I ended up January in Salt Lake City, on a lay-over at Sapp Brothers Truck Stop. Along the way their trademark roadside coffee pot sign popped up just off the Interstates on other runs travelling through Nebraska and Iowa. I never gave it much thought, just another place to warehouse drivers for the night. Driver chatter on the CB recommended the stop, so I set the GPS to take me on over. Upon entering, I wheeled over to the big yellow Idle Air tubes. Little did I know at the time, but it would be the last weekend for it. Bankrupt and unable to find a buyer, they suddenly shut down the last day I was there. Too bad, it was a great service for truckers. For a $1.85 an hour, you could hook a big vent-like tube to your window and get hot and cold air, an electric outlet, cable TV and internet. It was great, because you could save fuel by not idling the engine and burning fuel at roughly a gallon an hour. Figure about $2.80 a gallon now for diesel. At least I got to see the AFC and NFC Championship games on the final hurrah.
Usually, when I try a new stop, I’ll case the joint to determine what it has and where everything is. When I entered Sapp Brothers for an initial tour, I sensed an atmosphere geared toward comfort that I had only seen a few times on the road. Big green rugs with the rubber boarder led the way to the rest room. What a great idea. A lot of floors in the rest rooms at stops are just a big wet mess by virtue of melting snow in the parking lots being tracked in by truckers. During the course of my stay, I saw these rugs being changed out a couple of times a day. Just a simple detail, but a nice warm and dry rest room made a big difference. Dam, I wanted to go to the bathroom when I didn’t have to!
The restaurant offered a complete buffet with plenty of healthy selections, including my favorite, chopped spinach in natural sauce. Not creamed, or with a bunch of cheese added. Just spinach. A lot of stops revolve around fast food and I try to avoid it as much as possible. Talk about the movie “Super-Size Me” and I could have written that screenplay. Based on the spinach alone, give this restaurant an “A”. From my booth in the restaurant, I had a nice view of the snow covered Rockies through an impeccably clean window. I like this place.
My exploratory expedition brought me to an elevator leading to the second floor Driver’s Lounge. I felt like I was in a nice hotel on the way up. Level number two offered an ample number of late model washers and dryers along with the shower facilities, a big screen TV room, a chiropractor’s office and a dentist. Long Haul Dental seemed like an appropriate name. Later, when I used the shower facility, I found granite-like counter tops and a quality nozzle in the shower itself. On top of a “How Are We Doing?” scorecard, there were red and white swirl peppermints. On the wall next to the sink, I found a hair dryer for those with long flowing locks. I might have made use of it in 1975 on my long golden locks. If you spent ten dollars somewhere in the travel center, the shower was five. Most showers on the road are ten, but I get most mine free on fueling points. If you purchased fifty gallons of fuel, it was free. Add it all up and you’ve got little touches that made a big impression on me. I carried the survey out and ended up writing a book of accolades. In addition, the entire staff was schooled in customer service. I found them friendly, talkative and accommodating. It’s the honor roll for these folks.
January was an off month with the Fat Cat in the shop so much. Follow that with a 28 day February and a better “get on my horse” attitude was how I felt. Now, being in a nice truck stop is one thing, but when you’re not rolling, it’s a whole ‘nother story. Truckers in general get antsy waiting around for anything. Just when I was beginning to feel weary about being stationary for two days, my phone sounded off with the Price Is Right theme and my little automated friend described a run from right in Salt Lake going to Auburn, Washington. I jammed “3” for accept and Washington State it was. Wouldn’t it be great to hear Frasier on the radio up there, I mused. I’m actually supposed to be related some in some way to Kelsey Grammar, who portrayed Frasier the talk radio shrink from Seattle on TV. His mother was a Cranmer and I've always mused that our paths intersect generations back. Everyone knows all Cranmers are related. He states in an autobiographical piece that he marveled at how his mother and father’s last names were so close phonetically and how close he was to his mother and the Cranmer’s. In addition, one of my best old buddies, Dave Whiting, lives in the Tacoma area near Seattle. Dave and I go back to fifth grade where we traded WABC music surveys. Later on, we shared many adventures in the Boy Scouts. Our travels included a legendary journey to Phimont Scout Ranch in Cimarron, New Mexico in the summer of 1970. A year later as part of a fearless expedition, we canoed two hundred miles into the Canadian wilderness from Boundary Waters at Ely, Minnesota. On local campouts, we brought more lighter fluid that food! Tall flames were a great pastime on these outings. You can’t put a price on the memory of two young scouts squirting streams of Kingsford’s finest flammable on open flames to exponent the effect. It was kind of like Tom Hanks in the fire scene of Castaway. To all young scouts today, I wouldn't recommend our use of fire. I'm sure you're smarter than we were. Lighter fluid is very dangerous, be sure to use it properly. Dave went on to make history and become the youngest scout to earn the rank of Eagle at Troop 154 in Pluckemin, New Jersey at age fourteen. It’s a record that still stands today, if I’m correct. We’re talking about more than 50 years of Troop 154. An obligatory call to him was in order with the good news. During our phone conversation, Dave promised good food and a tour of town when I got there. This voyage would be fun, I can’t wait to get rolling.
The run up through northern Utah, Idaho, Oregon and Washington itself would prove to be a most scenic excursion, even though a majority of the trip would be in the dark and the fog. Imposing Rocky Mountain Peaks are no match for any kind of weather or darkness. Thousands of twinkling lights in the adjoining valleys bounce off these majestic behemoths. A new day would dawn in Oregon leading up to the mighty Columbia River which separates Washington and the Beaver State. As I crossed over into Washington State, I felt an air of accomplishment by setting foot in the Great Northwest. Now, I could “notch” all four corners of America. Maine, Florida, California and Washington were now securely under my belt. The completion of visiting every state in the continental United States was within sight. I love this big beautiful country of ours so much that I want to cover it all. In a figurative sense, I want to meet all the Americans that make up this land of the free. Wyoming on the way back east would make 45. For me, there’s only three more to go from sea to shining sea. Montana and the Dakotas are all that’s left of my lower 48. Now, I’ll have to figure out how to get to Alaska and drop in on Sarah Palin. Hawaii is going to be a trick, I hear the bridge toll is a whopper.
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Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, January 29, 2010
It Never Rains In Southern California
On the range in New Mexico, I was directed to a remote area about five miles from the entrance gate to unload. All I had was one lonely crate to be taken off the truck. With the mission in the desert complete, it was back to El Paso for a layover to await the next assignment. The weather, at least was co-operating and pleasant sixty degree sunshine dominated the afternoon.
