Tim's Tales from the Road
Tim's Tales from the Road
To Bill, and Sherman. And to Bradleyman.
The start of autumn fell down upon the wide open coulees of the Palouse as I rushed down highway 195 between Spokane and Colfax. Fingers of Ponderosa snaked their way into the north side of the shady hills and they seemed to be a staged army guarding the exposed flanks of the Selkirks to the north. The tall green sentinels stood vivid against the contour of hill and the wheat fields now golden in post harvest death.
The day was warm for September and traffic steady with Pullman bound college folk and farmers and ranchers heading back towards Spokane for the county fair. Gold and brown and tan colored the earth on the horizon and Steptoe Butte rose up in rebellion against other more gentle rolling hills.
Ahead of me lay a four hour drive and already ninety miles behind me, the ranch lay baking in the unseasonal scorching sun. I had not seen Dallas for three weeks and I was eager to get the drive over with. Somewhere lost in the horizon near the base of the northern flank of the Blue Mountains, he would be waiting. Clearance lights lit, sitting behind the wheel, and smoking that cigarette that he always has, his patience long like the slowing fading light. Dallas' cigarette would be bright against the darkness like an extra finger; dangling, alive, and warm. His E.T. phone home imitation. His heartlight.
He would be parked in the back row with the trailer kissing the sage and the foothills of the Blues' guarding the other keepers of the large cars, idling in that small isolated truckstop. Lost on the vastness of the plateau of the Umatilla Nation, the fuel stop is merely a place where folks pass through. Located on the eastern outskirts of Pendleton, the truckstop isn't a destination. It is an afterthought. If a hand lingers longer than an hour, the attendants raise their eyebrows as they fill adjoining trucks with go go juice and ask a surprised "you still here?"
Unless Cabbage Pass is closed, the travelers that do stop, don't stay for long. That big Texaco sign standing guard next to the blazing lights of truck traffic and the occasional car, is nothing more that a pit stop. A necessary evil. The travelers who pull off would much rather hit the Wild Horse Casino next door or get back on their way to Portland or Boise.
For the truckers, it is a place to recollect their wits after a butt puckering trip off the hill. As I thought of Cabbage still 200 miles away, I knew that 4,000 feet below the summit, the truckstop air would be pungent with the smell of burnt brake linings. The long treacherous descent off cabbage is famous for terrifying novice Midwest flatlands and keeping the experienced ones alert and respectful. The escape ramps are haunted with the horrified memories of men whose truck's brake linings got hot, smoked, ignited and turned those rigs into a bracelets, adrenaline rushed, wild ride. A ride mixing gravity with an exit into deep gravel vertigo. The broken guard rails on the other side told even more horrific stories of rigs plunging over cliffs.
And for those eastbound drivers facing the climb, the Texaco sign is a place to study the mountain in prayer and preparation. Can they see the snow line marking the freezing elevation on the mountain? "How's the hill?" static filled CB voices inquire as they watch the inbound drivers, the 'westbounders'. Are their rigs plastered with snow and ice and red traction sand? Are their faces as white as the snow they just came through? Or will "Its just Dry and Dusty up there", be the answer that brings them sweet relief. This time.
For the trucker this stop is a place of reverence. A place to pay your respects. Here is where silent prayers are sent heavenward from men and women who cling to the hope that the spirits that rule Cabbage will let them pass. With out over heating. Missing a gear. Losing a driveline. Or in the winter, having to chain up. Spinning out. Or for the ultimate rush...the jack knife. Cabbage Pass. Its the type of hill that in a truckers mind is legendary. For her might. And for her beauty.
I drove towards Pendleton and the Umatillas. Darkness settled on hamlets along the way. Dusty. Waitsburg. Dayton. And the larger city of Walla Walla. The stars came out and shone down against the step barren hills. Fields, where in spite of better judgement, wheat is grown and harvested in Combines which ride the contours at step angles and which testify to the courage of farming.
