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THE UTIMATE USA ROAD TRIP
ROUTE 66 Written by Jason Heidemann Photography by Ryan Bakerink
Driving Carol, our Ford Mustang convertible, through the Petrified National Forest in Arizona
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he sign at the intersection of Adams Street and Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago that reads “Illinois US 66: Historic Route Begins” is small, unremarkable, and arguably an unworthy trumpeting of the road that is ahead. Indeed, not a single office drone pays it any mind on this gloomy fall morning as they rush from the city’s lumbering El trains to their designated steel and glass towers for the day. Nevertheless, Ryan and I stand in front of it with beaming smiles and angle our iPhones just right so that we can snap a selfie that will surely be the envy of all. This is day one of an eight-day, turn-by-turn journey that will cover all 2,448 iconic miles of Route 66, the most famous highway in the United States. It was designated in 1926 and made famous by westward thrill seekers, Dust Bowl migrants, and the oft-covered song of the same name. During its six-decade span it was realigned several times, decommissioned in 1985 in favor of the Interstate Highway System, and brought back to life more recently by road trip enthusiasts, municipalities looking to bolster tourism, and folks wistful of a vanishing America. Although the road is book ended by Chicago and Los Angeles and winds through the heart of several cities including St. Louis, Oklahoma City, and Albuquerque, the highway is really a journey through numerous small towns to countless to name, some of which have survived and even thrived, off Route 66 nostalgia, and others which have all but rotted. To cross the country via interstate highway is to merely skim the continent, but to do it via painstakingly slow Route 66 is to discover an America that is undeniably friendly, often kitschy, and ultimately vanishing rapidly.
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ur faithful companion for the journey is a 2015 canaryyellow Ford Mustang convertible. Thanks to her elaborate engineering, she requires no turn key in her ignition and is so badass in her numerous bells and whistles that we affectionately name her Carol, after the resilient,
Photos: Ryan Bakerink
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take-no-prisoners survivor of the zombie apocalypse in AMC’s The Walking Dead. We love this car. Savoring the Windy City leg of the journey really means admiring the route’s literal starting point on Michigan Avenue where a 360degree survey of the intersection puts road trippers in close proximity to Anish Kapoor’s much-photographed steel-sculpture Cloud Gate, aka “the Bean,” majestic Buckingham Fountain, and the newly revitalized Chicago Athletic Association Hotel thats current incarnation as a boutique hotel, carefully refurbished to pay homage to its roots as a turn-of-the-century men’s club, aligns perfectly with the legacy of Route 66 and is thus an ideal hotel for travelers seeking a starting point along the Mother Road. Adams Street begins our westward journey cutting (what is for us as locals) a familiar path through the frenetic Loop, then crossing over the Chicago River, and onward to the city’s West Side. Route 66 signposts take us left onto Ogden Avenue and through Lawndale, a neighborhood which these days looks like it’s slouching. We see rail cars and power plants, this is the guts of the city, but the murals along the avenue brighten the drive, and we’re happy to wave goodbye to our famously “big shouldered” hometown as it vanishes in the rearview mirror. Soon our eyes take notice of pretty Berwyn whose wide streets, Chicago-style bungalows (the most in the nation), and flashes of midcentury signage point to the Americana which lies ahead. We’re barely outside the city and already a USA that “once was” is looming large before us. Meanwhile there is Joliet, which, like many industrial cities, hints at former greatness but now feels like a drag on the American Dream. The rest of Chicagoland rushes by as 66 merges with I-55, but a slower pace soon returns as the road veers south and into small town America, the real beginning to our adventure. art of the thrill of driving Route 66 is that it is lined with superlatives such as “largest,” “biggest,” “longest,” “oldest,” etc., and in this regard Illinois does not disappoint. In Wilmington, for example, there is the Gemini Giant, a historic landmark in the form of a luminous 30-foot-tall “Muffler Man” astronaut who stepped out of the Atomic Age to serve as an advertisement for a now-defunct restaurant. There is also the giant Paul Bunyan “Muffler Man” statue in Atlanta, a sliver of a hamlet with a tiny, but winsome downtown. In nearby Pontiac, a series of pretty Route 66 murals cover most downtown buildings. Here we spot a cute gay bear strutting down the street in a shirt and jeans and think to ourselves, we could get used to small-town America. Springfield, one of three state capitals we visit during our journey, yields a bounty of Abraham Lincoln related attractions including the stately residence he called home from 1844 until 1861 when he took office to become the 16th President of the United States. It’s right along the route, and so is the gimmicky Cozy Dog Drive In, a 66 icon and so-called home of the original corn dog. We have no idea if this claim is actually true, but neither of us has ever said no to putting a tasty wiener in our mouths, so we happily indulge. Illinois fatigue begins to set in, but not before the road brings us to Collinsville where we offer a round of applause to the town’s 170-foot water tower atop which stands the World’s Largest Catsup Bottle. Onward to Missouri.
