The professor, looking down at me over the rim of her wire framed glasses, said simply, "Define trucking." In an instant, a near half-life flashed through my mind. Past numbered highways, the miles traveled, and the places I've been. Scenes falling domino-like into an endless stream of motion. Blending together some sort haphazard tapestry that, after nearly sixteen years of grabbing gears and throwing freight, appeared hard to untangle. Scattered memories. Fragmented conversations. Bits and pieces of life, all meshing into some sort of blur that only occasionally spits back into the here and now. Images reappear. Out of order. Random.

She is still standing there, waiting for an answer. And unknown to her, surrounded by all those spinning images. Some of my scrambled thoughts are unsettling while others fall quickly into place next to the longing that accompanies the faces hosted by the mileposts; faces that have gone silently missing. Everything in my mind revolves around a search for placement, progression, and history. A feeble attempt to "just answer the question."

Where does this memory fit? Now, when was it that I last passed that way? Chaos becomes concrete and history finds form amongst the fog of too many miles run without looking back. That this woman remains, believing that all this should fall into defined order, is what seems strange. "Define trucking?" She wouldn't ask if she were really paying attention. Trucking means endless change, too many good byes and too few hellos. The job, the life, and the miles do not bear any resemblance to dictionary definitions.

She is leaning on the podium, a small smile spreading across her face. Waiting. Waiting for a simple definition that will encompass complexity.

Looking at her I say, "I can't. It’s not that easy."

"You can't?"

I nod silently while my mind scrabbles to find a suitable explanation. But no answer comes. Trucking isn't that simple. It isn't just a job. You can't "define" it. "It" is a lifestyle. A culture. A place. A community. Yet, none of it is stationary. Especially, the endless images jackknifing in my mind. Jeff, friend and fellow driver, describes trucking as, "A drive-by life."

The predicament facing me is one of my own doing: I had agreed to write a paper on the topic: "Defining and separating trucker languages." Because of a class on ethnography, and through the study of other languages, communication styles, and culture, I realized that I spoke and understood a language that most of my classmates did not: CB. It is a language universally understood, if not always practiced, by my long haul trucking friends.

Furthermore, this language goes beyond the jargon and insider shorthand common to many industries. It influences the trucker culture, reflects its values, and even carries with it dialects spoken differently in different parts of the country. This "language" is also unique in that it developed on its own, through an electronic medium, the CB radio. Were it not for CB, it’s doubtful the language would have been born. And for the most part, it’s a language spoken to its fullest expression only over the airwaves. Even when using the same terms, most truckers do not use CB’s rich speech inflections in live, one on one conversation. My professor is convinced that it is impossible to define the vocabulary of this unique language without first defining the profession from which it emerged.

I swallow, debating my next move. "My father warned me about it many years ago. He said, ‘Don't do it, Tim. Trucking will get in your blood. You'll never be able to do anything else.’" I look at my professor, a learned somebody with all the required letters after her name, and then continue. "How do you define something like that?"

The professor is silent for a minute, then shrugs. Gazing down at me for another moment, she finally says, "I'd like you to talk to me after class. If you want to do this you will have to focus. I will help you."

"Focus" quickly becomes daydream, and soon her words are a soft blur in the background while I try to think about "defining trucking." Definitions limit perspective, becoming a process of circling the wagons around a particular idea until everyone is in agreement as to the meaning. Trucking would never be that simple. Too many wagons, driven by too many drivers, on too many different journeys. I could give a simple definition. "Man gets behind wheel of a semi truck, drives from point A to point B." But that isn’t what she’s looking for.

Such a category was never an acceptable description for what I was looking for either. I was looking for perfect moments spent on perfect highways that could never be described textbook style. I was looking at an illusive destination that was always changing. Several times I thought I'd arrived on time, cargo secured, only to realize I'd made a wrong turn. I was in the wrong place.

Lives like that can't be defined. All that unmet longing, the stirred up memories, the rhythm of tires and Jake brakes. Seasons drifting into seasons in a blur of state lines. Getting somewhere, but never arriving. Departure guaranteed. Destination unknown. Definition undefined.

Later that day, I arrive at her office "to focus". Still lost. Still thinking about lives that defied boundaries, lives that had to be felt to be understood, and experiences that had to be lived before they could be communicated and learned.

She looks up from her book, putting it down on a stack of papers. "Sit down, Tim. I’ve been waiting for you." She sighs as she watches me sit down. "By the time this is over, you will hate me before you love me. But Tim, you will survive this."

Swallowing hard, I prepare for the worst. She doesn't understand. I don't either. All I know is that I desperately want to be back on the road, re-living my former life. All of this "education" has to be some joke. Going back to school seems a mistaken identity that wasn't and couldn't be me. Nothing on campus seems to be within spitting distance of my reality. Instead, higher education was all about dedicated movement toward some far off, yet specific destination. Trucking, and therefore my life, had always been more about the journey than where I ended up. My destination has always been unknown in spite of everyone's question, "What are you going to do when you are through with school?" I like my life undefined that way. Savoring the traveling and regretting arrival.

Facing her, I try to explain my feelings. "You don't understand. I don't speak the language here. I don't fit in. I shouldn't have come back. I don't want to be what all these people want to be. Career this, career that. A never-ending competition to be the best Christian CEO, the brightest religion major or the most creative home economics major. Every move here is judged as if your life depended on it. One wrong turn and you're screwed. Everyone trying to fit into a cookie cutter mold, first for their profs, then later for a boss. And hopefully while they are here, they will also find a nice Christian soul mate. One who is well off, but who also has a "heart for the Lord." I came back because I just wanted to become a better writer. I never thought I would be anything but a truck driver. But here, trucking isn't considered worthwhile. Nothing to be proud of. Yet, it is everything I ever wanted to be."

Her face remained unmoved. I realized I had just contributed to my own academic melt down. She was silent for a minute. Then she got up, straightened her skirt, and closed the door to her office.

"Good job," I thought. "You have just aced your ticket to academic probation. Nicely done. Kiss the A goodbye and prepare to meet your dean."

As she sat back down, I realized what a small woman she was. She with her professional wardrobe, wire frame glasses and somewhat haphazard hair. Studying me she took forever to speak. When she finally did, I found it impossible to hold eye contact. I had made a royal ass out of myself.

"I often don't feel like I fit in here either, Tim." She looked severe and sad at the same time. Slowly pushing her glasses up on her nose, she again looked directly at me. Through me.

Angry at myself for being so vulnerable, I was equally pissed at her for pushing me up against an academic wall, thinking she could make everything in my world fit neatly into a nice box. A thesis paper. A dissertation.

She continued, "I am from a blue collar family too, Tim. I know what it’s like to be poor and not talk right and I could just go on and on. Believe me, you are supposed to be here. Are you single, Tim?"

I shook my head yes. I was still with Dallas, but in her eyes, that wouldn't count. No need to "go there" on top of everything else I'd already blurted out.

She smiled gently. "I'll tell you what you need. You need to find a nice Christian Girl." She smiled again. "Now about these trucking languages. Tell me more about the CB slang words you talked about in class today. It is a good idea. But first you need to define trucking and these different languages. We need to narrow the subject. And you need to relax."

"A nice Christian girl." She kept talking, but those were the only words I heard. The answer to everything that ailed me. I sort of half smiled in acknowledgment and endured the rest of the meeting.

Getting up to leave, all I could manage was a weak smile. Reentering the eternal winter gray of Seattle, I thought about all of the single, lonely, high-hoped Christian women on campus who outnumbered us men by a third. I thought about the scarcity of financially secure men with a "heart for the Lord" and the chase between the two camps. I thought of Dallas and I, our ten years together totally discounted by everyone and everything this place stood for. I thought about the fact that I had willingly put myself into this environment. I chose to finish my degree at a Christian school because somewhere deep inside I still believed that God had a plan for my life. Skeptics need not apply, but here I was just the same. I'd never felt more alone in my life. For the third time that day, I found myself reliving endless miles, perpetual motion and the race to keep the rest of me at bay.

The answer to my professor’s question finally came as I reached my pickup and turned to look back toward campus. My definition of trucking. It came to me as I followed the progress of those "others." The GAP kids. They, the overwhelming student body population found on campus, climbing into their SUV’s, and heading off to a young Republicans meeting at the local Starbucks. Double tall skinny latte, hold the conscience, but heavy on the same old same old.

Yes sir, I'd found my definition of trucking.

Escape.

I have always loved running loads into western Canada. Especially freight that railroaded me through the interior reaches of British Columbia and Alberta. Lonely highways that serenade tall rubber, and long winding mountainous roads. The blaze of yellow created by the autumn armies of larch preparing to lose their needles in a drenching rain of yellow and orange. The late spring snow and the first July wildflowers somersaulting nature through the window of rolling industry. Left behind in the mud flap's spray, clean highways pausing in small towns with names like Yahk, Osoyoos, and Fernie. These are the legendary roads where unbanked curves carve the valleys, marking the progress of highways built to test and enable new lessons in the physics of shifting pallets and goods.

It is terrain where narrow bridges cross mountain rivers before transferring ownership of the white waters to the ever-broader lowland benches. Bridges that even in this decade, remain narrow engineering feats. Places where passing trucks slap mirrors, the curbs on either side a testament to all the resulting broken glass that remains behind to catch a last high altitude peaked light. Eventually the waters under those overpasses will slow in their never-ending descent to the lower country. Illuminated and sparkling down into the perpetual twilight of the narrow valley, here is where the chill never settles and the sun rarely reaches.

Sometimes the elk or the moose utilize the bridges rather than clomping through the white water river rapids. The resulting skid marks and bloodied carcasses of elk, moose, and humanity are left as a monument to the frailty of flesh and metal, collision and impact, and violent change. Some highway paths are so narrow, elevated above hazards that can only be speculated about, that carnage is inevitable.

