Spirit of the Road

by Rick L. Huffman

  What a great way to start the day!

  After cursing the Marietta shop under my breath, I set out for Newport, Tennessee to pick up the next load.

  Newport is located in Cocke County and, from the 1920’s through the 1960’s, it became notorious throughout the southeast as a moonshine Mecca. At the onset of Prohibition in 1920, Cocke County was primed to meet the demand for illegally distilled liquor. Not only were there moonshiners with generations of experience, but the remote Appalachian hollows and thick forest provided perfect hiding places for illegal stills.[42]

  I almost enjoyed an extended stay in Newport by getting stuck in a mud hole at the shipper. Fortunately, I managed to escape the mire and get on the way to North Platte, Nebraska. We spent the night about an hour east of Nashville after a relatively smooth and painless day.

  I drove 615 miles on Saturday and made it to the terminal in Kansas City. More rain confirmed that my windshield was still leaking. I was in a bad mood by the time we got to Kansas City, and it did not improve when I spilled chili on my bunk while cooking dinner. The evening gained a perfect garnish when Kitty threw up in my seat. I instinctively thought of Al Bundy on Married with Children when he looks skyward and pleads, “Oh God! Is this all there is?”

  Week 35: Eat More Possum

  The Great Platte River Road Archway Monument on I-80 in Nebraska always captures my attention and awe as I pass beneath it. A 1500-ton structure that crosses over three hundred feet of a heavily traveled interstate, the Archway is a history museum that documents over a century and a half of transportation and communication across America. The Archway is also an interactive adventure that pays tribute to the pioneers who passed through Nebraska on their westward trip.[43] The exterior resembles a Nebraska sunset for passing motorists.

  We made it to the Flying J in North Platte on Sunday, which is next door to the Wal-Mart distribution center where we deliver on Monday. It is often difficult to park at this busy truck stop, and today was no exception.

  I went to the Wal-Mart D.C. a half hour before my appointment on Monday only for the guard to tell me to go out and come in again—I was in the wrong lane. I planned to turn around at the Flying J and come back, but I missed the driveway and had to go ten miles on the interstate before there was an exit on which to turn back. This day was not starting well.

  It would not get better. We waited all day to be unloaded. I returned to Flying J afterward and requested dispatch to give me a pickup for tomorrow morning. It was already too late to get another load today. We got a run to Hermiston, Oregon—the site of my first solo delivery for this company.

  We left on Tuesday morning for Aurora, Nebraska to pick up the Hermiston load. In 2003, the largest hailstone ever measured fell in Aurora. It had a diameter of seven inches and a circumference of 18.75 inches.[44] We were in the midst of a thunderstorm as we approached Aurora, and I hoped the record would not be broken today.

  I saw a rolled-over tanker on the east side of Ogallala, Nebraska. The sight of a rollover always inspires shock and awe. I cannot help but think: There, but for the grace of God, go I.

  We spent the night at the terminal in Cheyenne, Wyoming. The beauty of this part of the country still astounds me. The Rocky Mountains rise to snow-capped peaks and, below the timberline, evergreen forests of spruce, fir, and pine fill out the slopes. Most of the cities of the American west are small, and the spaces between them are significant. The large areas just seem to make it a little easier to breathe, and slightly more peaceful to be alive.

  Wednesday was a long day of driving that ended in the Snake River Plain of Idaho. The Snake River Plain is a broad, bow-shaped depression that stretches for about four hundred miles and covers about a quarter of Idaho. Many of Idaho’s major cities are in the Snake River Plain along with much of its agricultural land. The Snake River Canyon is in the Magic Valley region of southern Idaho. It remains well known as the site of an unsuccessful attempt to jump it by Evel Knievel in 1974. I can recall watching the abortive attempt on TV as a boy.

  In a contraption called the Skycycle X-2, Knievel launched himself into celebrity history.[45] The Skycycle was comprised of a bucket seat attached to a steam-powered thrust engine designed to carry Knievel one mile across the canyon. It was then supposed to deploy a parachute and land on a pogo stick attached to its nose.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  The parachute accidentally deployed after launch, and Knievel crashed into the canyon below. Miraculously, he walked away with only minor injuries.

