From Before the Sun Rose to Long After the Sun Set Part One

From Before the Sun Rose to Long After the Sun Set Part One

               

                I drove for miles and miles through Nevada. As I crossed the Dry Lake Valley between Pah Rock Summit and the Caliente Summit I interrupted a small pack of coyotes hanging out in the travel lane. More precisely I drove through their breakfast of rabbit road kill. Those coyotes were about the only other company I had on the road at that early time of the morning. While cruising highway 93 across the Dry Lake Valley in the early morning as the sky began to change from a black void to a bluish purple expanse, I put down my window and felt the crispness of the high desert morning. I was on the road towards a few of Nevada’s lesser known gems, like the Border Inn, Ely, Tonopah, and all the many highlights between Tonopah and Las Vegas.

                It always makes me a little sad to pass through my old stomping grounds, remembering how much I liked working there. It seems like I have a memory for almost every stretch of highway out there. Both good and bad memories, some stretching back 12 years and some only five years, but all come back to me when I drive through here. About the time I hit Caliente Summit the sun started showing itself in the eastern sky. As I passed the Caliente BLM field office I couldn't help but think about all the numerous times I would sit across the street and nail car after car for speeding. Not to mention all the trucks I stopped for an inspection in that general area. Caliente seems like such a nice little town until you live there for awhile. It’s nice, I shouldn’t say it’s not, but I would not want to live there again.  Passing our old house, #9 Company Row in Caliente always makes me think of cold winter nights with the smell of wood smoke hanging in the air as I walk through the snow around the side of the house to my wood pile. There is nothing like the satisfaction of having a fully stocked wood pile, my breath coming out in a fog as I pick just the right piece of pine. It's got to be full of pitch and smell like the mountains when I find that perfect piece; I know it will keep my family warm and burn long into the night. I picture the flames dancing as the wood crackles and spits to life. Nothing compares to warming yourself in front of a crackling fire you started and supplied the wood.  I'm passing through Caliente and into the Meadow Valley, home to Panaca and memories going back much farther than 12 years.

                Coming out of the canyon going northbound on US 93 I pass an old white house that looks like it’s almost built into the rock cliff behind it. The aspect of this house that always caught my attention was the windows. The windows had shelves with rows and rows of old bottles, a few of every shape and color. I can never pass that old house without wishing I could get a closer look at all those old bottles in the window. In all my years driving by that house, I never saw a live human there, a car would be parked there every now and again but I never saw a person.  As the light of day continued to change from a dark purple to a lighter blue with just a hint of orange low on the horizon, I followed the road north. I turned right on SR 319 to go fuel up at the Panaca DOT. I wish I had a dollar for every time I fueled up there through the years. Driving back thru Panaca I remembered the night I was on patrol when I clocked a car traveling west at almost double the posted speed limit. I activated my emergency lights and siren and initiated a traffic stop in front of the elementary school. Just to add a little more background, it was the month of December when this traffic stop took place. So I go walking up on a driver’s side approach, and as I get to the driver’s window I look and who do I see …Santa Clause.  I'm talking an old man with a robust white beard and glasses, now at this point, I wasn't sure it was Santa. When I told him why I had stopped him he proceeded to ask me "you wouldn't write Santa Clause a ticket would you"? I said "no I wouldn't write Santa a ticket" I retrieved his license and registration and returned to my patrol car. After writing the ticket and walking back up to the car, who do I find? The old man was now wearing a red and white full-on Santa suit, including the hat. So now I'm standing there looking down at a Santa Clause that could easily pass for the real thing. Around ten years later now, I kind of wish I would have given him a warning just for the effort he put into not wanting to get a ticket. But at the time I was new and all about catching lawbreakers and bringing them to justice (typing that sarcastically), so he got a ticket. He asked "what would your kids think if they knew you wrote Santa a ticket," I said, "I won’t tell them." And yes my kids did get Christmas presents from Santa that year, so I didn't ruin Christmas. Good memories, back onto the good ole US 93 and onward to the north. At this rate it will take me ten pages full of memories just to get up to the Border Inn, I'm not even passing Pioche yet. My first traffic stops and first call out all happened in between Panaca and Pioche.