Just when things were looking like I might be able to catch a late afternoon snooze in the breezy Texas sunshine, The Price is Right theme sounded on my phone, telling me the company was calling with a load opportunity. When I answered, it wasn’t the usual automated female voice announcing my prospects, but Nicole, live and in person asking if I had a generator on the truck and if so, what year was it. I replied that I had no “Alternate Power Unit” or APU as they’re called in trucking circles. Why do you ask, I quizzed her. Nicole continued that there was a new law in effect in California banning older model APU’s. I followed that comment with “do you have an opportunity going to California?” She said, well yes, I have one going out from Tucson, Arizona to Sacramento tonight. I pressed her further and inquired about the terms. She responded with favorable numbers and I was quick to commit. Cal-li-forn- I-A here I come! I envisioned continued favorable weather, a plethora of gourmet coffees and a bunch of valley type people ending every sentence with “it’s like, ya know, ya know?”
About the only thing I got right was the coffee selection. I didn’t see any Valley Girls and there wasn’t much sunshine. This has been a rough winter for the Southwest too. Storm after storm has been pounding in off the Pacific with record amounts of precipitation. Mudslides and treacherous freeway driving dominated travel to and around the Golden State. The rain started in earnest around the New Mexico-Arizona border and the winds picked up dramatically, buffeting the truck with force on I-10. I had planned on running through the truck wash before this trip to wash some of the winter off the Fat Cat. The white wheels were black with road soot and salt. When I finally got out at a fuel stop in Tucson, I marveled at how the strong winds and heavy rain had sand blasted them pure white again. Amazing. I have never seen so much rain in this part of the country, but then again, I’ve never seen so much wacky weather in one season. It only figures that this is my first year in trucking.
By the time I made California, the rain had subsided enough to make travel a little less hectic. This run would take me up through the high desert of California and into the central valleys of this beautiful, but much maligned state. I like both of these regions very much. This was my second run on the desert and second up the San Joaquin Valley. The high desert has a certain kind of appeal to me with miles of straight highway, dotted with small roadside cafes and gas stations surrounded by distant mountain ranges. Trailer homes and old boarded up businesses pepper the journey to Bakersfield. And then there’s Boron, California. Two thousand people live here. Lots of towns across America are proud of something. Notwithstanding, Boron’s claim to fame is being the Boron Capital of The World, the home of the largest borax mine in the world. Yes, that’s the stuff they make the cleaning powder Borax with. This city of interest is on the western edge of the Mojave Desert. In the area, you can view both the highest and lowest points in the lower 48 United States. We’re talking about Mount Whitney and Death Valley. If it’s a desert scattered with bleach white bones or a snow capped mountain you like, this would be a great place for you. Also, of interest, if you’re so inclined, is the 20 Mule Team Museum.
The scenery along CA 58 produced signs for Edwards Air Force base and far off mountains that I would soon be travelling through. The air was mild and the skies toggled from overcast to a faint sunshine filtered by a dominant cloud cover. With a cup of Sumatra coffee acquired at a Pilot Fuel Stop at the intersection of CA 395 and 58, I was content to ease on down the road with the Fox News Channel as my company on XM satellite.
Highway 58 took me to the towns of Monolith and Tehachapi; the terrain quickly became mountainous and quite scenic. The winding road led to Bakersfield and the southern end of the renowned San Joaquin Valley. San Joaquin is one of the most fertile growing areas in the world. In places, you can see the rich, black soil plowed and ready for planting. Good portions of the produce we consume, especially in winter, come from this crown jewel of American agriculture. The climate is conducive to year round vegetable and fruit production. I saw miles of orange, grapefruit and lemon groves that made me want to pull over and gather some that had fallen on the ground. I might have done this had there not been an imposing barbed wire fence to dissuade me and others with the same notion. But, hey, they don’t use the ones on the ground, do they?
Next up, it was the towns of Selma and Fresno, where undisputedly, you could literally find yourself in a sea of raisins. They call this area “The Raisin Capital of The World”. Lore tells of the raisin being invented here, but how do claim fame to something that shrivels up and dries out? The Sun Maid lives prominently here. We'll proudly take two scoops in our raisin bran.
The precipitation persisted and the old Albert Hammond song that was popular in 1972, “It Never Rains in Southern California” played in my head. “It never rains in Southern California, but girl, don’t they warn ya, it pours, man it pours”, the line goes. Modesto popped up and so did the vast expanses of grape vines. Would a good deal on a jug of Gallo wine be at hand? Unfortunately, in this situation, a cheap bottle of wine would not be in the cards for me. Not on duty anyway. If the authorities find any kind of evidence of alcohol in my truck, I’m toast. Drinking or transporting, it doesn’t matter.
Sacramento appeared within sight and the jumping off point for my tour of The San Joaquin Valley. North of town, there is still another full third of this massive and wonderous valley left to ponder. I feel that we are so blessed with natural resources here in this country where the Joaquin plays a vital role in the food basket of America. As I pulled into the 49er Truck stop, dusk enveloped the landscape. The next day I would unload and get ready for another day in Northern California. The strategic location that the capital of California occupies on the Interstate 80 corridor has always intrigued me with sights and places that can be visited easily. You can find Yosemite, Lake Tahoe, Reno, Carson City, Virginia City and some excellent ski resorts to the north. Go the other way and you’re in the San Francisco Bay area, one of the most beautiful and diverse cities in America. Tony Bennett wasn't kidding when he sang "I Left My Heart in San Francisco". "Where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars..." This is pretty heady stuff. Oh, and let us not forget the world famous Napa Valley. That place speaks for itself. Talk about wineries. Some of the best wine in the world comes out of there. Also, you’ll find some of the most scenic countryside known to man. They even have a radio station named KVYN here...K-Vine. At certain times of the year, you can bounce back and forth from winter to summer by cruising up and down 80. I especially like Santa Cruz Beach with its barking Sea Lions begging to be fed. They sell fish on the pier for that purpose. “Feel Free to Feed the Sea Lions”, that's what the sign says. That's California. To live here has got to be a weekend trip paradise. This is a great part of the country. I’m happy to be here.
Just when things were looking like I might be able to catch a late afternoon snooze in the breezy Texas sunshine, The Price is Right theme sounded on my phone, telling me the company was calling with a load opportunity. When I answered, it wasn’t the usual automated female voice announcing my prospects, but Nicole, live and in person asking if I had a generator on the truck and if so, what year was it. I replied that I had no “Alternate Power Unit” or APU as they’re called in trucking circles. Why do you ask, I quizzed her. Nicole continued that there was a new law in effect in California banning older model APU’s. I followed that comment with “do you have an opportunity going to California?” She said, well yes, I have one going out from Tucson, Arizona to Sacramento tonight. I pressed her further and inquired about the terms. She responded with favorable numbers and I was quick to commit. Cal-li-forn- I-A here I come! I envisioned continued favorable weather, a plethora of gourmet coffees and a bunch of valley type people ending every sentence with “it’s like, ya know, ya know?”
