floor balcony overlooking its impressive lobby, massive stone fireplace, enormous longhorns, and heavy carved wooden trim everywhere. I loved it immediately, and was thrilled that we were staying.</p><p>Our friends since Amarillo’s Big Texan, the group of 44 Harley riders, were there as well: we saw their bikes clustered under a portico near where we parked out front, and several of them wandered over to say hello while we enjoyed a picnic dinner at a table in a pleasant courtyard just outside the hotel, next to the wooden wishing well. Tom, Don, and I headed across the street to stock up on beer and fine wine (Boone’s Farm) while Mom & Dad set out cheese, crackers, and other assorted munchies, and all of us lingered until after dark, enjoying our snack, the pleasant evening air, our British friends, and each other’s company (most of the time). :) We did have one of those it’s-funny-later-but-not-at-the-time moments when Dad started arguing with me for no reason; I pointed out that I didn’t appreciate it; with an ensuing fairly heated argument over whether there was anything to argue about in the first place. </p><p>All of us also engaged in a discussion that has been ongoing most of this trip, debating "to crush or not to crush," referring to the aluminum cans we’ve been emptying of their pop and beer contents. Michigan has a 10¢ deposit on each one – but that’s available only when the can is intact. Since they’ll be driving back to Michigan at the end of this trip anyway (and with plenty of space!), most of us see no reason not to save the cans for the refund. Dad – ever the moral stickler – doesn’t feel like he should collect a deposit that he didn’t pay on cans purchased in other states. Tom and Don are accustomed to simply tossing their cans: in California, the trash is sorted to remove the recyclables, while Tom gave up on sorting at all at his home in Minnesota after watching the trash and recycles being picked up by the same company... and dumped into the same bin. Regardless, we all immensely enjoyed giving Dad a hard time about throwing away 10¢ repeatedly.</p><p>We toasted another great day and those yet to come. From here we should have another easy day on to Holbrook, then a few tougher ones as we press westward toward Kingman, Oatman, Barstow, and eventually, Los Angeles. No more homestays with friends along the way; it’ll be just the 4 of us from here – although Don mentioned that his son Brian is interested in meeting us upon our arrival at Santa Monica, which would be fun! I bought pink champagne so that we’ll be prepared to properly celebrate the occasion. :)</p><p>We all agree that as interesting as the sights and places we’ve seen and been have been the people along the way, from Paul Adams greeting us in Atlanta, Illinois to Robin Webb at the New Mexico Mining Museum and everyone else along the way. It has been especially heartwarming to be taken into the homes of several friends along the way, reminding me of one of my favorite Bible verses, from Hebrews 13:2: "<em>Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unawares</em>." I certainly am not (by any means!) saying that we are angels – but these people along the way (Brad & Monica in Chicago, Mark & Leslie in Oklahoma City, Steve & Cindy in Elk City, Larry & Jeré in Amarillo, and Doc & Kathy in Albuquerque) who have unhesitatingly opened their hearts and homes to a group of five traveling strangers are demonstrating precisely the kind of golden-rule kindness and Good Samaritan generosity for which I believe we all should strive. If everyone treated one another so well, our world would be a better, brighter place for sure... and I feel fortunate to have encountered so many people who are so open of heart and mind as to befriend me as a stranger – and proud to introduce such people to my family, and vice-versa.</p>Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-29486343767783414152009-09-22T00:34:00.000-05:002009-09-22T00:35:16.065-05:00Greetings from Gallup<p>20 September. Gallup, New Mexico. 8am (Just a quick note) </p><p>Sunday morning: we’re about to see off our new friends, a group of 44 Harley-Davidson riders from England, with whom we’ve been crossing paths since the Big Texan in Amarillo. Then we plan to go to mass here in Gallup and have breakfast – maybe at a cool-looking railroad restaurant we saw just up the street.</p><p>We’ll have an easy drive today: only about 90 miles, to Holbrook, Arizona, where we’ll be staying at the Wigwam Village (the motel set up to look like teepees – can’t wait!) Hopefully there we’ll have time to get you updated on our progress since Tucumcari. For now, suffice to say that it’s continuing to be a great trip: despite pouring rain in Santa Fe, we had a great visit with friends in Albuquerque and a scenic drive west among the red rock mountains across the border into Arizona, where we’re staying at another classic hotel, the famous El Rancho.</p><p>Sure wish I could download some pictures to post. Tom’s care already is the star of tons of other people’s scrapbooks; the ‘59 Skyliner is a huge hit wherever we go!</p><p>Talk to y’all from Holbrook!<br /> </p>Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-26086836970178732122009-09-22T00:30:00.001-05:002009-09-22T00:33:38.586-05:00Day 9: Tucumcari to Albuquerque, New Mexico18 September. Albuquerque, New Mexico.<br /><br />Executive Summary: Tucumcari, Santa Rosa, Bernal, Pecos, Santa Fe, and Albuquerque, New Mexico. 7:30 start; 6pm finish; 269 miles. Midnight, and I’m so exhausted that I can hardly keep my eyes open, so I’m calling it a night. I’ll update tomorrow and try to get some sleep in the meantime.<br /><br />We all had agreed last night to try to get an early start this morning for what might be a long day mileage-wise, at least compared to our last several days (we predicted upward of 220 miles, plus detours). Dad and I were both awake and ready to go not long after 6am, but we waited patiently another hour to let everyone else sleep awhile. Since we had an internet connection, I wanted to review with the group the draft blog posts for the past 2 days, but since that would prove too time-consuming (let’s face it; these are long-winded), we unanimously decided to just throw the post on the web and get going, which we did shortly before 7:30 am. However, before we left, we provided some great entertainment for the handsome motel owner (who wanted me to write that – hi, Bill! :) ), who strolled over to see what we were up to. It must be fun for him and his wife, Terry, to meet a new group of assorted guests every day. Tom and I had observed that he spent a good deal of the afternoon coordinating parking for the motel’s guests, which he did in a limited space with great diligence and skill.<br /><br />First up today was breakfast in Santa Rosa, but of course we took some detours on the way. Opting to follow the scenic / authentic road at least from Palomas to Montoya, That proved unwise. Rolling past farmers readying for their workday and cows lying or grazing next to the road – but of which gazed right back at us with curiosity – we marveled at how close the old Route 66 hugged the edge of the interstate right-of-way, seeming almost to hang right over it in places. A short bit along, the road turned suddenly muddy, a soft, red mud that looked treacherous. Encountering the first such spot, we stopped to take a closer look before attempting to drive it. Tom was okay taking the Skyliner through, so we proceeded; both he and Dad were marvelously skillful at maneuvering their large vehicles through that muddy spot and the nearby interstate underpass, which seemed a particularly tight squeeze for the camping rig. We continued through a couple of low-water crossings (one dry; one somewhat wet), but the third one stopped us dead. Wide and seemingly impassable, it was clear that the locals took a little off-road detour up and across the muddy shoulder, but none of us felt too comfortable with that notion, all envisioning ourselves spending the day trying to get un-stuck from that mud. So we (carefully!) turned around and headed back up the same road down which we had just come, likely to the great amusement of those (both farmers and cows) who had watched us merrily head out that way in the first place. As we buzzed on past a few minutes later on the interstate, we noticed that the department of transportation was already on the scene, unloading a Caterpillar likely to be moving around some dirt to fill in some of those low-water crossings.<br /><br />We stayed put on the interestate, thus forced to skip Montoya, Newkirk, and Cuervo (three "dear but near-death towns, strung out like amulets on an antique Spanish chain") entirely, all the way west to Santa Rosa, another Route 66 icon that, unlike Tucumcari, needed little advertising, benefitting from the weather: "Presumably more people have been snowbound in Santa Rosa than in an other place on old Route 66 west of St. Louis. The old road, with its tail-twisting route, was far more difficult than the newer highway to keep clear. And with snow-removal equipment at a premium in this desert state, folks caught in blizzard conditions around here tended to stay put. . . That’s usually when they discovered that Santa Rosa wasn’t such a bad spot in which to be stranded." We stopped for breakfast, selecting (as much by chance as by choice) Joseph’s Bar & Grill, where their "Fat Man’s" friendly face has grinned for 53 years since 1956, serving up good food and live music – same family, same care for the traveler. When we asked our waitress whether she was part of the family that owned the place, she scoffed and told us candidly that she wouldn’t be working if she was.<br /><br />Known as the "city of natural lakes," Santa Rosa features an 86-foot-deep sinkhole called the Blue Hole, its most famous artesian lake and a SCUBA diving haven. I was keen to see it (and would have liked to have gone diving in it, or at least for a quick dip – but we hadn’t the time for the former, and I thought it too cold for the latter; I would have been chilly the rest of the day), and it didn’t disappoint; a gorgeous little oasis of inviting blue water with pleasant surroundings and divers going down even as we arrived. Sadly, we had to be on our way, but we did see a cool stone water fountain sculpture on the town square on our way out.<br /><br />There are two options for crossing New Mexico: the later, more direct alignment that is almost entirely interstate, heading due west from Santa Rosa through Milagro, Clines Corners, and Moriarty before reaching Albuquerque, or an older, more round-a-bout northern route. We chose this "Santa Fe Loop," which meant that we turned off the interstate at I40 exit 218 to head north by slightly northwest toward Las Vegas. We turned again sharply southwest just short of Romeroville (8 miles south of Vegas), following Route 66 on what is now mostly I-25 frontage. On the way north we were treated to pleasant mesa views, and some scenic ruins where the old Route 66 joins highway 285 in Dilia. North to Romeroville, we rose and fell with the now-mountainous terrain, pausing to photograph a charming concrete post bridge in a quiet canyon between there and Tecolote. We exited at Bernal to follow a short paved dead-end road to a 1916-era church with Starvation Peak, a tragic Santa Fe landmark, haunting the background. There, we found the church itself locked, but encountered something perhaps more interesting in the cemetery outside, where a worker was fashioning a headstone that will be shaped like a railroad locomotive. He clearly had put in a great deal of thought and workmanship on it already for the deceased – a railroad man who had been his friend – and we felt privileged to be able to view this work in progress. When he told us that it should be finished next week, we decided we should detour through here in order to see it, on our way back from California. Lucky us: unlike the early Route 66 travelers (or many of us, at most points in our lives!), we have the luxury of knowing that we shall pass this way again!<br /><br />Continuing north and west, we stopped next at Pecos National Historic Park, an interesting park that is home to the ruins of a pueblo and mission church, where the Pecos Pueblo stood five stories high around 1100 A.D. We walked a short mission ruins trail that took us to see the remains of a pueblo mission church and parts of the pueblo itself: desolate, windswept adobe ruins in an amazingly beautiful site, flanked by the tree-covered Glorieta Mesa to one side and other mesas to the other, with pleasantly-rolling fields between. The Pueblo Indians apparently weren’t thrilled about the attempt to convert them to Christinity; no wonder that they eventually massacred the interlopers in around 1700 A.D.!<br /><br />We spent some time walking the Pecos ruins and reading the loaner guide about the mission’s rise and fall, and we learned from the park ranger that it had been raining in the area for a week – which explained the washed-out, muddy roads we had encountered earlier.<br /><br />This area saw some heavy civil war action at Glorieta Pass, and we searched in vein for the Glorieta Battlefield, site of a pivotal civil war battle in which Union troops ambushed a railroad train and seized vital supplies in March 1862. I had been fascinated to learn this, not having realized that the civil war was fought this far west – and I certainly didn’t recognize the name of the battle here! So I was disappointed not to be able to find the site – although we did discover an attractive Baptist convention center on the site of where most of the tourist literature indicated that the battle would have been fought.<br /><br />Next up was the Glorieta Pass, at over 7500 feet, the highest point on pre-1937 Route 66. From there we plunged down toward Canoncito and Santa Fe, stopping to see a Santa Fe Trail Marker (Route 66 follows several highways through New Mexico: the El Camino Real, the Old Santa Fe Trail, the Ozark Trail, and the National Old Trails) and a Nuestra Senora de la Luz church at Canoncito – a Spanish-style adobe structure with a wistful-looking hillside cemetery of wooden crosses – before continuing toward Santa Fe through some amazing views.<br /><br />A detour forced us to reroute south and west before returning to the Old Pecos Trail and then the Santa Fe Trail into downtown. With some difficulty (which surprised us; we would have thought that they would want to encourage people to drop off vehicles and walk around to spend money!) we found parking for both vehicles near the visitors’ center, stopping there to pick up maps and advice before setting out on foot for a downtown walking tour. I inquired about the oldest church, house, and bell in the United States, the Loretto chapel, the End of the Trail monument, the 1867 soldiers’ monument, La Bajada, and a local place where we might find ice cream. The gentleman stuck answering my questions provided us with a map but little else: he didn’t recognize La Bajada (an interesting part of old Route 66, where a pre-1966 road carved a long gash across a slope to a treacherous series of switchbacks that can still be hiked today, west of town) and the oldest bell, but was able to point out most of the other places on a map – although (flashbacks to Lebanon, Missouri, another town lacking local ice cream treats) he said there were no local places where we would be able to get ice cream, suggesting a Baskin Robbins near the Plaza. Wow, I never realized that ice cream was such a rarity at local establishments!<br /><br />I have to confess to being disappointed with Santa Fe, which struck me as way too over-commercialized; not at all the down-to-earth, semi-granola community I had imagined. I had never been there before, and had envisioned an artsy, laid-back town of friendly, creative, down-to-earth people, some old west atmosphere, and heavy Mexican influence. I was unimpressed. We drove into town via a lengthy street lined with one kitchy souvenir shop or purported artistic gallery after another, all eagerly touting wares for sale rather than celebrating New Mexico’s beauty or art in general. And the man at the visitors’ center seemed most eager to direct me to an 8-block stretch of road apparently packed with more shops! Then everywhere we went, we were underwhelmed by the sights we had come to see, but overwhelmed with the hard-sell. We skipped the Mission Church altogether, after I realized that (in addition to charging admission!) they required visitors to actually pass through the gift shop in order to enter the church. We all coughed up the $3 to enter the Loretto Chapel and see the miraculous staircase, built with 37 steps and two complete 360-degree circles but without any support or nails. A canned 9-minute audio told us its history and that of the chapel surrounding it, now privately owned and part of a spa complex – and adjoining a mini mall of souvenir shops. Santa Fe’s downtown Plaza was so tightly packed with souvenir stores that it was difficult even to see through to the plaza itself, on which we decided to pass, not having the stomach to run the gauntlet of vendors. I was disappointed not to see the End of the Trail marker there – but the weather pretty much spelled out the end of the trail for us, with a cloudburst hitting while we were in the Loretto Chapel. I volunteered to run back and return with the pickup to pick up the rest of the group so that one instead of five would become soaked. After fetching everyone else, we decided to get out of downtown and make straight for Albuquerque, and skip La Bajada, which sounded interesting to me but was unfamiliar both to Doc (who lives less than an hour away) and to the man at the visitors’ center right there in town – perhaps it isn’t as interesting as I had been lead to believe by all the guidebooks... Although I wondered about this, noting that the vistas as we descended from Santa Fe toward Albuquerque were spectacular.<br /><br />Instead, we hopped on the interstate, following I-25 south. Making amazing time on the freeway from Santa Fe, we reached Doc & Kathy’s place in the northern Albuquerque suburbs by 6pm. I know them through Bernie, who worked with Doc before they left Colorado Springs, relocating here, several years ago. I hadn’t seen them in many months, and this seemed a perfect opportunity not only for me to catch up with them, but to be able to introduce them to my family. And I knew that the Stich brothers would be fascinated by Doc’s rocketry work – with which he indeed fascinated Dad, Tom, and Don after dinner by showing them his current project, complete with video footage of a recent launch.