Atticus   

My friend Steve is a patient man.

Not once last Saturday did he take his right hand off the steering wheel to punch me in the head as I searched each increment of the AM dial over and over like a gambling addict rechecking his lottery tickets, certain he had misread one of his numbers.

Before we began our journey from Atlanta, Ga., to Portland, Ore., I tried to remind myself that, while no other region is as obsessed with college football as the South, people in the Northwest and upper Midwest care about it probably the least. I had even told my roommate to expect phone calls throughout the day (or at least during the Auburn-Miss. State game) for updates.

Not long into our trip we encountered supporting evidence: At a convenience store in Sioux Falls, S.D., the magazine rack had not a single Lindy’s, Street & Smith’s or Athlon NCAA annual.

But it didn’t matter. Saturday had arrived, and I needed my fix.

For the first couple of hours of the drive from Couer d’Alene, Idaho, to the City of Roses, we were within range of an ESPN Radio affiliate. Unfortunately, once we neared kickoff for the Washington State-Idaho game, the station switched to a pre-game show hosted by two guys apparently unaware a Southerner in their listening audience needed game updates like Kate Moss needs a hit.

Sure, I was using my Treo to access scores on espn.com, but it wasn’t the same. That, I thought, is what you do when you’re happy to just get final scores because you’ve unthinkingly scheduled a two-week trip to China in autumn — not when you’re on a trip among the continental 48. This is America, for God’s sake, where “Hook ‘em, Horns!” or “Hotty Toddy!” are as likely to be a child’s first words as “Mama” or “Dada.”

But I finally resigned myself to no other football information after finding out Auburn had cruised to a 34-0 victory. In eastern Oregon, without satellite radio, you’re fortunate if you get more than one FM station clearly. All drivers are suddenly like little Johnny Cash tuning into the crackling signal on the band to hear the Carter family.

It wasn’t surprising, based on our travels to that point. In rural South Dakota, rural Montana, rural Idaho and rural Washington, radio transmissions seem in short supply.

These places have made me rethink my definition of in the country. My hometown has roughly 1,500 residents. Fast food is a five-minute drive away. Add on another five to 10 to reach Wal-Mart, Kmart or a movie theater. Drive an hour to enter malls in Hunstville, Ala., or Chattanooga, Tenn.

I always considered it a small town, the quintessential rural American experience. But, compared to much of the West, it might as well have traffic reports and begin planning its own transit system.

Steve and I couldn’t get over the sheer expanse of pastures and fields. When my dad raised hogs in the ‘70s, he had to only walk across our country road to tend to them. These people, on the other hand, I doubt walk anywhere. At one point along the interstate in Montana, we saw a row of at least 50 mailboxes near an exit. Not one house, however, was in sight.

Just when it was enough that I couldn’t imagine raising cattle on so much acreage that it would be simpler to fit them with GPS tracking devices, we then would remember the piles upon piles of snow and the bitter cold that had to make you feel even more isolated.

So the next time I’m traveling home from Auburn, Ala., to Atlanta, frustrated I can pick up only the LSU and Tennessee games on AM stations, I’ll remember to be thankful I’m hearing any gridiron action at all.

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Random thoughts from the road

I took a small spiral notebook along for the trip and tried to write observations from along away, hoping some really cool, funny or intriguing story would come together. As you can tell from the preceding piece, that never transpired. So here’s the rest of what I came across:

• Like so many towns its size, Bozeman, Mont., appears to have had a major renovation/revival of its downtown. The difference: The driving force behind it wasn’t a Restoration Hardware, a Barnes & Noble, a Chipotle or even a Starbucks. From what Steve and I could see, not a single store among the downtown shops is a national chain or franchise. I loved Bozeman. It felt relaxed and friendly. We both had massive barbecued brisket sandwiches at Starky’s for lunch.

• Gillette apparently is the best a man can get. Gillette, Wyo., that is. Wow. I’ll say no more.

• When you live hundreds of miles from the nearest ocean, what do you do? Build a water slide, apparently. I’ve never seen as many as we saw scattered across the West.

• Could someone from northeastern Wyoming tell me why the rabbits there have a death wish? At dusk on the interstate between Sundance and Sheridan, hundreds of rabbits not only milled about on the side of the road but also occasionally decided they needed to go see what’s happening in the median. Flattened carcasses dotted the pavement.

• Billings doesn’t have a Starbucks. Neither does Butte or Bozeman. Missoula, however, does. How do I know? Because Steve was showing signs of withdrawal before we finally located one there.