For the past 35+ years I have been revisiting the scenes in George R. Stewart's 1953 book, U.S. 40: Cross-Section of the United States. I've had several encounters with critters and creatures that have made the project at times challenging. Here is a summary of some of my encounters.
While at Fort Necessity in Farmington, Pennsylvania, I was walking from the parking lot to the site of the old fort. As I was stepping over what I thought was a fallen branch, I saw it move. It was a copperhead. I did a hasty pivot and avoided stepping on the snake which was between 2 and 3 feet in length. After showing the park rangers, they said they were going to relocate the snake away from the picnic area.
Another snake encounter was at Pequop Summit in Nevada. As I was climbing up the side of the hill to get to Stewart's original vantage point, I heard the distinctive rattle of a rattlesnake. I didn't see the snake, but the rattling told me to beware. I turned around and opted for a lower position. Another rattler encounter was at the Tie House mine near Valmy, Nevada. Two of the managers from the mining company accompanied me to the photo site and they directed me away from one area that they said was a nest of rattlers.
When walking through snake friendly environments, my eyes scan the area to make sure our paths don't cross.
Insects are another common encounter. On one summer photo excursion in Missouri, I wore shorts and Teva sandals. A few hours into the day I discovered my legs had been eaten alive by chiggers. I learned the hard way to always wear long pants and tall socks.
At Black Rock by the Great Salt Lake, the brine flies(?) have been at times so intense as to force me back to the car.
Gnats, ticks and mosquitoes are common throughout the length of the highway and when I'm working in grassy areas, deet sprays come out.
At Little Savage Mountain in Maryland, I saw a very large black or dark brown cat that was about 3 feet in length. I thought it was a dog at first but when I drove by I saw it was definitely feline. I have no idea what kind of cat that could have been.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
I'm back!
After a long hiatus, I've decided to resume this blog. After attending the SCA conference in April, I've been very motivated to get my Route house in order. I've been working on many web site updates (www.route40.net) as well as getting my George Stewart rephotography project closer to completion.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Valhalla Motel
Back in the 1960s when my parents would take us out on the road, we usually stayed at smaller independent motels. This was way before the proliferation of chain motels. In those days, indy motels were usually safe, clean and comfortable. During our travels we probably stayed at more than a hundred indy motels. As with so many things in life, the memories of the nice motels have faded yet those of the dumps remain vivid.
I’m guessing that the year was 1966 and our family was traveling from Baltimore to DeLand, Florida to visit my grandparents. On our second day of travel we on Route 301 were somewhere in Georgia and eager to find a place to stay. Dusk was rapidly descending and motel vacancy signs were not to be found. At long last, we finally stumbled upon a place with room for the seven of us – the Valhalla Motel.
My parents checked in and they were so eager for a room they forwent the nicety of first inspecting the room. The sight that greeted us when we opened the door is one that remains with us today. The room was quite small with barely enough room around the two double beds. The bathroom was tiny and despite the assurance of the sanitary seat wrapper the place was scary. Perhaps the most alarming thing for us was that there were shards from a shattered mirror scattered around the floor. We alerted the motel manager when he brought over the crib and roll-away cot.
We went out to get some dinner at a nice Southern restaurant a few miles up the road. I distinctly remember the gingham table cloths and curtains.
When we returned to the motel, the seven of us squeezed into the tiny room. If you can imagine a motel version of a clown car, you would have a good idea of what it was like. Actually, a better image is one of those number puzzles where you slide tiles around – in order for one person to move from point A to point B everyone had to shift around. One by one we eventually made our way to the bathroom with my mother cautioning us to not touch anything.
Bedtime arrived and we rolled in the crib and unfolded the cot consuming every last bit of floor space in the room. Heaven help anyone that needed to get up in the middle of the night! When settled into our beds, my brother Ray discovered the bed was damp. The window air conditioner was backed up and instead of dripping condensation outside, it was flowing back into the room and onto the foot of the bed. The lights went out and we did our best to get a good night’s sleep.
In the morning we quickly gathered our things and piled them into the station wagon. We were eager to be rid of the Valhalla Motel. Almost as soon as we were on our way we all started laughing about how awful that motel had been. In later years whenever we drove through Georgia, someone would eventually suggest staying at the Valhalla.
