two minutes from tragedy

Our drive to Lake Powell is usually about 6 hours. With 6 kids and 4 vehicles caravanning, it was tracking to be more like 7 and a half hours. Then we bumped into construction, more construction so we pulled over for a couple of minutes to wait for Scott's mom and brother and then we took off again, promptly lost cell service, and then one more set of taillights greeted us with their warning gleam. 

This time it was different.

We had barely put the car in park when we saw smoke coming from just ahead. It was a wreck and it looked like a bad one. Scott ran up to see if he could help, and to make sure that the cars involved weren’t anyone in our family who were several minutes ahead of us. When he came back to our truck, all he could do was shake his head while tears streamed down his face.

A black SUV, just like the one his brother drives, was flipped on its side blocking both lanes of traffic. What used to be a Lexus was off to the side of the road, hood smashed, engine in the trunk and the driver’s body tossed on the asphalt 10 feet from the car. If there was anyone else in the car, you wouldn't know it. We all hoped he was diving alone. The boat that used to be attached to the SUV was upside down in the grassy ravine, trailer twisted like a pretzel another dozen yards away at the end of a treasure chest of coolers, bags and lifejackets. And then there were the bleeding children, screaming adults and the signature tennis shoe perched in the middle of the road. Right next to the dead man.

No survivors. Not surprising.
Our truck is right behind the RV at the right of this photo.

We were the sixth car from the accident. A couple of minutes either way - like those two minutes we pulled over to wait for his mom and brother - and things could have been totally different. We could be joyfully packing up our houseboat ready for a week of fun, oblivious to any tragedy. We could have been in the middle of it, veering wildly hoping to avoid the oncoming car and failing, lives completely changed and ruined in a matter of seconds. Or we could be sitting in the 100 degree heat for two-plus hours, blessing our luck, thanking god, that we are all fine. Sweaty, but fine. It's not often that you start a vacation staring death and drama and Life Flight in the face. It sure makes you appreciate all of those little strokes of fate and luck that keep you safe and happy.

I was so impressed by the first responders – doctors, EMTs, even my brother in law who is trained in some emergency techniques for his job as a river guide – and for the people who dug through thier cars to find first aid kits that might, hopefully, help save a life or ease some suffering. 

Sadly, this guy let his kids get way closer
to the carnage before the helicopter arrived.
And he was not alone.
Lots of little people saw broken and dead bodies.

And I was equally disgusted by all the gawkers who wandered up to see the carnage with big gulps and cameras, by the parents who let their small children run right up to the scene of the crash. (Hey, assholes...You need some popcorn? See any good gore? Yeah. There are REAL DEAD PEOPLE right there and you're acting like it's a parade.) And by the man who was in such a hurry that he recklessly flew past slow moving vehicles not caring that getting wherever he was headed was not somehow just as important as the life of a man and his family headed the other direction.

I guess that’s the thing about life, isn’t it? For every instance of bad luck, there is good luck. For every hero, there’s a villain. For each blessing, there may be tragedy.

Thank you, thank you to whatever higher spirit convinced us to pull over for a couple of minutes so we weren't the SUV in the middle of the wreck and the road and the carnage. Sometimes you just never know what a difference two minutes can make.