A Haunting we will go in Two Guns, Arizona

It is that time of year that brings communities together. To laugh, to share, and to just find the joy in being alive.

It is October – and that can only mean one thing – Halloween.

Ghosts, goblins, witches, and cryptids do their best to scare us to an unpleasant place.

It is the month to mutilate the pumpkin and paint the cat black.

One of my favorite seasons.

As Laureen and I were driving west along Route 66, after visiting Winslow, Arizona – we decided to stop by a place that is so haunted, so scary, so unnaturally spooky that most humans would not dare to tread there.

Laureen Beyer standing on a street corner in Winslow, Arizona

Not being like most humans, we knew it was an experience we just had to visit on our very own.

Laureen is not that fancy on these spectral sorts of sites but since I was driving . . .

After pulling south off Route 66 by the ruins of the town of Two Guns, I was busy scanning my hand-held GPS looking for the scariest area near Two Guns.

“I don’t think this thing is working,” I told Laureen. “If I’m holding it correctly, we’re somewhere between Vienna and Salzburg.”

No reply from Laureen.

Suddenly I heard her from about 50 feet away. “It’s right here, I can feel it.”

The reason Laureen does not like to travel to many supposedly haunted places is due to the fact she actually ‘feels’ something. A sense or foreboding of what may have occurred in the past at such a place.

Me, I usually feel hungry or thirsty. 

As in earlier articles concerning ‘haunted places’ I tend to be a bit of a skeptic. Don’t really think folks from the afterlife are lingering around waiting for me to invade their space.

“Hey, you are now in my personal ghost space. So rude of you that I will throw this antique rocking chair at your head.”

Of course, I do have to admit I have heard or seen things that I can not explain while traveling here and there.

I once saw a boy scout escort an elderly woman across the street in Houston, and I thought that only happened in Hallmark films.

“What is right here that you can feel it?” I asked Laureen, finally giving up on the hand-held GPS which had me now somewhere east of Moscow.

“The cave, it’s right here,” she replied.

The Apache Death Cave in Two Guns, Arizona

The cave, Laureen was mentioning, was the famed Apache Death Cave located about 12 miles west of Meteor Crater in Arizona along Route 66.

The legend is terrifically sad.

In the late 19th century, the two dominate native tribes residing in the area were the Apache and the Navajo. These two groups did not get a long well together and often raided and killed each other over territory or perhaps because they did not like each other.

But in 1878 it is rumored that some Apaches entered two Navajo camps and killed everyone except three young girls whom they kidnapped.

Other Navajo warriors hearing of this diabolical action started to chase the Apache to seek their revenge and get the girls back.

The Navajo were closing the gap of the fleeing Apache but suddenly lost sight of them near the edge of the Canyon Diablo, a long arroyo that meanders through the territory.

Getting off their horses, the Navajo looked high and low and low and high but could not locate the Apache.

Just then, as the story goes, one of the Navajo thought he heard voices coming from somewhere below him and then found a deep cave carved into the Kaibab Limestone.

Sure enough, the Apache had ridden into the large cave with their horses and captives hoping to trick the tracking Navajo.

The ruse did not work.

Grabbing a lot of sagebrush, the Navajo decided to smoke the Apache out of the cave by lighting the bushes on fire.

Moments later, a few Apache ran from the cave but were immediately killed by the waiting Navajo.

It only took a few minutes to realize the captives had been murdered by the Apache, so the rest of the Navajo posse decided to finish the job and continued to throw large amounts of burning sagebrush into the mouth of the cave.

There was no chance for escape for any of the Apache trapped within the walls of the cave. 42 Apache succumbed to the smoke and fire.

Perhaps a memorial for the Apache who tragically died here

I wandered over to where Laureen was standing by a small rock border, and she pointed downward. Sure enough, there was a cave which seemed as though the walls may have been smoke damaged sometime in the past.

“The hairs are standing up on head,” she stated.

Looking at her perfectly quaffed hair, I did not know what to say. So, I said nothing.

An old wooden ladder type of bridge ran across the width of the cave allowing the visitor a chance to get closer into the cave.

The ladder was not truly stable looking

“You first,” I said.

“Me never,” Laureen replied.

After a few tense moments of rock scrambling and teetering on the wooden bridge, I found myself at the bottom of the cave. 

Laureen Beyer going very slowly toward the cave

It was dark inside the cave. 

“Do you feel anything?” 

“Yes,” I replied.

“Wow, what?”

“I think I dislocated my right shoulder.”

The cave was longer than I had thought it would be. I wandered a bit bumping into this wall or that wall, once nearly knocking off the top of my head on a low ceiling and thought that if the ghosts of the murdered Apache were not going to talk to me, it was time to call this adventure off.

Besides, it did seem rather spooky in that dark hole in the ground alone.

One needs to very careful exploring such places

“You want to come down, and see?”

“Nope.”

After dusting myself off and making sure my forehead was not bleeding, I noticed that Laureen was not looking quite herself.

She told me that there was something in the immediate surroundings she could sense. A sense of doom, of tragedy, of unmistakable horror.

“They were afraid to die in such a way.”

I do not question her feelings. I may do it inwardly but not outwardly.

But there was something different in that cave – I am not saying I felt what Laureen did, but it was rather oppressive in the cave. Almost suffocating, but that could be the close quarters and wandering around in a dark place by yourself.

New Reality paranormal investigators, Shawn and Cody, had visited the Apache Death Cave in the past and recorded their investigation for their hit series.

They felt and heard things while pulling their stint within that cave.

We spent time with them when they investigated a haunted ranch house in Lucerne. We all heard and experienced things that long haunting night.