Along the way, I passed three county fairs neon lit and full of farmers wives with cotton candied lips engaged in the community gossip. Some fairs were small affairs with just one or two rides on the midway and a sharper edged telling of the affairs of the locals. Other larger ones a mix of swirl and whoop d do dizzy. The fields around the fairgrounds were full of pick up trucks and four by fours. I suppose that God had taken pity on the 'tillers of the dryland' by blessing them and their families with a perfect night to forget about the state of farming, commodity prices and their small world now hopelessly linked to the impossibly big world of International Monetary Funds and global economies.
I finally pulled into the truckstop around midnight. For the last ten miles, the lights originating from traffic coming off Cabbage mountain, snaking around the hill through eight miles switch backs and against cliff face, was my Beacon. My landing lights. In the night, the mountain didn't seem as ominous as by light, but she was still captivating. I thought of the scene from the top of the steepest section of downgrade, between Meachum and Pendleton, the view on a clear day that includes Mount Rainier, Hood and Adams. At one time, before she blew her top off, that look see also included Mount St. Helens. This is the land of 'straight line' vistas and although the Cascade Mountains are yet hundreds of miles away, they rise sharp into the horizon. In the summer months when the air is pleasant with the fragrance of pine and sage, the eyes hint that if they could just get a better vantage, stand a little higher, they could see forever. And in the winter, I knew full well that I was sometimes lucky if I could see the end of the hood. What a difference a season makes.
Dallas was standing next to the truck, his heartlight in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He wore the standard brushpopper and wranglers and his face was the Godsend it always is. I pulled up next to him and unloaded the gear he needed. We emptied the pickup and then sat and talked. Time was short and no matter how hard we tried the hours just wouldn't stretch. For anyone whose ever driven truck or been partnered with one, they know well that it is a balancing act that incorporates two parts madness with three parts fleeting moments spent on the run. Everything that makes life livable is experienced in frantic time and a half compensation trying to undo all those days apart. We sat together in the truck painfully aware that the seven small hours that we had to spare would fly into nothing. He smiled at me under the glow of all those cockpit dash lights and said "How's it going?"
I knew that in the morning, as he climbed up over Cabbage in the Lady in Red, he would be fighting much more than gravity and as I returned back towards The Pend Oreille Country, I knew that the same forces would be dragging me back. Dragging me back towards the Umatilla Nation and the Texaco sign and the sounds of all those Jake Brakes Rumbling off the last of the hill. Keeping time with the night and the stars and the sound of the crickets.
Over the course of our years together, Dallas and I have run team and we have run solo. Sometimes we wouldn't see each other for months. Our lone contact might be a quick wave, a show of hands as we passed on some isolated two lane highway. He north bound and I going in the opposite direction. Words too quickly spoken and then the static of distance overtaking the CB and then nothing but white noise as his mudflaps faded into the mirrors. It was never easy. Never quite satisfying knowing that the only thing that seemed to hold things together was our joint, same love hate relationship with the road and those same ties that seemed to bind us were the endless white fog lines that marked the boundaries of our lives. And, our impossible schedules.
The first six months of our relationship were spent in frantic runs across California. He and I dated over the CB as we ran together. Dallas ran consistently from Shakey Town (LA)to the Gay Bay (SF) while I ran all over the west in some sort of North verses South madness. When I finally made it into California, dog eared tired, we would meet, share a cup of coffee, and continue trucking. Together.
As long as our destinations allowed us to, we rolled. One in front of the other, intimately familiar with every spot of dirt on the other's back trailer doors. I didn't know it at the time, but over the cb radio the heart and soul of two people who didn't know much about sanity, seemed to find common ground in all that craziness. And in the process, as other drivers listened in on our conversations, the world seemed to get just a little smaller. And friendlier.
