by Patrick Gray
Finally, we put the last section of mud behind us, but we’re still on an upward slope with no end in sight. After climbing two hills in succession, we come to the high point of a third, and Ted shouts, “This is the top!”
But as Justin and I prepare for our first view of Spain, we see nothing but another hill stretching out before us. Onward we march, slowly and steadily climbing.
“Okay, this is it!” Ted exclaims at the top of the next rise. But there’s still no summit to be found.
When one more “We’re here!” turns out to be another premature celebration, Justin and I are still willing to give Ted a little bit of grace. But after the fourth and fifth false summits, we start yelling at him to shut up. This is more grueling than we’d imagined.
After ten and a half brutal hours, we are finally at the top of the Pyrenees Mountains, looking down into Spain.
Ted offers one last “Hey, guys, we’re here!” but we’re all too exhausted to laugh. It has already been a journey, and this is only the beginning. The joy of finally making it to the top and of being here with my best friend has me thinking about all the stories and adventures we’ll get to tell our children.
When we retrieve Justin’s phone to take a picture, we’re surprised to see we have cell service. We call our wives.
“We made it to the top!” I say to Donna when she answers her phone.
“Thank God! We have been praying for you guys. The whole church is praying for you, but we thought you should have made it hours ago.”
“So did we.”
After we complete our calls, Justin asks, “If we have service, can we do a Facebook post from here?”
It turns out we can, and we laugh as I type the words for Justin, Today I climbed a mountain in a wheelchair. What did you do?
For a few more moments, we sit and enjoy the landscape. As I look around at the rolling hills, the green grass, and the trees in the valley below, it feels like the culmination of all the adventures Justin and I had as kids, many of which happened in the Deep Dirt Hills behind his house.
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A mile and a half is a pretty short distance when you grow up in a small town where your parents let you ride your bike anywhere, at just about any time. I would often pedal my way to Justin’s house to see what kind of fun we could muster up.
The Deep Dirt Hills were one of our childhood safe havens. It was a place to shoot BB guns, build forts, create adventures, and do some not-so-aggressive sledding in the winter—though at the time, we thought the hills we cascaded down were downright dangerous. We were putting our very lives at risk even attempting the steep descent.
Somehow, Justin and I found plenty of ways to get into trouble. It wasn’t that we were trying to be delinquents. Our intentions were always pure . . . or at least grounded in curiosity.
I remember one winter day when we exhausted ourselves sledding and retreated to Justin’s driveway with our friend Greg. The snow that day was perfect packing consistency, and before long a snowball-throwing contest was under way. First we aimed at Justin’s mailbox across the street, but that was too easy, too close. So we took aim at his next-door neighbor’s mailbox. Still too easy. So we upped the ante and set our sights on a new target: the basketball backboard in the Smiths’ driveway, a little farther down the street.
The Smiths went to our church, and Mr. Smith taught with my dad at Ontario Junior High. He knew us well and wasn’t terribly fond of our shenanigans—and for good reason.
My first attempt at the backboard wasn’t even close. The nearly rock-hard snowball arced beautifully over the top of the backboard and crashed into the Smiths’ garage door with a thundering SLAM!
Rather than do the sensible thing and run inside, we embraced our new target—the big white spot on Mr. Smith’s brown garage door. Greg took a shot and was six feet too high, but the sound rang through the neighborhood. Justin went next and was three feet to the right. Five minutes later, the Smiths’ garage door was polka-dotted with a dozen blotches of white. No one had won this contest, and everyone was about to lose.
As I firmed up my next snowball and prepared to heave it across the street, Mr. Smith came barreling out of the house, his face beet red, yelling at the top of his lungs: “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”
“Having a snowball-throwing contest!” Greg replied.
Making a logical assumption that we were aiming at his backboard (this wasn’t the first time), he pointed at it and shouted, “You guys aren’t even close!”
