And the low cost of living? Right. Two hundred bucks a night for the room, and spendy meals at the only restaurant for over two hundred miles either way. All that would have been okay, but we drove day and night through horrible conditions—make that night and night. It’s almost never daylight.
Yet I persevered. Then the big shots came up with a shortcut. Driving across the lake made sense, as the ice must be two feet thick and the road smooth and fast. Cuts an hour off the haul. Everyone loves that.
I made it northbound with the trailer fully loaded and dropped off the food at Prudhoe. Driving back the trailer swayed behind me, loose without a load to keep it stable. I turned off the road right where Darren indicated and cut across the lake. The run across the lake must have been thirty miles. Ten miles into it the pale sun set and it got black right away. Another ten and we had problems.
The headlights shone on the ice and made for a white glare that could hypnotize the driver. A solid sheet of white. Then I saw something different, all right.
Water.
I don’t know when it started or how far back, but I saw water over the ice. My blood ran as cold as the liquid beneath the truck. Stopping, I opened the door and checked the depth. The water lapped against the bottom step; must be a foot deep. How does water get on top of ice? A frozen river could break through and cover it, or the ice could have been broken, perhaps by another truck. But water on ice makes it weaker, both because it softens it and it adds weight to the load of the truck on the ice. I tried the CB.
“Anybody out on Galbraith Lake?”
Nothing but static.
Well, I couldn’t sit there until the truck fell through. I jammed it in gear and headed south, my mind whirling. Soon the water splashed ahead of the truck, meaning the bumper sloshed through it. Must have been eighteen inches deep. It splattered up on the windshield and I turned on the wipers. They pushed some away, but most of it froze to the glass, and I watched my twenty inch window to the world shrinking. I jacked up the defrost to stave off the oncoming ice.
Since the water sprayed so much off the bumper, there was no choice but to slow down. The speedometer showed twenty. So much for the shortcut.
Then it got worse. I could tell when the water rose over the headlights. I gripped the wheel and thought of the awful options. The truck just drives into the lake through the hole and I’m dead. The water refreezes, the truck gets stuck, and I die cold and slower. Would another truck cross? Had they told each other of the hazard? What if the engine sucked in water and quit? I couldn’t wade out in this stuff; it was forty below and I’d die in ten minutes. Not to mention walking through ice water up to my knees. Five minutes. Suppose I broke an air line? I have a spare and tools to fix it, but the exposure to the cold would kill me.
The engine labored and made a funny noise. I figured it out. The fan blades spun through the water. That would be ironic. Break the fan blades off, the engine overheats and quits and I freeze out here. Frozen from an overheated engine. I unclenched each hand from the wheel and shook them, one at a time. Got to get a grip, but not like that with my hands.
The view through the windshield shrank further from ice buildup outside and fog inside. I felt the air from the defrost. Lukewarm. If I didn’t get this truck out of the water soon I was dead.
I tried the CB again, with the same dismal results. The lights illuminated two pie shapes, only fifty feet through the water. As slow as I went, twenty miles an hour, I almost overdrove the headlights. My breath came out in clouds, adding moisture to the inside of the windows.
The wind blew ice crystals and snow from right to left. Between the ice on the window, the snow and the underwater lights, my vision shrunk to a few feet. I checked the GPS on the dash. Thank God for it, we ran on track. Looked like a couple miles to go. Might as well have been a thousand.
I wiped the sweat from my eyes and used a rag to clean the fog off the windshield. The gauges looked normal... no. I groaned. The water temperature stood at 290 degrees. Dear God no, please don’t melt down on me.
The GPS blue line of our journey crawled along the lake. I seesawed from staring out the windshield to peering at the temperature gauge to glancing at the GPS and willing it to the lakeshore. Even a quarter mile would mean certain death, no chance of getting to help. Actually, even fifty feet from shore I would swim in, then succumb to the elements. This became an all-or-nothing deal. Make it to the shore and live. Don’t and don’t.
The gauge crept up to 300, moving entirely too quickly while the blue line on the GPS crawled to the lake edge. Glancing to the side, I realized that all the windows were frozen inside and out. The two circles of vision in the front shrank to the size of coffee cups.
