Chapter 11
A Trip Across the Highline
Forward
Where the day takes you...We are under a life sentence to that calling. Poetic, pure, uncontrolled and true, it is a phrase which echoes, enticing the ring of adventure, freedom and spontaneity. If one is open to where the day, in all its average, mundane, glory leads, then the soul may travel roads less traveled and trails unexplored. The mystery is its unpredictability. Sometimes the remarkable is not even recognized until it is nothing more than the ghost of an image of that which was. Yet if it could be experienced once more...savored...and acknowledged, such a gift would be priceless. The allusive perfect moment: memorable, innocent, uncalculated, priceless, and unfortunately, all too rare.
Some trips are unforgettable. Unplanned and on a collision course with reality the ordinary becomes extraordinary. The journey of the day can be a study in high points and a journey into the darkness. The run may turn horrific. Complicated. Compelling. Vivid in its beauty. Disturbing in stark ugliness. A perfect moment, either way, that takes root in the memory. And changes life forever.
Some runs settle into the recesses of the memory. Unremarkable, these trips blend into an endless blur of images that never regain their clarity once the experience is completed. Each has its place.
If every trip and every load was memorable, it would be overwhelming. There is beauty in boring routines and non events. Same ol' same ol', has its place.
Having said that, this is the record of on average trip. One load and one series of "where the day takes you." Ordinary. Sometimes extraordinary. These are the scattered reflections of one load taken "across the top", on the 'The High Line". It is typical of the events on an average trip. A day in the life...nothing specific here...just bits and pieces.
March 27-29, 1998 .
Sportswear from Seattle to Milwaukee Wisconsin
Friday, March 27, 1998
The load we are hauling east is messed up. It is a 'hand stack' load (Which means that we, the drivers, will 'fingerprint' each carton of various sportswear and apparel freight, loading the entire load by hand.) The shipper is supposed to have the freight staged and ready to be loaded onto the trailer. They don't. The load is also time sensitive: A timed run that is scheduled to be ready to roll at 7 PM PST. It isn't. The load is due into Wisconsin by Sunday, March 29 by 11:59 PM CST. We leave Seattle at 3am. Saturday. Late. 2,000 miles to go.
Saturday, March 28, 1998
We stop in Spokane to fuel. Close to home (80 miles or so) but our time is too critical now to risk heading up to the ranch. Our friend Rob meets us at the Flying J Truck stop. He is an angelic soul who drives up to the ranch to keep an eye on things, check the mail and keep the plants living. We assure him the food is good here. Usually the service is not only attentive but also quite entertaining. He makes the mistake of ordering the corn beef breakfast. I recommended the Chicken Fried Steak. "Its real and homemade!", I urge. He is not one to be persuaded.
Rob is a pioneering, free spirit, which means he a 'thinks outside the box', kinda' guy. I love him for it. His food arrives. We mourn the devastation done to his hash browns. I don't think I've ever seen hash browns in need of the assistance of a good sharp steak knife. OK, actually I have, but for Rob's sake I want him to think that this is a first. He dives into the corn beef and he looks at me with longing...for Denny's. The original 'fun' waitress disappears and is replaced by 'our lady of the immaculate missing smile'... Dallas joins us at the table and inquires as to the origins of "that awful smell". We point to Rob's half eaten plate. Dallas makes a face. "Yuck!" No one present disagrees.
Later, we say our good byes in the truck parking area. He, Dallas, and I hug and he kisses us both on the cheek. Several drivers are watching. As Dallas hits the sleeper for some zzz's, I notice that one driver nursing a cigarette is still watching me as I pull out. He looks sad. A roadmap of loneliness sketched across his features silhouetted in that old Peterbilt cab. I wonder how long it has been since any one has watched him pull out of a truck stop, their waving figures disappearing into his mirrors. Nodding to him, he returns the gesture with a slight movement of his cigarette lit hand, hanging, outstretched from the open window of his cab.
1700 miles to go.