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’ve always had a soft spot for St. Louis; I lived there briefly as a child. Its Gateway Arch is as stunning a monument as any, especially at dusk when its horseshoe shape beams against the melting sun. The city is just big and cosmopolitan enough to serve as an ideal day one stopping point. Unfortunately, St. Louis has all
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Early morning at Cadillac Ranch in Amarillo, Texas
Our faithful companion for the journey is a 2015 canary-yellow Ford Mustang convertible. We affectionately name her Carol, after the resilient, take-no-prisoners survivor of the zombie apocalypse in AMC’s The Walking Dead. We love this car. but bulldozed over all remnants of Route 66, a dilemma for strict Mother Road purists like us, but we do grant a reluctant seal of approval to the Magnolia Hotel, a landmark downtown building thats close proximity to the actual route and origins back to 1924, which officially qualifies it as a place worthy of resting for one night. The bearded bartender at Central Table, a West End eatery set in a lofted warehouse, is what Ryan and I call a “crossover” guy in that he’s just distinguished and bearded enough to satisfy Ryan’s taste in men while being svelte and hipster enough to satiate mine. Meanwhile, we tease the gayness right out of our own adorable server Kevin who recounts the gay bar he visited in Chicago that made him take his shirt off (against his wishes) as part of its dress code. Kevin disappoints us by sharing intel that our cute mixologist is chatting with his steady girlfriend. Later that night, under the overlapping paths of St. Louie’s intersecting freeway system and a billboard of a busty blonde dubiously proclaiming “I love Chuck’s Boots,” we decide to take advantage of the moderate late-autumn temps and do some alfresco imbibing among the smokers at JJ’s Clubhouse and Bar. It is here that an uninvited plussized gal in a deep V-neck tee plops herself down awkwardly next to us and says, “I don’t have a penis, but I love you guys.” She goes by Mama Bear, a name that makes Ryan and I bristle since our own nicknames are Papa Bear and Big Daddy respectively, and
she’s apparently here to play the role of Cupid, although which of her friends she’s trying to set us up with she never does say. What she does do, however, is wedge herself firmly into our night dropping pithy oneliners like, “Santa Fe is for bitches,” and shoulder dancing to the Eurythmics “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” which produces large beads of sweat around her face and cleavage. n the morning we do find Route 66 nostalgia at Donut Drive-In, a 24-hour bakery that is a St. Louis institution including long lines that point to its worth. Day two is full of highlights beginning with a guided tour of Meramec Caverns, a 4.6-mile cavern system in the Ozarks. Our docent is Jeremy, a pear-shaped oddball with matted bangs and a cackle that is like a cross between a hyena and the Wicked Witch of the West and who offers random nonsequiturs like, “Get ready to meet your maker!” and “I’d hate to have you fall on your butt without placing your face in mine!” His tour is the kind of kitsch we are craving and makes us love this road even more. Part of our Route 66 regimen is to ensure that both lodgings and restaurants are as strictly “mom and pop” as possible and this brings us to Shelly’s Route 66 Café, a threadbare charmer in teeny Cuba thats menu items are each named after cars. We build our own sandwich by asking our server to take their spicy breaded chicken and top it with
