Goodbye Baby, Aman

EPILOGUE

It was an amazing trip.   

Southern route Westward, Northern route Eastward

Every day of this journey unfolded in fascinating and unexpected ways. I ventured into what Americans call "the heart of America" and met plenty of salt-of-the-earth folks—some saltier than others.

From the start, I wanted to connect with the real souls of the land, not just "the haves" cruising in their SUVs. The people I met had stories as diverse and rich as the landscapes around them.

Where have all the people gone?

Would I do this trip again? Absolutely. But next time, I’d have a more focused approach.

Some places I’d skip in favour of spending more time in others. The further west I traveled, the more the land seemed to call to me, luring me off the beaten path and into the unknown.

Once a busy place, now no one drops by

I know it sounds cliché, but it wasn’t until I truly strayed from the well-worn tourist routes—sometimes so far off that I started questioning my decision-making skills—that I really felt like I was experiencing the essence of Route 66. This road made and broke the towns along its path, and you can still feel its lingering impact. Many times, I found myself in areas with no cell coverage, meaning if something went wrong… well, I’ll let your imagination run with that one.

Once the great Route 66

Even the vehicle has rusted away

A house of stone

Maybe it’s just that the vast open spaces of the West are easier to photograph than the bustling urban centers crammed with people, industry, and traffic. Or maybe it’s because those wide, empty landscapes have an almost timeless quality—where the only change over the years is that the grass has grown a little longer.

Perhaps the lawn mower is broken

         What Would I Do Differently?

          Two things.

          First: Equipment.                                                                                                                                         (a) Buy a Tilley hat. Baseball caps are a pain—I took mine off so often that I ended up with a                      sunburn on my bald spot within two days. Rookie mistake.                                                                     (b) Get a GPS unit for my DSLR. As much as I tried, keeping track of exactly where I was proved           to be a challenge. Many places I visited had no visible signs, and even maps and GPS systems              didn’t always agree. Case in point: Jericho, Arizona. It was on my map but not on my GPS. The              only way I found the remnants of the hamlet was by stumbling across a faded, weather-beaten              sign lying on the ground that read "Jericho Cemetery." That was reassuring…                             

          Second: Planning,                                                                                                                                         I’d do a bit more research on the areas I planned to visit. While I knew a lot about Route 66’s                  history, I knew far less about the small towns and hidden gems along the way. The trip was about           exploration, and I feel like I partially achieved that goal—but once I arrived in an area, I quickly           realized there was even more to discover than I had anticipated. Next time, I’d narrow my focus              and dedicate more time to fewer places.

Round Barn

    Places I Loved—and Those I Couldn’t Wait to Leave

    I’ll let you figure that out for yourself. My preferences may not be yours, so I won’t spoil the                adventure.

    Funny how sometimes it’s the little moments that stick with you the most. One such moment was in        Carthage, Missouri. I sought out the old Civil War battlefield where the first major battle of the war        took place. Standing there in the cool drizzle, surrounded by tall trees and absolute silence except for     a soft rustling of leaves, I was struck by the surreal contrast between the site’s peacefulness and its        bloody past.

How could such a lovely place have once been a killing field

    Ghost Towns That Aren’t Really Ghost Towns

    Some of Route 66’s so-called ghost towns have been revitalized into tourist attractions. While they        still have photo-worthy moments, many felt a little too "Disneyfied" for my taste—full of souvenir        shops (selling mostly made-in-China trinkets) and restaurants hyping up "Route 66 burgers" and            cheap beer. Outside, massive SUVs and Winnebagos lined the streets while families devoured nachos     drenched in processed cheese. Not quite my scene.

Garish, but the tourists seem to love it

    Dodging Crowds 

    Tourist hotspots like Horseshoe Bend and Monument Valley attract waves of selfie        enthusiasts, making it impossible to avoid crowds—unless you wait. The moment the     sun sets or the weather  turns ugly, most people scatter. That’s when the real magic        happens. In the fading light, the desert transforms: red soil turns pink, and the bushes     seem to glow.

As the sun goes down, the colours come out.

    Leaving Monument Valley wasn’t the end of breathtaking views—it was just the beginning. As I            headed north toward Moab, I kept one eye glued to my rearview mirror, and I’m glad I did. This part     of the country surrounds you with beauty in every direction, whether you capture it with a camera or     just in your mind’s eye.

