New Adventures Pt. 2

I left you last time with our little adventure to Burro town. So now to further this exciting tale of travel and adventure.

We gleefully passed through Oatman and continued on our stretch of beautiful, winding, surprisingly light on traffic Route 66. It wound through the mountains as the history of this once highly trafficked road continually grabbed out attention. There were sheer drop offs on the cliff sides, parts that were so narrow going around a turn that when the truck going the other direction decided to inch over the line we almost ended up grabbing a handful of the mountainside we got so close to the wall. But I digress, we stumbled upon some awesome overlooks that spanned across what seemed to be the entire state of Arizona, found an enormous old tree that had a high hanging swing perfect for an afternoon break and some throw backs to childhood.

As we exited the mountains, we continued to drive by gas stations and small towns that seemed to be the story tellers of the history of Route 66. Funky and original in their day, bustling with all the amenities a small family could need as they traversed the country in their 55' Chevy Nomad. These buildings now stand as testaments to the power of the interstate. I can't count the number of buildings that we passed that lay empty and decaying. We stopped at one gas station in particular that jumped out at us. Overhangs of steel creaked every time the wind decided to blow through, boarded windows, and a post office that has long since closed. We happened to stop at the same station where a couple of Germans riding motorcycles (reference Adventures Pt. 1) had stopped as well. They laughed a bit and offered to take our picture as we sat in the middle of the highway in front of the big "Highway 66" logo painted in the road. We continued to explore and found our way to the bathroom of this gas station which was completely empty, save for the sink. I guess those things really are sturdy.

After a solid day of travel, we eventually found our way to Flagstaff, AZ. A small mountain town at 7,000 feet. Easy to walk around, and lots of cool little shops to explore. I'll spare you the details of the walking around there, but I will describe the hotel experience. We landed at the closest hotel to downtown we could find that didn't look like it was going to cost a limb or two. Turns out we got the last room, and the guy (I think feeling sorry for us) told us he would give us a discount. The room happened to be a smoking room (strike one, but ok, I can deal with that), we walk in and it seemed nice enough...bed, lights, a curtain on the window and even a mini fridge for our convenience. So hey, all in all it's pretty nice. Bags are set down, and we plop on a bed. Now, I should say that plop is the action we attempted, not necessarily the outcome. The outcome was more along the lines of a *thump* or *whack* if you will. The bed felt something like a plywood board covered with thin foam (strike two, we'll give em the benefit of the doubt and keep rolling here). We discuss what to do for the evening and get situated as the gentle sounds of a train in the distance remind me of what you would here in an old western movie. We toss our drinks in the fridge, and start bundling up to walk to dinner (it was 28 degrees) and again, the train approaches, this time I can hear it ever so gracefully, the epitome of US industry and a throwback to the golden days of travel sounds its horn. We store our things back in the bags, and get ready to step out as the train that had been approaching seemingly came barging in to our room blowing that whistle. I almost felt the need to jump out of the tracks as I walked to the window of our room and noted that the train tracks were indeed across the street. (strike three, but what are ya gonna do when you've already paid for the room). The trains and the horns continued through the night, un-relentless in their pursuit of warning the town that the train is still alive and well.

More to come in a third installment. Dang, I didn't know I had this much descriptive writing in me.

Farmer