Chapter 20

Little Red Lines

This story is dedicated to the memory of Michelle Norby and to "Pipesmoker".

Preface:

The shortest distance between two points is a conspiracy. It doesn't exist.

Sure, there are some people who actually claim that there is a shorter distance between two points. Always believing that there is a 'better way', these misguided souls exist to get lost. These are the same strange people who blindly believe in the power of maps, that Art Bell is an authentic authority on everything, and that Area 51 is more than just folklore. . They are not to be trusted.

I am one of those people. At least when it comes to maps.

"The gifted" as we call ourselves, claim to have God-given, highly developed 'uber' map-reading skills. 'Navigators by Maps' know something that the rest of the world doesn't. Map-readers are smarter than the map. They are 'touched.'

Looking at a map, they channel its karma, sense the location of all the harmonic convergence zones, and thus enlightened, they know that the one service station in Hintontown WILL take Visa, because they don't take American Express. The 'touched' believe that they are born never needing a Triple A Membership, that they will never have cause to ask for directions or that they will ever get lost. These are the same people who should only leave their living room under satellite surveillance.

Dallas says I am a 'wanna-be' map-reader.

Not quite 'touched', but not quite free from the need of supervision, he says that I live in another world ruled as much by disaster as sanity. And, he will tell anyone who is willing to listen that as a result of my 'map reading' skills, I have taken us to places that, until I began to indulge in map reading, we didn't know existed. Places that, curiously enough, are even out of the eyesight of the most diligent satellite. Dallas testifies that he was perfectly content to stay ignorant of those places. But no, he chose for a partner one who is fascinated by the secrets held by maps.

I suppose that the titles of map reader and navigator hint at understatement. No, these tools actually reflect a person's true status and honor. Read: A person who gets lost much further from help. Anyone who cherishes the Rand McNally Atlas for Professional Drivers as if it was a divinely inspired search of all things quicker, should be the clue. Run from those who labor for hours looking for the shortest distance between two points, a route that, in hindsight, will have questionable benefit.

Monty Python searches for the Holy Grail and I look for some indication that the sign we just passed stating " Unimproved Highway, Travel at Own Risk, Next Services 223 miles" is only a recommendation." Usually by this time Dallas is simultaneously looking for a cigarette.

Born devoid of common sense. Map readers are the modern day shamans of the highways and these navigators hold the equivalent power of priests. Pity the person who 'masquerades' as either for they are faux guides without legitimacy unleashing horrible forces upon the blindly led.

Enter again Dallas, who through his union with yours truly, lives as a testament to the scientific legitimacy of the 'down winder' effect. Yet having only himself to blame for his predicament, he admits that the shortest distance between two points has been an educational journey that went much farther than map reading. And if he is in a talkative mood, he will smile and start telling his encyclopedia of tales recalling wrong turns, wrong highways and eighty feet of truck facing the wrong direction in a traffic circle, endlessly circling and effectively closing down the highway.

But first we have to start at the beginning. The history of map readers is a long and honorable and equally horrible. Beginning, I believe, with some thirties truck stop napkin. Penciled in markings. 'Turn at the big tree with the little tree fort in it, then make a right at the Y in the road…You know you've gone too far if you see the sign that says "Welcome to Nova Scotia."' And behold, the first maps for truckers were born. Originally primitive but entirely necessary in our lives, maps have their own history, especially among professional drivers. From paper napkins to newspaper sized, they’ve come a long way in a short amount of time.

Acknowledging that maps are impossible to fold, someone came up with a better take on the 'same ol' same ol' and designed a new atlas. This was not just any atlas, but a laminated, impossible to hold, bigger than a pizza-box, official trucker's atlas. This guide was supposed to be an improvement..

The old days of standard, folding, paper maps catching wind and getting plastered around a suddenly blinded driver's face would be history. No creases to fold and much more convenient, the trucker’s atlas would take the joy out of unintended 70 mph cow pasture exploration. "This new Atlas will solve everything", I imagine a foolish inventor must have thought, an inventor who was in dubious denial, with death wishes for travelers everywhere, no doubt.

The Trucker's Atlas, by design, rests conveniently across a lap. Usually the driver’s lap, and directly underneath the steering wheel. Preferably, with the vehicle in motion. Almost always upside down and on the wrong page. Usually the specific place sought on the map, which deserves further scrutiny, is completely shadowed by the dashboard. The trucker's atlas enables the driver's eyes to be completely removed from the road. There is no tedious highway to distract the driver's attention. No tired, shot to hell, target-practiced directional signs to be read. No routes to verify. No creases to unfold. Nothing but the truck, the oblivious driver, and oncoming traffic.

Pure poetry in motion, the professional atlas reader's eyes dart from green line to red lines as he repeatedly tries to find his place on the map while losing it and simultaneously leaving his place on the highway. It's all about systems organization. The flow chart of being lost, rapid eye movement (REM) and navigation define the transformation of driver into blur of man, signature 'large car', screaming passengers, and the quest to make every mile count. Conquering the horizon, challenging new frontiers, and charting interesting paths. Seeking great unseen vistas and ignorant of the bloodletting of innocent riders, he boldly goes where no Kenworth has gone before and where no tow truck can get to now.

A very talented driver needs no navigator! For HE has an Atlas and nothing can stop a man with an atlas.

Nothing I tell you! Except for reality.

Let me introduce some important concepts: Booksmart verses Roadsmart verses just plain Not Smart. All of them are vital to understanding what comes next.

These are not my original findings. 'Significant others' all across the world verified these indisputable facts centuries ago. IT is THE secret that will always insure that they, the significant other, have better insight than we, the navigator do. As they proudly whisper such truths to themselves while silently watching The Lifetime Network, Oprah, and Martha Stewart from their truck sleeper's den, they know we are lost. But they also know, as the scenery outside blurs at warp speed, its better not to remain quiet. Advice that is not sought will only just make the impending disorientation that much worse. As long as map-readers assume their infallibility, their partners will be assured they aren’t. Thus the significant other’s role, bailing them out of their self-created disasters, is cemented. But only when asked.

The map reader bestowed with gifts of knowledge does not want to hear, "Honey, are you sure this is the right way?" We have no time for "Dear, I don't want to do your job for you but that sign just said that this highway is closed". We can not be bothered with "Sweetheart, I don't think we are in Kansas anymore. Are you sure this isn't Utah?" We could save face and keep our pride. But the disturbing fact that the last sign we saw said El Paso and we were supposed to be on the road to Denver is way too painful to acknowledge. For we, the bold Navigators, the high priests of the highway, must find our own way. To challenge us is to call into question our authority. And once our authority is challenged we become stubborn, belligerent, and we are just as likely to drive all the way around the globe, rather than admit error and turn 80 feet of truck around.

For it is decreed by great forces, that we the sacred map-readers, are the only ones allowed to question our place in the world. Usually, somewhere in California. Near someplace called Weed. On a highway we don't recognize. With cows wandering around the hood.

We alone are allowed to ask, "How did we get here and how do we get back out of here?" But we won't. And our partners know this. Our significant others have learned that our pride and misguided reliance on maps is impossible to fight. Instead, they keep track. They keep score and they log these misadventures. They wait until we get back home and off the road. And then they get revenge.

They talk.

They talk to our neighbors. They talk to our relatives. They talk to our friends. They talk and talk and talk. And they won't shut up.

We respond by hightailing it to the Flying J. Shaken and scared we respond, with our “Next time if I just have a newer map this won’t happen. It was the map’s fault!” Armed with faux confidence in the only pursuit that we know, we get a newer, updated, official Rand McNally Truckers Atlas. We buy mapping software. We install GPS. We do all of these things because we know deep down in our hearts that Man's greatest fear is not Nuclear Holocaust. It is not balancing the checkbook. It is not even cleaning the toilets or shopping for sun dried tomato products.

IT IS ASKING FOR DIRECTIONS. .

The Atlas was supposed to be our salvation. The Atlas allows us to "ask" without technically "asking". Because, if asking for directions is our greatest fear, then acknowledging that we don't know where we are is our second.

We are weak. Admitting defeat is not something we are capable of. We cling to the hope that 'direction-less' journeys bring character to an entourage. People who have never been inspired by hundred mile detours have no understanding or patience for the beauty inherent in life's unplanned opportunities. They have never read The Road Less Traveled, much less actually traveled it while it was closed. At 70 mph.

They have never felt the freedom of one of those 'where the day takes you' epiphanies. They have never known the unity that a 20-mile walk for gas provides. All they can remember is that four hours later, when they finally got there, the gas station was closed. And chances are, didn’t take VISA or American Express.

