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.

Did you say cariaaage?

On Thursday afternoon, December the 17, I found myself at the Pilot Travel Center in Hampton, New Jersey, right off I-78 in North Central NJ. My hometown of Bridgewater is a stone’s throw away. I could spend weeks here and not visit with all my friends. I still know a lot of people here, even though I've been gone nearly 8 years. Besides being away from my family and home, this is a part of the job that is especially hard for me. I find myself in places where there’s nothing more I’d rather do than see old friends, family or do some sightseeing. I love to sight see. There's a lot of "off the beaten track" places and things I want to see. Our country is full of them.

With the kind of business I’m in, moving time sensitive freight requires being ready in almost an instant to travel hundreds of miles, often without travel breaks longer than twenty minutes in effort to meet a tight delivery schedule. We move freight that can’t be put on a plane or that of which needs special handling. My day can, and usually does, change quite abruptly sending me packing down the road in a hurry. The other challenging aspect is that you can’t just drive a big truck everywhere. There are often road restrictions, meaning low overpasses and power lines I have to watch for. I don’t need to make a sling shot out of the electric line leading to your house! Many residential areas also have low hanging trees and autos parked on both sides of the street that prevent passage. So, that truck with a circle and a slash line through it doesn't mean they don't like you, it means that if you come this way, you might break something.

All that said, I still remain hopeful that I will be able to turn the tables of logic and visit my family and friends on the road. I’m still relatively new to this type of work, and I’m learning how to manage the company, my locations and my time.

As I was sniffing the Bridgewater air from Hampton, the “Price Is Right Theme” sounded on my cell phone, signaling that the company was calling with a load opportunity. The automated system’s female voice told me that pick up was in Edison, NJ at 17:12 hours (we follow Eastern Time in military fashion at all times) and delivery is in Atlanta, GA the following day at 13:15. The pay was good and I couldn’t hit “3” for accept fast enough. I looked at my watch (that keeps military time) and it said 16:00. Holy crap, I’ve got to go right now! With afternoon Central New Jersey traffic warming up, my anxiety was building. Basically, it was a flying leap into the driver’s seat and a needle threading around a bunch of loping trucks at the Pilot.

With Edison in my mirrors, it was time to steam like a freight train without brakes to Georgia.

Somewhere just beyond upstate South Carolina and the Georgia line at Lake Hartwell, the relentless rain that became the biggest snow storm I’ve seen in December in years had began. My delivery was at the Lenox Square Mall in the Buckhead section of Atlanta. If the name sounds like a place for hunters, it isn't. It's far from that. For those of you who are un-initiated, Buckhead and that Mall caters to the richest people in Georgia. The Governor’s Mansion is right up the street and people buy expensive homes on busy streets here so they can be seen. At the Lenox, the floors are Italian marble and the stores rival what you might find on Park Avenue in New York or Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles. This is a place for the filthy with a snooty schnazola.

This was a special delivery and required taking the load off the truck by a power lift gate and carting it on the wooden pallet to the store in the mall. I pulled up to the delivery area at the mall and found 3 Mercedes Benzes, a Volvo and a BMW parked on the grid where I’m supposed to be. Some guy is sitting in a running S class from Stuttgart, so I let him have it with the air horn. I gave him a long, steady and loud blast. I got a bird in return. Well ok then, we'll just double park it like they do in New York, put the flashers on and off load it in the fire zone. Christmas Mall traffic can drive around me.