These guys are experts in this paranormal field.

But I am still a skeptic. I am waiting for Casper to come sit next to me on the sofa and explain clearly why he is a ghost and why I need to believe.

In 1881, a bridge was built across Canyon Diablo by the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad and a small tent city, named Canyon Diablo was constructed for the workers.

But that little tent city grew up to be a rootin’-tootin’ full-time town which made Tombstone look like a children’s nursery school.

The population boomed to 2,000 folks overnight and there was at least one killing in the streets near the dozen saloons, gambling halls, and brothels each day.

Some of the ruins at Two Guns, Arizona

In fact, the first Marshall hired to protect the town was shot dead three hours later. It was a lawless town.

Boot Hill became so full that the undertaker ran out of room for any new customers.

One problem with this tale, according to the Republic Newspaper out of Arizona, is that this town probably never existed.

In an article written by Scott Craven, the town had been created by a fictional writer by the name of Gladwell Richardson who passed away in 1980 who had written nearly 300 western novels under various pseudonyms.

When the bridge was completed, the tent city moved on.

It was also Richardson who first wrote about the Apache Death Cave in his only non-fiction book about the town of Two Guns, Arizona. Prior to him writing about it in his book the tragic event had never seen print.

Seems, that both a town so wild Doc Holiday would have circumvented it and a horrific story such as the Apache Death Cave had occurred there should be more mention of it in the history books.

But, as with many historical records, things may get a bit exaggerated by those writing those histories.

Those silly writers. Who do they think they are embellishing here and there?

We walked around studying the layout, checking this out and checking that out and Laureen said she could still feel that something tragic had occurred here in the past.

Perhaps something had happened to the Apache and Navajo in the 19th century and perhaps not.

A town may have been here that was totally lawless but perhaps not.

That is the way with myths and legends, they grow stronger as the decades slip by.

Are they true or does it really matter?

For further information: https://azdot.gov/adot-blog/two-guns-sordid-history-i-40  

Folklife Festival and the Artisans

The White House - summer of 2025

“People are often curious about what it’s like to be different in the trade, but honestly, once you’re on site, it all comes down to what gets the job done,” Brianna said. “The stone doesn’t care who you are, as long as you show up, care about what you’re doing, and put in the effort.”

To be honest, I had no idea there were still stone masons in existence. I was under the mistaken belief that they had been phased out during the Industrial Revolution in the 19th century. But here I was being schooled by a modern-day stone mason.

Actually, Brianna Castelli is known as a Restoration and Conservation Mason or Heritage Stonemason, and she is very good at her trade.

Brianna Castelli taking questions from the audience

These are the craftsmen who focus their attention on repairing, preserving, and restoring historic or damaged stone structures. Their knowledge and expertise are not just in handling the various tools needed in stone masonry, but they have to understand the original construction techniques and methods used during the time of the structure they are repairing. It is as though they have to utilize their equipment as if that building were being built in the present day to exact specifications.

Lots of hands-on activities for guests at the Folklife Festival

My lovely wife, Laureen, and I had been walking through the Folklife Festival on the National Mall in Washington, D.C., during the week-long 4th of July celebration when we entered an area featuring the Building Trades. There were large exhibits discussing the history and current state of various hands-on trades, and it was fascinating.

Brianna was busy discussing her trade with a group of visitors. With a gentle nudge of a wooden mallet, she easily and cleanly chipped off a rough edge from a large piece of granite with a medium-sized chisel. The cut was perfect, and she talked the entire time.

Brianna Castelli showing off her skills at the Folklife Festival

I can’t talk while I shave, or Laureen may have to phone for the paramedics.

Not only did we find Brianna a very talented artist, but also an inspiration for anyone looking to go into the building trades.

It turns out that Brianna had never thought of going into a construction trade. No, her focus was on going to college.

“I was always told to go to college,” Brianna said. “I had no idea what I wanted as a career, but I knew college was the way to go.”

That did not turn out the way this young lady had planned. She moved to Philadelphia, where her brother was living, and took a job as a barista at a coffee shop. Then she learned that because she was from out of state, the college tuition was going to be based on that fact.

“When I found out that my tuition was going to be more expensive because I was not a resident of Pennsylvania, college was not a possibility,” she said. “Though I still had no idea what I wanted to do for a career.”

Working as a barista, Brianna came into a myriad of customers, and one day a fellow told her she should contact the Bricklayers and Allied Craftworkers union. She did and learned they had openings for an earn as you learn apprenticeship.

“Stone masonry,” Brianna said, “I never even heard of such a thing, but once I got into the union, which they paid for all my training, minus dues, I knew I was hooked. Forty-five hundred hours of internship taught me everything I needed to know about this wonderful craft of maintaining and repairing historical structures here and around the country.”

Turns out that the union that took Brianna on as an apprentice may not have known at the time that their pupil would soon be working on restoring the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., after the devastating earthquake that shook the nation’s capital to its knees in 2011.

National Cathedral currently under reconstruction

“I have a five-year job here,” Brianna said. “What an honor to assist in repairing such an iconic structure. It is a privilege just to be climbing the scaffolds on a daily basis and using the skills I learned from my instructors to ensure this building will be here for many generations in the future.”

Scaffolds? I asked her about that.

“I have no fear of heights, and when I’m on top overlooking the gorgeous scenery surrounding our capital, I feel as though I have the best job in the world.”

Brianna, along with all the rest of the craftsmen working on the National Cathedral, deserves our respect and admiration.

There are a lot of various crafts on display at the Folklife Festival

It is these artists who will allow the rest of us to enjoy for decades what was built in the far past to remind us of our present.

