Last 2 miles...definitely not on speed

Last Day

Balls Of Steel

near the end

Of the 75,000 acres of crop we had to cut at the start of the season, we've got 80 acres left (an area about twice the size of Hyde Park). If we get some good weather, it should take us about half a day to finish up. This last little stretch has been a scramble. The equipment is tired, the crew is tired, the corn hasn't dried out properly, we're running out of storage and the snow is wanting to settle in.

We were on track to finish yesterday night but at three o'clock the fuel pump on the combine blew up and it started to snow. We've fixed the combine, but the weather has put us out of action for a couple of days.

The quality of the crop this year has put a lot of strain on the elevators. The yield is the best that it has been in a few years, so the sheer volume of corn to be processed is causing a backlog of trucks. I've heard of some trucks being in line for up to four hours. The boys in Dobbins' crew have been taking their trucks to the elevator at night and sleeping in line in order to get dumped first thing in the morning.

We've been lucky in that most of our grain is being stored in the farmer's bins, but we're running out of space, so we've been taking the odd load to the elevator. Yesterday, my longest wait was just over two hours. I was a bit frustrated when I finally got over the pits. The guy who dumped me was pretty philosophical about it, "you've just got to focus on one truck load at a time". He's right, and we're certainly in a much better position than most, and very close to the end.

Nerves are starting to fray amongst the guys. There's a good vibe between all of us, but we're all keen to finish. Ronny's keen to have a few days off visiting friends in Montana before heading home for Christmas, Pauly is keen to see his family and friends back home, Prydey's looking forward to getting back into his shorts and thongs and Dan's keen for more snow (he's heading up to work at the snow in Canada).

I'm really looking forward to New York. Pauly's giving me a lift via his hometown in Ohio. He and his mate Justin are going to hang out with me for a day or two in the city and then I'm on my own. I can't wait for the space as well as well as a routine that isn't dictated by plants.

Pauly's truck post bog

Trucking in Colorado

I flicked my camera on while we were moving to Eads Colorado in July. By coincidence The Eagles came up on my ipod and I had a road-tripping moment. The Colorado landscape caught me off guard. I guess I was expecting the rockies. The state slogan "Colorful Colorado" left a little bit to the imagination.

Combine Working at Sunset

This is in Onida South Dakota, cutting wheat back in July. The serenity is a little bit spoilt by the sound of a tractor.

I've been going through the videos I've taken throughout the season. There are some random ones that I think are worth putting up. I took this clip in Isabel Kansas back in June. Paul, Lars and I met four of our combines on the road while they were moving fields.

snow

Politics by Wheat & Chaff

It's the eve of the presidential election here. I've kept politics away from the blog but following the election coverage over the last few weeks has stirred me up. The boys would say I'm bit 'moshy' (emotional). Good. It's time to unplug the W&C again.

Whoever takes office, it's going to be an historical election; this country is going to end up with either a black president or a female vice president. A lot of commentators are saying that the election is not about race. They're naive. They may not like it to be about race, but it is.

Where I am at the moment I've come across a lot of animosity toward Barrack Obama. Certainly, South Dakota is traditionally a Republican state, but sadly some opposition is racially charged. It is for this reason that I am pleased that this election is about race. As far as I'm concerned, Obama could be the second worst president in US history; his election would achieve something that is so much bigger than the political responsibility of the President of the United States. For a start it would represent some exposure therapy for those so scared about the prospect of a black guy in office.

Many who are racist base their anger and fear on some valid concerns, even if these concerns surround a small proportion of a particular community. There are some major problems within the African American community in the US and a lot of these problems, especially crime, do adversely effect others. Yet those who put these problems down to the colour of a person's skin fail to acknowledge the source of the problem, that is, the anger and self-depreciation felt by a community that has been downtrodden for centuries. You can claim equality all you like - sure, slavery may have been abolished centuries ago, but prejudice exists. Whether it is culturally induced or just a nasty facet of human nature, it exists; I have felt it and participated in it.

The way I see it, racism in this country is a self perpetuating cycle: the more problems within any minority group, the more prejudice, the more anger, the more problems. Barrack Obama can be the stick in the spokes. If he is elected he will not only be a very public example of an African American who has broken that cycle, but he will have obtained the highest office in the world's most powerful nation.

It's easy for me to take cheap shots a George W here. Truth is, I think he's the kind of guy that I'd love to hang out with on the ranch (there's a great Harold and Kumar scene that explores this scenario - click here to see the clip); he's the kind of crazy cowboy that I've come here to meet. But he's not the kind of guy that you want running this country, simply because he does not understand and represent a large enough proportion of his constituency. Many of his biggest stuff-ups I think stem from this. The fact that Barrack Obama is black does not mean that he is going to serve only black Americans, but he will certainly be much better equipped to represent those (not only African Americans) that I think have been misrepresented for such a long time. In doing this, I think the US will take some huge steps forward (bigger than killing all of the 'terrorisers'!).

Crew Pic

Left to Right: Brian (foreman), Greg Thurman, Ali Thurman (Greg's daughter), Ann-Mari (Brian's fiancee/cook/crew Mum #2), Christian (Denmark), Me, 'Prydey' (Andrew - Aus), 'Sniffa' (Dan - Aus), 'Scuba' (Steve - UK), 'Turkey' (Steve - Aus), Pauly (Ohio), Ron (NZ), Lars (Sweden), Timmy (Aus), Cheryl Thurman (behind the camera - cook/crew Mum #1)

Ron and I did some proper trucking the other day, driving 1,200km from Faulkton South Dakota up to Hallock Minnesota and back again. Ron took us up there, traveling east out of Faulkton, following the Minnesotan state-line north through North Dakota before crossing into Minnesota 20 miles short of the Canadian border and into the town of Hallock. I brought us home with nothing in tow.

Our cargo looked a bit pathetic. We needed to deliver a grain cart trailer belonging to another harvest crew but we were also hauling a four-wheel buggy that Greg had sold to a guy up north. The upshot was that we used a huge trailer to move a tiny vehicle and it looked a bit dicky. We got a few sideways looks.

Load aside, it was great for me to get away from the back-roads and onto the bigger highways and interstates. In one respect, the novelty of driving a truck has worn off; it is how I have earned a living for the last six months. However, every now and then, as I’m easing the 18-wheeler out onto the blacktop, snapping through gears or cruising at 65mph, I have a flashback to this time last year when all I was driving was a mouse and a keyboard.

These moments often occur when another truck driver waves at me. Part of me feels underqualified to wave back. For a start, it took me a while to personalise my truckie’s wave. The formula involves a little bit of wave and a little bit of point (toward the direction you're traveling). My wave is a sideways hand flick that starts with five fingers but ends with a pistol point. It's good because it doesn't require too much distance from the steering wheel and, given that it's a small gesture, I don't feel too bad if the other party doesn't reciprocate. Some drivers will slowly raise their whole arm, kind of like they're dismissing a batsman in a game of cricket.