Our trucks rolled though the night, through the San Joaquin, the Grapevine and across The Delta country. We were just a blaze of clearance lights. He keeping me awake as I went through log book after log book trying to satisfy the godless Chinese produce houses in British Columbia. Yuma to Vancouver BC in a little over a day. And right back to Phoenix the next. Back and forth. Meeting up with Dallas and maybe getting an hour nap. Then it was time to make miles, roll baby roll. The eight or nine hours we ran together each week became a blur of exhaustion and exhilaration. Knowing that I had finally found someone who understood the drive to drive and the constant craving for motion. But also someone who had always dreamed of sitting still.
Then we discovered running team. Covering 1300-1400 miles in a twenty four hour stretch, we stopped only to fuel. And grab a shower every other day. Time zones blurred and though we knew the number of the day of the month we were in, we sometimes lost track of which day of the week it was. During 1997, we rolled for several months at a time between our small periods of home time. In a little over a year, we racked up 300,000 miles of superslab and not so superslab in rougher than rough states like Arkansas, Illinois, and California. Dreaming with our eyes wide open as Clay Walker puts it. Dreaming of a little time without motion and a few hours of shut eye where we weren’t bouncing off the walls of the sleeper.
Running team is always about contradiction. Combining ultimate romance and togetherness with dysfunction on steroids. The truck rolls constantly and the space is always tight. Physically and Mentally. A relationship that is cemented by the fact that the two primary concerns are bonded by equal measures of time spent struggling for airborne bounceless sleep and time spent avoiding road raged sport utilities, Wyoming weather, and always late freight.
These bonds aren't always the easiest to hold onto. 24/7 of anything gets old quicker than the veggies in the buffet line at the choke and pukes. Little things become big things. People who love each other spend more and more time thinking about the positive things that can be said for various forms of behavior modification tools. Like torture. Castration. And Corporal Punishment.
In November of last year we decided we had to get some sanity back into our lives. We toyed with the idea of purchasing another $120,000 truck and considered the ramifications of the stupidity of owning two trucks over just having one. We crunched the numbers and another truck just didn't pencil out. Neither did putting a millions miles on the Lady in Red. If we continued to run her team, in less than five years, we would run the lady into the ground. We couldn't do that to her. She might be a lady who got around. But we certainly didn't want her looking desperate.
The early morning light was full of pinks and purples and reds and the sky seemed to fall in with color as we each prepared to go our separate way. Saying regretful good byes to Dallas, I jumped back into the pickup. He pulled out onto the highway and I followed him. He turned to the left and I to the right. Immediately the distance between us grew and I watched in the rear view mirror as the Lady in Red got down to business, she of Strawberry colors and vibrant against the browns of field and blues of mountain. I imagined that Dallas would already be into the tall gears and gaining on the first of the hill. She would be buckled down, ready to go to work and I could still feel the soft vibration of that sweet idle and the caress of all 525 of her horses. I wanted to stay in that truck and smell the scent of Vanilla air freshener on my shirt and my skin. Feel the warmth of his first cup of coffee as it drifted up from the holder set low in the dash. But Autumn is a time of change. The death of things. A time of reflection. The quiet before the storms of winter.
As I drove slowly towards Walla Walla, I watched as she became ever smaller on the hill, farther and farther in the distance. Purposeful. Rolling hard. And leaving the other trucks in her shadow.
On the way back to the ranch, I spent the rest of the weekend with my friend Colton. I didn't know it at the time, but the weekend would take me on some trails I hadn't been down in a long time. Some of which had become overgrown from lack of use. Trails that should have been kept free of debris and maintained. Trails that if ridden slow enough and with a little thoughtfulness, provide perspective, balance and if Colton got his way, a little normalcy. I think he knew exactly what he was doing.
I am always kidding Colton that he is the definition of pragmatic and that his life seems too measured and balanced. "No one has the right to be this normal," I tell him. And he just smiles one of those paint the moon smiles that lights up the whole room and draws people to him like molasses. Italian by nature and from a strong family, his settled awareness and close to his roots appreciation gives him an assured, easy going approach to life. His dark hair is always a bit tousled and his eyes always have a hint of laughter in them. He is a man whose body is strong from years in the construction trades and his soul is strong from learning the good horse sense of knowing where he belongs and what makes him happy.
