Last weekend when Emma and I were traveling back from Noni and Popi's we came upon the aftermath of a motorcycle accident.
I could see the flashing blue lights through the trees before we actually got to the scene. When we approached we could see the motorcycle laying in the middle of the eastbound lane. The motorcyclist was laying to the side of the road. I couldn't make sense of his legs. He was leaning his upper body up and talking to a deputy, who was bent over him. There was a woman standing there too; her car was parked on the other side of the road. The ambulance hadn't arrived yet. In our area it takes a long, long time for them to arrive at a scene because we only have two volunteer squads covering 416 square miles. And it was Memorial Day weekend.
All the way up the mountain I prayed that the motorcyclist would be all right and that the ambulance would arrive soon. Finally, at the top of the mountain I passed them heading the other way towards the accident scene.
I had to wait until our weekly newspaper came out on Thursday to find out what happened. There was no article, just a short report in the "police blotter." "Responded to an accident. Motorcycle struck bear."