The Lost Continent

It’s no secret that I’m a fan of Bill Bryson’s writing. I have yet to find a book of his that I don’t like, even mildly, and don’t suspect that I will either. The most recent book of his I’ve read, one of his earliest works – The Lost Continent: Travels in Small-Town America – is perhaps my favorite though. I had a difficult time putting it down and am sure that I’ll read it again before the new year.

The Lost Continent reminded me, as I turned the pages, of the roadtrips I grew up on as a child in the Twin Cities area of Minnesota, just up the interstate from Bryson’s Des Moines, Iowa. They were vaguely similar to what Bryson experienced a generation before; it’s almost as though it’s ingrained in the psyche of a midwesterner. I too explored battlefields with my father and went on occasionally bizarre vacations, ideas that made me raise an eyebrow at the time. Now, when I think of my childhood travels, I contentedly smile over the fond memories.

Bryson relates his family travel memories, particularly in relation to his father, as he travels nearly 14,000 miles through 38 of the continental states in a small, clunky Chevette. His observations and encounters are generally quite humorous, a style that he owns, filled with interesting historical and geographical information. As he referenced with the Grand Tetons in The Lost Continent, it’s the type of stuff that would’ve made me pay a lot more attention in school if the teacher were talking about such things.

I can’t recommend The Lost Continent enough, but also don’t want to talk about it too much as to ruin it for anyone that has yet to pick it up. It’s an instant classic though, and the perfect roadtrip companion for any traveler; a book that kept a smile on my face from the first page to the last. And for me, a lover of roadtrips, it’s easily one of the best books I’ve ever read.