"There are those that say, if you do the uncomfortable thing long enough, it will become comfortable. But we are really not encouragers of that. We are encouragers of coming into alignment, and then taking the action. We are encouragers always of getting rid of the fear; we would never want you to keep doing things that you feel fearful about. And maybe the path of least resistance is just not get on the horse. Maybe the path of least resistance is to get on a different horse— but we would never move forward in fear.” – Abraham, The Teachings of Abraham – excerpted from The Art of Allowing Seminar, June 21, 2003.

"If this thing starts to feel like she’s going over, you jump the hell off and don’t worry about the other guy, ok?” By other guy I meant me.

Frank just nodded and didn’t say anything. How was I supposed to reassure him the truck wasn’t going to turn over while we were in the back shoveling gravel out the side and at the same time warn him of the possibility?

We worked feverishly, light fast disappearing. The temperature had dropped and it was cooling quickly. The rain was coming down steadily and I didn’t know if the unbalanced weight of gravel and rain water would get worse over the night and destabilize the truck from its already precarious perch. So we continued to bail gravel with spades, keeping weight on the high side of the truck box to help with stability. Several times we both stopped as the truck springs creaked, unsure exactly what was going on as we lightened and re-distributed the load.

I was clad only in shorts and old running shoes, standing in three feet of gritty sandy gravel, shoveling. Twice in my haste I nailed my foot with the spade. “Serves you right for wearing shoes,” I told myself. Then I laughed. “So this is how many shovelfuls are in a cubic yard of gravel! Who would have known!”

Sweat mixed with the grit and rain as we shoveled on. Very uncomfortable. And dangerous.

Or was it?

If it was so uncomfortable and dangerous, why did I feel this way?

Why did I feel so alive?

20,000 pounds.

That’s 400 times heavier than what most of us could carry any distance (about 50 lbs). A small fraction of that volume would eventually suffocate anyone buried up to the chest.

20,000 pounds of gravel. And you’re in charge of it, Wayne. You’re the man behind the wheel.

I approach the loaded truck. I climb into the cab and settle into the seat. I crank the engine over. The diesel roars to life. I wait impatiently while the air pressure builds. The heat is stifling on this fine August day and the vinyl seat sticks to my bare legs and back as I put on the seat belt. I re-tie my makeshift bandana around my head to keep my hair clear of my eyes. The windows are down. There’s no breeze, but we’ll make some soon enough.

I release the parking brake.

I put the clutch in. I drop it into 2nd and let the clutch out. The 5 ton growls forward, lurching, straining under its 6½ yard gravel load. I can really feel it this time; I’ve got a lot of load on her. She’s heavy.

The 5 ton begins the slight ascent out of the kilometer 2 gravel pit as we wind our way along the 7 kilometers of logging road to the work site.

Frank is at the work site. No co-pilot on this trip, just me and the truck. Just me and the iron.

Inorganic and organic. Together we will move as one.

I feel and hear the diesel engine as it maxes out and the governor kicks in. We crest the hill and I take it into 3rd gear. I accelerate. The next two kilometers are gently rolling…no major hills here. The side mirrors rattle, the rear springs grind and groan their protest, yet we stick to the road, pretty easy going. I shift up. We’re in 4th gear and moving along at a nice clip.

I inhale the sweet diesel exhaust as we fly along, overhanging vegetation hitting the side mirrors as I check back along the gravel box. Everything looks good, the load hasn’t moved. I hit a pothole and smack my head on the roof of the cab! Just a little bump. A quick scan at the gauges: oil looks good, engine and transmission temperature, good. The breeze through the cab tousles my long hair. I brush it out of my eyes and tuck it under my bandana. Sweat trickles down my back, slicking my skin to the seat. I reach for my coffee, hit another bump, burn my lip.

I put my hand on the shift and soak up the intoxicating vibration of the power moving through the transmission as it winds steadily to the rear wheels, and finally to the ground. And then the never-ending, never exhausting cycle of energy begins anew…entropy be damned…“energy is neither created nor destroyed...”

We near kilometer 4 and I drop into 2nd, slowing down for the tighter corners and hills…a precaution…I take it back to 3rd…the momentum gained coming down one hill takes us up the next hill…all the while I bounce around on the air-cushioned seat. Yee-haw! The diesel roars up and down the hills, the truck rattles and the springs continue their persistent groaning and creaking. I grip the wheel hard to maintain control of the beast as we hit the corners, bouncing, rattling, and rolling along the way. We trend slightly to the left, I correct and continue.

Do I really “control” this thing? Maybe “guide” is more appropriate. Yes, to be sure, I am only guiding this overburdened metal hulk…will I remember this? The seat sticks to my skin. I am covered in dust and grease. Tanned and taut.

We hit washboard and it feels like the whole truck is shaking itself apart. It stays together. We continue down the road.

Flying around the corners and hills. Feeling intently in the moment for the truck’s vibrations…what do they say? Swaying sympathetically with the truck as the weight and momentum carries us up and forward, down and forward. Working the truck’s momentum through the gears to slow the rocket on the downhill, maintain speed to take the next hill, and decelerate enough to make the corners.