<br /><br />We had intended to treat them to dinner someplace in Albuquerque, but when I asked Doc for a recommendation, he told me that we were going to eat "at a really nice restaurant... in there," pointing to their house. They must have been hard at work all afternoon, because we entered to find appetizers awaiting: we sipped and nibbled on wine, beer, cheese & crackers, fresh fruit, and chips and salsa, seated around a table on their back terrace with a gorgeous view up Sandia Peak on the slopes of which their neighborhood is nestled. Moving inside to the dining room, we feasted on a delicious banquet of corn on the cob, ribs (Dad’s all-time favorite!), rolls, and assorted vegetables, topped off by some kind of German chocolate cake that was delicious but so rich that I thought I would burst.<br /><br />They didn’t think it would work to leave the camper in the street overnight, so Mom and Dad drove it to a nearby casino and slept in it in a parking lot there. Meanwhile, Tom & Don (who would stay in the guest room) and I (an air mattress in the office) decided to watch Jay Leno with Doc & Kathy... but we all were falling asleep, and decided to call it a night before midnight.Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-9916048617178478822009-09-18T08:34:00.004-05:002009-09-24T14:41:48.377-05:00Day 8: Amarillo, Texas to Tucumcari, New Mexico.17 September. Tucumcari, New Mexico.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.<br />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!<br /><br />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!"<br /><br />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! :)<br /><br />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!!<br /><br />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!!<br /><br />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!!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I had read that travelers along old Route 66 "<em>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</em>." I couldn’t wait to let the enchantment begin!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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, "... <em>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</em>."<br /><br />Happening upon a Friday afternoon high school homecoming parade in Tucumcari, New Mexico... What could be better than that?!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.!<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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."Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-36500703620415143182009-09-18T08:31:00.009-05:002009-09-20T00:13:41.597-05:00Day 7: Elk City, Oklahoma to Amarillo/Canyon, Texas.16 September. Canyon, Texas. Midnight.<br /><br />[Note: Again no wi-fi; apologies for the many belated entries that will post at once...]<br />Executive Summary: 9:30 start; 7pm finish; 175 miles through Sayre, Erick, Texola, Shamrock, McLean, Groom, and Amarillo. Rising tension over skipped Route 66 iconic experience alleviated by breathtaking natural beauty and time with friends.<br /><br />We closed the camper door last night against chill evening air, though I reflected that in a very short time we likely will be longing for some cooler climes, as we continue southwest into the arid desert regions. Footage in yesterday’s museum movies reminded us of how drastically the scenery is about to change as we leave the grassy plains for mountains and then "the terrible desert" before continuing eventually to the California coast.<br /><br />I think we all slept fairly well in the calm backyard, wakening feeling fresh and refreshed. We had just finished reviewing together yesterday’s journal entry when Steve and Cindy came walking outside to see how our night had been; all of us trooped out (prompting Steve to observe that "people just keep coming out of there!" with the camper resembling a clown car) and joined them inside for tea, coffee, and conversation, which was lively and fascinating. We traded stories about what the "adults" did for a living before they each retired, and Steve shared various amazing stories about friends of his: he knows a broad array of the most interesting people! LJS pilot Too soon, he had to leave for work and we had to hit the road west, wondering whether and when we would see them again.<br /><br />Our first stops were in Sayre, first for gas; then to mail postcards at the art deco post office with its 1930s "land run" mural, then to circle the stately Beckham County Courthouse that was shown in the movie Grapes of Wrath – and which I was tickled to recognize from many of the pleadings I have drafted for Steve over the years, most of which have been filed there. We couldn’t find the abandoned bridge over the North Fork of the Red River on our way out of town, but further along we were mesmerized by the ghostly, abandoned original lanes of old Route 66, which for me evoked perfectly the nostalgic mood created by the museum movies yesterday, of wistfulness for a lost time. Approaching Erick, hometown of Sheb Wooley and Roger Miller, I merrily piped portions of their respective songs, "Purple People Eater" and "King of the Road" over the walkie talkie. We were underwhelmed by Texola, unsure whether we had reached it until we were past it (and the Will Rogers marker west of town) and already crossing the Texas border.<br /><br />Without a river or some continental rift, border crossings between states usually pass without notice – but not here. Almost immediately after entering Texas, the land changed, almost as if someone looked carefully at this place and decided, without regard for political interests, that the state line just naturally belonged right there. Leaving the rolling, wooded hills of Oklahoma, the Texas Panhandle opened like an immense natural stage. In the space of a few miles the land became flatter, more angular, and a little threatening purely by virtue of its endlessness. This would not have been a good place to have a horse pull up lame if you were a line-rider, nor to have your clapped-out old truck throw a rod if you were an Okie family trying gamely with your little ones to reach California. Not a gentle place at all. But a place magnificent, like the sea, in its sheer, endless expanse. And in the way the land challenges you to open yourself to it, to take it all in – or to scuttle quickly across to an easier region. Even our day would determine which type of people we were.<br /><br />One of the guidebooks provided this introduction to Texas: "<em>Few places in America scrape at primitive human emotions the way Texas does. People who live on this land are afflicted either with the fierce loyalty known only to those to have learned to hold adversity lightly in their hands – or the equally burning desire to get the hell out of here. </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Even the remnant of old Route 66 has a hunkered-down look as it climbs toward the breaks just west of Alanreed. Beyond these crumbling bluffs, the high plains begin in earnest. A few miles more and the tumbled character of the land disappears almost completely, surrendering to a vast, treeless plain that flattens the entire horizon all the way into New Mexico. Windy, dry, appearing virtually limitless, even to the 65-mile-an-hour eye, the distances seem endless. So convinced were the earliest travelers that they were in imminent danger of simply becoming lost to death out here that they drove stakes into even the slightest rise to point the way. Coming upon these frail markers, riders from the south named this region Llano Estacado – the Staked Plain. </em><br /><br /><em>As you cross this land now with relative ease, imagine yourself out here alone, in an earlier time. Stakes or no, could you have walked this two-hundred-mile stretch in search of something better than you had back home? Would you have done that? Interesting to notice what a tight grasp old Demon Comfort can have on us, isn’t it?</em>"<br /><br />The wind communicates perfectly what no words or other medium could convey about what earlier passers-through must have felt here on this land, as they stood facing into a wind older than the plain itself. Even today that same wind blows almost incessantly, reminding us of what it means to be out here. In Texas.<br /><br />Ironically, Texas – the largest of the lower 48 states – hosts the second-shortest alignment of Route 66, with only about 150 miles remaining of the original 178 across the panhandle. Our first stop, 13 miles in, was Shamrock, offering numerous remnants of old motels, cafes, and stations – and featuring the famous U-Drop Inn/Tower Conoco, an art deco masterpiece built in 1936 that now houses the welcoming local Chamber of Commerce and featured as Romano’s in the movie Cars. Seeing Tom’s car, they fell all over themselves to welcome us, chatting, offering water and coffee, and urging us to relax awhile over lunch at the restored U-Drop Inn diner – described in the literature as "one of the finest examples of art deco architecture on all of old Route 66." They have done a great job restoring it; the building looked brand-new despite its 1930s facade. Inside, they’re doing a marvelous job utilizing the space, using the back areas as offices, with interim kitchen and workspaces between there and the tourist area. The old diner has been cleaned up and restored in a simple style; just booths, tables, counterspace, and chairs, without frills – yet superior to roadside picnic areas at other welcome stations merely by virtue of this spot being located in such an atmospheric place; how many welcome centers can host picnickers inside a 1930s diner, not only out of the wind, but in a part of history, no less?! I thought it was an ingenuous idea, and it should be a great draw for the town and its passing tourists. Other tourists stopping through were eager to photograph the icon with Tom’s car in the picture; I was glad I had insisted on his parking it right in front, knowing it would add to the character of the place for as long as we were there.<br /><br />Thinking Mom probably was getting hungry (it was approaching noon, and she’s pretty particular about wanting to eat on a regular schedule; nobody is really a fan of my "travel-Nazi" ways!), and thrilled at the thought of truly experiencing this Route 66 icon in such an authentic way (dining at a diner restored to a simpler version of its former glory, adapted for welcome center purposes as a delightful indoor picnic area), I was eager to take the elderly docent up on her invitation to enjoy our lunch there – at my questioning look, she gestured and repeated her instructions, making sure that we understood where to go inside, since it wasn’t obvious (we all had been simply peering into the plate-glass windows of the restored diner; she repeated that we could go inside through the double doors) – but I was outvoted 4-1, with the rest of the group insisting on hurrying off despite my imploring attempts to persuade them to relax awhile and soak up the ambience. (We would have had the place all to ourselves other than the docents, who probably were about to take their own lunch break there as well and might have joined us). But the more urgently I pleaded, the more the rest of the group seemed to want to rush away – no doubt hurting the feelings of the Chamber of Commerce folks, who seemed to be desperately trying to persuade folks to "stop and set a spell."<br /><br />I didn’t want to make a scene in front of these kind people, so I resisted the urge to shout an exasperated lecture to our entire group. One of the workers, eager to discuss Tom’s car, came out to stand with us around it, seeming eager to talk to us and share stories about the town and its history – I was sure he would have <u>loved</u> to have us join them for lunch in the diner! But Mom somehow had gotten it into her head that we were going to be committing some kind of felony if we did something as radical as using the welcome center’s tables as... tables, and somehow seemed to have convinced the rest of the group that this would indeed be construed by the town (maybe even the great State of Texas) as some kind of terrorist activity. Truly not comprehending this kind of petulant refusal or inability to reason, I quietly but urgently suggested, "Okay, then why don’t we just ask again – ask this guy – he can tell you again that it’s perfectly fine to <u>use</u> the tables as tables." She looked at me as if I had suggested urinating in the town square by even considering asking such a question, chastising, "You can’t <u>do</u> that!" and gesturing as if <u>she</u> were the one dealing with an irrational child. Dad saw this and told me to "leave your Mother alone," hustling all of us out of there, and the uncles went along.<br /><br />This might have been acceptable if we were hell-bent-for-election trying to maintain some kind of breakneck schedule, late for an appointment, or... whatever. But I was incensed when the group decided almost immediately that we had to stop and eat as soon as possible and we wound up pulling off to the side of the road at the first wayside area we came to, a drab field beside the road where the wind whipped everything and dust was in the air (as opposed to later stops, one just half a mile up the road at a charming restored cottage gas station; another a few miles farther along at a majestic lookout with a view for miles – no, we had to stop at the first tables we saw that were not the iconic ones back at the U-Drop Inn). I was enraged and perplexed: I couldn’t begin to comprehend why anyone – much less a group supposedly trying to explore the Mother Road and absorb its history – would rush away and forego a prime opportunity to experience a Route 66 icon like the U-Drop Inn, in favor of hunkering against the wind at a picnic table in a nondescript pull-off alongside a dusty road. I’m just not wired that way.<br /><br />When we stopped, I was still too upset to even speak (I didn’t trust myself not to say something rude and hurtful, expressing my frustration), so I decided to walk on up the road and check out downtown McLean, the last town in Texas to have been bypassed by the interstate. I passed the "devil’s rope" barbed wire display at the former brassiere factory at the east end of town and found a number of interesting murals adorning a ghostly-quiet "downtown." Sadly, the McLean/Alanreed Area Museum (which apparently includes information about the WWII prison camp for German POWs nearby), in which I had been most interested, was closed for lunch.<br /><br />At least my short walk around the all-but-deserted town provided a micro-glimpse into what it must have been like to have walked this prairie, alone with the wind, perhaps bitter about far more weighty matters than where to have lunch, while crossing the vast west in search of a better life. Tom and I did stop to check out the beautifully-restored Phillips 66 gas station and matching tanker truck, the first of its kind in Texas, and the first to be restored anywhere along Route 66, and the newly-refurbished Cactus Inn with its cool green cactus sign.<br /><br />We encountered some navigational difficulty and troublesome dirt roads around Alanreed and Jericho (no doubt in part because I was still sulking over having missed out on dining at the U-Drop Inn back in Shamrock – Marilyn will understand completely when I describe the situation as being akin to Skagen in that we came all this way, had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to experience something memorable... and wound up skipping it for no logical reason that I could discern).<br /><br />We resumed our westward progress and some great long-distance views from the narrow ridge line before Jericho. In short order we spotted the "leaning tower of Groom" (a crooked Britten USA water tower marking a former truck stop that was built that way intentionally in order to attract attention – it succeeded!) and the 190-foot-tall "Cross of our Lord Jesus Christ," an enormous white cross erected in 1995 and billed as the largest cross in the Western Hemisphere. Everything’s big in Texas – even religious symbols.<br /><br />Next was the "Bug Ranch," an ironic satire of the upcoming Cadillac Ranch, with VW bugs instead of Cadillacs buried nose-down in the dirt. We skirted Conway, passing its pair of tall white grain elevators guarding the silence of the past, in an area where the speed limit jumped to 70mph – the only place in Texas where one can legally drive that fast on Old 66, on a long, straight, lonesome stretch that provided an isolated feel like none other.<br /><br />Approaching Amarillo, we detoured to see the pavement end at the fence of the airport that cut right through 2-lane 66 decades ago before veering north slightly to join Amarillo Boulevard, following 66 again until up 6th Avenue, watching for painted fiberglass ponies and a place to have an ice cream treat. We spied Furrbies almost right away, parked, walked in, and sat awhile enjoying ice cream sundaes and coffee (the adults) and a 32-ounce house specialty cherry limeade for me – wonderfully refreshing! Continuing a short way on 6th Avenue through the "One Mile Shopping" district and the San Jacinto Neighborhood (where I noticed a minature San Jac monument, easily recognizable because of its likeness to the real one south of Houston).<br /><br />At this point we left Route 66 for a rest-of-the-afternoon detour recommended by the books as well as by me: Palo Duro Canyon. The Route 66 guidebook recommended detouring to the canyon, calling it "one of the most beautiful areas to be found anywhere in the Southwest," and I’ve heard it described as "the Grand Canyon of Texas," which, although perhaps an exaggeration, does begin to describe how amazing it is, located out in the middle of all this endless flatland prairie. Our next homestay was directly on the way to it, so we drove there first, leaving the truck/camper rig at the farm of Larry & Jere, a high school friend of Bernie’s, while Tom drove the 5 of us in the Skyliner to see the canyon. Jere came outside to greet us when we pulled in, along with Ranger, their gentle-giant white Great Pyrennes, who immediately made the rounds to seek pets and to slobber on all of us. He’s a sweetheart; it’s really too bad that he drools so profusely; otherwise it would be so much easier to love on him!