Before I could stop myself, I shouted back the words that would seal our fate: “We weren’t aiming for the backboard; we were aiming for your garage door!”
This is one of those moments that you wish you could take back. All three of us spent ample time grounded, and we were all relegated to our homes and rooms for remarkably similar lengths of time. I think our parents planned it that way.
On another occasion, my younger brother, Michael, and I were waiting for our parents after Wednesday night activities at church. Along with Justin, we had made a snow fort nestled in the bushes out near the road but invisible to anyone driving by. Naturally, a snowball-throwing contest ensued. The question was, who could hit a passing car closest to the church sign at the corner of the lot?
We’ll never know the answer because we got only one throw—mine. It turns out ice balls and windshields don’t get along. The sound of breaking glass and screeching brakes cut through the darkness. We ran so hard and so fast, straight into the church, up the stairs, out the fire escape, and into the safety of the field beyond.
I still feel bad about that one.
But not Mr. Smith’s garage door.
That was just funny.
Time and time again, our curiosity and our willingness to be sucked into a dare got us into trouble. Justin once made a one-in-a-million shot with his BB gun when he sniped an unfortunate woman who was jogging by, all because his older brother had dared him to. I launched a bunch of crab apples from my slingshot into a backyard across the street and hit my neighbor in the face.
It seemed everything that went wrong could be traced back to a single question: I wonder if I could . . . ?
“I wonder if I could be the first one to hit that backboard?”
“I wonder if I could hit a moving car with a snowball?”
“I wonder if I can hit that lady with my BB gun?”
“I wonder how many crab apples I can shoot at one time from my slingshot?”
Here in the Pyrenees Mountains, standing by my best friend, I can hear those words as if I were there the day he uttered them.
“I wonder if I could do that in my wheelchair?”
“I wonder” questions brought us a lot of grief throughout our childhood years; but as adults, things have changed. Now, we balance wonder with calculated risk; we run the numbers and determine whether the why makes the how worth it.
As I stand alongside my best friend at the top of the Pyrenees Mountains, I realize that my why has evolved since Justin first told me about the Camino.
At first, it was simply because he asked me to go.
Then it was because people told us we’d never make it.
Though my why has changed, the how never has. It has always been together.
People often ask Justin and me what makes our friendship so strong. Our answer is simple: We choose to share life’s adventures. I make his “I wonders” mine, and he makes my “I wonders” his. We pursue life together. We always have.
And now here we are, one long day and thirteen miles into a five-hundred-mile trek across northern Spain.
8BLIND FAITH
— JUSTIN —
AN EARLY START TO our second day finds us on a nice, wide trail leading away from the town of Roncesvalles, Spain. It’s raining again, and we all don our raincoats. We’ve already learned to appreciate the easier parts of the trail, and as we move along at a steady clip, the gravel crunches beneath my wheels in a cadence that is almost musical.
When we arrived in Roncesvalles last night, we were famished. Along with the four guys in the film crew, we descended upon a small restaurant, where we ordered four servings of lasagna, four large portions of ham and eggs, two orders of croquettes, two orders of french fries, and four large pizzas, washing it all down with cold beer. By the end of the meal, not a bite was left. As we headed to bed with full stomachs and sore muscles, we hoped for an easier day today.
This section of the Camino is increasingly wooded, but the canopy of trees isn’t enough to shelter us from the rain. Periodically, Patrick or Ted will scout ahead to see what’s coming around the next bend. Ted returns with news that a small river crosses the trail up ahead, and, of course, the bridge is too narrow. Filled with a hard-won confidence from all the obstacles we overcame yesterday, Patrick and Ted decide to push me across the river at a full run. Fortunately, the water is only about a foot deep.
Did I mention we’re feeling confident?
Ted is now at the helm and Patrick is at my side, taking a breather from pushing.
“Guys, we just went over the Pyrenees with a wheelchair!” he says. “If we can do that, we’ve totally got this!”
