Accompanied by two young geographers, Bill traveled the length of one of America’s great U.S. highways. These are not the high-speed, multi-lane, numbingly monotonous Interstate superhighways on which we scoot across the country today. They are aging, mostly two-lane national roads that tied the country together soon after Americans got the itch to go exploring in our horseless driving machines.
A New Beaten PathBeginning in 1925, numbered U.S. highways replaced a web of “auto trails” carrying names like “Dixie Highway” and “Mohawk Trail” chosen by civic boosters and driving enthusiasts. The Old Oregon Trail auto route, for instance, ran from Independence, Missouri, to Portland, Oregon, along roughly the original Oregon Trail on which pioneers had walked and driven oxen teams westward almost a century before. But sticking to these auto trails was no easy task for motorists. Signs and colored bands on telephone poles that were supposed to show the way were there one day, stolen or knocked over the next. If they weren’t careful, travelers would find themselves 50 kilometers down the wrong road.
|One of the early “named” highways, begun in 1932, was the “Going-to-the-Sun Road” (later part of U.S. 2), which cut through spectacular Glacier National Park in Montana|
So the nation switched to numbered routes that were better marked and crossed state lines. The U.S. government helped build them, tacked up thousands of shield-shaped signs with the highways’ numbers, and instituted modest standards of safety. At last you wouldn’t need 20 different maps to get from Ocean City, Maryland, to Sacramento, California. Maybe just one newfangled “road map” put out by Pure or Esso or Gulf Oil. Or no map at all: you just got onto U.S. Route 50 and headed west.
Even-numbered national highways ran east-west – and of course, west to east as well! Odd-numbered ones cut north and south, just as Interstate highway numbers work today.
The ‘Highway That’s the Best’You may have heard of our most-acclaimed national road: historic U.S. Route 66, which started in Chicago, zigged and zagged southwestward to Oklahoma, then slithered across the dusty West before ending abruptly at the Santa Monica, California, pier on the Pacific Ocean. Crusty tales, evocative photographs, and snappy songs like “Get Your Kicks on Route 66” still celebrate Route 66, which its devotees call “The Mother Road.”
|It’s a dark day, in more ways than one, at the Siesta Motel on U.S. Route 66 in Kingman, Arizona. America’s most famous national highway still has passionate devotees, however|
Backers of famous named roads like the Lincoln Highway, which wended from Atlantic City, New Jersey, to Astoria, Oregon, 4,900 kilometers away, grudgingly gave in to the numbering system. You still see commemorative Lincoln Highway signs in Pennsylvania, especially, but the road officially became and remains “U.S. 30” on maps and markers.
Border to Border (Almost)
|One of the benefits of the new national highway system was the establishment of uniform signage from coast to coast. Or in the case of U.S. 11, almost from northern to southern borders|
Bill Torrey and his companions did not follow any of the roads I have mentioned. They ventured down a more obscure and meandering national road: U.S. 11, which begins in upper New York State at the edge of Lake Champlain, just below Montreal, Canada, wiggles southward 1,700 kilometers down the spine of the Appalachian Mountains, and cuts through Deep South bottomlands to an ignominious ending at a merge point with another U.S. Highway, U.S. 90, in eastern New Orleans, Louisiana. Ignominious? You’d expect a haughty national highway to conclude triumphantly at the door of New Orleans’ fabulous French Quarter. Instead, Old 11 dead ends at a merge point with another national road, U.S. 90, outside of town.
Metaphorically, though, Route 11 does connect French Canada with French Louisiana, even though not much of New Orleans except its rich, saucy cooking is French any more. French Quarter architecture is Spanish.
Swell for Scenery, Not SpeedThe national highways were narrow, winding, and often punctuated by treacherous cross traffic from lesser roads. And as I told you recently in this space when discussing the state of Iowa, at least one national highway – old U.S. 6 – actually had curbs along the way, supposedly to guide slipping cars back into line during fierce Midwest snowstorms. All the national roads led drivers right through cities and towns, past radar “speed traps” in which sneaky constables hid on their motorcycles behind billboards.
|Still on U.S. 11, you still see a few vestiges of the kind of roadside stands that used to beckon to weary travelers. And who wouldn’t want to see the world’s largest snake?|
Business leaders wouldn’t hear of diverting traffic around town. Roadside attractions – many of them “tourist traps” like snake farms, pseudo-scientific fossil collections, and spooky caverns – lured tourists off the national roads out in the country. Motor courts, “greasy spoon” restaurants, souvenir stands, and independent repair shops beckoned in every little town. So did elaborate neon-gas advertising signs, which had been introduced in the United States at a Packard automobile dealership in Los Angeles in 1923.
Places to Stretch Your Legs a SpellThe early lures of the national roads bore little resemblance to today’s outlet shopping malls, fast-food chains, gargantuan theme parks, and capacious motels with pools, workout rooms, and mints under your pillow. Some of the little tourist cabins were barely wider, and no more comfortable, than your car.
|In the early days, motor courts and tourist cabins lacked today’s frills. The word “motel” was coined in California in 1926 but not used much Holiday Inns came along in 1952|
Every stop along the old roads could bring adventure. Carol remembers annual trips from her home in Minnesota to her granny’s North Carolina farm. Every year, it seemed, the old family car would break down on U.S. 52, deep in the West Virginia hills. Carol, her mom, and her sister Sara would be stuck for several days and nights in a dingy rented room above the repair shop, waiting for the right part to be trucked in.
