Hopefully, writing this memo will keep my mind off the cold. I’m freezing my ass off—no other way to put it. If something happens to me, this will be my record.

Heading east with a load of truck parts for Rockford, Illinois, I’d just cleared Snoqualmie Pass. Snow had been pounding down for an hour, turning the drive into a white-knuckle crawl. On top of that, my gut was twisting from the burrito I’d wolfed down at a truck stop.

I pulled into the Indian John Hill Rest Area east of Cle Elum, but as usual, the place was jammed full. So I pushed on to the next exit and nosed onto the entrance ramp to bed down, hoping to ride out the stomach storm. Nearly the dumbest decision I ever made.

No sooner had I set the brakes than the burrito fought back. After puking in the gravel and confirming it was the burrito’s revenge, I climbed into the sleeper, weak and shivering, cranked the heat to seventy-five, and tried to sleep it off.

When I opened my eyes again, my watch said midnight. I’d been out five hours. The cab was dark, as bitterly cold as a meat locker. My breath hung in the air. At some point while I slept, the engine had died.

I pulled back the curtain, and the sight hit me like a fist: a blizzard, snow slicing sideways, the world erased beyond a few yards. I could just make out the taillights of a rig parked ahead of me.

I scrambled into the driver’s seat and hit the starter. Nothing. Just silence. None of the gauges even twitched. Electrical failure—on a brand-new Saxon Brothers truck.

I grabbed my cell phone. No service. While I sat there cursing, the rig in front of me rumbled to life and rolled away, swallowed whole by the storm.

That left me stranded: no engine, no heat, no phone. My only chance had just driven off.

I wrapped my feet in a blanket, pulled my sleeping bag over my shoulders, and tugged my stocking cap low. Sleep was creeping up on me, and I knew that was bad. If I gave in now, the cold could finish me.

I thought of my family back in Fort Worth. My kids—Justin, thirteen, sharp as a whip, and Julie, twelve, bright and graceful, already lost in the world of dance. I’d promised myself I’d see one of her recitals someday, if I ever made it home. A dark thought cut through me: what if I never did?

And Janice, my wife of fifteen years. Something had changed with her lately. She seemed cold, distant. I wondered if she had someone else while I was gone so much. Maybe she wondered the same about me. If I survived this, I was going to be a better husband. Maybe Saxon could put me on more local runs so I’d be home for her.

Those thoughts drove me back into the driver’s seat to try the ignition again. Nothing. Just silence. I slammed the wheel with my fist, rage heating me for half a second before the cold reclaimed it.

Hours crawled past. Once, I thought I heard a truck, but it blew by without stopping. Then, through the white squall, I finally saw it: an older model Peterbilt, maybe from the ’50s. Its round headlights glowed like lanterns in the storm.

The driver pulled ahead and stopped. I sprinted to the cab and climbed onto the running board. Yes, it actually had a running board. The driver had already rolled down the window, a pipe hanging from his mouth.

“Thanks for stopping,” I panted. He was clean-shaven, broad-shouldered, in a tan work shirt and Carhartt bib overalls. The cab behind him was cramped and spartan—no wide bunks or fridges like today.

“What’s the problem, mister?” he asked.

“My truck quit running. Won’t even turn over, and I’ve got no phone service.”

“I can take a look,” he said, his voice even. “Know my way around these new-fangled engines.”

“Mind if I sit in your cab while you do? Just need to thaw out a little.”

“Hop in.”

The passenger seat was nothing but plywood over a couple of Pepsi crates. The heater was weak, but it was enough. With my hands held to the vent, I asked his name.

“Bill,” he said.

“Jim,” I replied. “Say, what year’s this rig?”

He was already climbing out with a few tools. Before shutting the door, he called back:

“’57.”

I sat in that red Peterbilt, thawing out while Bill worked under the hood of my dead rig. At one point, I saw him lying on the snow-packed ground. Twenty minutes later, he shouted for me to try the starter.

I climbed into my truck, pressed the button, and nearly cried when the engine roared to life. Heat, glorious heat, pushing through the vents.

I stuck my head into the bunk for my billfold, then leapt out to thank him. But when I circled around the hood, Bill was gone. His truck, too. Not even tire tracks in the snow—just unbroken white where he’d been.

I drove east, stunned. At the next truck stop, I asked around. No one had seen a red ’57 Peterbilt or a driver named Bill. Same answer at the next stop, and the next.

Finally, desperate, I called the Peterbilt Parts facility in Renton. After being passed around, I reached an old manager who told me a story.

Bill Harrison had driven for them in the 1950s, hauling between Oakland and Renton. He drove a red 1957 Peterbilt. One night, a car swerved into his lane. Rather than plow into it, Bill took his rig off a cliff. The family survived. Bill didn’t. He had a wife and six children. The company had put a matching red ’57 in the lobby, with a plaque honoring his sacrifice.

I hung up, my knuckles white on the wheel.

Bill Harrison. Dead for nearly seventy years.

Yet I’d sat in his cab. I’d smelled the aroma of his pipe smoke.

I reached to release the brakes—and felt something crumpled in my coat pocket. I pulled it free with stiff fingers.

An old, grease-stained matchbook. The faded lettering read:

Harrison Trucking – Oakland, Calif.

I stared at it until my vision blurred, my breath fogging the glass.

The heater hummed, but I was colder than ever.

Somewhere out there, is there a red ’57 Peterbilt that runs the Washington highways—watching over truckers?