Secret '66

I stood outside Cool Springs gas station with my bottle of Mexican Coca-Cola, the vintage fuel pumps ticking softly as I stepped back into my 1955 Chevy, christened Peggy Lee.

Behind me lay the miles of perfectly flat Arizona desert I had covered since leaving Kingman that morning. Ahead of me: the jagged climb into the Black Mountains.

After a few miles of ascent, Peggy Lee crested the first peak of the Black Mountains, still home to a number of small gold mines, and made my way over Sitgreaves Pass. The blue chrome of her hood, the same colour as the sky, reflected the few clouds that hung motionless above and made it seem, for a moment, like I was flying.

We traced the mountain range’s extremities, Peggy’s 1955 steering and 1955 suspension groaning under the effort. It was easy to see the appeal of the interstates that had killed Route 66; their multiple lanes cut through the landscape as though they were soft butter.

As we rumbled around another hairpin turn, I spotted a tiny, timber sign that read ‘Fish Bowl Springs’.

Route 66 was a band that stretched across America, from Chicago, Illinois to Santa Monica, California, bejeweled by an unpredictable array of surprises, delights and peculiarities. I pulled over.

A series of weathered footprints suggested reaching the springs would require a small climb, and while I breathlessly made my way up the makeshift path, I appreciated for the first time the view below. The mountains peaked and valleyed like a frozen pulse around me, rising from the spectacular flatness of the Mojave desert. The Colorado River drew a line of sparkling mercury across the horizon.

At the top of the short climb, a small clear pool of water filled a cavity in the rock bed; a cavity seemingly eroded by a small, invisible spring.

In the water glistened a flash of gold. Startled by my presence, three small goldfish sprang into manic action, dancing around each other in the pool with nowhere to escape.

Alone at the top of a mountain in the middle of the desert, I found myself with three goldfish for company.

Fish Bowl Springs.

Whether the fish had been added to the Springs recently by an enthusiastic literalist, or whether they had simply spawned for generations, the tiny wooden sign had not misled me.

In the middle distance, the interstate drew a straight, black, unimaginative line across the yellow-brown desert, while Peggy Lee and I wound our way slowly back down the mountain.