Welcome. “Truckers are the last American cowboys.” Stop laughing. It’s true. A television documentary playing in a truckers’ lounge told me so. So in that spirit I put together this little travel-guide for truckers, neophyte truckers, prospective truckers, relatives-of-truckers, hitchhikers-picked-up-by-truckers, recreational-vehiclers, and anybody else seeking to be misled. Giddyup.
EDITORIAL NOTE: The actual "travel-guide" part is elsewhere. What follows is crap you need to see, read, and possibly commit to memory or else you WILL die! (You'll die regardless in due course, of course.)
July '23
Jacob Marley as the Ghost of Winters Past (dressed as the author of your favorite website).
May '23
She has no thumbs, so I was stuck with taking the picture. Bootleg Canyon, Nevada. Near Hoover Dam, Nevada/Arizona.
April '23
Look what I painted! (By "painted" I mean I zoomed in so far in editing that the tortured pixels gave up.) San Francisco Bay, California.
March '23
When mountains hold their breath. The Wasatch range, Ogden, Utah.
December '22
November '22
Hohokam petroglyphs, South Mountain Park. Phoenix, Arizona.
More Hohokam work.
October, '22
June '22
Green River, Wyoming.
A plague of Mormon crickets. Nevada highways were blackened by their squashed carcasses.
Sooners. Folks that jumped the line and staked their claims sooner (than the other poor schmucks who waited for the official starting gun). Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
May '22
High Desert Trail. Gallup, New Mexico.
High Desert Trail. Near Gallup, New Mexico.
The bloom is off the rose, and in the trees. The Rose City (AKA Portland, Oregon).
Zen Trail, entirely free from the scourge of dragons. St. George, Utah.
Jacksonville, Oregon.
Medford, Oregon from Prescott Park.
April '22
Southern Georgia. A day's drive later we were welcomed by tornado sirens, an eerie calm, and ill-behaved rainwater in an otherwise forgettable burg.
March '22
A shortcut. Near Flagstaff, Arizona.
Space, as occupied by windblown snowflakes.
February '22
Changing room.
January '22
Sandy River just before it joins the mighty Columbia. Troutdale, Oregon (near Portlandlia).
November '21
Spokane River, Washington.
October '21
Trapped Sunlight's glow in the Land of Enchantment. (Also known as High Desert Trail System, near Gallup, New Mexico.)
High Desert Trail System. Gallup, New Mexico.
August '21
Some texter blocked my usual entrance to a favorite trail, so I went around him and dismounted abruptly over my handlebars, in his full view (it may be on the internet.) This pic is my consolation prize. I did not zoom in and I am not an expert on deer body Language, but I think I was close to a confrontation. Beacon Hill (Sekani Trails), Spokane, Washington.
Smoked turkeys (everything & everybody is this summer).
Somewhere over the Rainbow (between Jordan Valley, Oregon and McDermitt, Nevada.
July '21
Semitourist is pleased to exploit the talents of Guest Photographer, Laem Kuntz. Laem took this month's photos while the truck attempted the speed limit on the hyper-twisty US 101 along the Oregon Coast and through the Redwood National Park.
The Pacific Ocean and a series of large rocks therein.
Humbug State Park, Oregon.
Redwood National Park. Note the lack of shoulder and the trees creeping closer and closer to the road.
June '21
Donner Pass, California.
Looking for a peanut-butter fish. Puget Sound, Tacoma, Washington.
Used Car, Like New. Tacoma, Washington.
May '21
Monument Valley, Arizona.
April '21
Some Creek. Bonneville Shoreline Trail. Ogden, Utah.
March '21
Zen Trail. St. George, Utah. Untouched by rain (or lightning) somehow.
February '21
Brutal cold weather everywhere. Texas lost power, froze, accumulated snow on their beaches. I was stranded in Baker City, Oregon waiting for our company to let us drive (we have a no chain-up policy). When I was allowed to drive, I made it to the outskirts of Portland (still Oregon) and sat until the freezing rain that coated the snow-inundated city abated. Parked in a snowbank then leisurely chopped at the snow/ice for a day and a morning. Might consider parking among the others on the freeway next time.
Portland, Oregon. Ice Storm.
Raspberry Leaf. Portland, Oregon.
January
2021
Mojave Desert, California. Sunset.
November '20
I strayed off of I-5 long and far enough that I got a load going to Texas. Which was canceled. It was replaced by a load going through Moab - with enough time between stops for me to ride Slickrock Mountain Bike Trail (the granddaddy of 'em all, a literal destination ride!) Recuperated on up to Washington. Trekked through the rain a few days later for a protest beer (go back to the Soviet Union Inslee!). Pretty boring until I showed up at Costco to find a rolled SUV in the parking lot partially blocking the docks. Kudos to him, never would have guessed that was possible.
Colorado River Gorge as seen from Slickrock Trail. Moab, Utah
Costco parking lot/loading dock area moments before my arrival. He walked away. Lehi, Utah.
March thru October '20
I delivered toilet paper.
What the box says (from a few years ago, but the sediment is valid - pun is a freebie). From a warehouse somewhere in Southern California, near the container ships.
February
Pane-Staking. Salt Lake City Library, Utah.
Date Night (afternoon, actually). Fontana, California.
2019
August
through
November
through
November
Wasatch Mountains, and a freshly swept reefer (refrigerated trailer if you're wondering why reefers need sweeping). Ogden, Utah.
Random People (as far as you're concerned) fishing. Somewhere near Nirvana. Washington State (Go Cougs!)
Zen Trail, Saint George, Utah.
July
Trail Obstacle (Rattlesnake). Ogden, Utah.
June
May
Indian Trail (off Bonneville Shoreline Trail). Ogden, Utah.
April
Temporary Hood Ornament (close relative of statue-whitewashers).
April showers bring...pollen. Record amounts nationally. Clouds of the stuff. As a diligent photojournalist I chronicled the phenomenon by photographing cowgirls barrel racing (indoors). Probably the same girl. Oh, and I photoshopped the fluorescent tubing out of the picture. There, know before you buy.
Unknown Barrel Racing Contestant. Rolling Hills Equestrian Center, Corning, California.
Unknown Barrell Racer. Rolling Hills Equestrian Center. Corning, California.
March
As of the Ides of March (which I had to Google), winter has been spectacular for wildlife sightings in the west. Near Toppenish, Washington the sunlight illuminated the most beautiful porcupine halfway up a cottonwood (probably) tree. That very same day (or the day before, or after) we saw, in one day, a Bald Eagle, the porcupine, a herd of elk, and a coyote crossing our path. The next day, just before Snowville, Utah, in the span of a mile we saw a herd of elk, several herds of deer, and a smattering of antelope. The following morning we stayed put as several spun-out vehicle sightings were reported.
As of the Ides of March (which I had to Google), winter has been spectacular for wildlife sightings in the west. Near Toppenish, Washington the sunlight illuminated the most beautiful porcupine halfway up a cottonwood (probably) tree. That very same day (or the day before, or after) we saw, in one day, a Bald Eagle, the porcupine, a herd of elk, and a coyote crossing our path. The next day, just before Snowville, Utah, in the span of a mile we saw a herd of elk, several herds of deer, and a smattering of antelope. The following morning we stayed put as several spun-out vehicle sightings were reported.
OK, technically, on vacation. BUT, you'd be hard pressed to get to Snoqualmie Ski Area without negotiating Snoqualmie Pass. So, indulge me
.
February
South Mountain Park (Mormon Trail). Phoenix, Arizona.
Later That Same Day. (South Mountain Park. Phoenix, Arizona)
Hoar Frost. (Spelled correctly, and not a euphemism for anything that I know of.) Central Oregon, Near Shaniko.
January, 2019
Scenery Beyond St. George, Utah City Limits. Taken from Inside the Crab on the Zen Trail.
Just Some Sky and Clouds Near St. George, Utah. Taken From Inside the Crab on the Zen Trail.
Eastern Sierra Nevadas, Taken From Independence, California.
The Zipper Trail. Sparks, Nevada.
2018, Belated.
(Yes this is all I have to show for the entire year - Send me a self-addressed, postage paid envelope with $10.00 to cover postage and handling & I will promptly refund your subscription fee (unless, of course, at some point I actually charge a subscription fee).
Mt. Shasta, California a Scant Few Hours Before Fire Shut Down I-5 for Weeks. (OF COURSE I Photoshopped, er Corelled,
the Hell Out of the Pic - Ash Turned Everything Gray!)
December 2017
Eastern Sierras, California.
Mount Shasta, California.
December 22, 2017. Launch of SpaceX Falconn 9 as seen from Oxnard, California.
September, 2017
Southridge Mountain Bike Trail, Fontana, California. Fires Finally Caught Up with Me.
Foundry. Yreka, California.
Idaho Panhandle & the Light Side.
August, 2017
Reno, Nevada.
Pelican Formation Near Columbia River. Burbank, Washington.
July, 2017
French Camp Fire
On July 9th, 2017 French Camp Grain Company, Incorporated (conveniently located in French Camp, California) supplied thousands of gallons of corn oil to a spectacular blaze and concomitant* smoke plume. The firefighter staring into the recurring fireballs from the top of the ladder had enormous juevos, according to a photographer on the ground (who, in full disclosure, happened to be me. However I’m not that dedicated to journalism to confirm this anatomical assumption.) It is unclear as of this writing how many kitchen fires could have been started with the corn oil lost in the French Camp inferno.
* use it or lose it is my reasoning behind this pretentious word choice.
On July 9th, 2017 French Camp Grain Company, Incorporated (conveniently located in French Camp, California) supplied thousands of gallons of corn oil to a spectacular blaze and concomitant* smoke plume. The firefighter staring into the recurring fireballs from the top of the ladder had enormous juevos, according to a photographer on the ground (who, in full disclosure, happened to be me. However I’m not that dedicated to journalism to confirm this anatomical assumption.) It is unclear as of this writing how many kitchen fires could have been started with the corn oil lost in the French Camp inferno.
* use it or lose it is my reasoning behind this pretentious word choice.
French Camp Grain Company Fire. French Camp, California.
French Camp Grain Company Fire. French Camp, California.
French Camp, California.
June
One of Two Landscapers. Yreka, California.
Dunnigan, California.
Donner Pass, California. June 12th, 2017. Later that day 77f in Sacramento.
Bighorn Sheep. Columbia River Gorge, Oregon Side.
Box Elder Bugs? Riverside, California.
May
Goleta Beach California.
Duthie Hill Park. Issaquah, Washington.
