The American Runaway
By: James Ward
Tags: Travel, Short Story, Psychedelics, Hiking, Mountains

I don’t understand. There is my imagination and there is the world and I can’t tell what’s in my mind and what isn’t anymore. I’m waiting for something, but I don’t really know what I’m waiting for. There’s a girl watching me from the balcony above the dormitory and I feel self-conscious. Her stare’s penetrating and I’m smirking in an effort to conceal my anxiety. I don’t want people to think it is my first time. I feel ashamed for a moment, but I know there’s no reason to feel this way. I’m on the edge of breaking down and I realize that I want to let myself go over the edge. If only I knew how.

Behind me Eva’s drinking her tea. We’re on the concrete platform below the hostel and we can see the whole valley in front of us. A set of power lines spans the divide to the adjacent hillside. The Pacific Ocean — although it is only a faint glimmer — is visible below the mountains to our West. It would be indistinguishable in the haze if I didn’t know it was there. The wind is picking up and whistling past the railing. I can hear the tin roves bend behind us. My body seems to have gotten lighter, but it is more like a weight is coming off my chest. I remember the feeling, but it always amazes me that burdens of the mind can manifest as a sensation of physical mass. I’m trying desperately to record what is happening in writing, but it’s not the right time to be writing. I am only wasting the experience. So, I get up and Eva and I head out towards the woods behind the hotel.

As we start up the well-worn path uphill into the forest, I have a moment of Deja Vu, but it’s only in my head. The straps of my backpack are digging into my shoulders even though it’s not very heavy. I’m still anxious and it’s getting worse; I’m growing nauseous. To be clear, I am also excited, but I think the excitement is forced, just something to temper my unease. Adrenaline is pumping through my system, not in a rush, but in a slow drip. Part of me dreads what is about to happen and then there is another part that wants nothing more than to keep climbing farther from the town and higher up the mountain. Eva is right beside me and that’s comforting. She’s quiet. Her brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she’s wearing a sweater that’s so tight it looks like it’s strangling her.

A few minutes later, the trail has gotten steeper. Two older man walk past us going the other direction. I wonder whether they’re feeling what we’re feeling. I think about it, but their gait is too deliberate. A little farther up, two young guys pass us with music playing. They’re coming back from their trip, but they don’t even look up at us as they walk by. We pass a raised concrete slab— maybe an old foundation — and a bit later, a giant turquoise agave cactus sprawled out over a bed of pine needles. Eva is staring at the ground. She tells me it’s moving, but I don’t notice anything. Nothing looks any different.

Light is spiraling through the branches as the sun is dropping lower. Leaves vibrate and shake in the breeze, somehow reflecting what I am feeling myself. Small red flowers dot the side of the trail as it winds past the pine trees with their scabbed and blistered trunks. Eva is far behind me now. I can’t see her, so I stop to wait. Standing there, the exhaustion hits me and I have never felt that before. I crashed over the course of a few seconds and I was suddenly more tired than I’ve ever been. The drug is definitely in my system now and I know I’m still fighting it; I don’t know how not to. I sit off to the side of the trail and I try to relax.

I can hear Eva’s footsteps as she slowly makes her way up to where I am. When I finally see her, I expect lust, but there’s nothing. She glances at me and her eyes are glazed over. Although she’s right next to me, she is somewhere else. I want to feel what she’s feeling and I realize I hate her because I can’t feel it. I look away so she doesn’t see the hatred in my eyes. She tells me, “I want to go back.”

I tell her, “I need to keep going.” There’s something pushing me to go farther, but I understand her concern. The light is fading and the sky is red. The trail is becoming less distinguishable and parts of the trail are washed out. It’s easy climbing up, but it will be harder going down.

The path snakes down and around a thicket of brush. On the other side, the trees are glowing yellow. Bearded moss hangs down from the canopy and bromeliads extend out from the branches. I don’t like it. It feels like it is a place I shouldn’t go. I’m scared what I might find on the other side. I turn around to find Eva sitting and I let myself collapse beside her. Above us, a pine tree is swaying disconcertingly. I sink into the grass and I feel like the tree is going to crush me. I close my eyes and realize that if I wanted I could sleep right here. I open them. The red is fading and everything is growing greener. It’s time to go down.

It’s colder than when we left, but it feels nice. The red flowers I saw coming up are now purple. I’m confused. It feels like I can control the change, but it’s just limited to hue. I focus on a flower and watch it change from purple back to red and then to pink. Eva slips as we go over a washout and I catch her. I take off on a run. I’m happy. I start talking to myself and I realize I’m referring to myself as “we”. Something’s happening. This is strange. I climb a tree and wait for Eva. The world has become a different place and I have control over it.

We come out of the woods and I peer over the wooden fence that borders the hostel at the sun falling into the sea. Around the corner and down the stairs, there are six people standing on the balcony where I saw the girl earlier. All of them are dressed for the cold — elvish and luminescent — mesmerized by the Stars popping up in the darkening sky. I head up to join them.