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The Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, Arizona
An old 66 station outside Kingman, Arizona
The Tower Conoco Station and U-Drop Inn in Shamrock, Texas
An old service station in the Southwest
The Airstream trailer Jack Palance slept in while filming Bagdad Cafe in Newberry Springs, California
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chorizo, pepper jack, and jalepeño (a winning combination). The staff is so visibly excited by this discovery that they insist they’ll not only add it to the menu but also name it the Mustang Chicken Sandwich after our set of wheels. If you see it on the menu on your own Route 66 adventure all we can say is, you’re welcome. The rotting bones of Route 66 are all over Missouri. That is to say that on the Show Me State portion of the road, which closely follows I-44, we see abandoned service stations, derelict motels, vintage signage, and so forth. We diligently photograph and admire them all and having said that, the state is full of quaint small towns like Cuba, Rolla, and Lebanon that all contain some legit Route 66 relics. Americana devotees will also want to slow down in Missouri cities like Springfield and Joplin whose main streets are filled with vintage bowling alleys, dive bars, and car washes that awkwardly rub shoulders with big box chains and fast food eateries. ansas proves an unlikely state for a trip highlight but it delivers just that. It’s surprising given that it lays claim to barely 13 miles of Route 66. Nevertheless, the town of Galena, the oldest mining town in southeast Kansas, hands us an unexpected moment of enchantment. We park Carol and stretch our legs at Cars on the Route, an old service station that has been restored and transformed into a souvenir shop. (The station’s larger claim to fame is that the rusty mining boom truck that sits out front inspired the character “Tow Mater” from the movie Cars.) Because we arrive at dusk we are treated to a vainglorious sunset, which scorches the entire prairie leaving fiery hues of orange and pink all over the sky. Meanwhile, the town has come out in full tonight for a zombie pub crawl (it is nearly Halloween after all) and also a live music festival that draws hundreds to its town square. I now understand Dorothy’s yearning; if I could click my heels three times, I’d return to this moment in Kansas in a heartbeat. The next day, we roll into Tulsa, Oklahoma at a late hour. It’s too dark for any kind of Route 66 discovery, but we love our one-bedroom suite at the Mayo Hotel, a Tulsa landmark that was built just before the stock market crash of 1929, abandoned in the 80s, and reopened more recently as a swanky downtown centerpiece. In its original incarnation it was a 66 stopping point for well-heeled travelers on the road and both façade and interior are gorgeous once again. Gay nightlife in Tulsa, a city of nearly 400,000 people, is slim but there is the Tulsa Eagle, a magnet for just about any gay man in town over the age of 30 and tonight’s crowd is a smörgasbord of cowboys, hipsters, barflies, burnouts, and leather men. Although the dance floor is largely ignored, one guy in lederhosen is using it to do the chicken (his sartorial choice an apparent hat tip to Oktoberfest) alongside his much younger, strapping companion. This duo turns out to be Jerry, a late-life gay dad, and his young son Connor, a clean-cut fireman from Carthage, Missouri with a heart of gold and innocent world view. He tells us he has never left the prairie and his eyes widen like saucers when we explain our journey; he is visibly flattered by our tongue– cheek offer that he hit the road with us as we continue on to California.
