OldTroubador's blog post - It Was a Monday....

It was a Monday, a day like any other day, a sad, sad day and I'm a long, long way from home.
Well, not really, not yet. I was still close to home. But soon, the days and the miles would run together. The only concern I would have with a calendar would be arrivals and departures at various shippers and receivers. My main reading material would be an atlas and various truck stop guides. But not just yet.
I had just left my home truck stop after a wonderful four day weekend with my daughter. We spent a couple of days fishing – the first day we were shut out, but the second day, both of us got to feel the pull on our lines. She garnered the most fish, but I took honors for largest and smallest. The wind was strong all weekend, but the sun was strong too – we were both wind burnt and sun burnt by the end.
But now, they are back home and I am ready to roll. The laundry is done and put away, the windows and floors cleaned; all is in order. I am headed for the southwest corner of Houston, TX to make my first pick up of a seven week run. The load delivers in Council Bluffs, IA on Wednesday morning. A long, long way from home
All goes well in Houston, and I am soon headed north to Dallas. The traffic there is the usual mess, compounded by a couple of accidents. I finally get clear and stand tall on the go, go, git 'em pedal and aim the Freebird north. Before long, I am cruising through the north Texas prairie - green grassland pockmarked with Red Angus and Black Angus cattle, feeding placidly. Soon, the roadway falls away, down into the Red River Valley. The river is running brown and strong, the leftovers of the recent rains in the area. Usually, the river is a rich red, carrying with it the color and silt of the red clay in the area, but not today.
There are many rivers named Red in this country – the Red River that comes out of Manitoba, Canada and delineates the border between the Dakotas and Minnesota before merging with the Missouri; there is a Red River in Tennessee north of Nashville, and a Vermillion River in Illinois; I'm sure there are many others. But only one Red River was important enough for Howard Hawks to direct a movie about, and it is the one I am crossing now.
When passing from one state to another, there is always a different feel; a difference in tempo, in texture. The topography is the same, the trees, the fields, but a different feel nonetheless. Mainly, this feeling can be ascribed to the difference in the way the road is built – changing from macadam to concrete, different grades of macadam, the way the lines are painted, the number of potholes and cracks in the road. When only crossing an invisible line in the dirt, one can feel this change, but it is more pronounced when crossing a river that divides two states. And even more so today, for Oklahoma and Texas have been rivals for years – in oil production, cattle, and most importantly, college football. And besides, all good Texans know that anything north of THEIR Red River (and east of the Sabine) is nothing but damned Yankees anyway (wink, wink).
Rolling north on I-35 and in 35 miles, I'll be stopping in Ardmore, OK for fuel. Once I slake the Freebird's thirst, I walk inside and top of my coffee and grab a burger to go. I leave the parking lot and start grabbing gears. I ease onto the ramp and go down and around, dropping back down onto the big four lane heading north. The Arbuckle Mountains stand tall between us and Oklahoma City. They rise up off the plains with no preamble. They are steep enough that downshifting is not an option but a necessity. They are long enough that a cautious driver keeps an eye on the temperature gauge. I get over the first, then the second, dropping into ninth gear and setting the cruise so the Freebird can easily snarl her way to the top. Coming down, the engine brakes growl and the foot goes lightly down then up on the brake pedal. Yeah, they are long enough on this side that I have seen other rigs burn a set of brakes off by the time they get through. On top of the third ridge is a state scale house, so I wheel in. As I sit on the platform, I acknowledge the fact that OKDOT was smart enough to put this on top of the mountain, instead of the bottom. Not all states are that far thinking. I get the green light, ease off the platform, and start walking my gears up the ladder. Hitting the entrance back onto the highway, we are pointed downhill and I use gravity to accelerate and up-shift. The top of the next hill has a rest area and scenic overlook; this lets the tourists look into the farm valley below. I cruise on past and, after a couple more hills, am soon shuffling along the prairie again, next stop, Oklahoma City.
I pass into Norman, home of the University of Oklahoma (excuse me while I use the hand sanitizer) and then Moore. Today is the one year anniversary of the tornado that tore this town up by the roots. There is a memorial service up in the parking lot of the mall, and I doff my hat and say a quick prayer as I pass. Then it is into Oklahoma City and the spaghetti bowl that is the interstate system here – three major interstates and a couple of loops around town all come together at one point. I get through this mess and am soon waving good bye to the truck stops in Edmond, on the north side of town.
I pick up speed as the traffic fades and am once again cruising the northern plains of Oklahoma. Small towns slide past as the Freebird keeps motoring north. In another 90 miles or so, I will be shutting down for the night, and am looking forward to the break. Stillwater, home to Okalhoma State University, is over there to the east a bit (where did I put that damn sanitizer), then Enid goes by to the west. I finally get to Tonkawa and roll into the parking lot. I back into a space and do what needs to be done to officially finish off the day. I grab my gear and head inside to wait in line for a shower, then I stop at the counter and get a foot long Italian BMT with spinach, tomatoes, bell peppers, and cucumbers – throw a dash of honey mustard on please, and wrap it to go. I chow down, do a little reading, then off to bed I go.
