Three Pickup Trucks Short Story

A Tale of Three Pickup Trucks
My life is best divided between three pickup trucks. In my earliest memories there was a green Dodge Dakota. It was the vehicle that brought me home from the hospital and the first to make the left turn from M66 to Penny Bridge Road. At that time it was my Dad, and a golden retriever named Earle. Early in the morning we would wake and travel to the Jordan Valley. With us: our fishing poles, worms, and the hopes of an opening day brook trout. Once we turned into the valley I was swallowed into the immersive woods. Everything was huge, the trees, the ferns, the cliffs, the boulders, the river a rushing torrent. The hours driving around now seemed endless. I don’t remember any of the songs, but I assume the radio

I was a great adventurer, crossing canyons and discovering wildlife. My Dad pulled the Dakota over to the side of the smooth dirt road one time, this place was different. We trekked through the cedars into an abrupt clear lane in the forest. It was eerie to step from thick branches and trees to a clear lane traveling endlessly in both directions. My Dad, being the Michigan history teacher he was, elaborated this bizarre sight, explaining, “Well son, this used to be a railway, the train in town used to haul logs on these tracks.” We carried on until the ever familiar sound of wind and water pushed its way to us . With the railway bridge taken down, people had constructed one of branches and logs wedged between trees; to cross my Dad put me on his shoulders and made that first trip across. It was just like Temple of Doom. The other side held a series of islands made of tree roots and moss. My exploration and voyages from one to another were always followed by Dad’s chuckle. This place was sublime. The trips ended with us exiting the valley out a road I didn’t know; accompanied by a

Dad and I turned left into the valley on another morning, this time in a sparkling white GMC Sierra. Like every year, in pursuit of an opening day brook trout. As we cast our lines Dad talked to me about the war, the country, and our God. The mention of Earle would result in a sad pause. I would have gone to the valley every day if I could have. Walking along the trails and roads just felt right. As if it were my niche in an ever growing world. It had a way of being crazy noisy with the sounds of birds, wind, leaves, water. Yet it is silent. Just my father, myself, and a Styrofoam container of Canadian nightcrawlers. Then something foreign happened. I was hanging with the cousins, my childhood best friends, and my Dad decided to take them into the valley for the day. It shocked me, I had never been in the valley with anyone except for my Dad and my dog. This trip into the valley was different. It was loud! The serenity and silence replaced with running and pushing and climbing and jumping and most of all laughing. We jammed to 80’s rock and country music. The summer heat pushing its way through the trees was curbed by SPF 30 and soul cleansing freshness of the Jordan river. Down the clear lane, across the log bridge, and onto the islands we rushed. We all claimed our own mossy island, which promptly broke into a world war, and 5 soaking boys. We left the valley on the tailgate of the Sierra pretending the bright orange monarchs were Stuka dive bombers. We