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A Dog, a Man, and a Muffin

A True Story

By Noah HusbandPublished 2 years ago 16 min read
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Shasta and I, 2018

“Officer, I swear I’ve never met this guy in my life.”

This is what my dog probably would have said had she known English, and had she not been attached to my hand by a leash. We were seated outside a Vons in Corona, California at 4:30 a.m. I was in full hiking gear, and as a policeman oscillated the beam of his flashlight from my face, to my backpack, to my dog’s face, I could tell he was confused.

Suddenly, another car parked alongside the policeman’s, and an angry man with a goatee emerged, shouting obscenities. For the reader’s sake, I will be replacing these obscenities with the word “guy”.

“That’s the guy,” he shouted, pointing an accusatory finger in my direction. “That guy was trying to rob my house! I want that guy arrested!”

My dog looked at me. Her face asked me sincerely, “Why did you have to drag me into this?”

About fourteen hours prior to this ordeal, I was in high spirits. I was eighteen years old on this particular day– an adult by law, but not by maturity– and I had an adventure planned for myself. Well, myself and my trusty companion, Shasta.

Shasta was, and still is, a portly chocolate lab with shaggy fur and stubby haunches. She more closely resembles a bear cub with dwarfism, than a dog. Despite her unimpressive appearance, though, she was a cardiovascular machine! The two of us would be tackling an overnight backpacking trip that I had haphazardly devised earlier that morning. We would drive to a trailhead in the afternoon, hike to Santiago Peak, capture the sunset, camp overnight in a tiny one-person tent, and then return down the same way. The whole trip would span 15.9 miles, with 4,000 feet of elevation gain. This was a challenge, but not a herculean one, especially not for the two of us.

We took to the road, excited for our journey. I grinned with a sense of premature triumph. Shasta’s gaping smile and hanging tongue told me that she felt the same. We looked at eachother, smiling back and forth. Just two dumb animals exchanging positivity.

On the way to the Saddleback Mountain trailhead, a portion of the road became unpaved rock and dirt. My car for this obstacle? A 2012 Nissan Versa, the apex of off-roading vehicles! Shasta bounced around in the passenger seat, trying her utmost to plant her paws firmly in the polyester.

Once we had veered my Versa through the jutting rocks, we parked near the trailhead and began our ascent. It was a steady climb. My large, heavy backpack felt feather-like. Shasta leapt from rock to rock like a supple mountain goat. Before long, we were half-way to the top, and the sun was descending faster than I predicted. I looked down at Shasta, who looked back in unspoken agreement, and we broke into a jog to make the sunset.

Despite our efforts, it was dark when we reached the peak. I was sweating and Shasta was panting. I shed my backpack, and removed a rubber dog bowl, a bag of dog food, two large water bottles, and my tent. Shasta quickly gulped down the water I poured for her, and I replaced it with a hearty helping of dog chow. She made quick work of this as well, then plopped herself down to watch me build our shelter for the night. This was the first event to go completely wrong.

In my hasty planning, I had forgotten to bring something to hammer in the metal stakes that would fix my tent to the ground. Furthermore, the wind was adversarial. As I held one end of the flattened tent down, the other would catch a gust and blast into the air, folding over my end. I slapped away the intrusive corner of the tent, placed both hands on the stake and leaned all my body weight into it. There was no give to this ground. While it looked like perfectly penetrable dirt, it was only a trick. Santiago Peak was a stone helmet that capped the mountain, with a light dusting of brown dirt to deceive overnight campers.

Equipped with a head-lamp, I moved the tent to a plethora of different spots to try and secure it, pushing on the stakes tenaciously at each location. Shasta sat and watched the whole ordeal with her tongue sagging out– her eyes glazed and dopey.

“You just gonna sit there and watch me struggle?” I asked her.

She returned a look which said “I am a dog. I don’t understand what you just asked me.”

Fair.

After many failed attempts and a disheartening realization that we would have to sleep tentless if we wished to see the morning’s sunrise, I opted to cut the trip short. We had made it to the peak. That was achievement enough for me. I began to shiver a bit as the strong wind pierced through my jacket. It would only get colder staying up this high, which meant it was time to walk back down the mountain, despite the all-enveloping darkness. I turned around to collect Shasta, who was snoring away in a deep, undisturbed slumber.

I envied her.

I woke her up. She did not look pleased, but she came along anyway for the descent. I was slow and sore from the jog to the top, but Shasta trucked on like the dynamo she was.

Now, a word of advice for any hiker who wishes to complete a there-and-back trip to Santiago Peak at night: On one side of the mountain range, there is the trailhead, where Shasta and I began. On the other side, there is the city of Corona. As luck would have it, there is a fork in the trail near the peak. One path goes back to the trailhead, and to the warmth of my car. The other heads toward Corona.

