LOST IN YELLOWSTONE--PART 1--CHAPTERS 1-15

Epilogue yet to come

(The picture is from the second trip--yes, two of us braved the journey two years in a row)

Contents for Part 1

1 The Journey Begins

2 What Could've Been

3 'Miles to go before I Sleep'

4 'If we make it through December'

5 Lost

6 Lost, again

7 Todd's Story

8 Grizzly lurking in the darkness

9 A danger greater than Grizzlies

10 The dividing of a river, the parting of friends

11 Between the lines

12 The first Guardian Angel

13 The river, the Lord, and me

14 Calm on the edge

15 The Agnostic, my friend

(See Chapters 16-27 and Epilogue in PART 2)

1

The Journey Begins

It is difficult to know where to start a story that, in many ways, has no ending.

Perhaps I should introduce by saying that the days of the week will forever be defined by the seven days of that journey. Today, Tuesday, is the day Todd Perrin and I got lost deep in the remote part of Yellowstone, sleeping in a wet tent in a grassy field a foot or more high. I will tell you that story, Lord willing, further along. Wednesday was the best of times, the worst of times, as says Dickens. There’s a bear on Thursday, and an angel on Friday.

Oh, the Monday before may have been the most grueling day of all. Perhaps we should start by telling you of the characters who take a part – some big, some small, all significant – in this dramatic week: There’s Todd Perrin, Roy Deering, and Randy Butler, three brave, able men who dreamed this dream and saw it either unfold roughly or come tumbling down far too early. These are good men, and I am honored to have started this journey with them, and I am regretful that two had to come out early, and I am thankful, even more, the other two came out of the wilderness safely late on the sixth day. The seventh day was a day of rest for the four hikers. It was a day of Thanksgiving, and the four, having played different roles and having endured different challenges, worshipped together in Westminister, Colorada on the final Sunday, July 18, two days after the journey ended, and, that, somewhat mercifully.

The last song that day in Westminister was “Be with me Lord.” There may have been lumps in a few throats during that singing. And I suppose a good place to start would be to tell you that each of these gentlemen had their own special dream tucked deep down in their souls – dreams that led them to begin that journey, some of which were profound, some infused with a pure simplicity. To put this account into a nutshell, we can begin by pointing out that these real-life events affirm, yet again, the old platitude that truth is far stranger than fiction – and that when you roll all of these events into a ball they form a compelling story of disappointment, of brutal endurance, of faith, of a brotherly camaraderie, of a deep spiritual communion with the One who created that vast wilderness, of unique personalities walking side by side miles and miles (the distinctness, perhaps, giving the final two of the hikers a chance to emerge on Friday night), of a refreshing spiritual journey, and of a real encounter with a black bear. I never would have thought I would come face to face with a bear deep in the wilderness. But that is part of the story. I've always bragged, jokingly, that I sometimes go bear hunting with a switch. On Thursday, July 15, I didn't even have a switch.

I mention that it is a spiritual journey: I could tell the story with a far greater degree of brevity were I not to look at the story as a microcosm of a life. On August 4, I will be sixty-five years old, should the Lord choose to extend my walk to that day. If He does not, I will be satisfied as well. But I will be thankful, forever, that the Lord allowed the unique journey of July 11-17 to give me a sort of mirror for those decades that we walked here with you and with Him, though sometimes the walk was far more a stumbling than a walk. Oh, my friends, now more than ever I can say, “But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” I learned a great deal about walking and not fainting July 11-16. I am honored to share all we learned, all we endured in those days. If you are reading this, you are our friend, for you’re sharing more than a story of a few hikers. You are sharing life. It is not my story alone, but yours equally. Thank you joining life’s amazing hike together. May God bless you.

P.S. If you offered just one prayer during those six days, I know four hikers who owe you much. Or if you now offer a prayer of thankfulness, thank you.

2

What Could've Been

In a quarter of a century of recording life with a literary sword, I have been accused a time or two of a very small, minuscule bit of exaggeration. I have maintained my innocence at every turn, my defense being that I tell the story in all its infinite colors just as I remember it. Granted, my memory could be flawed.

I say that with a smile, of course, but this point is truly serious: I can write this story with as much accuracy as I can gather; and, almost down to every word, it is profound understatement. I have not the skill to put in ink the extremity of these six days. I cannot describe accurately the difficulty that I and Todd Perrin faced from Sunday, July 11, 2021 to July 16. Six days of work it was, followed by a day of rest, Saturday July 17. The biblical connection to all you are about to read does not end with that statement.

I suppose the best way to put it is to say that it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Physically.

I say ‘physically’ because nothing compares to the mental or spiritual difficulties, we all have faced in our life journeys. Spiritually, in fact, it is one of the best things I’ve ever done. But, physically, I have never faced anything this difficult; and as I say that, I flash back to some of those hot, cruel days in the heat of many Houston summers working ten or more hours a day laying a thousand brick – or more – or laying twelve-inch limestone blocks that weighed seventy-five pounds.

But I was young then.

I’m not as young now.

We live in a world of drama -- that's for sure -- but the drama you are going to read day to day pictures only a miniscule part of what really transpired in the remote regions of Yellowstone. There is no hyperbole, although I am the writer. Sometimes true life brings the hyperbolic writer to his knees.

–What-could’ve-been

It is a little difficult to decide what needs to be said in the introduction to prepare you for the daily events. Several things need to be told here, I believe, one of which is the wonder of ‘what-could have been.’

"What could have been" is one thought that has reverberated in my mind ever since my friend Todd and I walked out of that wilderness. I wonder often how the human body -- unconditioned for such a challenge and at an age that is no longer young -- hold up to the conditions it faced. I know this -- something deep in me reminds me of this continually: I never should have walked out of that wilderness. In terms of human anatomy and physical science, it should not have happened.

But we did, and the ‘why’ of that is what I most want to tell you.

(Ah, friends, thanks for coming along. It is a testimony I want all those I know and love to hear, to hear and be inspired, even as I am.)

The miracle that I will always remember is the realization of the things that could have happened, so very easily, of the things that should have happened in many cases, but did not, things that were far more likely to happen than not. Far more than once one misstep on the hike takes you down as high as an eighty-foot drop. Perhaps, the Lord will show us one day the dangers that lurked walking through as high to four to six feet of high grass and weeds and through swampy terrain, or the dangers that stood by in the middle of nowhere, deep in an uninhabited wilderness, both in the loneliness of darkness and in a deep forest in the day where the sun could barely shine. I am told, so you'll know, that this region of Yellowstone is the most remote realm in North America, going as deep as thirty miles from the nearest civilization. For Todd and me, we only ventured into its depth from seventeen to twenty miles.

And, more, how many wrong trails were there that, if I had taken would have turned this story into a search for a missing hiker. Just one. Read the papers. It happens every day this time of the year. A misstep or that one wrong trail would have made for a compelling story, too – but it could have made for a tragic one, too.

And, remembering, that, even in saying that, those realities, carved in words, form perhaps the most acute understatement of anything I've ever written in a quarter of a century.

–Where the trail divides

Here is where you who travel with us may take different trails. Opinions will vary. Four consecutive days – every day from Tuesday, July 13 to Friday, July 16 – my hiking buddy and good friend Todd Perrin and I went separate ways. We broke that long recognized principle of 'leave no friend behind' hiking mantra. My first niece Leah Hays noted that truism to the amazin’ blonde one day in the midst of the unfolding drama.

Duly noted, Ms. Leah.

This is the juncture where the story really begins. Many of you will debate whether it was right or wrong, wise or foolish. In fact, within an hour of each other on Thursday night, two different hikers whose paths Todd and I both crossed approached Todd from both directions (I really feel for Todd at this point and hate to think of it): One man – either a Mr. Lyons that we met or a Mr. DiMaggio, I am not sure which spoke – mildly critiqued Todd for leaving his hiking partner behind, while the other – an old cowboy and schoolteacher named Dale from Idaho Falls– praised him for its wisdom.

We will come to that part of the story, in time, but to make one thing clear: The decision to separate was mine, not Todd’s. On each occasion, I sent Todd ahead, insisted on it. To me, it was the best way we could find our way to safety. There are several reasons behind my rationale, as we’ll see, but the bottom line was that I had tremendous confidence in Todd’s safety and survival ability. The only true danger to Todd, in my mind, would be if he actually did happen upon a bear (which, I think, was Todd's greatest fear, though I could be wrong); but– truth is – the bears were the least of my fears in the entire debacle, and, that, even though I would be the one who actually happened upon one.

Even then, the danger involved in walking up on a bear in this country where bears are prolific would not have diminished that danger had we been together. I guess, the worst case, the bear would have a choice as to which one of us he ate. Alone, he would have only one entrée from which to choose. I say that jokingly, of course, but you understand. There are other dangers we faced in separating, too, but none so great that I thought warranted his going at my very limited rate of speed when we needed to find our way as soon as possible.

In this entire chronicle, I can assure you that that I will only have good things to say about my friend Todd. We never had a cross word, not even one. That, alone, is amazing. But know that Todd is a strong hiker – he has run half-marathons and done much long-distance running – and the strength he displayed was truly amazing. To look at him you might think he is a computer Brainiac– which he probably is – but make no mistake: Todd is a strong man, a relentless hiker, and one of the best men I’ve ever met, on top of it all. With his strength and wherewithal in that wilderness, I had little fear for him as he plodded on ahead on three consecutive days (I went ahead on the fourth and final separation).

But there are two of us involved – I understand that – and common wisdom is that the stronger does not leave the weaker behind. And even though my legs were dead after one day of hiking – that fact I cannot overstate but will try as we go along – I had confidence in my own ability to survive, even if our separation became permanent due to one or the other taking a trail that led us down different paths. I say ‘my own ability,’ but you who know me well are aware that I know that I did not stand at the mercy of my own ability. Someone far greater walked ahead of me on that trail those days, and He walked ahead of Todd, too.

Whatever confidence I had with my friend miles ahead was due to the knowledge that 'if we may live, to the Lord we live; if also we may die, to the Lord we die’ – Romans 14:8.

Anything I do, anything I have done, anything I ever will do are all owing to the Lord’s working in me and to that ‘power that works in me,’ as says the same apostle.

As I tell this story, both today and in the years to come, I will say this with some hint of pride. No, not selfish pride – no, not ever, as our old brother Don McCord would say – but with a pride of satisfaction that the Lord helped me every step. He helped me do something I had no business doing, He aided me in getting out of something I had no business getting out of, and He steadied the ship in a hundred different situations that could have all gone another direction.

No, I never should have been able to walk out of that wilderness into safety. But I did, by the Lord’s grace. Todd Perrin had the same grace applied to him.

—Each step, each mile

Never was a step easy – not one, in the forty-one miles that we traveled. We have tried to determine as precisely as we can the miles we hiked in those six days, and I estimate that the two of us who were able to go on after Day One went somewhere between forty-one and fifty miles. By each day, here is my best estimation:

Day 1 -- 8 1/2 miles

Day 2 -- 7 miles

Day 3 -- 6 miles

Day 4 -- 4 miles

Day 5 -- 7 miles

Day 6 -- 10 miles

The number that jumps out is the ten miles on the final day. I still wonder, ‘How can that happen?’ I think I understand why. You will, too, by Day Ten.

What I know regarding distance is that every day was a day of at least ten hours of almost non-stop, all-day traveling, the two exceptions being Day One and Day Four. On Day One, Sunday, July 11, we hiked eight and one-half miles starting at 4:30 pm; so it was a full day's hike in half a day of time. That haste of that day, I believe, was the original culprit.

But then to go the final day, Day Six, trudging out ten grueling miles, three of which is straight up a hot, dusty mountain – now, that was truly something else.