We map readers can visualize World Peace. We can visualize Porsche. We can even visualize Viagra. But for some genetic reason we are not predisposed to visualize acting out, asking "How do I get to…?" or, most importantly, asking, "Where am I?"

Dallas is different. I’ve never seen him get lost. He is the ultimate man's man who somehow managed to get beyond this pride handicap. This fear of asking for directions. He evolved. He became a higher being. God gave him direction through visions. God showed Dallas the most direct, construction free route to the Promised Land. But, before he started to get too cocky from his insight and advanced evolution, God humbled him.

Don't forget who else has been on that truck. Suddenly in spite of his gifts, Dallas was right back were he started from. Lost.

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The day seemed full of promise as I awoke and prepared to jump behind the wheel of the big green Peterbilt 979 Conventional. Dallas and I were working for a produce company out of Spokane and we'd loaded the day before up in Kelowna, British Columbia, Canada. Although it was late spring, the Sierra Nevadas were still blanketed under a deep, blinding white snow. The mountains seemed suspended high above us and they sparkled blue and bold to the West and brown and dirty to the east. Those many shades of blue and brown pock marked by sage and the few struggling bull pines snaking their way down the sheltered foothills to the west. It was too much to take in as I squinted into the glare of so much light leaping across rugged beauty.

Parked at Sierra Sid's Truckstop in Reno, I struggled to wake up and crawled out of the bunk. Dallas had gone to bed earlier and joined me in slumber. Although we were ahead of schedule, it seemed important that we get started 'makin miles' before we got behind schedule. Looking one last time at his figure curled up on the sleeper bunk I watched his chest rise and fall. Lingering in one of those peaceful moments two people sometimes share without thinking. Those taken for granted times when the world seems right and the only struggles are the rise and fall of lungs as sweet air nourishes spirit, body, and soul. I watched his dreams touch his face and felt the warmth from his peaceful sleep then crawled through the diaphragm-separating sleeper from cab.

Climbing out of the tractor I checked the refer unit on the trailer noticing that it was still cold enough outside that the unit had not kicked on, cooling all 1,029 carton of Washington Delicious Red's that were stacked inside, on the floor. The next morning, when we arrived in Phoenix, the entire load would have to be "fingerprinted". This meant the grueling chore of unloading the truck, by hand, carton by carton. One more aspect of the sweatshop conditions most truckers endure. Drive all night, unload all day and the rest of it is filled in with breakdowns, choke and pukes, and layovers when the Freight Gods get stingy.

People sometimes ask, "…if that’s the way it is, well, then why do it? Why do you truck? Why put up with the long hours, the pay, the lousy respect, and the conditions?"

I never have an answer that satisfies them. Trucking in the northeast never seems worth it. Fighting corrupt cops, aggressive northeastern drivers and cities constructed 400 years before 53 foot trailers were even conceived, many drivers refuse those hauls. But here in the west, with that kind of 'big open, first thing in the morning' view, the ying and yang of trucking sometimes seems like an adequate trade off. Still, how can those ideals be communicated to someone who has never been there?

'First thing' views aren't quantitative. They are qualitative. And for some folks, trucking numbers just don't add up. They see regular job holiday pay, retirement pay, and weekends off and compare all of that to a dirty trucking job that is sometimes below minimum wage and it doesn't compute. They see their federally required overtime compensation, an average 40 hour workweek, and when they compare this to my own 90 hour work week, none of it compensated by overtime, they shake their heads with an added, “You’re crazy.”

Watching the mountains I did my own addition. Sighing at the hidden joke in my own thoughts, I realized I was trying to compare apples with oranges while hauling both. I struggled in my mind to explain my reasoning: Apples southbound and most likely oranges northbound and irony everywhere in between. Momentarily I got lost looking into the western horizon and pondered all that brightness while munching my breakfast: A couple of granola bars and a Diet Pepsi.

Once finished with my 'healthy' start, I grabbed my gloves and jumped down on all fours to the urine stench of the pavement. I did my first set of push-ups. As my nose drew closer and closer to the pavement, I thought of all the drivers who must have pissed there, and how disgusting it would be to lose my balance. The smell was rotten but it wasn't as bad as I knew it would be later in the summer. Five sets of 25. Up and Down. Up and down. By the third set, going up was far more challenging than going down, and I was reconsidering my motivation to continue. Oh yeah and thoughts of just plain dying were in there somewhere too.

I also considered all those apples needing to be relocated out of the trailer the next day and that within two and a-half-hours, we would be expected to moved all 48,000 lbs of that freight by hand. I groaned as I thought of the physical labor that lay ahead and I decided to stay with the here and now. Enjoying Nevada for today, I would think about the grocery warehouse later. Life is always about trade-offs: Push-ups done on the sweated and pissed-on, swollen surface of a flat-earth vs. cardiac arrest in my thirties.

Knowing that nothing reduces life to bare minimum choices faster than endorphin pumped workouts, I weighed the merits of choice. Would it be a horizontal heaving body on top of a black-topped, porta-potty that supports a hundred idling diesels, or being sore as hell if I didn't try to stay in shape? Trade-offs suck. This for that and uncertain value. None of it made much sense to me but as I stood up heaving from the exertion of the pushups, I looked at those mountains, the only word that I could find was breathtaking. The solution to my attitude problem was to just take it one day at a time and so far today wasn't too bad. Tomorrows unloading could wait.

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I have always thought of U. S. Route 395 as one of the prettiest highways I have traveled. Originating in San Diego, she runs north, up through the High Desert of the Western Mojave, and then makes a beeline for the eastern highlands of the Sierras. Most of the highway is a tale of lonely two-lane stretches where the traffic is sparse and people do a double take if strange travelers don't wave back. Up near Reno, the highway reclaims the arid lowlands and before she terminates on Canada's back doorstep, she will meander through the forgotten west. The highway dissects Albert Rim, The Blue Mountains, The Great American Outback, and some of the most beautiful ranches in the west. In all that wind driven sage and bull pine, folks have done some strange things to leave their mark.

Between Susanville and Alturas, people have tied their shoes to the branches of a lone stunted Cottonwood along side of the highway. Dangling and turning in the wind they are a testament to the fact that in spite of the deserted feel of the place, others have gone before and that humanity shares commonality. One idea spawns another and the shoes remain behind to demonstrate that more than one traveler thought that posting their shoes to a lonely tree alongside a sage splitting highway was an appropriate activity for that time and that place in their life. The Cottonwoods bear the fruit of the walking tools of strangers precariously balanced in the breeze's caress. They dangle there, buffeted by the subtle seasons that only quiet visitors to places like this can appreciate.

Yet as much as I love 395, she certainly has a terrible time making up her mind as to where she's going. Sometimes reminding me of older people, travelers have to allow enough time for a proper visit with her. Nothing can be rushed and the highway becomes like those wise elders that sometimes take a long time to make their point. They just have too many stories that need telling, to many gaps that must be addressed between point A and B.

Sometimes US 395 also resembles some of my southern friends who, in the course of their conversation, seem to touch so many subjects before the business at hand is discussed. Highway 395 restlessness is just as frustrating to the hurried. Her likeliness to take 45 miles to cover the territory that could have been covered in 10 is no exaggeration. Yet I have never regretted the time I have spent covering those distances.

South of Reno, 395 cuts west to Carson City. We were bound for Arizona via Las Vegas and as I studied the atlas, I realized that getting south at the right angle would be an adventure in goat roping. In order to avoid going all the way down to Carson before running east to intersect the road to Las Vegas, I looked for a shorter road. A route that might cut off some of the backtracking and possibly get me through some country I’d not seen before. As I quietly looked at the atlas, I noticed this innocent little red line. Maybe half an inch long, that red line lay nearly invisible across the page. Yet there it was and for some reason, it caught my attention.

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"TIIIIMMMMMmmmmmmmm You who! Over heeerrrreeee."

Timmy the Kid raised his head and looked around. So did the celestial being, named Common Sense that God assigned to ride with him.

"What was that?" Common Sense asked seeing trouble.

Timmy the Kid shrugged.

"It's just me…" came the adolescent sounding reply.

"Who is 'just me'?" Common Sense asked.

"Highway 341. You are looking right at me. I'm that little red line. Check it out dude! Look at me, see? I am one fine straight line. Right man? See how straight I am? Look at all the miles you'll save….especially over going all the way down to Carson City. Who wants to go all the way to Carson? Like, 'Yeah right. Kmart tour and stoplight city.' You're better than that Tim. I mean let's get real! How many Mobile Home Dealerships do you want to see in one day? Huh? I thought so….You're a Westerner, right? A real, Mr. Sit Tall in the Saddle, Mr. Wide Open Spaces, and I get my meat the old fashioned way, I shoot it, type of man. Oh c'mon Tim…look at me damn it….don't I look fun? Take me!….Please?"