         I was running ahead of schedule on my way up to the wide load, so I decided to drive the high road into Pioche.  I just had an interesting idea; I could write a pretty long detailed blog about all my memories from every town in Lincoln County. Every time I go through Pioche I think about something not works related, on SR321 after going north thru Pioche after you go by the old motel on the right I would love to build a cabin. I want it made on the left side of the highway up towards the mountain, the view out to the east and north is fantastic! I loved driving up there and seeing the storm clouds rolling in, or watching the lightning storms. It is just such a scenic spot to look out into the valley and mountains.  My cabin would have to have a big covered front porch for me to sit on. In my chair wrapped in a warm blanket with a hot chai, with the smell of cedar and pine all around is how I would spend my mornings, and my evenings. So I'm passing Pioche now and continuing north, time to watch out for animals much larger than coyotes, I've seen two deer on the high road already, but now I'm entering elk country.

        Traveling north on US 93 is always an adventure, I've been hit by deer twice on this road. Both times the freaking deer jumped into my passenger side door and the second time I was looking the other way and…bam, bang, boom! What just happened and wham, there goes the airbags. I didn't feel too bad when I had to put a bullet in its head because he was still alive but all broken up. Two hits in probably a hundred near misses aren't too bad I guess. I have thanked my lucky stars on more than one occasion that elk's eyes glow yellow at night because that saved me on many nights especially up between Dutch John and Geyser Ranch. One night, in particular, I was coming home late from a wide load or maybe it was training, but it was like I was cruising and thank goodness I was straddling the centerline because as I was practically in the middle of them, all I see is yellow eyes turn and look at me. I froze for a split second and then just floored it through the middle, as I drove away I could only shake my head and try not to think about how close I just came to wiping out a small herd of elk which probably would have killed me. And because one near-death close call isn't enough, another late night around two or three in the morning as I recall. While in route to an injury accident that at first was given to me as being in Lincoln County. The real wreck was in White Pine County, fire and medical were already on the scene from Pioche, so I was trying to hurry but still feel like I could stop in a hurry if needed. As I entered White Pine, I suddenly saw the exact thing I didn't want to see, those eyes, the yellow eyes. I was too close for slamming on the brakes, so I swerved to the left, crap…more yellow eyes! Swerving back to the right I see more eyes and immediately jerk the wheel back, and thankfully there was only a few elk in this bunch. On the plus side I saw the ambulance from where I had just missed creaming my patrol car again, so had there been an accident I hope the ambulance would have been quick to get to me.

        Another shift I won't forget up there in White Pine County between Geyser and Lake Valley Summit was a typical afternoon. I was just cruising with the window down enjoying the beautiful weather when I noticed four or five cars pulled off on the side of the road. And 99.9 percent of the time that means an accident has occurred, this time, was no different. As I came to a stop, I noted a passenger car on its right side, after exiting my vehicle I saw an elderly lady sitting on the embankment receiving help. As I walked around the car to where I could see into the vehicle, there were a few people who had stopped just standing there not looking very optimistic. As I looked into the car, I saw a young lady who was obviously deceased, after checking for a pulse just to confirm, my mind then turned to the old woman sitting on the other side of the vehicle. I remember standing there, my mind turning very quickly as I try to decide how to handle this. The smell of a wrecked car is a scent I  hate, the mixture of fluids and dust combined with whatever was in the car is a scent I dislike. Taking into account the fact that medical is some ways away and I am unsure of how long I can deflect any questions I just go with compassionate honesty and hope for the best. I knelt down by this lady who's name I have either forgot or never knew, but I still remember her face. I asked her if she was okay, she said yes, I asked who was in the car with her, and she said her daughter. At that point what else could I say, I said I'm sorry, but your daughter didn't make it. A few caring lady's who stopped to provide assistance began to console her as the realization and then grief began to set in. Unfortunately, I have had the unfortunate task of telling loved ones their friends or family are dead, and on more than a few occasions it was their fault. This memory was clearly a bad one!

                I'm now driving towards US 6 and passing in the shadow of the coolest mountain in Nevada; Wheeler Peak is just to the east of me a mere 13,063 feet up in the air. The second largest mountain in Nevada, only because there is an apparently less appealing looking mountain on the west side just barely inside Nevada's border (it doesn't count in my opinion). I have had the pleasure of hiking to Wheelers Peak; it is an amazing feeling to step foot on its peak. Being able to breathe the freshest air and look out for what I would say is almost a hundred miles in every direction is what I call a soul refresher. Those type of feelings are ones I wish I could hold onto forever, put it in a bottle and keep it on my shelf to pull down whenever I need it. Anytime I am within in sight of this mountain I always go to that moment of triumph as I walked onto the peak (great memories).

