Julie Pryor - On the Road Again

 

So, I was three years old when the moving truck pulled into the driveway of my new home in New Jersey. My dad lifted me up, and he put me in the cab of the truck, and he pointed to the rope hanging from the ceiling and he said, "Pull that." So, I did what I was told. I stood up and I pulled that rope with all of my might. I was terrified by the sound it made. [mimics an air horn] It was an air horn. I was terrified, but dad was smiling. He looked at me and he said, "Good. Now, the neighbors know we’re here. We have arrived." [audience chuckle] 

 

Dad ran the Mayflower Moving Company out of Orange, New Jersey. He loved trucks. Big trucks, little trucks, refrigerated trucks, all the trucks. He had a deep respect for truck drivers. So, I was thinking about my dad a couple decades later when I was standing in a truck yard in Fairbanks, Alaska. I was producing a documentary for the History Channel about the notorious Haul Road, which connects the city of Fairbanks to the oil fields on the North Slope. 

 

It was my job as the producer to help convey the stories of the truckers. The men and women who were bold or crazy enough to drive this road year-round, hauling supplies to the North Slope. I thought I knew what I was doing. I did my research. I googled Alaska Haul Road. [audience laughter] I read what it said. It was the loneliest road on the planet. Avalanches could kill you. Or, my personal favorite was, the road where hell froze over. [audience laughter] 

 

But see, I figured these were just written by people who had never actually been there. But when I found myself in that truck yard in Fairbanks and I was looking at these truckers, they had most definitely been there. [audience laughter] I could tell by their worn Carhartt jackets, and their trapper hats and their amazing beards. It's at this moment that I realize just how clean, and ridiculous and purple my North Face jacket looks in comparison. [audience laughter] But there was no time to be embarrassed, because the foreman of the crew came over to our very urban-looking film crew, and he starts barking at us like that drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket, and he says, "Which one of you knuckleheads is going to drive the chase truck?"

 

So, the chase truck is the final truck in the convoy. It's the one carrying all of the film crew’s gear to the North Slope. Now, none of the boys that I was working with volunteered to drive. But this foreman didn’t wait for a response. He just tossed the keys up into the air. That’s when I saw my hand [audience laughter] reach up and snatch the keys. So, I got the keys now, and the boys that I’m working with, they disperse into their separate trucks with their cameras and whatnot. I just walk over to my cab, to the cab of the truck, hop up, jump in, slam the door shut. 

 

And that’s when I panicked. Like, really panicked. Like, “What the hell do I think I’m doing? Who do I think I am? Oh, my God, I can’t do this, I can’t do this,” which reminded me of when I was 14, and my dad tossed me the keys to his pickup truck, because he was too drunk to drive. I started listing all the reasons why I really shouldn’t drive. I said, “Dad, I’m 14. I don’t know how to drive. It’s illegal.” But dad didn’t care. He just walked around the other side of the truck, hopped into the passenger seat, sat down, reclined the seat fully and closed his eyes. 

 

Okay. So, I climb into my dad’s truck, I put the key in the ignition and I turn the truck on and boom, there’s Willie Nelson. Dad loved Willie. He had Willie’s greatest hits on a tape jammed into the cassette player. So, every time you got into the truck, there would be Willie singing. You had no idea what song, but it was going to be Willie. This time, it was On the Road Again. Appropriate. So, finally, dad turns and he looks at me and he says, “You ready?” “No.” “Good.” "Get to know the four corners of the truck, adjust your seat, the mirrors and when you're ready, put your damn foot on the gas and drive us home." 

 

So, back in Fairbanks, I adjust the seat, the mirrors, I try to get to know the four corners of this truck, put my foot on the gas and I drove out onto the great Alaska Haul Road. So, I didn't kill myself in the first mile. My confidence started to build. I'm like, “This is pretty cool.” So, I start listening to the music. I think about coming up with a trucker handle, like Lead Foot Lizzy. [audience laughter] But then, my trucking fantasy came to a screeching halt when I saw the sign, this massive sign that said, "250 miles to the next service station."

 

So, I do the mental calculus. I'm like, “Okay, 250 miles. So, that's like driving from Boston to New York City without stopping once to pee or to get gas. There's no restaurants, there's no ATMs, there's no human beings.” I'm realizing as I pull my flip phone out of my purple jacket, there are no bars, there's no service. I am entirely alone. Every member of my crew is in a different truck. I am alone in this Ford F-350 and I was terrified. So, the next 250 lonely miles to Coldfoot, which is this first service station on the Haul Road, Google didn't exactly tell me everything that was going to happen. So, I knew it was 28 feet wide. But 28 feet wide feels really different when there's a double wide coming at you about 65 miles an hour. 

