It was a time of great change. I was on assignment to write a feature for a half decent bi-monthly magazine of some repute. I won’t go into the particular assignment, nor the rag, but I will tell you the research there of took me deep into the Black Mountains of Western Arizona. Tepidly climbing the winding cliffs on Old Route 66 up to Sitgreaves Pass, we then meandered down to our destination, the enchanting village of Oatman.

Entering Oatman is abrupt. There are no outskirts . You simply make a sharp turn and you’re in the rustic downtown, at which point you must stop. You must stop because the narrow street through the town is crowded with wild Burros and flaky tourists. On weekends it is more like wild tourists and flaky burros. We entered the realm of Oatman on a Thursday. Trish and I typically go to such places mid-week to avoid tourists. It never quite works out.

We did the stop and go through town avoiding the staggering onslaught of burros and drunkards. We’ve been at this long enough to know if we go clear through the place of interest, a parking spot will be found at the far end. Such was the case and we got out into the October mountain air of about 78 degrees. My job was to find members of the Chamber of Commerce, and/or other so-called historians of the area and interview them. After this, I was to put my research together and top it off by watching a play and hopefully interview the actress/writer as well.

We began walking aimlessly about the burros and humans. Oatman was named in honor of Olive Oatman, who’s family was murdered by the Yavapai in 1851. She and her little sister Mary Ann were taken captive among the Yavapai and Mohave. Mary-Ann died during the ordeal and Olive was released after five years. Her story and her blue Mohave chin tattoo made her a celebrity. Named in 1909 after silver ore became abundant, Oatman was a tough and tumble mining town up until the 1940’s when the second World War broke out. It became a ghost for a couple decades but was revitalized as a Route 66 tourist town. And so, it remains. The free roaming burros are descendants of the miner’s beasts of burden from many decades’ past. They just keep multiplying and fighting the humans for the street.

We ambled along, occasionally taking pictures of aging false fronts and advancing four-leggers. We went into some rickety shop or another and asked a woman where we could find a member of the Chamber of Commerce, since there was obviously no physical “chamber” or office. “Bill would know. He’s across the street at Judy’s!” We looked across the street at the small and deserted Judy’s Bar. We bought some burro food, thanked her and left. She came charging out behind us with a spray water bottle, “GIT OFF MY SIDEWALK NOW!” She was bellowing at three burros of course, who had ventured up to the doorway, and she began spraying them and calling them out name by name.

The burro food is available in most of the businesses and consists of hardened blocks of alfalfa. The animals will sometimes take the food, but often times not. They have become quite spoiled and prefer carrots, apples and probably beer. We went into Judy’s.

The interior was bland and dim with a small rounded bar. There were two locals depleting the stock of Michelob. A somewhat gruff bar tender walked over to us. “Looking for Bill?” I said quietly.

“I’m Bill.”

“Bill, from the Chamber of Commerce?”

“I don’t know nuthin ‘bout that!  But go across the street and down about three doors, they might know sumpthin.”

We found it and I bought a t-shirt there. We asked the lady about The Chamber of Commerce or a historian. “Go across the street to the Oatman Hotel and see Big Mike. He would know. He should be over there playing music!”

We went across to the Oatman Hotel. Built in 1902 it is the landmark building in town, it’s claim to fame being that Clark Gable and Carole Lombard spent their honeymoon there.  We found a table, ordered nachos and waited for the entertainer to take a break. We waited still. And waited. We finished our nachos, began people watching and half listening to the music, which was largely country. Finally, this diehard guitar picker named Big Mike took a rest. He was immediately approached by two people, who apparently had an infatuation of talking.

By this point I just wanted a beer. But I waited semi-patiently. He was a huge man with a handlebar mustache and a dust covered Stetson. At last I broke in. We talked generalities for a moment or two, but then he was due at a gunfight.  Upon leaving he mentioned Darren, up at the end of town was a member of the Chamber of Commerce. We took note and went out to the sidewalk to watch the fight.

The first thing they do is have the crowd of onlookers block the street on both sides, so if a car doesn’t stop the tourists will get run over instead of the gunfighters. Long story short; Big Mike shot somebody, and somebody shot him, and everyone died. Then they got up and the crowd moved so the cars could proceed. This happens a couple times a day.