 I hit the junction of US 93 and US 6, take a right and head for the pass. US 6 goes over Sacramento Pass and then on into Utah. This area seems like a kind of lost area as far as human population goes, I remember going camping up north of here at a camping spot called Cleve Creek. Those are some of my earliest memories of camping with my grandpa Sonnenberg. I was lucky enough to take my kids camping there a few years ago; my Aunt Kaylyn went with us, and we all had a lot of fun. I'll share the extended version of this story at another time, but the short version goes like this. We had a couple ATV's and went for a ride up the canyon, we turned up a side canyon and wound up riding through a long row of shrubs. The shrubs had grown completely over, so it was like a long dark tunnel, at first, it was a little creepy, but then it got cool when I realized this trail was unique. Once we broke out of the tunnel, we found ourselves riding through very tall Ponderosa Pines until the trail began winding straight up the mountain. We got back into the trees and came upon an old mine, with old buildings, and tailings piles still there. The old building was standing majestically on the point where the trail curved around the mountain; we walked around the building, and we could see down the mountain into the canyon. The old buildings were rusty and worn with a story to tell. It is kind of amazing to sit and think about all the stories, all the weather and all the people who have or may have worked or set foot in those old buildings. So while we are (by we, I mean me, Karyn, Kaylyn, and the girls) standing looking out over the canyon, I hear what sounds like a crashing sound. It gets louder and louder, I look out across the canyon to the other side and see an impressive sight. A whole herd of Elk is crashing through the trees down the mountain into the canyon; these massive beasts are snapping branches, and it looks like they are uprooting small trees as they go. I'm still not sure what spooked them to get that reaction, but I feel blessed I was there to witness it. That whole camping trip was a blast, including when Kaylee was asleep in the tent and her glow stick broke and got all over her. So Kaylee wakes up Aunt Kaylyn and nearly freaked her out, it's dark, and Kaylee has glowing spots all over her face and clothes (she and Kaylyn's reaction were priceless).
           Back to the highway, as I approach a pickup on the side of the road I pull over and see a mom and dad with two kids, all dressed in camo. The hoods up on the pickup and they are practically waving me down before I pull to a stop. They are excited to see me because they had been there awhile, and due to no cell coverage they were the epitome of stranded; I got them help through dispatch. As I move on, the sun is up and the morning air is crisp. I put my window down and cruise on over the summit, and I wouldn't say no to a cabin up here either. With Wheeler to my right and Mt. Moriah to my left I ‘am in some pristine country, the recluse in me is drawn to areas like this. Within a few miles of the world renown Border Inn on the border of Utah and Nevada I have dropped into the Snake Valley. I finally pull into the Fabulous Border Inn, putting the car in park I step out and stretch my legs. Nothing like getting the kinks out after a long morning on the road, I take a deep breath and inhale the fresh air that’s all around me. Until Las Vegas figures out a way to try and steal that to that is. But that’s another issue, so I look over and see the long awaited wide load. It's a half of a dump truck bed, literally half a dump truck bed. This half a bed is huge, if it were the whole enchilada it wouldn't even fit on the roadway. I'm the first NHP personnel on scene, so I head over to introduce myself to the wide load crew. They all seem like a good bunch and just off first impressions alone this should be a good trip. I guess I jinxed myself caused when we left to get rolling down the road; the crew discovered that the trailer had a flat tire, but I’ll get to that in a minute. While waiting for the other state troopers to arrive, I went into the Border Inn. The inn's decor was in a very Nevada style, pool tables and slot machines, very retro. The part I liked the best was down the hallway to the restrooms is wall to wall pictures, at first I was thinking "wow there's been a lot of celebrities here" I'm not going to lie it surprised me. After closer inspection, though, the wall was full of pictures of what appeared to be sheepherders and cowboys, go figure. And situated right in the middle of the hallway across from the bathrooms was a pay phone, for you younger readers a phone booth is a landline phone with a cord and everything that you can put quarters in to call people, like I said "very retro." As I was walking across the dirt parking lot next to the small sparsely populated RV lot, I noticed three NHP patrol cars entering the parking lot. I only knew one of the guys, #158, and he was from Vegas. The other guy was Vegas too and then the last one was out of Laughlin. I must say it was a bit of a crew, and it was probably good that no sergeant was on this trip. Laughlin was wearing tennis shoes, Vegas #2 was sporting a patchy five o'clock shadow, it was like he was trying to shave while having a small seizure. And Vegas #1 reminds me of Chris Farley. So after the introductions and 20 minutes of BS, we figure out who's going where and got in our cars, hit the lights and pull out onto the road. The wide load has begun, Ely here we come.

