We leave Boulder City this morning for Kingman, ninety miles to the south. We don’t get as early a start as we could have, because we didn’t want to pass up another great breKfast at the Boulder City Hotel. By the time we finally arrive to the starting point for our ride it’s nearly noon (but only 11 back in Boulder City - we lost an hour today crossing into Arizona).
Today’s ride follows one of the better remaining stretches of the original Route 66, between Kingman and Oatman. Between the two towns is Sitgreaves Pass, a gap that cuts through the Black Mountains. We’d like to bike to Oatman if we have the daylight and legs for it, but we’ll have to see. Sitgreaves is a pretty modest pass, but after climbing it from the east we may not be that enthusiastic about dropping down to Oatman, turning back, and crossing the pass a second time.
Today’s ride follows the historical byway, starting from McConnico on the outskirts of Kingman. We’ll bike as far as Oatman, perhaps.
We drive to the beginning of the historical route, in McConnico, stop in at a diesel shop to get permission to leave the whale in their parking lot for the afternoon, and then we’re off. For the first seven or eight miles we bike east across Sacramento Wash, gradually losing a bit of elevation before we bottom out and slowly gain it back again.
It’s a pretty crappy road surface, in my view. The rough, fractured asphalt surface leaves us feeling like we’re riding a jackhammer and takes some of the charm off of riding the iconic highway. It qualifies as a metalled road I suppose, but it will win no medals from us.
Biking east across Sacramento Wash. mountains behind, mountains ahead.
The Black Mountains form an apparently impenetrable wall ahead of us. Sitgreaves Pass slips through the middle of it though, through a gap you can’t see from this direction. You can see our road angling off to the left, bending to enter the gap.
Another look at Thimble Peak and a few of its lesser neighbors. As I understand it, we’re in volcanic country and these are the eroded cores of old cones.
Halfway to the summit we come to Cold Springs Store, an iconic historic stop on the iconic historic highway. As we near the store, I’m surprised to see a long line of cars approaching at a crawl. It’s especially a surprise because the road has been very quiet until this.
My first thought is that I’m looking at a funeral procession, but then I see that they're all classy cars, the drivers wave cheerily at me as I bike past. It’s a rally of some sort, apparently returning from a stop at Cold Springs. They’re slowly and quietly leaving, maybe waiting to marshall all their forces or else staying quiet near the store. Then though the first one revs his engine, then the next, and they speed off down the pass.
Just before Cold Springs store, a strange procession slowly approaches.
Cold Springs Store, the only services until we reach Oatman. We didn’t test out whether you can still get tasty food and a cabin here, but you can certainly find some iconic junk.
It’s not a bad climb to Sitgreaves summit from this side (the approach from the west is considerably steeper), but it’s dramatic enough. Twisting, narrow, shoulderless, it makes us happy that the road is nearly empty today. With enough traffic this road would be a bit uncomfortable.
At the summit we stop, admire the views, then quickly discuss and reject the idea of continuing on to Oatman. We’ve had our fun, it’s getting a bit late in the day already, and we have another rough, painful crossing of Sacramento Wash waiting for us at the bottom.
While we’re standing there, a car pulls off the road and the driver strolls over to chat. He asks where we’re from, and when we claim Portland as our home he immediately asks which neighborhood. He’s from Laurelhurst, near Mount Tabor, virtually a neighbor. And, of course he’s a bit of a biker too - he climbs Mount Tabor four or five times a week when he’s in town.
Another small volcanic plug ahead, one of several around.
Another for my collection of odd crossing signs. Burros, relics of the mining heyday, apparently roam the hills here as well as milling in the streets of Oatman begging for treats.
We drop just a bit off the west side of the pass to a broad pullout with a good viewpoint. It looks like the ideal spot for lunch. As it happens, it also looks like an ideal spot for folks to end their days - there is an impromptu cemetery of some sort here, apparently for folks who either lost their lives on Route 66 or had the lifelong dream of coming here. I don’t think there are any real burials here, but I imagine plenty of ashes have been scattered and a few memories passed. The ground is littered with shards of broken beer bottles.
Looks like she’s tightening her laces in preparation for a foot race.
We’ve made the right decision by electing to turn back here. A lot of the road on the way back down is in the shadows now and the traffic has picked up a bit. We’re just as happy when we get out of the pass and onto the long, straight road across Sacramento Wash again.
Until we’re quickly reminded of what a crappy riding surface this is. By the time we make it back to the car, we’re feeling just a bit bruised and broken.
A phainopepla! I’m not sure, but I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen this species. I recognized it immediately though - there’s not another bird in the country that you could confuse it with.
We check in to our motel, uncertain if we’ll be here for one night or two, and then head off to Mattina’s Restaurante Italiano, an appealing place claiming to serve the best Italian meals in northern Arizona. Over a fine meal and a glass of Sangiovese, we celebrate our first thousand miles and plot out the coming days.
This brilliant sunset dazzled us when we left our room for dinner. Five minutes later, it was gone.