    Altitude Reality Check

    Driving into the Colorado Rockies, I learned firsthand what a lack of oxygen feels like. As I climbed     higher, I noticed my engine needed more gas to maintain speed. Then I realized traffic was slowing        down, and truck engines were groaning like they were on the verge of a heart attack. That’s when it        hit me—oxygen. At over 11,000 feet, even my car was struggling to breathe. Considering that small        aircraft are not allowed to fly above 10,000 feet without oxygen, here I was at over 11,100 feet.

    And what goes up must come down. Descending at a steep 6% grade presents its own challenge.            Overuse your brakes, and you’ll reach the bottom with none left. I relied mostly on my gears, but I         passed a few less fortunate SUV drivers who had pulled over, their brakes completely fried.

    From Nebraska to Iowa

    Nebraska was as expected: flat, open, cattle, farms. No surprises there. Iowa, however, was a different     story. I had planned to drive straight through, but its lush green rolling hills and endless unpaved            country roads proved irresistible for a photographer. I found myself detouring off I-70 just to capture     the scenery. 

Iowa's green fields and dusty roads

   The Final Stretch

    Around Gary, Indiana, I stopped for my last night on the road. The next day, I crossed back into            Canada at Sarnia and drove straight home to Markham.

    The Trip by the Numbers

• Days on the road: 15

• Principal lodging: Motel 6

• Best Wi-Fi: McDonald's

• Best coffee: Also McDonald's

• Bottles of water consumed: 60+

• Miles/kilometers traveled: 6,275 / 10,100

• Gallons/Litres of gas purchased: 160 / 605

• Lowest gas prices: Michigan

• Highest gas prices: California

• Least photos taken: Nebraska

• Most photos taken: New Mexico & Arizona

• Highest altitude reached: 11,116 ft / 3,388 m, Colorado

• Hottest temperature: 117ºF / 47.2ºC

• Principal cameras: Nikon D610 & Fuji X100s

• Frames shot: 8,500

• Best photo opportunity: Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Arizona, Iowa

Would I Do It Again?

Without a doubt. There’s simply too much to see in one go, and I’ve barely scratched the surface of what lies off the beaten path. Until next time, Route 66.

-30-

Nothing like the smell of burnt rubber first thing in the morning.

The end is near.  Or is it..

I’m writing this from just a few miles shy of the Canadian border, savoring my final gourmet road breakfast. Where? That’s for you to guess.

Yesterday, I didn’t post. Why? Because I was too exhausted after a 16-hour marathon drive that covered 656 miles (1,056 kilometers for those of you thinking in metric). Monument Valley had me believing the rest of the trip would be mundane.

Oh, how wrong I was.

Heading north to Moab, I kept one eye on the rearview mirror (as one does in this vast, cinematic country) because the scenery is too breathtaking to ignore. You stop, you gawk, you "smell the cactus flowers"—but, you know, not too closely.

 

Though it's a desert it is teaming with life

Pushing upward these ancient beauties are real desert jewels.

Somewhere on Highway 163, I encountered a gaggle of GAP girls. No, not wildlife. These were about 20 young women on some sort of group adventure. And when I say "encountered," I mean nearly ran over.

Here’s the scene: Highway 163 stretches like a ruler for about four miles, climbing gently to a plateau with a pull-off at the top. That’s where the girls were, mid-production of an elaborate photo shoot—jumping, posing, and running towards the camera in unison. Imagine choreographed chaos set against a majestic desert backdrop.

Where else does a ribbon of asphalt add to the scene

 

At the plateau, there is a pullover and this is where 20 giggling and very excited young ladies were gathered to have their pictures taken with the majestic view in the BG.  They were turning the photo moment into a full-fledged production.  Taking their pictures in groups, jumping as a group, running towards the camera as a group and any other combinations you can imagine.  

The problem? From a driver’s perspective, you don’t have a clear line of sight of the plateau—or anything on it—until you’re nearly on top of it. 

Doing 70+ mph with an18 wheeler only meters off of my bumper, (he was pouring on the diesel to make the grade) hauling 50,000 pounds (that's 22,679 kilos) of rebar, said it best.  I crested the hill to find the entire gaggle suddenly in view. Brakes slammed, girls scattered like startled pigeons, and the 18-wheeler on my tail let loose an air horn that shattered the serene desert quiet. Blue smoke billowed from his tires as he fought to avoid joining the commotion.

Thankfully, the only casualties were some tire rubber and the trucker’s mood. The girls wisely relocated their antics further down the road, where they could see oncoming traffic. I pulled over to watch, and let me tell you, their energy was infectious. The trucker, though? He kept on climbing, likely muttering curses all the way to his next stop. The only damage was about $1,000.00 worth of rubber being left on the very hot pavement and a very annoyed "long haulier".

