Boring Part 2

Yesterday, I thought about the word, boring, as I was driving across Interstate 40, parallel to the old Route 66,  aka "The Mother Road."  As we all know, Interstates are boring.  Expedient if you want to make miles, but boring.

In Kingman, Arizona, I visited an old train depot turned Tourist Information office. "What's to see here?" I asked the woman at the desk.

Just across the street, she said, I could go to Mr. D'z Route 66 Diner, where Oprah and Gayle had eaten sweet potato fries and drunk homemade root beer.  I could see their pictures on the wall.  Or I could go for a burger at Hot Rod Cafe or have a beer at Beale Street Brews.  Or I could buy things in the Route 66 Museum.

Like almost all the Route 66 towns, Kingman's only claim to fame is what it used to be, an extended homage to the Fifties: old gas pumps, neon signs, pictures of Elvis, dilapidated motels. Except for the newer cars traveling down Main Street, you'd think you were in a time warp.

I was getting tired of the Mother Road by then.  I'd just had a bowl of chili  in the previous Route 66 town in an original Fifties cafe with a stuffed elk on the wall and Fox News reminding us that the government had shut down and Grand Canyon would be closed. My interest in returning to the past was waning. I passed on Mr. D'z and pictures of Gayle and Oprah.  Besides, I was hoping to see another live elk, as I'd seen yesterday morning.

"You can either get a motel here or drive all the way to Barstow, California," she travel guide said.

"What's to see on the way?" I asked.

"Three hours of nothing!" she said. "Boring as hell."

Sure enough, Kingman had a bunch of motels, and the neon signs out front advertised rates just like they did in the old days: $39.  But at that moment, the thought of hauling my bags into one of the peeling little motels with their brown nubby bed spreads and more Route 66 memorabilia was the thought-equivalent of the smell of mold.  I'd make a run for California, sleepy or not.

She did tell me about another Route 66 town I could visit, maybe catch a gunfight outside the saloon, but I wasn't in the mood for a recreation of Gunsmoke.

If by "nothing" the tourist guide meant no billboards, no vibrant little towns, no Wal-Marts, she was right.   Highway 40 from Flagstaff to Barstow is a long stretch of Not-Much Happening.

But, as I've said earlier, I've developed quite a fascination with trains on this trip.  Mile-long trains, 300 silver cars pulled along by four orange engines, are fascinating to watch as they crawl along the walls of desert mountains and canyons.  Photographs can only capture parts of them; the eye can see them whole from one end to the other.

After the red rocks of Sedona, the land formations of the Mojave Desert are gray and smooth.  They support endless varieties of cacti and  and the yucca shines brilliant gold at sunset.  As I crossed the Colorado River into California, music on the iPhone on random, I knew that that hour was going to be one I'd never forget.

My late friend Gary Lane was playing "Someone to Watch Over You" and my eyes were misty, remembering the days I used to listen to him playing those old songs.

The furthest mountain ranges in the haze looked like clouds from an airplane window.

The Beatles sang, "Hey, Jude," and then a piano played "It is Well With My Soul,"  then Leonard Cohen sang "Halleluja."

And then one westward train and one eastward train met, and for a few amazing minutes, I could see the overlapping of two mile-long trains at once--a joy to behold!

"Boring" means--according to my mama--a lack of imagination.  Crossing into California, my imagination took me wherever those mile-long trains were going in both directions.