No sooner has he uttered these words than our melodious cadence is rudely interrupted by a cascade of wrong notes. As Patrick starts to jog ahead to see what new obstacles the trail has in store for us, the sound of grinding metal erupts from beneath my chair, followed by what seems to be an explosion as the front wheel of my baby-jogger-on-steroids breaks off. The aluminum weld securing the wheel to the frame suffered so much abuse yesterday that it finally snapped. I am now sitting in a two-wheeled rickshaw several miles from the nearest town.
Running back toward us, Patrick yells, “You have got to be kidding me!” He bends down and picks up the broken wheel from the damp trail.
When Ted sees the jagged edge of the metal, he says, “Yeah, that’s going to be a problem.”
Repairing the wheel on the trail is not an option. We need a welder—and not just any welder. We need someone proficient at welding aluminum. As it begins to rain harder, Ted exclaims, “We have a man in a metal wheelchair, and a storm is coming. We have to get to shelter!”
As we discuss ways to keep the chair moving forward without the front stabilizing wheel, four sisters from Ireland start to pass us on the right. When Ted notices the vacant stare in one woman’s eyes, he asks, “Are you blind?”
When the woman says yes, Ted replies, “Ah . . . well, great!”
What?
As I wince at Ted’s response, he tries to dig himself out of the hole he’s created.
“I mean, congratulations.”
Not any better, Ted!
Fortunately, the women don’t seem offended. As they continue on their way, Patrick says to Ted, “Did you just congratulate a woman for being blind?”
Eyes wide with embarrassment, Ted says emphatically, “No! I meant congratulations on doing the Camino.”
Shaking his head and laughing, Patrick says, “Nice one, Ted!”
We begin moving forward with Patrick at the rear. While he continues to push my wheelchair, he now must also push down on the handlebars to keep the nose of the chair tilted upward, while Ted, at the front, pulls forward on my leg rest and simultaneously lifts it up to keep it from slamming into the back of his legs.
Another group of pilgrims approaches us—an elderly Spanish couple and their friend, who are walking short segments of the trail. Though I don’t speak Spanish proficiently, I’m still able to understand most of what they say.
The wife, Emelia, tells us her husband has Parkinson’s disease, which limits his ability to walk long distances, so instead they tackle a new section of the Camino every year. When they notice our predicament, they ask if there is some way they can help.
Between Ted and me, we use our broken Spanish and a Spanish/English dictionary to tell them we need to get to shelter. They’re not strong enough to help physically, but they walk alongside us to the next town as Patrick and Ted take turns pushing and pulling my two-wheeled contraption. It’s a long two miles, but we make it with our new friends at our sides.
After inquiring with a local merchant, we head across the little town to a shop with a sign above the door that reads Soldadura/Panadería.
Ted points to the sign and laughs.
“Does that say this is a welding shop and a bakery?”
“Uh, yes, it does,” I reply.
Patrick walks to the door and pokes his head inside to verify. He comes back a minute later, chuckling to himself. “One half of the shop is welding equipment, and the other half has ovens and counter space.”
We continue to laugh as we try to figure out the business model of this odd combination of services. When the young welder/baker comes out to look at the broken wheel, he quickly informs us that he doesn’t weld aluminum. Aluminum welding is a very specific skill. The lower melting point and high heat conductivity of the metal make it tricky to get a good weld. The closest aluminum welder, he says, is in Pamplona, which is our destination for tomorrow.
Troubled by our plight, Emelia and her husband invite us to the home where they are staying, which is in the next town along the Camino route. We gratefully accept their invitation, and Patrick and Ted muscle my chair the distance, to a house where we are welcomed with hot coffee and cookies. Grateful to be out of the rain, we enjoy the next several hours of Spanish hospitality.
