Craig & Fred

by Craig Grossi

The whole time we’d been traveling together, I’d never seen Josh like this. Even in challenging circumstances, he was always calm. Now, though, his whole body was tense with frustration. He was bent forward over the leg, sweaty and strained, completely exasperated. I didn’t even know if he realized he was bleeding. The leg was humming like an electric razor, and Josh’s fingers were raw from digging at the robotic hinge of the knee. I fastened Fred’s leash to a nearby tree and took a seat across from him.

  “Why’s it humming like that?” I asked.

  “I have no fucking idea, man. I’ve never heard it do that before,” he said as calmly as could be expected from a guy holding his own leg.

  “The good news is that I got out all of the rocks and got it to stand up straight again,” he added, taking a breath. “The bad news is that the knee is completely shot. Now it’s essentially a really expensive peg leg.”

  “Okay,” I said, pausing to think. Josh was just starting to get really good at taking on the uneven, treacherous trails we’d been on. It was pretty amazing that he’d trekked through the Los Padres forest on those switchbacks and through the brush without any problems, especially with the weighted pack he was carrying. Now the knee was busted just from kneeling on the ground. If I were him, I would have been pissed, too.

  We didn’t have many options. Josh had a backup leg in the Land Cruiser, but it wasn’t charged. The only real possibility was to hike back to the truck, then go somewhere to charge the backup leg so Josh could start using it.

  “What if we hike out tomorrow morning and take our time?” I said. It was already getting late in the day. “That way you don’t strain your good leg.”

  Josh agreed, and we settled into camp for the night. We heated up our dinners and sat around our campsite until dusk. We talked about the faulty mechanics of the knee and how Josh planned to call one of the reps from the manufacturer with suggestions so the same problem wouldn’t happen to anyone else. As it started to get dark, Fred and I took another walk to hang our food from a tree, out of reach from curious wildlife. When we came back, Josh had already climbed into his tent, exhausted from the physical strain of the hike and the mental frustration of being betrayed by his leg.

  That night, another storm rolled in. The thick canopy above protected us from the downpour. Light drops of rain pitter-pattered against the tent. Fred and I lay safe and dry under a blanket of cool mist, and the rain sang us to sleep.

  When the morning sun filtered through the ancient giant trees, the sunlight warmed the inside of the tent just enough to wake us. Outside, Josh fiddled with his leg while Fred and I went to retrieve the food I’d strung up the night before. Inside the bag was our precious Jetboil and a jar of instant coffee. As I approached the spot, I was shocked to see that the dirt beneath the suspended bag looked disturbed. I crouched and got a closer look, and there they were: huge paw prints. I could see where the creature—I guessed a bear—had circled under the bag. Right beneath it, the soil was torn up even further where it must have stood on its hind legs trying to reach our stash. Fred looked as if he were vacuuming the whole area with his nose—snout to the ground, he paced across the divots of earth. Meanwhile, I untied the knot from around the trunk of the tree and let the bag fall to the ground. It had been untouched but not unnoticed. Seeing the paw prints, I was glad that Josh’s leg gave us a reason to leave. We were not the biggest creatures in the forest.

  When we got back to camp, Josh was too focused on adjusting to his leg not bracing under his weight to care much about the bear tracks. The six-mile hike back to the truck was going to be unpleasant. He knew it’d hurt.

  “Just go, man,” he said, our rucks on our backs. He didn’t want to feel like he was holding me up.

  “Listen, there’s no rush. I’ll go in front. If you start to go down, try to fall forward onto my ruck so you can catch yourself,” I said.

  We stepped onto the trail. Almost immediately, it seemed more challenging than it had on the way in. The rain had turned the red soil to mud and left the rocks on the trail slick. Every slight rise or fall in the path seemed treacherous now that Josh was essentially hiking with one leg. At any given moment, his prosthetic knee could give out if he put too much weight on it. I did my best to keep an even pace, pausing every so often to check on Josh while also trying not to burden him with my concern. Fred could tell something wasn’t quite right. Once in a while, he’d stop to sniff something, then he’d lift his head and look back at Josh, who was quiet with concentration, focusing completely on staying on his feet.