For more information:

https://www.si.edu/250

https://nwfolklife.org/programs/

John can be contacted at: beyersbyways@gmail.com

Mrs. Orcutt's looong Driveway

 I have driven Interstate 40 east of Barstow more times than I can count, even using all my toes and fingers, but I had never heard of the longest personal driveway in the United States being just a few hundred feet north of the roadway.

Just a short section of the longest driveway in America 

While attending an event at Roy’s Hotel and Cafe in Amboy a few months ago, a gentleman asked me if I had ever visited Mrs. Orcutt’s driveway. I thought it was a personal question, but since I did not know any Mrs. Orcutt, I told him no.

He then went on to explain that in Newberry Springs, there is a four-mile-long driveway that runs parallel to Interstate 40 all the way to the remains of Mrs. Orcutt’s home.

This sounded intriguing, and I knew that it was a place to investigate - I like finding places to investigate.

According to author C.V. Wooster’s book, Mrs. Orcutt’s Driveway, recently published in June of 2025, Margaret ‘Bonnie’ Orcutt was not a woman to mess around with.

Born on September 7th, 1909, in Boone County, Indiana, to Wolford and Fern McMains, Bonnie would stay there until she was three years old and then moved with her family to Indianapolis, where her father owned a car dealership. In 1927, the family moved again to Richmond, Indiana, where her father’s new dealership was really taking off. This era was the true birth of America’s love affair with the automobile.

Watching her father’s work ethic made Bonnie realize that to be successful, she had to search out and go after things of interest for her. She was eclectic in those areas - botany, music, faith, science, and many other avenues.

In fact, she attended numerous schools of higher learning, including Earlham College, Butler University, DePauw University, and the Arthur Jordan Conservatory of Music. She was such a dedicated student of music that it was said she had reached a concert-level proficiency as a harpist.

And it was that harp playing in 1948 that introduced Bonnie to her future husband, Kenneth Orcutt.

He heard her play, and it was all over for him except for the church bells. Their courtship lasted just a short time, and they were married.

This research was going along well until I read that Kenneth had been killed in an air crash in 1953 in the state of Iowa at the young age of 33.

Margaret ‘Bonnie’ Orcutt was now a widow. And she moved west all the way to Newberry Springs the same year her husband had died.

She purchased a hundred acres just northeast of Newberry Springs, built a small but comfortable adobe home, and even hand-dug a 14-foot-deep, quarter-mile pond with a small island in the middle and filled it with fish.

A section of the adobe wall of Mrs. Orcutt's home

It was a quiet life, and that was the way she wanted it. Time to learn all the desert had to offer her.

Then, in 1964, government surveyors - yeah, the government - started putting boundary stakes across the southern end of her property.

“Interstate 40 is coming, Bonnie, and you'd better get out of the way,” one of the surveyors may have said.

So, Bonnie had a conundrum; the stakes for the new highway indicated that the road she used to drive into Newberry Springs would no longer be there. Lanes of newly poured asphalt would block her only exit from her home.

She did not want to sell, and she said so, but the stakes kept getting pounded into her beloved desert soil.

A typewriter seemed to always be clicking away inside Bonnie’s house, as she contacted this person and that person, demanding that the interstate not cut through her property. She wrote letter after letter and supposedly even wrote to President Lyndon Johnson and then Mrs. President Lady Bird Johnson - a rumor is she sent a few to Santa Claus.

It paid off, and the government agreed to pay $100,000 to build a four-mile private driveway from the new offramp at National’s Trails Highway to her house. Of course, the government men insisted that it was actually their driveway, but since Bonnie’s home was the only one at the end of the long black asphalt, she only nodded and smiled.

It was such a straight and wide road, and still is, that people started coming out and drag-racing on it - in the 1970s and 1980s, the magazine, Car and Driver, wrote about this driveway and folks started using it to test for speed.

In 1984, the magazine conducted the last test on the roadway with a modified Pontiac Trans Am, which reached the speed of 204 mph.

That is fast.

In 1986, Bonnie Orcutt passed away, and the property has fallen onto some pretty hard times with the sun beating down, and the winds blowing through sometimes with nearly hurricane force.

What is left of Mrs. Orcutt's home in Newberry Springs

After learning of the history of the property and the feisty, government-fighting woman, I knew a trip was needed to check things out.

No GPS is needed - head east on Interstate 40, take the National Trails Highway exit for Newberry Springs, make a stop at the end of the ramp, turn left, go around the Chevron Station to Pioneer Road, and there you are. Opposite if you are heading west, obviously.

The road, no matter the reports, is in pretty good shape and straight as an arrow for the whole four miles.

At the end is a large circular cul-de-sac, and to the right is what remains of Mrs. Orcutt’s adobe home. Not much, but with imagination, as you walk about the property, images of better days come to mind.

The end of the driveway in front of Mrs. Orcutt's home

It must have been a comfortable home with sidewalks, what looks like the possible remains of a front yard fountain, a couple of outbuildings, and, of course, the huge empty pool in the back yard.

As cars and trucks streaked by on Interstate 40 less than a hundred yards away, I wondered what it must have been like for this strong woman to live alone in what could be referred to as a pretty desolate stretch of desert.

Remains of Mrs. Orcutt's home showing the rear yard

Did she still play the harp? Did she write letters on her typewriter to friends and family back east? Did she have a fulfilling social life in the Mojave Desert?

I wandered and pondered - and hoped she had.