<br /><br />Reaching the state park’s fee station, we were greeted with the best line yet, a Texas-drawled, "Well, I’m quite certain y’all must have violated some state law that would enable me to confiscate that vehicle." Dad roared with laughter, and we all agreed that that was the best line yet. Tom stopped to put the top down before we continued into the park, which was a great idea; we all enjoyed the wide-open views throughout our little driving tour. We stopped a few times for photographs of low-water crossings, cactus blooms, and the RLS trail in which my late, great friend Red Spicer took a lead role in building. It was fun to hear the appreciative exclamations from the rest of the group over this place that has been special to me for so many years precisely because of Red’s friendship. Palo Duro’s colors, in haunting desert tinges, and the unexpected formations in the canyon are unique, with well-laid-out hiking and running trails and miles of scenic drives. I was quiet all the way back, not least because we ran over a poor little box turtle as we were driving out of the canyon.<br /><br />Returning to Larry & Jere’s, we walked around out back to see the livestock, and I delighted in playing with four frisky calves who were aggressive about nudging me with their heads and sucking on my fingers, shorts, and sleeves when they weren’t licking my legs. The kids will be so disappointed at missing out when they see the pictures later!<br /><br />We all left shortly for the Big Texan, another Route 66 icon (albeit kitchy) in Amarillo, where the group had decided we wanted to dine, if only for the experience of hoping to witness someone trying to earn a free meal by consuming a 72-ounce steak (complete with side dishes) within one hour. We were in luck: while we were there, one such young man declared himself up to the challenge, and he was seated at a table alone, up on a platform in the center of the dining room for all to see. A waiter earnestly explained the rules to him and allowed him to sample and approve his steak before starting a big time clock at the end of the table, with everyone in the place cheering heartily. When we left, he had about half an hour to go but looked like he was seriously losing momentum, with barely half the meat – and none of the side dishes – put away. We opted not to wait out the remaining half-hour to see whether he made it – but that was some great entertainment! :)<br /><br />Back at the ranch, Larry invited us to join them for a bonfire, which we did, following him and Jere through a gap between box cars that opened onto an outdoor fire pit and charming bricked patio area overlooking the pastures beneath a starry velvet night sky. We sat until a couple of batches of logs had burned a good way through, fascinated by Jeres many colorful and hilarious stories arising from her many endeavors; she always seems to have about a thousand varied projects underway, from doing grocery store demos to cleaning out foreclosed homes to distributing treats to collecting scrap metal for sale to creating tack sheds and various other ingenuous items from wooden Bell Helicopter box crates, to her newest thing, weaning and raising heifers to the point of being able to be grain-fed. She never ceases to surprise me with some interesting undertaking! She and Larry both are hardworking, resourceful, determined folks who could survive any test or trial – and they probably will survive the current economic downturn better than most, willing and able as they both are to utilize every asset and skill available. Larry is a wholesome, sincerely friendly man with a cheery smile and a merry twinkle in his eyes; they both were gracious hosts eager to get us set up for the night, either in the house or in our camper when we insisted again on staying out there... although I think I may take Jere up on her urging to try out the bed in their 5th-wheel, parking adjacent to my parents’. They use it as a backup, backup bedroom/apartment/crash pad, and she just made it up with fresh linens. I’m sitting in that trailer now, taking advantage of its electricity in order (for once) not to be disrupting the others’ sleep with light, movement, and the noise of page-turning and keyboard-clicking as I write this long after they’ve all gone to sleep.<br /><br />We have reservations tomorrow night at the Blue Swallow Motel in Tucumcari, a vintage place highly recommended by every guidebook and other resource as oozing character and being another can’t-miss Route 66 icon. I’m almost as excited about it as I am about the Wigwam teepee Motel a few nights farther down the road!<br /><br />I’m still sulking about the Shamrock incident, feeling slighted and frustrated by the sense that the group not only paid no heed to my suggestions, but actively dismissed them as outright wrong – while being too stubborn to even discuss them. I suppose part of that is just my stubbornly thinking I’m always right. But part is that I think that, in general I’m pretty careful (I already have used three equivocations in this sentence) to clarify when I am and am not certain about something – so that when I state something as unequivocal fact (like "it’s okay for us to eat lunch here"), there should be absolutely no reason to question the accuracy of that fact – and then I really can’t comprehend being so stubborn, or paranoid, or whatever, as to refuse to clarify something that isn’t clear: would it have killed anyone to follow my urging to ask again, if we were so concerned about doing something wrong? And what if we were really in a situation where I didn’t know the answer and we had to ask for clarification – would the world really have ended if we were told "no"?! Was that risk worth bypassing a Route 66 icon, on a trip intended to experience the Mother Road?! It didn’t bother me so much not to do what I thought we should do – what bothered me was reaching that decision based on a misperception – and it mostly seriously bothered me anytime someone flatly refuses to so much as discuss something to sort it out.<br /><br />I do realize that part of today’s tension arises simply from our all spending so much time together – we have been on the road together now for one week, eating, breathing, and sleeping together in very close quarters; such uninterrupted time inevitably causes friction between even the fastest friends and family members...<br /><br />I suppose I could look at it this way: perhaps today’s incident, albeit a low point, actually added to our Route 66 experience. Leaving home and hearth – however humble – behind, I can’t imagine that the early travelers had a picnic from one end of the road to the other. I can imagine families like the Joads piling all their worldly possessions onto rattletrap vehicles, saying goodbye to friends, families, and communities – everything familiar in the world that they knew – and setting out into the unknown in search of something better. They had to have had mixed emotions, likely even with some family members who either didn’t care about, or were adamantly opposed, to heading off into the unknown wild west. There were bound to be many moments of friction, and even some knock-down, drag-out fights among friends and family members along the way, with disagreements arising over where to stop, what to cook (or try to catch?!) for dinner, or where to settle, or... all manner of things – perhaps even some as petty as whether to use the tables as tables at a highway visitors’ center. So maybe our own such experiences actually are helping us to more fully experience the Route 66 experience, after all.<br /><br />In any event, I know I need to let it go; tomorrow is another day.Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-104063336826275682009-09-17T23:29:00.002-05:002009-09-17T23:34:41.309-05:00Day 6: Oklahoma City to Elk City, Oklahoma15 September. Elk City, Oklahoma. Midnight.<br /><br />I read out loud from the last couple of days of journal entries, putting Tom and Don to sleep, as announced by their snoring (that certainly runs in the family – they sounded just like Dad!). Hopefully this isn’t having the same effect on everyone else... If it is, you can just stick with the executive summary and ignore the rest; I won’t be insulted – a lot of this is intended just to help us remember where we’ve been, what we’ve done and seen, and who we’ve met. Because of the documentary nature of such a list, it’s tending to feel decidedly like a dry catalogue list at times.<br /><br />Executive summary: 8:30 start, 5pm finish, 132 miles. Edmond, Warr Acres, Bethany, Weatherford, Clinton, Foss, and Elk City Oklahoma. Best day yet, bookmarked by time with friends on both ends, and bursting in between with learning about, and seeing more of, Route 66 in America’s heartland.<br /><br />[Note: Again, no internet access, so we’re now 3 days behind posting to the blog... but eventually we’ll get back up-to-date. In the meantime, I hardly know where to begin describing this day – and words will not suffice.]<br /><br />Dad was the first to come downstairs this morning, seeking out coffee early. The house stirred, and everyone else followed suit. Mark and I headed out the door for a short, easy run around the neighborhood, visiting about the many (significant) changes in both our lives since last we saw each other in April 2007 – some momentous milestones and turning points, both of us for the better.<br /><br />The "adults" all relaxed over coffee and the news while Mark and I ran and showered. We said our goodbyes and hit the road around 8:30, heading south from Edmond and proceeding west through Warr Acres (proclaiming itself to be Oklahoma’s Almost-Capital City), noting the giant bowling pin at 66 Bowl and Ann’s Chicken Fry Steak House; then Bethany (Southern Nazarene University and Southern Christian University); pulling off to admire Lake Overholser, locally nicknamed for its "submarine races" as "Lake Holdercloser." Lake Overholser served as a seaplane base during WWII. In 1941, it was the first and only body of water in Oklahoma to be officially designated as a seaplane base. Pan American’s graceful Clippers were all the rage then, with transcontinental seaplane travel considered to be the next major development in air travel. But by the time WWII had ended, military and civilian engineers had built thousands of miles of long concrete runways almost everywhere. The seaplane era was over, even for small craft, and Lake Overholser’s hopes faded with the times.<br /><br />Leaving the area via Yukon (Yukon’s Best Flour emblazoned on massive grain elevator, Chisholm Trail wall mural – we couldn’t find the WWII Flying Tiger fighter plane supposedly located 4 miles west of town), continuing through El Reno (WW II twin-engine bomber, tight turns through town, Fort Reno historic marker – but no more Deluxe Inn motel; the one-story green structure appearing in the movie Rain Man has been demolished, though its signpost remains, sticking out like a sore thumb in front of a nondescript storage building polebarn) before reaching a lengthy 1930's concrete section of Route 66 heading west toward Hydro.<br />The pristine curbed concrete headed arrow-straight for much of the way, interrupted by charming curves while crossing fields and woods, bridging deep gullies on long concrete-post spans. And of course I took a bunch of pictures of an unbelievably long 1933 pony bridge that utilizes 38 small "pony" trusses to cross the South Canadian River. Despite a variety of roadie explanations for the number of its spans (frequent washouts, the weight of tank convoys, a steel shortage, etc.), the truth is that each span is simply as large as the highway department’s early equipment could lift into place. This entire stretch of road was charming: pink, tree-shaded concrete with innocent-looking little half-curbs that once represented cutting-edge innovation – but wound up accomplishing more than intended by their engineers. Instead of promoting drainage, they apparently could turn a hill face into a solid sheet of water during a hard rain – which is the only kind of rain Oklahoma seems to have. Motorists who got between two such hills were likely to stay there until the weather cleared – and sometimes others would come slithering down to the bottom, too, creating an even bigger mess. The other thing the curbs were intended to do was to redirect errant autos back onto the roadway. They managed that – but many cars were tossed over onto their tops in the process. So it’s not surprising that we don’t see a lot of this kind of curbing anymore!<br /><br />We opted not to follow any of today’s optional dirt road detours near Calumet, Geary, and Bridgeport, sticking to the pavement but enjoying the drive, which reminded Dad and his brothers of Highway 75 in northwestern Minnesota with its edging and rhythmic sounds (ka-THUNK-ka-thunk, ka-THUNK-ka-thunk, ka-THUNK-ka-thunk...) emanating from the concrete slab pavement.<br /><br />Having decided to eat in Weatherford, we were sorely disappointed. We had looked forward to the Out to Lunch Café, anticipating "nice folks, good food, and pretty, down-home waitresses who aren’t required to babble their names and push the daily special. Here, they’ll just smile that wonderful Oklahoma Hi-y’all smile and let you make up your own mind. Next best thing to sharing the front-porch swing and a lemonade with your sweetie." Its location was described by the recommending book as being "at Midtown," but we could locate no such place. Between the Downtown Diner and Lucille’s, we opted for the latter, which probably was a mistake. It looked vintage, and its history sounded fascinating: famed home of Lucille Hamons, dubbed the "Mother of the Mother Road," which had closed when she passed away in 2000 but had been restored... but inside we found a restaurant with about the character of a Chili’s and poor service from a disinterested waitress. Ah, well; you can’t win ‘em all.<br /><br />Our first planned stop today was the Oklahoma Route 66 Museum in Clinton (straight across the street from the Trade Winds Motel where Elvis stayed), a well-done exhibit featuring Oklahoma 66 but with a national slant, following the history of 66 decade-by-decade from dirt road days through the 1960s, incorporating tableaus of antique vehicles, photos, memorabilia, and a drive-in theatre, as well as the restored Route 66 Valentine diner, and an image of the Illinois Department of Transportation workers who took down (and, for awhile, kept for themselves) the signs for the decommissioned Route 66. The exhibits were thorough without being overwhelming, with plenty of authentic items on display and interesting personal accounts, as well as interesting little factoids like the fact that when cars were first sold mainstream, they were taxed based on their horsepower (so many cents per horsepower, initially ranging from something like 20 to 50 cents per horse). One I liked was a narrative remembering the author’s boyhood when the road went through; his father was offered $1 a day to labor on it, plus $1 a day for use of his team of horses; the author remarked, "he said he hadn’t had any idea that the government had that kind of money!" The family had been excited, he recalled, knowing that they would eat well from then on, and his mother knew she would even be able to buy shoes for the kids for school that year. One day he had taken water to his father on the job; his father had passed around the gallon jug to share with the other workers; and the company boss called the boy over, gave him a dime, and told him that if he would bring two gallons of water to the crew every day, he could be their water boy, for which he would receive a dime every day. He remembered how ecstatic he had been at holding that shiny dime and how thrilled at the prospect of making sixty more, ruefully remarking that he wished he had paid more attention in math the year before, ‘cuz then he "woulda knowed how much money sixty dimes was..." but he knew for sure that it was a lot of money, enough to buy a pair of shoes and maybe even a shirt.<br /><br />We also learned how Phillips 66 got its name: not (directly) from Route 66, but by chance, when two executives en route to a meeting at which to discuss a name for the company, brainstorming for a catchy title that would instill excitement about the power of their fuel, realized they were driving over 60; one remarked to the other, "60 nothing; we’re doing 66!" just as they passed a Route 66 road sign... and the company name was born.<br /><br />West of Clinton we followed more pristine sections of original concrete around Foss, detouring through Canute to see the remains of several old businesses there including the former Cotton Boll and Washita Motels, now both apparently private residences. Next was a T-33 jet guarding the Elk City airport entrance, a 179-foot-tall oil derrick, and then the National Route 66 Museum in Elk City.<br /><br />Each state along Route 66 has its own designated state Route 66 museum; the national one happens to be in Elk City, where one of my favorite clients ever lives and practices. He knows, and probably is known by, everyone in town after living here for years, a native Oklahoman from the panhandle who settled here with his wife from OKC to raise their two daughters.<br /><br />Although I had been unsure of our scheduling, I had hoped to connect with Steve and his wife when we came through, and we were in luck: we touched base by telephone and decided to meet up after his workday ended, to go out to dinner, and he invited us to bring our rig out to his place to camp overnight; excellent! That meant we wouldn’t have to rush off to check in and set up someplace else. Although there was a KOA Kampground right in Elk City, I much preferred to spend the evening visiting, meeting his wife in person for the first time, and getting to know them both better.<br /><br />Steve had personally taken me on a quick tour of the city when I had visited for a few hours in April 2007, so I knew roughly where things were, and we drove directly to the National Museum (next to an adorable city park, complete with sports fields, gorgeous swan ponds, and a restored carousel – also easy to spot anyway, with its enormous Route 66 sign and 2 giant Kachina dolls from an old trading post run by Wanda Queenan, who founded the museum herself – and she was in today, so we got to meet her in person) to spend the rest of the afternoon. The museum was well done, with sections about not only Route 66, but a general overview of America during the time period of the highway’s heyday. We strolled through the interestingly-narrated museum exhibit section, then wandered around several other buildings on the grounds of its Old Town Museum, where at least a dozen vintage buildings have been restored and moved to form a small city from the past, complete with a train and depot, a series of signs in the Burma Shave style, and a Farm & Ranch Museum full of old farm implements and surrounded by larger implements and an array of windmills. It was great!