In our mountain hamlet of Poudre Park, nestled in a small valley along the Cache la Poudre River in northern Colorado, we held a big event on July 11. Almost everyone in our hamlet attended, about 25 residents, as well as another 50 or so people who came from out of state or drove the 20-plus miles from the nearest city, Fort Collins.

The one local person not in attendance—well, perhaps he was there in spirit—was the fellow for whom the memorial service was held: our neighbor and friend, Steve Den.

He and I talked once about death and eulogies. Mr. Den…as he was still lovingly called by his former elementary school students who attended his memorial service…if his voice could have been heard at his memorial service, I’m sure he would have humorously quipped, “The one time they throw a party for you and you’re not invited!”

Steve, as everyone in Poudre Park called him, passed away June 27 following serious health issues during the previous two years. He was 76 years old, one year my senior. He was a real character—I write that in the best, complimentary sense of admiration and respect.

His memorial service, also known as a Celebration of Life, was held under two large tents set up outside of our small Community Center. We had good views of the surrounding mountains. The foot of the nearest mountain was on the far south side of the Poudre Canyon Highway that runs alongside the Community Center. A hundred yards north of the tents flowed the Cache la Poudre River, a majestic, picturesque stream so clear at this time of the year that you can see trout swimming around and colorful rocks along the river bottom.

This, indeed, was a lovely late afternoon for celebrating Steve’s life. The deep blue sky was partly cloudy. The temperature was just right, absolutely perfect, one of those fortunate times when your skin feels neither cold nor warm. It just is.

I first saw Steve in the early 1980s in Vern’s, a historic restaurant a few miles from the mouth of the Poudre Canyon, 10 miles to the east of Poudre Park. I was having breakfast with my father (now deceased for the last 38 years).

“Look at that guy,” he said, nodding toward the man paying his meal bill at the cash register.

The gentleman wore a big gray hat with a wide, floppy brim. His clothes were disheveled. His shirt was dappled with sweat and dirty stains. His well-worn jeans had a couple of small ragged holes in the legs.

Pleasantly, my father announced, “He’s our new neighbor,”

Our new neighbor: Steve had recently purchased a small house on a tiny lot five homes to the east of our place. Back when I was a young kid, an old man, who drank too much, lived in that house. He often stopped me as I walked, fly rod in hand, along Poudre River Road, a dirt byway, heading to a nearby fishing hole. The old man had, in his younger years, played professional baseball in Cuba. With the scent of whiskey on his breath, he told me all about those days. In fact, he told the same story all over again every time I was stopped heading to the fishing hole.

Steve’s riverside house was probably built in the 1930s or early 1940s for use as a summer or weekend retreat. Back then, it was considered a cabin. Night lighting came from oil lamps. Food was heated over a wood-fired cook stove. Warmth came from firewood. Like other homes in our hamlet, Steve’s was updated over the decades with electricity in the early 1960s, a bathroom, rooms added on, and transformed into a year-round house. Yet, Steve still called it a cabin.

I am making much over his home and property in this article because, frankly, it’s a place that reflects his personality: interesting, sturdy, creative, prepared for whatever may come, and friendly, a memorial to him. He lived quietly and calmly. The inside of his house was crowded with books, wall photos, and souvenirs from his many excursions over the decades of camping, fishing and hunting for elk and other critters with friends and his two sons, Josh and Tim.

On the outside, above the front door, is a greeting sign that states “Welcome to the DEN.” There was always a banner or sign giving recognition to the University of Nebraska. Steve, who was born and raised in Bellevue, Neb., was the ultimate Cornhusker. In fact, he was such a big Nebraska fan that years ago he bought a truck painted a reddish Cornhusker hue.

Steve’s yard is shaded by towering pine trees. To one side of his small front yard is a circle of rocks where he spread cracked corn and sunflower seeds for birds. In the center of the circle is a stone engraved with the name of his partner (keep reading to learn about her).

Steve always had a big pile of firewood to the side of his driveway where he parked his truck. He was forever prepared for cold weather. After his passing, family members came to start sorting out his possessions. They picked up the firewood and, bless them, stacked the wood in a neat row along a fence.