We longhaulers gave these places names. Among the fraternity of drivers, these localities stand as sharp pictures uniquely set in our minds. The Crowsnest. The Coquihalla. Salmo Grade. Radium. Places where headlights chase silhouette, and bloodshot eyes rely on prayers to determine if the reflected forms are stationary, living or dead. Is the shadow absorbing the headlights rock, blow down, or an elk? In the winter, those same eyes squint through the cold white arch of blowing snow and falling-down avalanches seeking comfort and relief. Depending on the weather, Alberta's prairies looming in the distance can be either a dreaded destination or a refuge from the wilds of the Canadian Rockies.

Summer in Alberta is all about blessed relief. Long days and sunrises over Calgary framed by the hot points of the dancing Northern Lights. Summer is about easy running and soft, wind-caressed wheat prairies. Summer is a time where the trucking is easy and the windows are down, the only distraction provided by a smooth game of windshield bug lotto between drivers who long ago surrendered to the welcome boredom afforded by the dog days of the warm season.

Summer in Alberta isn't supposed to be about breakdowns.

The cowboy driver looked up from the wrecked cars he was hauling. His truck was D.O.A., stationary in a small pullout perched on the edge of an Alberta town that consisted of little more than a couple of grain elevators. He cussed the jury-rigged mismatch of equipment that was contributing to an already bad day. He knew he had trouble. Serious trouble. The diagnosis was a busted wheel on one of the dead cars. It needed to be lifted up onto a tow dolly, and even with his six foot frame the job was too much for the solitary wind-blown cowboy. As he looked over at the two drivers getting out of the red Kenworth, his eyes squinting into the glare reflecting off their windshield, he wondered if help had arrived.

"Need some help?" The shorter of the two drivers asked.

"Yeah, som bitch is too heavy for me to lift, eh. Think I could get a hand?" Both of the men nodded at the cowboy and bent down to help lift the equipment holding the cars back into place. It was a job for more than just three men. Yet somehow, with teamwork, they accomplished the task. As the men straightened up, they locked eyes for the first memorable time.

Wiping his greasy hands on his tight wranglers, the cowboy grabbed my hand. Shaking it, he expressed his, "thank you's" and, "pleased to meet ya's." I was stunned by the crystal blue depth of his eyes. I'd never seen eyes so intense before. I caught myself before my stare became obvious. Yet his eyes didn't let go. There was an energy that passed through me. I couldn't place it, that release, but I figured it was just the good-natured salute of a cowhand hauling old Internationals around. That famed innocence or purity that rural folks keep with them throughout all their lives. The sort of spirit that draws like a magnet.

"I don't know how long I'd been stuck here if you hadn't come along." His voice had that singsong, high prairie accent punctuated by a plentiful helping of "eh's" and "dink" this and "dink" that. I looked over at Dallas, who seemed to be just as captivated by the man as I was.

"I'd buy you a cup of coffee but I gotta' get going. I'm already two hours late up into Calgary. Nice truck you are running though, eh."

I looked at his rig, an International Hot Shot. "I like your windows… on your truck. Who did that for you?" I asked.

He turned toward where I looked and smiled at the compliment. Various rodeo and cowboy scenes sandblasted into his windows gave his rig a distinct look. The art was exceptional, yet not overpowering. The truck was a 'looker'. Finally, he turned back toward us and said sheepishly, "I did it. Just a hobby I got I suppose."

"Well," I responded, "you are very talented."

"Thanks, eh." he said sheepishly. "I've done better but I 'spose it’s OK… for a truck window." He drew quiet like he wanted to say more and shifted his weight in his worn black ropers. Then as the breeze almost caught his hat he said, "Well gotta get…name's Lance."

He reached out, took my hand and shook it. Again, taken by those dancing blue eyes, another shock passed through me. His clean wholesomeness, framed by the dark hair matted under his Stetson, was almost unsettling. The last image I remember before he turned was his warm white smile, set against the backdrop of the golden wheat fields behind him. And the way his eyes lingered too long with mine. Studying, reading, and remaining. His energy stayed with me the rest of the day. Dallas and I wondered about his manner but neither of us caught that we might share more than an isolated moment on the edge of the Alberta prairie.

We left him there, taking our 40,000 lbs of lettuce to Edmonton. Lance went his way, limping into Calgary with the load of old cars. Soon enough he would become nothing more than a shadow of those random "wonder what ever happened to that guy" thoughts that settle into a man’s mind when no one is looking. These are the thoughts of those who spend too much time alone on the long open highway.

Two years later Dallas ran into Lance at the notorious Habana Inn in Oklahoma City. The place is a magnet for truckers, oil workers, cowboys and anyone else of alternative persuasions who rolls across the windswept prairies, lonely and looking for a night of comfort among the understanding. The hotel uniquely meets the nighttime needs of those who are strangers in the daylight and quickly forgotten come first light. Cowboys two-step with other cowboys, and lady truck drivers toast a whiskey to other lady truck drivers. This is the land of missed perceptions and one-night stands that, come first light, are sometimes still standing. Over half the truckers I call friends, I met at the Habana.

As a result of his chance reunion with Dallas, Lance came back into our lives. The closet doors that he kept tightly closed opened a peek, and as his trust grew, so did his openness. Some nights he would call up to the ranch hoping to find us home. Frustrated, in a small one street town, he'd inquire where he could go to find someone to talk with. We'd grab the Damron Guide Book and point him in some direction, if there was one to be pointed in. He didn't carry the guidebook himself, fearful of the reactions of the customs brokers. Or worse, that the Damron book might become his last will and testament; the one possession found alongside the bloodied site of his last mile rolled.

Eventually his freight changed and he found regular routes delivering stock trailers from the Midwestern United States. Along the way he purchased a pride flag license plate which he would hide under his seat before crossing into Alberta. He sold the International Hot Shot and bought a one ton Dodge Dually. Once safely back on US soil, the rainbow license plate would be retrieved from behind the seat, propped up in that rear sliding window, and anyone he passed with those cowboy sandblasted windows would see it flying high as he dusted them.

One time Lance passed me in eastern Kansas and I spent the next eight hours chasing his shadow all the way across Missouri. He had the CB off and I was driving a strange Freightliner that he didn’t recognize. I never did get close enough to get him to pull over. Fleeting, chance phone encounters summarized our friendship until one unforgettable February night in 1997.

For once the usually difficult freight gods smiled on me and Lance answered the phone on the second ring. After several previous false starts, I was relieved to find him at his place near Black Diamond, just south of Calgary, Alberta. Running solo and laid over at Calgary's Road King truck stop, I hoped to grab a bite with Lance while waiting for my freight to be loaded into my wagon. Amazed at catching him at his "home twenty," I looked forward to a friendly face, sharing a few lies and tall tales, and maybe a chance to run south down the road together before I turned west and rolled toward Southeastern B. C.

The food in most Calgary truck stops is notorious among regular drivers, and the Road King Buffet is no exception, earning its nickname, "The Road Kill Truck Stop." After my first and only dinner there, I swore I'd bypass the Road King in favor of a Golden Arches before I'd ever go down that Pepto Bismol coated road again. I hoped Lance knew of a better choke and puke where we could find chow.

Lance informed me that he also planned to leave out that night. He was also bound for the states, but headed toward the Midwest. Comparing routing, we discovered that we could share a hundred kilometers before we each went our own way. Chatting happily on the phone, we made arrangements to meet up near Okotoks as soon as I got my wagon loaded. After lots of good-natured ribbing, I hung up the phone, and bob-tailed over to the shipper to see if the trailer was loaded and ready to go. I was eager for the opportunity to run with someone I knew. The Alberta prairies wouldn't be as lonesome, and the ice fog might not seem so overwhelming if I had company. It had been a long time since I'd found someone to run with through the night and the idea of a traveling mate was a welcome hedge against too much time alone. Checking in at the guard shack, I discovered that, for once, the freight would be ready early instead of the typical twelve hours behind the scheduled load time.

An hour later, loaded, scaled, and legal, with all the nasty pages missing from my log book, I found myself waiting for Lance at our Okotoks meeting spot. Watching the last of the day fade, I chased the sky to a point where it met the plains and paid homage to the horizon of the Canadian Front Range. Taken by the beauty of the vista from the shelter provided by the warm cab, I enjoyed the splendor of the late afternoon. The Rockies zigzagged their craggy peaks to the west, like a graph of a bull market playing hop-scotch with a bear market. Overhead the sky napped a hazy, winter blue while the sun shown from it's low, lazy, and deceptively faux warm position in the far off southern sky. Soon the first premature spring Chinook winds would blow off those mountains teasing drivers with another spectacular summer's promise. The sparse drifts of white powder snow blew and swirled their way across the mom and pop truck stop until their puffs became just another memory.

Although less than 30 miles southwest of the sprawling city of Calgary, the open horizon I surveyed felt desolate and immense. Spying Lance’s pickup driving across the prairie, I tracked his progress for five minutes before he finally arrived at the windblown truck stop. Pulling up next to my idling rig, he motioned for me to hop into his dually. Before I knew it, we were heading west toward the reddening mountains and the setting sun. Lance explained that he had to feed his horses before he hit the road. I couldn't help but wonder if it was just a way to prolong the inevitable departure from God's Country to the southern lands. After leapfrogging over several low hung hills, we finally rose up onto the last open break before the first hint of trees signaled our tentative entrance into the high country. The view that broadened before us was the type that when painted, folks swear couldn't be real. Both of us were silent as he drove across the freshly drifted country road.

Immediately upon our arrival at the pasture, a flurry of hooves and wind-borne powder announced our appearance at the metal cattle gate. A small herd of shaggy, winter-coated horses made a beeline for the barbed wire fence. The herd was comprised of bay and gray and some horses seemed to fall into that undefined status of roan. Lance ducked under the fence as low nickers greeted him. Totally surrounded by frosted whiskers, snorting flared nostrils, and mane and tails coated with fine powder, I felt the energy of the man's horses overwhelm me.

