What's in a name?

Whenever I visit New Mexico, it seems that it rains. This time was to be no different. When I opened the blinds on a new day, grey cloud clung like a shroud to the hills across the valley and a fine mist was falling. Some years ago on a previous trip, the rain began as I crossed the state line and kept on falling until I left, two days later. And not merely as a polite drizzle, but as snarling dogs and hissing cats. Then there were the Biblical storms at Taos and Carlsbad the time before that. So today, I was getting off lightly.

I stepped outside and took in my surroundings. The cottage was surrounded by lush meadows, the wildflowers blooming their last hurrah before winter set it. The apple tree in the garden was heavy with dark red fruit. Unfamiliar birdcalls echoed from the hills. A horse stood motionless, in perfect profile, in the adjacent field. It was a picture of rural tranquillity.

I drove into Ruidoso for breakfast. The Denny’s restaurant had been made up to look like a 50’s diner, all neon and shiny chrome. There was a biker’s rally taking place in town over the coming weekend and many of the surrounding tables were taken by early arrivals: large, leather clad, grizzled men with double bass voices, white whiskers and matching ponytails and their smaller, less hirsute female companions, squeezed, thigh-to-thigh into red vinyl booths, ordering enough food to keep a platoon of marines going for a week.

I did my best to compete in my own modest way, but the two buttermilk pancakes that came with my Lumberjack Slam had me beat. I smiled the wan smile of a loser as the waitress cleared the unclear plates, leaving the check in their place. Through the window, the clouds were beginning to lift, so I paid up and thought about the rest of the day. I decided to return to San Patricio and drop in on the Hurd, La Riconada Gallery, the one owned and run by my host at the guest cottage on Sentinel Ranch.

Michael Hurd is the youngest son of Peter Hurd and Henriette Wyeth. Michael has followed in a long line of Wyeth artists: great uncle NC Wyeth, uncle Andrew Wyeth, mother Henrietta Wyeth and father Peter Hurd. Just as his parents did throughout their lives, Michael paints and lives on Sentinel Ranch. He works from reality, as have all the Wyeth and Hurd painters, and believes the actual subject must be experienced if it is to be accurately conveyed in a painting. The still life compositions of his mother and landscape scenes of his father combine in Michael's work.

‘Crossing’ copyright Michael Hurd

Some years ago when visiting the gallery, I bought one of Michael’s prints, titled ‘Crossing’. It shows a small church alongside a railway crossing at Las Cruces, less than an hour’s drive to the south of San Patricio and has remained one of my favourites ever since in its regular spot at home. The original painting from which the print was made was still for sale and hanging in the gallery. Alas, it remained out of my price range. Though this time, I did get to meet Michael.

I’d always imagined a quiet, reflective man, wrapped up in his work in uninterrupted solitude. I wasn’t expecting the ebullient, gregarious character that shook me firmly by the hand after the introduction by his wife, Tiffany, who had already confided that she had great difficulty in getting and keeping him in the studio. Michael, it seems, likes nothing better than to potter around the ranch in his pick-up. ‘He’s doesn’t have his father’s work ethic’, she added, smiling somewhat wistfully.

Michael and I talked about the location pictured in ‘Crossing’ and I said I would like to find the spot, as I was passing that way the following day. He happily gave me directions and also the name of his favourite Mexican restaurant in the area, which he jotted down on the back of a business card. He also added a note for the owner that read, ‘This entitles the bearer to one free meal’, signed, ‘Michael’. ‘He’ll love that’, he said. ‘I wonder?’ I thought, knowing what they say about a free lunch.

I was still smiling as I walked to the car past Michael’s large white truck, his laughter still ringing in my ears and the impression of his handshake slowly fading from my right hand.

Next morning I returned to the flatbed Ford to get some daylight shots. At this hour I didn’t see the owners. Even here, where folks retire early and rise the same way, there was no one else on the street. Viewing my photographs, people often remark on the absence of people. With very few exceptions, it’s as though I’m the only person left on the planet, they say. Not so. There are usually people around. I just wait ‘till they’re out of shot. But on this morning I didn’t need to.

