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.