Rivers and Meadows (Part I)

One of the downsides of wandering through my memories while writing this blog is the danger of running into ghosts. The longer I'm alive, the more of my friends and loved ones will have preceded me into the Great Beyond. My father passed away at the beginning of this month, having lived an amazingly long life. My best friend, Steve Boughton, was taken five years ago today and the hole his departure left is still an open wound at times. The following was written for his memorial service at the Presbyterian Church of Novato in 2006...

Down Warm Springs Creek Trail

You know, Steve would have liked to have been here, surrounded by all of his friends. I am proud to be counted among them and proud to say that he was my best friend.

The last time I saw Steve was a year ago on July 4th. We visited the Boughtons in Hailey, marched in the big parade carrying a ten-foot smile advertising his dentistry, went camping up by Redfish lake, and watched the fireworks from their back porch. But my favorite memory is of the last bike ride I ever took with him, because I had Steve all to myself. It was easily one of the best and the hardest days of my life. I hope you’ll indulge me if I tell you the story of that epic journey.

Our ride starts out easily enough as it winds through the tiny town of Fisher. It seems to be very doable and I’m not breathing too hard, which is a good thing, since the clouds of mosquitoes are pretty thick in spots and encourage closed-mouth breathing. I even go ahead as Steve stops to talk to a local man who is out for a run. Since I have known him, he seems to have all the time in the world and is always ready to strike up an interesting conversation with someone along the way. I remember that one of his favorite things to do in Rome was to take in the passagiata, the evening stroll where everyone just walks and talks.

But Steve soon passes me and disappears up the rocky fire road we have been ascending for the past forty-five minutes. Granted, he is acclimated to mountain biking at six thousand feet of altitude, but then again, he is several years my senior, so it should be a wash. In spite of the effort, I am glad just to be here, riding in the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho with Steve. Now the road has kicked up to about fifteen percent, which is very steep for a loose surface, and I find it impossible to continue, so I unclip and walk uphill for a brief stretch, huffing and puffing.

Finally, the slope eases a bit and I hop back on for the push to the top of this first climb. I catch up with Steve in a small clearing where he is taking a long pull from his water bottle and admiring the scenery, which, being Idaho, is spectacular. But now it’s decision time: Do we continue on our planned loop that includes the next climb—which I am definitely not looking forward to—or do we descend along Warm Springs Creek to meet up with the Salmon river, northwest of Stanley, a longer but hopefully easier route suggested by Tim, the mountain-biking owner of the local bakery? I know that I’ve got the legs for distance, so I vote for the creek trail. Steve agrees and we start descending.

Now, my experience mountain biking has been on local trails here in California, and a few ascents of Mount Burdell, a local 1,500 foot nob in Novato. I’ve handled some roughish fire roads, but nothing too taxing. Almost immediately, I find that I will be learning lots of new things as the trail zigzags down a scary-steep sandy hillside for what seems like at least a thousand vertical feet. I learn to take one foot out of the clips so that I can skid tripod-like around corners. I find myself holding my breath on more than one occasion as we hit tight hairpin curves that drop out from under us. And I learn that sometimes the safest way through a tight spot is simply to back off the brake levers and just “let ‘er rip.” Most of all, I don’t want to disappoint Steve. But my confidence is building with each mile and by the time we hit the bottom of the grade, I am feeling pretty good. Besides, Steve is letting me try out his new mountain bike and it is a dream next to by overweight bomber.

At the bottom, we encounter a small group of very fit-looking bikers who have just been down to Warm Springs Meadow and are now about to ascend the route we just came down. I don’t envy them a bit. One rider stops to ask where we’re heading. We tell him, and he gives us some advice about how to cross the meadow, where, apparently, the trail becomes a bit confusing. He says not to follow the trail all the way, but cut across to the fenceline on the other side, to avoid getting caught in a big mud bog.

In hindsight, I do remember him giving us a quizzical look and a quick once-over when he first learned of our plans. Perhaps he was thinking, what on earth are these two geezers doing out here? And do they really know what they’re getting into?