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e rise and shine in the Sooner State and pull back the curtains in our suite to discover our first gloriously sunny day on the road. We backtrack briefly to photograph and pay tribute to the Blue Whale of Catoosa, a waterfront attraction in suburban Tulsa
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that was built in the early 70s and has since become a recognizable Route 66 icon and a standard bearer of roadside kitsch. Oklahoma is arguably the epicenter of Route 66 nostalgia including the Oklahoma Route 66 Museum in Clinton, the National Route 66 Museum in Elk City, and the Chandler Route 66 Interpretive Center. A state highlight for us includes lunch at POPS, an insanely popular retro diner and roadside attraction marked by a 66-foot and four ton soda bottle that is neon constructed but LED lit at night. The real draw, aside from the sculpture itself, are the more than 600 varieties of soda available by the bottle. I grimace at Ryan’s choice of bacon-flavored “pop” and instead settle on a simple Coke to wash down my burger and fries. On April 19, 1995, the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City was bombed by domestic terrorists Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols. The blast destroyed or damaged more than 300 nearby buildings and claimed the lives of 168 people, and it’s at the contemplative Oklahoma City National Memorial and Museum, we experience our first moment of somber reflection. The memorial consists of a field of empty chairs, one for every life taken in the attack, a reflecting pool, survivors’ wall, survivor tree, and twin bronze gates. Elsewhere in the capital there are two unmissable Route 66 landmarks including Buckminster Fuller’s knockout Gold Dome Building and around the corner from that the teensy Milk Bottle Grocery, a 350-square-foot triangular building with a large milk bottle on top. It’s worth noting here that much of Route 66 is smooth sailing, but trust me when I say you’ll be stopping every few minutes to admire the innumerable icons along the route—this is why it takes so long. As we flee the capital and continue our journey westward, we more or less content ourselves with kicking up as much dust as possible along this desolate but peaceful stretch of Heartland where tumbleweeds, which we’ve previously only seen in cartoons, do in fact drift past us when we stop only to drop our pants and wiz along the side of the road. We stretch our legs in Texola, a border town with a population of 38 that perfectly illustrates the decline of the communities that once thrived along Route 66 but also provides us with a photo op at the Old Territorial Jail, a one-room jailhouse so small only a New Yorker could find envy in it. hamrock, Texas rewards us with our first Lone Star treasure in the form of a perfectly restored art deco Conoco Service Station, which we stand in front of and snap several requisite selfies. (The service station in nearby McLean is also a gem.) We stop for this only briefly as there are a bounty of prospects to claim before sundown, namely the Leaning Tower of Texas in Groom, a water tower that slants precariously to one side, the World’s Largest Cross, which is off the route but visible from it, and the VW Slugbug Ranch, an art installation consisting of a half dozen Volkswagen buggies half buried in the ground and spray painted in the kinds of vivid and garish neon colors that are all over Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know” video from 1985. Looking as loud, brash, and delightfully colorful as a drag queen dressed as a big-haired belle at a cotillion is the Big Texan Steak Ranch and Motel, a combination restaurant, gift shop, and motel (complete with swinging saloon doors in our bathroom!), and a veritable goldmine of roadside kitsch. Here is where you’ll find the kind of clientele for whom defending the Second Amendment is a way of life, but also where hospitality reigns supreme. At our banquet table, for example, is a big gal from Tennessee who kindly explains to us that the exasperated fellow perched atop the stage in the center of the dining room is attempting to devour a 72 oz. steak and all the victuals that
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come with it in one hour. If he succeeds, the meal is free. (He makes it less than halfway.) The world record, we’re told, is a 24-year-old woman and professional eater who did it in four minutes (the secret is to cut the meat into strips). When I brag to our server that I finished my chickenfried steak and all it’s fixins’ in under an hour she brings me a child’s cowgirl hat as a reward, which I proudly wear intermittently throughout the trip. The distance plotted out for tomorrow is at last manageable so we allow ourselves a little time to tonight to relax and stretch out. As we blast George Straits’ twangy “Amarillo Morning,” in our Ford Mustang we hit Club 212, the local gay nightclub. Unfortunately, Sunday night at 9 P.M. does not appear to be peak hours and not wanting to wait for the 11 P.M. drag show (as if it would even start on time anyway), we enjoy one drink, a round of pool, and shove off. ur Monday commute the following brisk and sunny Texas morning is behind ten upside-down Cadillacs, which looks like giant, spray-painted dominoes gleaming in the mud. Cadillac Ranch, perhaps the most famous of all Route 66 landmarks, is just as much a beauty