Kearny, NJ - March 8, 2009

Greetings from beautiful Kearny, NJ. We got stuck here for the day - with a delivery to make in Quincy, MA in the morning. But, because of this particular load, we had to wait here. It's what is referred to as a High Value load, which means the truck has to be parked in a secure location when we're not moving. The view in this drop yard is stunning ... rusted cargo containers, weather-worn green vinyl snow fences, and brackish mud puddles that range in depth from a couple of inches to deep enough to lose a shoe in. The sun is shining at the moment but it still seems dreary.

Things are a bit slow with freight, but I suppose that's the way of the world at the moment. We've been moderately busy, enough to stay ahead of the game, but we would like to be busier. That will come as things start to loosen - hopefully sooner than later. 

The day actually got a little better as it went on, in large part to a fellow trucker named Craig - who is actually from the Uhrichsville area in Ohio - and drives for Arnold, which is a division of US Xpress. He was stuck in the same situation as we were, on hold for a day or so, and he was pretty bored.

He saw Beth sitting in the driver's seat (I was sleeping at the time) and he drove his truck right up beside ours and started talking. Beth is kind of like that; people have this tendency to just start talking to her, telling her their life's story, as though they had known her for a long time. Anyway, after talking for an hour or so, he took off and came back about a half an hour later with a bunch of food he had just picked up at the local grocery story - some meatloaf, a small pork roast, mashed potatoes, a gallon of iced tea and a couple of different kinds of veggies. At his insistence, we took the two tractors to a remote part of the drop yard and had a picnic. It seems, according to Craig, this kind of thing used to happen from time to time when drivers would get stuck together in a yard or at a terminal. Now a lot places frown on picnics and most companies outlaw them completely. My guess is the insurance industry had a hand in banning the practice. It did help pass the time for us even if we had to listen to a couple of hours of country/trucking music blaring from Craig's tractor.


We still like this game a lot. It seems to fit us well, and we get to see a lot of amazing country. Today is really the exception - there is a lot of beautiful scenery in New Jersey, just not here in Kearny. We like Tennessee and Connecticut for pure beauty, but it seems that every state has something of it's own personality - Wyoming and Southern Idaho are stunning, but in an odd way. The upper Midwest is lush and green in the spring, which is stunning, and Texas is, well Texas and California both really, have a little bit of everything

Motion

The lifestyle of a trucker is about a strange addiction to motion. They will all tell you it's about the money, and to some extent that is true, but it's mostly about the need to not sit still. This really is not so much a job as it is a lifestyle. And, I have to admit, it gets in your blood a bit if you let it. I don't sit still as well as I used to.


We started this past week on Sunday afternoon sitting across the roadway from Mount Shasta. Yes, really, just about right across the street, in a rest area, from Mount Shasta. Then, down to Modesto and LA. From there we took a  load to Laredo and then back North to Chicago. Next was Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and here I sit on a Sunday morning, a week later, in Memphis. Oddly enough, the only bad time of the week was the day we sat around in Laredo waiting to have the front end aligned and take care of a couple of "recall' items on the truck. We sat and sat, and there were no roses to smell at the Freightliner dealership.


But, as I said, the motion is the addictive part. During the day, the motion speaks for itself. There really is an amazing sight outside of our windows most of the time, even if we've seen it before several times. During the day you get this sense of rushing along through the country (or city) side at 65 miles an hour. You can see the effects of the wind, and feel whether the sun is in front of you or behind you. Everything along the way is punctuated by buildings or trees or mountains or rivers, and you can tell when you've gone a mile or ten miles just by the difference in the view. 


At night it is a different story. Night is more like playing a fairly intense little video game. After a 3-4-5 or 6 hour run, it begins to feel as though you are no longer moving (maybe just jiggling about some), and everything is rushing at and by you. There is no distance, unless you are in or near a city, and there is no real change of scenery. Every little town begins to look like the last one, or the next one, and is made up of Golden Arches, signs with arrows telling you which way things go or turn, signs for Applebee's or Perkins, a hospital or High School, or a waffle house of some sort if you are in the South. Little strip malls are little strip malls, and rest areas are all filled with the same trucks as the last rest area. It's a much tougher time of day to drive long distance.

The one true upside to night driving is the stars. We get to stop in some pretty dark places, and the stars can get intense. 

So, this is about enough sitting around for the moment. Time to head back over to Fedex and pick up a load for Huntington, WV. Who knows for sure where to from there; I guess it really doesn't matter as long as it's somewhere else. A week from today I'll wake up in my own bed in New Philadelphia, Ohio, and it will really feel strange not to be moving.

The Snake

This country has some great rivers. Not all of them are big and long and mighty, such as the Mississippi, but they all have a character all their own. And, together, they seem to tie the entire continent together, binding everything with one great flowing stream of liquid highway.

My favorite is the Snake River, particularly as it flows across Southern Idaho. The terrain is rugged; a cross between high desert plains, jagged mountain ranges and mesas whose tops have been worn smooth over the centuries by the high winds that are legendary in this area. Where else can you see signs that say "Frequent Dust Storms Possible - Do Not Stop On Roadway."

