Taking the plunge

Twenty-some years ago, I felt the need to make like Moses and herd sheep. For me, trucking was the modern-day equivalent. Asphalt became the antidote for job burnout and the death of my wife.

Unlike some who grew up with trucking, I started from scratch enrolling in the commercial driving program at Walla Walla Community College. Most of the other aspiring drivers were in my kids' age cohort. But we experienced camaraderie and learned against a backdrop of hilarity that rivaled late-night television. After ten weeks, I was the proud recipient of a commercial driver's license. Recruiters from carriers visited our class, hoping to lure us into their folds. That's when I encountered the term "48 and Canada," which describes a lifestyle where the 48 states and adjoining provinces are home for weeks at a time.

Company brochures pictured beautiful trucks with Malibu surf or the Colorado Rockies in the background; however, first-time work is usually spent in down-and-dirty industrial backwaters. For many, the rub came with the realization that one had to live in this parallel universe for two to three years before gaining the experience necessary to land a cushier driving job.

I felt bad for people who entered trucking out of necessity as a last resort for creating cash flow in the face of life's woes. I took to the road with a different mindset.

At the time, I served in management at a company in Atlanta. As a previous customer of that business, I had come to view the owner and employees as family. But the work no longer excited me. Before taking that job, I thought it would be stimulating to live in Atlanta. However, I missed the Northwest, where I had lived as a kid, and then off and on during earlier working years.

Taking a break from my job, I helped move my daughter, Melissa, from her gig as a nanny in New York to college in Portland. I cleared my head as we drove across the continent, crammed into a rented minivan, and on I-80 in Nebraska, the die was cast.

Flying back to Georgia, I sorted through the mechanics of extricating myself from between a laminate desk and a matching credenza. After getting my employer's blessing and trading my roadster in for a pickup, I was westbound with a U-Haul in tow. The motel on I-75 in north Georgia seemed like the Ritz-Carlton.

The 48 and Canada experience got into full swing for me in Lewiston, Idaho, with Swift Transportation as my trucking "boot camp." After several weeks of running with a trainer, I was turned loose on a snowy January day with a 53-foot trailer filled with consumer paper products (i.e., toilet paper and paper towels, a truly "high value" load more recently). After routing through Walla Walla to grab some gear from my storage unit, I pushed on to Las Vegas. Chaining on Cabbage Hill made for a rollicking good start to my first solo trip.

For a couple of years, until I was fortunate enough to get together with my wife, Susan, I lived on the road. Dispatches came via an onboard device generally referred to as "The Qualcomm," eponymous for the company that created this bit of technology. Where to next? Chicago, Montreal, Orlando, Dallas, Los Angeles, or just up the road to Yakima? I thrived on spontaneity.

Thousands of trips later, through gigs as an employee and owner-operator, I settled into a niche transporting agricultural and industrial chemicals in tankers. The tangible rewards were decent, and the lifestyle less draconian. Still, nostalgia emerges when I see a Swift truck trundling through Waitsburg as I help Sue in the yard or lounge on the deck with a beer tending the grill.

My 48 and Canada experience was characterized by the unexpected. Dispatches could change without notice. Expectations for time at home were not always met. Arbitrary schedules turned the sleep cycle upside down. For some, this was upsetting. To thrive, I endeavored to embrace ambiguity and banish any notion that my state of mind was dependent on external forces.

In the age of the virus, we all experienced our versions of 48 and Canada: ambiguity, uncertainty, changing, and conflicting information. Negotiating this terrain taxed us.

Some years ago, on WA14, at a café in Roosevelt, Washington, I met another trucker who took an interest in the vintage Kenworth I was driving. He was older, wiser, and comfortable in his skin. I enjoyed the conversation and wished we could have lingered over a second cup of coffee. "Motor easy," he intoned as we parted. That advice stays with me as I attempt, imperfectly, to forge through this chaotic world with grace.

Motor Easy!