If you ever have the pleasure of traveling the remnants of the Lincoln Highway in Nevada, be sure to make some time for Ely. Like many other night ramblers, I have been seduced by the glow of the lights of this lively town, where there are plenty of places to take a hot shower, wrestle with a steak, and test one’s luck at games of chance.

My preferred spot for all of these pursuits is the historic Hotel Nevada and Gambling Hall, in the heart of downtown. When completed in 1929, the six-story hotel was not only the tallest building in the state but also the first one to be fireproof.

For many years, the Nevada was a popular stopover for the Hollywood crowd en route to the slopes of Sun Valley. The impressive guest list has included Ingrid Bergman, Gary Cooper, Jimmy Stewart, Lyndon Johnson, Mickey Rooney, Ray Milland, and Evel Knievel. It is rumored that Frank Sinatra — without his “Rat Pack” — quietly checked in once or twice for some rest and recuperation from the hubbub of Las Vegas.

Just like the rest of Ely — once home to several mining companies — the hotel has had to endure the boom-and-bust cycles of the copper industry. In the 1990s, the Nevada was completely restored, and the comfortable guest rooms are named for some of the luminaries who once stayed there. Guests find a pair of suckers on their pillows at night, a reference — in good fun — to the name for the vast majority of gamblers.

Not far from the Nevada, another facet of the old mining town’s heritage remains on the west end of High Street, in an area once known as “Bronc Alley.” Starting in the 1880s, this red-light district filled three blocks on both sides of the street and supported numerous brothels, salons, and dance halls. Like gambling, prostitution is legal in licensed brothels in most of Nevada, including Ely, where the world’s oldest profession is practiced in the oldest brothel in town — the Big 4 Ranch. Besides offering the obvious, this establishment also has an array of gift items such as windproof cigarette lighters in erotic shapes and Big 4 casino chips that proudly state, “Never Teasing, Always Pleasing.”

In 1979, photographer Zigy Kaluzny and I traveled to the Olympic Peninsula in Washington to do a story about the everyday life of loggers who lived in what they commonly called the big woods. It proved to be a memorable assignment.

Although we deplored logging techniques that led to wholesale clear-cutting of ancient timber and we firmly believed in efforts to preserve and protect the old growth trees of the fog-shrouded rain forest, we soon came to enjoy the company of the loggers we lived and worked with during our stay. We hope there is a Valhalla for the loggers — a place with sweet water and lots of shade. As the U.S. Marine ballad said, they’ve served their time in hell.

Loggers fit into a single day events that would be high points in anyone else’s lifetime. They battle brush, fire, and mudslides, and consider rain a guest that had overstayed its visit. When they get time off, they don’t rest but test their logging skills in heated contests. Loggers know how to build a fire with wet wood and a bit of pitch on a snowy day, and they can roll a cigarette in a hailstorm. They quiver when big timber crashes down a mountain, and they deal with the death and pain that go with the job. They are a special breed.

We lived in one of the last logging camps in the lower forty-eight and worked side-by-side with loggers, setting choker chains around huge fallen trees. It was incredibly dangerous and difficult work, scrambling over mountainsides with the loggers of the big woods. We got to know the tramp loggers, that rare breed who goes north when it turns warm, and then comes back to the peninsula for winter work. He is broke when he hits town, broke when he leaves. A tramp carries all he owns with him. Some tramps are on the run from the law, a woman, or from themselves. One tramp we got to know put it best:

“To me tramp logger is a true independent — a man who won’t eat shit for a job. If somebody doesn’t treat him right, a tramp doesn’t snivel or hang his head about it — he’s down the road partner, and gone. Being a tramp is a pride thing more than anything else. I’d rather die a busted-up old man in some sleazy hotel — die all alone — than wind up being a cull who can’t get out of bed and go the mirror and look himself in the face.”

Whenever I think of Mexico, certain images come to mind — bullfights, sunsets the color of enchiladas, Pancho Villa, and, always, tequila. Although I gave up on strong drink many years ago, I still respect the historical and cultural significance of this beverage that for so long has quenched the thirsts of so many people. Each year, tens of millions of gallons of tequila are distilled for imbibers in the United States, Canada, Japan, Europe, and, of course, Mexico.

No other spirit is as clouded by mystery and myth. This drink that is fit for gods or outlaws is highly appreciated but greatly misunderstood. More lies have been told about tequila than about Billy the Kid, Bigfoot, and George Custer. After years of chasing tequila fables, I realized that finding the truth about tequila is as difficult as capturing lighting in a jar. Tequila is awash in exaggerations and tales that leave most serious drinkers scratching their heads.