All the while I revel in the power of the big diesel as it strains under its burden, working through the gears, working the iron. Time to think.

Here I am.

I am here. I am doing this. I’m on my own, right here, right now. And there really is no other place I’d rather be. I’m doing it. I am experiencing something new. There is no one looking over my shoulder…there is no dress rehearsal. This is the real deal.

The way I like it.

We begin the ascent to the top of kilometer 5 hill.

Driving a loaded gravel truck in hilly terrain is similar to driving a transport tractor in, well, hilly terrain. It is not like driving a car. Not even close.

My 5th load of the day, 16th overall. I was determined to hit kilometer 5 hill in 4th gear and stay there all the way down. No matter how uneasy I felt when I hit the bottom, I was going to stay in 4th.

We approach the top of kilometer 5 hill. Slowly, we crest the hill and began our descent. I shift into 4th.

We roar down the hill. The truck bounces, shakes, and rattles…what a din! We hit bouldery washboard half way down, the truck jumps, we hit an over hanging tree, branches and leaves fly into the truck hitting me across the face, stinging, knocking my sunglasses off. I hang onto the wheel with both hands, partly to maintain control, partly to prevent my head from hitting the roof. Bang! I hit the roof anyway. I rub the dirty sweat and matted hair from my eyes. Damn this hair! Next time I tie it back! We hit the bottom and we are flying.

Things just seem faster when you’re carrying 20,000 pounds. Including the speed of thought…

We continue to fly along. I fight a desire to drop into 3rd and slow the truck. But I keep my commitment, I hold steady. We continue to pick up speed. We approach the first curve at the bottom of the hill. I glance at the gauges: 80 km/h, can that be right?

We enter the curve.

I feel things are not right. I hold steady anyway. I feel an uneasy sensation in my stomach.

The truck begins chattering to the left, trending off the road. “Damn, she’s moving towards the ditch!” I move to correct.

Too much curve? Too much speed? Too much load on the rear axle? Does it matter at this point? In the moment I decide downshifting or braking hard is too risky; I will not risk causing an overturn, not yet. I tap the brakes gently and slightly over steer as I release them. About now I wish I had more experience. I cannot recall if there is a rock outcrop or steep drop off along the ditch. It doesn’t matter anyway. We are thoroughly and utterly committed.

We trend partly off the road. Trees batter the side of the truck, branches hit me in the face and arm. I stare intently ahead and wonder if I will roll the machine and crush the cab. Immediately my thoughts shift, “Safety, safety, safety!!!!” Like a mantra, I repeat this over and over again…

We enter the ditch and bounce like all hell. Over boulders, over trees, over holes, around trees…the juggernaut plows onward, forward. Smack! Smack! Smack! “Ignore the damn trees, Wayne! Back on the road! BACK ON THE ROAD!!” I manage to keep part of the front end along the shoulder but the backend begins to slip and drop, pulled in by the soft ground. We still have some momentum…closer…back on the road…

I notice we are slowing. Gravel is flying over the top, hitting the cab and pouring out along the side. Soon it is over.

My midsection strains against the confining force of the seat belt. The diesel chugs and lurches. Quickly I put the clutch in, pull it out of gear, set the parking brake, and then kill the engine.

I shake my head and rub my eyes. My left arm aches, a bruise forming near the elbow. I am leaning against the door, I try to straighten myself but the truck is leaning too much. A second or two later the shock subsides and I realize we’re relatively unscathed and we’re largely upright, a winning combination.

What a ride…

I wait a moment. Is the truck stable or will it slide and roll over? All seems quiet, just some slight creaking from the truck springs. I try to open my door. It doesn’t budge; there are trees and shrubs jammed up against it, sand and gravel strewn alongside. I climb carefully upwards to the other side, open the door and clamber down. The truck creaks as I jump to the ground. I survey the situation for a few minutes. Phenomenally, damage to the 5 ton is minimal. I climb back in, grab the two-way radio, and start the 3½ kilometer walk to the site. It starts to rain. I walk calmly to the job site. At one point I even run a distance.

Damn bugs.

I’ve searched and searched but I cannot find the words to appropriately describe the feelings I had during and after this particular experience. Later, when I described it to others, many attributed my elation to an “adrenaline rush”. And although I do not discount this physical part of it, I should think it would have run its course soon after the excitement died down.

But the excitement continued. In fact, I relive it now as I write these words. The excitement continued the next morning when we experimented with jacks, cribbing, sand, shovels, and axes to find a way to free the 5 ton from the ditch. At one point we wrapped a chain around a massive boulder and, wearing the chain like a harness, we used our combined strength and 30 minutes to move it the scant five inches we needed. I remember lying under the truck in the rough gravel using an axe and shovel to cut a log the 5 ton uncovered in the final seconds of the ride...

Within six hours I drove the 5 ton to freedom.

There is something so exhilarating about living the freedom of life. And the closer I come to experiencing it, the fewer words I have to describe it.

But even still, I wonder if there’s more to the story…

Wayne Pitura, P.Eng.
The Engineer

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