As we cross the Missouri River for the first time at St. Charles, Mo. I give a nod to the Argosy Casino. A few months prior the folks there were kind enough to take a sizeable amount of my cash and hold it for me at no charge. The drive-by reminds me that I owe the place a return visit to recoup my dough.

                When I meet up with the river again at Booneville I notice another casino tucked on her banks. The pattern continues at Kansas City, St. Joseph and Omaha where more casinos rise with their gaudy neon lights and football field size parking lots.

                I suddenly realize that the trail I am blazing is the same as the famed explorers Lewis and Clark. I also theorize that the randy dandies might not have been looking for passage to the Great Northwest but ideal spots to build gaming houses. Even the historical marker signs support this notion; they show silhouettes of the explorers pointing off into the distance and there is always a casino in that direction.

                I chuckle to myself in thinking Trump, not Jefferson, commissioned their adventure. I envision a scenario where Meriwether Lewis gets the “Your Fired” from The Donald because he opted not to site a casino in Plattsmouth, Neb.

                The laugh breaks an eight hour spell of silence startling my copilot who shoots me a glance that says, “The man is deranged.” She cinches her seatbelt tighter.

                By the time we hit the South Dakota border the Big Muddy and I have parted ways. What also has diverged is any premise that casinos need to be located on water. Where the buffalo once roamed in South Dakota and Montana casinos can now be found.

                My favorite is Lucky Lil’s in Billings, Mont. were the owner has folded a gaming room, Conoco station and Arby’s all into one. Copilot and I stopped there to “refresh” and all I can say is that Lil’s wasn’t too lucky for the guy who entered the restroom just as I was finishing my business.

                Another favorite is the Little Bighorn Casino where, I thought, “The red man whipped our shiny asses once and continues to scalp us today.”

                My mind grew weary of casino thoughts but with only 1,000 miles under track and more than twice that to go I had to find more upon which to mull. Copilot was sleeping (or had she died of ennui?) so it was up me to keep myself amused.

                I thought back to the guy at Sapp Bros. truck stop in Sydney, Mo. who clutched a Slim Jim (the kind used to break into cars, not the salted meat snack) in one hand as he waited for the attendant to open a display case that contained brass knuckles. It was a combination that reeked of trouble.

Now most people who buy truck stop souvenirs opt for those little silver spoons or salt and pepper shakers with the names of states on them. Sissy baubles weren’t for a guy, though, he had the look of a trailer park menace and needed accessories to back it up.

                I could only guess that if I ever attended an Ultimate Fighting Challenge cage match I’d run into him again. One more reason to abhor that blood-sport. As he was quickly becoming the Freddy Krueger of my nightmares, I had to switch thoughts.

Thank goodness for the Corn Palace in Mitchell South Dakota to distract me. I really wasn’t sure what the Corn Palace was but the billboards placed every five miles along the road told me it was a must-see, world famous attraction. I’ve never been one to take good advice so when I arrived at the Mitchell exit I screamed passed it.

I did, however, meet someone later on who’d been there. She described it is as an old gymnasium outfitted on its exterior with onion domes and Kremlin-looking minarets. She said tens of thousands of people are suckered into stopping there each year just because of the pestering billboards.

                This turned my thoughts to the Friendly Little City of Pinckneyville which is in the process of creating two museums of Corn Palace caliber for itself. One is for high school basketball and the other is for tractors. I had concerns that anyone would want to visit such placed, but the Palace gave me optimism that Pinckneyville’s attractions just might dupe enough people there to be successful. As lame as they might turn out to be, with enough billboards plastered across the landscape people will pay to see them, the Palace shows.

                With it, Wyoming and most of Montana in my rearview mirror I’m driven to the precipice of a moral dilemma. Somewhere outside of Missoula (a town of hippies and hikers all wearing a three-day grunge) a hitchhiker stands on the side of the highway. He holds a piece of cardboard on which the letters “WWJD” are scrawled.

                Well, I thought, I am accustomed to beggars using their mop-haired children or veteran status to shame pennies out of my pocket, but I always thought the Jesus guilt trip was reserved exclusively for TV evangelists, not wayfarers.

                I was about to hit the brakes when I came to my senses. Jesus didn’t own a 1999 Honda, let alone know how to drive, I rationalized. I put the hammer down on the accelerator and sped on.

                As we descended into the Columbia River gorge in central Washington – beautiful for its vastness – I knew our journey was coming to its end. My copilot began to stir. Thank goodness she hadn’t died. I looked at over at her and gave her a loving smile. “So, what’s new with you,” I asked. “Hurry up and answer. Our final exit is just ahead.”