Route 66

TEXT BY ROBERT J. FARRELL PHOTOGRAPHS BY CHRISTINE KEITH ROUTE 66 The Melody Lingers On

Now you go thru Saint Looey and Joplin, Missouri And Oklahoma City is mighty pretty; You'll see Amarillo; Gallup, New Mexico; Flagstaff, Arizona. Don't forget Winona, Kingman, Barstow, San Bernardino. Won't you get hip to this timely tip: When you make that California trip Get your kicks on Route 66!

"Route 66" by Bob Troup Copyright Londontown Music Used by permission The song "Route 66" was a smash hit when it was released in 1946, and became a standard that has been recorded by countless vocalists. Whenever I hear it, it makes me yearn for an early-model Corvette convertible with the top down and the sun shining and the beauty of northern Arizona whizzing by as I blast down that famous two-lane road to the land of dreams. A great song, a great highway, and a television series viewed at an impressionable age will do that.

Long before Europeans explored the Southwest, Indians trod a path across what is now northern Arizona, trading salt, flint, and pigment. Later, Army surveyor Edward F. Beale and the caravan of camels he was testing for military use traversed the same route. Next came the railroad, then the automobile, and ... U.S. Route 66.

For roughly 50 years, from the mid1920s to the mid-'70s, millions of Americans knew 66 as their road to romance and adventure: Dust Bowl refugees looking for a new life, prosperous postwar families on vacation, long-haul truckers on their way to the next night's motel, hippies in kaleidoscope-colored buses or vans in search of America. Today much of the adventure is long past and the romance gone. For many, old Route 66 is just a memory. The final blow came in 1984 when construction crews completed the last stretch of Interstate 40, bypass ing Williams, Arizona. Now, for the first time in motoring history, a driver could take the most practical route from Chicago to Santa Monica without laying a tire on Route 66.

Faster, safer, following a more direct course, and funded by billions of tax dollars, the interstate system gobbled up or bypassed 2,000 miles of the two-lane thread of Route 66. In the process, it virtually ignored most of the little towns in which resided much of the personality and ro mance of the old highway-the places that, for much of the 20th century, had gassed up the cars, fixed the flats, sold the souvenirs, fed the hungry, put up the weary for the night, and generally offered cross-country travelers welcome diversions.

But, I'm glad to say, there are still some among us who don't always enjoy those uninterrupted miles of smooth, sweeping pavement. Instead, they prefer to seek out the distractions and character of the backcountry and retrace the old two-lane roads that survive to link the small towns. For them, there is still a part of Route 66 that is alive and well in northwestern Arizona. It runs from Seligman to the Arizona-California border, winding across nearly 160 miles of scenic, wide-open country and through a handful of towns and settlements as it has for more than half a century. It's now called Arizona 66, not U.S. 66. You can drive it anytime. But be prepared; the trip covers more than miles of highway: it covers decades of time, too.

Angel Delgadillo strides briskly toward the abandoned railroad station on the deserted stretch of Route 66 that parallels the Santa Fe tracks. A summer thunderhead grumbles 40,000 feet overhead as a blustering breeze chases a dozen raindrops and the pungent perfume of wet grass and juniper across Seligman. Delgadillo identifies the locations of a lifetime of associa tions in his town. "I cut hair at a shop on that corner for 22 years." He points to a vacant lot sprouting a new crop of weeds freshly watered by summer rains. "Then, 17 years ago, I moved to the barbershop and pool hall where I am now."

Born in Seligman two years before the stock market crash of 1929, he conjures images from the Great Depression as his earliest memories. "As a kid, you don't necessarily realize who's poor and who's not. To me the people they called Okies, with all their belongings loaded in and on their cars, were just people traveling on Route 66. There was the joke that poor Okies had one mattress tied on their car, and rich ones had two mattresses. But we weren't a whole lot better off than they were. My family almost joined the 'Grapes of Wrath' people, traveling west, looking for work. But my brother got a job with the railroad, and we stayed here in Seligman."

