Road Trip to Utah - part 2

After checking out of the Econo Lodge in Cortez, we backtracked the scenic 14 miles on Highway 160 to the entrance of Mesa Verde National Park. I had been to the park a couple of times previously, but my traveling buddy had not and I wanted my friend to see and experience it. Usually, I'm not big on going somewhere and seeing the same thing more than once - there's just too much of the wide, wide world to see before I shuffle off this mortal coil. However, Mesa Verde is different. I want to go back every time I find myself in this part of the country. Maybe it's some kind of subconscious connection or maybe I just like standing on the edge of the canyon wall wondering what it was like to live in the crevices of the cliffs. It's an awesome setting. It's peaceful.

The little orange spot you see

in the middle right is me,

enjoying peace and quiet on

the canyon rim.

Mesa Verde, Spanish for "Green Table,"  is where Ancestral Pueblo people made their home for over 700 years, from AD 550 to 1300. The Anasazi (Navajo word meaning 'ancient ones') and their descendants lived and flourished there, eventually building elaborate stone communities in the sheltered alcoves of the canyon walls. Why they built their homes in that manner is not known for sure; perhaps protection from enemies or shelter from harsh weather. Archeologists estimate there were about 2,000 people living in the communities. Then, for some unknown reason, within a space of 50 - 75 years, they all moved away and were lost to history. There are over 5,000 known archeological sites, including 600 cliff dwellings, located within the park.

The Anasazi used nature to their advantage by building their dwellings beneath the overhanging cliffs. Their basic construction material was sandstone that they shaped into rectangular blocks about the size of a loaf of bread. The mortar between the blocks was a mix of mud and water. Walls of thick, double-coursed stone often rose two or three stories high and were joined together into units of 50 rooms or more. The rooms averaged about six feet by eight feet, enough space for two or three people. Isolated rooms in the rear and on the upper levels were generally used for storing crops. Underground kivas, (ceremonial chambers) were built in front of the rooms.  The kiva roofs created courtyards where many daily routines took place.

Cliff ruins

As always, I thoroughly enjoyed the visit and my friend was very impressed and glad we took this little detour on our way to Utah. Our timing (mid-May) couldn't have been better as the weather was chilly, but not cold, clear air with beautiful blue skies and it was just before the high tourist season started so we had a lot of the sites and almost all of the short hikes we took all to ourselves. We ended up staying almost a full day and enjoyed every second. It was an amazing experience I'll not forget.

Shortly before the sun slipped behind the cliffs, we left the park and returned to Cortez via Hwy 160. After a quick bite to eat at Wendy's, we caught Hwy 491 going north and 2 hours later we arrived at the Bowen Motel in Moab, Utah. We actually stopped at several other motels in town, but didn't want to pay their outrageous prices. The Bowen was a bit older, but well-maintained, clean and a little cheaper than the other places so we settled in for the night.

We were surprised by how expensive the rooms in Moab were, but I guess it's a "destination" and there aren't that many rooms available. Neither of us are cheapskates, but it does bother me to pay more than twice the price we paid for a room the night before and it's not as nice. Supply and demand, I guess. However, the front desk person was nice and the room was clean so what the heck, it's only money. (Did I really just say that?)

We spent time that evening going over maps and brochures we had picked up and a Utah visitors book I had purchased from Barnes and Noble before we left on the trip. We decided to get an early start to hike a remote trail the next day so with that in mind, we made calls to our respective spouses to let them know we were still alive and turned in for the night - after I gave Mike my extra blanket and turned down the A/C to "meat locker" temp of course!

Parking lot of the Bowen Motel in Moab, UT

(go to part 1 here.)

Road Trip to Utah - part 1

Early last summer, a good friend and I headed to Utah on our annual “Mancation.” Mancation is what we call a vacation taken together by 2 heterosexual men – leave the women-folk and children behind and go somewhere to do manly stuff. Having been married to our respective wives for lo these many years now and especially since we both retired, the women we belong to don’t seem to be very upset when we go on these sojourns. As a matter of fact, every few months they are kind enough even to strongly suggest it’s time for us to have another Mancation!

Having packed up the truck the night before, we left early on a Monday morning (yes, 8:30 is early for us. Hello - retired!) from his home in a suburb of Dallas, Texas. We drove almost 2 whole miles before deciding we were hungry and should eat breakfast before we hit those long, lonesome Texas roads. The next IHOP we came to took care of our hunger and with a coffee to go, off we were.

