Quotes from Terri Irwin

I avoided getting eaten on the Burdekin. I managed again to escape being flattened by a road train on the return trip to the zoo. My monthlong stay in Australia was nearing its end. The ache hadn't hit me yet, but I could feel it coming.

What does the future hold for the Irwin family? Each and every day is filled with incredible triumphs and moments of terrible grief. And in between, life goes on. We are determined to continue to honor and appreciate Steve's wonderful spirit. It lives on with all of us. Steve lived every day of his life doing what he loved, and he always said he would die defending wildlife. I reckon Bindi, Robert, and I will all do the same. God bless you, Stevo. I love you, mate.

The family that catches crocs together, rocks together. The Irwin family motto.

Crikey," he said, "wasn't she gorgeous?" I myself had never really considered using the words "gorgeous" and "spider" in a sentence together. After getting to know the bird-eaters, I finally settled on my own description: "cool.

Visiting Australia again, I thought, might not be a bad idea. How could I have known then that my decision would result, only a short time later, in a chance meeting with the man who would change my life.

Bob and Lyn set Steve on the path he traveled in life. What was incredible about Steve was how much he made it his own. He took the example of his parents and ran with it.

The croc-torn khaki shorts he wore that day made an amazing souvenir for a lucky sponsor of the zoo. People who donated a certain amount of money to our conservation efforts received a bonus in return: one of Steve's uniforms and a photograph of him in it. Steve was very proud to include his khakis with teeth holes in them as the gift for a generous supporter.

I am in the middle of nowhere. It's nighttime. I am surrounded by crocodiles. The boat motor won't start. Steve will be snatched and eaten by One-Eye right off the back of the boat. Then I'll be alone.

We have got to have children," he said. "I know that if we have kids, they will carry on when we're gone." "Great," I said. "Let's get right on that.

I thought of the sign Steve had over his desk back home. It bore the word "warrior" and its definition: "One who is engaged in battle.

In spite of the obvious challenge of getting past the mud, I was determined to take advantage of a nice tub. As the only woman on the trip, I pulled the whole "ladies first" thing and headed off.

As Graham lunged toward Steve, Steve drove the pick handle into the crocodile's mouth and started hammering at his head. Wes saw what was happening and scrambled up the fence. "I'm out mate, I'm out," Wes yelled, blood pouring down his leg. Steve looked up to see Wes on the top of the fence. He realized that even though Wes was wounded, he was poised to jump back down into the water to try to rescue his best mate.

A few days earlier, as Steve stepped off a dinghy, his boot had gotten tangled in a rope. "Watch out for that rope," I said. He shot me a look that said, I've just caught forty-nine crocodiles in three weeks, and you're thinking I'm going to fall over a rope? I laughed sheepishly. It seemed absurd to caution Steve about being careful.

That is how farm-raised crocs exist for the first three years of their lives, in a crowded, pitch-black prison, with constant, blaring music—then a sudden blast of light, a beating, and some food.

Steve laid his life on the line to defend Wes. And as severely injured as Wes was, he stopped at the top of the fence to turn back and help Steve. That was mateship; that was love. It made me think of the line from scripture: Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. Steve and Wes were lucky, for they were truly friends.

We had arrived at a remarkable place in our relationship. Our trip to Lakefield had been one of the most special months of my entire life. The kids had a great time. We were all in the same place together, not only physically, but emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. We were all there.

When I met Steve in 1991, he had just emerged from a solid decade in the bush, either with Bob or on his own, with just his dog Chilli, and later Sui. Those years had been like a test of fire. As a boy all Steve wanted to do was to be like his dad. At twenty-nine he'd become like Bob and then some.

Once again I marveled at Steve's instincts. He knew that this particular snake would be okay for me to pick up. He never hesitated, he never yelled at me or coached me--until I asked for help. Then he simply told me what to do.

As a boy all Steve wanted to do was to be like his dad. At twenty-nine he'd become like Bob and then some.

We headed back to the zoo, and back to the tangle of my immigration red tape. I had a renewed sense of confidence. I felt if I could face fierce snakes, I could face anything, even the Australian consulate.

He would hand Bindi and Robert his knowledge of nature and the bush, just as Bob and Lyn had handed it down to him. This is what few people understood about Steve--his relationship with his family, and the tradition of passion and commitment and understanding that passed from generation to generation.

The lessons I took away from that trip always stayed with me. Give Steve the benefit of the doubt. If he takes off running after an emu, get the camera ready, because he'll come back with one. If he says he'll find a specific spot in a desolate landscape that he last visited more than twenty years before, don't question him. Just ask him when he thinks we'll get there.

My heart was pounding as I drove up the coast again a few days later. There was the familiar little sign, the modest entrance. And here he was again, as large as life--six feet tall, broad shoulders, a big grin, and a warm and welcome handshake. Our first real touch. "Well, I'm back," I said lamely. "Good on you, mate," Steve said. I thought, I've got what on me?

You are now the angel leaning over my shoulder, whispering in my ear that I can do anything--you always believed in me.