Anyway, technique aside, the wave acknowledges that we have something in common - we drive trucks - and there exists a mutual respect. However I do sometimes feel that my cab misrepresents me, most of all the fact that I am very much a rookie driver.

Yet herein lies something that I love about truck driving: each cab tells a different story. Coming over here, to me truck drivers were dudes that you’d flinch at a little bit when crossing paths at the fuel bowser; hard men in little shorts and blue singlets with tats on their forearms. In the US, they could not be a more diverse bunch of people. For a start, I can correct my gender specific sentences; you come across a lot of women driving trucks. Trev from Dobbins’ crew told me of a woman he saw leaning against her rig who, he thought, would have been in her 80s. I’ve seen huge drivers, tiny drivers, tough guys, geeky looking drivers, mullets, clean-cut drivers, black, white, Latino drivers, drivers with poodles; the spectrum is broad. For many, their truck is all that they own; they live in it, often with a partner and an animal or two, and travel wherever their cargo takes them.

Every now and then I like to have a bit of fun the little detour in my career path. Passing through Aberdeen on our way back to Faulkton I wanted to express that feeling of two-worlds-colliding, so I took the truck to do some shopping at the mall. I insisted on parking amongst the cars, as close as I could get to shops, and stopped for a photo out the front of WalMart on the way out.

My Durangos

Pauly

Physically, Pauly is a pretty big dude…he’s the first to admit this. He’s also an unashamed redneck. He gets around with a fishing hook clipped to his hat – it’s some kind of redneck accessory. I haven’t quite worked it out and Pauly didn’t give me a very good explanation…I’m told that many rednecks share a love for the outdoors and so I guess if you're a redneck you’re the kind of guy who might like to throw a line in at any given moment and, if you do, you don’t want to be caught without a hook (!?!?) Clutching at straws here…it’s a weird accessory!

Further to the outdoorsman persona, Pauly owns a lot of camouflage gear, including a set of camo bed sheets. It was also Pauly’s .22 rifle that scared the shit out of me when I saw it pointing out from under his bed sheets just after I’d settled into the camper (strange to think that I wouldn’t look twice if I saw the same thing today).

All of this said, I think there’s a lot more to Pauly than the redneck. Going on my description above, you’d think he was some kind of hard-edged urban militant. If you hang around him a bit – we’ve had five months to do so - you actually find that he’s very sharp and, I think, a bit of a softy at heart.

Hailing from Ohio, Pauly is the only American on the crew (apart from Greg). The fact that, in this regard, he is a foreigner in his own country is bizarre and I think frustrating for him at times. By default he is the target whenever one of the boys wants to sound off about America and, for this, he gets his fair share of shit. The fact that he takes this all in good humour and turns the other cheek when he needs to indicates to me that he is incredibly strong willed.

This is Pauly’s second year in a row working for Greg. I’ve realised that it takes a certain type of person to make a career out of custom harvesting (even if it is a short one). Most of the boys, including myself, have indicated that they would not back up for a second year in a row, simply because of the full-on nature of the lifestyle. Similarly, the fact that Pauly is back again this year, also indicates strength of character. The same can be said for Lars who is serving his seventh year!

back to the big smoke Pt II

The last time I returned to the Big Smoke I had a bit of an identity crisis. We visited Denver back in July and I found myself freaked out by the spectrum of life that is so rawly displayed in a city i.e. the good stuff about life but also the ugly stuff. By the end of the trip, I was surprised and a little bit disconcerted to be craving the simplicity (and inherent safety) of the country life that I've been introduced to on harvest. A couple of weekends ago I had the opportunity to return to the Big Smoke, this time to Minnesota's Twin Cities, Minneapolis-St Paul, and my experience was quite different.

Generally I'm a pretty categorical thinker; I like things to be black and white; I like to be able to rule something as good or bad; and I like to be able to clearly define my position in the world (as I write this I can't help but feel rebuked by the fact that I uprooted a career in film production and the city life to come and try farming...anyway, just run with me for a second).

My first few weeks on harvest I would frequently step back in awe observing the people that I was meeting and the experiences that I was having. I think the thing I liked most - and still do - is the craziness of people; the happy-go-lucky attitude by which so many live life and yet the ever present safety net of routine and uniformity that exists in the country. In many ways I wanted to be like the boys in this respect and going back to the city gave me a small crisis of choice I guess.

However, as the season has rolled on I have realised that there are things about the city and things about the person I am in that context that I do not want to change. There are also things about the country life and the boys that I do not want to adopt - not necessarily things that are bad, but things that are different - and this is OK. What I have learned is that I don't need to be hard and fast a city boy or hard and fast a country boy, I can be a collage of both, and this is the philosophy that I put into practice during my most recent visit to the city.

On the one hand I was walking around with my ipod in and an espresso in my hand, yet I was also pounding the pavement with my cowboy boots (which, incidentally, are one of the best things about the country life). Sensible James made sure I bought a ticket every time I rode the light rail around town, yet that same guy hitched a ride with some friendly firefighters to a night club later in the evening (Timmy was proud).

It helped that I found Minneapolis to be a fantastic city. It's a US place name that is familiar but not one that you'd consider one of the big tourist destinations. Discovering such places is one of the things that I've enjoyed most about harvest. Such pleasant surprises are also one of the things that I enjoy most about travel and, I'm finding, that they will most often occur when you're off the tourist trail.

The Twin Cities are separated by the Mississippi River, Minneapolis on the west bank and St Paul on the east. The diversity that freaked me out in Denver was even more prevalent in Minneapolis, yet this time I embraced it. At one stage it was the world's flour milling capital and also had a large lumber industry. Like so many industrial capitals, a lot if the industry has been shifted to other locations, however many of the buildings remain, giving parts of the city a gritty feel - the 'Warehouse District' is especially cool.

I'm not sure why, but the city has an incredibly vibrant arts scene, apparently second only to New York in terms of live theatre per capita. Walking around the CBD you'd see huge RVs with blacked-out windows parked out the front of clubs and music venues, belonging to various artists on the tour circuit. Bars and clubs were also full of creative types. It was fantastic to come across the odd filmy.

Another interesting little fact is that Minnesota excludes clothing from its sale tax. To cater for a huge throng of out of state shoppers, it is home to the largest mall in the US, The Mall of America. America doesn't do such attractions in halves and, needless to say it is a pretty amazing, slightly scary, place: its a $650 million complex, contributing $1.8 billion to Minnesota's economy, there are about 520 stores spread across four levels and 23 hectares of retail space (for those back home that's nearly twice the size of Hyde Park).

