HE WHO LAUGHS LAST, LAUGHS BEST

Boondocking out here in the California desert one would never expect the likes of what happened here yesterday. Here we are, a mile and a half off the main highway, on a bumpy, rutted gravel road and all of a sudden such a terrible clunking and banging did commence that I thought sure the Second Coming had begun. I looked around to the south, in the direction of that God-awful noise, and here banging down the ruts, the same ones we had so delicately traversed at 5 mph the day previous, came an 18 wheeler throwing up a cloud of dust a stampeding herd of cattle in the days of drought could only produce. Surely this driver is completely mad or so wound-up on those energy drinks, he completely forgot which road he was supposed to be on.

The big tractor-trailer stopped at the same place we were forced to turn around because of the many deep hills and swales that meets the eye at the top of a rise. I heard a gnashing of gears and that big rig began to emerge from the cloud of dust he’d kicked up. It rolled back a hundred yards over the rutty road and settled neatly on a little siding. I’ll give that driver his dues, he sure knew how to handle the wheel.

Now all this disturbance and dust was in itself a thing to behold but oh how the mind has a way of wandering and creating scenarios why this monster should be way out on desert BLM land.

The door of the tractor cab opens and out steps a string bean of a fellow, black street shoes, black socks to mid calf and a back pack slung over his shoulder. Off he tromps up the road and disappears over the rise.

Jackie and I thought long and hard and came up with a dozen different reasons for this out-of-place big rig, finally settling on “drug drop” as number one on the list.

I had gone out walking the boulder strewed landscape, was partway up the side of a small mountain, bending over inspecting a particularly nice piece of red jasper, when I saw down below what I thought to be a BLM patrol car. The driver was out of the vehicle yelling something in my direction which I couldn’t hear. Picking my way down the side of the hill I got close enough to recognize the vehicle as belonging to the sheriff’s department. He was here to investigate the strange appearance of the big rig and wondered if I was the owner. He said that the license plates on the rig didn’t match up when he did a check in the data base and drove off to continue unraveling the mystery.

When I returned to the rig Jackie told me the police had just put a fire ax through the window of the truck’s cab. I watched through the long-lens of the camera as the sheriff’s deputy entered the cab and began searching for anything that might help him gain insight.

While the Sheriff’s deputy rifled the cab up rolls another cop car, a CHP, California Highway Patrol. Through the camera I can see the black uniformed CHP, complete with sunglasses covering a young expressionless face. The deputy begins handing papers from the cab to the CHP and he in turn speaks into this shoulder mike communicating with someone.

During all this search activity, in strides the truck driver carrying a backpack sagging with 80 pounds of rocks. The three stand there looking at one another, and the questions, hand gestures and finger pointing begin.

After the law left, I went down to talk with the driver, William Treachler from Temperance, MI. He tells me that he’s perfectly legal, on a 36 hour mandatory vehicle shutdown and he can do whatever he wants during his downtime. I wondered about the companies concerns he drives for and he says, “Hell, they don’t care where I take the truck as long as I pick-up and deliver the goods,“ He answers. “I work with rocks, cut them and make mural table tops with the assembled slices,” He says with an artists pride grin, and then begins to laugh in a curious way. His small chortles turn into wide open mouth belly guffaws and he holds up a sagging Walmart plastic bag for my view. “They sure tore into everything in the cab,” He says through his snickers and then laughs aloud again. “I had to take a dump and there ain’t no crappers out here so I let er’ go in this bag and tied it tight. I see it’s tied kind of loose now. I bet that deputy got one big surprise when he got a whiff of this,” and he let loose with another roar of laughter.

William gave me a couple of nice rocks from California, a small chunk of obsidian and the other a piece of cut jade. I’m surprised that he never mentioned the smashed window or the police’s actions. I guess it’s all part of the day when you’re are a rock collecting truck driver that takes a big rig into the desert.

He went out early the next morning, filled his backpack again and was back out on the highway by noon.