5/7

The rest of the world accepts a weekly Sabbath, so after 270 miles without a day of rest, I realized I was overdue. I hitched into Big Bear City to join other fragmented bands of hikers. Stepping into town is like descending from heaven to a skyscraper, like peeling open a door to another dimension, where time is so much quicker. The time I have set my clock to by the woods is called deep time- the eons it takes for mountains to rise and crumble, or for trees to stretch their limbs. Town is accelerated time- the compression of space into snack-size pieces. But I certainly can't whine about my luck in hitchhiking up and down the boulevard between cafes. Lakewood and I retired early, by the sun's command, and each brought a rotisserie chicken back to the motel room. We bathed in the great American grease of televisions and meat, falling asleep in a warm dry place. The next day Furniture and Rally found me, perhaps by detecting my emanating good vibes. Now on the trail again, I have wound my clock back to snowbound slow time, and I brought a disposable camera for the documentary.