Really?

Tuesday, February 28^th, 2011

      It could have been a lot worse. It started with a simple question of precision then ballooned from there. Where am I supposed to go exactly? The directions weren't very clear. This is how slasher films start. You get lost and ask for directions somewhere then you're inside having a meal when some nutter jumps out and eviscerates you. While there were no knives involved in this particular incident, or any other lethal weapons for that matter, the day turned out to be a bit of a cluster f*ck anyway, but all is well that ends well.

      Having gotten a semblance of directions from the phone number given, I ambled off into the fog, figuring that I'd get there a bit early and get all set up, seeing as I've never delivered to a military base before. I found the gate on Rambo road (yeah, I giggled too) and proceeded to pull up to a fairly ordinary inspection building. They pull vehicles in and have the bomb sniffing dog give them a once over. That part went well enough. I just needed a pass to get in. Simple, right? Not really. I needed a sponsor to get past the gate. I have no idea how the military bureaucracy works, but I know that it works well.

      Meanwhile, there are a bunch of us hanging out in this little waiting room, maybe 7' by 7' with 2 drinking fountains on one wall, and a restroom door affixed to another. There are a few of us in there, maybe 4, and some have come and gone already. Tragically, it seems that someone blew up the bathroom either right as I got there (I have my suspicions tat these two southern truckers brought in a bad load with them... one of them anyway). No matter how many times the door into the inspection bays opened, the stench lingered tenaciously. I forgot about it after a while (acclimated more like it) then a Pepsi delivery guy came in and his eyes almost popped out of his head for the stench. By that time there were 8 of us in that tiny room, many of us waiting for a sponsor.

      It turns out that 6 of the guys in that room were waiting for the same guy I was. A moving crew. They had been here a bunch of times, and were to offload my trailer and put all the furniture in the dorms. They were a motley crew, of varying shapes and sizes but with similar dispositions. Two of them were already getting other jobs. Another two seemed doomed to a life of manual labor but had this intense interest in farming. The last pair seemed more into doing what they were doing, but as little as possible. Of the last pair, one gentleman was running around with his I-phone snapping pictures and taking video of some antics and “blackmail” opportunities. He would make a good photojournalist, I swear.

      So after a couple of hours, the truck is about ¼ of the way unloaded. Lots left to do. I rapidly conclude that my day is more or less shot, especially since I noticed that I had a nail sticking into one of my tires causing air to make an undesired egress. Then its lunch time. So I spend all sorts of time pulling the truck back and forth, moving from one set of stairs to another, then playing banjo in the meanwhile. I also spent some time hanging out with the crew much to my amusement.

      In the end, I made $90 for just sitting around playing banjo and having a laugh. I got my tire repaired and I am down for the night. I found an interesting coincidence in finding one guy so very interested in organic farming. I learned that I can be worth as much as I want to be (or believe that I am). I got to laugh and reel at some strange cover-up (all the furniture was made in Malaysia but was repackaged to say made in USA; per military contract all goods must be made in the USA.) All-in-all a fascinating day. One I do not wish to have happen again honestly, but fascinating to be sure.

New snow and Perspective

Monday, February 27^th, 2012

      Uncertainty breeds erratic behavior. I'm not entirely sure about that, but not knowing if I am going to work or not certainly screws with my routine. Obviously I did not post the last few days because I did not, in fact, work. Instead, I enjoyed a wonderful weekend with my sweetheart doing things unrelated to getting paid. What a relief!

      In our last episode, I was conscripted into the heavy haul fleet as part of a nefarious scheme to take over the world. I stated in very clear terms that I would have no part of this twisted plot to add that much more carbon dioxide into the atmosphere by pulling heavier loads up really big hills, reducing fuel efficiency to about 2 miles per gallon. I think the idea is to hold the nation's supply infrastructure hostage to the trucking industry and ransom it for $100 billion. Oh wait, I guess that's already the case, but without the ransom.

      Today I walk into the office, checking in on my DM. Hew was out Friday, with what doctors allege is a ruptured ear drum. In his good ear. I have no proof of this physically, but one ear certainly was stuffed with cotton. He takes one look at me and says something about getting right on it. I was open to exploring the possibility of staying a bit longer (weekends off are quite novel for me!) but before I could say a word (that he could hear anyway) he was off and running setting events into motion that I had demanded last week from my previously limited perspective. I had no idea how powerful my words could be, almost as if they create the very fabric of reality, and bend situations to whatever I will.

      The overnight load down to Roseburg was taken off of my to do list. Instead, I was given a load to Fairchild AFB just outside of Spokane. I swear this town is stalking me. I've spent so much time here the last few months I wonder if I should get an apartment here (for people who may take the seriously... that was a joke). The road from Sumner to The Petro is now quite familiar to me, and probably to everyone else out there by now, so I won't be posting a map. Seems a bit of a waste.