So, here I am, wheeling a pallet jack down the mall corridor and all of a sudden, I’m surrounded by mall security led by some guy who reminded me of a wedding planner. This dude was impeccably dressed with an earpiece and a walkie-talkie in hand. He gave me a thorough scolding for my cartage on sacred Mall floors. The reprimand included an inquisition of “Sir, did you NOT see the signage posted at the entrance? I replied that I didn't see a sign and inquired about a different entrance for deliveries. Martin Short shot back "you will HAVE to break that stack of boxes down and bring them in by hand carriAAAGE.” Hand carriAAAGE? What’s a hand carriAAAGE I inquired? "A carrAAAGE, a carrAAAGE, you put dhe boxis on it and wheel eet in." Oh...you mean a hand truck...gotcha. The planner's look made me feel as though I had committed some sort of transgression in this house of acquisition. I complied without discussion. I just wanted to be finished with the job. It was a long trip down the coast and I was wet, tired and hungry. At that point, I wasn't going to let some guy who talked funny take my day down any further.

Now, at the massive Petro Travel Center on I-285, I planned on resting for a bit. A dry change of clothing was in order, and perhaps a nice sit down meal at the Iron Skillet. I hadn’t had real sit down grub in a while. Whew, this would be a good opportunity to re-charge and get ready for the next mission.

The Qualcomm rattled off a series of places and scenarios I declined. I don’t have what they call “forced dispatch” so I can pretty much decide where I want to go…sort of. Sometimes, when the company has freight they really want to move, they will call me personally and apply some advanced sales techniques to secure a commitment to move the shipment. The Price is Right chimed on my phone and it wasn’t my little automated friend. It was Natasha, live and in person, making a case for a pick-up in Tennessee and delivery near Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. I responded with a “I don’t know, Natasha, there’s a major snow storm about to blow on up the coast going that way. Her response was “we will never hold it against you if weather prevents an on time delivery. How much will you do it for?” Well…since you asked, I offered my number , I’ll do it for $XXXX. Natasha sealed the deal with a “great, I’ll send the details on down the Qualcomm. Have a safe trip.”

This trip would turn out to be the longest 600 miles I have ever travelled. Winter weather loomed very large on this expedition and what seemed like a good deal, turned into a tribulation.

Upstate and The Rooney

When someone says “New York,” the top of mind thought is New York City, a place so great they had to name it twice. New York, New York. The Big Apple, the home of skyscrapers and everything metropolitan and then some. New York City has been mentioned many times as the unofficial capitol of the world. You can find someone from everywhere in the world here. Many people from other parts of the country don’t even know that there is another quite viable part of the Empire State. We’re not talking about a “Tale of Two Cities” but two completely separate cultures akin to different nations on separate continents. Most everyone in the region calls this bucolic wonderland, simply “Upstate”. I can’t think of two parts of one state that are so different, that it’s hard to believe that they actually reside within the same borders. Upstate New York could actually drop “New York” and just be called “Upstate” and everybody in the region would know what and where you’re talking about. It’s a good thing the capital of New York...ahem…the state...is located in Upstate, or else these hardy uplanders would be short shrifted in government representation.

There are essentially four regions to Upstate, the Catskills, the Adirondacks, The Finger Lakes and Western New York State, including Buffalo and I guess you could throw in Rochester way up there on the shores of Lake Ontario. Every one of these regions is filled with natural beauty and a combination of rolling hills, bona-fide mountains and farm themed country sides that make you want to sing Old MacDonald.

In the 1980’s, a group of us from the aforementioned legendary group of friends made an annual pilgrimage from New Jersey to a blue grass festival on Rooney Mountain, near the hamlet of Deposit. The event’s motto was “This Ain’t No Picnic” and was dubbed The Rooney Fest. The best way to describe where this music fest took place is to say it was somewhere north of Binghamton and south of Syracuse. Eccentricity was the theme of this festival that took place faithfully on the first weekend of August annually. I had a t-shirt from every one. We would caravan up on a Thursday prior to stake out our usual camping spot to be occupied until late Sunday. Every year it was four days of music and mud. Rain never failed to fall in any given year. The Colonial Campers always set up in the big field by setting up an actual living room complete with colonial furniture…lamps, coffee and end tables included. The whole arrangement was placed on a large oval rug and power supplied by a portable gas generator under a rather large blue tarp.