Timmy the Kid looked at the Atlas closer. Common Sense stared over his shoulder shaking his head as the beginnings of fear began to tug at his heart.

Timmy looked at the little red line. It did seem shorter. And it did seem pretty straight. The road went through someplace called Virginia City. Intently studying the Atlas a little longer, he ignored the sound of the refer engine behind the cab as it kicked on and dust shot up from the parking lot.

"I don't know…." Timmy hesitated. "Dallas doesn't like it when I take short cuts. Bad things usually happen…I don't think I should risk it….ummm….I'd better stay on the roads I know…." Timmy the Kid stayed firmly planted on the "safety first!" side of things. But the red line noticed the trucker’s hesitancy. Part of Timmy obviously longed to be one of the Real Truckers. The red line caught that indecision and exploited Timmy's lack of judgment. Sensing an opening, Highway 341 kept his pitch targeted in overdrive. He drowned out Common Sense who was saying something about “forget that little pip squeak line, put the atlas away, and damn it, stay on the roads you know”.

Highway 341 would not be silenced. ""Why" you ask? Why take good ole highway 341 over the road to Carson you ask? Oh my man Tim, let it not be so…’why ask why’? Let us be explorers. Men with a mission simply because that is who we were created to be. You know you've never been this way before. Dude, it's like hey, you only live once, right? That’s all the "why" you need my man. You've never been to Virginia City and everyone knows that all the large car truckers that are worth their split rear ends have been to Virginia City. What's the matter, are you afraid of me?" asked the little red straight line. "Afraid you aren't a real trucker? That you can only stay on the divided highway, the big green lines? Huh? So what’ll it be? Are you just a wanna' be, pecker headed, chicken hauler or are you gonna see Virginia City today?"

"I don't know…," Timmy was melting but still not convinced.

"I promise it will be fine." The highway was sweet-talking him now, "C'mon, it will be fun. A trip you'll never forget!" That little highway was a persuasive one.

"Well hell, that settles it, I guess I am going to see Virginia City today!" said Timmy the Kid.

"Yes!" screamed highway 341.

"Noooooo!" was the raging panic that overtook Common Sense. As dread overwhelmed him, he looked up towards the heavens and wondered if God was watching. "I've got to get Dallas up. Before Timmy gets us all sideways! Damn trucker's atlas any ways."

Common Sense bolted towards the sleeper.

Back in the sleeper, Dallas stirred restlessly in his sleep. He turned. He tossed. He had no idea why.

But Common Sense refused to let him sleep. Desperately trying to wake Dallas up before it was too late, Common Sense whispered, "Dallas, wake up. You've got to wake up! Now! Dallas?...." Meanwhile as the truck began to roll, dark clouds started showing up out of nowhere. Highway 341 was strangely quiet and Timmy the Kid was whistling "On the road again" as he pulled out onto the highway to head south from Reno towards Carson and the shortcut.

The drive south, out of the Biggest Little City in the World, was certainly not breathtaking. Both sides of the highway comprised long strips of commerce with dead tumbleweeds blown up against the numerous barbed-wire fence lines. Mobile home lots and used car lots advertising the 'deal of the day' in faded green florescent populated the landscape. The brown hills rose up from the valley and as that green Peterbilt truck rolled south, causal observers noticed that it was being chased by a whole pack of angry black clouds.

While Timmy the Kid continued to whistle his favorites, a frantic Common Sense was doing everything he could to rouse Dallas before any of them passed the point of no return. Finally as the truck was making a left at the junction that separates highway 395 from 341, Common Sense managed to wake Dallas. Too late, the point of no return was already just another vanishing point in the mirrors.

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Unfortunately, as is the case with most 'Contract Help', the conditions under which Common Sense worked were hardly pleasant. The hours were inconsistent, he was always unsure what his role was and management often forgot he was there, and looking for some sort of 'direction'. Yet as Common Sense desperately performed his duties, he could sense all the 'direction' in the world wasn't going to change the way they were heading if he didn't do something fast. Aggressively shaking Dallas from his sleep, Common Sense cussed the day he'd accepted this latest post.

Both Dallas and Timmy the Kid were originally assigned one standard guardian angel each. Having been through several already, the latest pair to show up to their new post, arrived just as the previous angels were reassigned to a Hallmark Display-for a stress disorder.

The replacement angels defied stereotypes. In other words, they were 'different'. Timmy's angel, Travis, took steroids and he'd once served under Richard Nixon. Travis chewed Skoal tobacco and his wings were always getting lost at the dry cleaners. Heaven's first skinhead, Travis hung out in Mosh pits, piercing parlors and he was thinking about getting some sort of tribal branding that said "My Boss is a Jewish Carpenter". He was God's answer to Goth.

Dallas's Angel, Luke, was just back from a leave of absence after a most unfortunate incident with Princess Di. Reassigned to Dallas for sensitivity training, he was currently participating in a double blind trial study to judge the effectiveness of 'the patch' on angels. Understatement hardly described Luke. He was a 'one of a kind', Marlboro light smoking member of the Angels Pro Rodeo Association. Wearing a shirt that said "Real Cowboys Don't Line Dance", his wings were made out of cowhide, and they were adorned with sterling silver conches. Luke was the only angel God enlisted in the service that could not cover PETA gatherings.

Still, when Luke and Travis arrived on the scene, the result wasn't quite what God had in mind. Although these two non-traditional guardian angels were the elite of the elite, they were also famous for being lazy, getting into to trouble and thinking "outside the box". Despite of the fact that they took the dangerous assignments none of the other angels would touch, Luke and Travis were definitely not ordinary Sunday night special, made for TV, "Touched by an Angel" angels.

Both angels had a past. Luke once posed in a magazine called Playangel and Travis was once caught giving Mother Theresa a tour of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Travis arranged for the impromptu tour, given with a voodoo priestess as a guide and conducted without authorization, during the annual Angel’s Honor Diversity Month. Instead of ensuring her safe arrival at the United Nations, where she was supposed to be doing a speech on world famine, the mother of all mothers gave a nice talk to a bunch of Santeria practitioners under a full moon about stewardship.

Called into service only because God was desperate and there was no one else who would volunteer, Luke and Travis were not The Big Guy’s first choice. After numerous firings, close calls and a near endless list of either striking, falling, or soon to be "fallen" angels, God needed Special Forces to keep Timmy out of trouble. Travis and Luke were His only hope. And already after just a few weeks they were threatening to leave. During their brief assignment Luke and Travis had watched in despair as steering pumps went out, air conditioners failed and tire chains spun around axles. If they left, Dallas was thinking about joining them.

And so God finally had pity on Dallas. Figuring the possibility that just two guardian angels were not enough to protect the two drivers, He went to "Angels We Have Heard on High Temp Service" and enlisted a mercenary named Common Sense to specifically keep Timmy the Kid out of trouble. This would allow Dallas to get some sleep, Luke and Travis to get more flex time. Hiring Common Sense might prevent any further angel defections, and it might allow God some time to concentrate on Iran Contra.

For Common Sense, the deal he and God worked out was supposed to be a lucrative arrangement. Keep Timmy from hurting himself and Common Sense made out, well...uh…like a bandit. There were productivity bonuses, a condo time-share in Haiti…(not Hades) and endless opportunities for advancement. Of course Common Sense had never met Timmy before the assignment and by the end of the first week he was asking God about the possibility of contract renegotiations.

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The junction appeared as if it was a desert mirage and gearing the truck down to make the turn, I eased onto highway 341. The weight of the apples pushed the rig forward while the Jake-Brake rumbled. The road was a bit narrower than I had expected. After making the turn I started grabbing gears and the truck pulled hard against the weight of all those apples. The ten speed was a bit too efficient for the pull and I found myself wishing for a 'spitter' so that I could ease my way though the motions rather than having to lug the engine at the bottom of each gear. Soon the truck was back up to speed and the sage and prairie grasses were a blur of brown and tan. Across the valley, the Sierras remained to break sky from earth and California from Nevada. Dallas climbed forward from the sleeper and sat up in the shotgun seat. Squinting and rubbing his eyes, he asked a groggy, "Where are we?"

"Somewhere between Reno and Virginia City", I answered.

"Oh" was all he said in response.

