The long way ...

A sample conversation from the week before I left Salt Lake:

Q. So, when do you go back to D.C.?
A. Friday.
Q. Are you flying or driving?
A. Driving.
Q. What route are you taking?
A. The long way.
Q. (Pause)
A. My Dad does not like to take the same road more than once. And he has moved me between Utah and D.C. four times before now. So he gets creative.
Q. Oh, so your Dad is driving with you?
A. Yes. And my Mom.
Q. Are your parents retired?
A. No. My Dad just likes to drive. Or so he says. He possibly just finds me incompetent to make my way across the nation without parental assistance.
Q. (Slight pause.) So how long will it take?
A. Well you can do it in three days. But we are taking six.
Q. And where are you stopping?
A. Here. (In reverse order. Apparently I am also incompetent at downloading photos.)

Duke Campus, on the last day of the trip, which turned out to be Honor the Siblings Day. Autumn has a bit of a thing for Duke, and we also visited Roman's favorite pizza place in Richmond. Which, for the record, was delicious.

At Biltmore, the Vanderbilt Mansion in North Carolina. Now, I really like my Dad. But I am pretty sure I could like him every bit as much with the last name Vanderbilt.

We spent a day in the Smoky Mountains, which my Dad informed us is the most visited National Park. This trail ends at the highest point of the Smoky Mountains and the Appalachian Trail. That makes this the highest cartwheel in the Smoky Mountains and on the Appalachian Trail. My mother mentioned that antics like this could contribute to my less-than-stellar dating record. I asked her what man would not want a cartwheeling almost-attorney. That pretty much ended the conversation.

We saw a bear.

New pose.

We like Christmas. So we visited this little Christmas store.

We took a long, long, long and very windy road through rural Kentucky, arriving at our hotel after dark. Had we not stopped there we would have missed this beautiful lake.

Dad in Mammoth Cave, the longest (discovered) cave in the world.

In Hannibal, Missouri, where Mark Twain grew up.