Rod and Amy Burkert might just be as crazy as we are. The only difference between them and us is they have paying jobs and a Winnebago.

The Burkerts are the creators of, an online resource for people, like us, who travel with their pets. The site lists pet-friendly hotels, B&Bs, campgrounds and RV parks throughout the U.S. and Canada. allows users to search for the best deals and make reservations, and it also includes a handy Roadtrip Planner.

To keep their website accurate and up-to-date, the Burkert’s have hit the road in a new Winnebago with their two dogs, Buster (a German Shepard rescue) and TY (a Shar-Pei).

Courtesy of

Rod and Amy launched in 2009, leaving behind their business-appraisal firm. Since then, they’ve spent 80 percent of their days on the road, researching and blogging.

Scott and I have a lot in common with the Burkerts: We, too, quit our jobs to hit the road and now live every waking moment together. And, like us, Amy and Rod acknowledge their dogs’ flaws. It’s nice to know other road-tripping dog owners struggle with mutts who bark, tug on their leashes and act like fools when meeting other dogs.

We “met” the Burkerts through our blog.  A mutual love of traveling and being with our dogs made us instant friends. Somehow, in our six months on the road, we’ve managed to travel on opposite sides of the country from the Burkerts, but we’re bound to cross paths eventually and meet face-to-face amid a cacophony of barking. Until then, we do our best to keep each other informed about worthwhile pet-friendly finds.

Rod and Amy know just about everybody in the dog-loving cyber community, so we were flattered when they invited us to be featured on their blog, Take Paws. Check out our Q&A.


I like hats. Packed away in a closet back home is a box containing a stack of them — fedoras, porkpies and trilbies, molded of felt and straw and fabric. But nearly none of these hats has graced my head in public. That’s because it takes a certain man — Humphrey Bogart, Frank Sinatra, Johnny Depp — to do justice to classic headwear, and I, tragically, am not that kind of man.

I brought only one hat on this trip: a trucker cap Jill purchased for me at a Lucero concert when trucker caps were still stylishly ironical. I figure I’m allowed to wear a trucker hat past its ironical prime, because (1) I also wore a trucker hat before its ironical prime and (2) I presently spend a lot of time with the pedal to the metal.

My current cap has a burnt-oil-black crown and a mesh back the color and sheen of runny oatmeal. It’s a good hat for concealing unwashed hair, and it suits me around the campfire or atop a barroom stool. But it felt completely inadequate atop my head when I walked into Óptimo Custom Hatworks in Bisbee, Ariz.

Óptimo Custom Hatworks is the kind of specialty shop that restores character to boom-and-bust mining towns like Bisbee, where precious metal and historian’s ink tend to exhaust themselves at the same pace. When the Phelps Dodge Corporation, after 90 years, finally ceased its copper-mining operation in Bisbee in 1975, the town probably should have faded into obscurity. But it didn’t. Instead, artists filled the void, nesting like opportunistic sparrows in the miners’ empty homes and transforming boarded-up shops into studios and galleries.

Stephen Grant Sergot is one of those artists. But his medium isn’t paint or stone — it’s felt and straw. And Óptimo Custom Hatworks is both his gallery and studio.

If Don Draper or Indiana Jones owned the world and dictated its fashion, Sergot would be a god. The gentleman knows hats. He knows how to shape them, how to clean them, how to restore them. He knows how to fit them to head shapes and facial features and body types. He is a student of hat history and a connoisseur hat couture.

I spent more than an hour in Sergot’s company as Jill photographed him and his shop, and in that time I observed him handle a hat one of only two ways: with care or with purpose. There was something almost sensual about the way he touched the elegantly dented crown of a Tom Mix cowboy hat, tracing its stiff ridges and gentle curves with impeccably manicured fingers. It was impossible not to watch, but it seemed indecent to stare.

