FLAGSTAFF TO OATMAN

Flagstaff to Datman ROUTE 66 WESTBOUND ON AMERICA'S MAIN STREET

INDIGNANT AT A FRIEND'S CLAIM that “Route 66 is more romantic to read about than actually travel,” I set a goal; not so much to prove him wrong as to chronicle for myself that the Mother Road's cracked surface still lures adventurers.

The stretch between Flagstaff and Oatman qualifies as my favorite part of the “Main Street of America.” I find it particularly worthy of recognition because it's the last fragment of Route 66 to be defrocked of its numbers, and also the first portion to resurrect.

I begin my trek at the Grand Canyon Cafe, a bacon and eggs kind of place in Flagstaff. Not even the sun is up when we arrive as Jean serves a table full of men in ball caps, plaid flannels and cowboy boots. In the 50-plus years she's been waiting on early risers here, the place hasn't changed much. But down the Mother Road, little else has remained the same.

Following “Historic Route 66” signs from Flagstaff, my husband and I travel the original roadbed out of town, then, reluctantly, rejoin Interstate 40. A ghostly path doglegs next to us like a parallel universe, snaking first on one side of the freeway, then the other, part foot trail, part grass, part shrine.

original roadbed out of town, then, reluctantly, rejoin Interstate 40. A ghostly path doglegs next to us like a parallel universe, snaking first on one side of the freeway, then the other, part foot trail, part grass, part shrine.

The Parks exit, Milepost 178, soon veers to the north. A halfmile drive west on Historic Route 66 brings us to Parks in the Pines General Store, which was rebuilt after a fire in 1914. I open the wooden screen door and hear a satisfying creak from a narrowboard floor that slopes slightly upward. Fresh pastries by the front door tempt the morning crowd, and the aroma of strong, fresh java draws me inside. The “spirit” I'd hoped to find pops out from behind the deli counter with a cheery, “Good morning! How can I help you?” Millie Gillpatrick is on duty today. She offers me a handshake and a cup of coffee when I introduce myself. “What's now the front of the store was actually the back when Route 66 first went through here,” Millie says between waiting on customers. “You can walk on the original roadbed just a little ways from the back door.” She greets a tall, lanky gentleman in overalls who strolls in, letting the screen door whap-whap against the frame. “Hello, Mr. Latham.” The smile on Millie's face glides easily into her voice, “What'daweneed?” Congenial and helpful, she's a “poster-perfect” example of small-town merchants.

If passion were a prerequisite for living by the famous thoroughfare, Route 66 would have no better friends than Paul and Sandi Taylor, owners of the Route 66 Gift Shop in Williams and publishers of Route 66 Magazine. “We moved the magazine here to Williams back in '96,” Sandi tells me, carefullypicking up a crystal obelisk, "and the next year, we got the governor's Main Street Award for Best New Main Street Bus-iness of the Year."

Pointing to the east end of their building, Paul says, "This 4,000-square-foot section seats 200 in the new theater, and its lobby flows into a 3,000-square-foot gift shop." With plans to open late this summer, they have also received approval to add a new FM radio station.

"About 80 percent of our visitors come from Europe," says Sandi. "They like to find the 'old America' they see on tele-vision reruns. Route 66 tours are very pop-ular there."

I'm anxious to revisit an old alignment we'd stumbled upon some time ago at Welch Road (Exit 151). Finding the road proves to be part of the adventure, as we swing east and eventually locate a historical marker among the junipers. "Accessi-ble only to bicycles!" the sign declares. The actual roadbed lies a smidgen farther east, a follow-the-lay-of-the-land course, 3-plus miles long. One could say the Mother Road's holding her own, despite nearlythree decades of neglect resulting in bushel basket-deep potholes and heaved-up chunks of concrete.

At our next stop, Seligman, named for a New York railroad baron, we meet the Delgadillos, a family synonymous with the town and this onetime funnel of westward migra-tion. Seligman now plays host each spring to thousands of visitors and an annual Fun Run to Golden Shores, the last town be-fore the California border. The event's grown to more than 800 cars (mostly clas-sic), whose owners show up for the music, street dancing and Cruise Night.ic), talk with 74-year-old Angel Delgadillo in-is tiny barber shop, while he gives old-fashioned straight-razor shaves to three Harley-riding German friends we met in Williams. Guests from all over the world have stapled their business cards to the shop's walls so many, they seem to hold the place together. And, in a way, I guess, they do.