If you need a thesis, perhaps this one will serve well: Above all else, this is a story of God’s amazing, amazing grace and unyielding Providence. That one will do.

We walked a long trail, but I remember: No one walks the trail alone.

3

‘Miles to go before I sleep’

July 11, 2021

Day 1

5 days before the Grizzly

On July 11, 2021, our four hikers arrived at the southern entrance of Yellowstone’s Thoroughfare and South Boundary Trail. The trail is 67.5 miles long and designed to be traveled in seven days. One site reports that it is ‘recommended for very experienced adventurers.’ I think my good friend Roy Deering and I felt we met that criterion to a tee. I am on the precipice of being 65, and he, himself, is nearly the completion of his own sixth decade. To say we are experienced might even be an understatement; and no one can doubt we are ‘adventurers.’

We just did not happen to be conditioned hikers who had done anything remotely like tackling Yellowstone’s wilderness before.

The days leading up to this July 11th evening are almost a blur, even as the entire trip is at times: On Wednesday the amazin’ blonde and I made the decision for me to go on the hike (Ms. Marilyn, I’m sure, just knew I had decided it was something I needed to do so she did not stand in the way), on Friday she and I bought out a good portion of Academy, and by four a.m. Saturday morning she was driving me to the DFW airport to fly to Denver. Roy and Randy Butler picked me up there in Roy’s 2007 blue Ford 150, and a few minutes later we picked up Todd Perrin who had flown in from Houston. By 9:30 a.m., we were on our way.

We set off first on a three-hour drive to Riverton, Wyoming and there we roomed for the night – Tood and I together, and Roy and Randy in a room – and on Sunday morning we all made our way to worship with a small congregation there, very blessed to gather around the Lord’s table for worship for the first time ever in the state of Wyoming. (Wyoming, by the way, holds a special place in my and my grandson Connor Osburn’s heart, as we will note a bit further along.)

Appropriately, the bookends for our nine-day trip were four friends, as different as we are, worshipping together. The next Lord’s Day we would be in Westminister, Colorado, near Denver. But it is what takes place between the bookends that would change us most of us.

We quickly made out way to the truck to begin the rest of our journey. I laugh as I think of this, because I remembered that on both Sundays the fellas had to come get me to get us to the truck. You understand, I'm sure. It was three, maybe four hours before we would reach Yellowstone, and we arrived there around

—4:30 p.m.

Four-thirty p.m., July 11.

Life was about to change.

I’ve always thought I’d, somehow, change the world. The world has different ideas.

—First Mistake?

We can debate as to the first mistake, and I’m sure some of you—all of our wives in the front of that particular class – will say that even thinking about taking such a hike even for a fleeting instant was the first mistake we made. I think Roy and I will readily agree with that. Randy and Todd might not, as their ages and conditioning level triumphed ours significantly. I feel confident I can speak for Roy on this front.

But that slight possible mistake aside, the first true mistake we made – and there will be many, many more – is starting the first leg of this 67.5 mile hike in the heat of the day at 4:30 p.m., and that after two full days of traveling. Roy and Randy had driven from the Oklahoma City area, which covers a full twelve-hundred miles by the time we pulled into the Heart Lake Trailhead. But at 4:30 p.m. four ambitious hikers arrived at the southern entrance in Roy’s 2006 Ford 150, the back covered with a gray tarp to keep the bags all intact. I remember on the first Saturday Roy commenting about the ‘rogue’ nature of that gray tarp, tied down by bungy cords attached to the bottom of the truck. I expect we would all get a good taste of what 'rogue' really was by the time we all emerged from the wilderness that was staring us in the face.

Our goal for that first evening was the Sheridan Trail campsite, about eight-and-a-half miles away, two-and-a-half miles of that trail being down the steep side of the mountain. (I should note, just to jar your memory, that on Day Six we would have to make that two and one-half mile trek, that time back up that steep rugged mountainside).

It was hot—Texas hot—as we grabbed our backpacks, weighing between thirty and fifty pounds (I believe Randy’s was nearer to the fifty). Our hiking poles in hand, we quickly had some nearby hikers take a picture of the four of us at the entrance of the long, hot trail, and we started out in single file. The first three miles, though hot, were mainly flat terrain. I scarcely remember any other flat terrain the rest of the way, although there was some, I know, but most of the trail I experienced over the next six days was up-hill—going and coming. I say that with a smile, but you understand.

After three miles of making our entrance into these Yellowstone Red Mountains, heading due east, we come upon the majestic Sheridan Mountain, looming 10, 308 feet tall to the south. I suppose Sheridan in her glory was the one landmark that remained anchored, unmoved during the next six days. She looked down upon us every step of the way. Every morning, and evening, you would not have to go far before she would emerge from behind the forest of trees, a great symbol of strength and stability. More than once, I thought of that great old Mount Zion the biblical prophets speak so much about, the great apostle’s memorable declaration coming to mind most of all, when he reminds us, “But you have to come to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God …”

Mount Zion is no ordinary mount—symbolizing the church of the Lord—and, on the days that lay ahead, neither was Mount Sheridan, as it served as a tower of strength for me, perhaps for us all, as we faced the coming dangers.

At the first view of the mount as we emerged from the wooded three-mile hike, we began that treacherous three-mile hike down the slope of the Red Mountains. Walking carefully, keeping a steady eye on each step. But when we would pause to rest for a moment, we could look out upon those towering mountains and down into the foothills, and we could see God's handiwork stretched out like a curtain. I suppose we could see as far into the distance as we ever had seen before. I noticed, for the first time, that we were beginning to be surrounded by mountains on every side. It would be when we came to the bottom of this steep decline that the circling of the mountains would be complete. I cannot help but think of the psalmist's beautiful prayer in the one-hundred and thirty-ninth psalm, as he looks over his life and observes that all along the way the Lord had hemmed in, before him and behind him, with His great Providence.

Those mountain ranges, at first just more of the beautiful scenes of nature, would later remind us that we would need the Lord to hem us from every side in the days and miles ahead.

My memory of that first two or three hours are sketchy, I suppose. I remember our talking and joking as much as we were able, thinking it might serve as a distraction. My last text to the amazin’ blonde on that first Sunday morning was a description of this four-hiker crew. Two, I said, ‘whizzes,’ (smart men, that is) and two were ‘characters.’ I will leave it to you, dear friends, to determine how all that falls, only to say that two in the bunch were particular big talkers and possibly could talk a bear out of eating us. Or, as we laughed one day, could talk the bear into eating one of the others.

I doubt I need remind you of the irony of that.

It must have been around 7 p.m. when we finally made it to the bottom of the mountain. It is there that we began to see a rare and amazing sight, as some of the only geysers in the world began to appear. The gorgeous geysers began to spring up, on both sides of the trail, north and south. I think the last time I remember us all being together that evening was when we came to the first of the geysers. We stopped for a moment, and this, it seems, was our first extended rest, and it less than ten minutes. The other rests were the short, ‘three-breaths’ rests types – as I call them – as you pause to catch your breath long enough to give your aching legs some much-needed oxygen.

When we came to the geysers, I do not remember if the other hikers took off their backpacks (which was always more of an ordeal than you can imagine), but I took mine off and told the fellas I was going down for a closer look. One of the friends cautioned to be careful as I eased down a fairly steep slope. Ah, the geysers are just something to see. Mini-volcanos, I suppose, would be the best way to describe them, and their two-hundred-degree waters could snap the life out of a body instantly – and they have. A "sulphury" smoke seeps from its crystal-clear waters, kind of like your breath on a cold winter morning, and you can look down into its green-tinted depths and see limbs that have fallen into them, now a powdery-looking gray.

I say 'limbs' -- So you'll understand, I mean tree limbs and branches. :)

I only had a couple of minutes to admire these boiling pools, one of the great phenomena of nature, because soon one of my friends said, “Come on, Steve, we’d better get going.” Reluctantly, I took one or two final close-up looks at God's great creation and made my way back up to the group to continue our trek, moving deeper into a wilderness that contained dangers and adventures we hardly could have imagined.

But, as I made my way up, I remember thinking of America's greatest poet, New England's Robert Frost, at that moment, and of his classic poem, “Stopping by woods on a snowy evening”:

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.”

How true, how true, that would prove to be.

July 22, 2021

4

‘If we make it through December’

July 11, 2021

Day 1

5 days before the Grizzly 

It may have been a premonition of things to come.

Some distance past the steaming geysers at the foot of the Red Mountains, the four of us divided into two parties. Still, as with all the ‘dividing up’ that would take place in the coming days, it was for the best with the circumstances. At least one group needed to make it to the campsite before nightfall.

Something from a little earlier that evening seemed stuck in my head (It’s funny the little things you remember) as you look back and relive events such as these. We had gone far enough down that mountain that some of us were beginning to struggle, and somebody mentioned “when we get to camp tonight.” I appreciated the optimism, but my legs and lungs were having their doubts. I replied with the little breath I had left, "Lord, help me make it through the night,” which is a reference to an old country song. Roy upped me one, though, and quipped,

“Yep, Coach,” he said, “we'll be good ... if we make it through December.”

I smiled at that, because I knew that country tune well. One thing Roy and I had an upper hand on the other two was old tunes or other matters stored deep in the backwoods of nostalgia. As we said in the beginning, we were 'experienced.' You understand.

Merle Haggard popularized that song back in the early 1970s, and I didn’t know at the time that its catchy tune would be echoing in my head during this whole trip, and beyond. The younger generation, I'm sure, will have to google ‘If we make it through December’ really fast to get up to speed, especially since its message kind of becomes a theme for this foursome's journey. If we make it through December, everything’s gonna be all right, I know. It’s the coldest time of winter, and I shiver when I see the falling snow …”

Of course, we weren’t going to see any falling snow in the heat bowl we were entering, but Mount Sheridan did have snow pockets still up near its crest, snow that is hanging on until the very end. Kind of like us.

I also could not help but smiling when I saw that Merle Haggard’s song came out in 1974. That was the year I began another journey, leaving high school and moving on toward another Yellowstone-esque journey lying ahead for the next few decades.

1974. It’s good to be back there again.

I made it through December then, and I my hope was that we all could make it through this time, too. At times, I had my doubts.

—Randy

Todd and Roy fudged on ahead of us after the passing of those fuming geysers now well behind us. Randy stayed back to hike with me on in. Poor Randy never was able to get it out of first gear from having to hang back. His trip back up, a bit later, would be even slower, far more slow, in fact. But he was a trooper and understood the necessity of our watching out for one another. I hope you get to know Randy, if you do not. He is a quiet man, harder to read than most, very introspective. But as I watched him during this trip, I saw a man who seemed to fold himself after the biblical principle of thinking more of others than you do of yourself. Perhaps he felt a greater sense of responsibility for the group because he would have the least difficulty making it through – Thirty-six years old, in shape with the chest of a super-hero (like my own, just better, a lot firmer, and higher up), a man skilled with electronics and the GPS (which we relied upon), smart, and a deeply spiritual man. His spiritual nature isn’t something of which he has to boast. It was more of something you could feel in your soul, the boasting, if any, like the apostle who boasted only in the cross of Christ.

Physically, Randy was nothing short of a marvel. He actually keeps track of how many calories he burns every day. If you run into him at noon on any given day and ask how many calories he has burned, he’ll look at his watch and say, “Oh, ‘bout two thousand.” He actually burned – I had never heard of this before – four thousand calories on the previous Saturday driving from Oklahoma City to Denver. Who does that? I suppose there is a great deal to envy about a man such as that, but his quiet confidence, mixed with a certain bashfulness, too, and his deep spirit – those attributes even surpassed even physical excellence.

