The history of this road is long and much more than the ribbon of concrete it became later. Like the old roads in the east, it began as a series of paths, first created by animals and then followed by Native Americans. 

Later, the European settlers made it their own and traveled it on horseback and with wagons. Unlike the eastern older roads, though, which usually ran north and south, this settlement road ran east to west.

It ran alongside rivers that also ran east to west, such as the Canadian River. Like the Fall Line road in the east, this path came down out of Chicago and made an arc. Later beside it, cities sprung up like St. Louis, Oklahoma City, Amarillo, Santa Fe, and Albuquerque, before it disappeared into the Old West and California.

Oklahoma is the state of the Okies who left in droves on this road during the Depression, moving west to new opportunities. Over 15% of them left. The people I see here today, though, are the ones who stayed, who persevered. As I traveled the Mother Road, I tried to visualize its paved days—with motor courts, neon lights, Burma Shave signs, filling stations, cars and trucks loaded to their gills, and hitchhikers.

East of Oklahoma City, the land is forested and hilly, but west of the city, the rolling land opens to drier, grassier, and flatter plains. In between are unseen draws and ravines. One such is Red Rock Canyon, south of the Mother Road near Hinton, Oklahoma.

In 1963, my father planned a two-week vacation around the Santa Fe Trail, lawmen, and outlaws. I was 9, and I’m 71 now, so it was over 60 years ago. The four of us made the road trip from Florida and had been in western Kansas in old Abeline. Beginning to turn back toward home, we wandered south into western Oklahoma. 

After days of arid open plains, we stopped at a campground called Red Rock Canyon State Park, and everyone of us fell in love. We talked about it for years. We were awestruck by this canyon, and I wanted to come back and see if I felt the same way today. Now, I am the only surviving family member of the four. So here I am, spending two nights at the campground!

But why was this place so special? Last night, I didn’t realize the answer until I drove down into the canyon. I had wondered why we remembered this canyon with such love. The answer was—we were homesick! 

Our part of Florida is a parkland of trees and canopied roads that would probably seem like claustrophobic tunnels to people who live on the plains. North Florida is lush and beautiful, similar to what I found in this canyon.

I’m staying for two days. I’m a little tired, so this will be a good rest. Notice the pictures of then and now, and yes, I love the canyon as much as I did back then. 

Dad’s camera made the color photos, but they only bought black and white film for mine and Pam’s cameras. It was cheaper, and we were kids.

We camped in a Camp-O-Tel camper, which was a Florida-manufactured camper. Its founders were local friends of the family. This was our first trip in the new camper, and I remember complaining that this wasn’t as much fun as sleeping in a tent. It is a wonder they didn’t throw me out with a pup tent.

In the canyon, though, this time I am glamping. I don’t think Mom or Dad lived long enough to know what glamping was. They both died almost 20 years ago, but I think my Mama would have loved this. The tent is even air-conditioned, and neither the truck nor camper above was.