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 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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Timely lessons.

Sunday, February, 5^th, 2012

      Man, I tell ya, these short days are messing with my head. I have all this extra time of late and I get to doing things. Time just zips right on by. Heck I was almost asleep when I realized that I didn't write yet. That said, the banjo is coming along nicely. My fingers just might be up for the task.

      So tonight I am in Boise, Idaho. I took the long way around this time, since my load was in Utah. Today's drive started about 0530 local time. I tried to go earlier, but my body was having non of that. Another restless night in the truck last night, something I hope to change by sleeping in tomorrow morning. Well, maybe until 8.

      Driving at night is great, for many reasons. No traffic, better able to focus, probably some other things that are less important. This morning was different though. Driving down the I-15 corridor one finds themselves driving along some valley floors. Mountains loom nearby. While the details are certainly not apparent in the dead of night, that seemed irrelevant this morning. There is something about the rough silhouettes or the rocks. A deeper black tear, hewn from a deep inky blue fabric, speckled with stars. It was certainly a sight I wish I could have enjoyed longer, but you know, eyes on the road and all.

      Picking up my load in Ogden, UT, I noticed the trailer was overdue for a federal inspection. Certainly not a serious offense, but no sense in me getting a citation for it, so I drove down to SLC to get that taken care of. you see, while it is still the company's equipment, ultimately it is the driver who bears the responsibility for such silly things like that. No permits? Driver needs to check that thing. Broken mudflap? Should have seen that on your pre-trip.

      The quick lane in SLC certainly lived up to it's name. They simply walked around the trailer, took a cursory look at it, repaired a tail light and I was off again. I may have been more concerned about this had I not felt like I needed to rush, which upon reflection I did not. I'm not even sure if they checked the brakes. To my knowledge, the brakes are fine, and within tolerances. I'm just saying that I don't think they even looked. Still, it was satisfying to get out of there so quickly. The energy in that terminal is not something I care to wallow in. It just feels really negative.

      I suppose I could work to turn it around, and I do my small part. I have realized recently that I can only do what I can do, and most importantly, I can only change how I am. My trying to fix the world around me will, in the end, have less impact than fixing the world within me. For as I change my inner world, the way I see the outer world changes, and my circumstances change based on my new perceptions.

      While the above has nothing to do with trucking directly, it certainly has been a product of all the time spent behind the wheel. Here you are mostly powerless to change circumstance. Dude cut you off? Yeah. Happens all the time. You can accept it or resist it and get all angry at something beyond your control. Lots of little practical lessons. It certainly flexes those non-attachment muscles.

      Trucking has also helped diminish my sense of self-importance. A very useful tool for the kid who had to be the best at everything. I seriously doubt if many people from High School would even recognize me these days. Or even college for that matter. Driving down the road for so many hours a day, one begins to realize that other people have stuff just as trivial, or as important to do as you have. No sense in getting bent out of shape because you need to break your cruise control. you'll always get there in the end.

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The Land of Ice and Snow

Sunday, January 22^nd, 2012

      I'm a lucky bastard. Really, I am. Well, I'm not technically a bastard, but I have been lucky so far. To date, I missed almost all of winter barring a few incidents in Canada in November. I feel as if that was another lifetime ago already. Being in SoCal was a treat, even Sparks was nice enough. Donner Pass seemed like an anomalous blip on the radar of crap weather. But now, I feel that I've actually stepped in it.

      My present load is going from Salt Lake City to Missouri (Mexico, MO to be precise) and the routing has me going across I-80 for quite a ways. This is a great route if you like to space out and stare off into the distance. I really dig on that. In the winter, however, the story changes a bit.

      Starting off in SLC, I dial 511 for road info. Smart move, Ian. No sense in getting all worked up if the highway through Parley's Canyon is closed. It turned out that the chain restriction had been lifted not too long after I was loaded, so I got on my merry way. Motoring up the hill, all is well. There is a bit of ice on the road (formerly snow compacted by many tires) but it fades away soon enough. Smooth sailing all the way to the border. Right on!

Crossing into Wyoming, the road is wet, which is cool with me, but I see a large number of trucks parked in the Port of Entry (a weigh station). Hmm. I wonder why. About 7 miles down the road, the surface becomes ice/compacted snow. It sounds like I am going over a continual rumble strip. This effect due in large part to the impressions left by tire chains used at some earlier point. There are a few clear-ish spots but they are short lived and barely a tire's width anyway. Looks like 45 m.p.h. for a long stretch. I resolve to get off the road as soon as I can.

A clear spot opens up, and a chance to pass some people doing 35. Seriously. So I zip by at a cool 40, and I pass a parking area. DAMMIT! Looks like I'm going to keep on truckin'. Someplace around mile marker 68, the road is still crap. I could park at Little America (truck stop in the middle of nowhere), but it is absolutely packed. The road has a couple wet streaks for tires in one lane with scattered icy rumble strips.

Then finally, at Green River, the road clears up. It's even dry in some places! Zooming along at 63 (top speed), I release my white knuckle death grip on the steering wheel and ease up on my tension levels. I take more time to notice the landscape. I spy two groups of antelope, presumably playing on the range. They looked like they were eating, but I'm told that they play out here. I look a bit more intently on the local flora. This snow may be the lion's share of their water for the year, and I notice that the plants seem to funnel the wind around themselves leaving little drifts leeward. Brilliant! I'm not sure how intentional this is, but it totally rocks for me.