Cresting the summit of Lookout Pass, which straddles the Montana/Idaho line, the deep drifts of snow combined to conspire with the sun and a brilliant blue sky to force my eyes into a narrow squint. So much spring light cascading down from the alpine elevations, all the way into that narrow afterthought of the first hint of the Silver Valley below. A man utilizes the high banks of the dirty plowed snow drifts to load his snowmobile onto the well used, metal, rack built above the bed of his 4x4. He charges up the drift, cool and in control, with one leg standing perched on the sideboard of the machine, the other dragging behind into the air. His buddy's stand in a circle drinking beer and watching. As I pass by, I witness as he over estimates his speed. The front runners of the sled puncture the glass of the rear pickup cab window, leaving the snow machine wedged into the cab. The operator is thrown into the drift from the impact. Luckily for his pride, he is separated by the truck from his doubled over buddies, now beside themselves in hysterical laughter. Dropping over the hill, the last thing I saw was the man pounding his fists into the contours of the snow drift.
1620 miles to go.
St. Regis , Montana .
Driver 1: ..."that was quite a check kiting scheme those freeman had going.. They had some interesting ways of makin' money..."
Driver 2:..."Yeah it sure was. You know some of those things.. those ideas supported by these militia groups.. well they kinda' make a lot of sense...I mean a lot of it is common sense and I could really agree with it..."
Driver 1:..."I know. The Federal Government is way out of control. Look at what goes on in our schools anymore and those boys taking over that farm... well I half understand it.. my wife's got relatives tied up in that Freeman mess and after everything that's happened you can kinda' see their point...
Driver 2:..."Sure can. Hell I think a lot of people can. I mean everyone is sick and tired of the Federal Government. If those militia groups would just broaden their base.. I mean make it open to every color, race, religious group you name it I bet they'd all join up. I know I would..."
There is a short silence.
Driver 3..."We've got that. It’s called the Democrats.
Driver 1...:"Yeah imagine the militia led by Jesse Jackson.. That's diversity!"
Driver 2:..."God no! Not that. That's a disaster! Forget I said anything..."
1595 miles to go
Missoula Montana...
In 1998 Montana was the only state in the union without a day time speed limit for non commercial vehicles. On I-90, just outside of Missoula, there is a large billboard. In big, block letters it says, "Whoa dude! There is a speed limit!" A gentleman driving a gold Toyota Camry passes me. He has Washington plates and I notice him reading the billboard. He shrugs and looks back towards the highway ahead of him. He resumes his speed as we enter the gorge created by the Clark Fork River and within a few miles of leaving Missoula, the Camry is nowhere to be found on the horizon. An hour later, near Deerlodge, I pass him pulled over by a Montana State trooper. The only one I will see the entire day. He looks quite disturbed. He pulls back into traffic behind me and within seconds he is back up to warp speed. Flying by me, I notice the citation is still in his hands, wrapped tightly around the steering wheel.
1430 miles to go
Butte, Montana
A story in the latest issue of Time magazine concerns Butte. An environmental disaster looms just beyond the city. Perched ominously above the city on what was originally a foothill, lies at one time the worlds largest open pit, copper mine. For many years after its closure, the mine filled up with water. The seductively aqua pool that formed became contaminated with all kinds of toxic leftovers from the mines glory years. Elaborate warning systems were devised to keep wildlife and especially migrating waterfowl from landing on the waters which had reclaimed the mine site. These attempts were not always successful and several large kills occurred. If matters weren't bad enough, the water levels in the lake began to suddenly and unexplainable drop. Whereas the original concern from the community was that the lake would eventually fill up the entire depth of the mine, then overflow its banks, and send a cascade of polluted water into the city streets below, these fears were replaced by concerns that the waters from the lake were moving underground and could eventually pollute the aquifer feeding the valleys' water supply and the local creeks that formed the Montana headwaters of what eventually becomes the Columbia River. Although closed for several years, the mine still remains prominent in the minds of local residents.
Traveling through Butte, I noticed a large flock of Canadian Geese flying north, over the city, towards Alberta and the Arctic beyond. Their flightway went directly above the lake left by the mine. I wondered if they would keep flying or if they would be enticed into those deceptively tranquil waters. I willed them onward and prayed that their gaze would not fix on the still waters appearing in and out of the cloudfalls beneath them.