We thank him, say good-bye, and then enter the aptly-named Rock Garden, where the trail merges with a dry creek bed. Steve suggests that it may be a good time to get off and walk till the trail smoothes out. Thirty yards later it does and we find ourselves suddenly in Warm Springs Meadow.

Now I grew up hiking and camping in the Sierra Nevada, so I am used to alpine splendor, but this literally takes my breath away. The meadow is bursting with wildflowers of every color and our isolation only adds to the beauty. Unfortunately, I have not brought my camera, so I drink in the view, trying to create a permanent image in my memory. It is not hard to do.

We come to a narrow stream, too deep to ride through, so we step gingerly across, feeling the icy water seep into our shoes. We don’t know it, but crossing streams will be a frequent obstacle on this ride. As we continue on, three guys on dirt-bikes pass us noisily. I wonder if they are even supposed to be here at all, but they are only a momentary distraction as they quickly disappear up the trail with their whining machines. Once again, the meadow sounds take over.

The trail is easy to follow through the lush green meadow, but the going is deceptively difficult. I find that I have to be constantly on the look-out for small to medium round rocks to either side of the narrow dirt track. If I hit one of them on the down-stroke I will certainly being going for a trip over the handlebars at best, and could even break a crank. The thought of having to walk out of her while dragging a broken bike is not inviting. So I pedal carefully, eyes scanning the path for hidden obstacles.

This is where I get the first feeling that this ride may not turn out to be what it seems. That is because I am starting to hallucinate as we pedal across this beautiful meadow. Of course, this effect is caused by our focus on the sunken earth trail, which means that the brightly-colored flowers become a psychedelic blur. When we stop to get our bearings, Steve is apparently feeling the same way. We slow down a bit and it gets easier.

As the path gets more and more muddy, we realize that we have, indeed, taken the wrong path. We backtrack to where a very faint track splits off from the main path and heads off across the meadow to what we hope is the aforementioned fenceline. If many cyclists have been through here this spring, it is not very apparent. The track is more a vague impression than a trail. We cross through several beaver ponds with water up to our thighs. Finally, we are through the meadow and back into the woods. Warm Springs Creek is somewhere off to our left, though it sounds more like a river than a gurgling brook. Another hair rises on my neck.

The going through the trees is much easier now, and more of what I am used to. There are rolls and drops and whoop-de-do’s that make me feel like a kid again, zooming across empty lots on my three speed cruiser. It is now a couple of hours since we started, so we stop for lunch. We figure we’re probably about half-way, but can’t know for certain. I am still having the time of my life.

After lunch, the scenery becomes eerie as the forest gets denser. There are many dead or dying trees; I suppose from some sort of pine borer or beetle. At times we have to hoist our bikes over fallen snags. The canyon also narrows, imperceptibly at first, and then alarmingly. The roar of the creek gets louder.

(To be continued...)

Rivers and Meadows (part II)

(Continued.)

We are switching bikes at regular intervals, a gift from Steve to even the effort. The trail is much clearer now, but we are descending between large boulders alongside the stream. I don’t want to be a wimp, so I am going as fast as I can; after all, we have a lot of ground to cover. But it is getting more technical by the minute. Sharp turns, sudden dips and narrow tracks between rocks are coming at us fast and furious. I get safely through one passage with a speed that astounds me and even Steve is impressed. He gives me a hearty “Way to go!” and we press on.

Another hour of this and we are still lost in the woods. Steve is out of food and I am out of water. A couple of times, my legs start to cramp up and I can tell Steve is worried. I get off, stretch them out and press on.

It’s not all downhill, though. At times the trail turns sharply away from the creek to ascend past an obstacle. Some of these we can ride; others cause us to get off and push our bikes uphill. At one point, I am in the lead, barreling along when I come to a short rise. I pedal to the top and come to a skidding halt. The trail drops fifty feet down a gravel slope – right into Warm Springs Creek. Only this is no creek. Late spring run-off has swollen it to a thirty-foot wide torrent. Not more than eighteen inches deep, but moving very quickly as it disappears out of sight around the bend. But where is the trail?

Steve catches up and we survey the scene. There doesn’t seem to be any way around on this side, which is a straight cliff and he sees where the trail cuts up the far bank. There is no choice, so I hoist Steve’s bike on my shoulders and start across.

