I had driven every mile of every state and federal highway in the continental United States, save one, U.S. 70 eastbound.  I have yet to drive a particular section of that highway.  I did come close at one point.  That strip is about 4-½ miles long.

 I have been across this section of highway, but, I did not drive it. I remember like it was yesterday, particularly the view.  The highway has been rerouted since that time.  If there is an old-timer in your family or associations you may be able to verify parts of this story by the description of that highway.

Men used to name their cars.  I named my trucks.  I was driving my favorite truck at the time.   The one was the 'Gray Ghost'.  He was a slate colored Western Star with a 444 Cummings engine, 21 speed Rockwell transmission that had been turned around.  When I started driving this rig, it had a hot button in it that I replaced.  At some point in its past, a driver had allowed the engine to overheat.  The alloy used to build the block of a triple 4 was not conditioned to withstand high temperatures.  Most triple fours back then were lemons to begin with.  This one was not.  Partly due to the care that I took with it.

On this occasion I was pulling a flat bed, as I normally did, (if it wasn't flat or round, I did not pull it) loaded with pipe.  A heavy load.   But, I was a fanatic about maintenance and safety components.  I was such a fanatic and knew my rigs so well, especially this one, that I had become secure in my knowledge of its general condition.  Too secure.

At the top of every mountain that a highway crosses, there will be a pull-off area for truckers to manually check and adjust their brakes.  I never used them.  I didn’t need to.  I knew before I left home or a fueling area, that my rig was ready.

One of the things I often hear from young people, and some not so young people is, “I always wanted to check into driving a truck.  I would like to see this country.”  Any trucker will tell you, that ridiculous.  All you see is the highway or some facility that uses it as a backdrop as your driving.  Once you do get away from the highway, to pick-up or deliver a load, you will see the worse that America has to offer.  I have often thought that it would be a good idea for an American President as well as Congressmen and Senators, to be required to live in a truck for just one month, with an experienced trucker.  They would see what this country is really made of.    On this occasion, it was about 2 a.m. on a clear night.  Unless it is raining it never truly gets dark in the mountains.  It was a beautiful night.  It occurred to me, as I crested the mountain, that in the ten years that I had driven to that point, I had never really taken the time to enjoy what little I did see of this country.

About a mile before the brake check area, there is a sign that tells you that you are coming upon a steep decline that has areas with an 11% grade or higher.  For those that do not know, this can be a truckers nightmare.  In general, descents of this degree are rare.  When you do encounter them, they are typically short spans of road.  I almost missed the sign informing me that this incline was 7-½ miles long.  Ending in a dead man’s curve, with a speed limit of 25 miles per hour for trucks..  The decent from the crest to dead man’s curve is actually 9 miles.  The average degree of decline is between 5 & 7%.  Which is steep enough.  Truck speed limit is 35mph.

I did everything I was suppose to do on the first leg of the descent.  I came off the mountain at just under 20 mph.  Keeping a steady even pressure on my brakes.  Having considered the scenery, I took the time to look around.  You could see for miles, despite the night.  It was the third most beautiful thing I have ever seen.  The first being the birth of my Granddaughter Savannah.

I realized, at one point about 2 miles into the decline, that my engine sounded like it was turning too fast.  I looked down on the speed-o-meter, double checked with the RPM gauge and sure enough, my rig was rolling at 60 mph.  

There is a flat spot in most mountainous declines and and this one was no exception.  Two more miles and I found that flat spot.  It was about ¾ of a mile after I smelled the acrid and unmistakable scent of burning brake pads.  I had no brakes.  My pedal was useless, I pulled my trolley brake which controls the trailer brakes only.  Nothing.  I popped my cans, nothing.  When I hit that flat spot I was doing 87 mph. 

You have to understand that a ride like this seemingly lasts for much longer than it really does.  I felt a bit of relief, until I saw the sign.  Believe it or not, and I had a friend take a picture of it sometime later, there is a sign that reads; TRUCKERS! It Ain’t Over Yet!  There is an emergency escape ramp at this point. 