Next the gauges fogged over from my breath and the cold. I started making deals with God, promising church every Sunday and no cussing around my wife and kids.
Finally, at last, the truck rolled up onto terra firma and I felt the tension ease in my shoulders. I accelerated and upshifted, not too fast as I didn’t need the slick tires sliding on the snow. I pulled the truck over at a flat spot so I would be able to start again and got out to survey the damage. The wind shrieked, ice crystals stinging my face. Who cared? Way better than swimming.
Ice shrouded the body like an old man’s beard. As the tires stopped and cooled, they turned white. I popped the latches and tried to raise the hood, but it stuck fast, frozen. The engine sounded okay, however. I climbed into the cab. The gauge already dropped to 275. I slipped it into gear and headed to Coldfoot.
Every mile, the truck improved. The fan blades must have shed heavy ice and the engine sounded smooth. The water returned to operating temperature, and the heater blew warm air, melting two bigger circles in the windshield.
When I arrived at Coldfoot, I parked in the truck area and left it running. I walked into the motel and greeted Tanya at the front desk. I set my gas card on the counter.
“Tell Darren I quit.”
Tanya didn’t even look up from her romance novel. She’d seen it a hundred times before. “Okay, Jimmy.”
I walked to my Toyota pickup and fired it up. Went to the dorm and packed up my stuff, which took only a few minutes. Threw the stuff in the back seat. Popped the truck in gear and eased out of Coldfoot. Headed south. I’ll keep going until I can’t see snow. Anywhere.
Hawaii
We met a couple who lived in Hawaii during dinner at an outdoor patio. They left the mainland ten years before and hadn’t looked back. They built a house in Ocean View (what a nice sounding place) and touted its advantages; it was off the beaten track, land prices were much cheaper there, and if you owned a house for less than a hundred thousand dollars, you paid no property taxes. It sounded idyllic, an affordable place to live in paradise.
A few days later we rode to Ocean View. Surprise! We somehow missed the part about it being a lava bed, with people living in old busses, yurts, and inside lava tubes. Dumpy houses and trailers sat on black lava fields with huge swimming pools in their back yards. Not swimming pools, the pools stored rain water. Most had no electricity, using generators when necessary.
Every wealthy city—or state—has cheap places to live. And while it lacked so many amenities, one could live on the Big Island cheaply.
LAVA TUBE
“Hey, son, you look great.” Chris Bateman held him by his shoulders after the hug.
Seth grimaced as he took in his father’s surprising look. He wore a faded Hawaiian shirt, dirty white shorts, and cheap flip flops. His gray hair hung down over his ears from under the straw hat. And the beard? It looked like he hadn’t cut or trimmed it in two years, which was true.
“Dad, you look... it’s good to see you.”
“Go ahead, say it. I look like crap.” He gestured for him to sit and did the same. “No more thousand dollar suits.”
“I guess.” Seth looked out at Kona Bay, where a tender shuttled cruise ship guests and dropped them ashore. A couple struggled to stand on their pad
dle boards while swimmers wearing caps followed buoys out from shore. Dad pointed. “That’s where the Ironman Triathlon starts. I’m thinking about entering next year.”
“Really? Could you do that?”
“I’ve lost fifty pounds.” He pulled his shirt tight against his belly. “I’ve been training. I could probably do the swim and the biking, but the running? I don’t know. Probably not. Why not try?”
Seth knew if the man wanted to do something, then by golly, he would do it. He imagined his old man crossing the finish line with arms extended, then losing consciousness.
A waitress appeared.
“Nancy, this is my son, Seth.”
She shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. We all love your father.”
“Right,” he mumbled into his menu. Love? Feared, yes. Respected, for sure. But he’d never heard love, even from Mom, God rest her soul.
The woman took their order and returned with two orange juices. Seth sipped it. Fresh, cold, and tangy. “Oh, this is good. No wonder you’re here.”
“Way more reasons than that, son. This lifestyle, the people, relaxed… aloha.”