There are many factors that have contributed to the demise of independent motels. Perhaps the greatest is the risk of ending up at a place like the Valhalla. The chains, while more expensive, offered consistency and guaranteed cleanliness and comfort. We continued to stay at indy motels on our trips, but we also started staying at Holiday Inns, Ramadas and Howard Johnsons more frequently.
I often wonder whatever became of the Valhalla Motel. I’m not even sure in what it was located. I’ve searched the Internet and looked for vintage postcards on eBay. So far my search has come up dry. My guess is that the Valhalla Motel is now a monthly apartment strips like so many other indy motels.
I’m guessing that the year was 1966 and our family was traveling from Baltimore to DeLand, Florida to visit my grandparents. On our second day of travel we on Route 301 were somewhere in Georgia and eager to find a place to stay. Dusk was rapidly descending and motel vacancy signs were not to be found. At long last, we finally stumbled upon a place with room for the seven of us – the Valhalla Motel.
My parents checked in and they were so eager for a room they forwent the nicety of first inspecting the room. The sight that greeted us when we opened the door is one that remains with us today. The room was quite small with barely enough room around the two double beds. The bathroom was tiny and despite the assurance of the sanitary seat wrapper the place was scary. Perhaps the most alarming thing for us was that there were shards from a shattered mirror scattered around the floor. We alerted the motel manager when he brought over the crib and roll-away cot.
We went out to get some dinner at a nice Southern restaurant a few miles up the road. I distinctly remember the gingham table cloths and curtains.
When we returned to the motel, the seven of us squeezed into the tiny room. If you can imagine a motel version of a clown car, you would have a good idea of what it was like. Actually, a better image is one of those number puzzles where you slide tiles around – in order for one person to move from point A to point B everyone had to shift around. One by one we eventually made our way to the bathroom with my mother cautioning us to not touch anything.
Bedtime arrived and we rolled in the crib and unfolded the cot consuming every last bit of floor space in the room. Heaven help anyone that needed to get up in the middle of the night! When settled into our beds, my brother Ray discovered the bed was damp. The window air conditioner was backed up and instead of dripping condensation outside, it was flowing back into the room and onto the foot of the bed. The lights went out and we did our best to get a good night’s sleep.
In the morning we quickly gathered our things and piled them into the station wagon. We were eager to be rid of the Valhalla Motel. Almost as soon as we were on our way we all started laughing about how awful that motel had been. In later years whenever we drove through Georgia, someone would eventually suggest staying at the Valhalla.
There are many factors that have contributed to the demise of independent motels. Perhaps the greatest is the risk of ending up at a place like the Valhalla. The chains, while more expensive, offered consistency and guaranteed cleanliness and comfort. We continued to stay at indy motels on our trips, but we also started staying at Holiday Inns, Ramadas and Howard Johnsons more frequently.
I often wonder whatever became of the Valhalla Motel. I’m not even sure in what it was located. I’ve searched the Internet and looked for vintage postcards on eBay. So far my search has come up dry. My guess is that the Valhalla Motel is now a monthly apartment strips like so many other indy motels.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Grand Road Trip of 1972
When I was a child my parents would load me and my four siblings into the back of the old Plymouth station wagon and would spend an amazing amount of time exploring the country. About half of the time we headed south from Baltimore to visit my grandparents in Florida. The other half of the time we would venture west, typically to South Dakota or Colorado where we lived in the late 1950s and early 1960s.
One vacation stands out as the grandest of them all. In 1972, my parents announced that they wanted to travel west that summer. I was 16 at the time and eager for them to travel as much of Route 40 as possible. They, on the other hand, wanted to visit the Black Hills region of South Dakota. In an amazing offer, my parents decided to do both. Our plans were to drive through the upper Midwest and visit South Dakota, Wyoming and then swing south to Salt Lake City and then along Route 40 to Denver. Afterwards, we would follow I-80 east to Omaha and spend time with my aunt and uncle.
We departed Baltimore in late June and followed I-70 (or as much of it that was open) to the Pennsylvania Turnpike. We spent the night along the Turnpike somewhere, most likely Breezewood. We typically began our roadtrips late in the afternoon on my dad’s last day of work. This gave us a bit of a head start on our journey. Day two (actually the first full day of the roadtrip took us across the Midwest toll roads and into Chicago. We ended up in Rockford, Illinois. Along the way we were told to keep an eye out for billboards with discount rates. We ended up at a real dive of a motel, one that usually rented rooms by the hour.