Duthie Hill Park. Issaquah, Washington. (No, I didn't)
Bear Creek Trail. Central Point/Medford/Talent/Ashland, Oregon.
April
Shoshone Falls, Snake River Canyon. Twin Falls, Idaho.
Shoshone Falls, Snake River Canyon. Twin falls, Idaho.
March
Pelican Diving for Fish (Presumably). Their Splashes were Nearly Constant. Dockweiler Beach (LA to those not anal about geographic exactitude), California.
The Pelican Synchronized Diving Competition. Dockweiler State Beach, California.
Washout!
The Tieton’s connected to the, Naches. The Naches’s is connected to the, Yakima. The Yakima’s connected to the, Columbia. The Columbia’s connected to the, Pacific. And there the rivers end. Except when they escape their embankments. Naches made such a run for it and caused the city of Yakima to declare a state of emergency. Nothing epic, like the classic Mississippi floods, but large chunks of the Yakima River Greenway are now askew or at the river bottom. (Not to be confused with Harry Riverbottom, an acquaintance from several decades ago who according to a Seattle Times article is quite the polo player.) Damages pictured are from the Naches on the west end of the trail, and on the Yakima on the east end of the trail.
Yakima River & Greenway. Yakima, Washington.
Guess They Really Meant It. Yakima, Washington.
Slip Sliding Away, Slip Sliding Away-ayy. You Know the Nearer Your Destination the More You're Slip Sliding Away-ayy. Yakima, Washington.
Good Advice. Yakima, Washington.
Redondo Beach, California. "Home Time."
Sacramento National Wildlife Refuge. Near Willows, California.
FEBRUARY
Yakima Ridge. Freezing Rain Encrusted Underlying Snow. Unseasonably Warm Days, Cold Winter Nights Prolonged the Effect. Seen from Selah, Washington.
Incisive (Incisor at Least) Art. Salt Lake City, Utah.
January 29 - February 4
Flood Aftermath. Truckee River & Bicycle Path. Reno, Nevada.
January 22-28
Near Eugene, Oregon. ONE of the Ice Storms in the Pacific Northwest (from a few weeks earlier).
January 15-21, 2017
Donner Pass, California. Chain-up, chain-off. Repeat.
January 8-14
Bonneville Salt Flats and Sliver Island Mountains, Utah.
January 1-7, 2017
The Woods Near Cle Elum, Washington (heading toward Snoqualmie Pass)
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August, 2011 Dear family, friends, (enemies), and total strangers: thanks for reading (and/or looking). And when my loyal bots, webcrawlers, spiders, and other cybernetic organisms attain consciousness I’ll thank you too (I’d better, I’ve watched TheTerminator.) So, back to work. Got a nice load to Southern California. Park for a minute at Bishop, visit the tourist info center, pick up a few supplies, and head out again. Relaxing trip, no rush. An hour and a half down the road: This is the_____ Health Clinic, did you lose your wallet? Huh? Uh no, I had it this morning. Sir, the Bishop Police Department claims to have possession of your wallet. Do you consent to our giving them your phone number? (Ah, crap.) Yes, please. So, a nice relaxing load turns into Oh shit, if traffic through Victorville craps on me, I’m out of hours, done for. But, I made it. Next morning, dream route: through Las Vegas, Utah, and the best of Colorado. Problem is it’s all Nixon’d-up (expletive-deleted). Sure it’s a dream route, but the load is high-value, no-playtime, until Kansas. KANSAS!!! What the hell’s left after Kansas?!!! (PLENTY, according to the signs advertising hometowns of notable escapees such as: Walter P. Chrysler, Bob Dole, President Dwight D. Eisenhower, and more astronauts than were actually in the space program.) I think I digressed. I got another high-value load, which again rendered my bike impotent. But after delivery a day off is forced upon me, so I get to explore Cape Girardeau, Missouri: the land of Limbaugh. Which I do. CG is a quaint little river town with a good looking bridge, an interesting rock quarry, and a mural so pleasing to the eye that I actually read the informative plaques. But all that reading made me thirsty, and hungry. So I stepped into the Buckner Brewery where Mike was hard at work brewing some beer. He must have known I was coming,‘cause there seemed to be plenty of it already brewed. |
|
 Cape Girardeau, Missouri.
 Mike, the Brewer at Buckner Brewery in Cape Girardeau,
Missouri. |
July, 2011
June, 2011
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June, 2011 |
Quail, and a Chicken Wing.
Dublin, California
Ding-Dong, the witch-hunt’s done! For 72 hours the DOT (Department of Overzealous Tax-collectors) focused their nation-wide collection efforts on the trucking industry. Last year nearly one in five (19.6%) truckers were put out of service for safety violations. Wooohoo! you’re tempted to shout. But seriously, you honestly believe every fifth trucker is a menace to the driving public?
OK, fine. Punish the driver. Clean out his pockets for the day, at least. Heap points upon his license, threaten his livelihood. Recruit armies of inexperienced drivers to replace the ousted veterans. That should make the roads safer (and goods cheaper).
But honestly, I love the concept. It should be applied vigorously across all levels of government: an annual 72 hour auditing blitz (the DOT’s actual word). Inspect governmental agencies for balanced budgets, cost overruns, bloat. Deficit? Immediate pay freeze ‘til remedied. Dole out points, pink slips.
Fantasy. Unfortunately, reality is the opposite: the economy has been put out of service. (Google real unemployment rate and discover that one in five of us is, at most, underemployed.) Apparently, being a productive member of society is unsafe. Safety first.
Aggghhh!!! You finally figure out how things work, and they come out with version n.0 improvement!! Oh well, I was gonna make changes anyway. In fact, I have a photo for this little disruption:
Dublin, California
Ding-Dong, the witch-hunt’s done! For 72 hours the DOT (Department of Overzealous Tax-collectors) focused their nation-wide collection efforts on the trucking industry. Last year nearly one in five (19.6%) truckers were put out of service for safety violations. Wooohoo! you’re tempted to shout. But seriously, you honestly believe every fifth trucker is a menace to the driving public?
OK, fine. Punish the driver. Clean out his pockets for the day, at least. Heap points upon his license, threaten his livelihood. Recruit armies of inexperienced drivers to replace the ousted veterans. That should make the roads safer (and goods cheaper).
But honestly, I love the concept. It should be applied vigorously across all levels of government: an annual 72 hour auditing blitz (the DOT’s actual word). Inspect governmental agencies for balanced budgets, cost overruns, bloat. Deficit? Immediate pay freeze ‘til remedied. Dole out points, pink slips.
Fantasy. Unfortunately, reality is the opposite: the economy has been put out of service. (Google real unemployment rate and discover that one in five of us is, at most, underemployed.) Apparently, being a productive member of society is unsafe. Safety first.
Aggghhh!!! You finally figure out how things work, and they come out with version n.0 improvement!! Oh well, I was gonna make changes anyway. In fact, I have a photo for this little disruption:
Obvious Need for More Stimulus Money
Denver, Colorado
Denver, Colorado
Latest Adventures
May, 2011
May, 2011
“Baked, mashed, or fries?”
“Mashed.”
“Brown, or white gravy?” And such is the state of fine dining in rural Eastern Colorado.
Bears, pigs, and badgers, oh my! Louisiana floodgates were opened to ease downstream flooding of the Mississippi river. Motorists on I-10 were warned that critters flushed out into the open might cross onto the freeway. I was nowhere near. But, I did see a badger in Oregon waddling towards the deluge. (I didn’t know Oregon boarded badgers. Then again, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a badger before, anywhere.) Of course, it could have been an obese raccoon, chopped off at the knees, like a Corgi gone wild.
Again, I’m a lucky SOB. I missed the floods and the tornados (please give generously). But, flooding did catch up with me and due to I-90 closure at the Wyoming/Montana state-line I was forced to take the scenic route to Montana. As I understand it, the whole point of Wyoming, dating back to the Oregon Trail, and probably nomadic Indians before that, is to avoid going up and over the mountains.
But I’m all about adventure, so up the mountain I went. US-14 is a six percent grade that winds through Bighorn National Forest. (I didn’t see any bighorns, but I exchanged glances with a large moose on a switchback.) Impulsively, I pulled into the Sibley Lake cross-country parking area and wedged myself between a car and the snow bank. In front of a pair of cross-country witnesses, and a parade of detour traffic, I dug a path around the car and parked. Thus limbered, I went skiing.
All told it was a 67 mile detour. Scenic as hell, and I was really glad to strap on the skis one last time, but it sure bled my hours dry. At the time, I felt pretty smug detouring around all those trucks parked on the interstate. In the winter though, patience usually pays off as closed roads often reopen in a timely manner. That evening, though exhausted, I couldn’t sleep; I had to know. Montana DOT’s recorded voice said, “go to sleep, you were right. I-90 is still closed at the Wyoming state line.” Hee hee hee, I win.
Update: The new owners have met with the talent. Signs are positive.
“Baked, mashed, or fries?”
“Mashed.”
“Brown, or white gravy?” And such is the state of fine dining in rural Eastern Colorado.
Bears, pigs, and badgers, oh my! Louisiana floodgates were opened to ease downstream flooding of the Mississippi river. Motorists on I-10 were warned that critters flushed out into the open might cross onto the freeway. I was nowhere near. But, I did see a badger in Oregon waddling towards the deluge. (I didn’t know Oregon boarded badgers. Then again, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a badger before, anywhere.) Of course, it could have been an obese raccoon, chopped off at the knees, like a Corgi gone wild.
Again, I’m a lucky SOB. I missed the floods and the tornados (please give generously). But, flooding did catch up with me and due to I-90 closure at the Wyoming/Montana state-line I was forced to take the scenic route to Montana. As I understand it, the whole point of Wyoming, dating back to the Oregon Trail, and probably nomadic Indians before that, is to avoid going up and over the mountains.
But I’m all about adventure, so up the mountain I went. US-14 is a six percent grade that winds through Bighorn National Forest. (I didn’t see any bighorns, but I exchanged glances with a large moose on a switchback.) Impulsively, I pulled into the Sibley Lake cross-country parking area and wedged myself between a car and the snow bank. In front of a pair of cross-country witnesses, and a parade of detour traffic, I dug a path around the car and parked. Thus limbered, I went skiing.
All told it was a 67 mile detour. Scenic as hell, and I was really glad to strap on the skis one last time, but it sure bled my hours dry. At the time, I felt pretty smug detouring around all those trucks parked on the interstate. In the winter though, patience usually pays off as closed roads often reopen in a timely manner. That evening, though exhausted, I couldn’t sleep; I had to know. Montana DOT’s recorded voice said, “go to sleep, you were right. I-90 is still closed at the Wyoming state line.” Hee hee hee, I win.