Apparently aloha explained everything. Why Dad, the president and founder of Bateman Shipping, changed from CEO to Chairman of the Board, moved to Hawaii, and almost disappeared.
“How’s Cassandra?”
“She’s worried about you, Dad.”
“Worried?”
“We all are, really. I mean, you Skype for the Board meetings and all, but… really?” He looked around at the shops, people in swimsuits and shorts milling about, the restaurant with no walls. “We’re just concerned. You’ve checked out.”
“I’ve checked in, son. I’ll show you later. Nancy, can we get those mahi mahi tacos?”
She nodded and wrote it down.
“Thanks, darling.”
Darling?
“She’s as sweet as they get.” To Seth she looked like any other waitress. “You’ll love these tacos. They aren’t on the menu, but Steve—he’s the chef—he makes them for me. Great guy. How was your flight?”
“Okay. Took the Gulfstream and slept. No problem.” He pulled out his phone and touched the screen.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting Cassandra. Letting her know you’re okay.” He held it up and clicked. “Sending her a photo, too.” He frowned at the screen, then tapped at the face.
“What’s up?”
“Oh, just a few little problems. Denver. No big deal. One more here.” He tapped the phone.
Chris pushed his son’s hand down. “Come on, son. Let it go for a bit. Enjoy the scenery. What a beautiful day, right?”
“Yeah, it’s great. So Dad, Cassandra and I are worried about you. I mean, you’re the big tycoon, making deals, getting things done, and what? Suddenly you take a vacation to Hawaii and don’t come back? That’s messed up.”
“Son, believe me when I tell you I’ve checked in. I’ll give you the tour.”
“Okay.” Was this the same man? Mr. Seventy Hours a Week?
The tacos arrived and the men commenced eating. Seth texted a couple of times. Chris patted his hand. “Son, please. Can’t we just enjoy this meal together?”
“Just… you know… Dad, business. Just this one left. Remember you used to say, ‘Leave it alone and it comes back with interest.’”
He nodded. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Okay.” He slid the phone away. “You have my undivided attention.”
“Wait ’til you see my place. I’ve been working on it since I got the property. Just about finished. Very different.” His eyes twinkled at the memory.
~
They finished lunch and Seth insisted on paying. “So. Let’s see your house.”
“You got a car?”
“Yeah. Land Rover. Across the street.” He pointed to a gleaming gray SUV. “Behind that junky bike.” Ahead of Seth’s rental sat an old red Honda motorcycle, with a plastic milk bin on the back fender. And rust.
“That’s mine.”
“That’s yours?”
“Yep. Just follow me.”
They drove South on Highway 11 for the better part of an hour until the beat-up Honda turned up a steep paved road that bisected a lava field. Houses sat on the black rock, some on stilts, others looked like mobile homes or prefab things. Rusted cars and trucks rested in peace alongside the houses. Other lanes turned right and left, and the road narrowed until it became one lane with borders of heavy black rocks. It veered left and entered a clearing. Seth parked next to an old Isuzu pickup and stepped out, avoiding the mud on his freshly shined shoes.
“Over this way.” His father strode off across a rock path. Seth followed until they came to a yawning hole into darkness.
“You live in a cave?”
“A lava tube.” He walked to a wrought iron fence and gate. Opening it, he stepped in and held the gate for Seth. He flicked on a light switch. “I’ve got a solar array and a windmill for power. I’ve got a great catchment system for showers and dishes and such and use bottled water for drinking. Come on.”
Dad led him deeper into the tube, the small lights struggling to dispel the darkness from the black walls. The floor shone smooth with stained concrete, and rattan furniture graced the ‘rooms.’ Seth clicked photos as they went. A white shed stood to the right.
“I got this at Lowe’s. It’s a shed, but I fixed it up. It’s my secure room.” He opened the door and held out his hand like a car salesman showing off a new Bentley.
Seth entered and clicked off another shot. He punched ‘Dad’s place’ and texted it to his sister. The room held a double bed, neatly made with a small nightstand and a lamp. A dresser stood against the wall off the foot of the bed. Shelves lined with books covered the walls. Two bulbs illuminated the room. Dad led the way into the kitchen, with an old fridge and wooden chairs.
