In addition to my local history columns, I have also previously shared some musings on the subject of travel. Specifically, I have promoted the 100th anniversary of the National Park Service, the continental American Discovery Trail bisecting the Mid-Shore, and the concept of highway clinching within the friendly confines of the Caroline Review. This month, I hereby introduce a new hobby as it relates to crossing off mappable tasks: county counting.

There are all sorts of websites and associations dedicated to travel achievements. These affinity groups hold conventions, schedule coordinated outings, maintain databases, compose newsletters, publish competitive rankings, obtain rubber stamps for their souvenir passports, and more — possibly for activities you already enjoy or would if given some collegial encouragement but never knew there were others out there with the same sort of wanderlust.

Where do I even begin? I suppose my own OCD-fueled pursuits are a serviceable point of reference. Among my travel affiliations are societies dedicated to documenting exploration of all 50 states, national park units, wildlife refuges, presidential libraries, state capitals, historic lighthouses, major league ballparks, and minor league stadiums (as my stack of passport booklets will attest). If a stamping program or formal organizations existed to validate the obsession, I would also hold memberships in clubs that propagate visits to NFL stadiums, NASCAR tracks, NBA/NHL arenas, Division I colleges, Buffalo Wild Wings restaurants, lyrical Jimmy Buffett destinations, and in all likelihood a host of other places of interest that have come to define my existence.

Numerically speaking, however, all of these checklists pale in comparison to county counting. If it is truly your desire to see all of them, currently 3,143 counties exist. Before one begins to consider the time, planning, and for that matter expense necessary to complete such a quixotic undertaking, some semantic exercises must first be addressed. A dedicated maven of this particular ilk would be quick to assert the grand total is not a static number: there are dozens of defunct counties around the United States that used to exist but were split or merged into others for a variety of administrative and logistical reasons. Additionally, the modern map of counties nationwide is not set in stone either — the most recent county to come into existence did not materialize with the 1959 admission of Hawaii to the Union as some astute readers might predict. In fact, the newest pair were census areas designated in southeastern Alaska just two years ago or Broomfield County, Colorado, in 2001 if one is a terminology purist. For the record, the most recent borough to be demarcated in Alaska was Petersburg in 2013 but I am prematurely complicating matters with such specific vocabulary; just know that as a rule of thumb counties are fluid.

Something else, therefore, amateur geographers and passive travel enthusiasts may also initially overlook is that not every state calls its respective geopolitical units counties. Perhaps Delmarva residents are naive to this reality because all abutting states employ “county” as the default naming convention, but several states do in fact refer to them by other names. Since 1845, Louisiana has maintained a system of parishes: they look and function exactly the same as Maryland counties do on the map and in day-to-day governance but parallel the Catholic legacy of the region. Alaska actually utilizes two different types of administrative jurisdictions — boroughs and census areas. Though boroughs are analogous to counties and feature infrastructural seats of local government, the census areas, it should be noted, do not. Eventually each could if the population warrants but for now are essentially place names carved into the state map. Nevertheless, for our purposes they still register as county equivalents in the quest to reach 3,143.

There is yet another category that technically also enjoys a seat at the table and that is the collection of independent cities around the country. Locals are familiar with this variation due to the relative proximity of Baltimore City: it is not a part of any of the 23 Maryland counties but when it comes to the objective of county counting, our state once completed hangs a total of 24 on the scoreboard. This practice of separating major population centers from adjacent counties is more common than one might think; not exclusively a product of historically shady Maryland politics at all. Virginia, for example, boasts of 38 independent cities in addition to its 95 traditional counties. What is interesting about the Old Dominion, however, is that not all of those 38 are major metropolises — some like Richmond or Virginia Beach contain a population in the six figures but others such as Williamsburg are just quiet towns that do their own thing. The Commonwealth’s commitment to local governance, which is always commendable regardless of location, deserves a resounding huzzah.

You may now be wondering how I became a county devotee. While I am thankful to have accumulated such occasionally useful knowledge over the years, it began completely by happenstance. I was teaching high school history about fifteen years ago, though I will not mention where for fear of incrimination. It was a Friday afternoon and I had shown the same video to every class. My mind was starting to wander and predictably my daydreams turned to travel. Keeping one eye on the class of course and one eye on my laptop, I was scrolling through an online national parks forum when someone posted the link to a website, mob-rule.com, that helps members identify the counties they traversed on their NPS-based road trips. A disclaimer: pay no mind to the provocative URL nomenclature — the name is an acronym based on the initials of the founder of the service, who it should be duly noted does not endorse anarchy.