I'm sure the girls felt their GAP trip was just about to be terminated.  

Wisely, the girls moved further down the road so they could better see oncoming traffic.  I pulled over to watched their antics, the trucker needed what little momentum he had left to finish the climb and couldn't stop.  Great fun, unless you're the trucker.

 

The excitement

Oh to be young and carefree again.

I've said it before but it's worth repeating.  This part of the country, for all of its raw and hostile environment, is indescribably beautiful.

For all of its beauty, you have to be careful as the desert can jump up and bite you just when you least expected it.

 

Caution is needed or you too could get bitten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After surviving the GAP encounter, I rolled into Moab and hunted down Highway 128. Why? Because Don Robertson—the guy I met at the ghost mining town in Jerome—insisted, "You’ll be glad you did."

And glad I was. Highway 128 meanders beside the Colorado River, cutting through a gorge with sheer red sandstone cliffs towering overhead. It adds an hour to your day, but who’s in a rush when surrounded by jaw-dropping beauty? The traffic crawled, as everyone was too busy soaking it all in.

Don was right—skipping the monotony of Highway 163 for the magic of 128 was the call of the trip.

 

Surprised that anything crows in this heat

These things  come crashing down on a regular basis and the road signs warn you.

Colorado winding along Hwy 128 near Moab

Dead Black Trees against the backdrop of a Crystal Blue sky and Red Butte.

About to go rafting on the mighty C

 

I naively assumed the drive to Denver would be a straightforward sprint. Wrong again!

The highway became a roller coaster of massive climbs, tunnels, rivers, and valleys, winding past sleepy ski towns waiting for snow to breathe them back to life. At 11,125 feet, my car huffed and puffed, guzzling gas as it gasped for oxygen. Meanwhile, my ears popped like cheap champagne corks. Fun times.

Miss an exit? Congratulations, you’ve just added 20 minutes to your journey. Exits on American tarmac strips are unlike Canada's, they are much much further apart. But the scenery more than made up for it—until Colorado spat me out into the flat, endless expanse of Nebraska.

Check out the altitude on my GPS's altimeter. Even the GPS has desert dust on it.

About to enter the 1.7 mile (2.74 km) Johnson Tunnel

Inside the tunnel

 The transition from Colorado’s rugged peaks to Nebraska’s wide-open plains is extreme. Sublime beauty gives way to a serene simplicity. At least you can fly down the highway at 75 mph (which everyone interprets as 80+).

And then there’s Iowa. Gorgeous, rolling green fields stretch to the horizon, dotted with wind turbines as far as the eye can see. I couldn’t resist pulling off I-80 to soak it all in—and, of course, snap some photos. 

 

Rolling Green Hills of Iowa

Truck on dusty Iowa country road

IIowans take their conservation seriously; over 27% of the state’s energy comes from wind power.

Wind Turbines in Iowa

 

The photo below is a single blade from a wind turbine.  At 127 feet tall and 36 tons, you don't want this thing to topple over.  A full unit weights 171 tons.  

Single Turbine Blade as a monument at a weigh scale stop

 

The single blade stood there like a modern monolith, and my mind wandered to the original 1968 Planet of the Apes.  In a scene Charlton Heston played an astronaut who time travels into the future and witnesses apes paying homage to what they think is an image of their god.  In fact, it's an ICBM missile.

 

ICBM in scene from 1968 Planet of the Apes

 

While a wind turbine blade is far less menacing than an ICBM missile, the parallels struck me. One stands for progress and sustainability, the other for destruction. Funny how your brain takes odd detours when you’ve been alone on the road for too long.

This trip has been a journey of contrasts—raw beauty, unexpected challenges, and the occasional surreal moment. And now, as I near the Canadian border, the end feels close. Or is it just another beginning?


More to come….

Into Tse Bii' Ndzisgaii

Monument Valley

 

If you stand still long enough, squint, and gaze into the distance, you might just imagine a dust plume trailing behind a galloping stagecoach, its four horses tearing across the valley floor beneath the shadow of a towering butte. Hot on its tail, a troop of U.S. Cavalry appears, led by a familiar figure—a silhouette straight out of a Saturday afternoon matinee. Could it be? Is that…? Yes, it’s him! The man, the myth, the legend… Wait, permit me this indulgence in fantasy.

