If my memory is correct, it’s at least 2400 miles from here to Santa Monica.
That doesn’t sound that far. Unless you’re on foot.
None of Route 66 exists yet. In Illinois, I stand with Lake Michigan at my back and face an expanse of tallgrass prairie that’s pretty much the limit of attractions—at least until I cross the Mississippi River, in the vicinity of where St. Louis will be some day.
It’s difficult to judge how far off-target the Chronos Device dropped me. I haven’t seen any indigenous people at all. At least a millennium too soon?
Inspired by Friday Fictioneers prompt for this week: