I met an elephant in Tucson. She was standing on the side of the road, holding a flag in her trunk that said North. I was going that way, and my trailer was empty, so I pulled over.

She told me she was trying to get to Montana. Her brother had some land up there. She said she had just escaped from a circus in Mexico. She said elephants hate being chained. I took her as far as Colorado. Then I had to turn east. I wished her luck and said good-bye. I never heard another word about her.

Sometimes I think, maybe I'll make it to Montana someday. She said she was sure I'd be welcome at her brother's place. Any friend of hers was a friend of his, she said. I don't know what it would be like to visit elephants, but I sure would like to see her again.

Still, somehow I've always managed to run routes up and down the East Coast since that time. Maybe I'm afraid. Maybe I'm locked into this cycle of big cities and trucking, trucking and cities. Every time I'm out on that great I-95, in the middle of the night, with a new moon above me, I say, after I deliver this load, I'm going out west. But then New York or Charlotte or Bangor or Jacksonville calls and I obey. Just one more trip. Just one more, I always say. Just one more trip and then I'll go visit that elephant in Montana.

You know, I never knew her name, but when I close my eyes, I can see her, standing on the side of the road in Tucson, with her Mexican hat on, waving that sign that said North.