Kirby, Joe
That One Time I Ate Rocks

Three different mushroom trips with three different people at three different places and times. True story.

1: A gorgeous summer day in Alaska. Kirby and I were hauling ass down dirt trails on our bicycles, flying high on magic mushrooms. I could hear the bugs whizzing around us. Even the trees seemed to laugh with us as we cackled at the afternoon freedom from our summer jobs. We were happy. We were high. Every adventure we went on in that national park was a chance to discover something new; about the park and yourself. This trip was no different.

We found ourselves down a side trail, sliding on rocks and bunny hopping tree roots, down to where it ended at a creek. Or maybe it was a river? It doesn't matter. What did matter was the grandfather tree that watched over it. Kirby was immediately in the water, gasping at the colorful rocks and shimmering water. I saw the old tree, and its bananas swoop trunk and monkeyed up it in a heartbeat. There I was, standing on this longer branch as it hung over the river, grasping its limbs with my own. I must have gotten carried away with being all at one with the tree in that shuffle, because before I knew it, I fell out of the ancient one's embrace and landed hard on the ground. I must have forgotten gravity was a thing because I thought there was no need to hang on anymore. Metaphors for life, I suppose. Kirby and I bellowed with laughter at the fall. In no time I walked into the middle of the river where Kirby was collecting rocks and climbed atop a large boulder protruding from the waters. I began to hum. Again.

I had been humming this tune since we began our journey. It was something like a polka. Every time I would hum it, I laughed. I could hear the tuba. I could hear the French horn. It was hilarious.

So, it kept coming out of me, that tune. And as I stood there, gazing down at Kirby showing me little rocks that sparkled in the midday sun, I wondered what it would be like to eat one. They just looked so delicious. I can't remember whose idea it was to eat one, but it seemed completely rational at the time. As I write this, I can still taste the rock's minerals in my mouth, and the purity of that glacier water as it hit my tongue and fell into my stomach. Gulp.

And still, I gazed down at my friend in the river and thought of perspective. From his spot, everything appeared a certain way. From my vantage point, another. I believe it was then I began to see more clearly how people are. It was then I began to understand grace.

2: It must have been the winter that followed when I found myself sitting across the table from my youthful reflection in love and mischief. There's a place on Belmont in SE Portland that invites you to smoke hookah, eat cheese and fruit, and drink wine. There's nothing better to digest magic mushrooms with than these, I reckon. It was only a matter of minutes before our bodies began to tingle and we wanted nothing more than to soak in that Cascadian air. To feel the pulse of the night. We ran into the park. We were kids again. And, well, we were kid. There was a sense of adventure, everything was new, and cartwheels got the blood rushing and the laughter bellowing. We knew it would end. Or perhaps it would turn into something even more magical. There were tastes, smells, and colors that would stay for weeks after. I suppose the medicine broke down our walls and guided us through the night on an epic field trip to the heart of nature, symbiosis, and intimacy. Just pieces of a narrative we experienced in our becoming of age.

3: October 6th, 2006. After having spent my second summer pillaging the central valley of Denali, I left Alaska and headed to the piko of the Pacific. Tickets were cheap, and there was a work trade program I got turned onto that I was excited about: W.W.O.O.F. Willing Workers on Organic Farms. I'd checked it out and booked myself a few farms to work at. I was getting used to traveling alone and finding my way around. Used to not having money or tools to get by except my songs and presence.

So there I was, in my REI shorts, long bushy Alaskan beard, lip ring, and huge traveler's backpack. I'd met Jason within the first couple days on island. I was staying at the Hilo Hostel, and before I hitched to my first farm job in South Kona, I stopped by his work trade in Papaikou. Jason picked me up at the bottom of his huge, steep hill – dirt all over him, cigarette hanging from his grinning mouth, and a 12-pack of Sierra Nevadas on the back of his little scooter. I hopped on with my 2-million-pound backpack, and we started up the hill. We looked like Dumb and Dumber with all our shit, especially me with that backpack and 12 pack hanging off the end of a scooter barely big enough for Jason as it was. But, were about to have the most legendary conversation of our lives. Well, at least of mine at the time. For some reason, he was asking me about my family, and for some reason, I was already on what my birth/adopted names are. When I got to the part about my native name, the one given to me by my grandmother, he was like, “Wait, that's your middle name? Nacho cheese or whatever? Why don't you go by that?” We then had a short discussion on the practicality of it. It just seemed too long. No one would get it. Well, you could cut it in half, and it would just be … Nahko. What a weird and wild ride I was on. No better time to start fresh. We pulled up to the farm, and Jason's host greeted us. He shook my hand and smiled. “Aloha, I'm River. Welcome.” I shrugged off my backpack, cracked open a beer, sighed deeply and replied, “Mahalo. My name is Nahko.”