Thirty years ago, as a student, my friends and I would frequently drive across the country, and I especially remember the long stretch from Cheyenne, Wyoming to San Francisco.

Getting to Cheyenne meant you were in the old West, although radio station WLS out of Chicago still came in loud and clear, and would continue to do so for quite some time. Yet it was here that the vistas opened up in every direction. Beside the snow fences, it was hard to see a manmade structure, and towns like Rock Springs and Green River were little more than exits on the highway.

The only break in the landscape were the enthusiastic billboards of “Little America,” which, despite its billboards, was basically a freeway oasis in the middle of nowhere.

But soon the road would rise into the mountains and you’d cross into Utah, ultimately dropping down to Salt Lake City with its impressive lake. Next you would blast straight as an arrow across the Bonneville Salt Flats, squinting ahead for a sign of Wendover, right on the Nevada border.

Wendover sported a giant cowboy, who waved his arm day and night, and once you spotted him, you knew you were closing into town, cowboy-rough around the edges, but big on slot machines and good grub.

In Nevada you’d begin to see some population, with towns like Winnemucca, Battle Mountain and Elko, where you’d have to drive right down the main street to get through town. At some point, you’d start seeing signs for “Two Stiffs Selling Gas” coming up in Lovelock, and before you knew it, there would be the casinos of Reno, the Biggest Little City in the World. By the time you got to Reno, you’d swear you could smell the ocean, so you powered on through, over the Sierra, through the blazing hot Sacramento Valley and into the blessed fog of San Francisco.

As I said, that was 30 years ago. And for the first time in 30 years, I made another college-bound trip, this time with my son, and we went in the other direction.

I didn’t think about what could be different until we came down off the Sierra, and headed toward Reno, but in 30 years, things had to change.

The “Two Stiffs Selling Gas” is a ghost of its former self, a beleaguered mini-market with old-time-y gas pumps on a dusty empty street, now bypassed by the Interstate. The old motels are now rundown and forlornly competing with Econo-lodges and the like. Wendover’s giant cowboy isn’t waving any more, and is eerily dwarfed by Vegas-style mini-casinos.

Fumbling with the radio dial as you left the reach of one radio station and drove into the next is now a thing of the past, as we had plenty else to entertain us. Our cell phones would ring, and we’d tell our friends where we were. There were books on CD, music of every ilk, and solitaire on our laptops. We could call ahead for hotel reservations, ignoring the billboards promising “In-room High-Speed Internet.”

Yes, the semi-tracker-trailers are still rolling along with the freight trains, and you can all still race together through remote canyons.

And the wide open spaces? Well, they’re still wide open.

We found ourselves driving through Wyoming, the sun setting red at our backs, lightning streaking the dark to our left, a full moon rising over the plains before us, and we were speechless at the colossal beauty.

Finally, I said, “This is the time to take a picture. In fact, a video.” Only there was one small problem. I’d forgotten to charge my digital camera.

I'm Moira Gunn. This is Five Minutes.

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