Update: The new owners have met with the talent. Signs are positive.
US-14, Wyoming.
US-14, Bighorn National Forest, Wyoming.
US-310, Montana. Ten+ miles of dirt, dust, & potholes.
April, 2011
Oregon Rowing Unlimited. Portland, Oregon.
April, 2011
Romantic Getaway, Epilogue
So, my dispatcher of over three years defected on me under the haze of breakdown time. No worries, as he himself might have said. And when the company merrily announced our takeover (mercifully, as rumors have it) my wife & I joked at his replacement’s conspicuous “appointment.”
Ahhhhhhhh, crap. Good thing I severed all ties to my previous life.
Anyway, my brother gave me a ride to Hermiston, Oregon, to pick up my truck. Thankfully, Obama is working overtime to make sure we’re fully employed. The stool at the Hermiston parts counter, for example, is staffed at 100% on weekends! As for the service department, well, the parts stool is staffed at 100% on weekends! So, we jump the truck. Then, some idiot (me, maybe) switched off the ignition and we couldn’t get it started again. (Close, but cigars are not politically correct as of this writing.) So, we waited for a technician to come out and apply current to approximately the same contacts.
All’s well that ends well though. My truck drove just fine from Yakima to Portland. Then it quit. At least we have a shop in Portland (too bad we fired all the mechanics to keep our heads above water for a few more days).
So, I have all the time in the world to Google “online-moneymaking-schemes-for-broke-down-truckers.” Amazingly I found, and got accepted, to a legitimate site. My first assignment: stalk a celebrity and write about their proclivities. (Well, steering my search results away from porn sites proved to be tougher than I’d have ever imagined. So, I bailed out. It was/is a legitimate website, & a legitimate topic, but…) Hey, did I beg you to click on the advertising yet? PLEASE, don’t make me resort to cardboard & magic-markers.
Happy May Day? Yes, I guess it is. My wife is safe & sound at home. (And I’m safe & sound.)
Romantic Getaway (or, Dream Vacation Update)
Pre-trip preparation: To ensure a clean start to our upcoming journey, I left the truck with the shop, and had my wife take me home. We detoured 180 some miles to get home, but it was our anniversary, so we did some sightseeing. We took in Multnomah Falls and half a dozen others before making it home. After plenty of good beer and bad dancing it was time to go back to work. The car rental thieves planned on taking an extra $75 for a one-way trip (but only after pretending that none of the cars in the lot were available, and putting us on a waiting list). So, I did like any mature grown man would do – I asked Mom for a ride.
Departure day: I faxed the passenger authorization form to my dispatcher earlier; it didn’t arrive. No problem, there was enough time to resend before leaving the yard. And there was enough time to resend it again from the nearest truck stop. O for three (I assume the fourth got there). Finally, we were on our way. I hoped like hell the big horn sheep would show themselves for my wife. And they did, herd after herd.
Rest stop: We were making nice time. We pulled into a rest area and failed to pull out. The truck wouldn’t stay in gear. No need for panic, it gets these hiccups on occasion. So, I disconnected the battery for about half an hour while we had dinner. It worked like a charm. We pulled out of our spot, slipped out of gear, and coasted to the shoulder. I called our breakdown services and they commiserated with me, but all the same, I had to pull out the fuses in the battery box. To get to that step I had to take down both bicycles, set them aside, pull off the large metal catwalk, set that aside, unscrew the cover to the battery box, set that aside, find and pull all the fuses, and remember to set those aside logically so they could be reinserted into their properly assigned slots. And wait an hour. Then put everything back together (because you must assume, even though your gut knows better, that this will fix everything, so you need to be ready to roll). Another call to breakdown services, another helpful mechanic. More commiseration, but try disconnecting the fuses again. Repeat. Add another shift change. Eventually the shifts made a complete rotation and a tow truck was ordered. It promptly arrived the next evening.
Tow truck: I’ll call him Tom, ‘cause I didn’t ask. Tom’s gait was purposeful, but leisurely and you had to look closely to notice that he wasn’t moving all that fast. He had a kink in his neck, a crook in his shoulder, and they met halfway in between. Tom didn’t really work, but rather performed. Tools were carefully eyeballed. Chains were placed meticulously except for the flourish of throwing his arm up as he let go of what was left in his hand. Making conversation, I opened with, “That’s quite a physical job you got.” I strained to understand what Tom said, ‘cause I’m not sure he believed in vowels. I think he said that once he got knocked out by the heavy equipment and woke up hours later under the vehicle he was towing. Or maybe he called me names. Who knows. So, we lurched down the highway (vehicles take after their drivers, apparently) as Tom towed us to the shop; which was closed for the evening.
Shop: “We have to drop the transmission. Call your dispatcher, we won’t get to it until Tuesday at the earliest.” So, Motel 6 for the weekend. This could have happened in Nebraska I keep telling my wife (but mostly myself).
April, 2011
Romantic Getaway, Epilogue
So, my dispatcher of over three years defected on me under the haze of breakdown time. No worries, as he himself might have said. And when the company merrily announced our takeover (mercifully, as rumors have it) my wife & I joked at his replacement’s conspicuous “appointment.”
Ahhhhhhhh, crap. Good thing I severed all ties to my previous life.
Anyway, my brother gave me a ride to Hermiston, Oregon, to pick up my truck. Thankfully, Obama is working overtime to make sure we’re fully employed. The stool at the Hermiston parts counter, for example, is staffed at 100% on weekends! As for the service department, well, the parts stool is staffed at 100% on weekends! So, we jump the truck. Then, some idiot (me, maybe) switched off the ignition and we couldn’t get it started again. (Close, but cigars are not politically correct as of this writing.) So, we waited for a technician to come out and apply current to approximately the same contacts.
All’s well that ends well though. My truck drove just fine from Yakima to Portland. Then it quit. At least we have a shop in Portland (too bad we fired all the mechanics to keep our heads above water for a few more days).
So, I have all the time in the world to Google “online-moneymaking-schemes-for-broke-down-truckers.” Amazingly I found, and got accepted, to a legitimate site. My first assignment: stalk a celebrity and write about their proclivities. (Well, steering my search results away from porn sites proved to be tougher than I’d have ever imagined. So, I bailed out. It was/is a legitimate website, & a legitimate topic, but…) Hey, did I beg you to click on the advertising yet? PLEASE, don’t make me resort to cardboard & magic-markers.
Happy May Day? Yes, I guess it is. My wife is safe & sound at home. (And I’m safe & sound.)
Romantic Getaway (or, Dream Vacation Update)
Pre-trip preparation: To ensure a clean start to our upcoming journey, I left the truck with the shop, and had my wife take me home. We detoured 180 some miles to get home, but it was our anniversary, so we did some sightseeing. We took in Multnomah Falls and half a dozen others before making it home. After plenty of good beer and bad dancing it was time to go back to work. The car rental thieves planned on taking an extra $75 for a one-way trip (but only after pretending that none of the cars in the lot were available, and putting us on a waiting list). So, I did like any mature grown man would do – I asked Mom for a ride.
Departure day: I faxed the passenger authorization form to my dispatcher earlier; it didn’t arrive. No problem, there was enough time to resend before leaving the yard. And there was enough time to resend it again from the nearest truck stop. O for three (I assume the fourth got there). Finally, we were on our way. I hoped like hell the big horn sheep would show themselves for my wife. And they did, herd after herd.
Rest stop: We were making nice time. We pulled into a rest area and failed to pull out. The truck wouldn’t stay in gear. No need for panic, it gets these hiccups on occasion. So, I disconnected the battery for about half an hour while we had dinner. It worked like a charm. We pulled out of our spot, slipped out of gear, and coasted to the shoulder. I called our breakdown services and they commiserated with me, but all the same, I had to pull out the fuses in the battery box. To get to that step I had to take down both bicycles, set them aside, pull off the large metal catwalk, set that aside, unscrew the cover to the battery box, set that aside, find and pull all the fuses, and remember to set those aside logically so they could be reinserted into their properly assigned slots. And wait an hour. Then put everything back together (because you must assume, even though your gut knows better, that this will fix everything, so you need to be ready to roll). Another call to breakdown services, another helpful mechanic. More commiseration, but try disconnecting the fuses again. Repeat. Add another shift change. Eventually the shifts made a complete rotation and a tow truck was ordered. It promptly arrived the next evening.
Tow truck: I’ll call him Tom, ‘cause I didn’t ask. Tom’s gait was purposeful, but leisurely and you had to look closely to notice that he wasn’t moving all that fast. He had a kink in his neck, a crook in his shoulder, and they met halfway in between. Tom didn’t really work, but rather performed. Tools were carefully eyeballed. Chains were placed meticulously except for the flourish of throwing his arm up as he let go of what was left in his hand. Making conversation, I opened with, “That’s quite a physical job you got.” I strained to understand what Tom said, ‘cause I’m not sure he believed in vowels. I think he said that once he got knocked out by the heavy equipment and woke up hours later under the vehicle he was towing. Or maybe he called me names. Who knows. So, we lurched down the highway (vehicles take after their drivers, apparently) as Tom towed us to the shop; which was closed for the evening.
Shop: “We have to drop the transmission. Call your dispatcher, we won’t get to it until Tuesday at the earliest.” So, Motel 6 for the weekend. This could have happened in Nebraska I keep telling my wife (but mostly myself).
The Pre-Trip Inspectors
Spokane, Washington
Dispatch: After five days and no progress, we learn that our transmission is being shipped from our yard in the LA area, and who knows when it will be ready to drive. “Call a taxi and get a price from Hermiston to the Pendleton airport. Call me back with the exact amount.” So, off to Pendleton to rent a car to go to Spokane. Waiting for us in Spokane is a loaner truck, “You know how to drive a 9 speed, right?” Sure, learned on them a few years ago. So, race back to the truck in Hermiston and cram as much into the “economy” size rental as we can, as fast as we can, 'cause for some reason it has to be checked back in by 8:00.
Heading to Spokane: What a luxury to have someone else prepare and inspect the car. Or, not. They neglected to replace the oil filler cap. We neglected to wipe the oil off the side of the car. However, we did add some oil and held up the line at the return counter trying to get reimbursed.
Loaner truck: We find our loaner truck, toss out the dog stained mattress, and fill it with what we could fit into the rental. No bikes, skiis, etc. My patient wife returns the car, and I dutifully pick her up and grind our way through the passenger loading/unloading zone.