Lance welcomed his eager four-legged friends, as hooves pranced in anticipation of a scratch here or a head rub there. It was obvious that horse and man had missed each other since the last visit. The horses were all equine orphans, and as the wild-eyed animals fought amongst themselves for his attention, they seemed to recognize that their savior had arrived. As Lance introduced me to each horse, sharing troubled histories and heartache, I learned of the sadness of the abandoned animals he'd rescued and saved from unpleasant ends.

Soon giant flakes of fresh alfalfa thrown from an old semi trailer littered the white snow. The only sound was the crunching of the content herd's chew teeth going to work on the delicious hay. Steam rose off of their backs, and as I stood next to Lance surveying his "family," occasionally a head would turn toward us, mouth full of alfalfa, ears forward and eyes earnest to see that we remained. These might not have been the prettiest horses but they were loyal and good-natured. Every horse present seemed aware that they lived because of the kindness of the dark-hatted cowboy. As the darkness settled and the snow turned sunset pink, I watched Lance become a silhouette surrounded by the dark forms of his animals. Against a firework sky, his horses stretched their necks between mouthfuls and blew warm breaths across his face. It was almost as if his mounts did this to make sure he was really real. And that this paradise was really theirs to enjoy and frolic in. That image of the cowboy and his four-legged gang, framed by the purples, reds and pinks fading against the dark Rockies, remains locked in my mind like buried treasure, a testament to some kind of Alberta perfect.

Eventually we returned to his Dodge Ram and he drove me to my rig. Climbing into the cab with me, Lance waited while I updated Qualcomm and prepared to roll south. Both of us made the required hurried marks in our logbooks, and soon we began grabbing gears as the last light of day faded to our right. Ahead of us, small prairie towns appeared, islands of light in the darkness.

Lance took the lead and I chased his taillights through the night. Traffic was sparse and the wide-open land gave permission to the wind to rock us gently as we made miles (or kilometers, depending on the speedometer.) Eventually Lance initiated the conversation and began to share with me his philosophy about Alberta, women, and horses. We steered clear of politics until thirty minutes into the conversation, when he suddenly went right. I almost drove into the mud of confusion listening to what he had to say.

"You know Tim, this may shock you, but I don't believe the races should be integrated." There was a moment of silence before he continued. "I think that everyone should keep to their own race. Don't believe they should intermix."

I listened in shock. He continued talking, explaining his views.

"The way I see it, God made us different. Blacks and whites shouldn't be allowed to marry. They shouldn't live next to each other. I guess you could call me a white separatist. I'm not violent or anything like that. I don't burn crosses on people's lawns. It’s just I believe everything and everyone has its place. And if you are a different color, then you don't belong standing next to me."

I damn near drove off the road. I'd known Lance several years by this time and never had any indication that he held these views. Unsettled, I didn't know what to say. I finally managed to note that I didn't agree with him.

"Nope, not many do these days. Everyone is so liberal. The way I look at things has caused me all sorts of shit. Lot of folks back home won't talk to me, eh." He grew quiet.

I finally found something to say. "Well Lance, I don't reckon that I agree with you. I respect your honesty and all that, but I just can't say I understand." My mind raced as I tried to put his words into perspective.

We rode together in silence for a few miles/kilometers until Lance broke the roar of quiet.

"You hungry?"

"Yep."

"The food's half eatable in Claresholm, eh?" He flipped on his turn signal. "Let's stop and eat. It's the last town before you go right and I go left."

"Sounds like a plan." I turned on my signal and started gearing down into low range. Pulling up next to him in the gravel lot, I sat for a minute and collected myself before hopping out of the truck. Lord only knew where the rest of the night would go. I wondered if Dallas knew about Lance's views.

We sat in a ripped vinyl booth in the small truck stop and I found myself struggling to make eye contact with Lance. Almost embarrassed to look at him, I caught myself arguing with myself. I was still too surprised by the earlier revelations to have any sort of understanding of the cowboy who now sat across from me. Joking with the waitress as if nothing unusual had just been discussed, his angelic blue eyes disarmed my skepticism. When Lance ordered his food, both the waitress and I were surprised that his meal completely lacked meat. Reading our minds, he explained, "I am pretty much a vegetarian."

I almost dropped the menu. The waitress put down her pad, quit chewing her gum and froze. This had to be a joke. She looked back at me for confirmation and I just shrugged. I wasn't sure I'd heard right myself. Here I was, Mr. "We Are the World," dining with a gay, semi-closeted, white separatist, vegetarian, cowboy long-hauler. No one would believe this. Hell, I didn't even believe it.

Watching Lance's red taillights disappearing into the truck's mirrors, I set the cruise and drove into the black prairie night. Westbound, I knew that soon the prairies would become coulees, then foothills and that eventually the highway would slam into the jagged crest of the Rockies.

Meandering through high mountain mining towns and along alpine lakes, then running parallel to the international border, highway 3 is short on easy-going after the prairies become a memory. The mountains demand a driver's concentration. Big game shares the highway with the sparser traffic. Moose. Elk. Deer. Pissy grizzly bears. And the bigger the animal, the more right of way they command. Contact with a twelve hundred-pound elk or a moose puts an end to a Volkswagen, and severely challenges a Freightliner. Some truck drivers try to lessen the damage resulting from such collisions by installing elaborate grille guards known as "moose-goosers." They are only partially effective. Usually the life of the radiator is spared, but there will a trip to the body shop to scrape off the moose carcass and repaint the fenders.

While the stars lit the jagged horizons of the mountains to the southeast, down Montana way, I tried to relax and let my mind absorb the night. Reflecting my image in the windshield, the ghost I saw staring back at me was broken only by the occasional headlights of the oncoming traffic. The two-lane highway soon left the flatlands and increasingly dipped and rolled through deeper coulees. My life resembled that same roller coaster. The more I thought about Lance, the more I rock and rolled. Our final miles before the junction where we parted had been anything but quiet. His views were far from common among truckers. Convinced that bull haulers were among the cruelest humans to walk the earth, Lance explained his commitment to a meat-free diet by referring to the treatment that the animals received in the bull wagons and feedlots as barbaric.

"You know Tim, those guys, them cattle haulers," he said between a mouthful of salad, "they are just arrogant bastards. They don't care anything about the animals they are running. All they care about is getting them down the road as quick as they can. I have seen those cowboy wannabe dinks running 80mph in the middle of 20 below weather. Them cows in those wagons, well those poor cows are drenched with sweat from fear and then it all but freezes on them. I just can't see supporting by any means the way those animals are treated. Ever seen what kind a' conditions those cattle are treated to in the feedlots? Crammed in like sardines, feed all sorts of artificial shit, then it's off to slaughter. How can you respect yourself for being a part of that?"

He paused and I thought he might be finished when he spoke up again. "I mean yeah, it’s tough to drive a bull wagon. They are high centered as hell and the wind plays havoc with them when they are empty. And you have to clean 'em out. Knee deep in manure slop and piss, and slick as shit. And sometimes you get a load of dyers, those old dairy cows just one step away from the great milk barn in the sky, and it’s all you can do to keep em alive to where they are going. But the way I see it, those boys that pull them cattle cars with their big old attitude adjustment Peterbilts, all lit up, and driving down the road cranked up on go-fast, speed, or crystal meth, well...all that is foolishness. Done just so they can get an animal to its death that much faster? In my book them boys ain't cowboys eh. Real cowboys, hell they cared about the animals they used to run. They'd doctor ‘em, help ‘em calve, let ‘em rest and tried to get ‘em out of the weather if they could..." His voice trailed off.

For awhile after our meal we didn't say much. Safely back in our respective rigs, I suppose the hum of tires settled things. Finally, to break the silence, I asked him which of his horses was his favorite. And once again, the conversation came easy. Political opinions fell by the wayside and I listened as he spoke of his love of animals, the winds of change blowing through Alberta, and his thoughts on women.

Lance's views on relationships in general were pretty much typical of those held by many of the western men I've known. Whether they are chasing some buck wearing wranglers or one wearing a skirt, many of their ideals and perspectives are formulated from the vantage of inexperience. Lance’s few ventures into the arena of romantic, one-on-one trail riding amounted to little more than hair splitting aggravation. The view from his saddle was minus the benefit of getting the mount to cooperate.

Yet in spite of that later, easy-going conversation, the discussion topic that continued to bounce around in the truck cab after our separation, was symbolic of the physical contrast before me in that Alberta night. Black and white laid down against a colorless eve. Black and the darkness of late winter contrasted with the brilliant western slopes looming larger and larger in the distance. Burning white snow-capped slopes broke through the darkness. Fixated by the comparison of what danced in my head with what danced across the windshield, I had to wonder about my own role. What gives with all of this color in the black and white world of Lance? Especially when it was sized up against my own?

Grabbing gears, I made my assault on the last incline before Crowsnest Pass, far too unsettled to feel fatigued or to even attempt floating the gears, clutch in, clutch out. RPMs revved, the downward needles, the gnashing of teeth and then the disturbing sensation created as the gear shift knob nearly took my elbow off. Missed a gear. Try again. Damn! The gear spit, the truck shuddered, and I scrambled to recover as the transmission signaled its displeasure with my timing. The tachometer simultaneously signaled, confirmed, and screamed about the unsettled nature of my shifting

Now I suppose this is that point in a man's story where he should pull the rig over and cry in sorrow. Maybe have a good scream at God about injustice. Let the alpine air and the soft snowflakes inspire him to greatness, accompanied by a few revelations, an awakening, maybe even a turning point born among all that white, mountain powder. Be cleansed from the unsettling company. Strive toward a new, "next time." In conversations filled with the "n" word and racial slurs, he would know to do better, to speak up, and censure the messenger of such ideas.