Day three found us traversing southern Wisconsin and a side trip to the Dells. We spent two days there taking in the river geology and the tourist traps. The highpoint of the trip was watching a dog leap from one stone pillar to another.
On the fifth day we drove across Minnesota. I-90 was nowhere near complete and most of the day was spent in crawling traffic jams. We’d jump on the Interstate and then jump off where we encountered an incomplete section. Our mileage wasn’t so great that day as we only made it as far as Luverne. I remember eating dinner at a great family style restaurant called something like the Blue Mounds Inn.
On day six we finally arrived in the Badlands. We stayed at a small motel near Interior. I remember there were a few taco stands nearby run by folks probably from the nearby Rosebud Reservation. I had really wanted to visit Wounded Knee, but that was too far out of the way.
After a two night stay in the Badlands we drove west to Rapid City. The city had just experienced a devastating flood and we had considered bypassing the city. My parents had read in the newspaper that the devastation wasn’t that bad and that the city was urging tourists to come. So we did. When we arrived, we found parts of the city in ruin. We stayed in a funky little motel south of town. The place was actually a bunch of plain looking cabins. Us kids had one cabin and my folks were in another – a rare treat for all! There, we saw the usual tourist spots – Mount Rushmore, Crazy Horse and the Stratobowl. One of my vivid memories was eating at a restaurant amid the flood devastation and having one of the best hamburgers of my life. I remember my brother Ray ordering his requisite fried chicken dinner.
Two days later we headed south to Custer State Park where we rented a great rustic cabin. It was quite luxurious as cabins go. The weather was quite cool and in the morning we had to wipe frost off the windshields. The high point of this region was hiring a guy who had an old Army jeep who would take us out to see the buffalo herds. All seven of us climbed into the jeep and headed off. We got to see the ruins from the movie How the West Was Won before encountering a massive buffalo herd. It was an amazing sight.
Two days later we headed west once again with Devil’s Tower as our target. As kids we really had little interest in Devil’s Tower, but my mom was insistent that we see it. I’m glad she did because the formation remains one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen. Only the Grand Canyon beats Devil’s Tower for sheer natural beauty. It is important to mention that my mom was really into nature hikes and us kids were, shall we say, less so. For a few days my mom had been reading about the great walk around the base of Devil’s Tower. When we arrived, us kids were so excited and raring to go. But, my mom begged out of the hike and instead we just headed back to the car. We drove on to Sheridan and spent the night in a motel on the main street. I remember being impressed with the number of people wearing cowboy hats.
The next day we followed Route 14 west into Yellowstone where we rented a cabin for four days. The park was in the midst of its centennial and my mom was so excited to be there. We did some extensive auto touring of the park visiting all of the main attractions except for the area around Mammoth. We also took a day trip to the Tetons.
After Yellowstone we drove southwest through Idaho with Salt Lake City as our destination for two days. I tried to convince my parents that while we were in Salt Lake City we should drive west to Wendover. The idea of driving across the salt flats was not appealing to him and instead we ventured to Promontory Point north of the lake. During the way in and the way out I was mesmerized at the abandoned railroad right of ways that had been part of the original 1869 transcontinental railroad. I remember my dad commenting about how the drive to Promontory was the most remote driving he had ever done. In Salt Lake City we stayed at the Motel 6, a real treat for us kids. Again, we got our own room and the motel had a nice pool. The first night in town my parents took us to the bus station to eat dinner. It had a nice, immaculately clean luncheon counter and the prices were right in line with what my folks had budgeted. We did make one gaff when we ordered Cokes and cups of coffee in this caffeine-free city. We were stared down by the locals and our waitress informed us that they didn’t serve those products.
On our second day in the city we saw the Mormon sights and for a treat we went swimming at Black Rock beach. Back then the lake was a popular swimming destination. We all experienced the unsinkable water and headed back to the city for a Fourth of July fireworks celebration at a minor league ballpark. It was a fun night, but I remember a couple of the fireworks descended too fast and landed in the stadium stands.
