“Sure, you all can come here; I can accommodate. Ask for my name when you reach the tunnel! someone will guide you. Make sure you eat dinner before you come, as you may not find anything out here— we will have breakfast at my place.” That was Steve on the other end, speaking with an assertive tone as he confirmed our booking for the night stay. He ran a small inn on the trail side.
That morning, we were ready to hit the C&O Canal bike trail in Cumberland, which stretches all the way to Washington, D.C. The trail runs alongside the Potomac River. Due to heavy seasonal rains and flooding from the rising river, we wanted to check the trail conditions at the visitor center before starting our ride. As expected, several parts of the trail were damaged, and we were advised to take alternative paths or arrange transportation for our bikes. We also picked up brochures with recommendations for places to stay along the trail. That’s how I got Steve’s number. His bed-and-breakfast lodge was in Little Orleans, a small town located closer to the trail. We hoped to reach it that evening.
We slowly rolled our bikes onto the trail. Cumberland is a beautiful place. The Potomac River literally begins there, stretching wide and flowing eastward. It was a beautiful, sunny day as well. We felt fresh and took plenty of pictures on the outskirts of the town. However, it wasn't until we hit the rural boundaries that we realized the troublesome riding ahead of us.
Despite the path being a downgrade, the trail was wet, slippery, and muddy, making it much harder to ride than we had anticipated. We had to walk our bikes in several areas due to mud and overgrown grass. We didn’t cover as much distance as we expected, managing only 4 miles in 3 hours. To make matters worse, we had to deal with swarms of mosquitoes and other insects. It seemed like the trail was very hard to maintain due to flooding conditions. The canal towpath was also very popular for heavy tree roots spreading everywhere, which made the ride very bumpy. Wet and slippery conditions only made it worse. Our enthusiasm for riding started to fade, and we were almost ready to give up on this section of the trail. We didn’t encounter many other riders—just a few brave souls here and there. When we asked them about the trail conditions, we didn’t get any encouraging news. They mentioned that some parts of the trail were completely flooded, with mud reaching up to their knees. Unable to cross those areas, they had to take rental trucks or alternative routes via highways to bypass the damaged sections. Their experiences didn’t motivate us to continue, so we decided to halt at a point where we had a main road intersection. Then we called for motor transportation to carry us to Steve’s place.
After 45 minutes, the truck arrived. Interestingly, the driver’s name was also Steve. He had just recently moved from Texas to this area to help his wife, who runs a bed-and-breakfast business, along with providing bicycle transport services. B&Bs were quite popular along the trail, and they made good business during biking season.
We drove toward Little Orleans, making sure to stop at a gas station on the way to get some snacks and drinks for dinner, as Steve had warned us this morning. It was a very remote location, with only a few residences scattered around. When we arrived, no one was there to answer the doorbell. We called Steve, but he mentioned that he was just a few minutes away and asked us to wait. We wondered, *What kind of business is this?* We were expecting an inn, with someone at the reception, but it looked so simple—just a house with a small sign at the corner. No one was around.
We kept the van waiting with us in case we didn’t like the place or decided to go somewhere else. Steve arrived about 15 minutes later. He was a tall, elderly, white man, likely in his late 70s. He introduced himself but didn’t immediately ask us about our check-in. He didn’t ask for our IDs. He told the van driver everything was fine and that he could leave. The driver was even worried if this was the right place to stay and furtively checked with us to see if he should stay longer or leave. But we let the driver go and decided to go with whatever Steve was going to offer.
Steve instructed us to wash our bikes thoroughly. He even directed us, pointing out the dirt on the wheels that still needed cleaning. He also made a comment, “Don’t bring dirt inside my home.” We found him a bit annoying and were eager to get the keys and check out the rooms so we could avoid any more interaction with him. But he insisted that the bikes be cleaned first. With no other choice, we cleaned them since the bikes needed washing due to the mud. Afterward, we asked if we could check in, but instead, he began chatting with us about where we were from and other unrelated matters.
Steve was a retired postmaster. He had worked at some area offices in the same place where we were from. He was so delighted to host us as guests. Despite his age, he was very youthful in his actions. He was very active and single-handedly managed the business. He was very social and talkative. His comments were so hilarious, and his sense of humor was great. He lived alone but with his cats and horses. He owned the house and the surrounding land, which was a little over 25 acres. He asked what our preferred breakfast items were and how we liked our coffee— with milk or without. He took a mental note of everything with a nod.
After chatting with him for a while, our worries faded, and we felt comfortable and safe in his company. He took us upstairs, showed us the rooms, and assigned them to us. He pointed to the largest main bedroom with a smirk and said, “Let the Dad take this room,” then gave the others the bunk bed room. He thought I was older than the others, so I was given the main room, while the others were younger and could climb the bunk bed ladder.
He showed us all the amenities, washrooms, laundry facilities, and other areas. He even turned to one of my friends, who was noticeably younger, and said, “Hey, Young man, bring the luggage inside and help the Dad”. We knew he was teasing us, but he was doing it happily to keep the humor flowing. Finally, he said goodbye for the night and asked us to be ready for breakfast by 7 a.m. the next morning.
The next day, we could smell the coffee and the aroma of baking coming from the kitchen. We got ready and went downstairs. He had arranged everything. The table was set, with fresh and warm bread in the middle, a steaming coffee pot on the side, and plates with fruits, sausages, and eggs. He asked us to take our seats and sat down with us for breakfast. It was indeed a feast. So delicious! He had made everything fresh that morning. He woke up around 5 a.m. to prepare it all on his own. While we were eating, he shared details about his family, his younger years, and even enjoyed talking about some of the guests he had hosted. He really liked our company. He pulled out old letters, pictures, and other items he kept for good memories. He was so joyful to share those moments with us.
It was time to depart. He gave us a paper copy of the trail and provided lots of tips and guidance to avoid the bad segments with alternate paths.
We had to leave with much sadness. His hospitality was so warm. On the way back, we were talking about him—he indeed wasn’t alone. Instead, he was living with his great memories. We recollected everything since we talked to him over the phone, his assertive directions when we met for first time, his privileged care while allotting rooms, his passion and love to cook the breakfast, his joyful sharing of his memories and finally an elderly guidance to our journey. He was such gem of a person. He was rejoicing in the life he has been living. He wasn’t definitely not someone did all the chores for money but rather to show the love in doing. All the years he worked for himself had perhaps given him a sense of service, but the life he was living at that moment truly made it more meaningful.
I would proudly say that Steve was not retired but was instead, rejoiced, enjoying life to its fullest. Truly!
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