A week ago, I read that my wonderful friend Steve DeSantis passed away. I'm still rocked by his leaving. I can't imagine what his family is going through. In his memory, I wanted share a story from my book, Climb Like a Mzungu.
The Trip to Kiss Sequoias
It’s a hot and hazy summer in 1980. My housemate Steve and I both have rooms on the first floor in an off-campus house in Syracuse, New York. He’s going to the Forestry School and is from Long Island. He’s taller than me, topped with a large bushy afro and a thin mustache. We lived in Day Hall for two years a few doors away from each other.
He works at the hospital downtown, tormenting rats for some odd research purpose. I’m a delivery boy for Acropolis Pizza at night. We go hiking a few times but mostly hang around Syracuse, enjoying life outside of the dorms.
School starts and our junior year whisks by, with all kinds of schoolwork and fun. It’s April 1981 and with finals approaching, Steve and I dream up the most excellent plan. After discovering that my friends Rick and Billy are graduating and driving west for summer jobs with the Forest Service, an idea percolates in our skulls.
At a Hungry Charlie’s post-outing club meeting, I beg Billy for a ride to Wyoming, explaining that Steve and I will hitchhike around the west, visiting friends. We want to see the sequoia trees found in the Sierra Nevada of California. It seems a good plan as any.
With bated breath, I wait for Billy’s answer, topping off his beer as a small, imploring gesture. It’s his car, after all. He reaches for the mug, taking a big swig. And nods his head in agreement.
Yes! The Trip to Kiss Sequoias is coming together.
The Beast is ready. Billy’s white station wagon, overloaded with four six-foot-tall dudes, heads north to Canada. While traveling west, the two possibilities are I-90 across the United States or the Trans-Canada Highway. With the option for potent Canadian beer, our route choice is obvious.
When arriving at the border in late May, three things happen. First, the officer asks where we were born. Mentioning Kampala, Uganda, earns me a “are you kidding me?” look.
Then he asks about firearms or weapons, and we snicker to ourselves, thinking about the roman candles buried in the back. Oh, nothing, officer. The final straw is Billy’s turntable in the rear window. “Over!” the officer yells, pointing to a parking area.
It takes forever to uncover the issue. It seems odd, but Canada is worried he’ll hock it for cash. It’s some customs thing. They’ll confiscate it, or he pays the $250 deposit. Disgusted, Billy gives them a check, and we bolt to Toronto, visiting as many breweries as possible to assuage our trauma.
The first stop is Molson’s for Bradours and Porters. Next to the Old Vienna Brewery and a dead end at Labatt’s. Stocked with three cases of the best beer this side of Germany and tins of Skoal, we are ready to roll.
Somewhere in Ontario, the Beast blows a shock. We bounce along, nearing the border of Michigan, hoping to make it across before the car breaks down.
“Let’s toss firecrackers at the buggers!” I yell over the music, “Can’t let the cops push us around.”
Steve chimes in, “Let’s show these Mounties some real American stereo justice.”
Billy slows the car, asking, “You wanna? I can pull over.”
Rick shakes his head, eyeballs rolling.
Wisdom rules, and we cross over like everyone else and stop in Soo Locks, Michigan, to score a new shock. The repair starts at a nearby scenic park after emptying the Beast. I can’t believe this much junk can fit into a car.
After a swim in the conveniently located lake, we push on, spending the night in Wausau, Wisconsin, on the side of the road. We never thought of staying in a motel. Sleeping out under the stars is the Outing Club way.
Saturday takes us to the Badlands, where we bake in the sun, ogling at the vibrant red, orange, and yellow colors in the arid land. We blast to the Black Hills and camp under a much more excellent grove of Ponderosa Pine trees.
After dinner, we head into Deadwood and cruise the bar scene. It’s fun to think we’re modern cowboys, sitting in the seats of Jesse James and Billy the Kid, quaffing mugs of beer and shots of whiskey. Too much playacting for me, and feeling woozy, I head back to the car and crash.
“Flinny, wake up, you clown!” Steve’s voice stirs me from a comfortable slumber. “You’re lucky you bailed. Fifteen minutes after you left, the cops checked IDs at the bar.”
Rubbing my eyes and sitting up, “Holy crap, my spider sense must have been going gangbusters. Thank God.” I’m the young one, still not twenty-one.
Rick laughs. “You would have been dragged off to jail, for sure.”
I move over to let Steve sit down. “Sometimes too many drinks are a good thing.”
The next day we tour the Black Hills, Custer State Park, and Mount Rushmore. Monday takes us past the Devil’s Tower, where Rick and Billy drop us in Buffalo, Wyoming.
After a round of hugs, they drive off, the Beast riding a bit higher as smoke belches from the muffler. The easy travel is over, and Steve and I are on our own.
Standing on the side of the road, the reality of our plan dawns on me as another car zips past. I imagined buzzing around carefree, bumblebees hopping from car to car, darting from town to town, the miles ripping by.
“Sorry, man,” I say to Steve. “Hitchhiking seemed like a good idea back in Syracuse, enthralled by Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The lure of the open road, charting my own path to create structure in a chaotic world. I didn’t plan on having to wait for a flipping ride. Expectation is failing to match reality.”
“Yeah, it’s a drag standing around chewing tobacco to pass the time,” Steve agrees. “Beats sitting in Organic Chemistry with some boring TA droning on. Don’t worry; someone will stop.” Steve’s the best; he always has a sunny outlook.
I scuff my boots against the asphalt. “Of course, two big scruffy guys with backpacks have nothing to do with our luck.” A gust blows dust in my face.
