Atticus   

Right now I’m typing this entry via a wireless Internet connection while sitting at a pressboard desk smaller than a coffee table at an AmericInn in Mitchell, S.D. My friend Steve, only 10 feet away in one of two queen-sized beds, fell sound asleep about five minutes after closing his eyes.

Not surprising. Pretty much all we’ve done the previous day and a half is drive. And drive. And drive.

He and I left Atlanta at 4:30 p.m. EDT Tuesday on a cross-country journey by car to Portland, Ore., where on Monday I will fly back to Atlanta and leave him to start his new life in the Pacific Northwest.

We spent last night at a Best Western on the outskirts of Paducah, Ky., before driving more than 14 hours today through St. Louis, Kansas City, St. Joseph, Sioux City and Sioux Falls.

Some may wonder why our route isn’t leading us toward Denver. It’s because we charted a northerly route through areas of America neither of us has seen.

I wish I could tell you I have some awe-inspiring images to post, but I’ve yet to snap a single shot since we departed.

I haven’t had time. (Did I mention the driving?) We wanted to get a jump on the trip to avoid feeling rushed when we reach Mt. Rushmore, Wyoming, Montana and the panhandle of Idaho (or whatever the natives there call it).

I wish I could say that’s the only reason, but it isn’t. The reality is, unless you’re interested in adult bookstores, fireworks stands, casinos and billboards directing you to Jesus, your only other photo ops along Interstates 24, 70 and 29 — aside from the strip malls, fast food chains and convenience stores of Anytown, U.S.A. — are fields.

Missouri especially must have the market cornered on the number of exits at which you can screen a porno, play the slots and secure eternal salvation all within a one or two-mile radius.

More tomorrow. The other bed beckons.