Outhouse: Believe it or not, there are museums of outhouses around the nation (Click here to learn about them). Undoubtedly, Steve’s outhouse in his backyard is museum quality.  It’s likely his outhouse was dug and built by the Civil Conservation Corps, which was launched as part of Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal to combat the Great Depression. CCC workers were dispatched into the lower Poudre Canyon to build public hiking trails. After completing all of that, they proceeded through Poudre Park, digging and constructing outhouses for the small handful of homes.

The outhouse at Steve’s has been rebuilt, enlarged, decorated with fun signage, and now has a large screened window opening. Steve once told me he preferred the outhouse over his indoor facilities because he could sit there and gaze out at the river, the willows, and the ponderosa pines across the waterway, as well as a huge mountain named Mount Webster. He could also watch a Great Blue Heron that for years has made its summer next near the top of a tall tree directly across from Steve’s place. Steve named the bird “Gabby.”

But of all the uniqueness of Steve’s home, the top one is a huge painting that spans across  the backside of his house. It’s pure Steve. Done by a friend, Ray Lucci, in 2018, the painting features a larger-than-life Grey Blue Heron wading along the shore on the other side of the Poudre River. It’s magnificent artwork that Steve knew would be enjoyed by visitors, as well as rafters and kayakers who floated by his place.

Howdy: Early on, not long after my Vern’s sighting of Steve, I finally met Steve on a sunny afternoon while I was walking along Poudre River Road. The road was built by county convicts. They worked on it in the 1910s as they constructed the Poudre Canyon Highway for 60 miles up the Poudre Canyon, a task that kept them busy for three decades. The area of Steve’s home was an early site of a camp for the convicts.

Anyway, I was walking along the dirt road, carrying my fly rod, just as I had when I was a young kid on an excursion to the fishing hole. I stopped suddenly in front of Steve’s house when I noticed that netting was strung from tree to tree. This was something I had never seen before. Nor did I know why it was there. I was even more baffled to see a hummingbird stuck in the netting.

Steve was inside his house, relaxing in his easy chair in front of the window. This, as I would discover over time, was his favorite spot; from there, he could wave at passersby. Upon seeing me pause on the road with an inquisitive interest, he stepped out to greet me.

This time, his dishelved look, sported at Vern’s, was replaced with a nice, clean T-shirt and jeans free of dirt, sweat and holes. From the many times that I would see him over the decades, I would find that Steve was always a casual dresser, most particularly when he was wandering around in the wilds. I’ve always figured his bedraggled appearance at Vern’s was his suit of the day for an outdoor adventure.

Now, he greeted me with “Howdy.”

During a pause in the memorial service, there came a gentle rumbling from the clouds up the canyon. They were moving closer to us. Steve once explained to me about the Southwest Monsoon, how it comes from the Gulf of Mexico and sweeps northwesterly into Colorado, giving us gentle afternoon showers almost every summer day. In recent years, however, Southwest Monsoon clouds have often passed over Poudre Park without leaving behind rain. The monsoon has indeed been shy of making its presence known. I never got around to asking Steve if he thought the reason was climate change.

Poudre River Road Talks: For the next four decades, we would always talk when I strolled by and he was outside, spreading sunflower seeds or cracked corn in his yard for birds, or, of all things, inspecting scat from foxes, raccoons, or deer that had visited his property the previous night.

We also talked when we encountered each other as he drove his Nebraska-red truck along Poudre River Road. He would stop in the middle of the old convict road. I would pause whatever outdoor chore I was doing and walk over to his truck.

There, we talked in the middle of Poudre River Road, a byway that sees very few vehicles. Those that did come along as we had our River Road Talks went around us as we waved an acknowledgement to the drivers. Sometimes, a driver, one of our neighbors, would stop on the road, get out, and join the River Road Talk. One particular time I remember, five vehicles stopped on the dirt road so the drivers could converse with Steve.

Steve was what I call a “long talker.” We all have such people in our lives: folks who start talking and keep talking, and talking, and talking, until you want to shut them up by stuffing a dirty, smelly sock in their mouth.

But in Steve’s case, the long talking was different. He weaved together wonderfully entertaining stories about Nature, birds, his life, birds, the lives of others, birds, history…oh, and did I mention birds? I never yearned for a sock to quiet him, even after an hour or more of standing on the dusty road as he leaned out his driver’s window, and we talked.

