Guest Author -

It’s not on the map, yet it’s arguably the most popular roadway in the US. For many, it’s a corridor to a more uncomplicated time, America’s emblematic access road to memory lane. Even the road sign, itself, has become an icon of our nation’s nomadic past.

Much of the route is narrow, desert, deserted. Some parts were never paved. Towns along the way seem unimpressed with the passage of time. Drive it today, and for miles vintage filling stations and passing lanes of nostalgia are all you’ll find along the back roads that once comprised old Route 66. But there’s something you’ll catch a glimpse of in your rear view mirror as you cruise this historic thoroughfare: it’s America, and it’s amazing.

You really should go.

Seligman. Kingman. Williams. Flagstaff. Winslow. Holbrook. Topock. Towns where we’ve been.

The last time I saw this stretch of Route 66 was ‘68 from the back seat of a Chevy during an Arizona summer—sans air-conditioning. There we were: three cranky kids crammed in the back, rubbernecking at the Grand Canyon, while Mom passed cheese sandwiches from the front and Daddy drove, his fingers knotted at the top of the thin steering wheel.

Riding in the back seat through Northern Arizona last week flooded the engines of my memory like the carburetor of an old car.

When my father died six years ago, he left me something quite precious: a hand-written list of places important to him, spaces special for reasons I can’t begin to guess and likely will never know.

I intend to visit them all.

I know I won't find it on an atlas, but I’m looking for the road he took, the one less traveled, drawn in blue lines along the map of my father’s life.

And so I’ll start out on Route 66—just for kicks.

Life is still an open road. Take the old routes, the slow ones, the forgotten ones. Throw away the map.

Make your own list.

Find Route 66.