Today I was on the move, heading east into New Mexico. My final destination was San Patricio, between Ruidoso and Roswell on Federal Highway 70. A rough calculation showed it to be around 300 miles. I’d decided not use Interstates, preferring State and Federal roads. It would take longer, but I had all day and was in no hurry. By 10am I’d had breakfast, checked out and was on the road driving towards Holbrook. Once there, I’d leave the I-40 and take the 180, passing south of the Petrified Forest in a south-easterly direction.

The Wigwam Motel

Holbrook, around 30 miles from Winslow, had also been a Route 66 town. There remains a relic from those days that’s worth pulling off the Interstate to see: the Wigwam Motel. Happily the business is still a going concern and it remains possible to spend the night cosily tucked up in a wigwam. These are not made from buffalo hide, but concrete. Each wigwam comes with its own historic automobile from the 66 years parked out front. Alas, these are strictly for show, not driving, but add to the charm of the place nonetheless.

A few photographs later, I was back en route. I bypassed the Petrified Forest, having done it when I came through some years ago. The trees are fossilised stumps and fallen trunks from a time when the surrounding desert was a forest. Difficult to imagine now, but with global warming, something that any surviving generations could be saying about our current woodlands and forests, when all that remains are turned-to-stone relics scattered on the ground. That’s if they’re not under the sea. From this site, it’s now possible to see the peaks of the San Francisco Mountains, 80 miles distant at Flagstaff, when once, the view would have been obscured by trees.

Highway 180 was, as I’d hoped, virtually deserted. I drove for mile upon mile with no vehicle in vision, front or rear. Something, that even on our remotest roads back home, is now unachievable for an equivalent length of time. This didn’t change when I switched to Highway 60. It was quieter.

Two-way

Arriving at Springerville, close to the Arizona, New Mexico border, I stopped for lunch at a family restaurant, an obvious favourite with the locals. Like myself, the clientele were mostly seniors, taking advantage of generous portions at reasonable prices. I’d have qualified for being called junior in their company. Or stranger. Or the English guy. As it turned out, no-one had call to call me anything. Everyone was too busy eating.

Later that afternoon I passed through Pie Town NM. It was closed. That is, the restaurant from which the town drew its name was closed. The speciality? Why pies of course. According to the hand-written note on the door, the owners had gone for what was probably a well-earned vacation. Everyone needs a rest from pies now and again. The word had got around, as I was the only living thing in sight: human, animal or reptile. Although, taking advice from those that know, I didn’t walk through the long grass to put the presence of the final category to the test. Rattlers! There may have been birds in the air, but I didn’t look up. Too busy avoiding the long grass.

Pie Town

From Pie Town I struck out for my destination, as fast as the law and my matronly Nissan would allow me. The day was slipping away and I wanted to reach my destination before nightfall, as I had a hunch that my accommodation could be tricky to find in the dark. By the time I drove through Lincoln, the daylight was hanging on by its fingernails.

It’s hard to believe that Lincoln, now resembling a sleepy village in deepest rural Sussex, was once the scene of bloody murder and revenge. For it was here, on these now deserted streets, that a bitter war was waged between two local cattle barons. What became known as The Lincoln County War raged from 1878 to 1881. A notable combatant on the side of Englishman John Tunstall - who was murdered by members of the rival faction - was William Henry McCarty, more commonly known as Billy The Kid. It was not until his death in 1881, killed by a posse led by Pat Garrett, that the events of previous four years were finally laid to rest. McCarty is buried in Fort Sumner, New Mexico.

My misgivings about locating the cottage in which I would spend the next two nights were justified. I was to pick up the keys at a gallery, owned by my host. I hadn’t realised that New Mexico time was an hour ahead of Arizona time. The gallery had closed for the day. I spent the following half hour trying to find the place with only the vaguest of written directions. I alarmed several households by pulling up, headlights blazing, into their front yards. Before they had time to return to the porch with a shotgun I had shot off, tyres spinning, faster than Billy The Kid with the a posse of deputies on his trail. Luckily the host had guessed I could be lost and come out to look for me. Found and following a meal at a local restaurant, I was soon safely tucked up for the night, dreaming of empty pies, flaming roads, concrete gangs and outlaw wigwams.