We made good time getting to Amarillo and caught Interstate-40 to keep going west at a good clip. Having not seen each other for several months the first couple of hours were spent in conversation talking about football, cars, what was going on in the kid’s lives, politics and complaining about getting old and the various ailments that come with that. Easy conversation between good friends, randomly jumping from one topic to the next and back again. Once on I-40, the mind-numbing sameness of the interstate gradually brought us both down from our beginning-a-trip adrenalin high. We fell into a comfortable quietness as we drove on and on, mile after mile through the flat, seemingly endless west Texas landscape.

Route 66 Motel in Tucumcari, New Mexico

475 miles and nine hours after leaving Dallas, we came to Tucumcari, New Mexico and decided that was far enough for one day. We found a very reasonably priced room at the Historic Route 66 Motel on Tucumcari Blvd. The decent-sized rooms were wonderfully retro with a 1950’s/1960’s vibe and very clean with comfortable beds, plenty of hot water for showers, a TV and a nearby restaurant that served good grub. What more could a couple of guys want?! Tired from driving all day, we turned off the lights at 10:00pm and crawled into our beds. The last thing said before we drifted off to sleep was, “These sheets smell good.” “Yeah, they do.” The next thing I knew, it was morning.

After checking out of the motel and a quick breakfast, we got back on I-40 still heading west. 175 miles later came Albuquerque, where we topped off the truck with gas and got a couple of large Cherry Limeades to go from that seemingly everywhere road trip fast food staple, Sonic. Excellent cups that keep their crunchy ice frozen and your drink cold for hours! I can't remember a road trip I've taken that didn't have multiple stops for drinks at Sonic.

Continuing west on I-40 for an hour outside of Albuquerque, we came to the town of Laguna on the Laguna Indian Reservation. The interstate takes a little dip to the south here whereas Route 66 continues almost in a straight-line west for a few miles. Just for something different to see, we decided to take Route 66 until it meets back up with I-40. To tell the truth, the scenery wasn’t much different, but the pace sure slowed down once we were on Route 66. Just being on “The Mother Road” seems to evoke a nostalgic feeling of yesteryear, a time we think of as being more innocent and better than the here and now. (check out our Route 66 trip here.)

Within a few miles, we entered the community of Casa Blanca, one of those middle-of-nowhere places populated by a few hard-working folks making it through life as best they can. Surprisingly, there was a Dairy Queen right there in the middle of nowhere so we decided to stop and give them some business. Dairy Queen is known for having decent, but not great food – food perfect for a quick stop along the way, but the burgers and fries we got were actually really good. The service was friendly, the place was clean – even the restroom smelled lemony-fresh. It was a nice stop.

While talking over our Dairy Queen burgers, we discovered neither of us had ever seen Shiprock (the mountain, not the town) in person, which we had both heard about and seen in old west movies and we were less than 200 miles from it. Looking at the map, we decided instead of going up NM-170 out of Farmington into Colorado, we would stay on NM-64 to the town of Shiprock and then head south-southwest from there to the mountain. On Mancation, we usually have an ultimate destination, but no time limit to get there and the route and things to see along the way are open to whatever strikes our interest so this decision fit right in. Unfortunately, we ran into a little bit of unwanted excitement on this particular detour.

Here comes the dust!

All was good until just after we passed through the town of Shiprock. While driving along minding our own business, out of nowhere came an epic dust storm, a dust storm like neither of us had ever seen before. We could see it coming toward us, but we were still shocked at the intensity as all that sand came barreling in on howling winds. We kept going, but had to slow down to creep speed. Many cars and a lot of big trucks pulled off to the side of the road. For mile after mile, the sand obscured our vision and the wind blew so hard it felt like our truck would be blown off the road. Eventually it died down and through the gloom in the distance we could see our target.

We had to turn off the highway onto a smaller road and then onto a rough Navajo Indian Reservation dirt road. We saw no one else, not a car, not a person, not even a horse for several miles as we travelled down this almost-washed-out path of a road. The landscape was of a huge, wide-open, stark place. There were no trees to break up miles and miles of nothing much, but there was a stark beauty about it. I've always appreciated land like this and found it to be awe inspiring and conducive to quiet introspection.