1350 miles to go
Pipestone Pass
Sometimes we are lucky. The changing weather is gradual. Subdued. Blink and you would have missed it. We can adapt. Prepare ourselves. Test the waters and slowly get used to our new traveling environmental.
Sometimes there is a line drawn in the sand. Cross that line and the change is stark. The difference between night and day. Summer and winter. Wet and Dry. Bare pavement and one slick son of a bitch skatin' rink that would scare the shit out of Tonya Harding.
Up until now the trip had been easy. Warm, early spring sunshine. Bare, dry and dusty mountain passes. And then we had to do it. Push our luck and cross that line. The one that God unexplainably draws in his invisible sand that sometimes only poor, unfortunate, and unlucky bastards like us ever see. And usually, not until we've crossed that line and its too late to go back to the other side.
I saw the line. I saw the weather front straight ahead enclosing the top of the mountains that form Pipestone Pass. The statue of the Virgin Mary that usually looks down from the mountain tops onto the historic, Victorian, brick laid city of Butte was swallowed up in those clouds. She two in her statuesque stillness had crossed that line. Conditions changed and it was a testament to what a difference a mile makes. Visibility descended to zero and the pavement became glazed, then obscure. As we crested the summit of Pipestone, the squall of whiteness, blowing snowflakes and the cold arctic front, completely wrapped its chill around us and buffeted us all the way down the seven mile, 6%, grade on the down side.
Maybe we would cross back over the line at the bottom. We didn't. I felt like a cat toy. A plaything of the wind. Thrown from one lane to the other, batted this way and then that, the wind toyed wicked and merciless with anything not fastened to the valley floor. Powdered snow spat out across the windshield and soon enough the window was covered with ice in large chunks caught frozen to the wipers. The defroster blasted hot air but the wind kept it all equal, as the gusts she had up her sleeve were strong enough to bring small bits of snow into the truck. Hot and cold all at the same time, it seemed to me that anyone on that stretch of highway was some sort of human sweet and sour sauce, a. seasoning adjustment to be used to bring this brewing late winter stew up to the standards of whichever chef deity had the misfortune to be blamed for March. In like a lamb, out like lion. It was an understatement. Lions never created such a mess. Elephants maybe. Lions never: They like a 'clean' kill.
1325 miles to go
Three Forks Montana.
I came across him suddenly. But then everything I came upon was sudden. Visibility was near zero. The snow blew horizontal across the highway and I wondered if I should at least be thankful that we weren't pulling doubles. Two sticks might be better than one to quote a gum commercial. But two trailers only leave you puckered, praying and the traffic scattered as that rear box whips from lane to lane, totally out of the control of the driver, and terrifying anyone who happens to have the misfortune to be next to or directly behind the unpredictable whims of that second trailer. Add a third trailer and three holds no charm. Triples are misery perfected.
He appeared right out of the swirling chaos, walking alongside the right shoulder of the Interstate. A vision right out of a Western art scene: A lone cowboy, out in the middle of nowhere. Behind him, head down, ears back, not in anger but for protection, his mount followed. The saddle mounted on the horse’s back was surrounded by bedrolls, packs, ropes and canteens. In the swirling chaos, I could not tell for sure if it was a bay or a chestnut. The snow was matted to the exposed rump of the horse and caught in the whisps of blowing mane and forelock. The horse followed close to the cowboy, its head buried beneath the shelter of his leads' shoulders. The reins held so much slack that they nearly drug themselves along, in the slush. The cowboy did not exert any effort to encourage his mount to follow. The horse hung close and followed willfully; content to follow wherever the cowboy led them.
The cowboy, like his horse, walked along the roadway with his head down. He wore a bundled bandanna around the lower exposed portion of his face and the rest of his features hid under the brim of his weathered and dirty cowboy hat. His clothes bore no distinction from the landscape. They were the same colors as those blending into the browns and dirty greens of the low slung cedars and junipers. The largest vegetation to brave these high grasslands near the open, first breaks of the Missouri river did not provide much in the way of shelter or a windbreak. The dry washes and open, eroded gullies would give more comfort than those rough, huddled branches. But he did not seek shelter. He had a destination and he walked his horse braving the heaviness of Montana in March. One miserable step at a time, Onward against the rush of those gales.