And another long-talking site: Before I retired in 2014, I would usually go to a health club near my workplace in the early morning. Steve often kept the same workout schedule. His schedule, though, was to ride an incumbent bike for a while, not long, then shower and dress, and go into the health club’s little café. He sat at the counter and read novels by his favorite author, C.J. Box, a popular Wyoming writer with 26 books to his credit about game warden Joe Pickett, who investigates mysterious deaths.

After my workout, I often joined Steve at the counter. I drank coffee while he told me about this and that C.J. Box novel. As a result, I’ve never bought or actually read a Joe Pickett novel. Yet, I can tell you all about them.

The eloquence of Steve’s talking abilities was alluded to time and again during his memorial service, always in cheerful, playful ways by neighbors, his family, his ex-wife, friends, and former students. Each offered joyful memories that Steve would have been delighted to hear.

In his eulogy, Steve’s son Josh brought laughter and fond memories to those attending the celebration of Steve’s life. When he was done talking, a warm breeze came down the canyon from the west. In the far distance, above the mountains and the river, more clouds were gathering.

Listen to the eulogy given by son Josh

Honored school teacher: Most former students at the memorial service were in his classroom in the 1980s when he was a career elementary teacher for the Poudre School District in Fort Collins. Each emphasized how Steve had a true knack for inspiring kids to develop a passion for learning. His teaching had a profoundly positive influence on hundreds of children. He cared for the kids. They were in his heart.

Those former students at the memorial service, as well as many others who wrote tributes to him to accompany his online obituary at a Fort Collins funeral service, recalled how he believed in the importance of providing real-world examples.

He thought, for instance, that his students, most of whom were city dwellers, should be familiar with wildlife. So, he brought critters like raccoons to school for show-and-tell. He also brought snakes in a terrarium, including a rattlesnake at one time, as well as mice to feed to the snakes. The school district, according to a former student, eventually banned wildlife in classrooms due to Steve’s penchant for bringing in wild critters.

Something I did not know about Steve until I read his obituary—he never gave himself personal praise during our River Road Talks—was how often he was honored during his teaching career. He received Colorado’s Outstanding Conservation Teacher of the Year award. He was listed in “Who’s Who in America’s Teachers.” He received two Presidential Science Teaching Awards. He was named Teacher of the Year multiple times.

Read tributes written by his former students

Listen to the eulogy given by Steve’s sister, Marsha Berens

Rock ‘n Roll: Between each memorial service soliloquy about Steve, a rock-and-roll song was played, loud like it should be, to honor Steve’s love for that musical genre. Steve’s ex-wife, Linda Messmer, revealed that when she and Steve were young and in love, “their” song was “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” a late 1960s song by the Iron Butterfly that defined the Rock ‘n Roll Era.

The song was played loud, loud, loud over a loudspeaker after Linda finished her eulogy. The song seemed appropriate for this time and for this event. The song is hypnotizing, exotic, elaborate, and dripping in mind-expanding meaning. Steve would have loved listening to the rhythmic beat echo off the nearby mountains.

Listen to the eulogy given by former wife Linda Messmer

Click here to listen to the In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida soundtrack 

A ruby-throated hummingbird cruised along the side of the tents as one of Steve’s former students talked. The bird paused in mid-flight, wings flapping a zillion times per second, to gaze at the people listening intently to the speaker.

It was little wonder the hummingbird stopped to gander at the folks under the tent. It was the color of their clothes and tablecloths that surely attracted the hummer. In planning for his memorial service before he passed away, Steve had made the request that everyone wear red in honor of the Nebraska Cornuskers. So most people wore lively red to commemorate his love for the University of Nebraska. In keeping with his wishes for red, his family also covered the tables under the tents with red tablecloths and displayed a “Go Big Red!” banner in the front of the Community Center to help people locate the memorial service. 

Sensing that no nectar was about in all that red, the hummingbird zoomed off and away, heading toward a neighbor’s yard, most likely to feast on daylilies blooming there. I gotta say—Steve would have been giddy with joy over all the Cornhusker red and, in particular, that a hummer dropped by his celebration of life.

A red University of Nebraska banner was displayed outside the Community Center so people would know this is the location of Steve’s Celebration of Life. Photo by Marci White.

Hummingbirds: As I learned during our first River Road Talk four decades ago, Steve was a federally registered bird-bander. During his life, he banded more than 10,000 birds from hummingbirds to owls.