Finally, a truck to drive: We even got a load. Unfortunately, the driver handing off the load to us broke down on the other side of the border. So, we waited. And waited. And got a different load.
Montana: Smooth sailing. Woke up buried. Fortunately, eastbound lanes were open. Skated on through.
North Dakota: Nasty, snowy, windy, slippery. Slept late – no truck noises. I called 511, the road info number, and sure enough the interstate was shut down. So, we go inside, I start writing this novel and my power supply craps out. So we’re stranded without my skiis, bike, computer, but I had my lovely wife. (This isn’t a country music song, I still have her.)
Nashville: We pulled off a day in Nashville shopping, eating, and singing for the tourists. Ok, just a few lines when the lead singer jumped off stage and shared his microphone with us. (He learned his lesson though – he didn’t offer his microphone to anyone else after that. Or, maybe we’re just a hard act to follow.)
Spokane, Washington
Dispatch: After five days and no progress, we learn that our transmission is being shipped from our yard in the LA area, and who knows when it will be ready to drive. “Call a taxi and get a price from Hermiston to the Pendleton airport. Call me back with the exact amount.” So, off to Pendleton to rent a car to go to Spokane. Waiting for us in Spokane is a loaner truck, “You know how to drive a 9 speed, right?” Sure, learned on them a few years ago. So, race back to the truck in Hermiston and cram as much into the “economy” size rental as we can, as fast as we can, 'cause for some reason it has to be checked back in by 8:00.
Heading to Spokane: What a luxury to have someone else prepare and inspect the car. Or, not. They neglected to replace the oil filler cap. We neglected to wipe the oil off the side of the car. However, we did add some oil and held up the line at the return counter trying to get reimbursed.
Loaner truck: We find our loaner truck, toss out the dog stained mattress, and fill it with what we could fit into the rental. No bikes, skiis, etc. My patient wife returns the car, and I dutifully pick her up and grind our way through the passenger loading/unloading zone.
Finally, a truck to drive: We even got a load. Unfortunately, the driver handing off the load to us broke down on the other side of the border. So, we waited. And waited. And got a different load.
Montana: Smooth sailing. Woke up buried. Fortunately, eastbound lanes were open. Skated on through.
North Dakota: Nasty, snowy, windy, slippery. Slept late – no truck noises. I called 511, the road info number, and sure enough the interstate was shut down. So, we go inside, I start writing this novel and my power supply craps out. So we’re stranded without my skiis, bike, computer, but I had my lovely wife. (This isn’t a country music song, I still have her.)
Nashville: We pulled off a day in Nashville shopping, eating, and singing for the tourists. Ok, just a few lines when the lead singer jumped off stage and shared his microphone with us. (He learned his lesson though – he didn’t offer his microphone to anyone else after that. Or, maybe we’re just a hard act to follow.)
Honky Tonkin'
Nashville, Tennessee
Nashville, Tennessee
March, 2011
Dream Vacation
I talked my wife onto the truck for another month-long dream cruise. We made it two hundred miles before breaking down. Frankly, I think she’ll be happy to be leaving Hermiston, Oregon – too much excitement, too early.
February, 2011
Colorful trip this month
Colorful trip this month. Caught a train to LA, and then a bus to the beach. On that particular day I was asked to be photographed, asked if I was a musician (by a drummer from Maine whose drums are somewhere in the Midwest with a friend), was accused of being the devil (because I was Bill Gates), and discussed jazz/blues on the train-ride back with a Korean War medic originally from Memphis, Tennessee.
Four separate bald eagle sightings, evenly spaced throughout the state of Iowa, is my new personal best. Later that same evening, in the dark night of rural Indiana, a swarm of giant red fireflies revealed themselves to be actually horse-drawn Amish buggies. The clip-clopping gave them away.
I spent a blustery day in Des Moines where everything was grey. Then a visual symphony burst forth. First a bluebird happened by, then a few blue jays quickly followed by many strikingly marked birds I can’t name, and finally, the most vivid cardinal I have ever seen.
Big horn sheep in the Columbia Gorge chaperoned each of my three trips through, and finally favored me with a nice family portrait.
At a paper mill in Longview, Washington I swapped Mount Saint Helens stories with a guy who was in search and rescue at the time. He knew people who went camping that weekend. That morning one couple got knocked into the lake by the shock wave thereby escaping the following heat wave that cooked the other couple in their tent. In my story everybody lives.
A Little Behind
(No, I’m not referring to the lizard.) I’ve been successful lately. The weather has cooperated at the right times, at the right places: sun when I wanted, snow where I wanted. So I was able to do some biking and skinny skiing in Postcard Land (maybe I got a few). Updates coming as soon as I can crank them out.
Resident of Kokopelli's Trail.
Near Fruita, Colorado.
Near Fruita, Colorado.
Near Mount Carmel Junction, Utah.
January, 2011
Atypical Day in Oregon
A few weeks ago on a crisp, clear Oregon day I spotted four bald eagles, in three separate sightings, all within Klamath Falls. Further up the highway near Chemult a coyote, with it’s head bowed in concentration, pounced it’s front paws into the sparkling snow. Then he did it again. And again. My deer whistle broke his concentration and he scampered into the treeline. Near Rufus, high up on the basalt cliffs of the Columbia gorge, a herd of bighorn sheep marched single file. Shortly afterwards, I crossed into Washington.
At the Guard Shack
“Let’s see, you’re going to Goodard? Godard? Is that how you pronounce it? I don’t know. I do know God is good. Do you believe in God?”
“I believe 06:30 am is too early for a religious discussion,” I thought, but said “sure.”
“You see I don’t believe in God, I know, if you know what I mean. Do you?”
“Uh huh,” but a polite uh huh.
“I’m just waiting. With all the things going on in the world today and if Jesus comes down and takes me I’m waiting, or if I live out my days I’m waiting. Either way is ok with me. I’m just waiting. But actively waiting. Do you know what I mean by actively waiting?”
“I think I'm doing it now, but again, I know 06:30 is too early, and it’s kinda cold; in fact I believe Arkansas has frozen over,” I thought, but replied “yes.”
“God bless you. Let me shake your hand.”
“Well ok, but I haven’t gotten around to reading the contract yet.”
Fall in!
Goddard, Kansas.
Goddard, Kansas.
Sunset at Mount Shasta, California.
December, 2010
Velcro®, (stick with me here...)
Weather
I am, as my father pointed out, “a lucky mother…” Shut your mouth! (But I’m not talking about Shaft!) I seem to be dancing around the major weather systems. When Colorado closed it’s passes and Wyoming switched off their Welcome sign, I was skipping through the southwest. When snow caved in the Minneapolis Metrodome (it’s a stadium, not a gay hairstyle) I did see a few skiffs in Missouri, but nothing to write about (o.k., maybe the last half of that sentence, but that’s it). I entered Indiana a day after they were rescuing stranded motorists.
Then finally, the weather caught up with me. Everything outside was safely tucked under a thick blanket of snow when I awoke to go back to work. I had to shovel to get out of the driveway. Cars slid down the hill, many sideways. Snow berms not only bounced cars back into the field of play, but gave them an interesting spin as well. It was an adult version of the birthday bowling alley party. There was no sign the snow was going to stop (probably because it wouldn’t stop until after dark). I dreaded getting on the truck.
Turns out I was a day early. Back to bed! Unfortunately, no; responsibility reared it’s annoying head and said, “You know, if you don’t get those holes patched and those walls painted you won’t get your damage deposit back.” So, we stayed up late patching, painting, and getting ready to move. Weather wins (underhandedly, as usual).
Weather
I am, as my father pointed out, “a lucky mother…” Shut your mouth! (But I’m not talking about Shaft!) I seem to be dancing around the major weather systems. When Colorado closed it’s passes and Wyoming switched off their Welcome sign, I was skipping through the southwest. When snow caved in the Minneapolis Metrodome (it’s a stadium, not a gay hairstyle) I did see a few skiffs in Missouri, but nothing to write about (o.k., maybe the last half of that sentence, but that’s it). I entered Indiana a day after they were rescuing stranded motorists.
Then finally, the weather caught up with me. Everything outside was safely tucked under a thick blanket of snow when I awoke to go back to work. I had to shovel to get out of the driveway. Cars slid down the hill, many sideways. Snow berms not only bounced cars back into the field of play, but gave them an interesting spin as well. It was an adult version of the birthday bowling alley party. There was no sign the snow was going to stop (probably because it wouldn’t stop until after dark). I dreaded getting on the truck.
Turns out I was a day early. Back to bed! Unfortunately, no; responsibility reared it’s annoying head and said, “You know, if you don’t get those holes patched and those walls painted you won’t get your damage deposit back.” So, we stayed up late patching, painting, and getting ready to move. Weather wins (underhandedly, as usual).
November, 2010
Hanford, Washington
("Artist's" rendition)
("Artist's" rendition)
One of these is not a spider web.
Moving on (that’s how I roll, L sorry, couldn’t stop myself, agh! and again!) Wyoming was typical Wyoming, maybe a bit milder, ‘cause the official weather gage (the number of overturned trucks) was in the low single digits. And Utah was uneventful, other than losing my brakes at the top of the 10 mile, 6% grade near Park City. Had the warning light not worked properly, then I would have had something to write about (assuming I survived without brain injury); it would have been an Olympic spectacle to rival the luge.
Going through the back highways of California, the sky was unnaturally blue, the snow was fresh, and the air smelled alpiney. I couldn’t get California Dreamin’ out of my head. If I got the song correct some guy is whining about winter, instead of doing something about it. Well, I couldn’t leave my load, so maybe I whined a little, too.
Going through the back highways of California, the sky was unnaturally blue, the snow was fresh, and the air smelled alpiney. I couldn’t get California Dreamin’ out of my head. If I got the song correct some guy is whining about winter, instead of doing something about it. Well, I couldn’t leave my load, so maybe I whined a little, too.
Wells, Nevada.
Stampede! Little dogies thought I had food, or maybe they just wanted to gore me & my red sweatshirt. Orland, California.
October, 2010
Breasts were bared at me in Idaho. I missed nearly the entire show. No matter, I know the plot: curtain goes up, a couple of boobs take center stage. Nevertheless, I’ve been paid homage. Now I must come to grips with being a rock star. (Poor, misguided woman: get thee to a concert!)
In New Mexico I had to swerve to avoid hitting a tarantula (he was in the crosswalk, after all). He was headed for the meat market; it’s mating season in the Southwest.