While Todd and Roy went on ahead of us, at one point we could talk to them because the trail took a sharp almost U-turn right past a stream and we stood directly above them. We thought that stream would provide some water, because by then we had all but run out of water. Randy, of course, had extra and, at one point, poured some of his into my now-empty bottle. Todd and Roy hollered out to us that the stream we were coming to was no good for water. It was steaming hot, too hot for the touch and would not be clean enough, not even with our filters. We were blessed to have filters that screwed into our water bottles that would filter out almost any impurity. The surplus of creeks and rivers, even Heart Lake, provided a continuous supply of water, except on this one trail.

A little further along, we did catch Roy and Todd, at a second stream, which, too, was a hot stream but not as hot as the first. Randy and I stayed behind and rested at that stream while Todd and Roy went on; and we determined that the water was flowing well enough for us to go ahead and fill our water bottles. By this time, perhaps four hours into the hike, Randy was beginning to have doubts, I could tell, about how far into the hike I would be able to go. I was already having my struggles. Truth is, putting a thirty-pound backpack on and hiking an eight-mile trail up and down hills in the heat is a pretty good day’s work for anybody, even a young man in good condition – and it was only the first leg of six more days of similar terrain and distance -- except there would be no more downhill hiking as what we just traveled.

I suppose I wasn’t thinking exactly the same as Randy, although he was right, for sure. For me, the first step was getting through to the first camp site. I felt that the late start doubled the difficulty of this first day and that Monday with an early start would be much more manageable. I don’t believe that ever proved to be true, however. Legs didn't tend to get better after another day of pounding. There may be a small exception later in the week.

The Day One hike took us to the beach of the Heart Lake by nightfall. Randy put on a headlamp to guide us the last short piece to the campsite; so, at times I went ahead of him and could see by his light, but usually he would stay ahead of me. I’m guessing we were so close to the end we figured it was easier that way than my rumbling through my backpack to find my flashlight. Plus, I really needed both hiking poles to make it safely. Randy and I trudged through the sand for a good half mile, and, there, for the first of only two times during the seven days I tripped up on something and tumbled in the sand, which was as harmless as it sounds. The only difficulty there was getting back up in the sand with thirty-plus pounds draped across your shoulders. Of all the difficulties the trip presented, I think the weight of the backpack was right up there at the top, right with the mosquitoes, nemeses that we have not mentioned until now but were very real.

Randy and I made it to the campsite thirty or forty-five minutes behind Todd and Roy, around 10:30 p.m. I was impressed that they made such good time, but they seemed to be on a mission. When we arrived, I found Roy sitting on a log as you walk in, and he moved over and gave me room to sit.

“Coach, my feet are killin’ me,” he said as soon as I plopped down, thankful to rest my own tired feet. I assumed his feet hurt just from the difficulty of the eight-and-a-half mile trail behind us. My feet weren’t hurting, per se. I actually didn't hurt anywhere in particular, amazingly, just my whole body had been battered by eight-and-a-half miles. I didn’t have many more movements left in me, nor did Roy, but I began that slow process of getting shoes and socks off of tired feet and getting ready to hit the hay. There would be no campfire gathering on Day one, and no Kumbaya.

After a minute, Roy said, “Well, I’m goin’ to bed,” then added as he eased up painfully, “Steve, I’m really proud of you. You did great today.” I think he told me that three or four more times later.

“Thanks Roy, I appreciate that,” I said, and it truly meant a great deal having someone recognize the grit you had to have to keep going. As Roy limped over to his tent, feet having gone as far as this day would allow, I thought:

Ah, Roy, we did make it. We made it through December after all, I thought, satisfied at the thought. And the tune danced in my head,

Everything’s gonna be all right, everything’s gonna be all right, I know.

5

Lost

July 12

Day 2

4 days before the Grizzly

It is hard to believe that as beautiful as the Monday morning was, the day would be the worse of all, in many ways: One of us would be injured, and two of us would be lost....

Because we were so tired, Todd and I decided to share the two-man tent that first night (which, as it turned out, we did every night of the trip). Roy had a small tent right next to us, and Randy slept in a hammock tied to two trees right beside us on the other side. We weren’t in the tent long before Todd had severe leg cramps; and I had to jump up and rub his legs as best I could to get the cramps out. Comradery-ship knows no limits, and would not looking ahead. It took a while, but they seemed to settle down, and we tried to sleep. He was in pretty bad pain, and it took a good while for it to subside. Even Todd’s legs, as strong as they were, took a toll that first evening’s hike. I suppose rubbing out those cramps is about the only thing I did for Todd on the whole journey, in my book – but Todd would tell me something out of the blue one day that I gave to him that I won't forget.

At one point I heard something outside my tent in the darkness – that would not be the last time, either – and I said with no little alarm in my voice – “Is that you, Roy?” Thankfully, it was. Roy did not sleep at all that night, I learned later.

—turning point

On that Monday morning – Day Two – I arose before the sun came up from behind the mountains, no idea that the trip was about to take a disappointing turn. Arising early became the norm for me, for a number of reasons, starting this first day. I got up and made my way to the edge of the lake, singing a little gospel song, something I tend to do as I go about. The amazin’ blonde always tells folks that I sing gospel in my sleep. I vaguely remember some of that. She hears it all.

The singing of the song that morning reminds me that I felt I had recovered fairly well from the hard Sunday-evening hike. I still wonder about that, wondering even if it wasn’t the Lord’s way of encouraging me to go on, as if the Lord had some training in mind He wanted. I hadn’t sung along much very far until I saw Roy sitting on the beach looking out over the lake. Walking up to the lake that morning was one of the most beautiful scenes of the trip. I was surprised to see Roy sitting there, but was glad to sit down beside him and enjoy this picturesque moment, this spiritual moment. Roy, wrapped in his sleeping bag, and I sat and talked a while as I put my shoes and socks on. After a moment, with disappointment written in his voice, Roy said, abruptly, “I can’t go on.” He had turned his ankle within the first two miles of the hike the evening before; and he was having a hard time walking. It appeared his trip, or our trip, was over before it started.

We spent a good bit of the morning tending to Roy and deciding what to do. Randy made a brace for his ankle by taping two wooden sticks on each side; but Roy had trouble walking with that. So, Randy agreed it would be good if I re-taped it in a sports fashion; so, I took off the makeshift brace and re-used the tape to do a figure-eight tape-job the way we would do on our basketball players. It seemed to help some, but there was no way he was going to be able to go on. Randy contacted the Rangers, and we determined that probably that afternoon they could send someone out to help Roy out of the park.

Randy made a quick decision on what he was going to do. He said he would not leave Roy under any conditions, so he planned to stay with him and help him out of the park. Somebody would have to do that. Todd and I talked about what we should do and decided that we both wanted to go on. Randy showed Todd the path we were to follow from the GPS on Todd’s phone and gave us some of his supplies we might need for the journey. We hugged Roy and Randy and, through some watery eyes, set off on the eastward trail, without them. I could not help but feel for Roy. This was his dream, the trip he planned, and it was over.

—the most grueling day

As I look back at the trip, Monday may have been the most grueling day of the trip. We, again, had gotten a late start, and the sun was well high in the sky and hot by the time we took to the trail. The number of miles we traveled that day is uncertain. Todd seemed to compute in the neighborhood of five miles; but we traveled solid, without hardly a stop, from 11 a.m. until well into the evening. I feel if we did even one mile an hour, we traveled at least eight miles. Since we never made the camp site, we may never know exactly the distance. But it was a hot trail, uphill a big part of the way, mosquitos attacking us in droves, and whatever energy into my legs I had gained in the night’s rest was soon gone.

At one point as we talked, Todd said, “As long as we’re having fun, we’re okay.” And I said, “Fun? This is not fun, Todd. It is a quest, it is something I want to do, but fun? No, it isn’t that.” Todd had a strange look on his face, and I’m sure he tossed that thought around in his head a good while, but he never said anything. Not 'til later.

—lost in 'bear meadow’

As the sun began to get low in the sky, we came up into a green, grassy meadow. I am not sure I remember how exactly we got there or how many creeks or rivers we crossed on the way. There were many. We were not able to find the camp site that we were scheduled to be in – the first sign that we were in the beginning stages of being lost – so Todd asked me to go around the bend and check out the terrain and to see if there was a trail. I walked through more of the tall grass – there would be no shortage of such grassy, almost swampy terrain on any day – and I came to a meadow, a hill with grass as high as two feet. I began calling that the ‘bear meadow’ and have always said that we spent the night in a bear meadow on Monday night, July 12. It would not be the only night we would spend in such a desolate place.

So you’ll understand, the camp sites weren’t much, either. They had a couple of dirt spots for you to get out of the grass, some had a makeshift hole in the ground for cooking, and they all had a telephone-type pole across two trees so you could hang your backpacks or anything that had food in it to deter the bears. But at least a campsite was a place animals knew humans frequented, and they were not nearly as likely to trespass because of that. Wild animals, generally, do not want to encounter humans any more than we do them. That’s a good thing. It would prove to be a really good thing later. But to camp in the middle of a tall grassy area that appears to have had no human traffic in a very long time – that would be one of the scariest situations we would find ourselves – perhaps even more than being lost, if that's possible.

Todd and I both scouted the area and decided to camp at the top of the hill. Todd hung the sleeping bags up fifty or so yards away more to the bottom of the hill; and then we set up the green tent – which blended in perfectly with the tall vegetation around us – and, after a while we were trying to sleep. I am not sure we slept much at all, but we closed our eyes for a while.

—Zion

There is something about those dark, lonely nights. Twice a night I would have to get up in the middle of the night and walk out into that darkness. As I would looked about, the dark sky, sprinkled with millions of stars, reminded just how infinite and great God is. At the same time, as you stand looking all about you, standing that night in a foot of grass in a bear meadow where anything could be crawling, you could not help but feel the power of all that was out there, unseen so far, thankfully. There was danger for sure, whether close to you, or far away. It was not that I feared for my life, necessarily, standing out in the cold, cold night air, it was that you fully respected that if there were any wrong turn your life would be in danger. Even standing there in the quiet darkness in that remote wilderness could be an ending -- and has been for many.

As flimsy as that tent was, it still shielded you from what was on the outside. The Lord's shielding is not flimsy, not even a bit, and I thought that night how He shields us all in His great tabernacle, greater than any physical abode we dwell in for safety. It reminds us that we are God's habitation, as the apostle says, “the habitation of God through the Spirit.” We dwell in God, and He dwells in us. That may not mean as much to you as you read this, but standing in that darkness, unprotected from the elements, your faith rests in the fact that the Lord has built us a habitation in which His people are to dwell. I thought of how the old songwriter puts it, “There is a habitation, built by the living God,” a song with that resounding chorus, “O Zion, lovely Zion, I long thy gates to see. O Zion, lovely Zion, when shall I dwell in thee.”

I can say to you now, with a smile, that while I do, we do, long for that Zion – and I longed for it even the more on those dark nights -- I didn't exactly want to enter those gates on straight from Yellowstone. You understand.

There’s a realization that comes to you when you leave home to go out to challenge a remote wilderness: You know that there is chance that you will not come home. Anything can happen, and many such things did happen. Perhaps the greater blessing of all were those unseen things of danger that were just a step away, a moment away, of which we never knew.

—love letter

I do not remember exactly when I wrote the letter you are about to read. It may even have been on Day Three, but I'll put it here, because it fits here well. I know I would have written it along the trail, leaning against a tree or more likely a rock, while while Todd was off scouting ahead a bit. But for the first time, I took time to write. I wrote on several blank pages I folded and stuck in my bag when we left the truck on Sunday evening. I wanted to record the sights and sounds along the way; and I guess I wanted a record, too, just in case things turned out -- you know, not as well.