Now that we’re dry and well cared for, we turn our attention to troubleshooting how to get to Pamplona. When we hear the exorbitant cost of a taxi, we decide to commandeer Robin’s car—which is being used to transport the film gear from place to place. After the guys unload all the equipment and remove all but one of the backseats for my wheelchair to fit, Patrick lifts me into the passenger seat, arranges my legs, and buckles me in. After the chair is dismantled and loaded in the back of the car, Ted and Patrick have a very short discussion about who will drive.
“Without your glasses, you weren’t able to tell the difference between mud and asphalt!” Ted exclaims.
“That was from a long distance!” Patrick replies.
I see Ted raise his eyebrows, as if to say, Are we really having this conversation?
“You need to be able to see things from a long distance to drive!”
“Good point,” Patrick says as he crawls into the one remaining seat in the back. After we express our gratitude to our hosts and say good-bye to our new Spanish friends, Ted slides in behind the wheel, starts the engine, and we’re off to Pamplona to find lodging and—with any luck—someone who can weld aluminum.
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— PATRICK —
Although I’m wedged into the backseat, I’m able to help Ted navigate our way to Pamplona. It doesn’t take long for us to cover the same distance by car that would have taken a day and a half to walk with Justin’s wheelchair.
We had already planned to stay at a hotel in Pamplona, instead of in one of the albergues, and when they’re able to adjust our reservation to accommodate our early arrival, we’re happy we made that decision. Fortunately, the hotel has a spare hospital-type wheelchair we can use, and they offer us a place to lock up Justin’s off-road chair while we look for a welder. Justin and I head up to our room while Ted drives back to pick up the film crew and gear.
Once the guys arrive, we put Robin and his fluent Spanish to work, calling anyone and everyone who welds in Pamplona. After two hours, we have no leads, so we give up the hunt and head out to buy some groceries.
Back in our room, we make some bocadillos (simple Spanish sandwiches consisting of meat and cheese on a baguette) and discuss our options for the next day. We have posted occasionally on Facebook since we’ve been in Europe, so our friends back home can follow our journey. As a result, the manufacturer of Justin’s wheelchair has learned of our predicament and offered to send a replacement wheel. But this will take several days to arrive. Though it’s great to have a backup plan, we need to be on the roa
d sooner than five days from now.
As we brainstorm ways to find a welder, Justin says, “What about a bike shop? They have aluminum frames; maybe they know someone who can weld aluminum.” We agree to pursue the possibility in the morning, but now it’s time for bed. In spite of the stress and uncertainty, I find it surprisingly easy to fall asleep. Tomorrow will have answers; I just hope they’re the ones we want.
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The next morning, we head to a nearby café to grab some breakfast. When I return from purchasing our café con leches and two plates of ham and eggs, I see Justin looking at me over his shoulder.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asks.
“No, why?”
“So, why’d you put me in time-out then?” he says with a smile.
Sure enough, I’d been so focused on the task at hand that I didn’t realize I had parked Justin off to the side in his chair, in a corner of the café where his only view was the wall. Shaking my head sheepishly, all I can do is apologize.
“I’m so sorry. I guess I was a little absentminded. What can I say? I was hungry.”
After breakfast, Ted and I take turns, one of us pushing Justin in the borrowed wheelchair toward downtown Pamplona, while the other pushes the broken one alongside. Just as we locate the bike shop, the staff walks out for siesta. In Spain, this could last anywhere from thirty minutes to three hours—if they come back at all. So, instead, we walk into a medical supply shop next door, where—as luck would have it—we meet Ramón, who knows a few things about welding and who happens to be visiting his girlfriend, who works there. Ramón examines the broken wheel before telling us that he doesn’t weld aluminum—but he offers to call a friend who does.
Ten minutes later, Ramón’s friend is turning the wheel over in his hands and declaring it “demasiado complicado”—too complicated. Ramón makes another phone call to another friend, but still no luck. The calls continue, and we find ourselves in a game of “six degrees of the aluminum welder in Pamplona.” After too many calls to count, Ramón finds someone who might be able to help us.