Steeple Bar, Orient SD

If I ever open a bar it will be modeled on The Steeple in Orient South Dakota. Set in a deconsecrated church, its founders would turn in their grave if they saw its current condition, yet this tiny town (with a population of no more than 200) is home to a bar that would rival any establishment that I've come across in Sydney in terms of its character.

My first night there I was attacked by a crazy looking Golden Retriever at the door. Turns out that this was Junior, one of the proprietors. He was a lot more friendly once I got inside and bumped into him sitting at the bar enjoying a beer out of his bowl. Junior belongs to Kevin, the guy who runs the bar. Kevin is a bit creepy looking, but I think you need to be a little bit different if you run a bar like The Steeple.

My run in with Junior set a precedent for each of my visits to The Steeple where by a potentially shit night has been salvaged by the unique vibe of this place.

It still looks like a church from the outside. It's most distinguishing feature is graffiti; every square-foot of the interior, except the bar top, is covered with "was heres", poems, love messages, phone numbers, caricatures, photos, all contributed by patrons. Inscriptions extend to the rafters and the ceiling (the only space left available), accessed by a couple creaky-under-foot loft's.

The other aspect I love about Steeple is the fact that there is no basin in the men's toilet - incredibly unhygienic, probably illegal but kind of exhilarating in its statement of rebellion.

Never has the bar been packed when I've been there. All you need for a great night is good company, some money for the Jukebox and a couple of felt tip pens.

The Hutterites (click here for pics)

One of things I love most about America is that it is a place of incredible diversity, both geographically and culturally. To many, the Mid-West is a region largely characterised by religious and political conservatism, yet, at the same time, traveling around, visiting bars and living life as a harvester, I've found there to be no shortage of zaniness.

This aside, everything closes on a Sunday for church in the morning which is usually followed by a buffet lunch with the family at one of the local eateries. It seems, for many people, regardless of how crazy you act during the week, you show up for church on Sunday.

I had a really interesting experience the other day, visiting a local Hutterite colony just outside of Faulkton. This particular colony has about 150 people and is one of about 120 in the US and about 500 throughout the world. Similar to the Amish and Mennonites they're of European origin. This Christian sect was started by a guy called Jakob Hutter in Austria during the 16th century. They hang onto a lot of this heritage, speaking high and low German.

In my ignorance, seeing them around town, I lumped them into a 'sort of Amish' category. Certainly they resist the excesses of the modernism, however, at the same time, they are not anti technology, as long as it helps them to further their self-sustaining lifestyle e.g. they had a huge mould to create cement walls for their buildings as well tractors for harvest etc.

They will do as much as possible themselves, making them incredibly practical. For instance one of the tractors we saw they built themselves rather than buying one new. We're not talking a little dicky machine either, the one we saw could have rolled off the John Deere production line this year. They school their own inside the colony - 8 till 5 six days a week until the age of 15 when they are taught a trade in order to contribute to the community. No one earns a wage. The money they earn through crops is spent on those essential items needed by the community.

Life for them is about serving God and others rather than furthering the individual self (based on a passage in Acts 2). They lead a humble lifestyle, best expressed through their clothing, which they make, the men generally getting around in long sleeves shirts, black slacks and suspenders and the women in long dresses which cover their ankles and bonnets. Fellowship is a major focus of their lives and therefore you won't find TVs ipods etc.

It's amazing to find a community like this in a country so well know for its excesses. Leading such a lifestyle would require an incredible amount of discipline and such a community has a lot of positive attributes (especially with regard to the service of others). However, this said, I think that problems can arise when people try to be so counter-cultural. I've heard that a few of the younger members secretly trade items with people outside the colony for things like ipods (one hopes they are happy within the community). I've heard that many ex-Hutterites tend to swing to the other extremes of life when the leave. There's also the obvious question about in-breeding.

It's raining today, hence the cultural lesson brought to you by Wheat & Chaff...I found my visit pretty interesting.

Pics by Scuba

It seems some idle time in Kansas brought out Scuba Steve's creative side. Scuba was sent down by himself in September to plant Greg's wheat crop for next year. In addition to his beetle shot, he took some great pics. 1. Dan harvesting corn around Isabel Kansas 2. Greg's oil well at sunrise - Kansas 3. Bottle-top pyramid 4. Scuba self portrait

Canada

I've been meaning to write a post-Canada wrap up for a while. It was an interesting little leg of the journey; a painfully uneventful month punctuated by moments of excitement.

Trying to get into the country I may as well have been Osama Bin Laden applying for an American Green Card (I wrote about this experience back in August). Consequently, I felt like a hero when we finally reached our destination, only to be cut down to size by Mother Nature. Many say that where Greg Thurman goes, the rain will follow. True to the superstition, we got about three days and 400 acres into the 5000 acre job and then sat through ten days of bad weather.

Marean Lake Resort, our idyllic lakeside campground, rapidly morphed into a prison with water views. Looking back, I feel a bit guilty about my attitude toward the place because it was an amazing location...a single gravel road led down to the lake which was surrounded by woods and log cabins, there was a golf course, a beach and fire-pits scattered around the campsite. I think the issue was that it is a holiday location and we weren't equipped or in the right frame of mind for a holiday; it's the kind of place that you come to with a few books to read, some boardgames, a fishing rod and a boat. We also arrived just as many were packing up their cabins for the Winter.

If I write about the cabin fever that I've been feeling here in Faulkton, we had it ten times worse in Canada. In hindsight, I think we were a little depressed. We went through all of the comedies on the DVD shelf and started watching full-on war epics like The Thin Red Line. One of our idle days, Brian spent a whole morning whittling a little sword out of a stick.

And then one day, like someone had flicked a switch, the weather turned good and we hit the 'go fast' button. It became apparent that most of our time sitting in the camper was spent considering how much we did not want to be stuck in Canada and, as a result, our efficiency in the field peaked. Many nights, Brian would have to drag us away from the crop. We cut for nearly two weeks straight, finishing the job in one big hit.

Eric, the farmer that we worked for was a great guy. In his mid-30s, he is the youngest farmer that we've worked for and had one of the biggest and most impressive crops (clearly a pretty sharp operator). Surprisingly, he's also the only farmer that has bought us a case of beer at the end of the job...back home, the case of beer is considered a currency in its own right.

My Dad came to visit! It's still bizarre looking back - a whirlwind visit. He was in the US for a wedding in San Francisco but managed to squeeze in a fairly major detour to visit me in the middle of nowhere. He arrived in Saskatoon about lunch time, hired a car, and made the three hour drive in time for supper in the field. We drove around together in my truck for most of the evening, trying to catch up as much as possible, pausing every now and then while I unloaded. He met all of the guys, got a ride in one of the tractors, and then came back to the camper to see where I've been living before heading back to Saskatoon late in the evening.

