Photos: Route 66 Redux: Oatman, AZ

[thehefner]

Heading South through Arizona, I realized I would be intersecting Route 66, right around an area I remembered quite well. It would be an hour detour, but I knew I had to return. Astute readers may recall, on my final day along 66, I encountered a mysteriously uninhabited trailer that sold honey and other bee productions on the honor system. Here's the original picture I took of it back in mid-November of 2008:





I originally bought four jars of their honey, which I planned to use as housewarming gifts for my brother and my girlfriend, plus one for me. Now, it was late January 2009, and on my way back home, I thought, why not restock?

So I made it back to Needles, CA (the desert home of Snoopy's brother, Spike), and tracked down the Mystic Maze honey trailer. But I dunno, something about it just seemed... less magical, somehow.





Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the fact that I'd already been there. Maybe it's just a reminder that there are no do-overs in life, that nothing ever lives up to that first time. I can't try and recreate these experiences. All I can do is try and do the best I can the first time, and then move on.

So while I left Needles feeling strangely hollow but well-stocked with honey, I realized that there may not be do-overs for the things you've already done, but there are second chances for the things you missed. For me, that meant something I avoided seeing the first time I went down 66. A journey I was too afraid to take the first time.

I'll let ROAD TRIP USA explain:

OLD ROUTE 66: OATMAN: One of the most demanding, desolate, and awesomely satisfying stretches of the old road climbs from I-40 along the Colorado River, beginning just east of the California border and rejoining the freeway at Kingman. Following at first along the wildlife refuge that lines the Colorado River, the old road then cuts across a stretch of desert that brings new meaning to the word “harsh.” The narrow, roughly surfaced roadway passes few signs of life on this 50-mile loop, so be sure you and your car are prepared for the rigors of desert driving.

I wasn't sure the minivan could handle it before, but now, I was willing to risk it. I just hoped that the January weather would be enough to keep even an Arizona desert temperate enough for my Mommy Wagon.

I took an exit and found myself on a road that looked like it had been corrupted by the Evil Dead. Black varicose veins cracked through the asphalt, gleaming white whenever they reflected the sun's harsh rays. I could only drive slowly, as the jagged pavement was giving my suspension the British Nanny treatment. No drivers followed me, nor did any pass, as if this was a road long since abandoned. On a July noon, this must surely look like the Road to Hell.






As if to further the Sartre-like atmosphere, the road came to a dead end. There was a gate to some facility, no markings nor title to indicate what it was, and a turn-off into a dirt path of twigs and mounds of dried mud. Did the road seriously continue through here? Was this what was left of Old 66? I got out on foot and explored around for a good twenty minutes, calling up my mother to ask her advice, when I was approached by a sour-faced security guard. I was never quite able to convey my situation to the guard, but soon it became clear: I was on the wrong road, dummy.

So making my way back through the Hell Road--which wasn't so bad going the other way--I found the correct exit to Oatman. You can imagine, after what I just saw, this reportedly-strenuous drive seemed positively sublime to me:




























The first sign of civilization was this shack, which instantly reminded me of the haunting beauty I missed of 66:





The actual town of Oatman, thankfully, is thriving better than the shack, but too much. If it did, it would look like one of those kitschy towns that tries to recreate a Wild West atmosphere, but one gets the sense that Oatman is the real thing. Originally a gold-mining center a hundred years ago, this town nearly died when Old 66 (the original Route 66) was replaced by another road in the 1960's. Somehow, against all odds, it's managed to hang on and attract tourists just enough to keep it going, and the result is an authentic western town not so much "trapped in amber" but more "caught in a continuity loop."






Wandering the streets and sidewalks were several dozen wild burros, the descendants of those brought to Oatman by miners in the late 1880's. By morning, they come into town seeking food, and there are vendors for tourists to buy carrots and pellets. By night, the burros wander back into the hills. Cities have pigeons. But Oatman has burros.







I had lunch at a rough-and-tumble cafe, whose menus looked like fifth-generation xerox copies encased in plastic. In the interest of local flair, I ordered a "Navajo Taco," which was fried Navajo bread covered with neon green cheese and a soup of grease with some ground beef in it. Needing to walk that off, I wandered into a local antiques shop:





As far as antiques go, most were rather unremarkable, except for this poster. Honestly, it was the tagline that did it more than the title, but between the two, I had to take a picture:




Finally, I was lucky enough to catch one of Oatman's true highlights: the shoot-out.







Over the next fifteen minutes, two "bandits" took control of the streets, declaring their intention to rob the bank and then betray one another for the cash. This led to an epic gunfight, as the two men proceeded to fill each other with blanks, fall, get up, and do it all over again. Then, they miraculously returned to life to take off their hats, taking donations from the crowd.

It made me wonder if, 500 years from now, Wild West Festivals will be as common as Renaissance Festivals are today.









I left Oatman for the other end of the drive, which better lived up to the guide book's reputation. The road through the Black Mountains was filled with steep switchbacks and 15-mph hairpin turns along the 2,100-foot change in elevation. It just covered eight miles, but it felt like thirty. Every one of them stunning.

















Near the end, the last few major overlooks were littered with memorials. Photos, medals, flowers both real and plastic (mostly plastic), messages, plaques, toys and crosses. Far more than this one photo captured:





Who were they from? Were these for the people of Oatman? Perhaps the larger town of Kingman? Or were some of these people from much further way, drawn here by some strange sense of community? Unlikely, perhaps, but I've seen stranger on the road. And no one was offering any explanations anyway.







Not all of them were serious, though. At least, as far as I knew.





I left 66 behind for the last time, reassuming my way South to Tuscon. The road deflated once more, and I was back amidst endless desert, with only my thoughts to keep me company.





Well, my thoughts, and a podcast interview with Harlan Ellison. That helped too. It was sunset by that point, and I took this shot while driving.

Comments

[lairdofdarkness.livejournal.com]

Hef I am gonna bug you until you put this out in Print on Demand book form.
Brilliant as ever sir

[thehefner.livejournal.com]

Hey, now that you mention it, going the Valerie D'Orazio route might not be a bad idea! I'll have to consider that one, once everything's written up and spiffy! Wow, thanks, pally!