For much of its existence, two arteries pulsed lifeblood through Seligman: the highway and the railroad. Actually, Selig man started out as a railroad town. It sprang up in 1886 on the high piñonand juniper-studded plain where the rails of a short-lived narrow-gauge line from Prescott, the territorial capital, joined the main line of the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad. In those days, railroaders and cowmen of northern Arizona called the settlement Prescott Junction. A few years later, when construction was completed on a PrescottAshfork branch line 24 miles to the east, the narrow-gauge road was abandoned and the A and P renamed the community Seligman for two New York banker broth ers who owned a good deal of the rail road's stock.

When the A and P reorganized in the 1890s to become part of the Santa Fe Rail road, the company located a locomotive roundhouse at Seligman. For the next 88 years, the town remained a major mainte nance location and a layover point for train crews. But in 1985, as part of cost-cutting measures, Santa Fe eliminated its Seligman operations, and the town has suffered.

"Over here's the train station and hotel." Delgadillo pauses before an impressive two-story tan stucco edifice trimmed with brown wood pillars and shutters. "It used to be beautiful. Like the other Harvey Houses, it was a really first-class hotel and restaurant. It had a big garden with lovely plantings. That's where the trainmen would spend their off-hours, smoking and playing cards and reading. The grounds were where boy would meet girl. Back then, young couples didn't kiss much in public. It wasn't accepted. This place was beautiful and secluded, and that's where everyone went." Delgadillo's brown eyes sparkle as he remembers the fragrance of the garden, the music floating from the restaurant, youthful romance on warm summer evenings. Now the hotel yard has gone to weeds, and boards cover the windows of the train station. Delgadillo worries that the Santa Fe will raze the building before preserva tionists have a chance to save it. "It would make a wonderful museum for Historic Route 66," he says.

The Historic Route 66 Association of Arizona may be the most exciting thing to happen to the area in years. When Angel talks about it, he takes deep breaths be-tween thoughts and nearly vibrates with enthusiasm. He and a number of folks who live along old Route 66 formed the group to promote the road as a historic highway and an attraction for travelers. They elected Angel Delgadillo president.

To date, the association has had remark-able success in reviving interest in the highway, persuading the State of Arizona to designate old Route 66 officially a historic highway. That status brings with it not only publicity and promotion through the Ari-zona Department of Transportation and the Office of Tourism, but also highly vis-ible signs along 1-40 telling motorists where to find the road, and new highway markers all along its course.

"So many people all over the West and all over the country lived the history of this road over the years," Delgadillo says, "and it's really part of them. They love it. Now they stop here and remember; they tell me about when they last drove 66 back in 1949 or whenever. Young people stop, too. They've heard of Route 66 from their parents, or seen reruns of the old TV show or heard the song, and they want to see the road and the country for themselves. We also get a lot of travelers from foreign countries especially Germany and Japan.

"We're close to the Grand Canyon, and people like to take a side trip to see the highway they've heard so much about. There's so much history on this road and so many things to see - the Aubrey Cliffs, the open ranch country, Grand Canyon Caverns, the Hualapai Indian Reservation, the road to Diamond Creek, where you can see the Colorado River at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Route 66 is a natural for tourists."

Certainly something no one planning a trip on 66 should miss is Delgadillo's Snowcap. Facing the highway at the east end of downtown Seligman, the gleaming white and red concrete-block cube of a drive-in displays a riot of plastic flowers planted in cement blocks, and huge hamburgers, hot dogs, and ice-cream cones painted on the walls. There's also a mint-condition white and red 1936 Chevrolet convertible parked in front, complete with lights, siren, six-foot-tall Christmas tree, and a jack-o'-lantern.

