"No, I think I'll just slip away."

A little while later, the group broke up for lunch. The boy did not feel hungry, however; he still felt the energy pounding in his body. He felt uncertain about the night before, and wanted only to be outside, by himself He walked slowly up the road to Route One, from where he could look down on all of Esalen. He felt strong. But towering above him, towering above Route One, was a small, very steep mountain. "The mountain," the boy exclaimed to himself. And he knew that he had to climb it. He would see what lay on the other side. Whatever it was, it would not be darkness.

If the boy had one thing, it was an appreciation for the aesthetics of a situation--and this situation, as he anticipated it, he knew to be fantastic. He first returned to his room, where he took off his sweater and his army jacket. It was raining out, and there was a wind blowing, but that was just right, the boy knew it. "Here I stand in my boots (no socks), my blue jeans (no underwear), and my shirt. It is a ritual, a sacrifice. I will present myself to the storm. I will give myself to the mountain, and I hope that I may return."

With those unspoken words, he left his room, went outside, and began to jog slowly up the steep hill, back to Route One. He looked at the base of the mountain (it was not a mountain, but he liked to call it that). The base was the steepest. It was, the boy thought, almost straight up for about thirty feet. There was nothing to hold onto--there was only the wet slippery clay, which three days before, in Southern California, had killed 11 people in a mudslide. The boy looked at this bank of clay, and then he began to climb. He dug out a foothold for himself, then reached up and grabbed a rock. It came loose and slid down onto the road. "If a man were to drive by now, he would think I was crazy."

He remained motionless, then he reached up and tried to grab onto something, anything. Nothing held. He felt his foot slipping, desperately reached out with one hand, and found a rock that was secure. He hung onto it, trembling, and saw that he was only 15 feet above the highway. He reached out again. Again, nothing held. Five feet above his outstreched arm, the clay bank stopped and the mountain began. There, five feet away, were bushes that he could hold onto, bushes that would support him. With one foot, he found another solid rock and inched his way up. He was closer, but still he could not reach. With every breath, he felt his hold on the mountain losing out, he felt himself letting go, beginning to fall, and almost cried out--but something happened which he did not then understand, nor would he ever understand. He melted into the mountain, he literally melted into the mountain, and the mountain held him; he reached up, found the roots of a bush, and pulled himself up. He was there. He was safe. He was covered with mud, and he was happy.

He looked up. The mountain was much steeper than he had expected; the underbrush was much thicker. He could feel dirt and little stones in his boots, could feel the dirt rubbing its way into his injured toe; and for one fleeting instant, as he stared at the underbrush, the roots and vines started to move. "The spiders!" he cried to himself. But as the fear of the night before returned to him, he heard himself breathing. "No." He shouted, looking straight ahead. "I am safe in my breathing. Whatever happens I am safe in my breathing, and nothing can touch me." He began to climb.

It was a climb like none he had ever experienced before. Often he had to simply plunge forward, dragging himself up through the heavy brush, grabbing on wherever it was possible, plunging in one foot, then swinging the other foot high, and beyond the first. As he climbed, he was scared--scared that he would turn back, that he would turn back and then have to start again or forever carry this failure with him. But all the while he felt his breathing. "I am safe there. I will climb this mountain. I will."

"Say that again." He seemed to hear John's voice.

"I will. I will. I will," the boy shouted melodramatically, and on he climbed.

The rain had stopped and after a while, the underbrush thinned and the climbing became easier. The boy climbed around some big rocks and, coming to the top of one, sat down to rest and clean out his boots. He looked down at a crack in the rock by his side. A green rose!

"A green rose!" He shouted, "A green rose. Stephen Dedalus, it's a green rose." Yes, the boy had a sense for the aesthetics of the situation. He knew that the funny rubbery mountain weed by his side was not a green