  I was not at all tired after a long day of driving. I seem to have developed the necessary road toughness that I lacked in the beginning. Typically, it isn’t my resolve that is the first to weaken—it’s my bladder. Without mentioning names, I’ve known drivers who choose to use a jug while driving to avoid stopping. I elect not to. It not only poses a potentially dangerous distraction, but the threat of spillage is a convincing deterrent to me.

  We passed a sign on I-84 in Oregon that read, Eat/Gas. I remain confused as to whether it suggests the consumption of petroleum or if it describes the succession of events that transpire by dining at the establishment.

  We made it to Hermiston on Thursday and, astonishingly, got a parking spot at the crowded Pilot there. The delivery to Wal-Mart went fine on Friday morning but, after dropping my loaded trailer, I picked up an empty one that was a total piece of cow plop. I could have taken one that was slightly newer, but it sat securely in the center of an enormous mud puddle that seemed more pond than puddle. Next, we picked up a load of Starbucks coffee in Renton, Washington that delivered to Houston. I hoped to go home shortly after that run, so I was glad to be going in the right direction.

  Another bird made a kamikaze run into my windshield on Saturday morning. My truck, apparently, presented an inviting image to our feathered friends as it rolled along the interstate—until the moment of impact, anyway.

  We made it to a rest area just outside of Ogden, Utah for the night. When I got out, I noticed that someone had written a slogan in the dirt encrusted on the back of my trailer. I was left to wonder how long I’d been a rolling billboard, inviting the citizens of Utah to: Eat more Possum.

  Week 36: Is that alligator staring at me?

  On Sunday, we made it to Limon, Colorado, about an hour east of Denver. I spotted a bar across from the truck stop and, since I had not indulged myself in a drink in almost a month, I decided to go have a couple. Unfortunately, I ended up having more than a couple. There were plenty of other truckers in the bar, and listening to some of the stories from the old vets reminded me of what a rookie I still am.

  Suffice it to say that Monday was a long day. I made the obligatory vow that I would never do that again while I’m on the road and, to this point, I haven’t. After an endless day of pain and regret, I stopped near Wichita, Kansas for the night.

  I had just enough time to get to the terminal in Wilmer, Texas on Tuesday. We got some rain in Oklahoma and my windshield continued its leaking ways. I decided to have my trailer inspected in Wilmer, and it’s a good thing I did. One of the trailer dollies was damaged. I had no idea how it happened, but it was such that I had to get it repaired. Unfortunately, this eliminated my opportunity for a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow would be my birthday, and I’d be content with the gift of a smooth, quick delivery followed by a load that sent me home.

  After about three hours of sleep, we left for Houston at midnight. For a solo driver, the road provides many opportunities for thought and reflection. As I drove through Texas in the wee hours of the morning, I recalled marching in the Battle of Flowers parade in San Antonio during my marching band days at Haughton High School. The Battle of Flowers is an annual celebration honoring those who fought in the battles of the Alamo and San Jacinto. My days of deftly twirling drumsticks as I proudly marched with my snare drum are some of my fondest memories of youth. The Battle of Flowers parade, in 1977, served as the setting for a fourteen-year-old freshman to get his first kiss
from LeAnn Bickley. I suppose everyone remembers their first kiss, and the magic of the first experience is rarely duplicated. I smiled at the sweet memory as I drove through the calm Texas night, and I politely mourned the loss of youth’s innocence and magic.

  After delivery in Houston, I began to feel the effects of only three hours of sleep. I decided to go to the Flying J in Houston and take it easy for the rest of the day. I went across the street to the Movie Tavern, a place where a server brings food and/or drinks while you enjoy the movie. I passed on the drinks, but the food was delicious. What a great idea this place was!

  We went to the Budweiser plant in Houston on Thursday for our next load. The Shipping Department called the drivers on the CB radio for docking assignments but, unfortunately, my CB blew a fuse as I was waiting. I had to sit in the shipper’s lobby for over three hours to receive my docking assignment. Dealing with a female security guard who carried a poisonous attitude around like a bag of snakes rendered my wait even less pleasant.