Many years ago, I learned the truth about tequila when Suzanne and I briefly lived in Guadalajara. During our stay in that beautiful city, we became friends with members of the Romo family, since 1870 the distillers of one of the most respected tequilas in Mexico — Tequila Herradura. We were delighted to spend quality time at San Jose del Refugio, the Casa Herradura hacienda near the ancient village of Amatitan in the state of Jalisco, deep in the heart of Mexico’s prime tequila-producing region. It was there we toured the vast fields of agave, the monstrous plants that provide juices that eventually become tequila. There we found out that at Casa Herradura uses only 100 percent blue agave and that after the big hearts, or core, of the plants are harvested, the resulting juice is only mixed with water during the fermentation process. Afterward this mix is distilled not just once but twice. At no time are additives such as sugars and colorings introduced. It is this special attention to tradition that has made Herradura one of the most respected of all the tequilas.

It seems that the blue horseshoe — Herradura in Spanish — that adores every bottle, has brought plenty of good luck. At least we think so.

Salud!

If I decided to move to Los Angeles, I would live in the Chateau Marmont Hotel. This cultural monument overlooking Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood has provided sanctuary for the famous and the infamous since it’s doors first opened in 1927.

All sorts of zany, outrageous, and unforgettable happenings have taken place in one of the Chateau’s suites, bungalows, or cottages. This is where Clark Gable and Jean Harlow were said to have a romantic tryst, proving the advice was true that Harry Cohn, founder of Columbia Pictures, gave William Holden and Glenn Ford, “If you are going to get in trouble, do it at the Chateau Marmont.”

James Dead, Natalie Woods, and Sal Mineo first met at the Marmont, during a script rehearsal of “Rebel Without a Cause,” that iconic teen rebellion flick from the fifties. And when one of Dean’s heroes — Montgomery Clift — was almost killed in a 1956 car accident near her home, Elizabeth Taylor first saved his life by removing two of his teeth from his blocked windpipe and then brought him to the Chateau Marmont where he made his recovery in the penthouse.

Not everyone was so lucky. F. Scott Fitzgerald suffered a heart attach at the Marmont and Jim Morrison of “The Doors” fame, hurt his back there while dangling from a drain pipe while attempting to swing from the roof into the window of his room. And, of course, in 1982 John Belushi famously died of an overdose in one the bungalows after injecting a “speedball” of heroin and cocaine. Then, in 2004 the famous photographer Helmut Newton crashed into a wall by the hotel driveway and died. Following her arrest for drunk driving in 2007, Lindsay Lohan moved into the hotel and stayed for two and a half years.

Led Zeppelin rode their motorcycles through the lobby to the sheers of guests, Judy Garland sang her heart out by that same lobby’s grand piano, and the Eagles classic “Hotel California” has long thought to have been written about Chateau Marmont.

I bleed St. Louis Cardinal red. Like other natives of the Gateway to the West, I cannot imagine my hometown without the Cardinals, that great baseball club that has won more World Championships (that would be eleven!) than any team in the National League.

I was raised on Cardinal baseball. Some of my fondest memories are of listening to a heated game as reported over our trusty radio by the incomparable Harry Carey and later Jack Buck. But even better was when we piled in my Dad’s trusty Plymouth and drove down to Grand Boulevard and Dodier Street to see a game at Sportsman’s Park, a revered site where baseball was played as early as 1867.

Later dubbed Busch Stadium, but still commonly referred to as Sportsman’s Park by fans, the field was at one time the home for not only the baseball Cards but also the St. Louis Browns of the American League before they became the Baltimore Orioles. It was at this original Cardinal stadium where as wide-eyed boy I met my heroes — Stan Musial and Ken Boyer — after I won an essay contest sponsored by the Automobile Association of America. Those two signed baseballs have a place of honor in the studio where I now write my books.

The Cardinals left their original home in 1966 and moved to the brand new Busch Memorial Stadium closer to the downtown business district. I recall a helicopter carried home plate to the new stadium after the final Sportsman’s Park game on May 8, 1966. I saw my share of exciting games at Busch Stadium, where the Cards continued to rack up memorable victories during regular and post-season play. Then the new Busch Stadium in turn replaced the 1966 stadium in 2006. It is a terrific ball field and so far the Cardinals have performed like champions every time I get there to catch a game. Certainly the 2011 season was no exception as once more we came out on top of all the others and again are the World Champions.

Still, from time to time it is still important for me to cruise by the old original site of Sportsman’s Park. The Herbert Hoover Boys and Girls Club now occupies that famous corner. The grandstand and other structures were torn down long ago but the field is still being used for sports. Maybe some of that old sod is still there. I really hope so.