Inside, among the collection of vintage advertising posters and humorous signs and slogans, Juan Delgadillo, Angel's brother, reigns as proprietor, chief cook,

and star of the show. Now 70, he and the Snowcap have been featured on national television and in Playboy magazine. It's not the food - though I'm told it's good - but rather Juan's antics that make a stop at the Snowcap a must. For example: I ask Juan for a chocolate ice-cream cone. All he has is vanilla, he apologizes, with eyes only a little sadder than a hound dog's. I tell him vanilla will be fine. "Large or small?" he asks. "Small," I reply. He produces a cone the size of a thimble, and his sad eyes question me. "A little larger than that," I respond. Juan nods solemnly, pulls out a regulation small cone, and builds the rope of soft ice cream into a perfect peaked tower. He sets it in a holder and says, "89 cents." I pay with a ten. He rings up the sale, returns to the counter with a wad of bills, counts out change for a five, and turns back toward the register, all the while watching my reaction out of the corner of his eye. Just as I am about to bring the shortage to his attention, he sighs, wheels around, and counts out another five dollars, then beams with satisfaction. I thank him and scan the counter for a napkin. "Napkin?" he queries. "Please," I reply. He reaches under the counter and produces a large rumpled clump of apparently used napkins. I stare in disbelief, and he deadpans, "You probably want a new one." When I finally get outside on the covered patio, he pushes a button, and the chrome horn on the Chevy's hood plays "How Dry I Am."

OLD 66 GENERAL STORE pure dry air. (BELOW) The serpentine two-lane highway winds through the Black Mountains west of Kingman to Ed's Camp, home of nine families and fifteen wild burros that wander the surrounding desert, occasionally stopping traffic along 66. The community was originally owned and operated by the late Ed Egerton, a dedicated desert rat, prospector, and self-taught geologist who lectured at universities. (RIGHT) Keith Gunnett now manages Ed's Camp, mining and selling fire agates and antiques to travelers from all 50 states and a surprising number of foreign countries.

(LEFT) Guides at Grand Canyon Caverns on Route 66 east of Peach Springs conduct tours hourly through the depths of the extensive dry caves. First explored in 1927, the caverns yielded the 20,000-year-old remains of a giant ground sloth, perfectly preserved by the West of Seligman, Route 66 loops north of 1-40 across wide open space. Cattle graze in the broad Aubrey Valley, and the reddish brown Aubrey Cliffs rise abruptly to the north of the golden grasslands. Valley and cliffs are named for Francois Xavier Aubrey, a mountain man who once rode horseback from Independence, Missouri, to Santa Fe, New Mexico, a total of 800 miles, in five days and 13 hours, Peach Springs is 39 miles west of Seligman, and the place to stop if you plan to explore the area north of 66, stretching to the Grand Canyon. At the Hualapai Indian Tribe's office, pick up a camping permit and get information on some of the more scenic areas on the reservation. Beyond Peach Springs, Route 66 descends toward Kingman. The burgeoning

sparse golden grass along the roadside. Recently, in these mountains, a handful of folks found refuge from the rattle of the dice, the spin of the wheel, the trendy and transient 24-hour-a-day party of Las Vegas. They backed away gradually, working for a while at the slower paced casinos in Laughlin, Nevada, on the Colorado River. Then, on their days off, they explored the Arizona desert east of the river and stumbled upon the near-ghost town of Oatman. Some never went back to their former homes and jobs.

Helene Burns is one such individual. After years in the fast lane, she and her husband, Mitch, left it all behind and built up several small businesses in Oatman.

"Let me know if I can help you with anything," Helene offers in a pleasant but slightly detached tone. She doesn't mind at all if her sole customer just browses. Perched atop a high stool and protected from the rest of the world by a glass display case, she only occasionally surveys the goings-on in her shop, appropriately named the Buckle Up. Surrounded by tastefully displayed belt buckles in nearly every imaginable size, shape, and design-from exquisite turquoise-and-silver works of art northwestern Arizona. Route 66 winds through the business district, almost losing itself in the maze of streets, and then pops out of town headed toward the mountains to the southwest.