For further information:

https://www.amazon.com/Mrs-Orcutts-Driveway-Legendary-Unstoppable-ebook/dp/B0DN9R8KVN

John can be reached at beyersbyways@gmail.com

              

Amargosa Opera House

According to Fred Conboy, the Amargosa Opera House located in Death Valley Junction, there is a lot to see in this little berg besides open desert.

“When guests arrive to the opera house, they are amazed by the miracle of seeing Marta’s murals in the legendary Amargosa Opera House which took six years to paint. They were competed by Marta herself.”

I would say that endeavor took patience. Patience is not one of my best virtues. Even if patience is supposed to be a virtue. That concept was probably made up by someone with a lot of patience.

“Marta was a ceaseless fountain of creativity,” Conboy continued. “With her dancing, composing, and painting, which in itself was astonishing.”

Marta performing at the opera house - Getty Image

So, who is this Marta whom Conboy was speaking about with such reverence?

Well, just so happens Laureen and I met her in Death Valley Junction, in the very Amargosa Opera House nearly two decades ago.

Marta Becket was born in New York City in 1924, and at the age of fourteen began ballet lessons. In a documentary entitled, Dust Devil, Marta stated that even before that age, she wanted to dance. And dance she did.

Performing at the Radio City Music Hall and on Broadway, she soon found fame and fortune. She appeared in such famous plays and musicals as Show Boat, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and Wonderful Town.

She had it all in the Big Apple – but it was not what she wanted. She desired to do what she wanted to on stage without being directed about what she would do.

“I wanted the freedom to express myself,” Marta explained in Dust Devil.

Just one of many of Marta's dresses

If that wasn’t a direct quote, then I am blaming my editor – sorry, Jim.

Marta started touring the United States with her one-woman show. Performing all the great ballets in small theatres across this great country.

In 1962, she met the man who would become her husband, Thomas Williams. Five years later, on the way to a ballet gig, the travel trailer they were towing blew a tire out in Death Valley, and the only place where it could be repaired was in Death Valley Junction.

Turns out, while Thomas was seeing to the repair, Marta wandered – and don’t we love wandering – saw a bunch of buildings, which included a hotel built in the 1920s by the Pacific Coast Borax mining company, and a large structure which miners had used as a gathering place called Corkhill Hall.

It was love at first sight.

“By now I had forgotten the tire,” she wrote in her autobiography, To Dance on Sands: The Life and Art of Death Valley’s Marta Becket, published in 2006. “I walked over to the building, afraid to take my eyes off it, lest it should disappear.”

Marta working on her beloved Armargosa Opera house - Getty Image

It did not disappear. She and her husband bought the property and put the small community of Death Valley Junction on the map as a destination for those wanting to witness beautiful and creative performances delivered by a masterful ballerina.

John R Beyer in Death Valley Junction

Many years ago, when Laureen and I met Marta, we were cruising into Death Valley and stopped by the iconic Opera House for a looky-loo.

We like to do that – to see what we can see.

The doors to the Opera House were open and we took that as a sign we were supposed to enter. It was hot outside, the month of May can be like that so close to Death Valley, and we enjoyed the coolness of the interior.

When our eyes adjusted to the dimness inside, we were amazed by the marvelous murals on the interior walls. I mean all the interior walls of the theatre. Brightly colored creations of folks from the past looking down on us and toward the center stage at the front of the theatre.

“You folks traveling?” I recall this woman, who later introduced herself as Marta, asking. 

We explained our current journey and spent the next twenty minutes or so, visiting with Marta, as she told us of her past, her present, and her future.

She was graceful and polite. A few questions and a lot of interesting answers. What we took away from that brief encounter was she was one wonderfully strong woman who knew what she wanted out of life.

Simply, to perform her art without dictation by anyone but herself. She ruled in her Opera House. The plays, the music, the costumes, and the times of performances. She was in charge.

Museum across the street with some of Marta's costumes

Unfortunately, there were no shows for Laureen and me to witness that trip. Marta smiled and said perhaps the next time we drove through we could see her perform.

We smiled and said that would be great.

“I should write a story about her,” I told Laureen, as we left Death Valley Junction and headed into Death Valley.

“Perhaps you should in the future,” Laureen replied.

Marta passed away at the age of ninety-two, on January thirtieth, 2017.

We never did see her perform.

Death Valley Junction came into being in 1907, when the Tonopah and Tidewater Railroad was built through the Amargosa Valley. The rails were used to transport borax from nearby mines.

Originally owned by Robert Tubb, the town boasted a saloon, a store and one of those adult entertainment centers. The local miners loved the place, and it grew.

In 1914, the Death Valley Railroad started using the spot to move borax from the valley up into Amargosa Valley for shipment. Business was booming, to the point that a few years later the Pacific Coast Borax Company constructed Spanish Colonial Revival buildings in the town.

I am not sure exactly what that is, but the architect Alexander Hamilton McCulloch did and that is what Marta Becket fell in love with.

The motel and opera house are beautiful. 

The opera house and adjoining hotel

A year after Marta and her husband bought the property, the name of the locale was changed to Death Valley Junction.

In 1980, the town was placed on the National Register of Historic Places, as the Death Valley Junction Historic District.

Though, Marta is no longer with us, thousands of visitors still visit Death Valley Junction yearly.

According to Conboy, “We get at least one hundred and fifty to two hundred people per week stopping by. Many spend a night or two in the motel.”

Since there are no longer performances, the opera house is used for special events or for private venues, then what would make someone want to stop at this path to Death Valley?

“Guests frequently say they love stepping back in time by spending time walking around the historical complex, staying in the hotel and enjoying Marta’s painted guest rooms, or enjoying her tromp l’oeil painting in the dining room or lobby.”