Sergot himself has the look of a fine hat — all symmetry and crisp edges. He wears a dove-gray beard trimmed close, like brushed felt, and his Western-style attire is tastefully adorned with smooth leather and pearly buttons.

Sergot dresses with precision, moves with precision, speaks with precision — even smiles with precision — and Óptimo Custom Hatworks is a reflection of his personality and craftsmanship. Much to Jill’s camera-wielding delight, the place is lit like a museum and the hats are displayed like sculptures. Some are perched atop ash pedestals stained to a mahogany patina (Sergot made them himself, out of piano legs), while others rest inside cases of smudgeless glass. Hats within reach of browsers bear sticky notes that read “Please Do Not Handle.”

Contrary to the shop’s Bisbee location and Sergot’s adopted Southwestern style (he’s a native Michigander), delicately woven Panama hats account for most of the headwear on display. These are Sergot’s specialty and passion. I asked him why, and he recounted a story about discovering his first Panama hat at an estate sale in Cave Creek, Ariz., in 1972.

“It was sitting in a milk crate, shimmering in the sun,” he said. “I picked it up, worked my hands around it, felt the back weave of the brim edge. There was no wire on the brim edge. It was a wonderful, wonderful texture — malleable yet durable.”

He bought the Panama at auction for $15, and thus began a love affair between man and hat.

From listening to Sergot chat with customers who wandered into his shop, I learned that Panama hats are not actually made in Panama. They come from Ecuador. They acquired the moniker “Panama” because laborers constructing the Panama Canal wore them to shield their faces from the sun. The name stuck after Teddy Roosevelt was photographed in one of the hats during a 1906 visit to the canal and the New York Times described it as a “Panama hat.”

Most people who enter Óptimo Custom Hatworks are gawkers and loiterers and tourists. Sergot has observed their behavior for 30 years, and that has no doubt influenced his interactions with would-be customers. Sometimes, when the tiny bell rings above the shop door, he barely looks up from his work; other times, he slides easily into salesman mode.

A favorite routine is explaining to a shopper that hat fitting is all about proportion — that a wide-brimmed hat balances, and even slims, the profile of man with a large belly. If a customer seems serious about a hat purchase, Sergot might come around the counter and measure the man’s (or woman’s) head with a “conformer,” a Victorian-era device that resembles a top hat built from ancient typewriter innards.

As earnest as Sergot is about his craft, I can’t help thinking he would have been a suave snake-oil salesmen back in days when copper was first discovered in Bisbee’s hills. His manner is confident and practiced; his eyes are easily set atwinkle. Donald Sutherland would play him in the film. Or maybe Richard Dreyfuss.

Sergot’s beguiling comportment also extends to journalists. When I asked him how he got his start as a hatter, he unspooled a fascinating story about migrating from Michigan in a truck with two dogs, stopping to pick up a hitchhiker near the rim of the Grand Canyon, getting bogged down in the mud and finding an old felt hat in a ditch. The hat had bite marks on it — “could have been pack rats,” Sergot theorized — but he threw it in the truck anyway, and later put it on while waiting out a storm in Supai, Ariz.

“I’m sitting around a juniper fire, and I’m wearing a poncho and this old felt hat, and these big, wet snowflakes started making the hat wet,” he said. “The brim started changing shape. So I started doing things to it, to try to gutter the water out the front and back. … I laid it on the dashboard overnight, and the next day the sun started to dry it. Once it got very dry, I couldn’t do anything more to it. So that night I put the tea kettle on the fire, and got some steam rolling out, and started steaming the hat and realized, ‘Hey, this is how you do it.’”

It’s a creation story of almost biblical perfection, and you can read strikingly similar versions of it in the “History and Media Kit” section of Óptimo’s website, or in any one of the framed magazine articles that hang on the wall of Sergot’s shop. The guy is nothing if not media savvy. He even showed me a piece of notebook paper on which he has written his responses — augmented with wisecracks — to the most common questions he gets from reporters.

