I spent last night in a hostel in Spokane, Washington. There were only four beds to a room, relative privacy for a hostel. Unfortunately, one of the beds in my room was occupied by a man who snored with a vengeance. This guy was obviously a professional honker, someone who had spent years and years practicing and refining his technique.

When I finally climbed down from my top bunk (somewhere around two in the morning) to get him to roll over, I found he wasn't even lying on his back, the usual problem position for snorers. So, should I wake him? Would it do any good? I hoped that, even if he stopped for only a few minutes, I might doze off and sleep through the cacophony. I miscalculated. After some fairly violent shaking, he finally stirred, rolled over and was silent for a good ten or 15 seconds. Just about the time I managed to ascend the ladder to the upper bunk, the din resumed. Another 30 minutes or so passed; I spent this interval concocting ways I could painlessly end the man's life and make it look like an accident. Finally, deciding not to spoil my fairly spotless record of non-violence, I took my sleeping bag and pillow and relocated to the floor of the dining room, where I enjoyed a luxurious four-and-a-half hours of blissful slumber.

The next morning, I awakened bleary-eyed and droopy-tailed to learn from my other roommates that the Human Foghorn had arisen very early and departed. In fact, he apparently left only a precious few minutes after I threw in the towel and sacked out on the floor. I guess it just wasn't my night. I hit the road, shortly leaving Washington behind, zipping across northern Idaho and entering Big Sky Country. Throughout this leg of my journey, I find that the towns and attractions are fewer and farther between. It's more a matter of covering ground and reveling in the breath-taking scenery. The West is larger than life: huge mountains, vast plains, endless sky.

As I neared the town of Butte, Montana, I had a decision to make. I haven't been to a baseball game in a few weeks, since Dad and I took in a couple of Cubs games in Chicago. Butte has a team, the Copper Kings, that plays in the Pioneer League, one of the Rookie Leagues. They were playing the Salt Lake City Trappers, and I wanted to be there.

On the other hand, one of my travel books mentioned a vintage theatre, the Washoe, in Anaconda, some 20 miles northwest of Butte. I called the theatre; they were showing White Men Can't Jump and it was Dollar Night . As BRETTnews readers know by now, I love old movie theatres. So, I was really torn between the ballgame and the flick. What to do?

In the end, I opted for the vintage movie house and boy, did I make the right choice! The Washoe is a hidden treasure that simply shouldn't be missed. Motoring across the U.S., I've found that a vast majority of the small town theatres have closed their doors. This situation puzzles me a bit; it seems to me that a small town movie theatre would thrive, being the only show in town, so to speak. I suppose competition from television and video rentals has done in these bijous but what then do people do in a tiny burg when they want a night out?

In any case, it was this sad state of affairs that swayed me to select the movie over the ballgame and I really hit the jackpot. The Washoe is the best-looking old movie house that I've ever seen. Usually, when I visit a vintage cinema, I must use my imagination to picture the theatre in its prime. When a theatre's been around awhile, it just naturally begins to show some wear and tear. I've been in some old theatres that were well-kept and clean and yet one would never think for a moment that they were recently erected.

The Washoe is different. Construction began on the theatre in the early '30s. The Depression caused some construction delays but finally, in 1936, the Washoe opened its doors to the public. Fifty-six years later, the Washoe still looks brand new. In those 50-some years, the seats have been recovered and the carpet has become a bit frayed (it's due to be replaced soon). Otherwise, it's the same place it was half a century ago.

Something else hasn't changed much at the Washoe since 1936: the prices. As I mentioned before, I had arrived in Anaconda just in time for Dollar Night. Normal admission price at the Washoe is only three dollars, though, so I couldn't have gone wrong. Once inside, I took a look (a gawk, really) around then returned to the lobby, where I queued up at the concession stand. I ordered a small popcorn, a medium Dr. Pepper and a large box of Hot Tamales. The girl behind the counter gathered together my selections, did some calculating and cited a total of $1.80. Such a deal. I told the counter girl that, in New York, a movie ticket and the snacks I'd ordered would have cost 11 or 12 bucks, whereas on Dollar Night here in Anaconda, my total was $2.80! At these prices, there was, in my mind, very little pressure on White Men Can't Jump to entertain me. I'd gotten my money's worth just seeing the Washoe. Throw in the refreshments and, at these prices, I would gladly sit through Rambo IX.

Continue on the American Odyssey.
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