We ventured up to the high side of town, found the targeted building and entered. Darren, who was working the counter, was happy and enthusiastic. He was the contact I had talked to on the phone a few days before. We had a very short conversation about my desired topic, then he sent me on, to find a man named Bobby, who would be of valuable assistance to my crusade. “Just go over past that building and keep a goin three tents down.”

It was beginning to get late by now. We had been moseying place to place, entering a lot of the small businesses, and generally dawdling about as we went. However, we trudged onward to this latest contact. Bobby, who was working as well, was helping to promote the play for Saturday night. He asked a few questions about the magazine and we traded a few history facts. Then he got down to it and sold us tickets for the pig roast and play “How would I find Zuska for an interview?” I inquired, who was the writer and sole actress in the play.

“Ah, she’ll be around on Saturday afternoon. Come by here then and we’ll find her for you.”

We said our temporary farewell’s and Trish and I resumed our wandering. I still wanted to dip into some Oatman beer, but our room was in Kingman, twenty-eight miles away, and I had to negotiate that narrow route with hairpins turns and sheer drop off’s. Trish would not drive it, so the beer would wait, and we would return to follow up on our fledgling investigation on Saturday.

Saturday. We didn’t want to arrive too early, because we had already loafed about every square inch of town. The plan was to arrive mid-day and make steady progress, unlike Thursday.

I am often a poor planner. In fact, I serve only as the driver and the writer. Most of the planning, organization and information is provided by my highly elite team. This crucial make-up consists of my trip advisor, proofreader, travel agent, supervisor, legal aid, bodyguard and babysitter. Luckily, “Team Trish”, is all one person, and is also my significant other and travel companion. Without her I would still be fiddling about in a dark corner with a road atlas and unable to operate a smart phone.

We were held up by the gunfight coming back into town and watched, once again, Big Mike get shot and killed. Parking in the same place we began traipsing back into town. To our unwelcome surprise, Bobby’s tent was closed, and subsequently we meandered in circles looking for nothing for about an hour. In frustration I abandoned Trish and bolted back to the tent. On closer inspection I saw movement in a shed in the back. I called out and Bobby emerged. He had been up until 3am putting the pig in the ground. Likely excuse. But we were back on track now and he told me Zuzka was probably up at the firehouse where the feast and play would take place that night.

We parked in the lot below the firehouse and Louie, the burro in charge of this particular locality, was on us like a street hustler in New Orleans. He even stuck his head in the car when Trish opened the door. He began an awful fit of braying when we left him for the firehouse without offering food. The makeshift stage was in a covered pavilion and the much anticipated Zuska was in consultation with her technician. We lingered about until she was available.

She summoned us over to a large table and the interview began. We went back and forth with some interest for a short while on the topic of my article. Then the most pressing question of all popped out, “Where’s the pig?”

We left, at last, to accomplish a most critical undertaking. Beer. We went back to the Oatman Hotel, found a pair of stools in the tiny barroom and planted ourselves there for a couple of hours. The barmaid was semi good-looking, sassy and spewing too much personal information. We were, however, able to dislodge a couple of good ghost stories, since, of course, all old hotels are haunted.

A half hour before the allotted time for the pig feast we headed back to the firehouse. We immediately found more people there than existed in the town of Oatman. They were already digging the pig up and setting the serving table. The pig was divvied up into pulled pork sandwiches, served with baked beans and coleslaw. Big Mike, resurrected once again, was playing and singing. Darren was helping with the food. Bobby was here and there. Everybody we had met was there. Even the town celebrity, Walter the orphaned Burro, was there with his human stepdaddy. It got dark and chilly. The play began. We made it through.

Deciding a post play interview was not necessary, we abruptly said a few goodbye’s and left, being careful not to step on a tarantula we had seen crawling the premises. I would like to say it was hard to leave Oatman, but that would be a lie. Oatman is wonderful in small doses, but one can only walk up and down the same short street with the same burros for so long and  watch Big Mike get shot so many times.

With that said, I can say Oatman is one of the most savored places along Old Route 66. If you go, first and foremost, beware the road leading in from Cool Springs. It is truly treacherous. Secondly, check out the Oatman Hotel. It is a tried relic and a testament to the old mining town, and also one of the only places to get beer. Say hi to Big Mike. Also, have a bite to eat in the Olive Oatman Restaurant and venture into some of the unique gift shops. Finally, be nice to the burros. They can, on occasion, be nasty and unpleasant, but are mostly lovable and comical. Feed them only the “burro” food. No apples or carrots and certainly no beer. They are already unpredictable enough.