"Need me to stop so you can piss?" I asked.

He shook his head no and continued to squint out the windshield, once again providing a testament to waking up is hard to do.

Things are slow to register when a driver first wakes up, and in the silence I wondered what he was doing up so early. He wasn't supposed to wake up for hours. He looked like he'd just gone to sleep. "You feeling O.K.?" I asked.

"Where did you say we were?" He looked towards me after several minutes of silence.

"Between Reno and Virginia City," I responded.

"Why?" he asked.

"Well on the map this road shows up as being shorter…." I tried to sound nonchalant but he interrupted me.

"Did you just say, Virginia City?" His eyes were still squinting and he kept looking over at me and then ahead nervously or anxiously or with some kind of anticipation. I couldn't decide which. Still, he wasn't awake enough to do anything fast. Yet even in the slow motion state of post wake up call, I could see that he was forcing himself to wake up as quickly as he could. Already his thermos was out and he was pouring coffee.

"Yep. Virginia City," I answered.

"Uummmmmmm", was all he said and looking over at him I was surprised to see this smirk on his face. It was almost evil.

"What?!?" I asked suspicious of his smirk. "What are you smiling about?"

He just looked at me and kept smirking, not saying a word.

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"What’s happening? I can't see! C'mon guys I want to see too." It was Travis trying to see over Luke who was trying to see over Common Sense's shoulders. "Look I've been a guardian angel longer than you have. So move it so that I can see."

"Oh man, he looks…well, no….He's .actually……Hey!", Common Sense exclaimed, "He's not mad. Dallas is actually kinda grinning…Damn!…That’s an evil grin…" he said in a shocked voice.

"He's what?" Both Travis and Luke looked at each other and asked at the same time.

"Dallas is actually smiling…or snickering…….hmmmmm that’s interesting……wait…"

"Damn it Common Sense, what is going on up there?" Travis was getting frustrated.

"I don't know…it looks like Dallas is actually laughing out loud!" Common Sense replied.

"He's laughing?" Travis asked incredulous.

Travis and Luke looked at each other again then pushed Common Sense out of the way so that they could see exactly what was going on up in the cab.

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Looking over at Dallas, he appeared calm. More like peaceful. Yet every once in awhile his face briefly lightened, giving himself away. Sometimes he’d lose composure, his face changing into a harder to suppress snicker. These expression changes were quick, almost impossible to catch…but… There! There it was again! Then he would catch himself and suppress the twitch. I was onto him now and I was sure. Sure that something was hilarious to him and that he was stifling whatever 'it' was from me. He was actually laughing. Dallas never laughed when he first woke up. But there he was, snickering.

"What?" I asked him nervously. "What is so funny?"

"Nothing." But he knew he was busted. Dallas looked out the passenger window to keep from cracking up.

"What do you mean "nothing". Something's up. Or you wouldn't be laughing. What is it? What is so funny?" I looked down at my fly but it was up. I pulled down the sun visor and looked in the mirror-Nothing out of place there. I looked back over at him. "What?" I pleaded.

"Nothing" but he was unable to get the words out of his mouth. He was laughing quite hard now.

After a few minutes he calmed down and then turning to me, Dallas asked with the straightest face he could muster, "You've never been to Virginia City before? Have you?" Then he lost it again, busting up all over the cab.

"No, I've never been to Virginia City before. I am glad you think that its so funny. What is so special about Virginia City?" But before I could get the question out, we rounded a corner and started pulling a very steep grade. I was dropping gears as fast as I could find them. Losing the last gear in high range, I dropped into the low side and still the momentum kept dropping. By the time she finally held, we were in second gear and the truck was laboring up that hill at 12mph.

_______________________________________________

Back in the sleeper Luke and Travis were in a panic. Common Sense was writing his letter of resignation.

"Ouuuuuhhhhhwweeeeyyyyy! The big guy upstairs is gonna be pissed when he hears about this!" Travis muttered with a mouth full of chew. Looking over at Common Sense he added, "And your productivity bonus looks like its history!"

Common Sense just shot him a look and went back to his letter.

"No Shit. Have you called Logistics and let them know that they need to send a whole bunch of reinforcements?" asked Luke.

"Nope can't get a hold of anyone up there," said Travis.

"You mean we have to handle this one on our own, no outside help?" asked Luke.

"Yep, looks that way," Travis responded dryly. The two angels starred at each other and then looked at Common Sense who had stopped writing his letter of resignation. A look of horror passed over his face. As the three of them faced each other in the sleeper, stunned, the enormity of what they were facing fell upon them. Timmy the Kid was headed directly towards Virginia City with a big green Peterbilt and 1029 cases of Washington Red Delicious Apples. Somebody had to warn the Sheriff.

__________________________________________________

The highway continued climbing round switchback after switchback. Soon traffic was backed up behind the lumbering rig and as the cars formed a long line snaking behind the truck, small rocks fell off the cliff on the toe side of the hill. Stunted juniper trees soon replaced the sage and the high desert air chilled. Each corner on the grade was tight. As a result, the truck was sometimes forced into the oncoming lane of traffic. Dallas silently watched the valley below drop away and soon the tops of the Sierras across the basin seemed to be about the only thing close to our height. All he could see over the guardrail was the blue sky ahead, and dark clouds behind. Both images reflecting and contrasting on an aluminum grill that caught sunlight and sparkled in the high desert air.

It seemed to be taking forever to make the top of the grade. While looking at Dallas, I checked the mirrors horrified at the traffic jam we'd created. "How much farther does this go? We should be about at the top, right?" I asked hesitantly.

Dallas only smiled and tapped his fingers on the dash.

"You've been here before! Right? I knew it." I looked over at him for reassurance. He looked at me with those blue eyes that could always read between all the lines. His red hair seemed particularly bright and as he smiled, I couldn't decide if that was the smile of an angel or one more likely one coming from the devil. He said nothing and just kept smiling as he downed his second cup of coffee.

I commented, "I guess the view is so beautiful you don't have much to say, huh?" Ignoring the statement he only shook his head and grinned.

"What are you doing up?" I asked seeing if he would say something, anything. Would he respond?

He didn't.

"So I guess you're just in too quiet of a mood to even be horny?" That would get him to say something and as I looked over at him, missing a gear in the process, he returned my look with a smile that covered his entire face and I knew it was the stupidest question I'd ever asked.

Finally he spoke. But only after taking a very long swig out of his coffee cup. "So we've been doing a little bit of unsupervised map reading again Tim? Spending some quality time looking through our trucker's atlas?"

I tried to appear innocent but he had me pegged. He was grinning, his "Gotcha!" look. That is until this look of concern crossed his face and I looked back ahead and suddenly I was concerned too.

All my attention was once again on the road and the sight I saw greeting me from around the next corner chilled any further thoughts of sex. The horrific sight jump-started my heart. My pulse racing, I confronted a four-letter word, but it had nothing to do with romance or sex. What I saw was white and passionless. It was on both sides of the highway. "It" was Snow.

I looked over at Dallas again to see if he was still smiling. I wished I hadn't.

_______________________________________________

Common Sense was pacing in the sleeper. "Are you sure? I mean really sure? It could have been, oh I don't know…..cotton?"

"No it's not cotton!" Luke said. "It's snow, and we aren't even close to the summit of the pass yet." He paused and took a long drag of his cigarette. "It's several feet deep on either side of the highway. It's getting cloudy outside as we speak. I don't like the looks of any of this. It already feels bad I tell you, I can sense it. We are heading into a blizzard!"

Luke paused, dropping some of the ashes from his cigarette in Common Sense's Diet Coke can. Travis grabbed the can and spit some chew into it. Tapping his tobacco can, he dug out another fresh dip, and pushed it under his bottom lip. Looking first at Luke, then down at Travis who was sitting on the bottom bunk of the sleeper, holding his head in his hands, Common Sense simply said, "You're both disgusting!" Angels don't smoke and they aren't supposed to chew either! Where did you two come from?"

No answers came forth from either one of the angels. Finally Travis raised his head from where it was resting on his palms. Watching with a detached look as Common Sense picked up the still half full Diet Coke, both Luke and Travis glared at the mercenary who was supposed to have made their lives easier.

"You were supposed to stop anymore of this kind of stuff from happening. God sent you to keep us from having to constantly get them out of these types of situations. How in the Hell did we end up on this highway? We aren't supposed to be on highway 341. We are supposed to be safely down there, in that nice valley, on our way to Vegas. They don't have snow in Vegas! Any trucker with any Common Sense wouldn't have taken this road, so I have to ask you, why are we here? Where is your common sense?" Luke was getting emotional and his 'real men don't line dance' T-shirt showed perspiration stains.

