I’m standing at the top of Bishop’s Peak, eating a mango like an apple. My backpack is painted in dust with a suggestion pasted to it suggesting correctly that (for me) ‘death can wait’. I am crusted in dirt and a sunscreen resemblent of a thick, white paste not unlike like Elmer’s Glue. I’m basically in my underwear, drinking a tepid combination of water and sugar free monster from a canteen covered with stickers bearing slogans about feminist topics and one or two from the Airfield Supply Company, Twitter, and various breweries. I look like freckled, happy Delores Park Trash. The beautiful blonde Cal Poly kids that started the same time as me, just reached the summit and look like death, with their collapsed and sunburned little shoulders.
I feel great. I could keep going, like a small, disheveled mountain sprite .
I made it down.
On the descent, the rocks were too hot to touch and the dirt radiated heat back up at me, like an asshole. An asshole complicit with the sun.
I need food.
Bishop’s Peak, you’re a beautiful thing.