Legionnaire

Mike lived outside town, down a gravel drive that ran half a mile through rows of old trees. In summer, the branches reached over the road enough to make the whole thing feel like a tunnel. The house sat at the end of it, a two-story farmhouse with faded white siding, a wraparound porch, and a detached garage that looked like it had been built by three different men in three different decades.

His old pickup was parked crooked near the garage. A half-stripped Camaro sat beside it with the hood up.

Mike was bent over the engine bay when I pulled in.

He was almost as tall as me, maybe six-one, but broader through the shoulders in a way that made him look harder to move than he really was. His hair was dark blond and cut short on the sides, longer on top like he still cared enough to pretend it was a style. He had a thick beard, trimmed badly, with a little grease smeared along one cheek. He wore an old unit shirt with the sleeves cut off and jeans that looked like they had lost a fight with motor oil.

He looked up when my truck rattled into the drive.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “That thing still starts?”

“Barely.”

“Sounds like it’s trying to die with honor.”

“Yeah,” I said, killing the engine before it could embarrass me any further. “Me too.”

I got out, and Mike met me in front of the truck. Before I could say anything, he wrapped me in a bear hug.

“It’s been a while, Wade,” he said. “How’ve you been doing?”

“Ah, you know. Same as always.”

His face shifted a little, but he didn’t push.

“Yeah,” he said. “I get it. Come on. We’ll grab a beer.”

I followed him up onto the porch and eased myself into one of the old rocking chairs. The paint was faded and peeling, worn down by years of weather and use. Between the two chairs sat a faded blue metal cooler.

Mike reached inside, pulled out two beers, and handed me one. Then he dropped into the other chair, leaned back, and took a sip.

“So what’s up, Wade?” he asked. “You don’t call. You don’t write.” He chuckled.

“I’ve been watching some of your videos online,” I said. “Mostly the hiking and camping ones.”

Mike raised an eyebrow.

“My videos?”

“Yeah. Don’t make it weird.”

He grinned and took another drink.

I turned the beer in my hand, watching the condensation run down the can.

“I think I need some time away,” I said. “And you’re the only person I know with enough gear to outfit a small expedition.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“I was hoping for free.”

“Of course you were.”

“I just need to borrow some stuff. Pack, tent, sleeping bag, whatever else you think I’d need for a few days.”

Mike studied me for a second longer than I liked.

“A few days where?”

“Woods. Somewhere quiet.”

“That’s specific.”

“I’m still working on that part.”

“I know a good spot,” Mike said. “One of my favorites, actually.”

“Yeah?”

He pointed at me with the beer can.

“But you don’t just head out with no destination and no one knowing where you are. That’s how people die, Wade. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I wasn’t planning on just wandering into the woods until nature finished me off.”

“Good. Because nature’s got a pretty good record.”

I huffed a laugh and looked out past the porch.

“I’m trying to find a place. A hike. A challenge. Something to see…”

I trailed off, searching for the words.

“To see what’s left in the tank?” Mike asked.

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I looked back at him.

“Yeah,” I said. “To see what’s left in the tank. And maybe what else is still in there.”

Mike took another pull from his beer and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know what you mean.”

I rolled the can between my hands.

“I just…” I sighed. “Look, man. Is it all bullshit?”

Mike frowned. “What?”

“The videos. The hiking. The woods. All that peaceful-looking shit.” I glanced at him. “Is it an act, or are you really doing that good?”

“Oh.” Mike leaned back in his chair and looked out toward the trees. “Hell, Wade.”

He took a longer drink before answering.

“We all have good days and bad days, man. I’m not gonna sit here and blow smoke up your ass and pretend I found some magic cure in a backpack. What works for me might not work for you.”

He turned the beer can in his hand.

“But what you see in those videos? That’s real. Not all of it. Not every second. Nobody posts the bad parts. But yeah, some of it’s real.”

He looked at me then.

“You go out there expecting it to fix you, you’ll be disappointed. You go out there honest, with your eyes open, maybe it gives you enough quiet to hear yourself think without all the other noise.”

I didn’t say anything.

Mike shrugged.

“That’s about as close to peace as I’ve found.”

We sat there quietly for a while.

“So how have you been?” he asked.

“I just told you.”

“No, you gave me the bullshit version.” He pointed the beer at me. “None of that macho crap, Wade. I’ve known you too damn long.”

I huffed a laugh.

“Yeah, growing up with you was a real gift. I got grounded more summers because of your stupid ideas than I did for my own.”

“Lies and slander.”

“Accurate history.”

He grinned, but he waited.

I looked down at the can in my hand.

“I’m just tired, man.”

Mike’s face settled.

“After the back surgery, I’ve been feeling a lot better physically. Only took the VA fifteen years to fix the problem, but hey, miracles happen.”

“Government speed.”

