Back in the teens of this damnable 20th Century did you ever go for a trip in your brand-new broken-down Maxwell? If you did, you can recall the feeling that you were really undertaking something. Your voyage was beset by flat tires and perchance by stalling engine. And when you drove along that lonely road, a rare being in a rare vehicle, you found another car, you were exceedingly pleased. You perhaps saw the fellow was in trouble and you stopped. Or he wasn’t in trouble and you both stopped. You passed the time of day. You remarked in unkind phrases on the ruts in this dusty road, you felt quite pleased to see him, quite happily drawn to a fellow adventurer. You two were beating the road, the flat tires, the bad gasoline. And you were comrades. And it was rare that you didn’t take time to stop and it was rare that you didn’t get help when you needed it.

[With hikers in Washington State's Cascade Mountain range, 1923. Ron, front row, far right.]

     Get a flat tire on a four-pass highway today and see how many stop. And realize that the world has become a four-pass highway.

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