We always camped next to the Santori brothers from Garden State Fireworks. Every year they brought a “Treasure Chest” filled with commercial grade fireworks. This is where I had lessons in being a pyrotechnic. A few of us would trek across the big field with cast iron mortar tubes, shovels…and the Treasure Chest. After the trenches were dug, the mortar tubes were carefully placed in the ground and back filled with dirt to insure a sturdy launch. The fireworks themselves were called “4 inchers”, cylindrical bombs about 12 to 14 inches long and 4 inches in diameter. One would drop the firework in the tube and pull the long wick out. With about 6 loaded tubes, the first was lit and just as you would yell “fore” after a hearty golf swing, the yell here was “fire in the hole!” At that time, the fuse would burn down quickly and you would feel that vibrating concussion as the missile left the tube and headed for the heavens, exploding with colorful delight accompanied by a chorus of ooohs and ahhhs from the audience. I learned at that point why Pyros are kind of crazy. The feeling of the concussion so close at hand is indescribable. It makes you nuts. Once in a while one of the fireworks would mis-fire and go off early, raining down fire and ashes from about twenty feet overhead. One had to be mindful of the possibility of burning clothing and hair. Occupational hazards as they may be.

The long Rooney weekend would end by everyone deliberately wetting down the area in front of the stage with coolers and buckets of cow wash water to make the perfect mud to dance in. I have a picture of a fellow dancing in the mud with a cardboard cut-out of Marilyn Monroe. One dandy guy and girl were dancing with watermelon rind helmets fashioned with duct tape holding the cranial contraption together. Such Kodak moments. Go figure. Those two are probably parents today, trying to explain normal behavior to their children. After the mud dance, it was time to mud it on home.

All good things must come to an end, and so too did the Rooney Fest. Seems one participant wandered off from the party one night and drowned in a nearby cow pond. As is the case in today’s world, the law suits flew and the beloved festival was shot down like a dead duck for future generations. So sad.

Other times in the 80’s, we camped out at our old pal Cindy Chuvala’s 75 acre farm near Rhinebeck, New York in the Catskills. Windham Hill Mountain was quite visible in the distance. We positioned our tents and RVs in a wide open meadow and swam in the crystal clear Catskill Creek on the southern border to her property. A fun event was building a mammoth bond fire and baking fresh ears of Silver Queen corn in the wood coals…husk and all. The nights were filled by sitting around eating corn and telling stories.
The drive on the New York Thruway straight across Upstate is unspoiled for the most part clear clean across from Buffalo to Albany. Ride north to the Adirondacks to Plattsburgh and you’ll find some of the most scenic roads in America. My friend Bob Stoekert owns a campground near Plattsburgh near Lake Champlain, across from Vermont and a stone’s throw from Canada. Bob will be more than happy to tell you all about the benefits of camping in Upstate. I’m looking forward to trying out his corner of the world.

As I left Syracuse to pick up a load headed to Ohio, I was treated to some of the most scenic winding country roads I’ve ever seen in Upstate. The sky was overcast and the landscape was blanketed by a fresh overnight snow fall…not a lot…maybe an inch, just enough to make it all look so seasonal. Wispy gray smoke wafting from chimneys in the chilly morning air could probably be traced back to a cozy hearth. I passed through the village of Woodstock and thought of another mud-fest I was too young to attend many years ago. I could picture myself hiking into the countryside with an axe on shoulder in search of a fresh and perfect Christmas tree.

So, I vote heartily for Upstate. Don’t miss this crown jewel of the Northeast. I’ll will return.

The New York State of Mind

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays...when I ponder the thought, any holiday connected to food works for me. It felt especially good to be home, albeit the Saturday after Turkey Day. No harm done, there was plenty of left over bird and it works well in the microwave. Also, on the menu, Cheryl prepared one of my favorite dishes of pasta which is a combination of broccoli and sun dried tomatoes in extra virgin olive oil topped off with pine nuts. Not taken for granted was a chance to sleep in a house with four walls and roof, a welcome change. The run was a long one, at 33 days out.

