Mule Foot Mountain

Diary entry: We were on our way up Mule Foot Mountain, our feet were tired, we were wearing down, we needed to reach the peak before sunup, Mule Foot had tripped up many climbers over the years and it was really kicking us, but we were tenacious, we would not give up, we would break Mule Foot if there were any possible way, yes, we would break Mule Foot, we would hobble this mountain like a starving man hobbles down hot dogs at the carnival eating contest, where the prize is a year’s supply of pork sausages, yeah, it was late 1968, we had all become disillusioned with the corrupt world we had grown up in, we had left the rotten, corrupted, stinking bowels of the city, Big Timber, a town without any mercy whatsoever, for a young group of boys who saw the world a bit differently than the common rabble, we would not be rabble, we would be rebels, we would live and die as rebels, we spit on the common rabble, anyway, Mule Foot was kicking up a storm, the wind howled like the wife after a late night poker game, the sky bellowed out curse words like Grandpa stubbing his toe on the rusted fender you drug home from the junkyard, the rain began hitting us like a whole town of dumb asses hit up the only smart guy for advice on how to not be such dumb asses, yeah, the night had begun erupting in some slow, devious dance of dark demonic activity that makes you wish you were back home, wherever home is, or was, yeah, we were in it and there was no way out in this dispensation of time, no, we were here, we were on Mule Foot…


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