Have you ever met someone so vibrantly alive that you were drawn to them immediately? Stephen Douglas Thompson was that kind of person. Steve was a humorist, a teacher, and a fantastic storyteller. I heard many of his adventures repeated over the 15 years we were together. One of his favorite, and most transformative, was the miracle on the mountainside.

In the years before his passing, we recorded many of these stories over steaming mugs of coffee. It was my promise to him that I would compile them into a book. This gave Steve great hope in his final days. He had dedicated his life to uplifting and inspiring others. This was done mostly by default before his motorcycle accident at the age of 40. Then it became his deliberate purpose thereafter.

I’m in the finishing phases of writing Steve’s memoir as I complete my own great golf adventure in his honor. I can’t wait to share the poignant, funny, and surprising events of Steve’s life with you. In the meantime, I’ll give you a sneak peak into Steve’s world with the miracle on the mountainside story below.

Photo Credit: Still Chasing the Sun and Plumas County

THE ACCIDENT

“How did I get here?” I thought to myself.

The recent events that landed me here on the side of a mountain, fifty feet below the winding highway above, were quite obvious.

Just hours ago, I had left my hometown of Chico, California on my Kawasaki 750. It was a beautiful afternoon for a ride. Bluebird skies. Scents of dried grass filling my nostrils. The arid June heat softened by the wind blowing across my leather-covered body.

Easy Rider’s Soundtrack boomed through my quadraphonic stereo headset.

I was on the way to Salmon Falls, Idaho for a whitewater kayaking trip with my Boy Scout troop. It was an event I had been looking forward to for months.

Since I was the owner of Bestway Interiors, I didn’t have the flexibility to take three weeks off for the entire western states camping tour they had planned, so I was just going to meet up with them for the kayaking portion of the trip and return home.

Plus I wanted to do something adventurous for myself. The 80-hour workweeks were a grind. I just wanted a break. A man’s trip. Something different than the conference-driven business trips or the weekend getaways with family squeezed between big projects.

This was also time to celebrate a fresh start into the fifth decade of my life.

As I drove, the rice fields and almond orchards of the valley floor morphed into ribbony turns lined with evergreens. Pine trees stretched as far as the eye could see. Huge granite boulders punctuated the hillsides. The Feather River thundered alongside me as I meandered uphill into the Sierra Nevadas.

It was just me and the open road in a harmonious dance.

At least for a while.

Soon my sweet tempo of 60 miles per hour was cut in half thanks to a 1970’s motorhome that rivaled the rig in Chevy Chases’ Christmas vacation. I didn’t mind though. I was in no hurry to pass.

Then came a surprise.

UNEXPECTED SHALE

I hit an outside corner covered with shale from a recent rockslide.

“Oh shit,” I thought.

I couldn’t hit my brakes in time given my limited vision.

Me and my bike went sliding twenty feet over the debris, straight into the guardrail.

I initially tried to jump over the barrier. I thought my landing would be okay given the moderate slope of the canyon thus far. However this portion of the road was nestled against a vertical drop. When I hit the post, it tore my right knee open and apart, and broke the leg in such a way it could swing up behind my head like the most graceful of yogis.

My body bounded down the rough terrain.

A stick punctured my stomach. My right femur was shattered. Both hips were broken, as well as all of my ribs, my left shoulder, and right ankle. Later I learned that they stopped counting when the bone breaks surpassed one hundred.

My sunglasses split apart and cut my face. My helmet cracked in three places, yet amazingly stayed in place. I found myself in a very bent, broken position when my body finally came to a halt. Everything went black.

MY HISTORY WITH BIKES

At this point in the story, you might be wondering if this big yuppy motorcycle was a spontaneous purchase to appease a mid-life crisis. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

The thrill of moving fast on bikes had been with me since the age of eleven. That’s when my dad bought a fire-engine red pak jack for hunting. This gas-powered bike had two wide tires on the back and a smaller, narrower one up front. The long seat, similar to the banana seat of a cruiser bicycle, held my younger brother and I perfectly as we etched our tracks in the grass behind the house.

Life got even better…

when dad bought a second pak jak that was lighter in weight. Now Stan and I could race.

The course we crafted started behind the above-ground pool on the far side of the yard, which was about 25 feet in diameter. Once the obstacles had been navigated there, we’d shoot down the north side of the fence, weaving through the evenly-spaced row of cedars. Another turn brought us back across the flat part of the lawn, where we could really gain speed and goose it down an eight-foot slope.

You might think that track alone would have been sufficient entertainment on long summer days. But it wasn’t. We concocted the idea to cut a hole in the fence and make a second section in the field behind our house. Those dirt mounts could perfect our jumping skills.

So we got into dad’s tool shed, found some saws, and got to work. Making our way through the fence itself was easy. So was pruning the small branches of the hedge. The difficult work came in removing the thicker limbs of this Pyracantha.

Thankfully mom and dad worked all day, and since Stan and I were in charge of the landscaping chores of raking and mowing anyway, our project went largely unnoticed.

