On the Road Again 2011 #42

The bright purple cab was pulling matching tanker-like cars, only he was not hauling a liquid, my friendly truck driver was hauling sand! Rather fine sand I suspect as it was being delivered to a factory in the states that made roofing shingles. His load weighed 65,000 pounds. That is a lot of sand!

My driver was 72 years old but looked much younger. Truck driving was all that he had ever done and he was a wealth of information about his craft. He had covered the route to Calgary a thousand times and there was not a turn or a hill that did not have a story attached to it. He had carried explosives when they were blasting out parts of the mountain to improve the road and he showed me spots where he had dropped his load. He explained how the road was built and where the changes had been made. I had forgotten what the old route had looked like and it was fascinating to reminded. It was good that he had so many stories to tell. It was a very long ride. His truck engine was powerful but those long slow uphill climbs from Revelstock to the Roger's Pass tested his engines. On the downhill stretches he had to be equally as careful as he could not afford to have the train he towed behind him get out of control. He was a great driver, careful, aware and almost gentle with his truck. He was delight to watch. He was polite, kind hearted, a man who appeared to be comfortable with who and what he was. I don’t have to like all of my drivers but it sure makes it nice when I get to enjoy them.

Because of his age and his experience he made his own rules. He drove when he wanted to and got to his location when he got there. He only carried sand and I suppose it didn’t matter if he was an hour or so late. He, unlike so many of the truck drivers who pick me up and who think they are their own bosses, actual was his own boss. That is why he picked me up. He knew he wasn’t supposed to, but he also knew that the company that he drove for would never say anything. He had job security for as long as he wanted. 

I could never quite figure out where he lived or with whom he lived with. He lived, I think, in some sort of retirement community where he did some sort of maintenance when he was home. He had a bag of rabbit feed in the front seat that he had bought along the way so that he could feed the rabbits that were chewing up the lawns. He figured it was better to feed them food away from the houses than to have them ruin the grass. I was never sure if he did this work to make extra money or if he just did it to keep busy. I think he had a partner, I think he had only one but sometimes he referred to her as his wife and other times he used other labels. But I am almost positive it was always about the same person but as I think back I am no always sure. I know he didn’t have any kids.

In spite of the fact that it was a slow trip, the time did not drag. He had picked me up because he wanted company and conversation and that is what he got. We didn’t talk non-stop but there was an easy flow to the conversation. I know enough about trucks and the drivers that I can ask the kinds of questions that allow the trucker to feel as if they have something worthwhile to say or to teach. There are times when I am travelling where it feels as if the conversation is forced, that I am acting out a part because it is my job to keep the trucker awake. But not this ride. It was a pleasure all of the way through.

It was relaxing in part because I knew I would be in Calgary that night and so any pressure was off. As we neared Calgary he asked me where I wanted to get out. I suppose I could have gone a bit further the other side Calgary before he turned south, but I did not want to be stuck at midnight in the middle of nowhere. Other than that bowl of noodle soup in the motel room I had not eaten since breakfast on the ferry. I felt as if I was ready for a decent meal. It would have been nice to get a drive right through Calgary but all of the cheap motels appear to be on the west side of the city so I asked to be let out somewhere just after we entered the city. Many truck drivers are not particularly flexible (and understandably so) about where they stop. They are driving large vehicles and maneuvering in the city can be tricky. But this driver had no problems at all stopping right in front to the motel where I had stayed a year or so before. When I mentioned that it was unusual, his comment was “I am so big I can stop wherever I want to!”

I thanked him, got out, walked fifteen feet to the motel entrance and got a room. Unfortunately by this time it was after 11:00 and all the restaurants including a sub shop were closed. So I bought a packet of nuts at a gas station and went to bed.

Another successful day.

intermission - cleaning the house

One of the truly great joys of living alone is that the house can be a messy as one wants and no one else ever complains or cares.

For the past two weeks I have been busy finishing a number of weaving projects that have laid unfinished for months. The shawls, bags and rugs have been off the loom but all needed little bits and pieces either woven (e.g. straps for bags) or buttons sewn on or finished in some other way.  The kitchen stove has red and blue dye hidden under the rings, the floors are covered with pieces of fluff or woven wool and the dining room table is buried under finished product and all of the cards that need to be attached to each item with the price on it. The bathroom constantly smells of wet wool as I wash the last of the fleeces. I have in fact been a bit consumed by it all.

But today I am cleaning up! It is so satisfying to see the small piles of wool and cotton warp being combined into one rather impressive pile. Makes me wonder why I don’t clean more often.Of course one of the down parts of living alone is that there is no one else to clean it up…..

p.s. I am doing all of this work as I am having a sale this weekend.

On the Road Again 2011 #41

While walking through the road construction east of Revelstoke was more pleasant than hanging around road construction in the pouring rain outside of Vancouver, it was still dangerous. Traffic patterns in construction zones are disrupted, the shoulders (a sometime rather rare resource in the mountains) disappear completely and no one thinks of looking out for someone who is walking. The drivers of ordinary cars, transport trucks, large dump trucks, back hoes and diggers are all intent on not hitting each other. The flag people are focused on making the chaos manageable for those who are driving.  No one cared about me and I was left to dodge the traffic as best I could. About three quarters of the way up the hill there is a pleasant little spot that I sometimes stand at for awhile, in part because it is a likely spot for cars to stop, but mainly because I am usually out of breath by this time and I need a break. I couldn’t stop this time because there were all kinds of construction vehicles taking up the space. I jokingly said to the flag person that they were taking my spot. She somewhat harshly replied “you are not allowed to hitchhike in a construction zone, please cross the road so that you can walk facing traffic.” I complied of course, but I was not happy having to walk on the other side where the shoulder was loose gravel and steeply slanted downwards towards the ditch.

After walking for another ten or so minutes I was out of the construction zone. At the top of the hill there is one of the best spots to hitch in the Rockies. It is in the shade, there is a lot of room for cars to pull over and while the sight lines are not perfect, they are pretty good. The only thing wrong with this spot is that it is at the top of a very long hill. That means that if cars get stuck behind a slow transport truck climbing the long hill, this is the first spot since Revelstock that they are able to pass the truck. Some drivers, frustrated with the slow climb, don’t even look at me as they zip by the trucks. Trucks of course never stop here. They have just had a torturous downshifting climb up a long hill (it may be one of the longest hills heading east. To make it worse there is a stop light at the bottom of it), they have just started to shift into the higher gears and the last thing the driver wants to do is to stop. I was more surprised than usual when a trucker hauling a “B train” stopped. They never stop for anyone!

A “B train” is two trailers attached together and pulled by a regular looking transport truck. It means that the trucks can haul almost twice as much stuff as can a regular transport truck. It also means that it is almost twice as long as most trucks. I have always assumed that it would take a lot more skill to drive one of these long trucks, that the trucks are all owned by large companies (and therefore are less likely to be allowed to pick up a passenger) and that they, if they had a choice, didn’t stop for anything.  I was so surprised that such a truck had stopped to offer me a ride that that I didn’t move for a minute, but when the driver tooted his horn and I grabbed my pack and ran.