What started out as a bit of spin, turned into a two hundred mile round trip. I set off from Winslow, heading north onto the Hopi reservation. Originally planning to go as far as some buttes (conspicuous and isolated hill, cliff-sided, often flat topped), previously seen from a distance, once I got there, I just kind of… kept right on going.

A glance at the fuel gauge before I left showed a tank one-third full. Plenty for what I originally had in mind, but after an hour of unplanned driving, passing nothing more than scattered, isolated settlements, the likelihood of running out of fuel grew with every passing mile. I pulled over and checked the map. Another ten miles would get me to Second Mesa. That was another ten reservation miles. Think country miles, then think again. To turn back would be more, so I pressed on. Besides, I was enjoying the view.

Second Mesa came into sight; a ragged ribbon of buildings at the foot of a range of steep-sided hills. It didn’t look altogether promising. The closer I got, the less likely finding a gas station seemed. I came to a T-junction. I chose left, towards Tuba City. Then, just as the buildings were petering out, I saw the Texaco sign. I pulled onto a crowded lot through parked cars in various states of disassemblage. They had the Texaco sign alright, but with no sign of a pump. All right. I had no alternative other than to press on to Tuba City. Come on. It was a city. Bound to be a gas station there. But then I’ve driven through places with a population of fifty-four that attached city to their name. Dates back to the western migration when any newly founded settlement, however small, had big ideas about growing. Some did. Most did not. I hoped that Tuba City was the former.

It was. Well, I guess it was because I never actually crossed the city limits. At the junction of State Highway 264 and US Federal Highway 160, there were four gas stations, one on each corner. I picked one and filled up. Now I could relax. I headed south, making my way to the Cameron Trading Post. All the driving had given me an appetite and I was ready for a late lunch.

Sitting in the restaurant, under the magnificently decorated ceiling, I watched the Navajo servers carrying plates piled with mountains of food to the tables around me. As hungry as I was, I don’t think I could have done justice to one of these epically proportioned portions. A failing shared, it seemed, by the majority of defeated diners surrounding me. Most were leaving with the uneaten remains of their meal in a ‘styrene box: a peculiarly American practice that I’ve never come across in the UK or Europe, but commonplace in these here parts. I guess the thinking being, ‘I’ve paid for it, so I’m gonna finish it. Maybe not now, but later’. I can’t help wondering if that’s what people really do. Finish it later. With pizza maybe, but how appetizing is congealed steak, mash, greens and gravy a day later? Or two?

I ordered a sandwich: Swiss cheese and pickles. It was still huge. Coming with fries, salad and chips (crisps). So high on the plate it needed a couple of wooden stakes to keep it up there. I finished it though. And the salad. And half the chips. I saved the crisps as a car snack. Disappointingly, this meant I didn’t need a box.

From Cameron I turned for home, back to Winslow on the I-40. On route I made a short detour to a canyon overlook in order to take a look at the Little Colorado River, no more than a trickle after a rainy season that had failed to deliver this year. I had it in mind to reach Winslow before the sun went down. There were some interesting sites on the edge of town that I wanted to catch in the golden evening light. I missed it by minutes, but took some pictures anyway. There’s always next time. Sometime.

I woke early. The sun was barely up, but I grabbed the camera and went down to the lobby. I helped myself to a freshly brewed coffee and stepped out into the chill air, taking sips from the ‘styrene cup as I went.

The tracks of the Santa Fe run right on by the foot of La Posada’s back garden, or the front, depending on how you arrive: by train or by road. The railway is mainly used for freight these days; train after train hauling containers, from the names on the side, most of them from China. They roll all day and all night at around fifteen minute intervals, east and west. You hardly hear them in the hotel, lest you listen out for them. Then it’s more a vibration than a sound as they rumble on through, sometimes stopping for a signal. Three diesel units pull near on a mile of train. I know this as I clocked one once, running parallel with the tracks as I drove an open stretch of road.

There are just two Amtrak passenger trains still running on this line. One at 7am going east, the other at 7.45pm going west. Both make a stop at Winslow, the station right next to the hotel as it always was. I walked to a gate that leads to the platform from the hotel grounds. There’s a sign warning those not travelling not to trespass. Although there are no station staff around to enforce the rules, I complied, sitting on the low wall to wait for the train.

