Lunch on the Road

Clear skies, bright sunshine. I-80 W in Wyoming. Mostly flat road, with mountains getting ever closer in the distance. 80 mph seems slow. Time has little meaning.

Then an alarm goes off in the Trucker’s interior. Sustenance needed. I finish my row of stitches, and anchor the needle. Stepping from cab to bunk, I kneel to better explore our pint size refrigerator. Menu choices are glorified leftovers from home cooked meals, packaged in boxes perfectly sized to maximize space in the refrigerator. The entree of the day will be sausage and mashed potatoes.

Swinging shut and latching the refrigerator door, the next step is to remove the microwave turntable from its box on the shelf, stand on the bed, and fit it in the microwave, followed by the (opened) box of lunch. While the meal becomes dizzy and hot, a spoon is selected from the cupboard, and a water bottle from the fridge.

Three minutes later, spoon and meal in hand, I return to the cab and my seat. Now comes the time for coordinated effort. The food needs to be loaded on the spoon and inserted in the Trucker’s mouth. Not on the floor, his shirt, his face, up his nose (hence the spoon as opposed to a fork). The truck is vibrating, jolting, swaying. An eye needs to be on the road ahead and beside so as not to obstruct his vision, or offer a loaded spoon when a bump or lane change is imminent. (Although very accepting of my sometimes clumsy efforts, the Trucker has been known to mutter comments about unintentional tonsillectomies under his breath.)

Mission completed. The cavity has been filled, for now. The Trucker selects a toothpick from his stash on the visor. Returning to the bunk, I remove the microwave turntable and replace it in its box; neither of us wish to hear it chatter with every vibration. The meal container and spoon are wiped and dropped in the dirty dishes container. (No place to do dishes on the road; even rest areas have signs prohibiting doing dishes in their sinks.) Refilling a water bottle and placing it within reach of the Trucker is the final move. I return to my seat, where a ballgame is now filling the airwaves, and retrieve my needle.

Gios BBQ, the Traditional Lunch Stop

… on this run west. On Route 322, eleven miles west of Philipsburg, PA, just over the hill from Route 80.

Known for its award winning BBQ sauce, which, if the label can be believed, should be partnered with a fire extinguisher. Also known for its rustic wooden furniture, which is really repurposed plastic. Also known, at least to the Passenger, as the place which employs the BluStorm2. This stainless steel box affixed to the wall by the sink contains a square opening into which the brave insert their dripping hands. It responds with an other-worldy blue light and a blast of wind that attempts to rip skin from said hands in the process of drying them.

The large, dirt/gravel lot is an invitation to truckers. There is also an ethanol plant nearby that likely brings in regular appetites. This is the one stop where one orders food before hitting the restroom. Especially since the Trucker has a standard order that requires no reading of the menu beforehand. A pulled pork “sammitch,” and fries. His Passenger generally settles on the chicken sandwich, grilled, with no sauces or suches.

The background music is standard rock, not one of the multiple modern interpretations thereof. Background, yes, until one enters the restroom. There, decibels double, owing to a large speaker in the ceiling directly above the stall. That is somewhat bearable, as most users of the facilities don’t hang out there for entertainment. It does give one’s thinking a twist, however, to hear “Another one bites the dust,” just as one is sinking teeth into a chicken sandwich, grilled, with no sauces or suches. And thankfully, the Trucker doesn’t mind lettuce and onions, as long as they are on the Passenger’s sandwich.

On the Road Again (But Not Like We Planned)

Through the years of child rearing, the Trucker and I were separated as much as together. Both of us were doing what we loved, while dealing with the pressures and deprivations of being apart. I tried to travel with him at least once a year, but didn’t always meet that goal. It was very difficult to find someone willing and free to take on four children, their schooling and assorted schedules and pets, for a week.

Now, at long last, we are there. Our home is empty. There is nothing to hold me there other than routine maintenance. What we hoped and dreamed would be a joyous time of reconnecting after launching our children into the world is now heavy with sadness and loss. Even life in the trucking world brings memories of the father that used to share this life but has now gone on to his reward.

Still, I travel with the Trucker when I can and when it is convenient for him. The reminder of what his life is like as he labors to support our family is helpful to me. And an understanding wife is helpful to him.