  I hate picking up heavy loads, like beer or pet food, because the shipper almost never balances the weight correctly. If the weight exceeds 34,000 pounds on the front or rear trailer tandems, the adjustable tandems must be moved to balance the weight to legal standards. On a newer trailer this, usually, does not pose a problem but, on an older one, the locking pins are often rusted. This can require an extraordinary effort unless the aid of another driver is available. Needless to say, my tandems were impossibly stuck, and the delay only raised the ire of a security guard who was already as grumpy as a constipated goose.

  It was getting late by the time I got out of the Budweiser plant, so I called it a day at a small truck stop in Winnie, Texas. I went to a Cajun restaurant called Al T’s for dinner. The large main dining room was filled with dark wooden tables and chairs, and the walls were covered with fishing and hunting memorabilia. I could not avoid feeling a bit uneasy as mounted deer heads, fish, alligators, and sea turtles peered down at me with a lifeless stare. In addition to the standard Cajun fare of dirty rice, gumbo, and jambalaya, Al T’s is also happy to serve up an alligator dish.

  We left early the next morning for Natchez, Mississippi. The Budweiser warehouse in Natchez had a terribly tight dock in which I had to back from a narrow street. As I struggled with it, an impatient four-wheeler honked at me and I reflexively gave him the finger before I could filter my actions. I guess the nature of his business was, in his mind, far more important than mine.

  After Natchez, we picked up the next load in Monticello, Mississippi that delivered to Cleveland, Tennessee on Monday. I planned to route myself through Scottsboro and spend the weekend at home. After delivering on Monday, I’d go back home for another three days. This was perfect!

  Home was always a welcome sight, but the ritual of dropping the trailer at a truck stop, putting on the trailer door and kingpin locks, and unloading my belongings from the cab seemed to take forever. I planned to enjoy a weekend at home before delivering in Cleveland on Monday.

  Detour: Spirituality on the Road

  During the years I worked in the television business, I considered myself an agnostic. I did not reject the notion of God outright, but I was not convinced of His/Its existence either. Whatever the case, it didn’t seem to make much difference in my life. Although I was a self-proclaimed agnostic, I still prayed from time to time. I figured that, at best, I was talking to God—at worst, it was a personal catharsis. It seemed like a win-win situation. In doing this, I suppose that I had, in some way, avoided uprooting the seeds of spirituality.

  My experience in Cross Timbers, Missouri with Merlin and his family, and the people of that small community may have been the first event to pour some water upon those seeds. The camaraderie, love, trust, and pure selflessness I experienced there certainly rose above the human behavior to which I had been previously exposed. I could not help having a distinct "feeling" that something else was at play.

  In the days to come, I would view the majestic beauty of a Wyoming sunrise, the rolling green hills of southern California, and the jaw-dropping craggy peaks of the Colorado Rockies. The sharply eroded pinnacles and spires in South Dakota’s Badlands stretched for miles with no signs of civilization. It was difficult to observe natural beauty like that without getting a sense of wonder and awe and without getting a profound spiritual feeling—an instinct of something greater than myself that transcends human knowledge.

  I have no doubt that my time on the road has afforded me the opportunity to explore the spiritual side of myself. The solitude of the road offers nothing if not plenty of time for thinking and personal reflection. I’ve pondered the big questions since I was a boy so, I immediately fell in love with philosophy after reading a book in the early 90’s called Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaardner. Finally, here was a mode of thinking that provided a different approach to the tough questions than the one offered by religion. Why are we here? Does God exist? Why is there evil in the world? Why can’t people agree on what is moral? How should we live?

  My mind was spinning with the new (to me) avenues from which to approach these questions. The great philosophers offered possibilities that did not seem like the unsatisfying cookie-cutter responses rendered by the church. It seemed like these guys had actually thought about it!

  In saying this, I do not mean to disparage or promote anyone’s belief system. I try to respect everyone’s ideology whether I agree with it or not. This section is merely intended to illustrate the opportunity for introspective thinking afforded by driving on the interstate for ten hours a day. While some may choose to fill that void of solitude and silence with talk radio programs, music, or idle chatter on the CB radio, others reflect on the mysteries of life to become amateur road philosophers.