We have both lived in St. Louis and when we return we often go downtown to visit familiar sites, including the Gateway Arch. The tallest monument in the United States and a symbol of the city, the stainless-steel Arch soars 630 feet above the Mississippi River. Designed by famed architect Eero Saarinen and completed in 1965, this engineering feat commemorates the city’s impact on westward expansion as the storied Gateway to the West.

Established in 1764 by the French along the mighty river just below its confluence with the Missouri River, St. Louis was named for Louis IX, patron saint of the reigning monarch of France Louis XV. From its beginning, the city acted as a commercial center on the edge of the frontier, attracting merchants, steamboat captains, beer barons, and railroaders. It was also a jumping-off place for adventurers, fur trappers, soldiers, and sodbusters.

Citizens, including some of our ancestors, were proud that their city was a key crossroads and a leading industrial and transportation hub. As the nineteenth century drew to a close, St. Louis—tempered by political upheaval, social conflict, cholera epidemics, and waterfront fires—emerged as one of the largest and vibrant cities in the United States. Although it had been founded by the French and, for a time, was governed by the Spanish, St. Louis became the melting pot of cultures and customs. The population swelled with waves of Germans, Italians, Irish, and African Americans, all of who left their distinctive marks. It often was said that the whole world passed through the old river city.

The single food staple that makes me howl at the moon is the piquant, savory, peerless—and misunderstood—chile. I am not alone. The mere mention of the word—whether chile for the peppers or chili for the meat dish made from them—can bring tears of anguish or bliss to multitudes of people. The chile, an ancient symbol, glorious spice, tangy condiment, is the soul food of the gods.

Botanically a fruit but commercially a vegetable, the chile was not developed by Spaniards, but was one of the earliest plants cultivated by the ancient Indians of America. Some chile seeds found in Mexican excavations date from 7,000 B.C. Known as “chili” to the Aztecs, the pods of this versatile plant were in abundant use before Columbus splashed ashore. He discovered Indians cultivating ancestors of today’s chile, and he mistakenly called the plan “pepper” because of its pungency.

Deeply rooted in the history of the Aztecs, this plant, with its hundreds of varieties has spread throughout Latin America, jumped the border, and consumed the Rocky Mountain West. The love of chile went on to cross the continent at a prairie-fire clip. Like cowboy boots, blue jeans, and tequila, chile became respectable.

Still, the truth, the whole truth about chile can be found in the growing fields and kitchens of New Mexico. It is there that chile is most cherished. New Mexicans eat more chiles per capita than anyone else. They grow it in backyard gardens and munch raw chilies like candy. Chile is the fiery essence of New Mexico. Some aficionados would just as soon give the plant deity status.

Chile pilgrims hungry for action should make the trek to New Mexico in the autumn. That is the perfect season—aspens are at their glory, piñon smoke hangs in the air, and ripe chiles are brought in from the fields. It doesn’t get any better.

Long before the arrival of the Lincoln Highway, nation’s first transcontinental road, Cheyenne, Wyoming, was a good place for railroad workers to winter over while the tracks were being laid in the post-Civil War years. By 1867, the army had established a fort to protect the railroaders from Indians, and once the trains were rolling, the town quickly became a haven for Union Pacific sojourners. All manner of folks arrived in Cheyenne—gamblers, soiled doves, whiskey peddlers, cattlemen, outlaws, and every imaginable opportunist.

These days, both locals and visitors enjoy the Downtown Historic District, highlighted by the Union Pacific Depot, one block south of Lincolnway on Capitol Avenue. Build of multicolored sandstone blocks in 1886 the depot was beautifully restored to its original grandeur in 2004, two years before being listed on The National Register of Historic Places. The old depot, with its Romanesque clock tower, looks straight up Capitol Avenue and faces off with the state Capitol building with its twenty-four-carat gold-leaf dome.

Near the Union Pacific Depot, on the corner of Lincolnway and Capitol, just across from the historic Plains Hotel, is the Wrangler Building, originally named the Phoenix Block when it went up in 1882. The Wrangler—the Western-wear business for which the old building is named—is considered by many the best store around for cowboy apparel. Since 1943, both real and wannabe cowboys and cowgirls have showed up at the Wrangler to buy shirts, jeans, boots, and belt buckles the size of saucers. Business spikes just before Cheyenne Frontier Days, an annual event since 1897 and the world’s largest and oldest outdoor rodeo. Known as “The Daddy of ‘em All,” the big celebration is staged every July at Frontier Park.

There are still motels — real motels operated by real people who truly care about their guests and their comfort. Mom and Pop places, as we like to call them. And they really are just that. They become our home away from home.