|Folks along old U.S. 30 in Pennsylvania have outdone themselves with creative artwork|
Y’all Come – Right Through TownI remember crawling along Route 11 through Birmingham. Before the Interstate super roads were completed, our family often traveled between Washington, D.C., and New Orleans. Each time through Birmingham, the shimmering Alabama heat and dripping humidity overwhelmed our VW Beetle’s pitiful air conditioning. But we weren’t eager to roll down the windows. Route 11 may have been bird-chirpy bucolic in the countryside, but no tourist brochure would ever tout the tough, shabby neighborhoods through which the highway ran in town.
|This rusted steam shovel is one of the remnants of the old ironworks along U.S. 11 in Birmingham. Everything else, including huge ovens and conveyors, is rust-red, too|
A couple of years ago, Carol and I drove along 1st Ave. North, which carries U.S. 11 through the heart of Birmingham. We were off to photograph the defunct, eerily silent Sloss Furnaces. This was once a bustling iron-mill complex whose web of pipes and blast furnaces turned out more than 400 tons of pig iron each day. You see, Birmingham was no sleepy southern town of magnolia trees, fireflies, and old coots whiling away their days on a bench in the town square. It was the vibrant “Pittsburgh of the South” – a gritty city of steel and bright-red iron forged from ore pulled from the Red Mountain Ridge near town. Today the rusted, vivid-red ironworks are a national landmark and a City of Birmingham museum.
In the Interstate’s ShadowIn the countryside, monster interstates have obliterated much of Old 11, plowing it under and paving it over. In Virginia, for instance, you tool along on Route 11 through dots of towns like Rural Retreat and Glenvar and Chilhowie, only to be shunted up onto I-81. Then the very next Interstate exit will drop you back down onto 11 again. The old road wraps around the superhighway like a snake on a beanpole.
|One of the most engaging attractions along U.S. 11 is “Steamtown” in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Chock full of old steam-train exhibits, it’s a train lover’s delight|
You don’t have to drive and drive and drive some more to an exit if you want to take a photograph on Route 11. Just pull off the road the moment you feel like it. Later, you can file your shots under “authentic Americana.”
|U.S. 11 crosses the Erie Canal, which, in its heyday, was thought to be the transportation corridor of the future|
Lots to See, If You’re Into Old
On their U.S. 11 excursion, Bill Torrey and his companions found deserted forts and military gravesites dating to the French and Indian War of the middle 1700s; sturdy covered bridges; homesteads of obscure luminaries like Joseph Priestly, who discovered oxygen; the Erie Canal, which tied the mighty Great Lakes to New York’s Hudson River; a 63-meter-tall stone arch called the “Natural Bridge” in Virginia; a crossing of the Appalachian Trail, the world’s longest footpath.
|The Natural Bridge in southwest Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, was once owned by future U.S. President Thomas Jefferson. It’s higher than Niagara Falls|
Their journey took twelve days.
Years later, Carol and I enjoyed a stop on a stretch of Old 11 in central New York State, just above Syracuse. It had been the nation’s first plank road, made of squared wooden logs laid side to side. The folks who built it in 1846 figured anything was better than rutted mud. Wagons could rumble so expeditiously on the plank road that its investors set up tollbooths to charge teamsters for the privilege. But travelers soon found that rain rotted the timbers, steel horseshoes and laden wagons beat the wood to splinters, and spillage from one of the prime local cargoes – salt, mined in swamps outside Syracuse – didn’t do the wood much good, either.
Roads of Wood Not So Good
|The town of North Syracuse, New York, has preserved and displayed some of the artifacts of the old Plank Road what became the U.S. 11 route. This is an old tollhouse |
“It is a melancholy route,” Bill Torrey wrote of Route 11 in 1990. “For long stretches, it connects one abandoned, derelict, deserted, forsaken, shabby, commercially comatose downtown to another, and in between are fields gone to weed.” And years later, when Bill worked in the college town of Ithaca, N.Y. – one of the few economically healthy communities on the northern part of Route 11 – he found that nothing much had changed from the days of his adventure on the old road.
Seen Better Days
|A lot of business buildings and barns along U.S. 11 were simply abandoned and left to the elements and vandals when high-speed, limited-access interstate highways came along|
In Appalachia and much of the South, too, Old 11 has pretty much gone to “rack and ruin.” Technology passed it by. Farms played out. Once-viable businesses were abandoned to the vandals and graffiti artists. Like stretches of other national highways, Route 11 slid out of our daily lives.
Still, just as there’s poignant dignity to be found in a rouged gray lady, there are fragile and decaying reminders of unhurried times to be savored on Old U.S. 11. Its accents are French-ified up top, Yankee-clipped in the rest of New York and Pennsylvania, twangy-hard along the mountain ridges, and drawly-slow down South.
|Along interstate highways, there's no chance of pulling over for apples, cider, or "sider and appels." But plenty of such stands remain on U.S. 11|
TODAY'S WILD WORDS
(These are a few of the words from this posting that you may not know. Each time, I'll tell you a little about them and also place them into a cumulative archive of "Ted's Wild Words" in the right-hand column of the home page. Just click on it there, and if there's another word in today's blog that you'd like me to explain, just ask!)
Burley. A light-colored, relatively mild tobacco, lower in nicotine than darker varieties. Burley tobacco is grown extensively in the mid-South state of Kentucky. Not to be confused with burly, which is an adjective describing men, primarily, who are brawny and strong. Burly lumberjacks often smoke burley cigs.
Grudgingly. Extremely reluctantly. Doing something, going along with what’s asked of you, but with zero enthusiasm.
Ignominious. Shameful, disgraceful. Ignominy comes from the Latin, meaning “without a name.” Ignominious behavior brings one great discredit. Ignominious places are lowly, ruder or humbler than what might be expected.
Luminaries. Prominent people or stars. Big shots. The bright lights, or luminescence, shine on these famous people.
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