Dad's visit was too short to have a significant effect on me, but it certainly represented the intersection of two different worlds: the lawyer and the truck driver. We arranged to meet at a cross roads between two highways. I was hoping to make a dramatic entrance in the big rig, perhaps creating cloud of dust as I pulled onto the shoulder of the road. This scenario didn't quite play out (one of the Thurman Harvesting pick-ups had to suffice), but nonetheless it was strange seeing Dad in this context (probably stranger from his perspective).

Seeing Dad made me realise what I have left back home and also highlighted just how far I have wandered from the routine of my life in Sydney Town. However, at the same time, catching up with Dad and seeing the effort that he made to visit me showed me how supportive he is of my venture, even if he doesn't completely understand what it is that I am doing (hell, nor do I sometimes!).

In what was a pleasant coincidence, our Canadian adventure came to a close on my 26th birthday. It was a very low key birthday yet one like no other that I've experienced. Most of it was spent by myself driving a 90 foot long oversized truck across Northern America, half of it in Canada and half in the United States. Eric's wife Shona very kindly made me some cupcakes to share with the crew on the road and the boys arranged for some candles to be stuck in my sausage at the truck stop where we had breakfast.

Fence Posts

Wheat & Chaff Unplugged

I’ve had trouble finding the motivation to post lately. It has to do with the fact that I feel stuck in Faulkton. I just can’t be bothered doing much when I want to be somewhere else. I’ve got Pollyanna’s voice in my head telling me to appreciate where I am and what I’m doing, but there are aspects of my former lifestyle that I’m craving more and more as I see the tips of those New York City skyscrapers on the horizon.

At the risk of sounding like a wanker, espresso is at the top of the list. I drove an hour to Aberdeen last night to get a Starbucks coffee, which isn’t too bad, but it’s eons away from the quality of the brew at Bertoni in Balmain. I found my best American coffee in a place that I would have least suspected, a little town in North-West Nebraska called Gordon, population 1,800 (back in July!). The café was called ‘His Place’ and was run by lady called Pam who had moved from Seattle with her husband Phil who was in the ministry. The staff worked for free and the profits went toward the church’s ministry. And did I provide them with some profit. We had a few rainy days in town. I’d sit there banging away at the keys of my laptop, knocking back lattes, cappuccinos and moccas from mid-morning until close, by which time I’d be pinging off the walls with all of the caffeine in my system. Good times…

Incidentally, this post is the first of a couple that I’m going to call ‘Wheat & Chaff Unplugged’…I’m feeling the need to shake loose the shackles of semi-polished writing…I need to prattle on a bit...more chaff than wheat. It’s therapeutic and hopefully gives a bit of an insight into my frame of mind at the moment.

I thought the above picture was a good one to accompany the post. Scuba Steve went through a similar period of restlessness when he was back in home-town Kiowa planting next year’s wheat crop for Greg. He started photographing beetles that he saw walking across the gravel in Greg’s yard.

Cabin Fever

Nearing the end of the season, there's a complicated vibe within camp. On the one hand it was great to see the guys who have been working in Minnesota and Kansas while we were in Canada (it's been over a month, so there's been plenty of catching up). However we've squeezed everyone into the 8-bed camper, making our living situation quite claustrophobic. At the start of the season, this was a novelty but after five months on the road I think everyone is a bit over it.

It makes me appreciate the unique lifestyle that I've been living (and herein lies the essence of custom harvesting: it is a lifestyle not an occupation). Ten guys from varying backgrounds, of varying personalities and nationalities, have worked together, lived together and socialised together for five months. Often the isolation of the places that we are working makes it difficult to find personal space, something that I am craving more and more as we approach the finish line.

To try and paint a picture of my mental state, yesterday I started reading some Tolstoy and swatted flies on the roof of the camper as I lay on the top bunk...they're everywhere at the moment. I'm also finding that the coin-op laundry provides a strange oasis - if you chose, it gives you an excuse to sit in a place and do nothing for an hour. The sound of the machines pulsating is also quite comforting.

All of us are starting to think about what we'll be doing next: some are returning home, others have further travel plans. Christian left today with his parents who have come over from Denmark for a family holiday. Scuba and Timmy will also be leaving early. For the rest of us, our departure date is unknown. It all depends on when the corn gets ready in Faulkton (the final crop that we will cut). We will probably wrap up in mid-November, but not having a more specific schedule is frustrating me.

Once we finish I'm planning on joining a Contiki Tour in New York, traveling to Los Angeles via the South over three weeks. I've never considered myself a Contiki traveler but one of the other guys on the crew can't speak highly enough of his experience. Plus you never know unless you try.

I'm really hoping that I'll have some time to get lost in New York before the tour starts; just me, my ipod, a lot of people that I can observe but don't need to speak to, bookstores, music stores, bars, sidewalks, subways, and maybe a hot dog or two.

Lying in bed last night I recalled an incident that I feel is indicative of the country-boy ethos. There was a bit of tension in the camper between a few of the guys. After a few beers things escalated and resulted in a punch being thrown, a window broken, and one of the guys being thrown through a door. The following morning both bodies and egos were a little bit bruised but scores had been settled and the air was clear. Tension was replaced with collegiality as the boys focused on repairing the damage to the camper.

Cheryl Thurman was cooking lunch on the BBQ in the campground as one of the boys walked by with the broken door under his arm. I’m told he smiled, waved politely with his free hand and wished her a good morning.

Back in the big smoke and put in a similar situation I would probably have gone on a long walk and drawn up a mind map to work out the best way forward for all involved. I can see merit in both approaches. I really appreciate the (sometimes big) differences between me and some of the guys.

Lawnmower Poker Run

Thurman and Dobbins teamed up last Sunday for the annual Faulkton Lawnmower Poker Run. I sat the afternoon out. The videos that the boys took tell it all; like so many harvest experiences, it is ridiculous but a lot of fun. As I looked through the videos tonight, I realised that they are also a perfect indication of why I needed an afternoon off.

Basically participants show up at the local bar with some form of miniature transport, preferably a ride-on lawnmower. Everyone sets off in a convoy and travels around a circuit participating in various challenges along the road, like the tractor pull. Jim who owns the bar follows the swarm around with his pick-up acting as a mobile bar.

