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In my aim toward achieving complete environmentalist hypocrisy, I’ve been driving too much. I drove up to Salt Lake, back to Flag, down to Tucson and up to Torrey, Utah, making a big circle of the intermountain west with the tires of my car. My Rav4 is a hybrid, but it still only gets like 38 miles to the gallon. It still produces plenty of CO2. And, also, my Toyota has 56,782 miles on it, and I haven’t even paid off the loan yet. Still, driving is probably better than flying, and I was able to see my entire family and a bunch of friends, so I justify it and promise to pay my carbon tax by not eating red meat.

On one of these driving trips, my husband, Erik, our son and I went to visit my husband’s parents in Torrey, Utah for the Fourth of July, leaving our daughter behind to work at Chipotle and to manage the animals and water the garden and to hang out with her cooler-than-her-parents friends. Torrey is a small town, population about 300, right outside of Capitol Reef National Park. Although Utah, and especially Southwestern Utah, is as arid as Arizona, more streams flow from the green mountains down into the red rock lined canyons. We paddle boarded on the Forsyth Reservoir one of the days and fly fished on the Fremont every day. My son caught his first fish. My husband caught a bunch. Even I cast my line into the water because I could stand in cool, running water all day long. I may as well have a rod in my hand. I’m probably the only one who would eat a just-caught fish—what with my love of trout and my general hypocrisy about all things environmental.

The day we left Torrey, we packed the car, took the leftover chicken home because my in-laws would never eat it. As we drove out of the driveway, turned up the road and crested the hill, Erik slowed the car.

“Oh my god. What is that flying through the air?� he asked as he pulled the car over. I saw something yellow and blue lying on the ground. Erik stopped the car and we both flung our doors open and ran over. It was a man wearing a yellow shirt and blue jeans. He was bleeding. He wasn’t moving. Erik pointed to a hoverboard about 100 feet away.

“He must have hit the speed bump going very fast,� Erik figured.

We asked him if he was okay. He both shook his head and nodded. He tried to get up. He fell. Then, he started shaking. We knew to roll him on his side if he was seizing. Foam spilled from his mouth. He shook and shook and stopped and shook again. I rubbed his back. “It’s going to be okay,� I told him. Erik held his head, getting blood all over his fingers.

I didn’t know if Torrey had 911. I called my father-in-law to ask. I told him what happened. He said, "Yes. We do. Call.� Another car pulled up. The woman who works at The Chuckwagon pulled over. “We do have 911,� she confirmed as she joined our circle around the man.

I called. Tiffany answered. “He flew off his hoverboard. He seized.�

“For how long?�

I really didn’t know. It seemed very long and very short at the same time. “About a minute.�

She asked if he was bleeding. I said he definitely had blood on his head, but it wasn’t gushing. Still, she said to see if we could find a clean towel to staunch the bleeding. Erik drove back to his parent’s house for supplies while I stayed on the line.

“How long until an ambulance arrives?� I asked.

“It depends if they’re in Loa or Bicknell or Torrey.�

About one minute later, an EMT pulled up, extending our circle. He asked if we had something for the man’s head. The woman from the Chuckwagon produced a kid’s stuffed animal. I stood over the man because the sun was beating right on his face. I couldn’t do much, but I could provide shade.

The man kept trying to get up. The EMT asked him to take it easy. Then he asked him what day it was. He didn’t know. Asked his name. CJ. Asked if he had family. He pointed down the road. CJ said, “My grandma lives there.� By this time, my father-in-law had arrived. The EMT asked if he would go get the grandma. CJ’s BP was 154/98. The EMT said Life Flight was coming.

“I don’t want Life Flight,� CJ managed to say.

“Listen. You may have a brain bleed. We need to get an MRI. Stat.�

I suspected why he didn’t want Life Flight. Life Flight is expensive if you don’t have insurance. I’d guessed CJ was between 30-35. I shouldn’t presume he didn’t have health insurance, but even if one does have health insurance, Life Flight is probably not free.

When the Sheriff arrived, I asked him if he would be the shade-giver. As the firetruck and ambulance arrived, we figured we were in the way. Plus, the Life Flight would need the field near where we parked to land. The woman from the Chuckwagon said, “That’s where they landed for my husband. He didn’t make it.�

I sensed that CJ would make it. He was youngish and healthy enough to ride a hoverboard high speed down a small-town road. But I worried he might seize again. I worried about his brain and the damage it has sustained. And I worried about his medical bills.

I thought about the small circle we had made around CJ. First, Erik and I. Then, the woman from the Chuckwagon. Then, the EMT. Another EMT. My father-in-law. The grandma. The ambulance. The firetruck. Life Flight. Tiffany from 911. As we’d been trying to help this guy, another group of people near to where Life Flight would land, stayed in their own circle, packing up their tent. They didn’t run over to help. Maybe they thought they’d be in the way. Maybe they thought we had it under control. What else is there to do but for one person to call 911? Another to get the grandma? Another to find a pillow. Another to bring back not only towels but water and ice? One to provide shade against the sun? But still, offering to help seems like a natural gesture.

I think about the circles of care that begin with maybe the self, then family, then friends and neighbors, but sometimes, I think it stops there. Would that if the circles went on to the very edge of a lake, like the concentric circles a stone makes when thrown into the very middle so that care included strangers in cars, strangers walking by, strangers sitting next to you on the plane. Social and medical services try to be these strangers. As we moved, bleary eyed toward the general election, let’s do what we can to keep these strangers close so we don’t have to rely on neighbors who neither look nor see.