The full harvest moon bathed the deserted valley in wan silvery light. The man in the waxed canvas jacket and worn black jeans adjusted the backpack straps as he walked along the shoulder of the deserted highway. He took a moment to appreciate the moonlight, his only light this late at night. His last ride – an older balding white man who had been chain-smoking Pall Malls in his meticulously maintained International Harvester Scout – dropped him off on the outskirts of Hopland as the driver turned east heading to Clearlake. He’d said Jason was welcome to ride all the way to Clearlake if he was interested. Jason thanked the man, but said he wanted to stick to 101 – his ultimate destination lay due south. An hour passed as Jason walked the road. Two tractor trailers passed without so much as acknowledging him and now Jason stood on the green, utilitarian truss bridge spanning the Russian River. Watching the light play across the still-narrow river below felt like his personal little secret that the tractor trailers didn’t even notice except maybe to make sure they would clear the bridge’s low iron trusses.

He walked on and found himself in as an ideal stretch as he could hope for – a straight bit of two-lane lay open to the sky, the trees on the east side hunkered down from the road in a copse that traced the riverbed, while only a single live oak stood close to the road on the west, like a curious cow coming to visit the perimeter of the fence. Jason knew once he made it to the middle of this straight-away, even in this low light a driver would have plenty of time to spot him and decide to slow or not. This late at night with sleep tugging at the edges of even the most eager night owl’s consciousness, even better judgement often laxed at the opportunity to trade talk with another human being and stave off sleep for a few more towns.

So when Jason heard the burbling exhaust of the diesel F-250 pickup bearing down the road, he knew this guy would be his next ride. The driver made a lazy effort to stop, passing Jason’s outstretched thumb and finally coming to a stop a hundred yards ahead. Jason jogged to the truck idling on the shoulder. He opened the passenger door of the cab and the driver barked, “How far you goin?”

“I’m aiming for Petaluma,” Jason said, adding, “Anywhere between here and there would be much appreciated.”

“Your lucky night – I’m going all the way to San Rafael. Hop in.”

Jason climbed in, dropped his pack on his feet and buckled himself in as the clattering motor spooled up and the driver pulled back onto 101 south. Jason stared out at the cool silvery landscape beyond the window of the pickup, silence hanging in the cab. He thought they might make it past Cloverdale before either man said a word and he didn’t mind. Jason appreciated long silences.

Alas, as the truck traced the highway’s graceful arc across the cement bridge covering the dry Pieta creek bed on its way to its confluence with the Russian river just off the west side of the road, the driver spoke. “Name’s Freddy,” he said curtly.

“Jason.”

“You always out on empty highways in the middle of the night?”

Jason chuckled, “Sure seems like that.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Freddy said.

“Yeah,” Jason replied and let the silence hang in the air for a long moment. “Guy I know died on a stretch of road like this a few years ago.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. It’s funny – it was a full moon like this, and on 101 out here, too.”

“Shame.”

“Drunk driver. Careened onto the shoulder, my friend slammed onto his hood, his head hitting the windshield so hard it lodged there.”

“Jesus Christ!”

Jason continued, staring straight ahead into the middle distance. “Coroner said he was alive for at least the first ten miles…”

“Then?”

“Driver kept going. Made it all the way home to Healdsburg. Left his Mercedes with the lifeless body on the hood in the garage.” He scoffed, “Can you imagine the scream when his wife went to take it to Pilates the next morning?”

“Heh,” the driver gave a nervous laugh.

“I’ve heard his ghost walks this highway looking for a ride south on 101 on lonely nights…”

Freddy let out a genuine short chuckle. “Reminds me…” he started.

Jason broke out of his reverie and looked over at the driver. “Yeah?”

“Friend of mine died out here, too.”

Jason looked on expectantly.

“Driving south outta Ukiah. Diesel duallie Ford like this. Worked a 12-hour shift at the mill, driving to get home to his wife and kid in Asti…” Freddie trailed off. A mile passed as the lights of a northbound empty logging truck lit up the cab of the truck as it whizzed by. “He…” Freddy started, “He got tired. Always got tired on that drive. Knew he’d be fine…” Several miles droned on as the truck barreled through the dark morning. “Woke up as the truck hit the center divider and flipped into the other lane,” he gestured with his hand making twisting motion. “Crashed upside down into a Toyota with this family. Mom, Dad, kids… boom….”

“Did anyone…” Jason pressed.

Freddy shook his head. “Not a soul.”

Jason sighed and looked out the passenger window again.

“They say he still drives this road early mornings, southbound, trying to get home…”

Miles passed in silence.

“Freddy…”

“Jason…”

Both roared at the same time:

“I’m the hitchhiker!” Jason yelled as Freddy yelled “I’m the truckdriver!”

Stunned silence.

“No way!” Jason laughed. “What are the odds?!”

“Sure as shit, man,” said, slapping the wheel. “You know how many times I’ve never made it home along this road?”

“It gets goddamned lonely as a ghost hitchhiker!”

“But you get picked up?”

“Sure. And I tell that story and, poof, I’m gone.”

“Same thing here! Let the hitchhiker off at a stop, he tells the people and they go all white and shit and tell ‘em about how I died years ago.”

They both laughed together for a while longer.

“So… what happens when a ghost truckdriver picks up a ghost hitchhiker?” Jason asked.

“Guess we’ll find out,” and the pickup barreled south through the darkness along 101 south.