January 2023 – That’s my old truck!  The familiar profile of the truck caught my eye as I drove by.  I was surprised to see it parked up against a rocky cliff road cut alongside two-lane Glacier highway at the intersection with Fritz Cove Road.  I turned around and came back to verify my impression.  The truck was parked behind a makeshift box dwelling on a flatbed trailer, popularly called “tiny homes” these days.  Smoke curled out of the vent pipe through the middle of the roof.  Someone was home.

I last saw my old truck ten years ago.  It was in bad shape now.  The once shiny red paint was dull and dirty.  The black bumper was twisted, rusty, and appeared ready to fall off.  The metal around the wheel wells of the bed was rusted through, and the windows of the camper shell were broken.  The flashy chrome wheels were now black with dirt and oil.  It was used and abused.  How could anyone allow my once glorious red 1985 Toyota SR-5 pickup truck with matching camper shell to fall into such a state of disrepair?  Didn’t they know how much life that truck had lived?  How much it had been well and truly loved?

To witness the state of my old truck now, 38 years into its existence, struck me with sadness.  It was still functioning, but by all appearances, just barely.  I took a quick picture with my phone, not quite knowing why.  As I drove away, the impression of grief stayed with me.  It’s just a truck, a material thing made of metals, plastics, fabric, and rubber.  Why did it bother me to see it in a disintegrating state?  Why did it give me a sense of loss?

I decided to sell the truck in 2013.  It was hard to part with it, but it had over 225,000 miles on the odometer and was becoming mechanically unpredictable for long-distance trips, so we replaced it with a much newer used truck.  We didn’t have parking to keep both.  But the Toyota still had life left in it for local transportation.  It would be fine to use around town where it could be towed if needed.  I made peace with the necessity to let it go.

In preparation to sell my old faithful truck, I washed it and cleaned it inside and out.  The interior of the cab was still in remarkable shape.  All of the original velour and fabric upholstery was undamaged and clean, save for a few small spots where coffee had been spilled during marathon road trips.  The molded hard foam dashboard was fully intact as well – no cracks and no fading – unusual for this make and model of truck after 28 years of constant use.  The outside of the cab also looked pretty good, but the bed of the truck was rusting from the inside out, bubbling up under the red paint and flaking off in chunks around the wheel wells and lower sections of the panel.  It suffered from “Juneau body,” an affliction of many years exposed to the harsh ice-melting substance used on the roads in winter.

The cleaning session brought back a flood of memories from my life with the truck.  I purchased the bright red Toyota 5-speed fuel-injected long-bed truck new at a dealership in Merced, California.  I was 23, and it was my first major purchase, and the first and only new vehicle I would buy just for me.  I was giddy with excitement over its attention-getting shade of red with giant gold “skid mark” decals running down each side and large aggressive tread tires on bright chrome wheels.  The truck screamed, “Look at me!”  As a seasonal National Park Service employee, the truck was a stretch for me financially, but I was convinced that somehow, I would manage the $259 monthly payment for the next five years.  When I signed the documents disclosing the 15% interest rate, I didn’t fully grasp how expensive that made my purchase.  Nonetheless, I drove my brand-new shiny prize back to my shared seasonal government housing in Yosemite, grinning all the way.  I didn’t have a home of my own, or much else for that matter, but I had one sassy-looking truck.

The Toyota was more than transportation to me.  It brought me to a new level of adulthood, of responsibility and independence.  It gave me new-found confidence in how pretty it was and my ability to support it.  It spoke to my adventurous spirit, and I outfitted it for exploring.  I added a matching red camper shell and a thick-carpeted “camper kit” to the bed, creating storage spaces around the wheel wells and a comfortable space to throw out a sleeping bag.  I loaded it with my camping and hiking gear, ready and waiting for impromptu adventures.  Every time I drove it, parked, and stepped out of it; I was proud to own it.

In its 225,000 miles of life with me, it traveled countless trips across the roads traversing Yosemite National Park, driving to work, to buy groceries in Fresno, to days off on the east side of the Sierra, and to trailheads for hiking and backpacking.  When a new job took me to the east coast, it carried me on a circuitous path across the Southwest, visiting National Parks along the way, then joining Interstate 70 in Colorado to take a central route across the country to Washington, DC, and then down I-95 to destinations in Georgia and Florida.  When it was time to return to California, I took the northern route to cross the country despite it being winter.  I had four-wheel drive and big fat tires.  Nothing would deter me from seeing as many states and parks as possible in the time allotted for the drive.  I followed I-95 north through Pennsylvania to I-90 and through parts of Michigan, Iowa, and Nebraska before dropping back south to the central U.S. in Colorado and making my way west to California.  Years later, in another big move, the truck carried me, my husband Marty, and our 4-month-old Sheltie puppy up the Alaska-Canada highway to our new home in Juneau.

