The Forest Road by the Clock

6:40 a.m.

The truck leaves the pavement at 6:40 a.m. The highway is empty, and the turn is a gravel gap between two mailboxes, one leaning. The driver shifts down, and the tires find the loose stone. The forest closes around the road — Douglas fir, vine maple, cedar. The light comes flat through the trees, no shadows yet. Dust hangs behind the cab and drifts into the ferns. The road climbs, and the truck settles into a low gear. The grade eases, and the first stretch of washboard begins, a rhythmic rattle through the floor. The driver slows. A sign nailed to a gate post reads private road — the road itself goes on. The tires spit the first loose rock against the floorboards.

7:25 a.m.

At 7:25 the washboard has been going for a mile. The truck vibrates at forty miles an hour, then thirty, then twenty, until the rattle drops to a steady thrum. Dust rises in a column behind the tailgate and hangs in the still air. The road runs along a ridgeline, and through the windshield the valley floor is a band of fog. The gravel is pale, crushed to a fine dust that coats the windshield. The driver rolls down the window. The air smells of dust and fir. The tires find a smooth stretch, and the noise stops for a moment. The side mirror shakes until the bolts hum.

9:10 a.m.

At 9:10 the road drops to a creek crossing. The water is low, clear, running over a gravel bed. The driver stops on the bank, gets out, and walks the crossing — ankle deep in places, the bottom firm. Cress grows along the edge. A dipper works a rock midstream. The driver climbs back in, sets the hubs, and eases into the water. The tires roll over the gravel, and the current pushes against the doors. The crossing is thirty yards, no more. The truck climbs the far bank, and the water sheets off the wheels. The road continues through alder, then opens into a clearing of stumps. Water drips from the frame rails onto the dry gravel.

12:35 p.m.

At 12:35 the truck is parked in a pullout beside a logged clearing. The tailgate comes down, and lunch is eaten sitting on it — sandwiches on coarse bread, a thermos of coffee, an orange peeled in one strip. The sun is high, and the clearing is warm. A pile of old slash lies at the edge, grey, weathered. The driver eats slowly, looking at the far slope where the trees are all the same height. A pair of ravens cross the clearing, calling. The thermos cup cools in the hand. The driver wipes the orange oil from the fingers and folds the paper napkin into the bag. The tailgate stays up, the cooler latched, the napkin weighted by a half-eaten apple.

2:20 p.m.

At 2:20 the road narrows. The gravel thins to dirt, then to two ruts with grass between. The driver checks the odometer — the turn should have come. The road bends, and alder scrapes the doors on both sides. A fallen branch lies across the ruts. The driver stops, gets out, moves the branch, gets back in. The road continues a hundred yards and ends at a clearing where a skidder once turned around. The turnaround is a bare patch of earth worn into the duff. The driver backs out, turning in three moves, and the branch is moved again. The way back is the same road, the same ruts, the branches reaching for the mirrors. The grass between the ruts has been pressed flat by the morning pass.

4:45 p.m.

At 4:45 the truck is back on the main gravel road, heading out. The light is lower, and the shadow of every tree reaches across the road. The washboard is behind, but the dust is not — it hangs in the air and follows the truck like a tail. The driver keeps the speed down, and the tires run in the ruts the morning made. The road drops, crossing the same creek. The water is lower now, the stones drier. The crossing is not stopped for; the truck rolls through, and the spray slaps the windshield. The wipers clear a smear of dust. The road straightens, and the gaps between the trees begin to show the valley below. The highway lights are not on yet, but the sky west of the ridge has begun to change. The truck passes the private-road gate, the sign, the same mailboxes, one leaning.

6:10 p.m.

At 6:10 the gravel ends. The front tires hit pavement, and the washboard stops. The truck rolls onto the highway shoulder and idles while the driver checks the mirror. Behind, the dust cloud is still rising through the trees, slow, golden in the low light. Ahead, the highway runs straight through the valley. The road is empty in both directions. The driver shuts the engine off, and the only sound is the cooling tick of metal and the settling of dust inside the wheel wells. The truck sits level on the graded shoulder, its dust settling onto the gravel.