  When we at last reached the creek crossing, we knew there was only a mile left to go. Josh picked up the pace, even passing Fred and me in a combination of determination and frustration. He hadn’t fallen yet, and I knew he couldn’t wait to get to the Land Cruiser and take off his useless leg.

  At the end of the trail, Fred and I caught up to him and, together, the three of us walked out of the redwoods, the same way we’d come in. We got to the Land Cruiser, and I dropped the tailgate as fast as I could so Josh could get off his feet. He took a seat and removed his leg while I poured Fred a big bowl of cool water from the cooler. We’d made it.

  After driving a few hours north from the redwoods, into Oregon, it probably shouldn’t have come as a surprise to us that when we first pulled up to the campsite we were aiming for—one with electricity—we were told it was full. Doing my best to hide my frustration from the park ranger, who was just doing her job, I’d asked, “Would you be kind enough to point us to a coffee shop or bar where my friend here can charge his leg?”

  Patiently, she’d smiled and said, “Go to the Blue Moon. Best wings in town, and their outlets work, too.”

  The Blue Moon Saloon and Cafe in Coos Bay, Oregon, was our favorite kind of bar: a dive. Josh and I walked in and grabbed two seats at the far end of the bar—a spot beside an outlet where Josh plugged in the backup leg. It was about three in the afternoon and no one was around yet. But we could tell from the advertised beer-and-a-shot happy hour and the karaoke machine in the corner that the place could become lively.

  After an hour of nursing a few beers and eating sandwiches and Utz chips that came in plastic baskets, Josh’s leg was slowly booting up. Still, it was taking a while. The thing had three little LED lights that needed to go from blinking to solid green before it would be good to go, and the first light was still blinking. Our next planned destination was Crater Lake, a few hours east, but it was clear we’d need to find a place to stay in Coos Bay for the night. The problem was, Josh and I were starting to run low on cash. We pulled out our phones and searched for another campground, but neither of us was having any luck. Eventually, we gave up, figuring we’d find a cheap hotel that night. I tried not to worry about our shrinking budget.

  Around five o’clock, the bar came to life as the local watering hole. The crowd was mostly guys—some our age, some older. They came in wearing flannel shirts and Carhartt pants with work gloves stuffed into their pockets. Budweisers and shots of whiskey were the drinks of choice, and everybody seemed to know each other.

  A woman in jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt pulled up a stool near us and ordered two beers. She waited with the cool glasses in front of her, drinking one of them while keeping an eye on the door. Since it looked like Josh and I were going to be here awhile, I decided to strike up a conversation, see if she knew of a nearby campground.

  “You having a two-beer kinda day?” I asked. It was the best icebreaker I could come up with.

  She shot me a quick look and said, “Somebody’s meeting me after work.” Then she added: “Though if he doesn’t get here soon it’ll just be two empty glasses.”

  I smiled. “You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s another campground nearby, aside from the one outside of town, would you?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s the only one,” she said. “You two just passing through?”

  I introduced us the way I usually did, as two veterans taking the summer to drive across the coun
try, showing my Afghan dog America. I pointed to the Land Cruiser, parked just outside the window, where Fred was resting his head on the doorframe, taking in the sights and smells of Coos Bay. It was a cool day with a fresh ocean breeze coming in off the coast, and Fred looked happy as ever in his prime people-watching spot.

  The woman glanced from Fred to me, smiling. “I’m Ashley,” she said, extending her hand to shake ours. As we talked, the bar continued to fill up. People who came in alone were instantly welcomed by the fellow patrons. Most didn’t even have to order a beer; the once sleepy bartender had sprung to life and was opening bottles and pouring shots for everyone who came in—he already knew everybody’s orders. A bearded guy in a hoodie and baseball cap walked in and, spotting Ashley, came over to us.

  With a firm handshake, he introduced himself as Chris. “When Ashley texted and told me she was talking to two veterans at the bar, I assumed it was two old guys, not you two handsome bastards,” he said, and Josh and I laughed.

  “So, what brings you guys into our little town? Is this a stop on the run-down-town tour?” Chris joked.

