The Continental Divide Trail: Kambo on the CDT: A Strange Encounter in the Mountains

Of God and Raspberries

«There are many ways to induce alterations in human consciousness. Amazonian tribes burn themselves and then smear the wound with frog poison, and Christians drink the symbolic blood of their Messiah.»

— Graham Hancock, Bard Mythology Interview, November 2, 2016

tThe taste of a wild raspberry is sweeter than friendship.

We had been walking with Ya’ll, who had camped in front of the small stream where Ice Cream, Chupadogra and I had been the night before. Chupa was no longer leggy, but we woke up early to find Ya’ll packing. He showed us the secret of the PopTart breakfast sandwich and then he and I shared the holy communion of Rastafarians before continuing the hike.

This time he and Ice Cream did the most talking. Christian education was the topic of today’s podcast. I listened, having little to share. I am third generation of No Religion. Neither atheist, nor agnostic, just… nothing. Neither my parents nor my grandparents ever spoke for or against any god, nor did we perform any rituals or visit any churches.

I experienced religion from the outside: I once spent the night with a cousin on the condition of his parents that I go to church with them the next morning. We didn’t have breakfast first. Halfway through the church I was hungry. The congregation was passing around a plate of crackers and small cups of grape juice. A preacher in a gray suit was babbling about things beyond my eight-year-old comprehension. The cookies and juice came to the boy on my right. My mouth watered, my stomach growled. The guy passed the plate to my aunt on my left. Even then, I knew they had skipped me because I wasn’t in their Cracker Club. Even though nothing entered my mouth, that Sunday I had a bad taste in my mouth. Many more bad tastes would come throughout my life, until my bias against Christianity was complete at the age of sixteen. So, I explored further. The Dhammapada, the Quran, transcendentalists like Thoreau, atheists like Dawkins (God bless that man), until my distaste for my civilization’s religion was replaced again by curiosity. At eighteen I decided to hitchhike erratically across the United States with the goal of finally putting the issue of religion to rest. I brought the only important religious book I had not yet read: The Bible. In it I discovered that Jesus was too rebellious to be a Jew and too wise to be a Christian. Whatever he was, other than being dead, he wasn’t who all his followers thought he was. That was clear in the things he said. I softened on Christianity, but only for the sake of its founder. No, Christians, I’m not talking about Paul. Damn, I mean Jesus.

It turns out that many Christians go through a similar path, but from the inside out. Two of those Christians were Ice Cream and Ya’ll. As we walked, they shared their stories of emotional and intellectual betrayal under the spiritually claustrophobic roofs of churches as we walked under a sky empty of clouds.

If there is one thing that can be said about God, it is that he never interrupts a conversation. The same cannot be said for raspberries. A complete and healthy group of them appeared near the trail. Ice Cream and I stopped for a snack, picking raspberries with the gastrophilic zeal of black bears.

They all said, “Well, see you later” and continued walking.

***

I had to shit again.

Now we were on a paved road that led to real mountains. A cool looking guy stood on top of a nearby hill, raised his hand and yelled at us. “HELLOOOOO!”

«Hello,» I shouted. “ARE THERE BATHROOMS UP THERE?”

«ALREADY!»

We reached the top of the hill and took the detour towards the picturesque pullout where I saw the glorious view of two small brown buildings with the telltale chimneys of Durkin Huts. Done a cowardly act, I went out and found Ice Cream chatting with Hollerin’ Man. He was wearing a white T-shirt, black shorts, a flat-brimmed hat, and a shave from the day before. The guy was in his late thirties or early forties. I gave him a quick fist bump with sanitized hands as I joined the conversation. Ice Cream mostly had it blocked; I wasn’t in the mood to talk. He had covered most of the conversational arc we all know and love. Hikers, yes, the CDT. What’s that? Oh, it’s this trail here, it goes to Mexico. Mexico you say?! So on. Hollerin’ Man had been a soldier, now he was on his journey for freedom and found himself back in civilian life.

But then it got interesting.

For one thing, Hollerin’ Man offered us peaches and cold drinks, which he had in the hatch of his SUV nearby. Come little children. I have sweets. We follow him. He gave us each a peach. They were the finest peaches imaginable. Cold from the fridge, perfectly ripe and the size of large grapefruits. He also gave us some coconut water. “Good electrolytes,” he told us. «Much better than soft drinks.»

I drank mine immediately before it got hot. The only redeeming quality about a drink as disgusting as coconut water is that it can be chilled. Ice Cream saved his for later. He has not yet shed his Christian instinct for self-flagellation.

Then Hollerin’ Man said, «Have you ever tried the switch?»

I shook my head. «Wasn’t that an old Sylvester Stallone movie?»

«Rambo,» he corrected. «Cambo, with a C, but it sounds like a K. Kambo. You guys are hippies. You smoke marijuana, right? You do drugs?»

«Just weed here and there,» Ice Cream offered carefully.

The guy reached into the refrigerator of his SUV, reached deeper into the sanctuary of the road trip, and pulled out a flat rectangular box. He opened it and revealed a kit that looked like a cheap art or science kit, maybe both, along with a small vial of something. It changed.

«What are you doing?» Ice Cream asked.

Hollerin’ Man went all out with show and tell. «It comes from a frog. You’ll burn it on your arm with this,» he pointed to a pen-like object in the kit.

«Burn?» I asked.

He nodded and smiled for clarity and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. There were small circular burn marks on his upper arm. It could have been mistaken for a bad scarification job. A new one.

Ice Cream and I shared a look that contained encyclopedic amounts of information.

I said, «What does it do to you?»

«You get what feels like a bad hangover for about thirty minutes. Then you just lose your mind.»

«That could mean a lot of things,» I said. «LSD out of your head?»

He shook his head. «Not at all. I’ve never taken LSD, but I don’t think so. Gentle. Relax. Like this. Someone else usually has to give it to you the first time.»

“I prefer to take my own medications,” I told him.

“Well, remember. changed. It changed my life.”

«I will never forget this moment.» I meant it.

Cambo Man returned to the panoramic view and stood there, still as the mountains, and looked out at a world that did not seem cruel at all. It was silent. There was sun, an unstable peace. The trembling pine branches whispered to Cambo Man through the gentle September wind. What was whispered was between the two of them. God never interrupts a conversation.