I had never felt as remote as I felt when I took my pen to write that letter. Having lost the trail and having failed to find the camp site, we were sleeping in no-man’s land. We had no other choice. Todd's GPS signal had gone out earlier, so we had no contact to the outside world. There is no way anybody could know where we are or how to get to us. It was just Todd and me, and a vast wilderness, It was Todd and me sleeping in a bear meadow.

It had been two – maybe three – days since I had any access to the amazin’ blonde; and I think at the time of that writing I felt as far removed from her as I ever have. On the morning Roy and I sat on the beach talking and looking over the lake, we started talking about our wives and the years we had spent together, and Roy said, “I can tell you one thing, Coach, everybody knows you love that woman.” I just smiled. Roy, and Yellowstone, remind you of the important things. Being lost and apart reminded me how a spouse must feel when the one goes on ahead of them and they are left alone.

Leaning against a tree or rock, I scribbled this note – just in case …

To my amazin’ blonde,

I want you to know how much I miss you tonight, and that I love you even more. We are deep in this wilderness, and it’s hot in the day and cold and damp at night. I feel further away from you out here than ever before. My legs tonight are so tired, hon, I can’t explain to you just how tired they are. They are spent, I have little left. But it will be all right. We will make it through. Worse than the deep tiredness is a deep, indescribable loneliness in the wilderness. We are now fifteen, maybe twenty miles, from any civilization, as far as I can tell. But regardless of how far we are away, I want you to know you are very close. I want to thank you for all you have been, all you have done, and all you are. I love you, hun, more than ever. Say your prayers.

Love, Steven R.

P.S. See you soon.

I wrote the note, folded it and put it in my backpack, and carried it with me through the lost days that were ahead. With her near, perhaps I would not feel quite as lost, because we were about to get deeper into the wilderness; and we were about to be more lost than even then.

6

Lost, again

Tuesday, July 13, 2021

Day 3

57 hours (until the Grizzly)

After writing and sharing the details of Day Two, one of my favorite nieces, Leah Hays, wrote, “God and prayer—the only reasons ya’ll made it out.”

True.

I guess it is easy to forget just how precarious these days were, both the ones of which you have already read and, especially, the ones to come. Perhaps we tend to think that since we avoided tragedy that the danger may not have been that real. I even begin to think the same thing, until I am able to take myself all the way back to some of those most tense moments, especially the hours when Todd and I had to separate, and we did not know if we would be able to find one another before nightfall.

No, being lost – and being ‘lost, again’ in the remote regions of Yellowstone – those are some of the most dangerous hours in one’s life. You’ll remember – and my niece reminds us of it again here – the thesis, if one needs stating, of this story is the amazing nature of God’s grace and Providence. It came down to that.

Without it, someone else would be telling this story, and that, only in bits and pieces.

Early Tuesday we folded the tent without talking and pulled the bags down from the tree and headed out on the trail, a little earlier than usual. Even in this remote bear meadow, Todd and I were encouraged to see a sign pointing us to “Heart Lake Trail.” We started out on that trail, more confident than before that we could find the trail. We started out, and I am not sure at that point what our thought process was regarding making the entire sixty-five-mile hike. We had not discussed modifying the trip, but we would soon.

We would have a full two hours of cooler weather with our early start. I believe we would have been headed south, or southwest, because the sun came up in our face and it would be on our left or a bit behind us as we traveled. Day three was no different in one respect from all the other days – it was non-stop, with Todd leading the way but never getting out of sight. The sun came out and, before we knew it, was blistering, as it had been every day. My legs, by this time, were completely gone, but they had been gone for two days. You don’t get any deader than dead, I guess. I believe that phenomenon, if that is what to call it, may be the most difficult thing to explain. Having no legs on a three-mile hike is one thing. Having none for up to nine miles six full days in a row, that’s something different. The only solution I knew is the one I took: Move as slowly as needed, but keep moving. That we did. With every slow, tired step a struggle, we made our way out of our bear meadow unscathed.

—Meltdowns

It was some time after noon, maybe one o’clock, when I think I hit the wall with some degree of finality. Todd was down a hill and fifty feet or so ahead of me, nearing a rolling creek, and I came upon a rock in a slightly shaded area. That was it, for me. I took off my backpack, plopped down on the ground on that rock, and hollered out to Todd, “I’m done. I’m done!”

I laugh at this now. For the first time, the frustration of running this hike as if it were a race against time or nature got to me. I felt sorry for Todd at that moment because of Todd’s good nature. You won’t read anything negative about that gentleman, because there just isn’t anything negative I could say. But what I need to say, though, is that he is a very literal person. His life is organized in a sort of box that kept one foot in all the time. Mine might look more like the floor of a kid’s room.

One evening I asked him, “Todd, you’ve got to tell me. You know you’re structured to an absolute tee. How does Staci deal with that?”

“Oh,” he said, “she's worse than I am.”

I smiled. That family never is late for church, I bet.

But that personality did tend to provide us some funny moments.

When I said, “I’m done” on the trail that Tuesday, I’m pretty sure that scared Todd, because I believe he thought that I meant that I wasn’t moving one inch further, that they might as well send in the helicopter or horses now, because I’m not moving another inch, not now, not ever. That’s what “I’m done” means, literally.

But, of course, that wasn’t what I meant. I was done, all right, but I was done for that moment. I wasn’t moving another inch right then, regardless of where we thought we had to be that evening. The only schedule – the only box anybody was going to put me in – is that at the moment I was leaning back against a rock and not moving.

—The Hogans

I don’t know exactly how Providence works – That was one of the big talks Todd and I along with our original hiking buddies Roy Deering and Randy Butler had on our drive up – but I am sure it was at work at that pivotal moment when I hit the ground. Of course, Providence would be called upon even more in the days ahead. I hadn’t been sitting there long trying to get rested and hydrated until an older couple of hikers walked up. Those two – the Hogans – were clearly experienced hikers, just as was every hiker we met. Fact is, we never did meet an ‘inexperienced’ one, except when we looked at the reflection from a still stream of water. You understand.

Todd came back up the hill to us as I talked to the two hikers recapping the past three days of non-stop, relentless, hot, mosquito-fested, up-hill, tiring, leg-killing hiking. I didn’t get up – which is unusual for me when I greet people – but I continued to visit with them sitting against the rock where I was.

The husband was more of an outgoing, talkable type of man, his wife Cynthia more stoic and matter-of-factly. Both personalities worked, just as the two hikers they stumbled across, I guess. Cynthia began showing Todd how to get back to the trailhead where our adventure began, drawing a map that would put us at Surprise Campground in about three miles. Mr. Hogan talked to me cheerfully during Ms. Cynthia’s half of an hour of instruction. I commend them, as others we would meet on the trail, for taking this time with us and putting their own schedule on hold.

Mr. Hogan told me something as we talked that stuck with me. In his spirited way, he said, “Now, Steven, you have to enjoy this hike. Enjoy God’s nature. Stop and look around. Take a swim in the creeks. Take your time and soak it all in. This is supposed to be fun.” Then he added a tidbit that I already knew but needed reinforcing.

“And remember,” he said, “either you’re building your body up or you’re tearing it down. You want to build it up.”

I thanked him for that reminder, because I was well aware that for three days I had been tearing my body down in a way I had never done before, in a way I can’t even explain – and I needed to give it time to restore. Before our friends left us, Cynthia walked over toward me and asked if we needed to send a message to our families when they got out of the wilderness the next day. I said that would be great, and dictated this short message to the amazin’ blonde:

“We are good, but really tired. We should be out by Saturday.”

After I dictated that much, I wanted to ask her to write that I loved her, but, fatigue and emotions set in, and I couldn’t quite get it out; so, I just said, “That’ll do.”

Our two hiker friends set out again on their own journey; but they would go on to play a big role in things in the next couple of days, as (we would learn much later) they were in contact with both the amazin’ blonde and Roy and Randy on Wednesday afternoon. Their report alarmed Marilyn as well as Todd’s wife Staci, who was in constant contact with her; but they kept everything under wraps for the most part so they would not alarm the whole world, for which Todd and I both were thankful.

As they left us, we did not know that it would be more than forty-eight hours before we would see anyone else – and that those forty-eight hours would be the most intense of all. In short – and there is no doubt about this – the next forty-eight hours were lifechanging.

7

Todd’s Story

Tuesday afternoon, July 13, 2021

Day 3

50 hours before the Grizzly

Before things took a turn for the worse, we had a funny moment. Humor and near tragedy often make good bedfellows, although in this case there was no potential tragedy at all, mainly just a point of ridiculous aggravation.

—meltdown with a laugh

It had been a couple of hot hours of hiking since the Hogans, assisted us. Steps were not getting any easier, but we continued as non-stop as possible. One stop Todd and I had not made at all since we started on Sunday was stopping to go to the ‘bathroom.’ We were now on the third day, and, for some reason around 3 pm, my body decided it was time, despite the sparse meals. For the past seventy-two hours, I had only eaten two small containers of chicken salad and nibbled on some peanut butter protein bars. Todd had had little more. The altitude, heat, fatigue – I don’t know what all – took your appetite almost completely away.

We’ll tell this unashamedly, I guess, and venture onto the more-than-you-need-to-know trail. I hollered at Todd, ahead of me his usual fifty feet or so and said I needed to walk out into the woods. I set my bag down on the side of the trail and began to dig for the wet wipes. One thing I noted all through our trip that nothing was easy, especially dealing with that unwieldy backpack. I could not find them in that packed bag, and my body wasn't as patient as it might have been. The scene kind of went downhill from there, and I’ll graciously close the curtain on the remainder of it.

That afternoon I did learn how that part of life in the woods worked, although it was another frustrating affair. I guess it all just added up and I needed to vent, so I just exclaimed down to Todd, “Todd, I’m sick of this! I’m really done this time! You wait three days, then when the time comes you can’t find what you need. This is ridiculous!”

I was about ready to walk back out to the trail by this time, and through the trees I could see Todd easing his way back up the trail near to where I was. When he got within talking distance, he said, calmly, in his Todd-esque way, “Steve, you all right?”

I responded with something like, "No, Todd, I'm not exactly all right. This is ridiculous. But, yeah, I’m all right, or I will be in a minute."

—Losing the trail

We hiked on a couple more hours, and in the early evening the trail again faded. We seemed to be on the right trail and should be nearing our destination at what is called the Snake Confluence – campsite 8c5 – which was the campsite at which we should have arrived on Monday evening. As we hiked that direction, the trail ultimately led down a steep, wooded hill. Todd was ahead of me and went down to the bottom of the hill, then a minute later came back up, “Steve, do you see another trail?”

It was a pivotal moment for us. Suddenly Day three was becoming an extension of Day two. We did not know where we were, and this time there were no metal signs pointing toward Heart Lake.

We turned around and made our way back up the hill, and the thought of having to re-trace steps at this point, going in circles, or up and down hills all in vain, was overwhelming. There comes a point when a body is tired but keeps going, and is tired even more, and keeps going still – and when that pattern continues hour after hot hour, and day by day, a body’s fatigue has nowhere to go. Quitting is not an option, but something has to give eventually. I knew what that something was, too – and I knew the consequences of it – and I was doing my very best not to let it happen.

You probably are getting a vague sense of how tiring things were by this time, after you’ve read already of several days’ worth of intense, non-stop hiking, heat and mosquitos, and much uphill and uneven terrain. Amazingly, though, during all this time Todd still was going strong. He was a true Ironman. He just seemed to be able to go on and on. I know he was tired, but he never came to a point where I felt he was exhausted and spent. After climbing back up that steep wooded hill and then deciding to start heading back east, Todd said, “Let me have your backpack.” At that point it was either that, or stop, and we couldn’t afford to stop. Over the next two hours either he carried it in his hand, or we both took ahold of it and carried it together, or I would take it in my hand and carry it, refusing to put it on my back any more, at least for a time.

