Column: After a close call on the road, thankfulness for God’s protection

It was the summer of 1986.

My three daughters, my mother and I embarked on a journey we’d never forget.

Mom and I planned a two-week trip up the coast that would take us into Oregon for camping on pristine beaches. We’d done that when I was a kid, and Mom and I wanted to relive it with our girls.

My wife, Hedy, remained home to teach summer school.

I rented a tent trailer and we saddled up. I pulled the trailer with our Mercury station wagon.

Jenn was 15, Jade 11 and Melissa 8.

The first leg of our journey was a seven-hour stint from Costa Mesa to Yosemite. We planned to leave at 9 a.m. and arrive by 4 p.m. I broke a clasp on the trailer when forcing it shut, however, and we couldn’t leave until early afternoon. We didn’t arrive until 10 p.m.

We spent two nights in Yosemite, then left for the coast. The plan was to cover 370 miles and reach Richardson Grove State Park in seven hours. I’d camped there as a youngster. The spectacular park sits on the South Fork of the Eel River, seven miles from Garberville, Calif.

After a breakfast of grandma’s pancakes, we were on our way. We hit Sacramento at noon and exited I-5 at the small town of Williams an hour later. We found a small park in town where we feasted on grandma’s chili dogs.

We pulled out of Williams at 1:45 p.m. and headed west on Highway 20 for Clearlake.

Out of town, 20 became an undulating two-lane highway, ascending gradually into the hills.

A dozen miles out of Williams, it happened.

I noticed in the rearview mirror a large diesel truck a quarter of a mile behind us, shimmering in the heat, pulling two trailers loaded with hay bales and traveling at a high rate of speed. It then dipped ominously into a recess in the highway, out of my view.

In the meantime, ahead of us two recreational vehicles pulled onto the highway from a siding, forcing me to slow to a crawl. My front bumper was mere feet from the second vehicle’s rear bumper.

Then I remembered the hay truck.

I checked the rearview. Sure enough, it was rising from the dip only a hundred feet behind me and going like a bat outta you-know-where. We were stalled and helpless. I said nothing. I didn’t want to alarm the girls. The truck was on us.

I heard the driver slam on his brakes and he crashed into the tent trailer. The trailer exploded and went partially through the rear window of the station wagon. With glass flying, we plowed into the RV ahead. The girls screamed.

I waited for us to be crushed.

My mom, in the passenger’s seat, looked past me and saw huge hay bales streaking by the window.

Fortunately, there was not a vehicle in the oncoming lane or the truck would have certainly gone over us, avoiding a head-on. Instead, he gave the tent trailer a severe blow as he swerved into the other lane.

The guy sailed past us — without stopping. But we were alive.

I climbed out of the wrecked vehicle. Standing in the middle of the highway, with hands on hips, I watched as the truck disappeared into the hills.

Good Samaritans from the two RVs came to our rescue. The temperature was over a hundred degrees and they took the girls inside and gave them juice. Someone called the California Highway Patrol.

After taking his report, the officer drove us to Williams. We checked into Motel 6, and the car was towed to an auto shop. A waitress at Denny’s later told us that she’d heard about the accident and went by the shop to see our car.

That first night, Mom and the girls slept well. I didn’t. I slipped out of bed and got down on my knees to thank God for his protection.

The three girls today are the mothers of my eight grandchildren.

We stayed at Motel 6 for four nights (I had to work out details with the mechanic and my insurance company). The girls had the motel pool almost exclusively to themselves — all day every day. Best vacation ever!

We then caught a Greyhound to Anaheim.

I discovered the name of the trucking company but elected not to sue.

I didn’t need a settlement. I had my girls.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.