In some places, the Florida landscape is so wide and flat, seems so empty, that as fast as you might drive, it feels like you're getting nowhere at all. Much of the US One corridor in Flagler County would fit this description. The road through Flagler is also a mural of contrasting realities, vacillating between extravagance and poverty.

A mile south of the county line is a detour that leads to one of the longest, best-preserved sections of the original eighteenth century Kings Road that still exist. Connecting US One and Princess Place Preserve near Palm Coast, portions of Old Kings Road have brick pavement remaining, dating from the time of Henry Flagler. Modern US One is threaded in between the historic Kings Road and the later route surveyed by the builders of the Dixie Highway, which runs parallel to the west through the town of Espanola. All of them converge more or less just east of Bunnell where many of the plantations of colonial East Florida once stood.

I couldn't help but follow my curiosity a short way down the Kings Road, especially since any initial attempt to pave this part has long since crumbled to sand and gravel. Modern equipment has widened the resulting dirt road, but the experience is more or less the same as many colonial travelers might have had. Washboard ruts and unexpected troughs rattle your teeth at 45 mph. Every dip and rise at this speed can cause the contents of your vehicle to become airborne. The adventure is suspended temporarily as you cross a forty year old concrete bridge over I-95, but the pavement ends abruptly on the other side as the road rolls on through scrub forest and palmetto thickets.

Hidden here just out of sight is Pellicer Pond, a freshwater fishing hole that is part of the Pellicer Conservation Area. The water is clear and deep, forming a pool of midnight blue. I walked out to the closest promontory, picking my way around small mounds of earth thrown up by raccoons and armadillos as they scavenged the forest floor for anything edible the night before. When I lived in other places my daydreams would sometimes be like this, a butter-yellow sun in a clear blue sky with the soft moaning of a cool breeze as it pushes through the tall pines.

Back on US One, tree farms give way to the resort community of Palm Coast, an affluent gated residential complex situated on a broad savannah. Far across empty fields, a line of young pines mark the horizon until a hardwood hammock rises in the east, marking Hulett Swamp. Near the intersection of Palm Coast Parkway, another US Forest Service vertical control station watches over the county, even though the Smokey Bear sign out front indicates that the fire danger today is moderate.

A simple green sign announces the city limits of Bunnell, but nothing else. In fact, as you drive through more scrub forest for a few minutes, you wonder if a town is actually there. Then a few homes and some businesses appear- salvage yards and concrete plants, gas stations and small shops. It's not until you drive under the Highway 100 overpass that you realize that a small city waits. Bunnell is also the place where the Florida East Coast Railroad tracks rejoin the highway for the rest of the trip south. From now till the road reaches Miami, they will seldom be out of sight.

At the next intersection, I stopped at the red light and surveyed the sign tree. The Bulow and Mala Compra plantations are nearby and we are not far from Flagler Beach and two state parks, but a quick scan of the immediate neighborhood is far less appealing. From US One, Bunnell is a gritty place, full of garages and junk yards, towing companies and heavy equipment dealers. This blue collar base serves the trucking industry that seems to be everywhere in this part of Florida. Tractor-trailers hauling sand, concrete, timber and phosphate roll constantly, supplying the demands of new construction. While I waited on the light to change, a parade of dump trucks, cement mixers, log trucks and car haulers passed by. Other than the signs encouraging tourists to head east to A1A, there's little that's attractive about downtown.

That's not to say that the residents and leadership of Bunnell don't take pride in their city. In the next block, the town hall is reflected in a wide pool, set deep into a pleasant green lawn. Built of coquina block, it still shows signs of hurricane damage along the roof peak, where shingles had been torn away. One sign along the sidewalk indicates that the city was incorporated in 1913 while another, literally set in stone, frames the city offices. The mid-afternoon sun, shining through the spray of a small fountain, creates a rainbow behind- a publicists dream.

Every once in awhile, I get a craving for a really good hot dog and believe it or not, they're hard to find. You can get a weiner anywhere, but I seldom come across a place that offers the real thing. Such a place exists in Bunnell and it's the Hotdiggity Dog hut on the south end of town. In a colorful metal building squeezed in between the tracks and State Street (the local name for US One), the owner will cook you one fresh and bring it to you while you relax at a picnic table outside. I shouted my order into the window at him while a southbound freight roared past just twenty yards away. When it was ready, he came and sat with me for a few minutes, chatting about the business. The building itself, with it's jungle mural, was once situated on Flagler Beach and was moved a dozen years ago to its present location. The original owner ran it for almost fifty years between the two sites.

From Bunnell, it's 23 miles to Daytona and just a few minutes to Dupont. Problem is, there's no town to match the sign on the highway. Named for a prominent colonial planter, Dupont is yet another community on US One that exists now in name only, the last echoes of history. The next spot on the map is a bit different however. Passing through, the township looks like any small hamlet on an empty highway, yet Korona is full of small surprises. Settled by Polish immigrants in 1914, the name means "crown". Once a waystation on the Old Dixie Highway, the town grew quiet when the interstate bypassed it during the 1960's. It would become prominent again in 1998 though, when one of the largest wildfires in Florida history erupted just a few miles away in Seminole Woods. The Korona Volunteer Fire Department was the first unit on the scene, I learned from a young EMT at Station 3. Called the "wildfire of the century", three separate blazes converged on Flagler county in June of 1998 and burned for over six weeks. Three hundred thirty five acres were destroyed, including 140 buildings. The entire county had been issued an evacuation order.

Seminole Woods today		Charred posts along the road testify as to the fire's intensity

As I searched for ground zero during the fire, I stumbled on yet another surprise along the Old Dixie Highway. Tucked away in a quiet corner of Flagler County is a Carmelite Catholic monastery. The Carmelite order dates back to the thirteenth century, when a group of Christian ascetics living on Mount Carmel in Israel set down a series of rules to govern their monastic life. Placing great emphasis on meditation and seclusion, Carmelites also devote a large part of their energies to missionary work. The monastery in Flagler is an apt reflection of this duality. It seemed deserted when I pulled in to the parking lot, with only the monastery cat there to greet me. A public chapel sits adjacent to the office building, which includes a small gift shop. Set back from everything else is another chapel, framed by an arch and a low stone wall. The silence seemed profound, as if generated by the collective prayers of the invisible order cloistered somewhere nearby.

Turning back south, the land becomes empty again, disappearing under a patchwork of swamps to the southwest. A half mile from the Volusia County line, you come across one last ghost town- Favoretta. Look as you might, you won't find anything but the sign on the highway.

I began this quest some seven months ago, in the warmth of late spring, thinking I might see the end of the project by the end of the year. That was a naive assumption. It is now winter and I am not half done. The more I travel, the more I learn, the more people I meet, the slower the pace becomes. But then, this is about the journey, isn't it? The destination is all but immaterial.