About the only thing I got right was the coffee selection. I didn’t see any Valley Girls and there wasn’t much sunshine. This has been a rough winter for the Southwest too. Storm after storm has been pounding in off the Pacific with record amounts of precipitation. Mudslides and treacherous freeway driving dominated travel to and around the Golden State. The rain started in earnest around the New Mexico-Arizona border and the winds picked up dramatically, buffeting the truck with force on I-10. I had planned on running through the truck wash before this trip to wash some of the winter off the Fat Cat. The white wheels were black with road soot and salt. When I finally got out at a fuel stop in Tucson, I marveled at how the strong winds and heavy rain had sand blasted them pure white again. Amazing. I have never seen so much rain in this part of the country, but then again, I’ve never seen so much wacky weather in one season. It only figures that this is my first year in trucking.
By the time I made California, the rain had subsided enough to make travel a little less hectic. This run would take me up through the high desert of California and into the central valleys of this beautiful, but much maligned state. I like both of these regions very much. This was my second run on the desert and second up the San Joaquin Valley. The high desert has a certain kind of appeal to me with miles of straight highway, dotted with small roadside cafes and gas stations surrounded by distant mountain ranges. Trailer homes and old boarded up businesses pepper the journey to Bakersfield. And then there’s Boron, California. Two thousand people live here. Lots of towns across America are proud of something. Notwithstanding, Boron’s claim to fame is being the Boron Capital of The World, the home of the largest borax mine in the world. Yes, that’s the stuff they make the cleaning powder Borax with. This city of interest is on the western edge of the Mojave Desert. In the area, you can view both the highest and lowest points in the lower 48 United States. We’re talking about Mount Whitney and Death Valley. If it’s a desert scattered with bleach white bones or a snow capped mountain you like, this would be a great place for you. Also, of interest, if you’re so inclined, is the 20 Mule Team Museum.
The scenery along CA 58 produced signs for Edwards Air Force base and far off mountains that I would soon be travelling through. The air was mild and the skies toggled from overcast to a faint sunshine filtered by a dominant cloud cover. With a cup of Sumatra coffee acquired at a Pilot Fuel Stop at the intersection of CA 395 and 58, I was content to ease on down the road with the Fox News Channel as my company on XM satellite.
Highway 58 took me to the towns of Monolith and Tehachapi; the terrain quickly became mountainous and quite scenic. The winding road led to Bakersfield and the southern end of the renowned San Joaquin Valley. San Joaquin is one of the most fertile growing areas in the world. In places, you can see the rich, black soil plowed and ready for planting. Good portions of the produce we consume, especially in winter, come from this crown jewel of American agriculture. The climate is conducive to year round vegetable and fruit production. I saw miles of orange, grapefruit and lemon groves that made me want to pull over and gather some that had fallen on the ground. I might have done this had there not been an imposing barbed wire fence to dissuade me and others with the same notion. But, hey, they don’t use the ones on the ground, do they?
Next up, it was the towns of Selma and Fresno, where undisputedly, you could literally find yourself in a sea of raisins. They call this area “The Raisin Capital of The World”. Lore tells of the raisin being invented here, but how do claim fame to something that shrivels up and dries out? The Sun Maid lives prominently here. We'll proudly take two scoops in our raisin bran.
The precipitation persisted and the old Albert Hammond song that was popular in 1972, “It Never Rains in Southern California” played in my head. “It never rains in Southern California, but girl, don’t they warn ya, it pours, man it pours”, the line goes. Modesto popped up and so did the vast expanses of grape vines. Would a good deal on a jug of Gallo wine be at hand? Unfortunately, in this situation, a cheap bottle of wine would not be in the cards for me. Not on duty anyway. If the authorities find any kind of evidence of alcohol in my truck, I’m toast. Drinking or transporting, it doesn’t matter.
Sacramento appeared within sight and the jumping off point for my tour of The San Joaquin Valley. North of town, there is still another full third of this massive and wonderous valley left to ponder. I feel that we are so blessed with natural resources here in this country where the Joaquin plays a vital role in the food basket of America. As I pulled into the 49er Truck stop, dusk enveloped the landscape. The next day I would unload and get ready for another day in Northern California. The strategic location that the capital of California occupies on the Interstate 80 corridor has always intrigued me with sights and places that can be visited easily. You can find Yosemite, Lake Tahoe, Reno, Carson City, Virginia City and some excellent ski resorts to the north. Go the other way and you’re in the San Francisco Bay area, one of the most beautiful and diverse cities in America. Tony Bennett wasn't kidding when he sang "I Left My Heart in San Francisco". "Where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars..." This is pretty heady stuff. Oh, and let us not forget the world famous Napa Valley. That place speaks for itself. Talk about wineries. Some of the best wine in the world comes out of there. Also, you’ll find some of the most scenic countryside known to man. They even have a radio station named KVYN here...K-Vine. At certain times of the year, you can bounce back and forth from winter to summer by cruising up and down 80. I especially like Santa Cruz Beach with its barking Sea Lions begging to be fed. They sell fish on the pier for that purpose. “Feel Free to Feed the Sea Lions”, that's what the sign says. That's California. To live here has got to be a weekend trip paradise. This is a great part of the country. I’m happy to be here.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
1,611 or Bust
I hadn’t planned on my home time stretching out to January 13, but it did. When you drive a truck that has 860,000 miles on the odometer, it needs attention on a regular basis. My fuel lines froze in the very cold weather and there were other repair issues that needed to be attended to which prolonged my stay at the homestead. On the positive side, I don’t think anyone on their deathbed says “I wish I would have worked more and spent less time with my family.”
Towing the truck was a major undertaking and took 2 hours to hook up and drag 5 miles to Pike Diesel Repair in Hiram. The shop owner, Jerry, assured me that he’d get me running as soon as possible. My silver lining was that the breakdown occurred in my home area and not some place like the Bronx, New York. The lot at Pike was jammed full of tractor trucks begging for repair. The cold weather it seemed gave me lots of company.
Finally, The Fat Cat was ready to go and she purred like a kitten at the Petro Stop in Atlanta as I awaited an opportunity of freight. The Qualcomm chirped out a trip from Murphy, North Carolina in the mountainous west part of the state to Urbana, Ohio, just west of Columbus. The downside of the trip would be a winding and hilly ride out of Carolina at night because I-40 is in a long term shut down westbound, caused by a major rock slide. It not only sent large boulders onto the roadway from steep grades, but ended up damaging the highway severely. Tennessee 69 was the alternate for my trip and had me wishing I was driving a sports car, instead of a truck on a roadway with more hair pins than a beauty shop.
Once in Ohio, I bounced to Detroit and then over to Ann Arbor, where I had a nice stay in November. They always say “be careful for what you wish for, for you just might get it.” Well, I got it. I rubbed the “Load Genie Lamp” and was granted a cannon ball run from Coldwater, Michigan to Laredo, Texas. Success! My frozen body would thaw and warm 70 degree sunshine would shine on my face. Fit me in a sombrero and provide me with a taco. With that thought, it was on the road to my reward.