Even in the Shade, the Wind Feels Like a Blow Dryer!

              Even in the shade, the wind feels like a blow dryer hitting you right in the face. Black pants and a black shirt covering a Kevlar oven that's supposed to protect me from bullets. But might kill me by a heat stroke, I pull the vest away from my chest and the moist hot air rises and hits me in the chin. If that wasn't enough, throw on the twenty-five-pound duty belt, and a ten plus hour shift sounds like a recipe for fun to me.

           
             Coming to work in the summer in the Moapa district is not a good time. Normally without the wind the shade is bearable and night is tolerable. It is amazing the difference between 110 degrees and 96 degrees; you wouldn't think the difference would be that noticeable. So let's get out there and write some tickets to justify our existence. And just in case you don’t recognize me by the red and blue lights, or the dark uniform and shiny badge. Just look for the guy with the sunburned shaved head and tanned left arm.

               Now that I've found the guy or girl that thinks it's okay to drive up my butt doing ninety-five miles per hour. Let's get out in the heat and have some fun. Here is how it tends to go "license and registration please, I stopped you for going 95 mph in a 75 mph zone". So you didn't notice my police car huh? Was it because you were on your phone, texting, messing with your radio slash iPod or in the case of a Tesla just sleeping while your car was driving? Or one of many other possible distractions that you were focusing on other than driving before almost rear ending my marked patrol unit.

 Now as I'm standing in this 110-degree heat in my oven, they call a uniform. And you continue to peruse the giant stack of papers in your glove box handing me registration papers from 2011. Don't let the sweat running down my face give you cause for concern because any thought of you getting a break on the speed or even a warning is disappearing with every drop of sweat rolling down my face. So, by all means, take your time, I'm getting paid by the hour and hopefully your license is suspended.

Once back in my patrol car enjoying the air conditioning that had better work or this whole scenario would be fiction. I wait for my turn on the radio, and relish the opportunity to speak with dispatchers, who sound just as elated to be speaking to me. I'm sure I'm interrupting their DVD or video games. I would love to run the douche bag in the car and hear dispatch say 11-10 Mary. I do not want to arrest said douche bag, and have to spend the next three to five hours with that person driving to CCDC in Las Vegas. Because any arrest I make outside the cesspool they call Las Vegas has to be driven to the cesspool. The ultimate misery in my life has to take a drunk to CCDC, the long ride with a piece of crap that either can't stop crying, yelling or threatening me is brutal. But back to the douche bag that had the audacity to speed.

I write the ticket and prepare my speech and reenter the heat. Of course, the first thing I hear is a plea for a warning, after I already wrote the ticket. I often wonder about the stupidity of people, why would I take the time to write the ticket and then walk up to you only to decide to tear the citation up? Your only hope for a warning is at our first encounter and believe me first impressions matter! So as I was standing in the heat as you searched through the garbage bin, you call a glove box for the information you should keep handy; your citation was secured. So here is the skinny, I've highlighted the applicable boxes, and you have three months to contact the court. Here comes the part where I act like I care, do you have any questions sir or mam? If not, then please drive safe and be careful pulling back out into traffic. Then I give the all clear to dispatch, H6248 24 Charles Ida.

Now it's back to driving, and driving and driving some more. I know every stretch of the interstate and state routes and highways by the mile markers, the landmarks and of course the previous accidents. I can see the skid marks or tire marks on the road and tell you what happened most times even if it's not mine. These roads are mine, and I've driven them for thousands of miles. Sometimes I cruise them very fast, and sometimes very slow, sometimes I'm relaxed, and sometimes I'm cursing up a storm. But you can be assured the chances are beyond good; I'll be driving and driving a lot. There are times I will be out of my car or should I say my office, my home away from home. But if I'm not driving the highway I will probably be standing on it. Most likely directing idiots on which way to go, or taking pictures of an accident scene hoping not to get hit by every driver who fails to move over or even slow down while using their knees to drive because their hands are texting.