I had no idea what a l’oeil painting is, I could have asked Laureen but didn’t want to sound ignorant in front of my wife.

“We have no TVs or phones in the motel rooms. In this stillness, you can hear your own heartbeat, and be awed by the total silence which the desert has to offer.”

No internet to check emails, Instagram, Facebook, play video games or listen to the latest music on Spotify. How gauche!

Conboy was not done. “Many of our guests remark how much they enjoy spending time having conversations and interactions with the children, their spouse, or friends instead of sitting together in isolation staring at their devices. Imagine that humans having interpersonal communication with each other.”

Was this guy from the twenty-first century?

Guests are often greeted by wild horses who scamper, if horses scamper, into their own personal bar behind the hotel, where hay and water are available year-round.

“I’ll take a bale of hay and a glass of cool water, if you don’t mind,” one wild Mustang was once heard ordering at the horse bar.

“Why certainly, Mr. Ed,” replied the horse bartender.

Death Valley Junction is also known for its dark skies. That is scientific lingo which means at night there are billions and billions of stars to take a gander at instead of the three which lurk about in a city. And one of those is probably a streetlamp.

Is there a lot to see at Death Valley Junction? Yes, there is. It is not a place to drive through on the way to some other place, but a locale to stop, breathe the clean air, and marvel at what one person can do who had the gumption to do it.

That was who Marta Becket was.

We only wish we could have seen her perform on stage, just once.

For further information: http://amargosaoperahouse.org/

Route 66 at the Smithsonian

Laureen Beyer pointing out where she is in Washington D.C.

A piece of Route 66 history is located 697 miles southeast from where this iconic roadway began back in 1926 in downtown Chicago.

“But I thought the Mother Road went from Chicago to Santa Monica?” little Jimmy may ask.

Well, that is correct but when my lovely wife, Laureen, and I returned to Washington D.C. recently, we were thrilled to see a beautiful exhibit about Route 66 at the National Museum of American History.

Towns along Route 66 from Chicago to Santa Monica

“Are you thrilled?” Laureen asked.

“Thrilled to be thrilled.”

It is not a large exhibit, but all the information a person visiting this Smithsonian Museum is there to garner a taste of how important Route 66 was for early travelers across the United States.

Stretching an impressive 2,448 miles through Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and finally arriving in California.

It took six years to build this road, from 1926 until 1932, but it was not fully paved until 12 years later in 1938.

Cyrus Avery, a businessman in Tulsa, Oklahoma stated, “I challenge anyone to show a road of equal length that traverses more scenery, more agricultural wealth, and more mineral wealth than does U.S. 66.”

Avery founded the U.S. 66 Highway Association and first called Route 66 the ‘Main Street of America.’

I have traveled quite a bit along Route 66 getting research for this or that story and I never tire of driving the long stretches of usually empty roadway. Passing through towns that are still here like Newberry Springs, Ludlow, Seligman, Winslow, and towns that are simply ghosts of what they once were, Bagdad, Siberia, Two Guns, and many more that dot the long stretches of roadway.

Each time I stop, it’s hard not to imagine hearing the voices, the laughter, the tears, that once could be heard in these once vibrant spots.

What were the hopes of dreams of these folks along Route 66

It’s not a quick trip taking the byways, but that is the reason - to enjoy and understand the history of this wonderful highway that stretches for so many miles.

The Smithsonian’s were something that was top on our list as we landed at the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport.

Actually, making sure our bags arrived on the same plane as we did, getting to our hotel and having an adult libation were my top priorities. 

But during our trip to the city planned by George Washington, we hoofed it to some of the most famous museums in the world.

The Smithsonian’s.

I had only traveled to our nation’s capital once before and knew there was so much to see that numerous trips may not cover all it had to offer. 

I learned there was a lot this large berg had to show a visitor - and one previous trip was not enough.

We like getting up early, having a sip of coffee and hitting places before the crowds show up - and in Washington D.C. the crowds were always present, especially during the 4th of July week.

And as usual, we headed out before most people had tumbled from their beds to a place which was on both of our radars.

The Route 66 experience at the National Museum of American History.

The exhibit is inundated with memorabilia commemorating this masterpiece of a highway.

Some travelers provisions on display

Four outstanding women who braved early Route 66

There are some of the original vehicles on display which drove across Route 66. Along with those displays there are sculptures of men and women standing or sitting in those very same vehicles - it was rather surreal since the area the exhibit is located is rather dark and lights shine on each exhibit.

Often, Route 66 was not for the weak of heart

“Rather ghostly,” Laureen said.

“Yes, it's as though the mannequins may turn and talk to us,” I replied.

“Wonder what they would say?”

I shrugged. “Hey, I get tired standing on my feet twenty-four-seven. But then again, perhaps all these inanimate objects come alive once the museum closes at night and have a monster gala.”

Laureen ignored me, she’s good at that.

An open aired two seat car from 1903 is on display showing two men and a dog trying to pull it out of a sandy patch using block and tackle.

Another shows a family sedan loaded down with everything they would need while crossing the nation along Route 66. Spare tires, spare water, sleeping bags, lanterns, tents, and the like.

Everything a family may need during the Route 66 journey

Stories of folks who made the adventure are there for visitors to read. Stories about the Hamons, the Shorts, the Haggards, and four young women who ventured out on their own in 1947 from New York to Los Angeles, utilizing Route 66 once they reached Chicago.

In fact, in 1946, an up-and-coming musician, Bobby Troup, drove the route from Pennsylvania to Los Angeles. During the trip his wife suggested he write a song about it - the rest is history. Nat King Cole took the song and made it a gigantic hit, ‘Get Your Kicks on Route 66’.

