Westbound travelers on Texas Highway 180 notice the air getting drier as they enter the Desert Southwest. On roadmaps, there's a change from green to brown. The hills of East Texas reappear but are barren.

I was born in Arkansas but finished school in Big D. After graduation, I went to work in The Oil Patch for a year.

Everything living there had either thorns, teeth, claws, or a stinger.

State Highway 180 veered off to the right as one left cowtown (Fort Worth).

During the year of roughnecking, I went through a set of tires driving from Albany to Dallas. When cruising, I had a belt looped around my right thigh. Third gear never stayed in more than 5 minutes unless the belt was draped over it, with the weight of my leg holding it in. It had to be adjusted perfectly... too loose and the pickup would pop out of gear. If it was too tight, the leg would get numb.

A single pole workover rig like the one I worked on was backed up to a well and tied down at about the halfway point. Both must have been abandoned, cause the pulling unit never moved, and the horse's head was off the pumpjack. They may still be there. They were a midway marker for me and seemed rustier each time I passed by.

There were a few wide open spaces on the trip. The prettiest was called “Metcalf Gap.”

In the spring, it was a lovely daylight drive because of the flowers. There were Indian Paintbrushes, Milkweeds, Dandelions, and many more. Patches of Bluebonnets looked like small lakes or islands.

There was a stretch made entirely of bricks between Weatherford and Mineral Wells. I could imagine a chain gang laying those bricks on a cruelly hot day. It was always real hot or very cold... only rarely about right.

On a night with a full moon, the trip was almost spooky. The white rocks that littered the ground, some as large as houses, almost glowed.

Often I made the moonlit run alone. On one such run, the moonlight was so bright a newspaper could've been read by it. The traffic was sparse, and I turned out my headlights, driving in darkness for miles at a time. Hills, valleys, and gaps far away were plain to see.

I would only turn on my headlamps when I saw someone coming. Sometimes, I'd wait until they were within a 100 yards or so to switch mine on. I had to laugh imagining the other driver's reaction, especially if they were sleepy.

Having to get somewhere so bad one feels they must drive drowsy must be the worst of mortal torments. I remember one eastbound night ride when I had told people in Dallas I would be there at a certain time. If I didn't show, they'd be worried. I had built barbwire fence all day at my oil patch boss's spread. In Central Texas, loose topsoil only went about a foot down. It was solid limestone the rest of the way and needed to be chipped out with rock bars tossed in hundreds of times. Three hands circled the hole and threw in rock bars. The sequence was like 19^th century railroad workers driving spikes. Every 10 minutes or so, they would stop, and somebody'd get down and scoop chips out.

Once a hole was whittled out, and a post cemented in, it would probably be there until the next ice age.

Scientists say we are still in The Quaternay Ice Age. It is just dormant.

If so, one day global warming won't matter.

A coworker and I inlaid our initials from twigs on one wet concreted cornerpost.

I was exhausted by days end. Shortly after leaving Breckenridge, I began dozing off. The popping of gravel on the underside of the truck woke me. I swore a blood oath not to nod off again. I rolled down the window, sat erect, and forced my eyes open.

It wasn't long until highway hypnosis set in. I fell asleep and actually dreamed I was awake. I hit a rubber truck tire carcass. It was a rude awakening.

I thought, “Next time it might be a concrete bridge pillar,” and decided a cat nap at a roadside park was in order. I pulled into a picnic area, rolled down the passenger's glass, and laid on the seat. No sooner had I lain down than visions of the murderer with the hook hand popped into my head. I couldn't think of anything except movies I'd seen where the killer or creature slipped up beside a parked car. Just when I started to get drowsy, rustling in the bushes brought me wide awake. I sat up, started the pickup, and resumed the drive. "Never again will I drive tired", I vowed.

Returning, I tried rising early and motoring in. I had timed it so I'd get into Albany around daybreak. The sky began to glow behind me as the sun rose.

“But it really dud'n rise does it?” I ruminated. “The planet revolves in such a manner that it only appears to.”

Going up a hill in the predawning light, I saw a hand crawling across the road.

"Surely not," I muttered, and pulled over. I got a tire tool from the truck bed and walked back. It was a hand, in a fuzzy black glove. I looked again. It was a giant tarantula, going around in circles. I had run over its forelegs or antennae. I smashed it and continued. It was daylight by then. I didn't have far to go. I would get there in time to eat breakfast before work. Dead rattlesnakes by the road were a common sight. Many myths about the reptile have been passed down... some quite absurd.

Perhaps the most outlandish concerned “popping the head” off a serpent. It sounded easy. Just swing it overhead, crack it like a bullwhip, and off flies the head.

On one excursion, I stopped at a deserted rest area and spied a large, freshly killed rattler. I defanged him with pliers, so I knew it couldn't bite me.

I took its tail and swung it overhead. When it made swishing noises in the air, I cracked it like a whip. My mouth was hanging about half open from exertion, and I eagerly looked for a headless viper. I was greatly surprised to see the snake's head, still attached, speeding back at me.

It slapped me on the chin, left a wet spot, and almost went in the piehole. I raced to the bathroom and scrubbed my face repeatedly. I tasted snake for 2 weeks.

A few springs ago, I drove SH-180 to the site we fenced and left our initials at. The abandoned workover unit was in the same spot. Metcalf Gap was even prettier than I remembered, and the wood in the writing had decayed, leaving proof that I was there, 25 years ago.