classic cars – On the road with Jim

Chasing Sunrises and Freight Trains on Route 66 Pictures of the Month - Hackberry, Ariozna

A full moon setting over the Cerbat Mountains at dawn, with pastel desert hues, captured from Route 66 near Kingman, Arizona. — Kingman’s Desert Dawn – Moonset Over the Cerbat Range – As we left on historic Route 66, the full moon slowly descended behind the rugged Cerbat Mountains, casting a soft glow over the pastel-colored desert. Sub-freezing temperatures couldn’t stop me from capturing this serene moment after walking a quarter mile to avoid power lines.

Last month, we wrapped up a late shoot in Chloride, and instead of making the long haul home, I had a brilliant idea: stay in Kingman and take the scenic route back through Hackberry, Truxton, and Seligman. That way, we’d get two stories for the price of one—and a night in a classic Route 66 motel. The neon glow of the old motor court signs flickered against the desert sky, whispering echoes of a bygone era when weary travelers pulled off the Mother Road for a night’s rest.

A second advantage to a night in Kingman was more selfish. I love Chinese food and’ll go out of my way for even a mediocre plate of Moo Shu Pork. Since Queen Anne agrees to accompany me on these shoots if I dine with her, I figured the two places in Kingman were better than what we have at home. Although the food was good and plentiful, she was miffed that they didn’t have her wine. She wouldn’t be able to have her guilt-free, cut-loose-on-the-bar kind of evening. But that’s alright because, unbeknownst to her, we had an early morning ahead—and you can’t Go-go dance to Chinese music.

The Great Hackberry Jewelry Heist (That Never Happened)

I wanted to shoot Hackberry in the rising sun, and since the famous Route 66 stop was a 30-minute drive from Kingman, I planned for us to leave in the dark. But convincing Anne to wake up before dawn takes either divine intervention or a well-crafted lie. I went with the latter.

“Did you know the Hackberry General Store has a hidden estate jewelry section?” I asked. “And the best deals are right when they open?”

The bait was set.

We were up before sunrise. Anne may never trust me again, but sacrifices must be made. She mumbled something about the unholiness of pre-dawn hours as she sleepwalked to the car, clutching her Diet Coke like a life preserver.

Beakfast Burritos and a Moonset

We left so early that even the motel’s complimentary continental breakfast wasn’t awake yet. So, we made a pit stop at Maverik because nothing says “fuel for adventure” like a gas station, breakfast burrito, or coffee strong enough to remove paint.

The scent of sizzling eggs and chorizo mingled with gasoline fumes as I fueled up the Turd (our trusty RAV4). The heater started working around the Kingman Airport, just after Andy Devine Avenue fades into Old Route 66. That’s also when the dashboard began flashing “Icy Road Warning.” The ever-dramatic car decided to alert us that we had ventured into the Arctic. It was in the 20s, and we were suddenly on an expedition neither of us signed up for.

Then I saw it—a full moon setting over the Cerbat Range. The lunar glow bathed the craggy peaks in an ethereal silver light. It was the kind of scene that makes photographers pull over on a whim. But there were power lines. Ugly, unavoidable power lines. I fought with myself about stopping, but in the end, I found a gate and stopped the truck. Walking up to it, I bent over and shoved my body through the opening as gracefully as a fat man wearing two sweaters and an insulated jacket could, then walked another eighth of a mile to get the shot. Anne, meanwhile, stayed in the car, watching me with a smirk.

“I was just waiting for you to get stuck,” she admitted.

“Why, did you think you’d need to go get help?”

“No, I was going to head back to the motel and finish my night’s sleep.”

Freedom on the Open Road

There’s a reason I prefer taking back roads. It’s not about getting there faster but about being free to drive the way you want. Out here, the road stretches for miles, uninterrupted. There is no wall of semis, no impatient tailgaters, and no high-speed herd mentality.

I was reminded of this on the Alcan Highway in the Yukon, driving my old Mercedes ML 350 diesel. On those endless roads, you didn’t just have a passing lane—you had the whole countryside. You could gradually pull into the other lane, ease past a slower car, and merge back without drama.
That’s the beauty of this section of Route 66—one of the few long, well-maintained stretches left. The others have faded into history, lost to time and neglect. You’re not in a rush—you’re just enjoying the drive.