 

I learned about the roller coaster. This is not what I found on Google, only by the truckers and how terrifying that stretch was. Somehow, I made it in one piece to Coldfoot. And so, we stopped to get some gas and get a bite to eat. I head into the café and I'm immediately blown away by the smell of the place. It's like this potent combination of bacon and kerosene and cigarettes. [audience laughter] These old timers are hunched over the bar and they're sharing war stories about the road. There's pictures of wrecks stapled to the wall. [audience laughter] 

 

These truckers are talking about the conditions on the pass. The ice, the fog, the snow. It sounds horrible. The pass they're talking about is Atigun Pass, some 5,000-foot elevation in the Brooks Range. It's the only thing standing between me and my destination. It's also the only road that is maintained by the Department of Transportation year-round, so that these truckers can deliver their supplies to the North Slope, day in and day out. Truckers with experience, truckers with beards, not me. 

 

So, Tony, the big rig driver that I was following on this journey, could probably smell my fear at this point. He turned and he looked at me and said, "Julie, look it. I'm going to give you one piece of advice. Just stay close enough to my truck to see the license plate. Because as soon as you lose the license plate, you're probably going in the ditch and only God can help you then." [audience laughter] Great. I'm headed into certain death and I have zero relationship with God. [audience laughter] So, I walk back to my Ford F-350, and I get in and I'm thinking about my dad. 

 

My dad passed not long before this trip to Alaska. We had a very complicated relationship. But I'd like to think that in our final days, we found peace with one another. One of the last things we did before he passed, was we listened to his favorite song. It's a Willie Nelson song, and it's called Pancho and Lefty. It goes something like this. Don't worry, I'm not going to sing. [audience laughter] Living on the road, my friend, is going to keep you free and clean. Now you wear your skin like iron, your breath is as hard as kerosene.

 

So, back on the road, I'm in this truck and we are headed north towards the Brooks Range, whether I want to or not. And from a distance, it's gorgeous. It's just these majestic purple and blue mountains rising up out of the snow. But the closer I got to this pass, the more it resembled a giant, menacing ice wall. I could see this line running across it, it looked like a scar. As I traced it with my finger, it led back to the convoy and to my truck. That scar was the Haul Road and I was about to drive it. So, I gripped the steering wheel and I kept my eyes trained on Tony's truck as I slowly, about 15 miles an hour, followed him up and into the clouds. 

 

So, in Atigun Pass, there are stretches that have a 12% grade. Now, I didn't know what 12% grade meant, but I learned very quickly that when you have chains on your tires and the gravel turns to ice and these tires are having difficulty maintaining control, that's what a 12% grade in Atigun Pass feels like. This ditch to my right is getting more and more steep, and the fog is getting more and more dense and then the snow starts to fly. That's when I lost the horizon. There was no left, there was no right, there was no up, there was no down and there definitely was not a license plate in front of me. 

 

I figured I could put my foot on the gas and try to catch up to Tony, or I could just drive right off the edge of this damn cliff and go 3,000 feet to my death. The alternative was worse. I could stop, but there's all sorts of trucks coming up behind me. So, the options are bleak. It's at that very moment that I heard Willie. His voice came through the speakers in my truck, and he was singing Pancho and Lefty. And I laughed. I laughed, because his voice reminds me so much of someone that brought me comfort. And I laugh, because if my dad were sitting next to me, he would be fully reclined with his eyes closed, cool as a cucumber. 

 

So, I jammed my foot on the gas and I hoped for the best. Like a miracle, out of the white, the most beautiful yellow and blue license plate [audience laughter] materialized. I crank Willie and I start singing along, Now you wear your skin like iron. I follow Tony's truck up and over the pass and out of the clouds. And off in the distance, I know Prudhoe Bay is out there. And on this journey, I developed such a deep and profound respect for the men and the women that drive this crazy ass road, day in and day out. I knew today I was going to make it, because I had Willie and my dad with me. 

 

As I pulled my truck into Prudhoe Bay under those yellow industrial lights, more than 5,000 miles from my childhood home in New Jersey, I honked my horn. I have arrived.