A Long Way From Home: A Trucker's Life Through A Woman's Eye Volume 3

By C L Miller

It started out so innocently. I was working for a Las Vegas construction company in the accounting department. My husband, Harry, was driving one of the company's delivery trucks that took supplies to the job sites around the city. One weekend he had an out-of-town run and I got permission to go along for the ride. I was hooked before we'd traveled twenty miles.
Truck driving school lasted about four weeks. There were twenty students in the class and only two women, a ratio that reflects the entire industry. I was learning a new skill at age fifty-four, so very different from the quiet and predictable desk jobs I had done in the past.
Being a woman in a man's world can be challenging, is rarely boring, and is surprisingly comfortable. I have been treated with respect by my fellow Drivers and accepted without hesitation or condescension. There are no barriers.
If, a dozen years ago, someone had told me I'd be doing this job today, I would have assumed them to be certifiably insane.
Yet, here I am.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C L Miller
• Release date: Jun 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311624833

C L Miller

C L Miller is a sixty-two year old woman truck driver who teams with her husband. They drive over-the-road in the United States and Canada. Prior to getting her CDL, she worked in a library and in accounting.She calls this new adventure her ‘mid-life crisis career” and has recorded her journeys in the continuing series “A Long Way From Home: A Trucker’s Life Through A Woman’s Eye”. She occasionally detours into fiction, as in “Pivotals” and “First Fruits”.She welcomes comments and questions, and can be contacted at [e-mail].

Book preview

A LONG WAY FROM HOME:

A Trucker's Life Through A Woman's Eye

Volume 3

By C L Miller

Dedicated to my fellow Drivers.

Be safe.

Acknowledgements:

Thank you Joel, Harry,

Patty, and Terri,

For all that you do.

Susan, Pat,

Leila, and Shirley,

Cheered for Volume Two.

I have

Christopher,

Dawn and Kevin,

Sherri and Chuck,

Jim and Judy,

Always at my back.

Drive safe

Bob and Ellie,

Dean and Betty,

And Cory, eh?

A toast to Rosa, Jill, and Jamie:

Service with a smile;

And so many more that

Walk the extra mile.

With Special Thanks to

Jules and Jeff:

You're the best!

C L Miller was fifty-four years old when she went on the road as truck driver with her husband. They drove over-the-road in the United States and Canada. Prior to getting her commercial driver’s license, she worked in a library and in accounting. She called this new adventure her mid-life crisis job and recorded her journeys in the continuing series A Long Way From Home: A Trucker's Life Through A Woman's Eye.

She occasionally detours into fiction, as in Pivotals and First Fruits.

She welcomes comments and questions and can be contacted at

[e-mail]

Copyright 2015 

by C L Miller 

Smashwords Edition.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Life goes on

Tree people

Temperature changes

On and off, again

Postcards from the road

What's in a name

Renewal

When in doubt

Songs of the highway

Sweet Home, Alabama

Let us entertain you

Confusion says ....

That does not compute

Chemistry and Physics

Weirdliness

Revisiting

SNEWs to me

Sooner and later

Power surges

Fall in love

That's not my job

Moseying

Home field advantage

No explanation is required

Cooler heads prevail

Accept no substitutes

We have a PLAN

Odditions

Statisticals

Wise choices

Postscripts

Double take

Life goes on

May 26, 2011

On Sunday, May 22, 2011 (the day after the end of the world, as predicted by Reverend Camping), we woke up in Reno. It appeared that all citizens were accounted for. We weren't sure if we should be disappointed or relieved. As much sitting as we have been doing lately, Heaven would be far preferable a location to do it.

We were offered a load from Carson City to Richland, Washington. We took it simply because it took us somewhere. Although we weren't due at the Shipper until early Monday morning, we decided to close the driving gap from fifty miles to less than ten and parked ourselves at the Fandango Casino on Highway 395. The run itself was going to be an all-day event and there was no point in making it any longer. The good news was it would be done almost entirely in daylight hours; there was no bad news.

The interior of the Fandango reminded us of a gigantic Enchanted Tiki Room. It was very cool and restful. There were ceramic birds perched on swings and a lot of foliage. The staff we encountered were helpful, polite, and friendly. Very nice. To make it even better there was a good assortment of fast foodies, a mall, and two large grocery stores within walking distance. In the highly unlikely case that we find ourselves in the area again, it will be our place to stay.

Our Shipper was waiting for us with a six-thousand-pound ball bearing shrink-wrapped onto a wooden pallet. We spent a few minutes trying to imagine the machinery that could hold a four-foot diameter piece of solid steel.