Colton honestly translated those desires into action and moved back from Seattle a few years ago simply to be near his family and those compelling silences that can't be heard in larger, faster places.
I have learned much from him. Listening to his dreams. Capturing a few glimpses of his view of the world and the perspective given by an adherence to timing, order, and the place of balance. He is one who is learned in the art of subtle distance. Yet, he brings comfort just through his quiet strength.
If a friend is stuck in the mud, Colton doesn't go charging in after them unless it’s truly life threatening. He figures they got into the mud, they can get themselves out. But he won't leave them there either. Colton'll just sit up there mounted high in that saddle of his. Perched up on that bank, studying them and staring down at the mud wrestler. He'll let 'em know he's got plenty of time to wait it out. Eventually they'll get pissy enough to find their way free and Colton will shake their hand congratulating them that they finally had the balls to dig their way out.
Not one to meddle or get into the way of other folks’ learning, Colton lets people ignore his advice. Wisdom he won't let lose of until he's asked. Speak only when spoken too. Like I said, he's pragmatic. But a hell of good time to hang with.
Arriving at his digs in Walla Walla, I was overwhelmed with the stately beauty of the old houses in the area. Walla Walla, which means place of many small streams, is set in a small valley surrounded by arid dryland wheat farms to the north and desert to the south and west. Looking east the land rises up first as scab lands and range and then it eventually gets overtaken by the Blues. Walla Walla's hot summers and mild winters are the perfect combination for growing those famous onions and when the Chinooks are blowing it can be 70 degrees in the middle of February.
Settled early, as western history goes, the city was home to the first white woman settler west of the Mississippi. Walla Walla was also the ill fated site of a brutal Indian lead massacre directed towards those early first settlers. Colton's family arrived in the area a few decades later.
He answers the door and flashes that smile that can change the day and announces that he has just finished baking our contribution to a huge family reunion that we are attending. He produces a chocolate cake that is taller than my truck and a dish that I learn later actually legitimatizes zucchini.
Arriving at the park in his jeep, the reunion is held in the same park where Fort Walla Walla once stood. Under the shadow of giant cottonwoods, their shade is welcome relief from the heat blowing in from the desert. Across the lawn are the tombstones from the massacre. Across the valley, lie the Blues rising up out of the nothingness and providing Walla Walla with horizon.
Amazed at the size of his family, I wonder if they hired security. Yet everyone seems content and modest. We are given "Hello my name is…" name tags and I look at Colton and ask him if I am supposed to be the new "little missus" for the day. The name Anderson would certainly stand out. Make a statement. His mother, a small and friendly woman, saves the moment and soon I am surrounded by a chorus of ladies with Italian attitude trying to make "Anderson" Italian. They want to know if I am Catholic and I say Lutheran and they look at me with horror. Not because of my faith but because of Lutheran's world wide reputation for throwing terrible potlucks.
As they settle on the name Anderfiglio I hear lots of red Jell-O and tuna casserole with crumpled potato chip topping jokes. "Oh you poor dear!" one of the women exclaims. "No wonder you are so skinny." We say grace and I am amazed as there is actually an orderly stampede towards the food. Lutherans actually compete for a place at the end of the line hoping that all of the food will be gone by the time its their turn to eat. This tradition allows for a second stop after the potluck. One which if nothing else won't annihilate the taste buds. A stop at McDonalds.
As I get up to the picnic tables crammed with food I am at a loss. All the food not only looks edible but delicious. Colton walks ahead of me explaining what everything is and tells me who he thinks made what.
"Try this and I think you will like this too...oh you probably don't want any of that," he points and translating, laughs. Colton is always laughing. Even when I explain to him that Norwegians don't do spice. Or flavor in our food. We invented bland. Now he is looking at me with a sorrowful look.