Geographically speaking, Shiprock is a monadnock, a term meaning "a mountain or rocky mass that has resisted erosion and stands isolated in an essentially level area." The term perfectly describes Shiprock. After watching it for what seemed like forever as it got closer and bigger in our windshield, we finally made it to the wide base. After coming to the end of the dirt road, we had to park and walk a few minutes to get up to the huge fragmented rock that rises 1,583 feet above the flat plain. Standing at the base ensures you feel very small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

Along the way, we saw 6 young native-Americans in a group sitting on a couple of jutting rocks, a couple of girls and 4 boys. They kept staring at us, not smiling, as we were passing by within about 50 yards of them. Here we were, 2 white dudes with a couple of nice expensive cameras around our necks on their land, far from anywhere in a very desolate area with nobody else around for miles. I’m not embarrassed to admit we were a bit nervous. About the time we got even with their position though, one of the girls smiled and waved and a couple of the guys gave friendly nods of their heads and none of them made any moves toward us so it seemed ok to go on. I think they were just having fun with "the white tourists." We rounded an outcrop of rock and after walking around exploring for about an hour, we came back the same way and they were gone. We never saw any cars or horses or any other way for them to arrive at such a lonely, out-of-the-way place, but they were nowhere to be seen. Very strange, but just another Mancation adventure on the road!

Shiprock as the sandstorm calmed

After carefully and slowly making our way back down the very rutted dirt road to pavement, we headed north on Hwy 491. This used to be the infamous Hwy 666, known as "The Devil's Highway" and "Highway to Hell." Considered to be one of the most famous roads in North America, the whole 200 miles of it is reputedly very haunted. Strangely, until the Highway Department changed the number from 666 to Hwy 491 in 2003, there was a much higher than average number of accidents and deaths that occurred on this stretch that no one has ever been able to explain. After the numbers were changed, the number of accidents and deaths immediately dropped to coincide with the national average. Some say the high number of accidents and deaths occurred because of the evil that was rumored to reside on and around the road. Many say after the renaming, the drop in accidents and deaths was because individuals no longer experienced the psychological fear that something bad would happen to them while traveling down a highway numbered 666. Some, though, claim the number 491 fails to lure the same evil spirits that are said to lurk along this highway in the same manner that the number 666 does.

 

(file photo)

Fortunately, nothing untoward happened to us even though we didn't make it to Cortez, Colorado until after dark. We found an Econo Lodge that had a room with 2 beds at a good (read "cheap") rate with a Denny's right across the street. Plenty good enough for a couple of tired guys who just wanted some food, a shower to get the sand washed off  and a safe place to get a few hours sleep. After checking in, we walked across the street and had breakfast for supper. Not the best food I've ever had, but not bad either and it filled the hole in my tummy.

After showers, we crawled in our beds and turned off the lights. Can't tell you if the TV worked cause we never turned it on.

The next morning we jogged across the street to Denny's again for a biscuit & gravy and sausage breakfast. We were served by Deedee, a cute young lady with several of the top buttons on her uniform open. She certainly knew how to smile and "friendly flirt" with a couple of past-their-prime, road tripping guys in order to get a good tip. The service was attentive, the interaction was fun and the food was good. After Deedee provided us with coffee's-to-go, we left a generous tip and headed toward our next stop - Mesa Verde National Park.

(continue to part 2)

Postcard From A Texas Bottle Tree Farm

Many folks know about Elmer Long's Bottle Tree Ranch on Route 66 in California, but there's an artist in Llano, Texas that makes unique bottle trees and other art which certainly rivals and perhaps surpasses Mr. Long's place. 

On a recent road trip through central Texas, I was cruising through Llano when I passed by a most interesting and colorful yard - one of those totally unexpected serendipitous road trip happenings. You have to take advantage of these; be open to seeing something cool, meeting someone new, doing something exciting. I made a quick u-turn.

After pulling into the little drive-way, Kathleen, one of the friendliest, most interesting people I've had the pleasure to encounter strolled over to meet me and we began to talk. I felt comfortable right away. She told me the story of how she came to own the nice, well maintained little house in the middle of all the art. Walkways of crushed glass meandered around and through the art pieces. She showed me the lizards at the front of the yard and how she made them using colored glass from the plates her children had broken when they were little. There were numerous bottle trees, each with a story to tell and every one of them an interesting piece in and of itself. Some of the art, like the life-size warrior princess (that's my interpretation anyway) made of tin foil, can be taken as not quite in the mainstream of art, but it is definitely art and definitely interesting.

Lizard animal things Kathleen made with pieces of glass
her children broke when they were little.

If you've ever wanted to build a bottle tree of your own, she'll be happy to sell you the metal tree, which she will make with her own hands. Or for a right fair price, you can take home a unique piece of art sure to be a conversation piece. Call 325.248.1704 before dropping by her place at 401 E. Young in Llano and I'm sure she'll be happy to visit with you, show you her art pieces, and answer any questions you might have. You can also check out her web site http://texastinlizard.com/.

I had a great time looking at all the really interesting art work and talking with Kathleen. I'm sure you would too. I give this place 2 thumbs up!

Tin foil warrior princess?

