One of the all-absorbing pleasures in contemplating a long trip is to map out your route. You hear how all your friends have gone, or their friends, then you load up with maps and folders, especially those published by all the auto firms and tire companies, you pore over the Blue Book of the current year, and generally end by going the way you want to go, through the cities where you have friends or special interests. This is exactly what we did. As the trip was to be taken in mid-summer, we concluded to take a northern route from Chicago, via Milwaukee, St. Paul, Fargo, Billings, Yellowstone Park, Salt Lake City, Ogden, Reno, Sacramento, to San Francisco (see map), and, strange to relate, we followed out the tour as we had planned it. With the exception of a few hot days in the larger cities and on the plains, and, of course, in the desert, we justified our decision. As I have stated, we drove 4154 miles, through sixteen states and the Yellowstone Park, in thirty-three running days, and the trip took just seven weeks to the day, including seventeen days spent in various cities, where we rested and enjoyed the sights. As time was of no special object, and we were not attempting to break any records, we felt free to start and stop when we felt inclined to do so; on only two mornings did we start before nine-thirty, and seldom drove later than seven in the evening. In so doing, we made a pleasure of the trip and not a duty, and avoided any unusual fatigue. The first evening we reached Easton, Pennsylvania. We were glad to get into the comfortable Huntington Hotel out of the wet, and enjoyed a good dinner and a night’s rest. We followed the Lincoln Highway to Pittsburgh, and have only praise to offer for the condition of the road and the beauty of the small towns through which we went. Of all the states that we crossed, Pennsylvania stands out _par excellence_ in good roads, clean, attractive towns, beautiful farming country and fruit belts, and well-built, up-to-date farm buildings. In other states we found many such farms, but in Pennsylvania it was exceptional to find a poor, tumble-down farmhouse or barn. The whole state had an air of thrift and prosperity, and every little home was surrounded by fine trees, flowers, and a well-kept _vegetable garden_. The worst bugbear of the motorist are the detours. Just why the road commissioners choose the height of the motoring season to tear up the main highways and work the roads has always been a mystery to me, and I have never heard any logical solution of it. We were often told that no work to speak of had been done on the state roads through the country during the war, and in many places the heavy army trucks had cut up the good roads until the ruts left turtle-backed ridges in the center, not at all pleasant to bob along on. But, in view of what we encountered later in our trip, I look back on the Pennsylvania roads as one of the high spots and pleasures, never to be undervalued.