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It would seem, in the days of GPS, that the common paper road map is obsolete, but it has not outlived its usefulness to us as a nation. A look at an icon of the American Century, in transition. |
For the last several years, publication has been on the decline nationwide. In the waning days of the summer vacation season, the Missouri Department of Transportation cut the print run of its latest highway map from 5 million to 2.7 million in an effort to save about $350,000. This development carried the weight of portent. If it can happen in the Show-Me State—the Ozarks, in my experience at least, are not the sort of place that particularly rewards unguided navigation—it can happen anywhere.
It’s not just Missouri. In an informal poll (I sent an e-mail to all fifty state transportation department spokespersons; half a dozen or so responded), little hope emerged for the preservation of the printed state highway map. B.J. Doughty, spokesman for the DOT in Tennessee, cited “large amounts of leftover maps.” “We give out free maps every August at our state fair, and those numbers have dropped,” said Kevin Gutknecht in Minnesota. “Since discontinuing the service, we have not had much complaint,” said Lars Erickson in Washington State, where the last maps rolled off the presses in 2008.
The suspects are usual: technology, in this case particularly GPS. And the precedents are familiar: Video v. the Radio Star, Craigslist v. Your Daily Paper, Mobile Telephony v. Any Semblance of Civility. One by one, fast and then faster, the lifestyle tools of the American Century have become relics. For those of us old enough to remember, their decline has made a parlor game out of counting the household essentials our children will never know: a Polaroid, a phone book, a transistor radio—a parlor game, for that matter.
This, then, would seem to be the moment to mark the passage of an icon, dwelling in fond detail on the cartoon images of filling station attendants, and working in a small joke about how tough the darned things were to fold. According to James R. Akerman, director of the Center for the History of Cartography at the Newberry Library in Chicago, state governments, oil companies, motor clubs, and other organizations with an interest in the promotion of automotive travel produced “tens of billions” of road maps over the course of the twentieth century.

In the heyday of the road map, “it wasn’t just about the mode of transportation,” Akerman told me. “It was how people felt about seeing the whole country.”
Nostalgia for that fading feeling suggests the existing maps will continue to trade hands among people like Wayne Stitt, a fifty-three-year-old bus driver from Richmond, Virginia, who has collected 4,241 of them, starting on a family vacation when he was twelve. “And I’m still looking for any one I don’t have yet,” he told me. “I hate to see anything just get thrown away.”

To Palmer, whose e-mail address makes reference to both the Road Runner and Route 66, road maps constitute a document of life’s experience. Upon returning stateside from service in Vietnam, he set out on a seventeen-state road trip, winding from New Mexico through Texas up to Maryland and back through Pennsylvania, Wyoming, and Colorado. Aside from hanging on to the maps, which formed the base for a collection now numbering about thirty-five hundred, he came to a decision regarding a proposal. Diana said yes. They are still married. “If you keep a good map around,” he told me, “you’ll never have to stop and ask for directions.”

But blaming a technological innovation for the demise of the highway map may oversimplify matters. The roads themselves have become more clearly marked. The burning desire to see the country by car, in a time of global warming and sharply divided red and blue political states, has cooled. And, of course, there are limits to the powers of GPS.

But then maybe the map is more than a symbol. Maybe the map is the thing itself. We have grown disenchanted with the pursuit of wide-open spaces. We have returned to the cities. We have lost the ability to appreciate or even handle isolation. When we must pass between metropolises on the ground, our cars all but drive themselves. We need the map, not to tell us where we’re going, or even where we've been, but to show us, in the distance between those big dots and stars, where we are.