The netting strung up in his yard on that day was purposely there to snare hummingbirds. Steve gently removed the hummingbird from the netting, delicately held it as he put a tiny metal band with identifying information on one of the bird’s feet, and then released it by letting the bird fly off his palm. He banded the birds so ornithological scientists and enthusiasts around the country could track their numbers and migration patterns. (In subsequent River Road Talks, I would learn his knowledge about birds, especially local ones, was exceedingly deep and wide.)

This first River Road Talk was in midsummer. By then, Steve had banded about 100 hummingbirds, he said. Next came a surprising fact: He had yet to net a hummingbird that had already been banded.

Usually around April 1, hummingbirds arrive in Poudre Park, a mecca for them. Throughout the summer, many Poudre River Road residents have hummingbird feeders full of sugar water hanging around their yards. Most locals think the same hummingbirds remain in Poudre Park for the entire summer. Well, some hummers do, some don’t.

As Steve’s banding seemed to show, Poudre Park hummingbirds don’t always remain local. They migrate from one area to another in search of nectar from fresh flowers in home gardens and wild flowering plant life growing along waterways and on mountainsides. This pattern continues until September 1, when hummingbirds depart for their long solo migratory journey to Mexico, where they remain during the winter.

In my many years as a journalist, I found that sometimes a lighthearted, fun-twinged question helps to break the proverbial ice with someone I have just met. I tried this tactic with my new neighbor:

“So, September 1, huh?” I said. “How do the hummingbirds know when the day is? Do they carry tiny calendars with them?”

It worked. I was given an enjoyable lecture full of details—I’m just going to summarize here—about how hummingbird migration patterns are determined by the sun’s position in the sky. When the sun reaches a certain angle in relation to the Earth, the hummingbirds instinctively know it’s time to migrate. In the fall, the appropriate sun angle typically occurs on September 1.

Helping bird populations. Steve was dedicated to protecting bird life in our region. His work has had an important lasting impact. He built “owl homes”—wooden nestboxes designed specifically for owls—and hung them in trees along the Poudre River’s riparian areas. He also developed the Cherokee Park Bluebird Trail when he learned that the Mountain Bluebird habitat was dwindling. He constructed and placed nestboxes designed specifically for use by bluebirds. As a result, more than 3,000 mountain bluebirds were successfully hatched, which immensely helped to regenerate the bluebird population.

Steve wrote wildlife articles for several publications. He also had a group email called Mountain Messages that he frequently sent out to let others know about what’s happening in Poudre Park with the wildlife, birds, neighbors, and himself and his dog, Bear. Steve wrote Mountain Messages in the enjoyable, folksy manner in which he sometimes conversed. He also included photos of local wildlife. Not surprisingly, Mountain Messages was very popular.

Steve’s fame as a birder became so widespread that a well-known photographer and conservationist, Michael Forsberg, consulted with him on the making of a film about the American Dipper. Released in 2019, the film was titled “A Trout With Feathers: Filming Dippers Underwater.” The setting: Poudre River. The purpose: Document the birds’ unique behaviors of dipping and diving underwater.

Watch the 9-minute “Trout With Feathers” film

The film, as Forsberg noted, also “introduces you to a lifelong birder, retired school teacher, and ex-Harley rider Steve Den.”

…And speaking of Harleys: Newcomers to the Poudre Park area—that is, folks who have lived there less than a decade—may not know that at one time Steve was an avid Harley rider. (An aside: This lesser-known fact about Steve rivals another little-known gem: Steve chewed tobacco, even when he was teaching. He kept a gold-colored spittoon in his classroom and, as one memorial service speaker mentioned, he was not above using the spittoon during school time. Please note: In Steve’s vernacular, it was not “chewing tobacco” or “dipping tobacco” or any other phrase. For Steve, it was “chewin’ tabaccie.”)

All of us have special memories nested in our minds about certain people and scenes. One of mine originated from seeing Steve astride his big Harley on Poudre River Road in front of his house. Next to him, on a smaller Harley, was Miss Katie.

At that moment in time, the sky was clouded over. Suddenly, the clouds parted. A thick shaft of sunlight shone down, engulfing the two of them as they started their motorcycles and drove off along the road. They had packs on their cycles. I don’t know where they were headed. Steve always enjoyed motorcycling to the annual Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota. Maybe that was their destination.