Bunny-dude & peacock bottle tree

There's a lot of interesting glass art work here!

 

Crushed glass walkway with lizard design

Found Elvis!

For the pink flamingo crowd

For the golfing crowd

I haven't a clue, but it's pretty and I liked it!

 

Route 66 - Santa Monica and The End of the Great Adventure

From the Mitla Cafe to Santa Monica is mostly just L.A. traffic and sprawl so we cheated and jumped on I-10 for the rest of the way. We eventually made it through horrendous stop-and-go traffic to the intersection of Lincoln and Olympic Boulevards, the official end of Route 66. Of course, just a few short blocks away was the unofficial end, Santa Monica Beach and the pier, so on we drove.

Santa Monica Beach and Pier - where Youngest-daughter
scared at least 5 years off my life

Cars, cars, cars and people, people, people everywhere! It took us about 20 minutes of circling around and looking before we were able to find an available spot in a public parking lot right next to the beach. Paying to park is done via one of those upright kiosk machines that takes cash or credit cards. We discovered that this kiosk had trouble taking a credit card and it didn't give change so we had to scrounge around and finally together came up with the correct amount. I suggest you take enough cash, between $6 and $15 per day or about $1 per hour just in case there are still problems with accepting credit cards. After the machine spits out a permit for you, don’t forget to place it on the dash of your car. During our time there we twice saw police riding around the lot checking for permits on the dashes and giving tickets to any without a valid permit showing.

Toilet/Changing Rooms on Santa Monica Beach

The beach was really nice with a lot of different activity equipment installed. There were also a good number of toilet/changing rooms. They didn't exactly smell like fresh petunia’s, but they were not as dirty as I expected. The beach was wide with deep sand – a very nice beach. The slipped disc in my lower back  was again acting up and my injured foot was paining me a lot that day, but I was determined to walk out to the ocean and at least get my feet wet. Youngest-daughter wanted to change clothes so she went on ahead of me to the changing rooms while I took the parking permit back to put it on the truck’s dash.

This is what caught Youngest-daughter's attention and
caused me a lot of anxiety

With my physical hurts it took me several minutes to make it from the parking lot to the changing room area and I was grateful for the bench thoughtfully placed close by so I could sit while waiting. I waited, and waited, and waited. I started to get anxious knowing it doesn't take that long for her to change clothes. It didn't take much longer of her being a no-show for me to start getting extremely desperate, the kind of desperate that only a parent gets when they are afraid something bad has happened to their child. I hobbled around the changing rooms several times looking everywhere and hysterically started looking for a lady I could ask to check the ladies rooms or a policeman to lock down the whole damn beach and issue an Amber alert, an all-points bulletin to find my baby girl! Bring in every cop, bring in the Marines, bring in the Navy, bring in Homeland Security, send up the drones! Somebody better find my baby and they better do it quick!

Just as I spotted a lady nearby to look into the ladies rooms for me, my totally unawares and unconcerned little female offspring walked up behind me, tapped me on the arm and said, “Hey Dad.” Oh Lord, I almost wet myself right then and there. She had been some yards off to the side at a patch of grass watching some people doing acrobatic stuff and then had gone in to change. I wanted to put my arms around her and hug her tight and I wanted to put a knot on her head too. The hug won out, but just barely.

Youngest-daughter getting Pacific Ocean for a keepsake

She took the clothes she had changed out of back to the car (with me watching her the whole way!) and grabbed an empty 2-liter plastic bottle we had saved specifically for this occasion. We walked toward the ocean, or I should say she walked beside me as I hobbled through the deep sand. I’m not an ancient age, but I certainly felt like it right then. I silently cursed the gods who decided that after 3 years of a pain-free back, it was time once again for it to flare up during our trip.  After a few minutes, we made it to the edge of the beach. I sat down, took off my shoes and together, we waded into the water. We could now say we had absolutely made it; Route 66 from beginning to end! For proof, Youngest-daughter dipped the empty bottle into the water and captured 2 liter’s of Pacific Ocean to bring back home.

The author at "The End"

Our great “Daddy-Daughter ‘Mother Road’ Trip” was ending, but wasn't quite over yet. We still had to make it back home 1,650 miles away. After a few hours on the beach and pier, with the clouds rolling in making everything gray, we decided that was a perfect sign for us to end the fun, get on the road once again and go east this time. We had been gone almost 2  full weeks, we missed the Mamma-woman, Youngest-daughter missed her dog, we were looking forward to sleeping in our own beds again, we were tired of driving, and I was really looking forward to getting back home to my chiropractor to get my back fixed. We tried to beat the rush hour traffic, but evidently, until you get 100 miles away from the ocean in LA, there is no beating rush hour traffic because it is always rush hour traffic!