I had not seen any other traffic for some time.  I radioed a truck that I saw moving in the opposite direction.  I asked the driver if he had seen any traffic in front of me.  “No driver, I can’t say that I have seen anyone in almost half an hour.  Hey, is that you with the smoke rolling?” he replied.

“Yup, that would be me.”  there was a pause.  “You takin’ the suicide ride?  I‘ll call it in for you.” I could hear the fear in his voice.  Most emergency escape ramps used in our highway system are almost certain death for the driver.  “Not a chance driver.  I’m gonna ride it out.  That’s why I asked about the traffic.”

“Little lady, you know about dead man’s curve, right?”  I was beginning the second leg of the descent at this point.  My rig had slowed to about 58 mph.  “I know.”

“I’ll be a praying for ya.  Nothing to hit on the straight away but the next hill.”  he was telling me that when I ran off the highway at dead man’s curve, there was nothing in front of me to hit but the base of another mountain.  Basically letting me know that mine would be the only death.

You have to have lived it to fully understand but any trucker that has been on the road for very long at all can tell you that your butt cheeks can somehow open up, through your cloths, they will grip the upholstery of a seat and hang on to it.  Mine had a death grip on my seats.  I am sure that my knuckles on that steering wheel were white.

With a sheer bluff on my left and the side of the mountain on my right, I remember looking at the gauges after I started that last and worse leg of the descent.  My speedo pegged at 120, I was doing almost 78 mph then, climbing rapidly.  That’s when it happened.

I took my hands off the wheel, thinking that I would fly off the darn thing at first.  Then I crossed them over my chest and said aloud, “Lord, it’s all yours, this is one ride that I intend to enjoy the view.”  The miracle is that I meant it.  I never looked at that road or my gages again until just before the right hand turn at the bottom of the mountain.  My speedo was pegged then and my RPM gauge was broken.
As though I were watching someone else.  I had the feeling that my arms were still crossed in a relaxed position over my breasts.  But, I could see them moving to take the wheel.  It was in itself a miraculous thing.  I had no conscious feeling in what my hands or arms were doing.  They weren’t mine.

I will never forget that view that night.  I had never before appreciated the phrase ‘Purple Mountains Majesty’ until that night.  What I don’t remember is the actual road or Dead man’s curve. 

When next I felt conscious of my body, I was sitting at a dead stop in the parking area for trucks on the other side of the curve.  My rig was in neutral and I was as calm as any person could ever be laying on a tropical beach enjoying the sun.

There was a knock on my door.  I opened the door to find another driver standing there with the most amazed look on his face.  He and another driver that were going in the opposite direction had parked and run across the road to watch the end of my ride.  One of these drivers stood before me, in shock, the other was chocking my wheels.

“Girl, I have never seen anything like that in my life!  How fast you reckon you came around that bend?”  I shrugged.  “Do you realize that none of the wheels on the right side of your rigs were touching the ground?”  he asked as the other driver joined him. 

The second man said, “That isn’t as amazing as before.  I swear girl, NONE of your wheels were touching the ground before you rounded the bend.  How the hell did you make it?’

“Did I?”  I asked.  “Well you’re sitting here, aren‘t you?”

“Oh sure, but I didn’t make it, I wasn’t driving.  As a matter of fact, I didn‘t have anything to do with it.  Thanks for the help.”  I heard them a few minutes later, they were talking to the man that asked me about the escape ramp.  He was stopped at the top waiting for news.  I am sure that there are drivers to this day that still talk about that ride.  I have heard the story myself, years later, from other drivers that heard about it.

I went to bed.  The next morning, I got up wondering where I would find a repair service or the parts to repair my brakes.  (I carried a full implement of tools.)  I rolled myself under the rig.  There was absolutely nothing to indicate that those brakes had ever been even warm.  They were not glazed, there was no soot, they were in perfect working order.

Getting out from under the truck, I propped myself sitting against the rear tandems of my trailer.  I looked up to the sky, smiled and said, “So, you’re still there?  Thank you.”  I swear that a beam from the sun reached out to touch and warm my very soul then.

I climbed in my rig, delivered my load and went home.

I still get chills remembering that night.  But, there were no chills then.  Only the thrill of enjoying what God had made.