Disclaimer: Drugs are not to be taken lightly. People have killed themselves on small quantities of LSD. Some people should not EVER take it, and it should never be taken without proper precautions, like being surrounded by those you love and/or trust, at least one of whom shouold be an experienced psychonaut. That being said...

There was the time I tripped acid with my girlfriend Dawn and some friends, and hiked down into the Grand Canyon. There’s five of us walking for hours down a winding trail with heavy backpacks, when I say “ Hey, anyone feel like taking a rest here?” I am carrying like 2 gallons of spaghetti in a large pot on my back, plus a gallon or two of water.

“Definitely.” Dawn says, plopping down on a large rock. The newlyweds, whom we had met earlier that week, shrugged off their packs and settled under a tree. Their names were Mike and Lisa, and they were from Santa Cruz, California. This was their honeymoon. They were high on love.

“C’mon, we can hike another half-hour at least before lunch!” urged Tramp, who had been leading the hike. He leaned on his walking stick and looked at us individually, grinning. He was a real character. We had adopted him up a couple weeks earlier, at a festival 50 miles south of the Canyon. It was called The Peace and Unity Gathering, despite the fact that it had been anything but. He was a forty-something year old hippie ex-truck driver, dodging the law. They had busted him for 5 pounds of weed out of Mexico, and he did 5 years in the slammer. He had been free and had lived “on the road” for five years. We were going to get him home to Colorado Springs, Colorado, though he ended up staying with us all the way to Boulder.

“Trail mix, Joe?” Lisa says, tossing the bag into my lap.

“Thanks”, I grabbed the bag and began munching. I was still stoned from the last joint two… no, three hours ago.

Sitting there looking out over the sheer grandeur and beauty, seeing a hawk circle lazily high above, I say suddenly, “Anyone want to dose?”

They all look at me.

Mike and Lisa smile and nod. Dawn hugs me. Tramp finally sits down. I bring out the tiny squares of paper and divvy them up, one for each of us. At my request, we place the hits on our tongues all at the same time.

After a brief discussion about when we would smoke the next joint, we are off once again, making our way cautiously down the sharp winding trail. The Grand Canyon is approximately 1 mile deep. We hike until the tail-end of a momentous sunset, when we reach the Half Mile mark. We stop in a clearing at the top of a great cliff. Everything below the base of the cliff-- a fall that you might enjoy for a good 20 or 30 seconds before you go splat-- is lush and yellow-orange. Below that, the plant-life grows more abundant, and greener, as my eyes lazily skip down to the bottom. I can see glimpses of the river, flashing as it rolls along far below.

We all put our gear down and stretch, really feeling the tingling body-high of the acid, as well as the exhilaration of our exertions. I saunter over to my pack and bring out the big pot of spaghetti. “Anyone want some spaghetti?” I asked for the hundred-and-first time. They don’t even hear me. The four of them are like kids, excitedly pointing and exclaiming about everything, as they had been ever since we started peaking. I felt like I hadn’t said a word for hours. Maybe I hadn’t. Did they wonder where my head was?

I see a small movement out of the corner of my eye. A critter resembling the offspring of a squirrel and a rat catches my eye, peeking over the edge of the cliff, and then disappearing. I toss some noodles over to it and it gets closer, little by little. At least somebody will eat this spaghetti I had carried down, because I’d be damned if I was carrying it back up.

Lisa looks over the first to notice me and my furry friend. “Whoa, Joe, what is that?”

“I think I’ll call him George. He can walk on ceilings!” George proved this by disappearing once again over the edge, clinging to the underside of a rock overhang. “He came to share in our bountiful feast!”

They all laugh, and we take turns feeding George cold spaghetti. We each have some, too, even though none of us is very hungry. We laugh at each-other’s sauce-stained lips and fingers. We settle down together along the edge, swinging our feet and talking about everything, as the last light fades.