      That said, the trip was beautiful, particularly the journey through the Cascades. It had been snowing in the pass for the last few days. At one point over the weekend, Snoqualmie was closed to all traffic, as road crews were performing avalanche abatement (no kidding!). In Sumner, the sun burst forth this morning, bathing everything in radiant warmth. Tiny rivers sprang up as snow and frost melted away from trailers and tractors alike. The sky was that beautiful blue we remember from childhood, mottled by sparse fluffy white clouds, hanging limply in the air, their fury spent. From the junction of WA-18 and I-90, the is a magnificent view of some serious mountains. Erect and proud, the stony mass was bedecked with new fallen snow. Pines laden with the white stuff dotted the hillsides, adding a rougher texture to the whole scene, like so much lime stucco sprayed haphazardly. This kind of snow cover severed to emphasize the contrasts more than I would have imagined. Every dark line stood out in stark relief. The south side of the hills saw a bit more melting action as the sun permeated the dense white masses resting upon the tree boughs. Evergreens dropped huge dollops of snow as they warmed in the light. Further away, one could see the subtle gradient of temperature and insolation as altitude increased. There is something very special about the day after the storm.

      Now back to world domination. Time to ship whatever it is to the military wing of our country.

Field of Beans

Friday, February 24^th, 2012

      It is so easy to forget some times. Other times, it is so easy to not want to know. If not knowing or forgetting are not one's forte, there is always willful ignorance. Well, maybe it isn't willful per se, rather a lack of curiosity about things. This is certainly something I don't believe I will ever suffer from.

      Honestly, I thought I'd seen all that southeastern Washington had to offer. Tiny little towns, rolling fields of wheat (or some kind of mowed down stubble, since it is still winter) antique shops, paper mills, Walla Walla and the Tri-Cities. Yep. That sounds groovy and well rounded. For all of this, I still found myself surprised at a tiny little town just over the border in Idaho.

      A stone's throw north of Lewiston and Clarkston, just a few hundred yards east of US-95, there is a town by the name of Genesee. Being from Upstate New York, Genesee reminds me of a river that flows into Rochester, as well as a local beer- Genesee Cream Ale (Genny 'screamers in local parlance.. apparently they make you belch something fierce). So with this in min and a bit of childish nostalgia, I drive into town to pick up my next load.

      Cresting the hill that separates the town from the highway noise, a little slice of America unfolds. I am on the main street of course, which all relevant buildings abut. There is a small school building, all sorts of farm implement store thingies, a self- serve diesel and gas pump accompanied by an above ground storage tank and no people, and what appears to be the main employer of the town: two huge grain elevators, both run by a seemingly communist organization calling themselves “The Pacific North West Farmer's co-op”. I bet it is like those nature food stores with all these dirty hippies owning a share of it. I can sense that this town is a bastion of liberal do-gooders.

      Pulling into the second grain elevator as instructed, I stop just short of the scale. It is customary at some places (recycling plants, and grain joints apparently) to weigh before going in, so they have a pretty good idea of how much product they are shipping out (thank you tare weights). It is also customary to sacrifice small animals to the local gods, but not here. We get a pass. I would have pulled onto the scale, but seeing nobody around, and a forklift parked on the scale I park and go in.

      Behind a 1960's era metal teacher's desk sits the very incarnation of rural farmer-dom. He's a big guy, maybe about 240, I'd say 6'3” and a bit round about the waist. He's totally got the mesh ball cap on, a pair of plastic thick framed glasses, a pudgy flattened nose, pocked with years of wind burn and sun, and the quintessential Carrhart ® brown insulated jacket and thick pants on. I'm not sure, but I swear he was chewing on something, like a piece of straw, but I may have hallucinated that as part of the experience.

      He gets me all checked in, and I pull into a bay with a metal ramp in a different building. Like the old dude at the scale, there is a young guy on the forklift who looks like he is waiting his turn at the higher ranks. He totally looks like a farmer as well, but with a hair net under his mesh hat. Then comes the grizzled veteran, with a few weeks of stubble on his chin, a few less teeth in his mouth and a lifetime of experience at this co-op. I take back any sentiments of liberal do-gooders I may have had before.

      Instead of being in the way while they load me, I decide to look around a bit. This is no grain elevator! It's a trap! Actually, it is technically a grain elevator. A dump truck pulls into the stall perpendicular to where I am loading. A loud hissing noise is all around me. That could be the sound of the elevator itself (which is amazingly noisy, I think I saw the young kid wearing ear protection.. I hope) but it turns out that the dump truck is dumping a few tons of yellow peas into a grate on the floor of this shed. The peas go down, getting sucked into the whirling machine then up and off to somewhere. I stare at the pile after the driver leaves, amazed at the pile getting eaten by some invisible means, and also at the notion of how industrialized agriculture has become. I push an errant pile of peas to their doom.

      Heading off, I scale my truck once more. I am on the phone trying to get the routing right for whatever crazy plans the company has for me after this load. The man in light brown is there to collect my weights and sign my bills. He's a bit standoffish. He's been like that his whole life with strangers... especially with strangers who are multi-tasking, and apologizing for being on the phone in his presence. Hanging up, I say to him, “this is fascinating, what you all do here. I'm seen all sorts of neat things in my travels, from copper mines, to smelters, to recycling plants, paper mills, cereal factories and so on, but this has been really amazing to see.” He brightened at this and actually smiled, and then I was out the door. (only to run back a minute later to use the restroom, but that would ruin the nice ending, wouldn't it?)

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Killing the mind killer.

Thursday, February 23^rd, 2012

      Excellent. Everything is is working order finally, and I have gotten to enjoy a couple extra days off due to the minor snafu. So I suppose things will readjust once more, as my life returns to a near continuous state of fluidity. Being on the road forces one to roll with the punches, as it were, taking whatever comes with the best one can offer.

