Grab yourself an iced tea and gather ‘round, it’s story time. But before we proceed let me caution you, the tale you are about to read is fraught with danger, heartache, heroism, and Herefords. Consider yourself warned.

In the days of long ago, when 2012 was but a few months old, we embarked on a journey. A journey that left us with a couple of scars, a couple of stories, and a couple of red white faced cows whose ancestry can still be traced back to that “pot full of troubles.” It was 5 a.m. when a few friends, and one red heeler hit the road. A simple mission; to acquire some replacement heifers. The drought of 2012 had not taken hold yet, and my wife and I had secured ourselves some extra pasture for the summer. I am typically up for an adventure, and as most know, adventures usually come with extra work. But when that extra work involves a truck, I am all in.

Now there were a few more heifers in the bunch we found than what we could haul in the pot. So, my wife and a friend were bringing the pickup and trailer, while I and another friend took the semi. Our crew drove the four hours without incident, looked at the critters, agreed on a price and that was that. I backed the truck up to the chute and we loaded it. As we dropped the door following the last heifer, she fired off a Walker Texas Ranger style roundhouse kick that could have leveled a water buffalo. In doing so she blasted three slats out of the trailer door, at that moment we should have just unloaded the whole works, stating that we changed our minds and went home. We didn’t. Instead we shoved the handful of bovines that should have been in the back compartment of the semi onto the horse trailer and headed for home. As we began the return trip, all was well. My buddy and I were hee-hawing down the road, laughing, and telling stories about the old days. It was a beautiful spring day, I was at the helm of my 379 Peterbilt, the seat was flat on the floor (if you know, you know), and there was no better place to have been. Everything was right with the world, that is, until just north of Burwell. We were cooking into town on Highway 91, and right there on a perfectly nice stretch of Nebraska black top is a curve…. a curve that to this day possesses three or maybe four of my lives.

Prior to our descent into town, we emerged from behind these hills to be broadsided by a wind of hurricane forces, nay, biblical proportions! The once joyous atmosphere of the truck cab instantly turned grim. Nothing but sharp silence filled the void where only moments before laughter had rung out abundantly. The high cross winds combined with the sharp curve I was ill prepared for, had put us in a precarious situation indeed.

The next 30 to 40 seconds were the longest six years of my life. The truck leaned and leaned (and leaned some more) hard to the right. My buddy later recounted, “I was fixing to point out how much trouble we were in, but I looked at your face and decided you already knew that.” Trouble indeed. I knew that mashing the brakes would probably lead to more heartache, most likely an uncontrolled skid, followed by laying the truck over. Going straight was not an option due to the fact we were all out of road, and that was being compounded by no shoulder with a sharp drop off. That is a sharp drop off in much the same way the Grand Canyon is just a drainage ditch. My friend, however, did find that to be the appropriate time to say my name repeatedly and at increasing octaves.

The pickup and trailer were already ahead of us, so there is no way to verify what happened next. I think we ground a few inches off each mudflap on the passenger side of that truck. I am pretty sure we at least scuffed the bottom of the fuel tank. But I know for a fact, there were two boys in the cab of that truck that were white as sheets. The pair of us were leaning to the left like these 80,000 pounds of beef and steel were going to simply conform to our demands. I was gripping the wheel with both hands like it was the last dollar bill I had to my name, and my buddy was practically sitting in my lap. As the truck creaked and groaned, the cackle of the Jake Brakes was drowned out by the thundering of my heart. I’m going to kill us, and the check hasn’t even made it to the bank, pounded in my brain.

Then I felt it. It was unmistakable, like the relief felt after you puke. It was the truck beginning to straighten up, out of the ridiculous lean this whole circus wagon had been pitched into, it was beginning to right itself. We had made it, we were soaked in sweat, and the driver’s seat would never fully recover, but we had made it. The last half mile on into town was mostly quiet, except for some labored breathing as we tried to regain our composure. I pulled the Pete into the Runza parking lot and set the brakes. With the doors open, I just sat there a minute taking inventory of my faculties, and double checking I was still alive. Turns out, I was. As my wife approached the truck, the expression on her face asked a fair question, what is the matter with you two? I said, “honey it’s a long story.”

The rest of the trip went off without a hitch. Our heifers were safely delivered to the ranch. And we all lived happily ever after…. except for the part where the grass we thought we had rented fell through, so we had to scramble to find alternative pasture. Well, and the part where due to some unforeseen complications they did not breed well at all. You know, we survived though. The open heifers were sold for enough to cover their expenses. The heifers that made it into the cow herd, turned out to be good cows. And at the end of the day, you just don’t hear old timers telling stories of “that time when everything went perfect.” I guess this just happens to be one of those stories.