Common Sense could only shrug. He wondered if this was how Eve felt. Only this time it wasn't a red apple but a little red line. He could just picture a modern Eve screaming at them from the tree that held the book of knowledge. One that was simply entitled, Rand McNally's Professional Driver's Atlas. Surely Satan hadn't given up serpents? The devil wasn’t replacing the reptiles with out of the way state routes was he? Instead of numbering 666, was this highway purposely deceitful in its simple 341 notation? As Common Sense considered these thoughts he lifted the Diet Coke can to his lips and drank. As the tipped contents of the can mixed, cigarette ash, Diet Coke and spent chew migrated into his mouth. A hot burning sensation stung his tongue, filled his throat, and then torpedoed into his gut. It was like liquid smoke, hellfire and brimstone combined as one. But with less than one calorie. This was the worst moment of his afterlife. He staggered and tried to not do anything. He mustn't let them see his agony yet his lungs writhed and every part of his digestive system was in retreat. Common Sense gagged and choked and his whole being ached. He found himself wishing that death were an option available to end certain angel's careers. Common Sense also realized that he'd found the anti rapture.

Luke and Travis watched fascinated. Finally Travis just looked at Luke and whispered, "Damn…."

______________________________________________

The highway continued to climb and the amount of snow seemed to double with every turn. The highway now had patches of ice and hard pack and some of the corners were getting greasy. Turning on the heat to warm the cab, I was silent. Thankfully so was Dallas. As we got higher on the mountain, conditions got worse. First there were flurries and then a bit more snow began to fall out of the sky with ever increasing consistency. Each corner became more difficult. Some of the shaded areas of the highway were completely covered with snow while the more exposed areas seem to welcome ice. The truck lurched and lost traction then gained it again. I thought of throwing iron but I also thought, "Where?" We hugged the side of the mountain with traffic backed up for what seemed like miles behind us. If I did stop the truck, would I ever be able to get it going again. Dallas interrupted my thoughts.

"You know, if we have to chain up, you know who will be doing it alone, don't you?" he asked.

"Uh.. "I stuttered. "Would that be me?"

"Yep" was all he said. And then he grinned.

But I also knew that his threat wasn't serious. No matter what mess we were in, he was always willing to lend his hand. Even if it meant throwing iron…he with his dirty coveralls on….and a lit cigarette balanced on his lips while dragging a hundred pounds of chains behind him. Chaining a truck up is life stuck in a gear called misery. Wetness drips off the trailer and slides into your hair mixing with axle grease and road grime. Bent over the tires, wrestling all that metal, nothing ever fits the way its supposed to and traffic constantly seems to be playing cat and mouse with a driver's bent over, exposed butt. Spray and slush get splashed up and then ooze down a man's back, into his underwear. Introducing cold, and wet to places that aren't supposed to know the meaning of frostbite. Fingers don't work as well gloved and they work even worse frozen. Its all about fumbling to make connections, cussing, and then throwing things when after its all said and done the damn chains disengage and wrap themselves around the axles.

If we could avoid it, we didn't want to chain up the truck. Continuing up the grade, I engaged the power divider and it seemed to help. Four wheel drive for large cars, the power divider added traction to the second axle of the truck and the weight of the apples helped us to dig in and roll. We weren't spinning as much and the conditions of the highway grew more consistent. The snow wasn't as slick as we climbed into colder air and the powder that fell was fresh enough to give us bite on that hill. Yet every once in a while, traction would disappear and I would begin praying and puckering.

Finally, noticing that the grade decreased, straightened, and the road quit her love of all things switch backed, I relaxed. Looking over at Dallas who was silent and enjoying the view, I asked, “So is that it?”

The snow squalls lessened and patches of deep blue sky danced in the sun. Blue sky and gray sky mingled and light met gloom until the sky was completely recovered by the ghosted misty clouds. Those same low clouds that seemed to be comprised of two parts fog and one part gray. I didn't know the elevation, but based on the climb over the pass, I assumed we were a long ways up. Sky walking. According to the atlas we should almost be in Virginia City. Some friggin’ straight red line that had been.

Breathing a sigh of relief I tickled Dallas and said to him, "Now see that wasn't so bad. My map reading is sometimes helpful! We will still save a bunch of time and get to see some new county."

"Hmmm" was his only response.

But I wasn't going to push my luck. Dallas had enough dirt on me. There were too many 'other' occasions where things did not end with a smiley face and a scratch and sniff sticker. I left my words hanging hoping that partial silence was enough to acknowledge my failures.

Instead he chose to speak and the catalogue of all Tim's previous disasters was opened, examined, and compared. Reminding me of other adventures, he made it clear that the happy ending to this shortcut was a notable exception to the rule. Playfully teasing me, he laughed as he recalled the previous adventures. There was the shortcut through Austin, Nevada. Home to a nearly abandoned mining town that dangled on the side of a deserted arid mountain highway. The road switch backed over another pass that wasn't even on the map and on several of the tight turns it appeared that we might be able to see our own trailer doors still making their way around the corner behind and beneath us. That road, US 50, is designated the loneliest highway in America. I suspect that the steep, sage covered mountains near Austin remain among the quietest portions of that ‘loneliest’ highway.

Once Dallas finished with the first tale still other names rolled across his tongue.

He was treating me to a "This is your Life" saga of wrong turns. Prairie City, Oregon. White Bird Pass, Idaho. Volburg, Montana. And the worst of them, Rogers Pass, Montana.

We were running empty, back to Othello, Washington, deadheading out of Great Falls Montana on a wind-whipped, wicked February night. For all his years in trucking, Dallas has one fear and it is wind. Many years previous he'd rode the ride of his life in a truck that went over sideways. Ever since that accident, if the wind gets to whipping he puckers. That night as we were getting unloaded, I studied the map and decided that to stay out of the snow we would best head due west rather than chance the hills down Helena way. Highway 200 is good road, especially as those in Montana go. After much debate Dallas went with my hunch that considering the Chinooks blasting out of the Rockies, if we stayed north and east, we'd miss the icy mess to the south. In the shelter of the river valley where Great Falls huddles against the high plains we had no idea that above us the winds were roaring across the prairies with hurricane force.

The minute we got out of the valley protecting Great Falls from the elements that tease her and which sometimes whips the head waters of the Missouri river into a frenzy, we knew we were in for a ride. The wind gusts were nearing 80 mph and at times the empty trailer stood up on its side. All we could do was rocket ship ride for the mountains, across the plateaus, exposed and vulnerable. Hoping that the mountains held sweet shelter from the relentless warm-blooded winds, I stayed up and rode shotgun with Dallas giving him courage against the winds. As he drove, he comforted himself talking to that Freightliner and the empty trailer we led.

"C'mon baby, stay with me," he whispered to the truck against the roar of the wind that was hell bent on breaking the plains behind us. Pulling on the handbrake to settle her down when she got flighty, we were tossed around a bit but thankfully we were never in any real danger. Finally, we reached the shelter of the foothills and the home plate security of the Rockies.

The mountains provided shelter, carpeted in spruce and pine with happenstance moonlight dancing in the clouds. As I watched the silver moon summersault across those snow-less foothills, I drew sleepy and went back into the sleeper. Figuring I'd talked Dallas into the right choice, staying clear of the snow on the interstate to the south, I lay my head down on the pillow. Sometime later I became aware of a hard driving rain hitting the metal sleeper roof. The rain seemed to grow in intensity. The radio from the cab was silenced. The CB turned up. But no one was out there on that deserted mountain highway with us. All that I could hear was the whine of tires, the fierce rain and the sound of the Cat engine. It was then that I realized that the rain pounding on the truck was frozen and we were heading over a two-lane mountain pass that neither of us had ever been over before. There would be no sleep now. As we climbed the pass, it wasn't long before everything was coated in several inches of ice.

Our lack of weight meant that we lacked traction and soon the truck broke free and we were spinning. Dallas got out, chained up, and tried a second attempt at the hill. But, Roger's Pass was bigger than we were, and soon enough we were hopelessly spinning. Dallas set the brakes and the truck began to slide off the road. As I held on in the sleeper, I began to pray that we would live through the night.

"Tim! Help me! We’re sliding off the road!" He yelled back into the sleeper. Sitting up, now fully awake, I could feel the truck moving sideways and despite the terror and having no clue what I could do to help, I climbed forward and surveyed our precarious position. Dallas released the brakes and put steady pressure on the throttle but the truck only made a little headway. The trailer was already resting against the guardrail. A guardrail that served to protect us against falling off God only knows how big of a drop off.