The magical occurrence of the shaft of sunshine was just like something you’d see in a movie. I am still amazed every time I think of it. In Poudre Park? A coincidence of happenstance, or luckily being in the right place at the right time? Or, if you believe in such things, a signal from God, the Great Spirit or whatever you might call Him (or Her) bestowing a blessing for their safety while on their motorcycles or, perhaps, as recognition of their commitment to each other.

Steve’s Partner: Her name was Kathie Ann Driscoll. But Steve never called her “Kathie.” For him, it was “Miss Katie.” She called him “Stevie.”

She was a pleasant, sweet, quiet person. They became partners who were seldom apart. I always noticed a certain shift in Steve’s voice when he talked about Miss Katie. It was a tone of respect, admiration and love. Steve provided a safe place for her. She was his best friend, and he, hers.

Miss Katie and Stevie were the perfect match. She very much liked rock-‘n-roll music. She enjoyed viewing wildlife, especially birds. She liked mountain hikes. She loved riding Harleys.

Like all of our neighbors who knew Miss Katie, I was stunned when I heard about her 2011 death from a sudden illness. Her best friend, Stevie, was holding her hand as she passed over to wherever the deceased go. I couldn’t figure out why such a youthful person would die so young in life. I realized then that I had no idea how old she was. She looked and acted to be, at most, 40 years old. Then, in her obituary, I read, with great surprise, that she was 63 years old. My gawd…!

Read Miss Katie’s obituary

At Steve’s memorial service, a retired entomologist from Colorado State University stepped up to the microphone to talk about his friendship with Steve. David Leatherman spoke fondly about their long friendship that evolved through conversations about bugs…

Meanwhile, the clouds picked up speed as they headed toward Poudre Park. They were nice-looking clouds, but they had dark gray swatches that portended possible rain. They settled over our tents outside of the Community Center. The air seemed to crackle. The temperature turned crisp. A booming clap of thunder announced their arrival. Yet, no rain…

Steve enjoyed dogs: He always seemed to own a dog that ranged from small to medium-sized. However, he generally preferred a smaller size so the dog could snooze on his lap as he sat in his easy chair by the front window and watched the outside world.

Years ago, Steve owned a medium-sized dog, a friendly mutt of indistinct breed. I don’t recall its name, but I remember Steve was particularly fond of his pet. One day, he left the dog in his fenced backyard while he made a trip to town. The weather was warm, and he figured the dog would be more comfortable outside rather than inside.

Steve returned in the evening and discovered the dog was gone. In the darkness, he called for his pet. He checked for places where the dog may have escaped. He found no escape routes. It was a mystery. What happened?

Finally, he found a bloody spot on the ground. Steve theorized a mountain lion had jumped over the fence, won a fight with the dog and then dragged the dead animal over the fence and off to a remote location.

Steve was shocked, mournful, and heartsick. But, as an astute observer of the ways of the natural world, he took some consolation in what had happened. “For a mountain lion to come into a yard where a dog is barking, it must’ve really needed food,” he told me.

Steve’s last dog was a bundle of enthusiasm and cuteness. It was tiny, weighing maybe, perhaps, seven pounds, just the right size for lap sitting. For such a small pet, it had a big name: Bear.

When Steve emailed out his Mountain Messages, he always made sure the reader knew the missive came from him and Bear. Bear’s fame grew as he became an important character in the story of Steve Den. Bear preceded Steve in death.

…The memorial service concluded. People lingered, telling Steve stories among themselves.

From directly above the tents came rain, at first a few huge shiny raindrops. Then, a downpour so thick the world beyond the tents seemed not to exist except for the falling river of rain. So much for the shy Southwest Monsoon. I couldn’t recall ever seeing such a deluge. It lasted only briefly.

It was easy to imagine—with the rainstorm suddenly occurring only moments after his memorial service ended—that Steve was sending a message. Miss Katie and his beloved dogs would be with him, of course, as the surprise rain spoke for him: “Howdy, folks, thanks for having a party for me. It was dandy!”

Read Steve’s obituary

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A note: The history of the convict camp and the Civilian Conservation Corps in Poudre Park was told to me by my grandparents. They arrived in Poudre Park in 1929 and began building a cabin that still stands today, although it has been updated. Still standing today, too, is their CCC-made outhouse; it has been unused for decades.