Further down the platform, silhouetted against the lightening sky, was a huddled group of travellers, coffee cups in hand, shifting from foot to foot to keep warm. The bass notes of conversation drifted along on the still air. Across the tracks, the yard dogs greeted the sun. The waiting passengers appeared to be men only, each with a bag or case, going who know where to do who knows what? They had the demeanour of travelling for business rather than pleasure. Thirty years of commuting has given me an insight into these things. The scene reminded me of the one in ‘Once Upon a Time In The West’: desperados waiting for a train. Also a song by Guy Clark, recorded by the Highwaymen: Messer’s Cash, Nelson, Jennings and Kristofferson.

Then I heard it. A long way off, but a sound like no other. As Dylan once wrote ‘It takes a lot to laugh, it takes a train to cry’. If I had to pick a sound that would draw me back to the USA after a long absence, something that would make the call of the wild open spaces irresistible, a train whistle would be it. The mournful note cuts right to the soul, stirring a restlessness that most of us suppress, held back by life’s commitments and responsibilities. Hear that siren call and those things may have to wait in a siding for a while. Again, a song lyric says it all. Written by Stan Lebowsky and Herb Newman.

In a lonely shack by a railroad track
He spent his younger days
And I guess the sound of the outward-bound
Made him a slave to his wand'rin’ ways

I was that masked man.

‘Take It Easy’. Made famous by The Eagles – Glenn Frey co-wrote the song – first became known to me through his collaborator, Jackson Browne, as the opening track on Side 1 of his 1973 album, ‘For Everyman’. The album also features the ‘maxi-instrumentalist’, David Lindley.

The instruments mastered by this… err, master, include acoustic and electric guitar, upright and electric bass guitar, banjo, lap steel guitar, oud, mandolin, hardingfele, bouzouki, cittern, bag-lama, gumbus, charango, cumbus, ud, weissenborn and zither. How can one man play so many instruments that I’ve never even heard of?

An ud, apparently, is a musical instrument common to all Arab cultures, also known as the oud. So that cuts Mr Lindley’s achievements down by one, as the oud is already listed. Huh! Not quite as talented as we thought then. The ud, or oud, is also an important part of the Turkish musical tradition and may have originated in Persia, where it is known as the ‘barbat’. It is a stringed instrument slightly smaller than a guitar, with eleven strings in six courses.

As for the rest, including the ‘hardingfele’ and ‘weissenborn’, you can Google those yourself. I’m off to practice the ukulele. Not listed as one of slow-hand Lindley’s achievements I notice. Hah!

I walked outside into late evening’s half-light: the time, when, if you’re very lucky, some magic finds its way into a camera lens. I had a good feeling about this evening.

I stopped at the road that ran along the front of the hotel: old Route 66. I imagined what it once had been, the mother of all roads, winding from Chicago to LA, part myth, part legend. Fifty years ago I wouldn’t have been able to cross to the other side, except on a red light. It would have been filled with automobiles and trucks, all going somewhere from someplace else, 24 hours a day. Now, at 6.30pm, the street was empty, just a pair of taillights disappearing to my right and headlights stopped at the signal a quarter of a mile away to my left. Jumping a large puddle left by an earlier stormy cloudburst, I crossed over, taking my time.

Opposite was an abandoned diner, a relic from the old days. The place was no more than 18 feet by 12. I peered through the window. Everything inside was still in place. The chrome rimmed counter, griddles, high stools, even down to the condiment sets and napkin holders. It’s as though the owner just slipped out back for a cigarette between orders. But he’d long gone, leaving his burger joint as an epitaph to the days before the chain restaurants took over the world. Twenty yards down the street its replacement fared little better. A lone customer sat in the window of Church’s Chicken, his pick-up parked outside under a sky that was worth delaying supper to see.

I turned back towards the hotel and my own dinner. About to cross over, I spotted an old truck backed up on a forecourt. It was a flatbed Ford, the original bed gone, replaced by a large plastic container, the kind that are usually seen with trees growing out of them. The fading light picked out what was left of the chrome, the rest being layers of rubbed down paint and rust. I took advantage of digital technology and set about trying to capture the picture as I saw it. A couple of photographs in, a woman’s voice came out of the gloaming.

‘Hi, I see you found our truck’.