Twice in Davenport, Iowa, bicyclists rang their bells: once to announce their presence, and once to warn of my presence. Verbally, they warned me that the Mississippi is swollen because the neighbors up north can’t rein in their precipitation (groan, sorry).
An El Paso funeral stopped me dead in my tracks: or, it would have if I had adjusted my brakes properly. I had planned to tour/photograph/absorb Ysleta Mission, but to do so during a funeral would have required an all-out National Geographic impersonation. I let the dead guy have his day.
Road (out)rage! Little America truck stop in Flagstaff, Arizona, is now off limits to our company. It made our list of restricted truck stops because of security concerns. Flagstaff is one of my favorite destinations. This stinks more than all the truck stop parking lots combined! In the spirit of CSA 2010, maybe the nearest DOT jurisdiction should be put out of service (without pay, like us) until the truck stop is made safe again.
The itsy, bitsy, spider...
Tucumcari, New Mexico
Tucumcari, New Mexico
In Mississippi, late one night, I listened to gospel music (according to FM radio). It rocked circles around the Christian rock stations. No surprise; Christian rock has driven more kids to Satan than all the strains of rock and roll combined.
In Louisiana I had my first “boudin,” a sausage looking thing stuffed with rice, vegetables, and critter du jour, (pork, alligator, shrimp, or, crayfish in my case). Tasty. Stuffed with boudin, I went to my pick-up. I was a little early. A gentleman there asked me to spot him while he backed onto the country highway, which I cheerfully did. Then he backed another pickup truck to the first, attached a tow-rope to the front bumper, and asked me to steer his truck and trailer for him while he tried to pull the stuck truck and high-centered trailer off the middle of the highway which I had just spotted for him. Good times.
Speaking of ditches, which we missed, I must give a last minute political pitch while gently correcting the President’s analogy: President Obama is spot on – republicans drove the car into the ditch (deficit & debt). Those republicans need to be fired (if not prosecuted). President Obama, Nancy Pelosi, and Harry Reid are pushing hard, to the left, so they can get the car out of the ditch and into the abyss (or, bottomless pit, which any kid can tell you leads to China). Please vote for those with enough sense to hook the car to a tow-truck.
In Louisiana I had my first “boudin,” a sausage looking thing stuffed with rice, vegetables, and critter du jour, (pork, alligator, shrimp, or, crayfish in my case). Tasty. Stuffed with boudin, I went to my pick-up. I was a little early. A gentleman there asked me to spot him while he backed onto the country highway, which I cheerfully did. Then he backed another pickup truck to the first, attached a tow-rope to the front bumper, and asked me to steer his truck and trailer for him while he tried to pull the stuck truck and high-centered trailer off the middle of the highway which I had just spotted for him. Good times.
Speaking of ditches, which we missed, I must give a last minute political pitch while gently correcting the President’s analogy: President Obama is spot on – republicans drove the car into the ditch (deficit & debt). Those republicans need to be fired (if not prosecuted). President Obama, Nancy Pelosi, and Harry Reid are pushing hard, to the left, so they can get the car out of the ditch and into the abyss (or, bottomless pit, which any kid can tell you leads to China). Please vote for those with enough sense to hook the car to a tow-truck.
Tacoma, Washington
September, 2010
Guard-Turtle
Kearney, Missouri
Kearney, Missouri
August, 2010
You Like™ Me, you Really, Really Like™ Me
Sorry, you can’t Like™ me; at least not until I figure out how to plug in the plug-in. Personally, I think social networking is an Orwellian/Obamian tool to keep tabs on the populace. So, obviously, the Like™ button flags your file. Paranoia is inappropriate though (unless the content of your site conflicts with approved free speech topics). Obviously, I kid. The government would have to have the authority to wiretap it’s citizens to pull that off.
Speaking of chilling, the other day it was below 30° in Oregon. Nice and clear, though. If not for all the windmills littering the landscape you could have seen the volcanoes coming into Washington. Oh well, if gouging out the hillsides and blotting out the scenery saves the planet then I say “Go green!”
Hidden Picture (Magic Eye kinda)
Smith Rock, Oregon
Smith Rock, Oregon
July, 2010
“There they go takin’ pictures again.”
“10-4. Flatlanders love these mountains.”
“There goes another one.”
“Maybe that one was lightning.”
Quite the cameras these flatlanders brandish. I made it back to the Smokey Mountain area where a boiled peanut vendor and a river-raft captain each confirmed that everything is uphill, big hills, from Hartford, Tennessee. I reaffirmed this for myself, this time without the flat tire. Nearly same result. Locals though, according to the river captain, can be persuaded to give you a lift uphill for a few bucks. Firetower is the bike trail.
While Lance crashed France, I le tour’d the Bayou. A few Gulf states, anyway. Alabama, by state law, serenaded me with Sweet Home Alabama. Kid Rock’s homage followed. When Kid, however, sang of …smoking funny things, it played “…******* funny things.” It’s ok to openly …drink whisky out the bottle, though. Methinks the FCC could stand a surprise audit.
On Thursday, July 14th I got a firsthand look at the Gulf: Biloxi, Mississippi. By Friday, July 15th I was relaxing in New Orleans; oh, and the oil well was capped. Of course I had nothing to do with that feat, but then again it took me less than twenty-four hours to do nothing. The key, I think, was staying out of the way.
Above: Dragonfly, or not.
Below: On Time Band, New Orleans, Louisiana.
Air conditioning crapped out this month. Works out pretty well, actually; haven’t been through Wyoming since. (Nor have I had to chain up!)
In Iowa, the local Ag news station reported that due to all the moisture, Iowa would see “…the best corn production in a generation…” Impressive, for sure. Same is probably true for mosquito propagation (that would explain all the Freightliner-assisted suicides among deer).
I mentioned my AC went TU, yes? Well, I’m all over the place this trip. Not very chronological. Anyhoo, fall asleep at the wheel in Mississippi and you’ll miss (ha, pun not intended, unlike the following) these gems: Miss Juvenile Rehab, and Miss Juvenile Justice Center, Honorable somebody somebody somebody, Jr., presiding (no kidding!), and on and on. The biggest pageant by far belongs to Miss State Patrol: nice to know our fines support the young women of Mississippi.
Below: On Time Band, New Orleans, Louisiana.
Air conditioning crapped out this month. Works out pretty well, actually; haven’t been through Wyoming since. (Nor have I had to chain up!)
In Iowa, the local Ag news station reported that due to all the moisture, Iowa would see “…the best corn production in a generation…” Impressive, for sure. Same is probably true for mosquito propagation (that would explain all the Freightliner-assisted suicides among deer).
I mentioned my AC went TU, yes? Well, I’m all over the place this trip. Not very chronological. Anyhoo, fall asleep at the wheel in Mississippi and you’ll miss (ha, pun not intended, unlike the following) these gems: Miss Juvenile Rehab, and Miss Juvenile Justice Center, Honorable somebody somebody somebody, Jr., presiding (no kidding!), and on and on. The biggest pageant by far belongs to Miss State Patrol: nice to know our fines support the young women of Mississippi.
June, 2010
I begin this month’s adventure from southern California. Interesting, punny times. President Obama was visiting California too, stumping for Barbara Boxer. I wish I could’ve written the headlines: maybe something like “Oil Magnate Hosts Oil Magnet.” (Dinner was served in the Getty oil mansion.) Meanwhile, as I pass sign after sign reading, “Congress Created Dustbowl,” the radio announces that the pumps will soon be delivering salmon enriched water to parched farmlands. Housewives will be happy. Watering keeps the dust down much more efficiently than having the kids go outside and take deep breathes.
Further up the road, Washington (State, hold on. A thought just occurred to me: if we changed Washington (AC & DC) to Marx, or Lenin would our respective politicians honor those visionaries by becoming rabid capitalists?) rained supreme. Groan. Sorry, it was wet.
Further up the road, Washington (State, hold on. A thought just occurred to me: if we changed Washington (AC & DC) to Marx, or Lenin would our respective politicians honor those visionaries by becoming rabid capitalists?) rained supreme. Groan. Sorry, it was wet.
Previously on Twin Peaks...
(AKA, Mt. Si, Washington)
Anyway, back down to Sacramento, then across Nevada on “The Loneliest Highway,” (according to the map and city welcome signs), Utah, and halfway through Colorado (although, really the state should be divided into Colorado, and West Kansas). Driving across Colorado killed me. No time to spare. So many obvious opportunities to explore. All those rest areas smack dab on top of bike paths. I often fool myself, thinking I’ll get a load right back. Apparently, I was too distracted in Denver to think rationally, realistically, or negatively, because I got a load right back. With time to spare.
So I explored Glenwood Springs. Nice tourist town featuring great big public hot springs. I passed ‘em up. It also has wonderful paved tails that follow the Colorado River for as far as you want to go. (Or, about the length of the gorge.) So, I passed that up too. Downtown looked like your typical tourist town with fine dining and artsy fartsy shops. Naturally, I passed up a few of those. And, somewhere along the route I probably passed Doc Holiday’s grave. I sacrificed all of that to ride Scout Trail.
Scout Trail is hundreds of years old, established by the Ute Indians. (Any further information would clearly indicate a deeper than superficial exploration of the facts, which I am clearly opposed to.) That being said, it gains about a two thousand feet in elevation. I did about 800 feet, I think. If I ever get a load that allows several hours of exploration I plan to explore further. Legs permitting.
(AKA, Mt. Si, Washington)
Anyway, back down to Sacramento, then across Nevada on “The Loneliest Highway,” (according to the map and city welcome signs), Utah, and halfway through Colorado (although, really the state should be divided into Colorado, and West Kansas). Driving across Colorado killed me. No time to spare. So many obvious opportunities to explore. All those rest areas smack dab on top of bike paths. I often fool myself, thinking I’ll get a load right back. Apparently, I was too distracted in Denver to think rationally, realistically, or negatively, because I got a load right back. With time to spare.
So I explored Glenwood Springs. Nice tourist town featuring great big public hot springs. I passed ‘em up. It also has wonderful paved tails that follow the Colorado River for as far as you want to go. (Or, about the length of the gorge.) So, I passed that up too. Downtown looked like your typical tourist town with fine dining and artsy fartsy shops. Naturally, I passed up a few of those. And, somewhere along the route I probably passed Doc Holiday’s grave. I sacrificed all of that to ride Scout Trail.
