Fog is probably pretty common early mornings in the valleys that surround the confluence of the Whitewater, Miami and Ohio Rivers, outside of Cincinnati. I've driven through it there on numerous occasions, and have looked down more than once from the top of the hill in Kentucky at a lake of mist, the tops of the power plant's stacks rising out of it, belching their own vapors. I'm not familiar enough with the area to know the various forms the fog takes, or their frequencies though. I was in a fog the other morning that I can only call Epic.
What made it so dramatic was that it wasn't uniform. In places the fog was so thick visibility was reduced to a matter of yards; traffic crawled at a snail's pace. In others it was patchy, thick and thin, striated, or in dense clumps like dirigibles struggling to rise. But the best were the clear spots: blue sky above but with clouds filling the surrounding valleys, clinging to the hillsides in ragged tatters. The power plant was hidden, its stacks protruded from the wrack belching vapors of their own.
All in all it was awesome, it was Epic.
I guess fog is a morning thing, for the most part. A little while back, traveling down 37 with the sun lighting the landscape but not yet over the trees I was grooving on the delicate mists filling the hollows and rising off the ponds. I was surprised to find a dense fog when I turned into the industrial park in Mitchell. I supposed that it was due to the lie of the land and the proximity of the White River, the way that Martinsville is often shrouded in fog when everywhere else is only misty.
As I drove along, carefully, I thought I could see the start of the lifting of the veil. I could see a patch of density several stories up in the air. As I got closer I thought it strange that it was so localized, only in that one spot. Closer still and I thought, “Weird, that blob of mist is almost symmetrical.” That's when I first noticed that it was trailing tentacles. I almost swerved off the road, “What is it, a huge floating jellyfish, an Alien attack!?!”
Whew, it was only a water tower. It can be taxing having an active imagination.
I have long said, “When driving a big truck don't get lost in the mountains, and don't get lost in the city.” Having done both I know whereof I speak, but the wiser statement would be, “Don't get lost at all.” Driving a big truck is stressful enough when you know where you are. I was almost lost recently, right here at home in Southern Indiana with no mountains and no cities, in Amish country.
It's amazing how much industry there is in the Amish community. They don't drive themselves but many of their goods and materials are brought in on trucks. There are lots of roads in Davies County that are heavily traveled by semi-trucks, horse drawn wagons, buggies, bicycles, and the occasional golf cart. This is par for the course for me. We deal with the Amish mafia a lot.
I was on my way to Graber Farm Supply. I'd been there many times before, but this time I came in from another direction. They'd widened and sealed a section of road off of US 231 that made it easier than coming down from Odon like we used to. So, coming from the opposite direction I turned at the wrong intersection.
At first it was like, “Wait, is this right?” Then, as the road narrowed and went up and down some small hills I thought, “This definitely isn't right.” I wasn't too worried though, it's not like I was in the hills of Martin County or something, there were lots of trucks that went all over around there. But I got to an intersection beyond which the road narrowed again and went up and down some larger hills and thought, “Time to find out what's what.”
Fortunately there was a fellow who had seen me and I didn't need to go far to get directions. “Graber? If you stand over there by the barn you can see their buildings.” I knew that I wasn't far off. But what really struck me about our little conversation is that mannerism that I'd taken to be idiosyncratic to one individual were in fact communal; not just the accent. The world is always larger than we first imagine.
So I turned left, then turned left again. Everything was as my guide had said it would be. I went through the bend in the road, saw the grave yard on the right and thinking that I could see my destination ahead thought, “That's what I like about my job, it takes me to these interesting places.” But when I realized the complex of buildings wasn't GFS I was again gripped by anxiety. Let's remember that I'm out in the boonies with a big truck. These roads may be traveled by trucks but they aren't highways, and where I happened to be at that point they weren't even paved. They weren't nearly as bad as I've seen them in winter but it had recently rained and I was suddenly worried that I was still lost. “That's why I hate my job.”
I wasn't lost. After another bend in the road I hadn't been warned about the road leveled off and my goal came in sight. When I pulled in one of the hands came up and asked, “You make it alright?” I'm thinking, “What do you mean, I'm here aren't I?” but he continued saying, “We saw you go by. I called Herk 'cause if you'd gone down that dead end road it gets mighty narrow and the shoulders are soft. You'd probably have gotten stuck.” I checked my phone and there was a missed call from Herk. My dispatcher. It must have come in while I was getting directions.
Whew, catastrophe avoided. But I thought wistfully about the adventure, being on a road that had seen no more motorized vehicles than the trucks that had laid the gravel, the mail carrier and maybe the car of an estranged daughter? An adventure best left to the imagination, for everyone's sake.
You'd think that I'd be used to being treated as a stationary, unfeeling traffic barrel by now, but no, I guess you never get over it. I haven't anyway. The rudeness, the insensitivity. Is it my imagination or is it getting worse? In any case I'd like to know what makes everyone not only expect, but often demand that I accommodate them? When I last checked maneuverability, visibility, acceleration, braking for heaven's sake are all much easier on four wheeled vehicles. If I give up the speed and momentum that I've established it's going to take me a long time to regain it, and use a lot of fuel. What about the Environment? I don't know what you all are doing out on the road, but I happen to be at work.
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