up close and in person as it is imagined in the mind and the battery on my iPhone wears thin photographing it. We reach the Midpoint Café, the official Route 66 halfway point, just several days before it officially closes for the season, and it is here that we learn that the ultimate US road trip isn’t taken by many Americans at all, but rather is mythologized by European and Australian biker and auto clubs who spend weeks conducting the kind of nose to tail tour of the route that Ryan and I are trying to pull off in just eight days. It is also around this point in the journey in which expectations are no longer placed squarely on small towns and roadside nostalgia but also on the breathtaking scenery which changes like the flick of a switch upon entering New Mexico. Tucumcari, a town whose names is derived from a Comanche word that likely means ambush, is our first taste of the Land of Enchantment and if any town on the route looks untouched from its heyday, it’s this one. Perfectly dry, dusty, and pancake flat, its main thoroughfare is a dense half mile of still thriving vintage motels and restaurants such as the Blue Swallow Motel, La Cita Restaurant, Motel Safari, and KIX on 66, a basic diner where we stuff our empty gullets. For much of New Mexico, Route 66 and I-40 are one in the same, which sucks the charm completely out of the road, but does allow us to play catch up on time. The road splits at US-84 which was in fact Route 66 before its 1937 realignment and we follow this scenic route as it ascends into the Santa Fe National Forest and onward to the state capital. The pretty Spanish Pueblo Revival architecture of Sante Fe is marred, in my opinion, by the ubiquity of turquoise jewelry, ersatz Native American souvenirs, and dream catchers, although I realize I stand mostly alone in my unmannerly dislike for the oldest US state capital. Although I’m not vibing with it as much as I’d hoped, one saving grace is an escape from the one-two-three punch of burgers, fries, and milkshakes that has thus far clogged my aging arteries. We slurp margaritas and devour enchiladas at legendary Maria’s New Mexican Kitchen and although there is not a single queer bar in sight, we enjoy the strong drinks and blasts of rock ‘n’ roll at subterranean dive bar Matador, a gay-friendly hangout in the center of town. Afterward, we retired to the El Rey Inn, a collection of Spanish villas around several pretty courtyards and a Route 66 classic.
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t is considered a fool’s errand to drive the original Route 66 from Santa Fe to Albuquerque without a 4WD so instead we opt for the splendid Turquoise Trail (NM-14,) which slithers around pretty Placer and South Mountains and provides an oasis in unexpected Madrid, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it outpost populated with Wild West shanties and aging hippies. We give the proprietor of kitschy Connie’s Photo Park a few bucks so that we can stick or heads in the cutout slots and snap goofy pics of ourselves looking like a pioneer couple. We also reluctantly buy a couple snacks and soft drinks at Java Junction in exchange for a key to the outhouse. One man’s junkyard is another man’s treasure trove and that is true of Albuquerque, a city of 600,000 that is maligned for its monotonous sprawl, but is a goldmine for midcentury aficionados as the original Route 66 still serves as one of the city’s main thoroughfare’s, and provides visitors with a perfect snapshot of this desert metropolis. Downtown, as unspectacular as its critics paint it, has nevertheless livened up its core with 66 signage and monuments, and we love all of them. The problem with driving a bitchin’ Ford Mustang crosscountry is that every straight dude in middle America wants to talk to us and we’re never sure how to tell these guys we have no idea what kind of engine Carol has. Not that we don’t appreciate the occasional camaraderie as the road between Albuquerque and the Arizona border is largely desolate with a passing freight train providing the day’s best entertainment. Gallup, as referenced in the song, does provide us with the splendid El Rancho Hotel & Motel, an Old West relic built in 1936 for the brother of legendary film director D.W. Griffith and for awhile a important hangout for the movie industry. But Gallup is enjoyed only briefly as our eyes remain fixed on the Petrified Forest National Park, the afternoon’s big prize. Littered with petrified wood and pastel-colored badlands, the forest is a trip highlight and one that gives our thumbs a workout as we snap away at the swirling alien landscape. Mother Nature has begun painting the sky her familiar sunset shades when we land in Holbrook, Arizona, a convenient layover for visitors to the Petrified National Forest but also an essential stopping point for Route 66 travelers thanks to the Wigwam Motel, a still-functioning lodging consisting of a collection of photogenic teepees and a monument to roadside kitsch. The waitstaff at Mesa Italiana, one of a half-dozen restaurants in town, seems besieged by the 7 P.M. dinner rush. The patrons are almost exclusively seniors, and we wonder how small towns like this will survive as its residents will one day be forced to hand the reigns over to the next generation which appears to be nonexistent. We photograph several pretty murals the next morning and also meet a cashier at the local Safeway whose real name is Mona Lisa.
