Kenny's Tire Shop

Kenny runs the local tire shop which is just across the yard from our camper. I took this at dusk one evening.

Kenny is in his late 50s I'd say. He'd only be about 5-6 tall and has a very slim build, but he handles a truck tire like it's a hula-hoop.

Texas Tornado

We had a mini-tornado come through Vernon when we were harvesting in Texas. I caught this video from the combine as it was brewing. As soon as it started to look nasty Greg shut us down.

It was amazing how quickly the weather changed. It had been windy all day but the sky was completely clear. Mid afternoon, a huge bank of heavy clouds rolled in and the sky turned an eerie green colour. We were on the edge of the storm. We only realised how powerful it was when we driving back in to town. Several trees were uprooted and a few buildings flattened.

The upside was that the rain gave us our first day off. Up until this point, conditions had been perfect for cutting. We had been running about 15 hours a day for 10 days straight.

riding the tailgate it Texas

One morning in Texas we had to bring a bunch of trucks back from a town about 30 miles north of where we were staying. All the drivers had to fit in the one pick up. A few of us had to ride in the back. Greg claims that it's legal in Texas - you see it a lot - but I'm not so sure. I started rolling this video as we pulled onto an Interstate. The guy next to me is Andrew, another Australian, and the other bloke is Anders from Denmark.

It seemed like I’d just drifted off to sleep when I heard a car skidding to a stop on the gravel outside the camper. The doors were slammed shut and more than one person approached the camper. Whoever it was slammed their fist on the door.

“Po-lice! Open up.” At this point I’m wide-awake lying stiff as a board staring at the roof of the camper wondering if I was in some jet-lag induced nightmare. Either that or I’d inadvertently come to work for some crime syndicate.

I wasn’t sure what to do. Obviously they weren’t here for me. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I could hear Ron (the New Zealander I traveled with) stirring, but he wasn’t getting up and nor was British Steve.

The banging continued for another minute or so after which there was a series of loud cracks, like fireworks. At this point I was a bit suspicious. Unless we were being shot at, or flushed out with tear gas, it couldn’t be the police. What’s more, the cops wouldn’t be giggling and rocking the camper.

After a while, I recognised the voices. It was a couple of rednecks – not a derogatory label in this part of the world - that we’d met earlier that evening as we’d been leaving for dinner. As we were driving out of the yard, a small Suzuki jeep pulled off the road and made a beeline for our van, coming to a sideways stop in front of us.

British Steve didn’t look too impressed. He muttered something under his breath as he rolled down the window. The passenger in the jeep was a chubby, baby-faced bloke, probably about 18, with spectacles shaped like small aviator sunglasses. “Whatcha guys doin’?”, he shouted over the engine, a big grin on his face. Steve told him it was his birthday and that we were going to the pub to celebrate. “Ride on!”

Realising that we were new to town, I think the pair were keen to make an impression. Before fish-tailing out of the yard, they drew two huge circles in the gravel with the jeep.

And so, several beers later, they had returned to help Steve celebrate his birthday, complete with fireworks. They didn’t stay for long. I drifted off to sleep as I heard the jeep revving-up and leaving in much the same manner as it had earlier that afternoon.

Kansas storms

Tornado season has just started here. One week in particular we'd get a thunderstorm most evenings with really impressive lightening shows. British Steve pointed his camera out the door of the camper one evening and caught a big strike, lighting up the tractor parked out the front. There's a few seconds of black at the top of the video.

My Truck!

Taken after an afternoon picking rye in Greg's wheat crop. Rye contaminates the wheat and the only way to get rid of it is to pull it out by hand.

Twelve of us spaced ourselves out in a line and walked from one fence to another ripping it out and putting it in a sack. The block was 1 square mile so it involved a lot of walking. Greg would drive his pick-up around the boundary fence to meet us at each end to give us a water or a beer and then we'd turn around and walk back.

Sweating profusely, covered in red dust, hands bleeding, this was one of many tasks that I should have resented, but loved every minute - I was waste deep in a wheat field in the heart of the mid-west at sunset.