"That's alright...we can go check out the climbers at Bunny Flat in the morning...it's quite a scene."
We had camped out on the side of the Everitt Memorial Highway. We had taken baby wipe showers in the public bathroom and had consumed a sickening amount of food, more than making up for whatever calories we may have burned over the past several days. We were sitting contentedly on our asses when a carload of teenagers drove into our camp, scaring the bejeesus out of us. They were clearly looking for a place to engage in Friday Night Teenage Hijinks, but realized they had better take their business elsewhere and sped off.
"I've got a good hunch that in about three hours those guys are going to be anally raping us".
"I doubt that, but never underestimate the tenacity of the freaks and weirdos in this town. I think a pagan sacrifice is more likely".
"You can hang out here for another night if you want, but I gotta get outta this place".
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Black Butte is the name given to a freestanding pillar of talus right off the Interstate. It looks intimidating and inhospitable, but there is a very mellow trail that cuts through the scree and takes you to the top without much effort at all. We decided to make that our "cooldown" activity of the trip since the trail to the climber's camp at Bunny Flat was completely snowed in. The steady and monotonous, albeit aesthetically pleasing climb was a perfect incubator for amateur philosophizing.
"For some reason I feel somewhat intimidated by all those guys and their gear, like they are judging me for wearing basketball shorts and running shoes. I'm probably going to twist my ankle on all these rocks, by the way".
"Well, unlike skiing or rock climbing, full-on mountaineering doesn't have much of a dirtbag scene. With all the expensive gear and exclusivity of location, the sport lends itself to white collar types who have a lot of money and pent up steam to burn. Plus, it's an acquisitive, goal-oriented activity that appeals to the Outside Magazine crowd". I was basically talking out of my ass (as usual), but I was harboring resentment for not being able to pursue that activity myself. I knew damn well that if I was still a corporate 40/50 man I'd be up there with expensive gear looking for spiritual fulfillment through checking boxes drawn by someone else.
"You gotta admit CRS, we made the best choice: get high-paying jobs, live like miserly bastards, and then live the dream. Just think: what we did back in April would be the only thing the average working stiff would be able to do all year with only two weeks of vacation. They couldn't even go home for Christmas, for Christ's sake. Work is for chumps. As far as I can tell, the only path to happiness is developing your personal values and sticking to them no matter what. And I want to make outsiders feel welcome when they want to do the stuff I do...if I ever start acting superior around newcomers, punch me in the face".
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It was late in the afternoon and ML had to make it to the Bay Area before the traffic became unbearable. We had just said our final goodbyes...we probably wouldn't see each other again for a long time (of course that's what we thought a few months ago). "Well, if you're still rotting away in Portland this fall, get your ass over to India...it's so cheap you practically make money hanging out there. That is if you don't get on the JET program and move to Japan. Seriously, you'd love the place, I guarantee it!"
I had just noticed there was a house on the corner that literally had a tree growing out the roof. It was clear that whoever owned the home had quite a challenge keeping the outside from coming inside.
"Excellent! That's EXACTLY the lasting image I want of this town: some completely ridiculous, impractical idea that sounded great while smokin' a joint 35 years ago and now is nothing more than a completely idiotic pain in the ass. I can't leave this place fast enough. Are you heading out now too?"
"I would, but it's hard to pass up free camping. I don't want to risk having to Motel 6 it tonight."
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After listening to Hank III for the past week almost nonstop, I was getting a little hankering for a touch of whiskey. Fortunately, the great bankrupt state of California is wise enough to sell booze in grocery stores, and the local Ray's was wise enough to have Jack Daniels on sale.
Campsite established, I sat my filthy and worn out carcass in a $5 folding chair with a lovely view of the mountain that brought that bizarre town and all it's inhabitants into existence. The sunset was pretty damn lovely, and I was feeling good with Hank's "Lookin' For a Mountain" playing in my ears and a bit of Tennessee's finest warming my gut. If I had a shovel handy I'd have buried my pointless driftin' then and there, said a few choice words, and headed back to the colorless and comfortable world of commuting, brown bag lunches eaten in silence at a cubicle, boring meetings and generally wasting whatever remains of my youth and dignity. On second thought, I decided to remain in place and watch the bottle get a little lower.
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