We left the comfort of our little beach bungalow mid afternoon of a Friday in October and headed through Rancho Santa Fe on Del Dios Highway to connect with Interstate 15 north to Barstow and then east on Interstate 40 toward Kingman, Arizona, our base for this little excursion. Outside of Barstow, we espied a, YUK!, outlet center. Needing to fuel up, we did, and in so doing, discovered here also was a Tommy’s Hamburger stand. As a callow youth, my uncle John had taken me to the original Tommy’s, in what?, south east?, L.A. A little corner joint in the barrio that made these great, greasy, burgers, topped with chili and cheese. This has remained a fond memory for me and one I’m sure that shaped the path of junk food seeking that has constituted my culinary life. The Tommy’s outside Barstow does not have the seedy charm of the original but the burgers, the chili, the grease are the same. We were happy that we had decided to eat it there as, whoa, what a mess they are and we couldn’t imagine trying to eat um whilst on the road.

That night, not wanting to cross over to Arizona and take the Topock turnoff in the dark and miss the joy of driving old historic Route 66 in the daylight, we stopped at a San Bernadino county park and camp ground a mile or two from the Arizona border. We stopped in a camp ground on the Colorado river. We stopped in a camp ground full of people whose destination was this camp ground on the Colorado river. We stopped in a camp ground full of jet skiers and ski boat enthusiasts who were partying hardy in this camp ground on the Colorado river. It was, let me say, less than a peak experience for us and we were happy that we had brought along our ear plugs. We were happy to plug our ears, drain a glass of scotch and fade into slumber land to sleep the sleep of the disturbed.

The following morning we broke camp early and crossed the river and exited on the first off ramp on the other side, that is marked "Oatman." Arizona has the longest remaining stretch of Route 66 extant at a little more than 158 miles. The section between the Colorado river and Kingman is, in our estimation, the most spectacular. Fairly flat it winds along the desert floor and into the hills and mountains to Oatman.

Along the way we stopped at Linda’s cafe in Golden Shores  and it was here that we first felt that we had entered a time warp into the past. I don’t know if you have seen the movie "Baghdad Cafe" but Linda’s is much the same. Full of local desert rats, characters of the west, we were made immediately welcome and indulged in a typical, yet sumptuous, breakfast. Chicken fried steak with country gravy for Rosemary and the "English breakfast" for me. Eggs on English muffins with sausage and gravy.  Rosemary says to tell that there were also perfectly cooked golden hash browns.  There were and I have said it.

Being thus fortified and bidding farewell, we re-entered the stream of life on this highway, this route, and made our way north and then east. Coming upon Oatman, one is struck by how much it appears like a movie set. A ghost town in the high desert, obviously depending upon tourist’s dollars for sustenance, it is none the less still charming. "Wild" burros roam the street looking for a hand out. "Cowboys" lounge about the sidewalks. One could have a drink at the bar of the Oatman Hotel. This is where Carole Lombard and Clark Gable spent a night on their honeymoon in room 15.

As aforementioned, this piece of the highway is indeed majestic, winding as it does through craggy peaks in the desert hues of rust, peach, sand and brown. One must slow down to a crawl on its twisting switch backs as you make your way once again to the open desert and on to Kingman.

Prior to our journey I’d been cruzin the internet and had made contact with Paula, a native of Kingman and almost a one person chamber of commerce. She had been touting the city golf course, Cerbat Cliffs, amongst other features of this fair city and we met her there on the putting green before our tee time. After chatting amicably for a spell it was decided that we would meet with her after our round for cocktails and that we would play a round with her two days hence.

What a beautiful course, surrounded by these cliffs of Cerbat, these columnar like cliffs, created by the hand of god, the mason, and by the sands of time, this course was in impeccable condition. An oasis of deep green in a land of browns. This first time we played it, I bettered my previous best score by 8 points, shooting an 87, breaking 90 for the first time. I, as you can imagine, was ecstatic, and feel elated once again as I write this. At 68 bones for two rounds of golf and a large bucket of balls beforehand to smite out upon the range, this course is a great bargain also.

Over cocktails that evening, we met a couple of Paula’s neighbors. Celia and Richard Swanson, a sculptor and a potter. Former professors at the local college, several years ago they gave up teaching to devote themselves full time to ART, more than a mans name. They have since been making a name for themselves creating beautiful works. He in raku, she in bronze.

We all adjourned to "El Palicio," a local Mexican restaurant where we commingled with the masses of Kingman, got to know each other better, swill grog and indulge in the cuisine of old Mexico and el Nuevo Estados Unidos.

After spending the night en un cheep motel, with an excellent firm mattress,  we once again headed out on life’s highway. Continuing east on Route 66 we passed through several small burgs that have been passed by time and eclipsed by the Interstate, traveling through open desert, mountains and desert again to arrive at the end of the road in Seligman where 66 once again connects with the Interstate. Here is the Snow Cap Drive Inn (good hamburgers) which belongs to the comedian of Seligman, Juan Delgadillo whose kitchen show is indescribable. He and his staff repeat the same gags over and over on unsuspecting tourists to everyone’s delight. The sign on the door says "Sorry we’re open", the knob is on the hinge side and the fun continues from there. Out back is a collection of old cars and gas pumps from an era gone by. Also you will find a rusting bed frame surrounding plastic flowers. Must be a flower bed.

After returning to Kingman by the same route - we enjoyed it so much, we had to do it again - and on the recommendation of a local, we headed up Hualapai mountain for a 14 mile journey from cactus to pines. We had been told that the lodging at the Hualapai Mountain Lodge kinda sucked but that the dinners were great. We didn’t follow the advice on the beds, we stayed over, they sagged so much we were continually bumping into each other on the streets of dreamland. We did dine there also and wished we hadn’t as the special was fried chicken and man was it fried, we just wondered when and how cold the fat must have been to produce such a greasy, tough bird. Sounds like a lodge panned by the critic and hey, it is! Go to the mountain for the scenery, to camp perhaps at the campground, but well, we don’t recommend the lodge.

Up in the morning and out on the road back to the golf course we did roam. Met up with Paula and Celia after hitting a bucket o balls and puttering around the practice green and tee off we did. Another enjoyable round on this lovely course accompanied by a native and a transplant from SoCal. I didn’t top my previous score but I played well and we had fun absorbing the local color.

Game over, we said our good-byes and headed off back on Route 66 to Oatman once again to have that drink at the Oatman hotel, to see where Clark and Carole spent the night, to discover that no, we didn’t want to stay there in another sagging bed and made our way to Lake Havasu City.

Lake Havasu City, Arizona, the home of the London Bridge. Years ago when I first heard of some madman buying the decaying London Bridge and transporting it, and re-assembling it in the middle of the Arizona desert, I thought it strange.

This has become the second most visited tourist site in all of Arizona, this bridge to an island on Lake Havasue. I still think it’s strange and really weird that it gets so much attention in a state of such great arid beauty.

We saw, we left, we made our way down to Interstate 10, to that Beverly Blvd. of the desert, Indian Wells, to Palm Desert, to a date shake, to the Palms to Pines Highway. Up the road we went, I feeling a strange sense of general anxiety, of foreboding. I went into the back of the van and slept it through. We made our way home and Rosemary told me that on the Palms to Pines she also had been feeling peculiar. Nothing untoward did happen however and we arrived safely back to our seaside abode, rested, drained, having had a wonderful time of companionship, scenic beauty and golf and glad to be alive on the planet.