This memory is interesting because there's absolutely no reason that it should be a good one, but somehow it is. It was Spring Break and Dad was taking the boys and Nathan (I guess Nathan's a boy too, but anyways) dirtbiking/4wheeling in Moab, UT for our first time. We were all fairly inexperienced riders, but we were sure that between Dad and Uncle Steven being there, plus Matt's trusty "Pocket Guide to Moab" map, we'd be just fine. The first day out was a lot of fun. We were flying through trails, popping wheelies, enjoying the scenery; it just couldn't have gotten any better. Then, as the sun made it's trip across the blue sky and the first day started to turn into the first night, the problems emerged. First, my trusty bike broke down. So we hooked it up with a tow rope to the 4wheeler and continued on our way. Now that "way" was determined by none other that good old Matthew and his little pocket guide. We'd come several miles over rocky terrain, and knew that it'd be a long way out if we just backtracked. Seeing how the sun was heading down quickly, and I was being towed behind the Outlander, we trusted in Matt to find us a shortcut back to camp. What were we thinking, you ask? I still haven't found a good answer to that question. I'll spare you the entire lengthy story and just say that for the next 7-8 hours we rode over the toughest trails known to man. Through streams, weaving between valleys of rock, and at one point, came to a cliff shearing upwards so steeply that it most likely wasn't meant to be even thought of climbing over. Did that stop us? I wish it had. We'd gone so far and struggled for so long that we decided to go right up and over. In my extreme tiredness I remember admiring Dad's ridiculous strength as he practically carried each of our dirt bikes up the rocky wall, step by step. Really, I wish you'd seen it. It was incredible. After the cliff experience we were sure (with Matt's encouragement ringing in our ears. "I'm sure we're almost there, guys") that camp was just around the next corner. As it turns out, the cliff was put there for a reason. Just a mile or two later, the trail wound it's way up a wooded hill and completely disappeared. There was no where to go but back the entire way we came. So we did it. All that stuff I mentioned us going through before, we did again. Only backwards. Down the crazy cliff of death, back through the valleys of rock (which seemed to be squeezing closer together than when we'd last seen them), through the streams, and back to where we'd first turned down this dreaded trail. Finally, thanks to Matt's one useful thing he brought along- a green laser pointer, which he waved through the air hoping for help to come-we heard the best sound in the world. Uncle Steven, who'd come out to find us in the pitch black darkness. We left my dirtbike behind a tree to come pick up the next day, I jumped on the back with Nathan, and after what was probably an hour (but felt like more) later, we made it out. When I look back on this experience I have to admire Dad in many ways. One, for the patience he showed. He stayed calm, he didn't kill Matt, and just kept on going until we made it out, not getting discouraged. Also I saw his toughness. The way he hoisted our equipment up the cliff, and never seemed to get tired, even as the hours continued on. Although I probably prefer to never have anything like this happen to me again, if it ever does, I know I'd want Dad to be there with me. Then everything will turn out fine, just as it did here...sort of.
-Doug
