Turning the Page

Monday, July 30^th, 2012

      What keeps us running? Is it personal achievement? Fear of something? Desire to get somewhere other than where we are? Trying to lose weight? Doctors orders? I have my own answer for this question, but I will certainly note that I've been running pretty solid for the last four days, driving from Springfield, MO, up to Aurora, IL, then over to Tacoma, WA. All this to make it back in time to leave again going the other way.

      When you run so hard to get somewhere, the days go by in blurs. You take the federally required minimum ten hours off, sleeping maybe six or five of them. Hygiene takes a bit of a hit, since it seems like there's no time for anything. There are some incidents that hold prominence in my memory of the last week.

      Leaving Springfield, I was assigned a load out of the Kraft factory. I had no idea how much different stuff Kraft makes, but have a look sometime. I had settled in for a wait, since it was a live load, but I was still in a bit of a hurry. You're always in a hurry when it is time to go home. And I was hungry. My stomach was about to jump out and get its own food. Walking into the shipper, the entrance way is a makeshift break room, with vending machines against the far wall, and a low table built into the near wall. The narrow path between the obstacles was decorated with a smattering of chairs of varying makes. They totally had a microwave. Rummaging in the truck, I found that I had some microwavable Velveeta shells and cheese. Oh yeah. Guess who makes that? I went in and joked with the clerk about my lunch. He came back with a pouch of the cheese sauce, flopped it on top of the microwave and said jokingly that the big pouch was the real stuff. He walked away. A few hours later, the pouch was still there, so I took it and put it in my truck. Sitting on the floor, I found that after a couple hours it was rather hot, as the floor heats up from the exhaust filter not too far under the passenger seat. I will say that in a pinch, Velveeta makes a good hot pack and will stay in your shirt for a good spell, the foil stuck to your skin. Later in the week I tried easting the Velveeta with some salty corn chips, figuring “nachos.” Bad idea. That stuff is way to salty to be used as nacho cheese, at least with chips like Fritos. So I tossed the bulk of the bag, sad for the loss of my heating pack, but not that much.

      Blowing through Iowa and South Dakota, then a touch of Wyoming and into Montana. In the South East part of the state, one will find the monument to Wounded Knee. More specifically a pretty boy turned slaughterer. (curly hair that would make Fabio jealous!) They even named the national forest after that Custer guy. This time was much different. A fire had swept through some time before. Entire trees still standing upright, looking like spent matches. The Earth was blackened in many places, in others it was scorched red, devoid of any trace of organic matter. Some surviving trees showed traces of where the heat had singed all of the needles off, as if the fire still haunted the area, leaving a shadowy trace of its existence. Little burnt out nubs of bunch grasses set amidst a blackened landscape. And the smell. It still smelled like an ashtray. The area reeked of char. For all of that, some annual grasses had sprouted, brilliant yellow green, vibrant with new life among the failed cinders, brought about by the recent rain that had swept through. That whole scene will leave an impression for some time.

      So now I'm back, getting ready for the next adventure. I'll be hanging up my CB for a little while at least, maybe for a long while if I find something else I wish to pursue. Chances are that I'll be back out on the road, running. From what though? I've been so busy running for work that I've not really had time to take stock of my life, to reflect on events, to experience my emotions, from joy to grief. I have a lot I need to work through. I can see why some people stay out on the road all of the time. Your problems can't catch you if you are one step ahead of them. If you're always focused on what you are doing right then, the thoughts get crowded out by the present, for better or for worse. Still, some things do need to be experienced, and this is what is happening for me now., now that I've stopped moving. For now.

The week in review

Thursday, April 12^th, 2012

      As with anything in life, adhering to a rote pattern for its own sake does nobody any good, especially me. After nearly a month away now, I feel compelled to write. However, I do not feel compelled to write daily, as was my mandate before. To be honest, it seems kinda hard to top my experience in Saint Louis. I am still trying to burn that image out of my mind. In the meanwhile, I've returned back to Sumner, then out again, but this time, exploring the back roads of the heartland, which I'm sure is called that not because of geography, but because people here have hearts. I think.

I've seen all sorts of things this past week. Driving from Superior, CO to Golden is a wonderful drive, especially if you are not pulling any weight. This drive takes you abreast the Rockies themselves for a short span. The further south you travel from Boulder / Superior the more it becomes foothills, with less splendid views of mountains. For those interested, Superior is where Boulder has located all of the big box stores like Costco, where you can buy 100% recycled (80% post consumer) paper towels in bulk, because really, there is no irony there. Speaking of which, I wonder if this town has a complex by being so close to an awesome place to live?

