I passed the joint to Kurt and he took a long hit. The smoke collected into a milky cloud in the slanting sunlight. The smell was sweet and rich, a little piney.

“You remember Yogi?” he said tightly. The smoke unfurled heavily and caressed the windowpanes.

“Yeah,” I said. He was a guy we used to live with, who had left town and never been seen again.

“I ran into him down in Big Sur last month,” Kurt said, exhaling. “We had a really incredible night together. Really incredible.” He took another brief hit and blew the smoke out his nose. “Out on the beach, dancing to these drums. We were all jumping through this huge bonfire. I’ve never seen anything like it, man. Everyone was so joyful that night. Beautiful women, dancing and singing. Really amazing bunch of people.”

“No shit,” I said.

“No shit!” Kurt said. “You should have been there. I think Yogi got laid.” He giggled, and bounced in his seat, and passed me back the browning roach without looking.

At Salem, we cut east onto Highway 22 and stopped for lunch on the outskirts of town. We bought beer and Pringles and carrots and bread, some bottles of water and a cheap Styrofoam cooler with a bag of ice. Out in the parking lot Kurt made a noise like a chugging speedboat engine, bellowing and lightly pounding his chest. I twisted his arm in an Indian rope burn. We were starting to loosen up a little. Then we got back in the car and continued across the Willamette Valley, into the foothills of the Cascades.

The change from farmland to forest came quickly—the mangy fields and front lawns turned into dense woods, the colors going from beige and tawny gold to deep, impenetrable black-green. The air took on a colder, more mountainous vitality.

“This is a great spot,” Kurt said as we began climbing. “I was here last summer. Totally private, no one around. And most of all, it’s peaceful. You can really think.”

“Sounds awesome,” I said.

“You never get real quiet anymore, you know?” he said. “I visited some hot springs in Arizona where no one is allowed to talk. Total silence. It was fantastic. They want me to come back and work as a chef sometime. I’ve got a whole menu worked out for them.”

I nodded, knowing the plan would probably never materialize, and if it did, it would likely end in some tragic mishap.

“I think I read about that place in a magazine,” I said finally, then turned to stare out the window, letting the sound of the car engulf us.