The Snake, which has its beginning high in the mountains of northwestern Wyoming in the Yellowstone National Park, is well over 1,000 miles long and literally snakes its way across some of the harshest landscapes America has to offer. After leaving Wyoming on a westerly course through Idaho Falls, it begins a sweeping southerly arc by Pocatello and on over through Twin Falls before turning north to pass west of Boise and on into Hell's Canyon on the Oregon/Idaho state line. Then, its north and west until somewhere near Kennewick, Washington, it becomes part of the Columbia River/Basin system. By the way, Hell's canyon, the nation's deepest canyon at just over 8,000 feet, was carved by the Snake, and is completely inaccessible by road - the only way in or out is by water (tough going) or by chopper (not a great idea either).
     
Last Spring I had the opportunity to drive I-86 West from Pocatello to Twin Falls. The water levels were very high, but across that stretch the river moves at a rather pedestrian pace. It is wide and powerful looking, and mountains and mesas come right up to the water's edge in many places along the northern side of the river. I-86 runs along the southern shore and offers some spectacular views of the river as is moves alternately closer to and further away from the highway. And it seems to go on forever.
     
At Twins Falls, you can drive across a bridge that spans "Magic Valley." We got to do this twice recently, and it is one of the most unnerving experiences I have ever been through. I'm not sure how deep the canyon is at that point, but it is deep enough to give you that queasy feeling in the pit of your stomach as you drive over it. There is one place in the valley where the land adjoining the river flattens out - and someone built a golf course there. Whoever built that course is now one of my heroes and I am going back to Twin Falls to play that course someday before I die.
     
We picked up a load of raw sugar in Twin Falls. Who would have thought Idaho was a sugar hot spot.
     
You learn a lot of strange things in this job.

The Eisenhower Interstate System

We see them all the time - American Flag-blue signs with a circle of five white stars and the words "Eisenhower Interstate System." Most states have at least some of them posted along the highways, and a number of states are fairly littered with them. It began in 1956 as part concession to the rapidly expanding American automobile industry, and part to fulfill some campaign promises to create a lot of new jobs. Today, the system is nearly 50,000 miles long and is still the largest Public Works project in history. As a kid growing up in Detroit in the 50s and 60s, and today as a truck driver, the system is a lifeline, a money-maker, a means to an end. It is an enormous part of the post-WWII American Dream, and lies at the very foundation of America's continuing love affair with the automobile.

Then, on the other hand, there is Allandale, South Carolina, Kokomo, Indiana, Newark, Ohio, or any one of a hundred little stops along Route 66, that owe their fate, in large part to the highway system built in the name of national defense and motion. Now these towns, because of the fact the Interstates go elsewhere, struggle with an identity, struggle to keep their industry and tax base intact, and wonder when the last old fashioned Dairy Queen will finally close. At one time Route 66 was the main east-west link between Chicago and Los Angeles, and fertile ground for creative entrepreneurs catering to the American motoring public. The first hot dog stands, the first Putt-Putt courses, and any number of bizarre one-of-a-kind tourist attractions all came to life along Route 66, and today they simply gather dust as they fade into obscurity. Holiday Inn started along the famed Route, and was one of the few organizations to realize the future was elsewhere.

My favorite sad small town story is Allendale, South Carolina. During the time between the American Civil War and the coming of the Interstate System, Allendale sat on an active commerce route (State 301) roughly in the middle of a rectangle made up of Columbia and Charleston, SC on the north and east, and Augusta and Savannah, GA on the west and south. Today is has roughly 20% of the population in had just 60-70 years ago.

We drove through Allendale in March as Spring was beginning to touch the South. The area is beautiful, with a number of small rivers flowing through it, and the remnants of old plantations and farms still scattered around the area. For a mile or two, the road tracked along side a classic old, and quite unused, railroad bed complete with decaying wood timber trestles and crossing signs. In the city itself we saw things such as an old Gulf Oil station with the orange and blue ball atop a post at the corner. It had become the Allandale dry Cleaning Service. We counted at least 12 motels which, we were guessing, were built shortly after WWII, that were no longer in use. I don't think Allendale has a hardware store anymore. The few motels that were being used were Days Inns, Knights Inns, or some other of the smaller, lesser known chains. Dead and decaying were the local mom and pop motels, the small, unique places which featured attached Bar and Grills, and all night restaurants - with, I might add, ample truck parking.

Don't get me wrong, I am certainly not against change and progress (which are often, but not always the same things). My life these days seems to change almost daily, if not hourly. But, I can't help it when I drive through these once-proud towns, towns with defunct businesses and homes, and little league diamonds that were one time somebody's dream, thinking about what they must have been like in 1961, or 1938 or 1955. At some time or another all of these places were really happenin places to be. Now they are simply places to turn around when you get lost.