The last time we were on Highway 95 through Jordan Valley, Oregon, it was early Fall and we were traveling south towards Winnemucca. This time we were northbound, and the landscape was in full bloom. White-tailed, well-fed deer were drinking from the small streams that cut across the open range. In town we passed the same shops and schools in reverse order, but still looking as clean and prosperous as our last visit. The house on the northern edge of town no longer had a For Sale sign on the lawn -- I wasn't sure if I should be happy or sad.

In Parma, Idaho, we passed Tree Top Farms and Ranches. The stables were more luxurious than many homes we've seen; the main house was breathtaking. Our nostrils were also treated to the unmistakable aroma of onions, which seemed to waft from the front forty of the property. We're still not sure what-all those folks produce, as horses and onions seem like an odd combination.

That sparked a discussion of our favorite seasonings and we came up with what may be our best idea yet: Feed beef cattle a diet containing onion, garlic, and an occasional glass of red wine. Voila! Pre-marinated steaks.

We came out on I-84 near Ontario, Oregon. Emigrant Pass was decked out in a gauzy green shawl that fluttered in the breeze. The Snake and Grande Ronde Rivers were flowing deep, wide, and fast. Herds of cattle almost disappeared in the tall grass. A chocolate-brown colt kicked himself to a wobbly stand and took a few steps before breaking into a sideways canter. Spring has arrived.

Our delivery was at the one, the only Columbia Generating Station, aka Hanford. Of course, our truck was searched. We paid particular attention to the signs (multiple) advising us that should a continuous siren sound, it would be in our best interests to vacate the premises. Immediately. We were also amused by the animal-crossing signs that consisted of cut-out deer painted in neon green.

After we were without cargo, Dispatch suggested we travel to Seattle to await our next load opportunity. We had hoped to get sent to Portland, and we would have set out for the Jubitz right away. We know that Seattle is quite lean on truck stop facilities; by post-midnight most of the slots would be occupied, so we opted for staying put. Unfortunately, the Tri-Cities is also lean on truck stops and it took us three tries to find one that had an open parking spot. The one we settled at had a supper club that shared space with a few slot machines and a pool table. A sign advised us that the use of profanity or fighting would get us ejected by the bartender. One look at the tiny bouncer made me want to start a good ruckus just to watch her toss anyone out. We ordered a cheeseburger and fries to share, but apparently the cook had departed; for our $14 we got one single pan-fried patty on a cold bun, a bag of chips, and two flat soft drinks.

We woke up on Tuesday morning determined to go somewhere else. We sent a message to Dispatch asking if we could be routed to Portland. They came back with the information that Portland is where they had suggested the previous night. Uhhhh, no, we were sent to Seattle. Ahhhh, they said, our error; proceed to Portland, then. Thanks, thanks a lot!

Our ruffled feathers were soon soothed by a spectacular trip through the Columbia Gorge. As we expected, the river was running high and fast. Riverfront Park in The Dalles was partially submerged. The water was choppy and the downriver dams had rushing spillways. All that water had caused the trees to burst out in every shade of green imaginable. The leaves were so thick we could barely see the river through the branches.

As we traveled along I-84 we came upon a road construction truck sporting a flashing sign telling us the left lane was closed ahead. However, the truck was parked on the right-hand side, forcing us to merge left to avoid a collision.

We arrived at Jubitz just after noon on Tuesday. The truck stop has done a wonderful job of remodeling the truckers' lounge, installing a larger TV. That is where we were clobbered with the scenes of the devastation in Joplin, Missouri. Perhaps Rev Camping isn't so far off the mark after all.

We realized how close we have been to the paths of destruction lately; we are grateful for every step that has taken us out of harm's way. The recent cancellation of the run to Wichita was frustrating ... until we saw what we might not have been able to avoid.

The One That Got Away: On Wednesday a load opportunity came across the QUALCOMM. It picked up in Vancouver, Washington, and delivered in Anchorage, Alaska. We debated the pros and cons. The pros were obvious: Canada and Alaska. The cons were less obvious: What goes in must come out. While the run money was excellent, dividing it by 2500 miles in plus 2500 miles out made it barely pay the fuel. Then there was the additional issue of fueling as we went, which we know can be a challenge of its own. Apparently another truck didn't spend as much time in conference, as we never heard further discussion from Dispatch. We weren't sure if we had won or lost.

