The Journey Died With Route 66

Destination: Sedona

Arizona State Route 179 winds from Interstate 17 along the foot of the Colorado Plateau, dipping between towering rock spires and stunted pine forests. Today the sun is out, reflecting off snow and ice juxtaposed starkly against red soil. At first the only notable building is a ranger station and visitor's center welcoming travellers to Red Rock State Park. Soon an entire town appears, its economy built around the park's beauty and outdoor activities. A famous attraction here, Cathedral Rock, is visible at the town's far end, its foot a picturesque scene of snow-covered cacti and weathered pines. I start hiking, and the rock face becomes steep, icy, so I join a group of other hikers to make the summit safely. We reach the top and, despite a lifetime of countless views, I'm stunned by this view as it unfolds endlessly until my sight line disappears over the Earth's curvature. This place is unique and draws people in to experience it: one destination with everything you need. Why waste your time and money stopping somewhere else?

Replaced

From Sedona, Interstate 17 leads north to Flagstaff and Interstate 40, the highway built to replace Route 66, which no longer exists in a continuous form. It's split up into a few dusty stretches of pavement and dirt roads serving small towns not reached by I-40. Many are full of abandoned motels, shops, and restaurants with enormous, garish signs fading in the desert sun. When Route 66 was in its prime, these towns made their living on passers through, stopping at natural and contrived attractions on multi-day road trips. Now the towns are impoverished and shrinking, dead after nightfall.

What They Left

Just east of Flagstaff, just as civilization fades away and windswept plains spread out, unbroken, in all directions, an exit sign points to Two Guns. It's an abandoned town and tourist stop which used to house a small zoo, swimming pool, and souvenir shop. Old buildings, preserved by dry air and covered in graffiti, are visible from the highway. One can imagine parents lounging poolside while youngsters ran around in cowboy hats pointing fake guns at each other. Heat from the beating sun broken by a dive into clear, fresh water; relief after miles on a hot road. Neon signs must have lit the gas station at night, the only stop between here and Flagstaff. Now the structures lie silent and empty, simple pleasures abandoned along with the family road trip.

Sedona and Two Guns represent travel experiences from different times. People go to one place now, one destination at the end of the road. These places possess all the attractions, accommodations, and sustenance one desires. Two Guns, however, was just one stop offering a brief respite from a long journey in which stumbling across open country full of natural beauty was the whole point. No one had to make reservations ahead of time; they drove until the kids said they were hungry and then looked for the nearest neon sign. Along the way they saw petrified forests, rock formations painted by time, ruined pueblos, and a landscape scarred by meteors from outer space. Journeying across that land, not knowing what they'd see next, was an adventure. Now we plan our travel ahead of time with hyper focus on one thing, one place we want to see. No discovery is derived from that process; everything is packaged for our convenience.

A Living Graveyard

Just before sunset I reach Blue Mesa in Petrified Forest National Park. Layers of sediment stand out in the light, each containing different fossils which fall out of the rocks slowly as they erode away. At the formation's foot lie pieces of petrified wood, scattered about the ground. Like Two Guns, Blue Mesa is a time capsule in the desert. Even forests are preserved here. Settlers came upon this place centuries ago, not knowing where they were headed, just knowing they had to move. Tourists still come here and follow the park road as it ambles down from what used to be Route 66 and into a wide land unmarked by man.

On the way to Blue Mesa I stopped in Winslow, made famous by the Eagles song "Take it Easy":

Living spontaneously along a strange road is a romantic notion, albeit possible. It can only happen when a traveler focuses on the journey, not the destination. In our rush to reach the end we bend all our energy toward that final place and lose out on discovery along the way. Maybe air travel killed the road trip, maybe gas prices did it, or maybe we developed tunnel vision. Either way, for most of us, the journey is dead. We can only hope to resuscitate it one day.