With no particular plan in mind, I packed a duffle bag and headed north up interstate 45, my main goal being to cross Route 66, and to get out of this Southern Texas heat and humidity for a couple of days. Hopping on State Hwy. 287 at Ennis, Texas, I followed the highway through small towns in the Panhandle, spotting old time drive-ins, Texas vineyards, and lots and lots of cows. Oh, lots of cows. I found Route 66 late that afternoon, with a little thrill of excitement. I've heard my whole life about this infamous road across America - the Mother Road. I felt the ghost of Steinbeck sitting to my right, nodding his head in approval. Get off the highway and find the real America, he seemed to be saying. Getting on and off the interstate to follow this winding, often badly kept stretch of road got tedious at times. I loved the forgotten towns that survive only on the memory of a time when 66 ran through their midst, bringing travelers. Many of those towns are all but ghost towns now, with a few key tourist spots to bring in revenue and keep the town alive for the farmers and ranchers living in the vicinity. Perhaps that IS the real America, the spirit to survive and adapt in the face of change.
Route 66 and Interstate 40 both cross through the heart of Amarillo, which is where I found myself stopping for the first night. Being nothing if not adventurous, I stayed in a well-advertised, inexpensive motel. I found my mistake the first time when I went back to my car to get a forgotten book. There was a drug deal going down in the parking lot. Returned to my room without the book, and locked my flimsy door. I didn't sleep very well that night, what with the party in the room next door and the funky smell coming from across the hall. On the plus side, lesson learned, and I know what crack smells like when it's being burned now. Adventure aside, I was glad to see the dawn and pack my car back up. It was early that morning when I gassed up and trekked the seven or eight miles to the Cadillac Ranch, just on the west side of Amarillo.
The Cadillac Ranch is an interactive art installation - in a cow pasture. Driving East on Route 66, after leaving Amarillo, you'll find ten Cadillacs, from various model years, planted in a row, in a cow pasture. Parking on the side of the road, I entered through an old gate, to the smell of cow patties in the early morning air. The wind was blowing wildly off the flatlands, and I could hear the sounds of the nearby interstate in the background. Humans are odd, that's all I can say. Spray cans littered the field, discarded from their gleeful artistic debauchery. Here and there, people were spraying "I heart so and so" or "Bob was here" on the sides, undercarriages, and wheels of these upright cars. I was walking around for the third time when someone handed me a can of spray paint they didn't need anymore. I hadn't planned on adding to the insanity, but when a moment presents itself, you take it. I started with just a few test sprays, and then found myself wondering what I should paint, how I would leave my mark. From what I had observed, anything written would be covered over in a matter of hours. So I found myself spraying something I wouldn't say out loud. Everyone has something they carry around, something that is a secret, or embarrassing, or whiney, or just plain silly. I spray painted mine on the side of a Cadillac, in a cow pasture outside of Amarillo. No one who knows me will ever see that confession, and no one who sees it will know me or care. It was freeing. I was pretty gleeful in decorating my words with outlines and curlicues. A group of bikers had approached the installation at that point and one of them laughed watching me, said "looks like you're having fun" in a German accent. I realized I was, having fun. I said I was enjoying the beautiful morning and one of them asked if I'd like a short ride. Well, tempting as that was, I didn't know the guy and wasn't dressed for a motorcycle ride, even on a vintage Harley like this one. I declined, but it was nice to be asked.
Driving westward again on Route 66, I passed through Adrian, Texas, the last town in Texas on the old road. It was an impulsive move that had me stopping at the Mid-Point Diner for a late breakfast. The Midpoint is an historic spot, built originally in the 1940's, rebuilt twenty years later, and added onto over the years. The furniture is mismatched, the building old, and the waitress and cook were cheerful and colorful. I was the only person there the first few minutes, then some area regulars dropped in. They didn't even have to order - just said, "breakfast as usual." A few minutes later, the group of German bikers came in and pretty much took over the diner. There were enough of them that they were at every table, taking up space in every booth. A couple sat across from me. The lady in my booth said that they were all visiting with her brother who lives outside of Abilene, and taking a tour across the country on their bikes. Turns out her brother was the one who had offered to give me a ride on his bike - and watching them all together, I could see that they were just enjoying life and a beautiful summer morning together. It was evident as they bought silly items from the Route 66 gift shop, ordered their meals and shared menu items with one another with laughter. I was rather glad to be included in their midst of joyful conversation. Ana's English was good, but her accent made it different to understand. I never did catch her brother's name, as the accent could have made it Ari, Ottie or several other variations. Didn't matter - their company was pleasant just the same.