You see, I grew up watching John Ford classics like Stagecoach and Fort Apache, with their epic black-and-white panoramas of Monument Valley. This place isn’t just a pretty landscape; it’s cinematic history. Known to the Navajo as Tse Bii’ Ndzisgaii, or “Valley of the Rocks,” Monument Valley owes much of its iconic status to Ford, who not only championed this remarkable place in his films but was singularly instrumental in bringing the plight of the Navajo to the American populatioon as a whole, but also the U.S. Government. And boy, did he have good taste.

 

On the way to Monument Valley

 

Arriving here, you have two options: you can admire the buttes from the comfort of the Navajo Welcome Center (boring), or you can brave the valley floor by driving "the loop" (adventurous, foolish, or both). Naturally, I went for "the loop".

Let me warn you, the loop isn’t for the faint of heart or the faint of car. 

The first 100 yards greet you with a 45-degree slope of soft red soil that challenges even SUVs. Now imagine what your average sedan endures. Once you conquer that, the washboard road awaits—enough bumps and rattles to loosen your fillings. Luckily, the welcome center has a dentist on hand for emergency repairs, and the Navajo towing service is ready to haul away your vehicle when its suspension inevitably surrenders.

And then there’s the dust. Oh, the dust! By the end of the 1.5-hour journey, every vehicle looks like it’s been dipped in paprika. Tourists who wisely opt for open-air guided tours wear dust masks as if they’re prepping for a Martian apocalypse. The red dust infiltrates everything—your eyes, nose, ears, hair, and, worst of all, your camera. Switching lenses here? Bold move. A single lens may not cover all your photography needs, but left attached at least it won’t allow your camera’s sensor to turn into a gritty souvenir.

Did I mention the dust?

 

Dust aside, Monument Valley is absolutely worth it. The buttes are breathtaking, towering over you from all directions—front, back, left, and right. At every turn, visitors hop out of their cars to snap photos, check emails (really?), or take selfies. Some are capturing the majesty of the landscape, while others…well, who knows what they’re doing.

Typical family scene. At least this group left their vehicle, many don't.

Cars on "the loop"

The point from which John Ford shot many of his scenes

 

Buttes and a very old tree

At the famed John Ford lookout, where the director filmed many of his iconic shots, an entrepreneurial Navajo man was renting out his horse for photo ops. Nothing says “authentic Western experience” like posing in cowboy boots and jeans, perched on a horse, with the majestic buttes as your backdrop. Genius, really.

 

The tourist just eat this kind of thing up.  One more step backwards and Dad will be a goner.

I couldn’t stop photographing the place. The way the light changes, minute by minute, transforms the landscape into something entirely new. After sunset, while most people dashed back to their cars (and their iPhones, which can’t handle long exposures like a proper DSLR), I stayed behind. Shooting the buttes in the fading light was magical. The valley whispered softly in the breeze as headlights from the last vehicles snaked their way out. It was surreal, almost otherworldly. No wonder the Navajo guard this place with such passion.

"The Mittens" Before sunset

"The Mittens" After Sunset

For those interested as to how these marvels came about here is a brief explanation.  Not being a geologist I cannot vouch for the complete accuracy of my information but from what I've read it's not too far off the mark.

If nothing else moves you about this place perhaps the knowledge that you are standing at the foot of giants whose creation started 300 million years ago just might have an effect. 

300 million years ago this place was once an inland sea, then 220 million years ago it became a green forest that provided food for early dinosaurs. Sometime around 200 million years ago the climate became aired, the forests and early dinosaurs died out and the area became a desert with 200-foot high sand dunes. Around 160 million years ago the rains came back and the, by now hardened sand dunes disappeared under a lake. By 110 million years ago the early dinosaurs have all died and others replaced them. At this point, the weather here was similar to northern California, mild and wet and the first flowers appeared. About 100 million years ago an ocean slowly started to creep back in and kept rising for 10 million years until 2000 feet of water covered the region.  Around 75 million years ago the ocean started to recede and soon the sandstone buttes were above the water again.  About 65 million years ago a lake returned and the Rocky Mountains started to push up.  Around 35 million years ago the lake got pushed out and the Rocky's crew higher. Only within the past 10,000 years did the climate become what it is today. 

Monument Valley isn’t just a destination; it’s an experience. Dusty, bumpy, and maybe even a little uncomfortable, but wholly unforgettable. Just be sure to pack your sense of adventure—and a dust mask.

More to come…

Quick Exit

At first light, I skedaddled out of Prescott as quickly as possible.