      Speaking of punches, I was informed sometime yesterday morning that I am now part of a “surge” of trucks hauling heavy reefer loads out of Sumner. No, this has nothing to do with winning hearts and minds of some darker skinned people. Nor does it have anything to do with killing people. Directly anyway. Furthermore, this also has no involvement of trafficking illicit smoking substances from a shady place outside of Seattle. I'd just as soon not be shot at or hijacked thank you very much.

      Essentially, I was press-ganged into a regional job driving frozen foods to regional area wholesale stores. Stuff that will kill anyone eventually, probably from cholesterol or overdosing on preservatives. I went inside to visit with my DM and protest this new turn of events. Driving up and down mountains at 42 tons is all well and good, but there's so much more to see. Brian, my DM, went to speak with the terminal manager, but no dice. Brian came back to his desk with a resigned look on his face saying, “he doesn't so much ask as tell.”

      The only natural rebuttal to this is a telling of my own. I informed them that I will help out for no more than a week or I walk. I certainly meant it at the time. Now, I wonder if it was so much hot air. In all truth, I could go back to work for Gordon again, or even another company. So here I am, not quite in a dilemma, but not quite where I want to be.

      Having been away from the wheel for almost an entire week totally plays havoc with everything. I almost forgot how to plan a trip, or to even plan it period. My thought was to pick up early and get moving. Simple, but I would have run out of time without a reset in between. Bad news. I almost drove the entire load with a set of tandems 1000 pounds overweight. Had I hit an open scale before then, there could have been a hefty fine. Good thing I'm so lucky! Then there is the fuel gauge.

      Normally, a half tank should get one about 500 or so miles. The distance from Sumner to Spokane is all of 290(ish) miles. Good to go. Someplace east of Ellensburg (read: good fuel stop) that damned buzzer goes off, indicating that something is wrong. The fuel level is dropping precipitously. I've had this happen twice before (at Battle Mountain of course!) but was able to get fuel then and there. Not so lucky this time. I called in for a new fuel route, and got one. I was to fill in Spokane at the Petro. *Face-plam* I chose to take the risk, since the gauge went back up to someplace around a ¼ tank.

      There are lots of ups and downs between Ryegrass summit and exit 272. The fuel level dropped to “E” on two separate occasions. It bounced back up both times. It got to the point where I was watching the mpg display and cheering whenever it hit 10. One calculation after the other.... I only need 6 gallons of fuel.... now 10... back to 5. In the end, I pulled into Petro, and added 176 gallons to my tank. I'm not sure how much fuel I can hold, but 200 is the most likely limit, which translates into 190 gallons of usable fuel. A bit too close for my taste. Kinda like having a ¼ gallon left in your car.

      After this experience, I came away with a valuable insight. The opposite of fear is not courage. You see, courage is dependent upon fear for it's very existence. You cannot be courageous or brave unless you are facing a fear, thus engendering the fear itself. The fear is made into an object to be overcome. The true opposite of fear is trust. A simple knowing that you will make it, or get to where you need to be, or to find what you want out of life. For me, this will be a concept for me to integrate over time. I've spent so long being brave (or foolhardy) and fear is so pervasive in our culture, promoted by the media, because sensation sells. I like the idea of trusting more. So much gentler, indeed it can be the only way forward.

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Keeping my word from the last post.

Tuesday, February 21^st, 2010

      Well, that time has come again. Once more I cast off the vestiges of a normal life and continue gallivanting across the country side as only a person without a permanent address can do. Well, not just any person without an address, but a truck driver specifically.

      Would that this notion were true. Today I woke up early to make effective use of the public transportation afforded by living in the Sea-Tac metro area. Things went rather well. I got to the terminal early enough, only to find that they did not repair the one specific defect on my truck that I asked to have repaired. On the upside, they should get the part tomorrow. The downside of this is that the part will; not show up until 1500. The upside to the downside is that I will get paid shop pay. So I suppose things work out in the end.

      In light of this minor miscommunication, I will not be telling a funny story about today. Maybe a short ironic one about how I moved all of my stuff back into the same truck I cleaned out the other day, but minor details. Realisticly, I am postponing this blog until Thursday, at which point I should be rolling again. Until then, best wishes to all!

Do you have to be homeless to enjoy life?

Wednesday, February 15^th, 2012

      I learned some things today. I suppose I do every day really, but today I discovered that if you are away form your truck for more than 2 days at a terminal that one is obliged to clean it out. While it is not the end of the world, it poses a bit of an inconvenience for people who live out of their trucks, like me. So I will take all of my stuff out on Friday, then hope to have a truck on Tuesday to get rolling again. Maybe next time, I will take my home time at a truck stop or something, in an effort to keep from switching trucks. That is, if my next truck is pretty sweet.

      I believe I will attempt to continue with yesterday's thought. Elaborating upon a single moment, perhaps finding the sublime therein.

      Today's moment was a bit longer than usual. Having the need to take care of small matters, I found myself in the town of Sumner. It really is a town, instead of a city. It has a cute downtown area, with a large industrial park on the north end, which is where the terminal resides. Along the walk into town, there is a bridge that crosses over a swift moving current. The water is a clean dark blue, mixed with some brown of local sediments. The deep banks are festooned with himalayan blackberries, and invasive species according to most. I see some serious bank stabilization and wildlife habitat instead, maybe even a potential food source come this summer. A tiny brown bird flits from stem to stem, tweeting in the most endearing manner. I make a feeble attempt to communicate with it, but who knows how close I come to mimicking the call. More to the point, how annoying would it be if someone just repeated what you said right back at you the whole time? I wonder if birds get frustrated in trying to communicate with humans. Has anybody even deciphered their complex language? Probably somebody out there. But not me. I silence myself, and find contentment in watching the water flow gently. The eddies and ripples form a kind of chaotic mosaic on the water's surface. Little bubbles from who knows where drift and spin lazily along the shoreline, picking up speed as they find their way into the main channel.