<br /><br />Just before 5pm, I called to check in with Steve and his secretary Rosemary, who welcomed us warmly and took time to give us a tour of the quaint red brick house in which Steve’s office is set up, beautifully decorated by his wife and featuring lots of interesting airplane memorabilia, including several enormous wooden propellers and quite a collection of miniature model planes, many from the Texaco and John Deere series. I loved finally getting to see her in person, after all these years! From there we returned to the museum to meet up with Steve and his wife, Cynthia. I had never met Cindy, but she proved to be vivacious, charming, and full of spirit, life, and a great sense of humor – I liked her immediately; she’s the kind of person with whom I could (and would want to!) be friends for life! They have two daughters in their 20s, both of whom live in Oklahoma City, and they’re about to become grandparents in October.<br /><br />They had decided on a nearby place for us all to go to dinner. Leaving the camping rig at their place, Mom, Dad, and I piled into their mini-van, followed by the uncles in the Skyliner, and headed northwest into countryside that was lush green from recent rains. They had chosen the Flying W Ranch and its restaurant called Sassy’s, which proved an excellent choice: another huge, delicious meal with great service and atmosphere. A client of Steve’s was our waitress; when we learned that today was her birthday, we sang to her, for which she thanked us profusely, confiding that nobody had done that before – making us doubly glad we could help celebrate her birthday in some small way!<br /><br />A local man named Don started the place years ago; he apparently is a friend and/or fan of Steve’s, because he came out to greet him personally, and after Steve introduced the rest of us, he spent probably 2 hours with us, first visiting about the nearby buffalo kill site, an archeologically significant place where Native Americans used to chase buffalo over a cliff to their deaths so that they could butcher them and feed their tribes. He brought out a black buffalo horn so that we could see for ourselves how hard and solid they are despite being made of hard-packed hair; then he invited us to see the General Store, which topped any museum we could imagine seeing anywhere along Route 66. He has assembled there an unbelievably extensive collection of late-19th-and-early-20th-century artifacts, preserving them just as they would have been in a general store at the period-appropriate time: sewing machines, irons, buttonhole measuring implements, thread, flour, a wooden butter churn, a dress pattern imprinter, hats and other clothing, dry goods, tins, rope, cigar-making molds, tobacco leaves, food tins (some still containing food), an old-fashioned candy county (with some candy still there), a real-honest-to-goodness original-model Edison phonograph, rare tools like a sugar barrel bore, various types of kerosene lanterns, leather razor-sharpening straps, shaving razors, old-fashioned hair-cutting scissors, and more diverse items than I could begin to recount in several hours. The array included various pictures, posters, and shaped items portraying grinning African American cartoon characters that never would fly today; he explained that back then, it was considered socially undesirable to participate in advertising, so white folks didn’t want their likenesses reproduced in ads. He also riddled us about why Bull Durham products were more popular with the men who bought them than any other brand; when he stumped us, he explained that it was because of the "hoochie-cootchie" pictures: they came with risque images showing women baring their... wrists, forearms, ankles, and once even a knee!<br /><br />Don was immensely knowledgeable and endlessly enthusiastic about every single item there, taking time and care to explain many of them in interesting detail and freely answering every question we asked him. We could have stayed 10 hours and not seen everything, nor gotten our fill. The man, and his collection, were a gem in the rough – what a wonderful, serendipitous chance, for Steve and Cindy to take us there, for him to be there, and for him to be kind and generous enough to share so freely of his time and his memories. We were all enthralled and could happily have stayed all night.<br /><br />One of the museum films today had a line I liked, in which the narrator likened Route 66 as inviting, "World, come and look at us! You won’t regret, nor soon forget, that you drove Route 66." Likewise, there’s no way we’ll ever forget this evening.<br /><br />Steve delighted in riding with Tom in the Skyliner on the way back to his & Cindy’s place, where the guys set up the camper (they invited us to stay in their two empty guest bedrooms, but we hated the thought of making a mess just to sleep, when we had the camper with us already – the guest rooms were beautifully made up; we would have felt bad leaving them disheveled), Cindy gave us a tour of the house, and we all sat around together relaxing and drinking coffee and tea (and Mom got to write some postcards, which she’s been wanting to do), petting and playing with their adorable butterscotch-colored dog Maggie, and generally enjoying a nice visit. Besides being a favorite client, I simply like Steve as a person – and now Cindy, too; I would love to be able to spend more time together, and I sincerely hope they’ll come visit Colorado so that I can return their hospitality!<br /><br />Too soon, the hour grew late and we decided to say goodnight so that we could let Steve get some sleep, since he actually has to get up and go to work all day tomorrow while the rest of us continue our vacation.<br /><br />Tomorrow we’ll continue west toward the Texas panhandle and Amarillo.Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-41200513929437261532009-09-17T23:27:00.002-05:002009-09-17T23:29:44.200-05:00Day 5: Claremore to Oklahoma City, Oklahoma14 September. Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.<br /><br />Executive summary: 8:45am start, 9pm finish, 169 miles. Claremore, Verdigris, Catoosa, Tulsa, Red Fork, Oakhurst, Bowden, Sapulpa, Kellyville, Stroud, Arcadia, and Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. A varied day of vintage sights seen under rainy skies, emotionally powerful reminders of the impact of violence on our world, and the milk of humankindness among far-flung friends. Hearty, delicious meals, pictures of so many bridges that the rest of the group began teasing me about it, heartrending reflections on senseless violence... and a wonderful visit with friends.<br /><br />[Note: We had no internet access at the luxury (not) digs at Claremore’s Will Rogers Downs & Casino, so apologies for the tardy postings. Love the comments; keep ‘em coming! :)]<br /><br />14 September. Oklahoma City. Nearly midnight. I had read that in Oklahoma as nowhere else, art and architecture go hand in hand with folk history, down-home hospitality, and the sweetness of the green-on-red land, which today seemed to bear that out tenfold. The birthplace of old Route 66, Oklahoma – and its people – is well worth knowing. One of the guide books advised, "Take some time here. Let the people of Oklahoma get to know you, too." And that we would do, for sure.<br /><br />We slept last night to the steady sound of rain on the roof of the camper. Not unpleasant – even cozy – but we woke to a cool, gray, drizzly morning, leaving me impatient to get on the road: I much preferred to get going to see things (even if it meant braving wet weather to do so) than to sit around a cold, soggy, gray, un-atmospheric campground.<br /><br />None too soon, we were on our way. First up were the not-quite-twin bridges in Verdigris, immediately after Route 66 crossed over the McClellan-Kerr Navigation System, a 445-mile waterway linking Tulsa to the Gulf of Mexico (due to the navigation system, the tiny Port of Catoosa is billed as the furthest inland seaport in the United States!), next to an impressive railroad bridge. The "almost" twin bridges cross the former Verdigris River (now Bird Creek); the 1936 and 37 spans are respectively 24 and 28 feet wide, and are nicknamed Felix and Oscar by locals. Nearby, we tried to find a 1913 one-lane bridge along a detour on the old Ozark Trail, without success, though we drove back and forth past the Arrowood Trading post along it, so we decided it must have been updated. We did find the nearby blue whale, the grinning, concrete-cetacean star of a former swimming hole, now renovated as a park with swimming prohibited (although, had it been warmer, I might have been tempted to plunge off of its tail or slide down its chutes into the water).<br /><br />Entering Tulsa, we stopped at an Oklahoma welcome center ostensibly to scoop up some Route 66 information, but wound up staying more than 30 minutes, after a tour busload of senior citizens arrived and inundated the single woman on duty manning the information desk. However, we did pick up some maps and brochures – as well as the unwelcome news that today’s planned breakfast destination was now closed. However, she recommended Talley’s Café at Yale; we followed her advice, and it turned out to be terrific: an authentic diner straight out of the 50s, in the heart of old Tulsa, where we had our biggest, best breakfast yet en route to paying a visit to The Golden Driller at the fairgrounds, a 76-foot tribute to Tulsa’s oil heritage (it was formerly the "Oil Capital of the World"). Driving through Tulsa, we admired its abundant art deco architecture, including the streamline-style Tulsa Monument Building east of Utica, the colorful terra cotta tiles of the Boston Avenue Church downtown, and the Blue Dome gas station on a pre-1932 segment at 2nd and Elgin that was worth a little extra trouble to find. Apparently it is such a Tulsa institution that the neighborhood around it is known as the "Blue Dome District."<br /><br />Many remnants of gas stations, burger joints, Mom-and-Pop motels, and other now-defunct businesses littered our path today through Red Fork (where we saw Ollie’s Station Restaurant, decorated in a train motif), Oakhurst, Bowden (its Frankhoma Pottery shop not nearly as picturesque without the row of vintage cars featured in a photo book we had bought yesterday at Gay Parita), Sapulpa (giant Coke bottle and Happy Burger, the oldest hamburger stand in Sapulpa – since 1937 – a restored trolley car and caboose at the offices of the Tulsa-Sapulpa Union Railway Company on Dewey, and repainted "ghost signs" (old advertisements) on downtown walls), Kellyville (where Tom and I followed the Tank Farm Loop option which, though bumpy in places, was worth the drive, crossing a 1925 iron bridge with its red brick deck over Rock Creek, passing a defunct drive-in, and curving under a narrow railroad trestle), and Bellvue (featuring a building with two boats jutting from its front). We couldn’t find the giant penguin in Bristow, missed the turnoff for the DePew Loop, and decided to skip the "shoe tree loop" (figuring we didn’t need to see the tree into which lots of people have thrown shoes) and the rocky, gravelly, muddy Ozark Trail Option from Stroud – though we did see the famous Rock Café (an historic 1939 café built with original rock dug up for Route 66 construction) and Davenport’s Gar Wooly’s Food-n-Fun, decorated with old gas pumps and signs and the Old 1933 Texas Co. Station. The 1937 stone Armory in Chandler looked like an amazing building; it apparently is being renovated to become a Route 66 Interpretive Center. We wanted to see the bird-topped totem pole supposedly at Pioneer Camp near Wellston, but, finding the place long closed, with no sign of a totem, we nonetheless took the detour through little Wellston, deciding that our idea of "nice little downtown" differs slightly from that of our guidebook’s author.<br /><br />The group started getting petulant today about the many photo-op stops, complaining that we’ve seen enough bridges, and starting to tease me when we drove over some nondescript bridge that maybe we should stop and take a picture. It does seem that at every turn we find another 19-teens or 1920's structure spanning some waterway or other, which probably back in the day was how it was determined where the roadbed would go. Many of them are incredibly picturesque and/or have some interesting story associated with them; however, at risk of sounding like Ronald Reagan, I do have to admit that they are all starting to look somewhat alike.<br /><br />We finally reached Arcadia, after passing the ruins of the old Little Brothers Station, an historic marker about the Land Run of 1889, the Route 66 Rock of Ages Hay Farm, and the remains of an old stone service station that once was home to counterfeiters, then taking a mile-long detour that is on the National Register of Historic Places; the east portion is 1928 Portland Concrete; the west section (paved in 1929) is blacktop over concrete, with pristinely-preserved curbs. In Arcadia we easily found its centerpiece, a completely-restored 1898 round barn with a loft that can be rented for dances and events. I was impatient with Dad and Tom’s insistence on parking in the designated lot rather than just pulling off to the side of the road long enough for us to snap pictures and be on our way; however, we wound up lingering a good while longer than that, taking the time to talk to one of the volunteers who man the barn’s Route 66 tourist exhibit downstairs, and it was great. Today’s docent, who introduced himself as Mr. Sam, had a tiny waist, a huge smile, and dancing eyes; with his blue jeans, plaid shirt, and cowboy hat, he looked like a caricature from some old western, and at first we thought he must be a figurine – until he began moving and rapidly talking to us. He had endless lively tales to tell about his 82 years (to tell us how old he was, he gave us a riddle, explaining that he was born the year they stopped making the Model T and started making the Model A – Tom knew right away that that meant 1927). His ancestors participated in the Oklahoma Land Rush to stake the beautiful family farmland (he described it as the most beautiful farm in Oklahoma), his restoration of an old surrey, restoration of the round barn itself, and the surrounding local area and entire state of Oklahoma. Workers were busily replacing the cedar shake roof, an interesting process in itself. We passed on Pop’s, featuring countless flavors of soda (though I wondered whether they might have Coke with lime!), heading on into Oklahoma City.<br /><br />Like Chicago and Los Angeles, Oklahoma City was not heavily influenced by Route 66, so there is comparatively little to experience in the way of strictly-Route-66-era businesses or attractions – but there was plenty for us to see, do, and experience here.<br /><br />We diverted onto the interstate to whiz downtown; I was a little concerned about the group feeling rushed at the Oklahoma City Memorial Museum, which I felt should not be rushed but was worth any effort to see. Our timing wound up fine; we all were through the museum, unhurried and at our own pace, with time to spare before it closed. I had visited here in April 2007, finding it to be a powerful, epiphonic reminder that life is too short and too precious to spend it just marking time. (I could go on and on about that but won’t do so here – I’m being plenty long-winded enough.) Despite having been through the museum already, I found it just as profound this second time, struck all over again by many of the same personal stories, as well as new ones, from the young woman who happened to be in the building to get a Social Security card for her new baby, with her mother, baby, and other small child, all of whom were killed in the blast, while she was pinned under a beam and freed only by a through-the-knee amputation performed by a surgeon who used a makeshift pocketknife to perform the difficult surgery after twice being evacuated while trying to do so, due to safety concerns; or Julie Marie Welch, a young woman roughly my age who had traveled, had foreign-language skills, tried to help others, and was excited about her new job as a Social Security claims representative; or the 37-year-old nurse who came running from elsewhere, saved the lives of 3 bombing victims... but was struck in the head by falling debris and died four days later because of her heroic efforts. These and countless other stories struck just as deeply as they had during my first visit here – perhaps partly because of the awareness that there but for the grace of God go I (or any of us – many of the victims were present purely by chance, in the process of running mundane errands just after 9am that Wednesday morning): I worked in the federal building in Houston at the time, and it was pure chance that this one and not mine was selected by a nutcase for destruction. Looking at the exhibit of photos and personal items or symbols selected by family members of the 168 victims, I wondered (yes, somewhat morbidly) what photo and what items my family would have chosen to represent me had I been one of these lost. Most profoundly, though, I was again struck by the overwhelming outpouring of generosity and acts of kindness by everyone around: those who lost loved ones but returned to console other families still awaiting news in agony; those who anonymously washed and folded rescuers’ clothes while they were out working the site, or donated clothing, toiletries, or food for them and displaced victims; those who risked their very lives to try to save others; the rescue animals whose paws were cut and bloodied by their tireless efforts; the bottomless compassion exhibited by the people of Oklahoma City, themselves in deep morning, that came to be referred to as the "Oklahoma Standard." Literally from the ashes of inconceivable evil, kindness and compassion rose to win the day.<br /><br />We strolled through the memorial park with its Gates of Time (one end reads 9:01; the other 9:03, reflecting the minutes before and after the bombing), the Field of Empty Chairs, the children’s gardens, the deceptively shallow and still reflecting pool, the fiercely-defiant, inspirational Survivor Tree, and the statue of Jesus, face in hands, mourning, labeled simply, "And Jesus Wept." We remembered and mourned the victims, the survivors, and the frustrated rescue workers, leaving feeling sobered but inspired.