Tues Feb. 6
The first Magpie flew past my windshield near Ogallala, Nebraska. Now, I am in the West.

Today I made my way from Lincoln, NE to within 25 miles of Evanston, WY. I questioned making Evanston when snow began blowing hard and steady. I was sure I wouldn't make it when the speedometer said I was going 45, but outside it seemed as though I was standing still. The next exit was to a truck stop. I took it, and promptly saw that the on-ramp to get back on I-80 was closed. It had just been shut down over the high ground to Salt Lake City.

Mrs. B's Truck Stop is busy tonight! It's full of folks that weren't counting on being here. They all seem to be staring out the windows with hangdog looks on their faces. Everyone appears ragged and road worn, yet strangely jolly and resigned at the same time. There is talk from the truckers gathered around the coffee dispensers about the semis that jack-knifed at the bottom of the eastbound hill. Snow on black ice. Treacherous. The waitresses are making busy 'cause they weren't prepared for the extra customers. Later, mine says when I ask for the check, "Now, you can just sit there and read your book. No one's going anywhere tonight."

I'm reading Nothing Like It In The World by Steven Ambrose. It's about the building of the transcontinental railroad in the 1860s. I've been absolutely transported by this book. Especially, since today I had driven along side much of its original grade. Heck, this truck stop is right near Bear River, which was one of the wickedest Hell On Wheels towns ever!

I've been thinking about Hell On Wheels a lot, and how it embodies the American spirit: progress at any and all costs. The winter of 1866-67 was the worst in memory. All progress of laying track stopped at the town of North Platte, Nebraska because of heavy snow. Where there were previously only about 500 people, there were now 5,000 restless railroad workers. Entrepreneurial sprit took the reigns and in came the gambling dens, whiskey sellers, musicians (ha!) and prostitutes. Lawlessness and violence became rampant and soon there was an average of a murder a day. When spring came and the railroad continued west, what was soon named Hell On Wheels went with it. What sticks with me most is the image of thousands of men camped in tents and moveable shacks marching on with the extension of the railroad across the basin of the great divide in central Wyoming. Hell On Wheels all the way to Utah.

I remember a couple of years ago I was driving east on I-80, and night fell between Green River and Rock Springs. I found an exit, and took a dirt road behind some buildings to camp that night. I parked about 100 feet from the railroad tracks and fell asleep comfortably in the peace, dark and quiet. A couple hours later the deafening roar of a whistle and steel wheels came directly by my van. The headlight of a freight train beamed into my windows. It woke me like an alarm clock from hell. Tonight I realize that I was sleeping on the very ground that 133 years ago Hell On Wheels passed over and all the workers with it, leaving an iron road in it's wake. That night it's ghostly shadow passed through me.

Wed. Feb 7th
This morning my first sight was of windows totally covered with snow: I had slept in a snow cave. With my ears I could tell the interstate was still closed. There was no traffic at all, just the low rumble of idling semis the next lot over. There was a mess of stranded travelers here with no motel to check into. Lots of bodies spent the night crumpled into their reclined car seats with their coats for blankets and their motors running to provide heat. I felt privileged to actually have ample bedding, and enough room on the floor of my van to stretch my legs. My dog sleeps on a platform above me and is a very good heater. His body heat definitely warms the van. I felt downright cozy.

I made my way back into Mrs. B's for breakfast and news, and saw many of the same faces I got to know last night. Indeed, the very same waitress who served me soup last night brought me pancakes this morning! She said she was on her eighteenth hour. She was stranded like the rest of us, with no one to relieve her shift.

Not long after that, as the blue morning lightened, someone saw the first truck pass by eastbound on the highway. A collective sigh of relief went through the room. Though I noticed the waitresses visibly brace themselves for the wave of customers asking for their checks.

Sat. Feb. 17th
At this moment I can look up from where I'm writing to the East and see a broad expanse of desert stretching into Nevada. Behind me in the West stand a daunting wall of Sierra Nevada Mountains. Two nights ago I played a sweet little concert in Bishop, California to the locals, and this weekend I'm playing to the masses from Los Angeles at the Ski Resort at Mammoth Mountain. From here the tour gets interesting as I go north and drive back through the mountains in Idaho and points eastward, working my way home. I'll be playing chicken with the weather all the way I'm sure. I'll let you know what happens.

Meanwhile, thanks for tuning in. I've had fun writing this one. The guest book is up and running again, so feel free to leave your comments. Tell your friends about the gigs if I'm coming by their town, and I hope to see you too.

Lot's of love - Dana