The boys rented a golf cart for $50 and agreed to pay the owners for any damage on its return. The value of the cart is probably about $200, so the owners were getting a pretty good deal. Needless to say, there was a bit of damage, both to the cart and to the eight guys who piled on the four-person buggie. But as Lockie from the Dobbins crew said to me the other night, he's here for "a good time, not a long time".

trucks stepping in when the grain cart breaks down

Christian in the combine
Ron in the truck

Autumn Arriving at our campsite - Marean Lake Saskatchewan (by Ron)

Monday, 1 September 2008

















Wednesday, 24 September 2008

Andrew's Combine Working in Archerwill, Saskatchewan

I took this pic as Andrew was picking up the first windrow of canola in Archerwill, SK. It shows the tiny window of sunshine that we got one afternoon after nearly a week spent in the camper sitting out bad weather.

Limited Phone Reception in Haswell Colorado (Brian)

We're back in the US! Central Saskatchewan is a beautiful place but the lack of communications has nearly killed me. Lots of stories to tell, photos and vids to post, so stay tuned. I've added a couple of back-dated posts below. I'm sorry for the long silence!

when big tractors get stuck

Our biggest stuff-ups often occur on our last day in town. True to the trend we managed to get our granddaddy tractor stuck in a drain while cutting our second last field in Faulkton SD.

When a combine gets bogged, the grain cart, with four-wheel-drive and a set of eight, six-foot tall tyres will usually get you out of trouble, however, this particular field proved too great an opponent.

Scuba was positioning the grain cart so that he could pull Andrew’s combine out of the mud, however, he clipped the edge of the field as he was turning around and was sucked into the drain.

At first the situation was quite tense because it provided a significant delay so close to finishing the job and we were unsupervised when it happened. Greg was clearly unimpressed when he arrived at the field. He’d got the message over the radio as he and Cheryl were leaving town for lunch in Aberdeen.

At first, I was sneaking my camera out whenever Greg wasn’t looking and stuffing it back in my pocket to lend a hand where I could. However, as the tractor became more and more bogged, and we became more and more muddy, grins started to appear on faces as the situation became increasingly ridiculous.

First we tried reversing the cart out the way it came, hitching a second four-wheel-drive tractor to the trailer. This failing, we tried pulling it out through the ditch and onto the road. After snapping a couple of chains, we unhitched the trailer from the tractor and finally managed to pull the tractor up onto the road leaving the trailer in the ditch. It took both four-wheel-drive tractors in a Y-formation to finally pull the trailer out.

Greg has a thing about cleanliness. I guess spending six months of the year in a plume of dust does something to you. One of the first rules he lay down during his pre-season pep-talk was in regard to the cleanliness of the machinery, inside and out. Whenever you see him in the video, he is well clear of the mud; when he’s giving directions, he’s on the road, when he’s in the field, he’s up on the tractor. You’ll also notice a shot of me on my arse in the mud. I went to step backwards and my feet didn’t move. Greg got quite a kick out of this. The dirtiest he got that morning was when he took a couple of steps into the ditch to grab my camera so that he could get a shot of me in the mud.

Timmy

Timmy (Coonamble NSW) is the kind of guy that gets away with a lot through his friendly smile, good sense of humour and outgoing nature. His happy-go-lucky attitude will either show you a fantastic time or get you into a lot of trouble. It is impossible for him to remain inconspicuous; whenever we go out, he will more often than not become the life of the party, whether he’s up on a table trying to remove his pants, flying solo on the dance floor or in the parking lot launching a firecracker off his thigh.

His most infamous night out was in California at the start of the season. The folks in back-road California were amazed to meet anyone from overseas, let alone an Aussie. Apparently Tim and Dan hardly bought a drink while they were there. On this particular night, Tim gradually made his way around the edge of the bar until he was behind it, tea-towel slung over his shoulder, serving drinks and flipping coasters. Management were quite happy to have him on board. In addition to the free drinks, he received his share of the tips at the end of the evening, including $20 for breaking into one patron’s car after he’d locked his keys in.

Timmy woke up the following morning on the back of a tyre truck.

For all of his mischievousness, I really enjoy spending time with Timmy. He’s good fun to be around and his straightforwardness, an attribute shared by all of the country boys, is refreshing.

The trip up to Archerwill Saskatchewan was fairly smooth after crossing into Canada. We'll be cutting just over 5,000 acres of wheat, canola and peas for our farmer up here which will take us through to early October when we need to be back in Faulkton (SD) for Fall harvest.

We're camped at Marean Lake Resort about 20km North-East of Archerwill. It's a beautiful location. Our campsite is near the lake's edge, set amongst private houses and cabins.

It's really starting to cool off. The mercury has dropped below ten degrees the last couple of days. Apparently there will be three feet of ice on top of the lake once it freezes. The smell of log and coal fires at night is fantastic.

We're finding it hard to get started. As is the trend this season, all of the crops are ripening a lot later than usual. We're battling the weather as well. A dump of rain yesterday has put us out of action for a couple of days. Brian has given us a day or two off to come to Saskatoon, about a two and a half hours drive East.

My only complaint about where we're staying is that there is no internet access or phone reception! Loyal readers may have to be a bit patient waiting for updates on the blog. I've taken this opportunity to use the motel's internet in Saskatoon to rush a few posts.

The Big Hat

We came across ‘The Big Hat’ in Faulkton, South Dakota. He’s a member of the Dobbins harvest crew. Four of their five-man crew are Australians. They run two combines. The Big Hat runs the grain cart, which is what he does back home in South-Central NSW.

The Big Hat would go missing every now and then on what he called ‘stealth missions’, chasing various women around town. You’d see him wandering down Main Street in his blue singlet, stubbies and Blundstones almost completely engulfed by the shadow of his Akubra.

Apparently he didn’t drink much before coming to the States. You wouldn’t guess seeing him in action at the bar. He ran out of money fairly soon after arriving in town, so he started up a tab. Every now and then you’d see him walk behind the bar and help himself to the fridge. On his way out, he’d hold up his drink to the bartender who’d write it down in a book.

The Big Hat would get particularly rowdy when drinking Johnnie Red. This photo was taken after he’d swapped his blue singlet with the white one belonging to a guy on an American crew. He ripped the singlet soon after acquiring it so he went looking for another, approaching another harvester at the bar. This exchange nearly ended in a fight. The Big Hat retreated, jumping up onto the bar. Jim the bartender is a really quiet guy who always wears a straight face. He didn't look twice when The Big Hat stepped up onto his bar. He simply moved a couple of coasters and kept serving drinks.

He was back the next evening looking fairly sheepish. I asked if I could buy him a Johnnie Red and Coke, to which he replied, “Nah, mate. I’m not allowed to see John tonight”.

we made it!

Well we’ve experienced the extremes of Canadian customs. After being turned around on our first two attempts, we crossed the border last Wednesday with four semi-trailers and two trailer-homes without anyone reaching for their notebook or little extendable pointer. In fact, we were not inspected at all. The officer at the first checkpoint simply looked over our passports and waved passed the inspection bay.