Help is a very strange word. Sometimes it is assistance given in a time of need. Reassurance. Standing by a man's side. Other times it is merely the silent understanding of the pain of another. In our case, Dallas’ cry for help was never intended as anything other than simply facing the difficult truth that everything was out of control and that there was nothing that either one of us could do about it, save for facing it together, no matter what the outcome. We were taking on nature. And she seemed to be winning.

Fully chained and impossibly straddling the entire highway, if anyone came off the pass towards the stranded, motionless truck, there would be no way for the oncoming vehicle to avoid us. The ice that kept us from forward momentum also kept them from stopping their own descent. The highway was slick. As the emergency lights flashed the glare from them reflected back up at us from the highway. The road was impossible to walk across and climbing in and out of the truck was a haphazard affair. The rig was already layered in a blanket of frozen rain.

"Well maybe we should just try to back off," I suggested.

"I don't know Tim. I mean I'm really scared. That guardrail is keeping us on this mountain," Dallas answered.

"Well we've got to do something." I was just as scared as he was.

He released the brakes and with his nerves in overdrive and his foot shaking on the clutch, the truck began to roll backwards. Anything over a 15% angle between the tractor and the trailer was a sure recipe for a jacknife and both of us fixated on the mirrors watching the trailer’s position with the cab. The truck began to roll backwards. We slid a few inches away from the guardrail. Dallas tried to get the cab perfectly straight with the trailer. This maneuver seemed to take forever but finally we lined up straight again and we increased the distance separating us from the guardrail to a foot or so. The truck lurched backwards and eventually we rolled over the crown of the highway and back on our side of the yellow line.

Behind us, oncoming headlights snaked their light across guardrail. Finally the approaching truck rounded the bend behind us and lumbered up the grade dropping gears and proving that we were not entirely alone.

"You ok up there?" The stranger asked over the CB radio.

"Hey Westbound…We spun out. Watch it, we’re stuck. It's pretty greasy up here. Hope you got some weight on cause we're empty and dead in the water. Chained up too," Dallas warned.

"Gotcha!" came the man's voice over the radio.

The semi truck passed us and moved back into the appropriate lane and proceeded up the mountain. Shortly past the place where we originally spun out, he met the same fate. Watching the motionless truck ahead of us activate his emergency flashers, I imagined that there was all sorts of cussing going on in that cab.

Meanwhile we continued to slide our way back down the mile and a half of hill that we had traveled before losing traction. Finally, after what seemed like forever, we hit solid ground and rain. At the bottom of the pass we turned the rig around in the chain-up area. The truck was intact, without a scratch. We rolled back towards the plains and the wind. We would drop down to Helena on I-15 and fight the pass between there and Missoula. Hopefully the road was well sanded.

In the east, the sky lightened and turned soft and rose. The wind roared and the truck rocked but whatever fear the winds generated in Dallas this time were nothing in comparison to what we'd just endured through the early morning hours up on Rogers pass. We rode in silence together and as the wind shook the truck, small bits of ice broke free and scattered like so much crystal shrapnel. I grabbed Dallas hand where it rested on the gearshift knob and held it as we rolled into the dawn. Safe, at least for the moment from harms' way.

__________________________________________________

According to the signs, we were almost into Virginia City. There was snow everywhere and it felt like we were on top of the world. Every time we hit patches of sun, the brightness of all that white was blinding. Listening while I drove, Dallas continued his recollection, telling stories of map reading, and direction less adventure. Filling the cab with retrospect in hindsight his recollections seemed golden and worthy of all the trouble. Yet, I knew that at the time each tale was "live-film at eleven" in progress, the stories were hardly treasured. He suddenly paused in his speech. I glanced at him and noticed that he wasn't laughing anymore. His face was rigid. He looked like he was almost in shock. Or, was it fear?

Ahead of us Virginia City appeared surrounded by snow covered sage. The small town, set on top of an arid summit, seemed quaint and was doing its best to remain lost in the 1800's. A stereotypical, "old west" town equipped with a main-street, boardwalks and saloons. Now, Virginia City could pass as a legitimate tourist trap. Tour buses parked everywhere and the gamblers from Reno and Tahoe, taking a break from their previous midnight's dance with the slot machines, took their time strolling down the boardwalk to look at faux old west this and real life outlaw that. The town was ruggedly festive and still had Christmas lights strung back and forth across main-street. Most of the strollers on the boardwalk were Asian tourists who came equipped with video cameras. They delighted in posing in the freshly fallen snow.

Approaching the city, I realized why Dallas was so shocked. The freshly fallen snow raised the street elevation. The powdered drifts created large barriers that were difficult to navigate. But, worst of all, the snow blanketed everything, weighing it down. Trees. Power lines. The Christmas lights suspended back and forth across the same main-street we were idling down.

Studying those lights closely, calculations raged through my mind. The Christmas lights hung very low. Each strand covered in a layer of thick white snow. I began to estimate. The trailer was 13' 6" tall…and the lights seemed to be…uh...much, much, lower. I groaned as we did the Peterbilt Limbo and drove under the first set of lights. They cleared the hood. They cleared the cab. They did not clear the raised roof sleeper.

_______________________________________________

Common Sense regained his composure. Looking at Travis and Luke once he was able to

speak again, "Thanks guys, appreciated that" was all he could say.

They both shrugged sheepishly and then the three of them started discussing what lay ahead. The truck was surrounded by a major snow squall, they were convinced that there was a jacknife in the future with their name on it, and none of them had any control over anything. "What are you going to do about Tim?" Luke asked Travis.

"I don't know….I'm still working on it," Travis answered.

"What about you, what's your plan for dealing with Tim?" Luke asked Common Sense.

"What about me? Why is this always about me? Fixing whatever is wrong….Why is it always Timmy! Timmy! Timmy! Why isn't it ever Dallas that is getting into trouble? Huh? But no….Timmy this and Timmy that…and look at Travis…just look at him! He did a better job keeping Nixon out of trouble! And we all know the ending of that story!"

"Hey wait just a second…" Travis protested the insinuation.

"No you wait just a second….I haven't liked you ever since that one Daytona 500. I mean your actions in that race border on interference. First Nixon and then helping Jeff Gordon out like that…." Common Sense paused.

"What are you talking about?" Travis was angry. "I didn't do anything unethical at all. Jeff is very talented. Just because you feel sorry for losers like the Petty boys don't you even think about…" Travis was interrupted by Luke.

"Hey, hey, hey! Guys! Come on! We are supposed to be angels on a mission of mercy, not sun baked, trailer trashed, Georgia cracker heads, " Luke interjected. "Leave the NASCAR feuding back up at the pearly gates."

Both Travis and Common Sense turned to face Luke. Travis spoke first. "Listen here Mr. Better than the rest of us…Don't even start. We all know how many times you personally have jumped into the PRCA bull riding arenas to give Tuff Hedderman another chance at not being paralyzed, wrecked, stomped or made permanently sterile. His records have more to do with YOUR wanting to be a National Rodeo Finalist than they do about anything else. We all know what you did at Cheyenne and in Vegas. So how about them ethics?

"Yeah and if it wasn't for your stunt in Calgary….Tuff would not have even made the finals that one year!" Common Sense added for emphasis.

"How did you know about that?" Luke asked, looking at them both.

"Oh come on, how dumb do you think we are? And we both saw you line dancing at the Stampede with the Dixie Chicks so explain that stupid t-shirt. "Real cowboys don't line dance!" Whatever! Travis was still pissed.

"It was a gift and…." Luke never finished his sentence. The truck was shaking and Tim was trying to find the right gear or something. There was a horrific dragging sound across the roof of the sleeper and then a snap. Then it happened again. The angels stood looking at the sleeper roof in silence until in one moment of spontaneous combustion they were once again jostling for position to see what was happening. Standing there, staring out of the sleeper, through the cab and down a snow covered Virginia City Main Street.

"Holy shit!" was the only thing that came from the lips of Travis as he looked out the window horrified.

_____________________________________________

Dallas and I both ducked. Participating in a community reflex action as the strands scraped across the roof. Finger nails on chalkboards and "Honey we have a problem" are sounds that neither of us like to hear. As Dallas and I both dived into the mirrors to see where the strands eventually landed, silence overtook the cab. I looked over at Dallas quickly as he looked at me. All I saw was complete shock on his face with a small amount of horror. I wondered if it could get any worse.