      “B-Double E, Double R, U, N, beer-run!” Traveling from Boulder to the middle of freakin' nowhere Montana was more amazing than I thought. The trip through Wyoming along WY-59 certainly made pulling 45,000 pounds worth it. This road is fairly lonely, but not as lonely as one may think. Along the way, There are all sorts of industries. A number of tanker trucks passed me going the other direction. Most bore hazardous materials placards, number “1267,” and a couple with the number

“1203,” both flammable liquids; crude oil and gasoline respectively. I was wondering where this all came from, then an answer presented it self in the form of myriad pumps. Even better, I passed a site calling itself “Peabody Energy Mine.” Wait... I've heard of Peabody before.. oh yeah! The coal guys who wanted to mine coal under the Navajo reservation and use fresh aquifer water to sluice it over to Vegas! Then I passed another 2 “energy mines” along with miles of train cars, either filled or waiting to be filled. That and empty wind swept miles of ranch land, which cna be very breathtaking to behold, especially now as we head into spring.

      Up to Montana and back into Wyoming for the next load. Unbeknownst to the entire world, except for a select few, the North East corner of Wyoming holds a massive deposit of bentonite. I'm sure you are all waiting with bated breath, “what the hell is it?” It is often called bentonite clay, but it is in reality a volcanic ash. Light gray in color, it cakes very much like clay and is slippery as all get-out when wet. Or so I am told. The principle use is to make cat litter, the clumping variety. Talking to a local in the nearby truck stop, I learned of myriad uses for the slippery grey dust. It goes into cosmetics. It is used in steel production. It was, at one point used to create molds for engine blocks (single use molds), it goes into all sorts of food products, from hot dogs to all this other stuff I wonder about (as a binder). Yes, this little area of the world produces something like 70-80% of the world's cat litter. No shit!

     Then Off through South Dakota and Nebraska. The town of Mission, SD is buried in the heart (well, upper heart) of one of the Sioux Reservations. The town itself is not much to look at. Lots of squat buildings, some nicer than others, a few boarded up, graffiti along the perimeter of a steel building on the main drag. A shiny C-store on the west end of town, a university I've never heard of Sinte Gleska, but most of all I noticed the people. This town had more people on the streets than I had seen in mid morning Bellevue, WA, a place certainly 100 (perhaps even 1000) times larger. People of all ages walking around town going about their business. I'm not sure how to convey my amazement at this simple thing.

      Then there's Nebraska. Ever hear of Sandhill cranes? Well Google it if you haven't. Ever wonder why they are called this? I sure did. Turns out that there are endless miles of sandy hills pocked with marshes in north central Nebraska. Seems the cranes breed here. Muskrat lodges by the dozens!

      Fast forwarding to today, I got to enjoy quite a lot of the back roads here, almost driving off one of them just contemplating the landscape. Passing through the town of Farwell, NE (home of the largest Polish Catholic Church in Nebraska, a surprisingly specific sign) I got the sense that I was, in another place. Poland specifcally, even though I've never been. The land is flat, green, windy and probably cold as heck in the winter. Further along the road, is Loup City. The self proclaimed “Polish Capital of Nebraska.” I'm sure there's a tasteless joke in here some place.

      Back through Broken Bow and down to Lexington, to pick up an empty trailer. I learned that I was going to IBP, or Iowa Beef Processors, which it seems Tyson had bought out at some point. On the way down, I had driven past a number of expansive feed lots. Cows standing in complacency for want of a place to go and graze. Air so foul with manure and urine that I gag as I drive the 2 miles past one of these places. Yes, right to a “processing plant.” Waiting in line to get my empty trailer, 4 cattle trucks pass by, sending more cows to their doom. Yet I still eat chicken, and I know their fate is no less worse. Ah morality. That said, I apologized to the cows as they gazed out of their mobile metal prisons, only to be prodded into the jaws of death, and prayed that they have a better life in the next incarnation. What else could I do?

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A cold wind blows

March 2^nd, 2012

      Another day, another adventure. More aptly, another series of adventures. When you are going a mile a minute, life tends to change fairly rapidly. Situations arise and pass away, like so many sensations during a good meditation.

      Sleeping in for want of rest, I woke up sometime after the sun. Not what I was hoping for, but ultimately a wonderful thing. South Dakota is a beautiful state, and it would be a shame to waste such an viewing opportunity in darkness. Generally speaking, it is all down hill from the west end of the state as you move east. I remember looking at the political/geographic maps of the U.S in elementary school, admiring the changing colors, wondering what they looked like in real life.

      The landscape here is essentially prairie. Soft rolling hills with lots of grass. The Black hills are kinda short and frumpy, and yes, they look black from the dense thickets of trees growing on them. Just outside of the Black Hills region, one will catch glimpses of badlands in their infancy. Severe slopes carved by sudden storms, combined with variegated layers of natural colors, simply amazing. Before they become water sculpted and wind crafted masterpieces, the formations seem to start as dumpy round hillocks. Much less wondrous to be sure. They kinda look like a scoop of cafeteria mashed potatoes with grass on them. I surmise that the badlands start to form via extreme saturation leading to slumping, and then mass wasting. This exposes the friable and loosely accumulated rock, thus making it more susceptible to physical weathering. Over time and repeated rains, little differences in elevation become more and more exaggerated until we are blessed with the badlands we know and love today.

