Good friends are hard to find. Perhaps that is why I don't have many.

My wife kids me, kind of, that I don’t have any friends at all, to which I respond, “I do, too. I have three.” 

She seems suspicious of this claim. To prove it, I name them: Don Witulski, Keith Erickson and Mike McLean. 

OK. She concedes this point. She knows and loves them all. Each has played different roles for which I am thankful. 

It was Don who introduced me to Glacier National Park when he insisted I join him and a few others on a trail-running trip decades ago. I did and the course of my life would be forever changed.  

He told me of a campground named Many Glacier on the east side of the park where we stayed, back in the days when you didn’t need a reservation. It offered the most amazing mountain view I had ever seen. It remains my favorite place in the world. Nothing is better than finishing the 10-mile trail run to Iceberg Lake and back and then sitting down for a cold beer while staring at Mount Grinnell.  

When Don and I biked the Going-to-the-Sun Road a few years back, it was beautiful, a day I wish I could reach back and grab.

We have a trip planned this July to complete the 20-mile Gunsight Pass trail. It promises to be an epic adventure. 

I came to know Keith when we worked together at The Press. He was a talented writer, producing clean, concise copy on a daily basis, with a great awareness of what needed to be reported, and what didn’t. He understood government operations.

We later became running buddies. For years, our Saturday morning runs to Higgens Point were our ritual. We ran through rain, cold and blizzards, always wearing running shorts to the amusement of passersby. We chatted about the ups and downs of our lives, avoiding politics because our opinions were opposite. I still remember the first time he beat me in a race, the Coeur d’Alene Marathon. I was at the same time annoyed but happy for him. 

He is a good man who has fought through battles. I am proud of him.

Mike McLean, I have known since our partying days at Blanchet High, a Catholic school in Seattle. We were diehard Husky fans at University of Washington and traveled to the Rose Bowl to watch the Dawgs whip Iowa. We survived our trip home when I was driving and his Honda Accord hit black ice. We fishtailed, spun around in a circle and came to a stop in the highway. All was well by God's grace. 

He was responsible for helping me land my first job in journalism at The Priest River Times. It was just the two of us at a weekly paper. We worked insane hours, frantically typing hundreds of words before deadline for little money. It was glorious. 

He was my best man at my wedding, and I was his when he got married.

Last year, we dressed like the Blues Brothers when we ran Bloomsday together. 

Mike has been a loyal friend through the decades, always there when needed. He is the kind of man you can count on.

Good friends are better than gold. Treasure them. Hang on to them. Spend time with them. Be thankful for them.

Because truly good friends are not only rare, but I have learned they make life better.

Even if I only have a few.

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Bill Buley is assistant managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at [email protected].