Sixteen hundred and eleven miles of interstate droned and by the time I got to the end of Interstate 35, I was like a man in the desert laid prone on the ground reaching for the oasis. One minute I’m stone throwing distance from Canada, the next, I’m sitting on the southern border at the Rio Grande. This was my third trip to Laredo. Always hot, always kind of quirky regarding some of the people I’ve talked to and always very Mexican, considering its proximity to our neighbor to the south. Mexican works for me because I can speak Spanish, enjoy the food and I would actually wear a poncho like Clint Eastwood.
The nighttime air was 50ish, the coolest I’ve experienced there so far. After enduring plenty of record cold elsewhere, this was indeed a treat! My load delivered on Sunday morning where sunshine and 70 degree weather shined down on me, just like I pictured it.
Not much freight comes out of Laredo. It is primarily a drop off point for goods heading into Mexico. There aren’t many companies that send trucks into Mexico these days. It’s just too dangerous, especially around border cities on the Mexican side. The area is dotted with numerous warehouses where the hand off to Mexican truckers occurs. It is an orderly operation and hundreds of trucks cue up at the truck stops to deliver at their appointed times.
Now that my load was deposited, I pointed the Fat Cat to San Antonio for a new destination. It’s a very straight shot to San Antonio with scrubby looking, desert-like landscape dotted with classic ranch entrances displaying various brands that get stamped into the livestock. I like this drive. There are no hills, congested traffic, ice or snow. Set the cruise control and let the XM play.
Like clockwork as I pulled into Alamo Town, the Qualcomm chirped out a run from the next town up in Austin to White Sands Missile Range, New Mexico. My first thought was landing three cherries on a one armed bandit. I opened the map and it said “Not Open to the Public” at White Sands. Give me restricted places around Roswell, Area 51, Cape Canaveral, Edwards Air Force Base and other places where the security is as tight as the back end of a clam, and I’m there! I live for this stuff. After all, I’m the guy who has a profound interest in the National Institute for Standard Time (NIST). I want to know exactly where the Camak Stone is. What really happed to D.B. Cooper? It sure beats delivering ball bearings to Flint. I knew from the location of my New Mexico destination, I’d be layed over in El Paso, Texas. I like El Paso, so this would be a win-win deal. Maybe California would be next.
Towing the truck was a major undertaking and took 2 hours to hook up and drag 5 miles to Pike Diesel Repair in Hiram. The shop owner, Jerry, assured me that he’d get me running as soon as possible. My silver lining was that the breakdown occurred in my home area and not some place like the Bronx, New York. The lot at Pike was jammed full of tractor trucks begging for repair. The cold weather it seemed gave me lots of company.
Finally, The Fat Cat was ready to go and she purred like a kitten at the Petro Stop in Atlanta as I awaited an opportunity of freight. The Qualcomm chirped out a trip from Murphy, North Carolina in the mountainous west part of the state to Urbana, Ohio, just west of Columbus. The downside of the trip would be a winding and hilly ride out of Carolina at night because I-40 is in a long term shut down westbound, caused by a major rock slide. It not only sent large boulders onto the roadway from steep grades, but ended up damaging the highway severely. Tennessee 69 was the alternate for my trip and had me wishing I was driving a sports car, instead of a truck on a roadway with more hair pins than a beauty shop.
Once in Ohio, I bounced to Detroit and then over to Ann Arbor, where I had a nice stay in November. They always say “be careful for what you wish for, for you just might get it.” Well, I got it. I rubbed the “Load Genie Lamp” and was granted a cannon ball run from Coldwater, Michigan to Laredo, Texas. Success! My frozen body would thaw and warm 70 degree sunshine would shine on my face. Fit me in a sombrero and provide me with a taco. With that thought, it was on the road to my reward.
Sixteen hundred and eleven miles of interstate droned and by the time I got to the end of Interstate 35, I was like a man in the desert laid prone on the ground reaching for the oasis. One minute I’m stone throwing distance from Canada, the next, I’m sitting on the southern border at the Rio Grande. This was my third trip to Laredo. Always hot, always kind of quirky regarding some of the people I’ve talked to and always very Mexican, considering its proximity to our neighbor to the south. Mexican works for me because I can speak Spanish, enjoy the food and I would actually wear a poncho like Clint Eastwood.
The nighttime air was 50ish, the coolest I’ve experienced there so far. After enduring plenty of record cold elsewhere, this was indeed a treat! My load delivered on Sunday morning where sunshine and 70 degree weather shined down on me, just like I pictured it.
Not much freight comes out of Laredo. It is primarily a drop off point for goods heading into Mexico. There aren’t many companies that send trucks into Mexico these days. It’s just too dangerous, especially around border cities on the Mexican side. The area is dotted with numerous warehouses where the hand off to Mexican truckers occurs. It is an orderly operation and hundreds of trucks cue up at the truck stops to deliver at their appointed times.
Now that my load was deposited, I pointed the Fat Cat to San Antonio for a new destination. It’s a very straight shot to San Antonio with scrubby looking, desert-like landscape dotted with classic ranch entrances displaying various brands that get stamped into the livestock. I like this drive. There are no hills, congested traffic, ice or snow. Set the cruise control and let the XM play.
Like clockwork as I pulled into Alamo Town, the Qualcomm chirped out a run from the next town up in Austin to White Sands Missile Range, New Mexico. My first thought was landing three cherries on a one armed bandit. I opened the map and it said “Not Open to the Public” at White Sands. Give me restricted places around Roswell, Area 51, Cape Canaveral, Edwards Air Force Base and other places where the security is as tight as the back end of a clam, and I’m there! I live for this stuff. After all, I’m the guy who has a profound interest in the National Institute for Standard Time (NIST). I want to know exactly where the Camak Stone is. What really happed to D.B. Cooper? It sure beats delivering ball bearings to Flint. I knew from the location of my New Mexico destination, I’d be layed over in El Paso, Texas. I like El Paso, so this would be a win-win deal. Maybe California would be next.
Friday, January 8, 2010
13 Degrees and Getting Colder
What a WINTER this has been thus far. The forecasted high temperature for my hometown which is forty five minutes northwest of Atlanta is 25 degrees today. It's 13 now. I have NEVER seen a high temperature that low for this area...living here or not. Typically in January, depending on the year, it will run from the upper 40's to low 50's for a high. Overnight readings will run in the upper 20's to low 30's. For a normal year, we might see one or two overnight lows in the teens. During some cold snaps, we might see a day or two in the upper 30's for a high temperature, but NEVER in the 20's. Atlanta TV said this is the most prolonged cold stretch since 1985. The coldest I've ever seen it get in the 8 years I've lived here was 12 degrees one year for an overnight low. I think the earth has tilted, or we're seeing a trend not seen for many years. Maybe it's an anomoly.
Early this morning, on my way to Birmingham to pick up a load headed to Connecticut, there was a major accident on an icy Interstate 20 somewhere in the vicinity of the Georgia-Alabama state line. Authorities shut down the highway for 3 hours, preventing me from getting to my destination for pick up. They had to re-dispatch the load to someone else. Even though the highway was re-opened, traffic was grid-locked heading west with the majority of vehicles being overnight trucks heading west out of Atlanta.