The end result was a huge, figure-eight raceway with the aforementioned loop in the backyard and a mogul-laden loop across the alley. We were in heaven. We’d go through five gallons of gas a day and spend hours improving our lap times. And we’d laugh hysterically when a collision was narrowly averted through the archway in the fence.

Our goal was to go faster. Jump higher. Be better than our friends.

We made it through most of the summer before a neighbor complained about the incessant engine noise out back. That’s when our use of the field was revoked. It didn’t matter, though. The love of bikes had been deeply woven into my psyche.

Three years later I got my hands on a Honda 50, for the more respectable task of delivering newspapers before and after school.

Once in college…

I bought a Honda 300 scrambler. This made for a speedy 90-mile commute back to my hometown on weekends. It also made parking on campus a breeze.

That bike was kept a secret for at least two semesters until I rolled into my parent’s front yard, popped a wheelie, and announced to my mom that I was getting married (to a girl I hadn’t even introduced to them yet, no less). That went over like an audible fart in church.

Regardless of their reaction, and my short-lived nuptials, the Honda 300 was soon replaced with a Honda 450.

Just after graduation, I upgraded yet again to a BMW 650. This could have been a result of the insults hurled by my neighbor, telling me that I needed to get off the Honda.

“You’re an embarrassment to real motorcycle riders,” Ozzie would tease me.

Maybe it was the sheer luck of having that very same bearded friend sell me his mint condition beauty for the right price.

By the time I hit my late twenties, though, building a career and a family became my priority.

That was until I turned 38 and bought the bike I had just been ejected from moments ago off of Highway 70. This bike trip was definitely different than any I had taken before. I had two weeks worth of clothing and camping gear loaded in my saddle bags. My weight was more than usual, which changed my center of gravity just enough to diminish my sense of control going around turns. So despite my usual ability to turn on a dime with this screaming Kawasaki, it didn’t prevent me from going over the cliff today.

ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN

When my consciousness returned, I realized I was badly hurt. I also knew this mountainous region very well, In fact, I hiked it the year prior with the same Troop 31 I was set to meet in Idaho in just a few days time.

Missing my Scouts was now the least of my concerns.

I was hot and sticky, not just from the late afternoon sun scorching my body or from the blazing rocks beneath me. It was due to the copious amounts of fresh blood spewing from my wounds.

This was bound to attract coyotes.

Fear set in rapidly. This caught me off guard as I was usually the calm one in a stressful situation.

Back when I was fourteen years old…

one of our campouts was abruptly interrupted by the sound of screeching tires, a thunderous bang of metal colliding with wood, and the reverberation of both sounds across the still air in the high mountain meadow.

My dad immediately came into my tent.

“Son, we’ve got a job to do. Get dressed as quickly as you can.”

True to our family values, if there was something that needed doing, you got it done. There was no room to be squeamish. There was ugly stuff out in the world and my parents taught me to have the courage to face it.

The station wagon we found in the ditch that night was one of those situations.

Upon arriving at the scene, we pointed our flashlights down the embankment. A few bodies were still in the mangled vehicle which had been traveling at least 50 mph on a road built for a maximum speed of 30. One teenage boy was lying motionless in front of the car and another at the rear.

Surprisingly, one of the passengers was attempting to climb back up to the road. He was hurt really badly, so I laid him down and placed my dad’s jacket under his head. He turned and vomited blood almost immediately.

Then his breath became shallow.

I knew a medic was too far away, and any support I could offer was far beneath the care he really needed. So I just held him in my arms. I whispered soft words of comfort to him. I prayed for peace in his dying moments. He was one of seven killed in the accident that night. No formal training had prepared me for this. It’s as though that deep sense of calm came naturally to me then.

Now it was different, though. It was me on the brink of death.

ON THE BRINK OF DEATH

The pain in my body was so great I was going numb all over, and the thought of taking my last breaths alone was terrifying. Perhaps the greater fear was what would happen, like what animals would find me, before I left my body.

The worst-case scenarios raced through my mind. I couldn’t move, much less defend myself against predators. So what could I do? How could I get help?

Could I yell loud enough for those passing by in their vehicles above to hear me? Given my body so weak, that was going to be an unrealized pipe dream.

Other worrisome thoughts filled my head.. What was going to happen to my family? I knew my wife, Paula, and I owed a lot of money on our house. Who was going to run our business? How was she going to survive? Would she be able to, or even want to, care for my sons? What was going to happen to my scout troop? Who would take my place on the Rotary counsel? What about my parents?

My extreme discomfort didn’t allow any single thought to linger.

There was nothing I could do. So I started to pray. Tears streamed down my face. I felt unworthy to even ask God to save me. In an attempt to prove I really was, I began retracing the beatitudes.

Have I been humble? Well, that’s all a matter of perspective. I certainly did my best to live within my means and work hard and serve my community.

Have I helped those in mourning? At least I could answer this with confidence. I had dedicated many years as a chaplain and I visited dozens on their deathbed.

Have I fed the hungry? Of course. This was part of our church ritual and our family was dedicated to our congregation.

