Readers will recall last week’s column left off with my first solo truck run to the other valley to gather grape rootings for transplant here on the Oasis Road development we now know as San Bernabe Vineyard. Before we head over the hills, though, I want to point out a typo from last week that may have left some confused. When speaking of the routes traveled, which are the 198 out of San Lucas and the 46 out of Paso Robles, in paragraph six I referred to “learning the 118 route to the rootings”; that was not a typo reference to 198 but a typo reference to distance, so should have read “118-mile route.” OK? OK.
Picking up the thread of the story, I left off where I questioned why use the longer route of 46 when taking the 198 would be less mileage, less fuel and take a bit less time — even taking into consideration the slower travel on the narrow, winding, hilly route. Milking the old-time clock was one of the little peccadillos that got the previous driver the sack, so I was showing the bosses that was not my way of working; at least in that situation.
So, bright and early, pre-dawn early, I settled in the driver’s seat, put my lunch atop the large cover over the engine situated between the driver and passenger seats, known universally as “the doghouse,” fired up the engine and headed for my destination in the San Joaquin Valley some three hours away. That first drive when just alone with the road and scenery and, as there was no radio in the truck, my own thoughts I think set the tone for my driving future. I found that like my father before me I was very comfortable and competent behind the wheel. That notwithstanding the fact I had totaled my parents’ 1965 Dodge Polara out on the Pancho Rico my senior year in high school. That was not incompetence, it was insanity. (Temporary, of course, but insanity nonetheless: only a crazy person would have believed that vehicle could round that particular curve on that road at that speed. But I digress.)
I like driving as much today as I did on that foggy morning 52 years ago and have since racked up many, many miles crisscrossing much of the American landscape; and hope to do so again someday, somehow.
As the hills of our part of California passed by it seemed as if time didn’t really matter as that oft winding road is negotiated by speed not by time, there is no hurrying around a 15-mile-an-hour near hairpin turn, so that first solo drive eastward was quite memorable. The return westward later is also memorable as we shall later see. First, the job at hand, the loading of grape rootings, was very tedious and can be a bit painful; and is another one of the reasons the previous driver got shown the door when he somehow got one of the local workers to drive the truck. And drive isn’t really the correct word because the procedure for loading was to put the truck in Granny, that is first gear, the lowest transmission gear and one rarely used unless for very heavy loads, steep grades, or very slow forward movement.
The rootings on the manifest, a variety of Zinfandels, Chardonnays, Burgundies, et al, were banded 25-count bundles three quarters covered with damp sand all laid out in a row along a narrow access lane. Four crewmen loaded the bed of the truck with bundles according to variety, in some cases a greater number of rootings of one variety were stacked with sand to hold in place. To load the rootings the crewmen used a chain gang method with two on the ground and two in the truck as the truck slowly rolled forward with many stops to allow the crew to catch up. For the driver this meant about 90 minutes of constant clutching, and the resistance of the clutch pedal in that truck was significant. It did not take long for one’s leg to get mighty tired.
On that first trip I quickly realized I had to change legs to accomplish the hour-and-a-half task of maintaining a speed of 40 ypm (yards per minute). But it did give me time to eat my brown bag lunch. When finally loaded I headed out of the large vineyard, cruised past the little town of Cornejo and made for Coalinga and the 198 back to San Lucas and thence to Oasis Road.
Out of Coalinga the road westward over the small valleys and intermittent foothills starts level with the vast valley behind and as I rolled over the pavement, I was quite pleased with the whole day. I was driving a more congenial route than the far busier 46 route to Paso, I had accomplished the loading in reasonable time and was now on schedule to arrive back at Southdown just as the work day was ending. Cool. And then it happened.
(Part III to be continued next week.)
***
Let me take a few words to both explain and apologize for this particular story running so long. Some may remember I took a break last month with the intent of returning with stories, not political commentary. Like most of us, I am politically aware of the times and have strong stances regarding the many changes now happening across America. But so does everyone else I know and many times they are opposite of mine and they don’t have a weekly public voice. For years I have been encouraged to chronicle stories from memories of growing up in the Valley and compile them into a book; other locals have done this successfully. While that may never happen in this case, nonetheless I’ll give it a shot. This current story took a bit longer than expected, so I apologize for that.
Take care. Peace.