How Youngest-daughter spent most of the trip back home.
The adventure was over.

Staying on the interstate going back, we spent that night in Barstow, CA. We awoke early, grabbed some fruit and dry cereal from the free hotel breakfast and headed out as the sun made its appearance. I quickly settled into the “Everybody get out of the way cause Daddy is driving and determined to put a lot of miles behind us” mode. Youngest-daughter normally is a great sleeper in the car, but this trip was her first to be the navigator and with all the twists and turns Route 66 presents, there’s not really any time the navigator is not needed so awake she stayed. She had performed her duties wonderfully and now that there was no navigating needed, she was free to sleep. She proved to be a truly gifted car sleeper as the miles kept piling up behind us.

After spending one more night on the road in Oklahoma, we safely pulled into our driveway. Mamma-woman, Riley The Wonder Dog, and even our two very aloof cats came out to welcome us home. Our once-in-a-lifetime trip was over. I could check off another bucket list item. Daddy and daughter had not only survived 2 weeks of 24-hour togetherness and a journey of almost 4,000 miles, but had grown even closer. We had set a goal, persevered and completed it. She had learned how to accurately read a map and give directions; had learned the words to a lot of ’60′s and ’70′s songs; had seen first-hand some things she had read about in her history classes; had seen and learned about America’s heartland; had heard new stories told by her dad and had learned a lot more about her family members who came before her. I had shared with my daughter something I had always wanted to do; had learned my baby girl really is growing up even if I don’t want her to; had learned she has a good, interesting personality all her own and definitely has her humorous side; and now I know when she sets a goal, she is strong enough and has the determination to reach it. We have something very special the two of us will fondly remember all of our lives. Thank you, Route 66. Your mystique and magic lives on.

Go to the first Route 66 entry here.

Or go to the first entry of each state:

Illinois   Missouri   Kansas   Oklahoma   Texas   New Mexico   Arizona   California 

Route 66 & The Birth of Taco Bell

Continuing on Route 66 after leaving the Bottle Tree Ranch, it wasn't long before we started hitting the seemingly never-ending sprawl of the Los Angeles area. We were close to the end of our trip now, but there would be a lot of traffic and congestion and hordes of people to navigate through before walking on the sands of Santa Monica Beach and wading in the Pacific Ocean. There was one more stop I wanted to make before Santa Monica though - a little restaurant in San Bernardino named The Mitla Café.

In 1940, two brothers, Mac and Dick McDonald, opened a small eatery called McDonalds Bar-B-Que in San Bernardino. In addition to bar-b-que, they sold hamburgers. Eight years later, they were selling more hamburgers than plates of bar-b-que so they decided to revamp their restaurant and feature hamburgers as the main menu item. Since they would no longer be serving bar-b-que, they renamed their business to simply McDonalds. In 1954, milk shake mixer salesman Ray Croc came calling and was mightily impressed with the efficiency of the system the McDonalds brothers had designed.  He bought the business a year later, began franchising it, and the McDonalds chain of fast food restaurants was born.

The Mitla Cafe - 602 N. Mt. Vernon Ave., San Bernardino, CA.

Glen Bell, Jr. was born in 1923 and honorably served as a Marine in World War II. After being discharged in 1946, he settled in San Bernardino and in 1948 opened a hot dog stand he named Bell's Drive-In. In 1950, he sold his hot dog stand and opened another stand selling hot dogs and hamburgers - Bell's Hot Dogs and Hamburgers. His new place of business was in the West Side barrio of San Bernardino directly across the street from The Mitla Cafe, a Mexican restaurant in business since 1937. 

The main item the Mitla Cafe was and is still famous for are their hard-shell taco's. Bell fell in love with them. After eating the tacos, he would go back to his place where he tried to figure out how to make them the way they were made at the Mitla Cafe. Try as he might though, the right combination of herbs and spices eluded him. Finally, in desperation, he began asking the owners of Mitla to teach him their secret.

A short time later, Bell began selling tacos through a side window of his business. The tacos proved so popular that between 1954 and 1955, he opened 3 Taco Tias stands. He took on a business partner, sold the 3 Taco Tias stands and opened 4 El Tacos stands in Long Beach.

By 1962, the chain of McDonalds was proving to be very popular and they were opening up all over the place.  With McDonalds' continued growth right there at his back door, Bell decided they were too much competition and sold his hamburger place. He then sold his share of the 4 El Tacos to his partner and focused exclusively on selling tacos with his new place - Taco Bell. He franchised his business in 1964 and eventually sold 868 Taco Bells to PepsiCo in 1978 for $125 million. Today, the company is based in Irvine, California and has almost 7,000 locations which sell more than 2 billion tacos each year.