<br /><br />I was keen for them all to see the monument at night, which we did a couple of hours later, appreciating the memorial anew with the different perspective that the darkness brought, bringing alive the floating empty chairs, the etched names appearing even more clearly in the dark, and the reflecting pool shining calmly through the night. The evening air had become a perfect temperature: mildly cool and absolutely comfortable, a light breeze moving in the deepening dark, not unlike that emotional night that I came here with old and new friends two and a half years ago, full of reflection after a weekend packed with intensity, action, and emotion.<br />To kill time before dark, we decided to do a little sightseeing and then have a nice dinner. We drove over to the Capitol with its new dome, approaching up Lincoln with its grand view, stopping to admire the sculptures and the Capitol’s own oil derrick in front, before swinging over to drive up 23rd Avenue a way, checking out the giant milk bottle on Classen, the gold Geodesic Dome of a former bank (recently saved from demolition), and the towering neon sign at the Tower Theatre on 23rd.<br /><br />Uncertain where to eat, we decided to check out a place we saw called Cheever’s, in an art deco building that obviously had once been a florist. Inside, we found a charming local restaurant. The flower cooler had been converted into a wine cellar; the attached former residence housed several intimate dining rooms; and an art exhibit with complimentary wine and hors d’oeuvres was in full swing in the bar area. We sat down, ordered dinner, and then Dad and I checked out the drinks, munchies, and pretty paintings before our meal came. All of us were thrilled with our meals, though we wound up stuffed to overflowing so that dessert was out of the question. Dad partook so freely of the wine at the art exhibit that he wound up a little tipsy, telling our poor, patient waitress the recipe for lemoncello whether she wanted to hear it or not.<br /><br />While we were there, I received a call from my old friend Mark Bravo, a local celebrity, television personality, and all-around great guy whom I had met during my 2007 visit. I had been tardy in letting him know detailed dates (mostly because I didn’t know them myself) for our visit to his fair city, but had left a voice message earlier inquiring about recommendations (and a possible rendezvous) for dinner. He heartily approved our choice, telling me earnestly, "You did very well!" He knows the owners, Keith & Heather Paul (though they weren’t there this evening), and noted that it’s a place he would have highly recommended. He asked about our accommodations, and I mentioned that I had found us a campground on the way out of town. Bless his heart, he and his new wife, Leslie, invited us to come and spend the night at their place up in Edmond! The "adults" were reluctant to impose, but I was eager to see and catch up with Mark and to meet Leslie; besides, it’s always nicer to spend time with friends than at an impersonal hotel, motel, or campground, and I knew that they all would enjoy meeting one another, so I insisted we head up there for the night, calling to cancel our tentative reservation at a local campground. I’ll stay with friends over an impersonal institution – no matter how classy (I once cancelled a free night at the Amway Grand during an interview trip, choosing to drive an hour each way instead, to spend the time with my parents) – any day of the week and twice on Sundays.<br /><br />Mark and Leslie (who arrived shortly after we did, driving back after watching her son play high school football in Stillwell this evening) were great hosts, welcoming us warmly and settling all five of us in for the night in their beautiful home. This would be the first night since starting this trip that we would sleep in an actual building and on real beds (and couch, for me); how luxurious! I loved meeting Leslie and getting to know her a little; she seems a perfect match for Mark and an absolute sweetheart – one of those new-spouse-of-a-friend who makes you feel more and more happy for your friend the more you get to know them. She is a speech pathologist with 5 kids, and (forgetting the math) I was astonished to learn that she’s older than me. She and Mark attended the same high school but didn’t connect until the last decade; how sweet! They were just married this summer, in a traditional Jewish ceremony – chuppah and everything – right there in the house, and they make a great pair. He seems happier than ever and full of life, pleased with the results of his hip replacement (2 days after I last saw him, in May 2007), continuing to help out with broadcast work, coaching (notwithstanding his athletic expertise, I have no doubt that he’s a huge inspiration just through the exuberant enthusiasm inherent to his personality), and writing a book on momentum (I already can’t wait to read it!). Coincidentally, one of his athletes, out walking his dog with a friend, welcomed us to the neighborhood, admiring Tom’s car, and directed us to Mark’s house when he realized we were having trouble finding it in the dark). I’m so happy for them both, and I sincerely hope they’ll come visit Colorado; I think we’d have a great time hanging out together! I loved a sign in their downstairs bathroom, a translation beside an oriental Kanji script, "One dream can change your life." How true that is!<br /><br />Mark and I plan to run in the morning at 7 and it’s nearly 2am now, so I’d better sign off. With a full belly and a comfortable setup, I imagine I’ll sleep like a rock tonight!Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-21452901080711908702009-09-17T23:24:00.001-05:002009-09-17T23:27:39.722-05:00Day 4: Springfield, Missouri to Claremore, Oklahoma<p>13 September. Claremore, Oklahoma. 10:45 pm.<br /></p><p>Executive summary: 8am start, 6pm finish, 192 miles; Springfield, Carthage, and Joplin, Missouri; Galena and Baxter Springs, Kansas; Quapaw, Miami, Chelsea, Foyil, and Claremore, Oklahoma. The steady stream of mom-and-pop motels and cottage gas stations is beginning to blend together, so I’m really glad to be making a point of summarizing things every night, because there’s no way I would be able to remember one site from another after several days in a row!</p><p>It is a dark and stormy night. (It really is!) Okay, only a little stormy: just chilly, rainy, and windy... but what an appropriate way to begin an entry in the suburbs of Tulsa, Oklahoma! (Read "Death on Route 66" to set the mood).</p><p>None of us slept particularly soundly through the night, thanks to the frequent (at least hourly) trains roaring past the campground, perhaps 200 meters from where we were trying to sleep. Tom’s comment at one point was, "You know they’re close when the camper shakes! Nonetheless, we all wakened in fairly chipper spirits, and I delighted in finding the same gray cat I had befriended last night still hanging around; I teased Dad about taking "Smokey" along with us (he threatened to have cat steak for supper if I sneaked Smokey into the camper). After a lengthy petting section, Smokey for his/her part began earnestly licking his/her butt. There it is.</p><p>I got to drive the Skyliner this morning; a pleasurable experience in and of itself! Since I’ve been doing (or, perhaps I should say, trying to do! – there’s a lot of guesswork involved...) most of the navigating so far, we agreed that this morning’s first segment would be a good place for me to be able to get my head out of the maps and guides and just enjoy, on a special, I-44-free drive. This portion of Route 66 wound through pastoral settings of rolling wooded hills and green fields peppered with churches, barns, and roadside remnants. Rolling along through Ash Grove, we came over a rise and found a straight-out-of-the-past Sinclair station on our right. Deciding to pull off for a couple of photos, we wound up lingering for a couple of hours at what turned out to be Gay Parita, a restored 1929 café and gas station with an adjacent stone barn housing more old vehicles. We visited at length with the talkative proprietor, Gary Turner, who struck us as crazy like a fox with his practiced folksy offhandedness. He invited us to share in Cokes, coffee, and delicious doughnuts while snapping away with the cameras (he insisted that Tom pull the Skyliner in under the canopy of the old service station, from which 50s tunes sang forth from a radio during our entire stay), and we wound up collectively spending a couple of hundred dollars on souvenirs and gifts, mostly T-shirts and several copies of a great Route 66 photo journal with what should be helpful, in-order photographs of many of the sights we have seen and will be seeing along the way.</p><p>Nearly all of old Route 66 has been preserved and remains in daily use throughout eastern Oklahoma: since the interstate turnpike is a toll road here, most local and regional travel is done on the "Free Road" (old Route 66), which proved to be an excellent highway; we had little trouble following this unbroken section of the old road meandering from the Kansas border toward the heart of Oklahoma.</p><p>We rolled west through Halltown, Paris Springs, Spencer, Heatonville, Plew, Avilla, and Maxville to Carthage, where for once we were able to follow through on our breakfast plan: a big meal at the Pancake Hut, where the obliging waitress plugged in a mechanical "Chicago Band Box" while we feasted just down Garrison from the Boots Motel, world famous for its architecture, neon and history but now serving as run-down apartments. After breakfast we circled the picturesque town square with its Battle of Carthage memorial before retracing our steps to the outskirts of town to find Red Oak II, a site similar to Greenfield Village in that it is a cluster of relocated and restored structures: vintage homes and businesses painstakingly maintained and mostly open to the public – with some of the homes actually lived in by their owners! The site was created by local artist Lowell Davis, though it now has many different owners, who apparently own individual buildings at the site. One of the guidebooks, published a few years ago (at least before March 2007, when the Pig Hip Restaurant burned, since it recommends it as a place to eat), indicated that Red Oak II was then for sale; I wondered whether the current owners all formed a group to purchase it piecemeal rather than let it fall by the wayside. The turn-off to Red Oak was marked with a nearby folk art sculpture at the Flying W Store, a "flying manure spreader" sculpture by Davis comically named the "Crap Duster." </p><p>Continuing west, we stopped to check out the Carthage 66 Drive-In, a roadside theatre restored after years of being a junkyard. It’s still in use, though sadly we had missed seeing a show there last night (just as we missed some kind of bluegrass concert at Red Oak... although reaching Carthage last night would likely have caused us to miss Gay Parita, so it probably was a good trade-off; one memorable experience for another). Through Brooklyn Heights, we made our way to Carterville, whose downtown had many closed storefronts, and even quieter Webb City (apparently so named for the Webb Corporation, which must have been the mining company that developed this area), and on to Joplin, where we observed a succession of vintage motels and businesses along our way.</p><p>Leaving Joplin, it wasn’t far to Shifferdecker Park, which contains two historical museums telling the story of the Tri-State Mining District, and 66 Carousel Park, a local amusement park, before the turn for Old 66, passing vintage Paddock Liquors with its two "visible" gas pumps just before crossing the state line into Kansas beside a biker bar appropriately named the State Line Bar.<br />Route 66 traverses only about 13 miles in the Sunflower State, in which many of the signs sported cheerful yellow sunflowers. No interstate marred this small corner of Old 66. Once in Kansas, the road curved along with the railroad through a desolate former mining area and across a vintage, concrete-post viaduct above the tracks, making a 90-degree turn into downtown Galena, which was rather desolate but with a quaint old gas station featuring a rusting old one-ton International pickup towtruck that was "Tow-mater," one of the main characters in the cute Route-66-commemorative movie "Cars." Tom and I cracked ourselves up when I carefully positioned myself to get just the right shot of a really interesting-looking sculpture of a man taking a picture of a marquis; we liked the symmetry of a picture of someone taking a picture... and then the statue moved; it was a real person! :)</p><p>We couldn’t find the red-brick Eisler Brothers Grocery & Deli in Riverton, but happily took the Rainbow Bridge detour to cross a unique historic bridge, the last of three "Marsh Arch" bridges (named for their designer," the only one preserved through the march of progress, in a lush setting at Brush Creek, where we met up with three friendly Harley Davidson bikers, two of whom Dad had seen almost taken out by a careless driver not far back along the road.</p><p>In Baxter Springs we visited a 1930s-era Phillips 66 Station but found not much more of note. Even the Walmart looked too small to carry the supplies we needed, so we continued on across the state line into Oklahoma. Over the line, "chat piles" (old mining tailings) greeted us in the Sooner State en route to Quapaw. We passed a rural "Field of Dreams" before reaching Commerce, Mickey Mantle’s hometown. We got excited about ice cream treats at an adorable-looking Dairy King in a 1925-era Marathon station at Commerce & Main– but sadly, found it closed – across the street from a former cottage-style gas station that appeared to be "sunken" halfway into a brick wall, housing a hair salon. Continuing south into Miami (pronounced "My-AM-uh"), we stopped briefly to stock up on a few supplies at Wal-mart (or, as Dad – who refuses to set foot in it except to pee – refers to it, "The Evil Place"), before spotting the giant Ku-Ku bird popping out of the top of the building at Waylan’s Ku Ku Burger; we also stopped downtown to see the closed but nonetheless elegant Coleman Theatre Beautiful, a magnificent 1929 Spanish mission-styled showpiece.</p><p>South of Miami, we detoured along the 9-foot Highway (aka Sidewalk Highway or the Ribbon Road), a narrow strip of road with concrete base and curbs and an asphalt surface zigzagging toward Afton. Paved in 1922, it served US 66 until 1937. The book warned that "some sections are bumpy and gravelly, so go slow," but we found it all to be so bumpy that 11 mph was our top speed through there – and that felt wildly, out-of-control fast! We were somewhat relieved to return to the smoothly-paved main road, heading south toward Narcissa and Afton, where we crossed Horse Creek Bridge with its built-in sidewalks, and stopped to peer in the windows of the Afton Station / Route 66 Packards, a former DX gas station rehabilitated to house a collection of Route 66 postcards and memorabilia, along with the owners’ 12 antique Packards. </p><p>Farther along, we drove around Dead Man’s Corner (now toned down into more of a gentle curve) and continued on to Vinita (named for Vinnie Ream, the sculptress whose rendering of Abraham Lincoln now stands in the nation’s capital) finding its classic "Eat" sign at Clantons Café (owned by the same family since 1927), White Oak, and Chelsea (the very first oil-patch town, where we stopped to fill gas after crossing both the 1932 "Pony" truss bridge and the overgrown 1926 iron Pryor Creek bridge, then found nearby one of the few perfectly-preserved vintage houses mail-ordered as a kit from the Sears Catalog in 1913). Heading south from Chelsea toward Foyil, we detoured for 4 miles to find the Totem Pole Park, site of the World’s largest Totem Pole (90 feet), created over 11 years by the late Ed Galloway and in the process of being restored. The property also contained a collection of smaller concrete totems covered in countless critters, and an 11-sided "Fiddle House" (he hand-carved almost 400 violins over the years!).</p><p>Having decided to press on to dinner and wherever we would sleep tonight, we forewent the chance to have a snack at the Top Hat Dairy Bar, missing Sequoyah completely as we made our way through an increasingly gray and now sprinkling afternoon to Claremore. Calling ahead to try to reserve a campsite at a KOA, I had been mildly alarmed to learn that the KOA in our book was no longer a KOA property. No problem; I called another Oklahoma location to get the phone number for the new Northeast Tulsa property and, though I couldn’t reach anyone live at reception, managed to get the address of the place, which I was informed was at a casino.</p><p>Entering the address into the GPS, I suffered some suspense, wondering if I had gotten it wrong as we approached the appointed destination with not a trace of any retail activity, approaching through miles of beautiful but ultra-rural countryside. Even when the GPS told us we would arrive in .2 mile, we could see nothing promising... but then suddenly, there it was: Will Rogers Downs, our destination.</p><p>It wasn’t much to speak of – a flat, desolate field next to a racetrack, with a casino basically under the grandstands – but the price was right ($34) and we were there, so we decided to stay put. Even Mom joined in our now-traditional evening toast to another great day, though she joined in the others’ disdain for my selected fine wine (to which Tom had referred as "slop") by agreeing with Dad that "that’s not even wine" after tasting it. (I do tend to go for the Kool-aid sweet, only-barely-alcoholic stuff, like Fruitezia and Arbor Mist; today’s selection was Boone’s Farm wild berry – hey, at $2.49 a bottle, the price was right! Nothing but class...) </p><p>The air was chill and damp, so we decided to go out to eat, setting out to find The Pits, a renowned local BBQ place. Sadly, we found both it and Ron’s Hamburgers & Chili, our 2nd choice, closed – perhaps not surprising, this being Sunday evening in the Bible Belt (we had run a gauntlet of fiery fundamentalist billboards along the road today lecturing us about the eternal damnation we all are tempting, if we needed any reminder). Mom still insisted on eating out, about which I wasn’t thrilled and had a very bad attitude – but it turned out to be a really good thing; we all were able to sit down and relax over a solid dinner and an opportunity to look at our various maps and books together. Up until now we’ve been winging everything from one minute to the next, trusting my instincts and Serendipity to guide us along, but the group collectively wanted to plan ahead a little, so both at the diner and back at the campground, we discussed our options, arriving at what should be a workable – and surprisingly laid-back – overview of the next 2 weeks, entailing shorter driving days and an arrival in California ahead of schedule, in time to allow us all to visit Lake Havasu on our way back east. We’ll see – one never knows what chance and Serendipity may throw our way – but it probably makes everyone feel better to have at least a rough roadmap in the back of our minds. The brothers and I continued our planning session back at the campground over wine in the restroom shelter area, at a picnic table that we moved out of the wind. We had the facilities to ourselves, with the campground barely 10% full and all the other campers we saw residing in monstrous RVs that certainly have their own restroom and shower facilities. (Mom & Dad’s Scamp does have a little bathroom, but we’re using it as a closet at this point.)