  “We heard you guys had the best electricity in Oregon,” Josh quipped, looking over his shoulder at his prosthetic leg leaned up against the wall. By now, two of the lights were solid green.

  “Whoa!” said Chris in what appeared to be genuine shock. “That looks like something out of The Terminator!”

  Ashley playfully smacked him on the back, nearly knocking his dingy ball cap off his head and spilling some of his beer. She started to apologize to Josh, but we were laughing too hard to care. The four of us continued to joke and talk. We learned Ashley handled billing and orders for a local logging company while Chris worked half the year in fishing and the other half in logging. Josh and I told them about our road trip so far.

  “Well, your experience in the redwoods explains why you both smell like bear farts,” Chris said, receiving another smack from Ashley.

  “What he means to say is that if you two want to, you’re more than welcome to stay the night at my place. You can do laundry in the morning and get cleaned up. I don’t have much, but I’d love to have you,” Ashley offered.

  Josh and I were stunned. We’d resigned ourselves to finding a patch of woods or motel room to spend the night in, but the thought of doing laundry and sleeping indoors was pretty appealing at this point. We’d run out of friends to stay with until we got to Seattle, where we planned to crash with one of Josh’s buddies from the army.

  I tried to politely protest, but Ashley quickly shut me up.

  “My two boys are with their father this weekend, so I have room. You can sleep in our camper—that’s where they like to play, so you’ll just have to excuse the mess. This is really all for Fred, anyway. I can’t wait to meet him and spoil him,” she said, looking back out the window toward the Land Cruiser.

  Instead of carefully watching the LED lights on Josh’s leg, waiting for it to charge, we sat back and enjoyed spending the rest of the night with new friends.

  Later that night, with the cool coastal air gently blowing through the open windows of the camper, we slept like the dead. The space felt luxurious, especially compared to our tents. I’d crawled my way up onto a loft bed, Josh took the bed in the back, and Fred lay on a couch seat. The whole night, I don’t think one of us so much as stirred. In the morning, I awoke to the squeal of the door as it opened. Ashley pressed her fingers to her lips as she crept in. “Just grabbing your laundry,” she whispered. “Breakfast will be ready in an hour, sleepyheads.”

  Ashley was being so generous, it was almost embarrassing. I didn’t know how we’d repay her for her hospitality. It wasn’t long after she came in for our clothes that the smell of bacon wafted into the camper from Ashley’s kitchen window. Her home was a single-story ranch on a big stretch of land. A long gravel driveway led to the house, and out back, there was a big deck and, beyond it, a chicken coop. Dirt bike trails created by Ashley’s sons stretched from the house back through the woods. The camper sat next to the house, on the other side of the driveway. As Ashley warned, it was obvious the kids loved to play inside. There were toy trucks and guns scattered about on every surface.

  When we got up and walked into the kitchen, we found Ashley buzzing around, flipping bacon and pulling hot toast from a toaster at the same time, tossing each piece of perfectly browned bread onto a plate. “Have a seat!” she said cheerfully, and we sat down obediently in front of fresh mugs of coffee.

  In a small porcelain bowl, Ashley mixed together some rice, eggs, and bacon for Fred. She knelt and placed it in front of him, rubbing his ears while he sniffed his special breakfast, preparing to devour it. Then she stood and slid our plates in front of us: bacon, eggs, toast, and home fries, along with her special homemade hot sauce. Up until that point, I held myself in high regard when it came to my breakfast-making skills, but I realized that I had a lot to learn if I ever wanted to make anything as good as what Ashley put in front of us. It was delicious.

  We spent the day walking around Coos Bay together. Ashley and Chris took us to the best seafood place in town, and we shared one last beer together at the Blue Moon. Josh and I had decided that we’d gather our things from Ashley’s place when we got back and head to a beach to camp. We were overwhelmed by Chris and Ashley’s kindness and didn’t want to overstay our welcome, despite their insistence that we weren’t.

  Back at the house, Josh and I packed up the Land Cruiser while Fred circled our feet. Ashley walked over with two plastic shopping bags and set them down on the tailgate.