Now, my own state of Georgia is on my list of winter buffoons. This interstate roadway was not treated with anything. A midday snow...albeit light in nature the day before, had iced the roadway by the middle of the night. This area is prone to ice, and after scratching my wooden head, I can't figure out why they weren't prepared for this. All I can say is that, the further into the future we travel, the more incompetent road departments have become. Is state government to blame or has the poor economy affected budgets so badly that there is simply NO money to insure the safety of the travelling and commercial public?
I do believe a good deal of the problem lies with ignorant drivers who refuse to slow down when roadways become treacherous. I spoke with a clerk at the Temple, Georgia Pilot Travel Center who related to me that there was a muli-car pileup on I-285 near the airport (probably people trying to escape the cold and ice)on the infamous beltway that encompasses Atlanta. The posted speed limit is 55 miles per hour on the entire stretch of that highway. Most of the time, people travel 70 to 80 miles per hour on the perimeter.
I think they need to install gates on the entrance ramps of interstates and shut the freeways down if they're unwilling to treat the roadways. They have them out west and they use them when conditions prevent safe travel. People also need to learn that they could die or kill someone if they don't slow down in this kind of weather. The forecast is for an even more frigid weekend in Metro Atlanta. Get me to Arizona.
Early this morning, on my way to Birmingham to pick up a load headed to Connecticut, there was a major accident on an icy Interstate 20 somewhere in the vicinity of the Georgia-Alabama state line. Authorities shut down the highway for 3 hours, preventing me from getting to my destination for pick up. They had to re-dispatch the load to someone else. Even though the highway was re-opened, traffic was grid-locked heading west with the majority of vehicles being overnight trucks heading west out of Atlanta.
Now, my own state of Georgia is on my list of winter buffoons. This interstate roadway was not treated with anything. A midday snow...albeit light in nature the day before, had iced the roadway by the middle of the night. This area is prone to ice, and after scratching my wooden head, I can't figure out why they weren't prepared for this. All I can say is that, the further into the future we travel, the more incompetent road departments have become. Is state government to blame or has the poor economy affected budgets so badly that there is simply NO money to insure the safety of the travelling and commercial public?
I do believe a good deal of the problem lies with ignorant drivers who refuse to slow down when roadways become treacherous. I spoke with a clerk at the Temple, Georgia Pilot Travel Center who related to me that there was a muli-car pileup on I-285 near the airport (probably people trying to escape the cold and ice)on the infamous beltway that encompasses Atlanta. The posted speed limit is 55 miles per hour on the entire stretch of that highway. Most of the time, people travel 70 to 80 miles per hour on the perimeter.
I think they need to install gates on the entrance ramps of interstates and shut the freeways down if they're unwilling to treat the roadways. They have them out west and they use them when conditions prevent safe travel. People also need to learn that they could die or kill someone if they don't slow down in this kind of weather. The forecast is for an even more frigid weekend in Metro Atlanta. Get me to Arizona.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Farewell To The Christmas Goose
What a holiday season it's been. Just getting home was an exercise in strategy reserved for the finest of board game players. Somehow, I was able to pull it off, landing an assignment in Raleigh, North Carolina transporting some computer equipment over to Durham for enough moolah to put in the tanks for the run to the ranch in Georgia.
By the time I turned into the winding driveway to my castle on the hill, night had fallen and my mercury vapor barn light was burning in all her glory. As I pulled the Fat Cat up to back her in next to the old red and white edifice out in the yard, I could see bright little feline faces along with one noisy canine son in the kitchen window to greet me with enthusiasm. Upon entering the house with my duffle, I could smell the holiday season in the form of freshly baked cookies. I slid open the pocket door to the cooking room and there he was, in a prominent stance facing the door...the Christmas goose. A venerable wooden fellow he is, about two feet tall with a Santa hat and gold tassel. Candy canes and goodies hang from his neck, draping along his back. Two big webbed wooden feet keep this purveyor of good cheer in place, even from scurrying kitties. This is a proud bird displaying his bill pointing upward. The goose has become a sort of tradition over the years at our house, taking his prominent place beginning at Thanksgiving and making his stand until the New Year. Said quite plainly and simply, when the goose goes up, it's Christmas.
The girls were glad to see me as I was to see them. With Louie and the kitties gathered around, coming home never gets old. I blinked my eyes and it was Christmas Eve. Cheryl and I travelled around town in an effort to finish some last minute shopping. Streisy kept busy with her work schedule at the grocery store. Busy is an understatement for what they do around the holidays. I'm proud that she's in that business. Grocery people are a hard working and genuine people. I know, I knew some from my days at the A & P.
My holiday is not complete until I attend worship services at my little hometown church. The final candle of advent was lit, bread was broken, the cup was raised and meaning restored to why we celebrate the birth of Christ.
Don't misunderstand and believe that my home time is one big vacation. I wish it was. How nice it would be to lay around continually watching The Sound of Music and Miracle on 34th Street. I did, however, get to see an encore of The Nativity Story. Now there's a great story of the birth of Christ.
Household chores and piled up yard work take time away from a good old fashioned slack. Don't get me wrong, working around the house gives me a sort satisfaction and if it didn't, I don't need to be living here. Two acres of yard and grass don't take care of themselves. You have to love mowing grass, and I do. Two days after Christmas, I mowed grass. And I loved it. You can do that here in Georgia this time of the year.
I did get to smoke a Ghorka "Assassin" while incinerating trash in the burn barrel. Now THAT was a stout smoke and it may has well have been a bullet in the noggin right between the eyes. I guess that's why they call it what they call it. If they come out with an "Oswald", I'd have to pass on that one. I like the "shaggys" or the "Black Dragon".
A whole week blew by and all of a sudden, it was New Year's Eve. Hey, wait a minute, aren't we entering a new decade? Wow, I remember when that kind of New Year was exciting...like ten years ago. TEN YEARS AGO? Has it been that long ago already? Dam. The turn of the century. Even ten years ago we were homebodies and didn't do anything special, but it was fun to watch all the big celebrations around the world beginning around noon on the eve. When I was a teenager, I would marvel at the fact that I would be forty three years old on January 1st, 2000. I think Dad helped me figure that out on a slide rule. I recall when 1970 came in, it seemed so modern. Back in those days, I kept track of the fact that the last number one song of the sixties on WABC in New York was Steam's "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye". The national charts would have you believe it was "Leavin' On A Jetplane" by Peter, Paul and Mary. For 1980, I remember being at a party in a house trailer in Florida, watching the ball drop on a thirteen inch black and white TV. Now THAT, was a glamorous New Year's. These days, we begin our New Year's Eve at seven and end it at ten.
I stayed up to watch the ball drop in Times Square in sweats at home. It would feel odd to miss that. Dick Clark was still there. After suffering the kind of stroke he did a few years back, I give him a lot of credit for getting up there in front of millions in an effort to preserve tradition. It can't be for the money, lord knows he's got plenty. The bands of today on the broadcast sure weren't KC and The Sunshine Band or Bob Seger. The only one I recall was those Black Eyed Peas.
