One day, a year or so ago, I emailed my old friend Tim. We have known each other since junior high and while it had been years since we met face to face, we kept in touch. In addition to being my friend I credit him with introducing me to authors like Brautigan and Durrell and Joyce, whom I've yet to finish; to jazz from gods such as Miles Davis and John Coltrane and Keith Jarrett; and to wilderness camping, which we did in New Mexico and Colorado and California and up the coast to British Columbia. I learned so much from him. I wonder what he learned from me.

A few days after I pressed send I received a reply, from Leslie, his widow. His widow. I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

A few months later I ran into this piece written by Tim. It triggered many memories so here is a bit of context and an example of his writing.

The context: I liked high school, for the most part. Well, I liked Ms. Fisher for bio, Mrs. Woods for chem, and, best of all, Mr. Shelton for English lit. But once my last high school class was over I was ready to get out of town. So my friend Tim and I skipped the graduation ceremony, a pattern I kept through undergrad and grad school. You do not have to attend, you know; the school sends your diploma in the mail, and besides, no one will ever ask for it. Anyway, we jumped in my car and drove, west to California, then north to Canada. We'd some adventures along the way and this is Tim's recounting of one of them.

One Night Stand on Der Zauberberg

By Tim Prather

On a road-trip with James in 72
us in his new Celica, Canada or bust,
we met a band of travellers
in the Uncompaghre wilderness near Ouray,
we shared their campfire
and told stories,
but I remember only one of the group:
his head was held in place
by a steel cage, neck and shoulders encased in plaster,
like a knight in fragile armor.
he'd broken his neck diving off a cliff
and he had a St Bernard as big as a pony,
who once won the strongest dog in the world contest.

He took us for a terrifying ride
in a jeep without lights
through the darkness of midnight mountain trails,
and I was laughing hysterically.

As we left their campfire,
they handed us a paper bag, leftover peyote buttons,
and probably instructed us, I don't remember.
I do remember the chewing, the swallowing and the vomiting,
like eating dried up dinosaur skin,
then each of us sought our sleeping bags,
and lived a night of separate journeys with mescalito
in the unfamiliar Colorado night.
James was pursued by a woman's lips in his dreams;
my visions, all lost.

At dawn we set out,
ready to move on from the Magic Mountain,
came to a cafe,
and a Botticelli angel bearing an orderpad came to our table.
both our hearts were lifted out of sleep,
one last joy before the miles of asphalt ahead.