       I'm content to watch this all day, but duty calls. I'm at the post office, registering for a P.O. box. It is so much nicer having a mailbox close to the terminal. Happily, it is a quiet time of day, late morning, when all the “normal” people are at some kind of job or something. I hand the form to the clerk. He looks at me and asks, “So, are you just kind of 'living the life'?” I explain to him that I drive trucks for Swift, which is just down the road. He takes my 2 forms of I.D. and goes off to make copies. Upon his return, I ask him to give me an honest answer to my question. “Do I look like a homeless person?” He kind laughs and says, “yes, you look like a few of the homeless people that have come through here recently.” Not taking offense, I joke that the mustache is coming off after I get a picture of the waxed handlebars.

      Maybe it was the two knit hats on my head. Perhaps it was the scruff on the edges of my facial topiary. Perhaps it was the two layers of hoodies. Maybe I just kind of belong here. So in the meanwhile, I am calling some people to cancel the junk mail that is destined for my box, as the clerk recommended. While on the phone, I get smiles from local citizens, assuring me that while I may look homeless to some, I look friendly enough to be smiled at. That works for me.

Fire and the Mountains

Tuesday, February 14^th, 2012

      Nothing like a fire drill to keep you sharp. Truth be told, every one in the driver's lounge in Sumner just kinda looked around, confused at first. People watching TV looked around, waiting for someone to care enough to leave. Sure, There may have been an emergency somewhere, maybe the building was about to blow up, no one knew. We sat around a bit more, enjoying the shrill noise only a fire alarm can make. Eventually, someone got up. Then another person. Then We all kinda decided that, yeah, maybe we should go outside or something. Nobody saw any flames, so it couldn't be a real big deal yet. Some moseyed, others ambled, one may have waddled out the door, only to be found shortly huddled together in a large group by an open shop bay door. Apparently, some driver was doing a DPF regen in the shop. This produces extremely high temperatures, and as you may have anticipated, set off the sprinkler system and thus, the alarm. That was the evening thus far.

      While there are many such odd events that make up our days as we dance through this waltz we call life, it may become all to easy to lose ourselves in the hectic pace of this modern world, bombarded as we are by so many external stimuli. Throw in the never ending internal monologs from the restless mind produced by the media of this world, and it is a recipe for confusion. From hence forth, I will do my best to describe a single moment, with as much detail and emotion as I can muster. We can have so many profound moments each day, if we chose to see things as such. That said, I will do my best to keep this from becoming a boring log of events, as yesterday seems to me, but I will also make it a point to include odd and humorous events like the fire alarm story above, because hey, who couldn't use a laugh?

      It had been a couple of miles already. Chugging up that hill with a heavy load. I knew that it could be heavier, and was thankful that it wasn't. Still, moving at half speed was taking its toll on my patience. Although that has gotten better of late. Eastern Oregon is filled with grand undulations of rock, sprinkled with the dusky green of juniper bushes. The sage is a dull light brown this time of year, waiting for the rains and warmth of spring. Bunch grasses are a desiccated but vivid dry yellow, standing alert, for fear of fire.

At the crest of the hill, sunlight washes into the cab of the truck, breaking free from the persistent clouds. At long last, I can see a horizon in the distance. The hillside drops down along sinewy curves to a sparkling band of silver below. The Snake River. The water is occluded by a number of rocky spurs, decorated much like the rest of the hills. Far in the distance, the hills along the north side of the river valley glow in the sun. Further still, a ceiling of thin, dark grey clouds hangs low over the hill tops. Along the ridge, 5 wind turbines turn, radiant white in the sunlight. From here, they look all of 3 inches tall, rather than the 300 feet they actually reach. Against the backdrop of the foreboding sky, the turbines stand out, a beacon of power and hope.

      My road does not go there. I flow downhill along the river side. It crosses my mind that we climb our hills to get a better perspective. Seems like some kind of metaphor to me. My mind cuts to a scene from Bladerunner. “I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. ..... All those moments, lost. In time. Like tears, in the rain.” I shed my own tears only to have the moment lost. 

Here is a video link with that very line:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pw6D_QfsmUY

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A Bad Trailer, and a Great View

Monday, February 13^th, 2012

      Is there any better feeling than going home? I'm sure there is, but those usually happen when you are already there. I'm finally on my way back after five weeks on the nation's highways.

      This morning, I called in to the shipper, hoping that I could pick up the load early and put some decent miles behind me before dark. So, I woke up early only to find that my trailer would not be loaded until 10 a.m. Having secured this knowledge before acquiring coffee may have been the brightest thing I did today. Taking advantage of this circumstance I went back to sleep and rested for a while, thinking that they would call me back when the load was ready.

      Despite the promise of a call about the load's status, I decided to get there shortly after 10. The lady at the desk was none to thrilled about that, saying that when she said she would call, she meant it. Not that I am one to doubt anybody else's integrity, I'd just as soon be there when the load is ready, instead of driving the fifteen minutes there and back. Accordingly, I waited after dropping what may have been the crappiest trailer I've seen in a while.