In fact, I have driven these roads so many times that I will plan my routes by the bathroom spots I like to stop at to stretch my legs and take a leak. Many times I ‘am unfortunately interrupted by dispatch with a report from some very concerned citizen that a vehicle that they don't know the make and are unsure of the plate number and the color is usually white is speeding, just speeding. Again I wonder about the stupidity of people and if it is magnified while driving. I think if someone took the time to do a study on that there might be something to it.

It's late, and my shift is about to end, I think about going home and taking off my belt and boom. The ever present bearer of bad news I call dispatch is calling me. Unfortunately when I'm at work I ‘am required to answer the radio and my cell phone even if I know it's those people on the other end.  So I say hello and try to sound like I'm not cursing them under my breath. What adventure are they attempting to send me on now? Hey, trooper Sonnenberg we have a motorist assist about twenty – five miles in the opposite direction of home. A couple of fat ladies don't know, or more precisely are too lazy to change their flat tire. Well, that isn't quite how they presented it to me, but if they were honest, that's what they would say. Oh, I forgot to mention I was in the middle of finishing a couple of accident reports, but that's a story I'll get to later.

I ‘am not getting home on time so let's milk it for all it's worth. Upon my arrival, I note a Good Samaritan has stopped to lend a hand. So I walk up with my flashlight and prepare to offer my flashlights services and give some advice if needed. That theory went bye, bye quickly. The Good Samaritan was almost as clueless as the ladies; I began having doubts when he tried to put the jack that was not designed for the car under the muffler. I offered some advice and him immediately asked if I would do it. So while holding my flashlight, I changed the tire it what I would say was a near record time. And of course the spare was almost flat; seriously people take a little time to make sure you are (a boy scout) prepared. It blows my mind how many people (Idiots) don't have a spare tire or a jack. I've seen it quite a few times where guys put expensive after market rims and then lose the key for the lugs (eyes rolling). I told the ladies to lose some weight, no I'm just kidding I told them to drive with their hazards on and stay on the shoulder till they get to Loves. Then I let my good friends in dispatch know I’m 10-24 Mary Adam and back in business.

Rockstar

                The dreams always begin the same, I ‘am really thirsty and only one little slice of nirvana will do. I open the freezer door and perched on its side, located in the ice bucket that feeds the ice machine is the object of my desire. The white can with the gold top just waiting for me to pop its little red tab. I grasp it lovingly in my hand and notice the can begin to sweat.  As I gaze upon the lovely gold writing on the side of the can, I prepare for the sweet smell of a freshly opened can. I grasp the tab with my pointer finger and slowly pull until I hear the sweet release of pressure,(the signal that refreshment is near). I give the top of the can a quick sniff and hear myself going "aahhh that’s the stuff." The moment has arrived and I get a sense of myself hovering over my body as I see the can being lifted to my mouth and our lips touch. Then in an instant I’m back in my body and the sweet taste of slushy Rockstar is cascading down my throat, as the bubbles tickle, and my body relaxes and enjoys the ride.

                This is obviously the writing of a man with an unhealthy and slightly weird love of Rockstar. The Rockstar drink, not the crazy self absorbed singer types.  I’m sorry to say that some of what was written is a little true, not the dream part but the sniffing the can after opening it is. And the part about putting it in the freezer, I’m sorry but a slushy Rockstar is awesome! It’s also not really an out of body experience but it is something I look forward to. My wife Karyn will try and say I’m addicted or I couldn’t stop blah, blah. But I must confess I beginning to wonder if she’s on to something. 

First Post

Hello everyone,

The T-rex is going to give this blogging thing a try. Why a T-rex, I 'am going to hold that one close to the vest for now. Let's just say it's not because I'm a vicious meat-eater. And if you happen to read this Jeff, keep it to yourself. I did not anticipate writing anything tonight, but I figure I should get the first post out of the way. And just to make it clear, this will be a pro San Francisco Giants blog. Now that I mentioned the Giants, is Brandon Crawford the man or what? Going seven for eight in a fourteen inning game ties him for the most hits in a game in the National League. It was done in 1975 by Rennie Stennett of Pittsburgh, and in 1892 by Wilbert Robinson of Baltimore. Not to mention he is the only shortstop in playoff history to hit a grand slam (wild card game against Pirates in 2014) not bad Bcraw, not bad.