A Golden Sunrise and a Locked Door in Hackberry

Rustic Hackberry General Store at sunrise with a weathered patrol car and classic gas station signs, capturing Route 66 nostalgia in Arizona. — Rust and History: Sunrise at Hackberry General Store – Arriving at sunrise, we caught Hackberry General Store bathed in golden light, its rusted cop car gleaming like a relic from a bygone era of Route 66. Trading shopping for perfect lighting, we captured this slice of Americana before the world woke up.

We arrived in Hackberry just as the sun cleared the horizon, spilling golden light over the cracked pavement and rusted relics. The timing was perfect. The store, however, was closed for another three hours. Anne was less than pleased.

Anne scowled at the locked door.

“Oh, honey,” I consoled, trying to sound convincing, “I wanted you to see all their fabulous antique jewelry. I’m so sorry. We’ll have to come back another time.”

Her silence was deafening.

Meanwhile, I got my shots—rusted gas pumps, vintage signs, an old patrol car straight out of a noir film. Hackberry General Store isn’t just a shop; it’s a time capsule of Route 66, stuffed to the rafters with kitsch. Route 66 place mats, belt buckles, neon clocks, and car posters—most likely all made in China. If you ever needed a flaming skull ashtray or a bottle opener shaped like a ’57 Chevy, this would be the place to find it.

Racing a Freight Train Across the Desert

Vintage gas station with faded signage and classic Route 66 fuel pumps in Truxton, Arizona, bathed in morning sunlight. — Timeless Gas Stop – Truxton Service Station in Morning Light – The Truxton Service Station still stands on the south side of Route 66, a rare remnant of a bygone era where travelers stopped for fuel and conversation. The sun casts warm morning light on its weathered sign and vintage gas pumps, keeping history alive in the Arizona desert.

As we rolled east, we picked up a new travel companion—an eastbound freight train. It became a game of leapfrog. We’d catch up to the lead engine, pass it, stop ahead to grab another shot, then watch as it rumbled by again—only to start the chase all over. Wash, rinse, repeat, like having John Henry as a sidekick. Anne was convinced she knew the engineer’s kids’ names when we reached Ash Fork. Probably their dog’s name, too. Any longer, and we’d have been invited to Thanksgiving.

Lost History Along Route 66: Truxton to Peach Springs

Faded blue Frontier Motel sign with peeling paint and a vintage café mural in Truxton, Arizona, along Route 66. — Neon Nostalgia – Frontier Motel’s Faded Glory on Route 66 – The weathered Frontier Motel sign is a faded reminder of Truxton’s Route 66 heyday, its peeling blue paint a testament to decades of sun and wind. A small sign nearby marks the Beale Wagon Road—an unexpected historical twist I never knew existed, but now I want one for myself.

Beale Wagon Road sign with Route 66 and Will Rogers Highway street signs in a rural Arizona setting — Tracing the Old West: Beale Wagon Road’s Legacy

Next up, Truxton. We shot the Truxton Gas Station (still open occasionally) and the Frontier Motel, one of the larger lodgings from Route 66’s heyday. A smaller placard marking the Beale Wagon Road was hanging below the motel’s sign. I had written about Edward Beale’s adventures before, but I never knew there were actual signs marking his route. And now that I do? I want one.

We continued east, hoping to photograph two buildings listed on the National Register of Historic Places—the Indian school west of Peach Springs and the historic Shell Station in Peach Springs with its distinct rock-wall façade. The school, a stark reminder of an era when Native children were removed from their families, stands as an important, if painful, piece of history. The Hualapai Tribe recently received grant money to restore both sites, but when we arrived, they were surrounded by construction equipment—not exactly photogenic. Oddly, there wasn’t a worker in sight. Whether it was a funding delay, a supply chain holdup, or just the usual bureaucratic red tape, we couldn’t say. We know that it gives us another excuse to return to the Mother Road (as if we need one).

Between Peach Springs and Seligman, we passed a stretch of restored Burma Shave signs, their playful rhymes adding a touch of nostalgia to the drive. We couldn’t resist reading them aloud in unison as we came across them, like a couple of hopeless jerks, laughing at every corny punchline.

