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- Джон Стейнбек
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Highway
66
is
the
main
migrant
road
.
66
—
the
long
concrete
path
across
the
country
,
waving
gently
up
and
down
on
the
map
,
from
the
Mississippi
to
Bakersfield
—
over
the
red
lands
and
the
gray
lands
,
twisting
up
into
the
mountains
,
crossing
the
Divide
and
down
into
the
bright
and
terrible
desert
,
and
across
the
desert
to
the
mountains
again
,
and
into
the
rich
California
valleys
.
66
is
the
path
of
a
people
in
flight
,
refugees
from
dust
and
shrinking
land
,
from
the
thunder
of
tractors
and
shrinking
ownership
,
from
the
desert
’
s
slow
northward
invasion
,
from
the
twisting
winds
that
howl
up
out
of
Texas
,
from
the
floods
that
bring
no
richness
to
the
land
and
steal
what
little
richness
is
there
.
From
all
of
these
the
people
are
in
flight
,
and
they
come
into
66
from
the
tributary
side
roads
,
from
the
wagon
tracks
and
the
rutted
country
roads
.
66
is
the
mother
road
,
the
road
of
flight
.
Clarksville
and
Ozark
and
Van
Buren
and
Fort
Smith
on
64
,
and
there
’
s
an
end
of
Arkansas
.
And
all
the
roads
into
Oklahoma
City
,
66
down
from
Tulsa
,
270
up
from
McAlester
.
81
from
Wichita
Falls
south
,
from
Enid
north
.
Edmond
,
McLoud
,
Purcell
.
66
out
of
Oklahoma
City
;
El
Reno
and
Clinton
,
going
west
on
66
.
Hydro
,
Elk
City
,
and
Texola
;
and
there
’
s
an
end
to
Oklahoma
.
66
across
the
Panhandle
of
Texas
.
Shamrock
and
McLean
,
Conway
and
Amarillo
,
the
yellow
.
Wildorado
and
Vega
and
Boise
,
and
there
’
s
an
end
of
Texas
.
Tucumcari
and
Santa
Rosa
and
into
the
New
Mexican
mountains
to
Albuquerque
,
where
the
road
comes
down
from
Santa
Fe
.
Then
down
the
gorged
Rio
Grande
to
Las
Lunas
and
west
again
on
66
to
Gallup
,
and
there
’
s
the
border
of
New
Mexico
.
And
now
the
high
mountains
.
Holbrook
and
Winslow
and
Flagstaff
in
the
high
mountains
of
Arizona
.
Then
the
great
plateau
rolling
like
a
ground
swell
.
Ashfork
and
Kingman
and
stone
mountains
again
,
where
water
must
be
hauled
and
sold
.
Then
out
of
the
broken
sun
-
rotted
mountains
of
Arizona
to
the
Colorado
,
with
green
reeds
on
its
banks
,
and
that
’
s
the
end
of
Arizona
.
There
’
s
California
just
over
the
river
,
and
a
pretty
town
to
start
it
.
Needles
,
on
the
river
.
But
the
river
is
a
stranger
in
this
place
.
Up
from
Needles
and
over
a
burned
range
,
and
there
’
s
the
desert
.
And
66
goes
on
over
the
terrible
desert
,
where
the
distance
shimmers
and
the
black
center
mountains
hang
unbearably
in
the
distance
.
At
last
there
’
s
Barstow
,
and
more
desert
until
at
last
the
mountains
rise
up
again
,
the
good
mountains
,
and
66
winds
through
them
.
Then
suddenly
a
pass
,
and
below
the
beautiful
valley
,
below
orchards
and
vineyards
and
little
houses
,
and
in
the
distance
a
city
.
And
,
oh
,
my
God
,
it
’
s
over
.
The
people
in
flight
streamed
out
on
66
,
sometimes
a
single
car
,
sometimes
a
little
caravan
.
All
day
they
rolled
slowly
along
the
road
,
and
at
night
they
stopped
near
water
.
In
the
day
ancient
leaky
radiators
sent
up
columns
of
steam
,
loose
connecting
rods
hammered
and
pounded
.
And
the
men
driving
the
trucks
and
the
overloaded
cars
listened
apprehensively
.
How
far
between
towns
?
It
is
a
terror
between
towns
.
If
something
breaks
—
well
,
if
something
breaks
we
camp
right
here
while
Jim
walks
to
town
and
gets
a
part
and
walks
back
and
—
how
much
food
we
got
?
Listen
to
the
motor
.
Listen
to
the
wheels
.
Listen
with
your
ears
and
with
your
hands
on
the
steering
wheel
;
listen
with
the
palm
of
your
hand
on
the
gear
-
shift
lever
;
listen
with
your
feet
on
the
floor
boards
.
Listen
to
the
pounding
old
jalopy
with
all
your
senses
,
for
a
change
of
tone
,
a
variation
of
rhythm
may
mean
—
a
week
here
?
That
rattle
—
that
’
s
tappets
.
Don
’
t
hurt
a
bit
.
Tappets
can
rattle
till
Jesus
comes
again
without
no
harm
.
But
that
thudding
as
the
car
moves
along
—
can
’
t
hear
that
—
just
kind
of
feel
it
.
Maybe
oil
isn
’
t
gettin
’
someplace
.
Maybe
a
bearin
’
s
startin
’
to
go
.
Jesus
,
if
it
’
s
a
bearing
,
what
’
ll
we
do
?
Money
’
s
goin
’
fast
.
And
why
’
s
the
son
-
of
-
a
-
bitch
heat
up
so
hot
today
?
This
ain
’
t
no
climb
.
Le
’
s
look
.
God
Almighty
,
the
fan
belt
’
s
gone
!
Here
,
make
a
belt
outa
this
little
piece
a
rope
.
Le
’
s
see
how
long
—
there
.
I
’
ll
splice
the
ends
.
Now
take
her
slow
—
slow
,
till
we
can
get
to
a
town
.
That
rope
belt
won
’
t
last
long
.
’
F
we
can
on
’
y
get
to
California
where
the
oranges
grow
before
this
here
ol
’
jug
blows
up
.
’
F
we
on
’
y
can
.