Now back in those days I am describing—when there were no chain motels, no cookie cutter places—we had to make decisions about where to lay our heads at night. When Dad grew weary from driving, he and Mom would scan the shoulders of the road, especially near cities or in little towns. They looked for lodging. Big ribbons of neon helped them make their choice, as did the signs that said refrigerated air, free ice, and a few years later boasted of free TV.

After Dad finally pulled into a motel Mom already was doling out her advice even before he’d cut off the engine. She always told him the same thing. You could count on it. She’d turn to dad and say, ”Please go look at a room first and make sure everything is okay.” That was her code for being sure the rooms were clean and not overrun with roaches.

Dad would go into the office and be gone for a while and then he’d come back and announce, “It’s a good place.” I cannot remember one time ever when he came back and said it wasn’t good. Not once. I also recall some of his choices were borderline or maybe over the line but Mom let it pass and we all survived the night.

I witnessed this ritual hundreds of times during the 1950s and early 1960s before I left home for the Marines and college and to make my way in the world.

I still have memories of many of those grand old motels where I stayed as a boy or later when traveling the Mother Road or one of our other historic highways. I can see the crinkly paper on the water glasses, the bedspreads with embroidered bucking cowboys, the bottle opener mounted on the door frame, the pastel colored tile in the bath.
Some of my favorite motels were in Oklahoma. From Quapaw to Texola, I have had occasion to check into some of the old road’s best and a few that need a little help.

In Oklahoma — with 410 miles of old highway, more Route 66 miles than any of the eight states it flows through — far too many motels are derelict or abandoned. Many of these properties have become junkyards, car lots, or flophouses.

Many owners simply do not care. They would rather sell the properties to a developer to build yet another strip center or a chain eatery.

Today at least 3,000 motels along the entire route in all eight states are in various states of repair or disrepair.

This has to stop and has to stop now. Right now. We cannot save them all, but by God we have to save at least examples of the motels, cafes, curio shops and other commercial archaeology from all the layers, all the incarnations of Route 66. We owe it to ourselves, to the public, to the many travelers who flock to the varicose old road. We owe it to our kids and grandkids and to future travelers.
Remember that this highway— including the long stretch running through Oklahoma — is a true mirror of the nation. Like all roads, Route 66 and what takes place on it reflect our society and culture. That includes the good, the bad, the ugly, the holy, the shades of gray, and the cold hard truth of life. That has always been the case. That has always been a fact. That will never change.

Michael stands at the crossroads of America. Behind him is the confluence of two of its greatest rivers, the actual spot where the 2,541-mile Missouri River flows into the 2,320-mile Mississippi River just north of St. Louis. This is the place from which the Lewis & Clark Expedition left in 1804 to explore the West and to which they returned in 1806.

The water in the Missouri flows from its headwaters in Montana through the Mississippi River and into the Gulf of Mexico. This combined waterway is the world’s third longest with the Nile and Amazon ranking first and second respectively. The surrounding wetlands are part of the Mississippi River flyway, making it a great place to see waterfowl, including bald eagles and raptors.

In 1721, French explorer, Father Pierre Francois de Charlevoix, wrote of these two mighty rivers, “I believe this is the finest confluence in the world. The two rivers are much the same breadth, each about half a league: but the Missouri is by for the most rapid, and seems to enter the Mississippi like a conqueror, through which it carries its white waters to the opposite shore without mixing them, afterwards, it gives its color to the Mississippi which it never loses again but carries quite down to the sea.”

We remember Beverly Hills from our westward journeys down Route 66. The venerable Mother Road uses the alias Santa Monica Boulevard in this ritzy neck of the woods as it nears its terminus at the Pacific shore. When we motor past the posh palaces and smart shops of Beverly Hills we are reminded that this mecca for the rich and famous was carved out of an old Spanish land grant covered with sagebrush.

Less than six square miles in area, Beverly Hills was the brain child of entrepreneur Burton E. Green, a land developer who, in the early 1900s, named his newly created California city for his hometown of Beverly Farms, Massachusetts. The fledgling motion picture industry was booming in nearby Hollywood and when Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford came to Beverly Hills and built their “Pickfair” estate in 1919, a legion of other celluloid luminaries soon followed, including Tom Mix, Will Rogers, John Barrymore, Gloria Swanson, and Rudolph Valentino.

Always a city of superlatives, Beverly Hills developed into an oasis completely surrounded by the megopolis of Los Angeles. Known as the most prestigious address in America, city promoters tout the community as a trend setter in fashion, lifestyle, and beauty. But we like what Ray Riegert had to say in his book, Hidden Southern California: The Adventurer’s Guide.