But savvy works for Sergot, and his beautiful hattery works for Bisbee. Case in point: While he was graciously tolerating Jill’s clacking shutter and my drawling questions, a middle-aged couple from British Columbia entered the shop. They said they had been to Óptimo seven years ago, but Sergot was on vacation and an assistant was manning the store.

“We’ve been waiting seven years to come back,” said the male half of the couple. “We rolled into town 20 minutes ago, and this is our first stop.” Sergot smiled and reached for his Victorian conformer. It was showtime at Óptimo — and it was a cue for Jill and I to move on.

Before I pushed open the door, I took one last, longing gaze at the rows of hats hanging on the wall. A gray cowboy hat with a flat brim and open crown called to me. It had called to me since I first set foot in the shop, tempting me to make an impulse purchase, to have Sergot expertly shape it to my noggin for the road ahead, which, after all, led through New Mexico, Texas and Louisiana — cowboy-hat places if there ever were any.

But I hadn’t even tried the hat on. I was too shy to ask, and now it was too late. So I pulled my trucker cap low over my eyes and re-entered Bisbee’s sun-glinted world of art galleries, antique stores and curio shops.

Those other joints might keep Bisbee’s sidewalks bustling with tourists and window shoppers, but it is people like Grant Sergot and places like Óptimo that prevent the town from descending, like a rickety mine car, into a black maw of homogeneous quaintness.

Somebody in Bisbee should tip a hat to that.


Tom Ziegler has been tending bar at the Tap Room inside Hotel Congress for 51 years. But hardly anybody knows his name — at least not his Christian one.

Nobody calls Ziegler “Tom.” Not the regulars who visit during his daytime shift. Not the guys who deliver the beer and liquor. Not the hotel’s managers, desk clerks or maintenance men. Not even the owner.

To them, and everyone else, Tom Ziegler is, and has always been, simply “Tiger.”

You don’t have to spend much time around Tiger to deduce that cheerful irony drips from his nickname like beer down the sides of an overfilled pint glass. He’s not at all ferocious or cunning; on the contrary, he is gentle and exquisitely mannerly, much more apt to peer over his spectacles than bear his teeth.

Tiger is of slight, wispy build, with excellent posture and a full head of silvery hair that he parts on the left. He smokes frequently and elegantly, and he is fond of wearing crew-neck sweaters over Oxford shirts — a little bit Truman Capote, a little bit Mister Rogers.

Tiger is 76 years old, and he first stepped behind the business end of the Tap Room bar in 1959. My only concept of 1959 comes from history books and Happy Days. But to give you some context, here are some of the events Tiger might remember from his first year on the job:

  • Two stars were added to the American flag to commemorate Alaska and Hawaii gaining statehood.
  • A band of guerilla revolutionaries led by Fidel Castro and Che Guevara overthrew the Cuban government.
  • A chartered plane carrying Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper crashed in Iowa.
  • Berry Gordy started Motown Records in Detroit.
  • The very first Daytona 500 was won by Lee Petty. (That’s Richard Petty’s dad.)
  • And a new toy called the Barbie doll hit department-store shelves.

I’ve never lasted at any one job more than four years. I cannot imagine doing the same job — and relishing it — for more than half a century.

Remember Jesse Helms? It seemed like he catatonically sat in the Senate since the dawn of time. Well, Tiger’s tenure at the Tap Room is longer by 21 years. Does it feel like Dick Clark’s been ushering in New Year’s nearly as long as Father Time? Child’s play — Tiger’s got 13 years on him. Tiger’s even been making margaritas and pouring beer longer than Mick Jagger’s been caterwauling as The Rolling Stones’ frontman.

I know very few septuagenarians who hold down regular jobs; I know even fewer who work as bartenders; I know fewer still who report to work sucking on a cigarette and looking like their mother has dressed them for the first day of elementary school.

But I do know one: His name is Tiger, and, like the hotel where he prowls, he is an Arizona treasure.