If you asked someone in Orinda if they knew Steve Maupin, most would say, “No.” A few might say, “Oh, Kim Laughton’s husband—you know, she’s so great.” Someone else might say, “Isn’t that the guy who almost burned down the town?” or, “Oh, that old fool who rides around on a unicycle.” And finally, someone might say, “That’s the jerk who made the fake news website that makes fun of Orinda.”

My wife and I were on a dive trip in Indonesia when we met a woman and her daughter. The woman was a physician from Hays, Kansas, named Christine Fisher.

A few days ago, I was in Limon, Colorado—a town not far from the Kansas border—when I met a couple from Hays in a McDonald’s. I asked if they knew Christine Fisher. The man said no, but the woman replied, “Of course I know Christine. She’s one of the nicest doctors I’ve ever met.”

Later, I stopped at a retailer in Hays and asked if they knew Christine Fisher. The clerk said, “I don’t know her directly, but I know she’s the one who saved that land from development and created a 16-acre park for the public.”

Today, I was in Paradise, Kansas, and met a distant relative. I asked if he had a cardiologist. He told me a long story about how years ago, Dr. Christine Fisher had treated him and how kind she was. Later, at an art co-op in Lucas, Kansas, I saw a couple from Hays and asked, “Do you know Christine Fisher?” The woman smiled and said, “Of course I do. She’s so nice.”

So who is this woman that everyone in Hays seems to know and love?

Christine was raised on a Minnesota dairy farm. When it was time to go to college, she joined the Army Reserve and became a medic. She loved boot camp because she got to sleep an hour later than she did on the farm, and the work was easier.

She graduated from college, medical school, residency, and a fellowship. Hays Medical Center was building its cardiology program and offered her a job. She was excited to go—she wanted to treat people like her grandparents.

Hays is the main medical hub for central Kansas, and she was busy—implanting pacemakers, treating heart disease, and helping thousands of patients. Over time, she realized she was approaching her lifetime exposure limit to radiation. She stopped wearing her radiation badge, but soon realized she couldn’t continue practicing invasive cardiology safely.

Around that time, a Federally Qualified Health Center (FQHC) in Hays—housed in an old bomb shelter—needed a medical director. Christine had recently recertified in Internal Medicine and took the job. When she met with the CEO, she voiced her concerns about the clinic’s care quality and terrible conditions. The CEO told her, “If you want to fix things, you better have a bunch of sugar daddies—because there’s no money.”

Christine had plenty of sugar daddies. All the wealthy oilmen whose hearts she had literally kept beating were happy to contribute. She raised the funds, modernized the clinic, hired and trained new staff, and transformed the place into a high-functioning safety-net facility that serves the area’s most vulnerable patients.

While all that was going on, a 16-acre parcel of land across from her house came up for development. Concerned about the lack of parks in Hays, Christine bought the land, planted hundreds of trees, created walking paths, dug two ponds, and seeded it with lush grass. The place looks like a two-hole golf course. Until recently, she mowed the entire 16 acres by herself every two weeks.

Two days before arriving in Hays, I called Christine. Of course, she insisted I stay at her “bed and breakfast.” She gave me a tour of the town, took me to see fossil fish, and fed me excellent food. Everywhere we went, people greeted her like a long-lost friend. Even with all she’s accomplished, she remains humble, soft-spoken, and a bit shy. Ask her where she’s from, and she proudly answers, “Hays, America.”

I’ve been around many successful people. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’s touched as many hearts—literally and figuratively—as Christine Fisher.

After leaving Christine and her wonderful dog, I headed off to reach Junction City, Kansas. I took Highway 18, which runs about 20 miles north of I-70 but parallels it. After riding for about two hours, I arrived in the town of Natoma. I was thirsty and needed to recharge my unicycle.

I found the only general store in town. The door was unlocked, and a light was on in the back. I called out, and a nice lady in a tie-dyed T-shirt came up to greet me. Her name was Fauna. “We’re closed and I’m just doing the books,” she said. “Let me turn the lights on so you can find something.” I talked with her as I wandered around and then asked if I could charge my unicycle outside. “Of course,” she said. As I tried to plug in, she asked if I needed an extension cord. I was sitting on the ground out front, watching my unicycle charge, when she came back with an office chair for me.

She looked at the unicycle, and I gave her my card. She looked at it and said, “Now this makes sense.”
I asked, “What do you mean?”
She replied, “You’re a Maupin. We have a lot of Maupins around here, and they’re all big talkers. Tom Maupin lives down the road in the next town. Owns a big ranch. We went to school together—that man is a talker.”

She suggested I check out some cool stuff across the street and a really neat café. I wandered over and found the place fascinating—a wacky collection of vintage items and electronic gadgets the owner’s husband had built. There was an old guy in a booth who looked like Jerry Garcia, headband and all.

