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!
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