Scout Trail is hundreds of years old, established by the Ute Indians. (Any further information would clearly indicate a deeper than superficial exploration of the facts, which I am clearly opposed to.) That being said, it gains about a two thousand feet in elevation. I did about 800 feet, I think. If I ever get a load that allows several hours of exploration I plan to explore further. Legs permitting.
Red Mountain
Glenwood Springs, Colorado
Then back to Utah, and down to St. George. Since I’ve already started re-drawing maps, let me lop off Southwestern Utah and cede it to Arizona. Utah should not be allowed palm trees. Likewise, that little 7,000ft+ oasis in Northern Arizona is probably really New Mexico. (Not symmetrical for the cartographers, but hey we’ve learned to live with Hawaii.) But I get ahead of myself.
St. George should have been explored further – the maps indicate some nice mountain biking trails – but I thought, Ogden is the place to be, so I packed up my truck and I drove to Kimberly, Clark that is. Toilet paper. White rolls.
But I’ve been there, so I gambled on Nephi. Nada. (Obvious, anyway.) The load went to Phoenix, mas o menos, and was routed through the national parklands. This is the most beautiful time of the year, I suspect, with the greens contrasting with the reds and the punctuations of different flowers. So, I figured a place named Big Rock Candy Mountain would have to pay off. It did. But, I had a Jones (first time I’ve ever used that term, may be the last) for mountain biking. There are 20 miles of gorgeous paved biking trail along the river that lead, purportedly, to Butch Cassidy’s boyhood home. (Butch was a pre-television American Idol, for warped reasons maybe, but at least he didn’t sing.)
Glenwood Springs, Colorado
Then back to Utah, and down to St. George. Since I’ve already started re-drawing maps, let me lop off Southwestern Utah and cede it to Arizona. Utah should not be allowed palm trees. Likewise, that little 7,000ft+ oasis in Northern Arizona is probably really New Mexico. (Not symmetrical for the cartographers, but hey we’ve learned to live with Hawaii.) But I get ahead of myself.
St. George should have been explored further – the maps indicate some nice mountain biking trails – but I thought, Ogden is the place to be, so I packed up my truck and I drove to Kimberly, Clark that is. Toilet paper. White rolls.
But I’ve been there, so I gambled on Nephi. Nada. (Obvious, anyway.) The load went to Phoenix, mas o menos, and was routed through the national parklands. This is the most beautiful time of the year, I suspect, with the greens contrasting with the reds and the punctuations of different flowers. So, I figured a place named Big Rock Candy Mountain would have to pay off. It did. But, I had a Jones (first time I’ve ever used that term, may be the last) for mountain biking. There are 20 miles of gorgeous paved biking trail along the river that lead, purportedly, to Butch Cassidy’s boyhood home. (Butch was a pre-television American Idol, for warped reasons maybe, but at least he didn’t sing.)
Big Rock Candy Mountain, Utah
(Really)
(Really)
Greater Phoenix (Buckeye, especially) was pre-set to broil, or about 110° mas o menos. Chain was busted anyway. “Is there public transportation nearby,” I asked? I got a “yeah-right” snort for a reply. So pumped seventy some bucks into the Arizona economy on laundry: expensive, but at that price they throw in an air-conditioned room. It felt so good flipping the Obama administration the bird via contributing to Arizona’s economy that I did it again in Flagstaff (new chain). Good times.
From Flagstaff I headed through New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, and landed just inside Illinois. And then I did it again, but veered off to Dallas, Texas. Hot there too. In Oklahoma and later Texas, I had to dodge three tortoises while two more threatened to dart into my lane. They must know how to play the game, ‘cause I saw very little roadkill of their kind.
From Flagstaff I headed through New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, and landed just inside Illinois. And then I did it again, but veered off to Dallas, Texas. Hot there too. In Oklahoma and later Texas, I had to dodge three tortoises while two more threatened to dart into my lane. They must know how to play the game, ‘cause I saw very little roadkill of their kind.
Bumblebee
Tucumcari, New Mexico
Tucumcari, New Mexico
Cactus with Tiaras
Outside of Phoenix, Arizona
Outside of Phoenix, Arizona
Heading back out through the Oklahoma panhandle a legion of storm-chasers passed me coming from Colorado (I lost count at around 1.3 million). Apparently there was some nastiness in Colorado the same day as the flash flood that swept away the Arkansas campers. Likewise, Wyoming was the wettest I’ve seen, with streams coming out of nowhere to crisscross the open range. Utah, same thing; swollen rivers. So, having traveled through three states of rain I figured Shoshone Falls, Idaho would be epic! Photogenic, but just not epic. I expected a thundering, deafening, ground-shuddering tsunami barely contained by the towering walls of the canyon. Dams? Who knows.
In the '80s they used DeLoreans
Observed in Boise City, Oklahoma
Observed in Boise City, Oklahoma
Maybe I just got swept up in the geological history of the area. This neck of the woods (or, lack thereof), was part of Lake Bonneville, the monster that spanned a large chunk of Utah, and swaths of Idaho, and Nevada; equivalent in size to Lake Michigan. One day a narrow natural dam busted and all hell broke loose. A similar mega-lake in Montana kept breaking free of it’s ice-dams and rampaged eastern Washington. That’s what I came to photograph. Oh well, another day.
Sparrow (and Shoshone Falls, Idaho)
Back to the tortoises, or turtles. (Most were turtles, I think.) For some reason, turtles in the Midwest urgently needed to cross the freeways. From Kansas, down through Oklahoma, Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, and, Missouri I saw more live and dead turtles than deer (live or dead). National Public Radio (NPR for fundraising purposes – sounds less governmentally-subsidized that way) had a segment about mass turtle-migrations across Minnesota’s freeways. NPR warned against stopping and rescuing turtles from the freeways (darting in front of freeway traffic to pick up turtles is dangerous, apparently).
"Rescued" Turtle: trying to get in to see the management.
Shelby, North Carolina.
Staying in the Midwest: Midwestern storms are fascinating. It fascinates me the way you realize, at some point, that the skies are no longer sky-blue, but cobalt-blue. It’s like trying to pinpoint the exact moment you’re dreaming. I imagine Thor sneaking over to set the needle down on Barry White, turn the dimmer-switch down to cobalt and releasing the first few subtle strands of lightning. Smooth – you’d think he was a Greek god. Anyway, lots of rain, lightning, some wind, but no tornados. Good for washing away the bug-splatter.
And, to illustrate that there is beauty in nearly everything, there are few things as entertaining (late at night, anyway) as ectoplasmic bug-splatter. Or, the fluorescent-green of lightning bug entrails on your windshield.
Shelby, North Carolina.
Staying in the Midwest: Midwestern storms are fascinating. It fascinates me the way you realize, at some point, that the skies are no longer sky-blue, but cobalt-blue. It’s like trying to pinpoint the exact moment you’re dreaming. I imagine Thor sneaking over to set the needle down on Barry White, turn the dimmer-switch down to cobalt and releasing the first few subtle strands of lightning. Smooth – you’d think he was a Greek god. Anyway, lots of rain, lightning, some wind, but no tornados. Good for washing away the bug-splatter.
And, to illustrate that there is beauty in nearly everything, there are few things as entertaining (late at night, anyway) as ectoplasmic bug-splatter. Or, the fluorescent-green of lightning bug entrails on your windshield.
April/May, 2010
I feel kind of dirty. No, not the stereotypical trucker dirty. Nor the stereotypical perverted trucker dirty. Worse, maybe. I photoshopped. I performed image enhancement. I’m no longer pure. My defense might go like this: “Your Honor, I was simply trying to faithfully reproduce the beauty I remembered seeing.”
“Yes, I hear acid induced visions are quite vivid. Pee into this cup. (Bang!) Next!” Nevertheless, the brain and eyes take several readings continuously. The camera, one reading at one particular instant. So, which version is the one and only true version? Don’t ask me. Anyway, I’ll try to use some restraint.
If you can get to the brackish waters of Chambers’ Bay just north of Steilacoom there is a daily wildlife extravaganza. Fish migrating from the saltwater Puget Sound swim through a gauntlet of cormorants, herons, osprey, seals, and bald eagles (among others) to get to the freshwater Chambers’ Creek. Gauntlet survivors gather in the pond above and breach the surface in celebration (or to catch insects). The not so lucky, get fought over. If you yourself survived the traffic gauntlet to get there, and have the spare energy, a nice little hiking/mountain bike trail is just across the street. (Look for parking off I-5, exit 128, or 129 by all the chain restaurants. Take 74th street to Custer rd SW, go west on Steilacoom blvd, all the way down the hill to the city of Steilacoom, take the first through street on the right and take a right on Lafayette which will turn into Chambers Creek road. Follow road until it runs along a little bay and continue until just before the bridge.)
“Yes, I hear acid induced visions are quite vivid. Pee into this cup. (Bang!) Next!” Nevertheless, the brain and eyes take several readings continuously. The camera, one reading at one particular instant. So, which version is the one and only true version? Don’t ask me. Anyway, I’ll try to use some restraint.
If you can get to the brackish waters of Chambers’ Bay just north of Steilacoom there is a daily wildlife extravaganza. Fish migrating from the saltwater Puget Sound swim through a gauntlet of cormorants, herons, osprey, seals, and bald eagles (among others) to get to the freshwater Chambers’ Creek. Gauntlet survivors gather in the pond above and breach the surface in celebration (or to catch insects). The not so lucky, get fought over. If you yourself survived the traffic gauntlet to get there, and have the spare energy, a nice little hiking/mountain bike trail is just across the street. (Look for parking off I-5, exit 128, or 129 by all the chain restaurants. Take 74th street to Custer rd SW, go west on Steilacoom blvd, all the way down the hill to the city of Steilacoom, take the first through street on the right and take a right on Lafayette which will turn into Chambers Creek road. Follow road until it runs along a little bay and continue until just before the bridge.)
Image suffered from the heavy cropping.
(The fish may have suffered some too.)
Chambers Bay, Washington
(The fish may have suffered some too.)
Chambers Bay, Washington
Ducks
Chambers Bay, Washington (Tacoma +/-)
Sections of Butte, Montana are super fun. These areas are designated by signs that read: “Super fun site: Keep out.” Sorry. Seriously though, I did have a wonderful time riding around Butte. Copper mines rule the town with their black derricks braced against the wind like Eiffel towers with a purpose. These derricks also serve as memorials to dead miners. On the east side of town is the enormous open pit mine. Colorful. I intend to catch it at sunset someday.
After riding up and down Butte, dodging traffic (if you can find any) stop in at Montana’s Bean N’ Cream for the cheapest (great) coffee around ($1.00 12 oz Americano). They also boast about their breakfast burrito (which I suspect is a bargain as well).
