A poem penned

Impossible as it seems, there have been two semis driven over Going to the Sun Highway. I remember both insane-illegal incidents but not dates.

Both did it from east to west. One didn't ruin his truck but the other was a mess. I wrote a poem for a column:

Ballad of an Eighteen Wheeler

One night the gang was whooping it up,

In the West Glacier Park Saloon,

And the kid who fed the jukebox there was playing a Beatle's tune.

Out of the dust which was clammy and cold,

And into the gloom and glare,

Stumbled a trucker, a wild-eyed sucker,

With parts of his scalp pulled bare.

He had stopped his rig in a fifty-foot skid,

By dynamiting 18 wheels.

Those gathered round had heard the sound

That echoes when black rubber peels.

Then the man from the rig demanded a swig,

Double whiskey to calm his nerves.

And they all could tell,

He'd been through hell,

And 'round some terrible curves.

With trembling hands he clutched the glass,

And poured the liquor down.

Pushed the empty back with a mighty smack,

And called for another round.

The bartender there was as lean as a bear

And wanted to see long green,

So the teamster planked for what he drank,

And growled, "Let's not get mean."

The room grew hushed, a toilet flushed,

The man's eyes had an eerie light.

He turned to the crowd and said out loud,

"Oh Gawd! What a terrible night."

Have a drink on me for you can surely see,

There's something I've got to tell,

About screaming tires and great rock spires

And a road that runs through Hell.

Now I'm a man from a big flat land,

They call the Canadian Plains.

But I've seen steep hills that cause their thrills,

With ice and winter rains.

On a grade of fright, lost the brakes one night,

Where the Fraser River flows.

Hit the exit lane like a runaway train,

Smashed a hand and most of my nose.

But I was born to drive and try staying alive,

Steering those 40-ton rigs.

So I came cross your border on a hurry-up order,

Smoking a chain of stale cigs.

Some said the best was Highway Two west,

But I changed the plan at St. Mary.

Saw a road toward a pass that looked first class,

No hint of anything scary.

Was twelve gears down when the pass I found,

And crossed the Great Divide.

Making the first steep turn made the tires burn,

And I cursed that western side.

A great rock wall, a thousand feet tall,

Was rushing by on the right,

While off to the left was a frightening cleft,

With nothing but space in my sight.

That ride is chilling nightmare now,

It will haunt the rest of my days.

Death seemed to seize me,

Vanish then tease me,

A mad dog that circles and bays.

Going-to-the-Sun became a deadly pun,

As the semi scraped rocks and rail.

A 70-foot rig is much too big,

To steer down a blacktopped trail.

The crowd was hushed but no toilets flushed,

As the stranger finished his tale,

Somewhere a sigh and a burp let fly,

While the trucker swigged a chaser of ale.

Glacier Park rangers, say they've met some weird strangers,

But the strangest of them all,

Was that "diesel truck guy" who made sane men cry,

By schussing the Garden Wall.