The Columbia River Gorge

June 16, 2017

Route 84. The Columbia River Gorge. Day is breaking here, pale sunrise streaks the sky. To the right, the Columbia River, massive and running full, its surface rippling under the wind.

On the very edge of the river, below us, railroad tracks, with miles of freight train sliding slowly eastward. The opposite bank holds a similar train, flat cars holding one and sometimes two shipping containers. Four engines in front of each train, and two behind, provide power. Lining the river, reaching deep and trailing their branches into its life giving flow, are green trees. Their color waves in stark contrast to the barren hills

To our left and right, higher up, much higher up – are they hills or are they mountains? Dry, empty, but for brown grass and small bushes. The surface of the ground is rippled, lumpy, as though a quilt was thrown over an unmade bed. In places, the road cuts through rock, its sheer face rising straight up on both sides, momentarily blocking the river’s view. Partway up the steep incline, an oval opening carved into the rock. What comes and goes through that opening? Lives inside the rock?

Atop the high hills, Indian scouts, long hair blowing in the wind, sit astride durable mustang ponies, alert to any small threat. No, instead, hundreds of massive windmills turn slowly in the wind, controlled revolutions carving unending circles in the wind currents.

This video is from a different trip and location, but same type of turbine.

 (The Trucker and I parked near a rig earlier this week, carrying one giant blade of these windmills. The blade alone is 148 feet long, weighing 23,000 pounds. At the height of its revolution, each blade reaches 400 feet into the air.)

Wind roars down the canyon and presses against the nose of the truck like an unseen hand. The truck sways and bucks, trying to cut away from the pressure. The Trucker sits upright in his seat, leaning forward, forearms resting on the wheel. He is relaxed, yet intensely aware of every sound and vibration; nothing beyond the windshield or underneath him escapes his notice.

High above, the sky that can be seen gradually lightens. Now the ripples on the river’s surface deepen and lift into waves. The railroad tracks curve away from the river, carrying their trains and cargo with them. The mountains lower into hills, showing geometrical patches of green where cultivation has been accomplished. A break in the hills provides a view of the full moon, gliding toward the western horizon, its yellow glow fading to white as it loses the competition against the burning sun.

With ever increasing strength, the wind slaps a mighty hand against the truck. Trees thrash and whitecaps form against the unrelenting force. The Trucker tenses, both hands tight on the wheel, holding it steady as we cross the river. This Passenger is all too aware that the road is just a narrow strip, alone and unprotected, between the waves. Curving back to land, Route 84 hugs the hills again. Rising majestically in the west, Mt. Hood can now be seen, jutting into the sky above a rolling mass of dark clouds, their edges rimmed by light from the east-rising sun.

The road now flows downward. The river widens, marshy areas join it to the bank. Boats dock at its edge. A white tugboat shoves a weighty barge upriver. The hills lower, and carry towns on their edges and ledges. Green and lush, trees are interspersed with the scar of civilization. Rising sharply away from the towns, dry hills reach toward the sky, which is now a brighter, deeper blue. Suddenly round a hill, the Trucker and I come face to face with the newly risen sun.     

Storm on the Prairie

Storm on the Prairie

June 13, 2017

It was the Trucker who first called attention to the blanket of dark clouds to the left and ahead of us. We were rolling east on Route 94 in Montana, the road a ribbon of asphalt flowing mile after straight mile across the green prairie. Two lanes east, two lanes west, split by the median. Small herds of black cattle with their young broke the expanse of land on either side of the road. Traffic was occasional.

For more than an hour the Trucker and I watched the storm clouds, moving toward them at 70 miles per hour, the truck rising and falling with the gentle swells and drops of the road. Clouds thickened and became darker, smothering the land. Curtains of water fell from them, visible against the lighter sky beneath. Lightning glimmered and sparked continuously within the mass. Randomly, a sharp blade of white hot light sliced through and stabbed toward earth.

Protruding southward, in front of the truck, lighter cotton candy-like clouds floated at a different level than the storm. Their edges were rimmed with brightness, reflecting the glow of the western sunset behind. Underneath them, a layer of gray moved steadily toward black.

Along the right side of the truck, to the south, skies were clear. Puffy clouds serenely hung in place against a light blue backdrop. A totally different world, the slash of road a dividing line between.

Another half hour, and the road curved, and swung back again. Another curve away, and we were at the very edge of the rain. Eastbound lanes were dry. The grass in the median was wet. The westbound traffic swished their wipers and sprayed water from their wheels as they passed. The nose of the storm was directly overhead. Another half hour, and the wind increased, shoving the truck sideways. The trucker tensed, his hands restraining the wheel. Clouds spit rain in huge drops, and hail clattered on the roof and hood of the cab. Five minutes, and we were through.

Immediately, the world became lighter, setting sun behind us notwithstanding. Released from the heavy, foreboding atmosphere, the truck rolled on. The demanding wind gave way to a gentle breeze which was a startling twenty degrees warmer than before. Light gradually yielded to the creeping darkness, deepening dusk merging earth and road and sky into one shade.

And on and on the ribbon flowed away into night, the truck rising and falling with the gentle swells and drops of the road.

The (Almost) Last Word

The (Almost) Last Word

June 10, 2017

Early morning on I-80 West in Nebraska. A glorious sunrise filling the eastern sky, the pale moon descending in the west. The green, rolling prairie, streams running full from snow melt and rain, is restful to the eye and food for the soul. The world is quiet, except for four lanes of traffic, two rolling east, and two west, a median between. All calm and smooth.

Without warning, a car just in front of the truck slows noticeably and swerves slightly. The Trucker instantly comes down hard on the brakes, scrambling for an opening in the left lane. Seconds later, one appears, large enough for all eighteen wheels and what they carry. The Trucker cuts over, lets off the brakes, and pulls alongside the slowed car. Yep, the driver was texting, oblivious to the world around him. Does he have any idea, but for an alert trucker and a miraculous break in the left lane traffic, that text might have been the last word he saw?

Sharing the Road

Some watching the Trucker drive may think he is totally relaxed, just letting the world go by. He does have to relax to some extent, in order to drive the distances required of him in a day. But at the same time, he must always be alert to ever changing conditions. Watching for traffic ahead, scanning mirrors for traffic coming behind, obstacles including wildlife, always prepared to avoid hazards and know options for changing lanes to escape a bad situation in the making. Not only does he need to be mindful at all times of how to get out of a bad situation that may occur without warning, but to be prepared to create a way out for another vehicle that may need it as well.

One of the biggest obstacles is the unpredictability of other drivers, never knowing what they will do next. Drivers that have no clue their actions can be dangerous to themselves and others. Especially in heavy traffic. But even a nearly empty road demands alertness.

The Trucker’s daily prayer is for safety; that he will be protected, and will not be a source of harm to another on the road. He makes every effort to share the road, never crowding another motorist or worse, running one off the road entirely. Although, it could be argued, there are some out there who may deserve the experience!

This is an all or nothing job. A small distraction at the wrong time could be fatal to someone. It is mentally and physically exhausting. Even “off duty” time on the road is on duty in the sense that the Trucker is still responsible for the truck, and the load it carries. At times we have joked that the Trucker comes home one day, and his mind will follow a few days later. A bit extreme, but the point made is real. It takes effort to switch gears at home after a run, and often by the time that occurs, the Trucker must be preparing to be on his way out the door again.

As with any job or responsibility, the more skill you possess, the less effort is apparent.