Fruits and Nuts

Morning arrived and yet another trip to the shop to repair the truck. One of the air bags for the air ride on the cab busted and created an ox cart out of the Fat Cat. The resulting sound of escaping air from the air lines sounded like the hissing of a big, mean old snake. If I had to drive a truck like this for any length of time, I’d be in daily chiropractic care, riding around in a motorized scooter. I felt bumps in the road that didn’t exist. The Freightliner became a Freight shaker.


Sacramento Truck Center seemed like the logical place to go since they had a big Freightliner sign out front. Once inside, the shop appeared orderly and the service writer assured me that they would fix the problem easily. They had a good selection of refreshments and of course, being in California, good gourmet coffee. The driver’s waiting lounge featured leather recliners with TV and reading material. I privately thought, take your time guys, I could catch a nap here.

About an hour passed and I poked my head in the shop to check the progress of the work. Now, California seems to offer some odd behavior in people from time to time. Some are actually creative, like the homeless guy I saw on a street corner in Oakland holding up a carboard sign with a drawing of a house with a circle around it and slash through it.  That guy deserved some dough based solely on creativity.  Anyway, the old saying goes “Californians are like breakfast cereal, once you take away the fruits and the nuts, you’re left with the flakes.” Upon entering the shop area, I saw about five or six mechanics standing around in a circle playing a “happy sack” game. For the uninitiated, the object is to kick a bean bag around and keep it in the air, not letting it fall to the ground. Depending on the agreed on rules, you can use any part of your body or just feet or hands. In a strange kind of way, it's like an aerial game of twister, without the big polka dot mat. Some are very good at it and can keep it up for hours. These wrench turners were giggling, screeching and carrying on like a bunch of school girls while playing the game. Maybe it’s me, but it seemed very odd to me in this setting. What's next? Hide and go seek around the trucks or pin the tail on the grease monkey. I hope they don’t add playtime to the hourly rate. So wonder they don’t want anyone in the shop area.

Once again, with the truck repaired and my skeletal frame preserved, it was time to move on. This time, it would be a layover in pleasant Ripon, California at a comfortable Pilot Travel Center. Finally, the ever present rain subsided and I could await a new opportunity in dry air. The next day, the Q-comm offered up a run to Salt Lake City, Utah. Ok, we’ll go there. Pick up would be back down to the Bay Area community of Hayward and delivery 800 some odd miles to the Salt Lake City Airport. My thought was `excellent’, I had been to the Salt Lake airport in September, so I have some familiarity to the place.

Back out on I-80, headed east, night fell and a return trip to Utah had begun. This time, I would travel a route I hadn’t been on yet, through northern Nevada. I didn’t know what to expect, although I have always pictured that part of the Silver State as a barren desert highway to the Beehive State.

At Truckee, California, as you prepare to climb over the Sierras, they have a check point where they ask you if you have chains for your truck and understand that there are hefty fines should you get stuck in snow. A toll type ticket is issued reiterating the warning in plain language.

This part of Interstate 80 wasn’t what I thought it would be. The terrain was continually hilly and mountainous. Winter temperatures replaced mild California air and evidence of an earlier snow fall blanketed the landscape. Daylight broke over Carlin, Nevada and I found myself stopping at a Pilot stop for some coffee. Upon entering, I chuckled to myself because I spied a rather large casino in the corner of the building. They will put a one armed bandit anywhere in this state. I wandered over to get a look and became mesmerized by the flashing lights and clanging bells familiar with a money grabbing operation of this type. Drivers stared at spinning cherries, numbers and bars. They mechanically poured coins in the slots with a determination to win.

With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, and some small talk conversation with the checkout clerk, I remarked at how chilly it had gotten since California. I said “it’s got to be about 28 degrees out there now.” Her reply was “it’s colder than that.” In the next instant, she picked up a phone and pushed a speed dial number. After a short while, she hung up and announced that it was 19. All of a sudden, I felt colder.

The early morning sunshine, yes, wonderful sunshine, glistened off the snow covered peaks framing long, expansive ribbons of highway winding around extensive grades off high lands leading to flat valleys. This part of Nevada was more picturesque than I was prepared for. So much for the dry and exclusively flat land I had imagined previously. I live for drama in the scenery on the road and this view was gift to me.

In little time, I was at the western Utah border and on the Salt Flats leading to the Great Salt Lake. The mountain peaks became more dramatic and increasingly snow covered. The native license plates carry the slogan “The Greatest Snow on Earth” and now I could see why. The summer mountains I saw here were rather craggy, brown and barren, but the snow covered version appeared magnificent in all their winter glory. Wow, I’m glad I got to come back this time of year.

I met Bob, my freight contact at the airport for delivery. This jovial 60ish man with thinning gray hair was anxious to get his special delivery on a Sunday afternoon. He led me to a remote part of the airport, a different way than I had been before because the Sundance Film Festival was beginning and hordes of celebrities were winging their way into town. Security was ramped up for all the commotion and Bob played down the importance of these people and the paparazzi that followed. I commented “I guess the Osmonds, if they’re going and resident Robert Redford are already here.” Bob chuckled, “probably so.”

The freight transfer was now complete and the obligatory papers signed which signals my “happy hour” so I pointed the Fat Cat to the big coffee pot sign in front of Sapp Brothers Truck stop not far off I-80. Trucker chatter on the CB recommended the stop as one of the best. I’m always apt to take a fellow trucker’s referral, so I was looking forward to somewhere different than a Pilot, Flying J or TA. My hope was the food would be good and the internet reception strong.