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lthough we bristle at the notion that many travelers veer off the Mother Road at around this point for a Las Vegas detour (how dare they!) the Arizona portion of the journey becomes a cheat day for us as well, but for a different reason. In Flagstaff, we swerve north onto Route 89, which ascends toward one of the seven wonders of the natural world, the Grand Canyon. There is little of consequence that we miss in taking this detour and of course the Grand Canyon is a marvel, but the road back includes a more justifiable sidestep and that is Bedrock City, a family-oriented campground and theme park that is over-the-top in its recreation of the Flintstones milieu and is just a few miles off Route 66. Still in opera-
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A wild donkey attack in Oatman, Arizona
tion, but up for sale and worn around the edges to the point of bordering on abandon, we nevertheless sit in and stand in front of cement recreations of the show’s rendition of pre-historic automobiles and slab homes and strike different poses like a couple of Yabba-Dabba DILFs having a gay old time. The towns along the route are becoming increasingly Wild West in their architecture and this is certainly true in Seligman and Williams, which are both worth a detour albeit complete polar opposites of each other. The novelty factory in Seligman is at high levels and includes two city blocks’ worth of perfectly preserved roadside treasures including Delgadillo’s Snow Cap Drive-In and souvenir shops Bone Daddy’s and The Rusty Bolt, which boast ornate and garish Wild West façades. Williams, meanwhile, presents itself as its chic counterpart, a tourist town of wine bars and B&Bs that no doubt enjoys robust tourism thanks to its proximity to the Grand Canyon. We stop for lunch at Kicks on Route 66 Bar and Grille, which is so shamelessly decorated with Coca-Cola merch we’re certain the company must’ve provided the decor at this kicky diner. In Kingman, another town referenced in the famous song, we stay at the classic El Travatore Motel, which boasts the world’s longest map: a mural painted across one entire wing of the motel. Owner Sam offers us history of the city, including its storied past as the former site of a US military airfield, and also some restaurant recommendations before handing the baton to his wife Monica who explains the renovation of the property and gives us a tour of the grounds. The resident dog, Taco, is adorable, but Sam and Monica need to lay off giving him so many treats.
The convivial Black Bridge Brewery is located in the old downtown and although it doesn’t offer food, it is de regueur to have takeout delivered there. We order from nearby Bangkok Thai and are surprised when our delivery driver ends up sidling up to the bar and imbibing with the locals. he romance of the road always lies in the myth of unfettered freedom, unlimited possibility, and the hope of what lies beyond the horizon. It allows us to keep searching for that which is unnamable, unknowable, and permanently out of reach. Perhaps it is because the California border, and thus the end of the journey, is before us, but I feel twinges of sadness as we shovel omelets and coffee at Mr. Dz’s Route 66 Diner and rev up Carol for our last full day on the road. Our singular goal today is to visit ghost towns, two of them to be exact and both are equally touristy and ersatz in their recreation of the Wild West. Oatman conjures up the funniest moment of our entire trip thus far. It is a former mining town that rests in a tiny nook in the Black Mountains of Mojave County, Arizona just a stone’s throw from the California border. The facades still look authentic although they now functions as souvenir shops and “saloons.” One storefront reads “Glory Hole” and proves this trip is gayer than either of us imagined. What is unique about Oatman is that back in the day miners used wild donkeys to help them haul gold to and from the mines, but the animals were abandoned when the town dried up and today roam
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A prairie sunset in Galena, Kansas
Abandoned sheriffs vehicle in Arizona
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Kingman, Arizona
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Jason (@homotel) & Ryan (@RyanBakerink)
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