3,000 miles in 3 days - Day 3

If you haven't already, please read Day 1, here, and Day 2, here, before reading Day 3.

By the Saturday, most sense of urgency is gone. Not only have we already shaved the fourth day off the trip, but we're even ahead of schedule on the third. We've covered 2250 miles in 2 days; only 710 miles left to drive today. We check out and hit the road again.

We haven't even found a place to stop for coffee before we're in Arizona. My increasing need for caffeination leads us to stop at a Navajo Trading Post outside Lupton. The coffee is no better or worse than at any gas station or truckstop we've hit prior, but the availability of various native "artifacts" and Route 66 souvenirs defines this red-painted pueblo with the poorly spelled sign as a typical American roadside attraction of the 50's. I grew up on a healthy diet of these types of sights. US-9 from New York to Montréal is dotted with souvenir stands in the shape of teepees, amusement parks of 3 whole rides like North Pole USA, and quasi-historic attractions like Frontier Town. Having reached Route 66 -- or, at least the Interstate that was dropped on top of it in the 50's -- in New Mexico, much of the rest of the trip would be dotted with this manner of Americana.

The status of our fuel tank would dictate the next stop, and fate shined upon us in that instance. The Petrified Forest National Park sits in the now-defunct town of Adamana, between Holbrook and Chambers. We figured we could get gas and maybe lunch; stop in the gift shop. Well, that's not quite how things worked out. The gas about 20 cents above the 2.97 we'd grown accustom to paying, so we passed on that, but having already stopped, we figured we'd hit the gift shop.

"Ladies and gentlemen, our film is about to begin."

We looked at each other... what the heck. We filed into a small darkened theatre room, the kind they use at museums, and proceeded to watch the 20 minute film -- on 60" TV -- explaining the history, and prehistory, of the Petrified Forest, from its formation starting millions of years BC, to its history as a National Park and Route 66 attraction through the 1950's. We were sold. We had no shortage of time, the gate fee was only $7.00, so we decided we'd spend a bit of time in the Petrified Forest.

Following the Petrified Forest Highway -- well, that's what TomTom identified it as -- about a quarter mile North, we were overwhelmed by breathtaking views of the Painted Desert. We had to get out of the car and shoot about a dozen pictures. Every time you turn a mere 10 degrees you're faced with another view, different colors, and a greater sense of wonder. Words unfortunately cannot adequately express the beauty of these views, so what I can say is that out of the 35 exposures I had left between 2 cameras, I nearly ran out of film in the park, limiting myself to only 3 pictures that even contained any petrified wood.

After about an hour or so in the park, we decided to head back to the base camp, and see if we could get lunch at the restaurant attached to the souvenir shop. A Park Ranger's SUV followed us up the winding park road. Flashing lights. We were being pulled over by a Park Ranger.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" The typical law enforcement question, even in a National Park.

"Actually... no."

"You were doing 42 miles an hour as you came down that rise." We glanced at the speed limit sign to our right... 40. Wow, they're serious about speeding in the Petrified Forest.

Like a skillful veteran, Tim removed his drivers licence from his wallet, making certain the Military ID below it was evident to the Ranger, without being obvious or obnoxious. The entire demeanor of the encounter changed... and the duration likely doubled. Now dealing with fellow members of the law enforcement community -- he found out my affiliation shortly after Tim's -- and having no intent to issue a ticket, it became an opportunity to swap stories and talk shop. It was obvious this was likely the most interesting conversation he'd engaged in in weeks. He even had us get out of the car, so he could check for any stolen petrified wood -- probable cause for search in the Petrified Forest is indicated by mud on one's shoes.

After our friendly Park Ranger finally turned us loose, we headed back to the gift shop, but not before we were checked again for pilfered petrified wood, this time by use of a scale. We joked that there were a grand total of two crimes in the Petrified Forest, Theft of Petrified Wood, and Speeding. We were apparently suspected of both.

The restaurant didn't really impress us, and knowing that we had to stop for gas soon anyway, we decided we'd deal with both issues at the next town. So, after a brief perusal of the gift shop, opting not to pick up the $4000 petrified coffee table, we hit the road.