Now, this fork in the path is very easy to spot during the day, when the sunlight grants a full view of it. However, when one’s sight is limited to the range of a 30-lumen headlamp, it becomes rather difficult to differentiate the paths. 30 lumens, it turns out, is not enough lumens.

So, dumbly and confidently, we marched in the complete opposite direction, my unfortunate sidekick not knowing any better. It wasn’t until about an hour of walking that I noticed none of our surroundings looked familiar. I pulled out my trusty smartphone to tell us where we were, and to my dismay, there was no service or internet connection in the middle of this mountain range.

Shocking.

Not only this, but my battery life was now alarmingly low. I made sure ‘power-saving mode’ was on, and kept walking. After another hour or so, worry was beginning to surface– worry that the phone would die. Also, we were now down to half a water bottle, and a quarter bag of dog chow (I had stopped a few times along the trail to feed Shasta and myself).

Then it happened.

My headlamp suddenly clicked off. I reached up and thumbed the button a few times, hoping it would spring back on, but it was completely drained of energy. Looking around, I could not see anything. Light was an absolute necessity. So, I reached into my pocket for plan B. My smartphone emerged, and I turned on its flashlight feature. Concerned, I perused the battery symbol in the top right corner.

“5%,” it read.

We would need to either find service quickly, or reach whatever civilization was on the other side of this seemingly endless mountain range. We had very limited time before the battery died. Though tired, we were going to have to jog again. I looked down at Shasta. She looked up at me with big, brown eyes designed to make me feel bad, and we took off.

After what felt like multiple days of jogging, walking, jogging, and walking again. We passed through a very curious place, a place I still think about sometimes. There was a clearing in the trail, and the ground became paved, free of rocks and overgrowth, and smoothed out into a more discernible pathway. It had multiple smaller pathways stemming off of it. There were also lights in the near distance. I turned off the flashlight on my phone to conserve it as I approached these new, foreign lights. They belonged to shacks, each one with a single door, and a lone light above it. Every shack had its light on, a sign that they were inhabited. They all had brown, sheet-metal roofs, and tan, stucco walls. The doors were windowless and also brown. I passed by these shacks, very tired and probably delirious, saying “Hello?” intermittently as I walked by.

Then the realization crept up on me, that I was in a very unorthodox and unfamiliar place. Furthermore, I began to ask myself, “Why does this place exist? Why are there shacks in the middle of nowhere, and why do they all have their lights on past midnight?”

The unknowns of this place sent a chill down my spine, urging me to speed up. There were no cars in sight, no signs. Was this a cultist commune of some sort? What reason did this place have to be so hidden? Also, why was it so eerily silent? Shasta and I fast-walked through the commune, reconnecting with the unpaved trail again on the other side. This jagged, rocky trail we despised was a welcoming sight now.

As we got further into the cover of trees, I looked back at the strange place we had just traversed, and I saw a detail of it that still haunts my memory to this day.

A pick up truck that had not been there before was now facing towards me with its headlights on. I do not know who occupied that truck, but they were surely watching me leave.

Aching, hungry, and now thoroughly frightened, we continued. The easing decline of the trail was a comforting sign. It meant that Shasta and I were nearing the base of the mountain. We eventually came to a point where the path traded its dirt and rocks for asphalt. This meant sanctuary to us. However, just as the tide seemed to be shifting in our favor, the light from my phone shut off. That was the last of the 5%.

Luckily though, we were now within reach of a neighborhood, and the light emanating from it provided enough view of the trail for us to follow it. We came out of the tree cover to find the familiar, welcoming sight of a cul-de-sac surrounded by newly built suburban homes. We had made it to civilization!

Shasta was exhausted, trudging slowly alongside me as I sauntered through the neighborhood with a new excitement. From here, I would be able to borrow a phone from one of the residents, and call home for a ride. We had made it!

In my delirium, however, I failed to recognize that it must have been around 3:00 a.m., and knocking on somebody’s door to borrow their phone at this hour was not only a rude thing to do, but an odd and suspicious one as well. So, I perused the houses as I walked by, and when I saw one that still had its lights on, I took my big, dumb fist and knocked three times on the door with it. Doof-doof-doof.

Through the window I could make out a figure sitting on the couch. The figure had been watching T.V., and was now standing up to come to the door. As the figure stepped closer, my excitement grew. I would finally be able to go home.

The door swung open.

The figure was a man with a goatee. He was sporting pajama pants and an old white T-shirt. He was tall, and looked to be in his late thirties, but his most prominent feature was the distinct look on his face which told me: You should not have knocked on my door this late.

“Excuse me,” I said politely, “I am so sorry. I know it’s late, but I was out hiking and I got lost, and my phone died. I need to call home for a ride. Can I please borrow yours?”