*A fun place in Natoma! Note Jerry Garcia hiding in back.*

Suddenly Fauna popped in with a phone in her hand and handed it to me.
“Hey, it’s Tom Maupin,” she said. “I called him and told him you’re in town. He wants to talk with you. Keep the phone until you’re done—I have to get back to work.”

Tom was warm and friendly. He said he wished he’d known sooner that I was coming—his mother always told him that if you meet a Maupin in eastern Kansas, you’re related. He was in the cab of his tractor, raking hay, trying to get ahead of a storm expected in two days. Near the end of our call, he said, “I’m real busy, but why don’t you come by the ranch and say hi? I probably only have about five minutes.”

I couldn’t pass that up. I unplugged my half-charged unicycle and headed 8 miles down the highway. After turning onto a dirt road, I reached a beautiful, modern farmhouse with a big “Maupin” sign out front. I mistakenly knocked on the front door. In farm country, only salespeople and proselytizers do that—friends go to the back. I remembered this, stopped knocking, and started walking around back. That’s when Tom came out to greet me with a warm smile and handshake.

He took me to a repair shed and let me plug in my unicycle. A big John Deere tractor sat nearby, still idling. “This isn’t my house,” Tom explained. “It’s my son’s. Mine’s about a mile away.” I asked how much land he had. “Enough,” he said. (Later I found out it was 5,000 acres.)

We walked to his son’s house and entered the garage. It was huge, with a big table near an A/C unit, several chairs, and a snack spread. He asked me to sit. I’d mentioned that my great-aunt had written a book on our family genealogy. Tom said he knew the book but had lost his copy in a prairie fire that destroyed his house.

My aunt had tried to trace our lineage back to French royalty. Unfortunately, the only find was George Washington Maupin, who—according to legend—rode to the next town with a friend in a wagon, stole a dog, bred it, and created what became known as the Walker Maupin Coonhound. Years of genealogical research, and that was the high point.

*One ancestor on the left, Two dog thieves together*

Tom had heard the story but said I was missing a few pieces. According to him, we’re also related to Princess Diana and King Tut. This was news to me.

He told me about his college days and how much he enjoyed studying botany—and other subjects to better understand the world. Geology, to understand the region’s fossils; psychology, to understand what makes someone a bully. His dad had made him go to college, believing life was more than ranching.

Then he said I needed to see the big “Maupin” sign his son had welded. We jumped in a John Deere Gator and headed down a dirt road. As we passed the idling tractor again, we reached the gate with the handmade sign. “I named him Quinten,” Tom said of his son. “He’s the fifth generation, and it’s an easy name to yell—‘Hey Quinten, stop that!’”

I figured that would be the end, but then he said, “I want to show you the cattle.” We drove half a mile into a pasture and visited the herd. He showed me their brand and some abandoned calves his wife had raised. “If I had an apple, they’d eat right out of your hand. Sweet, aren’t they?”

*Tom pointing at cows from the John Deere Gator*

We talked for about 15 more minutes, and then he said, “I’ve got more stuff to show you.” We passed his newly rebuilt home. “We were doing well, so I built my wife a house,” he said. “The fire came and that was the only building we lost. I loved that house. It made me really sad.”

We circled back to another big barn. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said. Inside were vintage wood planks, old church pews, and other items. Then we walked upstairs. “This will blow your mind.” He opened a door, and there was a giant wood shop—every tool imaginable, better than Stanford’s PRL. He beamed with pride: “My son’s a really good woodworker, and a great welder.”

Tom invited me back with my wife sometime. “You have to come back here on your way home,” he said warmly.

*Cool barn with hidden wood shop up stairs*

We took some photos outside the barn, and then Quinten and his wife Audrey returned from church. Tom introduced us: “Hey Quinten, this is your relative Steve Maupin. He’s crossing the country on an electric unicycle.”

We shook hands, talked, and then went out to see the unicycle. They had lots of questions. Before I left, they told me they’d pray for my safety—and that I should call if I had any problems. “We’ve got friends all the way to Kansas City,” they said, and they meant it.

*A picture of my newly found relatives. Tom, , Audrey, Quentin, and Kim Laughton’s husband*

After more than two hours, I said goodbye and rolled past the still-idling tractor, deeply grateful for this unexpected family connection and their extraordinary hospitality.

Later that evening, I was eating dinner at Tres, a nice Mexican restaurant in Lincoln, Kansas. I decided to text Quinten to thank him for all the time they spent with me. I accidentally hit the call button but hung up before I thought it rang. A moment later, Quinten called back.

“Hey Steve, are you all right? Can we come get you? Are you okay?”

I explained it was a mistake, and we ended up talking for 15 minutes. They might come visit us in California. Last night I was really missing my family, after being on the road for almost a month. I had no idea I’d be with family the very next day. It really touched my heart.

It’s the hearts you touch

Happy birthday Heidi

A Dirt Road to Hays