“Exactly.” I rubbed a thumb over the rim of the can. “But I still find myself at home doing nothing. Doom-scrolling. Watching YouTube. Sitting there like I’m waiting for something, except I don’t even know what the hell I’m waiting for.”

Mike nodded slowly.

“I need something else,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”

He looked out toward the trees lining the drive.

“I’m glad the back pain’s finally better. I know how long you fought that shit.”

“Yeah.”

“And I do think this could help. Especially if you actually push yourself.”

I glanced over.

“You remember those ruck marches the Army used to make us do?” he asked. “How by the time we stopped, you were so tired and sore the only things left in the world were changing your socks, drinking water, eating something, and talking shit with the guys?”

I smiled a little despite myself.

“Yeah.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. You were too tired for all the noise. Your brain finally shut the hell up because your body had more important problems.”

That landed harder than I wanted it to.

Mike leaned forward and set his beer on the porch.

“The hike in won’t be easy,” he said. “But that’s kind of the point.”

He stood.

“Come on. I’ve got a map in the garage, and most of my gear’s out there. We’ll see what I’ve got.”

Mike slid the old wooden door aside. The metal rollers creaked and moaned along the track.

We stepped into the garage, and Mike reached up for the pull string. A bare bulb flickered to life above us.

He led me over to what used to be a workbench. Now it looked more like a map station. Old trail maps, folded brochures, a compass, a couple notebooks, and a coffee can full of pencils were scattered across the scarred wood.

“This one here,” Mike said.

He tapped a black-circled spot on the map.

“Blackpine Basin. It’s up off Mirror Lake Highway. From here, you’re looking at maybe an hour and change to the pull-off, depending on traffic and how much you enjoy mountain roads.”

I leaned over the map.

“And from there?”

“From there, you park here.” He tapped another mark. “Then it’s about a two-day hike in if you’re moving smart.”

“If I’m not moving smart?”

“Then it’s a day and a half and a rescue call.”

I looked at him.

He looked back.

“You’re doing two days.”

“So all in,” Mike said, looking over the map, “you’re looking at two days out, maybe two days there?”

I nodded.

He traced the route back with his finger.

“Then two days back to civilization. That’s six days.” He glanced at me. “Maybe seven. Add one more because you were always fucking terrible at land nav.”

I laughed.

“I wasn’t terrible.”

“Wade, you once got us lost on a marked road.”

“That road was wrong.”

“The road was paved.”

“Still wrong.”

Mike dug through a drawer under the workbench and came up with a small orange device, about the size of a deck of cards, with a black screen and a stubby antenna built into the top.

“This is a Garmin inReach,” he said, setting it in my hand. “GPS, satellite messenger, and SOS. You won’t have cell service up there, so don’t count on your phone for anything except pictures and disappointing battery life.”

I turned it over in my hand.

“If something goes bad,” he said, tapping the side, “you flip this little safety cover up, press and hold the SOS button, and wait for the countdown. It sends your location through satellite to Garmin’s emergency response center. They contact whoever handles rescue out there.”

“Mountain rescue?”

“Sheriff, search and rescue, whoever’s closest and available. You’ll be able to message them through the device if you’re conscious. If you don’t answer, they still start the response.”

“Good to know.”

“No,” Mike said. “Good to not need.”

Over the next few hours, Mike and I went over the trail in detail.

He programmed the route into the Garmin, marked the same route on a paper map, and then, because he was an asshole, made me sit through a land-nav refresher like I was some private who’d wandered into the wrong classroom.

After that, we packed the gear.

Pack. Tent. Sleeping bag. Rain shell. Water filter. Stove. First-aid kit. Bear spray. The Garmin. More shit than I thought I needed and less than Mike wanted me to take.

By the time we were done, the sun had started dropping behind the trees. We ended up back on the porch with a few more beers, talking about the old days. The Army. The stupid things we did as kids. The things we probably should have died doing but somehow didn’t.

It was nice.

I hated admitting that, even to myself.

I needed to do this more often.

Finally, I stood and stretched, feeling my back complain just enough to remind me it still existed.

“All right, buddy,” Mike said. “You sure you’re good to drive? I’ve got a spare room.”

“Dude, it was three beers over…” I checked my watch. “Five hours. Jesus, Mike. You don’t shut up.”

He laughed and stood, then wrapped me in another bear hug.

When he stepped back, he said, “You always were a lightweight.”

“I resent that.”

“No, you resemble that.”

I shook my head and turned toward the truck.

“I’ll keep you informed,” I said. “It’ll be a day or two before I head out. I’ll text you when I leave.”

“Do that.”

I was just getting into the truck when he called after me.

“And check the weather the day of. I mean it. Those mountains don’t play, Wade.”

I waved him off and backed down the drive.

Later, I’d remember that.

I’d remember it a lot.