The Hike – Paul Weil

Erik has sewn a thousand tabs of LSD into the seam of the strap in his backpack. A sheet of Purple Ohms neatly cut into long strips of fifty-by-two and carefully wrapped in clear cellophane. He has kept fifty for the journey and has them stowed under the tight skin of his African drum.

“We’re going to walk to Glasto, mate,” he announces one morning, wide eyes above a face cracking grin as if he’s had the idea of the century. He is referring to The Glastonbury Music Festival in Somerset that starts in two weeks. I gape at him and experience that free-fall sensation I often feel when Erik has that look. I know I’m going to get talked into something outrageously stupid and dangerous.

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