A little later during this stretch of searching for the trail, Todd mentioned the fact that among everything we had gone through he had carried my pack a while, and that really bothered me. He wasn’t complaining, just stating the facts. We were both doing all we could to survive, so you do what you have to do. We both had to get out of that wilderness, not just one. We needed to keep moving, and by that point on Tuesday evening my steps were diminishing more than ever. It would be the next day, I believe, when we, again, reached an end-of-the-road point that he said he’d carry my bag again, and I said without hesitation,

“No sir, I’m not ever goin’ to let you do that again.” He didn’t protest. I don’t know, maybe he understood there was honor at stake here and didn’t want to contradict it. Later on, though, he did compromise and say, almost apologetically,

“Will it be okay if I put your sleeping bag on my backpack, that’ll lighten your load a little?”

To that I agreed. We had found a compromise. And he let me maintain that sense of honor. I think it was just one of many gallant things my good friend would do in those six days.

Through it all, Todd and I never had a cross word, although we were together twenty-four/seven, literally. We would have a couple of little heart-to-heart talks over the next couple of day, but those were nothing.

I’ll always owe Todd a debt for what he did and was. When I tell this story (which is often), I always say,

"Well, you know, in a way, this really is Todd's story."

8

Grizzly lurking in the darkness

Tuesday night, July 13, 2021

Day 3

45 hours before the Grizzly

Two nights in a row we slept in a bear meadow – perhaps ‘bear wilderness’ would say it better, even. But this one may have been more of a dangerous place to camp than the first. Todd and I hadn’t been in the tent long that night trying to sleep when we heard something just outside the tent. Todd describes it this way in an overview he wrote a few days after our emerging from our wilderness:

Right at dark, a heavy, medium-length legged animal sounds like it false charges us while trying to sleep in our tent. Appears to be about 30 yards away, based on the sound. Sounds like an aggressive, sure-footed, unafraid charge. We stay very quiet. It’s a very uncomfortable, frightening moment. I’m assuming it’s a heavy large bear.

I was glad to get Todd’s perspective on those moments. We talked later and both agreed the sound seemed more in the range of no more than fifty-sixty feet. He pointed out that sounds may seem closer when you’re out in such a remote area. Still, knowing our location, I would expect the animal was in the open area just outside our tent, because he had pitched our tent against some high weeds in the middle of an open field. The animal easily could have been thirty feet, even less. I remember the sound vividly, just as Todd describes it. It just seemed to come out of nowhere. It was so unexpected, louder than you might expect. I can say with almost certainty that it was a bear executing (as they say they do) a false charge that night. Randy and I had heard the sound of a moose running off into the woods on the first night, so I have an image in my mind of its gait. While the moose probably weighs nearly as much as a black bear – up to a thousand pounds, I’d say – its gait is definitely different with longer strides. I had the chance to get an up-close view of the sound of a bear’s gallop, too, as you know, less than forty-eight hours later. Comparing the two, the wild animal outside our thin little tent that night almost certainly came from a bear.

While I was editing this part of the story, my brother Wayne called me and talked to me about the adventure. We had talked for an hour right after we got home. I’ve learned to do my “training” by going out and going for a walk when I get into longer conversations, and I was able to walk on that day for almost an hour again. He told me of some of his adventures on the motorcycle as he traveled through the years, and I told him something I want you all to know, too.

One of the amazing things as I look back is knowing – yet not knowing nearly to what degree – the Lord’s protection over us from things both seen and unseen. Ah, I think, even now, of that old song I still like to sing as I mill around during my day: “There is an unseen hand to me, that leads through ways I cannot not see. While traveling through this world of woe, that hand still leads me as I go.” 

Then the resounding chorus: “I’m trusting to the unseen hand that guides me through this weary land. And some sweet day I’ll reach that land, still guided by the unseen hand.”

God’s beautiful, guiding hand was with Todd and me that night. We sat quietly for some time, afraid to move, not daring to go outside the tent to see what was lurking outside, just waiting to hear another sound. It wasn’t long before we lay back down and drifted off to sleep.

We slept peacefully that night, leaving the rest of that dark night in the care of the unseen hand.

9

A danger greater than Grizzlies

Wednesday morning, July 14

Day 4

38 hours to the Grizzley

The next morning, I was up early, as usual, getting the bags down from the tree and getting ready for our fourth day of hiking. I remember our being especially tired that morning and not very talkative. I managed a “good morning” to Todd as we were taking down the tent, and that was about it. After we got dressed and packed and got ready to head down the trail heading east, we made a decision. I believe Todd brought it up, and I readily agreed. We decided to leave my backpack on the trail. I felt that if I was going to get out of the wilderness on my own – I knew we were as many as twenty miles deep into the wilderness – that I was not going to do it carrying those thirty-five pounds. We unloaded a number of heavy items – my sandals, a one-man tent, all the clothes besides a few, even one of my hiking poles. I put the few items I was going to carry in the blue tent bag, all of which weighed about ten pounds since we kept a flashlight and bear spray. Later I realized I should have kept the backpack and both poles and discarded most of the rest of the contents. A light backpack would have been easier to tote than having a ten-pound tent bag to carry in your hands.

Before leaving, I wrote a note to leave with the bag, telling the time and day and direction we were going, and I included the amazin’ blonde’s cell number. I did not expect the note to be found in the next day or so, not in this remote location. If we continued to be lost, the note would give searchers a place to start should they find the note. Leaving the note and the backpack, we headed east down the trail, as we had planned. We had only gone a couple hundred yards when we ran into seven or eight-feet high grass that closed off the trail completely. It had a seriously ominous look to it, and Todd went a few feet into it and came out. We both agreed that we should not chance going into that quagmire.

It was then, at that moment, that I knew that we were lost. At least, if there was any doubt, this removed all of it. That realization changed my approach and mindset, too. It’s funny how you start out the trip just tagging along with three of your companions, depending on them to know the way, to guide us with their prior research and the GPS. And when we separated from Roy and Randy, Todd took over the guide role, and he did it, as the apostle says on one occasion, "heartily as to the Lord." Still, for a number of reasons, I suppose, the trail disappeared on us, and we took the wrong trail and ended up maybe a mile or two way too far to the south and the east.

That morning, we turned around and headed west, back toward the river.

We were about to make another tough decision, now that it was clear that we did not know where we were and had no idea how to get back to a trail. We came back to where we had left the backpack, and we stopped to add to the note that we were not headed east as we had written a few minutes before but headed west and would go north up river. Attaching that note to the backpack, we began our fourth day’s hike.

—Wednesday morning, July 14

That was quite a turning point for my friend and me.

The entire tone of the hike had changed, both in a bad way, and in a good way. The realization that you are lost that deep in this remote wilderness was sobering. But there was also a calmness that fell over me, it seemed. I think, perhaps, I shifted into a survival mode and knew I had to do whatever was necessary to give me and my friend the best chance to come out of Yellowstone safely and injury free. I think the coaching mentality set in, too. I was no longer just along for the ride. I had to be a much more active decision-maker and an even more pragmatic hiker. We had little room for error. A wrong move now, and we could be in trouble.

Even as I re-live those Wednesday morning moments, I realize that even with the numerous times I’ve told this story in the past week to my own family and others, I am sure they will feel some degree of surprise at just how scary the situation had become by that morning. I still had full confidence in Todd’s ability to maintain the physical stress and to be able to find his way eventually. But I also knew my own vulnerability. Should I push my legs too hard from this point on, even to the extent we had the last three days, and – as a result – pull one of the many leg muscles that were very susceptible to tightening up -- Todd would be walking out of there alone.

That scenario carried with it an increasing number of dangers.

I still say it is by God’s grace that these old out-of-shape legs held up under the stress they had been under. And I am glad that I had the understanding that I had to keep them healthy, as all costs. To be rendered unable to walk down that deep in the wilderness would have meant I would have been stranded in this remote place for whatever time it would have taken Todd to find the path, go find help, get the help to come deep into the wilderness, and then to find my exact location. That process would have taken a couple of days, at least – and that’s if they could locate me at that point. Todd would have been at the end of his own rope; and his own dangers would have been very real had he had to go on alone and try to execute all of those steps while trying to stay well himself.

My church friend Dale Wells from Lexington, Oklahoma pointed out much of that situation to me as we talked a week or two after the events. “It’s not the bears that present the greatest danger," he said, "it’s the elements.”

We faced the threat of battling the elements in unknown territories for days, if we could not find a trail. So on Wednesday morning, with all of those dangers staring us down, we began that trail-finding journey, hoping and praying for the best.

But I am glad of something that I just now seem to realize. The thoughts of those real dangers and the fact they were more likely to happen than not, at that point – those thoughts really did not enter my mind, not that morning, not even as we came back to the Snake River and Todd and I had to make the most difficult decision we would make on the entire trip.

We stood on a rocky island that separated that clear, choppy river into two sections that morning, and we looked up that flowing river as far as we could to the north, and we made a decision.

Even unspoken, we both knew it could prove to make one or both of us fight to survive, and soon.

10

The dividing of a river, the parting of friends

Thursday morning, July 15

Day 5

12 hours before the Grizzly

There it stood!

Perhaps it was just the Lord’s reminder for us to absorb all the good things around us, not just the ominous.

We hadn’t gone a hundred yards toward the river that Wednesday morning until an elk – Todd says its rack at least a 5 x 5 and maybe 7 x 7 – came out into a wide opening in the woods and posed for us there in the field. It just stood there in the middle of the field, majestically, looking at us for several moments, as curious about us and we were about him. He was far more majestic, though. It was one of the most beautiful sights I would see, with another awaiting a little more than a day ahead.

After a few moments, the elk with that massive rack hovering two feet over his head dashed into the forest for safely, and Todd and I appreciated its beauty for a moment longer before we hiked on toward the river we could hear flowing half a mile from our campsite. At the river, we turned and made our way north. We had not gone far until I motioned to Todd for us to stop again, and I wrote another note, thinking that it was more likely someone would come across a note at the river than deep down that dark trail where we had camped. I was shocked later to find that both notes were found within a couple of days, which created a stir 'on land,' both for our wives but also for Randy and Roy who were waiting for us outside of Yellowstone. I had felt sure that by the time they were found that either we would have found the trail and made contact with our families – thus no alarm when they called our wives at home – or we would be lost and those notes would point the way for searchers. My plan there only worked partially, because the Hogans were contacting the amazin’ blonde about this same time on this Wednesday – thus the creation of some degree of panic at home had already begun.

—Bidding Todd Godspeed

Knowing we were lost and completely at the Lord’s mercy of finding any kind of a trail now, I made a decision for Todd and me. I had already decided that I was going to be more proactive in regard to pushing our way along regardless of whether we were lost or found. I told Todd that he needed to go on ahead and try to find a trail or find help. His hanging back with me was only going to slow the progress and lessen our chances of getting out of there before nightfall. I assured him that I would be easy to find if anything happened, that I would stay on the river, heading north.

We had a prayer together by the edge of that calming river, and I bid Todd Godspeed. One of the great things about our trip was our daily prayers, not only at the meals (such as they were, mainly a bite or two out of a protein bar) but numerous times along the way. I usually said the prayers, I guess thinking that that would be my contribution to our team, if nothing else. And Todd seemed to want me to pray and waited for me whenever the time came. It is an amazing thing to consider, but for a forty-eight-hour period it was just Todd and me, and the Lord.

