04.02.2012
Between Mountain Home, Idaho & Rock Springs, Wyoming stretch 256 miles of 2-lane highway, passing south of Jackson Hole. Mountain goats, elk, deer, eagles, snowy owls, porcupines and a host of wildlife share this territory uneasily with travelers .
On one Spring morning, dawn emerged as I drove East through the foothills. The sun had yet to crest the ridge. Alone with my thoughts, I rounded a long gradual curve. My reverie was interrupted by a horseman, a cowboy, plodding straight down the center line toward me.
Unwavering he continued, so I backed off, began down-shifting. Still he approached, unfazed by the truck. I slowed to a stop, idling for a moment, before a Hereford appeared at some distance behind him. Another, then a veritable wall, a cattle drive. I shut the truck off. The migration moved around and past me at glacial velocity and mass.
30 minutes or more passed as the sun climbed into the sky. I pondered the possibility of another vehicle finding me stopped on the highway. I dreamt of coffee.
Trucks make money when the wheels are turning. A crouch and steering wheel grip betray most long-haul drivers. Comfortable with solitude, they never miss the demands of 40-hour work weeks. It's not uncommon to see drivers asleep over the wheel of their rigs.
My father, a ham radio enthusiast and nine-to-fiver, engaged his narrow circle of friends via the airwaves, where participants took turns talking, simply signing out when they had enough. My father would spend endless hours in his "ham shack," which mystified my stepmother. I understood the need for time spent alone. Solitude equals sanctuary.
Today's technology is similar to ham radios, but with no sign-out: cameras optional, texting, Tweeting, email and IM-ing, social interaction is virtual. There is no refuge from demands on one's attention.
2 or 3 cowboys brought up the rear, mute as the first, passed beyond my truck and grew small in the rear view mirrors, trampled grasses and manure the only sign of their passing. They didn't miss the 9-5 either.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Sunday, April 1, 2012
04.01.2012 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Pinedale, Wyoming
04.01.2012
Pinedale, Wyoming: Population, 948.
Driving East from Portland, Oregon, several hundred miles and a few imposing mountain passes can be circumvented by taking to the 2-lane highways between Mountain Home, Idaho, and Rock Springs, Wyoming. 250 miles or so of mostly level, mostly straight highway interrupted only by the occasional small town or resort area. Peaceful, best crossed at night during the tourist seasons - summer RV's, Fall hunters, Winter skiers. So, always.
One hot late summer night, traveling with 3 or 4 other "serious" (late-night) truckers, I announced I was making a quick stop "to check my tires for overheating," lingo for a pit stop. The Tetons give way to wide open spaces, and dawn was about an hour away. So a stop, for me, required the cover of darkness.
Back behind the wheel, I put the pedal to the floor to catch up with my nighttime traveling companions. An estimated 15-20 minutes would put me back in the pack again. Approaching Pinedale, I could see the few lights of town far off, 10 minutes before reaching them. I was still a couple miles distant, tired from driving all night, and noted almost automatically the rare headlights coming my way. In fact, rather late, it registered in my numb brain that nobody was likely to be awake, much less driving, out here in the middle of nowhere. And at the instant the car passed, the shield on the door was briefly illuminated by my own headlights, and I saw the brake lights come on just before the car made a U-turn.
I downshifted, coasted to a stop in the first open parking lot I arrived at, set the brakes, gathered up my papers, and climbed down to find the sherriff already at his task, filling in the blanks on his ticket pad. I opened the passenger door of his cruiser at his beckoning, and sat down with a sigh.
"Do you know how fast you were going?"
"Yes."
"Why were you going that fast?"
"You know," I said, exasperated, "I wonder if there's an answer to that question that would compel you to stop writing that ticket. Is there such an answer?" I asked.
He smiled a bit, and shook his head.
"So, do you just collect excuses, and share them over coffee with your colleagues?"
He smiled again, kept on writing.
"Well, then," I forged ahead, "I'll tell you the God's honest truth. I was going that fast because this truck won't go any faster!"
I don't know the statute of limitations in Pinedale, Wyoming. I did make out a money order to the address listed, but all the money orders I made out that week, deposited into an cardboard Outgoing Mail tray on a counter in a run-down truckstop in New Jersey, were stolen, cashed at a liquor store outside Washington DC, as it was later discovered.
Pinedale, Wyoming: Population, 948.
Driving East from Portland, Oregon, several hundred miles and a few imposing mountain passes can be circumvented by taking to the 2-lane highways between Mountain Home, Idaho, and Rock Springs, Wyoming. 250 miles or so of mostly level, mostly straight highway interrupted only by the occasional small town or resort area. Peaceful, best crossed at night during the tourist seasons - summer RV's, Fall hunters, Winter skiers. So, always.
One hot late summer night, traveling with 3 or 4 other "serious" (late-night) truckers, I announced I was making a quick stop "to check my tires for overheating," lingo for a pit stop. The Tetons give way to wide open spaces, and dawn was about an hour away. So a stop, for me, required the cover of darkness.
Back behind the wheel, I put the pedal to the floor to catch up with my nighttime traveling companions. An estimated 15-20 minutes would put me back in the pack again. Approaching Pinedale, I could see the few lights of town far off, 10 minutes before reaching them. I was still a couple miles distant, tired from driving all night, and noted almost automatically the rare headlights coming my way. In fact, rather late, it registered in my numb brain that nobody was likely to be awake, much less driving, out here in the middle of nowhere. And at the instant the car passed, the shield on the door was briefly illuminated by my own headlights, and I saw the brake lights come on just before the car made a U-turn.
I downshifted, coasted to a stop in the first open parking lot I arrived at, set the brakes, gathered up my papers, and climbed down to find the sherriff already at his task, filling in the blanks on his ticket pad. I opened the passenger door of his cruiser at his beckoning, and sat down with a sigh.
"Do you know how fast you were going?"
"Yes."
"Why were you going that fast?"
"You know," I said, exasperated, "I wonder if there's an answer to that question that would compel you to stop writing that ticket. Is there such an answer?" I asked.
He smiled a bit, and shook his head.
"So, do you just collect excuses, and share them over coffee with your colleagues?"
He smiled again, kept on writing.
"Well, then," I forged ahead, "I'll tell you the God's honest truth. I was going that fast because this truck won't go any faster!"
I don't know the statute of limitations in Pinedale, Wyoming. I did make out a money order to the address listed, but all the money orders I made out that week, deposited into an cardboard Outgoing Mail tray on a counter in a run-down truckstop in New Jersey, were stolen, cashed at a liquor store outside Washington DC, as it was later discovered.
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