</p><p>Today’s journey took us through towns in which the number of abandoned businesses and highway attractions increased markedly. That’s a sad fact – but it is also a reminder that there is a great need, and appreciation, for relics like these. There is a school of thought that since we can only experience history through our imaginations, the ruins we encounter serve as vital props for any journey of the mind in time. In viewing some roadside ruin, then, we are better able to recreate for ourselves the period in which it stood. An interesting concept: the notion that by seeing clearly what remains, each of us gives some ruin a second life; a chance to exist again in the projection of our mind’s eye. Just knowing this can make the traveling more passionate, the seeing more profound, as we make our way along this old road – which is itself a relic... Yet a relic that we may revive, if only for a moment, by our passing. This view hearkens back to my 1998 travels in Scotland with Mikala Keating: I distinctly recall something she said that struck me then and stays with me still. We were meandering through some nostalgic cemetery, perusing the various inscriptions on the gravestones, when I expressed the wonder that perhaps this was in some way disrespectful. She disagreed, sharing her thought that when we walked there, we were honoring them by remembering them – even if they were strangers, and even if only in passing. I liked that sentiment, and have recalled it often when trodding upon reminders of past peoples, experiences, and civilizations... And today’s drive sort of reminded me of it again, perhaps because in a very real way we were traversing a graveyard of sorts – a resting place not only for people, but also for businesses, communities, and dreams that burned bright at some point in the past but have since flamed out and died.</p><p>It’s 11:30 now and everyone else is asleep, as I hope soon to be. The wind is howling outside the camper, which could make for an exciting night if a real storm springs up... but it feels cozy with all of us safely tucked away for the night. And even if the weather turns temporarily nasty, our plans for the next few days center largely around museums, so the timing would be fine for that; to everything there is a season...</p><p>Tomorrow’s rough agenda: the not-quite-twin bridges and "blue whale" between Verdigris and Catoosa , breakfast at the highly-recommended, vintage Metro Diner in Tulsa, the round barn at Arcadia, and then on to Oklahoma City.</p>Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-69083899484887298992009-09-13T07:56:00.002-05:002009-09-22T00:30:45.722-05:00Day 3: Eureka to Springfield, MissouriSpringfield, Missouri. 11pm, and we’re all snuggled into the camper at a KOA Kampground just west of Springfield, Missouri after another long and busy, but interesting day. Today’s stats: 8am start, 8pm finish, 234 miles (pretty good, considering our 2-hour stop at Meramac Caverns, an hour for church in Marshfield, and other assorted adventures and detours along the way). Apologies if these daily summaries are too long-winded; if they’re boring, you can just stop here for now – but most of you already know I’m not much one for brevity.<br /><br />Our day again began with some suspense and some disappointment. First, leaving the campground, the Skyliner balked, refusing to shift into gear (just like the "Green Hornet" back in the Springs!) The problem turned out to be low transmission fluid – but Tom was prepared with a reserve jug, and we were on our way in no time. Next came our breakfast debaucle: we had been excited to have breakfast at the Red Cedar Inn praised by the guidebooks as a longstanding Route 66 institution "with flavorful cookin’ and Ozark-friendly service, all under the original family’s careful management"; however, sadly, its web site informed us that its owners have put it up for sale. Plan B was to seek out the Diamond Café in Gray Summit, so named for the shape of the original building. Although the business has moved and changed names, we decided to track it down, and entered its current name, the Tri County Restaurant, into the GPS, which guided us straight and sure to... somebody’s house. Wah wah wah... Going with Plan C, we headed in to St. Clair and found the Lewis Café on South Main Street, which turned out to serve up hearty breakfasts quickly (for the first time yet on this trip). Not having planned to stop there, we asked the friendly waitstaff to tell us about their town, and they seemed a little stumped beyond its hot and cold water towers. We were all hilariously amused when one came back to report that she had been asking around, and nobody could think of anything special about their town. That got us to musing that many people probably would be in the same boat: when asked about the most unique or special characteristic of one’s hometown, or the one thing for which it is known, what would we respond? I imagine there are plenty of us who would be hard-pressed to put our finger on that one magical thing; for most of us, home is special because it’s home; because of the people, the shared experiences and memories; or because it’s just a great place to live or raise a family.<br /><br />Anyway, we checked out (and of course snapped pictures of!) the hot & cold water towers on our way out of town en route to Stanton, home of the famous Meramac Caverns that have been aggressively advertised all along Route 66 since its inception. Apparently locals like to joke that if champion roadside entrepreneur Lester Dill hadn’t discovered the caverns, he would have dug them himself. The place was kitschy and the tour script probably hasn’t changed since the 1930s – Dad filled us in later on the correct explanation of a Foucault pendulum, of which there are only 16 in the world including the original in Paris – but it was worth the stop, from the story of how Jesse James and his brother hid out in, and escaped from, the caverns by using its underground waterways to their advantage, to the one about scenes from Lassie and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and an episode of People are Funny (the Honeymoon Suite) having been filmed there, to the "theater," containing the caverns’ oldest (75 million years) and largest (73 feet tall and I-don’t-remember-how thick and wide) formation, where Kate Smith once stood and sang her signature song, God Bless America, a recording of which the guide played to a light show as the finale of the hour-and-20-minute tour. The formations were numerous and spectacular in all 7 levels, with amazingly clear water, safely scored walkways, and plenty of fun lighting effects. I was impressed to see that they offer free kenneling for pets, mindful of the heat suffered in cars baking in the sun outside the cool caverns.<br /><br />Today we traversed Bourbon (the water tower of which has delighted tourists for years), Cuba (where we stopped to photograph the vintage Wagon Wheel Motel), Rolla (where we found the giant fiberglass A&W Hamburger Family, all handling giant fiberglass burgers, though only the father still hoists his frosty mug – and the entire family had been relocated from a downtown building to a container car along the I-44 frontage road).<br /><br />This day’s drive took us along smooth blacktop, most of which closely paralleled Interstate 44. The foliage and topography reminded me most of the midwest, or on toward New England, with rolling hills, forests, and fields; plenty of green and interesting scenery, by contrast with yesterday’s unbroken flat farmland. Route 66 through the Ozarks (which, we learned, is a contraction of the French name Aux Arc) wound over and around gently-rolling hills, through forests and fields, across rivers and through rocky cuts, never far from the straight-shooting interstate. Some of it was 4-lane still with original curbing intact, and we crossed several still-majestic bridges built in the early 1920s, like the one at Devils Elbow, just beyond the 90-foot Hooker Cut that once was the deepest road cut in Missouri. In the afternoon, hankering for an ice cream treat and figuring we would just roll up at a random local ice cream parlor in the next town, we were out of luck, passing through lonely town after deserted former town, one after another, sporting boarded-up businesses, the dilapidated despair of abandoned homes, or the lonely emptiness of grassy patches growing up through concrete that once had been the foundation of one home or business or another along the once-thriving Route 66. All of this really hit home the essence of what has happened to so many of the families, businesses, and entire communities along what was once a major thoroughfare, where many family fortunes just dried up and blew away like so much refuse along the interstate roaring past less than a mile away.<br />I was especially touched by the story of ill-fated Arlington, on the banks of the Little Piney River at the end of an access road north of I-44 and west of Exit 176. There, stranded on a dead end are the abandoned remnants of John’s Modern Cabins and lonely Vernell’s Motel. According to the guidebooks, this gem of a resort site was cut off by earlier relocations of US 66, then by I-44, and then further isolated by the realignment of I-44 – from which we could still see the little berg, standing forlornly on a hilltop overlooking a sweeping panoramic view of a beautiful valley spreading out below rolling green hills along a gently winding river. It was easy – and heartbreaking – to imagine the hopes and dreams that must have ridden exuberantly in the minds of those who originally built up the area, with good reason: it’s an idyllic setting in fairytale-like surroundings – and how could they have known then the multiple cruel blows that fate would strike in re-routing their access roads and their livelihood not once, not twice, but several times over?<br /><br />You had to sympathize with such folks, and it was hard not to feel mildly resentful toward the trappings of civilization that we all embrace as progress – like straight, safe, fast roads, for instance. When our minds and appetites turned toward ice cream right around the time we passed a Dairy Queen, I disdainfully swore it off as a chain place, to be avoided... but we were about to be reminded of exactly why such chains succeed: supply, demand, and the ability to have those match. We had just left the Devil’s Elbow area farther along the Piney River, and I felt certain that we would find a charming spot for our afternoon snack in one of the approaching bergs. I was picturing a soda fountain, a granite counter and silver-spoked stools, and maybe even a jukebox. Not so. Hopefully we approached – and left – Waynesville (with its big boulder sticking out of a hillside painted like a giant green frog or turtle, and gas-station-cum-nursery cleverly named "Every Blooming Thing"), Buckhorn with its giant bowling pin, Laquey (whose general store – or even its remnants – we couldn’t locate), Hazelgreen (featuring a few houses on stilts and a little church perched on the edge of a steep drop, shortly before one of the 1923 bridges, this one carrying Route 66 across the Gasconade River), and on to Lebanon. Touted as one of the guidebook author’s "homes away from home," boasting the famous 1946 Munger Moss Motel, Wrinks Mart, Bell Restaurant, and a new Route 66 Museum, we just knew we would find a delicious diner serving frozen desserts there... but no! When we stopped at two of those institutions to ask where we might find ice cream locally, we were directed by both to a strip off the interstate business loop, where we could find DQ, Arby’s, etc. – when I asked whether there were any local places that served ice cream, I was flatly told no. So we eventually wound up at a Dairy Queen, lamenting the astonishing lack of local flavor... But at the same time forced to acknowledge that it must be difficult, if not impossible, for mom-and-pop businesses to compete with giant fast-food chains. We, as if symbolic of what has happened to the communities along the Mother Road in the heartland bypassed by fast-paced, mainstream America, were forced into the conformity of fast-food chains in order to enjoy the simple pleasure of ice cream on a hot afternoon.<br /><br />In the meantime, we wound our way through Phillipsburg, past the now-defunct Niangua Junction Store, over a small green-girder bridge over the Niangua River just after a former cottage-style gas station, and on to Marshfield, in which we were keen to see the quarter-scale model of the Hubble Space Telescope. We found it prominently displayed in the town square adjacent to the courthouse in Dr. Edwin Hubble’s hometown. After admiring and photographing it, we decided to check on whether there might be a Saturday evening service at a local Catholic church, and we were in luck: God (and Garmin) led us to Holy Trinity Catholic Church, just a few blocks off the town square, where mass would begin at 5:30. (It was then 5:15). Perfect! We were all a bit bedragged from the road, but figured God wouldn’t mind, and the people at the little parish seemed friendly and welcoming (including the new priest, who was saying what may have been his first mass there, announcing a parish picnic and his own installation scheduled for tomorrow afternoon)... although we were surprised and amused reflecting over the announcement that "during this flu season, we are recognizing a reverent bow" during the Kiss of Peace (and, of course, no wine at communion). Interesting – and surprisingly progressive – that the church is paying heed to biology; I can recall being taught that we didn’t have to worry about germs at church (in the context of us as children wondering and worrying about the spread of germs through the communal chalice). Apparently the swine flu is cause for further reflection; probably a wise thing.<br /><br />From Marshfield we made our way to Strafford, in which a Route 66 festival was in full swing this weekend – it appeared slightly more busy than Atlanta’s fall festival yesterday – but we decided to press on to Springfield, calling ahead for reservations at a KOA Kampground.<br />Uncle Tom specifically muttered something when it happened about not wanting this next part all over the internet, so this part might get cut during our group editing in the morning – but it definitely bears mention at least for my private journal. Less than a mile from the campground, we received a walkie-talkie call that the Skyliner had run out of gas. Tom urged us to go ahead and check in at the campground before coming back for him and Don, so we obliged (although this was when our last shouting incident of the day occurred – see below). Leaving an irate Dad to set up the camper with Mom, I gunned the pickup back to meet the uncles, who had already engaged in great self-help: Don had set out on foot, and as it turned out, he spotted an open garage, walking over to which he found a guy willing to help us out. The kindly guy filled a big gas jug for us and would have sent us on our way with it full of gas; he wasn’t asking for anything in return, but Tom gladly handed him a $20, and we came back to return his gas jug and so that he could admire the Skyliner, which he had said he’d love to do. He seemed genuinely in awe (and in the know, a self-proclaimed "Ford fanatic"), picking up his 5-year-old son to show him its engine, about which he seemed amazingly knowledgeable. He introduced himself as Kevin Barrett, having just started his shoestring business (Barrett’s Garage) 8 months ago.<br /><br />Whatever circumstances prompted him to start a business in this time of economic crisis – and whatever determination enabled him to make it a success so far – must be some of the "lingering endurance" used by the guidebooks to describe the Missourian people; something handed down from Pony Express riders and the redoubtable Lindbergh. Our book contained an interesting description of the Missourians’ sense of humor, allowing a state with heavy interests in manufacturing, shipping, and the aerospace industry to declare with a straight face that it is also a world leader in the production of corncob pipes.<br /><br />We perhaps saw a little of that dry sense of humor (or was it resigned stoicism?) in some side entertainment while Kevin Barrett was generously helping us. A couple of teenagers were busily lighting off fireworks, nearly right under, and certainly pointing at, the cars. Don said that when he first had walked up, they were doing it inside the garage where Kevin was transferring gasoline from one tank to another, which made Don a little nervous when he was asked to participate in that process. When they were shooed outside, the teenagers continued lighting off their fireworks just outside the building next to, pointed at, and almost right underneath our vehicles at times. We were alarmed as we nervously observed the sparks and shooting fireworks in such close proximity to the cars and open gasoline – and these kids barely paused between the succession of fireworks – but Kevin merely shrugged, "Ah, teenagers." And while the fuel transfer was going on (he nearly filled a 5-gallon jug for us), a little boy came running up and told him excitedly, "The stove’s on fire!" I thought at first he must be playing a game, as Kevin nodded as if in explanation, "My 5-year-old" – but he didn’t seem amused, quickly handing the gas siphon over to Tom and Don, hurriedly asking if they could take over and taking off sprinting over to the adjacent house. I followed him a little way out into the yard, half-watching for flames in the windows. A few moments later he returned, explaining casually, "Ah, just a grease fire." He apparently is accustomed to putting out fires – literally – and our little emergency seemed not to phase him in the least. We all wished him well and thanked him profusely before returning to the campground. He has the right attitude: although Tom wound up paying him, he clearly hadn’t helped us out with any expectation of payment, instead doing so simply because helping out passing travelers in trouble was the right thing to do, and that’s how he rolls. What a nice guy!!