Graveyard for Trucks

Trip Start Jul 08, 2006
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Trip End Sep 03, 2006


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Flag of United States  , Washington
Sunday, July 9, 2006

It's called high plain, that chunk of land that's raised way up above the river bed, and flat, and dry. Everywhere you see canals, little ditches actually, it's water from the massive river flow, a system made to irrigate the crops, see pumps and sprinklers everywhere, the kind on wheels, that creep across the field, and back. Go with the flow you say? Not here, the flow is carefully controlled, designed, thought out.

Alfalfa growing everywhere? No accident of nature. Sheer, hard work. Soybeans I see, it says it on the brand-name signs. Barns and tractors round the picture out.

So that's the story Andrew, do you understand? So much of what you eat is grown right here, this side of the mountain range, look what it takes to pull it off. Andrew nods, and takes another swig of Gatorade. It's hot as blazes, unrelenting sun.

The freeway's getting close. I thought we'd stop in Quincy, I remember cherries there, but heat waves shimmer on the road, my motivation sags, I keep on driving south.

Andrew look! See that sign! I'm going to get your picture here, right HERE, in George. I find the City Hall, pull in beside. Yep, there it is, a truly place, George, Washington, it says so right there on the wall.

Exit out the car, and pose. We circle back around, OH LOOK! Andrew spots a graveyard scene, trucks and trucks and trucks, all dead, all mangled up, piled and thrown into a heap of diesel parts, cabs and axel grease, what kind of vulture circles over trucks?

Get a picture, he requests. That is very strange.

And stranger still? I've wanted to eat at Martha's place for twenty years, today there's time. But Martha's place is on the auction block, the door is posted, all is up for sale.

Too late.
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