Pro-Trucker Magazine

I’ll probably sound like one of those young guys who swears he’s been driving in reverse longer than most folks have been going forward — or that I’ve seen the worst roads with my eyes closed. Truth is, it just feels like I’ve been driving that long. I’ve only had my Class 1 for about sixteen years, but that’s been long enough to collect more memories, friends, and lessons than I ever thought possible. From early-morning coffees at dusty card-lock stations to late-night beers in small-town bars, I’ve met some of the best people you’ll ever find.

I was born and raised around Red Deer, Alberta. My whole family seemed to live and breathe trucking — uncles, aunts, grandpas, and of course, my dad, Darrell. He’s the one who helped me get my Class 1. He taught me everything I know — but, as he likes to remind me, not everything he knows. That also makes me a third-generation propane hauler.

Once I got my license, Dad bought a second truck for his little company so I could start hauling propane Super B’s. Yep, at the young age of eighteen I was running southern B.C. with a load of propane. No harm, no foul. A few weeks later, my grandpa Orin decided he wanted to go for a ride with me. It was a short trip, but it’s one I’ll never forget — even though I’m pretty sure he wasn’t too impressed with how fast I was going. I remember glancing over and seeing him gripping the dash tighter than a vise, but he never said a word. That quiet pride meant everything to me.

A few years later, I decided it was time to try owning my own truck. D Our November/December Rig of the Month driver is Corey Wiersma, a 3rd￾generation propane hauler from Lacombe, Alberta. This is his story. Corey Wiersma RIG OF THE MONTH by John White Pictures by: David Benjakschek www.wowtrucks.com NOVEMBER / DECEMBER 2025 Pro-Trucker Driver’s Choice Magazine www.driverschoice.ca 9 & B Wiersma Trucking helped me out by selling me one of theirs so I could get started. I was twenty-two, proud as hell, rolling in a single-axle propane body-job truck contracted to Mutual Propane out of Edmonton. I’ve been hauling for them ever since.

Over the years, I upgraded from that little single to a tandem, and in 2020, I bought a brand-new Western Star 4700. Like most new rigs, I hated it at first. Everything beeped, buzzed, or told me what to do. But now I love the stupid thing. She’s been good to me. And if you’ve seen Super Troopers, you’ll get a laugh out of this — my unit number is 91.

I’ve thought about growing the business — adding a couple of trucks and maybe hiring a driver or two — but for now it’s just me and my Western Star. I also put my pickup to work. Got a pilot-truck sign on it now so I can show all the “wide boys” where to go and how to get there. On slower weeks I do a few hot-shot runs just to keep busy. Propane work is mostly winter, so during summer I sometimes help out a good buddy of mine in Innisfail who runs his own small fleet. My dad works there too, and when we end up on the same job it makes for some good laughs and a few stories I probably shouldn’t repeat in print.

Then there’s Hector — my righthand man and four-legged co-pilot. I got him from a friend about eight years ago, and he’s been with me ever since. Hector’s a rock dog. Some folks don’t believe me until they see it, but this dog will bring you back the exact same rock, even if you throw it into a wheat field, tall grass, or straight into a lake. He’ll dunk his whole head under water for an uncomfortably long time just to fetch it.

He rides with me everywhere. If he’s not in the truck, I feel like I’m missing part of myself. And when I get home after leaving him behind for a day, he lets me hear about it.

He’s also one hell of a backup spotter. One time, I was on an oilfield site with a bunch of white hats walking around. I let Hector out for a stretch while I moved the truck a few yards to the next tank. As I started backing up, the site consultant came running at me waving his arms, madder than a wet hen, yelling that I needed a spotter and that I’d never be allowed back on site.

So I climbed down, pointed to the back of the truck, and there sat Hector — twenty feet behind the trailer, eyes locked on my mirror, doing the job perfectly. The poor guy tripped over his words for a full minute. I just laughed and gave Hector a big ol’ bull stick that night. He earned it.

It’s always been my dream to restore an old Freightliner cabover — the classic square-nose kind — and use it to haul my toy hauler or help some farmer move something sketchy down a gravel road.

