December 15th. 3:30 P.M. Dense fog.
When Shane, a cherry-red 1969 Ford Bronco pickup, spun out of control, taking an impromptu left turn atop the Blue Mountain summit (elevation 4193), Barker Ajax nearly righted their course. Before Barker could feel proud of his superb driving skills, Shane hit more black ice and began spinning in a circle. And another circle.
The little truck careened across the thankfully-vacant passing lane, sliding into the center divider, glancing off. The Black Gang let out a frightened yip. Barker watched his entire life pass by. Strangling the steering wheel, resigned to their fate, he hugged his big dog.
Prayed for mercy.
The first semi smashed head-on into the little truck. Sent it spinning another direction. Toward the cliff. The second semi slammed into them. Shane went skidding another way, like a pinball. Third semi, Barker waited for the killing blow. Another head-on.
Truthfully, you start to lose count. Barker didn’t notice the fourth semi-truck hit. Finally, sliding stopped, skidding stopped, slamming stopped. They were alive.
Lucky to be alive.
“At 35 mph,” a cop once told him, “a crash is over in less than half a second.” Seemed like forever for a moment. Four tractor trailers were jack-knifed across every east-bound lane of the Interstate. Truckers rushed to see if Barker had survived, and seemed amazed to find him barely scratched. The dog unhurt, too.
Barker watched, waited, shivered, as the truckers talked among themselves. They pulled cameras out, and took photos of the accident scene. Finally, a state trooper arrived and the truckers rushed to offer their testimony.
“I hear you were driving like a maniac,” Trooper Kenny Skippers said when he finally walked up to Barker’s side. The Black Gang bristled visibly.
“Is he friendly?”
“He’s a little shook up. We both are. And, I was not driving like a maniac.”
“That’s what all the truckers tell me.”
“They hit me; I didn’t crash into them.”
“‘Like a maniac.’ That’s what they’re saying.”
“Don’t make it so.” Heck, he wasn’t even in a hurry. And Barker Ajax never speeds. Why rush life? Going too damn fast already.
“There’s a tow truck on its way.” Trooper Skippers moved to interview more witnesses. Barker Ajax and The Black Gang could not stop shivering. Shaking. Shock. Another trucker walked up to Shane, looked at twisted leaking metal, then at Barker. Trucker shook his head in amazement. “Lucky to be alive. You hurt?”
“Not enough to complain.”
“Dog okay?”
“He’s fine.”
Trucker squatted down and Gang moved closer. They petted. “He’s a beautiful animal.”
“Seems to think the same about you,” Barker replied. Jack Roland Spencer, a Native American, had stopped his 18-wheeler without hitting Shane.
Or anybody else. Jack’s truck was rear-ended by another semi.
“Hate to see anybody railroaded,” Jack said. “Been driving like a maniac, I would’ve seen you.”
“Did you tell that to the trooper?”
“No.”
“Well, sir, please see you do.”
Jack did tell the trooper. Even gave Barker a toll-free number to call. “Hate to see anybody get railroaded,” he said again.
Shane was messed up bad. Front end demolished, the engine pushed back, the frame askew. The bulkhead of the pickup bed bent. Top twisted. Doors popped out. Every piece of sheet metal dinged, dented or demolished. Dang it. The Bronco had gone on his last trail drive. Gravy Train everywhere. Christmas gifts trashed
So cold, Barker was slurring his words, the dog slurred his growls. Barker put The Black Gang on the driver’s seat of the Bronco, which dangled precariously off the back of Harvey’s Triple-A Tow truck. “That’ll be $137,” Harvey said after he deposited Shane in the parking lot of the Stardust Lodge on the west end of La Grande.
“I have universal AAA coverage,” Barker said.
“I’m not a bank,” Harvey replied. “You pay me now and get your money back from triple-A.”
In the morning, Barker achingly struggled out of bed and slowly parted the drapes. Just to be sure, he snuck a peek outdoors. Shane was still slammed. Stranded in La Grande with those bruised Bronco blues. Busted.
So, they went for a walk.
He bawled like a child when a friend took The Black Gang back to the old farm. All he could do was stand there and watch his canine companion drive off. Dogs don’t ride AMTRAK.
“I miss my dog,” he said aloud, broke but not broken. “I miss my dog.”
No one heard his tears.
And no one was there to lick his plate.