Many have asked if I plan to upgrade my license to a commercial one. Nope. At one time it was a desire. Reality settled that question. I don’t do well in cities, in heavy traffic, in judging distance. I drive to get somewhere, not for enjoyment. Driving is the Trucker’s life. He has 30+ years of knowledge and skills for life on the road under his overworked belt. He does not relinquish the wheel easily. Teaching is not his gift. Our relationship, like many, is stronger if we stay in our respective roles and support each other from there.

And so, I hold down the passenger seat. The Trucker has generously adapted his routine to make space in his box on wheels for me. A shelf in the bunk has been cleared for my belongings, and a cozy nook up front is mine. A small wooden stool rests my feet to ease back pain from continual sitting. It also props my bag of books, study material, and stitchery, preventing it from spilling when jolted. Little hooks thoughtfully attached to the passenger door (which is always locked and never used by me) hold my scissors and patterns, and a trash bag. A door pocket keeps my water bottle upright. A ledge onto which to clip my small light for after-dark activities is also on the door. My laptop lives in the Trucker’s briefcase behind my seat. A reach behind me procures a blanket and/or pillow for late night hours, or, two steps bring me to the bunk to stretch out.

Life on this truck is like camping on wheels. Space is tight. It is not for the perfectionist. Clothing, while nicely kept as possible, is practical, as you basically live in it for at least two days at a time. You use the facilities, not when you need ‘em, but when you find ‘em. Sleeping in when the wheels begin to roll under you in the morning means that when you need ‘em, they may be miles away. It means brushing your teeth in a public restroom, doing your hair in front of a tiny mirror in the dark bunk, or walking into the truckstop looking like something the cat remodeled and then discarded, before you can hit the restroom to repair damages. It means being organized and moving quickly, because stops are accomplished with a schedule in mind. The less I complicate the Trucker’s routine the easier for us both in our tight quarters.

Meal preparation, with the aid of a drop down shelf and a pint sized fridge and microwave, is accomplished while sitting on the bed. Brisk walks to renew circulation happen when the truck is being refueled, as long as there is a safe section of the lot within sight of the driver, and/or a grassy area the dogs have not already put to use.

What fills my time if I do not drive? Reading, to myself and aloud to include the Trucker. Books of his choosing, and of mine, as long as my voice holds up. Catching up on the accumulation of magazines, articles, etc. Discussing what we read. Conversation in general. Learning to know, again, the man who shares my life. Mending, though that need is not as great as in years past. Cross stitching, doing Scripture blessings for Christmas gifts at the moment. Study. Dear Son #2 brought me his manual for Inductive Bible Study from his training time, and also uploaded many of his notes from Potter’s Field IGNITE classes onto my laptop. A treasured gift. Plenty of time to think and pray. And enjoy the scenery. Worship in singing is a gift that has been denied me these last months, but I can praise God for the loveliness of His creation. I can also bring him the offering of my pain, fear and loss; this too is worship, for only He can carry it for me. And He does. This truck becomes a sanctuary where I meet God.

The Sound of Silence

The Sound of Silence

July, 2017

...only exists as long as it remains unmentioned. The very description ends its existence.

On this trip, the Trucker and I have shared much more sound than usual, yet there has been more silence between us than usual. The reason? Lack of air conditioning.

Detouring to Whitefish, the trail took us through construction. There, traffic is not routed around construction, but over and through it. Pardon the PA Dutch use of back to back prepositions (I remember my father saying on occasion, “Here he comes, over through the yard.” And my mother responding, “Which is it? Over or through?”), but we really did go over and through, piles of dirt and gravel, dips and ruts. The jolting and shaking pushed a part or piece of the air conditioning system past its limit of endurance, and suddenly we felt the real world.

No worries. This is Montana. Near the mountains. This won’t be so bad, especially since there is not the east coast’s humidity. Wrong. It seems 95 degree days aren’t unusual, though air conditioning doesn’t seem to be a standard housing feature here. 

We learned Montana air conditioning is to open your windows overnight, when the temperatures drop to the low 50’s. Mid-morning, when the cool breeze is still stirring your curtains, windows are closed and remain so for the day. The process does trap in the cool overnight air, but for folk like me who need to feel air movement, the atmosphere can become rather stifling.

After a lovely visit with Potter’s Field Ministries, where the staff went out of their way to care for us, show us the program, and allow us to experience the sense of community, it was on the road again. Back to the silence, or lack thereof.