New Year's Day came and so the decorations went. It was a good holiday season, it's what I hoped for. This Christmas was better than last year's after the bad economy closed the auto dealership I worked at and put me in the bread line. Maybe next year will just as fun, or better. Hope never disappoints. Farewell Mr. Goose, see you next year.
By the time I turned into the winding driveway to my castle on the hill, night had fallen and my mercury vapor barn light was burning in all her glory. As I pulled the Fat Cat up to back her in next to the old red and white edifice out in the yard, I could see bright little feline faces along with one noisy canine son in the kitchen window to greet me with enthusiasm. Upon entering the house with my duffle, I could smell the holiday season in the form of freshly baked cookies. I slid open the pocket door to the cooking room and there he was, in a prominent stance facing the door...the Christmas goose. A venerable wooden fellow he is, about two feet tall with a Santa hat and gold tassel. Candy canes and goodies hang from his neck, draping along his back. Two big webbed wooden feet keep this purveyor of good cheer in place, even from scurrying kitties. This is a proud bird displaying his bill pointing upward. The goose has become a sort of tradition over the years at our house, taking his prominent place beginning at Thanksgiving and making his stand until the New Year. Said quite plainly and simply, when the goose goes up, it's Christmas.
My holiday is not complete until I attend worship services at my little hometown church. The final candle of advent was lit, bread was broken, the cup was raised and meaning restored to why we celebrate the birth of Christ.
Don't misunderstand and believe that my home time is one big vacation. I wish it was. How nice it would be to lay around continually watching The Sound of Music and Miracle on 34th Street. I did, however, get to see an encore of The Nativity Story. Now there's a great story of the birth of Christ.
Household chores and piled up yard work take time away from a good old fashioned slack. Don't get me wrong, working around the house gives me a sort satisfaction and if it didn't, I don't need to be living here. Two acres of yard and grass don't take care of themselves. You have to love mowing grass, and I do. Two days after Christmas, I mowed grass. And I loved it. You can do that here in Georgia this time of the year.
I did get to smoke a Ghorka "Assassin" while incinerating trash in the burn barrel. Now THAT was a stout smoke and it may has well have been a bullet in the noggin right between the eyes. I guess that's why they call it what they call it. If they come out with an "Oswald", I'd have to pass on that one. I like the "shaggys" or the "Black Dragon".
A whole week blew by and all of a sudden, it was New Year's Eve. Hey, wait a minute, aren't we entering a new decade? Wow, I remember when that kind of New Year was exciting...like ten years ago. TEN YEARS AGO? Has it been that long ago already? Dam. The turn of the century. Even ten years ago we were homebodies and didn't do anything special, but it was fun to watch all the big celebrations around the world beginning around noon on the eve. When I was a teenager, I would marvel at the fact that I would be forty three years old on January 1st, 2000. I think Dad helped me figure that out on a slide rule. I recall when 1970 came in, it seemed so modern. Back in those days, I kept track of the fact that the last number one song of the sixties on WABC in New York was Steam's "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye". The national charts would have you believe it was "Leavin' On A Jetplane" by Peter, Paul and Mary. For 1980, I remember being at a party in a house trailer in Florida, watching the ball drop on a thirteen inch black and white TV. Now THAT, was a glamorous New Year's. These days, we begin our New Year's Eve at seven and end it at ten.
I stayed up to watch the ball drop in Times Square in sweats at home. It would feel odd to miss that. Dick Clark was still there. After suffering the kind of stroke he did a few years back, I give him a lot of credit for getting up there in front of millions in an effort to preserve tradition. It can't be for the money, lord knows he's got plenty. The bands of today on the broadcast sure weren't KC and The Sunshine Band or Bob Seger. The only one I recall was those Black Eyed Peas.
New Year's Day came and so the decorations went. It was a good holiday season, it's what I hoped for. This Christmas was better than last year's after the bad economy closed the auto dealership I worked at and put me in the bread line. Maybe next year will just as fun, or better. Hope never disappoints. Farewell Mr. Goose, see you next year.
Friday, December 25, 2009
A Three Hour Tour
With Atlanta and the soaking rain behind me, the mission was now to pick up freight in Cleveland, Tennessee and simply transport it to a location outside of Harrisburg, PA. The route would be a straight shot up I-81, an interstate I have travelled more times that I could possibly remember. I know every crack in this road. My travel on this freeway has included all the seasons over many years. Your friendly author here has been on it in every kind of weather event and yes, snow on several occasions.
By the time I arrived in Southwest Virginia, this storm had dropped perhaps 8 inches of winter, making travel slow, but not impossible. The highway was relatively clear, affording me the opportunity to make up a little time lost by slow going in Tennessee early on created by road crews salting and sanding. Christiansburg, Virginia popped up on the GPS prominently pearched on the dash of the Fat Cat signaling to me that Roanoke wasn’t very far up the road. Traffic began to build and then suddenly stopped cold. Trucker chatter on the CB turned to the hold up and before long it was being reported that there was an accident up ahead at mile marker 128. Dam, I’m sitting here looking at mile marker 111. This is going to take a while. Motorists began to pop out of their vehicles and a concerned looking man from a four wheeler (trucker slang for a car) came up to my window and asked if I heard anything on my CB radio. I told him what the truckers were saying and that he should make himself comfortable, this was going be a good wait. He thanked me shaking his head as he walked away. I rummaged in my on board food cupboard for something to eat and came up with a can of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee over stuffed ravioli to throw in the microwave in a Styrofoam bowl covered with wax paper. From my vantage point in the truck, I watched kids play football catch on the shoulder of the road and folks standing around in conversation circles on the roadway. After lunch, I called my brother Tom who was on his way to New York with his family by car from South Carolina. They decided to take I-95 and avoid this mess. They usually take this route, but changed their plans after seeing the back ups on TV.
Hour number four was approaching and my thoughts turned to who was involved in the accident. It must have been very serious for the highway to be shut down this long. A wave of sadness passed over me with the thought that someone might not make it home for Christmas. This person or persons were on the same course as I was. Now, they might not be. Like Don Henley once sang, life can change in a New York Minute. Always consider the important things in life. That’s what the song says.
Finally, after four hours of listening to truckers grousing on the CB, copious texting on the phone and a pipe full of Kate’s special blend from the cigar lounge back home in Hiram, traffic began to move. As I moved forward, I discovered abandoned and snow covered automobiles littered both sides of the interstate. Some were pointed in unnatural positions. I spotted a U-Haul moving truck with a trailer and a late model Honda Accord on it in a ditch. Now, that had to be a moving experience someone will never forget. Further up the road, I encountered two more stoppages, for additional accidents that weren’t as long as the one in Christiansburg.