Sunday morning was reserved for church at my hometown Providence Presbyterian and the lighting of the first candle of Advent. Judge James filled in on the keyboards for musical director Lisa Baty. After a month away, it was so good to see my church family and Pastor Joe Brice. Pastor Joe is a jovial southern gentleman who beams light everywhere he turns. When I greeted him in the reception line after the service, he emphatically warned me that if I was going to San Diego, he was coming along. He didn't sound like he was kidding.

Wednesday arrived and just like that, home time was over. One last Ghurka shaggy at the local cigar lounge in Hiram and out into the grand abyss of expediting we go. With smoke in hand, the phone chimed "The Price is Right" theme which signaled the company was calling with a load opportunity from Huntsville, Alabama to Syracuse, New York. 1,151 miles of pavement. Not a bad way to start this trip out. Pick up was scheduled for the next day...so I get to spend another magical night at home with those four walls and a roof. Luck be a lady tonight!

The next morning, Cheryl was up and out early to take our canine son, Louie to the vet for his annual checkup and a teeth cleaning (yes, he gets dental too) along with TJ, one of his feline sisters for a check of her own. The load was scheduled to be picked up at 6:00 pm, three travel hours away, so that meant there was plenty of time for a breakfast of a fluffy ham and cheese omelet combined with warm cornbread baked in my Grandmother's one hundred year old iron skillet. I could do this every morning for the rest of my life...yikes! Give me a mouth full of egg and Johnnycake and happiness sets in. Wash it down with good old 8 O’clock java and put a period at the end of that scenario.

Run number one on this trip was a nighttime start, but that's ok, I had enough rest to do it comfortably. With load onboard, GPS pointed the Fat Cat (my new nickname for the truck because she has a huge 500 HP Caterpillar motor) to I-65 North out of Huntsville through Nashville, Louisville, Cincinnati, Columbus, Cleveland, Buffalo and east on the New York Thruway to Syracuse.

In Upstate New York, there is no sign of autumn. Here, it is done. Dead, gone buried. I couldn't spy one solitary leaf, even on the ground. The trees up here are bare. I mean bare to the point that makes you wonder if there were ever leaves on them in the first place. The grip of winter is at hand in this Finger Lake region. I saw DOT depots along the way with mountains of what appeared to some sort of cinders and those dome-like huts for what I believe is the ever lovin' salt. Up here, winter doesn’t assault the local citizenry, they assault it. Like Desert Storm, they confront it, contain it and defeat it. The plows in the arsenal are enormous...they look like the bows of ships. The Snowmeisters just don't plow one side and turn around a come back the other way like every other genteel little community in the North. No, the massive snow movers here are positioned on the center line and both sides are cleared at once. They don't fool around with frozen precipitation up here. Move it out of the way, get out of the way, here we come. Snow days for the school kiddies? No way. That notion provokes a hearty laugh in these parts. Watertown, north of Syracuse is one of the snowiest towns in America. Forget about inches, they measure annual snow fall in yards. Now there's a place for a one horse open sleigh...make that mule team open sleigh.

My old friend Bob Raunec from New Jersey lives up here now and we met up for coffee on Friday night. I hadn't seen Bob in a long time. Times sure have changed, coffee on a Friday night, imagine that. I couldn't have fathomed that residing in the land of twenty-something years ago. Friday nights were reserved for swilling beverages of barley hops and malts or some other concoction in celebration the weekend. Today, Bob looks good with silver hair and beard in our land of fifty-something. I've always said “never complain about hair color, retention is half the battle.” I can vouch for it, having lived with a follicle deficit for years. But, after all this time, I wouldn't even begin to know what to do with hair. We talked about good old days, ailing parents, the present and future. I learned about the passing of our old friend Jerry Johnson who left us a year ago February. A massive heart attack took him to the Promised Land. Jerry was one of the best. He would do anything for anybody and include the shirt off his back. Rest in peace, old friend, I'm sure you have a great seat upstairs. There has to be a special place reserved for people like him.

