My friend John was an owner/operator, driving his own log truck in the Pacific Northwest. During mid-summer, a few years back, Oregon shut down the woods because of fire danger and John had time on his hands.
“John,” said his friend, Mike, “I have a hot load bound for Phoenix. They want it delivered yesterday. You’re waiting for rain, so how about helping me get this truck to Phoenix?”
“Sure. When do we leave?”
“Now. Pack some underwear and let’s get gone.”
The two of them headed south at a high rate of speed. They didn’t stop for anything but potty breaks. By the time they crossed into Arizona potato chip bags and water bottles were knee deep. Something had to be done. Wheeling into a rest area, Mike quickly filled two grocery bags and set out for the dumpster. About the same time he spotted a sign warning of rattle snakes, he stepped on a short piece of rubber rope. It rolled beneath his shoe and then snapped up and hit him in the back of the leg.
“I’VE BEEN SNAKE BIT!” Mike shouted, and heaved the bags in the air.
The wind caught the trash and carried it across the rest area and into the desert. There was no hope of cleaning up the mess they’d created, so they climbed back into the truck and sped on toward Phoenix.