  “Now you two aren’t gonna leave here without this, and I won’t take no for an answer,” she said.

  From one of the bags, she reached in and lifted out a mason jar to show us.

  “Chris caught this tuna a few months ago. I cooked it and canned it on the spot. It’s better than anything you two are gonna eat on the road and certainly better than any store-bought crap,” she said. “I added a box of saltines and a bottle of my homemade hot sauce in there for you, too.”

  She pulled out each item as she mentioned it, as if to prove she meant what she said. Then, with everything back in its place, she tied the bag shut. From the second bag, she pulled out something I could honestly say I’d never seen before.

  “These are firebugs,” she said. “I made a bunch for my boys’ Scout troop but they didn’t use ’em all. Place it in the middle of some dry kindling and it’ll get your fire going.”

  I tried not to act too impressed but I couldn’t help it. The firebugs were genius. To make them, Ashley had taken the bottom of a cardboard egg carton and cut it into individual pieces. Then she’d filled each socket with wood shavings from the sawmill where she worked and sealed them off by dripping candle wax over each one. Each firebug was like a small, pocket-size fire starter.

  “These will burn forever!” I said, taking one from the bag in total fascination.

  “We thought we were seasoned campers by now, but you just put us in our place,” Josh added. Like me, he picked one up and examined it. “I bet you could light a fire in the rain with one of these.”

  Ashley chuckled at our amusement, then pulled us in for hugs. We were grateful for the gifts, but I knew the big thing we’d take away from our time with Ashley and Chris was the immeasurable nature of their kindness. Without asking anything in return—without even knowing much about us—they’d taken us in and taken care of us.

  “Hold my leg,” Josh said, looking back at me with a cocky smirk.

  The two of us stood on a cliff overlooking Crater Lake. Fred, a little wary, stood behind us, keeping an eye on our every move. The bright blue, cloudless sky overhead matched the surface of the water below. At about twenty feet high, well above the deep water below, the cliff was safe to jump from. Still, Josh would need to make sure he vaulted his body far enough out to avoid getting snagged by the cliff side on the way down. It was not at all the same as dropping in off a log, as we’d done in Los Padres.

&nbs
p; Arriving at the dazzling azure lake was our reward after a long day. That morning, Fred and I awoke in our tent to the strangest sensation. The ground beneath us felt as though it was vibrating, and the taut plastic walls of the tent shook ever so slightly, back and forth like a square of Jell-O. Fred looked at me with a confused expression, his eyebrows lifted and head tilted. After a few seconds, I realized what we were feeling: an earthquake. I’d experienced a few before, back while I was training in California, but they were quicker and more violent. This one seemed to continue for almost a minute, as if gently lulling us out of our sleep.

  Once it had run its course, we emerged from our tent and discovered that it’d snowed overnight. A dusting of the fluffy white stuff covered the ground. The whole morning made me feel as if I’d dreamed up the surreal, beautiful landscape.

  Josh, Fred, and I spent the day hiking around the lake. The trails were challenging. The more we climbed, the hotter it got, making the mysterious morning snowfall seem like it must have been a hallucination. After hours of exploring over twelve miles of the area, we’d saved the best hike of the day for last: a mile stretch straight down to the water’s edge. All day, Josh had been doing great on his well-charged backup leg. We moved at a good clip, and we were having so much fun, I almost forgot about the long, intense struggle of the redwoods. If he was in any pain, he didn’t say anything. We took on a grueling series of switchbacks and, at last, made our way down.

  On the cliff, Josh sat down and popped off his prosthetic. A crowd of people stood nearby watching people jump. Once Josh removed his leg, they couldn’t help but stand agape as he balanced precariously at the edge. I knelt down on all fours beside him so he could reach down and use my back for balance, then propel himself forward. I felt Josh’s cold, dry hand on my shoulder, and I looked down at the water below. I was about to ask if he wanted me to count down when, without warning, Josh launched himself up and out.

  I watched as he sailed through the air, leg first, arms out, in total freefall. When he hit the water, he slipped deep beneath its smooth, reflective surface with a splash.