I could have been that man. Quoting my favorite excerpts from Dr. Martin Luther King Junior’s, "I Have a Dream" speech, I'd be "right". Like all the other good, politically correct truck drivers. Singing "We Shall Overcome," preaching about equality, and making a stand for standing up. Proclaiming what is proper, while at the same time proclaiming my superiority to Lance. But nothing is ever that simple. Dr. King's dream was once my dream. But at times it has also been my nightmare.

Racial tensions may simmer in classrooms and lurk silent among the water coolers of sparkling skyscrapers. They may segregate and separate manageably in everyday folk's everyday lives. Yet those same unspoken tensions explode in trucking and it’s very difficult not to get bloody or tarnished as a result. I once thought I could be an exception. The only problem is, I'm just not that exceptional.

As I descended off the silver lit slopes into the darker forest that lay between Crowsnest and Fernie, BC, I began to overlay color and triumph with the tracing papers of defeat. At times, the battles were easily won. But mostly the lines were blurred. I was no poster child nor was I always on the right side of those lines.

In the early nineties, I drove for a regional carrier just outside of British Columbia. I was single at the time I hired on. Several months later I met Dallas and fell head over heels. It didn't take long for the other drivers to figure things out. At first, Dallas and I were always seen running down I-5 together in California. Producing silent speculation, his sudden appearance did not go unnoticed. But his appearance was also "Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell," which was fine by us. We carried on with our lives and since no one questioned, we didn't offer any answers. When he moved from his local trucking job in LA up to Seattle, eyebrows raised, suspicions were confirmed, and then attention moved on. About a year later, we became team drivers. Inseparable, drivers and mechanics referred to us simply as "the boys". If one of us were missing, the blue coverall'd men would kindly ask where "the other half was." Though unspoken, my relationship with Dallas was acknowledged and even accepted. We "passed". Save for an invisible DNA code, our similarities with our coworkers far out-weighed our differences.

Such kinship was refreshing. After all, this was a rural northwest county with less than a hundred thousand souls. Most of our rugged coworkers were recently converted former log truck drivers. Forced into their new status as over the road transplants, their hearts were anywhere but on the endless horizon. Discouraged, displaced, and disillusioned, over the road driving defined for these drivers a last resort. Looking back fondly toward memories of hundred mile round trips from the hills to the mills, in their minds their futures were sold off as a result of the spotted owl controversy. The "stick haulers" way of life, now hatefully scapegoated by city dwellers, fell victim to the elite politics of convenience. The hypocritical urban rhetoric spewed by those who didn’t see fit to complain about logging when they needed toilet paper, newspapers, or x board feet to build a thousand square foot deck, was not lost on the men from those dark northern woods.

The loggers, who ironically hated clear-cuts as much as city folk, directed blame for the death of their way of life toward uneducated liberals, greedy timber corporations, and big city environmental attitudes. Their anger produced a heartfelt resentment directed at outsiders.

Dallas and I were both outsiders.

Dallas came from a large California city and I, when I wasn’t on the road, used a Seattle address. We both held progressive views. In spite of these handicaps, we were welcomed by our fellow drivers. Our concerns became theirs, and during our time at that company the progressive management took great strides. Decades ahead of other trucking companies, they dealt with diversity in both subtle and active ways. Volunteering to haul the "Names Project" Quilt, generously participating in the first AIDs Walk to raise over a million dollars in the Northwest, and hauling extra produce for the Chicken Soup Brigade, they were on the forefront of bringing together two communities with little in common.

Things seemed about as perfect as perfect could get in trucking, with a few challenging exceptions. Our Canadian customers often demanded that we run illegal as hell. In addition to violating federal hours of service regulations, those same customers pressured drivers to smuggle contraband into Canada. The first two problems were typical in trucking. The next challenge caught us all off guard.

One day, walking into the drivers’ lounge, I found a KKK notice tacked to the reader board. The intimidating leaflet urged, if not threatened, blacks to avoid the polls. Frozen, I stared in shock. Rereading the note, I stood dumbfounded in disbelief. The notice, specifically placed to get the attention of a just-hired black Vietnam Vet, was no accident or joke. He was targeted by a silent presence working among us. Whoever posted the note could have been a friend of mine. And it was directed toward a heroic man whose friendship I knew as loyal, true, and honorable. The first minority hired by the company, he was a person of color harassed in subtle but still very threatening ways. And among some drivers, jealousy simmered just under the surface when he was assigned the nicest truck in the fleet, a big shiny red Peterbilt.

Looking at the notice I didn't know what to do. I was afraid. Telling myself that it wasn't my battle, I rationalized that didn't need to say anything. I could ignore the implications. "Just walk away," part of me urged.

But for some unknown reason, on that occasion I couldn't, and I didn't. Pulling the notice off the board, and holding it with a shaky grip, I presented it to the shop foreman. "If this stands, then I am out of here". My voice cracked like I was revisiting puberty.

The shocked foreman, a man twice my size, took the note, read it and then looked at me with a hardened glare. I didn't know if he was angry at me or the situation. Time moved slowly while he held the notice. I shifted my weight, looked down at the cold concrete floor, and picked up a greasy red shop rag someone had dropped. The foreman silently remained in front of me. Finally he put his large hand on my shoulder. "I'll take care of it, Tim".

And he did, courageously drawing a line in the sand. On my next run through the yard, I discovered that the entire company, from mechanic to heavy equipment operator, to driver, was enrolled in mandatory diversity training. Thankfully absent were outside diversity "experts," those arrogant, suited, degreed folk so often brought in to educate and civilize blue collar workers. In fact, I don't recall hearing the judgment-loaded "tolerance" word. Rather, we were simply informed that, "Damn it, we were in this together." Regardless of background, color of skin, or sexual orientation. For the employees of this logging company turned produce outfit, diversity education meant sitting around a big table in the shop discussing minimum expectations laid down by the imposing shop foreman. Looking toward his cowering subjects, the man who kept us running smoothly down the road made it known that improper humor, inappropriate commentary, and basically much of the stuff that made life colorful were now considered capital offenses. No more "good buddy" jokes. No more KKK postings. No more ethnic references. Only stupid actions or ridiculous thinking were acceptable sources of humor. Fortunately, a wealth of material existed in this area, immediately demonstrated when one of the mechanics blew out the power to much of the city when he took a corner too tight and brought down an electrical transformer. Because of the company’s straightforward action on diversity, in time our rag tag crew became a collection of "us," rather than assorted "thems".

As I continued driving through the BC night, the lights of Cranbrook warmed the cab. I knew I couldn't take much comfort replaying the earlier conversations with the racist cowboy, Lance. Setting his views against my own, I understood that I wasn't any better man than he was. Examining my own history, I saw that in that small moment where standing up to the KKK note paid off, it was more of an exception than my own standard operating procedure. By only recalling the KKK posting confrontation, my self-examination was dishonest. The story remained incomplete.

Instead, the issue of color, viewed from the windshield of my cab, was more a tale of inconsistency. Most lives are not defined by successes or failures, but by compromise. I realized that on the same day that I'd stood strong when one community was under attack, I'd caved on another. In fact, not content to passively observe hatred, I knew that I'd gladly stood first in line to launch my own grenades toward an entirely different minority group

Continuing my way south, overwhelmed by the darkness of a flurry-driven winter highway, I forlornly concluded that few things are as unsettling to ponder than one's own hypocrisy.

As I drove, my mind wandered back to my earliest days of Canadian produce trucking. Our Asian customers on Vancouver’s produce row forced us to run illegally, making a mockery of our logbooks. Their resolve to push us to truck beyond the law and the response those forces created in me, absolutely negated any brownie points I might have tallied up for my actions in the drivers’ lounge. Ironically, while defending the rights of one group, I simultaneously found myself growing to hate another.

Contrary to popular belief, the "polite to a fault" northwest has its share of racial skirmishes tarnishing our history. Sometimes our racism involved Native Americans, but just as often, intolerance affected groups such as the Italians, the Irish or especially the Chinese. After lynchings, neighborhood razings, and riots repeatedly tore through migrant Asian communities in the US, many Chinese fled into Canada. Shortly after the turn of the century they reestablished themselves, becoming one of the largest ethnic communities in western BC and an economic force to be reckoned with. It was no small irony that 100 years later the group once at the losing end of the power grip was now the one perpetrating the death squeeze. Although these power struggles began decades before I was born, the fallout from those events remained smoldering invisibly under the surface of the lucrative cross-border trade.

Produce, by its very nature, is time-sensitive. The sooner the veggies get from the field to the marketplace, the happier everyone is. The art of picking, processing, transporting, and selling all things organic is not for the squeamish. Time sensitive translates into temperature sensitive, visually sensitive, and cost sensitive. The price of commodities fluctuates wildly. In the great chase to get tasty tomatoes to Tony’s plate, or sour squash to Susan’s soiree, produce truckers have the least control over who did what to whom. Yet if anything goes wrong, chances are the ones first in line to get the spanking are the ones driving the Western Star. Produce loaded 12 hours late is still supposed to arrive on time. Produce that wasn’t ripe when it was picked is supposed to be perfect when it's delivered. The produce brokers jack the farmers around. In turn, the brokers are price-slapped by the buyers and produce receivers on the other end. The produce jockey, AKA Mr. truck driver, is kicked-boxed by all of them. Every bruise, blemish, and bump on his salad or fruit cocktail load is charged against the trucker. According to this logic, if the grapes have seeds, he must have put them there. And if they don’t, the poor driver must have took them. IT is the masochist's masochists dream haul.

IT was my nightmare.