My 10 hour break over, I roll out of the rack and do the whole cold coffee and cigarette thing as I get dressed. Fresh coffee, breakfast sandwich, pre-trip and back out to the blue route headed north. I cross into Kansas, the land fairly flat, but not like a pool table as I had been told for years. I am looking forward to this part of the run, for after I pass Wichita, the highway bends north-east toward Kansas City. From Wichita to Emporia, I will be running the Flint Hills. These hills are interesting to see. They are an anachronism out here on the plains, just like the Arbuckles in Oklahoma. While tall, the road was engineered to be a little kinder to trucks, so the highway follows a path with broad sweeping turns up and down the hills. There are few trees at all, just a pale green, short-cropped grass. Bits and pieces of rock are visible through the grass. The hills to the side of the roadbed are steep; like a mussed blanket on a bed. There are creeks coursing through here, but not many, for this is an arid land. But not too arid; gullies cut down the sides of the hills attest to the power of the flash floods that occur when it rains. The edges of the creeks that do flow are dug deep, as if by a backhoe. And when one tops the hills and looks across the relatively flat areas on top, the meandering streams are steeply walled, especially the outside of the curves, where the flood waters have gouged into the sides. It does not take much imagination to visualize a wall of water blasting around them, widening the creekbeds.
The land here is cattle land. The soil here is good for nothing but the grass that grows and the grass is so poor in quality that cattlemen here figure on how many acres it takes to feed and fatten one head, as opposed to other areas where they figure out how many head one acre will support. The land is wide open, with, as I said, few if any trees. The few that do grow are mainly cottonwoods, lining the lower creekbeds, where there is almost always water. When one comes over the top of one of these hills and looks around, you might be lucky to see the roof of the big house a few miles away; never more than two houses are visible at any one time. For the 80 miles along this path, there are only five exits, and that includes the easternmost Wichita exit and the only Emporia exit. There is a gap of 50 miles with no exits at all, except for the roads that go to the pens where the cattle trucks stop to pick up a load of beeves for slaughter. Traffic is generally light through here, mainly trucks running from Topeka or Kansas City to Wichita and back. It is a visual treat to see an oncoming truck come over the top of a hill and round the turn going into the downhill; I would love to be able to stop on the side of the road with some good cameras and photograph and film the spectacle. I also wonder if I look as good cruising through here as those other trucks look to me. It's too fine a place to look like a rookie.
When I get to Emporia, I stay on the road to Topeka; I'm not going east to Kansas City. The 'Bird and I are still cruising the wide open area of the Flint Hills; they taper off as we get closer to Kansas' capitol. I wind my way through town and pick up US75 north, toward Nebraska. It's a wide open run for a few miles, then a four lane divided highway going through towns. Not too much longer, it narrows to a two lane. The topography has eased off and there are trees and creeks through here, along with more farms. I'll be on this road for a while, into Nebraska, before turning east and picking up I-29 north into Council Bluffs. Other than the road signs, not much is different as I cross the state line. I keep running north, now busy calculating time versus distance as I head for the truck stop I have chosen for the night. I make it to where I need to be and once again, go through the late afternoon ritual before getting a shower and a foot long Italian BMT with spinach, etc., etc., etc. It will be a fairly early night, for I need to be up early in the morning.
I roll out of the rack with the squawking of the alarm and get dressed, yada yada yada. I double check my route into the consignee for this load and roll onto I-29 north. After about 40 miles, I pick up I-80 west and work my way across three lanes of morning traffic. I get in the right lane just before reaching my exit and drop off the Madness and Mayhem Highway. I start to work my way through, and realize that the maps did not disclose one important fact. This area is the eastern yard for the Union Pacific Railroad and my path is criss-crossed with tracks. There are gates going down, going up, lights flashing, trains – both manned and remote controlled – passing. Even though the UP is not one of my favorite railroads, I am still enthralled watching all the activity. I pull my head out before I become a statistic or, worse, miss a turn. I get to the receiver, check in, back up to the dock, and wait to get unloaded.
I already have my marching orders for the day, so, after bein g unloaded, I ease back out to I-80 and point the Freebird west to Omaha, Nebraska. I cross the mighty Missouri River and, looking at the bluff ahead, see Union Pacific's headquarters, guarded by a 4-8-8-4 Big Boy articulated, compound cylinder steam engine and a DD40X – a custom job for UP that is basically two GP-40's welded together. Both of these immense and powerful engines were designed and built specifically for UP to more efficiently haul more freight across the Plains and over the foothills of the Rockies. Both designs are retired and stand guard at the entrance to Union Pacific's headquarters and visitor center. Oh, if only I had the time.
I make my pick up in Omaha and head back east, long before the sick, lame, and lazy even think about brunch. I pass UP again, waving at the sentinels at the gate, then drop down to the Missouri. Crossing back into Iowa, we climb hard to get out of the valley. This western side of the state does not have the gentle rolling hills of southern or eastern Iowa. Instead, the terrain here is as steep as any encountered so far. Once out of town, the ubiquitous Iowa cornfields line the interstate, with one exception. The land here is so steep that the farms are terraced to trap the soil and water washed down from the top, and to keep the corn in place, instead of all being washed into the valley. The 'Bird and I grumble up one side and glide like a raptor down the other as the big Bridgestones chew up the highway. After an hour or so, the hills mellow to the normal Iowa rolling landscape. Des Moines comes and goes, and still ever eastward we roll.
I cannot remember where this load was headed, nor can I remember where I stopped that night. I do know that this was a fine trip to open up a seven week run with, and that I would need something extraordinary to top it.