In January, my friend, Pat, and I took a weekend trip to Fort Boonesborough near Richmond, Ky. We didn’t plan, we didn’t call ahead; we just followed the hood of the car. That’s the way I like to travel – spontaneously.

In other words, dumb.

America has its heroes today, people like Brittany Spears and Paris Hilton, but one of my favorite Americans is Daniel Boone. Dan’l didn’t waste his life chopping wood and cleaning house. He hunted, roamed the countryside and kept his wife Rebecca pregnant.

My hero.

We departed Athens on a cold Saturday morning and drove the backroads to Lynchburg, Tennessee and lunched at BBQ Caboose Café where owners, Ken and Samantha Fly, pick and sing. Afterwards, we toured the Tennessee Walking Horse Museum, I was reminded of how much money I had wasted on those hay-burners years ago until I wised up and began blowing my money on women.

It was dark and 12 degrees when we arrived at Jamestown, Tenn., in Fentress County (population 16,625). “Jim Town,” where it’s said that Mark Twain was conceived, is also where Alvin C. York rode a mule from nearby Pall Mall – at least in the movie – in October 1917 to report for induction. He returned the most decorated hero of World War I.

We stayed in the finest motel in town. The rate was $41, tax included. Two pancake-flat pillows, a thin blanket and cover were on a small bed that tilted head down. I felt like a bat hanging by my feet. By 10 p.m. it was 9 degrees. Fortunately, I had a bed cover in the car trunk, which I had forgotten to drop off at Goodwill. Forgetting the cold, I used it as a pillow to prevent blood from running to my head and causing a stroke.

On Sunday morning we drove to Pall Mall and visited Sergeant York’s tomb and home, which is now a museum, then headed across the mountains (no cars, no stores, no gas) and limped into Monticello, Ky., on fumes. The Force was with us.

The next morning in Richmond, I woke eager to see Fort Boonesborough.

“It’s just a few miles up the interstate,” said the desk clerk.

We headed toward Lexington through rolling pasturelands dotted with old tobacco barns and wooden fences, all painted black for some reason. Gorgeous country.

I spotted the sign. “Fort Boonesborough next exit.”

“Hot dog!” I veered off I-75 and headed east. We saw another sign.

“One thousand feet,” exclaimed Pat.

“Hot dog!”