The next town big enough to merit a gas station was Holbrook. We filled up, and rolled down 66 for a place to eat. A classic Americana style Route 66 Diner popped up on the left, complete with decorative licence plate paneling around the front door. The perfect lunch stop... if it wasn't closed. About a half mile later, another classic 50's trucker restaurant... also closed. We ate McDonalds.

Back on the road, we continued West. The Painted Desert trailed off, and was replaced with sparse brush. The Santa Fe Railroad popped up to replace the Union Pacific as our companion and guide, and we drove on toward Flagstaff.

Between Holbrook and Flagstaff, I-40 runs through the southern part of the Coconino National Forest. Not what any of us in the Northeast would consider calling a forest, far south of the Ponderosa Pines predominant in the northern part of the forest, we drove through a Coconino National Forest that was little more than an arid desert, dotted with small shrubs and sagebrush; barely enough fauna to obscure the railroad tracks to our right.

A small mountain range popped up in the distance. Quickly we came upon it, the only evidence of the city of Flagstaff, and no sooner were we upon it, than it was in our rearview mirror. The map open -- to confirm the identity of the aforementioned mountains -- led us to plan a stop in Kingman. Unwilling to loose to the Mojave, as many have done before us, we elected to gas up, grab drinks, and switch drivers at the last town before the vast part of the desert.

The Mojave Desert, the few hours of it we had been in to this point once we left Flagstaff, had actually already done it's best to take us down. It is a living entity, and it does claim drivers. Stories abound of people runnning out of gas, or overheating -- trips ended by the vast stretch of nothing that straddles the Arizona - California border. For us, it wasn't the car that the Mojave preyed on, it was out minds, and our spirits. Late afternoon, for three hours, we drove -- Tim drove, and I sat -- motionless, silent, mindlessly watching the unchanging landscape of nothing. Three hours passed without conversation, without radio, without movement, and nearly without sanity. The arrival predetermined stop in Kingman snapped us from our comas, and the realization of what had occurred -- perhaps better, what had not -- scared us into a better focus.

A stretch of Business Route 40 / Historic Route 66, speckled with 2 motels, 2 gas stations, and 2 liquor stores, defined the town of Kingman, Arizona. A soda machine on the side of the building -- a far cry from the truckstop shops we'd grown accustomed to -- provided us beverages to keep us going until California. Barely 2 minutes to stretch our legs, we left the desolate little town but moments after we entered it, drove West, into the toughest leg of our trip, and did our best to force conversation for a while.

In time, the tension drifted, and again two friends were on a crazy road trip, with its goal very much in sight. Soon enough after that, the sun was setting over the Sierras, we crossed the Colorado, and we were in California... at an Agricultural Inspection Stop. Puzzled, we answered the officer's quick questions about foreign fruits and vegetables, and were waved on. And on we went, into more nothing; this time, liberal California nothing.

Although tracking almost due West, I-40 winds through the bottom of the Sierra, and by the time we emerged on the other side, it was time again to eat. I-40 meets the 15 -- all roads in California bear the article "the" -- in Barstow, and it seemed as good a place as any to stretch our legs and grab a bite. On East Main Street, just before the on ramp to the 15, we found Bun Boy.

The last little piece of Route 66 Americana, a little burger joint that hasn't changed much since 1955, made the trip feel complete, even if we were still 175 miles from Oxnard. We relaxed in the booths, with the 50's cars design upholstery. We read the pocket books of witticisms written by a local author. We drank our fountain Cokes, enjoyed our 1/3 pound burgers, and silently rejoiced in the near completion of our journey. We covered over 28 hundred miles, through the Appalachians, traversing the snow-covered Midwest, across the Mississippi, down through the plains of Kansas, across the vast Southwest, crossing the Painted Desert, the Continental divide, and the Mojave Desert, bridging the Colorado and winding through the foothills of the Sierras. In just a few short hours we would be in our motel; we had driven for three straight days, from sea to shining sea, and we had made it.