Home of the "Mother Taco" which launched the birth of
billions of tacos!

It was the Mitla Cafe I wanted to see, the place whose tacos launched billions of tacos; the Mother Taco so to speak. Of those billions, Youngest-daughter and I have had our fair share. At least one Friday night each month, our family has the same conversation - "What do you want to eat tonight?" "Oh, I don't really care." "It's been a long week. I don't feel like cooking." "OK, how about we order pizza?" "Nah, not tonight. How about Sonic?" "Nah, I don't think so. How about Taco Bell?" "Yeah, that sounds good. It's your turn to go get it." "No it's not; I went last time!" If it hadn't been for the Mitla Cafe introducing Glen Bell to tacos, that same conversation might not take place in thousands of households all over America every week.

Unfortunately, our timing was not good and we arrived a little before the Mitla Cafe opened. The area is not exactly the safest of places - bars on windows and doors of every business in the neighborhood is usually a pretty fair indication. The Mitla Cafe had its own bars and heavy linked chains across the front door and side entrance securing the premises from evil-doers.  I didn't feel nervous or particularly unsafe while walking around, but didn't feel real comfortable hanging around for very long waiting for the Cafe to open. It was most likely an over-abundance of caution, but we soon left the neighborhood and headed toward the end of the road at the Santa Monica Pier. We didn't get to eat a Mitla taco or two, but I'm sure we'll be stopping at least once at a Taco Bell on our journey back home. It'll have to do.

Go to the first Route 66 entry here.

Or go to the first entry of each state:

Illinois   Missouri   Kansas   Oklahoma   Texas   New Mexico   Arizona   California 

Route 66 - Atomic Highway and Elmer Long's Bottles

It only took a couple of minutes to put the dying town of Essex behind us, but unfortunately, it took a while to leave behind the anger at our run in with that unpleasant old codger. Fortunately, there's 141 miles between him and our next stop, Elmer Long's Bottle Tree Ranch in Oro Grande, so I had plenty of time to find my calm place and remember to enjoy the journey.

In between where we were to where we were going is the sparsely populated Mojave Desert and the Bristol Mountains. In the late 1950's, some government genius in Washington, D.C.  came up with a grand plan to use up old surplus atomic bombs to help build roads. The cold war was in full swing and America was building newer, improved, bigger atomic bombs. Nobody knew what to do with the old-style bombs or how to safely dispose of them until the government came up with several projects under the umbrella of a plan called "Operation Plowshare." One of these projects was a plan to widen the Panama Canal in one fell swoop with several bombs. Another project was planned to add another harbor in Alaska by setting off however many bombs it took to create one. Project Gnome was a project to create energy by bombing underground aquifers. Projects Rulison and Gasbuggy were planned as an attempt to free natural gas with nuclear explosions.

During this time, a new, easier alignment was in the planning stages for Route 66. In comes a government physicist and it was decided these atomic bombs would be a great way to blow up mountains to speed up road construction. It seems nobody thought about the old-style "dirty" bombs releasing so much radiation that any place where they were detonated would be uninhabitable for 50 years or more. It also appears that nobody thought about the people who lived in these parts.  Meetings were held, plans were made and finally, a proposal was submitted which called for 22 atomic bombs to be placed along a 2-mile stretch through the mountains. The dust cloud was expected to rise a minimum of 12,000 feet and have a diameter of 7 miles. It would shorten the intended route by 15 miles. Amazingly, the proposal went forward with the federal government and California Transportation giving approval. Almost at the last-minute, a number of the local citizens began protesting what was being called "The Atomic Highway." This slowed down the schedule until in 1963, Russia unexpectedly signed the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty and the project was cancelled.

Elmer Long's Bottle Tree Ranch

Several hours after leaving Essex, having safely negotiated the desert and mountains to arrive at 24266 National Trails Highway, we were not greeted by a big neon sign or any sort of roadside alert to let us know we had arrived at the Elmer Long's Bottle Tree Ranch. In fact, if we had not been ready and expecting it, we might have been looking on the wrong side of the road and totally missed it. However, when you do see it, you know immediately you have arrived at some place different, a special place built and assembled by some special person.

We pulled off the road to park on the narrow dirt strip in front of the "ranch." Bottles and, well, a lot of odd, old stuff is everywhere. But not like a normal junk yard, oh no, this is an interesting, weirdly artful junk yard - bottle trees everywhere you look; typewriters, cash registers, wrist watches, galvanized tubs all arranged with various colored bottles to form what I guess would be called modern art or perhaps interpretive art would be a better name for it. Not hundreds of bottles, thousands and thousands of bottles. It's weird and it's interesting and we had a great time just wondering around the place.

