Gettin' my kicks on Route 66

The iconic transnational highway US 66 passes right through the town of Flagstaff, Arizona, where I’ve come for the start of my Grand Canyon expedition. 

Route 66, colloquially known as the Main Street of America or the Mother Road, was one of the original highways in the country, established in 1926 but not completely paved until 1938. It originally ran from Chicago through Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona before ending in Santa Monica, California, covering a total of 2,448 miles (3,940 km).

Route 66 served as a major path for those who migrated west, especially during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, and it supported the economies of the communities through which the road passed. People doing business along the route became prosperous due to the growing popularity of the highway, and they suffered greatly when the road was officially decommissioned in1985, after it had been replaced in its entirety by the Interstate Highway System.  (revised from Wikipedia)

  

I have a couple of days to kill so I follow the road, now a busy 4-lane with just a few vestiges of bygone days (motels, diners), into thriving downtown Flagstaff.  Here the 19^th-century two-story red brick buildings house vegan cafés; shops selling dream catchers, turquoise jewelry, Navajo blankets, wind chimes, crystals; and outdoor gear outfitters à gogo.  I come upon tables with red umbrellas emblazoned with “illy” and savor a proper double espresso.  After wandering the whole steamy afternoon, I decide to have a cold golden ale from one of the local microbreweries and, on the heels of two weeks of sobriety, the first beer goes straight to my head....

By now I am long over jet lag, acclimated to altitude, and well rested, but I’m still nervous about the demands of the week-long trip down in the canyon.  It’s gonna be damn HOT.  It’s gonna be DRY.  Or it could be MONSOON with tons of COLD RAIN.  There are the creepy-crawlies that I REALLY detest: snakes, scorpions, spiders.  And I fear I’m not nearly fit enough for the LONG, STEEP 8-mile (13-km) hike UP on the last day; I’m imagining a group of 30-year-old triathletes scrambling up the trail like billy goats and ME bringing up the rear hours later. 
Yikes! Bartender, another round!