It’s a rags-to-riches town with a lot of Horatio Alger stories to tell. The world capitol of wealth and glamour, Beverly Hills is a place in which driving a BMW makes you a second-class citizen and where the million-dollar houses are in the poorer part of town. The community with more gardeners per capita than any other United States city, Beverly Hills is one of the few spots outside Texas where flaunting your money is still considered good taste. A facelift here is as common as a haircut and many of the residents look like they’ve been embalmed for the past thirty years.

Beverly Hills will always play host to both royalty and swarms of tourists all seeking the ultimate experience, whether it’s at the Polo Lounge in the famed Beverly Hills Hotel (built in 1912 at Sunset Boulevard and Beverly Drive), in one of the trendy restaurants, or at the splashy designer boutiques with outrageous prices along the three blocks of Rodeo Drive (pronounced roh-DAY-oh) in the heart of this city that is simply too much.

It was in the high desert of Arizona just across the New Mexico border. We were traveling west as far as we could go, all the way to the Pacific shore. Our vehicles of choice for this particular adventure were a blue van filled with ice chests and the songs of Woody Guthrie and the Eagles, and in the lead a ragtop Corvette, as red as spilled blood, that rolled off the assembly line in 1964.

Bitter coffee and a greasy Gallup breakfast churned in our stomachs, and we stayed thirsty all the time. Bottled water and a sack of shriveled peaches and grapes helped a little. Those riding in the van sucked in waves of cool air pouring from the dashboard vents. In the convertible, we tried to stay comfortable with damp bandannas — cowboy air conditioners — tied around our necks, and dreams of motel swimming pools that became real every evening. It was coming up on the Fourth of July and there had not been any rain for a long time. Just lots of sun and record high temperatures that made front-page news all summer long.

We passed a traditional Navajo hogan made of logs and earth and saw a herd of sheep crowded into the slim ring of shade on one side of the dwelling. At the state line we paused at Chief Yellowhorse, a stucco teepee trading post, to look at the neat rows of steer skulls baking in the desert heat. As usual some tourists, this time a family from Arkansas, inspected us and the vintage Corvette. We bid them adieu and took to the road. The towns of Lupton, Allentown, Houck, Sanders, and Chambers came and went. Despite the strong sun it was a gentle ride. Like desert creatures we were adjusting to the climate.

Then off to the right, we spied the graveyard. At first it appeared to be an illusion, our eyes being tricked by the hot air near the surface of the earth. But we slowed down and saw it might be real. Without anyone saying a word, we turned around and went back. We stopped the van and the Corvette in the swirls of cinnamon-colored dust to pay our respects to those we never knew.

There was simplicity to the cemetery. No mausoleums, no bronze gates, no granite obelisks. There were no marble angels and lambs with fancy curls, or elaborate tombstones shipped from St. Louis. The graveyard had a natural beauty without relying on manicured lawns and paths trimmed with ivy.

We realized that this was consecrated ground. It was a campo santo — a blessed field. For twenty minutes, it became our oasis. The wood was weathered, and the inscriptions had been erased by too many seasons of dry winds and blowing sand. Now, only those who came on Memorial Day to pull up brittle grass, brush away tumbleweeds, and leave jars of wild blossoms knew for sure who rested there. Survivors returned on special dates, like feast days or birthdays and anniversaries. They usually came around Christmastime, to festoon the graves with plastic poinsettias and garland from Wal-Mart.

As we walked among the dead, no one spoke very much. The strong hot wind blew away our words and we stayed content with our thoughts. In our minds, we decided it was an Indian cemetery. We found a grave with a handmade sign that could still be read listing the name and the years of the man buried below and a rubber Mighty Mouse doll, like a smiling cherub, was wired to the marker. Nearby, we stood over another man who died when he was too young. From the barely visible dates we thought he had been a soldier in Vietnam. A china Madonna, intact except for her face, guarded the grave. We stood there and, as the living always does, passed judgment over the dead. We guessed that probably not a soul buried there had ever uttered a line of Hamlet or gazed at a Cezanne or listed to a single stanza of Handel.

But as we turned to leave, we choked on our presumptions. We realized that in the silent dirt were people who had been given other gifts. They had been enraptured by the oral literature of elders who tended sheep and molded pottery and wove rugs that were works of art. They had watched thousands of sunsets that no one could ever capture on film or canvas. They had memorized the poetry of the coyote’s song. The eternal wind was their benediction.

Back on the road we stayed quiet for many miles. Then without warning, the hot wind vanished and the sky changed color. A cool rain fell and broke the earth’s fever. We left the top down on the Corvette and opened the van’s windows. The steady rain stayed with us the rest of the day as we raced on.