It was a surreal experience given the commotion that we caused the previous two days. It reminded me of the stunt that the Chaser boys pulled when they attempted to get by various high-profile security checkpoints towing a huge Trojan Horse (click here to see the clip). On most occasions, including at the Australian Army HQ in Sydney, they were waved through without question.

I’ve got a few theories about our experience at Customs. At any port, one is at the mercy of the particular officer that you deal with. A lot depends on the mood that you find that person in. Brian had the clever idea of turning up just before the shift change at 8am. When we turned up at 7:50, there’s no way that the night shift guys would be wanting to muck around with us.

I also think we experienced first-hand the animosity that many speak of between Canadians and Americans. I’m sure there were a lot of slaps on the back for the officer who turned the American convoy around for muddy tyres. Ironically, not one of us crossing the border was American, but unfortunately our equipment was.

update from the border

Well, for the second day running, I’ve driven into Canada in order to drop a u-turn and head straight back into the US. It seems that the Americans can’t get rid of us and the Canadians just don’t want us.

Our troubles started on Sunday afternoon, one mile short of our border-town, Bowbells, North Dakota, with Brian and Anne-Maree’s camper blowing a tyre. Once we’d swapped the tyre, we returned to our trucks, Andrew discovering that he’d blown his alternator and Brian that he had a busted fender. Both problems needed to be fixed before crossing the border.

Most of Monday was spent waiting for parts. We fired up the trucks at 4pm, set out shortly afterward, and counted down what was meant to be our last seven miles of road in the US.

Canadian Customs was deserted when we arrived. Brian went into the office and told us all to wait in the trucks. He reappeared about 20 minutes later, clearly agitated, and motioned for us to turn around. Contrary to advice given by one Customs official, our man in the office insisted that we needed a broker to handle our paperwork.

The word last night was that Greg was considering pulling the pin on the job due to the cost and time associated with the red-tape, however, this morning the decision was made to proceed.

We all went up to immigration to get our visas while our broker went to work. At lunchtime, the call came through from the broker to say that everything was in order. Half an hour later, spirits reinflated, the convoy was back on the move.

We made it past the witches’ hats this time, about 100 metres further into Canadian territory. This time the problem was with the cleanliness of the machinery. Two Customs officers in black flak-jackets came out with extendable wands and pointed at little clumps of mud on the tyres of our ridiculously shiny tractors. They told us that they needed to be cleaner and, what’s more, they needed to be cleaned back in the United States. Once again, we got the signal to turn around.

Coming from Australia, I am familiar with stringent Customs regulations. In one respect I can understand where the Canadians are coming from – they’ve got borders to protect – however some discretion must be shown. From the first bushel that these machines cut, they will never be 100 percent clean again. Mouldy grain, spouting roots in the grain tank is one thing, but a few specks of mud on the tyres of a tractor is another. If we’re being sent back to scrub our tyres, so should every second pick-up crossing the border.

Reality is, the reason we’ve got work in Canada is because they are in desperate need of harvesters and, the way things are at the moment, they’ll be lucky to get their whole crop off. If we’re turned around again tomorrow, Greg will pull the pin on the job. If this happens, quibbling over some dirt will potentially have cost our farmer a lot of money, not to mention Mr and Mrs Maple-Leaf their piece of toast in the morning.

After we’d finished scrubbing the tyres tonight, Andrew summed up our frustration with succinctness that you will only find in the words of a boy from rural Australia.

“If this isn’t good enough, fuck ‘em. They can cut their own wheat. I’m not sure what they’ll use…scissors for all I care”.

For those back home, Scorched, the telemovie I worked on before I left Australia, is due to air on Channel Nine this coming Sunday 31 August at 8:30pm. If you watch carefully, you may see someone you recognise in the press conference scene at the end (apart from Georgie Parker!).

Set in 2012, the story is based on a firestorm that sweeps through a drought-stricken Sydney. The script is pretty two dimensional, but that's what everyone needs on a Sunday night! It's directed by Tony Tilse of Underbelly fame, has a strong cast, and, from what I hear, boasts some pretty good special effects. I hope you can tune in.

Click here to check out the website.

Task of the Day

Task of the day was washing down the headers. We've spent two full days getting all of the machines spotless before we cross the boarder.

We'll set off tomorrow for Minot, North Dakota (about 200 miles north) where we've got to have one of the combines serviced. On Sunday we'll move up to Kenmore just south of the Canadian boarder, so that we can get there early Monday morning. We'll spend about half a day at the boarder being processed and inspected.

Rolling Out of Faulkton, SD

The crew was split up yesterday, two combines being sent to Hallock Minnesota. Ron and I will be taking our trucks and the two remaining combines North-West to Canada, about 300 miles north of the boarder in Saskatchewan. I'm pretty excited about the prospect of going to a different country.

I've been wanting to get a video of the crew on the move for a while. Scuba, Andrew, Christian, Ron and I are staying in town for a couple of days before we leave, so I ran up the road a bit and got my video. Lars and I swapped trucks before the boys left, which I was a bit pissed about. His truck is a newer and more comfortable 2005 Columbia Frieghtliner but it doesn't have the character or rumble of 'number six', a 2000 model.

Lars and #6 roll out first, followed by Timmy in #9, both hauling combines and grain trailers. Paul is in the third truck blearing his horn, towing the grain cart. Turkey comes by forth, towing the 8-bed bunkhouse. And Dan is bringing up the rear in the service truck, towing the two headers (the things on the front that cut the wheat!).

Killing Time In The Field

It occurred to me the other day as I drove by Scuba Steve (England) brandishing a rifle, that I'm no longer amazed when I see a gun. Our foreman Brian (the other guy in the video) keeps both his and Paul's rifles on the back seat of his pick-up. If things are running slow, he'll pull one out for some target practice. In this case, they were shooting at a bottle. You can't actually shoot game unless they're in season, even though many, like deer, are overpopulated. They take poaching pretty seriously. If they catch you, you get thrown in jail.

Pheasant hunting is really big around Faulkton. Pheasants are everywhere at the moment. The season will open in a couple of months. As the boys are cutting, the birds will run out of the crop. Apparently, during the season, hunters will stand on the edge of the crop with their shotguns and pick them off as they make a run for it.

The Five Thurman Combines Working in Scott City Kansas

Pauly (Ohio) took this pic of the boys in the back of the grain cart trying to fix something. The booms above them are unloading augers of two combines. Left to Right Andrew (Aus), Brian (our foreman from Denmark) and Timmy (Aus).

City Boy on a Tractor

Ashley from Faulkton rode with me and Timmy for an afternoon while we were unloading trucks into a farmer's silos. I love taking pics but it means that I'm rarely the subject, so it was nice to get a few action shots of us working.