Very quickly, I sense that I am in trouble. The water pulls at me and I have no way to balance. My bicycling shoes slip on the mossy rocks and my legs start to shake. Barely ten feet out, I feel myself beginning to lose it. I don’t want to risk falling and having Steve’s bike swept away, so I carefully turn around and go back the way I came. I don’t know if I can do this. Steve and I talk for a bit. My suggestion is to go back upstream a bit and see if there is an easier crossing, but the canyon is narrow and I’m not sure if that will be any better. Steve wants to give it a try. He is wearing tennis shoes and thinks he will have better traction. He is also not as tired as I am. He carefully makes it across with one bike, and then with the other. I get across with the help of a stick to balance me.

At this moment, I am overwhelmed. I am glad to be across, but slightly ashamed that I was unable to do it without help. Steve makes light of the adventure by claiming to have had better footing, and I feel a bit better. With most other guys, I would have been in for some serious ribbing, but not Steve. He finds a wound and then heals it. I suppose that is why I keep a photo of him taped to my computer monitor. In it, he is setting off on a California Aids Ride and looking back at the camera and smiling with white zinc oxide on his lips. He is raising money for a worthy cause because it’s the right thing to do. I look at that photo often and instead of asking myself, What would Jesus do?, I bend that around to, What would Steve do? In my mind, he is the the guy I most wish I could be like.

Steve’s generosity has blown wind into my sails and the creek crossing is the last time I will feel weak on this ride. I will need it as the trail continues ever onward. We cruise through a pretty meadow and I fall off my bike, for the first and only time, while attempting to make it through a boggy section and up a short bank. I keel over at about one mile per hour and squelch softly into the mud. I laugh when I think of all the places I could have fallen and done myself some real damage. I also laugh because, as much as I want to see the highway, I am still having fun with my best friend.

The rest of the ride continues to be a non-stop series of challenges. It is almost as if some being is observing us from above and saying, Let’s see how they handle this! And, suddenly we find ourselves pushing our bikes up a hundred yard dirt slide or carrying them across a boulder field. I find that I am getting pretty good at side-slipping down sandy slopes, the same way I do when skiing. We keep thinking we can see where our canyon meets the higher wall of the Snake River canyon, but appearances are deceiving. The sun is getting low, we are out of food, and wondering if our families are getting worried. They know where we are – sort of. All that exists is this trail, which doesn’t even appear to have been ridden on this season.

Then, miracle of miracles, a barn: the first sign of civilization. We push diagonally up one last rocky hillside and drop onto a wide road that leads to the campground where our second car is parked. We had left it there in case we wanted to go this route—probably our only good decision of the day. One final effort and there we are, taking apart the bikes and putting them in the station wagon. I take a good look at Steve and am surprised to see that he looks as wiped out as I feel.

Now it must be noted that our thirty-five mile loop down the Warm Springs Trail is not in any of our mountain biking guidebooks, which classify routes as Beginner, Intermediate, Expert, and “Abusive.” No question about this one. This has easily been the hardest physical thing I have ever done in my life.

We gratefully slip into the seats and drive back to town – we will pick up my car later. Our wives and daughters are not back yet, so we crack open a couple of beers and enjoy the mild Idaho sunset. Later that night, at dinner, we see our baker/biker friend Tim again and give him a recounting of what we went through on his suggested detour. He thinks for a moment and replies, “Yeah, I kinda forgot. That trail is pretty epic.” Epic. Now he tells us.

* * *

Fast forward, four months. I am just returning from my fiftieth birthday in Hawai’i. Why? Because that’s where Steve went for his fiftieth. I pick up my cell phone messages in the Honolulu airport and it is Lynn, Steve’s wife. He has just been diagnosed with acute myelogenous leukemia, a particularly nasty cancer. I am devastated.

When I get back to the mainland, I call Steve in the hospital. He is in the middle of his first round of chemo and sounds weak as hell. We talk about everything and about nothing. I tell him I love him and wish him well. Over the next six months, whenever we talk, it is the same. He is filled with positive energy, even when the news is discouraging.