Our Asian produce customers in Vancouver ruled our lives with regular brutality. Produce row, run mainly by Chinese interests, was also populated with recent economic exiles from Hong Kong. These were families who did not care about hours of service regulations, weather delays, or the stiff penalties drivers faced if caught smuggling. Mixing full pallets of undeclared alcohol or narcotics into banana loads or other temperature-sensitive, perishable freight, these produce houses demanded occasional illegal activity in exchange for the opportunity to haul their more consistent legal loads. To the managers of the US carriers, what they didn’t know about what might be on their trucks couldn’t hurt them. In Long Beach, California, drivers would be told to wait off the dock as banana trucks were loaded. A produce jockey driver never knew which loads illegal freight might be mixed into.

Because even a slight variance in temperature threatened certain cargoes, Canadian Custom officials hesitate to check most banana or strawberry loads. Especially in the winter, it’s rare for a customs officers to open the doors on any load they might have "to buy" should they compromise the product inside. Banana loads kept at a constant 57 degrees, or strawberries hauled under gas, were especially easy to sneak through.

And the danger for the officers was more than financial. Checking banana loads could also pose a health risk. On occasion, highly venomous Central American snakes or spiders slipped through the banana packing process. The creatures would be lulled into a near state of hibernation by the constant 57 degree temperature inside the trailer. But once the trailer doors were opened, and the warm customs warehouse air caressed them back to life, dangerous situations could develop. The alternative, opening the doors into the even chillier February air, could result in an entire load of worthless black bananas, now owned by the Canadian government.

As enforcement decreased, the bravery of the Asians we hauled for increased. Not subjected to the same laws, the same values, or even the same culture, driving conditions became impossible. They did not care how many US laws had to be violated to get their product into Canada. As receivers, they acted with an air of immunity, secure that they were safeguarded against any enforcement activity directed their way.

While our employers received angry calls and screaming tirades pushing for faster turns between California and BC, Dallas and I began receiving calls at the house from Canadian customs. Investigations carried our names on them. Suddenly it wasn’t just alcohol, but marijuana and cocaine that were finding their way into certain receiver's hands via produce trucks. From a driver’s perspective, we never knew what might end up in our trailer. Yet if the truck was inspected and contraband was found on board, we knew that we'd be responsible. And it wasn’t just our careers or our ability to truck into Canada that was in jeopardy. A career can be replaced. But now our values were at stake. Once lost, they are harder to regain.

Through it all, the pressure to make miles was relentless. For the drivers, fatigue was a constant companion. On many trips, entire sections were driven in a daze, without recollection. Yet no driver's performance was adequate. The pressure became enormous. Running two and sometimes three logbooks, solo drivers who attempted to put sanity and safety back into trucking were met with silence or intimidating walks out in the truck yard, out of the earshot of other employees. Threats were made, and as much as the boss disliked the produce game, he had his bills to pay as well.

Meanwhile my driving record became a who's who of jurisdictions. Time was always in short supply and speeding became the difference between a late load and one that arrived on time. Within a embarrassingly short period, I found myself fighting a very sad battle. The more we busted butt, broke the law, and bailed ourselves out of one ticket after another, the less the Asian produce boys seemed to care. I found myself spending most of my time angry, frustrated and overwhelmed. These emotions soon slid further downhill and I woke up one morning and realized that I had grown to hate an entire race of people. On sight.

I "had" a dream. And it used to be simple one. The only minority student I knew in my small-town, Oregon high school was Chinese American. Loved by the entire student body, driven to excellence, she was elected class president. I counted her among my best friends. Now if I met someone like her, possibly her brother or sister, maybe her mother or father, I would have hated them on sight.

I had a dream.

How did I get from there to here in the space of a little under two years? Somehow racial divides became complex. Sure, I could rationalize my hatred. I had an excuse for my anger. I was justified. I had been abused and taken advantage of by the Asian produce receivers. And now they, without conscious thought on their part, had my mind at bay. I thought of "them" 24 hours a day. This was not the nice polite world of a social studies class, cultural show and tell. This was not "Hands Across the World" or the United Nations relief fund. The way I saw it, one culture's actions threatened my freedom. Through their disregard of our laws and my employer’s unwillingness to make a stand, I was financially, legally and, more importantly, psychologically enslaved.

I responded in the only way I knew how. I allowed the hatred inside, where it settled against my heart, hot and acidic. I didn't feel any better but at least I had somewhere to place my feelings.

The final straw occurred in August of 1992. My grandfather suffered a massive stroke in Spokane. Frantically calling the trucking company, my parents informed the boss that they needed to get me home. He refused to pass the message to me. Days went by and I remained on the road, unaware that my grandfather was slipping away. A week after my father’s first call to dispatch, I called my grandparents’ home in Spokane on a lark, and was surprised when my father answered the phone. Learning that my grandfather was in critical condition and barely alive, I begged dispatch to get me home. I was told that if I left the truck and didn't deliver the load to Vancouver, I would lose my job. A DAC report would be submitted.

I was told point blank that the load of cantaloupe took precedence; the receiver in Vancouver needed the fruit. No, the load couldn't be re-powered by another team. I fumed. No options were available to me but to wait it out. Near Kerns, California I paced under a broiling sun. I felt trapped. Hours passed and the load still wasn't ready. I called Vancouver and the Asian receiver responded coldly to my begging. He did not care about anything but his load of melons. I debated leaving the truck and letting Dallas run it home solo, but my boss said no. If I left the truck, I would be terminated. I remembered my DAC report.

DACs are an electronic report similar to a credit file. They allow companies to quickly investigate the driving, employment, and credit records of their present and potential employees. These records, updated daily, follow a driver for ten years and give trucking companies near domination over the lives of their employees. Create trouble, report safety violations, or look for another job and the management of every subscribing trucking company is aware of your activities immediately. Incorrect or misleading information is nearly impossible to remove from these reports and the only side of the story that ever gets told is the company’s.

Blackmailed, I remained in California, able to be with my grandfather only in my thoughts. It is one of those decisions a man questions for the rest of his life.

Finally, the fruit was ready and the load delivered to Vancouver. I arrived at my grandfather's bedside long after his last conscious moments were gone. He died the following day.

I gave my two-week notice. The decision to quit did not come easily and the repercussions stung. Some of the best friends we'd ever made trucking were left behind as the dust settled on that decision. Dallas and I left a company that not only accepted us with dignity but seemed truly committed to our community. Yet the tradeoff for acceptance was too costly. And as nice as our treatment was, the price in other areas was just too great.

I've haven't hauled another produce load into Vancouver, BC. Although the DOT cracked down on some of the carriers that haul for the Asian produce outfits, the treatment of drivers remains dismal and carrier managers are still subjected to angry tirades and endless pressure to violate the laws of both countries. Only when shippers and receivers are subjected to the same enforcement action as the carriers who haul their goods, will the system change. It is the shippers and the receivers who set the schedules, determine the loads, and set the conditions for the transit of goods across the border. Why they are immune to enforcement action is one of the most ironic contradictions in trucking.

Easing the truck into the US customs yard in Eastport, Idaho, I set the brakes with a whoosh. Bumping up the idle and cutting the headlights, I sat for a minute collecting my thoughts. The troubled musings of the night’s drive seemed full of paradox. Part of me wondered if I might be damn near as bad as Lance with some of my attitudes. And I couldn't help but realize that the unsettled feelings Lance tapped into with his comments weren't as much about his opinions, as they were a mirror reflecting some of my own hidden beliefs.

Walking across the frozen ice caps on the parking lot, I slipped and regained my footing. Taking each step a little more carefully as I made my way toward customs, I continued my introspection. Numerous examples came to mind in my life where the going got treacherous as I navigated prejudice. The pattern of my behavior defined mixed results.

I'd stood up when a black man washing out my reefer trailer in North Carolina refused to make eye contact, and kept referring to me as "boss man." Bending over until he was forced to meet my gaze, I grabbed the hose from him. "You don't have to call me boss man. I am no better than you. I drive a truck. You wash them out. We are the same in most folks’ eyes."

He eyed me for a minute, then resumed washing out the turkey guts that lined the bottom of my trailer. It was a miserable, stinking job. Surveying the mess and the resulting affects the southern heat created, I decided that cleaning the trailer was much worse than unloading it by hand had been a few hours earlier. I leaned against the trailer bumper as he worked. Quickly and efficiently he aimed the nozzle. Sometimes the spray caused turkey guts to splatter both of us. Soon enough he was finished. He straightened up and handed me a slip to pay the cashier. Then he looked me in the eye, and without expression said, "Here you go, you're finished." He paused, then smiling a heartfelt smile, his white teeth near blinding against the darkness of his skin, added, "Boss man!" I shook his hand, putting a ten spot in it, and told him it was the best damn trailer washout I'd ever had. He looked at me for another minute and said, "Yes sir, I figure it was at that."

But on another occasion, my record in dealing with color was less than honorable. I'd remained silent when a wealthy Tieton, Washington apple-packing house owner denied toilet paper to his Mexican migrant workers. I looked the other way when he took away their restroom privileges until productivity improved. I witnessed his wife chasing some of the workers with a broom, and said nothing when she climbed into her new Lexus, complaining about "Lazy good for nothing wetbacks." Every other week I loaded apples in Tieton and watched as the men and women who harvested, processed and packed the crop were mistreated. And I hated myself for saying nothing.

A final moment of reflection on color and bigotry came to mind as I opened the door to the Customs building and walked across the lobby. I remembered the days of open warfare with the Oregon Citizens Alliance. The OCA was an anti-gay group that turned the political landscape of the Northwest upside down. Initiative after initiative was filed, lives were lost in fire bombings. An uneasy distance began to separate neighbor from neighbor as the fear of vandalism and violence tore apart small rural communities.

Trucking through the eastern Oregon ranching communities, I began writing anti-OCA messages in the dirt that accumulated on the trailer doors. As a result, I was sometimes cussed out by four-wheelers on the CB, accused of being a child molester, a freak of nature, or a pervert. Rarely did I get the thumbs up. Although my truck was bigger and a hell of a lot faster than the homophobes’ pickups, those CB tauntings were still unnerving. And while it is one thing to be an advocate of civil rights when you are just trucking through, it is an entirely different matter when that discussion is brought home in front of your peers at a truck stop where you know everyone on a first name basis.

