We were somewhere around Gunnison on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like ‘I feel a bit light-headed; maybe you should drive…’
We were on our way to the Black Canyon to find the American Dream.
But our trip was different. It was a classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent in the national character. It was a gross, physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country – but only for those with true grit. And we were chock full of that.
There was madness in any direction, at any hour. You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning.
The ether was wearing off. The acid was long gone. But the mescaline was running strong. Good mescaline comes on slow. The first pitch is all waiting. Then about halfway through the second pitch, you start cursing the creep who burned you because nothing’s happening. And then, hopefully after you reach the belay – ZANG!
Jesus, bad waves of paranoia, madness, fear and loathing – intolerable vibrations in this place. Get out… The possibility of physical and mental collapse is now very real. No sympathy for the Devil, keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride.
This route is a very ominous assignment, with overtones of extreme personal danger. This is important goddammit, this is a fucking true story! This is the Hallucinogen Wall…
To be contnued…