Why You Should Take This Route 66 Road Trip

If you’ve never driven this stretch of Route 66, you should. And if you need an excuse, there’s no better time than the annual Hot Rod show. This rolling event brings classic cars to Seligman, Kingman, Oatman, and Needles, turning each town into a pop-up car show. (The Route 66 Fun Run will occur May 2–4, 2025. This 35th annual event covers a 140-mile drive from Seligman to Topock/Golden Shores, featuring events in nearly every community along the way, a car show in downtown Kingman on Saturday, and an award ceremony in Topock/Golden Shores. More details can be found on the Historic Route 66 Association of Arizona’s website: Route 66 Fun Run.

Even if you don’t go for the cars, go for the drive. Route 66 is a road worth slowing down for.

Final Thoughts

Thanks for riding along with us on this Route 66 adventure! As always, larger versions of these photos are in the New Work collection on our website: www.jimwitkowski.com/newWork.

We’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a comment—but be quick, as comments close after five days (thanks to the bad guys).

Be sure to join us next month when we dash to the coast for another adventure—you won’t want to miss it!

Until then, keep your spirits high and your humor dry.
jw

Holbrook Chronicles: A Quirky Journey Through Time and Asphalt Picture of the Month - Holbrook, Arizona

White tee pee-shaped motel rooms with classic car parked outside on Route 66 in Holbrook, Arizona — Nostalgic Nights: The Historic Tee Pee Motel of Route 66 – Step back in time with a glimpse of the historic TeePee Motel on Route 66 in Holbrook, Arizona—where classic cars and unique accommodations summon the spirit of America’s golden age of road travel.

Earlier this year, in a fit of cartographic embarrassment, I noticed my Arizona map was as barren in the northeast corner as my understanding of quantum physics. We use the map to bookmark locations we’ve visited and shared with you. “We must address this travesty,” I declared, or perhaps just thought loudly. Thus, Queen Anne and I embarked on an expedition to Holbrook, a place as famed for its petrified wood as my living room is for lost remote controls.

Upon our grand arrival in Holbrook, it became immediately clear how the town’s history was as layered as my attempt at a seven-layer dip, which never made it past layer three. From the ancient trading routes that seemed slightly busier than my last garage sale to the modern buzz of I-40, which promised the thrill of gas stations and fast food, Holbrook whispered tales of change. And by whispered, I mean it mumbled incoherently, much like Uncle Ray after his third Thanksgiving cocktail.

Wide-angle photo of playful dinosaur sculptures in a rock shop yard in Holbrook, Arizona, with petrified wood for sale — Petrified Pals: The Dinosaur Ambassadors of Holbrook’s Rock Shop – Encounter the past in a playful panorama with Holbrook’s roadside dinosaurs, a nod to the rich paleontological history unearthed at the nearby Petrified Forest National Park.

Diving into the town’s lore, we uncovered tales of early Pueblo peoples, whose idea of commuting was traipsing along the Little Colorado River. They traded goods with the enthusiasm I reserved for exchanging unwanted Christmas gifts. Picture them, settling down by the river’s edge, not to snap sunset selfies, but to swap stories of Coyote, the original trickster who probably invented the concept of “fake news,” and Spider-Woman, the ancient weaver who, unlike me, never blamed her tools for a botched job.

Then came the white men, striding into the horizon with all the subtlety of a brass band in a library. With their grand plans to connect coasts, Lieutenant Whipple and Edward Beale undoubtedly paused to ponder, “Will there be sufficient parking?” Their surveying tales were likely less about the awe of uncharted lands and more about the days when their socks stayed dry.

Early Settlement

In 1876, Mormons fleeing the excitement of Utah found solace in what would become Holbrook, a place that made their former home seem positively Las Vegas-esque in comparison. By then, the town had started to take shape, much like my attempt at sourdough during lockdown—full of hope but ultimately flat.

Our foray into this historical mosaic first led us to the part of town that had seen better days. “I’m not getting out of the car,” declared Queen Anne, with the determination of someone guarding the last slice of pizza. And who could blame her? The charm of the Arizona Rancho and the Bucket of Blood Saloon was as evident as the potential in my high school yearbook photo—present, but requiring a generous imagination.