"Well we'll just have to adopt you then...you can become Italian!" and he launches back into that smile. As I look at everything ... the food and desserts and drink I am stunned at the preparations and the fact that I have been allowed to participate in Walla Walla's version of a taste of Italy.
I also noticed that the women in his family take costume jewelry seriously, as one of them walks up to me wearing a "Life's too short not to be Italian" t- shirt. Word traveled fast that there was a Lutheran in their midst and the short gray haired woman was dying to tell me about a prank she was involved with that concerned an innocent bishop and a crazy friend who was about to be ordained into the Lutheran Church. By the Bishop.
On the day of the ordination a strange, unfamiliar banner appeared in the sanctuary. Yet there was also something vaguely familiar about it. A color...a neon pink that was unique...one of a kind...
For years these women passed between them the most hideous Elvis tapestry as a gag gift. Including the woman about to be ordained. She'd received it and then she passed it on. The tapestry was hideous. Elvis never looked so bad. The neon pink so prominent in its design that it went far beyond bad taste and described offensive.
It is well established that Lutherans like their banners big and bold. Usually they are done in felt with nice solid earth tone colors. No neon. No fluorescent. Yet, with great creativity the Elvis tapestry was sown into a banner so that only the awful pink was visible. The banner looked authentic when they were through. It actually passed as Lutheran. But it was sown by Catholics.
The day of the ordination, the outlaw Catholic ladies snack into the sanctuary. The "He is Risen" banner was replaced with the Elvis banner. Facing the sacristy and the pulpit. A place where the new pastor would be standing and looking out over that congregation. With the bishop by her side. And that banner. In her face. With the neon pink and a very simple message. "He is King"
Later that night, after the reunion, Colton and I rode downtown to participate in the "Wheelin' Walla Walla weekend". The event is a classic car show and on Saturday night there was a dance. Along the way we picked up an additional member to our gang. A man who would teach me some very valuable lessons about life and freedom and more importantly, the blessing of friendship.
We arrived at Dustin's small house just north of the center of town. His home was small but upon entering it, I was immediately aware that its occupant had a zeal and a love of life and a little more creativity than is healthy. On every wall there was original art. The curtains and window coverings were hand made and each square inch demanded attention and study. I couldn't take in all I saw on the first glance.
If the house was captivating, Dustin was just plain entrancing. With bleached hair and expressive gestures, he greeted me with a warm smile. His animated approach was hard to not be immediately drawn towards. Taller than either Colton or I, he was wearing shorts and I was amazed at the strength and muscular mass of his legs. I learned quickly enough that he had once been a dancer. That these days he made equitation apparel and western shirts for local cowboys and cowgirls. And that he would finish every other sentence with the words, "Straight Up". It was an affirmation. An ending. A positive way to move on to the next topic.
The second thing I learned was that he was HIV positive, had full blown AIDS and that twice he'd damn near died. You'd never have known it. Everything about Dustin was full of life. His eyes sparkled. His voice carried a spirit about him that was always "up". No self pity.
He and Colton were amazing to watch interact together. Colton with his pragmatism and studied reserves and Dustin just this side of bustin' loose and hardly able to contain those wrists of his. The construction guy with the dancing guy. Laurel and Hardy. Patsy and Edina. Bill and Al. And me.
We arrived at the car show around sundown and as we walked among the historic buildings, studied the restored cars and took in the preserved sense of order that defines Walla Walla, the band was already beginning to play. Close to two thousand folks were there and everyone’s faces were lit with smiles and a willingness to cut lose. Especially Dustin, who we kept losing in the crowd as everyone seemed to know him and more importantly love him to death. Women would see him and their face would explode as their husbands, ranchers and cattlemen and farmers, looked on and smiled. "Dustin!" they would scream and he would pivot and rush into this hug or that embrace. I looked at Colton and he just shrugged and laughed. "That’s Dustin!" he would explain.
Eventually we made it through the crowd on the street, past all the pickups with their farmers co-op decals and PRCA stickers, and towards the band. Colton's parents joined us in a small crowded coffee shop just next to the stage. The coffee house, of course, was owned by one of Colton's cousins or nieces and they were buried with more business than they could handle.
