I once read an article that called us the last American cowboys and I can agree with that statement. Well, I can agree that some of us are the last American cowboys. You have to look at what the cowboys of the old west were to understand.
The cowboys in the movies aren't what the real cowboys were. The real cowboys were just ordinary men who wanted to be their own bosses most of the time. Yes, they worked for the man who owned the cattle, but out there on the range, sitting on a horse and making sure all the cattle went where they were supposed to, they called all the shots.
They liked being outdoors instead of tending store or sitting behind a desk. They complained about bacon and beans for every meal, but they ate them because the old whiskered cook knew how to make them right. They liked sitting around the campfire before going out to take their turn at night herding. Sometimes they probably did sing, but that was to pass the time and because they were happy, not to soothe the cattle, and they didn't carry a guitar strapped to their saddles.
Most had a strict moral code that valued honesty, self-reliance, and a sense of personal responsibility. The most respected cowboys were those who had the most knowledge and worked the hardest. Even though many were former soldiers on both sides of the American Civil war, they were patriotic and loved their country.
Like with any job, some things had to be done according to a timetable. There were calves to brand and bull calves to castrate. That was actually more work than the cattle drives. The free-ranging herds had to be gathered up and the calves sorted from the rest, and then wrestled to the ground so the real work could be done. I was hard, sweaty, dirty work, but the cowboys wouldn't have had it any other way.
Once the steers reached market size, they'd be cut out of the herd and started to a railhead. Cowboys had to keep the herd moving as well as round up the steers who decided to take a side trip. Timing was important, but it was just as important to get the entire herd to market with as much weight on the hoof as possible. Cattle sort of have minds of their own, so the cowboys had to know when to push them and when to let them set their own pace.
No cowboy knew how to do all this when he started, but he learned from talking with and working with others who did. After a few weeks of working cattle, he began to understand how they think, what they're apt to do in a given situation, and how to react to protect the cattle owner's investment. Those skills and the ability to instantly apply them without asking someone higher up was what made the American cowboy a legend and why he became one. It's the same reason some men become truck drivers like me.
I wrote earlier that some of us are the last American cowboys. I don't include a lot of the drivers who drive for fleets. To a lot of them, getting behind the wheel is the same as stepping up to a machine in some factory or sitting down at a computer terminal in an office. It's just a job, something one has to do to earn a living and something to be forgotten about as soon as the clock says it's time to go home.
There are a few old timers driving for the fleets and a few young guys with an independent mind set, but with the advent of automatic shifting transmissions, a lot of them are just steering the rig down the road. They do OK, I guess, and they make money for the fleet owners, but they aren't true cowboys like the rest of us. They're just paid drivers.
I consider myself one of the last American cowboys though I don't sit in a saddle on a horse. I sit in an air-suspension cushioned seat on top of around five hundred turbo-charged horses. My saddle horn is a gold bulldog sitting on the hood of my truck. That crusty old cook with the chuck wagon is either me starting the microwave in my sleeper, or a cash register operator in some truck stop checkout. I do have schedules to meet, but just as with the old-time cowboys, getting the load there undamaged is just as important as making a particular dock time.
Like some lucky truck drivers, I own my rig. I bought her right after my divorce. My ex got the house so I didn't have a place to live. I was driving long hauls for a trucking company then, and figured since I was now single and wasn't home much, there was no reason to have another house or an apartment. My business address became my parent's home.
There was also no need to settle for a certain amount per mile since I didn't have any expenses except my own...Hagen Heavy Hauling was born one day in April when I made the down payment on a new Mack. By owning my own rig, I make all the profit on every load.
She's glossy black with 18 forward gears, two reverse, and enough clearance lights to light up a small house. She has an American Flag and an Eagle painted on each door right above my company name because I love this country of ours and I'm proud to show that I do.
Once I had the truck, all I needed was something to haul, and I knew there's a shortage of trucks to haul heavy machinery. I bought a low-boy trailer to go with the Mack, and signed myself up with a freight broker. I check out their web site and find a load going from where I'm going to be to where I want to go and give them a quote. If I'm the low quote, I get the haul. If I'm not, I look for another load. Since I service sort of a unique market, I usually don't have a problem staying on the road. If you can get it on my trailer and the total weight is less than eighty thousand, I'll pull it anywhere in the US.
Just like the old time cowboys, I learned the ropes by driving and riding a lot of miles with some other truckers. I learned a lot of things from those guys. Some of it was good to know stuff, like when and how to skip-shift to save some fuel, how to keep the rig running straight and, more importantly, how to stop it on slick pavement and how to tarp a load to keep the load dry and keep the tarps from flapping themselves to ribbons.