That evening, around yet another motel pool, we toasted the dying day with glasses of water cold enough to make us shiver. It was decided that even though the graveyard we had visited was on the beaten path none of us were certain we could ever find it again. Perhaps it had been only a mirage after all.

But inside the motel room was an ashtray holding highway treasure. Mixed with the souvenir fragments of concrete from the Mother Road, the old buckle and buttons dug from the pavement, the bits of animal born, and café matchbooks was a piece of glass we had found buried in the dust. It appeared to be a tiny Madonna’s face. Her painted eyes were closed and there was just the trace of a smile. She was our best gift. She was the most revered of all our totems. It was Christmas in July. Our mirage was truly real.

Author Michael Wallis uncovers the reality behind American folk hero David Crockett on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.

Michael Wallis’s newest book, David Crockett: The Lion of the West just made the New York Times Best Sellers List. The book is number thirty this week, September 4th, 2011, on the Print Hardcover, Nonfiction Extended list.

Six Things You Can Learn from this Great Media Guest

I don’t care about Davy Crockett. I’ve never been much into American folk heroes, and most of what I know about Crockett comes from the hit 1950s song.

So why am I suddenly writing about Davy Crockett?

Last Thursday, historian Michael Wallis appeared on The Daily Show With Jon Stewart to discuss his new book, David Crockett: The Lion of the West. He managed to do the near-impossible – he captured my attention. And I wasn’t the only one to notice his terrific appearance: his book suddenly zoomed onto Amazon.com’s Top 50 list.

Here are six reasons Wallis was such an effective media guest – and what you can learn from his success.

1. He Loves Talking About His Topic: Wallis is clearly enchanted by his subject, and speaks about it with fascination. His contagious passion transferred from him to the audience, as evidenced by the studio audience’s enthusiastic reaction to his interview.

2. He Is Authentic: Wallis knows who he is. He appears comfortable in his own skin, and looks like he knows he belongs on that set. Rock stars and artists aside, few male media guests can pull off a giant green finger ring. Wallis can, because it seems completely consistent with his personality.

3. He Tells Great Stories: Many people can tell good stories, but few can tell complex stories – with the full power of delivery – in 30 seconds or less. Mr. Wallis gets to the heart of each story quickly, placing a premium on each word and taking advantage of every moment.

4. He Displays Humor: Wallis rolls with Jon Stewart’s questions and reacts with good humor when appropriate. He then quickly transitions into delivering a substantive answer. He also gets a couple of good one-liners off, including one about Congress that results in cheers from the live audience.

5. He Uses His Full Vocal Range: I envy Wallis’s perfect baritone, but he doesn’t rely solely on his mesmerizing low rumble. He varies his pace, volume, and pitch throughout the interview – and even introduces short pauses before delivering a well-timed punch line.

6. He Gestures Naturally: Wallis uses large, sweeping gestures to help make his point. He uses his hands as tools to help supplement his words; they are an essential part of his storytelling prowess. Wallis demonstrates that the Holy Grail of any media appearance is when a speaker’s words, voice, and body language work together in perfect alignment.

http://www.mrmediatraining.com/index.php/2011/08/15/six-things-you-can-learn-from-this-great-media-guest/

This fine old craft is mentioned in Route 66: The Mother Road. I have fond memories of it, here’s a taste from my book:

“On summer afternoons, below the well-used Route 66 crossing [the Chain of Rocks Bridge], shrill whistles from the calliope of the S.S. Admiral could be heard up and down the river. The Admiral, an all-steel excursion luxury liner with five mammoth decks, became a fixture on the riverfront. It was popular with natives and visitors to St. Louis and was billed as the world’s largest inland steamer. On summer evenings couples sipped cold beer and danced in air-conditioned comfort as the big ship churned through muddy waters beneath a canopy of stars and moonlight.

During the late 1970-s and early 1980-s, the steamer’s hull was damaged and the excursion ship became snarled in financial difficulties. It ended up moored at the downtown levee alongside renovated sidewheelers and a floating McDonald’s restaurant. The S. S. Admiral stopped cruising the river and the sound of its calliope could no longer be heard at Chain of Rocks.”

http://www.usgennet.org/usa/mo/county/stlouis/admiral.htm

In the photo Michael and Suzanne Wallis at Ollie’s Station, on Route 66 (AKA Southwest Boulevard), Red Fork, Oklahoma. Ollie’s Station Restaurant is a popular eating establishment for Mother Road travelers. The railroad motif, including ten running model trains, also attracts a large number of train buffs.

