The sound of the gravel as it was crunching under my tires, vibrating everything inside my Yaris, reminding me that it was not meant for off-roading. A
British woman was telling me that I was approaching my destination, which,
according to her was in 300 yards. She had been accompanying me for the hour
long drive to a place I had never been, at a time when I was more accustomed to
being asleep than awake, providing me with turn-by-turn directions. What did we
ever do before onboard navigation systems? I started to question her sanity as
she was sending me off road and telling me, “You have reached your destination,”
when in fact, I did not see the address of my intended destination. Instead,
all I saw was a well-worn gravel road, which was more mud than rock; with deep
puddles that I was sure would swallow up my car whole. I inched along until I
saw a sign that indicated a quarry was just 1/8th of a mile down the
bumpy road.
I knew that I was working at a quarry, doing what, I wasn't quite sure. For those who are not familiar, a quarry is basically a site where
they have done blasting, which results in large rocks, and upon processing, is
turned into smaller and smaller rocks. As I continued down the road, I was
quickly greeted by a blue heeler and a lady that looked right out of
Deliverance. Unsure if I was at the right place or about to be shot on sight, I
rolled down my window and smiled. It appeared that I was at the right spot and
this is where I would be training for the week.
To call it rustic would be a stretch. Sure there was
electricity and a shack (roughly 10’ x 10’), but the only running water was the
creek (or crik as pronounced by the employees), meaning that the only facilities
on site consisted of an outhouse. I also learned on my drive that there was
also no cell phone reception. All that I kept thinking was how wonderful of a
set up this would be for a serial killer…an isolated location, complete with
sounds of noisy machinery, no cell phone reception to call for help and nobody
to hear you scream. And this would be where I would be working for the next
couple of days, with who knows how many people or if I would get along with
them at all. My bank balance once again flashed in my mind, reminding me that I
needed this job, regardless of where, what or who I would be working with in
this isolated location. Heck, I lived 80 miles north of Nome, AK for a year…this
should be a piece of cake.
The first couple of days consisted of an hour’s drive to the
location, sitting around waiting for a truck to come on the radio stating that
they were on their way and getting a hang of the scale and learning how to
print receipts. The hardest thing was trying to resist killing the lady that
was training me on the equipment. Training in and of itself usually sucks, but
being confined in the shack with someone with whom I really didn’t have
anything in common with and I found to be loud, boisterous and annoying…that
made the homicidal tendencies a bit more difficult to keep under wraps. Add to
this her habit of telling me dirty jokes, chewing apples like a horse and
touching my food…and my need to have a fairly sizable space bubble, and you can
start to understand how difficult it was to not kill her.
At least the scenery was nice.
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