I stood up from a crouching position and came face-to-face with a smiling woman in her fifties, or thereabouts. Behind her was an open door in the building I’d assumed to be a closed-up commercial premises. I caught a glimpse of easy chairs and the cozy glow of a wood-burning stove. This was obviously her home.

‘Yeah, it’s wonderful. Especially in this low light. Here.’

I held out the camera for her to see.

‘Oh yes. That looks great’.

A large bear of a man appeared in the doorway.

‘Hey, someone’s discovered our truck’, she said, half turning to meet his approach. ‘Come see’.

He towered over us both, grinning widely as he bent to see the camera’s screen, adjusting the spectacles on the end of his nose.

‘I only moved the truck up here today’, she said. ‘A day earlier and you wouldn’t have seen it. You visiting?

She’d already detected the English accent, so I quickly filled in some details. On a trip like this, you tend to get it down pat. That done, her partner picked up the conversation.

‘Yeah, the old truck’s got some history’, he beamed. ‘She’s had it off the road twice’.

She smiled in recollection, with a nod of the head to confirm the facts.

‘Rolled it right over once, in the snow. Back was filled with logs. We got it back over with some help and it started right up, first time. Yeah, it’s seen some action’. He paused at the memory.

‘When I bought it, the engine was shot, so I found a V8 re-con that had only done 40,000 miles and bolted it straight in. Been runnin’ ever since, no problem'.

He was in his stride now. I was in no hurry.

‘Sold it once. The guy was gonna fit a new flatbed and fix it up to look new. Bumped into him a year or so later and asked him how it was goin’. It was still sittin’ in his yard, untouched, so I offered to buy it back off him. Agreed a price and had it ever since’.

‘We tell folks it’s the car from the song’, she said, rejoining the conversation with the assumption that I knew what song she was talking about. I did. And if I hadn’t, I soon would have. Visitors to Winslow can’t escape the fact that Jackson Browne based the action of his song, ‘Take It Easy’ in the town. There’s a statue and plaque that would be difficult to miss on the main crossroads in town, as well as the usual t-shirts, replica statues, mugs and postcards in the gift shop opposite.

‘Of course, nobody knows where the actual corner is. That’s if it ever really existed, ‘cept in the imagination. So we tell everyone it was right here’, she said, ‘and that he was just going to get a burger in the old diner when the girl in the flatbed pulled up. And that this is the actual truck, of course’.

There, in the falling darkness, lit by the warm light from the open doorway, we joined together in laughter at the thought.

‘That’s what I’m going to tell anyone that sees the picture’, I said, taking my leave. ‘And they better believe it’.

I’d like to think that I did. Not just the truck, but all of it.

Well, I'm a standing on a corner
in Winslow, Arizona
and such a fine sight to see
It's a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford
slowin' down to take a look at me
Come on, baby, don't say maybe
I gotta know if your sweet love is
gonna save me
We may lose and we may win though
we will never be here again
so open up, I'm climbin' in,
so take it easy

I arrived at La Posada Hotel in Winslow an hour before sunset. The city was founded in 1881, originally built as a railroad town. When the Santa Fe Railroad closed the hotel in 1957, it deeply affected Winslow, which had been buffeted by economic forces following Word War 2. Then Interstate 40 bypassed the town in 1977, rendering Route 66 - which had drawn thousands of travellers to Winslow - obsolete. The airport, once the busiest in Arizona, was now over flown by new, long-range jetliners. With Americans increasingly taking to the air and hitting the new Interstate road systems, traffic on Santa Fe’s glamorous passenger trains withered and almost died. Railway hotels - many built by the Fred Harvey Company - began closing one by one.

When La Posada shut its doors to guests, the Santa Fe saved it from destruction by moving its division headquarters into the building. The company redesigned the interior with false walls, lower acoustic ceilings, fluorescent lighting and grey tiles glued over the flagstone floors. But the railroad found the building expensive to maintain and in the late 1980’s decided to move out and put the hotel up for sale. There were no takers. Desperate, Santa Fe offered La Posada to the City of Winslow for $1, but the city passed, saying fixing it up and the on-going maintenance would cost too much.