Pedro Montaño built the Arizona Rancho home here between 1881 and 1883. It started as a single-story plastered adobe building with a high-pitched roof and dormer windows. After it was sold to the Higgins family, it became the Higgins House—a boarding house with a two-story addition. Next, it became the Brunswick Hotel. In the 30s, the west wing was used for Holbrook’s hospital, and during World War II, the Navy leased it to house pilots training at the airfield north of town. Now, it’s listed on the National Historic Registry and appears to be undergoing renovation.

Crossing the street from the train depot is another historic building in decay. It was initially called Terrell’s Cottage Saloon, and it was popular with cowboys and ruffians. After a violent gunfight in 1866 that ended up with two men dead, the street was described as if someone had poured a bucket of blood on it. The name stuck, and the saloon and street name bear the moniker. When we visited, a prominent sign urged people to contribute to saving The Bucket of Blood Saloon.

Imagine Holbrook as the Wild West’s version of a reality TV show, complete with outlaw gangs and cattle thieves vying for the title of Most Wanted, starring the Hashknife Gang and the Blevins Brothers, with special guest appearances by the Clantons, who thought the Earps’ version of justice was a tad too personal. Enter Sheriff Commodore Perry Owens, Holbrook’s answer to a sheriff who didn’t just wear a badge but practically invented the law enforcement genre with flair. His Wikipedia page? It’s the binge-worthy history lesson you never knew you needed.

Traffic Increases On Route 66

Faded green signage on an abandoned gas station under dramatic sky in Holbrook, Arizona — Deserted Drive-Up: The Withered Gas Station under Holbrook’s Sky – Behind a chain-link time capsule, the remains of what could be a Sinclair station stand sentinel under the vast skies of Holbrook, a mute testimony to the bustling days of Route 66.

Holbrook thrived on a cattle economy akin to a bovine social club for decades until 1926 rolled around with Route 66, flipping the script. Suddenly, Americans, intoxicated by the freedom of their Model Ts, were gallivanting across the country, pioneering the original road trip minus the luxury of air conditioning or reliable GPS. The Dust Bowl era added a gritty reality show twist, turning Route 66 into the “Mother Road” of all escape routes. By 1938, the road’s complete paving made cross-country jaunts less of a teeth-rattling affair, shifting Holbrook’s social scene north of the tracks. The town’s once-thriving pit stops turned into a ghostly strip of nostalgia, save for the Tee Pee Motel, now a restored relic where vintage cars outnumber guests—missing the chance to sleep in a concrete teepee? Now, that’s a modern regret.

Post Interstate 40

As Holbrook entered the fast lane of the Interstate 40 era, it seems the town, like a bewildered tortoise at a Formula 1 race, was sidelined by the rush towards efficiency. Where once adventurers might pause to marvel at the local color, they now zoom towards the neon glow of franchise signs, seduced by the siren call of combo meals and loyalty points. It’s as if America’s highways have become conveyor belts, whisking travelers from Point A to B with little regard for the stories and spectacles they blur past.

Amidst this homogenized landscape, Holbrook is a defiant reminder that sometimes the best part of the journey is the quirky diner you didn’t expect to love, not the time shaved off your ETA. In rediscovering Holbrook, we find not just a town but a treasure trove of tales begging us to slow down, look around, and maybe, just maybe, find a piece of ourselves among the echoes of Main Street. So, let’s take that exit ramp less traveled; who knows what stories await among the faded signs and whispers of yesteryear?

Tracks to the Past: Warehouse Days at Holbrook’s Old Depot—Standing with silent stories, the repurposed Holbrook train station along the SP tracks endures as a storied warehouse among the town’s architectural relics.

I hope you enjoyed our Holbrook tale and viewing the new photos. If Queen Anne and I have piqued your interest, you can see larger versions of this month’s adventure in my New Work collection <Link> and Fine Art America page <FAA Link>. They’ll be there for the next three months before they make way for a new adventure. Be sure to return next month when we stop at the Painted Desert and Petrified Forest.

Until our next detour, may your travels be full of discovery and stories as rich as Holbrook’s past.
jw