ROUTE 66 RAMBLE, PART 7, ARIZONA Arriving at the eastern edge of Arizona at dusk means two things: that the 149 miles between here and Flagstaff will zoom past in darkness; and that we’ll see precious little of Mother Road pavement on this stretch.
As the guidebooks tell us, “the old road is effectively submerged beneath the freeway” in the eastern two-thirds of the state. Our first pulloff, however, brings us to the unmistakable tourist draw of “Chief” Yellowhorse’s cave.
Here, twenty-one years ago, I saw my first live bison. The buffalo were penned in a large enclosure in the shadow of the enormous cave. I took a photo with my Kodak—an early digital—and sauntered off to the gift shop. Here, I’d also tried fry bread for the first time.
I was too late, in that year, to have met Juan “Chief” Yellow Horse, a Diné native of Arizona who had come back from service as a Navy aviator in Berlin to take over a tourist attraction that had long occupied this lucrative corner between the Navajo lands on the north and the Petrified Forest on the south. Juan Yellow Horse, the subject of many travelers’ snapshots in his eagle-feather headdress, died in 1999.
Today his son Scott Yellowhorse runs the shop. It’s closing time, and he takes a break from working underneath the hood of his truck to show us around. The trading post is filled with curiosities of all kinds; one can purchase the same array of refrigerator magnets and metal 66 shield cutouts as elsewhere, but there’s more to interest me: faded photographs of visitors past, a large assortment of secondhand books, bins of tumbled stones, well-made clothing and jewelry. A bit of cash changes hands. I ask Yellowhorse about the bison.
These days, he says, it’s the dinosaurs—brightly colored statues—that get the kids’ attention instead. We wave good-bye and move back out on the darkening lanes of concrete.
By Joseph City it’s good and dark. With the guidance of a nearly-full moon we find the exit for a famous stretch of original Route 66 that long hosted roadhouses and rest stops for thirsty tourists. Back in the day Jack Rittenhouse made his gift shop and desert museum unmissable for those driving west, with a giant jackrabbit statue—complete with saddle for a photo op—and yellow-and-black mileage signs bearing the rabbit’s silhouette and the slogan “HERE IT IS.”
Real-life rabbits scurry from the beam of our headlights, which illuminate a closed-up shop, eerie in the shadows. We motor on the Winslow—where we compare the nightlife of the desert city to the daytime throngs accustomed to pulling over for another well-known photo op “Standin’ On the Corner.” Even after restaurant-closing time, late arrivers like us pull in, read a bit of history, snap a selfie, spend a few dollars at the convenience store to refill our sodas. Who knew such innocuous opening words could’ve inspired the revitalization of an entire town? The Eagles themselves get a nod in the mural overlooking the permanently stationed flatbed Ford and the bronze guitarist statue. It’s worth the time to take it easy in Winslow, wander around and pick out all the cues from the song and the many, many public art installations that have followed from that first work.
After a layover in Flagstaff to write and publish the week’s newspaper issues, we’re refreshed and ready to take on one of the most challenging stretches of our journey.
I’d been reading blog posts for weeks to keep up with road conditions and weather at Sitgreaves Pass, the high-elevation gateway to the old mining town of Oatman. While some Route 66 travelers—especially inexperienced motorcyclists—skip this challenging, unguardrailed segment, on a sunny summer morning it seems all systems go for our reliable pickup.
While some Route 66 travelers—especially inexperienced motorcyclists—skip this challenging, unguardrailed [Oatman] segment, on a sunny summer morning it seems all systems go for our reliable pickup.
A swim and a good night’s rest under neon lights in Kingman, an oil change, and a fortuitous tire check (removing three nails and screws from our treads) make for a promising start. It’s a good thing we headed out early, as temperatures on the downside of the slope would prove.
The climb up into the pass doesn’t seem that daunting, at first; the narrow pavement’s fine, the lane stripes brightly marked. The switchbacks become steeper, the curves blinder.
And then, the burros.
These are the primary hazard to bikers looking to keep up speed on the upslopes or harnessing it on the downside. The burros are the proliferant offspring of miners’ beasts of burden turned loose once the minerals played out. Oatman became a ghost town, but the four-footed residents remained—and replicated. Today burros outnumber the human population five to one, except, of course, when tourists pour in, like today.
When a baby burro begs a bit of refreshment, or a herd ambles down the center line, vehicle traffic comes to a standstill. Oliver, the leader of the pack, takes his sweet time, and his four-footed family ambles along behind. The two-wheeled and four-wheeled denizens of the Mother Road just have to bide their time.
The U.S. Bureau of Land Management conducts periodic roundups in the nearby desert by helicopter, relocating a few dozen burros at a time, according an AZCentral.com news piece earlier this year. “Burros have no natural predators, and I’ve watched them eat trees down to the ground,” said John Hall, who manages BLM’s wild horse and burro program in Arizona.
But the burros without doubt keep old Oatman alive with travelers, in an obviously symbiotic relationship. As temperatures approach their 116-degree high today, the human occupants of Oatman flock to the numerous watering holes, old-fashioned photo booths and T-shirt shops to leave a few bucks behind.
Would we have regretted missing this chapter in our westward travels?
You bet your sweet Sitgreaves Pass we would.