An undaunted champion of human rights and civic causes throughout his almost ninety-two years, Cyrus Stevens Avery — a proud Tulsan by choice — led the effort to establish U.S. Route 66, the most famous highway in the United States and possibly in the world. Without the hard work and persistence of the untiring Avery, it is doubtful that U.S. 66 – the 2,400-mile ribbon of asphalt and concrete that ties together eight states between Chicago, Illinois, and Santa Monica, California – ever would have become a reality.

As a result of his dedication and diligence, Avery — founder of the U.S. 66 Highway Association — has become known to tens of thousands of admirers, including legions of travelers and historians, as “the Father of Route 66.”

Born in Stevensville, Pennsylvania, in 1871, Avery came with his family to Indian Territory in a horse-drawn wagon when he was in his teens. He grew up on a farm near Spavinaw Creek in the Cherokee Nation. An energetic highway entrepreneur long before most roads were even paved, Avery graduated from William Jewell College at Liberty, Missouri, and launched his business career in Vinita and Oklahoma City. In 1907, the year Oklahoma became a state, he wed his wife of sixty-five years, Essie McClelland. The Averys established their home in Tulsa, where they raised three children and Cy soon became a successful business and civic leader.

Besides launching several businesses and boosting many major public-works projects, Avery emerged as a voice of reason in 1921 when his adopted city was the scene of bloody racial violence. During the turmoil when the notorious Klu Klux Klan terrorized African-American citizens and brought murder and mayhem to Tulsa’s streets, Avery supervised a victim-relief effort and stood firm against the forces of intolerance and bigotry.

Nicknamed “Mr. Democrat,” the politically active Avery, who among other duties served as a Tulsa County commissioner, was a proponent of the good-roads movement even before he became the first chairman of the Oklahoma State Highway Commission. He served as a leader of the American Association of State Highway Official and also acted as a consulting highway specialist as the federal government developed a national system of numbered highways.

Avery’s efforts paid off when Route 66 became a reality. “We assure you that U.S. 66 will be a road through Oklahoma that the U.S. Government will be proud of,” Avery wrote shortly before November 11, 1926, the day U.S. Route 66 was officially born. Avery’s words hold true today for the many people who continue to use the long stretches of “the Main Street of America” that remain.

Jim Fitzgerald and Debbie Courtney in rear, Michael Wallis and Suzanne Fitzgerald in front, on Bourbon Street, New Orleans, 1968.

We came from all points and converged in “The Big Easy.” It was the spring of 1968 and some time in New Orleans seemed like a sweet tonic for all of us.

We were young, confident, and the world was our oyster. Speaking of shellfish, we ingested plenty at Felix’s, the cozy bar on Iberville Street where folks have devoured tasty ice-cold oysters on the half-shell for generations.

This photograph taken by Proud Mary Wall, one of our gang, shows Michael and Suzanne and behind us Jim Fitzgerald and Debbie Courtney. Jim is one of Suzanne’s brothers and is now my literary agent. Debbie went on to become a country-western singer. The four of us are ambling down Bourbon Street, the famous avenue that spans the length of the French Quarter.

Only a couple weeks before our New Orleans adventure, American soldiers swept into the South Vietnamese village of My Lai and massacred 504 unarmed and unresisting women, children, and old men. It would be almost a year until word of this tragedy became public. Just short days after the photo was made, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. would be shot dead in Memphis at the Lorraine Motel and then shortly after midnight on June 5, Robert Kennedy would be mortally wounded in Los Angeles.

But on that bright day on Bourbon Street, our bellies filled with oysters and beer, we were far from war and knew nothing of what was to come. We were midnight ramblers and daydreamers out for a stroll and fast falling in love.

I shall never forget a man from Taos Pueblo who passed through my life like a shadow long, long ago. It was late in the day when our paths crossed in a patch of sunlight on the edge of the town plaza. He stopped me with a gesture and I lit his cigarette. The man, basking in the uncertain warmth of a winter sun, nodded his thanks but maintained his proud bearing. I said something inane about the weather. There was no response. I was just about to walk away when he did speak.

“We were here long before the Spanish came,” he said in a nonchalant way as if we had been visiting for hours. “And, we were here long before the Anglos. “

I acknowledged that he was right, as if he needed my approval. He spoke again. “We will be here long after the Spanish and Anglo have gone.” There was not a hint of threat in his monotone voice.

He took another drag on the cigarette and slowly exhaled the smoke. Then the man — with long plaited braids and swathed from head to knee in a blanket — looked at me for the first time.

“Do you know where I live?” the man asked.

“I imagine you live out at the pueblo,” I said.

“I live at the top of the earth,” he told me. “Don’t you know where you are? You are at the top of the earth.” Then he turned and walked away. I watched him until he was out of sight, swallowed up by twilight and the dark mountain.