      I did my pretrip this morning, as per usual. This time, however, I noticed that one of the mudflaps was missing. As sad as it may sound, I sincerely hope it was gone when I picked it up in Sparks. This mudflap was one of the ones that was welded to the frame. There's some serious metal holding that thing on. I would hate to have lost that on the interstate and cause some kind of accident. That said, I debated going back to the terminal in SLC to have it fixed. After the last few times of doing the right thin, I figured it was my turn to be that guy. Perhaps not the best philosophy to live by, but I am human, and having stopped there would have interfered with me getting home. Well, not really. I just did not want to go back and forth again.

      So I drop this trailer, slide the tandem and go to open the doors, only to find out that one of the chains with which the doors are secured to the side walls (to keep the doors open) has long since vanished. No wonder this was the last empty on the lot in Sparks. All I could do was laugh. Well, I could have had the company fix it, for which I feel a bit of remorse, not living up to my ideal best.

      Having played some banjo while waiting, I get my load and head down the road. Salt Lake does not particularly resonate with me, so I was happy to leave. Being out here, you will find places that sit well with you, and some that don't. I've certainly become more aware of both in my travels, and I have grown to appreciate places that feel good to me.

      Along on stretch of I-84 in Idaho, one crosses the Snake river. I swear that It must've been dark the last twenty times I crossed that part, since I felt like I was now seeing something that I'd never noticed before. The river winds it way along a rocky cliff face into the valley. Curving gently, the road hugs the north wall of the valley and a driver is blessed with a phenomenal view. It is not on of those far reaching expansive views. Rather it is one of the more intimate, close in views, a little microcosm to be enjoyed by the few present.

      I am looking forward to moving right through Oregon and into Washington. Days off are a treasure to be sure. I've a bit concerned that I've become overly acclimatized to living in the truck. I hope I can adjust to society and “normalcy.” Or maybe they can adjust to me.

(maps seem to be on the blink. Maybe another time)

Same road, new eyes

Sunday, February 12^th, 2012

      Like this weekend, my next move was predictable. An equipment move from Sparks to Salt Lake. (is “City” really necessary? It isn't like there's a “Salt Lake State” attached to it). The drive today certainly rang of Deja Vu in so many ways, yet it was completely distinct in others.

      Getting up to go to the bathroom proved to be an enlightening experience. For the first time in a few weeks, I actually looked at my truck. It was incredibly filthy from almost 5 weeks on the road, never mind how dirty it was when I got it. This had to be rectified. So I went into the terminal and inquired about the process of getting the company to pay for a truck wash. Apparently, we get one a month. Nice! A short while later, I come out of the nearby wash, all sparkly and clean, I hardly recognize the vehicle. Time to roll.

      For the longest while, it is the same scenery in the same format, little had changed so I kinda space out for a while, reflecting upon the life I've created for myself and considering what I would like to change it to in the future. This is one of the many fun parts of driving. I've stopped along the way already, grabbed some lunch so at this point, I'm content to space and drive for a while. Out of the blue, I hear this urgent beeping. I sit up, pay more attention, and it turns out to be one of my gauges. The fuel is alarmingly low. This made no sense to me, since I had enough fuel to get form Sparks to SLC, but hey, why take the chance. As fortune would have it, I am in Battle Mountain when this happens. Again. What are the odds? So I stop at the Flying J once more, and again, the clerks have no idea what kind of battle happened here. Back to the road!

      This is where things changed a bit. I was driving through the same landscape, but this time it was created in a different medium. There were still some dull greys in the sky, but mottled with blue. Sun beams poured between the clouds. Ahead in the distance, some of the clouds showed signs of rain. In the light, the wispy filaments trailed toward the cold, dry earth below. In more than a few instances, the wind sculpted the delicate rain strands into what looked like a double helix. Perhaps a trick of the sunbeams, or maybe it was just so. There was one patch of rain in particular that looked as if the Earth itself were on fire, emitting a rainy flame into the clouds above. The sun was too high in the sky for rainbows, but none were needed for this amazing scene.

       Some while later, I crossed into Utah (again). The same panoramic view appeared as I crossed into Wendover. Still breathtaking. This time, however, things would be a little different. I pulled over some nine miles down the road at a rest area. I got out and stretched, used the rest room and saw the sign “FOOT WASH” Apparently, this is a beach of some sort, at least when there's water in the basin I imagine. I strolled to the basin, spying some trace of water. Nothing to swim in this time of year to be sure, or even wade in, as may be supposed by the foot washing station.. I was surprised to find that the ground was a very solid white clay. The rest area and highway are laid upon cinders which totally stick to your boots after walking around in clay. There are also all sorts of salt deposits one the ground (go figure). Being of curious mind, I tasted them in the tradition of Marie Curie. Except I'm not going to die from tasting this stuff. The salt formed little slivers, like tiny ice crystals. As expected, they tasted salty. Just had to be sure.

      As before, my load is picking up west of SLC, so there really isn't much point in going to the terminal, aside from the fact that this is where I have been routed to. SO I drive past where I want to stop for the night and get close to the terminal. I hit my arrive at final macro somewhere outside the gate, and turn right around. Sweet. Nothing like not having to stop. And now I'm down for the night again, at the same truck stop as I was before. Lots of similarities, but just enough difference to be worthwhile.

