Fourteen years behind the wheel of an eighteen-wheeler teaches you a few things. You learn to read the road like a language. You learn that the loneliest hours are between 2 and 4 AM when the rest of the world is asleep and you're the only pair of headlights for fifty miles. And you learn that some stretches of highway have a reputation for a reason.
I was running a load of refrigerated produce from Sacramento to Salt Lake City. The route took me across Nevada on US-93, a long, empty corridor that cuts through some of the most desolate landscape in the lower 48. I'd driven it dozens of times. It was early February, clear night, temperature hovering around 20 degrees. No snow, no wind, just cold, dry darkness.
I'd stopped for fuel and coffee in Ely around midnight. The truck stop was nearly empty. Just me, a couple of local guys at the counter, and the cashier who looked like she'd rather be anywhere else. I topped off, grabbed a large black coffee, and got back on the road heading south toward Caliente.
About forty minutes outside Ely, I saw someone on the shoulder. That's not unusual on interstates near cities, but out here, in the middle of frozen nowhere, it was strange. As my headlights swept over the figure, I could see it was a man in a denim jacket. No hat, no gloves, no bag. Just standing there with his thumb out.
Now, company policy says no hitchhikers. Period. But it was 20 degrees, the nearest town was forty miles in either direction, and this guy had no gear. Leaving him out there felt like leaving him to die. I pulled over.
He climbed up into the cab without a word. Sat down, buckled in, and stared straight ahead. He looked to be in his mid-forties. Weathered face, dark hair, a few days of stubble. His denim jacket was thin, the kind you'd wear on a cool autumn afternoon, not a freezing desert night. His hands weren't even red from the cold.
I asked him where he was headed. He said, "South." I asked how far south. He said, "As far as you're going." His voice was flat, like he was reciting lines he'd said a thousand times. I told him I was turning east at the junction toward Pioche, and he nodded like that was fine.
We drove in silence for a while. I tried making small talk. Asked his name. He said "Dale." Asked what he did for work. "I used to drive," he said. Something about the way he said "used to" made me not want to ask follow-up questions.
About twenty minutes in, I noticed something odd. The cab temperature hadn't changed. Normally when someone gets in from the cold, you feel it. The cold radiates off them, their breath fogs, the cab takes a few minutes to warm back up. But the temperature gauge hadn't budged. And I couldn't see his breath, even though the vents were blowing warm air and mine was still slightly visible when I exhaled toward the windshield.
I glanced at the passenger side mirror. This is going to sound crazy, but I could see the seat in the mirror. Just the seat. No reflection of Dale, even though he was sitting right there. I looked directly at him. He was there. Solid, real, sitting with his hands on his knees. I looked back at the mirror. Empty seat.
My mouth went dry. I kept driving. What else was I going to do? Pull over and confront a ghost? I focused on the road and tried to rationalize it. Bad angle, poor lighting, dirty mirror. But I checked three more times over the next ten miles, and every time, the mirror showed an empty seat.
Then Dale spoke again, unprompted. He said, "You should slow down before the curve past mile marker 87." I looked at the mile markers. We were at 84. I wasn't speeding, but I eased off the gas anyway. When we reached the curve past 87, I understood why. A mule deer was standing dead center in my lane. If I'd been going my usual speed, I would have hit it head-on. At the reduced speed, I had time to brake and lay on the horn. The deer bolted.
My heart was pounding. I turned to thank Dale. He was looking at me with this sad, knowing expression. He said, "That's where it happened to me. February 9th, 2014. I came around that curve too fast." Then he said, "Keep your speed down through here. It's worse than it looks."
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. We drove another fifteen minutes in complete silence until I reached the junction. I pulled over to let him out. He unbuckled, opened the door, and paused. He said, "Thanks for stopping. Most people don't anymore." Then he stepped down and I heard the door close.
I checked my mirrors immediately. Nobody. I got out of the cab and walked around the truck with my flashlight. Empty highway in every direction. No footprints on the gravel shoulder.
When I got to Salt Lake, I checked my dashcam footage. You can see me pull over outside Ely. The passenger door opens and closes. The interior camera shows me talking, glancing to my right, reacting to the deer. But the passenger seat is empty for the entire recording. There's nobody there.
I searched for accidents on US-93 near mile marker 87. On February 9th, 2014, a truck driver named Dale Morrow lost control on that curve and rolled his rig. He died at the scene. He was 46 years old. He was wearing a denim jacket.
I still drive that route. Every time I pass mile marker 87, I slow down. And every time, I check the shoulder outside Ely, just in case someone needs a ride.