Sitting next to Colton's father and his mother, and with Colton's other relatives sitting across from me, I wondered what it must be like to have such a huge, omnipresent family. I learned that Italians can read minds and Colton's mother, over the noise of the crowd, wondered if I'd survived the overwhelming crush of humanity at the reunion. We split two pieces of cheesecake between us and drank Corona beer. We laughed at ourselves and each other and struggled to hear, above the music and the roar of people, the conversation. Dustin kept getting distracted and soon he was at another table with two women and they were in hysterics over something he must have said. Soon he returned and sat across from Colton's father and told him how much his son meant to him and that he should be proud for raising such a fine man. And as I looked at Colton’s father, I could see that indeed he was.
Eventually Colton's family decided to leave us to our own devices. Somehow, the three of us found ourselves standing on the curb of the sidewalk watching the band, the people dancing, and the other onlookers. The audience and the dancers were truly having a great time. Cowboys and farmers. Local business people. Migrant Hispanic farm workers. The crowd represented diversity well and the dancers from this dance were celebrating the music, the mood and the essence of an early autumn night. Accompanied by a band playing old standbys from the 60's and 70's. I stood between Colton and Dustin enjoying it all. Suddenly Dustin grabbed my arm and said, "Lets dance."
I looked at him and said, "What? Are you crazy? Men can't dance together..." It was all I got out because he was already dragging me into the middle of the street. Not into the back of the crowd but right up front. "In front?" I asked weakly.
Smack dab in the middle of it all. Colton followed. You couldn't miss us. The only people separating us from the band were a bunch of little kids and teenagers trying to form a mosh pit. And then us. The Walla Walla Posse.
I decided to hell with it, wondering which one of us might get decked first. Yet somehow dancing on the street with those two felt natural and I quickly relaxed. I let the rhythm of rock and roll take over. Moving to crush of the crowd. Letting Colton and Dustins' faces of innocent abandon take hold of the night and pilot me where they willed. The band played "Sultans of Swing" and the lead singer clad in black leather pants smiled at us and I had to wonder how many times in the past did the streets of Walla Walla see women in leather pants? Or men dancing together?
The music played on and the stars shown down on us and the air was warm with the scent of alfalfa and mint. The two women from the coffee house joined our posse, their faces flush and warm. Dustin grabbed one of them and they began to do intricate swing moves and the crowd parted. The other dancers and the spectators watched them, clapping with the rhythm. The couple looked as if they were made to move together in unison. As I watched, my feet felt awkward and the time I was keeping was no match for theirs. Magic appeared and it was as if Dustin and the woman must have dropped in from a Broadway show. Talent among the lowly.
Together their feet flew and with outstretched hands, Dustin flung her into the crowd and then brought her back to him. Every move he made on the pavement, amidst the lines that separated traffic and measured parking spaces, was flawless. I have seen joy in many peoples’ faces, but I could not help but notice as Dustin worked his spell on his dancing partner, the crowd, and Colton and I, that in the simplicity of the moment, life, without our knowing it, turned perfect. And sweet. Weaving in and around the human sea of farmers and cowboys and towns people there was acceptance, love, and a sense of community. One which was demonstrated in a manner that I have rarely seen.
Much later that night as I fell asleep back at Colton's old, painstakingly restored home, the one with the wooden floors and the faded black and white photos of smiling Italians long since gone, the last image that I saw before blessed sleep came, was one of Dustin and Colton. Dancing on that street. Dustin's hands waving way over his head. His mouth opened wide and larger than any smile could encompass. Colton beside him with that easy laugh and his own smile, the one that could paint the moon. The two women by their side, equally alive and fulfilled in the moment. And I saw splendid life. I saw it pouring forth from one whose own had almost gotten away from him and it came spilling over and filled the cups of anyone who was close by. Dustin's charismatic, unresistable energy. The life force that took the town and brought the house down.
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