Chapter 1: Breaking the Ice

When I used to drive big rigs, I was often the one to blaze new trails—a job we call “breaking the ice” in the business, meaning being the first to clear a dangerous route. I’d go first, plowing through the ice, and only then would the other trucks fall in line. Afterward, the guys would slip me twenties in the diner, grateful I took the risk.

Out on the highway, alone at night, with the radio crackling static and headlights slicing through the darkness, you feel like a pioneer in a world that’s both endless and empty. Sometimes, when the wind rattled the cab and frost formed on the mirrors, I’d pause at a truck stop somewhere off I-70 and count my lucky stars for making it through.

People often ask me, “Ever see anything weird out there while breaking the ice?” I think about it, then reply, “Not much. Just folks trying to flag you down at night—sometimes a scammer pretending to be hit, lying in the middle of the road, and sometimes you swear you pass the same little towns over and over again on the highway…”

There’s a lot folks don’t see behind the wheel—a strange kind of loneliness, and sometimes, the creeping feeling that the road never really ends. But that’s a story for another time.