1996

Ledges State Park sits a few miles south of Boone, Iowa — the same stretch of countryside where the Kate Shelley Bridge cuts across the Des Moines River Valley. I'd never been there before. The place was new to me, but the reason I went wasn't. Someone had mentioned an adventure.

A small group of guys planned a hike that weekend and asked if I wanted to tag along. One of them was Kaiser. I didn't know him well — maybe a few run-ins through a mutual friend. He was from the Loo too, though he'd gone to West while I went to East. We hadn't crossed paths back home.

There were five of us that day. No huddle, no plan, no one pulling out a map. Kaiser just went. Took off into the trees like he'd already decided, and the rest of us followed.

He went downhill like he'd memorized the terrain — feet light, balanced, sliding through leaves without breaking rhythm. No hesitation. No adjustment. Just movement.

I wanted that. Match his pace, his footing, the way he read what came next without thinking.

It was early fall. The air carried the smell of dust and decay, and every step kicked loose a scatter of gold and rust. It reminded me of The Woods behind my neighborhood growing up — places where speed mattered less than reading the slope. You didn't fight it. You let it take you. Kaiser moved that way. So did I.

He called it the Flow — that perfect alignment when breath, balance, and motion sync together and you stop thinking altogether. You just move.

We dropped off the trail and into the river valley, cutting through brush where the path disappeared. When it came time to climb back out, Kaiser went first. The sandstone wall rose steep and uneven — dirt, roots, and rock worn smooth by floodwater. He scrambled up quickly and disappeared over the ledge.

I followed.

Near the top, the angle sharpened. I dug my toes in and reached for a handhold. There was nothing there — just loose sandstone dust that collapsed under my fingers. My feet slid backward.

Oh shit. I'm actually going to fall. Won't die — but this is going to be bad.

"I'm falling!" I yelled.

Kaiser turned instantly — a hand shot down, strong, fast, certain. The force yanked him forward, hard enough to stop my slide. I froze, then worked my feet back into the wall and climbed the rest of the way up.

At the top, I lay still for a moment, breathing hard.

Below us was twenty feet of jagged rock. No rope. No protection. Just timing.

We didn't say much after that. No jokes. No celebration. We nodded once and kept moving.

The hike went on.

The day finished.

And Kaiser stayed in my line of sight.