Chambers Bay, Washington (Tacoma +/-)
Sections of Butte, Montana are super fun. These areas are designated by signs that read: “Super fun site: Keep out.” Sorry. Seriously though, I did have a wonderful time riding around Butte. Copper mines rule the town with their black derricks braced against the wind like Eiffel towers with a purpose. These derricks also serve as memorials to dead miners. On the east side of town is the enormous open pit mine. Colorful. I intend to catch it at sunset someday.
After riding up and down Butte, dodging traffic (if you can find any) stop in at Montana’s Bean N’ Cream for the cheapest (great) coffee around ($1.00 12 oz Americano). They also boast about their breakfast burrito (which I suspect is a bargain as well).
Butte, Montana's Interpretation of the Eiffel Tower
Moving along, Idaho had some snow on the ground, Utah kept it up in the mountains, and Wyoming let it drift all over the interstate. Typical. For this they closed the road for the evening and 2/3rds of the next day. Opening of the road must have been like what the Sooners experienced (“Breaker, breaker: if you can’t do at least seven¡¡ #$£** %♫#! miles an hour, stay out of the ¡¡ #$**%♫#! hammer lane!) – the rush was on. The rush was off a hundred miles later in Laramie. Trucks parked bumper to bumper on the interstate for more than seven miles waiting for wreckers to clear four semis. So much for skiing, ironically. (And nix biking, schedule shot to pieces.)
Moving along, Idaho had some snow on the ground, Utah kept it up in the mountains, and Wyoming let it drift all over the interstate. Typical. For this they closed the road for the evening and 2/3rds of the next day. Opening of the road must have been like what the Sooners experienced (“Breaker, breaker: if you can’t do at least seven¡¡ #$£** %♫#! miles an hour, stay out of the ¡¡ #$**%♫#! hammer lane!) – the rush was on. The rush was off a hundred miles later in Laramie. Trucks parked bumper to bumper on the interstate for more than seven miles waiting for wreckers to clear four semis. So much for skiing, ironically. (And nix biking, schedule shot to pieces.)
March/April, 2010
March comes in like a lion: published site, erased site (parts anyway). Was showing site off to my niece, “look what this does.” She wasn’t impressed.
Nice start to the work week: beautiful sunny day, leisurely load, and an exhilarating bike ride. Even better was having enough shoulder room to pull over and photograph a herd of bighorn sheep. Second sighting this year (only two sightings in my life). So, keep your eyes peeled along the Columbia gorge, Oregon side, east of Biggs.
Bighorn Sheep, near Rufus, Oregon
The wildlife theme continued into the next trip with sightings of a bald eagle, pronghorn antelope, and an Amish farmer plowing his field (teasing of course – I shouldn’t talk). Anyway, Montana alone boasted a bald eagle, pronghorn antelope, and a bumper sticker on a pick up advertising Maggot Fest. I’d love to attend that fest as well as the Testicle Festival in Clinton, Montana. (Must be rough being a steer in Montana.) Montana also tried to snow on me, but by North Dakota the weather forecaster announced it would be “…49°, get out the shorts.” To celebrate, the station played accordion polka music. Then it was back to the business of soliciting volunteer sand baggers for the rapidly rising Red River.
In Carlisle, Pennsylvania I took the bike out on the Appalachian Trail again. I came to a road and couldn’t find where the trail resumed. So, I asked a rather dour woman (despite the sun-weathered, sunburst tattoo setting into her cleavage) “excuse me, do you know where the trail picks up again?” She told me, but assured me it was impassible by bike. Huge cliff, big boulders. True enough, falling would have been bad. So, if you go and decide you need to fall, bring a helmet.
Over the river and through the woods to Maine, or Georgia.
Appalaichain Trail, Carlisle, Pennsylvania
After dropping a load in New Jersey (insert potty humor here), I missed two of the closest rest areas and suspiciously ended up at the perfect location for biking into Philadelphia. (Dispatch called me on it too; thankfully, I don’t make suspicious looking mistakes often.) So I sped off towards the city of brotherly love (tough love, I hear). I was nearly too late. For now, Independence Hall still stands, but as the photo clearly shows, ground has already been broken for the new Department of Health and Human Services complex (and this photo was taken days before the final vote!).
Heading back “home,” I lost the path I took getting into the city. The new path was much more interesting: it boasted cops squealing rubber around corners, and hooligans riding ATVs full throttle in the wrong lane, during rush hour. I suspect the two were connected. The next morning it was off to Staten Island, a long night, and then a postcard perfect sunrise over the New York skyline (alas, no pic).
Appalaichain Trail, Carlisle, Pennsylvania
After dropping a load in New Jersey (insert potty humor here), I missed two of the closest rest areas and suspiciously ended up at the perfect location for biking into Philadelphia. (Dispatch called me on it too; thankfully, I don’t make suspicious looking mistakes often.) So I sped off towards the city of brotherly love (tough love, I hear). I was nearly too late. For now, Independence Hall still stands, but as the photo clearly shows, ground has already been broken for the new Department of Health and Human Services complex (and this photo was taken days before the final vote!).
Heading back “home,” I lost the path I took getting into the city. The new path was much more interesting: it boasted cops squealing rubber around corners, and hooligans riding ATVs full throttle in the wrong lane, during rush hour. I suspect the two were connected. The next morning it was off to Staten Island, a long night, and then a postcard perfect sunrise over the New York skyline (alas, no pic).
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Above: breaking ground for the new Health & Human Services complex. Background Independence Hall - annachronistic
relic of the radical right wing (kidding, of course - don't think Pelosi is though).
In Minnesota, I was gladdened to hear that the sandbags worked in North Dakota. Wisconsin has always eluded me. Time constraints, for some reason. I made up for it by stopping in Hudson, Wisconsin and biking to the state park. White tail deer flashed like paparazzi flashbulbs when I rode past. (Leave the camera if you want to see stuff.) Camp Douglas, Wisconsin whiffed on the deer venue. (I brought the camera.)
Above: breaking ground for the new Health & Human Services complex. Background Independence Hall - annachronistic
relic of the radical right wing (kidding, of course - don't think Pelosi is though).
In Minnesota, I was gladdened to hear that the sandbags worked in North Dakota. Wisconsin has always eluded me. Time constraints, for some reason. I made up for it by stopping in Hudson, Wisconsin and biking to the state park. White tail deer flashed like paparazzi flashbulbs when I rode past. (Leave the camera if you want to see stuff.) Camp Douglas, Wisconsin whiffed on the deer venue. (I brought the camera.)
The autopsied remains of Frosty (guess it wasn't the magic in that old top hat).
Camp Douglas, Wisconsin
That’s o.k., Metropolis picked up the slack. Superman, sure, but Big John too! “Bag ‘em, Big John.” Alas, both were mired in concrete. (Suspiciously, the health care vote moved at breakneck speed.) No happy endings.
Camp Douglas, Wisconsin
That’s o.k., Metropolis picked up the slack. Superman, sure, but Big John too! “Bag ‘em, Big John.” Alas, both were mired in concrete. (Suspiciously, the health care vote moved at breakneck speed.) No happy endings.
Metropolis, Illinois
The mild-mannered duo of Clark Kent & Big John
And then I was back in New Jersey. I confess to not getting the hang of that state. The onramps to freeways and interstates seem to be part of a giant Rube Goldberg conspiracy. The last couple of visits I found myself traveling opposite my intended route. But I escaped. Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Chicago-Land (please deposit toll and next available politician will fleece you at their earliest convenience), Wisconsin, Minnesota, and then North Dakota.
Lots of farming going on in North Dakota. To the untrained eye, like mine, you might be tempted to think, “not much to see here.” But then a fully loaded pickup truck hauling raccoon carcasses passes, tails flapping in the slipstream. Not kidding. Questions, questions. Hmmm, a farmer (or, trapper more than likely) taking his raccoons to market. So, I tuned the radio to the Ag News Network to check the spot price for raccoon commodities. “Live feeder cattle, September wheat, may soybeans, spring chickens, chicken fingers, nuggets…,” the usual stuff I tuned out until Paul Harvey came on, but no mention of raccoons (I’d really like to know the rest of the story). A cursory Google search revealed that there is a market for raccoon pelts, mostly out of Russia; and a gentleman in Detroit sells raccoon meat, but he hunts it himself. And finally before leaving North Dakota, the buffalo were out, roaming. (Domesticated buffalo should have their horns clipped; domesticated horses should be saddled at all times. Only then can we take pictures with confidence.)
Trouble-free through Montana, Idaho, Washington, shop, Oregon, Idaho, Utah, and into Wyoming. Broke out the cross-country skiis on Pole Mountain and promptly broke both baskets on my poles. My poles enjoyed the newfound freedom and showed off by planting themselves wrist-deep a few times. The resulting falls were far less violent than plopping into a recliner.
The mild-mannered duo of Clark Kent & Big John
And then I was back in New Jersey. I confess to not getting the hang of that state. The onramps to freeways and interstates seem to be part of a giant Rube Goldberg conspiracy. The last couple of visits I found myself traveling opposite my intended route. But I escaped. Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Chicago-Land (please deposit toll and next available politician will fleece you at their earliest convenience), Wisconsin, Minnesota, and then North Dakota.
Lots of farming going on in North Dakota. To the untrained eye, like mine, you might be tempted to think, “not much to see here.” But then a fully loaded pickup truck hauling raccoon carcasses passes, tails flapping in the slipstream. Not kidding. Questions, questions. Hmmm, a farmer (or, trapper more than likely) taking his raccoons to market. So, I tuned the radio to the Ag News Network to check the spot price for raccoon commodities. “Live feeder cattle, September wheat, may soybeans, spring chickens, chicken fingers, nuggets…,” the usual stuff I tuned out until Paul Harvey came on, but no mention of raccoons (I’d really like to know the rest of the story). A cursory Google search revealed that there is a market for raccoon pelts, mostly out of Russia; and a gentleman in Detroit sells raccoon meat, but he hunts it himself. And finally before leaving North Dakota, the buffalo were out, roaming. (Domesticated buffalo should have their horns clipped; domesticated horses should be saddled at all times. Only then can we take pictures with confidence.)
Trouble-free through Montana, Idaho, Washington, shop, Oregon, Idaho, Utah, and into Wyoming. Broke out the cross-country skiis on Pole Mountain and promptly broke both baskets on my poles. My poles enjoyed the newfound freedom and showed off by planting themselves wrist-deep a few times. The resulting falls were far less violent than plopping into a recliner.