There is a lot to see and experience at the Route 66 exhibit, but there is a lot more to see while taking the time and wandering at this and the other Smithsonian Museums in Washington D.C.

Actually, visiting our nation’s capital should be on any traveler's ultimate destination list.

Though I would suggest Fall or Spring, summer is brutal with the humidity hitting at least 1,000 percent.

For further information: https://www.si.edu/object/route-66-pavement-1932%3Anmah_1276320

Welcome to D.C.

The new big beautiful flag pole in front of the White House

Washington D.C. is a big place with a small town feel. The seat of power in the United States revolves around certain buildings along the National Mall and blocks on either side. It may seem large but the locals don’t view the capital as such.

“We’re really a city of small neighborhoods,” Tony, a bartender at the Dubliner, told us. “The capital seems large and bustling to many tourists, but to us locals, it’s just home.”

Laureen and I had walked about a hundred miles during the first four hours on the day of our arrival in our nation's capital and I was parched - from the walking and the two hundred percent humidity.

Since this was only the second time I’d traveled to Washington, D.C., I asked myself why I had come during the summer again. Wasn’t the first time enough to warn me off future summer trips where a shower in the morning wouldn’t last for the first three minutes when exiting the hotel?

“I need a shower and a towel,” I said. “And not sure in that order.”

We had stopped by the Dubliner, located on ‘F’ Street, not far from Columbus Circle, for a bite of lunch and a respite from Mother Nature.

The Dubliner - a fine Irish pub in the heart of Washington D.C.

“Tony,” I said. “How do you folks deal with the humidity?”

He simply smiled at me while passing over a pint of Smithwick’s. Did I mention Tony was a saint?

“We think cool,” he responded, and then went to wait on other patrons.

I looked at Laureen, “Does that work?”

Even my lovely bride had shiny beads of sweat upon her brow. Women don’t perspire, she once told me. They glisten. “No. It does not.”

Washington, D.C., is a city laid out by the founding fathers in a rather neat mathematical way. Four quadrants - northwest, northeast, southwest, and southeast. Rather mundane but easy to understand, compared to many places I have encountered in my travels.

“Well,” someone would say to me with a piece of straw hanging out of their mouth. “You go down until you see a red-spotted cow and then turn right, but not before waving at old widow Wilson. Then you move on for a stretch until …”

The point is made.

Each of the supposedly 130 various neighborhoods in D.C. revolve around their own culture and vibes.

“Do you want to visit all the neighborhoods?” Laureen asked me as our lunch arrived. A light pub salad for Laureen and a heavy dose of Shepherd’s pie for me - I had to gain my strength back to continue walking the streets of D.C. later.

 “Nope,” I said. “That’s why there is Uber, Lyft, the Metro, or Flip.”

“Flip?”                                                                                                                                                             

I nodded. “Flip a coin to see if we head back to the hotel after lunch and take a nap.”

We ended up, after a wonderful time at the Dubliner Restaurant, heading out into the steamy afternoon. It got even steamier when a sudden thunder storm eased over the east and blanketed the capital with what seemed like ten inches of rain in two minutes.

I knew it was coming, since I had insisted that we would not need an umbrella - my albatross.

“Why an umbrella?” I once posed to Laureen in the hinterlands of Northern Ireland. Fifteen minutes later the Irish Coast Guard showed up.  

As we walked back toward the National Mall to take in the sights, Laureen said, “I wish we had brought an umbrella.”

Which in her world actually meant, you should have listened to me and taken the umbrella from the Watergate Hotel like I suggested.

There really should be two dictionaries - one for smart women and one for the rest of us.

With soaking shoes and smiles, we meandered our way to the White House to see the two new big beautiful flag poles that were recently erected.

It is awe inspiring to stand across the street from where the President and First Lady reside, no matter what political party, and contemplate the importance of such a building.

The current residence has housed every president since John Adams. But George Washington chose the spot and supervised its construction - so his spirit is still there. It is a venue where world leaders come and discuss worldly issues on a constant basis.

But, being tourists, we could only gawk through the tall black wrought iron fencing and ponder what goes on inside those special walls.

“Do I really need to meet with him this afternoon?” a president may ask his Chief of Staff.

“Sir, he’s the Prime Minister of England.”

“But he sounds so Scottish.”

The White House is located in an area known as Foggy Bottom. And yes, Laureen asked me not to write immature statements about the name. So, in bygone days the area was often covered by a blinding low-lying fog along the marshy area of the Potomac River, and with the smoke from and soot from nearby industrial complexes, the  name stuck.

This is also where the Kennedy Center is located, along with the Department of State and other high-affluence entities. D.C. is full of such places.

Standing across from the White House was special and allowed us to see America at its best. There were lots of tourists snapping selfies, asking for others to take their photos, selfies taking selfies, and others trying to steal their cameras. There were also a bunch of protesters waving posters and flags, wearing masks, and singing songs out-of-tune.

John R Beyer right before asking protestors what they were upset about

“What are you protesting?” I asked, being a journalist and all.

“Not sure,” a lime green-haired woman told me. “But it’s probably something about the government.”

“That is an awesome answer,” I replied.

Laureen shook her head, “She has green hair and a nose ring that hangs to her belly-button.”

“The First Amendment covers poor fashion choices, I believe,” I said. 

Our first day back in the nation’s capital after two years was interesting, sweaty, and overall great. This D.C. is a place to visit time and again. The week we had planned was not nearly long enough to see everything. We knew that but also realized we would pack as much into this adventure as possible.

