Hit and Run

Friday, May 11th, was our last town run for supplies. Mark has become very good about letting me know when he is finished his errands and now back on the dirt road and heading home. He called just a few minutes after turning off the highway and was now only about an hour and a half away. What can I say? I worry about people, I inherited it from my mother. Get used to it 'cause I ain't about to change any time soon.

For an ETA of 1.5 hours, I allow an extra half hour before I start to really pace back and forth. Sometimes the roads are rougher than expected, sometimes you might meet up with someone and shoot the breeze a little or maybe just get stuck behind a herd of commuting cattle for a while.

A little over two hours after his call, I hear Mark's diesel as it drops down into our canyon. Brou hears it as well and can't wait to whine and widdle all over the porch when his best buddy returns. We're all out on the porch grinning when the Dodge pulls up beside it. Mark gets out and starts unloading without so much as a salutation for any of us. Hmmm ... something's up but I will just let it slide for the moment. He is even unusually oblivious to the curious dog noses poking into every new package. By the fourth bag of groceries deposited on the porch, however, he mutters something inaudible. This is my historic cue to open the floodgates of what has been eating at him. An impressive flood it was, too, and I soon became drenched with anger and outrage myself.

The Tale: About ten minutes after he had called, he was still on that part of the road which we both find unpleasant for its never-ending heavy washboard ripples and its thin layer of gravel which feels like oiled ball bearings under the wheels. Aside from the feeling of very little traction, we are going to have to make these trucks last a long time to come and, as a result, we plug along this section at 10 to 20 MPH tops.

Unfortunately, our town runs also put us in the position of being a lone salmon facing a steady stream of gas field vehicles heading into the field in the morning and back out at night. Such was again the case when Mark approached a blind corner after calling me. A pick-up going about 60 MPH popped into view and lost control as the driver swerved to avoid the guaranteed head-on collision. It was now sideways in the loose gravel and still heading for Mark. Mixed in with the thoughts that he was about to become a fatality, Mark managed a hard dive into the high brush on his right and braced for the crash. A kind brushing of fate had the other truck hook a little traction at the last moment and nearly straighten back out, nearly. Mark felt a sharp jolt and knew that he had been clipped as the other truck sped up and disappeared without so much as a tap of the brake lights in some sense of decency or responsibility.

Still shaking from the sudden adrenaline dump, Mark stepped out to survey the situation. Sure enough, there was a heavy swipe running from his left rear wheel well to the rear bumper which ended by breaking the rear tail light. And the guy never even thought about stopping for even a second - that was the final insult to injury. Our field friends looked for a week to find the culprit but their efforts yielded nothing so we are kicking this up several notches now.

There is a disturbing new trend in the gas field towards producers running vehicles without any identifying signage at all and nearly black windows. This anonymity is certainly handy in incidents such as the one Mark just survived and we are pretty angry and determined at this point to get some accountability and responsibility restored to where it belongs. We will let you know if we have any success to this end so "Watch This Space". If this incident had ended Mark's life or incapacitated him, this dream of ours and this blog would have all come to a painfully abrupt end so it seems a worthy quest to pursue the matter on principle.