Now, everything is ruled by chains, chains who have all staked out the prime ground around exits off the Interstate. Food, lodging, shopping - they are all now McDonald's, Holiday Inn Express or Wal-Mart, or something very much like them. The same holds true for truck stops - Pilots, Petros, Travel America, Flying J, Hess-Wilco, etc. Sometimes when we are lucky, we stumble across an independent truck stop in Malta, Idaho, or Rawlins, Wyoming, or Rochester, Indiana, that hasn't thrown in the towel - places that still have unpaved parking lots, diners with waitresses named Flo or Janice, and maybe a two-day old food stain on the menu. The fuel islands still have air for free, the drinking fountains still work, and hard-boiled eggs are three for a dollar. Those are the best stops we make.

Dawn II

The Wisconsin Dells - near Baraboo - June 3, 2009

Dawn around here starts earlier than you would expect. By 4:30am, at least an hour and a half before the sun makes its appearance, the first signs of daylight begin just above the treeline, and just to the north of due east. The pale blue light begins to stretch itself out to the north and south and upwards, and the still black silhouette of trees becomes more well defined. The last few remaining stars momentarily brighten dramatically as if to leave one last brief signature of the night sky before departing. Before the sun breaks the horizon, its light begins to hit the few wispy streaks of clouds overhead, and casts them in a faint orange glow. The rest of the visible sky is the purest azure I can imagine. It's an odd feeling; the sky should not begin to brighten this time of day.

Once the first upper arc of the sun appears above the trees, rays of light begin to creep across the landscape and define many of the features. With the increasing light, you can begin to see dull silver-gray blankets of fog or mist, four to five feet thick, that seem to hover just a foot or so above the ponds and marshy areas that are mixed in with the the stands of trees, grassy patches, and other forms of leafy vegetation. As more of the sun becomes visible, the light works its way down through the trees, and when it hits the foggy areas, it begins to burn the mist off in irregular streaks and patches. Occasionally, bits and wisps of the fog patches drift upward from the main mass and dissipate immediately once they emerge above the shadows. Before long, the fog is gone completely, and everything is very lush and very green.

By 6:15am the sun is above the horizon by a few degrees. It seems larger than reality and because of the low angle and the distant morning haze, for a few minutes you can look directly at it without hurting your eyes. You can almost feel its intensity building as it rises a few more degrees and turns from deep, vibrant orange into the blinding yellow we know best. Finally you are forced to look away and dawn gives way to morning.

Wisconsin wears Spring very well.

Dawn

On a clear day, dawn in Alamogordo, New Mexico, is breathtaking. The first glow of light starts behind the Sacramento mountains in the east - distant, low and jagged. The red, orange and pale magenta streaks flow north and south along the chain as far as the eye can see, until everything is swallowed by the horizon. As the sun begins to emerge above the mountains, the San Mateo Mountains become visible in the west. Between the two chains is high plains, very flat and covered with all kinds of low, rugged looking patches of grass, cactus and other hardy and determined vegetation. The area is streaked with red dirt gullies from when the rains do come; some are as deep as eight to ten feet and snake across the terrain in all directions. It's a bit odd to think we are only 10-12 miles from the White Sands US missile range.

We were lucky last night in that we were able to stop at a picnic area just north of Alamogordo in Three Rivers, NM, along US54 - very much in the middle or nowhere. The stars were a sight to behold. No light pollution to obscure the grandeur. Some of them were so large and bright that it seemed you could reach out and touch them. The Milky Way was very clear and well defined. The absolute darkness was a little unnerving; it was difficult to see the truck from more than about 15 feet away.

I tried taking a few pictures, but I couldn't get the camera to do justice to any of what we saw. It helps to be in the right place at the right time.

Time

Einstein was right.

Time is as relative as everything else in this world, especially when you live in an eight-foot steel and fiberglass cube that goes 65 miles per hour. We cross time zones some times two or three times a day, or we go back and forth across the same time line in a matter of minutes. We are all time travelers in one way or another, it's just that we have to reset our watches more often than most. When we wake up our first question is where are we, and not did you sleep well.

We no longer live by the rules of time we grew up with. The days of the week no longer really matter; they all run together in one long continuum. We live by the clock, but the difference between noon on Saturday and 6am on Tuesday is the same as the difference between Memphis, TN, and Effingham, Il - and FedEx looks like FedEx looks like FedEx. It's all pretty arbitrary, even if it all looks the same.

Dawn happens earlier in the day in Boston than it does in Detroit, yet they are still in the same time zone. We watched the final round of the Masters at a tavern in Denver and it ended at 5:20 on my cell phone and at 7:20 on my watch. Now we are on our way to Memphis from Columbus, and we will time travel backwards and forwards in time at the same time once again. The Tigers play tonight at nine o'clock, unless we get to the Central Time Zone first.

Sigh. It's probably a good thing that the D.O.T. doesn't allow alcohol on these trucks, or this would make even less sense than it already does.

I'm leaving now to go find myself. If I show up before I return, don't let me leave until I get back...