<br /><br />For the most part we have so far been pleasantly surprised by the signage helping us find our way along the sometimes disjointed segments of the old Route 66. We did encounter some difficulty in following the guidebook directions to one of today’s attractions, which at one point led us off on a series of wild-goose-chase tangents that could easily have been avoided by the use of a correct preposition, or the simple addition of some indication – any indication – of distance (for instance, some hint as to whether "along here" meant "20 feet from" the just-listed sight, or another 5 miles). So we went on a merry chase seeking out an ornate rock arch gateway honoring the Trail of Tears (the forced migration of the Cherokees). We very nearly created our own trail of tears of a different sort, with all the consternation and frustration attendant on trying to follow the poorly-written directions (I had to take serious issue with the grammar used by the guidebook author). We wound up exploring quite a bit of (incidentally beautiful) countryside between Jerome and the Little Piney Creek River between it and Arlington, much to no one’s amusement: after several of these fruitless expeditions over gravel roads, Mom, Dad, and I rejoined the Skyliner to find Tom and Don standing beside it. Don had his hand on his hip in an expression of impatience, and Tom’s (probably only half-joking) comment was, "Lori, the next time you decide to turn off like that, just let me know and I’ll find a biker bar to sit down and have a beer while you go." Things were far more heated inside the truck, where Dad swore at me and I yelled back; good times. Miraculously, we did eventually find it, hidden away in some trees almost adjacent to (though buried in foliage behind) a few falling-down cabins that are all that remain of the Stony Dell Resort a couple of miles west of Jerome, barely half a mile along the frontage road east from Exit 172 (past which we had driven almost immediately after exiting the highway from a short stretch on which Route 66 shares the interstate pavement).<br /><br />Our nerves frazzled and frayed thin after that episode, we had more to come later, with plenty of family frustration expressed loudly and angrily between Dad and me. We laughed about it later when we repeated the tale to Tom and Don, with all of them insisting that I need to remember that I’m traveling with senior citizens: apparently they don’t appreciate, nor respond well to, someone sitting next to them urgently gesturing and shouting commands like, "Stop now!" and then becoming exasperated while whizzing past Rosati’s remaining roadside grape stands (I pouted over missing them as if they were the top and only attraction along the entire length of Route 66... Marilyn, does that bring back memories of "the good old days" of our roadtrip through Germany and Scandinavia – particularly Skagen?!), or "Turn left here!" (this caused us to come to a complete stop in the campground) or "Just pull over and stop right here!" (which, when Dad thought better than to pull up next to a barful of bikers, led to his stopping the whole rig right in the middle of the road at the end of the bridge at the Devils Elbow, probably causing some anxiety in an oncoming driver who may have worried about a head-on collision as he exited the bridge) and expecting an immediate reaction. After hearing all that, Tom and Don tactfully invited me to drive with them tomorrow. In the meantime, we all had a good laugh about it over wine and Route 66 root beer (we finally found some, in the KOA Kamp store; yay!).<br /><br />Once the wine was flowing and tongues loosened, it was fun to listen to Dad, Tom, and Don reminisce about long-ago days back home in Stephen, remembering with some amusement Grandpa’s antics going out with Fr. Beaver from the church in town (the two of them apparently had a good time together, including one two-week stint visiting all of Fr. Beaver’s priest friends in the Dakotas), and his annual homemade holiday Everclear marachino cherry punch mix (the goal was to get the cherries that had marinated in the Everclear for a week beforehand – which required drinking a lot of Everclear first). They tossed out the idea of an annual Stich brothers’ outing, though that idea might not sound appealing right now to their wives. Poor Dianne had a long day today; she’s in the process of moving her Dad to a home, and not overly amused or enthused about Don skipping out of town while that’s happening. She seemed to blame Tom for luring Don away, and Dad and I thought it was fine that Tom was in trouble and not us. :)<br /><br />Another evening of cheese, crackers, wine, and other assorted munchies before bedtime, and showers all around (the campground restrooms were gorgeous, putting some residential ones to shame, with immaculate tiling and even a beauty-salon-style hair dryer with a comfortable-looking chair!), so we’ll all feel fresh in the morning for what’s sure to be another great day on the Mother Road.Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-89619917202243933252009-09-12T07:50:00.000-05:002009-09-12T07:51:22.473-05:00Day 2: Bloomington, IL to Eureka, MO11 September. Eureka, Missouri.<br />10pm, and we’re in for the night early again, after a satisfying first full day on Route 66. Stats: 8 am start, 7pm finish; 245 miles covered.<br />Mom & Dad have camped in their Scamp before and knew what to expect, but for Don, Tom, and me it was a new experience. None of us knew quite what to expect, and I think we all were braced to suck it up no matter how cramped and miserable it might be with 5 of us in the small camper. But, upon comparing notes this morning, we discovered that we all were pleasantly surprised to find that we all were comfortable and slept pretty well... at least, until the campground’s toilet-cleaning truck came lumbering by at 5am. Our site was located conveniently right across from the bathrooms and showers – which meant that we could hear loud and clear while the truck roared next to our site for what seemed an eternity (but was actually only about 10 minutes).<br />We had hoped and intended to begin our day on Route 66 with a stop at the Funk’s Grove Maple Sirup (intentionally spelled that way because of the out-of-the-ordinary sweetener they use) place. Sadly, when I called, I was informed that they had sold out of syrup and closed down for the year during the first week of August. So much for that. No problem; off we went to the Dixie Truck Stop in McLean, known for its mush (the guidebook description sounded mouthwatering – but they were out) and southern-style hospitality. Despite the lack of mush, we had no problem stuffing ourselves Stich-style, noticing with amusement the sudden silence as we all got down to the serious business of our feeding frenzy. Our breakfast took longer than usual, so they gave us a 10% discount, which we thought was worth the extra wait. While we waited, we all spent more than the extra 10% in the gift shop, buying postcards and other Route 66 souvenirs. We did check out Funk’s Grove – founded in the 1800s by the Funk family, some of whom to this day continue to operate the Pure Maple Sirup place – with its Funk’s Grove Cemetery and historic train depot (pretty, with a pleasant drive through the woods, though not the photographic gem it was cracked up to be).<br />Today I rode with Uncle Tom as navigator in the beautiful aqua Skyliner, enjoying the smooth ride on the kind of road for which that car was built. We put the top down as we left Dixie’s, making for a wide-open, panoramic kind of day. We wound through vast cornfields and endless expanses of open fields broken only by grain elevators in scattered small towns, not unlike the landscape of northwestern Minnesota from whence the 3 brothers all hail.<br />Driving into Atlanta, Illinois, we were excited to see signs proclaiming its fall festival to be in full swing... but saw nary a soul out and about to carry on the festivities. However, when we alighted on main street to check out the downtown attractions and the outdoor advertising murals for which Atlanta – roughly at the center of Illinois Route 66 – is known, we were greeted by an elderly man who ambled amiably over to greet and welcome us. He introduced himself as Paul Adams, and when he had difficulty using the digital camera, he apologized that at 93 he sometimes has trouble. We were astonished, and I stammered to clarify, "Are you really 93? What year were you born?" "Well, I’m pretty sure I was born in 1916... on a little farm over there, just west of town," gesturing beyond the grain elevators and high school. Wow – a true local icon in the flesh! The 40-foot clock tower – which is wound by hand every few days by one of a crew of "keepers of the clock" (their schedule was posted on the side of the tower) – chimed 11:00 while we stood there, and we all crowded around a glass door at its base, fascinated, to watch the workings moving. He chuckled in agreement with what our guidebook had said about this being "Lincoln country," with seemingly every place claiming to have hosted Abe himself as having worked, slept, been born, or stood there; he smilingly agreed that apparently Abe must have slept in every house, garage, barn, shed, and chicken coop around.<br />The next town of note was Lincoln itself – which adopted Abe’s name before he became president. He christened the town himself, quipping that nothing named Lincoln had ever amounted to much, and using watermelon juice from a cup for the occasion on a site at the historic train depot, a block away from the current County Courthouse and City Hall, which I checked out while the "adults" visited a toy store. On our way out of town we stopped briefly to see a small log cabin chapel and the courthouse where Abe served as an 8th-Circuit lawyer way back when.<br />Not much farther along was Broadwell, formerly known for the Pig Hip Restaurant – which, sadly, burned down on March 5, 2007. We made a quick stop to take pictures of the still-standing signpost and were about to leave, when an elderly couple pulled in, asking amiably whether we’d like to have a look around. We realized they were Fran & Ernie Edwards, the Pig Hip’s proprietors. Chatty and outgoing, they seemed tickled pink to have us there; amazing given the unending stream of visitors they must greet on an annual basis. Sadly, they mentioned that they were just returning from an outing to check out retirement apartments for senior citizens, to which they’re going to have to move soon. They seemed sincerely disappointed – as anyone would be! – at the prospect of having to leave their home after so many years... but, as he pointed out, the couple of steps needed to get into the house are getting to be too much for them. They shared pictures and tales from their 60 years of operating their roadside restaurant, apparently reluctant when we had to say goodbye and resume our journey west. Ernie gave me a business card with a joke about his nickname, the "Old coot on Route 66," and he signed his name that way when I asked for his autograph. :)<br />Continuing west toward Elkhart, we had no trouble discerning Eklhart Hill, a glacial moraine – which native tribes used for navigation – rising above the surrounding prairie. In Williamsville we were surprised and saddened to see many homes devastated by what appeared to be tornado damage: a wide, straight swath was cut through town where homes had lost their roofs or been completely leveled, and a crew was at work as we went by, busily re-building one such unfortunate structure.<br />We followed an endless succession of spurs, bypasses, and business loops on the old Route 66, noting one section near Auburn paved with red brick – still featuring the original curbing – and others that were concrete slab with weeds and cracks invading. One portion veered sharply around 90-degree corners on a narrow roadway; a farmhouse just after one such bend between Girard and Nilwood prominently displayed several mangled vehicles in its yard – no doubt past victims of the treacherous twists and turns. Musing that this road was most heavily traveled long before drinking-and-driving laws, and that its travelers most were hell-bent on reaching California – perhaps while tying on a few to pass the time along the way –, we could understand why parts of the old highway earned the nickname "the bloody road" or "the killer."<br />We stopped for ice cream treats at a Whirl-a-Whip in Girard that had the slowest ice cream service imaginable, but the ice cream was soft, delicious, and worth the wait. Surprisingly given that it was now mid-afternoon, none of us were yet hungry after our enormous breakfast (nor were we at dinnertime), and we agreed that a hearty breakfast is a great way to start these roadtrip days. The Europeans have it right!<br />We passed quickly through Gillespie, noting the Zion Church built in 1901, next to which train tracks once ran – in 1967, a train wreck destroyed the church steps and entrance canopy, while one freight car leaned dangerously close to the sacristy. Services still were held the next day – and Benld (yes, it’s spelled right – though I’m not sure quite how to pronounce it), where the Coliseum Ball Room still stands. Although the giant sculptures supposed to be out front were gone, I insisted on running inside briefly just to glance around at what in its heyday featured the biggest dance floor (10,000 square feet!) between Chicago and St. Louis: stars like Tommy Dorsey, Fats Domino, Duke Ellington, County Basie, Ike & Tina Turner, Ray Charles, and the Everly Brothers played there.<br />In Carlinville, we somehow missed the "Standard Addition" (featuring 156 mail-order homes from Sears & Roebuck, built in 1918 for Standard Oil Company mine workers)... but there we encountered a far more interesting sort of attraction, when we met a group of Route 66 travelers from London, England. Driving around the town square, we noticed, waved, and were flagged down by, a group of fellow Route 66 explorers whose transportation consisted of 2 interesting-looking vehicles. Circling the square, we returned to find that they were Londoners (two couples named Trevor & Maggie and Dave & Maggie) who had shipped their 2009 and 2010 Morgans over to drive from New York to Los Angeles, planning to take a couple of months to do it – wow! Noting our camper, one remarked incredulously, "You’re not all going to sleep in there, are you?!" When we replied that we were, he observed, "That’s kind of close in there for 5 people. What happens if somebody cuts gas?" We’ve been remembering that comment, warning one another not to cut gas in here tonight! :) While we were there, they waved down another passing vintage vehicle, which Tom immediately recognized as a ‘34 Chevy coupe rumbleseat with a turbo-charged Chevy engine that usually runs in a ‘vette. The couple driving it were locals (they told Tom that they lived 8 miles away and just happened to be driving by – what a happy coincidence). The town square was getting to look like a vintage car lot, and attracting attention and admirers, especially when they began opening their hoods to display their shiny contents. Particularly the men (I know, that sounds sexist – but they’re the ones who could understand and fully appreciate what was under there – to me, they were gorgeous specimens, but I don’t truly "get" all the ins and outs of auto mechanics the way Dad and his two mechanically-minded brothers can, after their lifetimes of tinkering with engines first on their family farm and then over the years at their own homes and to some extent through their careers) were drooling over the majesty of those flawlessly-restored cars. What fun!! In talking briefly with our new British friends – we were astonished and impressed that they would undertake to ship their cars halfway around the world to drive across another continent – we came to understand that after retiring and undergoing various life changes and challenges (including being reminded of the mortality facing us all), they had decided that life is short, and that under the carpe diem philosophy, it is best just to do what you can, while you can. Reminiscent of my own worn mantra (Mom & Dad heard it at least once today, and became tired of hearing it from me years ago), "It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!"<br />For our new English friends – who have 2 months to cover Route 66 (they hope to make Vegas by October 1!) – time is no object on this trip of trips, so unfortunately it’s unlikely that we’ll see them again on this trip... I hope that our paths will cross again someday, in another place and time. But sadly, with our limited time for now, we had to pick and choose. For every stop we made, there were more that we bypassed. After that stop in Carlinville, for example, we picked up our pace, concerned about reaching the Chain of Rocks bridge before it closed at dusk.<br />Our last official stop of the day was at the Chain of Rocks bridge, which begged many questions: why the name? Why was it built with that big bend in the middle? Why is the parking lot on the Missouri side (where we went first) closed? Located at the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers, it has a 22-degree bend serving as a compromise between motor traffic and river navigation, due to the unique geology of the area and concerns about the navigation of river traffic around the bridge pylons. Another interesting feature is the Chain of Rocks, a rocky area in the Mississippi that gave the bridge its name. During low water, it looks as though there is a small waterfall in the Mississippi, which used to wreak havoc with river navigation and has since been bypassed by the man-made Chain of Rocks Canal, perhaps a mile to the east, which is a 47-mile-long man-made channel built through Illinois to bypass the Chain of Rocks in the late 1950's and early 1960's. A below-water dam was built across the Mississippi River below the Chain of Rocks to keep the river level high enough at the upstream end of the canal to provide adequate flows/levels for navigation within the canal. Constructed in 1929 as part of Route 66 and financed by tolls, it was closed when the "new" bridge carrying I-270 was constructed in 1967, and it sat abandoned and decaying for 31 years, during which time it was featured in the 1981 movie "Escape from New York" as the 69th Street Bridge. It developed a bad reputation for crimes and violence, including a rape and murder, while sitting unused. It officially reopened for bicycle and pedestrian usage after renovations and security improvements. At one mile in length, it is the world’s longest pedestrian and bicycle bridge. Two gothic, castle-like structures stand in the river just to the south of the bridge, serving as water intakes for the Chain of Rocks Water Treatment facility, which has been operating since 1894. The St. Louis skyline was visible from the bridge, the graceful St. Louis arch hazy in the afternoon distance. A biker dude seemed to take great pride in frightening Mom and Don upon our arrival, so they stayed behind while Dad, Tom, and I walked out onto the bridge. I wanted to walk the entire length across and back, while they turned back halfway, allowing Mom & Don to take a turn; they all were satisfied with that much, and the timing worked out for us all to return to the car park around the same time.