Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Pullin' South



Sputnik knows long before I do that a journey is imminent with that unearthly canine intuition we mere mortals can never comprehend. Days before our departure she’d leap into the truck’s open door and stubbornly refuse to exit. She must be coerced and cajoled with veiled threats of violence and promises of dog biscuits and cheddar cheese. Hooked up and loaded the Gypsy Pod and was ready for takeoff Saturday morning. The weather was moderate, unlike the poor conditions during last year’s southern migration.
Trailing the Pod on my tiny pickup and traveling at interstate speed is similar to towing an obstinate, tethered parachute like the one used to stop the space shuttle during landing. Doesn’t do well up hills or into a headwind. Maybe a truck cap would help streamline its overall aerodynamic properties, but right now ten mpg is as good as I can get.
The landscape in Kentucky was frosted with a fresh coat of benign snow, but the roads were fine, and we made our way to a cold little campground of I-65 just north of Nashville. They placed me in the back row with the rear of the camper about one-hundred feet from the interstate. I fell asleep to the sound of the nightime highway, which is among the loneliest sounds on earth, and also a favorite of mine.
The siren song of the highway is the sound of restless movement, commerce and flight. Bleary-eyed, high-ballin’ truckers with doctored logbooks trying to avoid the twenty second nap that will end their run, or worse. Desperate families, their meager possessions piled high in the back seat of ancient Chevys, hoping the next town will bring them employment. Undocumented migrants and drug runners crowded into mini-vans and non-descript Buicks flying under the radar and hoping their secrets go unjudged before they make their destination.
After a decent night’s sleep I batten down the hatches, pull up the landing gear and power up the on-ramp as I join the others on Amërïkä’s endless, infrastructural, asphalt bloodstream as I move ever Southward.

5 comments:

  1. You sir, have captureed perfctly the thoughts that have bounced around inside my brain-housing-group but were unable to pull forth and articulate! I can drive myself mad trying to guess the stories that are whizzing by me on the road or standing at the gas pump or septic smelling rest-stop/visitors center! Vaya Con Dios! Al sol!

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  2. Alright! Commander Hermit and his intrepid Co-pilot have reached escape velocity in the Gypsy Pod. Have a good one, and hopefully warmer weather and interesting adventures and site-seeing.

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  3. Give Sputnik a scratch behind the ears and an "atta boy" when he snarls threw the window at the toothless easy loving cootch dancers who approach your vehicle soliciting their wares at the rest stops.

    ETD?

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  4. Yes, Vaquero the road goes on forever and has a million tales to tell.
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    That's right Larry, no turning back now.
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    Et Tu, Et Tu? Nice to hear from you my friend. Will give Sputnik a good scratch and some encouraging words, and as always, keep our eyes peeled for truckstop cootch dancers.
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    Thanks for the well wishes, and I shall endeavor to persevere.

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  5. hermit, just brilliant writing mate, you summed up being on the road in three paragraphs.my martial art teacher insisted we studied different 'art's' rather than just fighting techniques, some students chose caligraphy, some ikebana, [flower arranging] and he told me to study haiku [japanese poetry] your writing reminds me so much of this. big respect due. safe wanderings and sunshine to you and sputnik.

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