Above the brown and khaki crust of creosote flats between Kingman and the Colorado River, the Black Mountains rise in the distance like dark meringue whipped into pointed peaks. Years ago the mountains rumbled with machines and explosives as miners tore fortunes in gold from the rich ground. Today the narrow twolane road corkscrews past the remains of those long-deserted mine shafts, stopes, and outbuildings. The remnants, barricaded with barbed wire and "Danger Keep Out" signs shot full of holes by motorized marksmen, are slowly melting back into the desert.

Few people drive this section of road now, so it is easy to stop and take in the scenery and the sounds: rugged mountains reclining peacefully in the warm desert sun, the shrill cry of a hawk, the hiss of the desert wind moving through the to beer and truck logos-she seems content to enjoy the relaxed pace of downtown Oatman on a summer Sunday.

When she is asked about her town, though, the veil of detachment lifts. "It's a very spiritual place, a place of power," she says. "Coming toward town from the west, you see the Elephant's Tooth, the big white rock that stands out from the rest, and you think, 'That's something special.' I bet the Indians that lived here thought the same thing. When I drive into Oatman, the mountains surround me and protect me and make me feel as though I belong."

Helene tells of the thousands of miners, bartenders, storekeepers, cooks, druggists, and other citizens who lived in Oatman over a period of about four decades beginning at the turn of the century. When gold was discovered in 1902 in the scenic notch in the west slope of the Black Mountains, a tent camp named Vivian sprang up. The camp grew and prospered, and later changed its name to Oatman after Olive Oatman, survivor of an Indian massacre. Then, in the late 1930s, the mines petered out and Oatman declined.

But a few folks toughed it out and kept the town alive. When, in the 1960s, tourists started arriving to observe the perfectly preserved historic town, small shops opened to cater to them. Oatman still looks like an early 20th-century mining community, and a few miners still work claims in the area, but most Oatman residents now mine tourist greenbacks instead of gold. The 20 or so shops in the old storefronts that line Route 66, Oatman's main street, sell everything from quality Indian jewelry to antiques to inexpensive souvenirs. The two-story Oatman Hotel-where, in 1939,Clark Gable and Carole Lombard spent a night of their honeymoon-now serves as the town's museum. The movie stars' room is preserved just as it was when they stayed there. There's also mining paraphernalia along with other memorabilia from the days when Oatman was busy producing a total of $36 million in gold.

On weekends and holidays, Oatman's resident gunfighters stage mock shootouts and Western dramas for visitors. And 15 or 20 wild burros wander into town daily to fill their bellies with free handouts. Protected by law and roaming free in the Black Mountains, these descendants of prospectors' pack animals are moochers of the first water. Friendly and voracious, for a handful of alfalfa pellets they'll let you scratch their ears. Life must be good for the Oatman burros; there's not a rib showing on any of them. And life is good for the people of Oatman, too, according to Helene Burns: "My husband and I bought an old miner's shack that was built in 1908, and we love it there. I get up every morning and go for a long walk through the outskirts of town and out into the desert. It's quiet and peaceful, andFrom cactus flowers to yucca blossoms to the tiny blooms of bellyflowers, Arizona's desert wildflowers are beautifully displayed in this comprehensive new book.

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I'm not afraid. That is something I really treasure. I couldn't do that in Las Vegas.

"Nothing bad has ever happened hereno murders or anything like that. And there's a really great bunch of people living here. Tombstone is called the town too tough to die. We call Oatman the town too nice to die."

From Oatman, old Route 66 winds down out of the mountains and the early years of our century and back to the present at Golden Shores, a small community surrounding a marina on the Colorado River. From there it's four miles of speedboats and water-skiers to Topock, I-40, and the Arizona-California border. Only the interstate rolls on; the winding two-lane is left behind. But the memories of the kicks on Route 66-the small towns, the inspiring open landscapes, and the people met along the way will remain in memory for a long time.