Headed straight for Jerome, perched 5,000 feet up in the Black Hills of Yavapai County, Arizona.

Back in the late 19th century, Jerome struck gold—literally. Gold, silver, and copper were discovered, and overnight the town turned into a bustling mining hub. But, like most get-rich-quick stories, the wealth didn’t last. By the time they finished plundering the earth’s goodies, the mining shafts were so deep they nearly tapped into sea level. Then, in the 1940s, disaster struck when the wooden beams deep in the mine caught fire. The blaze spread through 30 miles of tunnels, burning for about a year. They eventually snuffed it out the hard way: by shutting down the mine and flooding it. Talk about a dramatic finale.

These days, Jerome is a charming tourist town filled with great eateries and artisan shops selling all kinds of creative wares.

 

Jerome High in the Mountain

 

But let me give you the inside scoop—Jerome is just the appetizer. The real gem lies about 1/8 of a mile further up the mountain in the old ghost miners’ town. It’s a collector’s paradise, packed with more rusty relics than you could shake a wrench at. I’m talking old vehicles, tools, and even the original dentist’s shack, complete with its chair and rusted dental equipment, all sprinkled with a healthy coating of Arizona dust.

 

Care for a quick check-up?

 

And then there’s the main attraction: Don Robertson.

I arrived early, paid my $4 Yankee dollars, and had the place to myself when I bumped into Don. Turns out, he owns the whole thing. Don’s not just the proprietor—he’s a racing car driver, master mechanic, and a walking history book rolled into one. Seeing I was the only guest so far, he gave me a private tour.

The place is a playground of old machinery and engines, including a WWII submarine engine he still fires up to power enormous buzz saws. Yes, you read that right—a submarine engine. Forget Jerome; Don’s ghost town is where you’ll want to spend your day getting lost in a mechanical Neverland. When you’re done, head back to Jerome for a late lunch and some window shopping.

Rusty Tanker

Gas Pump

Once a Great Ford

Population at Don's place

The Man Himself with his racing car

 

Don Robertson

Explains Don's Racer

On second thought forget Jerome, go straight to Don’s place and spend the better part of your day being lost in Neverland.  

After Jerome, I hit the road for Sedona. Let me tell you, Sedona might just be the most beautiful city in America. It makes Santa Fe look like a dusty old barracks. The red rock landscapes are breathtaking. I didn’t have much time to linger since I was racing daylight to get to Horseshoe Bend, but if you visit, plan on staying a couple of days—it’s worth it.

 

The outskirts of Sedona

 

Does Your backyards view look like this?

After Jerome, I hit the road for Sedona. Let me tell you, Sedona might just be the most beautiful city in America. It makes Santa Fe look like a dusty old barracks. The red rock landscapes are breathtaking. I didn’t have much time to linger since I was racing daylight to get to Horseshoe Bend, but if you visit, plan on staying a couple of days—it’s worth it.

 

Majestic Arizona desert, on the way to Page

 

As I approached Horseshoe Bend, my heart sank. The northern end of the Grand Canyon was cloaked in haze so thick it looked like a scene from Portland, Maine, during a foggy morning. Fortunately, Horseshoe Bend wasn’t as bad—still a bit hazy but not nearly as discouraging.

 

Horseshoe Bend

Now, if you have vertigo, this is not the spot for you. 

To really take in the Colorado River, you’ve got to get uncomfortably close to the rim. Even I was hesitant. Meanwhile, busloads of fearless tourists were gleefully teetering at the edge, snapping selfies like they were auditioning for a daredevil show. They reminded me of the Mohawk ironworkers in Quebec—fearless when it comes to heights.

One family stole the show. Dad had just picked up a shiny new Canon camera and tripod, and I mean just. How do I know? Because he didn’t even have a camera bag. His kids and wife were lugging the lenses and the boxes they came in. The kicker? His Manfrotto tripod still had the price tags and instruction labels flapping in the breeze. There he was, lying flat on his stomach at the rim, tripod extended as far as his arms could reach, with the tag dangling in every shot. I’d bet my last dollar that when he gets home, every photo of the bend will feature a cameo from that Manfrotto tag.

Honestly, the people-watching at Horseshoe Bend was almost as entertaining as the stunning view of the Colorado River.

Still, standing so close to the edge of a crumbling limestone canyon gave me the heebie-jeebies. It’s beautiful, yes—but it’s also a constant reminder that nature doesn’t mess around.

More to come…