Rythms of the Road: Highway 99 - The Pacific Highway

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Highway 99 - The Pacific Highway

The old U.S. Highway Shield insignia before it became a State Route.

I decided to begin with Hwy 99 for a couple of reasons. First because she starts, much like I do in California, where one of her many names - The Golden State Highway - comes from. Historic Route 99 is an old north-south United States highway system line that ran from Mexico to Canada and as such she has much to offer those who take the time to enjoy her history. She was decommissioned as a U.S. Highway in the early 70's and now the bits that remain are all designated as State Routes. Like too many of her sister routes she fell victim to the Interstate system - in this case Interstate 5. Which is not really a "road" at all. It is an Interstate that will get you there as fast as possible (except through Seattle. Bring a lunch and a book). The Interstate is the antithesis of an old road. But I digress.

Down Marginal Way with the newer State Highway Head logo

In Washington she runs from Fife north to Everett as SR 99 or the Pacific Highway, and also as Aurora Avenue. These pictures were taken over the course of several trips up and down this grand old road during the six months we lived in Seattle. I figured I may as well document the road in our back yard while prepping for our next round of great highway adventures.

The approach from downtown Seattle. Note the old U.S. shield shape sign.

Wouldn't be a trip down 99 without a glimpse of the Space Needle.

I remember bits and pieces of roads from my childhood, and one that stands out vividly is the Pink Elephant. My parents made several trips to and from Alaska over the years and my earliest memory of this is probably in 1970 on our way south. This view is headed north, but the Pink Elephant is an icon of U.S. 99 in downtown Seattle to this day.

The iconic Pink Elephant Car Wash in downtown Seattle

A bit further along in Lynnwood you will find the old Mobil Gas station, Keelers Korner built in 1927. After miles of strip mall hell it is like sorting through a pile of trash and suddenly coming across a family heirloom. You know at once this is not junk. This has a history, a story. It once had a vibrant life. This is the only truly real thing here.

Mobil Oil Station on SR 99

Much of Hwy 99 runs through the typical urban blight of strip malls, fast food joints clustered in eternal competition and vast big box home improvement stores and grocery chains. But every now and then you catch a glimpse of what was there before. You see what the family in the '58 Buick saw on their way to the beach or heading home from the drive-in. There it is; a neon encrusted drive-in burger joint.

"Pick-Quick Burgers Drive In - Since 1949"

Another piece of real treasure nearly hidden amongst all the junk. Seeing these gaudy remnants of times gone by is always bittersweet - you know it has been there for ages while at the same moment knowing that it's days are numbered. While the building gets inexorably older the real estate it sits on gets ever more valuable. Whenever I see one of these along a route I know we frequented when I was a kid I cannot help but wonder: Did we stop here? Did Mom tell Dad "Pull in there, the kids are hungry and I could do with a bite myself." I can hear her saying exactly that a thousand times over. Is this neon jewel a part of my own past? I hope it is.

The Poodle Dog in Fife, at the southern start of what's left of old Hwy 99 in WA.

Fields of Daffodils at the northerly end of old 99

Perhaps this is my fascination with these old highways. Not having a hometown to go back to, never having had a specific house I could say I grew up in, I can catch glimpses of my childhood here, along the highways we traveled and the sights we saw. It is as good a hometown as any, and in so many ways better than most. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

An old 60's era motel in Milton, WA seen as it should be - through a dark, rainy windshield

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What this is not:

This is not a travelogue in the normal sense. It is a record of what I see as I travel. You won't find specific directions to any of these places. Sometimes you won't even know what Country they are in. I usually don't want anyone to know where my good places are. You may feel lost because it skips around quite a bit. That is how I am - focus is not one of my stronger traits. You also will not see any reviews or detailed descriptions of routes. I put links to other stuff I think is cool and think others might want to see. The links are for you, since I have it all bookmarked anyway.

Lots of people write about roads. I am by far not alone in my fascination. But if you are looking for detailed help planning your next road trip you are in the wrong place. My planning usually only goes as far as "I'm bored, lets hit the road."

This, I suppose, is my way of preserving my own road trip history and sharing it with others. One note of warning: I tend to take windshield shots, because when writing about roads those prettily staged still photos just seem wrong to me. I saw it out the windows of my old Ford truck; and so shall you! With all the bugs, glare, rain and blurry "What did that sign say?" as we go along.

Enjoy the ride.

The Driving Force

All of my life seems to have been defined by roads. I remember most of them. Some fondly, some with aversion, all with a familiarity rarely afforded to other human beings. I don't really get people who are not appreciative of roads and the infinite potential they represent.

People seem to love to ask one question above all others. "Where are you from?" Not "Where have you been?" or "Where are you going?" Always it is "Where are you from?"

Such a simple question on it's face. Some people have a ready answer; "I'm from Nebraska." They will say with assurance. This is where their parents lived. Where they were born, went to school, set out on their lives from. It is their starting point, for some their ending point and they know the answer to the question. They do not even need to think about it.

I have no such ready answer. I have thought about it all my life. I have no clue where I am "from." Not where I was born, in Chinon, France. I was only there for a few weeks and it seems affectatious to say "I'm from France" under the circumstances. I spent much of my formative years in Southern California, so I usually just go with that. My siblings have adopted Alaska as their stock answer and that is fine for them. It works and I would never argue the point. They do live there and our parents did indeed spend many years there.

The problem for me is that I have just as many - if not more - memories of other homes, other places. Los Angeles; oh my yes, very many L.A. moments run through my mind. San Diego. Saugus. Eastern Washington and Northern California, Oregon, Louisiana, Eagle River, Shingle Springs, Sacramento, Phoenix. So many others. They blend like good whiskey.

But mostly I remember - and here is the strange thing - it is not the places. Most strong are my memories of the roads inter-linking all of those places. I can recall with perfect clarity the exact hue of black and the bas-relief cracked yellow stripes on that roller-coaster of a highway between Bakersfield and Bullhead City. The dips into each flash flood arroyo, the floating sensation as that big old Buick of Dads leaped out the other side. The monotony of Joshua trees ticking by like strange scarecrows and the shimmer of heat off the pavement.

I can smell the strange wet aroma of that causeway in Louisiana and see the creepy moss dripping off the trees in the early morning light. I can feel the quick surge of terror as we took a curve a mite too fast coming down a mountain. And that ride - that wild and exhilarating ride up I-5 through California in the wee hours in a '69 Olds Cutlass that Mom proved really could do 120 with nary a shimmy. Man, what a car, and what a driver.

The cars are bit players. I can perfectly recall lying across the back seat of a Pontiac Bonneville on our way home from somewhere and gazing up at the serpentine concrete of the Los Angeles freeway system, thinking to myself it looked just like those Escher drawings in my brothers book. I can still see the silhouettes of the redwoods and the stars peeking through as we wound along the river road in that old Corvair. I can hear the hum of conversation and the bumps and smell the oil and cigarettes and fresh air through the wing vents of Grandma's old Beetle. That red Ford pick-up doing a perfect headstand in the creek and that homely little Pinto chugging up Grapevine.

My life is filled with roads. Roads going nowhere, and everywhere and I have to see, to feel, to know where they are going. Perhaps one day I will reach the end of one of those roads and know in my heart of hearts that this is where I am from. I will have found my answer to that perplexing question.

I think today is not that day.