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Shopping and gambling, Nevada's entertainment

Saturday, February 11^th, 2012

     Oh Sparks, you are becoming so predictable. Little to my surprise, I sat around all day today. This is not to say that I've done nothing, just nothing I'm getting paid for. In the end, I am taking a 34 hour reset, because I can. Even better, they are having me take an empty to Salt Lake (again) since there is all sorts of freight over there. In the industry, we call that overbooked (more loads than trucks). Yes, it has become predictable, which is good in a sense.

      Having figured that I would be down for the day, PTA of 0600 notwithstanding, I did some internet stuff in the morning, then decided to tour around the area for a bit. Honestly, there is not very much to see on this side of the highway. There is the Petro, which is where I do my web surfing, and a bunch of warehouses and heavy equipment retailers. Oh and an industrial tire dealership. All in all, not much to see. A scant mile away across the freeway, however is another story.

      I crossed the road (to get to the other side of course) with an interest in visiting an certain department store. I'm looking to buy a few supplies and such, socks and long underwear ion particular. Seeing as it is already February, the store is not carrying wool socks, nor long underwear. So I bought some soap since I used the rest in the shower this morning. Driving such a large vehicle makes days like this exceptional, in that you can actually get supplies. Sure, there are Walmarts around, but not all of them will let you park in their lots, and have anti-truck gates installed to keep big rigs out. That, and I find that I am usually working way too much to stop for a break, but that has changed for me now. I'm more into making my life a priority over the freight, while still doing the best job I can.

      Not too far from the Target, is an outlet mall. I enjoy visiting the “real” world of consumerism now and again. Some days I feel so out of touch with most of American society. Please note that I am not describing this as a misfortune. Indeed, it may be a blessing in many respects. Everyone looks less gritty, and more done up. In the world of trucking, people don;t shower every day, or put gobs of makeup on to look nice. Heck, just taking time to brush your hair is considered optional for some truckers. (Incidentally, this is why I prefer to keep my hair very short). People on the outside looks pretty, even the guys. What gives? Is there some contest I am missing? I'd just as soon not enter I imagine. Looks expensive and frivolous.

      I ended up coming away from the outlet mall with 2 pairs of nice wool socks for $20. SO that was cool. I spent most of my time wandering around Scheel's an outfitter's store, considering buying a pair of binoculars for whatever reason, mostly because it is sweet to have a pair. Looking at the Moon, the Pleiadies, that bird way over there, whatever. Perhaps some day. Waling out of the complex, a mixed group of younger adults walked past me, and one commented on my awesome mustache. For vanity reasons, I waxed it today and put it into a handlebar. It is so much fun to see how long it has gotten. I plan on having it photographed before I shave it off in annoyance. Yeah, the life of a trucker is simple, but we have little vanities we entitle ourselves to now and then.

      Aside from that, a wonderfully relaxing day with plenty of banjo playing, reading and otherwise helping people whenever I happen to be around. There is a certain satisfaction in helping someone at the right time.

      On the way to post this, I decided to gawk at the gambling downstairs in the casino. I watched people play  blackjack, craps, Texas Hold 'em and slots. The slots bore me to tears. So many hamsters pressing levers to feed their reward centers. Blackjack was fascinating. There is some kind of secret code to playing involving knocks, hand waves and little chips. Apparently you can buy insurance for some reason. I figure that you are gambling, what the hell does insurance have to do with it? That said, the lady dealing was amazing. Very fluid motion in all of her card actions. It was very zen to watch. What really knocked me out was this little button she pushed on a machine next to her. You press the green button and a deck of cards pops up through a trap door. I'm thinking that it is some kind of card shuffler, since she put the other deck in the waiting maw. Very cool.

      The craps table is a complete mystery to me. There are a bunch of squares representing odds and ranges and other stuff beyond my ken. It seems insurance is a popular theme in these games, since there was a stripe labeled as such. I am aware that you throw dice and the dude with the stick tells you what you've rolled, in case you can't count. He rakes the dice together and then does something with them, I got distracted by the lady that came by with a tray of hot dogs. Seriously. Eww. Gross. I'm certainly done with any kind of ground anything put into tubes of dubious edibility. I ate a bunch of hot dogs and brats when I first came back to trucking. At $2.22 for a pair, the price is hard to beat. Now they have become a symbol of all that is nasty about trucking Truly disgusting, and here they are giving them to people putting round trinkets on green cloth marked up with white stuff. Probably money involved somewhere.

      The Texas Hold-em table was a curiosity, since you see it on TV in poker tournaments. I stared for a while, but was told I had to go someplace else to watch. I was apparently standing in “the pit.” I take it this is some kind of forbidden zone in the center of the gaming tables. I do not understand why. Again, probably money involved. There wasn't really a pit. At least, I didn't notice a change of elevation. Perhaps it is subtle, or more of a metaphor for how all the gamers' money sinks into this central location never to be seen again.

      Given that this is a truck stop, I'm a bit surprised that there is not a brothel here. While it is something I would not participate in, I am curious as to how they work. Yes, I know that you pay money for sex. I get that. What I wonder is how they set people up with the prostitutes. What do the employees think of their work, and why do they get into the business? How do they feel after a day of work? Have they found Jesus? Well, I wouldn't ask that last one. Nevada is a strange place, but I will leave here with my brothel questions unanswered, happily so.