This trip, my collection of “to do while riding” included things like a book to read aloud to the driver, sermon/teaching recordings to hear, issues needing discussion and a plan of action, among others. But...lack of a cool breeze within the truck required open windows in the cab and vents in the bunk. Which admitted sound. Of wind whipping in and slapping sweat off our faces. Of that E model Cat with six inch pipes, rumbling beneath and beside and befront us. Of the high pitched rush created by passing trucks, with their own versions of Cats and pipes.

Any communication between the Trucker and his Passenger necessitated yelling. (Hmmm….what were the topics we needed to converse about again??) Or I could slip out of my seat, stand in the bunk behind the Trucker, and speak into his ear while braced against the swaying truck.

I’ve realized again how draining and wearying a constant onslaught of noise can be. Hour after hour the engine noise, the wind, the heat. And the sense of getting “nothing” done. Anything involving speech and hearing is off the table. Which leaves reading...and writing.

After two days of pondering, and trying fixes with the tools on hand, the Trucker successfully restored the flow of cool air. For a blessed day, we once again traveled in the quiet coolness of air conditioning. Alas, this too ended, and we were back in the wind. So, we sit in companionable silence while the miles roll away under us.

This too, is love: to be totally comfortable in the presence of another, no matter the conditions. There is silence in and between us, while the Cat rumbles under and beside and befront and the wind slaps sweat from our faces.

Pelicans on the Columbia

Highway 730 in Oregon along the Columbia River. My first pelican sighting! They sit motionless, bobbing with the waves. They look like oblong, white buoys with a pointy end. That pointy end is aimed ominously at the water. Dark, beady eyes on either side of the attached end miss nothing. The business end appears razor sharp.

The Trucker tells me pelicans are excellent divers; I had always pictured them just scooping up beaks full of surface water, filtering out the water and retaining the fishy stuff.

Pelicans certainly do not need all the accessories for a day of fishing that the human variety of fisherman requires. They are quite efficient. And self sufficient. Just as they were created to be.

Typical Sunday Night Supper, Untypical Company

Typical Sunday Night Supper, Untypical Company

July, 2017

It is Sunday evening, and we are winding and twisting our way down the Rockies. The scenery is beyond words, and beyond the camera, and my ability to use either. One stretch of road was a 55 mph limit. Ron went the limit, but only because the jake brake was on. Otherwise we’d have sailed over the edge. You hardly ever see runaway truck ramps anymore, but on this stretch there were two within a mile. Whooee. Who needs a rollercoaster? I have the Trucker.

On either side of the road, mountains rise up steeply. They are covered with evergreen-type trees. Two westbound lanes hug the side of the mountain. On our left, there is a drop of varying depth, sometimes bare, sometimes tree covered. At the bottom of this drop, two lanes run eastward. Another drop, and a clear mountain stream runs along the road. And sometimes, to our right, higher up the mountain, is a railroad track, running on a ledge cut into the face of the rock. At times, the track runs under a roof jutting out from the mountainside, built there to protect the tracks and trains from avalanches.

BUT, I had the most delightful experience an hour or so back, at a rest area on the Montana/Idaho border. While Ron checked the truck, I headed for the rest room, but got sidetracked. Between the sidewalk and the trees was a narrow lawn. And under the trees and on the lawn were prairie dogs! I never before saw them in real life. These were so accustomed to people that they were going about the business of being prairie dogs, oblivious to the constant flow of travelers. For everyone but me, the feeling was mutual. I scurried back to the truck, and retrieved leftover popcorn, an apple, and a paring knife.

Sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, I tossed a few experimental grains of popcorn onto the lawn. Immediately they were snatched by the dogs, who sat up on their haunches to eat, holding the grains in their front paws. Closer and closer they came, until the larger ones were eating out of my hand. Word spread, and whole families arrived, from the Grumpy Grandpas to the Tiny Tots. The only sound heard was the occasional squeal when paws connected to different dogs wanted the same kernel.

Then I took my knife and began dicing the apple into tiny cubes. This took longer than throwing out popcorn, and by now I had an audience. But did they ever love that apple! Most sat back and waited for apple pieces to land near them, but a few climbed right into my lap, sat upright, and reached with their tiny forepaws for the next piece. I was a bit worried about being nipped by those sharp teeth, but decided I have a current tetanus shot, and not to forego this awesome experience over that concern. However, I did stand up after a while; I didn’t want those soft little paws to grab onto my knife blade.

The apple ended about the same time as Ron’s check of the truck, so I eased away. He said that the little rodents followed me to the sidewalk, and sat watching forlornly as I crossed the parking lot.

