It was snowing in the Siskiyous.
He'd chained up south of Ashland. Now he was approaching the summit, drinking Mountain Dew and talking on the CB. The night was half gone. All seemed fine though visibility was almost zero. Dirty jokes and foul language flew with the snow flakes. As always he contributed more than his share. They called him Big Stick.
``Did you hear the one - '' he broke in.
``Hey Big Stick you got a man stuck on your rig!''
``What you mean I got a man stuck on my rig?''
``You got a man stuck on your rig.''
``I got a man stuck on my rig where?''
``Stuck on your driver side. You better get him off before he freezes!''
``What's he holding on to? Rivets? Aint nothing he could hold on to. If there's a man on my rig he's dead and froze solid.''
Were they playing some game with him? There was nothing on his truck when he chained up, he was sure of it. Unless someone got in his sleeping cabin.
The hairs on his neck began to twitch. There was no one back there. Couldn't be. Could there?
``You all quit bull shitting me. I got enough on my mind.''
``Buddy we ain't BS-ing, you got a man stuck to your driver side. You better stop and check him out.''
``I ain't stopping til I'm over the summit.''
At the summit traffic had formed just one lane and the snow piled heavy on either side. The line of trucks and a few other vehicles moved at fifteen miles an hour in slow procession.
``It ain't snowing at Dunsmuir,'' someone said.
When he stopped to take off the chains the snow had turned to cold rain. There was no one on his truck. No one in the cabin.
When he hung up the chains under the truck he saw something. A plastic bag impacted with snow hanging from a chain hook. He reached for the bag. Something in it. Dirty underwear. A clean western shirt with the sleeves torn off. He tossed the bag onto the shoulder then walked slowly around the truck one more time.
It was three summers later that community service kids were cleaning up the sides of the freeway. A boy with a shaved head was stabbing disconsolately at Styrofoam cups and cigarette packs. He saw a clot of shredded plastic and faded cloth and jabbed at it. A rotten shirt. Something in the pocket. A photograph almost faded to nothing. A young woman, kind of fat. A small dark child. He pushed the rotten cloth into his bag and moved on.