I prepared a traditional tea the night before. There was no way of predicting the strength of this particular brew, as potency varied vastly with each species I had used in the past. This time, I used a 13-inch cutting from my largest, most mature Trichocereus peruvianus. I had previously only harvested Trichocereus pachanoi- all of which had considerably smaller radii. The wider Trichocereus peruvianus cutting threw me off. I was unsure how much of the flesh was active and how much was just waterlogged. I hoped it would not be too strong. Under different circumstances I would have been open to whatever the cactus had to offer, but it was S's first San Pedro experience and I wanted it to be at least somewhat manageable. Also, this would be my first time drinking San Pedro with another person. I wanted to be lucid enough to be able to keep an eye out for the both of us.

Eager to begin, I arrived at S's in the early afternoon. He lived in a barn studio on a serene, sprawling ranch. An optimal trip setting. S expressed some pre-trip anxiety, which we discussed before we ultimately drank the tea. That acidic, bitter sludge. It's never easier to down. It tasted like metal, dirt, and worn shoes melted down and served up in a cup. The smell alone made me want to gag, but I tried hiding my disgust so as not to influence S. I had reduced the tea portions down to two giant gulps each...any more than that we would not have been able to stand.

The ranch was within walking distance of a moderate, local trail. I suggested we go on a short hike up the canyon to distract ourselves from any potential body load symptoms, such as nausea, while our bodies processed the mescaline and other mysterious alkaloids. Little did we know we would be hiking for most of the trip.

I felt confident in the decision S and I made to trip together. The weight of responsibility I carried in providing S his first mescaline experience previously felt like a lot of pressure. Yet, suddenly I knew everything would be okay. A mild wave of euphoria overcame me as we approached the trailhead. Colors appeared soft and bright as we trekked onward in optimism. There were relatively few people on the trail that afternoon, which I was grateful for. The less people we encountered the better. Though it had only been about 15 minutes since consumption, I was already experiencing the beginning of the come up.

About 30 minutes in, I noticed a sense of effortless clarity. Fascinated by tiny little nooks and crevices I normally would have overlooked; my focus was impeccable. A puddle was vast as an ocean. A pebble was a boulder and the ant crawling on it had my undivided attention. I explored many of these mini worlds with a child-like sense of wonder.

My long sleeve, wool sweater started rubbing up against my damp body. I began to regret my choice of clothing. Was my body temperature rising or was the weather beginning to warm up? Probably both. I was amazed that neither of us were nauseous.

I was starting to get uncomfortable around S. I worried about not saying enough. Was I too quiet? I felt compelled to fill the silence, but with what? Do I not have anything to say? Seems unlikely. I was feeling and experiencing so much yet unable to articulate any of it. Is this how I always am? I was beginning to realize how I often feel the need to contribute a conversation purely for the sake of participation. An inauthentic desire. Perhaps I didn’t trust that S, or anyone for that matter, could see who I really was without trying to tell them. Whoever that is anyways. I chuckled to myself at the idea of identity, a concept that felt so far away. I felt like an exhausted, curated version of myself. My role in my own discomfort was becoming increasingly apparent. I asked myself what would happen if I was completely myself around S from that moment forward. While pondering the question I glanced up to find S trekking ahead at a rapid pace. I rushed to catch up; soon he would be out of visibility.

S asked me if I felt anything. He insisted he wasn't feeling the effects; yet, he clearly seemed different. I stopped myself from expressing that he did, indeed, seem high. Does it really matter? Instead, I tried to point out things that I thought he might appreciate. The way it felt to dip our feet in the cold creek, or how the grass looked when the sun hit it just right...and how nice it felt to touch. We spent most of the come up enjoying sensory changes. I so badly wanted to explore what S was thinking and feeling. But when I asked, his responses almost always contained zero elaboration. I began to accept that, for S., the internal was a locked door. It was all along. Now, with my shifted perspective, I could see it and it was not for me to change. Perhaps instead we would be explorers of the external and maybe, I hoped, that would be enough.

Unlike S, I was aware I was tripping. The dose was certainly on the lighter side, based on how functional we were, but I was beginning to suspect it would be a different, gentler type of trip overall. I was not experiencing any trippy visuals. It was more of a head high.

At the peak of our trip we came across an isolated waterfall. A welcomed respite from the occasional awkward fellow hiker encounters along the trail. Behind the waterfall was a small cave decorated with hanging stalactites; it felt like we were explorers of some prehistoric time. Somehow musty and fresh smells coexisted in the cave. Where one scent stopped and the other began was beyond my comprehension; yet, somehow, I accepted. My hands gently glided against the wet moss on the cave walls; I savored the cool, slimy sensation. After we were done exploring the ground we made our way up a large boulder. I was a bit wobbly. S noticed my struggle with coordination, held my hand, and gently guided me up boulder. At the top, lying on our backs granted us a new perspective and a whole new treetop world to explore. We must have spent fifteen minutes staring straight at the same branch swaying in the breeze. It seemed to take on a life of its own. Any self-consciousness or concern for S's experience was gone at this point. I felt completely content and he seemed to as well.



We started coming down from the trip and the trail simultaneously. To both of our delights, we came across a log inhabited by neon orange slime mold. The bright, "unnatural" color grabbed my attention from across the trail. An inflated bubble just begging to be popped. So I did. I gently pressed on the "bubble," gradually increasing the pressure until an even brighter orange pudding like substance oozed out. We were mesmerized. I wanted to touch the ooze…I couldn’t help myself. S cringed as my hand neared the bubblegum substance. The ooze felt like a mix of cream and latex foam. I was not disappointed.

Later, as we approached S’s ranch, I commented on how remarkable it was for slime mold's flamboyant existence to be purely based on luring people/creatures in so that they might press on it as I did. To disperse. S, who was walking slightly ahead, looked back at me and asked, with a playful smile, what was the purpose of our existence? I smiled back, “Hopefully more than just to disperse.” Though the conversation ended there I could tell we both continued to ponder the idea separately.