At times we have seen prairie dogs peeking out of their holes along the road as we drive, but the slightest shadow and they are gone. They were larger than what we saw today. These must have had their burrows in the ground under the trees. When we came, they were searching out tree seeds and other tidbits from the grass. These adults were about the size of month old kittens, and the babies less than half that. It was a temptation to reach out and pet them, but I didn’t want them to feel threatened and react defensively, which would have been painful on my part.

In the time it took to write this, we have done another climb, the truck struggling to maintain 30 mph. Now there is another downhill. This time, the road is a narrow channel with rocky cliffs rising on both sides. We are hoping the sun soon goes further down quickly to allow the mountains to shade us. In Whitefish, Montana, it was 95 degrees. Here it is 86, and by now it is 5:30pm west coast time.

Hay Harvest Observations in Montana

This trip, the Trucker is deviating from what would be the sensible route for his assigned load. We are jolting west on Route 200/287 in Montana. Mile after mile of two lane road, which means a slower pace; adopt the speed of whatever vehicle is in front of you and forget any ideas of passing. It also means more time for the scenery. Photos are not an option for two reasons: a windshield splattered with the earthly remains of hapless insects, and the fact that no camera could ever do this view justice. It is an ocular feast of the richest sort.

There are no boundaries to this visual delight. We are steadily rising. Each up is a bit more up. Each down is a bit less down. Small towns and ranches happen sporadically. The area is dry, grasses and shrubbery are yellowing, although streams are marked by small trees and darker foliage.

Cattle graze in small groups over the vast hills. The Trucker tells me they graze freely until reaching a certain age and/or weight. Then the cattle on a thousand hills become hills with a thousand cattle, as they are rounded up and housed in feed lots to attain the desired weight for their trip to the grocery store. It does seem that until their stint in the feedlot, the meat would be quite lean, given the mileage they put on while grazing this sparse country.

Apparently haying time is just finished. Hay fields are shorn, leaving a color contrast with the meadows and wheat. Fields are of every size and shape, fitted neatly between hills, gullies, streams, rocks. Large, round bales dot the land, some in regular pattern, some stacked, some left just where the baler rolled them out. They are yellow/brown in color. We assume the sun bleaches the outer layer, and there is green in the center. Apparently a lot of this is shipped east, especially the organically grown hay. Again, there are no words for this sight. There is not much color variety, just multiple shades of the same. Any activity is unseen from the road; the land is quiet. One’s sense of awe is as much in the feeling given by this place as the view. Everything is over sized: the sky, the land, the sense of space and freedom.

Flatbed trucks, most pulling tandem trailers behind, transport bales from the fields. The trailers carry 25-30 (by my count) round bales, and often that many again on a second trailer. For hours, we followed two flatbed drivers heading for their next loads, listening to their conversation on the CB radio. We learned they were transporting hay; the wheat harvest would begin in two weeks. It seems the climate is so dry that the only determining factor for scheduling harvest is the maturity of the crop, unlike Lancaster County, where farmers nervously scan the sky when cut hay is on the ground. The drivers’ speech was a calm, unhurried drawl. Were it not for the profanity that decorated every sentence, the effect would have been quite soothing. Meeting them in person at the truckstop later in the day was interesting. But for the fact they rode steel horses, and wore sunglasses and tattoos, by appearance they could have been transplanted into the 1800’s with little taxing of the imagination.

The temperature is a dry, windy 92 degrees.

The richness of the view does seem to pull up short when leaving the created world and encountering man’s alterations. Lifestyles here are most certainly not Lancastrian, either. Here, the rancher’s equipment is often larger than his residence. Houses seem after thoughts, in a way. Definitely not the well-landscaped monstrosities we are used to seeing. The exterior appearance doesn’t seem to matter. Walls of straw bales around trailers are the best insulation available, but make my east coast eyes wince. Barns and equipment sheds do not happen either. Animals, when they are fenced in, have sagging lean-tos for shelter, if anything. (Thousands of miles of fencing run along the roads, but seem as much to keep the traveling population out of the land as to keep the animal population out of the road, or to divide properties.) Equipment is abandoned where its usefulness ended, and lawn mowing, when it happens, circles neatly around the parked “lawn ornaments.” But it works for them, so what does it matter? We are just passing through, anyway. What would Montana residents says about our values? We wonder.