      Elsewhere, rivers cut deep swathes thru the hills, bringing another interesting element into the equation: trees. By and large, trees are hard to come by out here. They tend to hunker around water and human settlements (probably because they are brought in and watered). Despite winter's tenacious grasp on this corner of the country and lack of signs of spring, there is much beauty to be had in the trees here.

      To my surprise, many of the trees were dead, bereft of the greater portion of their bark. Still, the skeletons were bleached white in the blustery cold, partially bent by wind in their living years. I'm not sure I could even find the words to describe how graceful these ex-trees were in their state of mummification. It is as if they were dancing to a tune long since gone, frozen in mid stride.

      In more mundane news, I will certainly be putting my truck into the shop upon arrival tomorrow in Edwardsville. I was a bit on the fence about it until now. You see, the fuel output sensor goes on the fritz occasionally. Well, that infrequent occurrence has become so frequent that I have to actually keep track of how much fuel I use. I've got that down though, I simply track how much I've put in, and multiply by the average MPG and viola... I have a good and safe guess of when I should get fuel next. What ever happened to using floats anyway? Everything is all electronic now. Probably hackable or something I'm sure. Somebody get on that.

      The clincher happened today at a rest area. The winds in South Dakota were a steady 25 to 30 mph, which was great for me since it was a tailwind. Woe to the poor slobs driving west! Parked at a rest area, I open the door, and it flies out of my hands from the wind. Now it won't shut. I slam it a few times. No dice. Putting gloves on my very cold hands, I lift the door a bit and slam it closed again in hope it will shut. It does, but not quite all the way. So I try to open it again. No dice. Now, I am climbing in and out of the passenger door, for which I am extremely grateful. I shudder to think what it would be like if that door went on the blink as well. In the meantime, I have lined the crack with socks to keep the cold at bay and noise to a minimum. I'm certainly not putting up with that for as long as I've put up with the fuel gauge.

      Like everyday, there are some bits of mundane, and some sublime moments. Perhaps the hardest part is remembering to let myself be human the whole time.

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Your brain on trucks; a disjointed ramble

Thursday, March 1^st, 2012

      Oddly enough, it seems that I have stopped at the only Pilot truck stop in the nation that does not have wireless internet. I will not grieve for lost time staring vacuously into the shiny screen. In fact it fits into the theme of the day. Actually it would be just as appropriate to stare blankly at a screen as well, but screens are so limiting.

      Starting off early, I left Anaconda behind. The guy that was next to me idling his noisy ass p.o.s. truck left before me, which is just as well. Consequently, I did not sleep as well as I could have, and I am certainly ready for bed. Here are some observations I made during the day.

      At one point, I was totally spaced out, but still being with the road. It is like you see what is going on, but your body mind is completely elsewhere. I was alert enough to be sure. Someplace past the Little Big Horn Battlefield, I considered it funny that they actually pay me to do this. For some reason it had not occurred to me at the level of “I am holding a steering wheel and contemplating everything.” The idea of it being work was long gone.

       Driving past Little Big Horn, it gave me pause to reflect. Were Americans such a bunch of ethnocentric, mean spirited bigots? Are we still? If our nation is mostly a nation of Christians, I would say we are setting a poor example, and/or ignoring what that Jesus dude said the whole time. Just driving past the site, one can feel the resentment in the earth. Furthermore, it is a monument in the Crow Nation. Why immortalize someone who slaughtered a bunch of people because they did not agree with him/his system? I found it hard to believe that being an American myself, that I was somehow linked to this inhuman madness.

      Late into a long day, there is a certain kind of momentum going. You've already been driving for so long. Your body takes a bit of a back seat as your mind takes over. That full bladder? It can wait another 60 miles (and it did). When you do finally stop, it is like hitting a wall. Suddenly not moving at a good speed feels foreign to you. The head thinks you are still going, but the body is stiff and sore from hunkering down in one position for 6 hours straight. Nothing that can't be walked off, which is just as novel.

      I found it funny the things I remembered about certain stretches of road. The hill south of Billings is long and more long. I remembered the hill as you turn onto 212. There is a stretch of 212 in Montana that I have a vivid memory of passing a truck driver, who was on his cell phone. I would keep catching up to him at 65 (back then) and I went to pass. I don't think he even looked into his mirror the whole. He was up to 65 some time just before I pulled along side him on the two lane road. In the end, I honked my horn and he slowed to let me pass, still on his phone. I later found out that he could have been going quite a lot faster than he was. I was less patient then.

      Today it didn't matter. I had almost the entirety of the east bound drive to myself. In 180 miles, I was passed 5 times, by cars. That certainly contributed to enjoying my spacey time. Road hypnosis is a strange thing, and it leaves you tired in the end. A shower rounds out a wonderful day, which can only be made better by some good sleep, since my brain isn't functioning too well. Good night all.

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