His face was angry and blank at the same time. The trail that spat me out into this neighborhood was not an official trailhead for hiking. This man was likely unaware of the possibility that a hiker could get lost, and end up at his front doorstep.

“Do you know what time it is?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, “my phone died.”

“It’s 3:00 in the morning,” he said, disgruntled.

“Oh,” I replied, “I am so sorry. I just need to borrow your phone for one call. Please.”

Reluctantly, he withdrew his phone, and handed it to me. “Make it quick,” he said.

I typed my Mom’s number and pressed the “call” key. It rang, and rang, and rang again…

Awkwardly, I glanced up at the man’s face. His furious eyes were locked on me as the ringing concluded, and the lady from the voice message option began her spiel about leaving a message at the beep.

Defeated, I limply handed his phone back to him and said, “Thank you. Sorry.”

He snatched it, and flung a sentence at me which contained profanity. I was annoyed with his temper, but I also understood it. So, sounding as apologetic as I could, I asked him where the nearest gas station was. Perhaps I could use a phone there.

He replied with more profanity, but somewhere in the midst of it, he mentioned that there was a Vons only a few blocks away. So, I thanked him for the directions, and continued to where I thought the Vons might be. Thankfully, my grocery store intuition paid off, and Shasta and I soon arrived. This grocery store wore the beauty and aura of a true sanctuary.

We sat down at a table outside. I poured the last of the food into Shasta’s rubber dog bowl, and she inhaled it. We had about an hour to wait before the first staff would begin to arrive. So, I folded my arms on the tabletop and dropped my head into them, allowing myself– for the first time that night– to feel the full brunt of my exhaustion.

I’m not sure how long I was asleep for, but I woke to the sound of a police car parking very near to my table. My head perked up, as did Shasta’s. The officer got out and shined his flashlight on us. I waved at him, thinking he had come to help.

He had not.

Apparently, he had come to address a call from the angry man with the goatee. He asked me what I was up to, and I divulged the whole story, starting from when we first left for Santiago Peak. That was about when the angry man with the goatee showed up to accuse me of trying to rob him. He got out of the car, shouting more profanity.

As before, I will replace his profane words with the word, “guy”.

“That guy was trying to rob my house!” he accused, “I want that guy arrested!”

Now, at this point in the night, I felt I had been through enough. So, I looked past the officer at the goatee-man, and I said to him sternly, “I am a hiker, not a robber. I have a dog with me. Who brings their dog with them to rob someone?”

The man pointed to my backpack, which was lying on the table. “Search in his bag!” he said to the officer, “I bet that guy’s got his tools in there.”

I erupted. Tossing the items from my bag onto the table, I shouted “Look! Dog bowl! Dog food! Headlamp! Tent!” I continued listing off items that one would use for an overnight camping trip, and as I did, the officer turned to look at the goatee-man.

“Yeah,” he said, “he seems like a lost hiker to me, man.”

There was a look of realization on the goatee-man’s face– a look that described how silly he felt at this moment. I had won. My first victory of the night!

The officer then asked me what my plan was. I told him I was going to wait until the Vons opened before calling home again for a ride. To my dismay, the officer did not offer any other help. Rather, he told me my plan was good, and he and the goatee-man drove away.

Eventually, the sun rose, and a young Vons employee came to open the store. My second call home was successful, and my annoyed mother was soon on her way to Corona, a thirty-plus minute drive for her. During the wait, I beguiled the staff with my rendition of the night's events. I described Shasta’s bravery to them.

“She was built for the mountains,” I explained, “Afterall, she was named after one.” Shasta just sat there, not understanding the praise I showered her with.

The two of us had been through a lot together that night, and even if she was not aware of it, she helped me get through it with a clear head. I could not have asked for a better hiking companion.

When my mother arrived, I left the Vons to walk across the parking lot to her car. Before I could make it off the sidewalk, though, a familiar car pulled in front of me with the window rolled down. It was the angry man with the goatee, only he was no longer angry. His face was apologetic now. He had swapped his pajamas for a work uniform, a suit with a red tie. He extended his hand from the window, and in it was a poppy-seed muffin. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I was a real guy.”

I accepted his apology and took the muffin. I also recognized what his occupation was from his work uniform. He was a door greeter for a bank. I can only imagine. He must give the warmest of welcomes.

On the way home, Shasta was fast asleep in the back of the car. I later found out that our detour had made the trip a grand total of 23 miles long, with no sleep, and with minimal food and water as well. She had earned that peaceful slumber, and it was undisturbed, aside from one instance where I gave her half of the goatee-man’s apology muffin.

She had earned that too.

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About the Creator

Noah Husband

I like to take premises that sound absurd or ridiculous (ie. a cowboy who learns to love life again through surfing), and write them well enough that the reader goes, "Okay, that was actually really good".

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