The MF Hay Truck Story

Back in the day of my “fresh from the East Coast” mentality and when I worked as a full time ski and snowboard instructor at Monarch Mountain, I lived my life at a much more frenetic pace. Driving down Monarch Pass after a long cold day pulling “flat-landers” off the snow and constantly chanting “Pizza – French Fries” to warm weather kids at the Monarch Ski & Snowboard area, I was hungry and tired (deadly combination) – and late for my next work gig – the “sand-wench” server at Bongo Billy’s Salida Café.

After a bend in the road, my boyfriend, (now husband), Jack had to hit the brakes hard, and fell in line with a creeping train of cars that had suddenly appeared.

“What the hell…” I muttered, scanning the horizon for the possible cause to this traffic meltdown. No weather to speak of, no construction – sure, there were the Texans driving like little old ladies around each curve, doing 25 mph in their gas-guzzling SUVs – but that’s pretty standard around this area during ski season. Then there’s the RVs creeping over the pass in the off-season, but this was January, the roads were clear and we were heading downhill. And I was late and ravenous and in no mood to be trifled with.

Far off in the distance you could see the outline of the first vehicle leading the pack, doing 15 in a 65 mph no passing zone. “What’s the deal – what kind of truck is it?” I asked Jack, who was straining his eyes to see.

“It’s a hay truck.” He answered, eyeing me warily.

“A hay truck? A HAY TRUCK?! “I responded, knowing what that meant time-wise on this road.

“What the f***k are we doing stuck behind a goddamned motherf**king hay truck in January?” I spouted angrily. I fumed, I fidgeted, and I used the four-letter words gained from my youth in Long Island, New York, liberally. (I have yet to meet anyone who can say the word “f**k” with the right amount of emphasis and creative use as a native New Yorker.) My native Colorado husband looked at me first in alarm, and then began to laugh and encourage my vociferous stress release.

And still we crawled along behind this motherf**king hay truck with over 50 cars trailing it on Rt. 50 down Monarch Pass late on a clear, dry January afternoon.

Checking the time, I realized I was already a half an hour late and we weren’t even near Salida yet. I asked Jack if it was illegal to back up traffic on the highway – isn’t there a law that says the slow-moving vehicle driver must pull over and let the other drivers pass? He concurred – yes, there was such a law, but obviously this driver’s side view mirror must be so obscured by chew stains that he couldn’t see, much less count, how many cars were behind him.

It was time to make a phone call. When we reached an area where cell phone service was available again, I called 911 to report this traffic transgression. Actually, I called 911 to get the non-emergency number for the police department, but the signal died. So then, the cell phone rings and it’s the dispatcher needing an immediate answer whether my earlier phone call was an emergency before she sent out the officers. I answered that it depends on the definition of emergency, but no one was in a life-threatening position (except possibly the motherf**king hay truck driver). She gave me the other number, which I dialed, and eventually got an officer on the line.

“I need to report a traffic infraction that is causing some major problems here on the pass,” I informed the officer. I gave him the details – location, number of vehicles in line (that I could see) and a description of the truck. When he requested a more detailed description of the truck itself, I paused, thought briefly, and told him, “It’s a truck – with hay on the back of it.”

Jack, under his breath, muttered, “It’s the only ‘motherf**king hay truck’ on Monarch Pass backing up a gazillion cars.”

When I asked the officer if the driver was breaking the law, he answered in the affirmative. He was very serious and direct – a fine example of our small-town police force. He was going to send out a patrol car right that minute and thanked me for reporting this traffic transgression.

I hung up, very smug and satisfied, and feeling vindicated - having done my civic duty. What would have been a quick half-hour trip was now taking over an hour, thanks to that goddamn truck. That driver needed to be held accountable. Jack, with an air of incredulousness, was choking back laughter, saying “That driver of that old blue motherf**king hay truck is not going to be happy when the cops pull him over. Go, Patty!”

After finally passing -- and flipping off -- the evil inconsiderate truck and driver in Poncha Springs, we saw a patrol car headed his way.

“Do you really think…?”
“Seriously.”
“Whatever – he deserved it.”
“Last time he’ll try to stop a New Yorker in traffic like that again.”
“Oh, and Coloradoans think that’s ok?! Next time he’ll pull the f**k over.”

He muttered what sounded like an endearment under his breath. I had to lean real close to hear it.

“Goddamn motherf**king hay truck from hell.” He grinned and kissed me.

Later that night, I received a voicemail message on my cell phone from a purported Officer Johnson from the Salida Police Department, (sounding suspiciously like Jack.)

“Ma’am, I’m following up the reported motherf**king hay truck incident on Monarch Pass earlier today. We need a little more information from you to be able to prosecute this case to the fullest extent of the law.

Can you give us a better description of the motherf**king hay truck? Was it a blue or red motherf**king hay truck? Did you get the license plate number? We will assume that since you determined it was actually a motherf**king hay truck that it had to be from somewhere in the south.

We appreciate your willingness to come forth in reporting this crime. Any further assistance you can provide to help insure that our society is protected from the insensitivity and general lawless nature of motherf**king hay truck drivers would also be greatly appreciated.

Thank you.”

Pending Publication - January 2010