Elmer Long is the artist behind the Bottle Ranch. He used to go with his dad out into the desert and collect the objects they found, including many, many bottles. After his father passed away, Elmer was left with all of these bottles and other objects with no idea what to do with them. He finally decided to craft a bottle tree and in the year 2000 when he was finished, he liked the way the light shown through the bottles and the melody the wind created as it flowed over them so much that he decided to make another one. He hasn't stopped yet and now there are more than 200 "trees."

Unfortunately, when we were there, Mr. Long was not, but the gate leading into the property was open with a "welcome" sign just inside. We thoroughly enjoyed walking around looking at the colors created by the setting sun and the bottles and spent a long time looking at, thinking about, and to be honest, trying to figure out what, if anything, the artist was saying with some of his creations. I'm thinking some of them were assembled just because he had a pile of crap he wanted to use and it actually has no meaning at all. I could be wrong, of course. I wish he had been there so I could have asked him. But whatever, Mr. Long. Just please don't stop creating your art. It's a joy to many and any Route 66 traveler who doesn't make it a point to stop is missing a treasure.

Cash register art?

Bottles and "art stuff" as far as you can see.

Go to the first Route 66 entry here.

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Route 66 - Essex & A Very Unpleasant Encounter

Entering California from Arizona

After leaving the less than exciting London Bridge, we made our way back to I-40 and crossed into California. There's really not much choice here as I-40 basically goes along the earlier Route 66 layout for a number of miles. For anyone thinking they will see palm trees, orange groves and lush landscape as soon as they enter California, nope, but there's nothing here except wide open spaces full of hot nothingness. And it goes on for mile after mile after mile. I can't imagine travelers in the Dust Bowl years traveling through this desolate section of road in 120 degree temperatures in a 1929 Ford prone to overheating. Heck, I got nervous when my cell phone shows no bars!

After navigating 54 miles of Mohave Desert on the interstate, we got back on the pre-1931 alignment of Route 66 (also named "National Old Trails Highway" in this section) by jogging over to the town of Essex. If you've been following along from the beginning of this trip, you may remember the scary incident we had in Gallup, NM, but it was in Essex where we had the worst, most depressing encounter with another human being. It actually was the only really negative incident of the whole 2 week, 3,500 miles of our journey, but it was a doozy.

Route 66 coming into the town of Essex

Essex was founded, so the story goes, when a  motorist had a flat tire in 1915 and discovered there were no services for miles around. During the heyday of Route 66, the town served the needs of travelers with a service station, café, store, towing service, post office, and, thanks to the Automobile Club of Southern California, free water from a well located alongside the road through town. For a while, there was even a public school which served the educational needs of children living in the town and surrounding area. When I-40 was opened and bypassed Essex by a few miles though, the town began its slide toward ghosthood.

One thing Essex did not have, at least until 1977, was television. In that year, all 50 residents in the town went to the Johnny Carson show to be featured as the only town in America without television service. Afterward, equipment was donated and Essex was brought into the modern era.

Essex Post Office - showing the dirt road between it and
the abandoned store/cafe next door

Upon our arrival, we noted the complete absence of any other cars on the road. The whole place was eerily quiet and deserted. We saw the old post office so we parked in front of it in the small dirt and gravel parking lot. I walked up to the front door, but it was locked and obvious that nobody was there. I took a couple of pictures and walked next door to the abandoned store/café for a couple more pictures and that's when I spied a man walking toward us.

He was dressed in typical old service station mechanic's clothes - grease stains, a bit dirty, a bit down at the heels- a man used to working hard for not much of a living. He ambled toward us more than walked. When he got within a few feet of me I said, "Howdy." Without slowing down one amble, he looked at me with absolutely no change of expression so I said, "How you doing today?" By now he was almost past me, but he did glance back and gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head. Certainly not friendly, but not crazy unfriendly either. He walked on to the Post Office, opened up one of the external mail boxes, removed a small package and started walking back to, I suppose, the garage where he worked at the other end of town about 150 yards from where we were. He didn't bother to look our way as he ambled back from whence he came.

Route 66 painted on the road in Essex

After taking a picture of the Route 66 shield painted in the road, we walked back to the post office and then down a dirt road beside it toward the back. There were a bunch of old cabins and what looked like falling down storage buildings spread around back there. I stopped about 50 feet from the nearest buildings and took 1 picture while still standing in the dirt road. Since some of the buildings appeared to have stuff in the them and I wasn't completely sure they really were completely abandoned, I decided to just turn around and leave. As I turned, a beat up old pickup came driving up toward me. I waited a second for it to stop as I thought I could have a nice conversation with the driver about the town, its history, and maybe get an interesting story to write about. Boy, was I ever wrong about the nice conversation.