Tree people

June 2, 2011

Trukker Skool

Very few over-the-road Drivers work at an hourly rate or are on salary. The far majority are paid by the Loaded Mile. That is the per-mile rate you get when you have cargo in your trailer. For beginning Drivers that may be less than twenty-five cents, which isn't quite as bad as it sounds if you carry out the math. For example, a Team can lay down 1000 miles per day, and if they average six days per week, they can bring home $750 each. The further up the ladder you go, the better the pay rate, and more experienced Drivers can confidently expect forty cents per mile. Of course, not-married-to-each-other Teams must also keep the per-person pay in mind, but that is still a decent wage.

The calculations can get a bit more complicated when you factor in Deadhead -- those miles you drive without cargo -- that can be added at either end of the loaded trip. Let's say you are in Los Angeles and Dispatch wants you to pick up a load in San Diego. The Shipper will probably be willing to finance your drive. However, the further your truck is from the freight, the more it becomes a question of How badly do you want this cargo? for both sets of Customers.

When there is no freight involved and you are just moving to another location, Deadhead is less negotiable. If you are an Owner/Operator, you may be forced to eat those Deadhead miles; if you are a Company Driver you will be compensated, but it will be at a lower rate, regardless of who you drive for. The Customer, understandably, feels no obligation to pay for any miles that are not directly connected to their freight; the Company is hesitant, as they aren't getting paid either.

To illustrate, I will use our recent non-run to Anchorage, Alaska. From where we sat when it was offered, it was approximately 2500 loaded miles at seventy cents per mile. That meant $1875 for three days of Team work, since all of our pay goes in the same pot. Not bad, until we considered what would very likely be a Deadhead return, which would be paid at the standard thirty cents per mile. Now we had a 5000-mile round trip that would take at least six days and average fifty cents per mile. Our next consideration was fuel availability and prices in Canada, plus personal expenses. We decided that sitting still, even without pay, was more cost-efficient than traveling that far. We suggested some alternative rates; they were declined; and so it goes.

We have continued our bird watching activities. We frequently see a larger bird accompanied by a crew of smaller ones. Entourage? A mentoring project? A mother teaching her babies to fly? The third possibility sparked a discussion on early childhood training in the animal world. For example, how do fish learn to swim?

We are rarely surprised by low overhead clearance, as most bridges and overpasses are clearly marked. What can catch us off guard are those stationary items along the roadside, such as trees, signs, and parked vehicles. Unfortunately, most of those obstacles are along the right-hand side of the truck, constantly testing our peripheral vision and depth perception; they may also cause the Co-Driver to flinch. On narrow country roads we are trying to avoid side-swiping on one side while simultaneously staying between the lines of our designated travel lane. City driving adds non-stationary items such as pedestrians and animals, so we try to avoid that entirely.

A while back, I began to notice the narrow truck routes that have large overhanging trees. Most trucks can drive through without disturbing a branch or leaf. I realized that either (1) someone is extremely diligent in trimming the branches, or (2) the trees have given up sprouting on the downside as an act of self-preservation. Is it even remotely possible that trees have the ability to adjust their own growth patterns to keep from getting their branches and leaves knocked off? Are trees able to adapt to their environment? That could cause us to re-think the food chain.

On Friday we did a cross-town run from Portland to Beaverton. Total round trip miles: 39.2. We even got the same parking spot at Jubitz.

On Saturday morning Dispatch called and asked us to name our price on a run from Reno to Tacoma, Washington. We gave them our number and apparently it was satisfactory, so we set out on I-5 southbound. The load didn't pick up until late afternoon on Monday, but that was Memorial Day, so we decided to take it slow and easy. We got as far as Seven Feathers in Oregon. It is much like our friendly Route 66 in Albuquerque, except the truck stop is across the freeway from the casino. It offers a good deli, a very comfortable Drivers' lounge and the usual amenities.

As we crossed the border into California, we wondered if the Inspection Station would be open. Here it was, Memorial Day weekend and early Sunday morning to boot. Yes, it was open, although as usual we were waved through. It got us comparing the various states that have border inspection stations, notably Wyoming, New Mexico, Arizona, and California. Wyoming is a 24/7 affair, but they are more interested in legal trucks and Drivers than freight. Comparing the other three, we realized that New Mexico and Arizona seem less concerned about illegal immigrants than California is about an undocumented orange.

Our Reno-to-Tacoma load was baseball gear. We were taking the Reno Aces' equipment to their next series against the Tacoma Rainiers. We arrived at the Aces' stadium about an hour ahead of schedule, only to find out that the day's contest was barely into the fourth inning. We located the man in charge, parked our truck, and waited. At the end of the sixth inning, we were invited in to watch the rest of the game. The ballpark is very nice, a Frisbee-toss from downtown Reno. The weather was perfect. We watched the Aces get pummeled by the Sacramento River Cats 16 to 5. It took another hour to get the equipment ready for transport, so by the time we left for Tacoma, we were running several hours behind schedule; but we still had plenty of time to make our delivery.

