It’s been a year since our community felt a profound loss, the absence of Wyatt. While not in my closest circle, Wyatt, a friend of my brother, left an indelible mark on my life and the hearts of those who knew him best. Wyatt’s story is a stark reminder that on the highway, don’t care is often the harsh reality.
Wyatt was practically a fixture at our house during his younger years alongside my brother. Theirs was an idyllic, adventurous boyhood filled with the kind of experiences most kids only dream of. From the novelty of pig rides to the thrill of monster truck rallies, from dirt bike escapades to even raising a baby coyote, their childhood was anything but ordinary. Wyatt was the constant spark of joy in these adventures, his infectious smile always drawing others into his orbit. He was the embodiment of fearlessness and spontaneity, seemingly unbreakable despite the risky nature of his pursuits. It was almost unbelievable that someone so adventurous had never even fractured a bone.
Growing up in the backcountry, Wyatt was intimately familiar with the roads and the rules of off-road riding. He possessed the skills and knowledge honed from years of experience. He knew his bike inside and out, and he knew how to handle himself in challenging situations.
On that fateful day, Wyatt rode into town, pausing to chat with friends before embarking on what was meant to be a short, casual ride out of town. Just minutes into what should have been a simple joyride, on a stretch of road that was relatively straight, all his skill, all his experience, all his backcountry wisdom proved insufficient. At 5:15 pm on October 9th, 2019, something went terribly wrong. The highway, in its indifference, didn’t care about Wyatt’s expertise or his zest for life. We are left only with unanswered questions and the heavy weight of what might have been.
The moments after receiving the news are etched in my memory with painful clarity. Driving to the scene, I passed his truck, parked exactly where he had left it, a silent testament to a life interrupted. The accident scene itself was a chaotic tableau of flashing lights and stunned silence. The ambulance waited, Wyatt inside, as his friends gathered, their faces reflecting the dawning horror. I learned later of those friends who had spoken to him just moments before, their casual farewells now echoing with tragic irony. There were witnesses who saw the crash unfold, and those who held him in his final moments. The days that followed were a blur of grief, planning a memorial instead of the adventures we should have been sharing. For months, the sound of sirens or a motorcycle engine would trigger a wave of anxiety, a stark reminder of our loss. The pain remains, a constant undercurrent, resurfacing every time I pass Wyatt’s roadside cross.
Wyatt’s story is not an isolated incident. He is one of too many lives claimed by the backcountry roads of San Diego. Tragically, just a month after Wyatt, another motorcyclist perished on a stretch of road chillingly close to where Wyatt’s accident occurred. At Wyatt’s memorial site, amidst our own mourning, we discovered another cross, a silent marker of another life lost. Years before, my mother was a first responder to a horrific four-person fatality, a scene indelibly marked by the loss of two children. My own childhood is shadowed by the memory of Ian, Sarah, and Nick, gone too soon. Even recently, just two weeks prior to writing this, we experienced three more fatalities in a mere five days. Highway 78 and 79 have become silent witnesses to countless tragedies, with only a fraction of these losses marked by roadside memorials. The highway, it seems, truly doesn’t care.
These experiences have fundamentally shaped my driving habits. This is why I adhere to the speed limit, why I refrain from risky overtaking, why I exercise patience at intersections, waiting for that extra beat of safety before making a turn. It’s why I use my horn to alert reckless drivers, and why I am always ready to answer the call to be a designated driver, even in the dead of night. Wyatt’s memory, and the countless others lost, compel me to implore you: PLEASE, DRIVE RESPONSIBLY. Remember that the highway don’t care about your skills, your experience, or your plans. It demands respect and caution from every driver, every time.
Rest peacefully, Wyatt Young Jones. You are deeply missed and forever loved.
“I shall not be shaken.” Psalm 16:8
