Each summer my family — siblings and their families — get together in a town park back home in northern Iowa for a big potluck dinner and an afternoon of conversation. For many years we met at Christmastime but the family has outgrown most of the potential indoor spaces. Summer reunions can better handle all the many Huismans.

In addition to the opportunity to see my siblings and their spouses, I enjoy seeing my nieces and nephews and their families. They are all great people.

At each year’s reunion, however, an important someone is missing. My oldest nephew, Mark, died in a tragic mishap at the age of 20.

Mark was a good kid, usually more reserved than his loquacious uncles. One of my last memories of Mark was at a family gathering. My motor-loving brother had acquired a gas-powered skateboard and Mark, who loved anything with wheels, took it for a ride.

I can still see the very tall, slender young man zipping down the street, his long blond hair flowing in the breeze.

Mark had developed a love for mountain biking, something hard to do in the flatlands of Iowa. In the summer of 1995, Mark and a childhood friend, Chris, decided to go mountain biking in the massive rocks near Moab, Utah.

Before they took off for Utah in Mark’s blue sedan, they agreed to call their mothers every day, each on alternating days.

I remember seeing a photo of the boys at the Four Corners area where Utah, New Mexico, Colorado and Arizona intersect. From there they proceeded to Moab and began enjoying the challenge of mountain biking.

At about 6 a.m. on a morning in August our telephone rang. It was my sister calling with frightening news. Mark and Chris had not returned home as expected two days earlier nor had they called home for a few days.

After a couple of days of anxiously and fruitlessly calling authorities in Utah my sister and her husband drove to Moab where they found Mark’s car in a public parking lot. However, there was no sign of Mark or Chris.

Upon hearing of the missing boys, a local four-wheel-drive enthusiast organized a massive search team but after days of searching the boys were still missing. Two weeks after the search began, helicopter personnel from the Utah Air National Guard finally spotted the bodies of Mark and Chris trapped on the side of a massive rock.

Apparently, someone stole a directional trail sign in the rocks which resulted in Mark and Chris getting lost. The August heat was intensive, and in a search for water the bicyclists had reached a depression in an immense rock but were unable to further descend.

The bodies were returned to their hometown in Hamilton County where funeral services were held.

My brothers and I and two of Mark’s cousins served as pallbearers. I remember riding from the church to the cemetery thinking that this was all out of order. Mark should have been serving as a pallbearer for me or one of his other uncles instead.

I have many memories of Mark. When as a small boy he visited us in Sioux City he was amazed at all the hills in our town and called them mountains. My father had to retire at age 42 for health reasons and I remember the close relationship Mark had with his grandpa.

Mark was about two years younger than my son, Dirk. As teenagers, neither of the boys was a natural born conversationalist. At family Christmas celebrations the two teens quietly watched football on television while the rest of us jabbered away in an adjacent room.

I recall one of the last conversations I had with Mark and regret that I didn’t take more time to get to know him even better. His passing took a heavy toll on my sister, my mother and, indeed, the entire family.

Mark was maturing from his teens into a hardworking, ambitious young man. He had his entire adult life ahead of him.

At our family get-togethers these days I see how his siblings and cousins have all grown into quality adults and I wonder what all Mark could have achieved in the past 30 years.

We miss you, Mark. You are gone but not forgotten.

Arvid Huisman can be contacted at huismaniowa@gmail.com. ©2025 by Huisman Communications.