Knowledge is power, so I dial 511 again. In the mean time, it seems that the road over Elk Mountain (11k+ feet) has become so crappy that they've shut it down entirely. In a stunning turn of events, they have re-opened the section from Cheyenne to the Nebraska border, which I'm guessing was closed because of massively high winds, since the roads are dry. I consider my options. In the end, I shut down in Rollins instead of going to Laramie, where the rest of the people who kept driving East will have to stop. I'll sacrifice a shower to have some peace of mind. I'll get my chance soon enough. For now, I'm resting for the balance of the day and calling it good. 

 

Perspective and interference

Saturday, January 21^st, 2012

      Today has been a good day. I didn't have to use my A-K, so I'm not wasting money on ammo. For the whole lot of nothing between Sparks and Salt Lake City, there was plenty to see, and a lot to be experienced. For a moment, I caught myself being bored, much to my dismay. More appropriately, due to lack of imagination and wonder. We are so full of both when we are young, and as we age it often becomes easy to lose that vital faculty. Just like any other muscle, it needs to be exercised, lest it atrophy, leading us to rely on external devices to tell us stories, like TV, the internet or radio.

      At one point this morning, just before I left, it started to snow. It was one of those wet heavy snows you get when the temperature is just above freezing, but not by that much. I got a bit discouraged for a moment, thinking that I could have left yesterday and beat the storm. Then reality struck. You don't ever beat storms, you just get ahead of them for a little while, then they sneak up on you when you are sleeping. So I felt better about starting the day, despite the weather. It cleared up quickly and became rather windy, but that passed as well. Enough of this weather business. I'm not a meteorologist. (I love lamp.)

      I've decided that when you live way out in the middle of nowhere, like northern Nevada, you have to make your own fun. Evidence of this has been presented to me on a few occasions today. For lunch break, I stopped at Battle Mountain. Not a big place, but it is “the base camp for Nevada's Outback,” so they'd have you think. The Flying J was small and a bit dumpy, but they had fuel and hot water, so who's to complain? I asked one of the clerks what Battle took place for the town to be named battle mountain. She looked at me a bit dumbstruck and admitted ignorance, which is all fine and good. Driving along, I noticed that they had put their town's initials on a hill in white rock, like so many other small town in the West with identity issues. “BM.” I giggled. Then I laughed some more when I realized where I was. I could say that I ate a big lunch at BM, NV. Maybe I should have had more fiber.

      Further down the road, there is a tunnel. For starters, that alone is cool. Tunnels always make the drive more fun. On the East side of the tunnel, a series of hoodoos and goblins decorated the north side of the road for a few miles. I spent probably more time than I should have looking at the wind carved caves high up in the rocks.

      Still further down the road, I got another laugh. Not that the ride is all laughs. Most of it was just enjoying the wide open beauty mixed with snow and wetness. Coupled with some speculation that when we stop using the roads (and salting them in winter) that roadsides are going to be nice little pockets of extra moisture for salt-hardy plants to develop and become a green strip along Nevada's shrub steppe. Then at exit 333 I saw the sign. “Deeth Starr Valley.” I turned off my targeting computer and just gave it a miss entirely. The next exit down? “Welcome Starr Valley.” So I suppose it is better to go east than west. Sounds like a trap going west.. welcome then deeth? no thanks.

      Cresting the hill just before the Utah border, one happens upon a picturesque scene. Large flats splay across your field of vision, flanked by rolling rocky hills. Since it has been raining, these flats are now graced by thin pools of shimmering water, which somehow shimmer in the overcast light. Heading into Utah proper, one sees more black volcanic stones arranged into shapes or words on the white mud/sand. As far as shaped go, there were plenty of hearts with initials, a few peace signs, a couple of Mercedes logos, some names, and not too surprisingly, a couple of penises (stylized of course). Aside from the rocks though, the real beauty was in the water. Most of it is brackish or even hyper-saline to be sure, but I did see some Canada geese swimming and feeding in a couple pools by the border.

      The land is flat for 40 miles. I find this awe-inspiring, driving on the bottom of a formerly massive lake, now shrunk to a pittance of its original size. Other people seem to take another view. It is a big fun toy. I'm guessing this because there are all sorts of tire tracks coming off the road and into the flats. Some are shallow impressions, made when the land was a lot drier. A few look like some people went in with mud tires and powered their way out. One was a massive rut, a few feet deep, in which the driver was very obviously towed out, and recently for there was fresh mud still on the road. I pray that the driver was just being dumb and did not fall asleep.

      In some spots, the land has been dredged to make short canals. I have no idea why, nor any real substantial guess. That said, the water inside is a very light and clear blue. The best analog I can think of is the color associated with the Bahamas. That light azure, clear blue. I understand that bodies of water that are clear have little nitrogen content. That got me wondering, if I went up to the shore and peed in it, would it get murky in some spots? Did I mention that the road doesn't bend or change elevation for 40 miles?

      After all this peace and tranquility, I get to the Salt Lake terminal. The place is packed. Everyone is staring at the 37” flatscreen TV or their laptops. I scurry across the room to scan my documents. Gunshots and screams on the TV. I go up to the window to see if I've been dispatched on my next load. I really need to leave this place. I shake my head and say, “violence,” to one of the drivers in line. She replies, “I love this movie, I am Legend.” Shooting and screaming, people dying (or something dying, I didn't care to look). It makes me sad to see what kind of culture I'm in sometimes, but also compassionate for these people, who have lost their sense of wonder at the world they experience everyday (or maybe they haven't, but they all seemed completely zombified by the movie). This is just more incentive to change my line of work.

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