This morning we were up and out an hour earlier than yesterday. I had a leftover burrito and juice and coffee in the lobby, where we talked with the Indian hotel manager who talked about how much better he likes life here than in Anaheim, CA.He gave us advice about the island west of the brewpub, and after we checked out we drove there. The island marina was prettier than expected. Most of the shore was clean and kept as natural as a man-made lake can be. On the California side the shore was lined with native plants. A four-mile hike and bike path was on the Arizona side which got its use by residents shortly after sunrise.
Weather today was forecasted to be overcast with a chance of rain. At sunrise it was evident that we would not have blue skies today. Grey clouds followed us all day.
We drove north on the London Bridge Road, an eight-mile bypass that led to several wildlife refuges. We stopped here again. A blue heron had just landed in some reeds and I wanted to find more birds. Had I known that this refuge was so close to the hotel, I would have come here last night before sunset. The morning smell of wet flora dominated the shore. But most of the birds I saw near the pier were intruders: grackles, ravens, sparrows. One lone flicker was perched on an electric wire before it, too flew off.
The Havasu wildlife refuge continued along many patches of natural shoreline as we continued north on SR95. Just north of the I-40 was another section of this refuge, with a sizable tract of burned trees closed off to hunters. North of here alone the South Dike road we stopped again, to let the dogs out and pee and get a few minutes of running in. They had been well-behaved in the truck so far and I wanted to keep them happy.
After a few more miles of driving we headed into Golden Shores, from where we continued due north (straight) when yesterday we veered northwest (half-left) to get to Bullhead City. Outside of this trailer community we were officially on the Historic Route 66 and heading toward Oatman, an old gold mining community 22 miles away.
This was beautiful country, reminding me vaguely of southern Utah: reddish-brown soil and covered in large boulders. RVs were parked in the distance, seeking their own solitude. If I were wintering here I’d probably pick this area as well, as there was public land in all directions.
The route curved and hilled and gained elevation until we hit Oatman, a small town now making its subsistence by selling trinkets to tourists. During its heyday burros were used to haul ore in and around the mines. When the mines closed in 1910 the burros were released “to the wild” where they have begged passers-by for food. One small pack of burros approached us despite all three dogs barking at them. I had to close the window to prevent any of them wanting to lunge at the cute beast.
Stopping to photograph the beasts was a dangerous move. I was off the road as far as possible, but this was a narrow, two-lane road. Traffic at 10am suddenly burst into a small congestion as a long line of cars drove passed us. One speeding sedan nearly hit a burro as it passed another vehicle. Where could this speeder possibly want to get to in a hurry on this road?
Signs of “Do not feed the burros from the road” were prominently displayed on this stretch of Route 66 aka Oatman Highway. But once in the small town of Oatman vendors sold bags of carrots for $1. But where were the burros?
“They are still in the hills, they haven’t come down yet” said one vendor. “A few weeks ago a baby burro was killed by a driver who drove right into it. It was trying to get to its mother on the other side.” The burros belong to the BLM and are not corralled anywhere. When the town shuts down at night and the tourists leave, the burros head back to the hills.
When we were in Oatman, though, the town was just waking up for business. It was just after 10am and shopowners were opening their stores, placing merchandise outside along the wooden-planked or cement sidewalk. One vendor even raked the dirt outside his antique shop.
I liked Oatman. Its location in the 2700’ hills seemed mystical. The town itself had nothing for me, as all the shops sold t-shirts and other kitsch I have no need for and there was almost too much emphasis on anything starting with "Jackass" in honor of the free-roaming burros. But the houses behind the fake shop facades were the real thing: shacks on the sides of the hills with rusty cars in the front. There wasn’t much wealth here, but in all direction stood craggy peaks the lured me upward for exploration. I’d come back here for backcountry travel.
It started to drizzle now as we continued our drive westward toward Kingman, where our next plan was to eat lunch at a roadside diner off Route 66. After a few more scenic stops around treacherous curves, and one last view west of the sparkling Colorado River and the California peaks, we were now too far east to see the Tri-State area. Abandoned mines dotted the hills. Broken glass littered the roadside. And burroshit still spotted the pavement in sections.
We made the 30-mile drive to Kingman an hour later, crossing the “HolyMoses” wash into town. I hate to see that wash after a torrential monsoon!
We hit Mr D’z diner at 11:30am. This is the kind of diner we were hoping to find along Route 66: a cute little place that served burgers and fries with a smile. We each had the cheeseburger and fries basket with a “soda-pop.” The burgers were delicious and the dogs got each one bite from mine. An old jukebox stood in one corner, an old Coca-Cola sign hung on the north wall. Elvis adorned the walls in several photographs, a James Dean life-sized cut-out stood near the front door and a small Santa doll greeted customers.
I liked Oatman. Its location in the 2700’ hills seemed mystical. The town itself had nothing for me, as all the shops sold t-shirts and other kitsch I have no need for and there was almost too much emphasis on anything starting with "Jackass" in honor of the free-roaming burros. But the houses behind the fake shop facades were the real thing: shacks on the sides of the hills with rusty cars in the front. There wasn’t much wealth here, but in all direction stood craggy peaks the lured me upward for exploration. I’d come back here for backcountry travel.