Now, it's Saturday in Syracuse and the sky looks like a snow sky...a bit of it is in the forecast. I'm taking inventory of my winter wear and checking on my tire chains. It's a good thing this truck has a stout inter axel differential on my drive wheels. That means when I flip a switch, the wheels won't spin in a slippery situation, but ice is ice and so the winter season begins. Laredo and Brownsville look real good right now. Even that zoo of a truck stop in Ontario, California seems appealing. But, until then, I'm in a New York State of mind.

Oh Canada

Today, it was a long 3 hours in the Customs and Homeland Security office in Detroit, Michigan right next to the Ambassador Bridge to Canada. It's the only port of entry to our neighbor to the north where you actually drive south into Canada. My mission was to obtain my Canada FAST card. The "Fast And Secure Trade" plastic that allows me to quickly and easily travel with freight back and forth across the border. I had filled out lengthy paperwork weeks beforehand to prompt a thorough background check and now it was time to show up in person for my appointment only time at one the designated border crossings. My choices were Seattle, Washington, Buffalo, New York and Detroit, Michigan. I chose Detroit because I was fairly certain freight would take me there. I got that part easily correct. It was now time to be interviewed, photographed and finger printed to complete the procedure. The days of just showing your driver's license and answering affirmative to the question "are you an American citizen" are apparently over to gain access to Canada and the United States. I'm glad they have a process for weeding out terrorists, but I'm not used to this kind of scrutiny, just to go to Canada. Heck, I once canoed my way into Canada at Boundary Waters on the Minnesota/Ontario boarder. That's right, we were fully outfitted, on the water in Portage Canoes. They just wanted to see if we had fishing gear and the appropriate license to go with it. I wonder what they'd do now if an entourage of camel jockeys paddled by.

I arrived at an official building with paperwork under arm and encountered a room full of various looking people apparently there for a variety of reasons. Some guy walked in with the prettiest long blonde hair you've ever seen with one of those plastic beret type things going over the top of his head to hold the hair straight back...something that a woman would wear. He appeared to be middle aged with Aerosmith "Dream On" lines on his face. It seemed kind of funny to me see a guy with a wavy golden blonde mane held back with a dollar store hoop and I had to suppress my urge to laugh out loud. At that point, they probably would not have issued me the card and I would have had a time of it explaining that kind of spontaneous laughter. No joking around in this hall of federal efficiency. There was no small talk going on either between the contestants as everyone seemed hesitant to say anything in this place. A sign on the wall in a conspicuous place warned that cell phones were to be turned off and that any communication, including texting would have to be carried on outside. Government fear was thick in the air and the look of concern covered everyone's faces. Everything and everyone looked so official and orderly.

I was called for my appointment and was greeted by a gruff black woman seated behind plexiglass with a voice hole. She quizzed me about my background to see if my answers matched my application and then motioned to an oddly arranged row of plastic chairs along with an order for me to take a seat and wait. The way they had these attached from underneath chairs set up, you would have to climb over one if you wanted the seat in the corner. I found that kind of odd in this edifice of bi-nation wisdom. An hour and a half later of watching an industrial looking clock on the wall tick, I was called into the office, this time by a no nonsense Canadian official to be grilled under bright lighting. She reminded me of an evil woman on a James Bond movie. The one with the knives coming out of her shoes. They had a camera pointed in my eyeball and asked all kinds of probing questions. I felt like a criminal trying to get this card. At the end of the process, my gruff border agent official friend read me a list of do's and don'ts that took a half hour to complete. I had to sign a document about 4 times saying I was presented with the mantra and understood it in its entirety. She said if I didn't follow the rules I could be detained or locked up for an indefinite period of time. She emphatically added that WE have the facilities here. OK, gotcha, so there's a dungeon with shackles underneath all these cubicles, plexiglass and impeccable steel gray industrial carpet for rule breakers. The officer then gave me a piece of paper that said I had permission to leave. I flashed back to Hillside School in 1969 and the bathroom passes.

