Another walk down re-posting history. Thanks to all for bearing with me as we transition this thing into something new. ~JRC
Ruins - everything made fades
The impermanence of the created world
First published December 1st, 2023
Something about old foundations, abandoned roads, and relics hidden among the weeds draws me in. In part, I find ruins beautiful. But taking them in aesthetically alone does not do justice to the complexity they hold. There is an inherent melancholy, and often a profound sadness, within ruins. Fortunes made and lost, lives lived and destroyed, echo throughout the remnants and decay. A testament in contrasts, ruins embody the eternal struggle between humanity and the elements. And vividly represent the battles within and among ourselves.
I am particularly fond of Historic Route 66 because of all the captivating stories that linger in this once vibrant, twenty-five-hundred-mile stretch of ruins.
In its heyday, the Mother Road (a name coined by John Steinbeck in The Grapes of Wrath) catered to thousands of travelers migrating, exploring, touring, and fleeing across the continent. Small towns bustled with a near-constant influx of new visitors, boosting local restaurants, motels, and fuel stations. But with the innovation of the Eisenhower Interstate System that bypassed the old road, vast stretches of this Chicago to Los Angeles route were deserted almost overnight. And the inevitable decay into ruin began just as quickly.
Some stops along the most desolate stretches in the unforgiving desert Southwest disappeared entirely; virtually nothing remains now except a few names on old maps.
I first passed through my now-favorite stretch of Route 66 west of Needles, California, in the winter of 2011. I was headed to a new job on the coast and had all my possessions in a small U-Haul trailer behind my car. After spending the last several years in hot and humid Florida, I was relieved to slip back into my favorite biome, the desert. Here, in the Mojave Valley, I was oddly at home.
The sky is often blue, and the winter air is crisp and dry in the Mojave. Shimmering mountains and desert sands are dotted only with sparse vegetation. It's oddly clean and tidy for such a wild place. But that cleanliness belies, no foretells, of the harshness here. It's clean because the desert cleans up after itself.
The newly dead quickly disappear, consumed by the survivors. Each and all made part of the formidable ecosystem that persists. And just as the towering mountains crumble and disintegrate into the blowing sands below, anything we humans make in the desert quickly erodes into oblivion unless maintained.
Back in the early 2010s, Route 66 through this part of the Mojave was open for travel. There had been a resurgence in interest in the Mother Road, and several preservation efforts sought to conserve and enshrine it for posterity. Places like Amboy were aglow with new neon and freshly painted signs. But even then, the decay was all around. Yet, that has always been part of the draw. The road’s charm owes itself to the decay as much as the glimmering outposts that remain.
Alas, this era of revitalization for Route 66 would soon pass, just like all the others.
After a few years and a couple of different jobs, a marriage, and a son, I again found myself traveling that same old stretch of Route 66 - this time with a young family along. Heading west again just outside Needles, I pulled off the main interstate to share the best part of our westward journey. It was 2015.
Much to my chagrin, a long stretch of the road between Needles and Barstow - my favorite stretch - was closed. A large reflective orange and white barricade blocked both lanes. The reason for the closure was unclear, exacerbating my frustrations.
Forced to rejoin I-40, we retreated to the monotony of the crowded modern interstate. Later, after pulling off to see another stretch of the route, I felt even more dejected. Instead of a journey through time along the old road, Route 66 became just another occasional stop off the freeway to take in a roadside attraction of one form or another.
Months later, after settling back into Southern California, I ventured again to the Mojave. I learned that the closed section of 66 was, in fact, still accessible, so long as one had a sufficiently capable vehicle. There were off-road bypasses around the closed bridges. The few locals here used these to traverse the desert expanse. Elated, I spent the next few winters exploring the area as often as possible.
Because of the closures, Route 66 and the surrounding desert in the Mojave Valley were even more desolate. I rarely encountered anyone on my explorations and relished the remoteness and the time alone. It was a reprieve and a relief to be there and partake in the stillness. Here, it felt like time was frozen for a short few years. The place was a constant in my life, where I could go to be with the familiar. But like everything before and all that is to come, my retreat among the sand and ruins of Route 66 would ultimately change.
After years of traveling the route, I learned it and all the closed bridges and bypasses well. I could almost drive the stretch instinctively. For a favorite turn-off, I knew it was after three closed bridges heading west. And the last closed bridge near Chambless meant the road opened up again on the way to Amboy.
But this familiarity changed overnight with one storm.
In mid-August this year, tropical storm Hilary dumped unprecedented rain throughout the inland California deserts and mountains, inundating flood zones and wiping out many roads throughout the region. Route 66 was not spared, and the already compromised stretch I dearly loved was further damaged and degraded.
Witnessing the devastation a few months after Hilary swept through, I was astonished by the destruction.
Many more bridges were out, with only basic bypasses cut in the desert sand. Some were almost impossible to traverse, and with my trusty camper in tow, I nearly became stuck attempting one challenging path. I had not assessed the entire bypass and found myself deep in the middle of the wash with no way to back out and a formidable bank ahead. My only option was to accelerate quickly and hope for the best. Luckily, I made it out unscathed and stopped the vehicle momentarily on the sand-covered route to collect myself.
The devastation was all around.
Evidence of the cataclysmic flood that swept the road stood out in every direction. But what wasn't visible was anything familiar in the place I so often traveled. Instead of my beloved Route 66 and its unending stretches of asphalt, there were only sand-covered remnants now.
The road wasn’t all lost. Not by far. But the injury and the neglect told a vivid story of what was to come.
Later that day, I pulled off and found a conveniently secluded place to camp. The air was calm and cool that night, and I had time to reflect on what I had seen. The old road had always been old since I knew it. And in that state, down but not out, Route 66 took on an air of infinite durability. After all, the damage was done and finished, or so it seemed. Locked in a state of glorious ruin, I half-heartedly believed it would persist on and on, forever as such. Like relics of antiquity, the Mother Road would always be there to tell its story.
Except that it won't.
I think about my home and its aging roof. The weathered paint and the cracking concrete in the drive out front. And of myself. Aches and pains. The lines in my face. All show the signs of wear, each a victim of the elements and time. Yet, scarcely any time at all has passed since all of these were new, myself included.
What of the ruins of old - Stonehenge, Machu Picchu, the Parthenon, and countless more - even Route 66? Certainly more durable than a suburban home or a middle-aged man and his ego, but each shows signs of time, all the same.
And what of the people, then and now? And what of all who face more than time alone? Undoubtedly, conflict - war - accelerates the decay into ruin. Both the sheltered and vulnerable, protected and exposed, all will decay. It’s only a matter of when and how.
The kind and the cruel. The valiant and the wicked. All wither. But not equally, I hope. What we choose to do between life and infinity must matter. If for nothing other than because we decide that it must.
A multi-layered and intricate story begs to be read in ruins. For those who take time to look deeply into them, they find a compelling and often tragic account of ourselves through time. But even the decayed continues to decay until nothing remains but dust.
As the bombs again rain down, I’m left wondering. What comes after? What, if anything, will be left to tell the story?
Everything made fades.
JRC
This is timely John. I had to forward to my neighbour here who’s off to the States in a month or so to ride his m/c east to west and planned a 66 excursion along the way.