The night I almost slept with the bears or the truck ride that scared me to death.
While I was still visiting with Ed, I asked about Rev. Robison. Still alive, Ed said, and out water-skiing almost every day of the week. I asked for his address, but Ed just picked up the phone and called him directly. He was headed to Green Peter Reservoir and invited me along.
I followed him out and we skied for a couple of hours, until the shadows got long. I helped load the boat, and we went our separate ways — him back to Lebanon, me over the Santiam Pass.
The Santiam is a beautiful winding road across the Cascades, ending up near Bend. I was just getting to the fun part when everything went dark. I pulled to the shoulder and tried to figure out what had happened, but it was too dark to see anything, and I didn't have a flashlight. I'd started pulling my sleeping bag out of the duffel when an eighteen-wheeler towing an empty lowboy trailer pulled up behind me.
The driver asked if I was okay. I explained my situation. He offered to load the bike in back and run me to Tumalo, right where I was headed. After we laid it on its side behind the cab, he started strapping it down with those massive trucker tie-downs — I thought he was overdoing it, but kept my mouth shut. He couldn't have been more than three or four years older than me.
We climbed into the rig, and it felt like we were up at the roofline of a one-story house. First time I'd ever been in an eighteen-wheeler cab — first ride in one too. I expected the same slow, steady pace I always saw them keep on the highway.
I was wrong.
He took off, and I was sure he was taking the first curve way too fast. We made it through. He was still gaining speed into the next one. I was too scared to even speak, afraid I'd distract him and we'd go over the edge.
It took about ten miles before I started to believe this thing could actually hold the road through those curves. Another ten, and it all just felt normal.
It seemed like no time before we reached Tumalo and unloaded the bike. I thanked him for the lift and the tow; he thanked me for the company. I called my uncle, who lived just up the hill, and he came and got me.
The next day we found the problem — a loose battery ground wire had burned out both CB Halogen lights. I rode into Bend and, to my surprise, picked up replacements right at the NAPA store in town. I stuck around visiting for a few days before heading for home again.
Before I left, my uncle climbed onto my bike, kick-started it like he'd been doing it his whole life, and rode it down his rutted half-mile dirt driveway. I was sure he'd dump it. He didn't. I hopped on, we said our goodbyes, and I pointed the bike home.