Never ever think, write, or ask this sentiment. To do so is akin to tripping fate and then dragging him through the mud and expecting only a hug in return. If it can't get any worse, believe me, it usually won’t. But if things can deteriorate further, its best not to alert any lurking evil of the possibilities. Because trust me, this is one prayer that is always answered. Usually immediately.

Once the words “Surely it can’t get any worse” are muttered, terrible forces are unleashed that defy description and sometimes comprehension. Evil Gods get time and a half devising ways that "Yes, actually ‘IT’ can get worse." I tried not to think the black magic phrase. I willed it out of my mind. I thought about positive things: Summertime, iced tea, staying on the roads I know and never ever looking at a map again. Again, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound on the roof.

The dangled, mangled lights settled somewhere between the horns and the stacks. Shaken lose, freed snow from the strand cascaded over the visor and down in front of the windshield. Dallas grimaced and then there came another sound. A painful, screeching sound. The unmistakable scream of a tortured Christmas light strand as it was stretched tighter. As the strand slid over sleeper roof and then dropped between cab and trailer, additional sounds could be heard. Many additional sounds.

I heard hundreds of little breaking glasses, a few pops and then a giant snap as the strand stretched so taught that it finally disintegrated. The only sound in our truck was silence. Pained silence. A stillness that defies description. Dallas began tapping his fingers on the dash again. I decided that now was not a good time to acknowledge him. There were several other issues of more pressing concern. As I counted, at least twenty strings of lights lay drooping across that street. Not including the remains of one that was now suspended over the cat walk on the tractor and dragging down each side of the truck like a motorboat wake.

_________________________________________________________

Travis just shook his head and muttered, "This isn't good. None of this is." He looked at Luke. "We've got to do something!"

"What's this ‘We’ shit? Looks to me like my boy Dallas is perfectly fine. Its your boy that’s in a heap a' trouble. Wonder how much those lights cost? Per strand?" Luke wasn't being very helpful.

"You know they have insurance for this kind of stuff. Its really not a big deal…"Common Sense, overwhelmed with the street cleaning exercise at hand tried to sound calm. The truck was nearing the next set of lights. Luke and Travis were quiet and everyone watched in dread as the truck approached the strand. Common Sense never finished his thoughts. As the next strand missed the cab by inches, they all looked above them at the sleeper-ceiling roof in hushed agony, waiting.

They waited as if they were in a World War Two submarine movie. Minus the sonar beeps. Less the red glow from overhead 'high alert' lights. They waited for the sound of glass and metal and last season's ho ho ho to come raining down on the truck. Several seconds passed. There was nothing. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. The strand missed the cab, cleared the exhaust stacks and avoided the raised sleeper.

Instead, the lights wrapped themselves around the front of the trailer. The sound of breaking crystal was immediately followed by a high-pitched wailing, then another snap. Two sets of Christmas tree light strands now draped over the catwalk and trailing the Peterbilt through the snow on both sides of the truck. Luke looked at Common Sense and Travis shaking his head in disgust. "It’s a good thing we have a strong union or we'd all be looking for work."

The other two angels stared at the unfolding mayhem unable to say a word.

__________________________________________________________

Once the second string was emancipated from its place over the street, Dallas looked at me and said in a controlled, calm voice, "Tim, I just want you to drive. Don't stop. Don't back up. Just drive." It was the voice of a man, who through no fault of his own, was sitting in the lone unit of a twisted parade entry. Call it the Virginia City Mardi Gras Christmas Truck anti-float. Parading through a nightmare not even the Grinch Who Stole Christmas could have devised better.

As I idled though the town's main drag, the tourists turned their attention towards the truck. Aimed Japanese camcorders caught each minute of 'Its Not a Wonderful Life' in all it gory, slow-torture-motion detail. I could only imagine Dallas' disgusted face, hopelessly and innocently trapped in the shotgun seat window, replayed over and over again worldwide on VCR's. This victim of love, once again placed in an embarrassing predicament, chaos etched in his expressions. Dallas would be the hit of the Nevada vacation party pictures shown at the Elks club. A portrait of a man who knew better but who, in spite of the best instincts, found that fate destined him to ride with me in a green Peterbilt dismantling a town's holiday spirit.

I could do nothing but drive. Traffic was still stacked up behind the truck as far as I could see. Occasionally a bulb would come lose from where ever it perched above us, whether in the air horns or the clearance lights. These lights would roll off the roof, drop onto the hood and either shatter or continue to roll off the truck. Our eyes followed these bulbs as if, their trail might lead to our own exit from this situation. While we held our breath, the bulbs made their date with destiny. Breaking with a "ping", they dropped out of sight.

By this time, the truck's decorations included light strands on the roof and several more dragging from the catwalk. It wasn't a pretty sight as the truck cleared the other end of town with a whole gawking mass of tourists starring quietly after us. I imagined them wondering about those two spontaneous trucker outlaws riding off into some bad boy Christmas holocaust. As I drove, a short-lived solemn mood overwhelmed me and filled the cab. I thought about burning the atlas. Leaving the country. I considered my future. Timmy the kid was now an outlaw. Hunted by the law. Hunted by fate. And most likely, after this, hunted by the Virginia City City Council and Chamber of Commerce. And through no fault of his own, Dallas was now an accomplice. A wanted man. I couldn't help it but I began to giggle.

It was a little snicker at first. The kind a person has when things are so awful that it’s the only choice left. I tried to suppress my laughter but I was unsuccessful. I felt as if I was once again a teenager, back in church trying to keep from laughing. Like the day of my kid sister's virgin communion. Unaccustomed to wine, much less the bitter communion wine Lutherans use, her tongue was unprepared for the holy liquid’s initial assault. Spitting her first shot of communion wine back into the communal cup after tasting it, she whispered "this is gross!" much to the disgusted gaze of the usher and shock of my mother. The usher responded like any good Lutheran would, pretending not to see what she'd done, and passed the newly enriched communal cup onto the next parishioner. The horrified parishioner, still gummy with the taste of the partially dissolved communion wafer debated. Pass on the blood of Jesus given for them or take a sip of the wine, complete with my sister’s contribution to the recipe. These are the sorts of decisions Lutherans agonize over, because we believe that the road to hell can begin simply through the smallest of oversight. One rejected sip of communion wine can unleash a whole series of unplanned events.

From a kid’s perspective, the eternal consequences of the moment often don’t register. Times like these can not go unacknowledged. Laughter is truly the best medicine. Even if it meant a few jabs in the ribs from the mother figure on the way off the altar.

Today was no different. Soon I was in hysterics. I struggled to keep the truck on the road. Catching Dallas out of the corner of my eye, I watched as at first he just stared at me. But then, he too started laughing. It was a dreadfully embarrassing predicament. The reputation of the company we were driving for would not be forgotten soon. We should have felt awful. And we did.

But, the Virginia City Festival of Lights parade tour was unavoidable. Once the turn onto that little red line, highway 341 was made, fate was off and running.

Eventually we found a pull off, and Dallas and I untangled the lights that were wrapped about the roof, caught up in the CB antennas and interwoven in the catwalk. After stuffing everything into a garbage can at the side of the road, we climbed back into the truck. "Before you start the truck, "Dallas interrupted, "I want you to tell me what you've learned after all of this."

I looked at him. Pausing I thought before I responded, "That the shortcut just cost us two hours?"

He groaned.

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Common Sense was sitting on the bottom bunk of the sleeper with his head in his hands. "Is it over yet? Just tell me it's over. That's all I want to hear."

Travis sat down next to him and sighed. "Yeah boss it's over all right. I reckon we got nearly half the lights in that town. Tim and Dallas just finished untangling that mess. You can relax though. Dallas is driving and he hid the atlas. All in all, damage wasn't too bad. It could have been worse. We could have taken out all the lights."

"Don't forget the Welcome to Virginia City Banner," Luke interjected.

Common Sense only moaned.

Travis spoke again. "So you want to hear the good news first or the bad news? Lets go with the bad….Turns out the Crisis management team has been activated. They are sending a reporter down from the Messiah Times and another one up from Hades Post Dispatch. There is also some new guy on his way over here from Loss Prevention. They are charging us with a "Preventable Mishap". It's not as big a deal as when all those angels defected but it is being rated as a class ten offense. Our job classification will be modified and from this point forward, we will be working as team in conflict management failure investigations. All of us have been assigned to Tim on a permanent basis. They figure Dallas can get by with one angel but Tim needs three full timers. You know what they say, 'threes a charm!"

Common Sense stared at Travis incredulously. Luke began banging his head against the sleeper wall.

"So what's the new guy's name that’s been assigned to Dallas?" Luke asked.