La Posada, the grandest of the Harvey Houses, that in its hey-day had been host to Gary Cooper, Errol Flynn, John Wayne, James Stewart, Cary Grant, Howard Hughes and Charles Lindbergh amongst many others, looked doomed. But then fate took a hand. When the water line buried under the hotel’s front lawn broke for the umpteenth time, Santa Fe decided not to repair it. They shut off the water, which hitherto had kept the grass green. When the summer heat hit, the lawns turned brown and the leaves of the cottonwood trees turned yellow. The citizens of Winslow finally awoke and created uproar.

Outraged, residents met and vowed to keep the grounds green, even if they had to do the work. Calling themselves ‘The Gardening Angels’ they threatened to buy all the garden hoses in the town, attach them together and run them all the way to the hotel from their own homes. They cut the grass with their own lawnmowers, trimmed hedges and planted new flowers they bought themselves. This grassroots rebellion resulted in city workers repairing the water line, with Santa Fe agreeing to turn the water back on. But the Gardening Angels continued to tend the acres of garden.

The next step was a move to get La Posada on the National Register of Historic Places. This was followed by the award of three large historical preservation grants. It was at this stage that Allan Affeldt, of Laguna Beach, California, saw the hotel listed as a threatened landmark by the National Trust for Historic Preservation and with a group of investors, purchased the hotel in 1997. Work began on the painstaking and loving renovation work that would see the building restored to its former glory. Workers began by tearing out all the Santa Fe office cubicles and peeled back linoleum to reveal graceful arches and stone floors.

Following the style of the original architect, Mary Colter, Affeldt’s brother-in-law, Keith
Mion, re-created the hotel furniture using the Spanish Colonial style and the rough,
handmade look of Mexican workmanship. Original La Posada furnishings have resurfaced and been donated to the hotel, though some items were returned under protest, namely
six original Colter-designed waiting room benches that had found their way to the Amtrak depot in Flagstaff. Following intervention at mayoral level, the depot staff eventually
agreed to part with all six benches.

The result of all this hard work and dedication is a triumph. Saving La Posada from the wrecking ball, the fate of so many historical buildings in the United States, has deservedly put Winslow back on the destination map for visitors from around the world. Mary Colter, who, at 87, was heartbroken when the hotel closed its doors in 1957, would be thrilled to know that the building she hoped would be her monument, has become just that.

Asleep At The Wheel

There are over two hundred recorded versions of the song 'Route 66'. Written by songwriter Bobby Troup in 1946, it was first recorded by Nat King Cole in the same year. In Britain, many of us first heard the song when The Rolling Stones kicked off their debut album with a version in 1964. One of my favourite renditions is by the Texan 'Western Swing' outfit 'Asleep At The Wheel' on their 1976 album, 'Wheelin' And Dealin''. I've even trodden the boards with my own version. Mercifully this is NOT available on Amazon or YouTube.

In the song ‘Route 66’ the lyrics go, ‘You'll see Amarillo and Gallup New Mexico, Flagstaff Arizona, don't forget Winona’. Well, going west, as the order of the place names imply, if you’ve motored through Amarillo, Gallup and already reached Flagstaff, then you've passed Winona by without a second thought.

Going east, as I was, I didn’t forget. I dropped in to take a look. Truth be told, there’s not a great deal to see that ensures Winona's place in the memory. Except, that is, a rather fine example of a girder bridge that nowadays, sadly goes nowhere. Despite this, I’m happy to say it’s on the National Register of Historic Structures

The I-40 east of Flagstaff runs through gently undulating, wide-open open desert, taking the same path as the ‘mother road’: Route 66. Long abandoned as the main highway between Chicago and Los Angeles, traces of the old road can still be found here, running parallel with the Interstate that’s replaced it. It remains possible to pull off and drive short lengths along the crumbling pavement on the unbelievably narrow carriageways, still divided by a fading double-yellow line down the middle. Whereas the new road flattens any humps and dips to a gentle rise and fall, old 66 closely follows the contours of the terrain. In places, driving it is like a switchback ride. Grass grows in the cracks and all-too-soon soon the road runs out, the surface deemed too dangerous to navigate or else altogether gone from sight, reclaimed by the earth, forcing any vehicle back onto the Interstate until the next opportunity arrives.