The Road less Traveled

Friday, February 9^th, 2012

      Today has certainly run the gamut of emotional experience for me. There have been ups and downs, vile anger and blissful enjoyment. Some of it intentionally created, some of it mere reaction to things beyond my control. On the whole, I'd say that today falls on the plus side of life experiences.

      So last night, I thought I was in the middle of nowhere, bar a few houses and some lights down the road. Well, after waking up and getting myself together, I get exactly 1 mile down the road and find out that there is a gas station I could have parked at for the night. So I stop in and get some coffee. Grand total? Eighty-four cents. I had to ask a second time to make sure it was the real deal. I haven't had coffee so cheap since I bought 5 cent coffee at Wall Drug in South Dakota. So that put the day in a positive spin, as drinking coffee is now associated with gratitude for me.

      After a number of small (less than 600 people) towns along US 95 in Idaho (and their 25 mph speed limits) the coffee started to wear off. Then I crossed I-84. Bam! A wall of fog. In the end, I would have to drive 65 miles through this river mist, until I got sufficient altitude to shake it. Someplace towards the end, I encountered three school buses. The fog was thick enough to prevent a safe pass, but not so thick that I could not manage at least 55 mph. The bus driver in front, however, would have none of that. They cruised at an agonizing 45. I know! So slow in the thick fog. What the hell are they thinking? If they can't handle it, they should get out of the damned way and let a professional drive. Such were my thoughts. It occurred to me a number of times that this attitude was by no means professional. Nor was it remotely safe. I convinced myself that getting close to the bus ahead and letting my engine brakes sound would show my displeasure and convince them to pull over. Well, one bus turned off, but I followed the other two for another 12 miles, until I was the one who turned off, relived to be away from all of that.

      Having cooled down, I started climbing out of the fog, looking at is as a metaphor for the whole experience. Letting anger cloud my perception. Like I said in another blog, everything can be a metaphor if you are of the right frame of mind. Some 2500 vertical feet later, I am well above the fog, but I seem to be running into some low clouds in Eastern Oregon. Those pass as I think of people I love, and remember to be gracious for life and all of the blessings that come with it.

      There is a town in the SE corner of Oregon called Rome. It is not so much a town as a gas station, a general store two (seriously) houses and a boat launch. The scenery is amazing. Rolling hills covered in sage and various bunch grasses. They are all brown this time of year for want of water. The landscape, where not covered in drought tolerant plants, is slowly morphing into badlands, some areas accelerated by the passage of a road and the resulting rock cut. I suppose this is free range country, since all the signs say so, but there are no cattle in sight (what is the singular neutral version of cattle anyway?).

      Further along the road, south of the Burns junction, a number of snow capped mountains appear through the distant haze. A dark storm cloud rolls across the plain, but I am bathed in sunlight. I drive for miles without seeing a house. Indeed, I am the only one going south it would seem. A small number of trucks pass me going northbound, perhaps the busiest it has been since Idaho. On occasion, there is a structure of some ilk beside the road. Most of them for road maintenance. Off in the distance, one can make out the infrequent appearance of houses. Roads that go for miles, to serve a handful of people. A string of power lines, going to that one house on the hillside. I feel the strength of the natural world out here, calling me. I wonder if they feel the same?

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Reloaded and off like a shot

Thursday, February 9^th, 2012

      Where the hell am I? After it gets dark, it all starts to look the same. This is different than starting in the dark, because now I'm tired and kinda dopey. When I start, I tend to be more awake, so the dark is more fascinating. Having just driven through the “S-curve National Forest”, I'm happy to be parked for the night, civilization in sight.

      I awoke this morning, not knowing what was going on. In Many ways, that was a huge bonus. It means I got to sleep in a bit. Rising much later than usual, I ate last night's leftovers for breakfast (salty spiced fish with a smidge of mashed potatoes and white gravy) out of the styrofoam box I stashed them in. I've found that environmental concerns somewhat diminish when you take up this lifestyle. So much to the point of overcompensation whenever I'm not driving. You have to make it a point to not get a plastic bag for that one item at the C-store.

      So after a leisurely breakfast and more banjo practice (I've almost got the Basic breakdown memorized!) I called in to see what was going on, since nothing came over the computer while I was asleep. Well, nothing relevant to what I needed to know. After a warily brief wait, I spoke with some people, and was instructed to stand by. So I stood by. Sat by would be more accurate. Then the instructions came. “Take the load back to shipper.” Whoosh! into action.

      Before acting though, I messaged them asking, “then what?” knowing full well that it would take them the hour and fifteen minutes of travel time to answer that. Well, I was wrong. They didn't know when I got there. The mill workers knew somehow, but my dispatchers had no clue. While I waited, i visited the driver's facilities. A simple heated building, with microwave, a toilet and a phone. Not all in the same room, thankfully. There were some magazines on the microwave, and since I was going to do some business, and I'm a sterotypical guy in that way, I wanted something to read. Its like my brain hungers for printed material while in the john. Well, it turns out that all of the magazines on the microwave, are in fact pornographic. Some still in the plastic wrapper, all of them of the same title.

      That came as a bit of a shock, especially considering that this is a public place. Nevermind that there are more and more lady drivers (well, female drivers) out there these days. I wonder what their take on this would be. Forgoing the reading material, I take care of business and get back to business.

