It began in 1959. That was the year we made our first trip west from Virginia. Before youo ask, yes, I am that old.

But that doesn’t mean I am old enough to really remember that odyssey along Route 66. Old faded photographs and stories told by family are my tangible link. But from that trip to today my life has been intertwined with Route 66 at most every turn. As you might have guessed, it has been quite the adventure.

With celebrations of the highways centennial fast approaching, there has been a marked increase in requests for interviews and presentations. Apparently being of the last generation that has a direct connection to this storied road before it was replaced by the interstate highway has made me a relic of interest.

It Began in 1959

I have never learned why, exactly, we made that trip west from Norfolk to Arizona, and then into Utah. All I know is that my dad was in the Coast Guard at the time, and that this was a family vacation of sorts. I also know that we made that trip in a ten year old Chevy convertible.

It was only in the last years of his life that dad bought a vehicle because it was something that he liked. All of my family road trip memories were made in vehicles that were on life support or were junkyard refugees. The convertible used in the 1959 adventure had been submerged after a hurricane. And apparently it was a literal rag top.

Then in the summer of 1966 (another “66” connection) dad mustered out of the service. We were living in Michigan at the time. After spending the closing years of WWII in the Navy, and then the stint in the Coast Guard, he had decided it was time for a drier climate.

As the family legend goes, the decision to relocate to Arizona was made over a beer during a visit with an uncle, a blindfold, a dart, and a map. Once the decision was made, he did a bit of research about an exciting new suburban community just west of Kingman, he purchased a “model home.”

Land boondoggles were going gang buster in Arizona at the time. So, the “model home” was literally a shell. The suburban community consisted of roads cut across the desert marked by painted 4×4 posts. But as it turned out, our new home was located on the pre 1952 alignment of Route 66.

The Formative Years

Moving to Kingman was a bit tramatic. After all, aside from that trip in 1959, I had lived along the east coast and in Michigan. And I had spent time on family farms in the hills of Alabama and mountains of Tennessee. Arizona seemed like the place warned about in Sunday school, especially out at the homestead.

It was nearly 20 desolate miles from town. The nearest neighbor was more than a mile away, and even as a child I knew that they were dry roasted nuts. We had to haul water. And catching the school bus was quite the adventure.

There were eight kids in the valley at the time. The youngest was in first grade, the oldest was a high chool senior. The bus stop was at Whiting Brothers on Route 66, now Dan’s Auto Salvage.

Parents had a rotating schedule for driving us to the bus stop, and for picking us up after school. So, based on that schedule, in the mornings kids living out in the desert valley would walk, or drive their family’s truck, out to old Route 66 and wait to be picked up. This could result in some very long days.

As an example, if my dad was the designated driver we would be dropped at the bus stop between 5:30 and 6:00 in the morning. He worked the 7:00 to 3:00 shift at the Duvall mine near Chloride, and that meant a drive of about fifty miles. A parent would pick us up on their way home after work, and that could be as late as 5:00 or 6:00 o’clock.

Chores consisted of carrying for the chickens and horses. And on weekends, helping haul water or to raze buildings like the old Episcopal church for building materials.

The Education Continues

Most kids in the valley were driving the water trucks by age 14, me included. At the site of Fig Springs station noted in A Guide Book To Highway 66 published by Jack Rittenhouse in 1946, there were corrals, water tank, and cattle loading chutes. That was where we hauled water from.

About this time I landed my first paying job at Ed’s Camp, a ramshackle collection of business along Route 66 that had been established in the 1920s. Sometimes I could borrow one of my dad’s truck but usually made the trip from the house ot Ed’s camp by bicycle.

My duties centered on care of the garden – weeding, helping reapir water lines, picking melons, tomatoes, and such. And I would lend Ed a hand in the rock shop, or accompany him a prospecting venture.

Hauling hay from the Colorado River Valley with dad was another chore that was added in those years. One of those outings led to my first solo epic adventure on Route 66.

To Be Continued –