Timmy's quite knowledgeable about tractors. He thought it was an early 60s model. Amazingly, it still runs. The farmer uses it to drive an auger that we put under the trucks to elevate the grain into the silo.

Sunset From the Top of a Silo in Faulkton SD

Kellie Pickler Concert

Timmy and I rocked out with a bunch of 14 year-old groupies the other night at the Brown County Fair in Aberdeen South Dakota. They were there to see Kellie Pickler who’s pretty big on the country music circuit over here.

It was also the first night out for my new Durango cowboy boots. The boys were pretty supportive of the purchase. Pauly chipped in a dinner plate belt buckle to complete an ensemble which had me looking the most country of all the boys.

It was a great night. The town received a big dump of rain just before the concert so the arena turned to mud. I didn’t want to get mud all over the Durangos, so I followed the lead of some other revelers, ditching the boots and hitching up my jeans.

Tim and I spent the later half of the night trying to get through the cordon in front of the stage. We managed to get in during Kellie’s last song and arrived down the front just as the 14 year-olds started calling for an encore rendition of one of Kellie’s better know songs “Red High-heels”. We joined the chant and got a posi next to a young cowboy wearing a ‘Marry Me Kellie’ t-shirt. Kellie came back and it was high-fives all around.

If I arrived at the show a cowboy, I left a metrosexual. I managed to dig some pink thongs out of the mud, which I wore out of the pit, and my workingman’s feet were left soft and supple from all of the mud. As I’ve said before, I’m in the nation of paradoxes.

Post Concert Beer With Christian (Denmark)

Mud Pit at the Kellie Pickler Concert

Me and Timmy (Coonamble NSW) getting ready for a road trip from Julesberg Colorado to Fort Collins Colorado (Sun July 13). We had about four days off.

The sweatbands are a classic example of a Walmart purchase - you buy it because you can.

A trip through the elevator

This vid is a bit lengthy but it you'll get a good idea of what I do when I go through an elevator. This facility in Mellette South Dakota can process trucks really quickly. I was generally in and out within 20mins.

Those with an ear for detail will notice that I got my weight conversions wrong. The gross weight of my truck on the way in was 110,000 pounds or about 50 tonnes. 35 tonnes was my net weight i.e the amount of grain I hauled in. In terms of the capacity of the freight trains, one grain carriage will hold about 220,000 pounds or about 100 tonnes. A fully loaded freight train has 110 carriages and is nearly 2km in length and will haul nearly 100,000 tonnes of grain to its destination.

Turkey

Turkey assumed his position as crew-clown as soon as he stepped off the plane. During his first few days in town, when asked where he was from, he would reply, “I’m from Barham, New South Wales”. When met with blank looks from locals, he’d add with a reassuring tone, “It’s right on the Murray”.

From day one Turkey asserted that he did not drink beer, starting off on the wrong foot with some of the boys. On his second night in town we went down to the Plum Thicket Inn in Kiowa. I think Turkey was a bit homesick, perhaps starting to realise exactly how far from home he was (flying out of Melbourne was the first time he had been on a plane). He propped himself up at the bar, away from the rest of the group, and flagged a bartender wearing a red Budweiser cap. “I don’t drink beer, I drink bourbon”. “Ok, what are you having?”. “Wild Turkey”, he replied, slapping the bar. And so, ‘Turkey’ was born.

The bartender took a liking to Turkey. Toward the end of the night, we saw him finish off a bottle, giving Turkey two and a half nips, and open up another bottle to round it up to three. Needless to say, Turkey was feeling pretty festive by the end of the night. We had to leave when he started chatting up the wife of the biggest guy in the bar.

Turkey gets more than his fair share of shit from some of the guys. For all of his goofiness, and despite the fact that he can easily get on the nerves, I reckon he’s one of the bravest on the crew simply for his tenacity. His goofiness is best illustrated through this incident recently videoed at the laundrette in Gordon Nebraska.

The Elevator

Going to the elevator is one of the things I enjoy most about driving a truck because it is where you meet people; other truck drivers, many from overseas; the boss-man checking on things at the unloading pit; farmers' wives, many driving semis for their husbands who work the combines out in their fields; the local sheriff who comes in to the office for a chat; the Mennonite farmer driving his 1956 Chevy tip-truck; the 15 year-old kid dumping trucks all summer so that he can buy his first car.

Most towns in the Wheat Belt will have at least one elevator. In a usually sleepy town, the elevator can be a hive of activity for a couple of months of the year, providing employment for many, the means by which the farmer makes a living, and the facilities to distribute a staple product to America and the world.

Many facilities are the same as they were when they were built back in the 40s. In many cases, they are the reason for a town’s existence, whether they established a town or they are what keeps it alive after everything else has closed.

If there are a couple of big crews in town and conditions are good for cutting, it can get pretty busy. The busiest elevators we've seen were in Vernon Texas.

Andrew took this photo while in line. Up to 50 semi-trailers would snake around the backstreets, sometimes spilling out onto the highway, queuing for the weigh-bridge. A lot of the wheat dumped was loaded on to freight trains and transported down to the Gulf of Mexico to be shipped overseas.

We ran into a lot of problems in Texas because the trucks could not dump the combines fast enough, meaning that we’d have to stop cutting. What could have been a 45 minute round trip was taking up to four hours in some cases. Frustratingly, the elevators were disorganised and underequiped for the volume of crop this year.

I’m hoping to put up a video shortly to show exactly what happens when I go through the elevator…

Mount Rushmore Pics

Abraham Lincoln






















George Washington

Fast Food Nation

Telling people back home about my journey, it’s amazing how many made comments along the lines of “you’ll get buff”. Well, the opposite is proving to be true. I think many have the idea that I’m over here wandering around wheat fields with a scythe, threshing grain with my hands. Reality is that I sit in a truck for up to 15 hours a day writing stuff like this in my down-time.

Inactivity being one enemy, American food is another. The food we’re provided on the job is great because it’s home cooked and there's a lot of variety. It’s the down-time eating that’s the killer. It’s an exhausted fact, but it is just too easy to buy junk food in this country. Or rather, it is hard to find nutritious food.

If you go to a restaurant, every meal will come with some sort of potato, which can be fried five different ways: French fries, American fries, waffle fries, hash browns or crisps.

Salt and sugar is addictive, which make’s the problem self-perpetuating; the more you have, the more you want; water just doesn’t cut it when it comes to washing down a Double Quarter Pounder.

One night a couple of weeks ago in Scott City Kansas, the neon signs got the better of me. Each time I drove past Dairy Queen, my mouth would water at the thought of an M&Ms Blizzard. Despite being pressed for time, I gave in on one of my last runs; I parked the truck diagonally across the carpark, and ran into the place like a little kid running for the toilet at the service station.

