Gordon's mushroom adventure

My buddy Gordon had a way of getting into situations that seemed too wild to be real. The kind of guy who could stumble into a heap of trouble and somehow come out the other side, laughing it off like it was all just another wild adventure.

His latest escapade, though, was something none of us would forget.

It all started with his love for mushrooms--the psychedelic kind, of course. Gordon was always chasing the next high, the next strange experience to make him feel like he was on the edge of some great cosmic revelation. Weed, LSD, hot yoga, jumping naked into snowbanks, extreme mountain biking--you name it, Gordon had tried it.

But mushrooms were his thing. He swore by them, claimed they opened his mind and connected him with the universe. We didn't see much evidence of that, but it was Gordon--so we let him ramble on.

One evening, he showed up at my place with a wild look in his eyes, holding out a handful of magic mushrooms he'd just scored. "Hey man, I heard these things grow wild between Mazama Glacier and Bench Lake," he said, his voice low like he was sharing a state secret. "Wanna go with me? We can pick 'em ourselves and get high for free!"

I hesitated, knowing Gordon's "bright ideas” usually led to nothing but trouble. "No thanks, man," I said, trying to sound casual. "I've got enough going on without adding a mushroom trip to the mix."

He shrugged, unbothered, and headed off into the night like a man on a mission. The next evening, Steve and Carl called and told me that Gordon had disappeared. No one had seen him since he went off into the wilderness. At first, we weren't too concerned--it was Gordon, after all--but when three days passed without a word, we started to worry.

By the fourth day, we decided enough was enough. Early in the morning, Steve, Carl, and I grabbed our gear and, acting on instinct, hiked up toward an old cabin we liked to visit just east of Mt. Adams. It was a secluded spot, perfect for someone who wanted to be alone with their thoughts--or hallucinations.

When we got there, the cabin door was ajar, creaking with the wind. Inside, we found Gordon, sprawled on the floor, looking like he'd been through a warzone. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and hollow, and his limbs were stiff, as if he'd been frozen in place. He mumbled something incoherent about colors and shapes, his voice barely above a whisper.

It didn't take long to piece together what had happened. Gordon, in his infinite wisdom, had found the mushrooms he was so desperate to get his hands on. But these weren't the magic mushrooms he was used to. These were something far worse. Poisonous. In addition to a mind-bending trip, they'd paralyzed him, leaving him flat on his back, unable to move for days.

"Three days, man," he croaked, staring at the ceiling like it was alive. "Three days of colors... just swirling... couldn't move. Thought I was gonna die. But wow, what a trip! You guys need to see them."

We helped him sit up, gave him water, and waited for him to regain some strength. He was pale, shaky, and starving--he hadn't eaten since he'd collapsed on the floor. Somehow, by some dumb luck, he'd survived.

After making sure he was stable, we helped him back to civilization. On the way down, Gordon couldn't stop talking about how amazing the "trip" had been, even though it had nearly killed him. Typical Gordon--always looking for the silver lining, even in a near-death experience.

The hike back from the cabin was slow, not because of the terrain, but because Gordon could barely walk. His legs wobbled with every step, and his eyes kept darting around, as though he was still seeing things we couldn't. The colors, he kept muttering about the colors. To him, they had taken on a life of their own, wrapping him in a kaleidoscopic cocoon for three long days.

Steve and I took turns steadying him, while Carl led the way, scanning the path ahead. The air was crisp, the towering pines creaked in the breeze, and the mountain loomed high behind us. It would've been peaceful if it weren't for the fact that we were dragging our half-delirious friend along.

We finally made it back to Carl's Jeep and loaded Gordon into the back seat. He slumped down immediately, his head lolling to one side, half-asleep.

"How is he still breathing?" Steve muttered, leaning against the Jeep as Carl started the engine. "Those mushrooms... they could've killed him."

"They almost did," I said, shaking my head as I climbed in beside Gordon. "But he's got more lives than a stray cat."

As we drove back into town, Gordon started to stir again, mumbling nonsense. His eyes fluttered open, and he gave us a hazy smile. "Man... you guys wouldn't believe the stuff I saw. I was floating, like... outside of my body, just... watching everything."

He paused, his voice growing a little more serious. "But then it got dark, like really dark. And there was this voice... it was whispering to me, telling me not to come back."

We glanced at each other, none of us sure how to respond. It was classic Gordon to turn something potentially lethal into some mystical, out-of-body experience. But that haunted look in his eyes, the way his voice trembled--maybe there was something real to it, something that had scared even him.

"You should've listened to that voice," Steve finally said, half-joking. "It was probably telling you not to eat the damn mushrooms. Telling you to get the hell back to town."

Gordon chuckled weakly, leaning his head back against the seat. "Yeah... maybe. But maybe it was really telling me not to go... you know, go back to civilization. Maybe it wanted me to stay there."

"That was your last dying breath telling you it was time,” I said. "Time to give up this endless pursuit of highs.”

When we finally got him home, we helped him inside. He immediately reached for a beer from his fridge, like it was all just another normal day. We watched him crack it open, take a long sip, and sigh in relief as he sat down on his couch.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" Carl said, shaking his head. "We thought we were gonna find your body up there, man."

"Yeah, well," Gordon grinned, raising the beer in a mock toast, "I guess I've got a guardian angel or something. Or maybe those mushrooms were just looking out for me."

"Or maybe you just got lucky," I said, sitting down across from him, thinking but not saying, "the way you always do.”

Gordon shrugged, still grinning like nothing could touch him. But there was something different about him now, something in his eyes that wasn't there before. He'd come close to the edge this time. And though he'd survived, it was clear he had felt something more than just a bad trip.

Weeks passed, and Gordon started to get back to his usual self. But every now and then, we'd catch him staring off into space, his expression distant, like he was seeing something the rest of us couldn't.

He never spoke much about that trip after the first few days, except for an occasional slip of his tongue about the colors. But I could tell it had left a mark on him.

One night, when we were all hanging out at the bar, Gordon leaned over to me, his voice low. "You know," he said, "that voice... the one that told me not to come back? I think it was real. I think something was trying to keep me... somewhere else. And part of me wonders what would've happened if I'd stayed."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I just nodded. We never talked about it again.

That was the last time I saw him mess with mushrooms. Not that he'd learned his lesson--he just moved on to some other "adventure,” always chasing the next thrill, always on the edge of disaster.

But to this day, whenever I hear someone mention Mt. Adams, I can't help but think of Gordon, lying there on the floor, watching his psychedelic nightmares play out on the ceiling, closer to death then any of us had ever been.