Instantly, I was re-energized: not to finish up the lesson in any dynamic way, mind you, but to immediately register as a user of that website and to start logging the counties where I had set foot. I will not divulge how late I remained in Room 204 that night but I am certain it broke a personal longevity record, especially for a Friday. I sat hastily scribbling a long list mentally retracing the steps of literally all the road trips I had ever taken, from cow-buying expeditions with my father as a boy to any vacation itinerary I could recall. I lost an entire weekend, never leaving the house but enjoying the self-imposed sequestration immensely.

Then the real legwork began. Not only did I have to match up my travel history state by state with corresponding highways on the digital maps provided and painstakingly enter them with the utmost precision lest I be accused of falsely claiming a county, I naturally had to jump in the car starting the following weekend and tackle “donuts” I had subsequently uncovered. Likely you are curious what exactly that is in this context, and ironically for me, it has nothing to do with food: filling out my maps quickly exposed a number of counties I had not breached surrounded by ones I had — an unenviable and tragic turn of events in the culture of this hobby. I willfully concede I have run off more than one female acquaintance in my life by adding random county line coordinates to our vacations; maybe one day I will find a woman that shares my passion for crossing off lists of parks and highways and counties and then some, but that is a column for another time. The fact that this topic is my Valentine’s month submission tells you all you need to know about my life priorities.

Despite those relationship mishaps, I would not change a thing about my pursuit of geographic milestones. “Sorry not sorry” is my official stance on matters of the heart, because, as of press time, I have conquered 1,954 counties in all 50 states. As lofty as that figure sounds, it is really only 62% of the ultimate goal. A demoralizing 1,189 remain but I am not giving up. In fact, very few people have visited all 3,143. According to standings provided by an organization called the Extra Miler Club, only 65 or so people have certifiably accomplished the feat. One of those, Hugh Donovan, completed all of them (including Caroline County, of course, in January 2019) in a calendar year! I have finished Arizona, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Maine, Maryland, New Jersey, New Mexico, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Virginia, and West Virginia — and would be able to complete Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and New York in the same weekend if COVID-19 would ever loosen its restrictive grip on interstate transit. Hugh, ostensibly, though a friend of mine in the travel personality community, will perpetually have me and everyone else beat: we are in awe of his resolve and yet shake our collective heads at his unrivaled dedication to our obsession, needing a mere eight-plus months to establish a remarkable and unique record.

Ready to vanquish the national map of counties? Start where I did, which is by creating an account on mob-rule.com. Then set the bar low by enumerating achievable day trip goals: with road atlas in hand, pursue the two counties of the Virginia Eastern Shore, the three that comprise Delaware, and the rest of Maryland before deciding you absolutely must ride a mule into Kalawao County, Hawaii — so isolated because of its previous status as an active leper colony. True story! It also contains Kalaupapa National Historical Park and additionally holds the dual distinction of being the smallest and least populated county in the United States, if basking in a magnified glow of accomplishment is what you seek. Should that plan seem too exotic for now, Texas, at 254 counties, is also a formidable opponent but much more accessible. From there, feel free to mix it up some: endeavor to cross off the largest county (San Bernardino County, California, unless one factors in the eleven larger Alaska county-equivalents), the most populated (Los Angeles County, California), and….well, you get the picture; hike your own hike as the Appalachian Trail crowd would advise.

Once you come to terms with this addiction (or accept your hopeless romanticism if a more positive justification for such behavior is preferred), I’ll whisper in your ear that travelers can replicate the exact same process with the county equivalents of United States territorial possessions, Canada, Mexico, and Great Britain on mob-rule.com as is the protocol domestically. I promise I will not open that can of worms just yet, however. Your family and friends thank me in advance for this discretion.

What I will do, in the meantime, is call on local organizations to consciously cater to all affinity groups that must enter Caroline County in order to satisfy their destination syndrome yearnings. Local businesses, humanitarian organizations, and myriad others would undoubtedly benefit from coordinating advertising resources to attract group and individual visitors on missions such as county counting. Denton already has received national press and praise for officially declaring the town a friendly and welcoming waypoint along the American Discovery Trail. Imagine the positive impact if local tourism efforts were concentrated thusly by reaching out to all applicable types of logistics enthusiasts. I would also kindly suggest, when budgets permit, that the relevant highway boards see to it each border crossing into Caroline is signed; recently I drove the perimeter of the county for the express purpose of checking and not all are, not even the numbered Maryland state highways.

Visit all 3,143 if you must but the true takeaway, for me at least, when attempting to normalize this lifestyle is that Americans consistently demonstrate a version of brand loyalty to their native county. Whatever actions committed locally or nationally in pursuit of this particular hobby are ultimately a reflection of the pride we share for our home area, felt perhaps most acutely when returning from the far-flung road trip odysseys described herewith to the byways of the Green Garden County.