- The tropical trees give it away: But my tire was that flat!
It’s not true that I live a high-risk life and seek opportunities to extend my capabilities. Not true at all. In fact, my “adventure” yesterday afternoon was rather tame, as such adventures go.
After meeting with church members attending a campout at the Farewell Bend State Park, I felt an urge to find a forest and enjoy the Oregon mountains. So I drove north on the freeway to Durkee and then took a road called “Burnt Creek Canyon Road,” which soon turned from pavement to gravel. The creek was wide much of the way, with meadows and a few trees. I talked to a man in a pickup truck with Oregon plates. He said his place was just up the road and advised turning right at the end of the road I was on.
So I did, and a while later I came to a road marked “Baker” and pointing to the right. Off I went. I saw a sign pointing to Baker, 25 or so miles away. That road is beautiful. Smooth, wide, and well paved, but lots of tight curves. I felt like I was in a park. I didn’t see any traffic.
Breathtaking. The road was hilly and curvy, but flawlessly paved and marked. Two wide lanes with a double yellow stripe down the middle. Obviously a no-passing road. Pretty soon I came to a sign informing me I was now in the Wallowa-Whitman National Forest. I didn’t see any camp sites, but soaked in the beauty. There was no traffic.
Then as I was coming out of a sharp turn I saw a smooth rock right in my path. A more severe swerve might have toppled the car, and my feeble attempt didn’t miss the rock. It wrecked my front right tire.
Then I remembered…No traffic on this road. I wondered how long I would sit there. I unloaded my trunk and started getting things ready, when a pickup with an older man and woman drove up. The man got the jack to work, but just as the tire cleared the ground, the car lurched forward a few inches and broke the jack.
He decided to try his jack and wasn’t being very successful. Just then another car drove by with a young guy and three gals, all dressed nicely. The guy helped the man set the tools properly and got the tire up and changed it. Of course the “change” meant putting on the wimpy wheel and driving slowly into town, 15 miles away.
Got into town. By now it was about 6:30, and Saturday, and nothing was open. The guys at the ”Humble” service station told me I could get service at Les Schwab but would have to pay an after-hours fee. I called the number and met the service guy at Les Schwab.
The fee? $90. I just about fell over. Lou, the young fellow who met me at Les Schwab, agreed it was way too much. They’d just raised it that week, he said, I think they tripled it from $30.
I tried to call my bro Dave and my nephew Cliff, but no answer. I wanted advice. Should I drive slowly home, 100 miles, at night by myself, from Baker to Caldwell? The guys at the service station didn’t think that was a good idea. Lou told me I’d have to drive slowly and stop every now and then to let the tire cool down. If I was careful, I could probably make it home, but if anything went wrong, I’d be in real trouble. He didn’t think it was the best choice.
A friend of Lou’s and a gal stopped by, and I asked him what he thought. He had strong opinons. He said I could probably make it, but still, if it were him, he said, he’d probably pay the $90. And he definitely would not let “her” drive 100 miles alone at night with the wimpy wheel.
So I paid $90 plus $50 for a used tire and came on home. Now I think I made the wrong choice. I could have limped home just fine.
