I downshift as the hill gets steeper, and hear the deep-throated response of the engine as it gives me more power.  Cars speed past me on the left and on my right, the cut face of brown rock, where the road was carved through, forms an intricate mosaic.            The music on the truck’s radio is bluegrass tonight, and goes well with the mountain scenery of Tennessee; it amuses me to select it for my surroundings.  Hence hillbilly twangings for these hills, urban hip-hop in New York City, gospel hymns for way down South, country and Western for Texas. I drive forty-eight out of fifty states. I am a long haul truck driver.

            Over the crest of the mountain now, I downshift again and as the descent begins, my Jake brake cuts in to assist in keeping the truck and its heavy load from gathering up speed and careening down the mountain. Over a certain speed you can burn up your brakes and nothing but the sand-filled ramp rising up off to the left side of the downgrade can stop you. A fully loaded semi can weigh up to eighty thousand pounds.

            Safely down the mountain now, I shift up again to cruising speed and begin to look for other hazards. Off on the shoulder is a small car and I begin to assess my options if it should suddenly get back on the road, as all too frequently they do. I have begun to develop a sixth sense for stupidity out here. I check my mirrors and plan my escape.  This time it stays on the side of the road and I relax, but not completely.

            There are many other hazards. As I enter the small city, I keep my eyes moving, scanning the horizon, the other vehicles, and the trees for signs of a stiff wind that can blow my billboard- like trailer sideways. I check the mirrors again for small vehicles coming up behind me; I need to be able to quickly change lanes should the vehicle in front of me stop without warning. I stay as far back from the car in front of me as I can. Inevitably one will dart in front of me, too close for comfort, and I have to back off speed to keep that safe distance.

            I had a man old enough to know better ask me, “Y’all got eighteen wheels, ain’t you got eighteen sets of brakes? Can’t you stop as fast as a car?”

            My reply: “You didn’t study physics, did you, dear?”

            I’m safely through the traffic of the little city now, and I begin to relax a little more, though still alert for dangers. I hit a pothole with a resounding thud, and hope my husband, sleeping in the bunk behind me, hasn’t been awakened.

            All is quiet, except for the mournful fiddle sounds from the radio, the rush of air past my cab and the low growl of the diesel engine. Through my windshield, the bright morning star is fading and a pink dawn, tinged with grey clouds, is silhouetting the low hils.