There was something about crossing into Kentucky that felt like a big shift to me—leaving the east coast, with its familiar culture, into new territory. The last time I traveled across the country by car, I was 19. I spent a summer on an archaeological dig at the Salmon River Ruins, in the four corners region of New Mexico. A life altering experience, but I remember little about the trip out, other than that we did it in three days.

I decided to drive the same route that Russ was cycling, so I entered KY on the back roads, through towns named Wolf Pit, Marrowbone, and Greasy Creek. I’ve discovered, in these small towns, that “Baptist” isn’t just one kind of church: in one town, you’ll find Baptist, Old Regular Baptist, Freewill Baptist, and Old Fashion Freewill Baptist just blocks apart, along with a sprinkling of Pentecostal and Methodist churches, not to mention churches who don’t seem to be affiliated with any denomination known to me.

Somewhere west of London the mountains started to break apart, and there was rolling valley land again, instead of just narrow defiles between the peaks. Oddly, that was the moment my cell service disappeared, so I had to abandon the back roads and their uncertainties for I-75 north to Berea. Fortunately, there was a sign for my campground on the highway, and it was easily found. This is an RV park, not the sort of thing I prefer (I didn’t hit the road to be shoehorned in with dozens of 40 foot motorhomes), but there isn’t much camping near Berea, and I really wanted to visit the town and all of its arts and crafts offerings.

Which I plan to do starting tomorrow!