It was a major CF leaving this place as there was no signage to direct you out amidst a maze of construction barriers and fences. My next move was a wrong turn and before I knew it, I was on the ramp to the bridge to Windsor, Ontario Canada! Crap. No room to turn a big truck around on the American side just beyond the toll booths where I displayed my permission slip, so they gave me orange colored paperwork to turn around on the Canadian side. Fear flashed before my mind with a thought of what if they don't let me back into the US? Over the bridge I traversed to Canada, only to receive more paperwork from the Canadians to make the U-turn. Next, I had to wait in a long line to get back on the US side where I endured another series of questions by customs agents to get back in America. My instructions were to shut the truck off and answer the questions honestly and correctly because the Customs Officer didn't like surprises...like finding out you were a wanted felon or were attempting to bring non-declared goods to the United States. I think he was lying when he said he didn't like surprises, because I believe these guys live for hauling border maggots off in cuffs and leg shackles. I'll bet he was thinking a hog tie and carry off by six officers would be even better!

I passed this inquisition and was instructed that I had permission to proceed. I saw two guys in turbans in a truck next to me in the customs lanes on the way out and I wanted to yell over "thanks a lot!"

Back at the truck stop in Ann Arbor, as I was backing into a parking spot on a full lot of trucks in the pouring rain, some lout in a US Express truck cuts me off, almost hits me and takes the spot I was aimed in. Sometimes, in these lots, it turns into a game of chicken with tractor trailers. In this case it was ok, because just that moment, a better spot opened up and I lurched forward and missled her in. What a day! I'm about to fall off to diesel dreams and hope tomorrow is a better day.

Heat Up The Exchange

I just had a heated exchange at the fuel stop with the manager of the fuel store. There is enough disrespect going around, so I'm kind of ammune and hardened to a lot of it. I try to be courteous and cheerful and add something positive to somebody's day as I shlub along in this modern day life of expediency and efficiency.

We already know that customer treatment has taken a spriral downward these days in a lot places. One of my absolute pet peeves is the scenario where you wait in line for a lengthy period of time and finaly reach the check out or service desk. You begin to open you mouth to voice a request or submit a question to the clerk. At that very nano second, the phone rings. Does the clerk continue to address your patronage? No way! Now this is the store that you took the time to get in your car, burn your gas and travel to in an effort to buy their goods in person. They will answer the call and carry on a long conversation with an idiot on the other end of the line that they can't understand and in the process completely forget that you exist.

Well, something similar happened to me tonight. I'm about to get about $200 in fuel and standing at the fuel desk ready to be served when suddenly the clerk decides she's going to have a big conversation with the guy behind me. This young lady wasn't asking me the usual questions like "what is the name of your company" or "what's your truck number?" or "would you like a cash advance with your purchase today?" I decided that I had enough and simply walked out. The manager came running out after me and asked what the problem was. I told him his rude clerk wasn't interested in my business and decided that she would rather carry on a conversation with the guy in line behind me. He tried to tell me that he was standing right there and it didn't happen that way. I was quite irritated by his response and angrily shot back  "maybe you could care less about whether I buy your fuel, but you better teach your clerks what correct customer service is. The other stores in this chain don't operate like that."  The conversation then heated up to the point of no return. And I won't return.

About that moment, a trucker fueling up nearby had his fuel overflow out of his tank and all over the fuel island, apparently because the automatic shut off failed on the pump nozzle. It looked like a dam water main break the way all that diesel was shooting out of his tank. Better put out that cigarette good buddy. It could have been a real hot time in Jackson tonight.