"Timothy" was all Travis said.

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It's been many years since I have been through Virginia City. Through all the miles that Dallas and I have traveled since that day, I have avoided taking any further short cuts. The Virginia City load of apples did arrive safely and on time in Phoenix and I got my exercise unloading them. Apples and pallets and forklifts scurrying about reflecting a tedious rhythm but it was a rhythm that was much easier on the blood pressure than our previous days excursion through out of the way places like Virginia City.

Maps and atlas's and asking for directions are all lessons that come with time. Sometimes, while driving in the middle of the night, I think back on some of those "longest distance between two points" journeys where no amount of atlas reading could have foreseen the adventures that lay waiting down those lonesome roads. Those memories have sustained me through the last school year. And some of them have troubled me.

Unfortunately some turns, once made, and some trips, once taken, aren't without their share of pain and heartache. Things get sideways. They get messy and we have to clean them up as best we can. On some travels, once begun, we are not offered the luxury of getting to start them over again mid-stream. Rather, we have to ride these wrong turns out. Hopefully not beating ourselves' up too badly in the process. We only have one choice and that is we can only cope and pray. Hoping that we live through the adventure getting a second chance at the same route again some other day.

Maybe in the future, if the same junction presents itself, the next time we travel that same road we’ve listened up, paid attention and demonstrated that we actually learned something the first time through the gate. People with good and noble intentions sometimes still get lost. This truth testifies to such in mile after mile of black top, distinguished on paper as red and green lines. Some routes are safer than others. But all of them, in the end, are unknown as to where they eventually end up.

Dallas and I have not run team in quite some time and in those quiet nights when I am rolling across eastern Washington under a full moon hauling airfreight, I look back into my mirrors and remember those adventures. Sometimes the navigating worked out, other times the trips had painful lessons. Many times, I wished that I ‘d consulted Dallas before listening to the atlas.

Yet, each highway has its special place in those thoughts. Longings and 'if onlys' are only half the story. The other half lies in what action is taken to clean up the mess and get back on track. Being lost is only half the equation. Asking for directions and getting 'found' is the other half. It is also the hardest to do. These truly are the real road-less areas and fumbling for the right way and the proper direction is never easy nor is it set in stone. The only thing we have to guide us is patience, forgiveness and hopefully a few second chances thrown in for good measure.

Postlude

In early June 99, I ran a load of airfreight to Kalispell, Montana. The route encompassed beautiful blue mountaintops, purple Lupines, high country thunderstorms and endless late spring turmoil dancing across unsettled skies. Though the trip was rushed and the freight was 'hot'-needing to have been there yesterday, I was grateful for the opportunity to roll across those mostly familiar miles. This time, I left the atlas at home.

Setting off on my journey I was melancholy and grieving. I was stunned by horrible news. A childhood friend was found murdered. Stalked and killed by her husband in a Salem, Oregon parking garage, ghosted memories ticked off the mile markers. While fueling in Spokane, I also learned that another trucker friend was killed in a head on truck accident in Oroville, Washington. The motion of the highway brought soothing relief and healing, especially as I crossed the wide open valleys of Plains, Lone Pine and Hot Springs, Montana.

This was Big Sky country where the choices seem endless and the world's always big enough to accommodate any difficulty. I let the miles and the humming of the tires against the hot asphalt ease my grief. The journey gave me the time to devote some good thoughts towards my friend's memory.

Delivering the freight the next day in Kalispell without difficulty, I turned the truck back towards Seattle. About an hour out of Kalispell I passed our old truck. That green Peterbilt. The one that Dallas and I had logged so many miles in. She was older and worse for wear and I wondered how she was running. Hundreds of memories encompassing all the time spent in that truck came roaring back out of the past as if they were loosened by the gales being whipped up by the thunderstorms rolling across the valley that day. I remembered much in the moments after I passed that old Pete. I must have thought back on Virginia city and those damn Christmas lights a little too long because the good Lord decided to test me.

Stopping in Lone Pine to eat, I overheard one of the cowboys mention a new road. A "shortcut" to Spokane. I listened closer as he described a highway that went over something called Thompson Pass. "Pretty good road" I thought I heard him say. I glanced over at the map he was holding and watched as his finger pointed to a little red line.

I paid for my meal and asked the pretty cowgirl cashier about the highway. Informing me with a smile, "Hon you just take a right at Plains and a left after Thompson Falls. I'm sure you’ll find it. That roads the only left you can make for miles". She didn't indicate any concern over the road and I wanted to see something new. The road was most likely shorter, and I hoped it would cut some time off the trip. Deciding to go with the cowboy's "pretty good road" recommendation over traveling the same ole, same ole route, I looked forward to some new vistas.

After running through Thompson falls, I somehow never saw the turnoff. Quickly becoming concerned, I stopped at a logging yard. Asking for directions, a man on a loader pointed me towards the junction and told me that I was heading in the right direction. Again he said nothing that would create doubt about the highway's merits and as I drove the truck up the beginnings of Thompson Pass, it occurred to me that this was the way Montana used to be. Unspoiled and with no traffic. Fifteen miles later I still hadn't seen any traffic.

The road became narrower. The corners got tighter. I slowed down and although I was empty, the hills and the corners hijacked the truck's momentum. Still, I’d not seen any oncoming traffic and as the highway continued its ascent I noticed snow was on either side of the road. The snow got deeper as I climbed.

Overhead the royal blue sky shown and bald eagles rode thermal air currents. Tall spruce. pine, and fir lined each side of the highway and I saw both deer and elk in far off high country meadows. The highway got steeper and I began to wonder about the elevation of the pass and why I’d never heard about this highway. Finally, I saw a sign that noted that I was nearing the summit. Then, I saw another sign that I had to read twice because I couldn't believe what I'd read the first time. It simply said, 'Hazardous Road. Mountain Pass. 9%, 9 mile Downgrade Ahead.

Pulling off the highway, I parked at a summit viewpoint and walked to the edge of the parking area. Surveying the incredible view, I guessed that I could see for close to a hundred miles. Mountains and valley and lakes shimmered in the June sun. Walking across the parking area, I'd entered Idaho. Arriving at the Western edge of the viewpoint I looked down.

The drop off caught my breath and I stepped back. The cliff dropped sheer and straight off of the parking area. Looking below I followed the road as it snaked its way all across the mountain on its descent towards the valley floor. Eventually the highway would find its way to Wallace, Idaho and then Spokane, Washington. Tracing the highway's path through the trees, I realized I was looking at nearly twenty miles of road. Most of which seemed to be heading straight down just as fast as gravity would let it go. Thank God I was empty. I was grateful I wasn't attempting this with 80,000 lbs. or worse, 105,500 lbs. gross weight.

Raising my head, I again studied the near endless mountain filled horizon. Looking over the spectacular view, all I could think was "Oh my God. Dallas would love this view".

And that he would kill me for taking this road.

Savoring the view for another minute, I got back into the truck, and began making my way off that hill. Slowly I navigated those 25 m.p.h. corners and trying not to smoke the brakes, I relied on the Jake Brake as much as possible to keep my speed in check. While the noise echoed off the mountainside, her canyon walls threatened to swallow the truck whole. Soon the highway passed some old mine tailings and lush deer grazed meadows. Eventually a white water creek played leapfrog and tag with the steeply descending grade. Finally the highway leveled off and I made it to the bottom in one piece. Congratulating myself, I stopped and looked back at the mountain pass I'd just tackled and the last visible piece of Montana.

I missed Dallas and wished that I could have shared this day with him. But also I understood the demands of owning Little Red Ride 'em Good and that for at least right now the miles that we were running would have to be on separate trucks. I heard the wind through the trees and the loneliness of all that silence. I stayed quiet for awhile and listened to the rapids in the creek and the calls of the eagles. I thought about all the similar trips I'd taken over the years and about the possibilities that lay ahead in the unfolding summer.

What I didn't hear was the carrying on that was going on inside my idling truck.

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Travis, Luke and Common Sense were high-fiving each other. "He made it!" They screamed. "We are all in one piece. No tow truck, no failing brakes, and no avalanches!" The angels interjected.

And somewhere in Oklahoma where Dallas was taking a nap, under a hot humid sun, his guardian angel Timothy bent down and whispered into his ear, "Hey Dallas. Tim just wanted me to reassure you that while you were sleeping he did a little red line exploring. He saw some great sights. But most of all, this time nothing went wrong. He's ok. He blew you a kiss from the top of Thompson Pass. He loves you. Oh yeah, and he wanted you to know that sometimes even little red lines can steer you right."