April

Somewhere it's snowing. Count on it.

The pass is closed, the pass is open. Chain up. Chains off. Wait: chains on.

If there is more than one night we actually bail out, off to the side of the Interstate, I've forgotten about it. I-80 Wyoming, the highway shut down around us. Once the wind cut out, it was silent and the morning was white washed crystal. Another driver hiked over from Eastbound looking for a cigarette.

Nevada we pull out into an abandoned fuel station with ten other trucks and hunker down for the night. The weather swirls on top of us.

In Michigan, we just pull the curtains. Seal ourselves in. Under the bunk is the stash of books.

The worst is Baker, Oregon. Ice and snow. I do not believe the weight of a truck will pull it backwards on ice until I see it. Down at the truck stops, trucks willy-nilly. Here-there-everywhere. This is where our engine starts on fire while we sleep. An alarm shrills. You almost jump up off the bunk with the extinguisher in hand. It's the only reason the damage isn't worse. Wiring. Burned. The affects dog us for years.

It's also Oregon, the east side of Cabbage where I stand in the window staring at the truck that misses the snow covered turn, hits the ditch and does a slow motion topsey turvey.

Boise Stage Stop. Snow howls sideways, sweeps in circles erasing the road. We make it in but then the parking lot is so iced over I want to crawl. And inside the electricity is out except for generators. A couple lights throwing shadows. Everyone keeps their coats and hats on. Cold food, hot coffee.

Everyday, somewhere it's still snowing.