As I passed, I moved into the left lane to minimize the wind, spray, and slush thrown his way from the momentum of the truck. The horse seemed to move in closer to him as we passed and he tipped his gloved hand to his hat in acknowledgment as the truck roared by.
We were near the summit of another high grassland pass and miles from the nearest exit in either direction. I thought of pulling over and offering him a can of warm soup but the blindness of the corner and the ice made any sudden movement unthinkable. After I cleared the two companions, I geared down and laid a low, long, lonely sounding of the air horn and again he waved while the horses ear pricked forward and its blazed head rose above his shoulders to see what had dared compete with the wail of the storms assault. The passing of strangers lasted less than a few seconds yet I thought of him and that loyal mount all the way into Belgrade. Where were they going and from where had they come? It was too early in the year for there to be any cows up in the high country. It was not the right time of the year for the gathering and the rounding up of the strays and all that entailed. Now newborn calves would be coming into their own, bulls would need castrating and the brands of a thousand different ranch spreads would need to be burned into their haunches. Activities best done close to outbuildings, corrals, and facilities. Activities not well suited to wide open, wind sculpted, high country grasslands.
The cowboy could be between brands, looking for a new spread for which he could work cows, ride fence and occasionally break and start new two-year-olds. Some still and open place where he could do his thing and ride in unseen, new country, while being left alone in the meantime. Until the next occasion when wanderlust came calling and it was time to move on. It was all worth pondering and the rhymes of the tires and the hypnotic slants of the hell bound snow seemed to beg to be forgotten. If only momentarily.
1275 Miles to go
Belgrade, Montana
Nearing dusk, we pull into the Flying J to visit with a young friend attending school at Montana State University. He arrives at the truckstop in a black Stetson hat, Wranglers and a colorful Bullriders Only Jacket. Walking into the truck stop with his eyes ablaze and golden blonde hair, he exudes that Montanan good natured, youthful stereotype. Somewhere between aw' shucks cute and take your breathe away handsome, people watch him as he enters. While he strides about, I can't help but realize I am looking dead on at the same Brad Pitt innocence that endeared A River Runs Through It to so many. A bigger than life sort of presence.
He is unaffected by the weather. It is just an inconvenience and since he won't be traveling far tonight it is of no consequence. He has a whole evening planned for us and it sounds fun but we don't have the time. Not even time to really sit down and eat. Just a short stop to refill thermos, call family and spend a few moments talking and pretending to be human. As the last of the light fades we hit the road again after saying our quick 'good byes' and 'see you next times' and leaving the truckstop, he resumes his own stationary life at warp speed. I remark to Dallas that I am feeling old. He says a simple, reserved, "Yeah, me too."
1245 miles to go.
Hell
I grew up with the sentiment that there is no such thing as a 'bad day' when you are in Montana. I used to believe that it was true. A sentiment often repeated from my grandparents, it was also echoed in the movie 'A River Runs Through It.’ All that beauty and simplicity. It seemed logical. 'Big Sky Country!' as the mud flaps on pickup trucks exclaimed. Then, as now, there were no speed limits and few folks populated the state to cramp your space. As a kid, everyday in Montana seemed a limitless "Good".
Leaving Belgrade, we high-tailed it towards Bozeman. The news on the CB was anything but good. Within miles, the wind picked up and the snow came down in sheets. The road disappeared and as we snaked our way through the mountains towards Livingston, conditions deteriorated into chilling obscurity. Along the shoulder and in the median there were mangled corpses of cars and vans and trucks. Some of them still with hazards lights blinking weakly like beacons flashing along the ocean shores, warning of dangerous points, shallow benches and hiding rocks. The amber and red hazard lights broke up the darkness and became reference points of where the road probably wasn't. Behind us scattered traffic began to bunch up and follow.
