We are almost home, having made it as far as Springfield. I think there's a Springfield in every state in the Lower 48. Here in Oregon's, I'm in the midst of a rush hour strip mall scene, cadging wi-fi from the Super 8 Motel.

From Grants Pass to here has been an uneventful leg. You got your Indian casino in Canyonville (a hoot of a place, excellent restaurant the last time we visited, but no time to stop today); then lots of Roseburg (I think I've pulled in there once in my 28 years in Oregon); then the clean-cut little town of Cottage Grove; then Bluegene. "Elvis's 30 No. 1 Hits" kept the foot on the gas, and now we're in the middle of Otis Clay's brilliant gospel album, "On My Way Home" -- appropriately titled, but he's talking about the Big Home that I hope I'm not going to arrive at for a long while. Somewhere in the car there's a homemade mix tape of the original versions of some obscure soul classics that were later successfully covered by Caucasians; that should wrap it up before we punch up Portland radio.

There's some wind here, but so far it's not living up to the hype. I think this storm may be overblown, if you'll pardon the expression.

The long journey that began before dawn now ends after sunset. Time for a pear, a hunk of dark chocolate, a brief roadside stretch, and ignition.