I have always said to our children - if you are not exhausted by the time you return from a vacation, then you haven’t been on vacation.

Our Founding Fathers wondered if this great American dream would work out in the long run -  at this point, for nearly 250 years it’s done okay. A few bumps and hiccups but overall, not a bad experiment in the concept of a nation being self-governing.

For further information:

https://washington.org/visitors-guide

https://www.dublinerdc.com/

Washington D.C. is getting ready to Party

White House with brand new big beautiful flag

Big doings are on the way to prepare for our Nation’s Capital Semiquincentennial in 2026. It seems like only yesterday when Franklin turned to me and whispered that he hoped we could hold onto our republic.

“Ben,” I said. “Of course it will last.”

And I was correct. On July 4th, 2026, this great experiment that is our country will turn 250, and prove the old naysayers wrong.

As stated in the previous blog, we were contacted by Kyle Deckelbaum, Senior Manager for Domestic Media Relations from the non-profit group Destination D.C. He had complimented a story I had written about spending the 4th of July in our nation’s capital in 2023 for USA Today Network.

I like it when people compliment my writing - it does not happen often.

“John,” Kyle wrote to me. “D.C. is pulling out all the stops for the fourth in 2026. You’ve got to come and see what is planned.”

Don’t ask me twice to visit Washington, D.C. It is a wonderful destination for history buffs, library buffs, food buffs, pub buffs, and just buffs. And there is a chance to catch a sight of one of our hard-working representatives languishing on the steps of Congress, trying to figure out what more they can do to make life better for their constituents.

There's even a Route 66 display at the Smithsonian

That last comment may have been a bit of tongue-in-cheek. My part-time job is writing fictional novels and short stories.

I asked Laureen, my lovely wife, if she was interested in visiting . . . Actually, I never got the full question out.

“Of course, we should visit Washington D.C. this Fourth of July,” she replied to my not-quite-asked question.

How do wives do that? 

Turns out that the city is already gearing up for the spectacular extravaganza for the nation’s 250th anniversary. 

Even astronauts and flamingos are excited about the 250th

I was being invited to preview these exciting things that are going to take place within the streets of Washington, D.C., for the semiquincentennial. One year out, no problem, takes a bit of time to get articles in the queue for publishing, and I considered this as simply a scouting mission to inform my readers what will be in store if they plan on visiting D.C. to honor our wonderful country.

And what a history this nation has had over the past 250 years. Sure, not a perfect country, but one that I believe learns from its mistakes and moves forward for a better tomorrow for all of its citizens.

George Washington, the reluctant 1st President of the United States, said; The name of American, which belongs to you, in your national capacity, must always exalt the just pride of patriotism more than any appellation derived from local discriminations.

President Washington was pointing out that to be an American was not just a moniker to hang around one’s neck, but to truly honor the fact that America was not a dream but a reality to be held on to tightly. He knew firsthand the sacrifices during those war years from the beginning in 1775 until the signing of the Treaty of Paris in 1783 with the British Empire.

George Washington's farm - Mount Vernon 

Our nation was a concept that had never truly been experimented on in such a manner and at such a great cost for those sailing into uncertain waters.

To take up arms against the strongest military force on Earth at that time, Great Britain, was not for the faint of heart.

John Adams, a founding Father and the 2nd President of the newly formed United States, once said; Posterity! You will never know how much it costs the present generation to preserve your Freedom! I hope you will make good use of it. If you do not, I shall repent in Heaven that I ever took half the pains to preserve it.

This route to freedom that our founding fathers and mothers fought for should never be underestimated. 

Freedom comes at a great emotional and physical cost - just ask a Vet.

So, without wasting a moment, I booked flights, hotels, and a cruise along the Potomac to visit Mount Vernon (I wanted to see if it had changed much since the last time George and I had talked), and I was quite proud of myself.

Cruising along the Potomac River

“I think the last night we’re there, you should take me to the VUE Restaurant on top of the Washington Hotel. As a celebration.”

“Celebration?”

Laureen nodded. “We won’t be there for the two hundred and fiftieth year's birthday, but we’ll be looking forward to it next year.”

I looked up the establishment. I would be celebrating if my American Express held out that evening. 

So, we hit the ground running at the Ontario International Airport on June 30th, for our latest adventure back to Washington D.C. to learn what all the hubbub Kyle had been discussing concerning the fanfare for our country's monumental birthday on July 4th, 2026.

Knowing Kyle, I’m sure the city built on a swamp had plenty up its sleeves to ensure no one would forget this special birthday party.

And it was my job to investigate, interview, visit, and report back.

Tour of the capital back in July of 2023

John can be contacted at: beyersbyways@gmail.com

For further information:

https://washington.org/DC-information/about-destination-dc

https://washington.org/

Ludlow, a great respite along Interstate 40

Old mining cars on display in Ludlow, California

I spend a lot of time driving along that black ribbon of Interstate 40. Do I enjoy it? Sometimes. And it is the path from here to there I need quite often for expediency. Though, Route 66 is my preferable stretch of road. It’s slower, more scenic, and allows me to just ponder.

Pondering is important. .

No one likes things weighing on my mind. But I do like to think about, or reflect every now and then. To consider things soberly, quietly, or with some good old rock and roll playing in the background. I’d even say I contemplate some things deeply, as if I were a great deep thinker of soul searching meanings, but honestly, I’m often more of a surface kind of guy.

But I do like the term ponder. It rhymes with wander. So, wandering as I do gives me time for pondering.

‘He’s just a wandering and pondering sort of fella.’

