“What am I going to do now?” This is the question I asked myself as I stood alongside Arizona state highway 160, just east of the township of Kayenta. My nerves were shot, and I was in a fix.

It was early September, and I’d woken up that day in the Ashley National Forest, in southeastern Utah near Flaming Gorge. I was camping off grid, and it was cold. Outside temperatures were close to freezing, and it wasn’t much warmer inside. My heater shut off about midnight when the RV battery died, so it was a frigid 46 degrees when I woke.

I was ready to move south. My enthusiasm for seeing sights and exploring natural wonders had evaporated days before, somewhere south of Idaho Falls. My only remaining desire was to get to my next campsite, over 500 miles away in the Coconino National Forest outside Flagstaff, Arizona.

Perhaps if I hadn’t been so weary that morning, I would have realized I was trying to cover too much distance in too little time. Perhaps if I had consulted my paper atlas, I would have realized I was going through Douglas Pass, a nail-biting Colorado highway that cuts through the mountains with hairpin switchbacks on steep grades.

The drive wasn’t pleasant, but I made steady progress. I navigated the steep roads and switchbacks carefully through the mountains. And much to the chagrin of the people behind me, I drove down the rough washboard highways slowly. Finally, I hit the Arizona state line. The roads didn’t get any better, but it was comforting to know that I’d made it to the proper state. All that remained was getting to the proper city. I still had a chance of arriving at the forest before dark, which was important because I needed to find a place to park in an untamed meadow filled with boulders.

Then my trailer tire exploded. It made a popping noise, like the world’s largest biscuits in a can, and the right side of my trailer flew up off the ground. I could feel it pulling the truck, straining against the hitch, but fortunately everything stayed upright. I immediately took my foot off the accelerator, letting the big diesel engine slow the truck and trailer to a crawl. In my side mirror, I could see shreds of tread and ribbons of steel belts flying out from under my camper, in every direction.

I turned on my hazard lights and pulled off the highway. The line of cars behind me continued on as I got out and stood alone, assessing the situation and asking myself the question–“What am I going to do now?” Luckily, only one tire exploded on the right side, the rear one. I had the equipment I needed to fix this—one spare tire, a hydraulic jack, and the appropriate sockets and wrenches.

My head was spinning, processing a multitude of scenarios for changing the tire. I’d never changed a camper tire before, and I was parked on a slope. I wanted to lower the leveling jacks to raise the right side, but the camper’s computer locked the system, saying that the camper was sitting at too dangerous an angle to use the jacks.

My mind was frazzled, and I struggled to stay focused. I noticed that I had two bars of service on my cell phone, so I decided to call upon of my three RV roadside service packages. I wondered how long I’d have to wait for roadside service and if it was still possible to make Flagstaff before dark. I didn’t have to wonder long. The roadside service provider informed me that none of the tow truck drivers in the area were willing to come to my location to change the tire.

It took me some time to comprehend my situation, and in fact, I didn’t piece it together until a local family stopped to help me. They pulled off the road in an old Chevy pickup, towing a trailer with an even older car on it. The father peeked his head around the corner of my camper as I stood holding my phone in one hand, my head in the other. His son and son-in-law stood behind him, while his wife, daughter, and grandchildren waited in the truck.

“Would you like us to help you?” he asked me as I stared at him. “If you have a spare, we can change the tire for you.”

“I would truly appreciate your help,” I told him, still dazed and rattled. The men set to work as my head continued to spin. I tried to engage in conversation and express the gratitude I felt, but meaningful words escaped me.

“Do you know where you are?” the father asked. “You’re in the Navajo Nation. Kayenta is a few miles down the road, but no one will come to help you. Not here.”

The man explained that he and his family lived a few miles down the highway. They moved in together—the father, mother, son, daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren—because his place still had running water. Much of the Navajo Nation has no running water. The infrastructure is poor, and years of uranium mining wreaked havoc on the land, water, and people.

“Our trailer is too small for so many people,” the father said, “but it’s what we have.” I wasn’t sure what to say in response to this, so I said nothing. We stood in silence, appraising the younger men’s progress on the tire, and eventually we resumed casual conversation.

Soon enough, the tire was changed, and the family got back into their truck and drove away. It seemed like only a few minutes to me, but when I pulled back onto the highway, it was already starting to get dark. I continued on, driving for three more hours to reach my campsite.

It was pitch black and past 10:00 pm when I pulled into the Coconino National Forest. Somehow, I got myself parked in the meadow without hitting any trees or boulders. Indeed, it’s just as well that I couldn’t see what was going on, because I realized the next morning that the other trailer tire on that side was also damaged.  It had several cuts in the sidewall, undoubtedly caused by the razor-sharp ribbons of metal that hit the tire when the one behind it exploded.

I wasn’t quite sure how I drove the last 200 miles without another blowout, but I decided my camper was going no further without new tires. This is how I met my neighbor, Norm. But that’s a different story for another day.

Let’s go back to the family who changed my tire. By most standards, they were poor, but what they gave me on the side of that highway was invaluable—kindness, compassion, and help. Human kindness still exists. People still help each other, but only when they choose to do so. We can choose to be kind, or we can avert our eyes. Each moment offers a new choice, and a new chance.

We all have something to give. Even when our house is too small for everyone who needs to live there. Even when the standard of privilege is running water that may or may not have been contaminated by uranium. Will we give what we can? And what will we get in return?

I wanted to thank the family who stopped to help me, but in that moment, I was shocked and disoriented. I could barely offer coherent conversation, much less meaningful thanks. When I saw them piling back into their truck to drive away, I offered them the only thing I could think to give them—a blessing.

I blessed them—the father, the mother, the son, the daughter, the son-in-law, and the grandchildren. And with the retelling of the story, I bless them again, these people who stopped for no other reason than knowing I needed help. May their lives be filled with joy and meaning. May their food and water be clean and nourishing. May their home be happy, if a bit crowded. And I bless you too, dear reader. May people stop to help you when you need it.

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