I don't know if Steve ever made it to all fifty states; but I feel confident in saying he's been in more of them than I have. And I've been in quite a few. We surveyed together in South Carolina, Missouri and California: where Steve was a licensed LS. He encouraged me to get my own license; however all I ever did was get my LSIT. And both of us surveyed up in Alaska; although at different times and in different locations; doing different things. Steve's area of specific interest was in mapping. He was a cartographer by trade for many years. And he had a unique ability to see things in aerial photographs that others didn't: including me. We were up in the Sierras working on a large cadastral project for a lumber company. The job required restoring obliterated and lost section corners; and then subdividing to establish lines of ownership. We found this old monument that had been placed there a hundred years ago. And we even found a bearing tree that still had the old markings scored into the cambium layer of the tree; when the monument was originally set. It was like a treasure hunt. And we hit pay dirt. Retracement surveys like that were always fascinating to me; and whenever possible Steve would try to get his hands on photographs to aid in the recovery process. But the really fun stuff was to get a magnetic compass and a mechanical altimeter; and try to follow the course of the original surveyor by metes and calls. And that is where aerial photographs paid for themselves. (They gave us a birds-eye view and lay of the land that topographical maps could not.) [Least wise until Google Earth came along.] Nowadays they use GPS and electronics for everything. The craft is slowly dying: as is the art form. But Steve and I did a lot of things the old way. Not that the old way is the best; but it's what we had to work with. And interestingly enough; it more often as not got the job done. We stayed in motels, lodges and camping trailers; and even commuted to jobs that were out beyond the end of the pavement. The power lines would end and the dirt track would begin. Often there was little or no visible roadway at all. We followed fire trails and old abandoned miner's tracks. And then at the end of the ride; we got out and walked. Sometimes we had to carry heavy loads off down a mountain-side. And then back up the hill when it was time to head home. I never heard him complain. It was all part of the job: came with the territory. That's the way Steve lived much of his life: all part of the journey; never one to nay-say. Steve always carried his share of the load. And that's the way I choose to remember him. He was a good brother and a good friend. So, next time I run into Steve I expect him to have all his moving parts restored. Then he'll give me a big hug, a warm friendly smile, a firm handshake and say something banal like, "Hey little brother, good to see you, glad you could make it. What took you so long?" And I'll say something stupid like, "Did you miss me? I like being missed; it's better than not being missed." And he'll agree: or not. But that's okay; I'll still be glad to see him.