My Old Tennessee Home, Quick Carolina and The North

Monday the 26th of October started out tamely enough with a pickup of goods in Canton, Georgia, not far from home to be delivered to northern Virginia. Autumn was firmly in place and the leaves were beginning to show some nice color in north Georgia for the end of October. Depending on the year, peak leaf color can occur anytime from mid October to Thanksgiving in our part of the world. The run would take me up past a route I have travelled often on I-81 from outside of Knoxville to the destination in Dayton, Virginia, near Harrisonburg.

Having lived in a number of places up and down the east coast, I get that old familiar feeling of a one time home in several domains and Tennessee and Virginia are no exception. I couldn’t tell you how many times I have cruised on this corridor since it became the route of choice from New Jersey for the first time in August of 1994 to Johnson City, Tennessee. JC was a comfortable town I was proud to call home. Life took me to Bristol, Tennessee after I married Cheryl in 1997. The radio station I worked for was sold to an ownership group in Bristol, Virginia and they moved the operation there. Bristol is split evenly between Tennessee and Virginia with the state line running on the double yellow line on the main State Street in downtown. One side of the street is Tennessee and the other Virginia. The station couldn't have been on the closer side of Bristol in Tennessee, but the far northern side in Virginia. The commute was lengthy from Johnson City and the best possible private school for my Step Daughter Streisy was in Bristol, so Bristol it was. Johnson City was a “hipper” more cultural college town, home of East Tennessee State University with more shopping choices and restaurants. I had a nice apartment on a steep hillside overlooking the valley where the Johnson City is nestled. I resided in a neighborhood dubbed The Tree Streets. All the streets were named after trees and I lived on West Chestnut. My big picture window offered an expansive view across the valley and many a day, I enjoyed drinking cappuccino and watching snow storms travel across the landscape. The winter of 1995 to 1996 was what the locals called a twenty year season and it snowed a prolific amount with lots of winter weather to watch from that window. I reluctantly left JC after 3 good years there.

We settled in a nice little home in Bristol that Cheryl absolutely loved. Well, actually, liked it a little…I think. I had to talk her into spending that first night there. After an initial inspection she discovered crooked legged spider crickets completely covering one entire wall in the basement while the U-Haul was still on the street. We had a little prayer meeting about removing the offensive bugs. It also had a massive oil furnace with a fond smell of heating oil when it fired on cold days. Well, maybe she wasn't all that fond of the smell that wafted throughout the house. Included was a wood deck out back that had a nice "bow" in the middle from a lack of structural support and a humungous holly bush in front that I had a bloody wrestling match with on more than one occasion. We bought a cool looking 70's style olive green stove for the kitchen and washed our own dishes, for the lack of a dishwasher. But, the Christmas tree always looked good in the living room and the "Home Is Where The Heart Is" sign actually meant something. Our neighbor Harold Campbell who lived directly across the street always ceremoniously lit tens of thousands of lights every year on Thanksgiving night. Folks from far and wide came to view the legendary fantasy Christmas wonderland that Mr. Campbell displayed proudly. The glow from the light across the street was so bright that it gleamed right through our front windows. The Christmas spirit lived there. And so too, probably his electric bill.

Back to reality on the road, the scenery in Virginia is pleasant with expansive valleys surrounded by the southern Appalachians and Blue Ridge range along the way. Sometimes in this business, one run leads to another and that certainly applied to this odyssey. The week ended up being a complete blur with little time to stop, eat, sleep or collect thoughts, let alone take inventory of where I was or what I was transporting. The company pre-dispatched me with loads before I finished the one I was on, which was very unusual for them. But, hey, I’m not complaining…you have to strike when the iron is hot! After enduring two years of a rough economy, we all can use some encouragement that things are getting better. Northern Virginia became Martinsburg, West Virginia and next it was on to Johnstown, Pennsylvania, home of the famous flood all those years ago. They even have a museum dedicated to it there. This part of Central Pennsylvania is a gem in Fall color with vistas ascending steep grades. The road wound around curvy two lane state highways in the bright sunshine up and down hilly terrain in a very inspiring trek to Pittsburgh to pick up freight headed to Columbia, South Carolina. My time frames were tight and that meant there would be no visits with my Cousins Carol and Mary Joan and Aunt Win in Pittsburgh or my Brother Tom, Sister In-Law Betsy or Niece Robyn in Columbia. How cruel is that? I drive all over America with layover time in plenty of places, but not to get one skinny little visit with family in back to back towns is downright ironic! One can only hope for another chance to catch up with our far flung family. Aunt Win would love it if everyone could be in her favorite place, Chautauqua, in Western Upstate New York at the same time.