On this day the big Western sky was filling with high banks of cloud; individual, slow-moving thunderstorms, three or four visible at a time, the falling rain seen clearly from a distance of twenty miles or more. The late afternoon sun, intermittently hidden by cloud, cast a watery, golden light across the arid land, turning it into something quite magical and beautiful. I left the Interstate to try and find a spot to take a photograph of the view that was unfolding to my left. The distant hills, showing as an illuminated white line as caught by the sun and visible from the road, promptly disappeared from view behind a high bluff once I’d found a place to park. But all was not lost. As I turned back towards the car I spotted a tanker with a red cab, parked up, taking a break from the highway. Behind, the cumulous clouds soared in the wild cathedral afternoon. I got my photograph.

A few miles further on I passed a sign for Two Guns. Unable to resist the name I took the next exit. From the slip road I caught a fleeting glimpse of a grey estate car moving in the opposite direction along the frontage road to my right. Someone else had the same idea. The frontage road turned out to be a section of Route 66 and Two Guns was a ghost town, built as a service stop in the road’s hey-day.

I parked the car and set off towards two large storage tanks, each decorated with a mural depicting a cartoon cowboy brandishing twin six-guns. The United States is littered with such sights: the remains of people’s enterprise, hopes and dreams, abandoned in the face of circumstance, changing fortunes, hard luck and fate. The reason for Two Guns’ creation was withdrawn once the old route was superseded by the I-40 and that which remains is slowly rusting away and falling to the ground from which it rose. I find myself drawn to such places; their secrets locked in mystery and melancholy, whispered in the breezes that blow through shattered windows and splintered doorframes.

I’m not alone in my fascination. As I returned to the car, the estate I had seen earlier pulled up beside me. A man, in his forties, wire thin with crazy flyaway hair and eyes bright with a convert’s zeal, stared up at me through the open side window. He saw the camera at my side.

‘D’ya like this stuff?’ he said.

I didn’t catch on. He tried again, his eyes scanning the scene around us.

‘D’ya like all this kind of stuff?’

I nodded and began an answer. He didn’t wait for it.

‘I love it. Have ya been down there?’ He jerked his head in the direction of the old road that disappeared down a hill. ‘There’s a building down there where they kept mountain lions. It’s got painted letters on the side ‘Mountain Lions’. Can you imagine that? Keepin’ mountain lions penned up out here in the heat of the desert? That’s not right'.

I mumbled a reply.

‘Of course, that was when the road was here. Route 66. Ya know about that?’

‘Yeah’, I said, ‘drove it once, all the way. Chicago to LA’.

‘Me too’, he said. ‘Did it in eight days straight back in 2002. I’ve done a book of photographs. Wanna see it?’

He twisted around and started a search of the back seat, tossing clothes, magazines and empty coffee cups around until he uncovered a cardboard box.

‘I’ve been livin’ in the car. Bit of a mess . Here, take a look’, he said, handing me a hardback book. ‘Took over a thousan’ pictures in all. Eight days. That was some going. Waddya think? Wanna buy it? Forty-five dollars. Only forty-five. Take a look, an’ if ya don’t think it’s worth it, no need to buy it.

I flicked through the pages. It was a comprehensive and fascinating personal record of his journey.

‘I’d like to buy it, but I’m short of cash right now’, I explained truthfully. ‘I need to get to a cash machine pretty soon, so…’

I moved to hand back the book.

‘If ya want it, take it’, he said. ‘Ya can send me the money when ya get back home. I trust ya to do that. Besides, don’t matter if ya don’t. I got a boy out in Baghdad’. He paused, looking away. ‘There’s more important things than money’.

I took the book with a promise to send the payment as soon as I got home to England. He smiled up at me, then turned his eyes to the landscape once more.

‘I’m goin’ over there’, he said, jutting his chin. ‘I love it around here. Out of everywhere I’ve been, I keep comin’ back to this stretch - the road between Flagstaff and Winslow. Don’t know what it is about it…’

I followed his gaze and nodded.

With that he was gone, driving towards the storage tanks I’d photographed five minutes before, this present day incarnation of Kerouac’s Dean Moriarty, driving his seventh Subaru Outback with his trusty 35mm camera resting on the seat beside him.

Two minutes later I was back on the road and heading for Winslow.