So recently, while wandering along Interstate 40 and passing the exit for Ludlow, I began pondering about the history of this small berg fifty-one miles east of Barstow and ninety-two miles west of Needles. Passing it so many times during my eons on this planet, I never gave the history of the town much thought. No offense to those who reside in Ludlow - a lovely group of folks - but when I’d stop in Ludlow, there was a specific reason for said stop: pump some gas, grab a meal, or a big delicious and calorie filled DQ desert, and hit the road again.

The town deserves better. 

Time for some research. 

I discovered that Ludlow was once a booming town. But, as with many such towns that hugged Route 66 like a belt on a pair of pants after Thanksgiving dinner, a diet was in the near future. And that diet was the completion of Interstate 40.

That darn Interstate 40! But, I digress.

Ludlow was once such a happening place that it once hosted an automobile race in 1914 from Los Angeles to Phoenix along National Trails Highway, later known as Route 66, with the famous race car driver, Barney Oldfield as the main attraction.

It was reported that people as far away as Death Valley, descended on Ludlow to view the Cactus Derby, with the hopes of catching a glance of one of this country’s racing legends.

But there is so much more to Ludlow. And I’m not just writing about the reopening of the DQ there – though, that is pretty big news.

Hmmm, banana splits on a hot summer afternoon. Oops, digressing again. 

Turns out that this small community began in the 1870’s. In 1882, the actual town of Ludlow was founded as a water stop for the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, and named after William Ludlow, a train car repairman who did such a good job repairing things, that clearly, the railroad needed to name a town after him.

The small railway stop started to really build into something grand when gold was discovered in the nearby hills. Where there is gold, there is a boom. And a boom was a-booming.

As miners flocked to the region, entrepreneurs also moved in offering all sorts of distractions for those tired and grubby guys with pockets full of gold to spend on lonely weekends. 

One such person was Mother Preston, who built or purchased buildings to convert into a general store, hotel, boarding house, a saloon, café, pool hall, and even a few homes. She was one smart business woman. 

According to an article in the San Bernardino County Sentinel, Mother Preston became so wealthy, she sold her holdings to the Murphy Brothers, who already owned the rest of the town, and promptly retired to France.

It is reported that Mother Preston stated, “Ooh, la la!” after the sale of her holdings. A rough translation is – “Wow, is Versailles for sale?”

In 1900, gold was discovered in the Bagdad-Chase Mine, and became the largest gold-producing mine in San Bernardino County. In fact, the mine produced half of all the gold mined in the county.

Ludlow was also utilized as the southern railhead for the Tonopah and Tidewater Railroad, which was owned by the Pacific Coast Borax Company.

Borax, the answer to those nasty stains in clothes. A little here and a little there, and whammy, just like brand new.

“Johnny, your clothes are filthy!”

“Don’t worry, ma,” Johnny replied. “A little Borax, and they are good as store bought.”

“You are a smart young man, Johnny. You may end up writing for a newspaper someday.”

“My dream of dreams, ma.”

Anyway - with all that gold, and the Borax pouring in from Death Valley, Ludlow began to truly prosper.

For the next few decades, the town continued to grow, as new mines were established, trainloads of Borax along with other minerals coming through, and the advent of the automobile, there didn’t seem an end to the expansion of this town in the Mojave Desert.

But by the 1940’s there wasn’t much use for all the rail activity with the ore playing out and other avenues being found for the delivery of the minerals. The railroads became more efficient and water stops no longer played much of a roll in their daily lives. 

The love of the American automobile came to the rescue to Ludlow. Vehicles roared by on Route 66, right through the town where visitors could grab a night’s sleep at a motor court, grab a meal at the Ludlow Café, fill up at the gas station, or just relax under the branches of a shady tamarisk tree.

But then in the late 1960’s, Interstate 40 was completed, and even though it was merely inches from Ludlow, travelers didn’t need to stop any longer.

“Can’t we stop? I’m hungry,” a child was heard to whine, through the open window of a passing Chevrolet.

“Can’t stop, we’re on a mission to get east of here,” the father replied. “There’s boating fun to be had on the Colorado River.”

So, the people sped by and Ludlow dwindled in population and importance.

Though, it is still an important stop in my mind. Here I go with pondering again.

History is alive here in this little highway town. Strong and independent people took a shot at life in a very hostile environment - threw the dice and survived.

No, not only survived, but prospered. 

Sure, now there isn’t much to the town. Deserted buildings, empty lots, ruined structures, and an old cemetery – but the town truly lives.

There’s a hotel, café, gas station, and the planned re-opening of the revamped DQ attached to a gas station on the north side of Interstate 40.

A great place to stop and eat in Ludlow, California

Most of my sources agree that Ludlow is a ghost town. I say nope, this town is alive, and all the times I’ve stopped there – not one ghost have I seen.

Recently, I stopped at the Ludlow Café and had a great and healthy breakfast (that was for Laureen’s benefit, she worries about me). I pondered on how much grit the early settlers had in settling in such hostile and questionable surroundings. They had it, no matter the obstructions thrown in their path.

And their legacy lives on.

Ludlow might be thought of as a little community, but one with a large part of the history of the Mojave Desert. There is so much to explore in the area, if you have the time. 

And a place to rest your head for the night in Ludlow, California

Albert Einstein once wrote; ‘People like us who believe in physics know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion. Time, in other words, is an illusion.’

Can’t argue with a guy rumored to have an IQ of ten thousand, but I know that time, in this world is not an illusion.

Watching your children grow up, a person realizes that time is real and it’s precious. Time for us mere humans is finite.

That’s why I travel and look for new things. New doesn’t mean new construction, but things I didn’t know were there. The history of Ludlow is just one more example.