Ghosts on Wheels: Forgotten Cars Along the Mother Road

Driving Arizona’s stretch of Route 66, we explored the desert’s forgotten roadside relics.

Earlier this spring, my partner and I set out along the Arizona stretch of U.S. Route 66. Not with a destination in mind, but with time on our hands and a curiosity for what the desert still held. We found rusted silhouettes and long-abandoned machines. Some sat behind fence lines, others just off the shoulder—monuments to movement, now still.

Not far outside Kingman, we pulled into Antares. The Kozy Corner Trailer Court stood quiet. Back in 1965, it opened as Lake Mead Rancheros—a full-service stop with a Shell station, a bar, a diner, and a motel. Over time, trailers appeared, along with a laundromat and a small market. As years went on, it shifted toward short-stay rentals and low-income housing. By 2017, it had become a roadside curiosity more than a business. What caught the eye first was Giganticus Headicus, a 14-foot concrete moai built by artist Gregg Arnold.

Around it, weathered cars and trucks sat like sculpture.

A 1955 Jaguar Mark 1 rested with quiet dignity. Jaguar’s first unitary saloon, it carried a twin-cam six beneath its hood and promised British elegance to drivers who fancied touring speeds and walnut dashboards. Close by, a 1956 Cadillac Sedan de Ville, long and chrome-laden, reminded us of a time when four-door hardtops defined American prestige. Its wraparound glass and hushed V-8 made Cadillac royalty on pavement.

A Volkswagen Type III Notchback sagged nearby, a rare sight in the States, where Squarebacks and Fastbacks were more common. This model, with its pancake engine and clean lines, marked VW’s attempt to grow beyond its people’s car roots. That car was there too: a Volkswagen Type I Beetle, origin story tangled in shadow, but legacy shaped by simplicity, durability, and more than 21 million units built.

Then, the Willys Jeep Station Wagon, postwar grit wrapped in Brooks Stevens’ all-steel vision. Introduced in 1946 and built for the American family, it borrowed the Jeep’s wartime credibility but carved its own lane with a clean face and a hose-it-out practicality. The Go Devil engine still sounded like purpose.

We spotted a Triumph Spitfire, circa 1973, styled by Giovanni Michelotti, a car meant for sunny afternoons and winding roads, even if its swing axle had other plans. Dust dulled its curves, but not its intent. The Chevrolet Corvette C4, mid-’80s and unapologetic, stood nearby—digital dash, clamshell hood, and pure Reagan-era velocity.

A Nash Metropolitan, two-toned and charmingly small, whispered of a time when Americans dared to go compact. Built in England, sold in the U.S., it brought pastel flair and pint-sized practicality to city streets.

Tucked nearby: a pre-F-Series Ford pickup, along with later F-series generations and a squared-off International Harvester C-Series—trucks that carried loads before pickups became lifestyle statements.

Further east: Truxton.

The Frontier Motel opened in 1951. Alice Wright ran it first. In 1957, Ray and Mildred Barker took over. Ray died in 1990, and Mildred kept it going until 2012. A few hands have tried to bring it back. It hasn’t worked.

Across the road sat the Orlando Motel, built in the 1960s by Jerome and Mary Orlando. The structure still stands. Whether it hosts travelers or ghosts is hard to tell.

It was at the Orlando Motel where the real trove revealed itself—steel hulks tucked between mesquites and sunbaked gravel. There, I found a Peterbilt 281 or 351, maybe even a 359, all narrow-nosed icons nicknamed “Needlenose” for their butterfly hoods and perfect sightlines. Spielberg’s Duel didn’t invent that menace—it revealed it. Nearby stood a Mack A-Series, joined by something that looked like an EF. These were medium-duty workhorses that filled the quiet space between regional routes and hard-earned paychecks.

And tucked near them, a Studebaker 2R, clean-lined, postwar modern, slowly returning to the earth. Designed by Robert Bourke, it ditched running boards, lowered its stance, and made utility look good.

Scattered among them—more than a few Nissan Datsun 280ZXs, their sleek shapes and pop-up headlights still sharp in decline. Designed for grand tours and open highways, they now sat still, stranded in silence.

Eastbound, the road opened up again. Cracked and faded, Route 66 didn’t ask for attention. It waited. Each bend held something: a broken café, a rusted sign, a half-buried frame. We drove slow, windows down, desert wind riding shotgun.

The past isn’t hidden out here. It’s parked.