My face to face encounter with the OCA happened at the Burns Brothers truck stop in Troutdale, Oregon. As I strolled around the parking lot during Burns Brothers Driver Appreciation Days, I had my own moment of truth. My childhood friend Sean was riding with me that day, and both of us were enjoying the sunshine and the antique autos on display. Truck drivers and their wives milled around everywhere while the truckstop served up hot dogs, music, and soft drinks. Out of the blue, I was confronted by an odd-looking man; a geek straight out of central casting. Polyester pants, plastic pocket protector, the works. The short, balding, middle-aged man handed me a business card. The card said something to the effect that the bearer was "proud to be normal." I took the card from the man asking, "What's this?"

He replied, "Oh, it's just a stab at the gays." I looked over at Sean who recoiled. Sean is straight, but as uncomfortable with the subject matter as I was, he looked back at me, not knowing how I was going to respond.

The man with the cards obviously assumed he was speaking to a friendly audience. As other drivers gathered around us, he proceeded to go through a well-rehearsed list, telling me that gay men ingest tons of feces, prey on pre-pubescent boys, and that the gay agenda was on the verge of destroying America. "They want special rights that the rest of us don't have!" he exclaimed to the group, which seemed to be growing. I wanted to walk away. I wanted to pretend this wasn't happening in my own occupational backyard. I wished Sean wasn't hearing it. He looked really uncomfortable now. As if, my presence was an embarrassment.

"Excuse me," I asked, silently begging to my higher power that my voice would sound assured. "Do you drive truck?"

The man seemed to lose his standing for a minute. "No" He hesitated.

"Then what are you doing here? The sign at the entrance said pretty clearly Professional Drivers Only."

He didn't take being challenged lightly. "What does it matter to you?" Now he was challenging me and I felt my guts turn inside out. Sean worked his way to the edge of the group.

"I will tell you WHY it matters to me. This is my work place and your politics don't belong here. You aren't here to appreciate classic cars. You don't give a damn about truckers. All you care about is your agenda. You talk about special rights? Well what gives you the right to trespass? Crashing a day that is set aside by the people who run this outfit for the drivers who support it? I think you should leave."

The man glared at me. Everyone was silent. I wondered if things got out of hand, as they already seemed well on their way to doing, if Sean would back me up. I looked around. I couldn't see him anywhere. That answered that. The OCA activist also seemed to be short on support. "Are you a Liberal?" he spat.

"No, I am not a liberal. I am a truck driver. I politely asked you to leave. I suggest you do so. Now." So far, my voice was holding out. I knew I was shaking and thankfully several of the drivers who had gathered, silently shook their heads and walked away.

The man stepped closer to me. "Make me."

I lowered my head until I was looking directly into his geek-like, beady little eyes. "You, my friend, have never done a damn thing to support this truck stop. I buy thousands of gallons of fuel here every month. Who do you think they are going to support? You? On some political mission that is going to offend a bunch of their customers? Or a hand who spends cash money here? I'd bet good money that in five minutes, if you don't leave right now, you will be leaving in a squad car." The man held his ground. I studied him for a minute and looked at the few drivers who were still there. They shrugged. Turning, I made my way to the fuel islands to find the manager.

Recognizing me from the week before when I'd spent nearly two hundred bucks on a CB radio from his C store, he smiled when he saw me approaching. "Hey, how's that new radio working out for you? What was your name again?" he asked, extending his hand.

"Tim." I quickly explained the occurrence in his lot while he listened silently. When I finished he asked, "Tim, who do you drive for?" I gulped. Great. The manager was going to call my company and complain that they had an activist driving for them. I paused but finally told him the name of the company that was lettered on the side of my truck door, my truck number, and the location of my home base. He wrote the information down. Then looking up at me, he said, "I'm really sorry about what happened out there. I'll take care of it. Tell me what this guy looks like and we will make sure he is 86'd. And I'd like to send you a gift certificate for letting me know. We don't need any of that shit going on here. This is supposed to be a fun day." Shaking his hand, I was amazed and relieved at the same time.

Sean was waiting for me when I returned to the truck. I sheepishly shrugged when I saw him and he just shook his head. We climbed into my rig and I made a few lie lines in my log book and pulled out. As I turned onto the frontage road, I saw the man who had been distributing the OCA "normal" cards. On either side of him was a Burns Brothers employee. They had him by both elbows and were escorting him off the property. Immediately behind them was the manager, who was yelling at the obstinate man to shut up.

I couldn't help myself. Waving out the window, I gave a good long blast of the air horn as we pulled out. The OCA man recognized me and flipped me off. Very Christian.

Lost in thought, I was unaware that several minutes passed while I stood at the customs counter. Finally, an agent appeared. I handed her my paperwork. Her manner was curt and professional. She was known among drivers as one of the toughest agents working that crossing. I looked at her short hair and unsmiling face as she stamped my paperwork.

"How long have you been in Canada?" she asked without looking up.

"Three days."

"Did you buy anything or are you carrying anything that you wish to declare?"

"No."

"May I see your driver’s license?" She was still involved with the paperwork but suddenly looked up at me with a cold stare. While I fished around for my license, I could feel her watching my movements across the counter. I finally found my license and handed it to her while managing a weak smile. Sometimes a smile worked. Sometimes it didn't. The tough-looking woman did not respond. She continued studying me, occasionally shifting her gaze to my license. "Where were you born?"

"St. Paul, Minnesota. It was an accident. Least I like to think so. Most of my family hails out of Montana." I tried the smile again. She continued that hard penetrating glare.

"I'd like to look in your truck. Have a seat." She took my keys while I sat down glumly. I wondered if she would run the dogs through the sleeper. Nothing like a dog rummaging around in your bed. I looked at the picture of President George Bush smiling down across the office and wondered if he'd ever had a dog go through his bedroom. Thinking about the secret service, I realized that President Bush probably experienced exactly what I was going through on a regular basis. The thought cheered me up and I decided that I was following in the footsteps of great men. Not everyone gets to have a dog go through their bedroom, sniffing at their bedsheets to make sure it's safe. The comparison was a stretch, but I didn't care.

I didn't hear the customs officer come back in. I must have dozed off. Shaking my shoulder, she held out my keys. Opening my eyes, I was startled and disoriented. The customs woman finally smiled. "You were drooling. Looked kind of cute. Here." She handed me a paper towel and I sat up and wiped my chin.

"Sorry. It's been a really long day." Startled, I felt like I'd just jumped into a cold shower. Her badge caught the light and seemed larger than it actually was.

"You sure you're OK to drive, or do you want to get a nap? I can wake you up in an hour." She seemed concerned.

"No ma’am, I will be fine. It's been a strange day that’s all." Embarrassed for getting caught slobbering all over myself in the customs office, I was wide-awake now. Bounding outside, I jumped across the icy patches in the truck parking area. The turmoil remained inside my head as I grabbed gears and started making my way down from the deserted Northern Idaho high country south towards Bonners Ferry. Something told me that I had much left to learn, and that my stumbling had only just begun. I kept thinking about Lance and my own piss poor track record all the way down into Sandpoint, Idaho. As if on cue, the Spokane radio station played Chrissie Hynde's version of "State of Independence." Sampled throughout the song were excerpts of Dr. Martin Luther King's "I have a dream" speech. I couldn't help but wonder if the Good Lord was trying to help me understand something that I just wasn't getting. Little did I know my lesson would be an ongoing one.

It was the beginning of Fall Quarter, 1999. My last quarter of college. Making my way up the stairs of Tiffany Hall, I pressed through the narrow corridor toward the professor's office. She opened the door slowly. Face to face with the woman who the previous year had asked me to define trucking, I smiled. "Dr. Pagel? Do you have a minute?"

"Tim! I am so glad to see you! C'mon in. I've been worried about you all summer. You remember Piper, don't you?" The professor smiled over her glasses.

I looked at Piper and nodded. Anyone who had met Piper could not forget her. A young African American woman, Piper's face broke into a grin as she gave me a big hug. A few inches shorter than I, her light skin barely contained a radiance highlighted by mischievous eyes and an engaging smile. Piper and I had shared a public speaking class together the year before. In class, she was always boisterous, lively, and never at a loss for words. Confidently giving her presentations before a collection of strangers, she recalled her experiences as a rape victim, and later confessed to the class the difficulties presented by her ongoing struggle with cancer.

I knew other things about her as well. I knew she'd miscarried several babies, and that she was a newlywed. I knew that she was one of the few minority students on a predominantly white private Christian campus. And I knew that the administration had moved her off campus after acknowledging that the school could not guarantee her safety. In addition to facing all her other challenges, Piper had been the subject of several threats.

As I sat down beside her, she seemed genuinely excited to see me. Surprised by the warmth of her greeting, I was unprepared for the rapid-fire questions demonstrating her interest in the goings-on of my life. She asked how my semi truck was doing, and if we'd received compensation after "Little Red Ride ‘Em Good" was hit by another truck. She also wondered where my driving partner was, and wanted to know if I'd spent much time at the ranch over the summer. Finally, after an awkward pause, she asked why I looked so sad when she ran into me the last week of school in June. I couldn't honestly answer her questions without providing a lot of detail. Aware of the presence of the professor, I simply told her that it was a long story and changed the subject back to her life.

"How are you doing?"

She shrugged. "Not very well. The cancer is back." As I listened, she told of the treatments she'd endured and the medicines she was forced to take. Medicines to help her eat. Medicines to heal the sores in her mouth caused by the endless vomiting. Medicines to help her fight off infections. "Look!" she exclaimed and pulled off her wig. "What do you think?" I could only nod as I stared at what was left of her hair.