The talk turns to Angel's midwifely role in re-birthing what he calls "the people's road. a project by 'we the people,' bought with our own nickels and dimes. I (OPPOSITE PAGE ABOVE LEFT) Parks in the Pines General Store, tucked into a bend of Historic Route 66, offers visitors old-fashioned friendliness along with its aromatic coffee.

(OPPOSITE PAGE) Paul and Sandi Taylor proudly shoulder two desert water bags from their collection.

(LEFT) Seventy-four-year-old Angel Delgadillo displays his mastery of the straight-razor shave.

(ABOVE) A patchwork of signs adorns the separate men's and women's outhouses at Delgadillo's Snow Cap Drive-In restaurant at Seligman.

(TOP) The Delgadillos - Joe and Polly, Angel and Vilma, and Mary and Juan - have poured their lives into the resurrection of Route 66 through Seligman.

couldn't afford to leave so me and my wife, Vilma, just got in our car and went visitin' all the small towns around here in 1986, talking to people. That's when it all took off. I guess the timing was perfect."

There's a honking and shrieking out-side, and Angel's 84-year-old brother, Juan, roars by in his bucking 1936 hybridized

Chevrolet truck, giving a ride to four French women tucked around the tinseled Christmas Tree that's a permanent fixture in the backseat. Juan owns and still works at Delgadillo's Snow Cap Drive-In, a "Sweet Survivor," which boasts of serving "Dead Chicken," along with "slightly used" napkins and straws. Out back, there's a photo op: "His" and "Hers" outhouses.

Just beyond Seligman, the old route bends northward, paralleling the railroad and original westward trail, giving the next little town, Peach Springs, the dubious distinction of being bypassed by the most miles (36) by that danged interstate. Peach Springs, a historic oasis for thirsty travelers, sits on reservation land owned by the Hualapais. Beginning in the 1880s, the Santa Fe Railroad led the first stagecoach tours to the Grand Canyon, from Peach Springs to Diamond Creek Canyon, site of the sheerest walls in the canyon, nearly 5,000 feet high. The tribe runs an excellent lodge and restaurant, from which it sells permits for entry to Grand Canyon West, Colorado River rafting, hiking trails to the village of Supai and beautiful Havasupai (BELOW) Poetry of the Road Burma-Shave signs once amused and enlightened travelers along our nation's highways.

Falls, hunting and fishing. We meet our German friends again, as we're checking into the lodge. They opt for attending the all-night Native American dances in the village. "It's so America," they say, "we wouldn't miss it!" The next morning, we backtrack a bit to tour Grand Canyon Caverns, a set of caves about three-quarters of a mile beneath our feet. It's named for the Grand Canyon, 40 miles away, which supplies the caverns with fresh air through tunnels and fissures. During the atomic scare of the '50s, the government used the caverns' deepest room to store rations of water and provisions enough to sustain 2,000 people for two weeks.

Back on the road, the next 20 miles to tiny Truxton seem to fly. It's Millie Barker's day off at the Frontier Motel and Restaurant, but she graciously agrees to a visit, and I discover a genuine Route 66 pioneer who's seen the best, the bad and the getting better. Millie and her husband, Ray, came here from Oklahoma for his health in 1954, just three years after the town was founded on the hope of a new rail line to the Grand Canyon. "We were running the gas station when, out of the blue, Alice Wright, the original owner of the motel, came and said she wanted Ray and me to buy this place. That was 1972." Her face turns serious and she brushes a few crumbs from the table. "When the the interstate opened, it got real bad. We were about ready to pack it up when Angel showed up." Ray teamed with Jerry Richard of Kingman to organize the classic car Fun Run. Then-Arizona Governor Rose Mofford attended and blessed their efforts, and, with that, they left the doldrums in their dust. Ray died the day before the 1990 Fun Run, and Jerry in a plane crash in 1997, but their work on behalf of dying towns and ordinary folks trying to make a living continues. Hackberry, a wide-spot-in-the-road up the highway a piece, got its name from the Hackberry tree near a silver mine that brought the area's first settlers. Later an important railhead for local ranchers, the old village, or what's left of it, nestles among the trees south of the present route. But most of what happens today takes place at the General Store, situated right next to this more recent alignment. Owners John and Kerry Pritchard have been lovingly restoring the tin-roofed building since November 1998. Antiques abound, outside and inside, and license plates from all over the world, some as old as 1936, line the ceiling.