Between the long-distance travels, there were countless camping trips, moves to new homes, and commuting when needed throughout my entire career.  The Toyota was a reliable companion.  It rarely had mechanical issues.  It was only sidelined for major repairs when I was T-boned by a drunk driver in San Francisco in 1988, and by deer that leapt in front of it on two different occasions.  In each case, the truck was returned to its previous glory with the necessary repairs, though I gave up the skid-mark decals following the drunk driver accident.

Thoughts about my old truck weighed on my mind as I drove home following its sighting along Glacier Highway.  At home, I prioritized finding a picture of the truck from when it was new.  I found one amongst my scanned digital collection of old photos.  I was standing beside the truck at Olmsted Point in Yosemite, Cloud’s Rest and Half Dome in the background.  Both the truck and I looked youthful.  I compared the image from my phone with the old one.  The contrast was striking.  Neither the truck nor I looked like we did 38 years ago.  I like to think I’ve fared better than the truck.  Parts are not falling off of me yet, but I’ve certainly had my share of wear and tear.

I tend not to be an overly sentimental person but was taken aback by the nostalgic wistfulness that overtook me.  It’s just a truck…an inanimate object…a form of transportation.  Why does it feel like more than that?  I studied the old picture more closely.  What was I doing and thinking about when that picture was taken?  I looked happy (and thin).  I was working in my dream job as a park ranger and living in Yosemite – a place I had longed to be since I formulated the dream at age 14.  I was unconstrained in my choices and opportunities – I could go anywhere and do anything I put my mind to.  I didn’t own anything of value besides the truck, but that offered another kind of freedom.  My only real responsibilities were to show up for work, do the best job I was capable of, and pay a few bills. 

The answer to my question about the old picture became clear.  My newly purchased Toyota truck was symbolic of a place and time in my life – when the world was my oyster.  It embodied the unconstrained joy and perfection of youth.  It represented a kind of freedom that lasts only a few years, between completing one’s education and moving into the next stage of adulthood and commitments, obligations, and responsibilities.

That old truck also represented constancy.  It was with me, dependable, reliable, and ubiquitous in my daily life, through changing relationships, jobs, homes, and the lives of my dogs that loved to ride in the back.  It was a fixture in my life for nearly three decades.  And then I sold it.

I let it go to someone who seemed to appreciate that an old Toyota is still a good Toyota.  The buyer was giddy over its condition when he saw it.  He didn’t try to negotiate my asking price – he couldn’t push the wad of $3,000 cash in my hands fast enough.  Twenty-eight years of unfailing service through the many phases of my life were reduced to a quick cash transaction, and I watched it drive away.

I suspect the man who bought the truck from me sold it to someone else that obviously valued it less.  It had been treated roughly and was rotting away as it sat along the roadside.  A few months later my old truck was gone from the intersection along Glacier Highway.  No doubt complaints of the eyesore forced the truck and box trailer to move elsewhere or get towed to the scrap metal recycler for haul out by barge to the Lower 48.  I doubt I will see it again, and I am grateful that my only view of it was from several feet away, so I did not see the full extent of degradation to my once-beloved truck.

I never imagined that seeing my old truck once again would stir up so many thoughts, so many reflections, and some emotion too.  Am I not but an old truck myself, once having been gleaming and new, but now with many miles and years later, wearing out?  Perhaps so.  But I’ve also been in the shop and had some repair work done, so God willing, I may last a few years more. 

To my old truck, I thank you profusely for all of the years of joy, memories, and faithful service.  I am grateful that you were part of my story.  I only wish you’d come to a more dignified end, even though I’m not sure what that looks like for an old vehicle.  Perhaps sailing off a cliff like the Ford Thunderbird convertible in the movie Thelma and Louise?  I reflected on my own potential end, as I am wont to do on occasion these days.  What do we hope for as each of us heads in that inevitable, inescapable direction?  A life well lived.  Love given and love received.  Treasured memories shared amongst enduring relationships.  The necessary maintenance and repairs along the way to keep us running smoothly, and perhaps reminiscent of our younger, sportier selves.  Assurance that there is a God that will welcome us into Heaven.  And without question, we all wish for a dignified end.