Pro-Trucker Magazine

Howdy, my name is Dale Croswell, and here is my story.

I was raised in Newbrook, Alberta, a small community where trucks were as common as tractors and part of everyday life. My dad was a trucker, and so were several of my uncles. Uncle Al, Uncle Homer, Uncle Gerald, and even my cousin Larry followed the same road. For a boy growing up in that world, trucking wasn’t just an occupation; it was part of the family fabric.

The sound of a diesel engine rumbling in the yard early in the morning, the smell of grease and fuel on my dad’s clothes when he came home, and the stories swapped around the kitchen table all worked their way into me before I was old enough to really understand them. When other kids played ball or dreamed of being cowboys, I was fascinated by trucks. I’d watch my dad and uncles roll out, their rigs gleaming with pride, and I knew deep down that one day I’d follow the same road.

By the time I was ten or eleven years old, I was already behind the wheel. My dad was the one who taught me. He had patience, but he also believed in doing things right. He didn’t just show me how to turn a wheel or shift gears; he made sure I understood the responsibility that came with handling a machine that could move mountains and the respect that came with sharing the road.

I can still picture my hands gripping that big steering wheel, my dad sitting beside me, guiding me along with a steady voice. He never raised his tone; he didn’t need to. A look or a few calm words were enough to teach me the lesson. I remember the first time I managed to keep the truck steady down a gravel road. The smile on his face told me I was on the right path.

When I turned sixteen, I went straight down and got my driver’s license that very day. I couldn’t wait another hour. Two years later, on my eighteenth birthday, I made sure I had my Class 1 in hand. That was the real milestone, the piece of paper that said I wasn’t just a kid who grew up around trucking anymore. I was a trucker myself.

In those early years, I had plenty of mentors. My dad was number one, but I also looked up to my uncles and many of the old truckers in the area. They were tough, hardworking men who treated their trucks with pride. I admired the way they carried themselves, steady, dependable, always ready to lend a hand when someone was stuck in the snow or broken down on the side of the road.

Each of those old-timers had something to teach. Some knew every nut and bolt on an engine, others had tricks for handling icy hills or heavy loads. But more than that, they taught me about attitude. Trucking wasn’t just about horsepower or miles, it was about character. It was about being the kind of man others could count on.

My first truck was a 1969 Chevy with a 366 engine. It wasn’t much by today’s standards, but to me it was a ticket to freedom. I can still remember the thrill of firing it up and taking it down the road, knowing it was mine. In 1971, I bought a brand-new 427 tandem, followed by another in 1972. By 1974, I had a GMC 9500 with a 318 Detroit and a gravel box, one of the first trucks in the country to haul a pup trailer behind it. That was something to be proud of. It made me feel like I was part of something new in the industry.

From the very start, I was independent. I never drove for anyone else. I worked with my dad, but I always owned my trucks and hauled my own loads. That independence became a defining part of my career. While others worked years for companies before striking out on their own, I built my life from the beginning as my own man behind the wheel.

Trucking has been a life of variety and adventure. The work took me all over, sometimes close to home, sometimes far away, and often into places where highways ended and only cut lines or bush roads carried us through. Every day brought something new, and that kept the work exciting.

There were stretches when the job meant being away for weeks at a time, staying in camps. Logging, paving, gravel hauls, or reclamation projects often meant living side by side with the crew. Those camps may have been simple, but they were full of laughter, stories, and friendships that lasted a lifetime. Sharing meals and evenings with the men I worked with built bonds as strong as family, and I look back on those days with nothing but fondness.

Other times, I hauled closer to home, running gravel, asphalt, or equipment where I could park my truck at night and sleep in my own bed. Those were special times too, giving me more moments with Debbie and the kids, while still keeping the wheels turning and the work moving forward.

Wherever I was, I took pride in the job. Snowstorms, icy hills, crooked roads, those challenges made me sharper and stronger. I was fortunate that, despite it all, I never had an accident. Some might call that luck, but I believe it came from the lessons my dad taught me early on: respect the road, respect the machine, and keep a steady hand. Those values guided me through every mile.

Though trucks were always my first love, I also built up a string of machines over the years. Cats, hoes, and other heavy equipment that kept me working when the hauling slowed down. Some days I’d finish a haul, park the truck, and climb into a dozer to push gravel, clear brush, or shape ground.

A lot of that work was tied to cut lines, carving paths through the bush, or reclamation jobs, where we’d restore the land after projects were finished. Reclamation wasn’t glamorous work, but it was honest. There was satisfaction in taking a torn-up patch of land and returning it to something close to what it had been before. Between the trucks and the machines, I stayed busy, kept the bills paid, and kept food on the table.

Through it all, my family was at the center of everything. My wife, Debbie, was my partner in every sense. She handled paperwork, organized the business, and kept things running smoothly whether I was home or away. She raised our kids, managed the household, and still found time to keep the business side in order. Without her, I wouldn’t have been able to do what I did.

Our kids grew up around the business. Doug and Cam learned to drive young, and Melissa followed in Debbie’s footsteps, keeping the details in order. Everyone pitched in. When I was away, they held things together. When I was home, we worked side by side. It was never just “my” career; it was a family business from the beginning, and each of us had a hand in making it succeed.

My dad also played a huge role in shaping my life. He passed away in 1981, far too young, but the time I had with him left me with lessons I carried all my life. I remember working alongside him in the 1950s, hauling gravel. We’d stop at a little store on the way to the pit, buy a ring of kielbasa and orange pop, and roast it over a fire before loading up again. They were simple moments, but they meant everything. He was my father, my mentor, and my best friend.

By 2004, after decades of hauling, running machines, and spending years on cut lines and in camps, I thought it was time to retire. I’d put in my share of miles, worked long days, and built something to be proud of.

But retirement didn’t last long. Trucking wasn’t just a career to me, it was in my blood. I missed the rhythm of the work, the feeling of climbing into a truck, and the satisfaction of a hard day done right. So it wasn’t long before I was back at it, this time taking a new direction.

Together as a family, we transitioned into the gravel industry, putting my experience and equipment to use differently. That led naturally into concrete, and before long, we had added that side of the business as well. Gravel and concrete became our new focus, and they carried us into the next chapter of our lives.

Today, Debbie and I work alongside our kids, Doug, Cam, and Melissa in the gravel and concrete business. We’re in our seventies now, and it means the world to us to see the next generation carrying things forward.

What started with my dad, passed down to me, and now continues through our children, has become more than just a business; it’s a family legacy. The trucks, the machines, the long days of hard work, they’re part of who we are. Each of our kids brings their own strengths, ideas, and energy, but the foundation remains the same: honesty, hard work, and pride in a job well done.

There’s a deep satisfaction in looking back over all these years, from my first days driving with my dad, through the long hauls and camp jobs, through the string of machines and reclamation work, through gravel and concrete, and seeing how it has all come full circle.

I set out to make a life in trucking, and along the way, I built not only a career but also a family business that will last beyond me. That’s the greatest reward of all: knowing the road doesn’t end here, but keeps going with the next generations.

It’s been a good life. Hard at times, sure, but always worth it. Trucking gave me independence, friendships, and a chance to build something lasting with my family. It taught me the value of hard work and the importance of staying true to yourself.

If I had the chance to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.