LA to Bakersfield

I was in Los Angeles in heavy traffic on the 605 when I realized my truck navigation had frozen. For how long it was frozen I didn't know. I had no idea how to get north to Bakersfield. I reached for the atlas behind the seat and turned to California and glanced at the map of LA as I moved slowly down the freeway. I thought that by taking the 210 West I could get to the 5, which I knew went to Bakersfield, but I wasn't certain. I called my father and he confirmed it. The 210 West was what I needed. When the 605 broke into the 210 East and West and I made the turn for Pasadena.

On I-5 an hour later the truck computer shut down entirely. A warning flashed on the screen that I must now begin paper logs to record my driving and off duty hours and that I must immediately call technical support in Green Bay. I pulled off at the Flying J at Frazier Park, CA and called tech support and explained the problem. The woman had me unplug and replug the power to the black box underneath my bed. The computer remained frozen. I was told to remain on paper logs until I could come to an operating center and have the computer fixed.

The paper atlas had no city map for Bakersfield. I needed navigation. I went into the truck stop and bought the Rand McNally Truckers GPS, that marvelous instrument that all truck drivers swear by and that I had been planning to purchase. I had been told it was superior to the truck computer navigation and that it also had alerts for coming weigh stations, for construction, for sharp turns and where the road descended steeply in grade. 

I plugged the Rand McNally into the 12 volt socket and entered the destination in Bakersfield. The device spoke to me with a woman's voice, slightly more human sounding than Judith--the woman who speaks from inside my truck computer. The woman inside the Rand McNally announced my first turn with distance and arrival time to my destination in Bakersfield. The screen was small but very specific and there was an ETA given along with many other options. It was an excellent device. I knew where I was and where I was going again. I dug out a paper log book and wrote August 2015 on it and used the ruler to draw in my hours of sleeper berth and on/off duty and driving time.

paper logs as they did it in the old days

With all the delays I did not make Bakersfield until after dark. The woman in receiving said I must sweep out the trailer or face a disciplinary response. I borrowed a broom and with my flashlight swept the trailer clean. Then I dropped the empty in the dark yard and found the full trailer with the number on my bill of lading and coupled to it. I was nearly out of driving time for the day and parked on the street in front of a warehouse near the shipping yard.

The Highway Kind

2015 Freightliner Cascadia

A necessity for truck drivers, somewhere in Oregon

The neighborhood where I sleep. Flying J and Pilot are under the same ownership.

It takes some practice to back a 53ft trailer into a space. And this space is a wide one. Loading docks can be very, very tight with inches to spare between trailers and little room to pull up if you're wrong.

Highway Man

Joshua Trees, Mojave Desert, California

Mojave Desert, CA

 

Nevada, early morning

 

10 speed and smooth

Behind the seats is where I sleep

Pullout table for eating, for writing

California

 "I'm gonna break every heart I can..."

 

Campsite just outside Sequoia National Forest. Arrived in the night and bedded down with my flashlight on the rocky hilltop.

Road beyond the campground

What I awoke to after camping in the night

A famous picture on the way to the Giant Forest

Entering the forest of giants

I heard a rustling in the woods and from above on the trail looked down and saw the bear. He was beside the trail digging in the brush. From above he did not see or smell me. I watched for a moment and then carefully retreated. I did not go further on the trail to see the Sequoia trees.

 The General Sherman Tree, largest living tree by volume in the world. Note the tiny people below.

 

 Gamelin Brothers. 1875. 

I camped again with just my sleeping bag in a forest in the Shasta River Valley. There was good wood to be taken from the forrest and a blazing fire kept the bears away.

The mountains of Oregon, coming north on I-95

Linn, OR the seed capital of the world

Truckers Chapel

At the Luv's Truck Stop at Woodburn, OR

Monkeyfists

Two monkeyfist knots I tied with an old buoy line

The monkeyfist knot is tied from a single line and adds weight so that the line may be thrown more easily between a boat and the dock. 

A line with a monkeyfist is often attached to a much larger and heavier tie line and is thrown first by a deckhand or dockworker so that the heavier tie line may then be pulled through the water and ashore or aboard. 

Additional weight may be added to the monkeyfist by tightening the knot around a small sandbag or ball or rock. But too much weight will weaponize the monkeyfist, transforming it into a dangerous missile when hurled. 

Art of the Forklift

Greenhorn (Part 1)

 My roommate rushed into the break room.

"There's a woman looking for you," he said. "It's about a boat. It's urgent."

"What woman?" I said.

"She's outside now with the boat captain."

I quickly put my computer in my locker. Outside B. the cannery QA manager was standing with the skipper of the Kamilar. She introduced the skipper, L., who was her husband.

There had been a problem with one of the crew members and the replacement deckhand showed up drunk that morning and was immediately fired. Did I want to replace him? The boat left in 30 minutes. It would be a one week black cod long lining trip through Prince William Sound and east to Yakitat and on to Petersburg. It was the last trip of the season to fill out the remainder of the boat's quotas. I would receive a half crew share and if we caught what was expected I could make $1000. I would fly back to the cannery after we offloaded in Petersburg.

As I considered my losing my employment at the cannery and being jobless after a week, B. added that she had spoken with the plant manager and the deck foreman and they had okayed my leaving and return.

"Then I'll go," I said.

The skipper smiled. "You're sure about it?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Do you have rain gear?"

"He can take a set from the cannery."

L. shook my hand. His fingers were massive, as large as two of mine put together. "I'll see you on the boat in 30 minutes."

"We'll drive to your room for your things," said B. "Then into town for your fishing license."

I hurriedly packed my clothes and sleeping bag and tossed my duffel bag into the back of B.'s pickup. At the hardware store I bought an AK resident commercial fishing crew member license, good for one year. I also bought two boxes of Bonine sea sickness tablets. I did not think I became sea sick but as we were a crew of three that normally was four, my possibly being incapacitated could not be risked.

On the ride back B. told me she had seen me work on the dock and had no doubt I could handle it on the boat. She believed my personality would be a good fit. She let me out where the Kamilar was tied up. I threw my bag onto the deck and climbed down the ladder. For the first time I was boarding a fishing boat without a hard hat and life jacket. No longer was I a dock worker at the cannery. I was finally to be a fisherman.