As the clock ticked 16:00, evidence of nightfall began to appear. In yet another backup, I passed an intermodal tractor trailer jack-knifed across the highway. An intermodal is a container trailer that comes from a ship or a train and is attached to a trailer assembly with wheels to be pulled by truck. There was just enough room to fit my truck between the back end of the jack knifed trailer and the guard rail. Lucky for that, or that would have been another four hour wait.
Abandoned and snow covered vehicles continued to show up on the sides of the highway. Supposedly, the National Guard rescued countless motorists from those cars and ferried them to shelters. This travelling public wasn't prepared for this challenge getting home for the holidays or finishing up Christmas shopping.
I began to see electronic message boards that spoke ominously about trip fortunes ahead. They displayed the same passage of “Heavy Snow, Avoid Travel, Seek Shelter!” Well, it’s a little late for that message. My trucker friends on the CB complained of jammed truck stops that were running out of food and fuel. Truckers were beginning to line their rigs up on the sides of the roadway and off ramps. Truckers are only allowed to drive a total of eleven hours a day. When your time is up, you have to stop driving and shut down for a ten hour break.
The road surface was now converting from a slushy snow and wet arrangement to ice. The ride became extremely bumpy driving over chunks of ice we affectionately call moguls. Just like the kind you ski over, except bigger. I had racked up a grand total of 79 miles from the point of the four plus hour highway shutdown and was now in Lexington, Virginia. All the trucks and cars had come to another complete stop. Now what? I said out loud. The CB chatter now turned to a foreboding hill up ahead as slippery as a used car salesman on a third rate lot after a flood. In yet another traffic jam, drivers and passengers got out of their vehicles to see what the problem was now. By this time, there were countless motorists searching for a place of personal relief. Truckers offered buckets and empty truck trailers to persons in need. Some auto drivers were beginning to panic for lack of fuel and food. This was turning into an ordeal for some.
The theme from Gilligan's Island popped into my head...."a three hour tour, a three hour tour..." The Virginia DOT was nowhere in sight. No plows, no salt, no nothing. I had never seen it this bad in recent times. Virginia was always fairly good at snow removal. I drove this route by car in the 90’s at the end of a snowstorm similar to this one. This amount of snowl didn’t seem that unmanageable to me. This DOT would be fired in Upstate New York. Virginia is a snow state; they should be prepared for this sort of thing. Sadly, thousands of motorists were left with the short end of this stick.
Word then came on the CB, several truckers and cars attempted the hill and slid into the guardrail in a crunch of metal. 911 was called, but no one came. With no authorities in sight, we truckers took matters into our own hands. Three rigs lined up blocking the highway so no one else could get by and suffer the same misfortune as the ones who attempted the hill. Fortunately, there were no serious injuries from the mishap down the hill.
The truckers gathered and plotted a course of action to get down this steep grade. It was decided that we would send the trucks and cars down, one at a time with instructions to stay in the middle and don’t exceed 1 mile per hour. The middle truck behind me would come out of the three across line and follow me when I descended to the bottom of that roadway disguised as a slab of ice. Me and the Fat Cat were second in line, behind a power company truck. The power truck radioed that it was slushy at the bottom of the hill and to take it very slow. My truck has what they call a “Jake Brake” which is a type of brake that employs engine compression to slow and eventually stop the truck. It works without supplying any stopping force to the wheels. It’s great because I can reserve my air from braking and also avoid skidding by not applying pressure to those wheels. This was one time I was extremely glad I had this kind braking system. Thank you Mr. Jacobs for figuring that one out.
As I watched the power company truck disappear out of sight in front of me, my knuckles grew white gripping the big steering wheel. My thoughts raced with scenarios of doom on this highway as I prepared to descend this mighty grade. Once you start a slide on ice, there’s not much you can do to get out of it. Steering and braking disappear and then it’s up to the man upstairs.
I dropped Miss Fat Cat into the lowest gear possible and let my emergency spring brakes out. I usually start off in a higher gear, but not this time. My heart beat at an elevated rate as I eased her onto the hill. Perspiration rode my brow. Creeping down the decline at maybe 1 mile per hour, I could feel the slippery road surface from the tires right into my hands. If I went any faster, I would surely become another mangled storm statistic. I tried to keep in mind the slush from which I would gain traction at the bottom. I hoped the reports on the CB were correct.
I passed the crashed trucks on the way down, but couldn’t rubberneck it too much for fear of joining them. I caught a glimpse of a white late model Volvo in the mix. I talked the big Cat down the hill the whole way. “Come ‘on girl, I know you can do it.” There was no salt, no sand or cinders of any kind on this decline of treachery. My only way down was a steady hand, a “fully jaked” engine on the Caterpillar 500, a resistance to hitting the brakes and faith in God.
As I sensed the road evening out, I felt the wonderful slush they talked about. Me and the big Lady made it! I wanted to get out and kiss the big slurpee. The highway was still slippery and offered ice chunks to make the ride rough. The Welcome sign to West Virginia couldn’t have come soon enough and signaled better roads all the way into Pennsylvania. The remaining state road departments on the run had the interstate under control. I watched busy plows with salt spreaders clean up Old Man Winter’s gift. I got to my destination in one piece, only nineteen hours late. And yes, Natasha back at dispatch central said they wouldn’t count it against me. This trip took a total of thirty six hours to go 622 at an average of 17 miles per hour. I feel for the families who lost a family member, especially this close to Christmas. Wrecked cars and trucks can be fixed or be replaced. Injuries heal. Effects of some of those injuries can linger for a lifetime. But, lives are lost.
It’s been a crazy and bewildering few weeks of driving up and down the east coast in a variety of climates. This was the third snow storm I’ve been through, combined with a pleasant 82 degree stopover in South Florida. I thought about that as I sat in the truck stop here in Pennsylvania, peeling another seedless naval orange picked just over a week ago.
By the time I arrived in Southwest Virginia, this storm had dropped perhaps 8 inches of winter, making travel slow, but not impossible. The highway was relatively clear, affording me the opportunity to make up a little time lost by slow going in Tennessee early on created by road crews salting and sanding. Christiansburg, Virginia popped up on the GPS prominently pearched on the dash of the Fat Cat signaling to me that Roanoke wasn’t very far up the road. Traffic began to build and then suddenly stopped cold. Trucker chatter on the CB turned to the hold up and before long it was being reported that there was an accident up ahead at mile marker 128. Dam, I’m sitting here looking at mile marker 111. This is going to take a while. Motorists began to pop out of their vehicles and a concerned looking man from a four wheeler (trucker slang for a car) came up to my window and asked if I heard anything on my CB radio. I told him what the truckers were saying and that he should make himself comfortable, this was going be a good wait. He thanked me shaking his head as he walked away. I rummaged in my on board food cupboard for something to eat and came up with a can of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee over stuffed ravioli to throw in the microwave in a Styrofoam bowl covered with wax paper. From my vantage point in the truck, I watched kids play football catch on the shoulder of the road and folks standing around in conversation circles on the roadway. After lunch, I called my brother Tom who was on his way to New York with his family by car from South Carolina. They decided to take I-95 and avoid this mess. They usually take this route, but changed their plans after seeing the back ups on TV.