Kerry has a special affection for this road. "I learned to read driving across Route 66 by watching the Burma-Shave signs," she explains. We tour the grounds, including the koi pond they've dedicated to the memory of songwriter Bobby Troup, of "Get Your Kicks on Route 66" fame. Of all the small towns along this section, Kingman has probably survived best. New and old mingle well in this friendly town. As we approach from the east along Andy Devine Avenue, colorful neon punctuates the night sky, hyping motels like El Trovatore, Hilltop, Route 66 and the Ramblin' Rose. We choose the Hilltop Motel for the night's lodging. Dennis Schroeder, an 18-year veteran of Route 66, takes good care of us.

"Friends!" he says without hesitation when asked what's the best part of living on the old road. "I've met all kinds of great people. Some travelers have even become permanent friends."

We pick up brochures, directions and a great cup of coffee at the Powerhouse Visitor Center in historic downtown. Out of Kingman, we gravitate down through a beautiful draw, where morning sunlight cavorts between sheer mountain walls and modern railroad tracks, dumping onto the flats of vast Sacramento Valley. Moonscapelike, the valley and Oatman Hill must have looked like Purgatory to 1930s refugees from the dust bowl days. The rugged Black Mountains encircle the valley. I doublecheck the gas gauge and the premiums on our joint life insurance policy. Stories passed along the trail, back then, promised that if you could make it to Ed's Camp at the base of "The Hill," he'd help you make it up to Oatman, or pull you up himself. Some cars had enough power only when they backed up the steep incline, and hairpin turns sometimes took two or three tries. But even these daunting possibilities could not stand in the way of reaching The Land of Milk and Honey. If you could just get to California, all you had to do was lie on your back and oranges dropped right off the trees into your mouth . . . or so they said. The road rises abruptly out of the valThey floor, twisting and turning. My side of the car is next to sheer drop-offs, sans railing. I tell my husband, "Keep your eyes on the road. I'll tell you later what you saw." I breathe easier at Sitgreaves Pass, both for the spectacular view (you can see Nevada, California and Arizona from the pull-out) and because I know we're descending. On first impression, Oatman feels like a movie set: ancient wood-front stores, dusty streets, the quintessential Western die-hard town. A boom-to-bust place whose inhabitants turned to mining Hollywood and the Mother Road when the Mother Lode of gold became too expensive to mine. Though I didn't think it possible, my freely roam Oatman's streets nearly equals my relief at coming off "The Hill." One braying momma moves to the middle of the main street with her baby. Cars crawl around them; nobody honks. Another baby, the color of fine pewter, with eyes a pale shade of periwinkle, politely follows me onto the covered wooden sidewalk. Whether they paused just for champagne or their honeymoon night after their wedding in Kingman, Carole Lombard and Clark Gable put this town on the map by stopping at the Oatman Hotel, a hostelry they shared with the resident ghost, Oatie. He had his own room, however. Some swear he insists the window in there stay open and the bedspread neat, just the way he likes them and, if changed, he'll fix them.

The Mother Road holds many such stories. She's more than just a way of getting from here to there, she's a message - a wake-up call that life's uncomplicated pleasures still exist and, in fact, fill a collective need. She represents valiant strength and renewal.

More romantic to read about than to travel? Guess again, friend.

WHEN YOU GO

Hours, Dates: Grand Canyon Caverns, open daily except Christmas. Hours vary.

Events: Williams' Independence Day celebration includes a rodeo, street dance, parade and fireworks display.

Travel Advisory: Grand Canyon Caverns' tour features well-lighted paved pathways, but the caverns are not entirely accessible to wheelchairs or those who have difficulty walking.

Additional Information: Flagstaff Visitor Center, toll-free (800) 842-7293 or www.flagguide.com; Peach Springs, toll-free (888) 255-9550; Grand Canyon Caverns, (520) 422-3223; Williams & Forest Service Visitor Center, (520) 635-4061; Kingman Powerhouse Visitor Center, (520) 753-6132; Oatman Chamber of Commerce, (520) 768-7400.