When you really think about that, it's sobering. We had no way to talk to or hear from anybody in the world for two long, hard days -- except the Lord.

But when the Lord is there, you are always in the majority.

You understand.

With the A-men said, Todd was on his long journey north, up the river, with my blessings. I say it that way because many question the decision to separate. We considered both ways. I know far too well that, on my part, that the judgment exercised in taking on this mammoth of a hike unprepared was questionable (I’m being kind to myself here). But by the fourth day of this great challenge, we were all using the best judgment we could in making sure we would survive. We needed to find a trail, and our chances of doing that were far greater with Todd's going ahead and scouting out the region. His physical stamina had been amazing (something I still marvel at), and I trusted his judgment completely. I probably still do not understand his own sense of personal responsibility in trying to forge ahead but still make sure he got back to make sure we were both safe. I think he carried a much heavier burden than I realized. I tried to lighten that for him, if nothing else in assuring him that the decision for him to go on was mine. And as I think of it, Randy and Roy back outside the park were carrying some heavy burdens on our behalf, too. No man travels a trail alone.

As Todd made his way up the trail on the bank of the river, I do remember thinking that I did not expect to see Todd any time soon; and I felt that there was a really good chance that night would fall and I would still be on that river. For some reason, I think I fully expected that and prepared myself mentally for it. When night came, my plan was to sleep on one of the rocky islands that separated the river numerous times as it flowed southward. There I would feel fairly safe. While wild animals likely would come to the river to drink at night, they might not venture on through the water to the small islands. I say that, even though there were numerous animal prints cast into the dried mud on those islands.

—Another key decision

I had made another decision that morning, quietly and privately. I told myself that – whatever happens – I was going to enjoy this adventure from this point on. I was especially going to enjoy the river. I always felt safe there, regardless of what other situations we were in. I decided that on this day – still early Wednesday morning – that it was very important to try to renew myself both physically and spiritually.

Regardless of what lay ahead, that renewal would serve us both well. The best case scenario, I knew, was that we would find the trail but still have to hike some twenty-plus miles to get out of this wilderness. And there was a worse case, too, but we would walk down that stream if we came to it.

It wasn’t long before Todd was out of sight around a bend, and I was alone on Snake River. I walked on through the water, slowly, for a good while until finally I splashed my way to the bank on the west side. There I found a cool, shaded spot, took off my backpack, and rested. It was the first nap I had on this trip, some of the best rest I had had. I slept until the sun began coming out from behind the trees – I do not know how long it was, probably as long as thirty minutes – but the sun’s shining on me shortened the nap and alerted me that it was time to move on. But before I went back into the water to walk, since I would do no hiking in the high weeds of the riverbank, I pulled out my papers and began writing notes describing how things stood.

—Secret power

There is irony regarding the paper I had packed in my backpack. I knew I wanted to write along the way as we set off on the journey. Maybe I would have a book in me, I thought. We know now the irony of that. Not wanting to be laden down with a spiral notebook, I had made a copy of a sermon by the world-renowned Charles Spurgeon to read on my trip, about five or six pages. All of the journal notes I wrote, along with the two notes I left asking for help, were written on the back side of that sermon.

I still haven’t read that sermon; but I can say that I have lived it, more than I ever knew I could.

It was called, “The secret power in prayer.”

We would call on that secret power many, many times.

11

Between the lines

Wednesday, July 14

Day 4

30 hours before the Grizzly

No one could say with certainty what it was that Todd saw. One might say it was just a

hiker on the trail. Another? It had to be an angel. What I do know is that Todd himself

did not know.

Todd had hiked up the river all morning, leaving me well behind him. Outside of my half of an hour of rest and the nap, I remained diligent in making my way north up the river. The river was clear – “clear as crystal,” I often thought – its transparency giving us the more assurance. Much was to be unknown on these days, but we had some clarity, at least, looking into that water. We never wondered where we were stepping or what was there. The rocks overlay the bottom like a sheet and were sometimes slippery, and they were of different sizes so that you had to be careful not to slip or lose your footing due to both the uneven river floor and the swiftness of the water. Of all the hours we walked in that river, I slipped a few times but never fell in the water. I never saw Todd slip at all. You walk carefully, circumspectly, with so much at stake.

I suppose I’ll never talk about the Christian walk without thinking of these six days and, especially, that careful, delicate walk up the Snake River.

Often the rocky islands that appeared often throughout the river would divide the water into separate tributaries. The divided water would come back together again when the island ended, and it would flow as before, as one. I hoped that the same would be the case for Todd and me.

As you walked, you had to pick and choose the best routes to take to make your way northward safely. Sometimes one of the tributaries would be far too swift to attempt to go that way, so you would either take the other stream, ‘having the better claim’ as says the poet, and perhaps flowing much more gently; or you would take to the island and walk it as long as needed before you could take to the water again. You would not want to walk on the islands too long because they were filled with much mud, high grass, and fallen trees –almost petrified logs now lying across the way – and its terrain did not inspire confidence, either. Down in the water was where the greater safety rest, in my mind.

I do not know exactly how far Todd went totally that morning or how far behind him I was. With my thirty-minute or so nap and rest, I think he must have gotten a mile or so ahead of me. Perhaps totally we walked as much as two, three miles that morning up the river. Along the way, I must have stopped again to write another note, or I wrote it earlier in the morning. Looking back now, I see I had my doubts about Todd’s finding me before nightfall. The eventuality of spending the night alone on that river was always in the back of my mind. I did not know that Todd was about to see something that would change the entire course of the journey. I did not know that when I stopped to write once more to the amazin’ blonde. The note was simple, describing the items I had left behind and such. But now as I read this note, I read much more between the lines.

In my small tent bag I packed my medicine, a couple of shirts, one pair of extra socks –

we are past “changing clothes” – and I took one walking cane and left the other.

After I walked alone awhile on the river, I realized Todd took my sleeping bag – and that

worried me a little. I knew if he did not come back tonight that I would prob. find some

wood, etc. and build a makeshift bed on one of the rock islands between the two

streams of water when the river divides often. I knew, or figured, I’d be safer at night by

the water than on the land.

I also knew I would see you again.

 

12

The first Guardian Angel

Wednesday, noon, July 14

Day 4

30 hours before the Grizzly

Wednesday afternoon was a turning point, the most important of our journey.

We had reached a point in which we either would somehow stumble across a trail and get back on the right track; or we would keep moving steadily up the river and hope we see a trail from the water or another hiker who could help show us the way. I believe that the further up the Snake River we would have gone, the more we would move into remote wilderness and the less likely we would find a trail.

It was make-or-break time.

—the sighting

As evidenced by the brevity of the note I wrote earlier that morning, I could not spend a great deal of time resting there on the bank of the river, as majestic as it was. I would need to get back in the water and keep moving. Reading now between those roughly scribbled lines, we get a closer look at my state of mind at that point. Down deep there was the thought – maybe even the expectation – that this trip was about to lead into more of the unknown. As I think back on it, I can say that the chances of our plodding aimlessly for a great deal longer were more likely than not at that point.

Yet, despite that, I remember thinking that this was not a life-or-death matter. Perhaps I should have worried about that, but I felt that the worst that was likely to happen is that we would stay lost for a couple of days and that somebody would eventually spot us on the river. I still believe that is what would have happened. But the longer we were out there in those elements, the greater the chance that some other misfortune would have fallen on us. We witnessed that up close with the near bear attack the night before.

But something was about to happen that I have only one explanation for – and as I tell it to you now, you will have to make your own determination as to what you think best explains this unexpected event. I know that as I relate this part of the narrative, I cannot help but smile at the thought of what was happening behind the scenes in my and Todd’s lives. The satisfaction of the thought is something no one can ever take away.

A couple miles up the river from where we started that morning, Todd saw it. He was trudging up the river, hoping to see a trail within sight of the river. He glanced over to the west bank and saw a hiker, a man, walking up the trail. He hollered out at the man, but the man never turned toward him and never slowed down. In an instant, he was gone. That was it: Gone as quickly as he had appeared.

Todd hurried on out of the river onto the bank and tried to move as closely as he could to where he saw the man. The hiker was gone – and there was little chance of catching him – but as he looked for him, he realized that the man could not have done a better job of pointing out to us the trail we needed to take had he stopped and pointed at it. It became the biggest discovery of our trip. It could be why I am able to tell this story to you today.

No one could say with certainty what it was that Todd saw. One might say it was just a hiker on the trail. Another? He might say that it must have been an angel showing us the way, pointing to us the trail that would lead us home. What I do know is that Todd himself did not know. Soon after the sighting, I saw Todd up ahead of me a hundred yards or so standing in the middle of one of the islands in the river. I was surprised to see him, especially this early in the day. I continued on carefully in his direction, keeping my eyes on where I was stepping to make sure to keep sure footing in that flowing water and on those unstable rocks. As I came within hearing distance of Todd, he hollered out,

“Steve, could you hear me calling out?”

“No,” I said, walking up to him with a smile, “the river’s too loud. I couldn’t hear anything.”

He explained that he had seen the hiker just a little while prior to my coming, and when he hollered out to him he did not hear him, either. He did not turn around or respond to him in any way.

“I don’t know what it was,” he said, pausing, “it could have just been a hiker. Or it could have been something else,” and he said it as if he had just seen a ghost. I found some satisfaction in that, for it was yet another testimony to God’s unseen hand paving a way for us on our mysterious journey. It was something that we had discussed at length in our drive up from Denver to our current battlefield. I was glad, too, that Todd realized that we were not in this thing alone. True, it may have been a regular hiker. But it was not ‘just’ a hiker. That I know.

My friend and I crossed over the swift stream that ran against the west side of the river, and we began making our way toward the site hidden back behind heavy brush and forest. That ninety or hundred-foot hike was not easy. We had to trudge through a muddy section where the river splashed over the bank in its excitement; then we had to climb up a three-foot ledge to get to level ground. From there, you had to make your way through some high grass until you came to a vague trail to the north of the campsite. Taking that trail, we passed several tall trees and moved past thick shrubbery that hid everything behind it. It was there, behind the thick and tall shrubs, that we came to the camp.

Thinking back on all of that now, I realize that there is no way you would know to exit the river at that point and make your way up through that rough terrain to get to a campsite. That terrain looked no different than the terrain we had seen for miles up and down the river. Had we continued on, we might have taken some stabs at exiting the river and finding a trail as we went along; but those attempts would only have been little more than stabs in the dark. The only way – and I see no other – we would have a fair chance of finding a trail and finding our way back out of this remote part of Yellowstone was to see a hiker in the distance on the very trail we needed to take us home.

I am thankful today that by that marvelous grace that had brought us safe thus far, we found just such a man, one who neither spoke nor responded.

Whether it was a hiker, or whether the Lord provided an angel at just the right time to guide us back to the trail – that is something we’ll never know. What we do know is this: The Lord had guided us back to a place where we had a chance to exit this wilderness on our own, even though we know we were never really ‘on our own.’

I cannot tell you how often that scene comes to me now. Occasionally I’ll even think of the skeptics who will say that the only reason there was a hiker out there at that precise moment and that Todd saw him is that, by happenstance, a man was hiking that trail at the moment Todd looked that direction. Nothing more.

But a man who thinks that way likely isn’t lost eerily twenty miles deep in a remote region of a vast wilderness. Lost in the wide and deep expanse of Yellowstone, and at the ultimate mercy of someone far bigger than you and far bigger than I – that’s one of the best places I’ve ever seen for a man to grow some good, old-fashioned faith.