“This is it?” Seth asked. Thank God Cassandra hadn’t come.
Dad held his chin up, a challenge. “Yep. I love it here.”
“You’re kidding, right? You could buy any villa in Hawaii, and you chose this?”
“Sit down.” Dad indicated a wicker chair. “You want a drink?”
“Scotch.”
As Dad prepared the drinks, Seth scanned the tube and grimaced. His phone chirped and he checked it. Cassandra texted, ‘Has he lost his mind?’
‘Looks like it.’
Dad brought the drinks and sat. An uncomfortable silence permeated the lava walls. He cleared his throat. “Let me try to explain something.”
Seth took a deep drink. “Can’t wait.”
“Have you asked yourself the question yet?”
“What would that be?”
Dad set down his drink, leaned in, his elbows on his knees. His eyes bored into Seth’s. “How much crap do I need?”
“No, Dad, I haven’t asked that question.” He stood and paced. “I’ve asked, ‘What would Dad do? How can I squeeze another dime out of fuel economy? How can I keep those trucks rolling? How can I defer taxes this year? How can I keep loaded trucks moving product across the country? How can I maximize market share?’ Those are the questions I ask myself, questions you taught me to ask. Remember, we’re building a dynasty, ‘The Bateman Project’; that’s what you called it and that’s what we still call it.
“We—Cassandra and I—get up and go. Every day. And every day those trucks, those rail cars, those planes, they go. Every day. So we’re on it, building building, building. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, we move stuff. It never stops. It better not stop. Because you said, and I quote, ‘You’re either growing or shrinking. Which way do you want it?’ And every single day, I want it to grow. It’s what I was taught, how I was wired, what you poured into my brain, my DNA every day. I get it. And I’m on it.” He stopped pacing and looked around the austere interior. “But where’s Dad? Off to Hawaii, checked out. And I come here to see what you’re up to, and you’re living in a cave.”
/> “A lava tube.”
“Whatever. If the Board or the shareholders saw this, the Bateman Shipping stock would tank.”
Dad chuckled. “Sit down and finish your drink. I’d like to take you for a drive.”
Seth checked the time on his phone. “I can do that. Then I need to go. Three meetings tomorrow.”
They finished the drinks and Chris led his son to the parking area. “We’ll take my truck.” They climbed into the beat-up cream and rust-colored truck. Seth shoved some food wrappers aside with his foot and frowned. His phone chirped and he peered at the screen, then tapped a reply.
“Never run out of things to do, huh?” Chris backed the truck around and headed up the hill. He pointed to what looked like an above ground swimming pool with a cover. “Catchment system. All my water’s in there.”
“Right. Wonderful.”
Dad turned the truck around and Seth answered another text.
“You’re married to that thing. Never ends, does it?”
“No.” Seth scrolled through emails. “If we did, we’d be in trouble, right?”
They wound down through the moonscape, Dad pointing out neighbors places. “Harvey Jameson lives there. Great guy. That’s Marv’s place. He’s been here ten years. Jerry just got his driveway graded. That’s his converted bus. Just a super human being.”
Seth grunted replies and focused on the screen.
They rolled into Kialua-Kona and Chris drove into the industrial area. They pulled into a parking lot of a run-down commercial office space and he shut off the truck. “Come on, I want you to meet some people.”
Seth pocketed his phone and they walked to an office with dirty windows and a battered door. An empty whiskey bottle leaned against the wall. Inside, at a cluttered desk sat an obese Hawaiian woman. “Chris!” she yelled and jumped up to hug him. Seth gaped. He’d never seen anyone hug his dad before. “How are you?” She patted his cheek. “You look great.”
“I am. Alani, I’d like you to meet my son, Seth.”
Seth held out a hand. She pushed it away and hugged him. “You are so blessed with a daddy like this.” Releasing him, she turned to Dad. “You working today?”
“No, I just wanted to show Seth around.”
50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 5, The West Page 5
