Decorated Marine Corps veteran, homeless for more than a decade, braces for change
- Homelessness: Real Stories, Real Solutions
- Jun 24
- 5 min read
Andrew Couture has lived in the juniper forest east of Redmond for more than a decade. With another sweep looming, the disabled veteran who lives on a fixed income wonders where he and his friends will go.

By DAVID DUDLEY
Andrew Couture sat on a lawn chair, puffing a cigarette, as rain clouds swirled over "the dirt," a growing encampment east of Redmond.
Couture's dog, Octavia, a 5-year-old pitbull, bull mastiff, lay in the powdered dust at Couture's feet. The 57-year-old tilted his chin, gesturing toward a generator humming behind his fifth-wheel camper.
"I can't turn that thing off," said Couture, a Redmond native. "It powers my oxygen machine. If that goes, I go."

Though he's had his share of difficulties in this life, Couture, a decorated veteran of the U.S. Marine Corps, is not ready to go. He's got his dog. He's got his dad's old Chevy pickup truck, which after 400,000 miles is still running strong. He's got his friends, Bob Griswald, a cook, and Tom Davis, a mechanic, and a small but tight knit community.
Those are the things that make a life worth fighting for. But Couture has never been afraid of a fight. In fact, he used to live for it.
Couture knows that local officials are planning to remove the growing ranks of homeless people who have gathered in the area that he's called home for more than a decade.
'The best choice I've ever made'
Couture was born in Portland, but his family moved to Redmond when he was 8. Shortly thereafter, tragedy struck.
"The most important thing to know about my life is that my problems began with the death of my mother," he said. "Her death shaped everything that followed."
His mother, Wanda Couture, was in an auto accident in Redmond nearly 50 years ago, Couture said.
"She was side-swiped by a drunk driver who was fleeing from police," said Couture. "The accident left her in a vegetative state. She lived for another 27 years, but we couldn't communicate with her."

In the aftermath, Couture and his dad, Gary, found themselves alone, adrift in a world that felt strange and cruel.
Couture said his dad was a good man — he didn't remarry until Couture turned 18 — but his dad wasn't prepared to care for a young son on his own.
"I believe he loved me, but he never said it," Couture said. "He didn't even touch me until I graduated from bootcamp. That day, he shook my hand."
Since his mother's accident, Couture said he's carried a mean streak, which in his youth could explode in outbursts of violence. While it was a self-destructive force in his life as a teen, he joined the Marines in an attempt to harness it for good.
"It was the best choice I've ever made," Couture said. "If I hadn't joined the Marines, I'd be in prison, or dead."

Couture spent a year at Camp Pendleton in California before he was shipped to Okinawa, Japan. After spending a year there, he returned to Camp Pendleton. Then, he was sent to Los Angeles, where he was charged with inspecting and guarding vehicles and equipment during the Rodney King riots in May 1992.
"I worked a 72-hour shift straight through during that time," he said. "A major in my battalion came in one day and asked me what I'd done. I told him, and he said, 'You're going to get something out of this.' I didn't think much of it, but then I got an award."
Couture still has the Navy Achievement Award for "meritorious achievement." It's framed alongside a certificate, insignia and a photo of the strapping young Marine sitting behind the wheel of some rig.
"Lance Corporal Couture was a key figure in ensuring full accountability of personnel and serialized equipment of his Platoon," wrote Major J.F. Kelly in a letter to commemorate Couture's achievement. "Couture's actions were those normally expected of a Marine of much higher grade and experience. His actions reflect great credit upon himself . . . keeping with the highest traditions of the Marine Corps."
That was the high point of his service, as well as his life, he said. But he was medically discharged from the Marines due to asthma.
Nine lives
When he first returned to civilian life, he worked a series of skilled trade jobs. Laying cement, framing, but he said he was a natural at woodwork. He also worked on a ranch in Condon, where he loved to ride broncs.
At age 30, tragedy struck again. But this time, it was self-inflicted.
"I used to pop my neck," Couture said. "One day, I went to pop it—and I broke my neck. Literally. I'd never cried in front of my dad, but I bawled like a baby from that pain."
Couture had moved back in with his dad by that time. He helped care for his dad's property, for which his dad said Couture would always have a roof over his head. But there was an unspoken tension between Couture and his stepmother.
He said she became agitated one day.
"I was outside," Couture said. "She came around a corner, ranting and raving. I hit a wall out of frustration. And she filed a restraining order."

He moved to "the dirt" after that, roughly 11 years ago, and has been there ever since. He's one of 293 people over 55 who were homeless during the 2025 point in time count, administered by the Homelessness Leadership Coalition. With a sweep in the works, Couture knows the end is near. But he doesn't know where he'll go.
Though he receives a monthly $1,400 pension, Couture can't afford to rent a home in the area.
"I spend $600 a month just to keep that generator running," he said, as rain drops began to fall on his camp. "The rest goes toward food and other necessities. Sometimes, I help out friends in need. Then, I have nothing left."
Battling COPD and heart failure, Couture said he's been on death's doorstep nine times.
"I wonder: Why am I still here?'" He said, taking another drag from his cigarette. "I've got unfinished business, I suppose. What with Octavia, and the people who depend upon me here."
But that last bit may be backwards, Couture added after a moment of thought. Octavia scurried under the Chevy pickup truck to hide from the rain.
"I depend upon them every bit as much as they depend upon me," said Couture, who dropped his cigarette butt in the dirt, and stamped it beneath his boot. "I don't know where we'd be without each other."
Homelessness: Real Stories, Real Solutions (realstoriesrealsolutions.org) is a journalism lab funded by Central Oregon Health Council under FORJournalism (forjournalism.org), an Oregon nonprofit dedicated to supporting journalism statewide. Sign up for weekly newsletters to receive updates.
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