It started to drizzle now as we continued our drive westward toward Kingman, where our next plan was to eat lunch at a roadside diner off Route 66. After a few more scenic stops around treacherous curves, and one last view west of the sparkling Colorado River and the California peaks, we were now too far east to see the Tri-State area. Abandoned mines dotted the hills. Broken glass littered the roadside. And burroshit still spotted the pavement in sections.
We made the 30-mile drive to Kingman an hour later, crossing the “HolyMoses” wash into town. I hate to see that wash after a torrential monsoon!
We hit Mr D’z diner at 11:30am. This is the kind of diner we were hoping to find along Route 66: a cute little place that served burgers and fries with a smile. We each had the cheeseburger and fries basket with a “soda-pop.” The burgers were delicious and the dogs got each one bite from mine. An old jukebox stood in one corner, an old Coca-Cola sign hung on the north wall. Elvis adorned the walls in several photographs, a James Dean life-sized cut-out stood near the front door and a small Santa doll greeted customers.
A train chuggled by across the street, reminding us that Kingman started as a railroad town, taking ore Back East.
I could have stayed longer in Kingman, hiked the five-mile Capt Beale Loop north of town and explored the side streets. Instead, by 1pm we were on our way on Route 93 heading toward Wickenburg, our last stop for the day.
A pie shop in Wikiup, famouse for its white peacocks in the back garden, was closed. The small copper mining town of Bagdad also didn’t hold much interest, although the small town was bigger than expected and had potential for a camp-out later this year. There were plenty of off-road trails here as well. When I asked the clerk at the gas station where the “down town” section of Bagdad was, she replied “This is it!.” Downtown consisted of a gas station/snack bar with an S and G convenience store next door.
Cottonwoods here were also still leafed in yellow foliage. And other desert trees added a touch of green to the panorama.
Route 93 is a fairly straight stretch of road heading toward Phoenix. A large grove of Joshua Trees sprouted up south of Bagdad and north of Wickenburg. I didn’t realize we had Joshua Trees in Arizona.
We arrived in Wickenburg by 4pm. I was expecting a small German old town since the founder was German, but the only Germanness of this town was a German restaurant up for sale on the Main Street. It was more of a cowboy town friendly to bikers.
By now I was tired of driving and just wanted to get settled for the night, get a hotel, walk the dogs. We found a decent room at the Westerner Motel off Wickenburg Way, a cozy room with tile floors.
“Do you have any pets? Cats or dogs?” the woman asked me.
“No” I lied, meaning the pets would stay in the car at night.
“I asked because of the pet fur on your (black fleece) jacket” DUH!
She was nice about the white lie, and gave us a two-bed smoking room for $10 more. The owner let us keep the dogs inside. This was a nice treat, as it was colder tonight than the previous two nights. The old comforter was the dogs’ sheet over the second bed.
We tried out the Cabana Saloon but I only had one beer. Instead we left and ate a decent meal at the Ranchero Mexican Cantina across the street, where I had one small beef enchilada and a margarita. The dogs got walked around the hotel and seemed content to stay inside with us where we watched CNN all night talking about the ground invasion of Israeli troops into Gaza.
I could have stayed longer in Kingman, hiked the five-mile Capt Beale Loop north of town and explored the side streets. Instead, by 1pm we were on our way on Route 93 heading toward Wickenburg, our last stop for the day.
A pie shop in Wikiup, famouse for its white peacocks in the back garden, was closed. The small copper mining town of Bagdad also didn’t hold much interest, although the small town was bigger than expected and had potential for a camp-out later this year. There were plenty of off-road trails here as well. When I asked the clerk at the gas station where the “down town” section of Bagdad was, she replied “This is it!.” Downtown consisted of a gas station/snack bar with an S and G convenience store next door.
Cottonwoods here were also still leafed in yellow foliage. And other desert trees added a touch of green to the panorama.
Route 93 is a fairly straight stretch of road heading toward Phoenix. A large grove of Joshua Trees sprouted up south of Bagdad and north of Wickenburg. I didn’t realize we had Joshua Trees in Arizona.
We arrived in Wickenburg by 4pm. I was expecting a small German old town since the founder was German, but the only Germanness of this town was a German restaurant up for sale on the Main Street. It was more of a cowboy town friendly to bikers.
By now I was tired of driving and just wanted to get settled for the night, get a hotel, walk the dogs. We found a decent room at the Westerner Motel off Wickenburg Way, a cozy room with tile floors.
“Do you have any pets? Cats or dogs?” the woman asked me.
“No” I lied, meaning the pets would stay in the car at night.
“I asked because of the pet fur on your (black fleece) jacket” DUH!
She was nice about the white lie, and gave us a two-bed smoking room for $10 more. The owner let us keep the dogs inside. This was a nice treat, as it was colder tonight than the previous two nights. The old comforter was the dogs’ sheet over the second bed.
We tried out the Cabana Saloon but I only had one beer. Instead we left and ate a decent meal at the Ranchero Mexican Cantina across the street, where I had one small beef enchilada and a margarita. The dogs got walked around the hotel and seemed content to stay inside with us where we watched CNN all night talking about the ground invasion of Israeli troops into Gaza.
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