13

The River, the Lord, and me

Thursday morning, July 15

Day 5

12 hours until the Grizzly

I have stood out on the rim of the Grand Canyon looking out over that broad expanse in

amazement and wonder. I have stood looking out over the emerald-green sea waters of Alaska, those glassy and mysterious waters hemmed in by majestic, snow-capped mountains. I have admired the changing mosaic leaves of fall from the midst of the regal Smoky mountains, to which we’ve gone to absorb for decades now – but I have never been more inspired, more touched deeply in the soul, than the morning of looking out over Yellowstone's cool flowing Snake River on Thursday morning, the fifteenth day of July, 2021. I never will forget this day.

Wednesday provided the turning point we needed, almost desperately, and we were able to rest from the time we came to the campsite on that Wednesday afternoon until the dawning of the fifth day. That elusive campsite to which we had come, with much thanksgiving, had two sections, perhaps twenty feet apart. The section nearest the river had two long logs across from each other, about ten feet apart, with the dirt floor in between. You could sit on or against the logs to rest or to put your shoes on or off. After Todd and I had gotten settled, I sat on the ground against the log looking northward to rest, then decided to lean my head against my new small backpack and try to take a nap. The sun was shining through the trees occasionally, and the tiny mosquitos were overly friendly, as usual, so I put my hat over my face and tried to rest. Todd did the same on the other side ten or twelve feet away. We both slept for a time. After a while, we got a chance to talk (I think it may have been the first time we really had talked since we put on our backpacks), and I asked about his family. He told me of his wife Staci, whom I had known for years from our Houston days, and his two girls – Kayla and Kelsey – whom I would be blessed to meet a few weeks later and tell of all of our adventures. I talked of my family, too—the amazin’ blonde, of course, my son Malachi making his way so well out in California, our fourth-grade teaching Rachel with husband Michael, along with the two other lights of our lives, Connorman, my hiking and reading partner, and Audrey Lyn, the one who lets me coach her some in basketball. For a time, sitting there in that wilderness, life seemed almost normal.

As evening approached, we made our way to the other section of the campsite that contained a pit where you could build a campfire, had there not been a ban this summer due to fire danger. That section had the long pole high above across two trees where you hung your bags during the night. It was there that Todd and I communed together with our first hot meal of the journey. Todd boiled water on a burner that Randy Butler had let us use for fixing our packaged meals, and he served me first. That night I had chicken alfredo, and it was the best meal I had had in a while. It was the only meal I had had in a while, for that matter. I could not finish the entire package, but I ate most of it, and Todd ate all of his. The only thing either of us had eaten since Sunday was a few bites at a time of the protein bars we packed. I did have a Payday bar that I nibbled on Sunday and Monday, and it was more of a blessing than I could have known when I packed it at the bottom of my backpack. In that altitude, and with the fatigue, food had little appeal. But I knew the sodium and potassium in that Wednesday evening hot meal was good for our bodies and muscles, so I was glad to have it.

After the meal, we soon made our way back to the tent at the other section, nearer the river, and there we would spend our fourth night in the wild, but not as remote of an area as the past two eerie nights. Thinking back, I think the time we had to rest that afternoon and night must have been another life-saver for us. We still were almost twenty miles from walking out of our wilderness; so, the next three days would be long, long days; and there still was plenty of uncertainty regarding the paths we would take up ahead, as the correct trails sometimes are hidden; and animal trails often appear deceptively to increase the danger of a wrong turn. There were other dangers that we still would face, but we were thankful to have made it safe thus far.

My hope was that, barring getting lost once more, my legs had restored enough that perhaps we would be able to make those eighteen or so miles without injury. Turning in early that night, and sleeping in a place where we felt much more safe, we were able to refresh ourselves significantly. The previous two nights had not provided that luxury. I was up with the sun almost every morning, and this Thursday morning I was up and dressed before Todd got up. He was not far behind me, and you could feel a much more peaceful and optimistic state of mind. But my mind was filled with something else, too.

—Down by the riverside

Soon after Todd got up and around, I made the trek down to the river to wash my face, brush my teeth, and re-fill our water bottles. The river was so beautiful that morning, its water flowing swiftly and churning over the rocks at a small waterfall a few feet downstream. By this time, we did not worry about walking out into the water early in the morning, as our feet and shoes were going to be wet all day anyway. Todd had asked me to wash out the empty food bags at the river when I went down, so I did that while he did his own work at the camp. One of the water bottles got away in the swift current, and I almost had to dive in to get it. That was something we could not lose. I was glad I did not have to take a swim to retrieve it.

After I had finished my chores, I paused there on the rocky river island and looked out over the flowing water of the Snake River as the sun was barely getting its head above the trees on the surrounding mountains. It was one of the most peaceful, serene scenes of our trip.

I mentioned that it is hard to know how the mind works. I stood out on the edge of that flowing river that morning, even as we had stood on the edge of so many dangers – seen and unseen – over four full days; and the world seemed to fall down on me. I do not remember ever having a moment quite as that one before. The realization that the Lord had gone before us and behind us, He had sent His guardians to surround us every tired, weary step of the way, He had directed any of the dangerous wild creatures – bear and moose alike, and others, no doubt – from invading wherever our feet would trod or our exhausted bodies would lie down to rest; He had orchestrated every move, every element of this most unexpected and unparalleled journey; and He even had preserved these muscles from injury, just one injury would have jeopardized our lives even more than before.

And, now, looking out in the coolness of another morning, absorbing all the blessings that the river seemed to represent and provide, I felt overwhelmed. I had to show the Lord my thanksgiving and deep devotion, if, somehow, I could. I stood there, out of the earshot of Todd or any other human – but not of the angels watching about us, I know, nor of our ever-watchful God who holds us in His unchanging hand, nor of our blessed Lord whose grace sustains us through every storm and down every trail, nor of that Spirit of Promise who would intercede even then at this sweetest and most precious hour of prayer – and I attempted to sing that song that always goes with me:

O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder … I tried to get the words out, but they faltered in the emotion of those moments. I could only stumble over them, my voice shaking at each word … consider all the world thy hands have made …” … another pause, to gather myself, and to take in more of the peaceful flow of that morning river, and to soak in God’s greatness as that marvel rolled along and churned at my feet … I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder, thy pow’r throughout the universe displayed … Feebly, I came to that resounding chorus, taking my time, for the world seemed to have stopped at that moment, pausing along with us to give the Lord this moment of honor and praise … Then sings my soul, my Saviour God to thee … Oh, I scarce could take it all in … How great Thou art, how great Thou art … I managed to get those words out, more meaningful than ever before, then gathered myself to repeat that grand declaration once but needing to do so a thousand times, and a thousand times a thousand. I managed the final words … Then sings my soul, my Saviour God to Thee, how great Thou art, how great Thou art.

With a few more deep breaths to gather in the grandeur of God’s presence deep within the soul as much as I could do, I washed my face once more in that cold, pristine water, and made my way back up, reluctantly, to my unsuspecting friend to continue our journey, for, again, there were miles to go before we sleep.

I thought of something else as another day’s traveling began, and my good friend took his place faithfully some distance ahead as usual:

I had come to that lovely river that morning, its roar still making its presence known behind us, just as we had come to it over and over in our traveling and searching. But it was a different river that morning, far different than it had ever been. No man comes to the same river twice, my friend Roy had said, what seems now months ago. He was right. It was so different that morning, different than I had ever known it.

*

And so was I.

14

Calm on the edge

Thursday, July 15

Day 5

5 hours until the Grizzly

One of the things I’ve thought of so much from this side of this journey is the wonder (for lack of a better word) in the process of trying to absorb as much of the experience as possible. I mean that for me, not just for you. Then there's the added wonder in trying to find a way to put into words the danger, the depth of the emotions, the absolute fatigue that dragged you down moment by moment for six full days. Telling the story helps in both regards, although there is the constant realization that, at best, we are still, as says the apostle, looking through a glass dimly.

I’ve said all along that it is sometimes strange how the mind works. We get a close-up look down into the mind's corridor on this Thursday, again. Perhaps together we can read between the lines to live these moments as they need to be re-lived. Then, when you come to your own wilderness moments – and you will – perhaps you will remember these accounts, and perhaps you will better understand your own journey.

This deeper look comes from another of the scribbled notes we wrote along the way, not realizing at the time how valuable those thoughts would be. It was some time around noon on this Thursday, Day 5, that we wrote these words. I share them here exactly as I roughly scribbled them:

Page 6 – Thurs. – noon–1 – first time to stop and write – side of the mountain w/80’ drop

off – hard, dry hike, an occasional swampy stream – came back to view of the river –

wider now, about 80’ below – flowing so peacefully – A thought I had – a peaceful river

gives hope, too. Hope increased at the sound of a flowing stream – clear and pure, not

brown as many – more black w/millions of black rock along its bottom, some big ones,

many in fact – legs still so fatigued – walking very slowly, no long stops. This river will

flow this way ‘til time ends – it’s as ceaseless as the love of God – and Marilyn, my love

for you.

How much can be said in 114 words, and how much we can read from between the lines! Beginning at the ending, I should point out that we are not mushy types of people. I am more than a little reluctant, in fact, to share the personal words written here to the amazin’ blonde. But, I share them, because I've committed here to trying to be an open book, to show you the things as they were, without censor. Something in me reminds me that this story will serve as an encouragement to some, and that it will strengthen the faith of another.

The 'terms of endearment' at the end also point to something key for us here. It shows us that at that point I still felt that life and death still stood in the balance. There was not necessarily a fear of dying out there in the wilderness – that lack of fear I distinctly remember telling Todd one day – nor was there an expectation of it. But there was the keen realization that we were in an environment that provided the greatest threat to our lives than we had ever faced before. One wrong turn, one bad step, one unfortunate encounter – things would have been different.

But even then, as I scribbled that morning’s note, I had no way of knowing then that one such encounter awaited five hours ahead.

—The drop-off

The roughly scribbled note also gives us a solid timeline for the events of this Thursday, as this day was one of the most eventful days of the entire journey. After spending time alone with the Lord in the early-morning hour – a time that I will always remember and long tell with a sigh, I know – Todd and I set out headed north. The note you just read was written about three hours into that morning’s hike that started by 8:30 a.m.; so I expect that within an hour or two of our setting out Todd and I made another key decision: We decided for Todd to go ahead of me again, leaving me to make my way slowly from further back on the trail. I remember thinking – and the note confirms this – that, while the Wednesday rest was helpful, my legs were not going to recover with half a day and a night’s rest. I do think, however, that the rest from Wednesday was a blessing from the Lord that may have saved us. It didn’t restore the strength fully (that would take a month to do), but it, perhaps, delayed a potential injury.

I still cringe to think of the great possibility of a calf or hamstring muscle giving way, rendering Todd and me unable to walk out of that remote place together. In the previous two years, I had seen many of those same weary leg muscles give way, snap almost, from overwork, leaving you with a month or more of rehabilitation. So, I knew that the possibility was there. And I had never pushed my body and my legs this hard before, not even close. Why they popped on me in the previous months and did not do so under much greater pressure, I do not know.

Or, perhaps we do.

The thought of being stranded in the middle of nowhere while poor Todd scrambled for help -- that thought was not a good one. That process could have taken days, as deep into the wilderness as we were. Looking back, you and I realize even the more what the greatest dangers were — those things that ‘could have been,’ and most likely would have been, had it not been for that Unseen Hand. We still marvel at it.

There was another real danger that we experienced that Thursday morning before we separated. It would have been around 10 a.m. – a couple of hours before I wrote the note – when we had to hike on the side of the mountain. We were heading north, but with a mountain barricading our way, the trail led us back to the east to get around it. The hike around the mountain was as much as a mile, maybe more. For several hundred yards of it, and then at other points along the way, we were on the very edge of the mountain with nothing below us except an eighty-foot drop leading down to the river. The drop was not straight down – if you fell, it would not be quite like falling off of a cliff – but the side of the mountain was at more of a seventy-degree angle. If you did slip and fall, you would hit the ground ten or so feet down and basically roll and tumble the eighty feet to the bottom. It would likely kill you or leave you near death. But I really do not know how a person could survive it.

