Despite growing up in Pasadena, CA–a suburb of Los Angeles, but with the leanings of a big city in its own right–I’ve always aspired towards a more rural lifestyle. Sure, I wear a tie to work, but if I had my way, I’d spend most of my time camping, fishing, hiking, hunting, and otherwise being outdoors. Yeah, I earned a doctorate… but what I really want to be when I grow up– when money doesn’t matter anymore, when I can simply exist and do my thing– is a truck driver.
It was this last little fantasy that manifested in my 20s more than any other time in my life with my interest in 11 meter radio… Citizen’s Band, or “CB” for short. You know what that is, sweet Millenial: it’s those little hand-held mics on a curly-cue cord, plugged into a small electronic squawk box screwed under the dashboard, broadcast from a big whippy antenna on-top of the vehicle’s roof.
And I got all into it… like all of my OCD and ADHD projects growing up, I wrapped myself up in learning about 2-way radio broadcasting. I learned how to fine tune an antenna with an S-meter, pushing the FCC-approved 5 watts of broadcasting power to the max. Later, I learned how to run linear amplifiers to really boost the signal. And then, there was the lingo: Terms like 5 by 5, walkin’ the dog, feeding bears, squashing other radios, and learning that truckers called California “idiot island.” It was a whole culture of people, with their own language, their own way of seeing the world.
And so, on those long drives to outdoorsy places, alone at night in the dark on some lonely stretch of road, my trusty CB radio let me talk to strangers with whom I shared a common goal: stay awake long enough to make it to my destination.
I talked to quite a few people over the years. Got to know a few folks who ran two-way routes across the country, learned their call numbers and their fake CB names.
Mine was “Renaissance Man,” given to me some lady truck-driver one night on the US395, who seemed to think I was something of a catch.
I passed her in my 4 wheel truck right around Lone Pine– a pretty gal with auburn hair. I called her on the radio, “Hey how bout it, lady driver in the Bobtail, you got eyes on the 4 wheeler in front of you, heading into the double nickels outside of Lone Pine, come on…” (Hi miss, driving the big truck without a trailer, can you hear me? I’m in the pickup truck just passing the 55 mph sign leaving Lone Pine, would you like to talk?)
And wouldn’t you know it, but she was on Ch. 19 (not a big surprise… that’s sort of the standard), and she responded. We must have talked back and forth in the dark for a good 100 miles, all the way past Bridgeport. At times, I’d get a little too far ahead of her, and the signal would get weak, but I could still hear her through the static. Other times, I’d slow down a bit (I have a bit of a lead foot and put the hammer down) and get eyes on her headlights.
There were no expectations, no promises to keep, nothing owed. Just two folks connected, sharing some moments, keeping each other company.
And after what seemed like a long conversation– a good conversation, kindred spirits, two aligned souls… she was just… gone. Nothing. Disappeared.
No closure, no answer to me hailing her on the radio. Just ended the transmission.
It wouldn’t have bothered me if it was just some crackerhead jawing on the radio about whatever. But this was… different. We weren’t going to meet and fall in love. We weren’t going to pull over and have a “moment.” It was just a connection– a good connection, a parallel, and it inexplicably meant something. It was important.
But it ended abruptly, and to this very moment, it weighs on my heart for reasons I can’t articulate. Yet another example that just because something doesn’t make sense, doesn’t mean it won’t hurt you where it counts.
El Gigante Picante del Monte 