“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”
It was late summer and my friend Audrey and I rushed around the house, hurriedly packing supplies for our camping trip. We were behind schedule, and the light was disappearing fast.
Sleeping bags, snacks, tent? Check.
Water bottles, camera, keys? Check.
Socks, toothpaste, toothbrush?
Shoot, I forgot about my toothbrush.
Too late! We whizzed down the highway.
I soon realized the toothbrush was one of many things I had forgotten to pack. But I didn’t worry. I was in it for the fun, for the adventure! However, I was ill equipped for this trip, and even more, for disaster.
We arrived at our campsite at dusk. After s’mores and a sandhill crane sighting, we set up camp. Audrey brushed her teeth with my toothpaste (which I remembered to bring), and I, with no toothbrush of my own, did not.
Audrey and I were quite snug in our tent. Two girls, one dog, two sleeping bags, no bath. The next morning, we awoke, exchanged groggy “good morning’s” and had a discussion about God. Eventually, we peeled off our stuffy sleeping bags and packed up. Car full once again, we traversed up the rugged dirt “road” up to Murphy’s Lake. Deep slices of the steep road had been carved away by spring water rivulets and rock slides. Undaunted, I started the car, blasted Luke Combs, and accelerated. Up a particularly steep and boulder strewn curve, the truck was nearly turned sideways. Audrey looked up at me, tittering. But not to worry. After some skillful maneuvering, we made it past the worst curve. With that behind me, I felt like nothing could stop me. I was driving a huge truck up a mountain. No boyfriend, no brother, no parents.
I felt….. powerful.
With one hand on the wheel, a girl in the passenger seat, and dog in the back, I, grinning stupidly, asked:
“Is this what it feels like to be a man?”
I was about to be humbled.
Audrey and I parked by the lake and sat down to journal. At some point, Audrey walked back to the car to retrieve her jacket. As she did, two men hopped off their motorcycles and approached her. They asked: “Are you okay?” Audrey, confused, said yes. Why did they ask? They walked her to our truck, pointed, and said: “You have a flat tire!”
It was the worst flat tire I’ve ever seen. Whatever pierced the tire had sliced the PSI in half, leaving a ridiculously lumpy tire behind. There was no way we could safely drive on it.
It was the worst flat tire I’ve ever seen. Whatever pierced the tire had sliced the PSI in half, leaving a ridiculously lumpy tire behind. There was no way we could safely drive on it.
Wide eyed and staring, I blubbered something about the road being rough. I hadn’t noticed anything earlier! The two men asked us where our spare tire and tools were. I had no idea. This was my sister’s truck, not mine. Flashes of my dad showing me how to operate a jack tool flitted through my mind. But that was years ago, and I hadn’t listened that intently. My brain blared: “USELESS USELESS USELESS.” As Audrey and the men rummaged through the car, I felt another jolt of panic. When I had loaded the car the day before, I had seen a box that contained some oil canisters and assorted tools. I didn’t think we would need them, so I took the box out. I inwardly screamed at myself for being so stupid. What if those were the tools we needed to change the tire?
Thankfully, they weren’t. The two men combined a complex set of metal poles to unhook the spare tire, and then set up the jack. Audrey and I asked if there was anything we could do to help. The men kindly refused us and kept working. Within minutes, they had loosened the nut bolts, popped the flattened tire out, and secured the spare. I said thank you probably 20 times, my eyes darting between the ridiculously flat tire and the newly installed one.
The guilt in my stomach twisted. If it wasn’t for these incredible men, we could’ve been stuck, stranded, or worse. Neither of us knew how to change a truck tire. We were in a remote area. Human sightings were rare. I had neglected to bring a remote service communication device. We couldn’t fix the problem, nor call for help.
I was, as Alma writes, “compelled to be humble.”
While the flat tire situation ended up not being a disaster, it most certainly could have been. I made a vow to never again trivialize planning and safety gear.
I should’ve learned this lesson earlier. Audrey and I’s last solo expedition began with a bear encounter, ended with a court date, and started an ensuing legal drama that lasted for months. But that’s another story.
For now, I think I’ve learned my lesson.