Crimson Highway by David Wickenhauser (brene brown rising strong TXT) 📗

This stretch of Highway 95 had no rest stops that accommodated trucks, and no truck stops, so when Hugh’s stomach told him it was time to stop for lunch he kept his eye open for a wide spot on the shoulder to pull over into.

One came up shortly, so Hugh pulled off of the road, turned off the engine, set the brake, and announced to Jenny, “We’ll stop here to eat.”

“I’ll get it,” she said. And she jumped up from her seat before Hugh had a chance to undo his seatbelt and get up. She made a couple of lunchmeat sandwiches, grabbed a couple of bags of chips, and took a couple of bottles of water out of the fridge.

There was still no talking during her meal preparations, but the atmosphere lightened considerably with her activity.

She served Hugh in his driver’s seat, and then sat on Hugh’s bunk to eat her own meal.

When they were finished eating, Hugh cranked up the engine once again and pulled back onto the highway.

It was late afternoon by the time Hugh got off the highway in Boise. He made the several turns on surface roads that got him to the company’s drop yard.

He unhooked the trailer, and then drove over to the bobtail area of the yard. Once situated into a spot, he signed off on his Qualcomm, letting the world know that he was not available for another load.

“That’s it,” Hugh said. They were the first words anybody had spoken since lunch. “I’m officially off duty, and heading for my parents’ place first thing in the morning.”

Jenny looked expectantly at him.

“Jenny, you can do anything you want, go anywhere you want. I don’t care,” he said rather curtly.

Her crestfallen look softened him—a little bit—and he decided it might be time to lighten up on her, so he offered, “If you want, you can come with me.”

This encouraged Jenny considerably, but all she said was, “Thanks, I’d like to.”

He let Jenny prepare their dinner in the microwave—leftovers from the great meal she had made for him at the wild-horse truck stop. It was as delicious this time as it was the first time, but Hugh noted the considerable difference in the mood and atmosphere between the two times.

Their bedtime routine was similar to the previous night’s. Hugh walked Jenny to the drop-yard office to use their restroom, and then they both turned in without any further conversation.

The morning dawned a little brighter for Hugh, just because he knew he was off duty for awhile. He was headed for the home where he grew up. He looked forward to some home cooking, to some time to visit with his parents and brother and sister, and to some time alone in the woods to think about things.

 He exited the truck to perform his pre-trip, and Jenny jumped down with rags and squirt bottle in hand to take care of his windows and mirrors.

“By the way, before I forget. Here’s what I owe you for your chores so far,” he said, fishing a number of bills out of his pocket. “You’ve done a good job, and I appreciate it.”

Jenny gratefully accepted the money, and acknowledged his praise. “I’m happy to do it, Hugh. It makes me feel useful.”

That little ice-breaker exchange having taken place, the atmosphere in the cab as Hugh bobtailed out to the highway was considerably lighter. Hugh still did not feel like talking to Jenny about anything that had happened, but he was at least capable of making small talk.

He started out on Highway 55 out of Boise, then joined up with Highway 95 after about a hundred miles, just past Payette Lake. The drive along the mostly two-lane road was enjoyable—as a bobtail—not so much if he’d been under a load.

Hugh didn’t stop until they got to Lewiston about three hours later, where he pulled into a chain travel plaza for something to eat. Hugh didn’t relish the idea of having to sit across a booth with Jenny in the restaurant, so they grabbed a couple of sub sandwiches, and took them back to the truck to eat.

“About three-and-a-half more hours and we’ll be there,” he announced to Jenny. He could tell that she was curious about where “there” was, but he could see she was reluctant to open that conversation by asking. That was fine with him.

They traveled past some beautiful Idaho scenery as they made their way up the Idaho panhandle. Jenny was watching the signs and, as they approached the town of Sandpoint, she saw the sign for the post-card-beautiful lake that the town was situated next to.

“Pend-o-ri-el,” she said, pronouncing the syllables phonetically. “That’s a pretty name for a lake.”

“Pon-do-ray,” Hugh said.

“Huh?” Jenny said.

“It’s pronounced ‘Pon-do-ray,’” Hugh repeated. “It’s from the French. And, I gotta tell ya that the locals are very possessive of that pronunciation.”

They continued on through the town of Sandpoint, which Jenny greatly admired.

Finally, a little less than a half-hour later, Hugh turned off the highway onto a well-kept-up gravel road. A few more miles, and a couple more turns later on gravel roads, and Hugh turned off the road and into the driveway of what looked to Jenny like a combination cattle and horse ranch.

Jenny craned her neck to peer out the windshield as they passed under a massive gate. Rising on both sides of the driveway, the gate supports were made with vertical, eighteen-inch-thick, peeled logs whose bases were embedded in a massive rock-concrete matrix. There were three logs on each side of the gate starting with an eight-foot-long log on the outside, a twelve-foot log in the middle and a fourteen-foot log as the inside support.

Across the tops of the tallest logs rested another giant log with the ranch’s name engraved in it—“The Mann Ranch.” The cross piece