An old man I admire must attend to some business in the Mysterious East, namely near the valley of the Ohio River. So he's mounted the camper on the pickup and is tidying his affairs to permit a little roady across four states -- more if the gypsy urge remains strong and the house sitter is available for an extra few days.
He would anticipate pure delight, motoring along blue highways awash in fall color except for one thing. To get where he's going means traversing enemy territory, Illinois.
Meaning that on the free side of the Mississippi River he'll need to pull over, unload his side arms (one business, the others recreational), lock them in something and stash the locked boxes in the locked camper. While he's back there he'll also case the Mossy turkey gun and carefully separate it from the 00 buck. Next comes prayer that he'll have no contact with armed loyalist forces and that, if he is, the polizei will be familiar with national innocent-passage laws.
He has one other Illinois-crossing regimen. On the free side he fills the tank, lays in a supply of junk food and a thermos of coffee. And he pees. The objective of course is to make the treacherous crossing without spending a single cent, or even stopping. To be seen loitering afoot in that people's republic is to open one's self to suspicion of collaboration with Rahm toadies.
(Five years of having an office at 188 West Randolph Street will do that to a guy.)
Fortunately, Illinois is skinny, and the likely route re-encounters the the protection of the American Constitution after just 200 miles. If the damned place was any wider he'd forget the whole thing and go back to Montana instead.