Denis Johnson, �Jesus� Son�
This is part nine of a 25-part story about Hawaii. The story begins here. Part five is located here. Other parts you'll have to find yourself. So there.
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We turn around and go a half-mile back up a trail we just traversed and look again at the sign. It looks like the only way we can go is either to the vista point, or back the way we came.
Then we look at the other side.
This side points out a different direction, and I recognize it as a starting point.
The distance: 2.8 miles.
Oh, good god.
Again we start moving. My legs ache so much that I know I�m walking in a similar fashion that I do when I�m totally plastered: two steps forward, three steps to the side, and then two steps to regain my balance. This is not economical walking. I try to concentrate on walking a straight line, and I know that if I did the same thing for a police drunk driving stop, the police would be on the ground rolling in laughter.
Finally, the trail ends.
We�re on solid ground again. Not only solid ground, but paved road! We still have no idea where we are, however. All we know is that we�re on solid ground, and we need to go downhill. So we begin.
As odd as it may sound to anybody who doesn�t live in San Francisco, going downhill on a paved road is actually more difficult than walking along a dirt path in the middle of a jungle. The angle of the hill makes our ankles scream bloody murder. We continue on, and it begins to rain.
You know what God? Fuck you too.
Johnson�s book details the wacky hi-jinks of the heroin-addled. But as wacky as their adventures are, I can�t help but think that no matter how clouded their judgment was, they probably never would have thought they could have effectively halved a hike by going a different direction.
The answer is obvious. I should take more drugs.
So now we�re exhausted, we�re freezing, and we�re wet. And still we walk on. I�ve stopped trying to figure out how long we�ve been walking. Eventually, we see streetlights for the first time in nine hours. The brush on the side breaks open enough just for us to see a parking lot across the canyon. A beautiful parking lot. A beacon to the rise of civilization and its conquering nature against Nature. Hooray for us!
And in the parking lot, I can see the duct tape on a lone car, gleaming underneath the street light. For the second time tonight, we break off the main trail, cutting though the hillside and the open field to get to our car.
We reach the car and climb in, groaning all the while. I turn the key, praying for it to start.
The Girlfriend doesn�t bother with praying and punches the dashboard. The car roars to life.
