7-7?-01 Sa 11 or 12 or 1 or 2???? PM

You look down 4th at Los Angeles, and it's funny because there's another guy pissing, too. Where have you left off, you wonder. You always wonder--a lot, anyway. The top of the cinder cone was nearly deserted. The wind huffed deeply, impatiently. A few things grew. A panorama of peaks surrounded. Bees buzzed up there. A human figure. A woman's shape. Yellow shorts. A kerchief in her hair. Don't want to split the solitude. Walk around the rim of the cone. She approaches. You must speak. "Djou you come up that way?" She says something. You say something else. "You must be in better shape than I am," you say. You part. You look down upon the "fantastic" lava beds, the painted dunes, Snag Lake, Butte Lake, Lassen Peak. You fear the wind could blow you over the edge. You and the girl walk down together. She's German. Works in San Jose. You talk about bears. She welcomes your talk. It's all downhill. On a log, you both sit, and she eats carrots. You retrieve your poles and pack from behind the log, fish out a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, offer to share. She refuses, offers carrots. You refuse. Walk the miles back to the trailhead. She is pretty, young. You ask her name. Uta. Shake her hand good-bye. She goes on. You sit in your car, immobile, paralyzed, EXHAUSTED, craving SLEEP. Jeans for a pillow. Turns into an hour or two. What then? A debate between mind and flesh.