* * *

The last time I spoke to him was the Sunday he went into the hospital for the last time. He was happy because their new house had closed, he had been up to Redfish Lake with his wife, Lynn, and had just finished a 13-mile bike ride. Looking back, I know what he was doing: He was simply making sure that everything and everyone were taken care of. That is so like Steve.

You know, about a month after our ride down Warm Spring Creek, a huge forest fire ravaged the entire valley, including that gorgeous mountain meadow. Steve and I may have been some of the last people to have seen its beauty. I suddenly wish that I had taken a photograph, but instead have to reach into my memory for the picture. Fortunately, it is still there: the day is beautiful, the insects are buzzing, and the wildflowers are blooming. That is how all my memories with Steve are: crystal clear. I hear his voice on the phone. I feel his hug. I understand his love.

It’s curious, but with Steve gone, I’m no longer afraid of what comes after. In fact I’m not even worried. Just as he showed me that Warm Springs Creek wasn’t too hard to get across, I feel his presence now waiting on the “other side.” It’s not so far and it’ll be just another step on the way home.

I’m wearing this Hawai’ian shirt tonight because "aloha" means good-bye and hello. I know that Steve and I will meet again someday. In the words of Don Forbes’ song, “He just got there first.”

I hope you can hear me: I love you, Steve! Aloha!

Songs and Gifts

As many of you know, my dad has been in assisted care at The Aegis in Corte Madera for several years. About a year and a half ago, he was moved into a memory unit (“Life’s Neighborhood”), where they could cope more easily with his day to day care, medications and failing mental faculties. 

My sister, Kathy, took this photo on Dad's 91st birthday this year.
She commented that he "looks happy in his own thoughts."

It has been a difficult time for him. At first, he was the most “with it” member of the Neighborhood and that frustrated him no end. Fortunately, his lady friend at The Aegis, Edna Engel, was able to visit him nearly every day.

Sadly, this spring he began his final decline. Just last week, Hospice of Marin called to say that his passing appeared imminent. Of course, we visited numerous times, but he seemed to be unaware of our presence and lost in his own world.

Last night, as I entered his room, I remarked again to myself how small he appeared in his bedclothes. Yet, in my mind’s eye, his aura was as large as ever. Even at the end, when he sometimes responded poorly to the attendants’ attempts to re-position him in bed, often rudely throwing his arms about, you couldn’t help but notice the man’s physical strength and presence.

I stayed with him for a couple of hours as he alternated between sleeping peacefully and scratching furiously at his skin (due to a build-up of uric acid in the blood from kidney failure) as if wanting to rid himself of the body that had ultimately failed him.

I sang him old-time songs from a book I found in his room (he used to have a wonderful voice that was noted by many at the Aegis) and mentally gave him permission to let go. When he became agitated, I found that if I placed my hand atop his head, it seemed to calm him. I think it helped Dad to know that someone was there. Then my wife, Pat, came and sat with us for a while until we finally said good-bye. I kissed him on his forehead and wished him well and a smooth passage. I didn’t think I would be seeing him again in this lifetime.

This morning, as I was out on one of my favorite bike rides, the Aegis called with news that my father, William Lorin Clark, born May 7, 1920, had died quietly at 10:00 am with a nurse by his side.

Though he had been slipping away for quite some time, I am still processing the concept that he is gone. After all, he was my Father, a role that he never relinquished during his life. Perhaps he would have been happier at times if he had learned how to be simply a friend, but that wasn’t in the cards. He was our Provider and Protector, from beginning to end. I can’t help think of The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, and its message of unconditional love and sacrifice. If you have it in your collection of children’s books, take it out. If not, then borrow it from the library and read it with one or both of your parents in mind.

It seems, as the years pass by, that we allow these incredibly important people to become more and more irrelevant to us. Our lives diverge and we neglect to appreciate the gifts they have given us over the course of their lifetimes. As I sort through the pluses and minuses that were my legacy from from my father, I find myself lingering on all of the wonderful things this man gave me and I know that much of what is good about me is directly because of his influence. When my time comes, I hope my daughter will also be able to find a path through all of the contradictions that I have been, and come to the same conclusion.

But for now, all I can say is, thank you, Dad. I love you.