Cocooned in a hammock, I watch the end of the sunset. The light melts like molten metal over the horizon. Eva’s hanging over the railing in front of me smiling. Dreamcatchers swing lazily from the ceiling and I hear the wind pick up force as it sweeps through the mountains and past the power lines. A boy — one of the others — has a ukulele and starts to play. Clouds drift in wisps around the mountains and the landscape grows darker and somewhat fluid. It is like the world is ending and everyone is watching the light bleed away for the last time. I feel a collective sigh of relief and I imagine everyone staring up and smiling. The edges of the hills blur and solidify and rock side to side like an approaching ocean. I love this world. The tune the boy’s playing is one I know well and I sing along. Slowly, one by one, the others leave. I can’t tell if it’s ending.

Back down on the concrete platform, I stare up at the stars. It’s gotten cold. The others come out from the dorm and I ask them if Eva and I can follow them to get something to eat. I know they understand what I’m feeling, but they respond apprehensively. I must’ve asked in a strange way. Coming from the lodge, we all follow the path down to the center of town. Blue, green, red and turquoise Christmas lights sparkle through trees as if they’re there just for us. I hear a yell and find myself screaming as well. A couple people start running down the road and I do as well. Eva’s talking with one of the others, but I don’t want to talk.

We follow the others under the awning of a small open restaurant. A man is cooking outside over a wood-fire stove. It’s still cold, but the place feels warm. Taking our seats, I feel that I’m beaming. Everyone there understands. Everyone smiles. The place feels like home. Eva and I talk, eat and it’s the most open I’ve ever felt. I love her, but there’s something missing.

I have no idea how long we have been in the restaurant. I seem to have lost my sense of time. Three guys are next to us and one of them is speaking with Eva. It’s strange: although I’m not speaking, I’m not sure if he’s talking with me too, but he looks over at me.

He asks me, “Where are you from?”

The question makes me nervous for some unclear reason. “The US.”

The man is young, but older than me. His hair is black and curled. He’s wearing a ragged wool hoodie and drinking with the other two. He tells us, “Mexicans are made of corn.”

I laugh, but his expression tells me it wasn’t a joke. It’s a staple down here and I guess you are what you eat as cliche as that sounds.

There’s an old movie poster behind me on the wall. The guys tell us about the Mexican films of the early twentieth century — the machismo that was ingrained in Mexican culture back then. Those things may not have been as idealistic as they seem now. We talk about the similarities between women and men. One of the guys tells us he just had his first child. It was the most powerful thing he had ever witnessed. He tells us there is nothing that engenders more respect between two people.

It’s hard to speak. I am still hidden away, but they ask me, “Where have you been?”

“Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Mexico,” I answer.

They ask me, “What have you learned?”

Wow. How do I word it? I started off because I didn’t know what I was doing and then I quickly realized I didn’t know who I was. Who am I? I can’t say, ‘I don’t know’ even though it would be honest.

I think to myself, I’ve seen things I can’t describe, memories existing as feeling and vague intuition. I’ve been places I shouldn’t have been, horrifying places. I saw people who didn’t have enough to eat and the rest of us pass by quietly. I’ve done it myself. Still, I find kindness. I told myself in the beginning of the trip I wanted to know if people as a whole are genuinely good, yet people ask me the question ‘Why are you here?’ and each time I lie.

It seems a little conceited to say that because I know those are poor words to describe what actually drew me here.

I’ve gotten to know locals and other travelers. I have made a pathetic attempt to understand why they were there and what they wanted, but I was always reluctant to open up myself because the reason for me was always a feeling rather than a thought. The answer was always a lie because I have been unable to express the truth. I don’t know who I am.

Now I am somewhere new. Colors pop and faces are portraits. Here we wear masks, but we all wear the same masks. I can understand them, even if I don’t know them. They are windows. They are mirrors. They are themselves. They are me. I am many different personas. I see depression, loneliness, a craving to touch and a need to love. A smile on my face shows on theirs and I understand how ripe reality is for creation. I see everyone trying to make it and yet we turn away when it’s convenient. We want pleasure and most of us won’t allow ourselves to suffer. We posture and we try to cover up insecurities that are so obvious it’s ridiculous once you start thinking about it. Everyone is so very much the same and our feelings are intense when we let ourselves feel, but they come with everything: infatuation and disgust, energy and exhaustion, love and heartbreak. Each emotion must be tasted.

We stare at each other in admiration and it feels wrong that we would define ourselves as coming from separate nations.

When we get back to the lodge, Eva goes to her room and I stand at the edge of the concrete platform leaning over the railing. The wind is incredible now and the chill is biting. I hear the sheet metal on the roofs bend forcefully in the gusts. The stars still shine like I’ve never seen. I’m alone. I feel like I could easily drift off. I ponder the option, the consequences and the finality, but — confused, anxious, intrigued — I decide the world doesn’t end today. I go to bed, but I can’t sleep. There’s too much to think about.

I’m so close to a description of the feeling I got when I finally drifted off to sleep that night. I can taste it, but it is like a dream fading at dawn — lucid and vivid. I know it started up there in the mountains and I know it can’t end. I’m not sure what this feeling is: what it means to me now and what it will mean to me in the future. Maybe it is a story about regret, but it doesn’t seem to fit. Maybe someday I’ll find the right words to describe it.

After all, memories are strange things. As you get further away from something, the memory changes in structure. Emotions become interpretations of a broader story and they are not necessarily what was felt at the time.