With the freight let loose in Downtown Columbia, South Carolina, near Bryce Stadium where Carolina Football plays, the arrows pointed down the highway about an hour to Orangeburg, South Carolina for a pick up headed to St. Joseph, Michigan. This freight was marked “Hot” which meant there would be no dilly-dally at the interstate convenience store deciding whether it would be gummy worms or milk duds.

So here I go, leaving behind some of the most pleasant weather of the year in South Carolina for a place on the western edge of civilization on the peninsular Great Lake State where the gales of doom blow off Lake Michigan right down to the bone of contention before anywhere else in the Midwest to begin the cold season. I’m seldom thrilled to go to Michigan, for most times it’s somewhere like Flint, Detroit or some other auto industry related business town wracked by depression, recession and regression.

The last time I was in Detroit, I had a drop off at the power train assembly plant that turned into a bazaar delivery where no one knew anything or really wanted to do any work. At the gate, I was directed to Dock Number 5 by a young female security guard with a crappy attitude. I get to Dock Number 5 where an exceedingly pleasant man snapped at me and said “I don’t know who you are and what you’re doing here.” I replied that I was directed here by the front gate and my hat and shirt along with the paperwork on the clipboard should give you a clue as to what company I represent and what you’re getting. Oh, and if you prefer, I can drop this load in the middle of the parking lot and you can sort it out after I leave! He begrudging directed me to another dock way in the back of the largest manufacturing facility I’d ever seen. I pulled the truck around to the other dock and another exceedingly pleasant man greets me in the shipping office with a strained reply of “I sure hope we can get you unloaded before we take our break.” I said, “Its 7a.m., what time did you guys start?” Sure wish I was in the UAW too. Three men stepped into the cargo hold of my truck and had to analyze the load and determine who in the plant was going to get what. I’m thinking to myself, just take it off the truck and figure it out in your warehouse like everybody else. Dam. Two hours later I return to the exit gate where my glib little security guard friend had to examine the truck to make sure I wasn’t leaving with anything I wasn’t supposed to be leaving with. When I pulled up, she was standing right in front of a huge orange sign that said “PROTECT YOUR JOB, DO NOT SMOKE” with a lit cigarette hanging from her tar and nicotine stained lips. Let’s pour more of our hard earned tax dollars into this management absent company.

Back to the present, the drive up the spine of Indiana north of Indianapolis on a lonely state highway in the wee early morning hours was stressful and tiresome from the thick fog that developed. Fog followed me every mile all the way to St. Joseph until the temperature dumped into the 30’s on the brink of Lake Michigan where a decidedly damp air put a stamp of chill right through me. Fortunately my gloves, wool cap and down vest were handy.

With the load off the truck and paperwork completed, the company buzzed on the Qualcomm and the next destination was back to Chicago. Was this 9th or 10th time to Shytown? At this point, I've lost track. This next gig would be a sojourn across the top of Indiana, Ohio, the little bit of Pennsylvania that surrounds Erie forming a straight shot across Upstate New York on the Thruway to the prize in Northern Vermont. I was kind of excited to go to a place I hadn’t been to in many years. The pure Maple Syrup would surely flow at the end of this road. Set the GPS for the Green Mountains, this Freightliner will grow wings.