<br />Making our way through St. Louis was a little hairy – and I was sorely tempted to stop for the Cardinals game about to begin, judging by the throngs of red-clad fans making their way to the stadium, but the rest of the group was adamantly opposed to any more stops, almost declaring mutiny when I insisted on one more quick stop to see one of the fiberglass giants just west of St. Louis. It was indeed anticlimactic, but we never would have known if we hadn’t seen it for ourselves... and I provided some entertainment for the others by sneaking through a chained gate in order to get a better angle for the camera shot. :)<br />On this September 11th, rolling through peaceful countryside byways bursting with nostalgia and goodwill, it was difficult to imagine the viciousness behind the September 11th attacks eight years ago. This day was for us full of reminders of the milk of humankindness, from 93-year-old Paul Adams, to the Edwardses welcoming us to share in remembering their 60 years of roadside Pig Hip hospitality to countless travelers, to our new British friends... no matter where we turned – and I have found this to be true in far-flung foreign countries as well as here on the lonely backwater byways of a desolate highway through Americana – we found friendships waiting to be formed, and a world full of good, kind, caring people. They’re there, they always have been, and I believe that they are the ones that matter. Perhaps there always will be jerks and idiots in the world, and there will be times when they may carry the day, as they seemed to do on September 11, 2001 (although that’s debatable, in light of the many acts of kindness among strangers that we heard about in the aftermath of that tragedy) – but there are far more of the good kind, and they are the ones who count. A special shout-out to cousins Kari & Joe, who celebrated their 10th anniversary today – congratulations, and best wishes for many more decades of great years together! You are great parents, friends, and role models in so many capacities; you epitomize the kind of people I wish we could honor every day!<br />As we drove west from St. Louis, I looked up and called ahead to make reservations for a site at a Yogi Bear campground in Eureka (at the same exit as a Six Flags; the ready availability of sites, I thought, bodes well for accommodations to come farther on down the line). We pulled in around 7:30, set up shop, and enjoyed a light "dinner" of cheese, crackers, tomatoes, wine, and lemoncello, toasting a satisfying day on the Mother Road and ready to "keep on trucking" tomorrow!Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-70347161922903585022009-09-10T21:13:00.004-05:002009-09-24T14:36:14.396-05:00Route 66 Introduction (Chicago to Bloomington, Illinois)10 September 2009. Bloomington, Illinois.<br /><br />9 pm local time, and we’re sort of underway. (I say "sort of," because we only just now connected this evening; tomorrow will be our first full day en masse on Route 66.) I imagine all of us will sleep well tonight, after a long day on the road and a lot of wine (and limoncello) this evening.<br /><br />I never did get back to sleep this morning, making for a short night (2.5 hours of sleep – back to my old ways!) after staying up late talking with Monica, catching up on our respective lives and musing philosophically on the strange twists and turns life can take. This morning the house began to wake up around 5 when I did: her husband Brad left on his morning bike ride; Dad was up to read and shower; and I got in a little work before we hit the road around 8:45, waving reluctant goodbyes to Monica – the perfect hostess, fussing over us literally until the last possible moment.<br /><br />Today’s agenda was to make Bloomington, Illinois, north of which we had pre-selected the Yogi Bear Campground as our designated rendezvous point with the Minnesota contingent (Uncles Tom and Don, who would be arriving in Tom’s beautiful restored ‘59 Ford Skyliner convertible). After reviewing the literature and some discussion, we all had agreed that the Chicago-Bloomington segment of Route 66 didn’t strike any of us as all that spellbinding – and Bloomington was pretty much a straight shot south from the Twin Cities, making that a logical meeting place. However, being a purist – ahem, anal-retentive – I felt hell-bent to start our trip at the actual starting point.<br /><br />So we wasted – I mean, spent – several hours wandering around downtown Chicago, only to be disappointed: despite searching closely, we couldn’t locate the “Begin Historic Route 66" signs at East Jackson & Lake Michigan Avenue (adjacent to Grant Park – which was itself at least a gorgeous sight to see, the enormous fountain spouting majestically between the Chicago skyline and Lake Michigan’s sparkling blue water). There was a fair amount of construction going on, to which we attributed the absence of a sign. We considered stopping for breakfast at Lou Mitchell’s place on Adams (where, the literature enticed, every customer receives a free box of Milk Duds!) but sadly, there was no parking available for our lengthy rig. Still full from Monica’s generous breakfast of fresh fruit, yogurt, and cereal, we decided to head away from the Windy City. We were delighted to locate our first “Route 66" sign along Ogden Avenue, where Dad and I also stepped behind some trees to answer the Call of Nature, much to Mom’s horror and embarrassment. :)<br /><br />Heading southwest out of Chicago, we were surprised and mildly relieved to find Historic Route 66 fairly well posted with brown signs and hence easy to follow. We spent the rest of the morning and all afternoon happily meandering along the beginnings of the Mother Road.<br /><br />Highlights today included the Launching Pad Drive-in and Gemini Giant in Wilmington (home of Route 66 Root Beer, which is on our list of Things to Try on this Trip), a giant fiberglass “muffler man” sporting a space helmet and rocket ship, a remnant of America’s fascination with space travel; Braidwood’s Poke-A-Dot Drive In, a 50's-style diner where we feasted on french fries and frozen treats after using bathrooms adorned with Elvis (for the women) and Marilyn Monroe (for the men) memorabilia and sporting larger-than-life-sized fiberglass figures of Elvis, Marilyn, Betty Boop, James Dean, and the dancing and singing Blues Brothers outside; a series of sights in Dwight from an historic 1933 filling station (touted as the longest-operating gas station along Route 66, having dispensed fuel for 66 continuous years until 1999), the Country Mansion Restaurant, an 1891 railroad depot, the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed First National Bank, and the Keeley Institute (featuring 5 Tiffany-style stained-glass windows), which was the first medical institution to treat alcoholism as a disease, a prominent 5-story, 8-sided windmill, and a unique drive-thru coffee shop built of 2 freight containers; another vintage gasoline station in Odell (next to which we stopped to chat with a local who proudly showed us his garage packed with Route 66 memorabilia including a fully-restore ‘36 Chevy pickup that Dad admiringly described as “a beauty”); the Cayuga barn featuring one of 2 remaining barn advertisements, this one proclaiming the Meramec Caverns somewhere ahead in Missouri; and the Matthew T. Scott home and Selz Royal blue shoes mural in Chenoa. We were stopping to visit the 2-cell jail and Christiansen Memorial in Gardner when we were overtaken by an older fellow in a bright orange pickup; he had followed us for about the last 10 miles solely so that he could inform Dad that he had run a stop sign awhile back. (We all had noticed, but lived through the understandable oversight; we wondered that he had enough time on his hands to spend it wandering around after tourists...) We were heading toward Lexington when we received a call from Uncles Tom & Don, who had reached our rendezvous point, and we decided to cut things short, heading back to the Interstate to hightail it to Bloomington.<br /><br />Despite some construction-related traffic delays, we found our campground no problem. I had pre-paid for our site ($34!), and Tom and Don were waiting when we arrived. They were tired and hot from having spent 500 miles on the road without air conditioning on a hot day. None of us were hungry (extremely un-Stich-like, I know!), so we decided to forego the buffet dinner-theatre in a big barn adjacent to the campground. Dad unhooked the Scamp and set it up for the night. I was disappointed to learn that the campground pool had just closed, but no problem: we opened a box of (classy!) red wine and a bottle of white Tom had brought, munching trail mix, chips, and humus from the Minneapolis airport while exchanging tales of the day and excitedly talking about the days to come along the Mother Road. The Skyliner apparently had been a big hit, attracting rolled-down windows and thumbs-up signals from other drivers along their way – and it had purred like a kitten, somewhat to Uncle Tom’s relief, on its maiden long-distance voyage.<br /><br />Mom did an outstanding job of outfitting the camper with supplies: munchies, more than enough bedding, and towels for all of us. I sometimes get impatient with her when she doesn’t act as quickly as I might like on command, but when it comes down to it, she’s pretty darned on-the-ball as far as being prepared and planning ahead. She and Dad both did superbly at putting up with me today in the truck. I talked incessantly about our anticipated upcoming basement finishing project, drilling Dad with questions about construction until Mom begged me to stop, afraid I would distract him from driving and we would have an accident. And – let’s face it – I can be pretty bossy. There was some early tension over whether we needed to stop to take pictures of every historic sign or sight (my passive-aggressive mantra was, “Well, if we’re in such a big hurry, we could just get on the interstate and get to L.A. tomorrow night!”), but we eventually settled into a good rhythm, keeping our eyes peeled for sights and pulling over to investigate and photograph them. Mom had along a “travel bear,” of which we took pictures next to many of the attractions. Uncles Don and Tom didn’t have to put up with any of us today, and Dad teased that I’ll be riding with them the rest of the trip. Right now everyone is bunked down in the Scamp – of which a passing seasonal camper (one of Tom’s car’s admirers) observed wryly, “That’s the smallest 5th-wheel I’ve ever seen!”) For better or worse, we all are going to get to know each other really well over the course of the next couple of weeks!<br /><br />We laughed, ate, and enjoyed one another’s company, in classic Stich style, congratulating ourselves on finally having reached this point of being ready to embark on this great adventure. We took turns checking in with loved ones at home, and Tom answered questions from passing admirers of his car. It’s absolutely gorgeous – I can’t wait to drive it!!!Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-259342433594514378.post-39339536463161414742009-09-10T07:36:00.005-05:002009-09-24T14:37:55.140-05:00Route 66 Trip10 September 2009. Chicago.<br /><br />6am local time, and our odyssey is about to begin. It’s 6 am and I’m too excited to sleep, so I thought I would take a stab at figuring out how this blogging thing works – prompted by an email suggestion from cousin Brian Stich. The idea had not occurred to me previously (I’m astonishingly old-fashioned and behind-the-times, sometimes – just ask Seth and Alan, who no doubt will never forgive me if I wind up able to get this to work before figuring out how to "friend" them on Facebook, whatever that means), so this is a last-minute endeavor, and I make no guarantees about whether or how often I’ll update it; I don’t intend to spend time hunting down internet connections en route. But I’ll try to at least post some starting remarks.<br /><br />Yesterday – appropriately, with the 9/9/09 configuration so exciting to the numerologists – was mustering day, with those of us coming from points west flying to the midwest to meet up with our vehicles and crew: Uncle Don flew from Los Angeles to Minneapolis, and I came from Colorado Springs to Chicago, meeting up with Uncle Tom and my parents respectively to position ourselves to hit the road today.<br /><br />This trip has been years in the making. It has been on my "bucket list" for as long as I can remember. I can remember joking about it a decade ago with my ex-husband (back when we could laugh and joke about things), when he would tease that he wasn’t going to let me do any of the driving if we ever drove Route 66 – something I had wanted to do for years. Even way back in the mid-90s, I can recall taking pictures of the Route 66 roadsigns when Jim and I serendipitously found ourselves in Flagstaff, Arizona over Labor Day weekend 1995. So I guess this has been on my radar screen for most of my adult life.<br /><br />Several of us began to talk about "the Route 66 trip" in earnest the weekend of Uncle Don’s surprise 70th birthday party in Vegas in September 2006, when most of the aunts and uncles expressed interest in going; we considered trying to do it the following summer. Fate interfered, and with Aunt Theresa’s tragic accident and various life changes and challenges for all of us, years went by. Last summer we resurrected the idea the weekend of Mom & Dad’s big party (celebrating his retirement, her 65th, and their 40th wedding anniversary, surrounded by friends and family who gathered on the farm over food, plenty of wine – featuring Stich brew and plenty of "3-buck Chuck" – and later that evening, a bonfire with fireflies blinking in the Michigan woods in the background). At that point we decided we all needed to set aside a time frame and, as Nike would say, "just do it" – otherwise, more years would slip away and this idea would fall by the wayside along with so many other good intentions.<br /><br />So we set aside the entire month of September 2009 for our westward journey, and here we are. In the meantime we whittled that time to 3 weeks starting now, deciding to begin shortly after Labor Day with the intention of reaching Los Angeles by the end of the month. Our numbers waxed and waned, with as many as 30 people expressing interest in participating. In the end, we will be 5: myself, my parents, and Uncles Don and Tom, the latter of whom is a vintage car buff with the goodies to prove it: he will bring to the table his restored ‘59 Ford Skyliner, a sweet turquoise convertible that apparently (with some extension thing on the back) is the longest car ever built. He has promised that I can drive it, and I can’t wait.<br /><br />Although we’ll miss the wit and wisdom of those who can’t be with us, in the end the logistics probably will be easier with the smaller group, whether staying with friends, sleeping in my parents’ 5th-wheel Scamp (touted as sleeping 6 "comfortably" – we’re hoping that it’ll do for 5), or making motel reservations. Most of us are pretty laid-back – I’m probably the most high-strung in the group – which should enable us to reach true consensus on travel decisions, greasing the wheels for a smooth trip.<br /><br />I feel bad abandoning Bernie and the kids while I run off to play – but I must confess to not being heartbroken about temporarily escaping from practicing multiplication tables, nagging about homework, and the inevitable little-boy excuses and stories concocted to gain a pass to play outside or watch TV instead of attending to overdue homework; after only 3 weeks of school, I’m already tired of that routine. The kids are all great – unless and until any responsibility is requested or expected, and I’m tired of constantly nagging. I was such a brown-nosing nerd in school that I absolutely cannot relate to someone completely not caring about homework or grades.<br /><br />I flew standby on Northwest/Delta from Colorado Springs to Chicago, connecting in Minneapolis with not quite enough time to run out and greet Uncle Don, whose Southwest flight from LAX/Denver arrived 5 minutes before mine left for O’Hare. Dad’s cell phone wasn’t working, but fortunately we were of like mind, and I saw the pickup and camper circling the terminal shortly after I stepped out to the curb closest to Northwest baggage claim. We drove about half an hour west to St. Charles, where we spent the night with Monica, my best friend from high school, and her family: her husband Brad and their 4 adorable little girls, Torree, Lexy, Reiney, and Halle. Everyone feasted on Chicago-style deep-dish pizza and ice cream (her and my traditional reunion favorite) before the rest of the crew headed for bed. She and I stayed up until after 1:30 talking – we see each other far too infrequently – before calling it a night.<br />Now it’s morning, and I’m ready to roll. Mom, Dad, and I hope to locate the original starting point of the Mother Road before heading down it to Bloomington, Illinois, where we’ll meet up with the Minnesota contingent at a Yogi Bear campground, our designated rendezvous point.<br /><br />So... Off we go!<br /><br /><br /><u>Route 66</u><br /><em>Well if you ever plan to motor west, just take my way, that’s the highway that’s the best.</em><br /><em>Get your kicks on Route 66.</em><br /><em>Well, it winds from Chicago to L.A. more than 2000 miles all the way.<br />Get your kicks on Route 66.</em><br /><em>Well goes from St. Louie down to Missouri, Oklahoma City looks oh, so pretty.</em><br /><em>You’ll see Amarillo and Gallup, New Mexico.</em><br /><em>Flagstaff, Arizona, don’t forget Winona, Kingman, Barstow, San Bernardino.</em><br /><em>Would you get this hip to this kindly tip and go take that California trip?</em><br /><em>Get your kicks on Route 66!</em>Love-n-Laughter, Lori :)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01496259041540118173noreply@blogger.com2