In January 1926 — about three months after oil tycoon Frank Phillips officially unveiled his new Woolaroc lodge at his ranch in Oklahoma — his first major shipment of animals — a herd of buffalo — arrived at the ranch. Phillips already had cattle grazing in the pastures, and a dozen buffalo were growing fat in a meadow, but he wanted more. The new buffalo Phillips selected came from Pierre, South Dakota, and were part of the largest wild herd left ion the country. A total of 183 buffalo were shipped — 120 for Phillips, 53 for the Miller brothers at the 101 Ranch, and 10 for Waite Phillips’ new ranch located in the mountains of northern New Mexico.

Phillips could boast that he owned the second-largest herd of buffalo in captivity in the United States. His 132 buffalo put him ahead of Pawnee Bill, the showman who kept a sizable herd of bison for his Wild West show. Only the Millers’ herd of 200 buffalo was larger than the herd at the Frank Phillips Ranch.

In tribute to Buffalo Bill Cody, a childhood hero, and because of the importance of buffalo in the development of the American West, Phillips selected the big shaggy animal — the monarch of the plains — as the official symbol for his ranch. A buffalo-head illustration adorned the ranch stationery, and when the herd was thinned or an old animal died, their skulls were tacked on the lodge walls or in prominent places around the ranch.

The buffalo skull in this photo is from the original herd and was presented to Michael Wallis after the publication of Oil Man, his biography of Frank Phillips.

Boyles is also an avid motorcyclist, and for a year hosted USA Biker Nation a syndicated weekly radio talk show on motorcycle topics. He frequently promotes charity benefit rides, such as one for the widow and children of slain police officer Donnie Young.

It’s 1980 and Saturday night in Miami. I have taken time off from my duties as a magazine correspondent in the hard news capital of the nation for an evening of badly needed rest and recuperation. Tired of Coconut Grove’s trendy hangouts and the familiar haunts of Miami Beach, I turn to the west. Soon I find what I’m after just beyond the glow of city lights at an Everglades oasis called Glader Park.

Inside, thirsty workingmen belly up to the bar. Their nerves are still raw from a week of hard labor. A honey-blonde barkeep named Star clad in a halter-top and cutoff jean shorts doesn’t help calm things. One tattooed biker gets a migraine just from staring as the leggy Star pours drinks — mostly tap beer, hard whiskey, and cheap tequila.

Marathon games of eight ball rage at either end of the joint and Hank Williams, Jr. gets a long ride thanks to a semi-intoxicated patron who has fed five bucks in quarters into the tarnished and battered juke box.

Along a wall oozes a man who has tried to drink all the beer in Florida. He gropes for the john door but just as his hand finds the knob a ragtag family resembling the fictional Joads marches in from the darkness. The gaunt mother clutches her purse so tightly it seems to have fused with her body. She stands guard, her hawk eyes dancing, while her two dingy boys scramble by the drunk for the toilet. They slam the door in his face. The drunk grins and pardons them with a belch.

A blend of alcohol, smoke, and sweat fills the air. Some hounds snarl and snap at their master’s feet and the bully of the bunch is pitched outside to bay at a sliver of cold moon. Nearby, under crackling neon lights, a bear-sized fellow wrapped in a blanket gapes at a battery-powered television and waits for gasoline customers who never come.

Past the gas pumps on the edge of the road fading words printed on a fifteen-foot-tall rusting beer can tell everyone that this is Glader Park. A gathering place for hog hunters and frog giggers, out here nervous tourists order mixed drinks to go and Miccosukee Indians sip and dream of times past. Miami tour guides bring people out to gawk and get a taste of the wild side.

It is also a sweet enough place for an overworked reporter, weary of covering cocaine smugglers and Caribbean refugees. Watching the droves of swamp angels who regularly roost at the bar recharges me. They drool over plates of smoked gator meat — Everglade’s caviar — and wash it down with icy suds.

Glader Park was one of my favorite stops — a comfortable spot on a ribbon of road stretching into the dark night. A well-worn path with different names, back in Miami it starts as a city street called Southwest Eighth or Calle Ocho in Little Havana. Snowbirds in their bug-splattered cars know the road as U.S. 41. For the crusty souls who live and play in the lush lands bordering the road there is only one name. For them it is The Trail. The Tamiami Trail.

“Lots of folks come down this road,” Uncle Bernie Freed, an owner of Glader Park told me that Saturday night so long ago. “A good many people drive the Tamiami Trail and they stop here. Even a bunch of wealthy types come out here and you can’t tell them from the poor ones. Everyone looks alike. You see, the Trail and the Glades have a way of equalizing people.”

All these years later Uncle Bernie’s words still ring true.