Drawing closer to Livingston, the wind roared and rocked the truck. In some places the road was totally clear of all snow. Left behind were greasy glazed over places that reflected the headlights and which foretold of ice and pavement so slick, not even the snow could lay down. In other, more sheltered areas, the snow built up and the truck would plow into those drifts, hesitate, and then throw up great sheets of powder as if dynamite had just exploded. Behind us the traffic descended into blindness until the wind could whip it all away.
I couldn't use the brakes on the slick downgrade. Between the ice and the wind pushing us off the mountain, control became hit and miss. Using small, stab-braking motions, the truck was still always on the verge of breaking free into a jackknife and out of my control. The rpms whined in protest. The longer I pressed on the brakes the more the trailer threatened to slide out from under us and come around. If it got more than 15 degrees out, then it was an unavoidable jackknife. I held on and cussed Montana and the winter that never ends and these heart attack rides that scared all sense out of the sane and left the rest of us spent from the adrenaline rush of terror.
Somehow we made it down into the valley and the darkness became consistent. The wind wasn't gone but it was more manageable and the truck ricocheted under its tug. Traffic eased up and most of the four wheelers quit the fight in Livingston. Deep ridges of snow made travel over 30 mph a crapshoot. Most of us slowed down yet there remained a few die hards: Those few truckers that like living on the edge of a major tow bill. I was content to just let them have at it. They passed us spinning and fighting for control.
Dallas sat up with me and we contemplated the magnetic property in snow that attracts it to truck windshields where it collects against the assault of windshield wipers, relentless defrosters and prayer until visibility is a memory.
Near Big Timber, we passed silently around the mangled remains of two trucks sandwiched together. Their cargo laid open, exposed, naked and a future cargo claim. Flares and flashing red and blue lights broke up the monotonous white. We eased on by, grateful that the drivers of those silenced trucks probably made it through with only minor injuries.
In spite of the accident, several cars struggled to get by us. Then in a dosey doe of headlights that danced and swirled and kicked up the snow into the black blanket of the night, they two were in for a ride. Their trail was marked by spinning cars and frantic brake lights and action where there should be a calm, easy goin', steady as she goes, procession. Then it was over. The music ended and they finished that song and dance and then they separated. Taillights returned to their rightful place. Headlights to theirs'. Yet, one set of lights remained behind, a Ford Taurus buried in the median. While the other traffic hurried on stunned, breathing hard and saying their 'Thank You Jesus's' for the blessing that it was just a near miss, the Ford remained resting. Until finally, the driver collected himself enough to activate his hazards joining the chorus of blinking lights a mile back at the last accident.
A distance which should have taken two hours took almost six. We limped into Billings covered with ice, snow and something that was in between. I was ready for bed. Dallas was not looking forward to the night ahead.
Before I lay down I went inside the Billings Flying J. An old drunk Indian came up to me and asked how the roads were down towards Sheridan, Wyoming. He staggered and swayed. The over ripe scent of the Saturday evenings consumption filling the air around him and I stepped back. "Just stay put" I told him. "Just stay"
He considered it for a moment then said "Yeah. I think I will. I think I will." Then he turned and stumbled past a sheriff’s deputy waiting in line to purchase a soda. The deputy looked at me and met my gaze. He was studying me and I shrugged. "'He's' all we need out there tonight."
Turning to watch the old man as he wandered out into the parking lot he nodded. "Yeah I s'pose so"
1130 miles to go.
March 29, 1998
Dickinson, North Dakota
The weather played hell with Dallas all night and in 8 hours, he only made 300 miles. Dallas is tired but he assures me, that we have finally 'broke out' ahead of the storm. We have no time to spare and behind me the dark clouds seem to be in hot pursuit. I switch seats and take off, the winds nipping at my back. I am still pissed at Montana and wondering why if this year was such a warm, El Nino" year, we have seen so many butt puckering trips. I can't explain it other that we must have a hard on for bad luck and adrenaline rush filled trips. Regardless, it still doesn't seem fair. I long for a nice, easy, summer run and I wonder when I can finally let my guard down for the sweet relief of the summer season.