Last Thanksgiving I traveled to his parents for Thanksgiving. It was a madhouse, packed with extended family, in a comfortable home in Queens, an easy ride on the subway from Manhattan. Not having this family experience growing up, I loved the chaos of the large Italian family. Most importantly, I learned spaghetti sauce is called “gravy.”
Finally, we score a ride in a tricked-out Bronco, loud disco Bee Gees blaring. The guy riding shotgun nods off, ripping a snore as he snoozes. The driver reaches over and jabs him in the ear. After asking where we’re from, he pontificates, “New York, yep, New York. That place, it’s a jungle.” They let us off outside Cheyenne, where we spend hours waiting for the rain or a ride. The ride wins.
A wild California girl picks us up in a Toyota. She wears Red Baron sunglasses and drives us to the mountains. Camping under lodgepole pines with a smattering of Douglas fir, the sagebrush smells pleasant when smushed. A hearty spaghetti meal follows. We sleep by a raging river roaring as loud as a freight train.
In the morning, blisters the size of mongooses appear on my heels. I diligently paste them with Band-Aids before putting my boots on.
On our next hitch, the driver proudly discloses that he’s been arrested for dozens of speeding tickets.
It gets weirder as we snag a ride with a Hunter Thompson-like fellow whose truck is stocked with beers. “Damn Christians! I guess it’s all right if you want tunnel vision,” says the crazed swimming pool salesman from California. We appreciate the free beer but are glad to get out of the car in Jackson Hole, where the trail and rain begin.
We spend the day bushwhacking. Too proud to say I’m lost; at least my trusty map and compass give me a clue to where we are: somewhere in the Tetons.
I’ve never seen such a dramatic skyline as the sun goes down. Clouds encircle the jagged mountains; knife edges beckon the climber in me.
The rain descends, enclosing us in fog and drizzle, the glory of the vista dripping away. The mud gets worse, threatening to swallow our boots.
We reach an opening in the forest the size of a runway, fallen dead lodgepole pines scattered like matchsticks. Halfway across, stepping over a big tree, I glance up to see a moose ten feet away. His antlers are huge. We both have bug eyes, watching each other, wondering what to do.
Steve is quiet as we ponder our way out of this predicament. The downed trees make running impossible. Luckily, the moose snorts and steps away.
“Whoa, excellent,” Steve says. “I could have reached out and touched his antlers. Almost peed in my pants.”
“Did you see the size of his nose? Way more exciting than swatting mosquitoes! Dang, I hate this rain. Can’t it stop for a day?” I ask the universe.
“Lots of luck with that prayer. I bet my underwear is growing mold as we speak.”
“Don’t need that visual.”
Our slog continues for hours, but we find the trail and stagger like zombies. Our food supply is low, and my attempt at fishing is a total failure. Drenched with rain and jittery from the moose scare, we’re toast, dreaming of pizza.
My poncho is useless; I’m sick of being wet. Bedraggled like a drowned rat, this is getting old. Our tarp barely keeps us dry; my down sleeping bag is a lump of useless muck.
Stopping to wring out my shirtsleeves, lo and behold, I stumble upon a cooler. Unbelievable! Not hidden in the bushes as it should be, but smack dab in the middle of the trail, a glistening white Styrofoam gift from the universe.
We open it to discover steak, wine, cheese, Champagne, bacon, eggs, hot dogs, lettuce, and orange juice.
It seems the Ponderosa God is looking over us starving children. Mouthwatering, I’m about to rip into the juice when a fellow in his late twenties jogs down the trail.
We apologize and mumble sympathies, but he isn’t too upset. Instead, he gives us hot dogs, cheese, and some eggs.
I’ve learned to beware of temptation when cold and delirious. But still, he shouldn’t have left the cooler in the middle of the trail, waiting to be pillaged by bears or starving hikers.
Tired of being cold and damp, we dump the hiking and return to hitching. “I can’t believe that dude with the cooler,” I say as another car whizzes by, ignoring us.
Steve yawns. “I still can’t figure out where he came from with all that food. To think of carrying a Styrofoam cooler for miles. Talk about glamorous camping.”
“I’m fond of his style. Beats ramen noodles and peanut butter any day.”
As another car ignores us, Steve belts out a comment that makes me chuckle. I can’t imagine slogging through that rain-infested swamp of the Tetons alone. Even in the worst downpour, trying to keep a fire going to dry my sleeping bag, Steve is cracking jokes and making me laugh.
A wild girl in a car smothered with Arizona WABC bumper stickers gives us a lift to Yellowstone, where we sweet-talk a rookie ranger into giving us a ride.
She dumps us off in West Thumb, and we camp at Duck Lake. I catch zero fish but enjoy a fine sunset in Yellowstone Park. The days start to blur into each other as we flit from car to car.
Standing on the highway, getting super weird looks as the hours ebb by. Wondering why I’m doing this for the tenth time. Pondering dire thoughts that maybe it was time to jump on a Greyhound bus.
And so we did. After relaxing at a friend’s house in Berkeley for a few days, Steve and I get a sweet ride outside Monterey north of Big Sur. The van driver from Philly invites us to stay with him as he heads south to Los Angeles. We drop Steve off at the airport days later to fly home for his job.
“It’s been a blast, man,” I say after giving Steve a goodbye hug. “You’re the best travel buddy I ever had.”
“Ha, I’m the only buddy you ever had.” He punches me in the arm. “You’re lucky to have me. Be solid, and I’ll see you back in Syracuse.”
Steve grabs his pack and stomps off into the terminal. He stops at the door and turns back to wave. He’s right. I’m lucky to have such a wonderful friend, and I miss him already.
It’s hard to believe our adventure happened 44 years ago. I am lucky to have such an amazing friend. Steve always had kind things to say and helped me realize life is always an adventure. And yes, I miss him terribly.
Click here to see the official obituary for Steve.