Have I shown mercy to others? Have I been a peacekeeper? Had my heart been pure in my family, my business, and my relationship with God? Was I good enough to be received into heaven?

The fact is that I had absolutely no idea if I was worthy or not to be saved. I could only call out to God for help. I knew there was not a chance I was going to make it on my own. Minutes passed like hours. There was no choice but to surrender. I had no more control over my life. I had done my best and was ready to let go. Everything started to get fuzzy. That’s the moment everything began to change.

A MIRACLE RESCUE

As the bright light of the sun began to dip down below the peaks to the west, a fire crew happened to be traveling up the canyon on the way to fight a forest fire. The truck was heavily equipped with medical supplies, too.

One of the firefighters saw the sunlight reflect off of my helmet as they traversed the same road I had just taken hours ago. Then they came across my bike up against the guardrail. The position of it seemed odd, and they thought to pull over to check for an accident.

The few cars that passed me up earlier that day probably thought I was down at the river fishing for the afternoon. More likely they were focused on avoiding the shale on the asphalt that caused my accident in the first place.

But the firemen stopped. And when looking down the canyon, they could see my body.

Time seemed to speed up now. They called down to me and somehow I mustered enough strength to answer back (or at least I’d like to think that’s why the men scurried down to my side). Down the hill they came, with ropes and a stretcher. Only the real life-saving equipment turned out to be their radio, which allowed them to call the Quincy firehouse and order a helicopter rescue.

They also found my wallet and discovered that my blood type was A+ and ordered the helicopter to bring blood, not just plasma, to the scene. An immediate transfusion was necessary. According to the doctors who treated me at the hospital, this one simple step probably saved my life. Upon the firemen’s arrival, my pulse was measly 8.

The crew up at the road stopped traffic to make room for the helicopter to land. Down below, firefighters were doing everything they could to save me.

All of sudden, I felt myself lift up and out of my body and then found myself sitting on a round, steady rock twenty feet away watching the scene from an entirely new perspective. There was a lady holding an emergency blanket up to protect my body from the sunlight. Men were on each side of me, working fiercely to revive me.

THE CHOICE

In that instant, I was presented with the choice to come back or not.

It was amazing. In this state, I didn’t feel any pain, or discomfort. I had absolute free will to return back to my human form or not. There was no rush to make this decision. No sense of right or wrong. No judgment. Just two options placed in front of me.

Then my life started playing like a fast-forward movie.

Everything that I had done–all of my hopes and aspirations–were revealed in an orderly fashion. Like a dream, I saw a huge book with the events of my life written out before my eyes. I could recognize my own handwriting. But there were things that were left out of this text or seemed to be missing.

There were sentences that weren’t complete. The text was even written in different colors. When I looked closer, those were the times when I was not on my path. Then there were blank spots where nothing filled the void. Those surrounded the situations I had felt guilty about. That space was held for me to revisit from this broader vantage point. Had I learned anything from these experiences?

While this truth serum flowed through my consciousness, linear time stood still. What the clock would have measured in nano-seconds, allowed me to perceive my entire life without rushing.

It suddenly became clear to me: if I wanted to right these wrongs, or correct my lifestyle as a workaholic, I had to come back.

I WANT TO COME BACK

The minute that thought came to me, I was back into my physical body again. The crystal blue eyes of the fireman looking down at me were like those of an angel.

“Who was the first president of the United States, Mr Thompson?” He asked.

“George Washington.” I replied.

Clearly I was coming out of shock. Earthly smells flooded my senses again. Metallic blood. Astringent alcohol. Citrusy pine. Salty perspiration. Hot leather. Chalky dirt.

The helicopter blades thundered in the canyon as they made their landing. I was so broken up, and the stretcher was so large, that I wouldn’t fit inside of the helicopter. This meant I was placed in a special, clear bag and hung outside of the cabin until we made it back down to the valley’s emergency trauma room.

Lying on the side of the mountain, I couldn’t have predicted that miracle rescue. Nor could I imagine the details it would take for the healing process that would follow–28 reconstructive surgeries, month-long stints in the hospital at a time, a whole three years in a hospital bed, and three more to just re-learn the skill of walking. A complete career change and shift in life perspective was definitely unfathomable.

But I did know two things. One, the dedicated work ethic that was instilled in me from an early age–the same drive that likely caused my accident in the first place–was simultaneously the fuel that could give me the ability to recover from this mess and start over. And, two, the door to the spiritual realm had been swung wide open. Maybe, just maybe, the incredible power of the Divine that was giving me a second chance at life could help me in that process, too.

PUTTING IT TOGETHER

This miracle on the mountainside was the beginning of a total life transformation for Steve. It caused him to understand his past with a fresh perspective. It also provided greater clarity about who he was and what his purpose was moving forward. The 28 reconstructive surgeries that followed his rescue, and the 6 years to learn how to walk, weren’t easy. Nor was the dramatic change in his career and relationships as a result. If you want to know more, stay tuned for when Steve’s memoir, Miracle on the Mountainside, gets released.