…So here I am, on the top of Blue Mountain (the Glades run I think), with a belly full of Rye ‘n Coke and Tequila and Corona and Budweiser and a head full of Marihuana and Ephedrine and my eyes glazed over with the phosphorescent glow of mushroom delirium.
It’s 2 o’clock in the morning on a warm October night.
I can see surprisingly far across Georgian Bay in one direction, and glowing smudges of sodium-orange cascading across the landscape in the other.
More importantly, I can see everything directly below me, at the Blue Mountain Inn; as well as the Grand Central Lodge, the Grand Georgian, the Weider Lodge, etc…
I know the bastards are down there somewhere. Stalking me with their Mag-Lite flashlights. Waiting for me to slip up and go barrelling through the wrong door, or corner myself in a windowless office. I know I can’t go back to my luxurious condominium down there at Chateau Ridge either, even though I can see it plain as day from up here. I’m certain I saw someone lurking in the bushes around there, waiting to pounce on me like a blood-thirsty Lyme-Disease infested Black-Legged Deer Tick.
No sir. Down there they have all the advantages.
But up here… well, even if they knew I was up here, they’d never be able to find or corner me, let alone catch me. But still, it would be careless of me to let my guard down at this point in the game.
And it is a game… to me at least.
The objectives for each team are slightly different. An offence/defence type of juxtaposition.
My goal: to somehow (but definitely not right now) make it inside my lodgings at the bottom of the hill, without getting tackled and beaten with flashlights and rolls of pennies in socks.
Their goal is to catch me and turn my spleen into Hominy Grits…
And so there I was, on the top of Blue Mountain; with a belly full of rye ‘n Coke and Tequila and Corona and Budweiser and a head full of Marihuana and ephedrine and my eyes glazed over with the phosphorescent glow of mushroom delirium. It was somewhere around 2 o’clock in the morning on a warm October night.
And I was glad I convinced one of the bartender’s in Jozo’s Bar to trade me a bottle of jack Daniel’s for a few joints before I fled the bar. It was a great deal for him, it’s not like it was his high quality whiskey he was trading. He figured that if anyone did actually notice the missing bottle, he’d blame it on one of the many drunken Politico’s attending the convention that patronized Jozo’s Bar that night.
I knew for certain that was not the reason the Blue Mountain security guards were hunting me down. But that was about all I was certain of.
That bottle of No.7 was just what I needed to sit up on the hill and wait those slippery muskrats out. While the thrill of hunting down and manhandling a crazed madman who was running wild throughout the resort was probably a welcome distraction from the usual boredom of the place at this time of year; I figured it would soon wear off. After searching the structures and parking lots, etc… they would likely be done with it and eager to get back to their office to play cards and drink coffee.
Until then, I sat there and watched them patrol, I drank my whiskey and enjoyed the view. I smoked cigarettes and listened to my MiniDisc recorder, which contained a jumble of spontaneous interviews, rambling convention speeches, ambient room chatter that at times sounded quite incriminating, crude bar talk, long monologues attempting to figure out the reason for being there, and weird distorted vignettes that seemed to be the result of hitting the record button accidentally when the machine was in my pocket…