I had just purchased my Cadillac Seville and thought I ought to take it for a “test drive” so we could get to know each other.
I headed toward San Bernardino, but the ride was so smooth that I somehow ended up on the road to Yosemite. I had not been there since 1963, when as a summer school student at Berkeley the university sponsored a trip and I was totally overwhelmed by its natural beauty.
I have no idea why I had never gone back, but here it was October 1976 and I was in a state of bliss, singing “Who Knows Where the Time Goes” along with Judy Collins on the car’s eight-track.
All of a sudden I was aware that as I was entering the park, once again overwhelmed by its majesty, the smoothness had been replaced by a very sudden bumpiness.
I pulled over, as did a man in a truck, with a gun rack on the back and a painted window of cavorting deer.
The serenity of the setting blocked out any fear I might have had, as this stranger approached me and said, “I see you have a flat tire. Do you have a spare?”
“I have no idea” I replied. “It’s my new car.” I popped the trunk and discovered that the “spare tire” came with a can of air to inflate it, but that my fancy rims required a power drill. I remain convinced that the magic of the park was what guided this stranger to my aid.
“I’m coming back from a camping trip,” he said. “I have a power drill.”
Within minutes, the tire had been inflated and my benefactor assured me that I could continue on my journey to explore the grandeur of Yosemite with no problem.
I thanked him profusely and indeed the remainder of my drive through the park was serene.
Ruth Kramer Ziony