A friend commented the other day that she thought it was very telling that my motorcycle was sitting out at the end of the driveway -- just past the camper. She said it was as if I was saying "I'm ready to roll!" or "I've got to get away!" -- or something of that nature. And she was right. There is no doubt that I was born to travel.

And why not? There is so much "out there" for us to see. I make no apologies for the fact that I love to just get up and go.

Recently the going has been short distances. We've taken the new pop-up trailer to "campsites" as close as the driveway and as far away as Eureka, Missouri, but we've yet to leave the state.

That will soon change, I'm sure.

Don't ask me which has been my favorite trip. I couldn't begin to choose. They've all produced their own special memories. They've all had their own awesome sights. They've all left me with a sense of wonder about something seen or experienced.

In Seattle, we visited the Space Needle and Pike Street Market and watched the ships sail through the sound.

In California, we walked amongst the towering Redwoods and along the rocky seashore.

In Arizona, we stood on the edge of nature's own handiwork -- the river and wind carved Grand Canyon. And on a side trip, we walked a portion of old Route 66 through the heart of a burg named Williams.

In Utah, we stared up with awe at the walls and canyons of Zion National Park and gazed for hours down into the orange spires of Bryce Canyon.

In South Dakota, we slid through the Badlands on our way to the granite spires and rocky portraits of the Black Hills, followed closely by a thousand roaring motorcycles on their way to Sturgis.

In Minnesota, we swam in an ice cold, crystal clear glacier lake and listened to loons make their mournful cries in the dim light of cool mornings.

In the Great Smoky Mountains, we floated white water and crossed the Blue Ridge Parkway where it divides the Appalachian Range and separates Tennessee and North Carolina.

In Kentucky we saw the world's largest baseball bat and learned how real Kentucky bourbon is made.

In Colorado, we crested high mountain passes and floated white water streams and climbed to places where Native Americans, long ago, built rock houses beneath massive rock overhangs and against shear cliffs.

In Nebraska -- yes, Nebraska -- we learned more about a man named Cody and got a look into his home life.

In Montana, we visited the prairie battlefield where the ghosts of U.S. Cavalry soldiers and Sioux warriors -- and their wives and families -- can still be heard whispering through the tall grass.

In Oregon we had a snowball fight with the kids' grandparents on the upper shoulder of Mount Hood -- and on the Fourth of July, no less.

Who knows where we'll turn up next? No matter where we go, you can bet we'll find something interesting and exciting.