A Reason to Wake Up at 5 AM
Waking up at 5 a.m. holds a special place in my heart, especially from the days I drove a truck. Back then, those early hours were precious moments of peace, a time to shake off the fatigue of the previous day and prepare for the journey ahead. Stepping out of the truck cab before the sun warmed the air was like stepping into a world untouched by the road’s chaos.
On the western slope of the Colorado mountains, the high plains seemed to whisper their secrets to anyone willing to listen. There was a stillness there that felt sacred, a chance to clear my mind and marvel at the world around me. Without the rumble of the engine or the lingering smell of diesel, I could breathe deeply, filling my lungs with crisp, clean mountain air. It was a time to scan the rugged landscape, looking for mountain sheep or deer grazing unhurriedly, a reminder of how life could be simpler, slower.
I often found myself wishing I could be home, just waking up in my own bed. But there I was, a long way from home, making the best of it. The smell of fresh coffee drifting from the truck stop pulled me out of my reverie, coaxing me toward the warmth of a steaming cup.
The Long Haul
The day before had been grueling, the kind that left my muscles stiff and my patience thin. The stretch of road from WaKeeney, Kansas, to Watkins, Colorado, had been brutal. Strong headwinds battered my truck, slowing me to a crawl. At times, the speedometer barely climbed past 40 mph, and every mile felt like a battle.
By the time I reached Denver, rush hour was in full swing. Denver in the ’70s wasn’t the gridlocked chaos of today, but it still demanded focus. Cars zipped along at 45 to 55 mph, weaving through traffic as if the road belonged to them. From Morrison to Glenwood Canyon, the journey grew even tougher. Interstate 70 was still under construction in many places, forcing trucks like mine onto narrow, winding passes. Construction zones turned the already challenging route into a test of endurance, with stop-and-go driving that demanded constant vigilance.
The Eisenhower Tunnel was a dream still under construction, and every detour over the old mountain passes stretched the day even longer. By the time I reached the truck stop outside Grand Junction, my nerves were frayed, and my body ached from hours of gripping the wheel and bracing for every sharp turn.
Sitting there in the quiet of the parking lot that evening, I had questioned all of it. Why did I think this life would be fun? The endless hours of sitting in one position, the strain of maneuvering tens of thousands of pounds safely from one destination to another—it was a far cry from the adventure I had once imagined.
But as the night turned to morning, something shifted. The crisp pre-dawn air and the sight of the sun rising over the Colorado mountains reminded me why I chose this life in the first place. There was a freedom in it, a connection to the land that few other jobs could offer.
Mornings on the Road
After stretching and coaxing the stiffness out of my muscles, I would wander into the truck stop for a cup of coffee and a quiet breakfast. These early mornings were my sanctuary, a chance to gather my thoughts before the day’s chaos began. I always made it a point to finish my meal before the other drivers stirred.
By the time they shuffled in, bleary-eyed and grumbling, I was already checking my truck—tires, springs, oil, water, hoses, and belts—preparing for another day on the road. The sun was climbing higher in the sky as I turned the key, the engine roaring to life beneath me.
As the truck rolled out of the lot, the beauty of the high plains unfolded before me. Red rock formations stretched across the Utah landscape, their jagged edges glowing in the morning light. In those moments, I felt a sense of awe and gratitude for the chance to witness such raw, untouched beauty.
A Woman in a Man’s World
Driving a truck in the 1970s wasn’t just a job; it was a statement. Women were few and far between in the industry, and those of us who dared to step into that world faced challenges that went beyond the physical demands of the work.
The roads were rough, the trucks were far from the smooth, automatic rigs of today, and the mountains were unforgiving. With unfinished highways and steep passes, every trip was a test of skill and endurance. Escape ramps were rare, and the two-lane roads that snaked through the mountains offered little margin for error.
I lost several friends in those early years—women who, like me, had dared to take on the challenge of trucking. The mountains of Utah, Colorado, and Pennsylvania claimed lives with heartbreaking regularity. I saw accidents that haunted me, the aftermath of someone falling asleep at the wheel or underestimating the road ahead.
And then there was the harassment. Male drivers would heckle and intimidate me, police officers would tail me through truck stops, and even the simple act of taking a shower became a logistical nightmare. Most truck stops didn’t have women’s facilities, so I had to convince an employee to stand guard while I used the men’s room.
Even the waitresses in the diners treated me with suspicion. More than once, I had to pull out my ID, medical card, fuel tickets, and logbooks to prove I was a truck driver and not some drifter. Their apologies were rare, and their attitudes even rarer.
Despite it all, I took pride in my work. The pay was equal—if you could do the job, you earned the same as the men. But the physical toll was immense. Loading and unloading floor loads of fifty-pound boxes, often without a lumper’s help, left my body aching and my spirit drained.
The Price of Paving the Way
Looking back, I have mixed feelings about being part of the first wave of women in trucking. On one hand, I helped pave the way for others, proving that women could handle the job just as well as men. On the other hand, I know the price we paid for that progress.
Years of sitting behind the wheel, lifting heavy loads, and navigating rough roads left lasting damage. By the time I reached my forties, my body was already showing the wear and tear of the job. The aches and pains that started as minor annoyances became constant companions, reminders of the years I had spent proving myself in a man’s world.
To the women who followed in my footsteps, I can only say this: be prepared for the consequences. The road is hard, and the work is relentless. But if you love the freedom, the solitude, and the connection to the open road, it’s worth every mile.
The Beauty of the Journey
For all its challenges, there were moments of pure magic on the road. The high plains of Colorado, the red rock formations of Utah, the rolling hills of Pennsylvania—each stretch of road offered a new perspective, a chance to see the world in a way that few people ever do.
I remember one morning in particular, driving through a quiet stretch of desert as the sun rose behind me. The sky was painted in shades of pink and orange, and the light cast long shadows across the landscape. In that moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace, as if the world had paused just for me.
There were animals, too—deer grazing in the early morning light, hawks circling above the open plains, and the occasional bear lumbering across the road. Each sighting was a reminder of the wild, untamed beauty of the world outside my cab.
Lessons from the Road
Truck driving taught me more than just how to handle a rig or navigate a tricky pass. It taught me patience, resilience, and the value of independence. It showed me the importance of preparation—checking every tire, hose, and belt before setting out—and the necessity of staying alert, even when the road seemed endless.
It also taught me to appreciate the small moments: the first sip of coffee in the morning, the camaraderie of a nod from a fellow driver, the satisfaction of a job well done.
Most of all, it taught me to find joy in the journey, even when the destination seemed far away.
A Reason to Wake Up
As the years went by, the excitement of trucking faded, and it became just a job—a demanding, often thankless job. But those early mornings, waking up at 5 a.m. to the smell of fresh coffee and the promise of a new day, never lost their magic.
In those moments, I was reminded of why I chose this life. It wasn’t just about the paycheck or the miles covered. It was about the freedom to see the world on my terms, to witness the beauty of creation, and to find peace in the quiet moments before the day began.
To this day, waking up early brings me back to those mornings on the road. The smell of coffee, the crisp air, and the promise of a new day are reminders that no matter how tough life gets, there’s always something worth waking up for.