The trail we walked at that steep precipice was dusty – almost black dust – and it was somewhat rocky, with the dirt very loose and dry. That trail was no place to stumble. As you walked you kept your eyes completely on your feet. It was only when you paused to catch your breath that you had the luxury of looking down below at the rolling river that you could always hear in the distance. As we hiked the side of that mountain, I remember thinking that I would not let my wife or grandkids hike at this dangerous spot, not by a long shot.

—Another critical decision

Todd and I, again, felt that we needed him to go ahead and try to find a campsite. We were not ‘out of the woods’ yet as far as finding our direction. In fact, we were still in a far more remote spot than we were forty-eight hours prior when we met the Hogans on the trail. We know how far off track the two days after the Hogans would take us. It could easily happen again, we knew.

Perhaps we were both having the same thoughts, because we paused for a longer break than usual to talk once we got around the mountain and were heading north again. By this time, we had come to as deep and as a remote part of the wilderness we would see from the trail, the only sign of humans being the narrow dirt trail that we were following. I knew I needed to be the one to suggest that Todd go on ahead. He would need the assurance that it was the right thing to do and that I did not mind his doing that. So, as we paused to rest, I told him what I wanted him to do.

“Todd,” I said, after I had found a place on the edge of the path to sit, “I think you need to go on ahead. We need you to make sure we are on the right track. I’ll stay on this trail and not get off of it. Trust me, I’m not gettin’ off of it. I will be right behind you.”

I knew Todd agreed, so, as we finished our rest, he offered some advice to me, including on what to do if I encountered a bear. I remember it was something to the effect of not to run when you see him, and just talk calmly to him. I laugh at that now because I am sure I thought, “Yeah, right, Todd, I’ll jus’ stand there when a big ol’ grizzly comes out at me, and I’ll ask if he’s had supper yet, that I’ve got a protein bar he can have.”

But Todd’s little talk would prove more prophetic, and helpful, than we could have guessed.

Todd said something else before we had a little prayer and he went on ahead of me. He said, “Steve, you’ve been a ‘calm’ to me” – I think that’s how he said it. It surprised me a little, but I appreciated that more than Todd would know – I still do – and especially since it seemed a little out of character for Todd to say something such as that. He is not one to toss out compliments haphazardly. I smiled inside a bit because, when he said it, I immediately thought of my little outbursts two days prior. But mostly I felt a degree of satisfaction. I knew that for the last couple of days I had decided to put all of this in the Lord’s hands, while the two of us would fight as hard as we could to do all that we could do on our own. You can’t stop and not work, but as you work, you can put the rest in His hands. Somehow, Todd had felt that calm from me, something I think he needed. I am glad that I was able to give something back.

There comes a point where you realize that if the Lord has more work for you to do, He will guide you through your wilderness.

You understand.

In this case, we knew that if He was finished with us, and this wilderness was to be where it was all to end, my friend and I would just get the chance to hike down a better river, one that’s as clear as crystal, as we await our loved ones and friends.

And that would be all right, too, I knew.

15

The Agnostic, My Friend

Thursday, July 15 – 1:30 pm

Day 5

Four hours until the Grizzly

What you are about to read is one of the very special accounts for me. Every time we have had the opportunity to tell this story since this landmark day July 15, 2021, I cannot help but feel, as Robert Frost wrote, that I will long be telling of this ‘with a sigh.’

You will not feel, perhaps, the pauses that come at the retelling of these moments, but they are there, nonetheless. Some stories cannot be told without some deep breaths and careful pauses.

So, we begin now, to tell the story of my friend -- In his search of a Rose.

—Hikers on the trail

Among many powerful events of this climatic day, this Thursday is marked by the numerous people we would meet on the trail, each one coming with their own compelling story.

After Todd and I had separated in the early morning hours, he moved on at a rapid pace. He later calculated that he had advanced perhaps as many as three miles ahead of me. It is still amazing to think of the strength he continued to have, even now on his fifth hard day of toil.

Thursday was a long, hot day of hiking for us both. Even at his quick pace, he did not reach the campsite until early evening. I don’t know how many miles exactly Todd could cover hiking at his quick pace for nine hours, but I expect it was well over ten miles. Whatever the number was, I would hike the same number, minus one mile. You’ll learn about that one mile a little later.

—the first encounter

It was early afternoon when I ascended the mountainside and came to a landing at the top, a lookout over the beautiful wilderness below us. I am thankful that I was able to pause and record with the pen some of these key moments. (It's funny that I think I had the only pen in the entire quartet who set out on this trip. It came in handy more than once.)

It was there that I wrote the note we shared in the previous chapter. I do not know how long I rested at that picturesque spot, but I had been there a while when I had my first encounter of the day. A hiker from Alaska by the name of Moffit came up the trail to the place I was. I didn't hear him coming at first, because you could not see down the sloped trail, and he shocked me when he slipped up on me. It was the first person I had seen on the trail in forty-eight hours. My first thought was that it was a bear coming up the trail. Those thoughts never get far from your mind, as you see.

Mr. Moffitt proved to be quite a gentleman. (Out of respect, I’ll only use his last name here.) He paused from his own journey for half an hour or more to assist me and direct me on. I am sure that whenever one of these experienced hikers ran across me sitting against a rock or tree or even hiking slowly down the trail that they could tell things didn’t look quite right. It’s hard to hide that level of fatigue, I know.

During our lengthy visit, Mr. Moffitt drew a map to show me the path I would need to take to get to the Thoroughfare. After he drew it, I jotted down every landmark on the map and as many details as I could, because I might have to follow that map until its end. There was no guarantee that Todd and I would find each other again.

—The strait, narrow way

The map directed me to continue hiking east for two-and-one-half miles until I would cross over Snake River. Not far past the river, I would turn back north and go four miles to reach Surprise Creek Camp. I remembered that this is the camp to which the Hogans directed us on Tuesday evening. I still am not sure what happened to the trail that day.

I knew that Todd likely would not have stopped there, because we had hoped to get further than that on this Thursday. The camp was some distance east of the trail; and when I came to that point later in the day, I never saw any indication of the camp. Perhaps I missed a sign, but I saw no sign of any kind the entire day – for that matter, we had not seen a sign since Monday.

After passing Surprise Creek Camp, though, I would need to turn back to the West and go three miles until I reached Beaver Creek, these landmarks being part the Heart Lake Trail we were scheduled to travel from the beginning. Mr. Moffitt pointed out that once I came to Beaver Creek, it would be eight more miles to the entrance of the Yellowstone Thoroughfare.

As rough as the map looked – written on the backside of an unopened jumbo band-aid – it actually gave me the best directions I had seen the entire trip. Over the last two days I had tried to be more cognizant of our navigation so I could not only help Todd with directions as needed and – perhaps more importantly – I could use the sun to guide me north and west in the event I got lost. As the day proceeded, getting lost again was a very real possibility. We were not nearly out of the woods yet.

Mr. Moffitt and I talked along for quite a while. We told me he had retired some years ago from doing biological work (He had a Ph.D in biology and worked many years in Alaska). He wasn’t married but had two sisters who worried themselves to death over him.

“They think I’m crazy,” he said, and we both laughed. He presently was several weeks into a hike of the Great Continental Divide, so they had their reasons to be a bit concerned, I guess. I told him I had some folks back home who think I’m a little crazy, too, especially at the moment.

—‘In-Search’

I am most sure the Lord had a special role for my friend at that key juncture of our journey. For that, I am so thankful. One task he performed faithfully was to send a message for me to the amazin’ blonde. He had a device called an ‘In-Search’ that could pick up GPS signals even out in the remote wilderness, as long, he said, “as it could face to the south.” He was glad to send the message, so I asked if I could just type it in. I was able to retrieve the exact message some time later when we arrived home. It read,

Hey, hon, we are fine, but tired. Lost for a couple of days, back on trail…13 m from

here to road -should make by Sat—call Roy—no help needed-luv U

That note came in to Marilyn at 2:46 p.m., which would have been 1:46 p.m. ‘Yellowstone’ time. I was only allotted about a hundred characters, so I had to shorten it just to that. I would learn later that there had been some chaos at home ever since the Hogans called and relayed messages and their own concerns. Since that point, she and Staci Perrin were in regular contact and were leaning on each other to share their growing worries.

In addition to the message, Mr. Moffitt was able to send our exact location as well, which was helpful. It would have been critical had we lost our way again. So, in a second message, Mr. Moffitt himself wrote:

Going on Trail Creek Trail along the north shore of Heart Lake and the Heart Lake

Trail to the South Park Entrance Road (12.7 miles). Inreachlink.com/3NCRV4B

(44.2443,-110.4446) – ______ Moffitt

Continuing on to a third message, he added,

Then ~ 10 miles along road to South Park Entrance …

Following that message, again, was a long list of ‘Inreach’ numbers.

Mr. Moffitt’s work was invaluable in making sure we were on the right trail and alerting those back home as well as Roy and Randy on the outside where to start the search if we lost our way again.

As he neared the end of his directions and encouragement, I felt I needed to know something. So, at the best time I could find, I asked him,

“Mr. Moffitt,” I said, “Are you a religious man?” I asked it almost the way you would ask,

“How’s the weather?”

“No sir,” he answered quickly, not looking up as he knelt on the ground working with his GPS. I had to know more, so I probed a bit further with one more question.

“What would call yourself?” I asked, politely.

He paused, briefly, before answering: “I guess you’d say I’m an agnostic,” he said, and I could tell in the way he answered that he was not offended at all with my prying into his beliefs, perhaps our going deeper into his mind than anyone had in a while.

With that, I felt satisfied. Perhaps I suspected his answer, I don’t know. But something about that moment, and my Alaskan friend, impacted me, as you can see.

—time in a bottle

I pause again, now, to consider that special moment. There was my newfound friend, out that day on the same long trail as I, a courteous gentleman enjoying the same glories of God’s creation I enjoyed, yet pausing willingly – even cheerfully – to assist a stranger on his own way and to offer a special blessing to worried families back home.

He delayed his own journey, showing no sign of hurrying or of thinking “I’ve got miles to go before I sleep …” No, he set his own schedule aside to do that which is right for another, stopping by the roadside to offer aid, even as the Samaritan had done in one of the world's most classic stories.

He stopped because he has something very good inside, an understanding, perhaps, that this was his purpose, even this unique moment in the middle of the wilderness. Perhaps as he walked on he felt satisfied that the Lord had used him for just such a time, even though he had not settled in his mind Who this God is nor how He works.

I will always remember Mr. Moffitt, and I will long tell his story, always with a sigh, and never without those necessary dramatic pauses. In his humility, he likely will be very surprised that I feel I owe a debt to him, one I am praying I can repay.

My prayer is that the Lord will allow me to offer one gift, a rare gift for his journey now. The gift is just a prayer, a prayer that, as he makes his way in search of meaning and purpose, that He will find the answer in the only place it can be found.

May our newfound friend pause on that long trail one day, looking out over life's beautiful meadows and see—from deep inside—the world’s loveliest Rose and most beautiful Lily—that Rose of Sharon, and the Lily of the valley.

And on a dark, spacious night – like one of those crisp wilderness nights that we can never forget – we pray that our friend will gaze at those distant stars and feel shining on him the brightest and the loveliest Star of all: Jesus, the Bright and the Morning Star.

That will make all the difference.