Across the Continent by the Lincoln Highway

by Effie Price Gladding

CHAPTER XIII

The Lincoln Highway is destined to be a much-traveled road. Already the motorists of the West are turning the hoods of their motor cars to face the East and the motorists of the East are starting Westward. Happy is the man who has his hotel or inn situated on the road marked by the red, white, and blue. The traveler is bound to come his way, and the traveler is bound to alight at his door if only he has something to offer that is worthy of the name of hospitality. But he can no longer afford to be careless. There is an unwritten rule of the open road which reads that the traveler shall tell his fellow traveler of places at which to halt and of places to avoid. It is inevitable that in the course of a short time the slovenly and careless inn-keeper must be supplanted by a better man.

The tourist does not enjoy looking out of his hotel window on piles of old tin cans and heaps of barrel staves and discarded packing boxes. Nor does he enjoy looking at mounds of ashes, and quantities of vegetable parings. He will not long endure a soiled table cloth, horrible green tea, and indifferently cooked food. Nor will he endure a lack of hot water and utterly careless sanitary arrangements. He may say little about them to the landlord who entertains his party, but he will very soon see to it that better inns take the place of the old ones of careless and indifferent management. The hotel keeper congratulates himself that his open door looks out on the Lincoln Highway, and that his own sign proudly bears the three distinguishing bars of red, white, and blue. He must have more than this to make his inn a success. It is surprising how fast the news of a clean, well kept inn, with excellently cooked food, travels from mouth to mouth.

In France there is a roll of honour for inn-keepers under the direction, if I mistake not, of the Touring Club of France. Only those inn-keepers whose houses and whose tables attain a certain standard, not of style but of simple cleanliness and of wholesome excellence of food, are admitted to this company. I have seen the certificate of the roll of honour hanging on the walls of more than one country inn in France.

It is to the credit of the many places in which we halted for the night that in only one did we find conditions impossible. We slept in a rather indifferent bed-chamber, having reached the inn late. But when we saw the dining-room the following morning, we paid our bill and fled; driving on twenty miles farther for a late breakfast. Surely the average commercial man of the United States who travels in country districts year in and year out must have a charméd digestion and an iron-clad constitution. He may well rejoice that the days of motoring have come, for with the motorist is coming not only the broad Highway, but the clean and comfortable inn. Not necessarily the fashionable hotel, with its expensive and extravagant accessories; but the clean, immaculately kept country inn, with its excellent cooking of the abundant food in which our country is so rich. Perhaps we shall need to import some Swiss inn-keeper to tell us how to do it. Whether we do or do not, the man who knows how and the man who is willing to live up to his knowledge will inevitably displace the inn-keeper who is careless and indifferent. The biggest bid for a motor tourist is a clean bed-chamber, a comfortable bed, and a well cooked though simple dinner.

If I were crossing the Lincoln Highway again I should take with me a spirit lamp, a little sauce pan, some boxes of biscuits, some excellent tea, some cocoa and other supplies. Not that this is a necessity. But it would be very pleasant to have a luncheon or a cup of afternoon tea al fresco, now and then.

For our own comfort and convenience we laid down for ourselves certain rules of the road.

First: We did not wear our good clothes. The long, dusty journeys are very hard upon clothing, and for a lady a comfortable light weight tweed suit with plenty of washable blouses with rolling collars, covered by an ample motor coat, gives the greatest comfort and satisfaction. The dust of the plains is ground into one's clothing and one should be ready for this. The requirements of the hotels along the road are very simple, and a fresh blouse will usually be all that is needed. We took care to use only such dust robes to cover our luggage as could not be injured by the wear and tear of the journey. We did not take with us our best rugs and robes.

Second: We did not travel by night. We found it very delightful to travel in the late afternoon, when the lights were particularly fine, but we avoided as much as possible traveling late into the evening. In this way one does not miss the scenery of the country, and one is not over fatigued. We found that when we were obliged to arrive late at our inn, it was wiser to eat supper at the proper supper hour wherever that might find us.

Third: We did not as a rule travel on Sunday. Partly because we wished to attend church in whatever town we might be, partly because we found ourselves fresher for enjoyment and sight-seeing after the rest and quiet of a day.

Fourth: We resolved at the outset to take the days and the roads as they came; not looking for luxury and well satisfied with simplicity. It is surprising how one is fortified for the vicissitudes of the road by such a deliberate attitude of mind.

The Lincoln Highway is not as yet a road for those motorists who wish only luxurious hotels, frequent stops, and all the cushioned comfort of the much-traveled main roads of the favorite tourist parts of Europe. It is, however, perfectly practicable in its entire length of 3200 miles, and rich in interest and charm for those who care for what it has to give.

We drove a Studebaker car as far as Denver and a Franklin car from Denver to New York. In all the distance traversed we were not conscious of braving any dangers or of taking any particular risks.