I’m seventy-five feet up on a sheer rock face somewhere near the Colorado-Wyoming border. After a long walk into the valley I’ve ascended this burnt orange slab of stone without a fear in the world. The clouds hang motionless in a gray sky the sun can’t seem to penetrate. There’s not a sign of life for miles. At this height, the changing colors in the rock layer are distinct. Longhorn orange blends to yellow. Yellow blends to gray. The landscape is dotted with decaying shrubs, cacti and patches of snow. Dull green covers the basin. A dried river bed stretches north to south across the landscape.
There’s less than zero noise up here. Nothing but my own breathing. The wind swirls, then dies in the next moment. The boulder I’m leaned against provides a certain positive vibe, a warmness if you will. It speaks to me. Not with words, but with energy.
Something is off though. My perception of height and danger are skewed. Depending on where I look, my emotions range from ecstasy to concern and then back to complete peace. I guess that would make sense. Forty-five minutes ago a Mad Doctor gave me LSD for the first time and I’m terrified of heights.
If you ask him he’d deny it, but he’s been planning this test for days.
“If you’re afraid up here,” he said the prior day during our visit to the Rattlesnake Buttes, “I’m not sure about climbing when we’re tripping balls.”
This had been fun for him so far. I’m the kind of guy that thought I liked mountain climbing, until actually having to do it. And since the Mad Doctor encourages pushing boundaries as part of his treatment program, he couldn’t help but antagonize my paralyzing fear of heights.
“Man! This rock sure is loose!” he said while scrambling up the East Butte on Monday. Oh it was a great laugh I tell ya. The thought of seeing one of my oldest friends falling off a cliff to his death while I’m in the middle of nowhere with no reception. Great fun.
For three days now I’ve been dragged up and down mountains and buttes. Alright I exaggerate. For three days I’ve ascended to heights I’m not typically comfortable with.
“Today is not a hiking or climbing day,” was the directive on trip day. What he meant to say was “Today we’re going to let the drugs take us and who knows? Maybe I’ll convince you to climb a mountain!”
So far in Red Mountain Open Space he has succeeded, partially. When that initial surge of energy arrived I pushed beyond my comfort zone. It was like all sense of hesitation had been removed from my universe. You can’t really fall from up here, my brain convinced itself. I couldn’t generate enough momentum with my fat body to jump off this mountain if I tried. The thought brings stability. My climbing partner is unsettled though, searching for the perfect spot. He pushes, deeper, higher into The Big Hole from our designated base camp.
The height I have climbed isn’t enough. Not enough for him. The Mad Doctor from New York. He’s climbed even higher, standing over the highest ridge proclaiming himself God of the Valley as the drugs begin to kick in.
I met him in seventh-grade science lab, where he used to make fun of my bad breath, big head and minuscule chances of ever getting laid. We’ve stayed in contact and he arrives in my life periodically, wherever I may be, and brings dazzling psychedelic gifts in his handbag.
A bitcoin trader by day and eastern philosopher slash yoga guru by night, the Doc vapes live resin 15 hours a day and is rarely without edibles. As expected, he came to the range prepared, with a bag of goodies he promised would increase our plasticity, open our minds and connect us with the esoteric concept of the Third Eye.
He preaches frequently about the power of meditation, speaks openly about his porn collection, neoliberalism, the police state and his desire to be away from it all. He’s a fascinating guy who lives as if post-scarcity was already here, with plenty of time for leisure, health, travel, sex and experimentation.
We still laugh at 20-year-old inside jokes like they were brand new. Exploring teenage wisecracks from new, adult angles and they’re still funny. Both of us can recite conversations we had in 1998. We’re like old men now who go to bed early and get up before dawn for bacon and eggs. Despite having few things but age in common, it’s like we haven’t been apart all these years.
During our week of exploration we discuss the metric system versus imperial. The negatives of capitalism. His theories on the seductive power of women. Like proverbial peas in a pod, we get along. There is, however, one major difference between us. The Mad Doctor is the type of guy that likes to climb things, dangle his legs and look out over thousand foot cliffs. My palms get sweaty watching urban dare devil videos on YouTube.
This contrast would come to a head on a Tuesday in the Red Mountain Open Space, where neither of us had an obligation in the world.
Two hours in and I’m having conversations with the breeze and various inanimate objects. Voices bounce off the sandstone, just one or two words at a time. I can make out the Mad Doctor, above me and to the south, yelling into the echoing valley about some poor schmuck working 9 to 5.
Now he’s not making fun of people working in an office at that moment, rather feeling bad for them that they aren’t up there on that peak with him. Enjoying the silent mosaic that was that valley.
The sense of empathy is out of this world. At first I started feeling extremely sorry that I had gotten pissy during the walk here because it was longer than I expected. Now I’m incredibly thankful that this man led me here. I’m finding it personally rewarding that my buddy is way up there, probably feeling as crazy as I am, knowing he’s having the time of his life. I can put myself right in his shoes. Empathy is good. The LSD tells me so.
“You don’t seem to be one of those people,” he said, declaring it safe for me to inhale a dose of concentrated sativa from the disposable vape I carried in my jean pocket. There was slight concern, from a physicians standpoint, that I may freak out on my first acid trip given that I was combining it with rock climbing.
They say you should experience acid with someone you’re comfortable with, and this guy, no matter what I’ve written thus far, is someone I’m comfortable with. He was my guide and I trusted him, despite bringing me to towering heights, nothing but adventurous spirit, camaraderie and peace fill the valley.
A solo hiker follows the river bed in the distance. He hears us yelling across the peaks to each other alerting to the outsider. After pausing to size up the two oddballs way off trail, he deemed us no concern and continued trekking over the horizon.
We find ourselves literally doing nothing. Just soaking in the breeze and scenery. It should be bitterly cold out here the way the wind is blowing, yet our bodies are like hot furnaces outputting energy. It feels like we’re involved in a hundred things at once, but we’re just standing here, up on this prehistoric rock, letting our minds run wild.
In the distance, circular clouds formations spark visions of invading alien warships, like something H.G. Wells would describe. My thoughts start drifting to warfare on this terrain. The Arapaho must have fought at some point over these peaks and that river. What about the Afghans fighting the Soviets and then the Americans in a similar theater. The tales about those guys carrying cannons up mountains in World War I make me shudder. Mountain warfare. What a thought to trip on.
Just before intrusive thinking takes over, the first system “blowed” through, bringing an immediate drop in temperature. I tell the Mad Doctor I’m heading back to camp. If he responded, I don’t know, but I climbed down alone and when I looked back up, he hadn’t moved an inch.
It’s when I’m left alone at base camp that the out of body experiences begin. After climbing down out of the blistering gusts I’m now cowering under a ledge that at least protects in one direction. The wind brings ominous clouds to the valley while my senses drift between grounded and disconnected. The vibrant color, the vast sky and persistent howl combine to completely overwhelm my perception of reality.
It doesn’t help that I’m down here flipping my shit and looking skyward, there is the Mad Doctor, completely exposed to the elements, not even wearing a hat. Standing absolutely as high as he can get, calm as a sparrow, smoking rocket weed from a USB drive.
There’s nothing I can do but curl up underneath this rock and laugh like Walter White after Skyler gave away the money. Clutching to a pen and the sticky pad I lifted from the hotel, I’m furiously scribbling notes trying to make sense of my racing thoughts as the hallucinations took effect in real time
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