I shuddered as Piper described her ordeal and the discouraging news from the physicians charged with her care. The medication regimens, diet supplements and so forth seemed endless. One of the consequences of her illness and treatment was that her energy level fluctuated wildly. As the three of us sat in that office, I watched as her energy crashed. Sliding down against the wall, she changed positions several times in an attempt to get comfortable. Ultimately, she wound up sitting against me, resting her weight on my legs. From where I sat, I felt the heat radiate from her body. The pressure of her bones seemed missing any cushion of flesh. I wondered if hugging her would hurt her more than it would reassure.

The subject of our meeting was supposed to be Organizational Communications. But instead, our communication revolved around her marriage, the sometimes unwelcome presence of her brother-in-law, and a mother-in-law who seemed to fulfill every stereotype. We talked about her life and especially her illness. Despite the adversity of Piper's fight with cancer, the introductory challenges of married life, and the pain that she was in, if there is one thing that I recall from that day, it is the sound of her loud laughter dancing through the office. Piper was down. But she was not out. One look at those dancing eyes, the animation in her face and the never ending smile spoke volumes.

Toward the end of meeting in Dr. Pagel's office, I mentioned my dream that someday I might be able to keep my horse Khen at the ranch. Piper stopped what she was doing and looked at me. "You have a horse?" I nodded and told her about my Arabian gelding, a fourteen year old purebred, imported from Spain. I’d had him since shortly after his birth. Piper was riveted by the equine turn of our discussion. She gasped, interrupting me. "No Way! I absolutely love horses! I have been riding all my life. You have to take me to see your horse. Where do you keep him? Will you take me riding?"

I fondly described the way he tosses his head when he runs, and how he gallops across the pasture to greet me when I come for a visit. I was happy to brag about Khen, telling Piper that his disposition was almost as unique as hers. As I spoke about my exceptional horse, I witnessed a transformation occur. Piper seemed stationary for the first time that afternoon. No longer fidgeting, her posture relaxed and her face glowed, brightening noticeably as she leaned forward to hear every word.

All of the sudden, a striking similarity hit me. Only one other person I knew was so moved by horses. His name was Lance. I almost stopped speaking mid sentence as I realized how much Piper and Lance had in common. If they were blindfolded and locked in a room together, bound only by the subject of all things horse to spark their conversation, I knew Lance would take to Piper as if they had been friends since birth. Lance lived to ride, and from Piper’s sudden interest, I could see that horses were also a compelling drive for her.

That night as I loaded planes at my airport night job, Piper and Lanced seemed locked in my mind. Reflecting on Lance and his gentle way with horses, I imagined Piper in the same light. The two of them had so much common ground. Their shared dance haunted me. So much so, that a young pilot noticed my preoccupation and asked in a concerned voice if I was OK.

I nodded, but remained silent as the contradictions, all leading to similarities, ricocheted through my mind. Where would things land between Piper and Lance were they to meet? What heading would their encounter take if Lance knew of Piper's illness, the hardships she'd not only faced, but overcome? Would he accept their similar love of horses as a starting point?

He was a compassionate man. I knew his heart. With such qualities, could he turn his back on her? He with those eyes that sparkled and danced under the Alberta sun? Could he say no to Piper's intoxicating smile and her own brilliant eyes that played gently with one's resolve? Or would he softly help her into the saddle and ride with her across the blue spruce-guarded foothills of the Alberta Front Range?

I also thought of the beating taken by people like Lance. His outlook was troubling, but he was also misunderstood, and wrongly aligned with those who hold more violent beliefs. Lance didn't evangelize his cause and it was only after years of conversation that I learned of his views. Yet how many folks listened to him without immediately drawing some of their own knee jerk conclusions? City people especially find it difficult to understand that the West’s big skies are wide enough to accept the contradiction of a vegetarian animal rights advocate and passive separatist living together in one man.

Regardless of how contradictory or independent Lance's views were, I felt that he would rise to the occasion if only presented with the opportunity.

After all, he lived in the magical Big Sky West, occupying that gray middle-ground-world where the difference between black and white is sometimes measured by a space that defies comprehension. In my heart, I believed that the tall dark cowboy would put his beliefs aside for a woman like Piper. Somehow he would find that way, tap into a deeper soul despite his racial views. With his trail-dusted heart and free-painted spirit, he'd be among the first in line to befriend her. He wouldn't do it out of pity, but out of a shared sense of their world. The irony required no further explanation. You just had to accept it. Lance might be the first racial separatist with a person of color for his best friend.

Piper rested on the second floor landing of Tiffany Hall. Waiting for her to catch her breath, I stood listening to the pounding rain outside. The last of the autumn leaves were tumbling resentfully to the ground and the darkness of winter was full upon us. Looking at Piper, I could see that the cancer treatments were taking their toll. Deciding that classroom time was futile in Piper’s current state, Dr. Pagel suggested we hold class at a pasta restaurant on Seattle's Queen Anne Hill. The decision seemed wise at the time. But that was before a cold front moved into the area from the Gulf of Alaska. Now, the weather outside seemed overwhelming in its grayness. As I watched Piper, I wondered how she could be motivated to succeed facing such horrendous obstacles. The elements certainly couldn't help but further dampen her spirits. After another minute, we resumed trudging our way through the endless drenching rain and mud toward my pickup.

Helping Piper into my four-by-four, I was unexpectedly very aware of how close we had become in the last few weeks. The quarter was nearly finished and soon I would be graduated, whatever that meant. Yet regardless of my imminent departure, we'd found some links that kept us regularly conversing. One night, when she was particularly uncomfortable, I'd directed her via email to my web site to give her something to read. I warned her that when she visited the site she was going to be a bit surprised.

Being gay on a Christian campus is a very challenging proposition. Seattle Pacific University requires its student's adherence to a Morality Clause. Sexual immorality was at the top of the list of no-no's. Living with my parents during the time I was enrolled at the school, I did not participate in any activity that created cause for disciplinary action. But at the same time, in some fundamentalist minds, my refusal to pursue reparative therapy and a wholesale pursuit of all things heterosexual was grounds for disciplinary action just the same. As a result, I'd been cautious in whom I'd fully disclosed all the details of my life. That was until the previous Spring Quarter.

The sudden departure of Dallas from my life created a hard free fall that was impossible for those around me to ignore. I disappeared from classes for nearly a week just before finals. When I returned, wasted and sleepless, the physical, emotional, and even spiritual effects initiated by that event could not be suppressed or hidden. It was a humiliating way to come out. Yet, those students and faculty who I shared my heartbreak with not only kept the gossip to a minimum, but erected a nearly impenetrable wall of protection around me. During a very uncertain time, people who shouldn't have given a damn supported me in every way that they could.

Although I'd shared previous classes with Piper, she was not one of those who knew the full story. Instead, she was one of the many who silently wondered what might have happened. The night I sent her to my site, I hoped that the stories might be a welcome distraction and give her comfort against the assault of medication, doctors, and marital adjustments. It was a risk, but I wanted her to know who I was, that she could trust me, and that I’d listen without judgment to whatever she had to say through her darker hours.

I was surprised when Piper immediately informed me after visiting the site that she was embarrassed. I couldn't figure out why she'd be embarrassed until she hesitantly confessed that at one time, she actually had a crush on me. Dumbfounded, I asked her if she had any idea how old I was? Responding in typical Piper fashion she asked me, "Do you have any idea that you have one of the finest butts on campus?"

Piper and I arrived at the restaurant and sat with Dr. Pagel in a booth looking out over the rain-darkened streets. Already dusk was settling over the city and the store windows were prematurely ablaze with holiday decorations. Shoppers dashed for cover between awnings and the streetlights cast a surreal glow over everything. Dr. Pagel, in fine spirits, laughed as Piper and I bantered back and forth. As a result of her exposure to the web site, Piper and I had become even closer. But I hadn’t yet told Dr. Pagel about my sexual orientation. I felt I owed her an explanation for my sudden disappearing act the previous spring, but somehow the timing had never been right. I was also sensitive to her personal views, knowing her to be a fair but consistently conservative Christian. I did not want to offend her. Remaining silent had proved easier than full disclosure.

As our meal arrived and Piper painfully struggled to eat, the conversation turned serious. Somehow finding myself in the midst of an uncomfortable discussion between the two women sitting across from me, I squirmed. The topic centered on the difficulties of maintaining a healthy sexual relationship with someone who faced a terminal illness. Piper's greatest desire was to bear children. The longer she endured the constant barrage of medical procedures, the less her chances of remaining fertile. Her hopes of carrying a child might not be realized. If that wasn't enough, her husband faced his own difficulties with the issue of Piper's illness. At times Piper wondered if she was still attractive to him. Doubt and sadness replaced her giggling and I wondered how to reassure Piper that love sometimes overcame when the physical diminished.

Dr. Pagel didn't understand the rush to bear children. "Piper, why are you in such a hurry to have a baby?"

Thoughtful for a minute, Piper looked outside. When she looked back at us her eyes were heavy with moisture. I held my breath not wanting to listen anymore. "Because right now my eggs are fertile. I have already miscarried and I don't know how much longer I will be able to conceive. More chemotherapy could make me infertile."

The professor thought about this for a minute. "Well Piper, once you have recovered from your treatment, then you can try…"

Piper interrupted her. "I don't think so. Right now they are telling me that I have a 70% chance of remission. This time. But if you project that out…" She paused, swallowing hard. "…with the kind of cancer I have, it is rare for the remission to last five years."

"Piper," Dr. Pagel interjected, "That’s what the doctors say. You know your own body. Your spirit. What is it telling you?"

Piper took a sip from her drink and turned to look at the professor. She said slowly, "I don't think I have very long to live."

