Or the lag screw. Or the logging spike. Something long, sturdy, pointed, and probably made of steel. Whatever it was, it did a number on the Bolt’s left rear wheel, and after that it was – literally – all downhill until the wheel and tire could be replaced.
The trip had started out so nicely. We were on a two-day circuit of one of Oregon’s premiere waterfall routes: up the Rogue River to Diamond Lake, then down the North Umpqua to Roseburg, where we planned to pick up Interstate 5 for the 100-mile return to our home in Medford. The North Umpqua River, especially, is heaven for waterfall-lovers, with numerous falls both on the river itself and on many of its tributaries. So the plan was to spend most of our two days on the North Umpqua, with an overnight in a cabin at a small resort, roughly in the center of the most prolific group of falls, whose owner promised us access to an RV slot where we could recharge the car – the only place where it would make a difference that we were driving on electrons instead of gasoline.
All of this went according to plan – up to a point. That point came shortly before noon on the second day, and when it came, it came quite literally. I’ll save what happened before that for another blog post: here’s what happened then, and afterward.
We were headed west – downstream – a few miles beyond the tiny community of Dry Creek. The road was dry and beckoning in the bright sunshine. You don’t rush down the curvy, gorgeous North Umpqua highway (Oregon 138) – not if you’ve got any aesthetic sense whatsoever – so I was doing about 45. We were discussing what falls we would visit that afternoon, and both of us had our eyes on the road. Suddenly there was a loud BANG! and a simultaneous jolt. I looked quickly at the tire-pressure warning light. It was glowing bright orange. The low-tire-pressure screen came on in the middle of the speedometer, and we could watch the pressure dropping. All the way to zero. Neither of us had seen anything on the road, and I couldn’t see anything in the rear-view mirror, either. I decided the tire must have spontaneously blown.
There was a cliff up from the road on the right, and a cliff down to the rapids of the river on the left. Absolutely no place to pull off. I turned on the flashers and kept going on the flat, slowly. Eventually, a small turnout appeared on the left. I crossed the oncoming traffic lane into it and pulled to a halt. And there we were. No cell service. No OnStar (General Motors’ emergency responding system) either. No way at all to get a message out for help.
Except the old-fashioned way, of course. The flashers were still on. I got out and lifted the hood, even though there was nothing wrong under there. Cars continued to zip by. I tried a tentative wave – and the first of several angels we were to encounter that afternoon slowed quickly and pulled in beside us. Wearing camos and driving a new 4-wheel-drive pickup so big I had to look up to talk to him through the driver’s side window – and I’m six feet tall. The woman beside him looked concerned. So did the angel. “You got a problem?” he asked.
I explained the situation. The angel checked his phone. “I don’t have service, either,” he said. “I usually have it at Dry Creek. Who do you want me to call?” We settled on calling a tow truck; he drove his truck around the car on the river side – where I didn’t think there was room – and they wheeled on up the road.
Fifteen minutes later, they were back. He handed me a card for Roseburg Towing – where he got it I have no idea, unless he always carries them. “I called these people,” he said. “There’s a truck on its way. I made sure they sent one you can ride in with the driver.” He drove around the car on the river side again and disappeared back up the road. I turned off the flashers and closed the hood, and we settled down to wait.
It took an hour and a half, but a flatbed tow truck finally arrived, piloted by a wiry young man named Jack who might have been at least part Native American. He loaded the car onto the back and us into the cab, and we settled down for the long ride down to Roseburg. Jack had a quick smile and a gift for keeping conversation going – clearly another angel in disguise. If I’d had any doubts on that point, they evaporated when he told us he wasn’t going to drop the car until he was sure it was at a place that had our rather rare tire in stock, or at least a workable substitute. It took him three tries, in various parts of Roseburg. Finally, at the local Big O tire store, our third angel – Chad – assured Jack (and us) that he’d find a way to get us home to Medford. Jack carefully set the Bolt down, accepted my signature on the Visa slip and our profound thanks, and drove off.
Chad frowned at the tire. “I’m pretty sure you hit something,” he said. “I don’t think it just blew. These low-rolling-resistance tires are supposed to always be replaced by the same thing. We don’t have one, and we can’t get one in until Wednesday. But this is an emergency, right? We’ll put a regular tire of the same size on, and that’ll get you home. Might affect your range a bit.” He told us it would take about 30 minutes. It was already 4 pm.
Fifteen minutes later, he was back – rolling the defunct tire on its wheel. “I’ve got some bad news,” he said. “The wheel is cracked.” He pointed to a big pimple on the inside of the wheel, clearly made by a blow from something hard and sharp on the wheel’s road side. Bolt? Lag screw? Spike? Whatever it was, was long gone. “Usually, it’ll stay in the tire,” Chad said. “This is really weird. I can’t put a tire on this wheel, and I don’t have any wheels in stock that will fit. But I do have a buddy who works for the Chevy dealer. I’ll call him and see if there’s anything he can do.”
And that’s where Angel No. 4 comes into the story. I never met him, or learned his name, but we have him to thank for coming up with – and implementing – the only solution that could possibly have worked, short of waiting through Memorial Day weekend in Roseburg. The dealer had nine new Bolts on the lot. If we wanted, he would check to see if he could take a wheel off one of those and sell it to us. They’d replace it with the tire and wheel that would have been ordered for us, using the money we would have spent on the order.
“It won’t be cheap,” Chad said, relaying the message. I no longer cared. “Do it,” I said.
45 minutes later, we were on our way. The car rolled nicely, and the late-afternoon sun was warm. The pressure gauge for the left rear tire still read zero, but Chad assured us it would come up as soon as the car figured out it was dealing with a new sensor. Which it didn’t, but that was a minor thing. By 7 pm, we were home. I cracked a beer in honor of our four angels.
I’ve tried since to figure out why we didn’t see whatever it was that was waiting in the road to do the tire in. The only thing I can think of is that it was lying end-on to us, and was close to the color of the pavement. Such a small thing could easily go unnoticed. The front tire, running over it, must have flipped it up; the rear tire then impaled itself. Drag on the object’s head by the pavement would pull it back out of the hole, and it would be end-on and invisible again.
Whatever it was, and however, it had happened: after looking at the wheel, I could no longer blame the tire. Tires are the Bolt’s weak spot, but this time it wasn’t their fault. It could have happened to any car. This time, it happened to us.
And there is one more thing that should be reported: it’s a bit woo-woo and not easily explained, so I’ll just state it without comment. Ten minutes from home, my phone rang, and I picked it up via the car’s Bluetooth. It was my sister, Judith. I told her I was driving; she said I could call back, and hung up. When I reached her later and explained what had happened, she seemed unsurprised. “I was just calling to check on you,” she said. “I had a sudden feeling that you might be in trouble. It had something to do with your car.”
OK, maybe two words of comment. Fifth angel. I’m a rational person, not given to speculating about ESP and New-Age psychic phenomena, so I’m just going to leave that thing right there.