Dan Steffensen did not want a fuss. No memorial or ringing of the bells and especially no despair on the faces of the people who loved him. He would prefer people to read his book beyond a short obituary.  So, there will be none of that. Still, a few words about his last year may be appropriate.

In March of 2024, Dan was being particularly surly and finally admitted to me that he had a painful cough. After many tests, the diagnosis of extensive stage small cell lung cancer was confirmed on July 15, 2024, or 3 days after our book launch in Red Lodge. No one getting his signature knew he was sick.

The prognosis of 12 months turned out to be prophetic.

The next day, July 16^th, the three-year anniversary of his burnover, he wanted to retrace his steps from that fateful day in solitary contemplation. He had a meal at the Wild Table and then visited the burnover bluff on Farewell Road.

As the sun warmed the panoramic southern vista of the Beartooth Mountains, a slight breeze nudged against his shorts as he stood in the field that almost killed him. The perfect ingredients for him to reflect on his remarkable endurance. But instead, he ached to chase a wildfire that he could see on the horizon north of Laurel.

That was the same week he quietly removed the contents of his locker from the Red Lodge fire house.

His first chemo treatment was July 30^th.

We had dinner the night before- a small gesture on his part to let me help him. That night, he checked himself into a hotel almost as solitary confinement. He did not want help from anyone.

“If I see one sad face I will cut their head off.”   Or, “Oh Dan, after all you’ve been through, now this.”  That was the worst. If he pushed people away, it was because he didn’t want anyone to feel sad for him.  He was not afraid to die.  He had lived an amazing life.

His only regret was that he was not fighting at least one more fire season.

There had been times when we texted or talked every day.  “Good morning. Good night. I’m home safe, are you?” 

If I cried, he would say, “Stop it.”  

But when I gave him difficult scenes that I had just written, he would say, “I’m crying.”

Being with Dan was like a line from the song “Landslide”. At times it was climbing a worthy mountain and at times it was an emotional landslide. A world where I will forever be grateful, he chose me to tell his story.

I told him if he kept people away, he would leave us, me, with hurt instead of love. I wanted so much to be left with love.

The last months, he mostly preferred his solitude, saying, “I’ll let you know when.”

At the end, Dan was not alone. I was with him, holding his hand. I told him, ”You’ve done enough. You can rest. You’ve earned it.”

He was in no pain. I played every album of Jimmy Buffet and the last was the Volcano album. The sun had just come up.

He exhaled one last time.

He passed on July 26 at 8:20 am.

For a while, I could not let go. Until I thought I heard a whisper. “Stop it.”

He left me with love.