The 99 Trek

i had just finished reading the short story when we spilled out of the grapevine and the valley floor sprawled before us. a string of headlights slashed across the darkening landscape as if some giant unseen hand had sliced a thin, exact line along the belly of california and the liquid rock beneath the surface rose and formed tiny beads along the cut. the lava glowed white-hot as it stretched out across the expanse into the fog-blue haze of the horizon.

the cab of the truck filled with the acrid smell of burning rubber from the semis braking down the long grade.

"burnin'," my dad and i said in unison as we passed a rig with blue-white smoke curling from its tires. he reached over and slid the air vents closed. we sat in silence again. by the time we got to the other side of bakersfield, storm clouds closed overhead. the sky was blacker than i had ever seen it, even on the darkest, moonless night.

forty-eight miles from visalia, the solitary beam of a train headlamp glared through the night air. it passed on the right, three lonely engines coupled together. up along the highway in the distance rose what looked like smokestacks of an oil refinery. it seemed to be a miniature metropolis, its tiny towers gleaming with yellow lights, turning the white steam that poured from its rooftops yellow against the black, clouded sky.

we pulled into the driveway at a quarter to nine and i stepped out of the truck and stretched my cramped muscles, my body creaking and popping like an old ship. i'd made the trip dozens of times before, but this one stood out in my mind. something in the combination of the intensely dark sky, the low, steady hum of the engine and the shrinking distance to our destination brought incredible relaxation to my mind, despite my physical discomfort. my thoughts and anxieties had been left on the other side of the grapevine and this was now my temporary sanctuary where i could rest, regroup and prepare myself for the return.