Hour number four was approaching and my thoughts turned to who was involved in the accident. It must have been very serious for the highway to be shut down this long. A wave of sadness passed over me with the thought that someone might not make it home for Christmas. This person or persons were on the same course as I was. Now, they might not be. Like Don Henley once sang, life can change in a New York Minute. Always consider the important things in life. That’s what the song says.
Finally, after four hours of listening to truckers grousing on the CB, copious texting on the phone and a pipe full of Kate’s special blend from the cigar lounge back home in Hiram, traffic began to move. As I moved forward, I discovered abandoned and snow covered automobiles littered both sides of the interstate. Some were pointed in unnatural positions. I spotted a U-Haul moving truck with a trailer and a late model Honda Accord on it in a ditch. Now, that had to be a moving experience someone will never forget. Further up the road, I encountered two more stoppages, for additional accidents that weren’t as long as the one in Christiansburg.
As the clock ticked 16:00, evidence of nightfall began to appear. In yet another backup, I passed an intermodal tractor trailer jack-knifed across the highway. An intermodal is a container trailer that comes from a ship or a train and is attached to a trailer assembly with wheels to be pulled by truck. There was just enough room to fit my truck between the back end of the jack knifed trailer and the guard rail. Lucky for that, or that would have been another four hour wait.
Abandoned and snow covered vehicles continued to show up on the sides of the highway. Supposedly, the National Guard rescued countless motorists from those cars and ferried them to shelters. This travelling public wasn't prepared for this challenge getting home for the holidays or finishing up Christmas shopping.
I began to see electronic message boards that spoke ominously about trip fortunes ahead. They displayed the same passage of “Heavy Snow, Avoid Travel, Seek Shelter!” Well, it’s a little late for that message. My trucker friends on the CB complained of jammed truck stops that were running out of food and fuel. Truckers were beginning to line their rigs up on the sides of the roadway and off ramps. Truckers are only allowed to drive a total of eleven hours a day. When your time is up, you have to stop driving and shut down for a ten hour break.
The road surface was now converting from a slushy snow and wet arrangement to ice. The ride became extremely bumpy driving over chunks of ice we affectionately call moguls. Just like the kind you ski over, except bigger. I had racked up a grand total of 79 miles from the point of the four plus hour highway shutdown and was now in Lexington, Virginia. All the trucks and cars had come to another complete stop. Now what? I said out loud. The CB chatter now turned to a foreboding hill up ahead as slippery as a used car salesman on a third rate lot after a flood. In yet another traffic jam, drivers and passengers got out of their vehicles to see what the problem was now. By this time, there were countless motorists searching for a place of personal relief. Truckers offered buckets and empty truck trailers to persons in need. Some auto drivers were beginning to panic for lack of fuel and food. This was turning into an ordeal for some.
The theme from Gilligan's Island popped into my head...."a three hour tour, a three hour tour..." The Virginia DOT was nowhere in sight. No plows, no salt, no nothing. I had never seen it this bad in recent times. Virginia was always fairly good at snow removal. I drove this route by car in the 90’s at the end of a snowstorm similar to this one. This amount of snowl didn’t seem that unmanageable to me. This DOT would be fired in Upstate New York. Virginia is a snow state; they should be prepared for this sort of thing. Sadly, thousands of motorists were left with the short end of this stick.
Word then came on the CB, several truckers and cars attempted the hill and slid into the guardrail in a crunch of metal. 911 was called, but no one came. With no authorities in sight, we truckers took matters into our own hands. Three rigs lined up blocking the highway so no one else could get by and suffer the same misfortune as the ones who attempted the hill. Fortunately, there were no serious injuries from the mishap down the hill.
The truckers gathered and plotted a course of action to get down this steep grade. It was decided that we would send the trucks and cars down, one at a time with instructions to stay in the middle and don’t exceed 1 mile per hour. The middle truck behind me would come out of the three across line and follow me when I descended to the bottom of that roadway disguised as a slab of ice. Me and the Fat Cat were second in line, behind a power company truck. The power truck radioed that it was slushy at the bottom of the hill and to take it very slow. My truck has what they call a “Jake Brake” which is a type of brake that employs engine compression to slow and eventually stop the truck. It works without supplying any stopping force to the wheels. It’s great because I can reserve my air from braking and also avoid skidding by not applying pressure to those wheels. This was one time I was extremely glad I had this kind braking system. Thank you Mr. Jacobs for figuring that one out.
As I watched the power company truck disappear out of sight in front of me, my knuckles grew white gripping the big steering wheel. My thoughts raced with scenarios of doom on this highway as I prepared to descend this mighty grade. Once you start a slide on ice, there’s not much you can do to get out of it. Steering and braking disappear and then it’s up to the man upstairs.
I dropped Miss Fat Cat into the lowest gear possible and let my emergency spring brakes out. I usually start off in a higher gear, but not this time. My heart beat at an elevated rate as I eased her onto the hill. Perspiration rode my brow. Creeping down the decline at maybe 1 mile per hour, I could feel the slippery road surface from the tires right into my hands. If I went any faster, I would surely become another mangled storm statistic. I tried to keep in mind the slush from which I would gain traction at the bottom. I hoped the reports on the CB were correct.
I passed the crashed trucks on the way down, but couldn’t rubberneck it too much for fear of joining them. I caught a glimpse of a white late model Volvo in the mix. I talked the big Cat down the hill the whole way. “Come ‘on girl, I know you can do it.” There was no salt, no sand or cinders of any kind on this decline of treachery. My only way down was a steady hand, a “fully jaked” engine on the Caterpillar 500, a resistance to hitting the brakes and faith in God.
As I sensed the road evening out, I felt the wonderful slush they talked about. Me and the big Lady made it! I wanted to get out and kiss the big slurpee. The highway was still slippery and offered ice chunks to make the ride rough. The Welcome sign to West Virginia couldn’t have come soon enough and signaled better roads all the way into Pennsylvania. The remaining state road departments on the run had the interstate under control. I watched busy plows with salt spreaders clean up Old Man Winter’s gift. I got to my destination in one piece, only nineteen hours late. And yes, Natasha back at dispatch central said they wouldn’t count it against me. This trip took a total of thirty six hours to go 622 at an average of 17 miles per hour. I feel for the families who lost a family member, especially this close to Christmas. Wrecked cars and trucks can be fixed or be replaced. Injuries heal. Effects of some of those injuries can linger for a lifetime. But, lives are lost.
It’s been a crazy and bewildering few weeks of driving up and down the east coast in a variety of climates. This was the third snow storm I’ve been through, combined with a pleasant 82 degree stopover in South Florida. I thought about that as I sat in the truck stop here in Pennsylvania, peeling another seedless naval orange picked just over a week ago.
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