Pole Mountain, Wyoming
(Aptly named)
Windy, but warm (nearly hot) in Colorado, Oklahoma, and Texas. Before leaving Texas, I was treated to an aerial display by a flock of black birds (coloring, not species). Flying at high speeds, changing directions on a dime, their shapes continuously transformed. They let me walk right up to their perches.
(Aptly named)
Windy, but warm (nearly hot) in Colorado, Oklahoma, and Texas. Before leaving Texas, I was treated to an aerial display by a flock of black birds (coloring, not species). Flying at high speeds, changing directions on a dime, their shapes continuously transformed. They let me walk right up to their perches.
(Near) Hedley, Texas
Performing nightly
The same route in reverse was much cooler. Still warm enough in Denver though to take out the bike. I took the first path I saw and rode into a homeless encampment under the bridge. (The Sand Creek Greenway path is actually across the creek.) Looks like an extensive trail system throughout the metropolitan area. Interestingly, the trail doesn’t seem to discriminate against the industrial neighborhoods, as it also winds amongst oil refineries. I’m sure it winds amongst good restaurants as well. Another time.
Pronghorn antelope grazed Texas, Oklahoma, Colorado, Wyoming, and possibly Utah. Marmots presided over Idaho highways. In Mountain Home, Idaho an authentic cowboy (recognizable by the embroidered ranch name on his coveralls) parked his pickup and joined the truck stop herd. His spurs were slightly out of tune which got me to wondering how he used them to enhance his truck’s performance. I almost asked, but I didn’t especially feel like getting my ass kicked.
In Richland, Washington I watched observers of Songkran, or Thai New Year. (Another bad time to leave the camera behind.) The celebration was characterized by dancing and friendly water fights. A handful of women made themselves busy ambushing fellow participants with baby powder. Which led to more water. And repeat. Saffron robed Buddhists bestowed blessings, and good-naturedly received their share of water. And then more water and dancing.
And then back to the shop.
Performing nightly
The same route in reverse was much cooler. Still warm enough in Denver though to take out the bike. I took the first path I saw and rode into a homeless encampment under the bridge. (The Sand Creek Greenway path is actually across the creek.) Looks like an extensive trail system throughout the metropolitan area. Interestingly, the trail doesn’t seem to discriminate against the industrial neighborhoods, as it also winds amongst oil refineries. I’m sure it winds amongst good restaurants as well. Another time.
Pronghorn antelope grazed Texas, Oklahoma, Colorado, Wyoming, and possibly Utah. Marmots presided over Idaho highways. In Mountain Home, Idaho an authentic cowboy (recognizable by the embroidered ranch name on his coveralls) parked his pickup and joined the truck stop herd. His spurs were slightly out of tune which got me to wondering how he used them to enhance his truck’s performance. I almost asked, but I didn’t especially feel like getting my ass kicked.
In Richland, Washington I watched observers of Songkran, or Thai New Year. (Another bad time to leave the camera behind.) The celebration was characterized by dancing and friendly water fights. A handful of women made themselves busy ambushing fellow participants with baby powder. Which led to more water. And repeat. Saffron robed Buddhists bestowed blessings, and good-naturedly received their share of water. And then more water and dancing.
And then back to the shop.
February, 2010.
February, 2010
Yeee hah! Trucking in February; the longest month of the year. Incredibly, the easiest driving this month was through the mountains of Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming. In Helena, there was enough residual snow at the delivery to take out the cross-country skis. This was my maiden outing on skinny skis. Pretty, no, but I had the cover of darkness.
Helena, Montana
I skated through Utah, southern California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas snow-free. In El Paso I took the bike out and did some hiking (something sharp tore open the inner-tube a few miles from the truck stop). Before that happened though, I inadvertently succeeded in doing something that hundreds of cars speeding by at at least 50 mph couldn’t – I spooked a buffalo calf. The domestic bovine juveniles just looked at him, “the new kid’s kinda jumpy.”
I skated through Utah, southern California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas snow-free. In El Paso I took the bike out and did some hiking (something sharp tore open the inner-tube a few miles from the truck stop). Before that happened though, I inadvertently succeeded in doing something that hundreds of cars speeding by at at least 50 mph couldn’t – I spooked a buffalo calf. The domestic bovine juveniles just looked at him, “the new kid’s kinda jumpy.”
Socorro (El Paso), Texas
(Why settle for taking a picture of a pair of big horn sheep in the Columbia Gorge, Oregon when I can snap off a pic of a penned in buffalo.)
In Oklahoma they had quaint warnings of an impending snow storm delivering up to an inch of snow. By mid-Indiana cars were off the road. Western Ohio finally brought patches of dry pavement again. In Findlay, Ohio the sun came out and I tried the cross-country skis again. About an hour before sunset scores (hundreds maybe) of geese circled over the yard. They arrived in smaller formations, joined, honked excitedly, circled, grew, and finally settled just east of the yard; the whole scene reminded me of a junior high school assembly up to the pledge of allegiance.
(Why settle for taking a picture of a pair of big horn sheep in the Columbia Gorge, Oregon when I can snap off a pic of a penned in buffalo.)
In Oklahoma they had quaint warnings of an impending snow storm delivering up to an inch of snow. By mid-Indiana cars were off the road. Western Ohio finally brought patches of dry pavement again. In Findlay, Ohio the sun came out and I tried the cross-country skis again. About an hour before sunset scores (hundreds maybe) of geese circled over the yard. They arrived in smaller formations, joined, honked excitedly, circled, grew, and finally settled just east of the yard; the whole scene reminded me of a junior high school assembly up to the pledge of allegiance.
Findlay, Ohio
After stops in Detroit, and Columbus, I headed across Pennsylvania and eventually picked up a load in Tunkhannok (northeastern Pennsylvania). The following morning the clouds unloaded their snow. At least five semis ran each other off the road and closed that side for the day. At least our side re-opened.
After stops in Detroit, and Columbus, I headed across Pennsylvania and eventually picked up a load in Tunkhannok (northeastern Pennsylvania). The following morning the clouds unloaded their snow. At least five semis ran each other off the road and closed that side for the day. At least our side re-opened.
From Tennessee it was southwest through Arkansas and almost all of Texas back to El Paso (Spanish for déjà vu). I Took the bike down again and headed towards the border. I may have found the park I was looking for, or maybe just undeveloped land. A jackrabbit I came across seemed similarly confused. In looking for the way back to the truck-stop I realized I was following the Mission Trail. I popped into the Socorro Mission and snapped a few pictures. Originally built in 1682, and rebuilt (late 1700s?) after the Rio Grande flooded it is a fine example of that type of architecture (ha, sounds like an answer to a 7th grade essay question).
Socorro Mission, Texas
That afternoon I abandoned El Paso’s 60° weather for a 15° New Mexico snow storm. I crept into Santa Rosa glad to find a place park. Roads that evening were pretty icy, but they weren’t nice and polished like the exit ramp at the truck-stop. The next morning a popular spectator sport developed, complete with commentary, as truck after truck tried to conquer the exit ramp. Most would have triumphed except for having to stop for oncoming traffic (and usually there was some). Then they would polish the ice, stop, slide a little backwards, polish some more ice, slide a little, polish a little, and eventually either back or slide all the way back down. Somehow none of us thought to put on safety vests and direct the cross-traffic. I cheated and went out the entrance. Halfway to Tucumcari the ice on the roadway finally disappeared. I broke out the skis and explored a little. I’m finally getting some glide going.
That afternoon I abandoned El Paso’s 60° weather for a 15° New Mexico snow storm. I crept into Santa Rosa glad to find a place park. Roads that evening were pretty icy, but they weren’t nice and polished like the exit ramp at the truck-stop. The next morning a popular spectator sport developed, complete with commentary, as truck after truck tried to conquer the exit ramp. Most would have triumphed except for having to stop for oncoming traffic (and usually there was some). Then they would polish the ice, stop, slide a little backwards, polish some more ice, slide a little, polish a little, and eventually either back or slide all the way back down. Somehow none of us thought to put on safety vests and direct the cross-traffic. I cheated and went out the entrance. Halfway to Tucumcari the ice on the roadway finally disappeared. I broke out the skis and explored a little. I’m finally getting some glide going.
Tucumcari, New Mexico
In Buckeye, Arizona I took the bike out again. In Quartzite, Arizona I stopped long enough to ask a fast food employee, “What’s the deal with all the motor homes?” She claimed that Quartzite is home to the largest swap meet in the world. I think there’s probably more to it than that; personally, and I don’t mean to disparage Quartzite, but I think the government is slipping hallucinogens into the water supply. I intend to investigate further. By Palm Springs, California I realized my air conditioning wasn’t up to the task. By Oregon daffodils bloomed and newborn lambs frolicked in the brilliantly green countryside. “Can you believe this state,” I said to the guy pumping fuel next to me, “Daffodils!” “Ha, those poor bastards on the east coast,” he replied.
In Buckeye, Arizona I took the bike out again. In Quartzite, Arizona I stopped long enough to ask a fast food employee, “What’s the deal with all the motor homes?” She claimed that Quartzite is home to the largest swap meet in the world. I think there’s probably more to it than that; personally, and I don’t mean to disparage Quartzite, but I think the government is slipping hallucinogens into the water supply. I intend to investigate further. By Palm Springs, California I realized my air conditioning wasn’t up to the task. By Oregon daffodils bloomed and newborn lambs frolicked in the brilliantly green countryside. “Can you believe this state,” I said to the guy pumping fuel next to me, “Daffodils!” “Ha, those poor bastards on the east coast,” he replied.
Cactus Skeleton, Buckeye, Arizona
Yo-yoing back down I-5, I stopped at Medford just long enough to pedal along the river. Nice bike path. Looks like it goes for quite a ways (I’m guessing Central Point to Phoenix). Ironically, I busted my derailleur on this gentle path, but mercifully, as I was pulling back into the parking lot. Rain in the San Francisco bay area debugged my windshield, while central Oregon obligingly offered just enough snow to keep the bugs down. And then I trucked on home, safe and sound.
Yo-yoing back down I-5, I stopped at Medford just long enough to pedal along the river. Nice bike path. Looks like it goes for quite a ways (I’m guessing Central Point to Phoenix). Ironically, I busted my derailleur on this gentle path, but mercifully, as I was pulling back into the parking lot. Rain in the San Francisco bay area debugged my windshield, while central Oregon obligingly offered just enough snow to keep the bugs down. And then I trucked on home, safe and sound.
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