830 miles to go
Fargo, North Dakota
Just outside of Fargo the storm retakes me. The ceiling comes down and the snow starts to fly. My mood sinks in spite of hearing damn near all of a rebroadcast of the Prairie Home Companion. Pulling into yet another Flying J to fuel, I run around the truck trying to get back out on the road before conditions deteriorate any further. Inside the cashier asks me how the roads are outside. I tell her about Montana and what we've been through and the weather that is bearing down on Fargo.
She is not at all happy. "You take that shit back where you brought it from. You hear me? We don't want it!"
All I can do is shrug as I haul ass out the door and she follows me with her gaze, a smile and a pointed finger. Somehow I knew better than to ask if she'd seen the movie 'Fargo'.
530 miles left to go .
St. Cloud, Minnesota
We have crossed back over that imaginary line again. The snow is behind us and as I-94 shoots us down to the SE towards the Twin Cities, the temperature warms into the 60's. I start to relax only to hear the unmistakable sounds announcing activation of the Emergency Broadcast System. First it is severe thunderstorm warnings. Then a Tornado watch. The following is the exchange which occurred between our truck and dispatch over the satellite Qualcomm. Because Qualcomm charges for each character sent, the messages are abbreviated.
Us: ok 1st this a.m. it was a blizzard.. now under tornado warnin's. its so hrd 2 fig out wht 2 wear. fyi jus outsid st cld mn
Disp: ALWAYS BETTER TO BE OVER DRESSED FOR ANY OCCASSION THAN UNDER DRESSED. A STYLISH PARKA WITH A PROPELLER BEANIE MAY BE SHIEK??
Us: u go! i knew tht if any1 could help me it would b u. jus hope beanie doesn't clash w/ flyin trk & astriod siz hail
Disp: I HAVE SOME RUBBER UNDERWEAR AND SOME WOMENS BOOTS U CAN BORROW BUT NOT SURE THEY WOULD BLEND WITH THE WHOLE DISASTER ENSEMBLE
Us: it is important 2 blend. 1 doesn't want 2 stand out when attendin a gatherin' in a tornado sheltr. very tacky.
Disp: THX AGAIN FOR YOUR HELP WITH THE TRANS LOAD> I HOPE THAT DOESN"T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH A CROSS DRESSER??
Us: what trans ld? Disp: NEVERMIND< GOT HIT BY ONE OF THOSE LARGE PIECES OF HAIL AND HAVE A HARD TIME W/ TRK #s NOW
Us: a snappy little hard hat could have prevented that.. I suggest one in green
Disp: MY APOLOGIES, I THOUGH U WAS SOMEONE ELSE..IM GONNA GO CHASE THAT BIRD NOW. BABBOT.
Us: not a prob
Disp: DO YOU HEAR THAT? POP! THATS THE SOUND OF MY HEAD BEING PULLED FROM MY REAR
Another broadcast comes over the radio interrupting the dark humor between dispatch and our truck. Several tornadoes were on the ground in locations all around the twin cities. We drove into a wall of darkness and soon, even though it was only late afternoon, it was completely dark. Hail rained down from the sky and in several places around Minneapolis underpasses filled up with several feet of water. To the south, a 6-year-old child was sucked out of a van by a tornado. Eventually the dead child was found several hundred yards away by desperate yet hopeful searchers.
Around us chaos took control of that Sunday afternoon. Small towns were destroyed or heavily damaged. As we crossed into Wisconsin, everywhere we went we were followed by hurried announcers and after the fact news cast relaying the results of the violent spring storms.
Torah, Wisconsin
I give the truck back to Dallas. The winds are still with us. According to the radio the gusts are being clocked in nearby La Crosse at nearly 70 mph and we are still under a tornado watch until 2 am. I give the truck over to Dallas and climb back into the sleeper. Neither of us are in a good mood and I, feeling exhausted, open the vents on both sides of the sleeper, fall onto the bed and lay surrounded by the power of the rushing winds buffeting the truck. I drift into an uneasy sleep and Dallas runs the remaining 200 miles. We arrive at 11:45 CST.
On time. But barely.
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