Closer shot of the post office

The driver appeared to be ancient, but I couldn't really tell if the fella was 90 years old or 60  and the desert had done a serious number on him through years of living harshly. Even though I was several feet from his open window, it was readily apparent to my eyes and my nose that it had been a while since water and a bar of soap had gotten anywhere near him.  "How you doing, sir?" I asked. And this is what ensued:

Old Codger: (In an angry, very unfriendly tone) - "What are you doing?"

Me: "Just taking a couple of pictures and taking a break from the road."

Old Codger: "You're from the city aren't you? G*d*mn city people! You have no respect for other people's property! You just walk on in and take whatever you want, don't you?!"

Me: "Sir, I really don't know what you are talking about. I just got here, I haven't taken anything and I wouldn't do that."

Old Codger: "G*d*mn city people! You're all alike! I deal with this all the time! You g*d*mn people just walk right in my trailer and steal my things! You're all criminals and trespassers with no respect for other people's stuff!"

Me: "I haven't taken anything at all, sir; I haven't been in any building or trailer. I'm standing in the middle of a road and I haven't seen a 'No Trespassing' sign or anything that indicates I shouldn't be on this road, but we'll just go back to our truck and leave. Sorry to bother you."

Old Codger: "Sorry?! You should be sorry you g*dd*mn city son-of-a-b*tch!

By now, his unwarranted cussing and confrontational attitude had me at my snapping point and any semblance of compassion or respect for another person was next to gone. However, I need to set an example so I forced myself to turn and walk away, back toward the front of the post office and my truck. As I was walking, twice he shouted, "You're a g*dd*mn city son-of-a-b*tch! You've got no respect!"

Me: "You have a nice day" and I waved my hand, surprisingly even to me, without the middle finger pointing up.

Old Codger: "You're g*dd*mn right I'll have a nice day you g*dd*mn son-of-a-b*tch!"

Buildings behind the post office. This is the one picture
I managed to take before the unfortunate encounter.

At this point, it was all I could do to keep on walking away. I did slow down and turn my head back to glare at him. Our eyes met and I guess he figured he had pushed it far enough or was satisfied he had made his point because he abruptly sped off. I'm glad he did because I was mad enough then to be shaking.

We got in the truck and left that little piece of nothing town. For a while, I remained mad. I tried to work up some sympathy and understanding for that old dude, but it wouldn't come. No matter how old you are, whatever your background, however many boulders life has thrown in your path, there's no cause to treat another person who has done you no wrong in such a manner.

After getting over being mad, I was depressed for several hours before I could eventually get myself out of that funk. I kept thinking, "Unlike him, I've got all my teeth. My clothes are clean. I'm driving a new truck with air conditioning and I'll be sleeping in a clean air-conditioned room with fresh sheets tonight." I'm pretty sure none of that actually matters to him. I can only assume, for whatever reason, he himself has chosen to live in a filthy old trailer surrounded by junk. He certainly is not a happy person though.

My advice? Skip Essex. There's nothing there really. It's obvious the handful of people who live there want nothing to do with visitors. Unlike all the other citizens of Route 66 who are happy, friendly, glad to sit a spell and enjoy a conversation and are appreciative of having people stop by their towns and place of business, the two Essex folks we ran into apparently just want to be left alone. So I say give them what they want and let that town continue it's slide into absolute nothingness with none left to mourn its passing. As far as I'm concerned, good riddance. Of course, that's just my opinion and I could still be a little resentful. 

At this point, we had a decision to make - continue on down the old Route 66 alignment through the desert which would take us through Amboy, Bagdad, and a couple of other old towns and sites, or get back on I-40 for a while. We had been on the road for going on two weeks and Youngest-daughter had been missing Momma-woman for a while now. She was being a good trooper and definitely wanted to finish the trip at its end in Santa Monica, but she was ready for it to be over. My injured foot which had been re-injured back in St. Louis was still bothering me a lot and an old slipped-disc problem in my back had painfully flared up. We decided to miss a few sites on the old Route 66 alignment and take the interstate for a couple of hours to save a day. One place we didn't want to miss though was Elmer Long's Bottle Tree Ranch so it was back on I-40 for 140 miles to Oro Grande and our next really interesting site.

Go to the first Route 66 entry here.

Or go to the first entry of each state:

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