      I find out that they'll be trans-loading the entire load, meaning taking it off one trailer and putting it onto another, the next door over. After some bumping and jostling, I switch trailers and go through the motions of making it all legal and so forth. Whoosh! Down the road I go. (if going 60 mph counts as a whoosh).

      Since the load is now due on the 14^th, the planners decided to drop it off some where. More to the point, to have me drop it off, in Sparks, NV. This is cool. Mostly because I'm still not going down I-5, and I get to ride the back roads down US 95 instead of US 97. Today I passed through Salmon River Canyon in Idaho. I swear that this place came out of one of my dreams. Would that I could remember the context for that dream. There is nothing in the world so spectacular as being dwarfed by towering sheer rock faces.

      Coming out of the canyon, the road starts to wind up hill. By this time, the sun was not long gone, and a light rain began. The lovely, smooth road eventually dwindled to little more than a two lane paved cow path. Sharp turns with no shoulder, no white line. The truck rocked back and forth around the corners. Any opposing traffic veered dangerously close, for fear of falling off the other side. If you look in a trucker's atlas, this part of the route is NOT a designated truck route. I now understand why. The state requires you to get a suicide permit to travel these roads. They call it an “overlength permit” technically, but suicide is more accurate. So I climbed up into the snowy bits. Honestly I was a bit shocked that it was raining this high up, in Idaho, in early February. Seriously not right. I told myself I wouldn't stop until I started going down hill. After a small ton and the “S curve National Forest,” I found an old weigh station to park at. It isn't a truck stop, so no bathrooms, but also no idling trucks next to you. Or the smell of diesel fumes as you walk to the restrooms. Yeah, good and bad, but mostly better. Off to bed.

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Excellence is a habit.

Wednesday, February 8^th, 2012

      Do the right thing. Yes, I am aware that this is a movie title. No, I have not seen it. In spite of this, I know it to be one of the truths in life. In whatever you choose to do, choose excellence. Treat every task as if it were sacred and deserving of your full attention. Admittedly, this is easier to say than to practice, but excellence becomes a habit after a while, like anything else. That said, it will sometimes bite you in the ass if you have expectations of getting things done.

      To wit, I started my day early, to get the load to Usk. I figured that somebody would be ready to snatch it up in a heartbeat, so I moved as quick as I could, because I've been the guy waiting for someone else to show up. Happily that was not the case. Even better, I got to drive some roads I've not been on before. North of Spokane is a big plot of farmland, some of it for sale. Cool and all, but not what I am looking for in a location or climate. If I want snowy winters I'll just go back to Central New York honestly. Further afield, the land becomes more akin to Flagstaff's climate, dry-ish with fire loving pine trees. Well, maybe they don't LOVE fire, but it helps them reproduce, particularly Ponderosa pines.

      So I get to the mill, and drop my trailer, switching it out for a loaded one heading to Sacramento. In some ways, this is cool, because the load is routed along the East side of the Cascades instead of down I-5. Not entirely new, but anything south of Klamath Falls is new territory. US-97 goes from there to Weed, CA; this is a seldom traveled path. Hooking up to the trailer, I see the tandems are too far back for California. They have a bridge law stating that the center of the rear axle can be no further than 40' from the center of the kingpin (the bit that connects the two units). SO I go to slide the tandems, but it is one of those trailers. One that has been so well worn and used that the pins have smooshed the metal around the holes and they tend to stick. Out comes the hammer. Twenty minutes of wrestling and pounding iron later, I'm almost ready to go.

      Having gotten the load scaled, I see that the trailer door does not seal properly. I call it in, since a leaking trailer would be very expensive if say, a roll of newsprint were to get wet. So I phone it in (hehe) and i am told to go to the Petro in Spokane, because it looked to me like a trailer door seal was missing. Should be a quick fix.

      After an hour of pulling 45000 pounds up and down hills, through roundabouts four lane highways and all sorts of traffic lights, I get to the Petro. Pull up to the service bays, and check in. I get in line, and wait. Then I wait some more. Two hours have gone by, and I'm still waiting. After a bit more waiting, I get into one of the bays, only to find out that the trailer seals are fine. The header is bent. (a header is the bar that goes across the rear top part of the trailer) Looks lie someone backed into a light pole or something. There's even a hasty-looking repair in the center of the roof, right by the header, and it turns out that it leaks. So the people at Petro can't do anything about it.

      Like a fool in a hurry, I take off down the road. A few miles later, I get a message saying to take the trailer to a repair shop in town. Turning around, I arrive in town, and have the trailer shop guys look at it. (as an aside, Spokane is growing on me, I'm really enjoying all the people I meet here) One guy comes out, looks at it and starts swearing. Not in an angry way, more in a “how the heck did they not fix this right, and this is going to be long and expensive,” way. We go in and get another guy and they come out with the camera taking a couple pictures.

      The company gets called, and at first they are quick to respond. Sadly that did not remain the case, when I told them I was running out of time to drive somewhere safe. In the end, I still have the damaged trailer, with the leaky bit downhill, just in case. The doors still do not shut properly, and I have no idea what I am going to do with this load. I suppose I'll see in the morning. Had I not said anything, chances are that the load would have been just fine. I could be in Biggs, Oregon by now, hanging out in the Gorge, getting ready for the south bound leg tomorrow. I'm just trying to do my job, and part of that is keeping the fleet in good shape. I am starting to feel that not many people think that way, hence all these trailer issues I've been having lately. Ah well. Maybe next time I'll just deal and get paid instead.

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