I'm sure this will come as quite a shock, but not a whole lot more happened in Iowa. Since our caravan had gotten off to a reasonably timely start, we approached the border early in the afternoon, stopping at a rest area for a break about a half hour east of Nebraska. Scott and Patrick chatted in the picnic area, while I took the opportunity to retrieve from beneath the passenger seat the Hershey bar that had fallen down there a few hours earlier. It had, of course, completely liquefied; yet, despite this and despite the open wrapper, the floor of the purple car was completely untouched. Suddenly, it didn't seem so far-fetched for dead baseball players to start popping up in the state's cornfields. (That's really the only claim to fame I thought Iowa had, until learning the day before about its "world's largest truck stop" distinction.)

Anyone looking for a second job?

When Patrick and I resumed our journey, Scott decided to catch up with us later, opting to remain at the rest area to take a nap; for some reason, the four hours of sleep we got the night before weren't enough for him. As the state line approached, Patrick prepared for his second attempt at welcome sign photography. To try to facilitate the effort, when the time came, I slowed down as much as was safely possible on the busy freeway. "Did you get it?" I asked, as we continued past Omaha.

"I got 'BRAS'..." he replied. He did, however, also take a preceding photo that captured the entire sign. Shortly thereafter, I caught sight of an even more welcome sign: "SPEED LIMIT 75." The purple car leapt forward gleefully.

About halfway across Nebraska, I saw the second or third sign by the highway announcing the presence of a Pony Express Station at the next exit, and decided to take a look. We found the small cabin that had been a station for the famous mail service during the year or so that it operated, complete with a display of historical items and, of course, a gift shop. I succumbed to the $1 historical poster recruiting riders (in that I bought it, not that I tried to join the Pony Express), largely on account of the line, "Orphans preferred." I also tried the buffalo jerky and was fairly impressed.

The elusive welcome sign...

...captured at last.

On the way back to the highway, we spied Lasso Espresso and marveled at the fact that it had a drive-through window. Unfortunately, it was closed. Nevertheless, how is it that Gothenburg, Nebraska, population 3,619, has a drive-through espresso place, while I've never seen one in any major city? Further down I-80, there was a sign for yet another; I guess Nebraska's just ahead of the times.

We were trying to make it to 500-some-foot-high Chimney Rock ("a historic Oregon and California trails landmark that signaled the end of the prairies to westward-bound pioneers") by early evening, in time to see it lit up at night. Once we turned off I-80 onto US 26 to head in that direction, we passed through some splendidly scenic areas, which I came to appreciate even more after I confirmed that we were, indeed, on US 26. (There had been a couple of confusing turns, and I've grown accustomed to roads that reassure you every few miles that you're still on the right track, which this one didn't.) The rugged terrain led Patrick to wonder why the westward-bound pioneers didn't realize they were at the end of the prairies by the . . . well, lack of prairies.

Despite the somewhat stressful part of the drive when we had to pass a train that scared deer off the train tracks onto the highway in front of us (it was now dark, incidentally), we did make it to Chimney Rock with plenty of time to admire it, take pictures, and provide nourishment for area mosquitoes. Sometime while we were in the process of doing this, the purple car's "check engine" light came on. I dealt with this by hoping that the car was just tired, and that a good night's rest would solve the problem.

In a nearby town, we found a hotel that was cozy enough, but whose proprietor Patrick was convinced bore an uncanny resemblance to the mother in Psycho; she kept suggesting that we must be tired and would want to go to sleep right away. Instead, we played "Set" until the game got so slow, we probably would've taken five minutes to find a set with three identical cards out, and went to bed. But only after Patrick double checked that every lock and bolt on the door was securely fastened.

Chimney Rock by night