I sat hard against the wooden chair that supported me. I didn't move and I didn't really know where to look. The moment was painful and my eyes were tearing up. Finally I looked at the professor and tried to help Piper out of an awkward moment. "Dr. Pagel, I think I know some of what Piper is saying. I have dated people with terminal illnesses. It's challenging."

The professor turned her attention to me. "Tim, you've never shared that before. What kind of illnesses are you talking about? Cancer?"

I swallowed hard. As the words came out, I knew the day was about to take a turn from which there would be no retreat.

"HIV."

"What?" Dr. Pagel seemed confused and a bit shocked.

"I have dated people with HIV."

"You know women with HIV?" she asked, stunned.

"No." I responded softly. Trying to think faster than the questions came, I hadn't expected any of this.

Piper suddenly reached across the table sensing my difficulty and grabbed my hand. Dr. Pagel looked at Piper and asked, "You knew about this?"

Before Piper could answer, the professor turned back toward me with a confused and concerned look on her face.

"Dr. Pagel, the man who was my partner…the one who disappeared in May? Well, he was more than just my business partner. We had been together for nearly ten years when he left. I am gay."

The professor was stunned.

Speaking seemed easier than letting the silence take over, so I continued. "I have been around HIV since I came out. As far as I know, neither one of us were or are positive, but I know many people who are. Over the years, I have lost numerous friends. And I've dated people who are infected with HIV. Both before…and after my relationship with Dallas. It can be very strange at times. Especially ten years ago, before the current medications came out. Of course, now that I am single again… well, you know…" I swallowed then continued, "…you never really know what you’re dealing with."

"Tim, I had no idea. I really didn't." I tried to hold eye contact as she looked at me across the table. "Tim, I don't know what to say."

I didn't know what to say either. I felt bad that I'd put her on the spot in front of one of her students. I'd planned on eventually telling her, but not like this. Dr. Pagel suddenly understood my isolation, the language that I didn't and couldn't speak at a Christian university. In the silence I could see that suddenly everything was making sense to the professor.

Piper seemed to understand all the swirling emotions present at the table, too. Especially the fear of rejection that I had faced. It's just that she, with nothing to lose, rejected that fear. If anyone knew something about courage, and the limited time we all have on this earth to live our lives, it was Piper.

The last week of the quarter dawned almost without notice. Too exhausted to care, I was simply in survival mode. Functioning on fifteen-minute intervals of sleep caught on the sly and struggling to keep up with the demands of two full time jobs, I'd already talked myself out of two parking tickets that week after over-sleeping while parked alongside Seattle's ship canal. The CB language study that originally brought Dr. Pagel and I together was now in the hands of another professor and seemed bound for publication. It would be an honor to be published as an undergrad, with my diesel stained blue collar roots. That’s what I kept telling myself, but thirty revisions later, I was sick of the damn thing.

Today I was scheduled to have my final meeting with Dr. Pagel. Alone. It was to be our first face-to-face since I'd come out to her. I had no idea what I was going to say besides apologizing to her for the shitty way she found out. It wasn't that I was ashamed of who I was. It wasn't that I was intimidated. It wasn't even that the subject was still taboo in 1999 at a Christian university. My shame stemmed from the fact that the news was presented to her when she had no cover, no where to duck and hide, and that such intimate things are best shared one on one. No matter what the inclination of the recipient.

The previous week I'd met Piper in the Student Union and the subject of our dinner with Dr. Pagel came up as we studied together. I told her that I was disenchanted with the way it turned out, and felt my disclosure was disrespectful in the context in which it occurred. Piper disagreed. Strongly.

Closing her notebook, she said, "Tim, I don't understand you."

"I just feel like it wasn't fair to her. To put her on the spot like that. She was forced to hear something she wasn't prepared for, and then her reaction was up for public viewing. I should have told her before." I looked at Piper, hoping she understood. In the light of the student union building her face seemed thin and the wig she wore looked uncomfortable. She still wasn't eating much and kept pushing her plate toward me to try to get me to eat some of her lunch. I couldn't help but wonder at how such a fragile person could be so strong. Yet looking into her eyes, I saw a fire that burned. I had to look away before I got caught up in it. I'd seen Piper emotional on numerous occasions, but this time I had a hunch that her aim might be directed my way.

"Tim, you almost act like you're still ashamed of who you are!" Her voice was urgent. Blinking back at her surprised, I shook my head protesting, trying to stop her thought process, while wondering if anyone around us had heard her. I realized she was right, I was ashamed, as she continued undeterred. "Never be ashamed of who you are! You have so much to be proud of and you are a wonderful man. Your orientation is part of you and you should not have to hide it."

My jaw was suspended somewhere in the basement. It was so simple, so elementary when Piper said it. So cut and dried and to the point. She got it. To Piper this wasn't about convenience or sensitivity to other people's religious beliefs. It was about who I was. Not something I could change. Not something you tucked away except for certain holidays or to mark changing status in one's life. Piper looked at "it" like she looked at skin color. She couldn't change who she was anymore than I could. Yes, I passed as straight. Most of my classmates were unaware of my sexual orientation and simply thought of me as "that cowboy trucker." But in Piper's mind, even on a Christian campus, ALL of who I was should never be tucked away.

I left the student union building that day moved by the force of the simple, yet elusive, lesson I'd just been taught. I wanted it to be that simple.

Dr. Pagel and I sat in the same restaurant as we had on that memorable day a few weeks prior. At first the conversation was awkward. Trying to relax, I made small talk. It wasn't easy. The issue of what occurred hung over us like dark storm clouds. After postponing the inevitable as long as possible, I finally dealt with it straight up. Despite the religious objections I suspected Dr. Pagel had with my orientation, I would listen to Piper's prodding.

"I'm really sorry about the way you found out about me…" I began. "It wasn't planned, it just sort of happened. I never intended for you to find out like that."

Dr. Pagel listened thoughtfully as I explained the difficulty I had being back at SPU and what being a student again at nearly 35 years of age felt like. The challenges of being an adult learner, coupled with the end of the most important relationship I had ever known, was overwhelming. Taking a drink of Diet Coke, I continued. Telling her that it often seemed that the only thing I had to show for all of this dedication to academia and a finished degree was a few notations on the academic dean's list, and student loans as far as the eye could see, I tried not to sound too pathetic. I'd planned to celebrate this moment with Dallas and now, without him by my side, it was a triumph that felt cold, empty, and solitary. I explained that I hadn't told her the whole story because I didn't want to experience any more rejection, or on the other hand, receive special treatment. I told the silent woman sitting across from me that I wanted her respect because I respected her.

Dr. Pagel stopped eating and put her fork down. Quiet for a moment she collected her thoughts. When she spoke her voice was measured and soft. Most importantly she was sincere. "Tim, you know what I wish for you?"

I shrugged.

"Do you know what I really want for you?"

I had no idea. I couldn't even begin to guess. The blank expression on my face confirmed it. She continued, "I've had you in my classes now for almost a year. In that short time, so many things have happened to you. Your pickup truck gets stolen, your big truck gets wrecked, and then there is this, this horrible thing with your partner. I am worried that you have had so much pain in your life, especially lately, that you might not be able to recognize joy. Some people become so accustomed to pain and disillusionment that it's all they know. They seek it out. I think you have had enough pain. What I want for you is Joy. I want some really wonderful things to happen in your life. That is what I wish for you." And then she smiled one of the warmest smiles that I'd seen in a long time.

Leaving the restaurant I began the slow commuter crawl to my night job. Although I was exhausted, the fact that I was through with my education seemed an understatement. All around me bright holiday lights lit the street and the magic of the season seemed real and sincere. I thought about the never ending paper on CB languages and my definition of trucking: Escape. I thought about Piper and Lance and about the issues of color and tolerance and the endless highways that I had traveled.

I also thought about all the highways that I'd never been on.

In all my days of trucking I'd never seen Yosemite.

The Grand Canyon.

New Orleans.

Or the Florida Keys.

Entering the freeway and seeing a big old Kenworth large car pulling a nice load of Christmas trees, I thought of those places and all the other things I hadn't seen. As the truck blew my doors off, kicking up wicked spray, I thought to myself as postcard images filled my mind, that hopefully someday I might get to see those places.

My formal education was finished. Soon I would have that simple piece of paper. The long awaited and incredibly expensive diploma that said I was a communications major and a business administration minor, with a certificate in biblical studies. All that learning summed up and printed out on a solitary piece of paper. How could a diploma contain all that I'd learned? Spanning five years of school? Or just the last quarter? For what I'd learned in the last few weeks, I still didn't fully appreciate. It needed time to settle.

I already knew a few things I hadn't known before. I felt certain that my heart was softer. That hopefully, as a result of knowing both Lance and Piper, the internal seeds of prejudice would never again sprout within me. I knew that a cowboy and one petite, cancer-fatigued young woman had made a huge difference in my life. I knew that a professor I never gave a chance to understand me, did. I knew that as much as I formerly looked at trucking as an escape, that now it was simply a beginning. A road less traveled that afforded the opportunity to see and experience life in so many varied ways. I knew that the trucking industry could be a better place in which to make a living if people were committed to making it happen.

As I drove into the rush hour dusk, and considered all of these things, I hoped that maybe someday I would live in a world where the barriers that separated us from each other weren't so huge. I hoped that all people, no matter what their differences, people like Lance and Piper, Dr. Pagel and myself, that we would all ride off into some glorious Alberta sunset together. Surrounded by the crush of Seattle traffic, at that moment such thoughts seemed pleasantly realistic. And looking back on my final quarter, those hopeful dreams still seem possible.

I have a dream.

That someday I'd like to see that.

March 2000
Piper's cancer has been in remission since late December. In January she conceived. She is as of this writing two months pregnant.

Dr. Pagel did not renew her contract to continue teaching at the university. Come summer she will be pursuing other adventures.

As of the last contact I had with Lance, he was up in Alberta. Driving a cattle truck