Sedona via Route 66
Kingman to Sedona via Route 66
The morning started kitschy and classic—Route 66 T-shirts stuffed into a bag, Kodi sniffing around the official Route 66 dog park while I admired the neon signs at the Welcome Center. Kingman still wears its “Mother Road” badge proudly, and Alan wasn’t about to let us bypass the most famous stretch. He had Easy Rider in his head, Dennis Hopper roaring into the desert, and flashes of that old TV series Route 66 with the Corvette convertible. “If we’re doing it, we’re doing it right,” he declared. So we pointed Bessie east, choosing cracked blacktop over smooth interstate.
The desert was brutal in its honesty. Antares at Milepost 75 was a scatter of rusted cars and a towering Joshua Tree that looked like it was holding the sky together. Alan muttered, “When they built I-40 in the late ’70s, all this just…died.” He was right—the ghosts of gas stations and diners whispered along the road. I didn’t mind; even ghost towns make great reel stops. Hackberry, just down the line, felt like stepping into a time capsule general store—1950s mannequins in swing dresses and Elvis attire, Route 66 nostalgia cranked up to kitsch.
By the time we hit Seligman, the sun was slanting low. This was the real deal: barber shops plastered with Elvis posters, chrome diners serving malts in metal cups, and gift shops bursting with license plates and vintage signs. The place felt equal parts Americana theme park and living museum, and Alan was grinning like he’d driven straight into his childhood.
Arrival in Sedona
As Route 66 gave way to Highway 89A, the land morphed—flat desert slowly rising into crimson cliffs. The closer we got, the more surreal it became: red rock cathedrals punctured the sky, ponderosa pines and junipers hugged the roadside, prickly pear and agave flashed in the light. Then came the Verde River, campers parked along its banks, kids splashing and skinny-dipping in the fading sun. By the time Sedona unfolded before us, it felt less like a town and more like we’d driven into another dimension—half spiritual retreat, half chic resort playground.
Everywhere: signs for aura photos, chakra balancing, yoga under the stars. Every hillside: a boutique spa or “healing center” glowing golden in the dusk. I rolled my eyes at first (it’s hard not to when you pass three crystal shops in a row), but the truth is, the red rock pulls you in. There are over 40 galleries and dozens of internationally acclaimed artists who call this cultural center home.
Sunset at Airport Mesa
Alan’s hotel choice ended up being genius. West Sedona may not have had the glitzy spa-front Best Western, but it was right at the base of Airport Mesa—the place everyone says you must be for sunset. We climbed the mesa with about thirty strangers, cameras at the ready. The rocks flared orange, then pink, then that impossible Sedona purple. And then it happened: a man named Koko appeared, perched on the rocks, playing a wooden flute through a small amp as if he was serenading the sun itself.
The sound carried over the canyon—haunting, healing, a soundtrack you’d swear was composed by the desert. The crowd went still. Even Kodi tilted her head like she understood the moment. I felt goosebumps on my arms as the last light disappeared.
Dinner Magic
Alan was so blissed out he announced, “Book any restaurant you want.” I didn’t hesitate—I snagged us a late reservation at Mesa Grill, perched right at the top of Airport Road. Chef Mercer Mohr does this modern Southwestern thing that just sings in Sedona: smoky grilled meats, chili-kissed sauces, margaritas that taste like the desert in a glass.
We scrubbed off the road dust, pulled on our “business casual” road-trip best (matching black jeans and shirts), and ate like we’d been dropped into a foodie fever dream. Dinner was so good we came back the next morning for breakfast—same view, different light—after chasing sunrise at Cathedral Rock and looping back to Airport Mesa one more time for that early-morning glow.
Hiking, Heat, and Holy Cross
Daytime brought hikes—The signature hike is the Devil’s Bridge Trail in Boynton Canyon, a large sandstone arch, but in this heat I was going for something a bit less dangerous…. Bell Rock Pathway with Kodi bounding along was perfect, and then Doe Mountain Trail with 500 feet of elevation where I tested my solo endurance. It was beautiful, 360 degree views, but the desert didn’t play nice: 102° and rising. By the time I staggered back to the van, I had the kind of heat exhaustion that only gallons of cold water could fix.
We cooled off, crashed, and the next morning made one final Sedona stop at the Chapel of the Holy Cross—a mid-century modern miracle wedged into red rock cliffs, its cross slicing the horizon. From there, the road pulled us east again.
Standin’ on a Corner
Winslow, Arizona wasn’t on the official itinerary, but we couldn’t resist the siren call of the Eagles. A bronze statue, a flatbed Ford mural, and the lyrics of “Take It Easy” buzzing in our heads—it was pure Americana. Posters advertised the annual Standin’ on the Corner Festival, but we were just passing through, chasing our own rhythm.
With that little detour checked off, we pointed Bessie toward the strange beauty of the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert, our next official national park. Route 66 was behind us, but its echoes—flutes, diners, sunsets, and songs—lingered like a desert dream.