I like Triple-A baseball. It seems to be mostly free of diva drama. The players are either on their way up or on the return trip. Some are trying to grow a mustache; a few are trying to cover up the gray in theirs. They must share a love for the Game.

Our route in both directions took us across Highway 89 through the Shasta-Trinity and Lassen National Forests. On Sunday the mountains were draped in white and there was a noticeable amount of fresh snow on the roadside; we even had a few snow flurries. Fortunately the return trip was much better weather-wise, with fairly clear skies. Due to our delay at the Shipper, by the time we got onto Highway 89 it was nearly dark. The neighborhood deer were out in full force and Harry spent most of the trip weaving between them. We know that the forest is their home; we know that we are the trespassers; however, it is a two-lane strip of asphalt in the midst of millions of acres of trees -- surely they could find somewhere else to stand.

The hundred or so miles coming into and going out of Reno are on Highway 395. Near the town of Doyle, just over the California border, there is a large turnout with a tree in the center. Hanging from every branch of the tree are pairs of athletic shoes. They range from a pink pair of sneakers to those worn by serious sports persons. We are trying to figure out what event triggered the start of that tradition.

Linn County Oregon boasts that it is the Grass Seed Capital of the World. It occurred to me that there is probably a large segment of the area's working adults who earn their wages by watching grass grow.

Our load for the Aces consisted of the players' uniform and equipment bags. Plural. Twenty-something of each type, plus those carrying bats and balls and a few cases of unknown contents. A total of fifty-four separate items that had to be loaded and unloaded by hands -- ours and a few crew members’ at each end. I found out how heavy a duffel bag full of bats can be. In case you are wondering: VERY.

When we were without cargo we were routed back to Portland. We were about halfway there when we got offered a load from Seattle to Seattle for Wednesday afternoon. As is typical with those short hops, the Loaded Mile pay was excellent. We always wish we'd get that rate on a Los Angeles to Orlando run! Of course, the reason they pay so well is most Drivers prefer to hold out for the longer trips because of the grand total. We are less picky.

After a slump, I seem to have regained my tissue-toss skills. I am no longer gathering the little flowerets off the floor every morning. For a while I was managing to get a lot of them into Harry's boot; same principle but not quite right. I'm baaaaack!

During our recent sojourn at Jubitz, I was ambushed by Mr Motor Mouth...twice. I could barely get a word in. I think every sentence he uttered started with I. I didn't want to hear every detail of every moment of every day of his entire life; I have many more interesting adventures to talk about. I didn't want to hear his opinions on everything; I know at least as much as he does, and I could tell him a thing or two. I think he needs to get over himself; I'm the one who is practically perfect in every way. I don't understand how someone can completely monopolize a conversation and be so oblivious to others that they use no personal pronouns as if they are the only one in the room when they obviously have nothing important to contribute but a lot of inane redundant superfluous rambling incessant superfluous redundant chatter that never seems to come to an end even though they have said nothing of any importance and yet have still managed to fill all of the available space as they go on and on and on and on and on about nothing as if they just can't stop talking long enough to take a full breath. I know you know what I'm talking about.

Miller in 2013!

If I am elected, I will sign into Law that every driver will be required to attend Traffic School as a condition for renewing their license. Stay with me.

I was issued my first-ever citation in 2000. I had exited a freeway and was at a traffic light. I glanced over my left shoulder and noticed a man standing next to a motorcycle; both were under a bridge in an unsavory part of town, and I was briefly concerned for the man's safety. I also noted that the lane was clear for my right turn, so I proceeded. I then realized that the man under the bridge was in NO danger as he carried a weapon, a badge, and a ticket book. I found all this out when he informed me that I had just made an illegal right turn, as noted on the sign I didn't see because I was trying to watch out for him (a detail which I refrained from sharing). The turn was illegal, and I took my punishment. Part of that was a day in Traffic School.

Our instructor made the course as interesting as it is possible to do, and I discovered that my forty-plus years of driving had rendered me complacent and a bit smug over my abilities. He particularly impressed me with his account of the day he started measuring the amount of time he actually saved by cutting into traffic instead of being patient for a better spot. He said he asked himself if that time-saving was worth a Life.

Today I was driving on I-5 near Seattle when a car entered the freeway to my right. The lane narrowed as it merged, but the other driver apparently felt compelled to be in front of my truck, and we nearly swapped fenders. The driver then exited the freeway at the next off-ramp. I counted off the number of seconds this person