Alarmed by the prospect of having to buy new sets of pants and shorts, I bought some scales the other day. However, I got my weight conversion wrong. Weighing in at 195 pounds, I spent a whole day quietly freaking out about the fact that I’d put on 15 kilos (logic didn’t really kick in). It was in fact only five kilos.

In his book American Journeys, Melbourne author Don Watson points out that as a visitor to America it is easy to become obsessive about staying thin. For the first time in my life, in the Fast-Food-Nation, birthplace of the Big Mac and home of the one litre cup, I am snacking on raw carrots (Watson also points out that this is a nation of paradoxes).

Haswell, Colorado

Ron took this photo. I like it because illustrates our experience of Haswell Colorado. Most of the crop that we cut there was drought stricken. Compared to the dense wheat of Texas, Kansas and Oklahoma, the land was desolate.

An east-west railway line divides the town. Everything south of the line has been in drought for several years. Amazingly, they just don’t get much rain on that side of the tracks.

Flies were about the only animals left living on the land and they were pissed off about it. They had a manic intensity about them. They’d assemble in a pack, surround you and then bite, often forcing a retreat into the truck.

The crop being so light, it took ages to fill a truck (a whole day in one case). For me, it was a great time to catch up on sleep, read, takes some pics. We’d been running pretty hard the previous five weeks, so the rest was welcome.

From day one, my journey has been full of rich characters, usually people defined by their imperfections. Coming in contact with these people evokes intrigue and admiration. Regardless of what makes them imperfect - whether they drink or smoke or swear a lot, hold the odd prejudice, or bend the rules – what most have in common is that they are genuine.

Authenticity is something that I aspire toward. It is particularly hard to achieve if you are different within a subculture with a strong status quo, which is exactly my situation. And, saying this, many of the characters that I’m meeting fit in well because they are rebels, a celebrated persona in the country and I think especially so amongst harvesters.

As for how I’m going, I think pretty well. As I’ve said before, I think there exists a mutual respect between the country and city boy. However, I am on their turf. I do get frustrated every now and then when things of interest to me do not register at all with the other guys. They do come to me for camera advice though.

Stock Auction in Gordon Nebraska

I'm in Gordon Nebraska at the moment, a small town of 1800 people in the state's North West. The main crew has traveled North into South Dakota with three combines. Ron, Turkey and I have been left here with two combines and will cut 300 acres of wheat as soon as it ripens - it's taking a long time to do so. We've had the last two days off and we'll have at least another two.

To fill time, we went to the local stock auction yesterday. It's held every Tuesday. Ron took this video. It's amazing to listen the auctioneer. The three buyers present would indicate their bids (in either 25 or 50 cent increments) with tiny finger movements which the auctioneer would pick up from his booth above the pen, about ten metres away.

Also of note is the little steel barrier underneath the auctioneer's booth. Ron called these the "Jesus Posts" because it's the only refuge for the stock handler if an animal charges.

In the case of this old bull, they weren't really necessary. Compared to some of the others that came through, he was incredibly docile. The handler had enough trouble getting it to leave the pen at the end of the auction.

Ron talked to the buyer after the auction. Sadly, for this old guy, it was the end of the road; he was off to the knackers, probably to be turned into dog food.

Harleys in the Black Hills

There’s nothing like a ride on Harley Davidson to raise one’s spirits. We arrived in Gordon Nebraska on Wednesday 16 July after a few days off in Colorado only to find that the wheat there was at least a few days off being ripe. On the Thursday Greg told to get lost until Sunday. First stop for me and a couple of the other guys was Rapid City Harley Davidson.

Rapid City is the centre of the Black Hills region of South Dakota, about three hours North of where we were camped in Gordon Nebraska. The region is most famous for the four president faces carved into Mount Rushmore, Deadwood (the Wild West town of HBO fame), and the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally during which 800,000 people (mainly Harley bikers) descend on the small town of Sturgis for two weeks in August.

Lobbing into the sales showroom, I was an unashamed wanna-be. I bought two T-shirts and a cap. This said, I wasn’t as bad as Lars, who went and bought himself a pair of arseless leather chaps.

I like motorbikes, but I’m not actually a huge Harley fan – they’re a bike for my parents’ generation – however there’s something magical about riding one in the Heartland and, when we ventured out the following day on our ponies, it truly was a privilege.

The weather was perfect and the scenery was inspiring. Each corner brought something new: a different type of forest, a grassy valley, a tepee, fast flowing rapids, a dam, a heard of buffalo, cliff faces, it had the lot. We clocked about 500kms over the 24hr rental.

The bike I sold before I left home was a 250cc Yamaha Virago. The bike I rented was a 1250cc Harley Davidson Night Rod. It’s a cruiser/road-bike hybrid. The main pegs are set behind your hips like a sports bike but there’s a set of pegs up front that you can put the feet up on when cruising on the open road.

The bike was QUICK. To give an idea of the power, my old 250 would hit 5th gear at about 60kph, on the 1250, I was reaching the 120kph speed limit on the interstate shifting from 3rd to 4th. Admittedly, I was a little inexperienced for the bike, but you’ve got to learn somehow and what better place than in the land of opportunity!

By far the best $200 I’ve spent during the trip to date; a stand-alone highlight.

Lars

Lars has worked seven seasons for Thurman Harvesting. He drives trucks. Greg describes him as “the most truck driving son of a bitch you’ll ever meet”. To me, he looks very Swedish; he’s 6-6 tall, very slim, with chiselled features. He has a deep voice and talks really slowly with a thick accent.

He walks the same way that he talks. Greg has a gift when it comes to making people hustle; it’s easy to be worked into a frenzy when there’s a shortage of trucks out in the field, but not Lars. He’ll swagger around his truck, to and from the elevator office, kicking up dust as he walks.

It’s hard to read Lars. He wears a straight face most of the time and is a man of few words. His response to most questions, including open questions, is a short pause followed by a drawn out “Yeah”.

I really like Lars because, like me, he doesn’t fit the typical harvester mould. He’s the most experienced on the crew, but he doesn’t flaunt it. He gets the job done without losing his head.

When he’s not on harvest, Lars lives in the Swedish countryside in a house inherited from his grandmother. In his time he’s been a bus driver in the Swedish Army and has worked in various agricultural and forestry jobs. The US is where he does his truck driving.

The other night, a few of us went to a buffet in Denver for dinner. Every ten minutes or so the restaurant would be hushed so that the wait staff could sing happy birthday, in true fast food nation style, to some poor embarrassed patron. Lars being Lars, we thought he’d be the perfect candidate…I had my camera handy.