After leaving Amarillo, we set out on true Rt. 66, and for a while, I was frustrated. It had merged with Hwy. 40, so it just looked like modern interstate highway and not the Orwellian Time Machine I was anticipating. I wanted the Ghost of Tom Jode. I got Carl's Jr.
Eventually, were able to follow it enough (with the help of some absolutely useless maps I found on the internet) and through Jay's saint-like patience) to pull off and follow 66 when it would veer towards forgotten towns, and we'd cruise along the main drag.
This was great- this was more like it. Neon lights, kitsch, diners, the Blue Swallow Motel, old rusting trucks, antiques stores, filling stations. (Phillip's 66, named for a reason.) This glimpse into 1950's Americana touched my heart. I was peering out my window in curiosity the same way people have done for 50 years. Before Disney. Before Malls. Before highways. This was what Americans did to explore, take vacations, escape, and have fun. Breathing the same molecules as they did was healing, in a way. It was again a total sense of "right place right time."
It's easy to get caught up in our country's wars, economic issues, or our political policies, and to develop a sense of national shame or embarassment- a lot of the world hates us right now.
I wish they could take the drive we did, and see a more innocent America.
I fell in love with my country all over again on this road. There's so much beauty, ingenuity, creativity, and pure Spirit out there. Something unique to us, and incredibly special.
And then there's the hybrid mutant child of 66- Cline's Corners.
Cline's Corners is one of the rare survivors of the decay and abandon that eviscerated 66. It's location saved it- after the government destroyed most of 66 with the military convoys crossing the country in response to Vietnam, new roads were needed, so the SuperHighway was born, which was streamlined for efficiency. The new roads had no exits or ways to get to the towns along the former route 66, so they starved and died. Many of them are full-on ghost towns now, or completely blocked off from traffic with barricades and new forest growth separating their bones from modern society's view.
Cline's was lucky- it hovered on the edge, and the "modern motorist" can just pull right off the highway and into the parking lot. No muss no fuss.
As a result, it is sort of the "South of the Border" of New Mexico.
For Sale: keychains, postcards, talking toilet seats, carvings, "indian artifacts," plastic pirates, crucifixes, moccasins, lawn ornaments, coaster tiles, fairy statues, pistol holsters, frog fountains, tee-shirts, saltwater taffy, webcatchers, rabbit's feet, rattlesnake heads, plush toys, stress balls, leather jackets, chili sauce, armadillo-in-a-can, and fudge.
(If you open a store in the American Southwest, you must sell fudge. It is condition of your business license.)
Cline's also has a Subway subshop there. Jaime and I got a (lackluster) sub there, and took off before we bought anything else. It took the poor boy behind the sub counter honest-to-god 23 minutes to make 3 subs. He was special. Bless his heart.
Back on the road, we could see the plains extend into the buttes in the distance against a slate-grey sky. Beautiful. Occasionally, we'd spot some tumbleweed.
We stopped to get gas at a random filling station in the middle of nowhere. There was a german shepard snoozing in the heat outside the store. Next to the gas station was a pile of dirt, and an abandoned church.
Now when I say this place was in the middle of nowhere, think "50 miles + to ANYTHING.) This was a simple small church, with the doors torn off the hinges and a long 60's orange carpet up the aisle to the podium. Someone had spraypainted "sangre de Christo" (Christ's blood) along the walls, and there were a few beer cans along the pews. Blood-red curtains blew gently in the breeze that found it's way in through the broken windows, and it was deathly quiet.
Until a giant New Mexican swallow came tearing through the church, executed a few aerial loops while screaming at us, and then vanished. Total Scooby-Doo startle moment. Thanks for the cheap scare, Universe!
We poked around in the back where the minister's office would've been, too afraid to open the cabinets for fear of rattlesnakes or g-g-g..GHOSTS! Outside the church, we walked through some brambles back to our car and speculated about how tumbleweed is made.
After driving a little ways, we saw a yellowy-gold blur rolling along the side of the road, parallel to our car- a tumbleweed! In it's natural habitat! Actually tumbling! Jay and I freaked out, but we managed to pass it and Jay veered off to the side of the highway while I opened the door, effectively corralling the tumbleweed. I leaped from the car and wrestled it to the ground, pinning it with my body. Then we triumphantly held it aloft and posed with it like hunters holding up the heads of the Big Game. Victorious and exhausted, we decided to let it go. (A catch and release program is the best for maintaining a sustainable tumbleweed population.) After a final cuddle, I released it back into the wild, where it took off down the highway, shaken, but alive. I loved it.
Jaime's Grandmom had told us about a place she'd gone back-in-the-day with his Granddad- the Acoma Pueblos in Sky City. Apparently, it's the oldest still-active pueblo community in the country. We found the right exit and headed out for it.
To get to Sky City, you get to drive through a Navajo reservation, and there are signs asking you not to get out of your car or drive down any side roads, as a large portion of the lands are sacred and just for the Navajo people. I could understand whey they would set up a village there in the buttes- the rains and glaciers had carved out strange formations in the tops of the cliffs that looked like a cityscape. It looked like Gods at work. Sky people. So, to emulate that and to be close to the coolness, the Navajo built their city way way up on the top of a butte. And this city closes at 7pm sharp. We got there at 7:30, found a gate blocking the rest of the road, and then had the best drive back to the highway ever- the sky was reflecting gold and amber light on the rock formations, and the sky was pure silver again. The whole world in precious metals. Gorgeous. Jay pulled the moonroof back and I stood up on the seat and popped my head out like a prairie dog to soak in the golden light and silver wind. We were going fast, so my eyes were streaming water, which made me squint and the world seemed to dissolve a little. I could feel God. It was perfect. Right place right time.
It began to get dark, so we pressed on for a while and eventually had a (lackluster) dinner in a nearby town. We tried to go local and eat at the Cafecito, but, upon going inside and checking it out, we immediately opted for pizza hut, and settled in an unusually sanitary Econo-Lodge.
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