What seemed like a powerful dust devil at first now had the look of a small explosion. A quarter-mile down the road, a column of dust swirled and billowed up from behind a blind corner. The posted Nevada speed limit was around 70mph, but I’m grateful that I decelerated ahead of time, because once I came around the corner I had to slam on the brakes immediately. Scattered across the road for the next hundred feet were satellite dishes, shovels, cables and a trail of electronic debris that led to a severely mauled pickup truck. It lay perpendicular to the road, with axles bent and fluid leaking from underneath the hood.

Then I saw the driver. A young, Hispanic kid staggered out of the wreckage and collapsed on the side of the road. I pulled over and jumped out. This truck had passed me a half-hour earlier, in a hurry to get from the Jarbridge Mountains back to civilization. I was surprised to see that it had come to rest on its tires, because there were skid marks and gouges in the asphalt to indicate that the truck had hit the sandy shoulder, flipped, and barrel-rolled at least three times before coming to rest in the middle of the road.

I ran to the driver and asked if he was all right.   Blood dotted his forehead and shoulder, but he sat up, holding his forehead and pointed back at the truck, saying that we should probably turn off that engine. Indeed, a puddle of fluid lay below the vehicle, and the truck was idling loudly. This might not be good.

At the time, I didn’t know if the liquid was gasoline or radiator fluid, but I ran to the driver-side door with an unsettling feeling that this truck could blow up at any second. The door opened with minimum resistance, and I turned off the ignition. Crisis averted?  Now I had to see to the victim.

The young man had lay down again, and found myself fighting a rising panic, knowing that I had the responsibility of being the first responder on the scene. I scrambled mentally to recall any knowledge of first aid. Thankfully, he was conscious, if moderately disoriented, and I could see no obvious blood pooling anywhere. Part of his shirt was saturated with blood near his shoulder, though, and he had cuts above his brow and on the top of his head.

I learned the man’s name – Eric – and I asked him to run through the list of the injuries of which he was currently aware. Although he’d worn his seatbelt, it seemed that part of the roof had caved in when the vehicle had been somersaulting, impacting his head and shoulder. Eric had been alone, driving his satellite TV installation truck, when he hit the sand on the side of the road and his steering wheel locked. He said he closed his eyes at that point and simply prayed for survival. Seeing how crushed the roof on the passenger side had become, I’d say he’d been incredibly lucky to walk away from the accident as he had. And I’m sure we were both grateful that no one had been riding shotgun.