  Okay, I get that you probably won’t go up to an unshaven trucker with a stain of fifth-wheel grease streaked across his shirt at a truck stop and ask his opinion of existentialism or Nicomachean ethics. Frankly, I wouldn’t blame you. You probably won’t find many enthusiasts of propositional logic or metaphysics in a truck stop diner standing next to the rack of Stuckey’s Pecan logs. I get it. And I’m certainly not claiming to be an expert on any of these topics. I’m just a guy for whom the road provided a sounding board for me to get inside my own head and clarify, redefine, or remain confused about some of life’s questions. That’s about it.

  Unless you are one of those people who are "absolutely certain" of the truth of your philosophy or religion, or faith, or whatever…you also probably ponder the big questions from time to time. If you are one of those absolutely certain people, I say to you, “Congratulations!” As for the rest of us, we need to think about it.

  Sure, a philosophy professor could probably punch my observations and musings full of holes without breaking a sweat but, at the end of the day, he’d be no closer to providing a concrete answer to the big questions than a trucker who is willing to think as he rolls along I-80 from Nebraska into Wyoming. But philosophy is really more about asking questions than getting answers. As a boy growing up in the rural South in the 60’s and 70’s, some questions were taboo. In a Southern Baptist Church of my youth, I certainly wouldn’t have asked:

  “Does God exist?”

  Blue-haired old ladies would have fainted in shock, and pious deacons would have fished around in their Sunday vests for hidden flasks to calm their shaken resolve. There were certain questions that you just didn’t ask. That’s why discovering philosophy was such a breath of fresh air for me. Here was a brand of thinking that actually encouraged asking questions. This was my path, but I understand that it is not the path for everyone.

  Indeed, I believe there are many paths toward spirituality, and that we each must find our own. Rolling down the road in an eighteen-wheeler helped to clear some of the brush from my particular path, but that was just me. The road is often lonely but, ironically, it is rarely boring. It has even provided some humor on the spiritual front. I recall a time when it seemed that someone (or something) a
ttempted to guide me toward a particular spiritual path.

  I had stopped at a rest area on I-20 in Norris, Mississippi and when I entered the men’s room, I saw a series of pamphlets entitled The Roman’s Map to Heaven strategically placed on top of the urinals. I thought that this would, perhaps, serve as a metaphor and, not unlike a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, I would be enlightened with an epiphany upon completing my quest and flushing. So, when I flushed, it was with great anticipation, but when the septic cycle had whirled to its conclusion, I remained standing in front of the latrine just as unenlightened as before. Despite my disappointment, I realized that I’d still had an epiphany of sorts. For I learned that if I were to ever, truly, discover a path to heaven, I probably wasn’t going to find the directions perched atop a urinal in a Mississippi rest stop.

  Even in choosing to explore a path of spirituality, I do not believe there is anything wrong with expressing doubt from time to time. Even my beloved Grandfather expressed religious doubt on occasion, though he was a devout Catholic. I considered this to provide more evidence that he was a thinking man rather than a bad Christian.

  My Grandfather was, among other things, a talented carpenter who tinkered in various woodworking projects after he retired. I realized one day that he was doing basic algebra as he calculated an arc for a cabinet door that he was building. As a child and a young man during the Great Depression, he never went past eighth grade due to family responsibilities on the farm.

  How is he doing algebra? I wondered. So, I asked him.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he humbly replied. “I just think on it till it starts to make some sense.”

  I hope to strengthen my own spirituality as the years pass, and I suppose that I’ll just continue to “think on it till it starts to make some sense”. In the meantime, I’ll try and take in some aspects of life with wonder and awe, without requiring the empirical proof of a science experiment. Whether my faith is misplaced in doing so remains unanswered but, even if it ultimately proves wrong, isn’t the risk of being wrong simply part of the experience of being human? I have to believe that’s exactly what "God" would want me to do. At least, that’s where I choose to put my faith as I roll down the highway.