Next, we piled into the station wagon and drove east along Route 40. This was the part of the trip for which I had been most excited. I sat in the back of the station wagon with photocopies of George Stewart’s book U.S. 40, hoping to catch glimpses of the scenes from the book. We stayed in Vernal for two nights with the Dine-A-Ville Motel as our accommodations. We took a trip up to Dinosaur National Monument and saw the archeological excavations underway. After leaving Vernal, I returned to the rear of the station wagon and mentally recorded the scenes passing bay. Despite my preparations, I only witnessed one scene from Stewart’s book – where the highway crosses from Utah into Colorado.
That night we arrived in Denver and stayed once again at the Motel Six at 6th Avenue and Wadsworth, where we had stayed four years earlier. It felt great to be back in Lakewood and our family spent a lot of time visiting with old friends. We went to the old house on Reed Court, but my childhood buddy Louie Walker was not home. We also stopped by St. Bernadette’s the church we attended and where I went to first grade. I also recall wandering around the foothills and even taking a trip to Lookout Mountain, one of my dad’s favorite places to view the city. My mom took a great photo of my dad standing on a promontory at Lookout Mountain gazing into the high plains before him.
After a few days in Denver we realized our grand vacation was coming to a close. Although I had tried to convince my folks to head east on Route 40, they decided to following I-80 instead. I think their miserable experience four years earlier (the subject of another posting later on) made them realize I-80 was the faster and more reliable way to go. Besides, we all wanted to visit my aunt, uncle and cousins in Omaha. There, I remember my Uncle Joe taking us to the Union Pacific Museum.
The drive home from Omaha, as were the tail ends of our big road trips, quieter than when we began. We were road weary and anxious to return home. I was once again in my usual perch, sitting directly behind my mother with the metal Thermos cooler in front of me. I quietly followed our progress on the road maps. We stayed in Elkhart, Indiana that night and the next day would be our last on the road. Usually, when we were driving east from Omaha we would spend one last night at the Holiday Inn on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. On this trip, though, my dad pushed on through and we arrived home in Baltimore late that night.
The 1972 trip was one I will never forget. It was the zenith of our family’s roadtripping days. We spent more than three weeks on the road and barely stayed anywhere more than two nights. A lot of people thought my parents crazy for taking five kids out on the road for so long. To us, thought, it was second nature. That’s the way we had been raised – and one of the reasons why I enjoy roadtrips as an adult. Perhaps, I am trying to relive parts of my childhood.
One vacation stands out as the grandest of them all. In 1972, my parents announced that they wanted to travel west that summer. I was 16 at the time and eager for them to travel as much of Route 40 as possible. They, on the other hand, wanted to visit the Black Hills region of South Dakota. In an amazing offer, my parents decided to do both. Our plans were to drive through the upper Midwest and visit South Dakota, Wyoming and then swing south to Salt Lake City and then along Route 40 to Denver. Afterwards, we would follow I-80 east to Omaha and spend time with my aunt and uncle.
We departed Baltimore in late June and followed I-70 (or as much of it that was open) to the Pennsylvania Turnpike. We spent the night along the Turnpike somewhere, most likely Breezewood. We typically began our roadtrips late in the afternoon on my dad’s last day of work. This gave us a bit of a head start on our journey. Day two (actually the first full day of the roadtrip took us across the Midwest toll roads and into Chicago. We ended up in Rockford, Illinois. Along the way we were told to keep an eye out for billboards with discount rates. We ended up at a real dive of a motel, one that usually rented rooms by the hour.
Day three found us traversing southern Wisconsin and a side trip to the Dells. We spent two days there taking in the river geology and the tourist traps. The highpoint of the trip was watching a dog leap from one stone pillar to another.
On the fifth day we drove across Minnesota. I-90 was nowhere near complete and most of the day was spent in crawling traffic jams. We’d jump on the Interstate and then jump off where we encountered an incomplete section. Our mileage wasn’t so great that day as we only made it as far as Luverne. I remember eating dinner at a great family style restaurant called something like the Blue Mounds Inn.
On day six we finally arrived in the Badlands. We stayed at a small motel near Interior. I remember there were a few taco stands nearby run by folks probably from the nearby Rosebud Reservation. I had really wanted to visit Wounded Knee, but that was too far out of the way.