We watch the canyon get dark and the full moon rise. We sit there and tell each other our life’s stories for hours. The wind begins to pick up as it gets dark, and the temperature drops 20 degrees in a half hour. We are all kind-of huddled together, talking and smoking cigarettes, when I get up and walk over to a far edge. I remember caring for each of them deeply, but needing to be alone for a while. They barely notice my absence; I had been so quiet all night. I stand at the edge and think about my life. I bend and pick up a stone, holding it tightly in my hand. I think about everyone who had ever pissed me off, beat me up, or let me down. I remember all the revenge I had vowed to get. Hanging heavy around my neck I feel the weight of the anger I had carried around so long. I take the stone and toss it over the side, letting it go. I do this several times.

Then the wind begins to howl and complain. I can almost see the gusts, as massive whorls spiral up and out from below, then slam into the cliff-wall, roaring as it violently harasses shrubbery. I close my eyes, rocking with the beat of the violent currents. Dust dances over the edge in waves. I stand there and imagine… no, I see it in my mind’s eye! I am a mile above the Canyon, looking around and seeing everything. I am the land, and feel the hundreds of thousands of years coarse through me. I am the great Colorado River, patiently cutting away at this stone, and carrying it away over eons, carving the biggest hole in the ground on this Earth!

I see history fast-forward. I see the first humans who made this their home. A hundred generations live and die before my eyes. I feel like God looking at Himself through me. After an eternity, the vision catches up to the present. As I open my eyes, I feel more than see the ghosts whipping around me like great birds. The wind is a thousand long-dead voices singing spirit chants as it dances around me, taunting me. I listen in awe for what seems like hours. The Canyon glows... and the wind becomes still.

I walk over to my friends slowly, and smile. Dawn stands up and hugs me long and tight. “What was that for?” I ask.

“You looked lonely”, she says, pulling me down beside her. “We were just talking about the long hike up.” I put my arm around her, and noticed how Lisa had Mike wrapped around her… so high on love.

“At least it’s cool, and we still have plenty of water,” I point out cheerfully. The moon is high. After more hours of hugging, talking and smoking, we eventually begin to get restless. We begin to pack up getting ready to make our way back up, when we hear someone approaching from below. Thinking it odd to run into anyone else hiking this late in this wilderness, we wait for the three dark figures to reach our perch. It turns out to be a middle-aged man being dragged up the trail by his two young sons. He is out of shape, and looks like he might drop dead. His face is red and covered with sweat, and he reeks of whiskey. He gratefully takes the water we offer, and tells us his story.

“I bring my sons all the way from New York to camp the Grand Canyon. We spent almost all of our money on the donkey ride down to the campgrounds by the river, and they tell us we need a goddamn camping permit! We’re walking forever, trying to get out, and we didn’t bring enough water. I’ve been drinking whiskey for hours because it’s the only liquid I got! Thank God I found you guys!”

We hike up with the man and his sons for a while, but he is very slow. Once an hour we stop for 15 minutes or so, and wait for him. A couple of times I think we may have to go after him, but then he always appears, a son pulling each arm. We wait for them and refill their canteens each time, having brought plenty of water to spare. This unexpected opportunity at sainthood forces us to take our time climbing, for which I give a silent thanks. Heck, we even find (in the dark, no less) some water we had stashed on the way down, beneath a slab of limestone which leans against a tall boulder.

When we get to the top, perhaps an hour before sunrise, a State Trooper is waiting for us. He demands, “I’ve been watching you climb up for an hour. It took you long enough. What are you doing here now?” Before he can even start hassling us, we all patiently tell him about the man and his kids. He listens, and lets us go, without the usual third-degree. The cop agrees to stay there to make sure the man and his kids are okay. He even thanks us, and wishes us well!

We still have not slept when we drive out of the Canyon that afternoon. I had been there two weeks. But that last night, wow! Maybe it was the drugs, or the moon, but for a while down there in the canyon, it was the closest to God I’d ever felt.