One day Dad found a 1984 Freightliner cabover for sale near Calgary. He said, “That’s the truck your grandpa used to drive for ICG hauling propane.” So I drove down to see it. It was sitting in an abandoned farmyard, hadn’t run in a decade, rust on the frame, mice in the cab — the whole deal. But something about it felt right. I bought it and hauled it home, figuring I’d surprise Grandpa.

A while later, he and Grandma came down to visit — on my birthday, no less. I told him to come see my “new” work truck out in the shop. When he walked in and saw that old Freightliner sitting there, he froze. Then he called me a few choice words that had everyone laughing.

He circled the truck slowly, running his hand along the hood, telling stories about long hauls to Fort McMurray and Yellowknife — weeks at a time in that little 24-inch sleeper. That kind of trucking just doesn’t happen anymore. We climbed up inside, him in the driver’s seat, me riding shotgun, and sat there for what felt like an hour. He told stories I’d never heard before — about icy nights, blown tires, and good friends long gone.

Then he looked up and noticed a broken light on the cab roof. “I put that up there when logbooks came in,” he said. I’d planned on throwing that light out, but not anymore. It’s staying on that truck for good.

Grandpa’s passed on since then, but one day I’m going to restore that Freightliner and work his memory right into the paint job. He told me I could paint it any color I wanted — said, “It’s your truck now.” But I know the truth: it’ll always be his truck, and I’ll always be trying to catch up to the miles he ran in his lifetime.

Sometimes people ask why I keep doing this. Why keep hauling propane when the costs are high, the roads are rough, and the margins are thin? Truth is, I don’t really know how to do anything else — and I don’t want to. Trucking gets in your blood. It’s a mix of freedom, challenge, and stubborn pride.

There’s something peaceful about rolling down a lonely stretch of highway before sunrise, when it’s just you, the hum of the engine, and a dog snoring in the passenger seat. You can think about everything or nothing at all. The world feels bigger, quieter, and somehow fairer when you’re out there moving freight from point A to B.

Sure, there are hard days — waiting for hours at a customer’s gate, chasing invoices, dealing with repairs that cost more than your last month’s profit. But then there are the small wins — a good cup of coffee in a warm shop, a friendly wave from another driver, or a sunset that makes you forget all the headaches.

Owning your own truck is a gamble. Everyone who does it knows these things cost more than they make. But we keep doing it anyway. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s madness. Maybe it’s both. But when that engine fires up and you hit the highway, all the worries fade for a while.

Looking back, I realize how much of my life has been shaped by the road — the good times, the long nights, the people I’ve met, and the memories I’ve made. The road teaches you patience, problem-solving, and the art of keeping calm when things go sideways. It teaches respect too — for weather, for other drivers, and for the machine that gets you home.

There’s an old saying Dad used to tell me: “The road doesn’t care who you are — it treats everyone the same.” I’ve learned that’s true. It doesn’t matter if you’re hauling propane, logs, or groceries — when you’re out there, you’re just another set of wheels trying to make a living.

Trucking has changed a lot since Grandpa’s days — more rules, more tech, more costs — but the heart of it is still the same. It’s about pride in your work and taking care of the people who depend on you. It’s about family too — the ones waiting at home and the ones you meet along the way.

I don’t know what the future holds for me or for trucking in general. Maybe one day I’ll have a small fleet, or maybe I’ll just keep rolling solo with Hector riding shotgun. What I do know is that I’ll keep chasing miles and memories as long as I can climb into the cab.I don’t know what the future holds for me or for trucking in general. Maybe one day I’ll have a small fleet, or maybe I’ll just keep rolling solo with Hector riding shotgun. What I do know is that I’ll keep chasing miles and memories as long as I can climb into the cab.

Trucking isn’t glamorous. It’s long hours, cold mornings, bad coffee, and a seat that feels like home. But it’s also freedom — the kind that only comes from being behind the wheel, watching the horizon roll toward you one mile at a time.

So yeah, that’s me in a nutshell — just a guy out there trying to make a dollar so he can chase the next one. For every mile of highway, there’s two miles of ditch, so if you’re on the road for a third of the time, you’re doing pretty good.

Here’s to all the drivers still chasing miles, fixing what breaks, and keeping the country moving — one load, one story, and one memory at a time.