After a two night stay in the Badlands we drove west to Rapid City. The city had just experienced a devastating flood and we had considered bypassing the city. My parents had read in the newspaper that the devastation wasn’t that bad and that the city was urging tourists to come. So we did. When we arrived, we found parts of the city in ruin. We stayed in a funky little motel south of town. The place was actually a bunch of plain looking cabins. Us kids had one cabin and my folks were in another – a rare treat for all! There, we saw the usual tourist spots – Mount Rushmore, Crazy Horse and the Stratobowl. One of my vivid memories was eating at a restaurant amid the flood devastation and having one of the best hamburgers of my life. I remember my brother Ray ordering his requisite fried chicken dinner.
Two days later we headed south to Custer State Park where we rented a great rustic cabin. It was quite luxurious as cabins go. The weather was quite cool and in the morning we had to wipe frost off the windshields. The high point of this region was hiring a guy who had an old Army jeep who would take us out to see the buffalo herds. All seven of us climbed into the jeep and headed off. We got to see the ruins from the movie How the West Was Won before encountering a massive buffalo herd. It was an amazing sight.
Two days later we headed west once again with Devil’s Tower as our target. As kids we really had little interest in Devil’s Tower, but my mom was insistent that we see it. I’m glad she did because the formation remains one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen. Only the Grand Canyon beats Devil’s Tower for sheer natural beauty. It is important to mention that my mom was really into nature hikes and us kids were, shall we say, less so. For a few days my mom had been reading about the great walk around the base of Devil’s Tower. When we arrived, us kids were so excited and raring to go. But, my mom begged out of the hike and instead we just headed back to the car. We drove on to Sheridan and spent the night in a motel on the main street. I remember being impressed with the number of people wearing cowboy hats.
The next day we followed Route 14 west into Yellowstone where we rented a cabin for four days. The park was in the midst of its centennial and my mom was so excited to be there. We did some extensive auto touring of the park visiting all of the main attractions except for the area around Mammoth. We also took a day trip to the Tetons.
After Yellowstone we drove southwest through Idaho with Salt Lake City as our destination for two days. I tried to convince my parents that while we were in Salt Lake City we should drive west to Wendover. The idea of driving across the salt flats was not appealing to him and instead we ventured to Promontory Point north of the lake. During the way in and the way out I was mesmerized at the abandoned railroad right of ways that had been part of the original 1869 transcontinental railroad. I remember my dad commenting about how the drive to Promontory was the most remote driving he had ever done. In Salt Lake City we stayed at the Motel 6, a real treat for us kids. Again, we got our own room and the motel had a nice pool. The first night in town my parents took us to the bus station to eat dinner. It had a nice, immaculately clean luncheon counter and the prices were right in line with what my folks had budgeted. We did make one gaff when we ordered Cokes and cups of coffee in this caffeine-free city. We were stared down by the locals and our waitress informed us that they didn’t serve those products.
On our second day in the city we saw the Mormon sights and for a treat we went swimming at Black Rock beach. Back then the lake was a popular swimming destination. We all experienced the unsinkable water and headed back to the city for a Fourth of July fireworks celebration at a minor league ballpark. It was a fun night, but I remember a couple of the fireworks descended too fast and landed in the stadium stands.
Next, we piled into the station wagon and drove east along Route 40. This was the part of the trip for which I had been most excited. I sat in the back of the station wagon with photocopies of George Stewart’s book U.S. 40, hoping to catch glimpses of the scenes from the book. We stayed in Vernal for two nights with the Dine-A-Ville Motel as our accommodations. We took a trip up to Dinosaur National Monument and saw the archeological excavations underway. After leaving Vernal, I returned to the rear of the station wagon and mentally recorded the scenes passing bay. Despite my preparations, I only witnessed one scene from Stewart’s book – where the highway crosses from Utah into Colorado.
That night we arrived in Denver and stayed once again at the Motel Six at 6th Avenue and Wadsworth, where we had stayed four years earlier. It felt great to be back in Lakewood and our family spent a lot of time visiting with old friends. We went to the old house on Reed Court, but my childhood buddy Louie Walker was not home. We also stopped by St. Bernadette’s the church we attended and where I went to first grade. I also recall wandering around the foothills and even taking a trip to Lookout Mountain, one of my dad’s favorite places to view the city. My mom took a great photo of my dad standing on a promontory at Lookout Mountain gazing into the high plains before him.
