Sedona to Route 66

Alan was excited to finally hit the Mother Road—Route 66. In Kingman we stopped at the official merch store for a few souvenirs, and Kodi stretched his legs at the dog park before we rolled east along what was once the Main Street of America. The Western Section through Seligman was pure Americana—retro motels, faded neon, and roadside curios begging for a photo stop.

Past Flagstaff we merged onto Highway 89A, plunging into Oak Creek Canyon—one of the most beautiful drives of our entire trip. The road twisted through red rock walls, cool rivers, and roadside markets selling crystals, sage, and homemade pies. Sedona emerged like a mirage of light and color, a town built on spirituality, healing arts, and artful eating.

I had my heart set on staying downtown at the Best Western Plus, where we could walk to shops and cafés. Alan shook his head.

“I booked us a better location,” he said.
He was right—the Best Western on the west side of town sat close to Airport Mesa, surrounded by trailheads and great restaurants.

We checked in, then raced up to Airport Mesa just as someone pulled out of the last parking spot. The climb to the overlook was short but steep. As the sun began to melt behind the crimson cliffs, a man named Koko appeared on a rocky ledge, playing a haunting melody on his flute through a small amplifier. About thirty of us stood together on that mesa, silent, watching Sedona glow gold and rose. It was a transcendent moment—a whisper to chill out, enjoy the moment.

Alan nudged me.

“Book one of your fancy restaurants,” he said with a grin.
I called Mariposa Grill, The Hudson, Canyon Breeze, and finally scored a patio table at Mesa Grill—just down Airport Road. Dinner came with dazzling views of the red rocks and small planes lifting off into the dusk.

The next morning we chased the sunrise at Cathedral Rock, then returned to Airport Mesa for better light and photos. Kodi and I later hiked Courthouse Butte Trail, and I tackled Doe Mountain while Alan handled logistics. The signature hike here—Devil’s Bridge—would have to wait; it was 100 degrees and I’d had my fill of red dust for the day.

Before leaving town, we made one last stop at the Chapel of the Holy Cross, its modernist spire carved right into the rock, a fusion of faith and geology. From there, we rolled back onto Route 66’s eastern stretch—bound for Winslow and the Standin’ On the Corner Festival.