I learned some other things as well, and those things were probably the same things the old cowboys learned, like where to find an accommodating woman in any city. Those women are out there, though now they tend to hang out at truck stops and rest areas because most long-haul trucks now have sleepers. I've never indulged, so I can't speak for how accommodating they might be.
I have one, a sleeper that is, and it's nicer than any cheap hotel room. I have a single bed, refrigerator, microwave, and a flat screen TV with a DVD player. If I'm parked long enough, I'll use my laptop to access one of the internet movie services and connect it to my TV. I also have a stereo system with an MP3 player in the sleeper for those nights I need a little music to send me off to dream land. It's air conditioned for the summers courtesy of a diesel fueled auxiliary power unit and heated for the winters by a small diesel fueled heater that also keeps the engine warm.
I don't look at the stars or the sun to guide me across the miles. My GPS navigation system that does that for me. With my satellite radio I can get some really nice listening music while I drive as well as instant weather information. I don't really need the used-to-be-standard CB radio, but there's still one in my cab. Usually it's either off or on very low volume because there are too many people out there who like to hear themselves talk. I use it to tell other truckers about accidents they may be approaching, and to hear about any slow traffic ahead of me.
Driving a truck is a lot like I imagine herding cattle was because one has to stay alert, but instead of watching steers, I have to keep a sharp eye out for people driving cars. I've seen some really dumb things from my cab. You'd think people would realize I can't stop almost forty tons as fast as they can stop their little compact, but a lot don't seem to. They'll cut in front of me when they pass and then slow down without realizing they're playing with disaster.
I'll do about anything to avoid getting into an accident. An accident between a truck and about anything else usually doesn't mean much to the truck and driver except a delay and some repairs. To anything else, it means things get really bad, and I don't want to be responsible for that.
Yes, I'll push the speed limit by five or ten if I can safely do so, but not if I'm in traffic. Traffic seems to bring out the worst in some drivers and they do stupid things. I've seen my share of accidents stupid drivers can cause. They aren't something I like, but I'll stop and help if the police haven't yet arrived on the scene.
I think the cowboys of the old-west probably thought they had the best job in the world, and so do I. I'm not getting rich, but I do all right, and I see a lot of this great country in the process. I also see a lot of people, and that afternoon, I met one who surprised me.
My load that trip was heavy industrial machinery and just under the legal limit for width and weight. My destination in Dallas was eleven hundred and sixty four miles, or so said my navigation system, and would take me through Greensboro, Knoxville, Nashville, Memphis, Little Rock and Texarkana. After getting everything chained and strapped down and tarped, I'd pulled away from the loading dock in Raleigh, North Carolina at six that Friday evening.
It takes a while to get a load that heavy started and stopped, and I didn't like the idea of going through any of those cities during the rush hour traffic if I could avoid it. My average speed through normal city interstate traffic is usually about fifty miles an hour. Rush hour would cut that down to maybe forty and if there was some kind of accident, lower than that. Unfortunately, the Mac would still be burning fuel and that fuel cost would come out of my profit. It seemed like a good idea to do most of my driving at night when there would be fewer cars on the road. My dock time in Dallas was ten AM on Monday, so I'd have time to take it easy and still get there with time to spare.
There's a Flying J truck stop on I-40 just east of Graham and it has a Denny's restaurant instead of the normal burger or chicken fast food place. I didn't need fuel, but I did need a good meal before starting out. It would take more than a couple burgers to keep me going through the night. The Raleigh rush hour traffic slowed me down a little, so it was a little after seven when I pulled into the Flying J and parked my rig.
The little brunette who took my order was older than most waitresses in places like that. I put her at about my age, somewhere between thirty five and forty. Out of habit, I looked at her left hand and saw she didn't wear a ring. At the time, that seemed unusual because she was a good looking gal, not gorgeous like a fashion model, but still pretty. She wasn't skinny, but she was filled out just fine in all the places I like a woman to be filled out. She also had a fantastic smile.
She said her name was Janet, and asked what she could get for me. I ordered the pot roast with iced tea, and she walked back to the kitchen. A minute or so later, she sat my iced tea down in front of me and said if I needed anything else to just ask her. I supposed she was just doing what she could to increase the tip she hoped I'd leave her.
While I waited for my meal, I checked with the brokering agency to see if they had anything leaving Dallas in three days. I placed a quote on one of them about the same time Janet brought my pot roast. She sat it down, cautioned me it was hot, and asked if everything was OK.
I suppose it was because it was later than most people eat, but the restaurant was pretty empty. Janet apparently didn't have any tables to take care of, so she stayed to talk. She asked my name and if I drove a truck.
"Jack Hagen, and yeah, I'm a truck driver. Why?"
"Oh, just curious. What's it like to drive one?"
I grinned as I gave her my standard answer for that question.
"It's about like driving a eighty foot long, seventy five thousand pound Toyota. Are you interested in driving a truck?"