I left after enjoying an omlette full of vegetables and probably dripping in butter. So good. Such a good start to the day. I was still full of that same gleeful spirit about thirty minutes later when I crossed into New Mexico on old Route 66. Land of Enchantment, as their signs all say. New Mexico was a mixed wonder to me, the whole time I was there. Mountains and desert, small towns and larger cities. I drove through Tucumcari on the old Mother Road, and found it to be the best preserved of all the towns along the route. I wish I'd been able to go through there at night time, as all the neon signs from the past are still maintained in that town, and I bet it's a sight worth seeing. Passed the TeePee Trading post, a historic shop. Also the Blue Swallow Motel, another fun place I've seen in pictures over the years. Just outside Tucumcari (and I'll say that a lot, because it's fun to say...just like the old song says, "Tucumcari Tonite"), I was forced back on Interstate 40 for a bit. It was at this point that my trip turned a little bit sour, as I lost a piece of my car. Two days before leaving town, I had hit a pole, and thinking the only real damage was to my bumper, figured I'd fix it later. Ummm...well...apparently my fender was not so firmly fixed in place, and it flew off going down he interstate. I looked in the rearview mirror just in time to see a semi run it over. To say I was miffed might be an understatement. I was pissed. All the way to Albuquerque. By then, I was running out of steam, and the city of Albuquerque is too beautiful to stay mad for long. Whoever planned that city even had the thought to make the freeways symmetrical and attractive. Overpasses are colored Terra Cotta and accented with turquoise, reminding all those who pass that they are in the Southwest.
The turnoff to Chaco Canyon was badly marked, and I spent a lot of time wandering in the ancient hills, looking for the park. Rain drove me back down to the freeway again, and on toward Gallup. Gallup is another Route 66 town not much marked by time. I spent my night at the El Rancho Hotel. I love their sign, "Charm of Yesterday; Convenience of Tomorrow." Of course, the hotel reached it's heyday in the late 40's and early 50's, so that convenience of tomorrow is about fifty years behind. But that's OK, the charm was all there. The El Rancho was the place where the movie stars of the 40's and 50's stayed while filming westerns. I walked up the curving staircase, knowing I was treading in the path of Katherine Hepburn, John Wayne, and Ronald Reagan. It was a 1950's vision of what the wild west should be, with curving stairs leading to a second floor gallery, a player piano in the lobby, and lots of wagon wheels and bull horns. My headboard was a wagon wheel, located nicely in the Errol Flynn room. Now, I had a very small single room, so I highly doubt Flynn ever graced it with his presence. Still, best sleep I had on the whole trip. I dined that night in the hotel's restaurant, with its kitschy decor and dubiously "authentic" Mexican menu. I settled on a grilled cheese and salad, as being from Houston makes me skeptical of Mexican food in other states.
I drove into Arizona the next day, singing along to Fleetwood Mac and enjoying the irony that the desert weather was cooler and more pleasant than that at home. I pulled into the Petrified Forest national park around 7:30 a.m., and was one of the first in the park. I can't begin to describe how incredible the Painted Desert canyon is. None of the pictures I took could do justice to the colors and variety of rock formations. I stopped to tour the Painted Desert Inn, perched above the canyon. It's no longer open for overnight stays, but I can only imagine that those who honeymooned there had a very hard time living up to the start to that marriage - how could anything else compare with that kind of setting?
I stopped at the Puerco Pueblo, a 900 year old shared living space, on a high mesa, within the park. I was the only one on that particular trail that early in the morning, and I might have been a little bit of a rule breaker, as I wandered off the path to stand inside the kiva that morning. Those who know me well know that I am a huge history geek, and there is nothing more thrilling to me than standing where others have stood and lived, and imagining their lives. I am always fascinated by how they are different from those I know in my time, and how we are all the same as human beings. Looking over the cliff, there was a rock sectioned off, and on it, there were petroglyphs. Ancient graffiti. I was looking at those etched images of dancers, lizards, people, and I was struck by the similarity between those marks and the spray painted artwork on the Cadillacs the day before. 900 years before, someone made those marks on the rocks. They had the same dreams of raising their children and living good lives with someone they love as the people at the Cadillac Ranch, and they had the same goal. To make a mark. To say "I was here." To say they loved someone. It's what we all do, every single day. We try to leave an impression of our brief and tiny lives on this planet. To leave our mark on the world, and on those we love. I'm not sure how long I stood there, impressed with these ancient artists, but I felt how real they were, and how they certainly had left a mark that stood through time. I thought about those whose marks were washed away by time and rain, and animals. But their spirits remained in the desert as well, telling a story if we care to listen, to how their lives weren't so different from ours. In this time, we overcomplicate our lives, load up with too much we don't need. Worry too much about things that don't matter, and forget about those that do. But at the heart of it all, we hope to leave something that commemorates our time on Earth. My spray painted words at the Cadillac Ranch have long since been covered up, so I'll have to leave my mark in other ways. On my friends, my family, my work and those things I love.To be continued....(because it's just getting too darn long).
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