After a few days in Denver we realized our grand vacation was coming to a close. Although I had tried to convince my folks to head east on Route 40, they decided to following I-80 instead. I think their miserable experience four years earlier (the subject of another posting later on) made them realize I-80 was the faster and more reliable way to go. Besides, we all wanted to visit my aunt, uncle and cousins in Omaha. There, I remember my Uncle Joe taking us to the Union Pacific Museum.
The drive home from Omaha, as were the tail ends of our big road trips, quieter than when we began. We were road weary and anxious to return home. I was once again in my usual perch, sitting directly behind my mother with the metal Thermos cooler in front of me. I quietly followed our progress on the road maps. We stayed in Elkhart, Indiana that night and the next day would be our last on the road. Usually, when we were driving east from Omaha we would spend one last night at the Holiday Inn on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. On this trip, though, my dad pushed on through and we arrived home in Baltimore late that night.
The 1972 trip was one I will never forget. It was the zenith of our family’s roadtripping days. We spent more than three weeks on the road and barely stayed anywhere more than two nights. A lot of people thought my parents crazy for taking five kids out on the road for so long. To us, thought, it was second nature. That’s the way we had been raised – and one of the reasons why I enjoy roadtrips as an adult. Perhaps, I am trying to relive parts of my childhood.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
My Fascination with Route 40
I was born just a few weeks before Dwight Eisenhower signed legislation creating the Interstate Highway system. So from a chronological point of view I was born before the Interstates. My parents relocated between Baltimore and Denver four times by the time I was seven years old and in addition we engaged in lengthy summer automobile vacations. By the time I was old enough to drive I was well educated in the fine art of road tripping.
In 1966 I discovered U.S. 40 by George R. Stewart. In that book I recognized familiar scenes along the highway. At that time there was very little hype about Route 66 (other than the TV series) and Stewart’s book provided me with a scholarly examination of a highway along which I had always lived. Stewart’s photographs and accompanying essays were mesmerizing and I spent many a lazy afternoon with that book in hand taking imaginary trips across the country on Route 40.
When I was old enough to drive – and able to afford road trips – I often choose Route 40 as both my path and my destination. I had Stewart’s book forever etched into my memory and I sought out the places depicted in the book and, of course, those in between. For the past 30 years I have racked tens of thousands of miles revisiting each of Stewart’s scenes and documenting them as I saw them.
In my years of traveling the highway I have experienced, as Stewart so aptly described it, a cross section of the United States. Traveling along the highway provides an excellent way, if not the best, to see the country firsthand. The varying landscapes and the myriad of cultures along Route 40 are something that no other highway in America provides. While there are certainly more celebrated highways in America, none compare to Route 40. It is an honest, unpretentious and hard working road. Even the flash of Nevada’s casinos seem like old friends as I drive by.
It took the Internet for me to discover that I was not alone in my obsession with Route 40. Through that medium I have been able to discover scores of likeminded soles with a passion for that highway. And one of my goals is to ensure that future generations with have knowledge about and an appreciation for the greatest highway in America.
In 1966 I discovered U.S. 40 by George R. Stewart. In that book I recognized familiar scenes along the highway. At that time there was very little hype about Route 66 (other than the TV series) and Stewart’s book provided me with a scholarly examination of a highway along which I had always lived. Stewart’s photographs and accompanying essays were mesmerizing and I spent many a lazy afternoon with that book in hand taking imaginary trips across the country on Route 40.
When I was old enough to drive – and able to afford road trips – I often choose Route 40 as both my path and my destination. I had Stewart’s book forever etched into my memory and I sought out the places depicted in the book and, of course, those in between. For the past 30 years I have racked tens of thousands of miles revisiting each of Stewart’s scenes and documenting them as I saw them.
In my years of traveling the highway I have experienced, as Stewart so aptly described it, a cross section of the United States. Traveling along the highway provides an excellent way, if not the best, to see the country firsthand. The varying landscapes and the myriad of cultures along Route 40 are something that no other highway in America provides. While there are certainly more celebrated highways in America, none compare to Route 40. It is an honest, unpretentious and hard working road. Even the flash of Nevada’s casinos seem like old friends as I drive by.
It took the Internet for me to discover that I was not alone in my obsession with Route 40. Through that medium I have been able to discover scores of likeminded soles with a passion for that highway. And one of my goals is to ensure that future generations with have knowledge about and an appreciation for the greatest highway in America.
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