Oatman, AZ

Eggs 'N' Burros 'N' Such

From the mother lode to the Mother Road, Oatman, Ariz., seemed destined for riches.

The northwest Arizona hamlet that lies within 40 miles of the California and Nevada borders was both a thriving gold mining center and the last stop before the Mojave Desert for waves of Depression-era Model-T drivers taking Route 66 to California.

But most of the gold mines closed in the 1940s, and the perilous stretch of Route 66 through Oatman’s basalt-crowned hills was redirected away in the 1950s.

This once-booming mining camp of 10,000 people (in 1916) faded and might have disappeared but for a hardy group of shopkeepers. They have taken the creaking lumber, rusted tin, and fading paint of Oatman and made it a vibrant place—a living ghost town.

The town’s sense of humor and evident marketing skills are most apparent on the Fourth of July.

Instead of bowing to firecracker hot temperatures that might deter visitors, Oatman embraces the staggering heat. Independence Day is the day of their annual sidewalk egg-fry competition.

This year’s event found Oatman Chamber of Commerce president Peg Robertson in the shade of a corrugated-tin canopy near the sidewalk frying area.

“You’re walking on the stove,” she cajoles a group of passing pedestrians just minutes before high noon, when the competition is to begin. A blue-eyed burro trails in their wake.

Wild burros, descended from those left behind by old prospectors, are welcome guests in Oatman. They move freely along the streets and sidewalks and even take cover in the shade to watch the daily 1:30 p.m. gunfights. Burros have the right-of-way, and few motorists seem to mind when traffic backs up because of a stalled donkey.

However, a burro on the egg-frying “stove” could not be tolerated, and Robertson eases from her seat into the sun to encourage the slow-moving creature to move on. Minutes later, the showdown begins.

“The official temperature is 106 today. That’s a little cool,” says Fred Eck, contest creator and judge of this year’s competition.

Cool, maybe, but warm enough for one competitor to fry an egg in 10 minutes. That’s with five minutes to spare. The savvy teenager had preheated her cast-iron skillet in the desert sun and trapped hot air radiating from the sidewalk with a plastic wrap-covered box. Challengers from as far away as New York and Canada use magnifying glasses and reflectors with mixed results in the anything-goes contest. Robertson says temperatures were even higher for last year’s event.

“They not only cooked two eggs, but bacon, too,” she says.

The annual egg-fry isn’t the only big draw to Oatman—named for Olive Oatman, who, in 1851 at age 13, survived after being kidnapped by Yavapai Indians. The town also touts bed races in January, the burro biscuit toss on Labor Day, Gold Camp Days in September, and the Christmas Bush Festival in December.

About a half-million visitors tour the shops and mines of Oatman each year. Some book a room in the Oatman Hotel, where Carole Lombard and Clark Gable stayed after they were married in nearby Kingman. Eventually, they drive off on Route 66, now designated both a historic and scenic route.

The town’s 150 residents, give or take a few, happily accommodate the tourists but also maintain their close-knit community.

Robertson, a retired auto worker from Michigan, grew tired of playing golf and started the Lasting Impressions photography business in Oatman about three years ago.

“I was accepted immediately,” she says. “I’m living my last great adventure.”

Jackie Rowland, owner of Fast Fanny’s Place gift shop, is a 12-year resident.

“I think most of us came here to visit and liked it so well, we stayed,” she says.

The old mines, including the widely known Gold Road Mine northeast of town, which still does a big-time tour business, remain visible amid the creosote bush and yucca in the hills around Oatman.

“Our gold is still here,” Rowland says, referring to ore trapped in the hard rock below.

She might just as well have been talking about the town’s good-hearted residents.

Terri Likens is a freelance writer from Flagstaff, Ariz.

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